“Don’t speak in that voice,” she whimpered, wilting against him. “Kirk, dear! I’m miserable. Ever since coming over the mountains I’ve sensed poison in the air.”
He patted her hair and waited for her to continue.
“It’s something I can’t understand. It’s something that keeps my father up all night, walking his room. And yet, when I go to him, it’s to always find him strangely exalted.”
“Politics,” he belittled. “What has that to do with our love?”
She lifted her head and revealed eyes round with fear and warned:
“But it does! It concerns our happiness deeply. Not that he has said anything. Not that his love for me ever changes—”
“Good Lord! Love for you—change?” he gasped.
“I say it hasn’t, you silly. But after the messenger came and we were riding home, he asked me if I would make a sacrifice for him. He didn’t say what but gave me to understand it would be only for a short time. Now I’ll make any sacrifice for my father, only—”
She persisted in her silence, and he gravely prompted—
“Go on, sweetheart.”