Immediately Israel touched his hat—but did not remove it—bowed, and was retiring; when something in his air arrested the King’s attention.
“You ain’t an Englishman,—no Englishman—no, no.”
Pale as death, Israel tried to answer something; but knowing not what to say, stood frozen to the ground.
“You are a Yankee—a Yankee,” said the King again in his rapid and half-stammering way.
Again Israel assayed to reply, but could not. What could he say? Could he lie to a King?
“Yes, yes,—you are one of that stubborn race,—that very stubborn race. What brought you here?”
“The fate of war, sir.”
“May it please your Majesty,” said a low cringing voice, approaching, “this man is in the walk against orders. There is some mistake, may it please your Majesty. Quit the walk, blockhead,” he hissed at Israel.
It was one of the junior gardeners who thus spoke. It seems that Israel had mistaken his directions that morning.
“Slink, you dog,” hissed the gardener again to Israel; then aloud to the King, “A mistake of the man, I assure your Majesty.”