“Who dares to ask that?” said the king, with apparent trouble of mind.
“Would you know your pledge again if you saw it?” said the old man, sarcastically.
“Who are you, sir?” said the king, proudly, “that dares to question your sovereign in such a manner?”
“Who am I!” said the old man. “That is a good jest! That is such a question to ask at one who has scarcely ever been from your side, since you were first laid in your cradle!”
“I know the face,” said the king, “but all this time I cannot remember who you are.—My Lord of Hume, do you know who the reverend old gentleman is?” And in saying this his majesty turned a little aside with the earl.
“Do I know who he is?” said Hume. “Yes, by Saint Lawrence I do—I know him as well as I do your majesty. Let me see—It is very singular that I cannot recollect his name—I have seen the face a thousand times—Is he not some abbot, or confessor, or——No—Curse me, but I believe he is the devil!”
The earl said this in perfect jocularity, because he could not remember the old man’s name; but when he looked at the king, he perceived that his eyes were fixed on him in astonishment. The earl’s, as by sympathy, likewise settled by degrees into as much seriousness as they were masters of, and there the two stood for a considerable time, gazing at one another, like two statues.
“I was only saying so in jest, my liege,” said Hume; “I did not once think that the old gentleman was the devil. Why are you thoughtful?”
“Because, now when I think of it, he hinted at some things which I am certain no being on earth knew of, save myself, and another, who cannot possibly divulge them.”