He heard it only as one hears the thunder of the surf when it is blown to the ear out of a great distance, for it was smothered under another sound which was still nearer, in his own breast, in his accusing conscience--a voice which kept repeating those shameful words, "I do not know you, woman!" The words smote upon the King's soul as the strokes of a funeral bell smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind him of secret treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is gone.
New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new marvels, sprang into view; the pent clamours of waiting batteries were released; new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting multitudes: but the King gave no sign, and the accusing voice that went moaning through his comfortless breast was all the sound he heard.
By-and-by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a little, and became touched with a something like solicitude or anxiety: an abatement in the volume of the applause was observable too.

The Lord Protector was quick to notice these things: he was as quick to detect the cause.

He spurred to the King's side, bent low in his saddle, uncovered, and said-- "My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming.

The people observe thy downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen.

Be advised: unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these boding vapours, and disperse them.