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.