“Very much mistaken—very much mistaken, indeed. Why do ye sir me?—eh? I’m your king—your king.”
“Sir,” said Israel firmly, but with deep respect, “I have no king.”
The king darted his eye incensedly for a moment; but without quailing, Israel, now that all was out, still stood with mute respect before him. The king, turning suddenly, walked rapidly away from Israel a moment, but presently returning with a less hasty pace, said, “You are rumored to be a spy—a spy, or something of that sort—ain’t you? But I know you are not—no, no. You are a runaway prisoner of war, eh? You have sought this place to be safe from pursuit, eh? eh? Is it not so?—eh? eh? eh?”
“Sir, it is.”
“Well, ye’re an honest rebel—rebel, yes, rebel. Hark ye, hark. Say nothing of this talk to any one. And hark again. So long as you remain here at Kew, I shall see that you are safe—safe.”
“God bless your Majesty!”
“Eh?”
“God bless your noble Majesty?”
“Come—come—come,” smiled the king in delight, “I thought I could conquer ye—conquer ye.”
“Not the king, but the king’s kindness, your Majesty.”