"No," replied the queen, in a determined voice, as if the question had interrupted a train of thought. "I desire," said she, "to be permitted to act upon my own responsibility."
"Your Majesty, there is no carriage-road to the mountain meadow," mildly added Countess Brinkenstein.
"But there's a bridle-path almost all the way up to the cottage," replied Walpurga. "And there's Stasi's husband; he's a forester and knows all the roads; I'll call him."
She hurried to the inspector's office and brought him out with her. He confirmed her statement that they could drive for a good distance, and that then they could ride.
The queen ordered him to precede them with saddle-horses. She retired to her apartments, and soon afterward, accompanied by Paula, Sixtus, and Walpurga, drove up the mountain. Two lackeys were sitting upon the rumble.
The betrothed of the man who had once loved Irma, and the wife of him whose love Irma had returned, sat side by side, hurrying to her death-bed. It was not until they were well on their way that they regained their composure.
There was but little that Walpurga could tell them about Irma's simple life, and she, therefore, made so much the more of the uncle's account of how Irma had traveled to the capital with him, in disguise, and how, at the summer palace, she had once more beheld the queen and the prince. Her recital was frequently interrupted by tears, while she went on to tell them how Irma had nursed her dying mother, and how her mother, who had known all, had, on her death-bed, given Irma her blessing.
The queen held her handkerchief to her eyes and silently extended her hand to Walpurga.
The more Walpurga told them, the more pure and exalted did Irma appear. Turning to Paula, the queen said:
"That is life in death--it must have required inconceivable courage."