He was at times much influenced by those around him; at others he took his own course, right or wrong; at another he let matters drift.  There was never any telling in the morning what he might do towards night, for there was no vein of will or bias running through his character.  In fact, he lacked character; he was all uncertainty, except in jealousy of his supremacy.  Possibly some faint perception of his own incapacity, of the feeble grasp he had upon the State, that seemed outwardly so completely his, occasionally crossed his mind.

Hence the furious scenes with his brother; hence the sudden imprisonments and equally sudden pardons; the spies and eavesdroppers, the sequestration of estates for no apparent cause.  And, following these erratic severities to the suspected nobles, proclamations giving privileges to the people, and removing taxes.  But in a few days these were imposed again, and men who dared to murmur were beaten by the soldiers, or cast into the dungeons.  Yet Prince Louis (the family were all of the same name) was not an ill-meaning man; he often meant well, but had no stability or firmness of purpose.

This was why Felix dreaded lest some chance listener should hear Oliver abuse him.  Oliver had been in the army for some time; his excellence in all arms, and especially with lance and sword, his acknowledged courage, and his noble birth, entitled him to a command, however lowly it might be.  But he was still in the ranks, and not the slightest recognition had ever been taken of his feats, except, indeed, if whispers were true, by some sweet smiles from a certain lady of the palace, who admired knightly prowess.

Oliver chafed under this neglect.

“I would not say that kind of thing,” remarked Felix.  “Certainly it is annoying.”

“Annoying! that is a mild expression.  Of course, everyone knows the reason.  If we had any money, or influence, it would be very different.  But Sir Constans has neither gold nor power, and he might have had both.”

“There was a clerk from the notary’s at the house yesterday evening,” said Felix.

“About the debts, no doubt.  Some day the cunning old scoundrel, when he can squeeze no more interest out of us, will find a legal quibble and take the lot.”

“Or put us in the Blue Chamber, the first time the Prince goes to war and wants money.  The Blue Chamber will say, ’Where can we get it?  Who’s weakest?’ ‘Why, Sir Constans!’ ‘Then away with him.’”

“Yes, that will be it.  Yet I wish a war would happen; there would be some chance for me.  I would go with you in your canoe, but you are going you don’t know where.  What’s your object?  Nothing.  You don’t know yourself.”

“Indeed!”

“No, you don’t; you’re a dreamer.”

“I am afraid it is true.”

“I hate dreams.”  After a pause, in a lower voice, “Have you any money?”

Felix took out his purse and showed him the copper pieces.