His eyes sunk before the large, searching ones fixed upon him.
“To save myself, and from what, Anna Sophia?”
“From being a soldier, Charles Henry! For last evening, I read upon your countenance that you were devoid of courage.”
“You read that?”
“Yes, Charles Henry, fear was stamped upon your brow.”
“Well, then,” said he, after a pause, “you have read aright. I have no courage, I fear for myself. I am not accustomed to stand still, while some one is pointing his gun at me, and to cry, ‘Long live the king!’ when the cannon-balls are flying around me; to attack men who have done me no harm, and to whom I wish to do none. When I think upon the possibility of my being compelled to do this. I tremble, and my heart ceases to beat. Do not require it of me, Anna, for if I have to go, I will fly at the first fight, and come back here. They may then shoot me as a deserter, if they choose; I prefer to die rather than to kill any one else.”
Anna Sophia sprang from her seat with a cry of horror.
“I thought so,” said she, in a low voice; and, crossing her arms upon her breast, she walked to and fro, thoughtfully.
Charles Henry looked at her in amazement, but had not the courage to speak to her; for she was so completely changed, that he was almost afraid of her. There was something so cold and proud about her to-day, something aristocratic in her beauty. He thought to himself, “It is thus that a queen would look when dressed as a peasant.” Anna Sophia stood still before him at last, and gave him a tender, almost pitiful glance.
“Charles Henry,” said she, “you shall not join the army; I will not suffer it.”