It
was no hand he knew--but something told him it contained a message--from
his Queen.
He dominated himself; he would not even look at the postmark until he was
away up in his own room. No eye but Pike's must see his joy--or sorrow and
disappointment. And so the letter burnt in his pocket until his sanctum was
reached, and then with agonised impatience he opened the envelope.
Within was another of the familiar paper he knew, and ah! thank God,
addressed in pencil in his lady's own hand. Inside it contained an
enclosure, but the sheet was blank. With wildly beating heart and trembling
fingers Paul undid the smaller packet's folded ends. And there the morning
sunbeams fell on a tiny curl of hair, of that peculiar nondescript shade of
infant fairness which later would turn to gold. It was less than an inch
long, and of the fineness of down, while in tender care it had been tied
with a thread of blue silk.
Written on the paper underneath were the words:
"Beloved, he is so strong and fair, thy son, born the 19th of February."
For a moment Paul closed his eyes, and as once before a choir of seraphims
were singing in his ears.
Then he looked at this minute lock again, and touched it with his
forefinger. The strangest emotion he had ever known quivered through his
being--the concentrated sensation of what he used to feel when his lady had
spoken of their hope--a weird, tremulous, physical thrill.
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