“I beg your pardon,” he cried, “That is all the humble plebeian can say. That I may be more completely under this fairy spell, pray cast about yourself the robe of rank and take up the sceptre. Perhaps I may fall upon my face.”
“And hurt your head all over again,” she said, laughing nervously. She hesitated for a moment, a perplexed frown crossing her brow. Then she jerked a rich robe from the back of the throne and placed it about her shoulders as only a woman can. Taking up the scepter she stood before the great chair, and, with a smile on her lips, held it above his head, saying softly:
“Graustark welcomes the American prince.”
He sank to his knee before the real princess, kissed the hem of her robe and arose with face pallid. The chasm was now endless in its immensity. The princess gingerly seated herself on the throne, placed her elbow on the broad arm, her white chin in her hand, and tranquilly surveyed the voiceless American prince.
“You have not said, 'Thank you,'” she said, finally, her eyes wavering beneath his steady gaze.
“I am only thinking how easy it would be to cross the gulf that lies between us. With two movements of my body I can place it before you, with a third I can be sitting at your side. It is not so difficult after all,” he said, hungrily eyeing the broad chair.
“No man, unless a prince, ever sat upon this throne,” she said.
“You have called me a prince.”
“Oh, I jested,” she cried quickly, comprehending his intention. “I forbid you!”
The command came too late, for he was beside her on the throne of Graustark! She sat perfectly rigid for a moment, intense fear in her eyes.