Day by day time pressed him on toward the inevitable. No human
hand could stay him. He could think, but he could not act. He
could move, but he could not stand nor walk. And that philosophy
which had in other days sustained him was shattered and
threadbare. He was dead, yet he lived. Fate has so many delicate
ironies.
He had tried to make his people love him, only to acquire their
hate. He had reduced taxation, only to be scorned. He had made
the city beautiful, only to be cursed. A paralytic, the theme of
ribald verse, the butt of wineroom wits, the object of contumely
to his people, his beneficiaries!
The ingratitude of kings bites not half so deep as the
ingratitude of the people. Tears filled his eyes, and he fumbled
his lips. There were only two bright spots in his futile life.
The first was his daughter, who read to him, who was the first
in the morning to greet him and last at night to leave him. The
second was the evening hour when the archbishop and the
chancellor came in to discuss the affairs of state.
"And Prince Frederick has not yet been heard from?" was his
first inquiry.
"No, Sire," answered the chancellor.
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