could fight like a giant to save her. She had been very kind to the boy who had saved her little son. And there was the stately Elizabeth. Her heart would break when she knew that hope was lost.
The prince looked up once, and then in agony bowed his head as he waited before his own gate. But the drawbridge did not move, the gates did not swing back, the sentinels patrolled the walls unmoved. As he waited, a shudder shook him. He understood now that there was no welcome home for him.
“Mother!” he cried appealingly, “I am wounded and defeated. The enemy pursue me. Let me in!”
Elizabeth’s voice rang out like a trumpet.
“Stranger!” she cried, “Who art thou that lingers at this gate?”
“It is your son, Stephen,” he said in despairing tones.
“My son does not come defeated to enter here,” cried Elizabeth. “And if you meet him in battle, and he should have such a thought of shame in his heart, bid him turn back, and when he is slain, I will cover his grave with flowers and my tears.”
Stephen drew his head up resolutely. One could not face such an undaunted spirit unmoved. He turned his horse, and with Peter at his heels rode away.
Zaida’s despairing cry rang out over the turrets, “He is going alone and wounded, to his death!” she cried, “Oh, let him in!”
“To victory or an honorable death,” said Elizabeth apparently unmoved. “There are but these two things for the men of Roumania.”
