nly the farther end being
illumined by a cold pale flood of moonlight, which, passing through
a high, straight window, lay in a silvery sheet on the floor. For an
instant I thought I was alone; then I saw, resting against this window,
with a hand on either mullion, a tall figure, having something strange
about the head. This peculiarity presently resolved itself into the
turban in which I had once before seen his Majesty. The king--for he it
was--was talking to himself. He had not heard me enter, and having his
back to me remained unconscious of my presence.

I paused in doubt, afraid to advance, anxious to withdraw; yet uncertain
whether I could move again unheard. At this moment while I stood
hesitating, he raised his voice, and his words, reaching my ears,
riveted my attention, so strange and eerie were both they and his tone.
'They say there is ill-luck in thirteen,' he muttered. 'Thirteen
Valois and last!' He paused to laugh a wicked, mirthless laugh.
'Ay,--Thirteenth! And it is thirteen years since I entered Paris, a
crowned King! There were Quelus and Maugiron and St. Megrin and I--and
he, I remember. Ah, those days, those nights! I would sell my soul to
live them again; had I not sold it long ago in the living them once! We
were young then, and rich, and I was king; and Quelus was an Apollo! He
died calling on me to save him. And Maugiron died, blaspheming God and
the saints. And St. Megrin, he had thirty-four wounds. And he--he is
dead too, curse him! They are all dead, all dead, and it is all over! My
God! it is all over, it is all over, it is all over!'

He repeated the last four words more than a dozen times, rocking himself
to and fro by his hold on the mullions. I trembled as I listened, partly
through fear on my own account should I be discovered, and partly
by reason of the horror of despair and remorse--no, not remorse,
regret--which spoke in his monotonous voice. I guessed that some impulse
had led him to draw the curtain from the window and shade the lamp;
and that then, as he looked down on the moonlit country, the contrast
between it and the vicious, heated atmosphere, heavy with intrigue and
worse, in which he had spent his strength, had forced itself upon his
mind. For he presently went on.

'France! There it lies! And what will they do with it? Will they cut it
up into pieces, as it was before old Louis XI? Will Mercoeur--curse him!
be the most Christian Duke of Brittany? And Mayenne, by the gr