“I knew they would dare to make this attack,” murmured Wilhelmine, still smiling. “Had I felt guilty, I would have fled or have solicited protection of my king. But I wished your majesty to see how far my enemies would go in their malignity—what cruel measures they would take to effect my banishment.”
“You have done well,” said the king, earnestly; “you have acted like a heroine, and never—”
He was interrupted by a loud crash, and something hissed through the broken window. With a loud, piercing cry, Wilhelmine threw herself over the king’s person and clasped him in a close embrace, as if determined to protect him against the whole world.
“They may murder me, but they shall not harm a hair of your dear head, my beloved!”
These words, uttered in loud, exulting tones, sounded in the king’s ear like an inspiring hymn of love, and he never forgot them.
The stone had fallen to the floor, with a loud noise, but no second one followed it. Curses still resounded from below, but the mob seemed nevertheless to have been alarmed by their own boldness, and hesitated before commencing a new attack.
Wilhelmine now released the king from her protecting embrace, and with gentle force compelled him to rise from his chair.
“Come, my beloved, danger threatens you here! They will soon make another attack.”
“Wilhelmine,” said he, with emotion, “give me that stone.”
As she stooped to pick up the stone that lay at her feet, the black lace shawl fell to the floor, disclosing a purple stripe on her snow-white shoulder.