"You are mad," she breathed softly. "You are mad—because—because you—"
He started, studying her eagerly. He fancied he read relenting softness in her gaze; a flash of memory into a past, where glamour and romance, and the heart-history of the rose made up life's desideratum. Wherein existence was but an allegory of love's quest, and the goal, its consummation. Had she not bent sedulously over the rose of the poet? Had not her breath come quickly, eagerly? Could he not feel it yet, sweet and warm on his cheek? Into the past, having gone so far, he stepped now boldly, as though to grasp again those illusive colors and seize anew the intangible substance. He was but young, when shadows seem solid, when dreams are corporeal stuff, and fantasies, rock-like strata of reality.
So he knelt before her. "Yes," he said, "I love you!"
And thus remained, pale, motionless, all resentment or jealousy succeeded by a stronger emotion, a feeling chivalric that bent itself to a glad thraldom, the desire but to serve her—to save her. His heart beat faster; he raised his head proudly.
"Listen, Princess," he began. "Though I meant it not, I fear I have greatly wronged you. I have much to ask your pardon for; much to tell you. It is I—I—"
The words died on his lips. From the princess' face all softness had suddenly vanished. Her gaze passed him, cold, haughty. Across the illusory positiveness of his world—immaterial, psychological, ghostly—an intermediate orb—a tangible shadow was thrown. Behind him stood the free baron and the king. Quickly the fool sprang to his feet.
"Princess!" exclaimed the hoarse voice of the master of Hochfels.
"My Lord?"
For a moment neither spoke, and then the clear, cold voice of the princess broke the silence.
"Are all the fools in your country so presumptuous, my Lord?" she said.