“The foes a prince behoves to dread, that turn and tear their lord,
Are those that haunt about his bed, and blush beside his board.”
Then the Regent, gaining courage, asked in a firmer voice, “Who is my best friend?”
The reply was more distinct, and its clear emphasis seemed to vouch for the speaker’s truth, Father of Lies though he might be called:—
“One friend is thine, whose silent kiss clings subtle, sure, and fast;
When all shall fail, yet shall not this, the swiftest, though the last.”
Thus encouraged, the royal questioner gathered heart with every fresh answer, and it was in his customary unrestrained tone that he propounded his last inquiry, “Shall I live to wear the crown of France?”
This time, however, the phantom arm waved backwards and forwards, clenching its gigantic hand, while the demon’s voice seemed again to rise from distant and mysterious depths, as it replied:—
“When woman’s love can trust thy vows, when woman’s guileless glance
Can thrill thy breast, bind on thy brows the diadem of France!