Then the heralds all came out and blew upon the trumpets to announce the King’s proclamation; and the King read about all the wealth and prosperity and peace and good fortune and happiness and plenty of the nation; and every minute Anitra grew more and more faint with hunger.
When the proclamation was done the people screamed and shouted. The Christmas bells rang. The fifes and bugles sounded. Everybody cheered the King, and the King rose and responded. Then everybody cheered the Chancellor, and he bowed and responded. Then there were cries of “Long Live Bernardino!” and the bugles were sounded for him; and he bowed and responded. And then some one called “Long Live Anitra, the Beggar-girl!” And there was an uproar of cheers and bugles and applause and excitement.
Anitra rose and stood upon the throne-steps. But she looked only at the shepherds, who were more beautiful than anything else she had ever seen in her whole life, and who looked at her beautifully as though they were her brothers. She thought, “I must have died some day at any rate. So I will die to-day and speak the truth.”
When the audience-chamber was still she said, “I am Anitra the Beggar-girl. But I do not praise the King for his kindness, for though he let me stay on his throne he is letting me die of hunger. And I do not praise the King for his justice, for in his court the man who deserts his child and his child’s mother walks free, and the woman who deserts her child must die in prison. And in his court the King pardons one man and condemns another for exactly the same fault.”
Then the two shepherds walked up the steps of the throne. Everything was still. Not a bell rang. Not a trumpet blew. But as the shepherds walked, the audience-chamber seemed to vanish away; and all around, beyond the pillared arches, and beyond the prosperous people, stood all the poor people, all the hungry people, all the unjustly-paid and overworked and sick and struggling people in the nation. And in the judges and judged, and the prosperous people and the poor people, there rose like the first quiver of dawn a sense simply of what was really true for each one and for every one.
The younger shepherd said, “In this Court to-day stand those who are more strong than all the triumphs of the world. We are the Truth and Death.”
And as he spoke, all thought of judgment and of condemnation and pardon and patronage vanished away; and in everybody’s soul the thought simply of what was really true for each one and for every one opened like the clear flower of daybreak.
Not a bell rang. Not a trumpet blew. “We are the Truth and Death,” repeated the older shepherd.
And the thought simply of what was really true for each one and for every one, and the thought that all were common fellow mortals thrilled through everybody’s soul more keenly and more fully than the light of morning and the tones of all the trumpets of the world.
After that, the shepherds did not again turn and glance at each other as though they felt a contempt for what was happening. For from that time on, everything was done in the Court only with the thought of what was really true for each one and for every one, and the thought that all were fellow mortals; and before the next Christmas, there were no beggars at all in the fabulous nation. And the Truth and Death, there, always looked at everybody beautifully, as though they were their brothers.