"And why not, my son?" he answered quietly, though his eyes glittered restlessly still.
"Because it was not for that I brought her here," said the King, trying to bring back clearly the events and thoughts of yesterday. "I brought her hither for refuge. She is wronged, foully wronged and persecuted, and you must give her sanctuary."
"'Tis not my office," said the hermit. "You should take her to the King."
"Nay," cried Kophetua, "her wrongs are more than a King can redress. It is you who must give her shelter."
"It is impossible," said the abbot. "By the eternal laws, which no one can break, none but man and wife may abide with us. Stay thou with her, and all will be well."
"It cannot be," answered the King. "The voice of duty calls too loud elsewhere."
"What duty is it speaks so big?" said the hermit, smiling, as though he spoke with a child, to humour it from its wilfulness.
"I am one in high place," answered Kophetua. "I am master of wide lands, and the well-being of the people calls me back."
"Ah, thou art like them all, my son," said the hermit sadly; "and yet there is better than that in thee. I was even so myself long years ago. Far away to the northward, by the blue waters of the Mediterranean, I had authority over men. I had struggled for it from boyhood, for I knew there was no peace save in breeding happiness for the world; so I sought and won high place that I might teach men virtue and wisdom, and make laws to force them to it."
"And that is my life too," cried Kophetua. "It is the life it is cowardice to leave."