an errand?–you! Verily this is a lie–he would not go. He would
pull thy old beard, an’ thou didst offer him such an insolence.
Thou hast lied, friend; thou hast surely lied! He would not go
for thee, nor for any man.”
“For any MAN–no; haply not. But I am not a man.”
“WHAT! Now o’ God’s name what art thou, then?”
“It is a secret–mark thou reveal it not. I am an archangel!”
There was a tremendous ejaculation from Miles Hendon–not
altogether unprofane–followed by–
“This doth well and truly account for his complaisance! Right
well I knew he would budge nor hand nor foot in the menial service
of any mortal; but, lord, even a king must obey when an archangel
gives the word o’ command! Let me–‘sh! What noise was that?”
All this while the little King had been yonder, alternately
quaking with terror and trembling with hope; and all the while,
too, he had thrown all the strength he could into his anguished
moanings, constantly expecting them to reach Hendon’s ear, but
always realising, with bitterness, that they failed, or at least
made no impression. So this last remark of his servant came as
comes a reviving breath from fresh fields to the dying; and he
exerted himself once more, and with all his energy, just as the
hermit was saying–
“Noise? I heard only the wind.”
“Mayhap it was. Yes, doubtless that was it. I have been hearing
it faintly all the–there it is again! It is not the wind! What
an odd sound! Come, we will hunt it out!”
Now the King’s joy was nearly insupportable. His tired lungs did
their utmost–and hopefully, too–but the sealed jaws and the
muffling sheepskin sadly crippled the effort. Then the poor
fellow’s heart sank, to hear the hermit say–
“Ah, it came from without–I think from the copse yonder. Come, I
will lead the way.”
The King heard the two pass out, talking; heard their footsteps
die quickly away–then he was alone with a boding, brooding, awful
silence.
It seemed an age till he heard the steps and voices approaching
again–and this time he heard an added sound,–the trampling of
hoofs, apparently. Then he heard Hendon say–
“I will not wait longer. I CANNOT wait longer. He has lost his
way in this thick wood. Which direction took he? Quick–point it
out to me.”
“He–but wait; I will go with thee.”
“Good–good! Why, truly thou art better than thy looks. Marry I
do not think there’s not another archangel with so right a heart
as thine. Wilt ride? Wilt take the wee donkey that’s for my boy,
or wilt thou fork thy holy legs over this ill-conditioned slave of
a mule that I have provided for myself?–and had been cheated in
too, had he cost but the indifferent sum of a month’s usury on a
brass farthing let to a tinker out of work.”
“No–ride thy mule, and lead thine ass; I am surer on mine own
feet, and will walk.”
“Then prithee mind the little beast for me while I take my life in
my hands and make what success I may toward mounting the big one.”
Then followed a confusion of kicks, cuffs, tramplings and
plungings, accompanied by a thunderous intermingling of volleyed
curses, and finally a bitter apostrophe to the mule, which must
have broken its spirit, for hostilities seemed to cease from that
moment.
With unutterable misery the fettered little King heard the voices
and footsteps fade away and die out. All hope forsook him, now,
for the moment, and a dull despair settled down upon his heart.
“My only friend is deceived and got rid of,” he said; “the hermit
will return and–” He finished with a gasp; and at once fell to
struggling so frantically with his bonds again, that he shook off
the smothering sheepskin.
And now he heard the door open! The sound chilled him to the
marrow–already he seemed to feel the knife at his throat. Horror
made him close his eyes; horror made him open them again–and
before him stood John Canty and Hugo!
He would have said “Thank God!” if his jaws had been free.
A moment or two later his limbs were at liberty, and his captors,