A moment later Fessenden was standing before the Archduchess, while Zrinyi’s willing eyes were diverted by Alexandra.
“You will dance this with me?” he asked in Magyar, his eyes bashfully lowered.
“You are not a Hungarian!” she exclaimed.
“Alas, that your first word should be so cruel! It is true that I speak the German tongue better—I have been much away—but my children shall speak only Hungarian.”
“It is to be hoped so.”
“You will dance with me?”
“I do not know. I am tired.”
“One is never too tired for the Chardash. It would raise a Hungarian from the grave.” This was uttered with simple fervor. He felt her powerful gaze and dared not raise his eyes. But the majestic beauty of her figure was in the direct line of his vision, and involuntarily he lifted his hands to tuck in his shirt, but bethought himself in time.
“I don’t know,” repeated the Archduchess coldly, “I am tired, and I do not happen to be a Hungarian.”
“A Roumanian? We have all said it; you are so beautiful.”