"Leave me now, and remain in the ante-room. I will see you later or send you my decision as to yourself."
I backed to the door, bowing, and had all but reached it in silence when a hasty movement of his caused me to look up.
"Stay," he cried, and he came toward me with his quick, firm stride. "I cannot let you go like this. I am glad you are living. You come back to me out of the past that is, and must be, dead; and our friendship is one of the dead things in it. An Emperor has no friend but his God. Still we were friends once, and this is our more proper parting."
He held out his hand to me, and took mine and clasped it; and at the clasp of it my blood thrilled in accord with a thousand thoughts and promptings. I carried his hand to my lips.
"If your Majesty will give me a chance of serving you again in any capacity, my life shall be ever at your bidding."
I spoke from my heart, and my voice trembled under the strain of my feelings.
"I believe you. But you yourself have made it difficult. Save for that, what might we not have been!"
There was no sternness or harshness in this. It was not my Emperor who spoke, but for one fleeting instant it was the personal lament of my old true friend whose friendship I had cast away. The words brought the tears to my eyes, and I could not look up at him, though I knew his eyes were bent upon me, and judged that their light was a kindly one. A moment later the mood passed with him, or was crushed back by the relentless power of his stern will. He drew himself up to his customary, rigid, soldier-like attitude, and said in the short, sharp tone of a military command:
"And now leave me."
I backed out, and took my place in the ante-room, a prey to a tumultuous rush of emotions which flooded upon me, preventing for the moment any attempt at consecutive thought. My mind was a maelstrom, in which hopes, regrets, fear, and delight were mingled in an indistinguishable whirlpool.