The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope Page B

seen her! I forgot the King in Zenda. I forgot the King in Strelsau. She was a princess—and I an impostor. Do you think I remembered that? I threw myself on my knee and seized her hands in mine. I said nothing. Why should I? The soft sounds of the night set my wooing to a wordless melody, as I pressed my kisses on her lips.
    She pushed me from her, crying suddenly:
    â€œAh! is it true? or is it only because you must?”
    â€œIt’s true!” I said, in low smothered tones—“true that I love you more than life—or truth—or honour!”
    She set no meaning to my words, treating them as one of love’s sweet extravagances. She came close to me, and whispered:
    â€œOh, if you were not the King! Then I could show you how I love you! How is it that I love you now, Rudolf?”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYes—just lately. I—I never did before.”
    Pure triumph filled me. It was I—Rudolf Rassendyll—who had won her! I caught her round the waist.
    â€œYou didn’t love me before?” I asked.
    She looked up into my face, smiling, as she whispered:
    â€œIt must have been your Crown. I felt it first on the Coronation Day.”
    â€œNever before?” I asked eagerly.
    She laughed low.
    â€œYou speak as if you would be pleased to hear me say ‘Yes’ to that,” she said.
    â€œWould ‘Yes’ be true?”
    â€œYes,” I just heard her breathe, and she went on in an instant: “Be careful, Rudolf; be careful, dear. He will be mad now.”
    â€œWhat, Michael? If Michael were the worst—”
    â€œWhat worse is there?”
    There was yet a chance for me. Controlling myself with a mighty effort, I took my hands off her and stood a yard or two away. I remember now the note of the wind in the elm trees outside.
    â€œIf I were not the King,” I began, “if I were only a private gentleman—”
    Before I could finish, her hand was in mine.
    â€œIf you were a convict in the prison of Strelsau, you would be my King,” she said.
    And under my breath I groaned, “God forgive me!” and, holding her hand in mine, I said again:
    â€œIf I were not the King—”
    â€œHush, hush!” she whispered. “I don’t deserve it—I don’t deserve to be doubted. Ah, Rudolf! does a woman who marries without love look on the man as I look on you?”
    And she hid her face from me.
    For more than a minute we stood there together; and I, even with my arm about her, summoned up what honour and conscience her beauty and the toils that I was in had left me.
    â€œFlavia,” I said, in a strange dry voice that seemed not my own, “I am not—”
    As I spoke—as she raised her eyes to me—there was a heavy step on the gravel outside, and a man appeared at the window. A little cry burst from Flavia, as she sprang back from me. My half-finished sentence died on my lips. Sapt stood there, bowing low, but with a stern frown on his face.
    â€œA thousand pardons, sire,” said he, “but his Eminence the Cardinal has waited this quarter of an hour to offer his respectful adieu to your Majesty.”
    I met his eye full and square; and I read in it an angry warning. How long he had been a listener I knew not, but he had come in upon us in the nick of time.
    â€œWe must not keep his Eminence waiting,” said I.
    But Flavia, in whose love there lay no shame, with radiant eyes and blushing face, held out her hand to Sapt. She said nothing, but no man could have missed her meaning, who had ever seen a woman in the exultation of love. A sour, yet sad, smile passed over the old soldier’s face, and there was tenderness in his voice, as bending to kiss her hand, he said:
    â€œIn joy and sorrow, in good times and bad, God save your Royal Highness!”
    He paused and added, glancing at me and drawing himself up to military erectness:
    â€œBut, before all comes the