"No," he said, and moodily turned his eyes away again.
"That means you will return to America." A subtle sensitiveness could have construed this to embrace a query, a request and a regret. The slightest quiver inflected her voice as she had spoken, but she bravely finished without a break. Poor girl, she, too, was suffering. She was sending away her ideal lover with only a meagre taste of maiden romance to make life all the more sorrowful for the having. All this he felt. As he recognized what it must mean to her—to any woman—deprived of man's right of initiative in declaration, he was tempted to gather her roughly in his arms and carry her away from duties, friends, country even, to fulfil her own happiness, which was his. The maxillary muscles ached with the strain his restraint put upon them.
"I must go. I must," he replied. "Pride, honor, sanity demand it."
"It is better so," she said softly as she bent her head. She, a Jeanne D'Arc to her people, was inured to sacrifice. Above all, sweet and clean, she saw Duty shine through Love as the sun shone through the leaves above her head. So was the royal duchess fortified for her future. Then Trusia, beautiful and desirable, Trusia, the woman, rebelled that destiny should have ignored her in the plans for Trusia the princess.
"I will never see you again—as a dear friend—after you have gone. But I—but Krovitch will never forget you." Then in her royal pride that felt no noble confession could shame her womanhood, she turned almost fiercely upon him.
"Oh, why was I chosen for the sacrifice? Why couldn't I be as other women? Natalie need not drive her friends away. Alone; I stand alone." Her breath came in short, sobbing gasps which she fought courageously to silence.
Carrick was far behind. Forgetting everything except the quivering heart of the girl beside him, Carter leaned over and drawing her gently toward him, patted the convulsive shoulders with awkward masculine solace. Like a child in the shelter of maternal arms, the glossy head, forgetful for the instant, nestled against his shoulder, soothed and at peace. While Duty had manacled the queen, the woman had been justified. Then she sighed. With a weary gesture of renunciation she sat upright in her saddle, looking directly to the front. A single tear hung quivering on her lashes.
"Another dream for the Queen to sigh over," she commented with a quick laugh, flavored of wormwood.
"Why must it be?" he queried. "You do not love the King." Then all the tide of courage flooding past his lips, he asserted against all denial,—"You love me."
The regal head drooped as she turned from him.