"What had he decided, madame? Would he have been King?"
She started a little.
"He didn't tell me," she answered, "and I didn't think of it while he spoke to me."
"Of what then did he speak, madame?"
"Only of his love—of nothing but his love, Fritz," she answered.
Well, I take it that when a man comes to die, love is more to him than a kingdom: it may be, if we could see truly, that it is more to him even while he lives.
"Of nothing but his great love for me, Fritz," she said again. "And my love brought him to his death."
"He wouldn't have had it otherwise," said I.
"No," she whispered; and she leant over the parapet of the gallery, stretching out her arms to him. But he lay still and quiet, not hearing and not heeding when she murmured, "My King! my King!" It was even as it had been in the dream.
That night James, the servant, took leave of his dead master and of us. He carried to England by word of mouth—for we dared write nothing down—the truth concerning the King of Ruritania and Mr. Rassendyll. It was to be told to the Earl of Burlesdon, Rudolf's brother, under a pledge of secrecy; and to this day the
