Here too the
light was dim, and I turned to beckon for the lamp. Sapt and
James came together, and stood peering over my shoulder in the
doorway.
The king lay prone on the floor, face downwards, near the bed. He
had crawled there, seeking for some place to rest, as we
supposed. He did not move. We watched him for a moment; the
silence seemed deeper than silence could be. At last, moved by a
common impulse, we stepped forward, but timidly, as though we
approached the throne of Death himself. I was the first to kneel
by the king and raise his head. Blood had flowed from his lips,
but it had ceased to flow now. He was dead.
I felt Sapt's hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw his other
hand stretched out towards the ground. I turned my eyes where he
pointed. There, in the king's hand, stained with the king'sblood,
was the box that I had carried to Wintenberg and Rupert of
Hentzau had brought to the lodge that night. It was not rest, but
the box that the dying king had sought in his last moment. I
bent, and lifting his hand unclasped the fingers, still limp and
warm.
Sapt bent down with sudden eagerness. "Is it open?" he whispered.
The string was round it; the sealing-wax was unbroken.
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