to him.

"But all seems right again!" she said with a sweet, sad smile, "now that
you have come back, my dear ... dear friend!"

"God bless you for these words!"

"I grieved terribly when I heard ... about you ... at first ..." she
said almost gaily now, "yet somehow I could not believe it all ... and
now...."

"Yes? ... and now?" he asked.

"Now I believe in you," she replied simply. "I believe that you care for
me, and that you are my friend."

"Your friend, indeed, for I would give my life for you."

Once more he stooped, but now he kissed her hand. He was her friend, and
had the right to do this. He had gradually mastered his emotion, his
sense of wrong, and with that exquisite selflessness which real love
alone can kindle in a human heart, he had succeeded in putting aside all
thought of his own great misery, his helplessness and the hopelessness
of his position, and remembered only that she looked fragile, a little
older, sadder, and had need of his help.

"And now, sweet lady," he said, forcing himself to speak calmly of that
which always set his heart and senses into a turmoil of passionate
jealousy, "will you tell me something about him."

"Him?"

"The prince...." he suggested.

But she shook her head resolutely.

"No, kind Richard," she said gently, "I will not speak to you of the
prince. I know that you do not think well of him.... I wish to look upon
you as my friend, and I could not do that if you spoke ill of him,
because ..."

She paused, for what she now had to tell him was very hard to say, and
she knew what a terrible blow she would be dealing to his heart, from
the wild beating of her own.

"Yes?" he asked. "Because? ..."

"Because he is my husband," she whispered.

Her head fell forward on her breast. She would not trust herself to look
at him now, for she knew that the sight of his grief was more than she
could bear. She was conscious that at her words he had drawn his hand
away from hers, but he spoke no word, nor did the faintest exclamation
escape his lips.

Thus they remained for a few moments longer side by side: she slightly
above him, with head bent, with hot tears falling slowly from her
downcast eyes, her heart well-nigh breaking with the consciousness of
the irreparable; he somewhat below, silent too, and rigid, all passion,
all emotion, love even, numbed momentarily by the violence, the
suddenness of this terrible blow.

Then without a word, without a sigh or look