You gave yourself to me when you knew I could be nothing more than
the humblest soldier. It was the sacrifice of love. You will forgive my
presumption--my very insolence, dear one, when I tell you that my soul
is the forfeit I pay. It is yours through all eternity. I love you. I
can give you the riches of the world as well as the wealth of the
heart. The vagabond dies; your poor humble follower gives way to the
supplicating prince. You would have lived in a cot as the guardsman's
wife; you will take the royal palace instead?"
Beverly was herself again. The spell was gone. Her eyes swam with
happiness and love; the suffering her pride had sustained was swept into
a heap labeled romance, and she was rejoicing.
"I hated you to-night, I thought," she cried, taking his face in her
hands. "It looked as though you had played a trick on me. It was mean,
dear. I couldn't help thinking that you had used me as a plaything and
it--it made me furious. But it is different now. I see, oh, so
plainly. And just as I had resigned myself to the thought of spending
the rest of my life in a cottage, away outside the pale of this glorious
life! Oh, it is like a fairy tale!"
"Ah, but it was not altogether a trick, dear one. There was no assurance
that I could regain the throne--not until the very last. Without it I
should have been the beggar instead of the prince.
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