“See! that is the way he has been ever since last night when she died,” whispered the woman who had before spoken; “and his hands are clinched round her like iron—­one cannot move a finger!”

The king advanced.  He touched the shoulder of the unhappy lover.  His voice, modulated to an exquisite softness, struck on the ears of the listeners like a note of cheerful music.

“Figlio mio!”

There was no answer.  The women, touched by the simple endearing words of the monarch, began to sob though gently, and even the men brushed a few drops from their eyes.  Again the king spoke.

“Figlio mio!  I am your king.  Have you no greeting for me?”

The man raised his head from its pillow on the breast of the beloved corpse and stared vacantly at the royal speaker.  His haggard face, tangled hair, and wild eyes gave him the appearance of one who had long wandered in a labyrinth of frightful visions from which there was no escape but self-murder.

“Your hand, my son!” resumed the king in a tone of soldier-like authority.

Very slowly—­very reluctantly—­as though he were forced to the action by some strange magnetic influence which he had no power to withstand, he loosened his right arm from the dead form it clasped so pertinaciously, and stretched forth the hand as commanded.  Humbert caught it firmly within his own and held it fast—­then looking the poor fellow full in the face, he said with grave steadiness and simplicity,

“There is no death in love, my friend!”

The young man’s eyes met his—­his set mouth softened—­and wresting his hand passionately from that of the king, he broke into a passion of weeping.  Humbert at once placed a protecting arm around him, and with the assistance of one of his attendants raised him from the bed, and led him unresistingly away, as passively obedient as a child, though sobbing convulsively as he went.  The rush of tears had saved his reason, and most probably his life.  A murmur of enthusiastic applause greeted the good king as he passed through the little throng of persons who had witnessed what had taken place.  Acknowledging it with a quiet unaffected bow, he left the house, and signed to the beccamorti, who still waited outside, that they were now free to perform their melancholy office.  He then went on his way attended by more heart-felt blessings and praises than ever fell to the lot of the proudest conqueror returning with the spoils of a hundred battles.  I looked after his retreating figure till I could see it no more—­I felt that I had grown stronger for the mere presence of a hero—­a man who indeed was “every inch a king.”  I am a royalist—­yes.  Governed by such a sovereign, few men of calm reason would be otherwise.  But royalist though I am, I would assist in bringing about the dethronement and death of a mean tyrant, were he crowned king a hundred times over!  Few monarchs are like Humbert of Italy—­even now my heart warms when I