He gave one glance around the room. “My grandfather!” he said. And fell to crying into his dirty pocket-handkerchief.
The Chancellor eyed grimly from under his shaggy brows the disreputable figure of his sovereign. Then he went toward him, and put his hand on his head.
“He was very eager for this rest, Otto,”, he said.
Then he knelt, and very solemnly and with infinite tenderness, he kissed the small, not overclean, hand.
One by one the Council did the same thing.
King Otto straightened his shoulders and put away the handkerchief. It had occurred to him that he was a man now and must act a man’s part in the world.
“May I see him?” he asked. “I—didn’t see him before.”
“Your people are waiting, sire,” the Chancellor said gravely. “To a ruler, his people must come first.”
And so, in the clear light from the room behind him, Otto the Ninth first stood before his people. They looked up, and hard eyes grew soft, tense muscles relaxed. They saw the erectness of the small figure, the steadiness of the blue eyes that had fought back their tears, the honesty and fire and courage of this small boy who was their King.
Let such of the revolutionists as remained scream before the Parliament House. Let the flames burn and the drums beat. The solid citizens, the great mass of the people, looked up at the King and cheered mightily. Revolution had that night received its death-blow, at the hands of a child. The mob prepared to go home to bed.