And then, suddenly, still singing with undiminished fervour, slowly, and quietly, in marvellous order, as if they had been soldiers on parade, the people began to move away.
The King climbed down from his perilous, windswept perch on the parapet, on to the balcony again.
Then he turned, and passed through the shattered windows into the little room behind him—
They had laid the Duke on the floor of the room. The tall, grey-haired physician stood at the dying statesman's head. All that medical skill could do to ease his passing had been done. Already he was far beyond the reach of any human aid.
The brilliant summer sunshine shone full on the familiar, formidable, massive features, deathly white, now.
The eyes were closed.
The King knelt down at the old statesman's side.
Some obscure instinct prompted him to take the old man's hand—the hand which had done so much for him, the hand which had never failed him,—the hand which had saved him, from himself—
The Duke responded to his touch. Feebly he returned his pressure.
Then, slowly, he opened his eyes, luminous and clear even in death.