It was a moment before I realized that the Emperor was before me. I raised both hands, and exclaimed:
"This has happened just as I could have wished, with no ceremony, and the Man of Destiny dropped from the clouds."
Then I continued: "Your Majesty, I have traveled two nights to accept your generous invitation, and never did so before to meet a crowned head."
Then the Emperor, smiling—and such a captivating smile:
"Oh! yes, yes, I have read your books. You do not like kings."
"No, Your Majesty, I do not like kings, but I do like a man behind a king when I find him."
"Ah! there is one king you like, I know, a Scottish king, Robert the Bruce. He was my hero in my youth. I was brought up on him."
"Yes, Your Majesty, so was I, and he lies buried in Dunfermline Abbey, in my native town. When a boy, I used to walk often around the towering square monument on the Abbey—one word on each block in big stone letters 'King Robert the Bruce'—with all the fervor of a Catholic counting his beads. But Bruce was much more than a king, Your Majesty, he was the leader of his people. And not the first; Wallace the man of the people comes first. Your Majesty, I now own King Malcolm's tower in Dunfermline[79]—he from whom you derive your precious heritage of Scottish blood. Perhaps you know the fine old ballad, 'Sir Patrick Spens.'
"'The King sits in Dunfermline tower
Drinking the bluid red wine.'
I should like to escort you some day to the tower of your Scottish ancestor, that you may do homage to his memory." He exclaimed: