The royal carriage passed by, its occupants bowing courteously to the young traveler who courtesied from her post on the sidewalk. The queen was pale and sad-looking, the spirited face of the young king had something in its expression that was almost defiant. The spectators were cold and merely civil. At such a sight one remembers that kings and queens have also hearts that may be wounded, and that they sometimes need and deserve compassion. Few of them, indeed, have willfully grasped the crown; and on many of them it has descended like a crown of thorns.
“The king gives the queen the right hand, though she is queen consort only,” Tacita said as they drove away. “In Italy the king regnant must absolutely have the right; and etiquette is quite as imperative in placing the gentleman at the lady’s left hand. Consequently, the king and queen of Italy do not drive out together. Gallantry yields to law, but evades a rudeness.”
She was scarcely conscious of what she was saying. Her eyes were searching the street and square. “What is his name?” she exclaimed suddenly, without any preface whatever.
“His name is Dylar,” answered Elena. “He will make a part of the journey with us.”
“He is from your place?” Tacita asked. She could not have told whether she felt a sudden joy or a sudden disenchantment.
“Yes, he is from our place.”
“The child was not his?”
“Oh, no!”
“Why did he bring it to us?”
“Probably he saw that they were poor.”