“It is a thought too staggering to pursue very far. The first conception of space is noble and exhilarating beyond expression. But I believe that the strongest mind, fixed perpetually on the vast possibilities of the solar system, would become unbalanced. Astronomers do not become so, because they pursue the science with exactness, and do not let imagination into the matter at all. But for persons like you and me, who look at the myriads of worlds with the eye of speculation, it soon ceases to be exhilarating; it becomes overwhelming, and I, for one, dare not dwell too long upon it. The night is clear. Will you go with me to the observatory?”
“Certainly,” replied St. Arnaud, without showing the faintest surprise.
Frederick rose, and as he did so he fell into a violent paroxysm of coughing. When it was over he sank into his seat, too overcome with weakness to stand. Annoyance was pictured on his face at this exhibition of illness before the officers of the Empress Queen, and also a spirit of iron determination. His soul was ever stronger than his body, and in this case he triumphed over illness and exhaustion. After a few moments he rose, and going toward the door, St. Arnaud respectfully opened it, and he passed out. He held his hat in his hand, but had omitted to take his cloak, which hung over the back of his chair. St. Arnaud had not noticed the omission, but Gavin had, and picking the cloak up, he ran after the King, saying, “Your Majesty would do well to take this; the night air is sharp.”
Frederick, with the ghost of a smile, proceeded to wrap himself up in the cloak, and then said: “You may come also.”
Nothing loath, Gavin followed. Crossing a large garden, they ascended the stairs of a moderately tall observatory. The effort made Frederick gasp and tremble, but his step never faltered as he climbed up. Reaching the top, he struck his flint and steel, and with St. Arnaud’s assistance he lighted a large lamp, saying, “That is visible from every part of the house, and signifies I am in the observatory, and I am not to be disturbed.”
The telescope was soon arranged, and the King and St. Arnaud were deep in astronomical surveys and discussions. St. Arnaud was singularly well versed in astronomy, and Frederick seemed to be fascinated by his intelligent conversation. Gavin, a mute listener, sat near by, and longed unspeakably for a glimpse through the telescope.
An hour passed, and at the end of that time, while St. Arnaud was giving his views in his clear and musical voice on certain aspects of the planet Saturn, Frederick’s head sunk back in his chair, his head rested against the wall, and he slept peacefully.
Neither St. Arnaud nor Gavin could restrain a feeling of pity for him then. His face, thin and drawn, was a picture of sadness. He looked not only ill, but frightfully worn, and his sleep was the sleep of exhaustion.
St. Arnaud raised his hand as a sign to Gavin to keep perfectly still. He remembered the King’s remark, that he had not slept well of late, and thought this sudden drowsiness probably a blessed relief. So, indeed, it was. Gradually, as he slept more soundly, his face lost its look of pain. Soon it was plain there was no danger of his awaking. It grew chill in the room, and Gavin, softly taking off his own cloak, laid it over Frederick’s knees. The warmth appeared to soothe him still more; he sighed profoundly, settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and slept like a child.
Hours passed. No one came to disturb them, for the light shining through the window was a warning that no one must enter. The town grew still as the night advanced, and in the deep silence nothing was heard but the faint tramp of sentries and the quiet flow of the river. But after midnight this changed. The wind rose, clouds of inky blackness scurried across the face of the moon, and presently it began to rain furiously. The heavy drops battered down like thunder upon the roof of the observatory, but no sound awakened Frederick, who slumbered peacefully on.