“They would have me,” he answered gloomily, “betray my trust and leave my country to chaos and despair.”
Her eyes sought his, but he failed to meet her gaze.
“And you—you will go back to Rexania?” she asked falteringly.
“It is imperative,” he answered, knowing that her eyes were upon his face, but keeping his gaze fixed on the shadows that lurked in the corners of the room. “Already it may be too late for me to undo the damage these men have wrought. What has happened in Rexopolis I do not know, but I dread to learn the truth.” He turned and looked down into her face. She smiled up at him sadly.
“I am very sorry for you,” she whispered. What she meant by the words she hardly knew. The world seemed topsy-turvy to her fevered mind. Her life, usually so uneventful, had been filled this day with startling events, and she was worn with physical pain and the turmoil of conflicting emotions. She wondered vaguely that she had not been more surprised to learn that the heir-apparent to a European throne had been a prisoner in the house where she was born. She realized with annoyance that her mind refused to confine itself to the bare facts presented to it, but showed an inclination to make short journeys into the realms of dreams and fancies.
Prince Carlo was gazing into her eyes earnestly.
“Your sympathy is very sweet to me,” he said, in a voice that was vibrant with suppressed longing. “How much it means to me—may I tell you?”
His voice had sunk to a whisper.
“If you wish,” she murmured, her lips trembling as she spoke.
“It means,” he went on firmly, “a glimpse of a paradise I may never seek. It means that I look at the fairest sight on earth through the bars of an iron cage. It means that I will treasure in my heart, through all the dark, grim years that call to me, a memory that shall be to me the brightest gem of life. It means, Miss Strong, that I, a king, am more blessed by those dear words you spoke than by all the tawdry glory of my throne and crown.”