Time wore on.
Charles the Great had made war on Saxony, had set the Roman crown upon
his own head, and had become famous throughout the whole world. But
all his fame had not prevented his hair from becoming grey, nor his
heart from being sad. A mournful picture had imprinted itself on his
mind, despite all his efforts to forget the past. In the evening when
the setting sun glittered on the marble pillars of the royal palace,
casting its golden rays into the chamber of the great emperor, it
would find him sitting motionless in his carved oak-chair, his grey
head buried in his hands, mournful dreams troubling his peace. He was
thinking of the days which were past, of the young man whose gentle
ways made him so different from the rough warriors of the court, how
he used to recite poetry and sing the songs of the old bards so
passionately, and the old legends which the emperor prized so much,
how he used to read to him from the old gray parchment which he,
Eginhard, had written so carefully, how his own favourite dark-eyed
daughter had so often been present, sitting at his feet listening
intently to the reader--all this came back to his memory, saddening
his heart, and filling his eyes with tears.