What a cry! It penetrated to Fleta’s ears; it reached the ears of her bridegroom.
In the church, amid the pomp and ceremony, and the crowd of great people, Otto did a thing which made those near him stare. He went to meet his bride and touched her hand.
“Fleta,” he said, “that voice was the voice of one who loves you. What answer do you make to it?”
Fleta put her hand in his.
“That is my answer,” she said.
And so they stepped up the broad low steps to the altar. None heard what had been said except the king.
Fleta’s father was strangely unlike herself. He was a rugged, morose, sombre man, ill-disposed towards all humanity, as it would seem, save those few who held the key to his nature. Of these, his daughter was one; some said she was the only one. Others said her power lay in the fact that she was not his daughter, but a child of other parents altogether than those reputed to be hers; and that a State secret was involved in the mystery of her birth.
At all events, it was seldom indeed that the king interfered with Fleta. But he did so now, at this moment, with all the eyes of the Court upon them.
He spoke low into her ear, he stood beside her.
“Fleta,” he said, “is this marriage right?”