“Sire,” said Charles II., “I have no need to ask if your majesty is acquainted with the details of my deplorable history.”

Louis XIV. blushed, this time more strongly than before; then, stretching forth his hand to that of the king of England, “My brother,” said he, “I am ashamed to say so, but the cardinal scarcely ever speaks of political affairs before me.  Still more, formerly I used to get Laporte, my valet de chambre, to read historical subjects to me; but he put a stop to these readings, and took away Laporte from me.  So that I beg my brother Charles to tell me all those matters as to a man who knows nothing.”

“Well, sire, I think that by taking things from the beginning I shall have a better chance of touching the heart of your majesty.”

“Speak on, my brother — speak on.”

“You know, sire, that being called in 1650 to Edinburgh, during Cromwell’s expedition into Ireland, I was crowned at Scone.  A year after, wounded in one of the provinces he had usurped, Cromwell returned upon us.  To meet him was my object; to leave Scotland was my wish.”

“And yet,” interrupted the young king, “Scotland is almost your native country, is it not, my brother?”

“Yes, but the Scots were cruel compatriots for me, sire; they had forced me to forsake the religion of my fathers; they had hung Lord Montrose, the most devoted of my servants, because he was not a Covenanter; and as the poor martyr, to whom they had offered a favor when dying, had asked that his body might be cut into as many pieces as there are cities in Scotland, in order that evidence of his fidelity might be met with everywhere, I could not leave one city, or go into another, without passing under some fragments of a body which had acted, fought, and breathed for me.

“By a bold, almost desperate march, I passed through Cromwell’s army, and entered England.  The Protector set out in pursuit of this strange flight, which had a crown for its object.  If I had been able to reach London before him, without doubt the prize of the race would have been mine; but he overtook me at Worcester.

“The genius of England was no longer with us, but with him.  On the 3rd of September, 1651, sire, the anniversary of the other battle of Dunbar, so fatal to the Scots, I was conquered.  Two thousand men fell around me before I thought of retreating a step.  At length I was obliged to fly.

“From that moment my history became a romance.  Pursued with persistent inveteracy, I cut off my hair, I disguised myself as a woodman.  One day spent amidst the branches of an oak gave to that tree the name of the royal oak, which it bears to this day.  My adventures in the county of Stafford, whence I escaped with the daughter of my host on a pillion behind me, still fill the tales of the country firesides, and would furnish matter for ballads.  I will some day write all this, sire, for the instruction of my brother kings.