THE KING’S CROWN
A DREAM OF THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE
The late rays of the sinking sun shot rosy lines of light through the high, painted glass casement of a quaint oriel-chamber, where, on a cushion of crimson velvet, shone the Crown of a great King and Emperor. It was set there in readiness for the morrow,—when, at a stately pageant of national rejoicing, all the people would see it raised high above them as a symbol of the Throne and the glory of the land. Deft jewellers had been at work for days, burnishing its golden setting and polishing its priceless jewels,—and now,—their work completed,—they had brought it here for the night, and, to ensure perfect safety, had left it in this special place because it was more difficult of access than any other corner of the Royal palace. It was a small recess apart;—and the only door leading to it was through the “strong room,” where all the gold and silver plate was kept, and where two armed men paced up and down both day and night, keeping close watch and guard. Flashing sparkles of light twinkled every now and again from the precious stones in the Crown, as the sunset hues caught their finely-cut points and touched them into flame; and an atmosphere of silent majesty surrounded the historical emblem of earth’s proudest empire,—lifeless in itself, yet having the strange power of outlasting the life of all its kings! The sun sank; its rays grew paler and dimmer, till by-and-by they faded altogether. Long shadows came, then the twilight, then the dark, and deep silence. Now and again a trumpet-call from the soldiers’ quarters hard by, a bell slowly chiming the hour, or the clash of muskets outside on the courtyard, betokening a change of sentry, broke the solemn hush of night, but beyond this no human sound disturbed the solitude and obscurity of the secret nook which enshrined the Imperial Crown of a still more splendid and imperial Realm.
All suddenly, about an hour before the moon rose, a thick, almost palpable Darkness, darker than the night itself, gathered in the room and began to circle like a threatening storm around the Crown. Gradually this blackness took upon itself shape and stature, and, rising full height, displayed the gigantic form of an Angel with sable wings, and a countenance distorted with cruelty and avarice.
“Mine is the Crown!” he said. “Mine are the People! Mine is the Land, and mine is the King!”
And as he spoke he stretched forth a hand to snatch the Royal diadem, when, like a flame breaking through the walls and floor of the oriel-chamber, a great light shone on every side, and another Angel, stately and majestic, whose snowy wings were like the early rays of the morning sun shining through white and azure, confronted that fierce Spirit of the Darkness.
“Not so!” said a voice clear as a silver clarion. “Mine is the Crown! Mine are the People! Mine is the Kingdom, and mine is the King!”