“Yes, I lived through it all.” He pressed her hand, knowing what that phrase meant and must mean for her. “Will it last forever?” she asked, suddenly gripping his hand tightly. But a moment later she went on: “No, no, I mustn’t make you unhappy, Rudolf. I’m half glad I wrote the letter, and half glad they stole it. It’s so sweet to have you fighting for me, for me only this time, Rudolf--not for the king, for me!” “Sweet indeed, my dearest lady. Don’t be afraid: we shall win.” “You will win, yes. And then you’ll go?” And, dropping his hand, she covered her face with hers. “I mustn’t kiss your face,” said he, “but your hands I may kiss,” and he kissed her hands as they were pressed against her face. “You wear my ring,” she murmured through her fingers, “always?” “Why, yes,” he said, with a little laugh of wonder at her question. “And there is--no one else?” “My queen!” said he, laughing again. “No, I knew really, Rudolf, I knew really,” and now her hands flew out towards him, imploring his pardon. Then she began to speak quickly: “Rudolf, last night I had a dream about you, a strange dream. I seemed to be in Strelsau, and all the people were talking about the king. It was you they meant; you were the king. At last you were the king, and I was your queen. But I could see you only very dimly; you were somewhere, but I could not make out where; just sometimes your face came. Then I tried to tell you that you were king--yes, and Colonel Sapt and Fritz tried to tell you; the people, too, called out that you were king. What did it mean? But your face, when I saw it, was unmoved, and very pale, and you seemed not to hear what we said, not even what I said. It almost seemed as if you were dead, and yet king. Ah, you mustn’t die, even to be king,” and she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sweetheart,” said he gently, “in dreams desires and fears blend in strange visions, so I seemed to you to be both a king and a dead man; but I’m not a king, and I am a very healthy fellow. Yet a thousand thanks to my dearest queen for dreaming of me.” “No, but what could it mean?” she asked again. “What does it mean when I dream always of you, except that I always love you?” “Was it only that?” she said, still unconvinced. What more passed between them I do not know. I think that the queen told my wife more, but women will sometimes keep women’s secrets even from their husbands; though they love us, yet we are always in some sort the common enemy, against whom they join hands. Well, I would not look too far into such secrets, for to know must be, I suppose, to blame, and who is himself so blameless that in such a case he would be free with his censures?