ana," Randolph iterated. "I will have my
joke on my return. Farewell."

He muffled himself again and went out quickly. Rufus sat biting the
end of his quill. Halfman stepped forward and made him a series of
extravagant salutations, which parodied the most elaborate congees of
a dancing-master. Rufus glared at him.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked, savagely. Halfman leered
apishly at him.

"You are a splendid scoundrel," he vowed. "Do not frown. I have lived
with such and I speak in praise."

Rufus struck his hands upon the table.

"I will have this Puritan devil," he swore, "if the King do not play
the granny."

Halfman winked at him, diverted by his heat and hate.

"Say that more softly, for I think I hear him stirring."

The two listened in silence. The curtains of the inner room were
parted and Charles entered the room. He still looked haggard, ill at
ease.

"Was any one here?" he asked, as the two men rose respectfully. Rufus
answered, glibly:

"No, your Majesty. We spoke in whispers to respect your rest. Did
your Majesty sleep well?"

"Ill, very ill," Charles answered, drearily. "I had bad dreams and
could not wake from them. Leave me, sirs."

Rufus solicited his eyes.

"And the prisoner?"

Charles looked at him vaguely.

"The prisoner?"

"The rebel hostage for murdered Randolph Harby," Rufus reminded him.

Charles looked vexed.

"Oh yes, I suppose he must die. Surely he must die. His plea is
specious, but Randolph Harby is dead."

"Brave, murdered Randolph." Rufus's regret was pathetic. "Shall I
give order for the firing party?" He made as if to write. Charles
frowned.

"You are over-zealous, sir; I have not made up my mind."

Rufus read obstinacy in the royal face and knew that it were useless
to argue further then.

"As your Majesty please," he submitted.

The King seated himself heavily at the table and fixed his eyes upon
an open map. Behind his back Rufus shrugged his shoulders and left
the room. Halfman followed, a very Jaques of meditations, touched by
the pathos of the tired King, grimly diverted by the ruffianism of
Rufus. A mad world!

XXVII

THE KING'S IMAGE

The melancholy King sat in the great room alone. His eyes were fixed
on the map, but his mind was far away, over yonder in Holland where
she was--she, the Queen. The thought of her beauty troubled him; her
soft voice seemed to be whispering at his ear in her pretty broken
English. Some lines in