"Indeed, indeed, I understand," she cried, "and from my heart I pity you. I know what you would say. You who rise up and feel your strength to make a garden of the wilderness and see the work is done. I know all you mean. It was what the great voice of the wind said to me, when it had borne our galleon into port so bravely and roared out through the naked spars as we lay at anchor: 'See what a power is in me, but my work is done. You give no heed to the might that is going by, and I must pass on and consume my strength without an end.'"
The King looked at her in wonder. It was a woman that spoke, but they were the words of more than a man. She understood all that he meant; nay, much that he had hardly grasped before. He was more disturbed than ever, and it was with difficulty he steadied his voice to speak.
"Then you can understand, mademoiselle," he said quite softly, "that I am perfectly miserable rather than perfectly happy?"
"Yes, sire," she said; "but such sorrow as yours is a better thing than other men's happiness."
"Yet it is none the less hard to bear."
"True; but it is also the easier to change to gladness."
"I do not understand; what do you mean?"
"There is a remedy so simple that I hardly dare to tell your majesty. I have presumed too far in all this—yet forgive me, sire, if when I heard such words as yours, I forgot that I spoke with a king."
"Nay, tell me all. I desire to know."