delicate
web with its shining films and dewdrops seemed to him as he lay there
to be a vision of the whole universe, with all its worlds and stars
revolving around the central orb of light. It was as though a veil had
been torn away and he were looking on the naked glory of the spheres,
the heart of Heaven, the very home of God.

He looked and looked, his whole spirit filled with ineffable awe and
breathless humility. He lay gazing on the chance miracle of nature till
a passing cloud obscured the sun, and the spider's web wore once more
its ordinary appearance. Then he arose with tears in his eyes and gave a
great sigh of thankfulness.

"I have found it," he thought, "I will say of her what has never yet
been said of any woman. I will paint all Hell, all Purgatory, and all
that is in them, to make more glorious the glory of her abode, and I
will reveal to man that glory. I will show her in the circle of spotless
flame, among the rivers and rings of eternal light, which revolve around
the inmost heart, the fiery rose, and move obedient to the Love which
moves the sun." And his thought shaped itself into verse and he murmured
to himself:

L'amor che muove il sole e l'altre stelle.

EDWARD II. AT BERKELEY CASTLE BY AN EYE-WITNESS (With apologies to Mr.
H. Belloc)

The King had not slept for three nights. He looked at his face in the
muddy pool of water which had settled in the worn flagstones of his
prison floor, and noticed that his beard was of a week's growth. Beads
of sweat stood on his forehead, and his eyes were bloodshot. In the room
next door, which was the canteen, the soldiers were playing on a drum.
Over the tall hills the dawn was ruffling the clouds. There was a faint
glimmer on the waters of the river. The footsteps of the gaolers were
heard on the outer rampart. At seven o'clock they brought the King a
good dinner: they allowed him burgundy from France, and yellow mead, and
white bread baked in the ovens of the Abbey, although he was constrained
to drink out of pewter, and plates were forbidden him. Eustace, his
page, timidly offered him music. The King bade him sing the "Lay of the
Sussex Lass," which begins thus:

Triumphant, oh! triumphant now she stands,
Above my Sussex, and above my sea!
She stretches out her thin ulterior hands
Across the morning . . .

But the King, to whom memories were portentous, called for another song
and Eustace sang a stave of that bal