orrow he was to be buried. There is a little gallery
in the hall, that looks down on the spot where the bier stood; here was
I on this evening, and with me Queen Flavia. We were alone together, and
together we saw beneath us the calm face of the dead man. He was clad
in the white uniform in which he had been crowned; the ribbon of the
Red Rose was across his breast. His hand held a true red rose, fresh and
fragrant; Flavia herself had set it there, that even in death he might
not miss the chosen token of her love. I had not spoken to her, nor
she to me, since we came there. We watched the pomp round him, and the
circles of people that came to bring a wreath for him or to look upon
his face. I saw a girl come and kneel long at the bier's foot. She rose
and went away sobbing, leaving a little circlet of flowers. It was Rosa
Holf. I saw women come and go weeping, and men bite their lips as they
passed by. Rischenheim came, pale-faced and troubled; and while all came
and went, there, immovable, with drawn sword, in military stiffness, old
Sapt stood at the head of the bier, his eyes set steadily in front of
him, and his body never stirring from hour to hour through the long day.

A distant faint hum of voices reached us. The queen laid her hand on my
arm.

"It is the dream, Fritz," she said. "Hark! They speak of the king; they
speak in low voices and with grief, but they call him king. It's what I
saw in the dream. But he does not hear nor heed. No, he can't hear nor
heed even when I call him my king."

A sudden impulse came on me, and I turned to her, asking:

"What had he decided, madam? Would he have been king?" She started a
little.

"He didn't tell me," she answered, "and I didn't think of it while he
spoke to me."

"Of what then did he speak, madam?"

"Only of his love--of nothing but his love, Fritz," she answered.

Well, I take it that when a man comes to die, love is more to him than
a kingdom: it may be, if we could see truly, that it is more to him even
while he lives.

"Of nothing but his great love for me, Fritz," she said again. "And my
love brought him to his death."

"He wouldn't have had it otherwise," said I.

"No," she whispered; and she leant over the parapet of the gallery,
stretching out her arms to him. But he lay still and quiet, not hearing
and not heeding what she murmured, "My king! my king!" It was even as it
had been in the dream.

That night James, the servant, took leave of his