The unhappy husband could not repress his fury. Again he strove to rise from his bed, and again he fell back, this time with a sob of anguish, upon his pillows. The King’s smile grew more serene. “There--there, my dear Farnham,” said the even, gracious tones of Charles; “be wary, I pray you. Be discreet. I am sure you are not yet strong enough to leave your bed to greet me; I beg you not to think of doing so. Why, man, my lady tells me ’tis a miracle that thou art alive.” The poor husband was unable to speak; rage and his weakness rendered him inarticulate. The King continued to smile upon him with a gracious insouciance that maddened more than it soothed. “There, there, my dear Farnham,” he said, “do not attempt to converse. I am sure you are far too weak as yet to regale us with your talk. Do not try, I pray you. I am sure madam will entertain us admirably in the meantime.” It may have been that the unhappy young man discerned an underlying irony in the King’s words which, superadded to the burning sense of humiliation he had already suffered at his hands, turned his blood to fire; for at least the King’s smooth sarcasm spurred him at last to find his tongue. “Sire,” he said, weakly, “methinks my family merits some little consideration at your hands. They have served you long and faithfully, and your father also. I beg you, Sire, to forgive my mentioning their trifling claims upon your gratitude, but I would crave a boon.” “You have but to put a name upon it, dear Farnham,” said the magnanimous Prince. “No one can be more deeply conscious of the services your family hath rendered ours than we are. Madam will tell you that that was the very theme upon our lips as you lay asleep. We pray you to mention this boon, dear Farnham.” “It is, Sire,” said the unhappy husband, “that one of us two does not leave this chamber alive. Madam, I must ask you to have the goodness to assist me to rise. Sire, I crave that you may honour me by choosing your weapon. See, there is a case of pistols on the chair beside the bed.” The King shrugged his shoulders. “I protest, my dear Farnham,” he said, laughingly, “that the boon you ask is a little peculiar.” The man in the bed struggled with his difficult breath. At all times a hot, impetuous youth, his malady had given him less control of himself than ever. Thus his overmastering anger had caused him to pursue a course which a soberer or an older man would not have dared to suggest. “May I beg you, Sire,” he said, “not to encumber our conversation with things that are irrelevant and unnecessary. Are the long and faithful services rendered by my family to yours enough to enable you to grant me the privilege of falling by your hand, or, if fortune is so tender to me, of you falling by mine? I am sure, Sire, you will be the first to admit, after what hath passed so recently, that the same roof should not be asked to undertake the responsibility of harbouring us both.”