strength with which
Hieronymus had silenced him when he told for the last time his wild tale
of transformation, and declared that he was Robert of Sicily. The rest
of his memories were of peaceful hours of service, starred by golden
moments of sight of Perpetua, of speech with Perpetua. A strange
resignation came to reign in his fevered brain. He had been King--surely
he had been King--but now he was no longer King; it had pleased Heaven
to cast him from his kingship and to lead him in his degradation to
thoughts and deeds undreamed of in his hours of greatness. There were
times when he could wellnigh believe, dreamily, that what those nearest
to him, Perpetua and Hieronymus, believed was indeed the truth, and that
he was in very fact the fool Diogenes, who had lain in the maleficent
moonlight on the mountain summit, and dreamed in his madness that he was
the lord of Sicily. Moments truly came of fierce rebellion, but they
were fewer now, and even while they racked him, the thought of Perpetua
brought with it resignation to his fate. She had taught him the meaning
of service, of patience, of love.

Quietly he set down his basket of roses; quietly he took from a corner a
broom, and, opening the door that gave upon the sea, he reverently swept
the little church. As he worked at his humble toil, he mused on the
doings of him who was now King of Sicily, how point by point, in his
tyrannies, he followed out the plans that had been hatched in Robert's
head. How would it end for Perpetua--how would it end for Sicily? He
scarcely thought to ask how it would end for himself. Sometime, when it
could be safely done, Perpetua should escape to Italy; he would be with
her as her servant, his hands would toil for her. Already he had learned
to weave baskets, and it was with the money that he got through
Hieronymus for these that he had bought the roses which were to adorn
the altar of the church.

As he thought, his task was ended, the floor of the little church was
clean.

"Swept," he murmured to himself as he laid his broom aside, and taking
up the basket of white roses proceeded to set them tenderly upon the
altar.

"Garnished," he murmured again, as he stepped back a little way and
regarded his handiwork with a greater pleasure than he had ever known,
in days now dim as dreams, in the pageants and the festals of Naples.
The little church was now the kingdom in which he lived, not as king,
but as its lowliest servitor; yet he