The morning of the thirty-first of August had dawned, when Louis I. was to deliver up his spirit to his Creator.
Tito discovered the certainty of it by seeing Death standing in the middle of the room with his eyes fixed on the sick king.
“To-day the king dies,” whispered Tito, in Monteclaro’s ear. “This news is the wedding present which I make to Elena. If you know its value, guard it in secret, and let it govern your conduct toward Philip V.”
“But Elena is promised to another,” replied the Duke.
“The nephew of the Countess of Rionuevo died this afternoon,” interrupted Tito.
“Oh! what has befallen us!” exclaimed the Duke. “Who are you—you whom I knew as a child, and who now terrify me with such power and science?”
“The queen calls,” said a lady at this moment to the Duke of Monteclaro, who seemed stupefied.
The lady was Elena.
The Duke approached the queen, leaving the two lovers alone in the middle of the room. Not alone, for Death was but three steps off.
The two stood mutely gazing at each other as if bewildered, and fearful that their mutual presence might be a dream which would pass away should they move a hand or utter the lightest breath.