“You must,” was Cyril’s reply. “If you stay here you will freeze to death. We have nearly reached the snow, and the rain is changing to sleet. Surely you must feel how cold it is getting.”
She set her teeth and struggled on. They reached the snow before long—merely a thin sprinkling at first, just enough to make the path slippery; but this soon gave place to the partially melted snow of the winter, into the wet yielding masses of which the unwary traveller sank if he missed his foothold on the narrow track, trampled into hardness by his predecessors. Cyril dragged the Queen on with stern determination, wondering at each step that she did not fall, and scarcely surprised when at last her arm slipped from his, and she sank down on the snow.
“I know you are going to say that I shall die if I stay here,” she sobbed, pushing him away as he attempted to raise her. “That is just what I want.”
“For shame, madame! The Queen of Thracia a coward!” came in Cyril’s most sarcastic tones. “Look at Fräulein von Staubach, how bravely she keeps up. Will you be outdone by your dame d’honneur?”
“How dare you!” she cried angrily, but accepting his proffered help. “And you call yourself a gentleman!”
“Is it forbidden to a gentleman to interfere when he sees a woman trying to commit suicide?” he asked coolly. “If I can make her angry with me, and get her to argue, it will help us on,” he thought.
“You are unkind—cruel!” panted the Queen. “You won’t let me rest, although I can’t walk a step without agony. Have you no pity?”
“Madame, I pity you from my heart, but I dare not let you rest here. I cannot think only of the suffering woman; it is my duty to save the Queen.”
A gasping sob was the only answer; but he had felt her half withdraw her arm from his when he spoke of pitying her, and he went on stoutly—
“Courage, madame! You cannot afford to lie down and die here in the snow. For the kingdom’s sake, for your son’s sake, hold out a little longer. Be brave—for my sake.”