“I wouldn’t go for to speak not positively, my lord, which ain’t my place; but if ever I see death written upon a gentleman’s face, I see it upon the King’s just now. And there wasn’t scarcely a dry eye in the room, to see this pore lamb a-strokin’ his father’s forehead, and cryin’ because he wasn’t able to play with him.”
“Has Count Mortimer arrived yet?” asked another voice, and the King’s valet, mounting the stairs, uttered an exclamation of relief as he caught sight of Cyril. “His Majesty begged that your Excellency would come to him as soon as you reached the Palace,” he added.
“I will merely change my clothes, and wait upon his Majesty in a few minutes,” said Cyril, turning into a side-corridor, but the man stopped him.
“His Majesty entreated that you would lose no time, but come to him at once, Excellency. His Excellency the Premier is not in attendance upon his Majesty at this moment.”
“I see,” said Cyril. “I will come.”
Before he could do more than make a hasty attempt to remove from his attire some portion of the dust of his long journey, they were in the King’s anteroom, and pausing before the inner door, he had a momentary glimpse of the doctors gathered round the bed on which his friend lay. The Queen was sitting beside her husband, the stony pallor of her tired young face thrown into relief by the rich brocade of the curtains behind her, and Cyril wondered whether it was merely a sense of duty, or the workings of a late remorse, which kept her at her post.
“Will your Majesty graciously drink this?” one of the doctors was saying, as he held a glass to the King’s lips; “it will ease the pain.”
“Narcotics again!” groaned the dying man wearily, “and I have told you that I wish to keep my brain clear for the present. I think I heard some one come in. Has Count Mortimer arrived yet?”
“His Excellency is here, sir,” said one of the attendants.
“Then tell him to come to me at once. And leave the room, all of you. I will not take the dose at present, doctor.”