“What is the lady sitting down and wasting time for?” asked the old man impatiently.
“Tell him that I refuse utterly to be saved at such a price, Sophie,” said the Queen. “We shall all die together.”
“Madame, madame!” cried Cyril. “Think that you are sacrificing your son!”
“I am saving his honour,” she replied, with fine scorn. “Could I wish him to live by the death of his most faithful servant?”
“You torture me, madame!” cried Cyril in agony. “Believe me, there is no sacrifice in the case. My life is laid joyfully at his Majesty’s feet. I entreat you not to be so cruel as to refuse the gift.”
“I do refuse it,” said the Queen sharply. “Sophie, give me my child. They shall kill us together. It will not be long now.”
“Well, what do you intend to do?” asked the old man of Cyril with a grin, as Fräulein von Staubach placed the little King in the arms of his mother, who arranged the shawl which she wore over her head so as to hide from him the ruined machinery, at which he was glancing fearfully.
“Look here,” said Cyril, dragging the old man aside, “let me go up with you and get them safely hidden. It will pacify her if she thinks I am all right, and I give you my word of honour to come down again with you afterwards.”
“Very well,” returned the woodman. “Help the lame lady up the ladder.”
“Madame,” said Cyril, approaching the Queen, “our friend has changed his mind, and permits me to attend you.”