“I will do my best,” she said in a low voice; “and there is M. Drakovics to help——”
“Drakovics lives for Thracia. The country is safe enough under his guardianship; but he would sacrifice Michael and his interests without a moment’s compunction if he thought another form of government would be more for the benefit of the kingdom.”
“But what are we to do, then?” asked the Queen, with keen anxiety in her voice.
“I cannot tell, unless you will accept as an adviser the man who has been a friend and counsellor to me since I first came to Thracia.”
“You mean Count Mortimer?” asked the Queen, with a gasp.
“I mean my friend Mortimer, to whose honour I could leave you and the child without a fear. But if you will not trust him, Ernestine, I cannot ask him to expose himself to insult by remaining here.”
“I—I will listen to his advice,” she said at last.
“But will you take it when it is given? I cannot die happy unless you and Michael are confided to his care. I should know then that you were safe as long as he was—and there is no man in Europe who is more successful in getting out of difficulties,” and the King laughed faintly as he gazed at his wife. She had released herself from his grasp, and her hands were clasped on her breast as though she were forcing down the feelings which rose within her. Cyril could read in her tear-filled eyes the story of her contest with herself. “You have come between my husband and me,” they seemed to say to him; “you have tried to turn his heart against me,—and now he expects me to trust you.” Unjust as the silent accusation was, the Queen’s agony forbade him to defend himself, and he stood mute, while she, with quivering lips and heaving breast, struggled to speak.
“Can I trust you?” burst from her at last, as her glance met his.
“Before God you can,” he answered. “Bad I may be, but I am not the man to deceive a dying friend, or to injure that friend’s wife and child.”