He sank to his knee before the real princess, kissed the hem of her robe and arose with face pallid.  The chasm was now endless in its immensity.  The princess gingerly seated herself on the throne, placed her elbow on the broad arm, her white chin in her hand, and tranquilly surveyed the voiceless American prince.

“You have not said, ‘Thank you,’” she said, finally, her eyes wavering beneath his steady gaze.

“I am only thinking how easy it would be to cross the gulf that lies between us.  With two movements of my body I can place it before you, with a third I can be sitting at your side.  It is not so difficult after all,” he said, hungrily eyeing the broad chair.

“No man, unless a prince, ever sat upon this throne,” she said.

“You have called me a prince.”

“Oh, I jested,” she cried quickly, comprehending his intention.  “I forbid you!”

The command came too late, for he was beside her on the throne of Graustark!  She sat perfectly rigid for a moment, intense fear in her eyes.

“Do you know what you have done?” she whispered, miserably.

“Usurped the throne,” he replied, assuming an ease and complacence he did not feel.  Truly he was guilty of unprecedented presumption.

“You have desecrated—­desecrated!  Do you hear?” she went on, paying no attention to his remark.

“Peccavl.  Ah, Your Highness, I delight in my sin.  For once I am a power; I speak from the throne.  You will not have me abdicate in the zenith of my glory?  Be kind, most gracious one.  Besides, did you not once cry because your uncle refused to sit with you?  Had he been the possessor of a dangerous wound, as I am, and had he found himself so weak that he could stand no longer, I am sure he would have done as I have—­sat down in preference to falling limp at your feet.  You do not know how badly I am wounded,” he pleaded, with the subtlest double meaning.

“Why should you wound me?” she asked, plaintively.  “You have no right to treat the throne I occupy as a subject for pranks and indignities.  I did not believe you could be so—­forgetful.”  There was a proud and pitiful resentment in her voice that brought him to his senses at once.  He had defiled her throne.  In shame and humiliation he cried: 

“I am a fool—­an ingrate, You have been too gentle with me.  For this despicable act of mine I cannot ask pardon and it would be beneath you to grant it.  I have hurt you, and I can never atone.  I forgot how sacred is your throne.  Let me depart in disgrace.”  He stood erect as if to forsake the throne he had stained, but she, swayed by a complete reversal of feeling, timidly, pleadingly touched his arm.

“Stay!  It is my throne, after all.  I shall divide it, as well as the sin, with you.  Sit down again, I beg of you.  For a brief spell I would rule beside a man who is fit to be a king but who is a desecrator.  There can be no harm and no one shall be the wiser for this sentimental departure from royal custom.  We are children, anyhow—­mere children.”