But still I sobbed like a child.  For how—­how could I tell her?

Presently the power returned slowly to me, seeing her smiling so bravely up at me, and rising on tiptoe to kiss my wet face.

Then I told her all—­in what words I hardly remember now.

“Love of mine,” I said, “I have but an hour or less to speak with you—­and ah! such terrible things, such inconceivable things, to say; a horror to reveal such as never lover had to tell his love before.”

She drew one of my hands down and softly patted her breast with it.

“Fear not,” she said; “tell it Helene.  If it be true that love conquers all, your little lass can bear it!”

“I came,” said I, “with purpose to see you, and by treachery (it skills not to ask whose) I was taken at my dead father’s bedside.”

“Our father dead?” she cried, going a step away to look at me, but coming back again immediately; “then there are but you and me in the world, Hugo!”

“Aye,” said I, “but how can I tell you the rest?  My father died like a man, and then they took me, still holding the dead in my arms.  I was confronted with a fiend of hell in the likeness of Duke Otho.”

As I mentioned the Duke’s name I could feel her shudder on my neck.

“And—­But I cannot tell you what he has bidden me do, under penalties too fearful to conceive or speak of.”

She put her hands up, and gently, timidly, lovingly stroked my cheek.

“Dear love, tell me!  Tell the Little Playmate!” she said, as simply and sweetly as if she had been coaxing me to whisper to her some lightest childish secret of our plays together in the old Red Tower.

I was silent for a space, and then, spurred by the thought of the swiftly passing time, the words were wrenched out of me.

“He says that I, even I, Hugo Gottfried, my father’s son, being now hereditary Red Axe of the Wolfmark, must strike off the head of the one I love.  And if I will not, then to the vilest of devils for vilest ends he will deliver her.  Ah, God, and he would do it too!  I saw the very flame of hell’s fire in his eyes.”

Then I that write saw a strange appearance on the face that looked up in mine.  As on a dark April day, with a lowering sky, you have seen the wind suddenly stir high in the heavens, and the sun look through on the dripping green of the young trees and the gay bourgeoning of the flowers, so, looking on my love’s face as she took in my words, there awakened a kind of springtime joy.  Nay, wherefore need I say a kind of joy only.  It was more.  It was great, overleaping, sudden-springing gladness.  Her eyes swam in lustrous beauty.  She smiled up at me as I had never seen her smile before.

“Oh, I am glad, Hugo—­so glad!  I love you, Hugo!  It will be hard for you, my love.  And yet you will be brave and help me.  I had far rather die at your hand than live to be the bride of the greatest man in all the world.  Do that which will save me from, shame; do it gladly, Hugo.  I fear it.  I saw it in the eyes of that man Otho von Reuss.  But only to die will be easy, with you near by.  For I love you, Hugo.  And I could just say a prayer, and then—­well, and then—­Do not cry, Hugo—­why, then you would put me to sleep, even as of old you did in the Red Tower!