"That I can not say, your Majesty," replied the man. "A horse fell upon his leg, which is badly bruised, and there may be other injuries."
"Where did you find him?" continued the emperor, still regarding the pale face of the plaisant.
"Not far from here, your Majesty. The woman was sitting in the road, holding his head."
Charles' glance swiftly sought the jestress and then returned.
"They were being pursued, for shortly after we came a squad of men appeared from the opposite direction. When they saw us they fled. The woman insisted upon being brought here, when she learned of your Majesty's presence."
"Take the injured man into the next tent and see he has every care. As for the woman, I will speak with her alone."
"Your Majesty's orders to break camp—" began the courtier.
"We have changed our mind and will remain here for the present." And the emperor, without further words, turned and reëntered his pavilion.
With his hands behind him, he stood thoughtfully leaning against a table; his countenance had become somber, morose. The twinges of pain from a disease which afterward caused him to abdicate the throne and relinquish all power and worldly vanities for a life of religious meditation began to make themselves felt. Love—ambition—what were they? The perishable flesh—was it the all-in-all? Those sudden pangs of the body seemed like over-forward confessors abruptly admonishing him.
The jester and the woman—Francis and the princess—what had they become to him now? Figures in an intangible, illusory dream. Deeply religious, repentant, perhaps, for past misdeeds at such a moment as this, the soldier-emperor stood before a silver crucifix.