“Why, then, did you marry him?”

“To save myself, sire—­to save myself, and because I could not learn to forget.  Your majesty has just said that you have the religion of memory.  Sire, I am the anguish-stricken, tortured, fanatical priestess of the same faith.  I have lain daily before her altar, I have scourged my heart with remembrances, and blinded my eyes with weeping.  At last a day came in which I roused myself.  I resolved to abandon my altar, to flee from the past, and teach my heart to forget.  I went to England, accepted Lord Stuart’s proposals, and resolved to be his wife.  It was in vain, wholly in vain.  Whatsoever my trembling lips might say, my heart lay ever bleeding before the altar of my memory.  The past followed me over the wide seas, she beckoned and greeted me with mysterious sighs and pleadings; she called out to me, with two great, wondrous eyes, clear and blue as the heavens, unfathomable as the sea!  These eyes, sire, called me back, and I could not resist them.  I felt that I would rather die by them than relinquish them forever.  So, on my wedding-day, I fled from England, and returned to Berlin.  The old magic came over me; also, alas! the old grief.  I felt that I must do something to save myself, if I would not go mad.  I resolved to bind my wayward heart in chains, to make my love a prisoner to duty, and silence the outcries of my soul!  But I still wavered.  Then came Madame Cocceji.  By her insolent bearing she roused my pride, until it overshadowed even my despair, and I heard no other voice.  So, sire, I married Cocceji!  I have taken refuge in this marriage, as in a safe haven, where I shall rest peacefully and fear no storm.

“But, my king, struggle as I may to begin a new life, the religion of memory will not relinquish her priestess; she extends her mystical hands over me, and my poor heart shouts back to her against my will.  Sire, save me!  I have fled to this marriage as one flies to a cloister-cell, to escape the sweet love of this world.  Oh, sire, do not allow them to drive me from this refuge; leave me in peace to God and my duty!  Alas! my soul has repented, she lies wearied and ill at your feet.  Help her, heal her, I implore you!”

She was silent.  She extended her bands toward the king.  He looked at her sadly, kindly took her hands in his, and pressed his lips upon them.

“Barbarina,” said he, in a rich, mellow voice—­“Barbarina, I thank you.  God and the king have heard you.  You say that you are the priestess of the religion of remembrance; well, then, I am her priest, and I confess to you that I, also, have passed many nights in anguish before her altar.  Life demands heavy sacrifices, and more from kings than from other men.  Once in my life I made so rich an offering to my, royalty that it seemed life could have no more of bitterness in store.  The thoughtless and fools consider life a pleasure.  But I, Barbarina, I say, that life is a duty.  Let us fulfil our duties.”