"There are numerous travellers arriving, sire," exclaimed Rané, taking the candle in his hand: "shall we suffer them to enter?"
"Nay, for God's sake, nay!" replied the king, in perturbation. "If they want to come in, say the barn is full, and that there is no room."
They were silent, and held their breath to listen; but all was now quiet again.
"They have gone past, perhaps," whispered the king, as he sat half erect on the straw, in a listening posture, and with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Both the pages had crept up to them, and all listened for some minutes, but there was a profound silence.
"What day is this?" at length inquired the king; "for a worse I have never lived."
"This is St. Cecilia's night, sir king," replied little Aagé, who perceived with terror that the king instantly became pale. "Ah, gracious sir king," continued the page, "suffer us to pray the holy Cecilia that she keep her hand over you this night."
"Pray!--pray thou, child! I cannot," replied the king. "Mass-bell and church-hymn, I never followed: the holy Cecilia aids not me."
The little Aagé folded his hands and prayed. Rané still held the lantern, which he now opened, and a stronger light fell upon the king, who, with a profound melancholy in his countenance, sat among the straw, fumbling thoughtfully with his belt.
"That is well, Rané: light me, and help me to reckon," he whispered. "How many studs are there in my belt?"