“That is more than I can tell you,” answered the King,--“And it is more than he will himself explain. Nevertheless, he is there nearly every day,--some attraction draws him, but what, I cannot discover. If Humphry were of the soul of me, as he is of the body of me, I should not even try to fathom his secret,--but he is the nation’s child--heir to its throne--and as such, it is necessary that we, for the nation’s sake, should guard him in the nation’s interests. If you chance to learn anything of the object of his constant sea-wanderings, I trust you will find it coincident with your pleasure to inform me?” “I shall most certainly obey you in this, Sir, as in all other things!” she replied. He moved a step or two towards her. “Good-night!” he said very gently, and detaching one of the lilies from her corsage, took it in his own hand. “Good-night! This flower will remind me of you;--white and beautiful, with all the central gold deep hidden!” He looked at her intently, with a lingering look, half of tenderness, half of regret, and bowing in the courtliest fashion of homage, left her presence. She remained alone, the velvet folds of her train flowing about her feet, and the jewels on her breast flashing like faint sparks of flame in the subdued glow of the shaded lamplight. She was touched for the first time in her life by the consciousness of something infinitely noble, and altogether above her in her husband’s nature. Slowly she drew out the paper he had given her from her bosom and read it through again--and yet once again. Almost unconsciously to herself a mist gathered in her eyes and softened into two bright tears, which dropped down her fair cheeks, and lost themselves among her diamonds. “He is brave!” she murmured--“Braver than I thought he could ever be--” She roused herself sharply from her abstraction. Emotions which were beyond her own control had strangely affected her, and the humiliating idea that her moods had for a moment escaped beyond her guidance made her angry with herself for what she considered mere weakness. And passing quickly out of the boudoir, in the vague fear that solitude might deepen the sense of impotence and failure which insinuated itself slowly upon her, like a dull blight creeping through her heart and soul, she rejoined her ladies, the same great Queen as ever, with the same look of indifference on her face, the same chill smile, the same perfection of loveliness, unwithered by any visible trace of sorrow or of passion. CHAPTER VI SERGIUS THORD