hour, your
majesty, just one, and the reverend father will come and persuade
Giovanni better than we can."

The king raised his hand with a slight gesture of command--the little
crowd parted before him--and he entered the miserable dwelling wherein
lay the corpse that was the cause of all the argument. His attendants
followed; I, too, availed myself of a corner in the doorway. The scene
disclosed was so terribly pathetic that few could look upon it without
emotion--Humbert of Italy himself uncovered his head and stood silent.
On a poor pallet bed lay the fair body of a girl in her first youth,
her tender loveliness as yet untouched even by the disfiguring marks of
the death that had overtaken her. One would have thought she slept, had
it not been for the rigidity of her stiffened limbs, and the wax-like
pallor of her face and hands. Right across her form, almost covering it
from view, a man lay prone, as though he had fallen there
lifeless--indeed he might have been dead also for any sign he showed to
the contrary. His arms were closed firmly round the girl's corpse--his
face was hidden from view on the cold breast that would no more respond
to the warmth of his caresses. A straight beam of sunlight shot like a
golden spear into the dark little room and lighted up the whole
scene--the prostrate figures on the bed--the erect form of the
compassionate king, and the grave and anxious faces of the little crowd
of people who stood around him.

"See! that is the way he has been ever since last night when she died,"
whispered the woman who had before spoken; "and his hands are clinched
round her like iron--one cannot move a finger!"

The king advanced. He touched the shoulder of the unhappy lover. His
voice, modulated to an exquisite softness, struck on the ears of the
listeners like a note of cheerful music.

"Figlio mio!"

There was no answer. The women, touched by the simple endearing words
of the monarch, began to sob though gently, and even the men brushed a
few drops from their eyes. Again the king spoke.

"Figlio mio! I am your king. Have you no greeting for me?"

The man raised his head from its pillow on the breast of the beloved
corpse and stared vacantly at the royal speaker. His haggard face,
tangled hair, and wild eyes gave him the appearance of one who had long
wandered in a labyrinth of frightful visions from which there was no
escape but self-murder.

"Your hand, my son!" resumed the king in a tone o