She comprehended his meaning and looked down. He spoke earnestly, yet with a chivalrous reticence which she appreciated. For some moments there was silence between them. The murmur of the woodland, just rustled by a slight breeze, was pierced by the cry of a night-jar. It came like a note of ill omen, although to the lovers the tranquil delight of the situation was too absorbing to allow them to be altogether conscious of their surroundings.
“I?” She laughed with wistful eyes fixed on the black wall of trees in front of them. “I can tell nothing. You know I am mistress not even of my own actions, although a duke’s daughter.”
His voice, as he replied, was very low, coming to her ear only just above the murmur of the wood. “You are mistress of one thing, Princess.” He paused, watching her anxiously for a sign of offence or encouragement. None came. “Of me—of my heart,” he ventured.
“And my own—that is all,” she said softly.
“That is all the world to us.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He was on his knees before her. “Princess! My love! Ruperta! My love!” he murmured.
She seemed to check an impulse and turned her head away. “It is madness!”
“Then let me never be sane,” he whispered in rapture. “Princess, give me one word, one word in which you shall write my life’s history—that I am beloved by you.”
The hand he clasped was cold, the face which glorified his gaze was set as that of a beautiful statue. Only the breath which, coming quickly, made manifest that the cold face was but the flag of one of the belligerents within her. “It is not fair.” The words came from her dreamily from excess of repression.
“Fair?” he echoed passionately. “How can it be unfair to either of us? When I would die gladly in the sound of that word from your lips, die before a fleck of scandal could touch you.”
“I believe that,” she replied. “I am sure that you are the very soul of honour, but——”