“I thank your majesty,” said Balby, laughing, “you have saved my life. I should have died of curiosity if you had not spoken. Now, I feel powerful and strong, and can keep pace with your majesty’s wandering steps.”
Silently they walked on until they reached a sign-post.
“We are now on the border—let us bid farewell to the Prussian colors, we see them for the last time. Sire, we will greet them with reverence.”
He took off his hat and bowed lowly before the black and white colors of Prussia, a greeting that Deesen imitated with the fervor of a patriot.
The king did not unite in their enthusiasm; he was writing with his stick upon the ground.
“Come here, Balby, and read this,” he said, pointing to the lines he had traced. “Can you read them?”
“Certainly,” said Balby, “the words are, ‘majesty’ and ‘sire.’”
“So they are, friend. I leave these two words on the borders of Prussia; perhaps on our return we may find and resume them. But as long as we are on the soil of Holland there must be no majesty, no sire.”
“What, then, must I call my king?”
“You must call him friend, voila tout.”