"A fair outside truly," he murmured half aloud to himself as he carelessly scanned its richly emblazoned velvet and gilt binding, and then proceeded as carelessly to turn its embossed pages; "and with such a mighty pretty dedication to my sacred majesty, that my poor privy-purse will suffer cruelly, I fear. Tho' I'll dare swear that 'tis all as full of emptiness, or at best of fulsome fawning flatteries, as my fine lords and ladies, who hang upon my skirts, and care no more for me than this little Médor here," and he gently caressed the satin soft ears of the little dog who had jumped to its favourite spot between himself and the downy cushions, "who loves me--for the cake and comfits I carry in my pocket. Nay, but I do thee an ill compliment after all, Médor; for though to be sure thou mightst not be at the pains to stretch out one of thy fringy paws here to help me in my need, at least thou'dst not turn against me, as some I wot of would, who have fed upon my bounty. But what have we here?" continued the king, turning on again at the pages of his book. "Nay, now, fie, fie, Master Poetaster! but is not your choice of mottoes here uncourtly, to say the least? "'For kings and mightiest potentates must die. For that's the end of human misery.' "I' faith! and I doubt 'twould trouble you no more than the rest of the herd, were I to die to-night, so long as your dedication money were safe to you. All--all alike, every man jack, and woman jill of you. 'The king is dead,' you'd cry, 'alack! alack!' though I doubt your breath might not reach to so much as that--'The king is dead--'" [Sidenote: A startling visitor.] "God save the king!" "Who goes there?" cried the king, starting to his feet and flinging down the book. What voice was this, snatching, as it were from his lips the very words that were upon them, and in tones so deep and significant, from the darkest recesses of the dimly lighted chamber? "Who goes there?" he reiterated, peering hard into the obscurity, till at last his keen gaze caught the outlines of a figure enveloped in a black riding cloak. "A friend," answered the voice in hurried tones. Charles laughed bitterly. "Our foes in disguise call themselves that," he said. "Come forward--friend, into the lamplight here." The intruder needed not to do so much in order to reveal his identity; for the words had not left the king's lips before a glare of light lit up the whole apartment, and revealed the face of Lawrence Lee. An exclamation of anger broke from Charles; and he darted a look of mingled suspicion and defiance on Lee. "Ha! I thought as much, Master Talebearer," he cried; "and this is your vaunted loyalty--this is--" "Fire! fire! your majesty," and Lee rushed forward with outspread arms. "Come quick! for God's sake, come! afterwards hang me--kill me--do as you will. But now--now--the palace is on fire, I say! and there's not an instant to lose." [Sidenote: Madness indeed.]