“Believe me, you will be compelled to do so, Sergius!” she declared, still smiling; “Or some other force will step in! Do you not see that politics always revolve in the same monotonous round? You have called me the Soul of an Ideal,—but even when I worked my hardest with you, I knew it was an Ideal that could never be realised! But the practice of your theories led me among the poor, where I felt I could be useful,—and for this reason I conjoined what brains I had, what strength I had, with yours. Yet, no matter how men talk of ‘Revolution,’ any and every form of government is bound to run on the old eternal lines, whether it be Imperial, Socialistic or Republican. Men are always the same children—never satisfied,—ever clamouring for change,—tired of one toy and crying for another,—so on and on,—till the end! I would rather save a life”—and she glanced pityingly down upon the sleeping infant she held-“than upset a throne!”
“I quite believe that;” said Sergius slowly; “You are a woman, most womanly! If you could only learn to love——”
He paused, startled at the sudden rush of colour that spread over her cheeks and brow; but it was a wave of crimson that soon died away, leaving her very pale.
“Love is not for me, Sergius!” she said; “I am no longer young. Besides, the days of romance never existed for me at all, and now it is too late. I have grown too much into the habit of looking upon men as poor little emmets, clambering up and down the same tiny hill of earth,—their passions, their ambitions, their emotions, their fightings and conquests, their panoply and pride, do not interest me, though they move me to pity; I seem to stand alone, looking beyond, straight through the glorious world of Nature, up to the infinite spaces above, searching for God!”
“Yet you care for that waif?” said Thord with a gesture towards the child she held.
“Because it is helpless,” she answered; “only that! If it ever lives to grow up and be a man, it will forget that a woman ever held it, or cherished it so! No wild beast of the forest—no treacherous serpent of the jungle, is more cruel in its inherited nature, than man when he deals with woman;—as lover, he betrays her,—as wife, he neglects her,—as mother, he forgets her!”
“You have a bad opinion of my sex!” said Thord, half angrily; “Would you say thus much of the King?”
She started, then controlled herself.
“The King is brave,—but beyond exceptional courage, I do not think he differs from other men.”
“Have you seen him lately?”