Ignorant of the mind and heart of young Rupert, she could not conceive that he tried to kill the king. Yet the words she had caught sounded like the words of men quarreling, and she could not persuade herself that the gentlemen fenced only for pastime. They were not speaking now; but she heard their hard breathing and the movement of their unresting feet on the bare boards of the floor. Then a cry rang out, clear and merry with the fierce hope of triumph: “Nearly! nearly!” She knew the voice for Rupert of Hentzau’s, and it was the king who answered calmly, “Nearly isn’t quite.” Again she listened. They seemed to have paused for a moment, for there was no sound, save of the hard breathing and deep-drawn pants of men who rest an instant in the midst of intense exertion. Then came again the clash and the slitherings; and one of them crossed into her view. She knew the tall figure and she saw the red hair: it was the king. Backward step by step he seemed to be driven, coming nearer and nearer to the door. At last there was no more than a foot between him and her; only the crazy panel prevented her putting out her hand to touch him. Again the voice of Rupert rang out in rich exultation, “I have you now! Say your prayers, King Rudolf!” “Say your prayers!” Then they fought. It was earnest, not play. And it was the king--her king--her dear king, who was in great peril of his life. For an instant she knelt, still watching. Then with a low cry of terror she turned and ran headlong down the steep stairs. Her mind could not tell what to do, but her heart cried out that she must do something for her king. Reaching the ground floor, she ran with wide-open eyes into the kitchen. The stew was on the hob, the old woman still held the spoon, but she had ceased to stir and fallen into a chair. “He’s killing the king! He’s killing the king!” cried Rosa, seizing her mother by the arm. “Mother, what shall we do? He’s killing the king!” The old woman looked up with dull eyes and a stupid, cunning smile. “Let them alone,” she said. “There’s no king here.” “Yes, yes. He’s upstairs in the count’s room. They’re fighting, he and the Count of Hentzau. Mother, Count Rupert will kill--” “Let them alone. He the king? He’s no king,” muttered the old woman again. For an instant Rosa stood looking down on her in helpless despair. Then a light flashed into her eyes. “I must call for help,” she cried. The old woman seemed to spring to sudden life. She jumped up and caught her daughter by the shoulder. “No, no,” she whispered in quick accents. “You--you don’t know. Let them alone, you fool! It’s not our business. Let them alone.” “Let me go, mother, let me go! Mother, I must help the king!” “I’ll not let you go,” said Mother Holf. But Rosa was young and strong; her heart was fired with terror for the king’s danger.