For a dazed moment Gloria stood staring at him. Then she reeled—literally—grasping at the altar rails for support.
"You put him into the Iron Maiden—to save his life?" she gasped.
"That was my rough idea. You see, I am an American, and I hate killing things—especially brave things. There are plenty of men I would kill in the heat of battle—one or two, perhaps, whom I would kill without much heat, but Karl,—whatever his deeds or misdeeds,—was playing the man that night in the Palace yard, and I would sooner have cut off my right hand then have done him an injury. Forgive me, your Majesty, for I served you badly. Providence, which gave me a fair share of muscle and brute courage, was stinting to me in the matter of logic. I should have been logical and replaced the spikes in the Eisenmädchen."
"Herr Trafford!"
A hand was laid on Trafford's arm, and in the scanty light of the shadowy chapel the American found himself looking into eyes bright with tears, but tears not of sorrow or vexation, but of happiness and vast relief.
"Oh, what a weight you have taken from off my heart—it was heavier than I could bear," she murmured. "I felt like a murderess, a guilty creature who had risen through blood to the summit of her base ambitions."
"Then I am forgiven?"
"There is nothing to forgive. You have helped me and served me with your splendid impetuosity and your fearless resource. A Grimlander would have slain Karl, and crowned his service with a deed of shame. You were illogical—and I—I almost love you for your noble lack of logic."
"You almost love me?" he asked in a trance.
"At least as much as I have ever loved——"