“And who is Flying Wind?”
“It is my milk-white steed, and he has rose-coloured reins and he eats out of my hand. When he was very little Francoeur the squire used to bring him to my room every morning and I kissed him. But now Francceur is in Rome, and Flying Wind is too big to mount the stairs.”
King Loc smiled.
“Will you love me more than Flying Wind?”
“Indeed I would,” said Honey-Bee.
“Well said,” cried the King.
“Indeed I would, but I cannot, I hate you, little King Loc, because you will not let me see my mother and George again.”
“Who is George?”
“George is George and I love him.”
The friendship of King Loc for Honey-Bee had increased prodigiously in a few minutes, and as he had already made up his mind to marry her as soon as she was of age, and hoped through her to reconcile men and dwarfs, he feared that later on George might become his rival and wreck his plans. It was because of this that he turned away frowning, his head bowed as if with care.