“This is the throne room. Allode!”
The Princess Yetive paused before two massive doors. It was the next
afternoon, and she had already shown him the palace of a queen--the
hovel of a pauper!
Through the afternoon not one word other than those which might have
passed between good friends escaped the lips of either. He was all
interest, she all graciousness. Allode, the sturdy guard, swung open
the doors, drew the curtain, and stood aside for them to pass. Into
the quiet hall she led him, a princess in a gown of gray, a courtier in
tweeds. Inside the doors he paused.
“And I thought you were Miss Guggenslocker,” he said. She laughed with
the glee of a child who has charmed and delighted through surprise.
“Am I not a feeble mite to sit on that throne and rule all that comes
within its reach?” She directed his attention to the throne at the
opposite end of the hall. “From its seat I calmly instruct gray-haired
statesmen, weigh their wisdom and pass upon it as if I were Demosthenes,
challenge the evils that may drive monarchs mad, and wonder if my crown
is on straight.”
“Let me be ambassador from the United States and kneel at the throne,
your Highness.”
“I could not engage in a jest with the crown my ancestors wore, Mr.
Lorry. It is sacred, thou thoughtless American. Come, we will draw
nearer that you may see the beauty of the workmanship in that great old
chair.”
They stood at the base of the low, velveted stage on which stood the
chair, with its high back, its massive arms and legs ashimmer in the
light from the lofty windows. It was of gold, inlaid with precious
stones--diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires and other wondrous
jewels--a relic of ancient Graustark.
“I never sit in the center. Always at one side or the other, usually
leaning my elbow on the arm. You see, the discussions are generally
so long and dreary that I become fatigued. One time,--I am ashamed to
confess it, I went to sleep on the throne. That was long ago. I manage
to keep awake very well of late. Do you like my throne room?”
“And to think that it is yours!”
“It is this room that gives me the right to be hailed with 'Long live
the Princess!' Not with campaign yells and 'Hurrah for Yetive!' How does
that sound? 'Hurrah for Yetive!'” She was laughing merrily.
“Don't say it! It sounds sacrilegious--revolting!”
“For over three years--since I was eighteen--I have been supreme in that
chair. During the years of my reign prior to that time I sat there with
my Uncle Caspar standing beside me. How often I begged him to sit down
with me! There was so much room and he certainly must have grown tired
of standing. One time I cried because he frowned at me when I persisted
in the presence of a great assemblage of nobles from Dawsbergen. It
seems that it was a most important audience that I was granting, but I
thought more of my uncle's tired old legs. I remember saying, through my
sobs of mortification, that I would have him beheaded. You are to guess
whether that startling threat created consternation or mirth.”
“What a whimsical little princess you must have been, weeping and
pouting and going to sleep,” he laughed. “And how sedate and wise you
have become.”
“Thank you. How very nice you are. I knave felt all along that some one
would discern my effort to be dignified and sedate. They say I am wise
and good and gracious, but that is to be expected. They said that of
sovereigns as far back as the deluge, I've heard. Would you really like
to see me in that old chair?” she asked.
“Ah, you are still a woman,” he said, smiling at her pretty vanity.
“Nothing could impress me more pleasantly.”
She stepped carelessly and impulsively upon the royal platform,
leaned against the arm of the throne, and with the charming blush of
consciousness turned to him with the quickness of a guilty conscience,
eager to hear his praise but fearful lest he secretly condemned her
conceit. His eyes were burning with the admiration that knows no
defining, and his breath came quick and sharp through parted lips. He
involuntarily placed a foot upon the bottom step as if to spring to her
side.
“You must not come up here!” she cried, shrinking back, her hands
extended in fluttering remonstrance. “I cannot permit that, at all!”
“I beg your pardon,” he cried, “That is all the humble plebeian can say.
That I may be more completely under this fairy spell, pray cast about
yourself the robe of rank and take up the sceptre. Perhaps I may fall
upon my face.”
“And hurt your head all over again,” she said, laughing nervously. She
hesitated for a moment, a perplexed frown crossing her brow. Then she
jerked a rich robe from the back of the throne and placed it about her
shoulders as only a woman can. Taking up the scepter she stood before
the great chair, and, with a smile on her lips, held it above his head,
saying softly:
“Graustark welcomes the American prince.”
He sank to his knee before the real princess, kissed the hem of her robe
and arose with face pallid. The chasm was now endless in its immensity.
The princess gingerly seated herself on the throne, placed her elbow on
the broad arm, her white chin in her hand, and tranquilly surveyed the
voiceless American prince.
“You have not said, 'Thank you,'” she said, finally, her eyes wavering
beneath his steady gaze.
“I am only thinking how easy it would be to cross the gulf that lies
between us. With two movements of my body I can place it before you,
with a third I can be sitting at your side. It is not so difficult after
all,” he said, hungrily eyeing the broad chair.
“No man, unless a prince, ever sat upon this throne,” she said.
“You have called me a prince.”
“Oh, I jested,” she cried quickly, comprehending his intention. “I
forbid you!”
The command came too late, for he was beside her on the throne of
Graustark! She sat perfectly rigid for a moment, intense fear in her
eyes.
“Do you know what you have done?” she whispered, miserably.
“Usurped the throne,” he replied, assuming an ease and complacence he
did not feel. Truly he was guilty of unprecedented presumption.
“You have desecrated--desecrated! Do you hear?” she went on, paying no
attention to his remark.
“Peccavi. Ah, Your Highness, I delight in my sin. For once I am a power;
I speak from the throne. You will not have me abdicate in the zenith
of my glory? Be kind, most gracious one. Besides, did you not once cry
because your uncle refused to sit with you? Had he been the possessor
of a dangerous wound, as I am, and had he found himself so weak that he
could stand no longer, I am sure he would have done as I have--sat down
in preference to falling limp at your feet. You do not know how badly I
am wounded,” he pleaded, with the subtlest double meaning.
“Why should you wound me?” she asked, plaintively. “You have no right to
treat the throne I occupy as a subject for pranks and indignities. I did
not believe you could be so--forgetful.” There was a proud and pitiful
resentment in her voice that brought him to his senses at once. He had
defiled her throne. In shame and humiliation he cried:
“I am a fool--an ingrate, You have been too gentle with me. For this
despicable act of mine I cannot ask pardon and it would be beneath you
to grant it. I have hurt you, and I can never atone. I forgot how sacred
is your throne. Let me depart in disgrace.” He stood erect as if
to forsake the throne he had stained, but she, swayed by a complete
reversal of feeling, timidly, pleadingly touched his arm.
“Stay! It is my throne, after all. I shall divide it, as well as the
sin, with you. Sit down again, I beg of you. For a brief spell I would
rule beside a man who is fit to be a king but who is a desecrator.
There can be no harm and no one shall be the wiser for this sentimental
departure from royal custom. We are children, anyhow--mere children.”
With an exclamation of delight, he resumed his position beside her.
His hand trembled as he took up hers to carry it to his lips. “We are
children--playing with fire,” he murmured, this ingrate, this fool!
She allowed her hand to lie limply in his, her head sinking to the back
of the chair. When her hand was near his feverish lips, cool and white
and trusting, he checked the upward progress. Slowly he raised his eyes
to study her face, finding that hers were closed, the semblance of a
smile touching her lips as if they were in a happy dream.
The lips! The lips! The lips! The madness of love rushed into his
heart; the expectant hand was forgotten; his every hope and every
desire measured themselves against his discretion as he looked upon
the tempting face. Could he kiss those lips but once his life would be
complete.
With a start she opened her eyes, doubtless at the command of the
masterful ones above. The eyes of blue met the eyes of gray in a short,
sharp struggle, and the blue went down in surrender. His lips triumphed
slowly, drawing closer and closer as if restrained and impelled by the
same emotion--arrogant love.
“Open your eyes, darling,” he whispered, and she obeyed. Then their lips
met--her first kiss of love!
She trembled from head to foot, perfectly powerless beneath the spell.
Again he kissed a princess on her throne. At this second kiss her eyes
grew wide with terror, and she sprang from his side, standing before him
like one bereft of reason.
“Oh, my God! What have you done?” she wailed. He staggered to his feet,
dizzy with joy.
“Ha!” cried a gruff voice from the doorway, and the guilty ones whirled
to look upon the witness to their blissful crime. Inside the curtains,
with carbine leveled at the head of the American, stood Allode, the
guard, his face distorted by rage. The Princess screamed and leaped
between Lorry and the threatening carbine.
“Allode!” she cried, in frantic terror.
He angrily cried out something in his native tongue and she
breathlessly, imploringly replied. Lorry did not understand their words,
but he knew that she had saved him from death at the hand of her loyal,
erring guard. Allode lowered his gun, bowed low and turned his back upon
the throne.
“He--he would have killed you,” she said, tremulously, her face the
picture of combined agony and relief. She remembered the blighting
kisses and then the averted disaster.
“You--what did you say to him?” he asked.
“I--I--oh, I will not tell you,” she cried.
“I beg of you!”
“I told him that he was to--was to put down his gun.”
“I know that, but why?” he persisted.
“I--Ach, to save you, stupid!”
“How did you explain the--the--” He hesitated, generously.
“I told him that I had not been--that I had not been--”
“Say it!”
“That I had not been--offended!” she gasped, standing stiff and
straight, with eyes glued upon the obedient guard.
“You were not?” he rapturously cried.
“I said it only to save your life!” she cried, turning fiercely upon
him. “I shall never forgive you! Never! You must go--you must leave here
at once! Do you hear? I cannot have you near me now--I cannot see you
again. Ach, God! What have I given you the right to say of me?”
“Stop! It is as sacred as--”
“Yes, yes--I understand! I trust you, but you must go! Find some excuse
to give your friend and go to-day! Go now!” she cried, intensely, first
putting her hands to her temples, then to her eyes.
Without waiting to hear his remonstrance, if indeed he had the power
to utter one, she glided swiftly toward the curtains, allowing him to
follow at his will. Dazed and crushed at the sudden end to everything,
he dragged his footsteps after. At the door she spoke in low, imperative
tones to the motionless Allode, who dropped to his knees and muttered
a reverential response. As Lorry passed beneath the hand that held the
curtain aside, he glanced at the face of the man who had been witness to
their weakness. He was looking straight ahead, and, from his expression,
it could not have been detected that he knew there was a man on earth
save himself. In the hall she turned to him, her face cold and pale.
“I have faithful guards about me now. Allode has said he did not see you
in the throne room. He will die before he will say otherwise,” she said,
her lips trembling with shame.
“By your command?”
“By my request. I do not command my men to lie.”
Side by side they passed down the quiet hall, silent, thoughtful, the
strain of death upon their hearts.
“I shall obey the only command you have given, then. This day I leave
the castle. You will let me come again--to see you? There can be no
harm--”
“No! You must leave Graustark at once!” she interrupted, the tones low.
“I refuse to go! I shall remain in Edelweiss, near you, just so long as
I feel that I may be of service to you.”
“I cannot drive you out as I would a thief,” she said, pointedly.
At the top of the broad staircase he held out his hand and murmured:
“Good-by, your Highness!”
“Good-by,” she said, simply, placing her hand in his after a moment's
hesitation. Then she left him.
An hour later the two Americans, one strangely subdued, the other
curious, excited and impatient, stood before the castle waiting for the
carriage. Count Halfont was with them, begging them to remain, as he
could see no reason for the sudden leave-taking. Lorry assured him that
they had trespassed long enough on the Court's hospitality, and that he
would feel much more comfortable at the hotel. Anguish looked narrowly
at his friend's face, but said nothing. He was beginning to understand.
“Let us walk to the gates. The Count will oblige us by instructing the
coachman to follow,” said Lorry, eager to be off.
“Allow me to join you in the walk, gentlemen,” said Count Caspar,
immediately instructing a lackey to send the carriage after them. He and
Lorry walked on together, Anguish lingering behind, having caught
sight of the Countess Dagmar. That charming and unconventional piece of
nobility promptly followed the prime minister's example and escorted the
remaining guest to the gate.
Far down the walk Lorry turned for a last glance at the castle from
which love had banished him. Yetive was standing on the balcony, looking
not at the monastery but at the exile.
She remained there long after the carriage had passed her gates, bearing
the Americans swiftly over the white Castle Avenue, and there were tears
in her eyes.