"Bad news from England. I suppose you haven't heard?"
"I haven't heard anything."
For one pulsing second the two men stood and looked at each other; and to a looker-on it might have appeared that, however laconic and indifferent their attitude, their relationship was not solely that of officer and subordinate. The elder man, in his gruff way, was the friend of the man under him. The younger had acquired a respect that held something deeper than casual liking, and his face showed it now as he hesitated before breaking his news. Then he said, very simply:
"The King is dead."
A quick, incredulous expression filled Carew's eyes.
"The King?..." he repeated. "Not ... surely not ..." He paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.
"Yes. King Edward. After a few days' illness."
The man's mouth grew rigid. He stood like a figure of bronze, staring with unseeing eyes to the far horizon. Stanley drew in his breath a little sharply. Yes, he had been right, the news had hit Carew very hard.
"When?..." came at last, abruptly.
"A fortnight ago. Just after you left. The funeral took place yesterday."