The King sat down on the ottoman, at the foot of the staircase. It was the furthest distance that he could keep from Judith.
Judith played on, passing from one melody to another, playing throughout from memory, odd movements, and the music of songs, all soft and low, and all, it seemed, now, to the King, plaintive, sad.
The twilight deepened in the hall.
Neither the twilight, nor the music, brought peace to the King.
A sense of fatality, a feeling of impending crisis, was with him.
And he was afraid, now—of himself.
At last, the music ceased.
Judith stood up.
The King rose to his feet, in turn.
And then, suddenly, blind instinct came to his aid, counselling flight.