Chapter III: Part 3

Although in our day, David would have been far too young to think of being married, in those days such things were different, and David accepted the hand of Merab, but at the last moment, through some new caprice of Saul's, the promise was broken and Merab became another man's wife. But Saul's younger daughter, Michal, who had admired David's behaviour ever since he had been her father's armour-bearer, was as fond of him as her brother, Jonathan was, and when she told her father this, he was greatly pleased and said to himself that she should marry David, who would then fight the Philistines for her sake and be killed by them. And when David objected to marrying her, saying that it was no easy matter for a poor man to marry the daughter of a king, Saul's messengers answered:

"The King requireth no dowry from him, only that he kill a hundred Philistines."

This pleased David, for he was a born warrior, and he did not know that the King's purpose in this agreement was to have him fall by the sword of the enemy. So even before the marriage took place, he was so eager to fulfil the king's request that he and his men went out and killed twice as many Philistines as Saul demanded, and came home unhurt, and although Saul was angry at this, he was obliged to give him Michal in marriage, but from that moment, Saul hated David more fiercely than ever, and was determined to kill him, especially when he saw that the people loved David more and more deeply for his wisdom and bravery. Intent on this purpose, Saul even called his ministers and servants together and told them that they must kill David, and he told Jonathan this too, and Jonathan, loving David as he did, was filled with fear that his father's wishes would be carried out, and so he hurried to David with the news of his father's command, and begged David to hide until the next day, saying that meanwhile he would go to his father and try to alter his feelings.

When David heard Saul's command, it did not frighten him as much as it did Jonathan, for he was almost fearless by nature, but he listened to Jonathan intently, and promised to do what he asked, and as soon as Jonathan had left him and gone to Saul, David fled to a secret place and hid there, while Jonathan, having sought his father, began to say good things about David, even though he saw there was danger of arousing his father's fierce anger by what he said.

But he spoke boldly, because of his love for David, saying: "Let not the King sin against David, because he hath not sinned against thee, and because his works have been to thee very good. For he did put his life in his hand and slew the Philistines, and the Lord wrought a great salvation for all Israel. Thou sawest it and did rejoice, wherefore then, wilt thou sin against innocent blood, to slay David without a cause."

It was a brave thing for Jonathan to speak so frankly to his father, and he would have been more frightened in doing it, had not his love of David given him courage. And he had his reward, for not only did Saul listen attentively to him, but was touched by his plea, and when he finished speaking, swore solemnly:

"As the Lord liveth, he shall _not_ be slain."

Jonathan scarcely waited to hear the words, before he hurried from his father's presence and ran as fast as he could run to David's hiding-place to tell him the good news, that he was not to be killed. And then he insisted that David should go back with him to the king's court, which David did, and when Saul saw him, old memories stirred in his heart and he welcomed David affectionately as he had done in times past.

For a while David remained with Saul and Jonathan and as all went on peacefully, he and Jonathan had many happy hours together. Then there was war again with the Philistines, and David was sent out to fight them, and was again victorious over them, slaying them with such a great slaughter that those who remained alive fled from him, in fear and dismay. And although Saul was glad of David's victory over the enemies of Israel, the old jealousy of his young and powerful rival again overcame him and he had or pretended to have one of his old attacks of rage, and as in old times, David was called to soothe his inflamed spirit. But while he was playing, Saul was filled with jealous fury, and again hurled his spear at the young musician, and again David slipped aside and escaped it, and the spear hit the wall instead of his body--then he fled to his own house, more worried than he had ever been before; for now he saw clearly that Saul would never give up his purpose to kill him.

This he told his wife, Michal, who knew her father's cruel, jealous disposition, even better than Saul did, and was much alarmed for her husband's safety.

That night, Saul, following out his determination, to rid himself of David, sent watchers to guard David's house and make sure that he did not escape in the night, and though they did not go into the house to kill him at once, because of an old Oriental superstition that only evil would come to those who entered a home by night, they planned to enter at daybreak and arrest him.

Michal, with a woman's keen instinct, when she saw the messengers outside, guessed their purpose and at once she said to David:

"If thou save not thy life to-night, to-morrow, thou shalt be slain," and then she told David of her plan to save him, which he thought was a good one. After a hasty farewell, she assisted her husband to escape through a window on the opposite side of the house from where the king's messengers were crouched, and David under cover of the darkness crept stealthily away and escaped once more from Saul's hand. When she had seen him creep away in the darkness, Michal went back into the house and dressing up an image, as if it were a man, she laid it in David's bed, and covered it, head and all, with a long thick coverlet, and at dawn when Saul's messengers forced an entrance, demanding David, Michal answered:

"He is sick."

The men went away and told Saul this, but he did not believe it, and sent them back to bring David to the palace in his bed, if they found him too sick to walk, and it must have been a moment of triumph for Michal, who had worked so hard to save her husband's life, and who knew that he was, even then, far away, when she led Saul's messengers to the bed, where they found, not their victim, but only an image.

When Saul heard of this, his rage was almost beyond bounds, but Michal did not care, for she knew that David was safe now, and her answers to her father's reproaches at her conduct in helping David to escape were as fearless as possible.

All this took time, and meanwhile, David, now an outcast from his home, had hurried to Ramah, a city on a height about three miles west of Gibeah, where he found Samuel at the School of Prophets, and when he told Samuel all that Saul had done to him, Samuel felt sorely against Saul, and went with David to Naioth, hoping that they might in that way escape Saul's messengers, who David knew would surely discover and follow him. And he was right. No sooner had David reached Ramah than Saul did find it out, and sent soldiers to arrest him, but three different bands which he sent, one after another, when they came to the School of Prophets became filled with religious excitement, and neglected their errand. Then Saul himself was frenzied with impatience and started out for Ramah, but before he reached the city, he, too, was overcome by the spirit of religious excitement, and for a day and a night forgot his own errand. So David had time to escape, and went straight back to Saul's court, the place where he had been in such high favour only a short time before. He went to find Jonathan, his friend, who had been eagerly waiting for news of him. The meeting of the youths was a glad one, but there was no time for discussing anything except what David had come to get advice about. At once he asked Jonathan:

"What have I done? What is my sin before your father, that he seeketh my life?"

And Jonathan loved him with a great love and was deeply troubled for his safety, and he answered David:

"God forbid. Thou shalt not die. Behold my father will do nothing either great or small, but he will show it to me, and why should he hide this thing from me? It is not so."

But David knew the truth and he answered:

"Thy father certainly knoweth that I have found favour in thine eyes, and he said 'Let not Jonathan know this lest he be grieved' but truly, as the Lord liveth and as thy soul liveth, there is but a step between me and death."

A solemn thing for a young man, so strong, so full of the joy of life, to believe and to say, and as he said it, his voice trembled, and Jonathan's cheeks were white with fear. Only for a moment was Jonathan silent, then looking straight into David's eyes, he said:

"Whatsoever thy soul desireth, I will even do it for thee."

Could there be any better proof of friendship than that?

Then David, who had been thinking what was wisest to do, told Jonathan of the plan which must be carried out in order to find out Saul's intentions with regard to him. There was to be a great festival on the following day, to which Saul had invited David, just as if he and David were on the best of terms, and David told Jonathan that instead of going to the feast, he would hide in a field near by, while Jonathan must go to the feast and see how his absence affected Saul, and also draw him on in every way, to show his feelings for David. Then, as soon as Jonathan had found out his father's feeling towards David, he was to go to the field where David was hiding and shoot three arrows as if shooting at a mark, and send a boy to pick them up. If he should shoot on this side of David's hiding-place, it would mean that David could come out in peace and safety, but if the arrows were shot beyond the place where David was, it would be a sign that he must again flee, for his life would be in danger if he remained.

And so David hid himself in the field and Jonathan went to the feast, as they had planned that he should do, and at first Saul did not notice David's absence, then presently, he asked Jonathan where David was, and Jonathan answered as David had told him to, that David had gone to Bethlehem to attend a family festival there. Then Saul was very angry at both David and Jonathan, and exclaimed:

"Thou hast chosen the son of Jesse to thine own confusion. Surely as long as he liveth, thou shalt not be established in the kingdom. Wherefore, now send for him that he may die."

Although Jonathan was perfectly conscious of his father's bribe of the kingdom should he bring David to be killed, and of the cleverness of Saul's appeal to his desire for power, he had no thought for himself, but only anger that his father could be so hard at heart. But he controlled his temper and merely said:

"Wherefore shall he be slain? What hath he done?"

At this Saul's fury knew no bounds; that he, King of Israel should lose not only his sovereignty, but the loyalty of his own son, because of this lad of Bethlehem, was more than he could bear. With the rage of a frenzied animal, Saul hurled his spear at Jonathan to kill him, but as David had done, Jonathan dodged the deadly weapon, and left the feast, refusing to sit any longer at the table with a father who was so cruel and capricious.

And as soon as possible, Jonathan hastened to David's hiding-place, taking with him his bow and arrows, and a lad to fetch his arrows for him.

And he said to the lad:

"Run, find out the arrows which I shoot!----" and as the lad ran, he shot an arrow beyond him.

And when the lad found the arrow that Jonathan had shot, Jonathan cried after him:

"Is not that the arrow behind thee? Make speed--haste--stay not."

And Jonathan's lad gathered up the arrows and brought them to his master, and he knew nothing about the meaning of that which he had done. Only Jonathan and David knew that, and then because he was eager to be alone with David, Jonathan gave the lad his bow and arrows and bade him take them to the city.

As soon as the lad was out of sight and hearing, David who had heard all that had passed between Jonathan and the boy, came from his hiding-place, and as there was no one to see or hear them, those lads of Israel in that far off land, sat together and talked as lads of to-day might talk, while the sun was sinking low in the west, although by doing so, they took a very great risk should they be found together. But both of them were forgetful of all but the joy of being together. Then with slow step and arm linked in arm, they walked together to the spot where David had been in hiding, and with a quick realisation of the danger ever shadowing David's life, both boys were overcome by the depth of their affection for each other, and by the fear that something was going to part them, and in the custom of the Orient at that time, they clasped hands and made a solemn covenant, or vow, of eternal friendship and mutual help, to extend after the death of either to their descendants.

It was indeed a solemn moment, and the deepest feeling in the boyish hearts was stirred when they made their vow under the wide blue sky, and looked long and sadly into each other's eyes. Then Jonathan said to David:

"Go in peace because we have sworn, both of us, in the name of the Lord, saying, 'The Lord be between me and thee, and between my seed and thy seed for ever;' and then, with a lingering good-bye, Jonathan went back to his home, with a heart aching, not only with loneliness for David, but full of fear of what he would have to suffer and bear in the coming days, and of regret for that weakness of character which he knew his father had allowed to go beyond his own control. And David went to Nob, a city north of Jerusalem, where there was at that time the chief place of worship of the Israelites, and where David naturally turned his steps for instructions and also for food. The story of his flight had not reached the little town among the hills, and he was received with the honour due to the King's son-in-law, although Ahimeleck, the chief priest, was astonished that he came without an armour-bearer or a retinue of attendants. Seeing his surprise, David pretended to have come on urgent, secret business for Saul, and begged for food. The priest, believing this, felt that he must treat him with all possible honour, and as there was no other food ready, gave him the bread which was for use on the altar. Meanwhile, David's quick eye had caught a glimpse of a face staring at him through the cracks in the simple forest building. It was Doeg, the Edomite, Saul's savage herdsman, who David felt sure had recognised him. A chill of foreboding crept over David and made him at once demand arms from the peaceful priest. There were none to give except Goliath's sword, which David had taken from the giant when he killed him, and which had been there at Nob, wrapped in a cloth, ever since. With eager joy, David exclaimed:

"There is none like _that_, give it to me!" and seizing the matchless weapon, he fled with it, knowing that Doeg was even then hastening to Saul with news of his whereabouts, and that soon Saul's messengers would be in hot pursuit of him. His next move was a bold one. Leaving Nob, he and his few followers struck across the country in a southwesterly direction, keeping well within the dense forests, until they looked down on the city of Gath. David's condition was desperate now and he resorted to desperate measures. The nearest Philistine city was Gath; the glen where he had killed the giant was close beside him. It was a dangerous thing to trust himself in Gath with Goliath's sword dangling in his belt but David was nothing if not courageous. Danger in some form he must face, the Israelites were behind, the Philistines before him, and he made the plunge and took refuge in Gath. But the move was a fatal one, his identity was at once discovered, to have his life he resorted to the least heroic trick of his whole life. Pretending to be a madman, he raved and stormed and twisted about with horrible contortions, pounded upon the gates of the city, let the spittle run down on his beard, and acted his insane part so perfectly that he completely deceived the King, who laughed at the report that this was David, the Israelite, and ordered him sent from the city, saying that there were enough madmen in it for all practical uses.

David's hasty flight ends this episode and we can fancy his sigh of relief when he had once again escaped so narrowly from danger.

Once more a fugitive, and a real outlaw now, he took refuge in the cave of Adullam, where as soon as it became known that he had taken up an outlaw's life, he was at once joined by a number of men who for some reason were either discontented with their position at court, or fugitives from justice, and had trust in David's ability to achieve victories over enemies and circumstances. Even his own brothers, who had hated and envied him in his earlier days, and his parents, who were now old and feeble, came to join his band of followers, and soon he was the chief of a band numbering about four hundred outlaws, among them some famous warriors who later became noted captains in his army, after he became King of Israel.

Although the wild, free life of the forest was what exactly suited David's own youth and vigour, he felt that his parents were too infirm to bear it, and with characteristic thoughtfulness, he went at once to the King of Moab and begged him to give a home to the old people until he should have a safer place of shelter for them. David's grand-mother was Ruth the Moabitess, which according to the rule of Eastern hospitality, entitled all her relations to whatever aid they needed from any of the tribe of Moab, and so the King of Moab cordially assented to David's request, and received Jesse and his wife as inmates of his home.

Among David's first followers were some clever warriors of the tribe of Gad, men fierce in war, and strong and swift of foot. With him also was the prophet Gad himself, and there were even some men from the tribe of Benjamin, the tribe to which King Saul belonged, who joined David's company. It seems to have been a peculiarity of the Benjamites that they could use either hand with equal skill, and those who joined David were armed with bows, and were very valuable allies because they could use both the right hand and the left at once in hurling stones, and shooting arrows, and never miss their aim. At first David feared treachery from these Benjamites, but when he asked them frankly what their intentions were, they said:

"We are thine, David, peace be unto thee and thy helpers, for thy God helpeth thee." Then David received them, and made them captains of his army, and they became enthusiastic admirers of their young leader, as were all David's band.

One incident shows what passionate affection his men felt for him. Saul's army in losing David had lost the one captain who could keep the Philistines in check, and they were over-running the country in numerous bands, having their headquarters in the valley of Rephaim, near Jerusalem. One night, in a moment of fond recollection of a happier past, David cried out in an intense longing for a drink of water from the well near the gate of Bethlehem by which he had often driven his sheep in his younger days. At once, three of his men, without telling him what they were going to do, forced a passage through the Philistine lines and brought him the water for which he longed. Touched by the act, but always modest, David refused to allow men to risk their lives simply for his gratification and poured out the water as a sacrifice to God, according to the religious ceremony of that time, for it was as good as blood, David said, and the three men who brought it to him were afterwards counted among the mightiest of his heroes.

Besides these men, all the others of his little band were devoted to him, seeing his courage and his unconditional dependence on God under all circumstances. The wild, rough life brought out all the manhood there was in his little band of outlaw warriors who were occupied mainly in guerilla warfare with marauding tribes and in eluding the pursuit of Saul, and in this way several years passed, during which time, David's life was full of stirring events, but many a night as he wandered underneath the stars, his thoughts turned in passionate longing to Jonathan, for whom his heart cried out--for Jonathan, whose life was as different from David's, for he had all the comforts of luxurious living, and all the elegance and pomp which were the natural surroundings of a King's son. And yet he was far from happy, for he too longed for David, and he was obliged to spend a large part of his time in watching over his father, whose weakness of character he understood perfectly, and to keep the King from dangerous acts and damaging outbursts of temper, required all of young Jonathan's tact, and most of his time and strength.

Meanwhile, the prophet Gad whose advice was supposed to be divinely inspired, told David that it was no longer safe to remain in the cave of Adullam, so the little band of outlaws left the place where they had been for so long encamped and as outlaws have always done, they took refuge in a forest, somewhere among the hills of Judah.

It was now the end of harvest time in May, and news was brought to David that the town of Keilah was being harassed by plundering bands of Philistines. As the town evidently did not belong to Judah at this time, Saul did not move a finger to protect it, although the enemy had shut up the citizens within their own walls and were robbing the loaded threshing floors outside. David deliberated long and prayerfully, together with the priest Abiathar, who was one of his followers, deciding whether he might successfully attack the bands who were robbing Keilah. His men were rather fearful of the enterprise, but when Abiathar decided in favour of it, David's band at once marched over the highlands of Judah, and surprised and defeated the Philistines with great loss, and took much booty. David even established himself in the town, but when Saul discovered that fact, he called out all the forces of Israel, and prepared to besiege David, full of fiendish joy that the prey he had so long sought was in his hands at last, for the capture of four hundred men in a fortress however strong, could only be for his large army, a question of time. All this became known to David, who was warned by Abiathar that the inhabitants of Keilah would be compelled for their own safety to give him up to Saul, and his four hundred men only saved themselves by a hasty flight breaking up into detachments, and fleeing wherever they could go, while David with only a handful of his army, made his way once again into the hospitable wilderness which stretches from the hills of Judah to the shores of the Dead Sea, and there he hid in secret places among the crags and tangled brush, while with fiendish perseverance, Saul sought him every day. But every day God saved him from capture, yet as the days passed he became weary and discouraged in heart. Then in a lonely hour there came a rare joy to David--Jonathan, his friend, stood beside him with outstretched hands and beaming eyes, joy expressed on every line of his sensitive, delicate face.

David has no words ready for such a joyous moment--he is no longer the brave warrior--leader of men. He throws his arms about Jonathan's neck, and tears come,--yes, tears,--and Jonathan too, is unnerved, but there is no time to lose, they may be discovered any moment and that will mean death for at least one of them. Jonathan is the first to speak, clasping David's hand closely.

"Fear not," he says in a clear, calm voice, "the hand of Saul, my father, shall not find thee, and thou shalt be King over Israel, and I shall be next unto thee, and that also my father knoweth."

So spoke Jonathan, and the words came from his heart, for knowing as he did of all the courageous acts of David, and of all the diplomacy he had used to help others as well as himself, Jonathan's heart told him that his friend was truly worthy to be King of Israel rather than he, the rightful heir to the throne, and with deepest love and admiration in his eyes and voice, and at peril of his life, should he be found with David, he told David this, and David's eyes shone with joy and pride in his friend's appreciation, and his hand-clasp grew firmer, and there was deep, intense silence while the two friends thought of past and future, and looked into each other's eyes as comrades look who trust and understand.

Then, Jonathan renewed his covenant of friendship for David, and of loyalty to his descendants for ever, and David began to give his answering promise, but he could not finish the words because of a great sob which burst from him. And Jonathan could say no words of comfort, for his soul was full of misery too, because he must so soon part from David. Then David who was quick to see and feel Jonathan's pain, turned away, and hastily, with a mighty effort controlled his misery, that his friend might not see sorrow on his face, and with one last look Jonathan turned and silently went from the forest, out into the larger world and back into the less free life that was his at the Court of his father. Back to his own duty which he never shirked, went Jonathan, and to David remained only the fulfilling of that renewed covenant of comradeship. And fulfil it he did.

In the following months Saul still sought daily to kill him, but daily failed to do so, and instead David had an opportunity to capture and kill Saul, when he came upon him by night sleeping, with his spear stuck in the ground at his head, and surrounded by Abner and his people who were sleeping too. Think what a temptation that was for David to resist! But even though it would have freed his life of a dangerous enemy and raised him to the throne, David would not yield to it, for he said:

"Who can stretch forth his hand against the Lord's anointed and be guiltless? The Lord shall smite him, or his day will come to die, or he will descend into the battle and perish, but God forbid that I should stretch my hand against him."

And never did he raise his hand against Saul, though still Saul pursued him with relentless hatred, but still David escaped from his hand, and he and his band of followers became daily more famous for their deeds of valour, and for the brave warfare they waged against their enemies.

War again broke out between the Israelites and the Philistines. David and his men who were not now with either army, but who had just captured the Amalekites and taken from them large booty, were rejoicing over this victory, when joy was turned to sorrow. News was brought to David that both Saul and Jonathan had fallen in battle against the Philistines at Gilboa.

Jonathan gone from him! Jonathan, his friend, gone beyond his sight for ever! David refused to believe this until he who brought the sad tidings had again and again given proof of its truth. Then David gave way to his grief, and he and all his men who sorrowed with him, wept and mourned and fasted until evening, for Saul, the king, and for Jonathan, his son, and David mourned as one who cannot be comforted.

Although David had known only too well the truth about Saul's great weakness, and had feared him as his most dangerous enemy, still to him was Saul always the King of Israel, mighty in strength of character, and in all the pomp and power of a nation's ruler; still the king of a shepherd boy's dreams and also he was the father of Jonathan, and because of David's childhood's ideal of Saul, the king, and because of his great grief for Jonathan his friend, David, who was now the King of Israel, expressed his true feelings in this wonderful poem in memory of Saul, and of Jonathan his friend:

The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places
How are the mighty fallen!
Tell it not in Gath
Publish it not in the streets of Askelon,
Lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice
Lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph,
Ye mountains of Gelboa, let there be no dew,
Neither let there be rain upon you!
For there the shield of the mighty was vilely cast away,
The shield of Saul, the anointed of the Lord.
From the blood of the slain,
From the fat of the mighty,
The bow of Jonathan turned not back
And the sword of Saul returned not empty,
Jonathan and Saul
Were lovely and pleasant in their lives
And in their deaths they were not divided;
They were swifter than eagles,
They were stronger than lions,
Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul,
Who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights,
Who put on ornaments of gold on your apparel,
How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle!
O Jonathan, thou wast slain
I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan!
Very pleasant hast thou been unto me,
Thy love to me was wonderful,
Passing the love of women,
How are the mighty fallen,
And the weapons of war perished!

LOUIS SEVENTEENTH:

The Boy King Who Never Reigned

It was the early morning of a bright June day, and the famous gardens surrounding the palace at Versailles were gay with bloom and heavy with scents as rare as was the morning. King Louis Sixteenth of France looked from a window out over the terraces in their vari-coloured beauty, and saw among the blossoms, a little figure busy with spade and rake, and although the King's heart was heavy with sorrow because of the death of his elder son, the Dauphin, as the eldest son of the King of France, and heir to the throne, was always called, yet he was filled too with pride as he looked out at the little Louis Charles, to whom only three short hours before had descended the titles and honours which had belonged to his brother.

The King's long and earnest glance at the little Dauphin attracted the child's attention, and dropping his tools, he waved frantically towards the window, crying out:

"Papa, see the beautiful flowers. I am pleased with myself. I shall deserve mamma's first kiss to-day, I shall have a bouquet for her dressing-table. May I come and show it to you?"

The king bowed his head in answer and smiled a sad smile as he turned to the queen, Marie Antoinette, who even then stood beside him, weeping bitterly for the other son who had gone from her for ever.

So absorbed was King Louis in his attempt to comfort her, that he forgot the new little Dauphin, until the door opened softly, and he saw the small figure standing just inside the door, holding tightly in his hand a bouquet of violets and roses. Charming in his childish grace and beauty was little Louis as he stood there, watching his father and then his mother, with grave concern at their evident sadness, and quickly he held up his flowers to his mother and said with sweet grace:

"Mamma, I have picked you some flowers from my garden."

Still Marie Antoinette could not speak, but the king caught the child up in his arms, saying:

"Marie, he too is our son. He is the Dauphin of France."

Slowly Marie Antoinette turned, clasped his bright, lovely face in her two hands, and stooping, kissed him tenderly on his forehead.

"I had forgotten," she said. "God bless and protect you, Dauphin of France. I only pray that the storm clouds which now darken our sky may be long past, when you ascend the throne of your fathers!"

Little Louis' forehead was wrinkled with perplexity.

"But, mamma," he asked timidly--"why is it you all call me Dauphin to-day, when I am just your little Louis, who is called the Duke of Normandy?"

"My son," said the King, solemnly, "each day differs from the last, and this new day has brought you a new name and a new position. Your poor dear brother has left us for ever. He has gone to God, and you are now in his place, the Dauphin of France."

"And is that why mamma is crying, and will Louis never come back?"

"No, dear, he will never come back, and so your mamma is grieving."

Quickly little Louis' arms went around her neck.

"Oh," he cried, "poor, dear mamma! I don't see how anyone can leave you, and not come back? _I_ will never leave you, never, never!"

"God grant it!" sighed the queen, pressing him tenderly to her. "May He grant it--oh, my precious child!" and then with his face close to hers, and a little hand held tight in the big one of his father, whose arm was around them both, Louis continued:

"If it is mine now, please tell me what it means--that name, the Dauphin."

The king answered:

"My son, this is what it means. You are now the eldest son of the King of France, and some day you will be the king, and to you belong now the titles and honours that were your brother's. Do you understand?"

Instead of showing appreciation, Louis' blue eyes looked entreatingly at the Queen, and his lips quivered.

"Mamma," he whispered, "I like being Duke of Normandy best. Will you love me any better if I am called the Dauphin?"

"No, dear child," answered the Queen tenderly, "I shall not love you better, but you are no longer the Duke of Normandy. You are the Dauphin now, the future King of France!" A sob choked the words as Marie Antoinette turned hastily away to hide her grief, and in doing so, she put her foot on the flowers which little Louis had brought her. His face clouded as he saw this, then with a bright smile he looked into the Queen's face, saying quickly:

"Mamma, I wish you always walked on flowers I picked for you."

Without a word Marie Antoinette turned, and clasping him in her arms, was comforted. Then, reminded of state duties to be done, she was about to release him when he whispered:

"Did my poor dear brother only leave me his title? Oh, mamma, I do not want it. But there is something of his that I _do_ want to have very, very much now that I am the Dauphin."

The King looked bewildered, but the Queen smiled through her tears.

"I think I can guess what it is," she said, "see if I can, little Louis," and putting him down, she softly left the room, and when she came back there ran and frisked about her, jumping for joy of comradeship, a tiny black dog who rushed up to Louis, and jumped on him over and over again, and the child clasped it in his arms, while the dog put its paws on Louis' shoulders and licked his rosy cheeks with frantic affection.

"Now, my Louis," asked the Queen, "did I guess right? Wasn't that what you wanted so much?"

"Oh, yes it was! It was!" exclaimed the boy, his eyes shining with joy. "Is he really mine now? Does he belong to my inheritance?"

The Queen could not answer, but the King spoke sadly.

"Yes, my son, he belongs to your inheritance."

The Dauphin shouted with joy.

"He is mine! He is mine!" and as he held the little dog close to him, the picture was a pretty one, the boy with his round rosy face, dimpled chin and deep blue eyes shaded by long, dark lashes, with his high forehead, and heavy golden hair, all the delicacy of his colouring and features thrown into relief by the dark blue velvet of his suit, all the charm of his expressive face shone in his joy over the new treasure which he was clasping tight. What to the little Dauphin was the silver star embroidered on his left shoulder, which showed his princely rank and removed him from the rank and file of other boys? What was a crown, a title--even the throne itself? They were less than nothing to him in comparison with the little dog nestling in his arms and licking his face, and while the King and Queen watched the pretty picture they sighed for the simple joys of childhood, and Marie Antoinette, looking into her husband's face murmured:

"God keep him in His care!"

Although the little Louis' new title was of such small value to him, yet the possession of it changed the whole of his life, and as soon as he became the Dauphin, his education and training were of the gravest importance, for he would some day rule in his father's place.

Accordingly, every possible advantage that could be given him was secured, and while his father saw to it that he should have enough out-of-door exercise to keep him sturdy and strong, his mother superintended his lessons, as well as those of his sister, Therese. Although Marie Antoinette was young and pleasure-loving and was often called frivolous because of the spontaneous gaiety into which her nature often led her, yet she was a devoted mother, and every morning at ten o'clock, Therese, the Dauphin, and their teachers went to the queen's rooms, and there learned and recited lessons.

The little Dauphin was a brilliant scholar and said such bright things that all the courtiers took great pleasure in asking him questions, that they might hear his answers. One day while saying his lessons, he began to hiss loudly, for which his mother reproved him.

"I was only hissing at myself," he said, "because I just said my lesson so badly."

On the evening before the queen's birthday the king told the Dauphin that he would buy him a handsome bouquet to give his mother for a birthday present, but that he wanted him to write a letter of congratulation to go with it. To his surprise the Dauphin did not show as much pleasure as he expected at this and finally on questioning him he discovered the truth.

"I have got a beautiful everlasting in my garden," Louis said, "I want to give it to her, please, papa, it will be my bouquet and my letter all together, for when I give it to mamma I shall say, 'I hope mamma, that you will be like this flower.'"

The idea was so pretty and the boy so eager, that he had his way, and King Louis' pride in this clever child was great.

He was no prig, no saintly child, this little King Louis Seventeenth to be, he was just a sensitive, affectionate boy, whose winning manner and charm of person attracted all to him, and made him an especial pet of the older people from whose conversation he gathered much information which they never thought he understood.

One day when playing in the garden, full of excited vigour, he was just going to rush through a hedge of roses, when an attendant stopped him and warned him, saying:

"Monseigneur, one of those thorns might blind you or tear your face."

But the Dauphin persisted, and when halfway through the hedge, called back:

"Thorny paths lead to glory"--a phrase so ominous of the poor little Dauphin's future that it has ever been remembered as one of the most remarkable of his sayings.

For some time, the Dauphin who was quick to respond to joy or sadness in those around him noticed many signs of distress, not only in the faces of his father and mother, but in those of others whom he saw daily, and many an hour when no one knew it, his childish mind spent in wondering about the situation, trying to understand the heated words he heard, the tears he saw, and sometimes he would creep up to Marie Antoinette and pat her smooth cheek reassuringly, and kiss her lovingly, and though this comforted, it added to the pain of the Queen, who feared for the happiness of the future King of France.

The Reign of Terror was at hand. The Revolutionists, fierce and strong in their murderous frenzy had risen, risen to kill monarchs and monarchy. Louis Sixteenth was on the throne--therefore Louis Sixteenth must go; Marie Antoinette was his wife; she had danced, and spent money like water while they, the people had needed bread, so they said--and Marie Antoinette must go. Little Louis was heir to the throne--that throne whose power must be overthrown, and so Louis the Dauphin must go.

The rulers of France had for generations proved so false to their trust and to their kingly responsibility that the love of the people had at last been changed into hate. Louis Fourteenth and Louis Fifteenth had sinned so deeply against those whom their oath of office bound them to protect, that now at last there was no feeling but revenge and hatred in the hearts of the subjects of the King of France, and on the heads of the reigning sovereigns, Louis Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette fell the horrors of the Reign of Terror, which was now reaching a point where only torture and bloodshed could appease the fiends who were rapidly becoming all-powerful. It was claimed that the taxes collected from the people for the expenses of war and government were being misused for the extravagances and frivolities of the royal family. It was even claimed that the people were starving for bread while the King and Queen were living in luxury, and this because the fiends of the revolution had caused all bake-shops to stop baking bread, so that the cry of starvation might be raised among the people, who could then be incited to storm the palace and demand bread of the royal family.

The very scum of civilisation, the dregs of the population of France, were roused in fierce and unjust revolt against the royal family; yes, in revolt and in power, and on a day of early October, 1789, a howling mob of frenzied men, women and children swept up the peaceful avenues of Versailles, shrieking their fiendish cries for vengeance on the royal family, and then they invaded and took possession of the royal apartments. Aghast at the outrages committed in the name of the French people, the King and Queen tried in every way to restore the mob to peace, but in vain. The leaders of the rebellion demanded the immediate appearance in Paris, which was the seat of the revolution, of King Louis and his family, where they could be closely watched by their enemies, describing in alarming terms, the danger to his majesty if he did not comply with the request. Accordingly, after hours of indescribable horrors and humiliation and anguish, the king was obliged to give his consent to the plan, and the royal family made ready for their departure from Versailles. During their seven hours' journey to Paris, they were followed by a rabble of such human fiends as had invaded the palace at Versailles, and although throughout the whole terrible trip, Marie Antoinette and the King bore themselves with sad and dignified composure, yet the strain on them both was almost too great to be borne. Through all the agony and excitement, the Dauphin frightened though he was, seeing his mother's tears, tried to smile courageously into her face, and to keep back words of complaint, and the sight of his courage almost broke his mother's heart. What would this all mean to him, the future king of France? Alas, poor little Dauphin!

At last they reached the Tuileries, the royal palace in Paris, where no French King had lived since Louis Fifteenth was a young man. There had been no preparations made for the coming of the royal family. The palace, so long uninhabited was in a state of dilapidation, and there were no comforts in it, and very few necessities. But the travellers were too much exhausted to heed anything but that they had reached a temporary shelter and were relieved that death, which the day before had seemed so imminent, had been, for the present, put aside.

Exhausted to the breaking point, Marie Antoinette slept soundly that night, and on the next morning as she sipped her chocolate in a room which had been hastily transformed into a sitting-room for her, she was thinking sadly of life and its changes when the door opened and the Dauphin ran in and flung himself into her arms.

"Oh, mamma," he cried, "please let us go back to our beautiful palace at home. This big house frightens me with its shadows. Why have we come here, mamma, when we have such a lovely palace and garden of our own?"

The queen sighed.

"My son," she said, "this palace belongs to us too, as well as Versailles, and it is considered a beautiful palace. It is where the great Louis Fourteenth lived, you know."

"Well, I don't like it at all and I wish we could go away," whispered the Dauphin, casting a homesick look around the great bare room, furnished so meagrely with faded furniture.

"I wish so too." The queen scarcely breathed the words, but the sensitive child's ears caught them, and he answered eagerly.

"Then why do we have to stay? I thought a queen could always do what she wanted to do."

In answer the poor, sore-hearted queen burst into tears, whereupon the Dauphin's tutor tried to take the child from her, saying severely:

"My prince, you see you trouble the queen, and her majesty sorely needs a rest. Come with me for a walk."

But Marie Antoinette shook her head and clung to the child whose hand was now gently stroking her cheek, and whose tears were mingled with her own.

Then from the street came the dreaded sound of loud shouts and cries and threats, and the Dauphin clung more tightly to his mother, both shivering with dread but both brave.

"Mamma," asked the Dauphin, "is to-day going to be just like yesterday?"

His question was answered by the king himself, who entered the room just then and flung himself into a chair, telling the queen that those who had aided the mob in their violent acts were about to be brought to trial for them, and he added his request that the queen should receive the committee who had come to judge the people for their violence.

In stately dignity, Marie Antoinette then left the room to receive other subjects, who still considered her the queen of France, and after her going, King Louis and his little son were left alone.

The king, exhausted in body and mind, closed his eyes and lay back in his chair, ready to sink into a light doze, when he was roused by a gentle touch on his arm.

Beside him stood the Dauphin, his great blue eyes full of grave thoughtfulness. When he saw the King's eyes open, he spoke.

"Papa," he said, hesitatingly, "I should like to ask you something--something really serious!"

"Something really serious!" replied the King, smiling in spite of himself. "Well, what is it? Let me hear."

"Papa," answered the Dauphin, with an air of one who has thought deeply on a subject. "My governess has always told me I must love the people of France and treat them kindly, because they love you and mama so much. But if they do, papa, then why do the people act so badly to you? And oh, papa, I have been told that your people owe you obedience and respect, but they were not obedient nor respectful yesterday and they said dreadful things I never heard before. What does it mean, papa?"

The king drew the child on to his knee and put an arm around the grave little questioner, telling him that he would explain it to him, but that he would have to listen carefully if he wished to understand such grave matters.

"Oh, I will, I will," answered the Dauphin eagerly. "I know that I am one of your subjects, and that as your son and a subject too, I must give a good example to the French people of loving and obeying the king. But it seems that my example has not done any good at all yet. How does that happen, papa?"

In answer, the King told him that wicked men had said to the people that he did not love them, that they had listened and believed this, that France had had great wars, and wars cost a great deal. And so, because he was the King, he had asked money of his subjects, just as had always been done by other Kings.

"Oh, but papa," cried the Dauphin, "why did you do that? Why did you not take my purse and pay out of that? You know that I receive every day my purse filled with bright new francs and I could have helped you easily. And, oh papa, do your people have more money than you have yourself?"

King Louis answered that a king receives all his money from the people, but gives it all back to them again, that he governs those people, and they owe him respect and obedience and have to pay taxes to him, and so if he needs money he raises it by laying extra taxes upon them. Then he asked, "do you understand that, little Louis?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" The Dauphin was breathless with interest now, "I have been told about that, but I don't like it. It seems to me that if a man is the king, he ought to have all the money and give it to the people when they need it. They ought to ask him for it, not he ask them."

To this the king agreed, but added with a sigh, that kings had so misused their power and authority that the people no longer trusted them, and that now a king could not pay out money unless the people knew what it was to be used for, and were willing.

"Have you used people's money, papa, without asking their leave?" cried Louis eagerly. "Was that why they came to Versailles yesterday and were so wicked to us? For those bad men and women were the people, weren't they?"