"No! I implore your Majesty! Do not trust any one—even him. He may be true as steel—I do not doubt it. If he be true he will not object to your escape. But not knowing all, he may advise delay—and delay is destruction."
"What shall I do, then? Tell me, tell me, child. What shall I do?"
There was a pitiful confession of weakness in the words and manner of George as he spoke. He had come to a woman, unmanned, and set her mind above his—had placed himself in her hands. And never were woman's hands readier for such a gift. He felt their caressing care before she spoke; already the renunciation was beginning to bear fruit for the weak one.
"You will call Mr. Bugbee here, Sire, in a few moments, and tell him without a word of explanation that you are going on board the yacht to-night."
"But it is so strange—"
"Kings have a right to strange fancies," she said smiling, but speaking with a firm tone. "You will simply tell him, Sire, that you wish to go directly to the yacht—now."
"Yes, I will do that," said George; and with royal brusqueness he said, "call him here!"
"I will send him, Sire—for I am going now," and she spoke slowly and sadly.
"You are going? No! You are not going until I am quite safe—until I have gone on board the steamer." George's tone was deeply earnest, and there was actually a kind of wail in his petition.
"I came to save my King; and now he is safe, my duty is done."