But again he seemed troubled.
"Your Majesty," he said, "I cannot leave my poor neighbors. There will be no one to cook for them at my prices."
"You shall have your own price from me," said the King.
Rafe bowed low. "You do me great honor," he said humbly. "But I cannot leave my poor people, my house and my cow and my apple tree; indeed, I cannot."
The King looked very angry and raised his staff with a gesture of wrath. But the Queen laid her hand upon his arm.
"Why may he not live where he will and yet cook the pies for us?" she said. "A messenger on a fleet horse can bring them to us every day. We shall then have pies like that first delicious one, made of fresh apples from that very same red-apple tree of his. They would be best of all."
"True," said the King, reflecting for a moment.
"Please, Your Majesty!" said Meg, in her most winsome tones. "I do so long to help Rafe pick the red apples for your pies and skim the yellow cream of the little red cow. And please, I do so long to help him cook for his poor neighbors, who will miss him sadly if he goes. Now that we have the prize, we can do much for them. Please, Your Majesty!"
"Please, Your Majesty!" echoed Rafe.
"Please, Your Majesty!" begged the Queen.