Farnham regarded her with the ingenuous naïveté of a child. For the first time a look of irresolution crept into his wilful eyes. Suddenly he allowed the pistol to slip from his fingers on to the coverlet. “You are right, Patsy woman,” he said, with a groan. “I can’t do it; my God! I can’t do it.” The woman ran forward and flung herself into his arms. [Illustration: CHAPTER X _Le Roi s’amuse_] Again the King adopted his favourite trick of clapping his hands to his ribs, and shouting his laughter. “Too absurd, too absurd!” he said. “I protest, Farnham, you make me laugh. You can’t do it, hey? You can’t shoot your King. My dear Farnham, do you really hold that to be so remarkable? Confess, now, did you ever seriously for a moment think you could?” “I did, Sire, and tried,” said Lord Farnham. “What a pity you did not recognise your limitations sooner, Farnham,” said the King. “Think of the pother you would have spared yourself.” “True, Sire,” said Farnham. “That you should ever have thought that you could have slain your sovereign, my dear Farnham, is the most whimsical thing I ever heard in my life.” “Not altogether, Sire,” said the young man significantly. “Your Majesty may recall instances of regicide.” “You should have spared us that, Farnham,” said the King reproachfully. An almost human emotion seemed for once to be in his eyes. They were full of pain. “I crave your forgiveness, Sire,” said the man in the bed. “I was a little carried away.” “As you say,” said Charles, “there have been instances of regicide. But it is only the canaille who are guilty of that crime. I do not think gentlemen are addicted to it.” The young man sank back in his pillows. Observing both him and his wife to be grievously overwrought by what had passed, the King withdrew from the chamber to talk to the landlord below. He promised to return soon. When the door had closed upon him, and his steps had died away on the stairs, the unhappy young man whispered to the woman: “My God, I fear I was stark mad!” “Canst thou forgive me?” said the wife. “I, too, was mad. I did not know what I did, or where I was. I did but know he was the King, the most unfortunate King in all the world. I did but know he was hunted for his life, like some poor wild animal. And when I saw his face, and his eyes shone on me, I think I could have fallen dead in the agony of seeing him. Yes, mine own, I, too, was mad.” “Curse him!” said the husband. “I would have slain him had I had the power. But when I looked into his face, even with the weapon in my hands, all the little strength within my body suddenly ran out of it. I could not slay him; he was the King.” “Yes, the King,” said the wife, thrillingly. “Always the King--the most unfortunate King in all the world.”