Like a soft white cloud the falcon glided into the room before them, settling upon the tall stone fire-place, whence it watched the strangely assorted couple. When alone together, for the first time Eric of the golden locks raised his haggard face and looked straight into the eyes of the King. The old man felt as though a dagger were piercing his heart when he met that hopeless gaze. Certainly those were the features of the boy he had loved, but oh, what was it he had gone through to be so cruelly changed? His cheeks were hollow, the sunken orbs stared with a far-away look too sad for the language of men, and his golden hair was covered with a fine web of silver that lay like an early frost over a ripe field of corn. Long did King Wanda stand mute, not finding a word; he felt that he stood in presence of a grief so deep that he dared not come too near. It was Eric who spoke: "May I remain within thy palace, O King, to complete the work that once I began? I feel that now I can verily put the finishing touches to a picture that in ages past was the pride of my painter's art. "And above all, I crave thy pardon for having left thee on that summer's morn so long ago. It must have seemed as if I were void of both gratitude and love, but it was not thus. "I have wandered far, and have returned from the regions of dreams to fulfil the task that thou didst once demand of me, so that thy belief in Eric Gundian should not have been in vain! I see by thy look, O most royal master, that still thou dost trust in me." "May the completing of thy work bring peace to thy heart!" was the King's reply; and once more he drew the dusty wayfarer within his fatherly arms. Within a few days Eric was again established in his old place, working with all his soul. King Wanda had given orders that he should be left entirely undisturbed; and there he painted from early morn as long as the daylight lasted. Even King Wanda dared not trouble his peace--he had a feeling that this work was being done with a love that no stranger's eye should watch. Indeed, it was with his very life's blood that the painter was now completing his masterpiece; he felt that each day he was giving some of his strength--that little by little his force was going with each fresh stroke of his brush. At times his face was corpse-like, as one no more of this earth. Once little Oona had peeped through an opening in the window-curtain, and had then run quickly back, with a feeling that she had seen a ghost. But the face that Eric was creating upon King Wanda's wall was of a beauty no words can describe. The woman on the throne, with the golden dress that flowed down like a river seen at sunset, was leaning slightly forward, her eyes looking away over the heads of the crowd that was calling upon her name in praise.