“I love you, Hilda, I love you! I love you!” he whispered wildly. “You are my queen! my queen! Do not tremble so! See, I will be gentle! Just one more kiss, my darling! One more kiss! One more kiss!”
“Two of a kind, two of a kind, two of a kind,” cried a harsh voice, close at hand. “There, Carl Eingen, is the river, and here’s the boat! Pull it up close to the wall. That’s right. Ha, ha! I must discard again! This time it’s two pair! Two pair! Ha, ha!”
Carl Eingen had entered the flat-bottomed boat and had placed the oars in the rowlocks, after seating Fraulein Müller in the stern.
The Princess Hilda and Herr Bennett stood upon the stone-work that jutted out from the tunnel’s opening. The breeze that swept across the bosom of the Rhine caressed their cheeks and made free with Hilda’s golden locks. Behind them stood Cousin Fritz, cap in hand, as though he did the honors of his mansion to home-going guests. Bennett gave his hand to the princess and she seated herself by Fraulein Müller’s side.
“Come, Cousin Fritz,” cried Bennett, his voice vibrant with the joy that filled his soul, “into the boat! Quick! We can afford to take no risks—Wilhelm’s sentinel may have sharp eyes. Quick, I say!”
Cousin Fritz stepped back into the tunnel. His small, white wizened face became a ghostly vision against the black depths behind him.
“Farewell,” he cried in his thin, mocking voice, “farewell! My kingdom needs its king, and I return! Remember Cousin Fritz, King of Hesse-Heilfels for a thousand years! Farewell!”
Bennett pushed the boat into the current and jumped aboard. With powerful strokes Carl Eingen urged the clumsy craft toward the centre of the stream. Suddenly across the black waste of waters between them and the shore came a piercing voice as they heard the disjointed words:
“Two pair! Discard two pair! Draw to kings! Ha, ha! Draw to kings! Ha, ha!”