After what seemed a long time, the knocking and the shouting brought the sexton to the church door. He came with his lantern suspecting that thieves were in the church.
“Who is there?” he called.
“Open the door at once,” commanded the king, who was almost beside himself with rage. “It is I, the king.”
The sexton trembled and waited to hear more before putting the great key in the lock. He thought that there must be a madman within.
“Art thou afraid?” cried the king.
“It is a drunken vagabond,” muttered the old man and, turning the key, he flung the door wide open.
A figure leaped past him in the darkness. It was King Robert, but the sexton did not dream of that for the figure was half-naked and forlorn. The king’s gorgeous robes had disappeared, his hat and his cloak were gone and he did not look like himself at all. Without a word or a look at the sexton he sped down the street.
Bare-headed and breathless and splashed with mud, Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane and of Valmond, Emperor of Germany, reached his palace gate—the gate that he had entered in triumph so many times.
He thundered for admittance, boiling with rage and half-mad with an overpowering sense of his wrongs. Through the gate he rushed and across the courtyard, thrusting aside every one who stood in his way, upsetting pages, and overwhelming guards. Past them all and up the broad stairway he hurried and then sped through the long halls. He paid no attention to the calls and the cries which pursued him, and did not pause until he reached the banquet room.
There on a dais sat another king wearing Robert’s robes, his crown and his signet-ring. His features were like Robert’s and so was his form, but he possessed a majesty and an exalted look which the real king lacked. The room, always well lighted, shone with an unusual brilliancy and the atmosphere was full of fragrance.