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.