"Would to God I could undo that business!" he cried, either with deep feeling or an excellent simulation of it. "You can't understand what this is to me! I am not a man capable of deep love, but I care for Gareth beyond all women. It was a midsummer madness; and if I could repair the injury to her, I would. But the prospect of the throne is between us—and shall I give that up and wreck the whole of this great national movement for her? I would do anything else on God's earth for her—but that I cannot. It is impossible."
"And her father?"
"I know what you mean. He would plunge a knife in my heart or send a bullet crashing into my brain, if he knew. He is desperate enough for anything. But he must not know. You must never tell him."
"You have the hardihood to do the wrong but lack the courage to face the consequences," I exclaimed, bitterly.
"I was not thinking of that. I am not afraid of mere death, I hope," he cried contemptuously. "I am thinking of the millions of Czechs, men, women and children, whose hopes of liberty are centred in my life. Beside that, all else is as nothing."
"It is a pity you did not think of this before."
"A man is a man and will act as a man at times. I have done a wrong I cannot undo; and it only remains to limit its mischief."
"A convenient code."
"Where is Gareth?" he broke off.
"Not where you intended those miscreants of yours to place her."