The Emperor arose, and addressed the assembly. He said that the cares of state weighed too heavily upon his feeble old age, and that his most earnest wishes were now directed to a tranquil retirement, in which he should enjoy the leisure he required for preparations to meet the King of kings. That his daughters were before them--he wished to see the diadem encircling the youthful brow of one, whichever they should choose. But well he knew that a firm and valiant arm was needed to sway the sceptre, and that an experienced mind must govern the nation; and therefore it was his will that the Princesses should this day make known their choice of a consort from among the many candidates for their hands. His younger daughter, Edith, had already plighted her faith, with his entire approval, to the stranger knight. No kingdom awaited her, for her betrothed was a landless exile; but the fame of his valor and wisdom had gone throughout the earth--and in the future husband of his daughter he now presented to them one whom he was proud to claim as a son--Arthur, Prince of Britain, the renowned Champion of Christendom! At these words, shouts of enthusiastic joy rent the hall. When the tumult was hushed, the Emperor called upon the suitors of the Princess Clotilda to come forward. The rival sovereigns approached, among whom the Duke of Milan was conspicuous for dignity and knightly courtesy. All wished him success; but Clotilda passed him by, and placed her hand within that of the Czar. At that moment, a sound was heard throughout the hushed room, resembling somewhat a deep sigh and an expiring groan--it proceeded from the rose, which fell from her bosom, shrivelled and lifeless. An expression of disdainful rage rendered her face almost repulsive, as she noticed the sensation excited by the circumstance, and the cold, gloomy silence with which her choice was received.