“Highness,” Nikky began huskily, “you know what I would say. And that I cannot. To take advantage of Otto’s fancy for me, a child’s liking, to violate the confidence of those who placed me here—I am doing that, every moment.”
“What about me?” Hedwig asked. “Do I count for nothing? Does it not matter at all how I feel, whether I am happy or wretched? Isn’t that as important as honor?”
Nikky flung out his hands. “You know,” he said rapidly. “What can I tell you that you do not know a thousand times? I love you. Not as a subject may adore his princess, but as a man loves a woman.”
“I too!” said Hedwig. And held out her hands.
But he did not take them. Almost it was as though he would protect her from herself. But he closed his eyes for a moment, that he might not see that appealing gesture. “I, who love you more than life, who would, God help me, forfeit eternity for you—I dare not take you in my arms.”
Hedwig’s arms fell. She drew herself up. “Love!” she said. “I do not call that love.”
“It is greater love than you know,” said poor Nikky. But all his courage died a moment later, and his resolution with it, for without warning Hedwig dropped her head on her hands and, crouching forlornly, fell to sobbing.
“I counted on you,” she said wildly. “And you are like the others. No one cares how wretched I am. I wish I might die.”
Then indeed Nikky was lost. In an instant he was on his knees beside her, his arms close about her, his head bowed against her breast. And Hedwig relaxed to his embrace. When at last he turned and looked up at her, it was Hedwig who bent and kissed him.
“At least,” she whispered, “we have had this, We can always remember, whatever comes, that we have had this.”