He lifted up his thin, slender hand, and there came a silence over the vast crowd immediately. Then he spoke, in his own accustomed way, using no grand words, but saying what he had to say in the simplest fashion, though with a clearness that struck their ears like the first song of a bird in the dusk of the morning. “My people, I am tired: I want to rest. I have had a long reign, and done much work--at least, as much as I was able to do. Many might have done it better than I--but none with a better will. Now I leave it to others; I am tired, very tired. Let me go home.” There arose a murmur--of content or discontent none could well tell; then it died down again, and the assembly listened silently once more. “I am not anxious about you, my people--my children,” continued the King. “You are prosperous and at peace. I leave you in good hands. The Prince Regent will be a fitter king for you than I.” “No, no, no!” rose the universal shout--and those who had sometimes found fault with him shouted louder than anybody. But he seemed as if he heard them not. “Yes, yes,” said he, as soon as the tumult had a little subsided: and his voice sounded firm and clear; and some very old people, who boasted of having seen him as a child, declared that his face took a sudden change, and grew as young and sweet as that of the little Prince Dolor. “Yes, I must go. It is time for me to go. Remember me sometimes, my people, for I have loved you well. And I am going a long way, and I do not think I shall come back any more.” He drew a little bundle out of his breast pocket--a bundle that nobody had ever seen before. It was small and shabby-looking, and tied up with many knots, which untied themselves in an instant. With a joyful countenance, he muttered over it a few half-intelligible words. Then, so suddenly that even those nearest to his Majesty could not tell how it came about, the King was away--away--floating right up in the air--upon something, they knew not what, except that it appeared to be as safe and pleasant as the wings of a bird. And after him sprang a bird--a dear little lark, rising from whence no one could say, since larks do not usually build their nests in the pavement of city squares. But there it was, a real lark, singing far over their heads, louder and clearer and more joyful as it vanished further into the blue sky. Shading their eyes, and straining their ears, the astonished people stood until the whole vision disappeared like a speck in the clouds--the rosy clouds that overhung the Beautiful Mountains. King Dolor was never again beheld or heard of in his own country. But the good he had done there lasted for years and years; he was long missed and deeply mourned--at least, so far as anybody could mourn one who was gone on such a happy journey.