"Fritz," she began softly, "I am wicked--so wicked. Won't God
punish me for my gladness?"
I fear I paid little heed to her trouble, though I can understand
it well enough now.
"Gladness?" I cried in a low voice. "Then you've persuaded him?"
She smiled at me for an instant.
"I mean, you've agreed?" I stammered.
Her eyes again sought mine, and she said in a whisper: "Some day,
not now. Oh, not now. Now would be too much. But some day, Fritz,
if God will not deal too hardly with me, I--I shall be his,
Fritz."
I was intent on my vision, not on hers. I wanted him king; she
did not care what he was, so that he was hers, so that he should
not leave her.
"He'll take the throne," I cried triumphantly.
"No, no, no. Not the throne. He's going away."
"Going away!" I could not keep the dismay out of my voice.
"Yes, now. But not--not for ever. It will be long--oh, so
long--but I can bear it, if I know that at last!" She stopped,
still looking up at me with eyes that implored pardon and
sympathy.
"I don't understand," said I, bluntly, and, I fear, gruffly,
also.
"You were right," she said: "I did persuade him. He wanted to go
away again as he went before.
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