To the boy the words sounded like a hangman’s summons.
“Where shall I go, uncle?”
“That is for you to say. I’ve got store enough, boy. Somebody will bury me if I die. But the King, my King, he who goes against the King goes against me. Who do you go for?”
“The people.”
“The people!” shrieked the old man. “Then out you go; out!”
“There is one house, uncle, whose doors are open to all people who have no roof.”
“Which one is that—the poorhouse?”
“No, the Governor’s.”
“That makes me mad—mad! I hate the Governor, and his’n and all! I can live alone!”