There was a long window in the gallery, from which, far away, she could see the great green cloud of the forest; and as the days went by she often found herself seated at this window, gazing in its direction, with vague unformed feelings of sadness in her heart.
One day, as she sat there at the window, an impulse came over her that she could not resist, and swiftly she slipped off her beautiful garments, and taking the little robe from the coffer, clothed herself in the rags that the King had loved. And she took the old lute in her hands, and sang low to herself her old wandering songs. And she danced, too, an elfin dance, all alone there in the still gallery, danced as the apple-blossoms dance on the spring winds, or the autumn leaves dance in the depths of the forest.
Suddenly she ceased in alarm. The King had entered the gallery unperceived, and was watching her with sad eyes.
"Are you weary of being a Queen?" said he, sadly.
For answer she threw herself on his breast and wept bitterly, she knew not why.
"Oh, I love you! I love you," she sobbed, "but this life is not real."
And the King went from her with a heavy heart.
And from day to day an unspoken sorrow lay between them; and from day to day the King's words haunted the Queen with a more insistent refrain:
"Are you weary of being a Queen?"