"You can mold lead, but you can not sculpture it; and I am lead."

"Yes; not only the metal, but the verb intransitive. Ah, could
the fires of ambition light your soul!"

"My soul is a blackened grate of burnt-out fires, of which only
a coal remains."

And the king turned in his seat and looked across the crisp
green lawns to the beds of flowers, where, followed by a maid at
a respectful distance, a slim young girl in white was cutting
the hardy geraniums, dahlias and seed poppies.

"God knows what her legacy will be!"

"It is for you to make it, Sire."

Both men continued to remark the girl. At length she came toward
them, her arms laden with flowers. She was at the age of ten,
with a beautiful, serious face, which some might have called
prophetic. Her hair was dark, shining like coal and purple, and
gossamer in its fineness; her skin had the blue-whiteness of
milk; while from under long black lashes two luminous brown eyes
looked thoughtfully at the world. She smiled at the king, who
eyed her fondly, and gave her unengaged hand to the Englishman,
who kissed it.

"And how is your Royal Highness this fine day? he asked, patting
the hand before letting it go.