“You are a rare woman, Dehra,” he said, “a rare woman. No man can reach your level, nor understand the beauty of your faith, the meaning of your love. Yet, at least, will I try to do you honor and to give you truth.”
She drew him down and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“You do not know the Dalberg women, dear,” she said—“to them the King is next to God—and the line that separates is very narrow.”
“But I’m not yet the King,” he protested.
“You’ve been king, in fact, since the moment—Frederick died. With us, the tenet still obtains in all its ancient strength; the throne is never vacant.”
“So it’s Lotzen or I, and to-morrow the Book will decide.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “to-morrow the Book will decide for the Nation; but we know it will be you.”
“Not exactly,” he smiled; “we think we know; we can’t be sure until we see the decree.”
“I have no doubt,” she averred, “my father’s words can bear but one construction.”
“It would seem so—yet I’ve long learned that, in this life, it’s the certain things that usually are lost.”