"I pity that poor fellow," said a voice softly. "I pity them both."
It was the voice of the King.
Habited in a voluminous mantle, the Victor of Rodova linked his arm through mine in his paternal manner.
"Come, my friend," he said in a voice of urgent kindliness, "let us walk in the garden."
Together we walked over the lawns, the King and I, with slow and measured steps.
"It is a beautiful night." Ferdinand the Twelfth took off his hat.
"God is in His heaven, sir," I said, softly.
"You are a God-fearing people," said the King; "that is a good thing. What can we do in the world without the fear of God? This night reminds me of the night before Rodova. It was just like this, a calm, soft air, a little moist. You could hear the wind creeping softly among the pine-trees. At the bottom of your garden there was the gentle noise of a little river. All night the little fishes were leaping and playing in its clear waters, and living their lives joyously as it seemed good to them. And beyond the river were the Austrians, sixty thousand men with horses and cannons.
"The God of Armies had given the soul of my country into my care. Was she to remain a free and independent people as she had been since the time of Alvan the First, or was she to be trampled under the heel of the oppressor? All night I walked in the garden, and I remember I knelt down under the pine-tree yonder, as our friend is doing there. It is a wonderful thing how history keeps happening over again."
The King's voice had grown hushed and solemn.