urice sipped his cognac, the king lay in his bed in the palace and
aimlessly fingered the counterpane. There was now no beauty in his face.
It was furrowed and pale, and an endless fever burned in the sunken
eyes--eyes like coals, which suddenly flare before they turn to ash.

The archbishop nor the chancellor could see anything in the dim corners
of the royal bed chamber, but he could. It was the mocking finger of
death, and it was leveled at him. Spring had come, and summer and autumn
and winter, and spring again, but he had not wandered through the green
fields, except in dreams, and the byways he loved knew him no more. Ah,
to sit still like a spectator and to see the world pass by! To be a part
of it, and yet not of it! To see the glory of strength and vigor just
beyond one's grasp, the staffs to lean on crumble to the touch, and the
stars of hope fade away one by one from the firmament of one's dreams!
Here was weariness for which there was no remedy.

Day by day time pressed him on toward the inevitable. No human hand
could stay him. He could think, but he could not act. He could move, but
he could not stand nor walk. And that philosophy which had in other days
sustained him was shattered and threadbare. He was dead, yet he lived.
Fate has so many delicate ironies.

He had tried to make his people love him, only to acquire their hate.
He had reduced taxation, only to be scorned. He had made the city
beautiful, only to be cursed. A paralytic, the theme of ribald verse,
the butt of wineroom wits, the object of contumely to his people, his
beneficiaries!

The ingratitude of kings bites not half so deep as the ingratitude of
the people. Tears filled his eyes, and he fumbled his lips. There were
only two bright spots in his futile life. The first was his daughter,
who read to him, who was the first in the morning to greet him and
last at night to leave him. The second was the evening hour when the
archbishop and the chancellor came in to discuss the affairs of state.

"And Prince Frederick has not yet been heard from?" was his first
inquiry.

"No, Sire," answered the chancellor. "The matter is altogether
mysterious. The police can find no trace of him. He left Carnavia for
Bleiberg; he stopped at Ehrenstein, directed his suite to proceed;
there, all ends. The ambassador from Carnavia approached me to-day. He
scouts the idea of a peasant girl, and hinted at other things."

"Yes," said the king, "there is somethi