“They run this way, sire,” said David, with respectful ardour:
Skip, ecstatic, on the mead;
See the firs dance in the breezes,
Hear Pan blowing at his reed.
See us swoop upon your flock;
Yield us wool to make our nests warm
In the branches of the———’”
“If it please your majesty,” interrupted a harsh voice, “I will ask a question or two of this rhymester. There is little time to spare. I crave pardon, sire, if my anxiety for your safety offends.”
“The loyalty,” said the king, “of the Duke d’Aumale is too well proven to give offence.” He sank into his chair, and the film came again over his eyes.
“First,” said the duke, “I will read you the letter he brought:
“‘To-night is the anniversary of the dauphin’s death. If he goes, as is his custom, to midnight mass to pray for the soul of his son, the falcon will strike, at the corner of the Rue Esplanade. If this be his intention, set a red light in the upper room at the southwest corner of the palace, that the falcon may take heed.’
“Peasant,” said the duke, sternly, “you have heard these words. Who gave you this message to bring?”
“My lord duke,” said David, sincerely, “I will tell you. A lady gave it me. She said her mother was ill, and
