“It is well,” she said. “Speak to her, and bring her back. Sometimes the voice of a loved one has power to recall the soul from the very gates of death.”
Scarcely noticing the remark, which was couched in the semi-poetical strain common among the Thracians, Cyril bent over the Queen. She was lying on the bed just as he had left her, covered with blankets which the old woman had brought out, her wet lustreless hair streaming over the coarse pillow. Her face was white and set, her teeth locked, and for the moment he thought that she was really dead.
“Speak to her,” commanded Fräulein von Staubach, as he looked up with dread in his eyes.
“Madame!” he said softly, “madame! I entreat your Majesty——”
“Fool!” hissed Fräulein von Staubach, gripping him by the shoulder, “will you let her die before your eyes? Speak to her by her name.”
Scarcely knowing what he did, Cyril knelt down at the bedside, and took the hand which was lying clenched upon the coverlet into his.
“Ernestine!” he cried, bending over her, “Ernestine, speak to me!”
“Ah, he loves his wife—that young man,” murmured the old woman, rising and watching the scene curiously; “and—holy Peter!—she has heard him!” as by the dim light of the lantern she saw a sudden quiver cross the white face. But Cyril had forgotten the presence of any onlookers.
“Ernestine!” he cried again, watching eagerly for a repetition of the sign of life, but it was not repeated. Instead, the Queen opened her eyes. They rested for a moment on his face, and met his with an expression that startled him and stirred his heart to its depths, then closed again with a smile. Cyril could neither move nor speak; but Fräulein von Staubach, for once most unsentimentally practical, thrust the jug of soup and a spoon into his hands.
“Give it to her,” she whispered. “She must take something.”