The king then appeared, mounted upon a splendid horse of Saxon breed, with a flowing mane. The young prince exhibited, when bowing to some windows from which issued the most animated acclamations, a noble and handsome countenance, illumined by the flambeaux of his pages. By the side of the king, though a little in the rear, the Prince de Conde, M. Dangeau, and twenty other courtiers, followed by their people and their baggage, closed this veritably triumphant march. The pomp was of a military character. Some of the courtiers—the elder ones, for instance—wore traveling dresses; but all the rest were clothed in warlike panoply. Many wore the gorges and buff coat of the times of Henry IV. and Louis XIII. When the king passed before him, the unknown, who had leant forward over the balcony to obtain a better view, and who had concealed his face by leaning on his arm, felt his heart swell and overflow with a bitter jealousy. The noise of the trumpets excited him—the popular acclamations deafened him: for a moment he allowed his reason to be absorbed in this flood of lights, tumult and brilliant images. “He is a king!” murmured he, in an accent of despair. Then, before he had recovered from his sombre reverie all the noise, all the splendor, had passed away. At the angle of the street there remained nothing beneath the stranger but a few hoarse, discordant voices, shouting at intervals, “Vive le Roi!” There remained likewise the six candles held by the inhabitants of the hostelry des Medici; that is to say, two for Cropole, two for Pittrino, and one for each scullion. Cropole never ceased repeating, “How good-looking the king is! How strongly he resembles his illustrious father!” “A handsome likeness!” said Pittrino. “And what a lofty carriage he has!” added Madame Cropole, already in promiscuous commentary with her neighbors of both sexes. Cropole was feeding their gossip with his own personal remarks, without observing that an old man on foot, but leading a small Irish horse by the bridle, was endeavoring to penetrate the crowd of men and women which blocked up the entrance to the Medici. But at that moment the voice of the stranger was heard from the window. “Make way, monsieur l’hotelier, to the entrance of your house!” Cropole turned around, and, on seeing the old man, cleared a passage for him. The window was instantly closed. Pittrino pointed out the way to the newly-arrived guest, who entered without uttering a word. The stranger waited for him on the landing; he opened his arms to the old man and led him to a seat. “Oh, no, no, my lord!” said he. “Sit down in your presence?—never!” “Parry,” cried the gentleman, “I beg you will; you come from England—you come so far. Ah! it is not for your age to undergo the fatigues my service requires. Rest yourself.” “I have my reply to give your lordship, in the first place.”