The king turned away with a sigh.  He felt that if he longer regarded this pale, resigned face, he would lose sight of reason and duty, and restore to her her lover.  He again advanced to the window, and looked thoughtfully out at the sky.  “Is it possible? can it be?” he asked himself.  “May I forget my duties as head of my family, and only remember that she is my sister, and that she is suffering and weeping?  Must we then all pay for this empty grandeur, this frippery of earthly magnificence, with our heart’s blood and our best hopes?  And if I now deprive her of her dreams of happiness, what compensation can I offer?  With what can I replace her hopes, her love, the happiness of her youth?  At the best, with a little earthly splendor, with the purple and the crown, and eventually, perhaps, with my love.  Yes, I will love her truly and cordially; she shall forgive the brother for the king’s harshness; she shall—­”

“I have finished,” said the sad voice of his sister.

The king turned from the window; Amelia stood at the escritoire, holding the paper on which she had been writing in one hand, and sustaining herself by the table with the other.

“Read what you have written,” said the king, approaching her.

The princess bowed her head and read: 

“I pity you, but your misfortune is irremediable; and I cannot and will not attempt to alleviate it, for fear of compromising myself.  This is, therefore, my last letter—­I can risk nothing more for you.  Do not attempt to write to me, for I should return your letter unopened.  Our separation must be forever, but I will always remain your friend; and if I can ever serve you hereafter, I will do so gladly.  Farewell, unhappy friend, you deserve a better fate.” [Footnote:  Trenck’s Memoirs, i., 86.]

“That is all?” said the king, as his sister ceased reading.

“That is all, sire.”

“And you imagine that he will no longer believe in your love, when he receives this letter?” said the king, with a sad smile.

“I am sure he will not, for I tell him in this letter that I will risk nothing more for him; that I will not even attempt to alleviate his misery.  Only when one is cowardly enough to sacrifice love to selfish fears, could one do this.  I shall have purchased his liberty with his contempt.”

“What would you have written if you had been permitted to follow the promptings of your heart?”

A rosy hue flitted over her countenance, and love beamed in her eyes.  “I would have written, ’Believe in me, trust in me!  For henceforth the one aim of my life will be to liberate you.  Let me die when I have attained this aim, but die in the consciousness of having saved you, and of having been true to my love.’”

“You would have written that?”

“I would have written that,” said she, proudly and joyfully.  “And the truth of that letter he would not have doubted.”

“Oh, woman’s heart! inexhaustible source of love and devotion!” murmured the king, turning away to conceal his emotion from his sister.