“Perhaps he did,” replied the poor old man. “But he didn’t say anything about that when he marched off. He didn’t want to go, as a matter of fact. Not a bit. But every one else was going and he was afraid of being thought a coward.”
At the next corner the old King saw a soldier, one of the victors. He was lame and haggard and worn and was leaning against a wall to rest.
“Ah!” cried the old King. “You have been wounded, my young hero?”
The soldier nodded and looked bored.
“Never mind, my lad,” said the old King, patting him on the shoulder. “We are all proud of you—and remember, you risked your life in honour of your King!”
The soldier turned his tired eyes on him and a stiff smile made his mouth crooked. “I suppose that was it,” he said wearily. “I had thought that I joined up to see a bit of life and have the girls look at me, but possibly you are right. I expect it was the King’s honour I was thinking of.”
So the King returned thoughtfully to his palace, and as he entered the great hall the musicians began playing “God keep the King.” Then all the courtiers who were to receive their share of the indemnity claimed from the defeated enemy, and all the commanders who were to receive titles and honours and large estates, cried out with one voice “God keep the King!” so that the people out in the streets heard it and joined in the shout as if they meant it.
And then the old King went to bed.