She was awakened by the cool gray light of the December daybreak falling through the long windows, over all the gold-carven pillars and high beams and arches, all the empty seats and dark velvet cushions and high garlands of holly.
She held her breath. Three men, who had plainly not seen her, had entered at a side-door. She recognized them all from their pictures in the papers. They were the aged Minister, the middle-aged Chancellor, and the young King of the kingdom. The King carried a roll of parchment in his hand and seemed very nervous, and the Chancellor was speaking to him about “throwing the voice,” as they all came up the centre aisle, and then straight up the steps, toward the throne.
Dumb with fright, Anitra raised her head from the cushions. The three men suddenly saw her. The young King started and dropped the parchment, the Chancellor stumbled and nearly fell, and the aged Minister darted toward her.
“What are you doing here?” he cried angrily.
“Nothing,” said Anitra, sitting up, with her shawl held tightly around her, and her little ragged shoes dangling from the throne.
“Who are you?” said the Chancellor suspiciously, staring at her. He was very short-sighted.
“Nobody,” said Anitra.
“She is just a stray who has got in here somehow,” said the Minister rather kindly. “Run away, my child,” he added, giving her a coin. “Can’t you see the King wants to practice his speech here, now?”
But the Chancellor seemed to be considering. “Do you know,” he said softly to the Minister, as the King, who had picked up the parchment, stood absorbed, whispering his speech over to himself, “an idea has struck me. I don’t know but that we might let her stay there till the reporters come to photograph the new hall. It would look rather well, you know, if something like this should get into the papers, ‘Mighty Monarch Finding Stray Asleep on Throne, on Christmas Morn, Refuses to Break Slumbers.’”
The old Minister looked a little doubtful. “You can’t tell what she might say afterwards,” he said.