So Ivan kept on. He stole softly by the guard-house where the lazy soldier lounged half asleep, and crept stealthily up the dripping vine. The window swung open with a creak, and Ivan, frightened, crouched breathless beneath the sill. Minutes passed. There was a stir behind one of the great curtains. The guard was moving. Now perhaps would be the best time.
Ivan reached over and began emptying his bag. A heavy hand seized his collar and dragged him bodily into the room. By the light of a flickering lantern Ivan found himself face to face with—the King!
“Ivan!” exclaimed the King.
There was a pause, Ivan blushing like a culprit, with the empty bag trembling in his hands.
The King frowned. “To think that you,” he cried, “my best herdboy, whom I have trusted, should come to steal the gold which a good fairy brings the Princess! Well, you have given me good service before this, and I will not treat you harshly now. But go, go at once, and never let me see your face again.”
And with that, he led him down a staircase and thrust him out into the dark.
Choking and wretched, Ivan ran back to his hut. Gathering up his loaf and belt, he crammed them into his bag, and started off into the world.
“Good-by, my sheep!” he cried; and stooped to fondle the little lamb Anastasia.
“I suppose now,” he reflected miserably, “I shall have to be a great lord after all.”