He
loved her as he had never loved that long-dead wife, a plain princess
who always thought what she was told to think.
But he would take Julie in all honor as his wife. He could not make her
a princess but he could make her a countess, and he would clothe her in
a golden shower. There had been hundreds of morganatic marriages. They
implied no disgrace. Noblewomen themselves had been glad to make them.
And yet she had refused. Nothing could move her. She had not even
flinched a particle when he had threatened her otherwise with death as a
spy, although the threat was merely words on his lips and had no abiding
place in his heart. She was most beautiful then, when the defiant fire
flashed in her dark blue eyes and the sunshine coming through a tall
stained glass window made deep red tints in her wonderful golden hair.
It was maddening to think of her, just a child turning into a woman, and
wholly in his power defying him as if he were some humble lieutenant and
not the mighty Prince Karl of Auersperg.
He rose and walked angrily back and forth. Now and then he went to a
window and looked out at the dusky panorama of valley, mountain and
shaggy forest. As far as he could see and farther it was all his and
yet he was powerless in the matter that now concerned him more than all
others. She was his prisoner, and yet she was as free as air.
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