“Not from you, I am sure,” she returned. “You would not try to hurt me.”
“Hush!” he repeated, looking back over his shoulder into the thicker wood. “They may come at any moment now. And although I am their king, they would kill you. You see, kings aren’t as powerful now as they used to be before the war.”
“So I understand,” agreed Ruth soberly. “But who are you king of—or what?”
“I am King of the Pipes,” whispered the old man. “You don’t know what that means,” he added, scanning her puzzled face. “No. And that’s the secret. You cannot be told.”
“Oh,” murmured Ruth, somewhat amused, yet pitying his evident mental state.
“Hush!” he said again. “You are in danger. Go away from this place at once, and don’t come here again. If my courtiers see you—Ha! Off with her head! I shall have to follow the kingly custom. It is not my fault,” he added, in the same low tone, shaking his head mournfully. “We kings have to lead our lives, you know.”
“It must be a dreadful life, if you have to order people’s heads cut off when they have done you no harm,” Ruth ventured.
“But my people would not believe that you would do no harm,” he explained. “I can see that you are quite harmless. But they have not the intelligence I possess. You understand?”
“Quite,” said Ruth. “And I will go right away. Thank you for your kindness.”
“That is right, young woman. Go away. And do not return. It is not safe here.”