CHAPTER XXVIII

THE REUNION

The body of King Peter lay in state. All the previous day a continuous line of his mourning subjects had filed past the royal bier to gaze for the last time on the placid face of this King of an hour, who had given up his life in their service. Now the darkened room, hung with heavy curtains of sombre hue, through which the light of the early morning sun penetrated but dimly, seemed at first glance deserted. As Fenton's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, however, he made out a slender figure in black standing on the raised dais, her head pillowed on her arms, which rested on the side of the bier.

The quiet figure stirred at the sound of his approaching footsteps. She raised her head, then straightened up and stepped down to meet him. Olga was very pale and sad of face, but a tender welcome showed in her eyes.

"You came quickly," she said in a low tone.

Fenton had expected that the change in their positions would be reflected in her attitude, so he could scarcely credit it when, coming forward, she placed both her hands in his and looked up into his face with the same tenderness and infinite trust that she had shown when they parted.

"Olga!" he exclaimed, then stopped, finding no words to express his emotions.

"I received your letter last night," she went on in the same low tone. "I had already made up my mind, but your letter was a wonderful revelation. My dear, my dear, I never thought--I had not dared to think you loved me so!"

Fenton had not for a moment allowed his gaze to wander from her face. He noted with solicitude how wan and pale she was. The intensity of her grief showed in every line, but beneath it all was the light of a great resolution that almost transcended her sorrow.

"Why did you send for me?" he asked. "I didn't intend to see you again. I didn't want to make it--the inevitable--hard for you."

She nodded and pressed his hand gratefully.

"I understood your brave purpose," she said. "It spoke from every line of your letter. I read it many, many times and blessed you for it. But what you proposed is not necessary now."

Fenton did not understand. He was frankly puzzled at everything--her words, her attitude, even her dress. From the first moment that his eyes had rested upon her he had been aware of some subtle change. Too closely absorbed in his love and his loss for matters of detail to register on his mind, he had in a general way realised that there was something about her that was strangely different.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I am not Queen of Ironia," she said quietly. "I have refused the crown."

There was a tense pause.

Fenton gazed at her a moment in wonderment. Then, as full realisation of what her statement meant flashed through his mind, he drew her hands to his lips with a gesture of passionate gratitude. The unexpected had happened, a miracle had come to pass. Olga would continue his wife!

"I gave my answer to the council an hour before your letter reached me," she said with quiet simplicity. "There was no question as to my course when I found that acceptance of the crown would have meant foregoing my vows to you. Fortunately my decision was rendered easy by the attitude of some of the members of the council, who felt that the strong hand of a man was needed at the helm at this time. Certain ones there are, high in rank in Ironia, who would not scruple to seize the throne themselves. My father's loyal adherents supported me strongly and urged that I should assert my right to the throne, but I gladly, oh so gladly, relinquished all claim. And so I am free--and your wife!"

Fenton had sunk to his knees before her.

"I can hardly understand yet," he said humbly. "You have given up a throne--for me."

"For love and duty," she replied. "I can be of more value to my country now than had I essayed to fill my father's place. With Danilo Vanilis at the head of a provisional government, Ironia will be sure of capable handling during the times of stress that are ahead. After the war--if personal ambitions can be kept in check--Ironia may become a republic."

"But--what can I do to compensate you for what you have given up," cried Fenton.

He read the answer in her eyes.

* * * * *

There was a long pause. The silent presence of the royal dead chastened the joy of their reunion.

"Olga," said Fenton finally, "duty calls me. In two hours my regiment leaves for the front. I must say good-bye."

"No, not good-bye," she answered, raising her arm. "I too going to serve my country. See--I go to the front with you!"

At last Fenton understood the change in her appearance that had puzzled him. She was dressed in a plain black uniform, and on her arm was the Red Cross.

THE END

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