“And then cast into a deeper dungeon, while his minions gave forth that I was dead!” “Was the king guilty of treachery like this?” “There was treachery somewhere; but what matters it now that you and I should ask where it rested? The peoples’ hate has fallen with awful heaviness on one man—that one who so oppressed the sufferers placed under his despotism. When they led me forth from my dungeon into that carnival of blood, the head of Delaunay went before me on the point of a pike. If vengeance had not died out of my soul years before, it would have sickened and perished then.” “How, you a prisoner of the Bastille, and do not hate the king?” “Hate him? No! Come closer, and I will tell you. An evil thing fell upon him and the fair girl he married on the day I was cast into prison.” “What was that evil thing?” “A blessing and a curse; the blessing was taken from me and turned into a curse for the daughter of Maria Theresa. Ah! If I could see her—if I only could!” “You speak of the queen?” “Yes, of the woman who was wronged and wounded worse than myself, when they buried my youth in the Bastille.” “But how?” “Ah! that is my secret. I will tell it to no human soul—not even to her.” The stranger looked earnestly at the singular old man whom he began to recognize as mildly insane;—a poor wanderer, who had strayed into the Park through some carelessly closed gate;—possibly a victim of the Bastille, whose mind had gone astray in his dungeon; but, in any case, worthy of infinite compassion. “Would you like me to show you the way out from the Park?” he said, gently, as if he had been addressing a child. “In a few minutes the gates will be closed, and the guards doubled.” The old man shook his head. “No. I will rest here till daylight comes; then, perhaps, I can see her again.” “Whom would you see? Tell me, perhaps I can aid you.” “The woman who was out yonder to-night.” “The woman—did you know who she was?” “No.” “Did you see her face?” “No. She gathered her veil over it and fled. Oh! if she had but waited! I would have wrenched it from her hand, if she had not given it up; but only to save her—only to save her. Fate has done its work with me.” There was something mournfully pathetic in the old man’s words; his thin, white hand trembled visibly as he clenched it in his beard; his eyes shone in the moonlight, which now and then came down fitfully through the branches, and seemed to cover him with alternate smiles and frowns. CHAPTER LXV. THE PRISONER AND THE KING.