“See,” she said, speaking quickly and eagerly, “they tell me this your Helene is an angel of mercy to the sick.  If she is spared she will be content to give her life to works of good intent among the poor.  This cannot be life and death to her as it is to me.  Her love is not as the love of a woman like Ysolinde.  It is not for any one man to possess in monopoly.  Though you may deceive yourself and think that it will be fixed and centred on you.  But she will never love you as I love you.  See, I would knee to you, pray to you on my knees, make myself a suppliant—­I, Ysolinde that am a princess!  With you, Hugo, I have no pride, no shame.  I would take your love by violence, as a strong man surpriseth and taketh the heart of a maid.”

She was now all trembling and distract, her lips red, her eyes bright, her hands clasped and trembling as they were strained palm to palm.

“Lady Ysolinde, I would that this were not so,” I began.

A new quick spasm passed over her face.  I think it came across her that my heart was wavering.  “God knows that I, Hugo Gottfried, am not worth all this!”

“Nay,” she said, with a kind of joy in her voice and in her eyes, “that matters not.  Ysolinde of Plassenburg is as a child that must have its toy or die.  Worthiness has no more to do with love than creeds and dogmas.  Love me—­Hugo—­love me even a little.  Put me not away.  I will be so true, so willing.  I will run your errands, wait on you, stand behind you in battle, in council lead you to fame and great glory.  For you, Hugo, I will watch the faces of others, detect your enemies, unite your well-wishers, mark the failing favor of your friends.  What heart so strong, what eye so keen as mine—­for the greater the love the sharper the eye to mark, prevent, countermine.  And this maid, so cold and icy, so full of good works and the abounding fame of saintliness, let her live for the healing of the people, for the love of God and man both, and it liketh her.  She shall be abbess of our greatest convent.  She shall indeed be the Saint Helena of the North.  Even now I will save her from death and give her refuge.  I promise it.  I have the power in my hands.  Only do you, Hugo Gottfried, give me your love, your life, yourself!”

She was standing before me now, and had her arms about my neck.  I felt them quiver upon my shoulders.  Her eyes looked directly up into mine, and whether they were the eyes of an angel or of a tempting fiend I could not tell.  Very lovely, at any rate, they were, and might have tempted even Saint Anthony to sin.

“Ysolinde,” I said, at last, “it is small wonder that I am strongly moved; you have offered me great things to-night.  I feel my heart very humble and unworthy.  I deserve not your love.  I am but a man, a soldier, dull and slow.  Were it not for one man and one woman it should be as you say.  But Karl of Plassenburg is my good master, my loyal friend.  Helene is my true love.  I beseech you put this thought from you, dear lady, and be once more my true Princess, I your liege subject—­faithful, full of reverence and devotion till life shall end!”