She realized how more than fair she looked
that evening--had she not heard it from many?--had not the eyes of the
king's guest told her?--and she believed that this lie must have sprung
to the jester's lips while he was regarding her.

As the solution crossed her mind, revealing the _plaisant_, a desperate
and despicable, as well as lowly wooer, her face relaxed. In the
desire to test her conclusion, she laughed quietly, musically. Cruelly
kind, smiled the princess.

"You are mad," she breathed softly. "You are mad--because--because
you--"

He started, studying her eagerly. He fancied he read relenting
softness in her gaze; a flash of memory into a past, where glamour and
romance, and the heart-history of the rose made up life's desideratum.
Wherein existence was but an allegory of love's quest, and the goal,
its consummation. Had she not bent sedulously over the rose of the
poet? Had not her breath come quickly, eagerly? Could he not feel it
yet, sweet and warm on his cheek? Into the past, having gone so far,
he stepped now boldly, as though to grasp again those illusive colors
and seize anew the intangible substance. He was but young, when
shadows seem solid, when dreams are corporeal stuff, and fantasies,
rock-like strata of reality.

So he knelt before her. "Yes," he said, "I love you!"

And thus remained, pale, motionless, all resentment or jealousy
succeeded by a stronger emotion, a feeling chivalric that bent itself
to a glad thraldom, the desire but to serve her--to save her. His
heart beat faster; he raised his head proudly.

"Listen, Princess," he began. "Though I meant it not, I fear I have
greatly wronged you. I have much to ask your pardon for; much to tell
you. It is I--I--"

The words died on his lips. From the princess' face all softness had
suddenly vanished. Her gaze passed him, cold, haughty. Across the
illusory positiveness of his world--immaterial, psychological,
ghostly--an intermediate orb--a tangible shadow was thrown. Behind him
stood the free baron and the king. Quickly the fool sprang to his feet.

"Princess!" exclaimed the hoarse voice of the master of Hochfels.

"My Lord?"

For a moment neither spoke, and then the clear, cold voice of the
princess broke the silence.

"Are all the fools in your country so presumptuous, my Lord?" she said.

The king's countenance lightened; he turned his accusing glance upon
the fool. As in a dream stood the latter; the word