ome nor your honor praise. I
thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it."

Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast
down: "Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful,
and--would give me--" His voice died away, and he sat silent again,
twisting his hands.

"I know--I know," she said. "But you wouldn't have listened to such
persuasions if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes."

She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof,
and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears.

"Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz."

"She should be no wife of mine, if she didn't," I cried. "For I and all
of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty."

"She knows, and yet she loves me," repeated the queen. I loved to see
that she seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It is women to whom
women turn, and women whom women fear.

"But Helga writes no letters," said the queen.

"Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll
had never wooed my wife.

She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the palace."

As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her.

"Well, my lord," said she, turning towards him, "will you also go with
me?"

"Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--" I began. But I stopped.
The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me.

"Will you go with me?" she asked Rischenheim again.

"Madam," he stammered, "Madam--"

She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him.
Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand.
Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly:
"Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!"

Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it.

"It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert set me on, and I couldn't
stand out against him."

"Will you go with me to the palace?" she asked, drawing her hand away,
but smiling.

"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I made bold to observe, "knows some
things that most people do not know, madam." She turned on me with
dignity, almost with displeasure.

"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent," she said.
"We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence."

"Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what security shall we have?"

"His word of honor, my lord." I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay
in h