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Henry of Navarre was strolling dreamily along the terrace of the prison. He knew the court was at the chateau, not a hundred feet away, and through the walls it seemed as if his piercing eye could picture Charles as he lay dying.
The weather was perfect. A broad band of sunlight lay on the distant fields, bathing in liquid gold the tops of the forest trees, proud of the richness of their first foliage. The very stones of the prison itself, gray as they were, seemed impregnated with the gentle light of heaven, and some flowers, lured by the breath of the east wind, had pushed through the crevices of the wall, and were raising their disks of red and yellow velvet to the kisses of the warm air.