A noonday light and truth to thee."
In due time, they arrived at the imperial court. Some important events had taken place during their absence. The splendors of royalty had not been able to preserve the Emperor from a loathsome disease, from which his attendants fled away in horror. The Princess Clotilda could not endanger her beauty by approaching his side; neither did the cares and toils of a sick-bed comport with her views of life. But Edith now took her rightful position, and by her fearless example recalled those around her to a sense of duty. She was her father's gentle, untiring nurse: his wishes were forestalled, his fretfulness soothed, and his thoughts directed to higher things. She rose in her father's love day by day, as he felt her worth; and bitterly did he now think of the undeserved slight with which she had been treated, while the ungrateful Clotilda had been his pride. He was at present recovering from his illness; but he felt himself unequal to the labors of his position, and had seriously resolved to lay down the crown and sceptre, that he might end his days in peace. He had announced the day when his daughters should fix upon one of the suitors for their hands, and when the assembly of barons and knights should decide upon the successor to his throne.
The Knight of the Blooming Rose was gladly welcomed back to court. In the Emperor's presence, he presented the magic flower to each of his fair daughters,—his own bloomed sweetly upon his breast, proving the purity and fidelity of his heart. Edith's cheek was pale, from her late watchings; but never had she looked more lovely than when she placed the rose upon her bosom; her face was glorified by its expression. And Clotilda's ill-concealed scorn and jealousy not only detracted from her queenly beauty, but the flower paled as it touched her breast—pride and worldliness, and every selfish passion, had swayed her being too long, to be repressed at a moment's notice—like the fumes of poison, they were taking away the life of the precious rose. It was impossible that the contrast should not be noticed: comparisons were made which filled the mind of the despotic Clotilda with rage against her unoffending sister; and the more violent her evil passions became, the fainter grew the perfume of her flower, and the more fading its hue. Not all the flattery of her adorers could restore her equanimity; and her face showed, only too plainly, the workings of the evil spirit within.
At last the day approached when the fate of the empire and of so many individuals was to be decided. Clotilda, meantime, consistent in her desire for universal sway, received the homage of all her admirers, but refused to declare her preference until the day of public betrothal—the day when she proudly expected to be hailed as Empress. Her numerous suitors indulged in flattering hopes, each for himself; while all agreed in pitying the delusion of the rest. The electors met in the audience-chamber, which was splendidly decorated for the occasion: all the dignitaries of the State, and the great nobility were assembled, presenting a very imposing spectacle. The Emperor was seated upon a throne, but the crown and sceptre, whose weight he felt himself unequal longer to endure, lay upon a cushion at his side. The people, in a dense mass, thronged the courtyard of the palace, anxious to know the result of the election, and to hail the new lord of the land.
At the appointed hour, the doors were flung open, and the two royal brides entered, followed by their maids of honor. Clotilda, self-possessed in her proud beauty, looked like a queen indeed. She was magnificently dressed, and the pale, scentless rose upon her breast was almost hidden by diamonds. But many there turned their eyes from her handsome, haughty face, to gaze upon young Edith, who leaned upon the arm of her betrothed, the unknown knight. They wondered that they had never before remarked the exquisite delicacy and sensibility of her countenance, the very exponent of the beautiful soul within, which flashed out brightly as if through a transparent covering. When in repose, the calm and happy expression reminded the beholder of the deep purity and peace of the sunny sky—when moved by passing thoughts and feelings, of the same heavens, ever heavenly, over which the fleecy clouds are driven by the wind, in varying shapes and hues. Edith's dress, though elegant, was as simple as consisted with her rank. The pearls and white jasmine in her hair well became her, and the magic rose upon her breast adorned her as no jewels could, and filled the chamber with its rich, refreshing fragrance. As the sisters stood, one on each side of their father, they might well have passed for types of spiritual and sensual beauty—of heaven and earth.
The Emperor arose, and addressed the assembly. He said that the cares of state weighed too heavily upon his feeble old age, and that his most earnest wishes were now directed to a tranquil retirement, in which he should enjoy the leisure he required for preparations to meet the King of kings. That his daughters were before them—he wished to see the diadem encircling the youthful brow of one, whichever they should choose. But well he knew that a firm and valiant arm was needed to sway the sceptre, and that an experienced mind must govern the nation; and therefore it was his will that the Princesses should this day make known their choice of a consort from among the many candidates for their hands. His younger daughter, Edith, had already plighted her faith, with his entire approval, to the stranger knight. No kingdom awaited her, for her betrothed was a landless exile; but the fame of his valor and wisdom had gone throughout the earth—and in the future husband of his daughter he now presented to them one whom he was proud to claim as a son—Arthur, Prince of Britain, the renowned Champion of Christendom!
At these words, shouts of enthusiastic joy rent the hall. When the tumult was hushed, the Emperor called upon the suitors of the Princess Clotilda to come forward. The rival sovereigns approached, among whom the Duke of Milan was conspicuous for dignity and knightly courtesy. All wished him success; but Clotilda passed him by, and placed her hand within that of the Czar. At that moment, a sound was heard throughout the hushed room, resembling somewhat a deep sigh and an expiring groan—it proceeded from the rose, which fell from her bosom, shrivelled and lifeless. An expression of disdainful rage rendered her face almost repulsive, as she noticed the sensation excited by the circumstance, and the cold, gloomy silence with which her choice was received.
After a short conference, the electors reported that they had chosen Arthur of Britain and the Princess Edith to be their lawful sovereigns. Hildebrand then led them to a balcony, and presented them to the people; and loud and enthusiastic were the shouts of the populace: "Long live our Emperor, Arthur the Brave! Long live the good Princess!" The plaudits were echoed far and wide. The achievements of the noble Arthur, and the kind deeds of "The Good Princess," formed the theme of the fireside-tale in the humble cottage, and of the troubadour's lay in castle and banquetting-hall. Arthur, who in Britain was mourned as dead, or as lying in enchanted sleep with his good sword Excalibar at his side, ready to start up to his country's rescue in some hour of future peril—enjoyed, instead, a happier fate. Long and glorious was his reign: the wicked fled away from his presence, like mists before the sun; the upright rejoiced under his protection, and peace reigned throughout all the borders of the Empire. Excalibar was sheathed: no foes dared to invade the land. Brightly and sweetly bloomed the magic roses, which once grew on the same tree in the earthly Paradise, and which were now seldom far asunder; flourishing, in their transplanted state, upon hearts which diffused a moral Paradise of love and purity around them.
And what became of the imperious Clotilda? Enraged at the decision of the electors, and at her father's acquiescence, she soon left the Imperial court to accompany her lord to his distant empire. There her life passed unhappily enough amid the rude magnificence and brutal amusements of the palace. She did not find that Ivan was easily managed, as she had hoped: fools seldom are—it requires a portion of good sense to perceive our deficiencies, and to allow the superiority of others. They became more and more estranged, both giving way to the evil passions most natural to them. Ivan, indulging in sensual pleasures, became more and more brutified; and Clotilda, yielding up her soul to the dominion of pride, hatred, and violence, became so embittered against her unfortunate husband that she compassed his death by violence, and seized the crown, reigning in the name of her infant son, Constantine. And never, under the most despotic sovereigns, had the iron rule been exercised with more unrelenting vigor than during the reign of Clotilda the Terrible. But a day of vengeance was at hand. A secret conspiracy was formed, at the head of which her young son was placed: the palace was seized in the night, and the murderess was hurried away to a distant fortress, where she spent the remainder of her unhappy life—the victim of her own ungoverned passions.
"How I wish that I possessed such a magic rose!" said Alice Bolton. "It might cure my unfortunate pug nose—I should so love to be beautiful!"