“And what of my father?” he asked, at length, his voice trembling perceptibly.
“He is very ill,” she answered. Suddenly he felt her hand in his again.
“And the people grow restless? Tell me, is it so?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“And the wonder grows that I, the crown prince, do not show myself?”
“Yes.”
They sat speechless for a time, hand clasped in hand. The sympathy of this woman was very sweet to the self-exiled prince at this dark crisis in his life.
“It is so hard,” he murmured. “Tell me,” he whispered, hoarsely, bending close to her and looking down into her pale, drawn face—“tell me, Miss Strong, what must I do? I tremble at the thoughts that fill my mind. Tell me—for you must know what I would say—what must I do?”
She was silent for an instant, and he knew that she trembled with emotion. Then her eyes sought his in the dim half-light, and she said, firmly: