“My friend, my friend!” she cried, on a note that quivered and broke. “You are mad—wonderfully beautifully mad, but mad. What would become of you if you did this?”
He swept the consideration aside by a contemptuous, almost angry gesture. “Does that matter? I am concerned with what is to become of you. I was born for your service, my princess, and the service being rendered...” He shrugged and smiled, threw out his hands and let them fall again to his sides in an eloquent gesture. He was the complete courtier, the knight-errant, the romantic preux-chevalier all in one.
She drew closer to him, took the blue lapels of his military coat in her white hands, and looked pathetically up into his beautiful face. If ever she wanted to kiss a man, she surely wanted to kiss Königsmark in that moment, but as she might have kissed a loving brother, in token of her deep gratitude for his devotion to her who had known so little true devotion.
“If you knew,” she said, “what balsam this proof of your friendship has poured upon the wounds of my soul, you would understand my utter lack of words in which to thank you. You dumbfound me, my friend; I can find no expression for my gratitude.”
“I ask no gratitude,” quoth he. “I am all gratitude myself that you should have come to me in the hour of your need. I but ask your leave to serve you in my own way.”
She shook her head. She saw his blue eyes grow troubled.
He was about to speak, to protest, but she hurried on. “Serve me if you will—God knows I need the service of a loyal friend—but serve me as I shall myself decide—no other way.”
“But what alternative service can exist?” he asked, almost impatiently.
“I have it in mind to escape from this horrible place—to quit Hanover, never to return.”
“But to go whither?”