For every year Fritz carries with him to Dresden a little box; in it lies a red rose, and round the stalk of the rose is a slip of paper with the words written: "Rudolf--Flavia--always." And the like I send back by him.

That message, and the wearing of the rings, are all that now bind me and the Queen of Ruritania.

Far--nobler, as I hold her, for the act--she has followed where her duty to her country and her House led her, and is the wife of the King, uniting his subjects to him by the love they bear to her, giving peace and quiet days to thousands by her self-sacrifice.
There are moments when I dare not think of it, but there are others when I rise in spirit to where she ever dwells; then I can thank God that I love the noblest lady in the world, the most gracious and beautiful, and that there was nothing in my love that made her fall short in her high duty.
Shall I see her face again--the pale face and the glorious hair?
Of that I know nothing; Fate has no hint, my heart no presentiment.

I do not know.

In this world, perhaps--nay, it is likely--never.