“There is something about him,” said the husband, wildly; “whether it be his face, his name, his virtues, his vices, his father’s fate, or his own lamentable history, I know not, but there is something about him that even his bitterest enemies are unable to withstand. I was by his rein in Worcester fight, and twice I saw the blow levelled that was to deprive him forever of his kingdom, and twice it did not fall. I can see the look in the eyes of one grim Roundhead even now, as he stood with his pike poised within a foot of the King’s neck. And when, striking, he saw it to be the King, he stayed his weapon in mid-air and directed it upon another. I know not what quality it be within him.” “It is because the name he bears,” the woman said, “is the noblest and the most ill-fated name that ever a king did bear.” “Curse him!” said the husband. “I learnt to hate him before to-day.” A demon was in the young man’s heart. It was probably the fact that his own life could ill-support a scrutiny which lent a poignance to his jealousy; and is it not he the least without taint who is the readiest to cast the stone? The consciousness embittering his spirit that he was in no sense worthy of the woman who watched over him so tenderly, caused him almost fiercely to resent the intrusion of another within her thoughts. He feared the security of his own position there. There is no form of this disease so acute as that which springs from the sufferer’s knowledge of his own inferiority. The King was nobler, handsomer, more alluring to the eyes of a woman than he. His misfortunes and his station made him dreadful in the eyes of a jealous man. He hated the King, not so much for what he had done, as for what he had it in his power to do. It seemed to the young man in the depths of his remorse that Charles had it in his power to bereave him of the only thing in life he cared for. “Patsy woman,” he said, miserably, “I begged you to let me perish of that inflammation the other night. Oh, why did you not! It would have been better for us all. You know I am not worthy of you; you know I never can be worthy of you, weak fool as I am. It would have been more merciful to let me perish. I should not then have been condemned to lie here helpless in my bed and watch another steal away your love from me. He is a King, I know; but I cannot bear it.” The woman returned to the bedside and replaced her hand tenderly within his own. “Foolish child,” she said,--“foolish, jealous child! And yet mine is the blame. I should have ordered my susceptibilities better. He was our King, helpless and without a friend, driven from pillar to post, with never a place of security in which to soothe his weariness. It was the glamour of his unhappiness that overcame me. But, mine own, are you not my king also?” “You cannot have two,” said the young man. “I would have you choose between us.”