So I lived, Rudolf."

"God bless you!" he said.

"Yes, I lived through it all."

He pressed her hand, knowing what that phrase meant and must mean for
her.

"Will it last forever?" she asked, suddenly gripping his hand tightly.
But a moment later she went on: "No, no, I mustn't make you unhappy,
Rudolf. I'm half glad I wrote the letter, and half glad they stole
it. It's so sweet to have you fighting for me, for me only this time,
Rudolf--not for the king, for me!"

"Sweet indeed, my dearest lady. Don't be afraid: we shall win."

"You will win, yes. And then you'll go?" And, dropping his hand, she
covered her face with hers.

"I mustn't kiss your face," said he, "but your hands I may kiss," and he
kissed her hands as they were pressed against her face.

"You wear my ring," she murmured through her fingers, "always?"

"Why, yes," he said, with a little laugh of wonder at her question.

"And there is--no one else?"

"My queen!" said he, laughing again.

"No, I knew really, Rudolf, I knew really," and now her hands flew out
towards him, imploring his pardon. Then she began to speak quickly:
"Rudolf, last night I had a dream about you, a strange dream. I seemed
to be in Strelsau, and all the people were talking about the king. It
was you they meant; you were the king. At last you were the king, and I
was your queen. But I could see you only very dimly; you were somewhere,
but I could not make out where; just sometimes your face came. Then I
tried to tell you that you were king--yes, and Colonel Sapt and Fritz
tried to tell you; the people, too, called out that you were king. What
did it mean? But your face, when I saw it, was unmoved, and very pale,
and you seemed not to hear what we said, not even what I said. It almost
seemed as if you were dead, and yet king. Ah, you mustn't die, even to
be king," and she laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Sweetheart," said he gently, "in dreams desires and fears blend in
strange visions, so I seemed to you to be both a king and a dead man;
but I'm not a king, and I am a very healthy fellow. Yet a thousand
thanks to my dearest queen for dreaming of me."

"No, but what could it mean?" she asked again.

"What does it mean when I dream always of you, except that I always love
you?"

"Was it only that?" she said, still unconvinced.

What more passed between them I do not know. I think that the queen told
my wife more, but women will sometimes keep women's secrets even from
t