"The devil!" murmured the man in the other cell.
"You here, Gretchen?" The king covered her hands with passionate
kisses.
"Yes, yes! They have made a dreadful mistake. You are no spy from
Jugendheit."
"No, Gretchen," said the voice from the next cell. "He is far worse than
that. He is the king, Gretchen, the king."
"Uncle!" in anguish.
"Let us have it over with," replied Prince Ludwig sadly.
"The king?" Gretchen laughed shrilly. "What jest is this, Leopold?"
The king, still holding her hands, looked down.
"Leopold?" plaintively.
Still he did not speak, still he averted his head. But God knew that his
heart was on the rack.
The princess, remaining in the background, not daring to interfere, felt
the smart of tears in her eyes. Ah, the poor tender little goose-girl!
The pity of it! This king was a scoundrel.
"Leo, look at me! You are laughing! Why, did we not work together in the
vineyards, and did we not plan for the future? _Ah_, yes! You are a king
only to me. I see. But it is a cruel jest, Leopold. Smile at me! Say
something!" Gretchen was hanging to the bars now; her body, held in the
vise of growing terror, was almost a dead weight.
"Gretchen, forgive me!" despairingly.
"He asks me to forgive him!" dully.
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