Deep at the bottom of your heart you love your husband, Karl the Prince.

You know there is no man like him.

Me you do not love at all." "You will not let me," she said, softly, almost like a shy country maiden.
"Ah, if I had, you would have slain me long ere this," said I, "for I read you like a child's horn-book that he plays battledore with.

'Have not--_love_! Have--_hate_.' There you are, all in brief, my Lady Ysolinde." "It is false," laughed she; "but nevertheless I love greatly to hear you call me Ysolinde." She netted her fingers in mine beneath the shawl.

Well might the High Councillor say that she had a beautiful hand.