I was still
standing on the spot to which the King had called me. He looked round, and
saw my anxious face.
"What, still there, little one?" he said. "You have not heard what we were
saying?"
"Yes," I said; "I heard it."
"The child may have heard, your Majesty," interposed my father, hastily;
"but she did not understand. Run home, Gretchen. Make thy obeisance to his
Majesty, and run home quickly."
But I had understood every word. I knew that Monsieur Maurice's life had
been in danger. I knew the King was all-powerful. Terrified at my own
boldness--terrified at the thought of my father's anger--
trembling--sobbing--scarcely conscious of what I was saying, I fell at the
King's feet, and cried:--
"Save him--save him, Sire! Don't let them kill poor Monsieur Maurice!
Forgive him--please forgive him, and let him go home again!"
My father seized me by the hand, forced me to rise, and dragged me back
more roughly than he had ever touched me in his life.
"I beseech your Majesty's pardon for the child," he said. "She knows no
better."
But the King smiled, and called me back to him.
"Nay, nay," he said, laying his hand upon my head, "do not be vexed with
her. So, little one, you and Monsieur Maurice are friends?"
I nodded; for I was still crying, and too frightened at what I had done to
be able to speak.
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