Then Sapt spoke in a low hoarse whisper: "It is not the King.

Don't kiss him; he's not the King." She drew back for a moment; then, with an arm still round my neck, she asked, in superb indignation: "Do I not know my love?
Rudolf my love!" "It is not the King," said old Sapt again; and a sudden sob broke from tender-hearted Fritz.
It was the sob that told her no comedy was afoot.
"He is the King!" she cried.

"It is the King's face--the King's ring--my ring! It is my love!" "Your love, madame," said old Sapt, "but not the King.

The King is there in the Castle.

This gentleman--" "Look at me, Rudolf! look at me!" she cried, taking my face between her hands.