“The man at the right of the line will rise.”
The fellow came painfully to his feet, and stretched the agony out of his muscles.
“Advance and lay your sword on the dais,” ordered the king.
The man obeyed.
“Return to your obeisance.”
A start thrilled the soldier. He gave the king a desperate, pleading look, but found eyes with a cold sternness that sent him to obedience.
“The next, rise.”
The performance was repeated with him, and with the rest in turn.
“All rise,” said the king. They stood up. “I will now take you to a room in the palace, where you may consider in quiet what the soldiers of a king should be. You,” he ordered Christopher, “walk beside me at the head, and you,” to me, “follow the soldiers.”
The dignity of a mighty sorrow sat like a grace upon him as he slowly led the procession. Never were prisoners more securely manacled with steel than these men, though their members were free; and though there was a certain pomp in the march, it was that of a funeral, and the silence was louder than the blare of much brass.