“O thou vile King, give me my father!” he demanded, with menacing gesture. “Calmly, good Laertes,” implored the Queen, while the King, with all the subtle art in which he was so skilled, tried to soothe the infuriated young man, and asked him why he was so incensed. “How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with,” cried Laertes fiercely, flinging off all semblance of allegiance. “Let come what comes, only I’ll be revenged most thoroughly for my father.” “Who shall stay you?” asked the King mildly. “My will, not all the world!” retorted Laertes roughly. “And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, they shall go far with little.” The King was just explaining that he was in no sense guilty of Polonius’s death, when there was a stir at the door, and the next moment Ophelia entered. At the sight of the beautiful young maiden, in her simple white robe, her long yellow locks floating free on her shoulders, her sweet blue eyes opened wide in vacant gaze, a sudden check came to the young man’s violence. “O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!” he murmured, with tenderest pity. “Oh heavens! is it possible a young maid’s wits should be as mortal as an old man’s life?” Ophelia carried flowers in her hand, and she came in singing and talking to herself. “They bore him barefaced on the bier; Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny; And in his grave rain’d many a tear:-- “Fare you well, my dove.” “Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, it could not move thus,” said Laertes. Ophelia now began to distribute the flowers she held in her hand. First she gave some to her brother. “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.” “A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted,” said Laertes. “There’s fennel for you, and columbines,” said Ophelia to the King, (fennel is an emblem of flattery, and columbines of thanklessness). “There’s rue for you,” to the Queen, “and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace on Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died; they say he made a good end,-- For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.” “Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, she turns to favour and to prettiness,” said Laertes, as smiling, and kissing her hand, the poor wit-bereft maiden went singing on her way. His desire for vengeance was redoubled, and he resolved that his sister’s madness should be dearly paid for. He therefore lent a ready ear when the King declared that the blame of everything that had happened was due to Hamlet, explaining that he had been unable to punish him up to the present, owing to the intense love borne him by his mother, and all the people. Even as they were talking arrived a letter from Hamlet himself; it ran thus: “HIGH AND MIGHTY,