The horse moved restlessly, striking the ground harshly with his fore hoof. I stroked his neck to quiet him and left my hand on the crest of it.
"Well?" The question was asked softly and gently.
"It is hard to tell it," I answered in a low and rather unsteady voice.
"To me? Are you afraid of me?" and I felt a hand placed on mine.
"It is hard to speak words that may divide us—but I have deceived you. I am not your cousin. I am not the Prince."
I felt the fingers on mine start and tighten for a second, and then close in a warm, trustful pressure.
"Can I make the telling easier for you? I had made up my mind that that was so; but the rest? Who are you? Don't tell me unless you wish. I trust you none the less. You remember I told you days ago—how long it seems—you had a secret and that I saw it. Now I know part of it; and I am glad of the knowledge—not glad that you are not my cousin Hans; glad only that you have told me. But I am eager for the unknown part."
I could not beat down my feelings to speak coolly; so I waited to fight for my self-control.
"They told me only one thing that should be hard for you to tell me—and that I know was untrue," she continued, as if it were a pleasure to bare her heart to me. "That you were not true to me, but seeking to betray me. I would have laughed at the absurdity if the malignity of such a slander had not maddened me."
"No, I have been no traitor to you," I answered readily. "That I can declare from my soul. But I have kept this knowledge from you. Even that I would not have done but that I could not see how else I could go on helping you. I could do nothing unless men thought I was the Prince."