A rich content, a sense of absolute well-being, was with the King now. Was it not always so, when he had been with Judith, and the Imps? The bewilderment, the turmoil, and the fever, which had raged within him, only a few hours ago, seemed very far away.
Here, in Paradise, the present moment was good!
Insensibly—had Judith contrived it?—he had stepped into the quiet old inn of "Content," on the corner of the market-place. He had turned his back on—the procession—on the fight in the market-place. He would keep his back turned to them. He would not even risk the window view.
Alfred, the sailor, was not dead!
It was Alfred, the sailor, who entered the house.
It was Alfred, the sailor, who passed into his own room.
Here, a surprise awaited him. Laid out in the room were evening clothes. On the dressing-table were familiar toilet trifles from the palace.
Alfred, the sailor, fled.
It was the King, who halted, in the middle of the room, and looked about him.
This, he realized, must have been the outcome of the old Duke's thoughtfulness. The Duke alone could have given the orders which had made this possible. That the Duke should have found time to attend to so trivial a matter, time to give orders to a valet to pack a bag, when he was giving orders to maintain a throne—it was almost ludicrous!