“She does not murmur, though both her pride and her heart are sore. She has scarcely a dozen friends. Her paralytic father is the theme of ribald jest; and now they laugh at her because the one man who perhaps could have saved the throne has deserted her like a coward. Hang him, I say!”
“What do they say?” The tones were hollow.
“They say he is enamoured of a peasant girl, and dallies with her, forgetting his sacred vows, his promised aid, and perhaps even this, his wedding day.”
“God help him!” was the startling and despairing cry.... He was again seized with the vertigo, and swayed against the tree. For a moment he forgot Maurice, covered his face with his unengaged hand, and sobbed.
Maurice was helpless; he could offer no consolation. This grief he could not understand. He stooped and picked up his revolver and waited.
“I am weak,” said the other man, dashing his hand from his eyes; “I am weak and half starved. It would be better for all concerned if I blew out my brains. The twentieth, the twentieth!” he repeated, dully. “Curse her!” he burst forth; “as there's a God above us, I'll have revenge. Aye, I'll return to the chateau, Madame, that I will, but at the head of ten thousand men!... The twentieth! She will never forgive me; she will think I, too, deserted her!” He broke down again.
“An army!” cried Maurice.
“Aye, and ten thousand men! Come,” taking Maurice by the arm; “come, they may be seeking us. To the frontier. Every hour is precious. To a telegraph office! We shall see if I dally with peasant girls, if I forsake the woman I love!”
“You?” Maurice retreated a step. The silver moonshine became tinged with red.
“I am Prince Frederick, and I love her Highness. I would sacrifice a thousand kingdoms to spare her a moment's sorrow. I have always loved her.”