"But you love me," cried Mirko, a passionate gladness ringing in his voice. "You do love me! Surely we have the right to a little happiness!" "No," she answered slowly, "no, it is impossible. You must go away. This is not your destiny. You will be King some day, your country, your people, claim you." "I will give it all up for you, Ragna!" He knew that he would not, but promises come easily, by moonlight. "No," she repeated, "you must go; we must part." "But if you love me--" "If I love you?" "What need is there to part? If you loved me enough." "Oh," she cried, suffocating, as his meaning dawned on her, "Oh! Do you take me for that?" She sprang back, her breast heaving, tears rising to her eyes. "Take you for what, dear? For a woman who would love me better than all the world beside? Do you think that an insult?" "You--you would make me your--," she could not bring herself to say the word. Prince Mirko executed a masterly retreat. "My child!" he cried in a horrified voice. "What do you imagine? I mean that where true love is, there can be no parting. Far or near, those who love are always united." "Oh," said Ragna dubiously, "I thought you meant--" Mirko fixed his mournful eyes upon her. "Did I not tell you yesterday that I would rather die than harm you?" he asked reproachfully. Ragna hung her head, ashamed. "You have no confidence in me--and yet I deserve it," he said bitterly. "I have confidence in you; it was only that I did not understand, I was afraid--" "Do you wish to give me a proof of your confidence, dear one?" "Yes," said Ragna, "what shall I do?" she was ashamed of her suspicion and eager to atone. "We have so little time left to us--only a few days, then our ways part,--let us be lovers for that little time, as if we were betrothed, as if we were to marry like ordinary people. Will you, dear? It can do no harm--just a game of 'pretend' as the children say, and we shall have those days to look back on all our lives!" He sank to one knee, holding her clasped hands in his own, the folds of his long cloak sweeping the ground. That, and the felt hat gave him the appearance of a cavalier of romance. It was splendidly theatrical--but it harmonized with the setting and the hour. His eyes, soft and burning, held hers. Why not? thought Ragna, a little romance,--a little happiness, a gorgeous illusion, and the light would go out. Why not make the most of the golden hours--there would be enough grey ones in the future to compensate amply for the delicious fraud. Instinct warned her of hidden danger--but had he not said: "I would rather die than harm you!" The pressure of his hand was insistent. "Very well," she said faintly, "I will." He sprang to his feet and clasped her in his arms, covering her face with kisses. "Oh!" she cried struggling, "you must not! It is not right!" "Are you not my fiancée, my little love?" he asked in a pained voice. "What hurt can my kisses do you? Oh, Ragna!"