At last, Uncle Bond stood up, and crossed quietly to the sofa.
The King was asleep.
The little man drew out two or three blankets, from under the sofa, and threw them over the King.
Then he returned to the writing table, and sat down. But he did not relight his candles, and resume his work. He leant back in his chair, in an attitude of expectancy, as if he were waiting for somebody.
He had not long to wait.
In a minute or two, the door behind him was opened, quietly, and Judith slipped into the room.
Judith halted behind the little man, and stood there, for some time in silence, gazing at the King's face, which was dimly visible in the light from the windows.
At last, she spoke.
"He is asleep?" she whispered.
"Yes," Uncle Bond said. "When you remember the strain under which he has been running, you can hardly be surprised."