his accusing conscience–a voice which kept repeating those
shameful words, “I do not know you, woman!”
The words smote upon the King’s soul as the strokes of a funeral
bell smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind
him of secret treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is
gone.
New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new
marvels, sprang into view; the pent clamours of waiting batteries
were released; new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting
multitudes: but the King gave no sign, and the accusing voice
that went moaning through his comfortless breast was all the sound
he heard.
By-and-by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a
little, and became touched with a something like solicitude or
anxiety: an abatement in the volume of the applause was
observable too. The Lord Protector was quick to notice these
things: he was as quick to detect the cause. He spurred to the
King’s side, bent low in his saddle, uncovered, and said–
“My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming. The people observe thy
downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen. Be
advised: unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these
boding vapours, and disperse them. Lift up thy face, and smile
upon the people.”
So saying, the Duke scattered a handful of coins to right and
left, then retired to his place. The mock King did mechanically
as he had been bidden. His smile had no heart in it, but few eyes
were near enough or sharp enough to detect that. The noddings of
his plumed head as he saluted his subjects were full of grace and
graciousness; the largess which he delivered from his hand was
royally liberal: so the people’s anxiety vanished, and the
acclamations burst forth again in as mighty a volume as before.
Still once more, a little before the progress was ended, the Duke
was obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance. He whispered-
–
“O dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humours; the eyes of the
world are upon thee.” Then he added with sharp annoyance,
“Perdition catch that crazy pauper! ’twas she that hath disturbed
your Highness.”
The gorgeous figure turned a lustreless eye upon the Duke, and
said in a dead voice–
“She was my mother!”
“My God!” groaned the Protector as he reined his horse backward to
his post, “the omen was pregnant with prophecy. He is gone mad
again!”
Chapter XXXII. Coronation Day.
Let us go backward a few hours, and place ourselves in Westminster
Abbey, at four o’clock in the morning of this memorable Coronation
Day. We are not without company; for although it is still night,
we find the torch-lighted galleries already filling up with people
who are well content to sit still and wait seven or eight hours
till the time shall come for them to see what they may not hope to
see twice in their lives–the coronation of a King. Yes, London
and Westminster have been astir ever since the warning guns boomed
at three o’clock, and already crowds of untitled rich folk who
have bought the privilege of trying to find sitting-room in the
galleries are flocking in at the entrances reserved for their
sort.
The hours drag along tediously enough. All stir has ceased for
some time, for every gallery has long ago been packed. We may
sit, now, and look and think at our leisure. We have glimpses,
here and there and yonder, through the dim cathedral twilight, of
portions of many galleries and balconies, wedged full with other
people, the other portions of these galleries and balconies being
cut off from sight by intervening pillars and architectural
projections. We have in view the whole of the great north
transept–empty, and waiting for England’s privileged ones. We
see also the ample area or platform, carpeted with rich stuffs,
whereon the throne stands. The throne occupies the centre of the
platform, and is raised above it upon an elevation of four steps.
Within the seat of the throne is enclosed a rough flat rock–the
stone of Scone–which many generations of Scottish kings sat on to