But she ate her breakfast after that, and a little later accompanied me to a spring Ellison had discovered for a drink of water. As we stood there in the morning sunshine, the fair wind tossing her skirts, she faced me gravely.
"You have not given up hope, then?"
"No," said I frankly. "We are not beaten yet. I think I shall be able to restore you to Europe, to hand you back to your uncle's palace."
She looked away to sea. "We were to have given up that for always—Frederic and I," she said softly. "—we arranged it between us."
"Princess," I said, "you did not approve. I have always known it. You consented out of love for him. And now you shall go back."
She shook her head. "It is too late. The mill will never grind with the waters that are passed. I did not—I was afraid. Yes, but I made up my mind. He was all I had, and now I have nothing—I am alone."
It was impossible to assure her. There was no consolation possible now, whatever might come hereafter. Her eyes encountered mine.
"But I am grateful—oh! so grateful, to those who stood by him to the end and risked their lives for him," she said in a broken voice and with tears in her eyes, and she put out her hand impulsively. I took it, and my voice was almost as broken as hers.
"It is not true you are alone," I said, "for those who stood by your brother belong to you. They would die for you."
"My friend," she murmured. "No; I am not alone."