[_He leans on the table and sinks his head on his arms, oblivious to everything. Hildebold advances as though to touch him, then steps back and sits down, casting pitying glances at him. After a while Charles looks up._]
My hints are lost, well stay; A humbled man may wish an audience. O yesterday what glory streaked my life. Those blessed relics brought uplift, a sense That I, above all others, was indeed God's chosen vessel, Emperor and Chief Of millions. Yes, I had a deeper sense Of His abiding grace and awesome trust Than even on that Christmas morn when vast St. Peter's thundered forth the ancient plaudits: "Long life and victory to Charles, the pious Augustus, crowned by God, the great, pacific Emperor!" while on my head there rested The precious diadem. Ah, then I felt Some fear, a dread that I perchance usurped A mighty privilege. But yesterday 'Twas peace, as though the all-pervading God Communed with me, not as man talks with man; But as the angels gain instruction, thought That comes unvoiced, yet glows with warmth of knowledge. And so, deluded, I kissed goodnight. Outside 'Twas bleak, rough winds assailed, snow flurries pricked. Within my chamber's solitude I sought Relief through study; tossed my books aside; Revulsion gripped my soul. What had I done With power? Some cruel acts grew large and then The future glowed uncertain. Everywhere Dissensions rise; they say the brazen cock That crowns our palace points the spot, so swift Comes punishment; but age may weaken, have My sons the force that pushes me? I see The Northmen's snake-like galleys nosing, feel The Saracens' sharp sword; to meet them warriors With discipline relaxed, disordered laws, False judges, ignorance, a church debased.
_Hildebold._ Hold, hold, my Son, mirage is in your eyes To-day, transforming faults to giant-size.
_Charles._ And then I pulled the curtain back and saw God's eye of night, the lustrous moon, that stared Suggestive quiet. Prophet of storms, it failed To prophesy; but shed meek rays along Fresh-fallen, smirch-less snow, ay spotless! spotless! My thoughts now strayed to her, my youngest daughter, Her baby hands that clutched my beard, her soul Developing; her proud, young ways and later Her matchless maidenhood, her sweet accord With all my moods, her soothing charm, ah then A door was opened furtively, I saw—