“Otto, I will trust him,” said the Queen hoarsely, laying her hand in her husband’s. He held it out to Cyril, who stooped and kissed it. He felt her draw back suddenly with an involuntary shudder as his fingers touched hers, then her hand lay cold and nerveless in his. She might overlook the past, but she was not likely to forget it.
“You have removed my chief anxiety, Mortimer,” said the dying King, grasping Cyril’s hand feebly. “I know now that you will watch over my boy and advise his mother, and that so far as it is in your power, you will be his friend as you have been mine.”
“I will,” said Cyril.
“I will thank you with my dying breath,” said the King, with fresh vigour. “You have outdone to-day all your previous kindness to me. Faithful friend that you have been, I can never reward you—all that I can do is to load you with fresh burdens. But I am keeping you standing here, although you are overcome with fatigue. We grow inconsiderate when our friends serve us too well. Go and rest, Mortimer. Send those doctors back as you pass through the anteroom, and they shall try whether they can ease this wretched pain a little. I am tired as well as you. We will both rest, and I will send for you when I wake.”
“Auf wiedersehen, sir!” said Cyril, touching the King’s hand with his lips. He bowed to the Queen as he went out, but she took no notice of him. When he entered, he had seen her give a little start of contemptuous disgust at the sight of his tweed suit and travel-stained appearance, but now she was sitting with her dark eyes staring into the distance, and her hands lying loosely clasped on her lap. Her face was that of a proud woman whose pride had been utterly and forcibly broken, and who was wondering dumbly what further blows fate could have in store for her.
“What can one do with her?” he asked himself in despair. “She will never forgive the humiliation of to-day.”
He passed out, giving the King’s message to the doctors as he went, and they returned into the sick-room, much incensed by their long exclusion. Cyril went on to his own rooms, where Dietrich had prepared a meal for him, and where he took a bath and donned his uniform, so as to be ready in case of a sudden summons from the King. He had intended to sit up and read; but he was worn out by the hurry and anxiety of his long journey, and lay down on a couch for a few minutes’ sleep. The sleep lasted for some hours instead of a few minutes, and Cyril only woke to find M. Drakovics standing beside him with a lugubrious face.
“How is the King?” he asked, starting up.
“The King is well,” was the answer; “but his name is Michael.”
“Otto Georg dead!—and I was never summoned?”