corridor started. "April weather!" growled the corporal of the Imperial
Halberdiers to the comrade with whom he was keeping; guard at the foot of
the staircase leading to the apartments of Charles V, in the second story
of the huge old house.

"St. Peter's day," replied the other, a Catalonian. "At my home fresh
strawberries are now growing in the open air and roses are blooming in
the gardens. Take it all in all, it's better to be dead in Barcelona
than alive in this accursed land of heretics!"

"Come, come," replied the other, "life is life! 'A live dog is better
than a dead king,' says a proverb in my country."

"And it is right, too," replied the Spaniard. "But ever since we came
here our master's face looks as if imperial life didn't taste exactly
like mulled wine, either."

The Netherlander lowered his halberd and answered his companion's words
first with a heavy sigh, and then with the remark: "Bad weather upstairs
as well as down--the very worst! I've been in the service thirteen
years, but I never saw him like this, not even after the defeat in
Algiers. That means we must keep a good lookout. Present halberds!
Some one is coming down."

Both quickly assumed a more erect attitude, but the Spaniard whispered to
his comrade: "It isn't he. His step hasn't sounded like that since the
gout--"

"Quijada!" whispered the Netherlander, and both he and the man from
Barcelona presented halberds with true military bearing; but the staves