“He is ill, perhaps?”
“He is dead,” said Herman, devouring her with his eyes.
“Dead!” She put a hand to her plump side.
“Aye. Shot as a spy.” He took another piece of the excellent pigeon pie. Marie, meantime, lost all her looks, grew pasty white.
“Of the—the Terrorists?” she demanded, in a whisper.
“Terrorists! No. Of Karnia. He was no patriot.”
So the little Marie went back to her desk, and to her staring out over the Place in intervals of business. And what she thought of no one can know. But that night, and thereafter, she was very tender to her spouse, and put cloths soaked in hot turpentine water on his aching thigh.
On the surface things went on as usual at the Palace. Karl’s visit had been but for a day or two. He had met the Council in session, and had had, because of their growing alarm, rather his own way with them.
But although he had pointed to the King’s condition and theirs—as an argument for immediate marriage—he failed. The thing would be done, but properly and in good time. They had a signed agreement to fall back upon, and were in no hurry to pay his price. Karl left them in a bad temper, well concealed, and had the pleasure of being hissed through the streets.
But he comforted himself with the thought of Hedwig. He had taken her in his arms before he left, and she had made no resistance. She had even, in view of all that was at stake, made a desperate effort to return his kiss, and found herself trembling afterward.