“Yes,” said Charles proudly.
“A regular don at it you are,” went on Wynkin, as he began to pile the dinner things together for taking away, “but I must be going now.”
“Oh, don’t go,” pleaded the lonely boy.
“Needs must. I’ve got to be going up-stream with some corn sacks, and the last harvest load’s being carried to-day, and all hands are turned on.”
“Except mine,” sighed the Prince, gazing down sadly at his little slender white hands. “It’s hateful. Now, Wynkin,” he went on, turning suddenly with a commanding air upon the serving-man, “listen to me. Give me that key immediately,” and he pointed to the key which Lady Chauncy had entrusted to Wynkin, and which the man had thrust into the breast of his jerkin in such a manner that the handle peeped out. “I want it.”
“Oh, do you?” said Wynkin, most respectfully.
“Yes, and you must give it me immediately.”
“Faith, not I, your Highness. You’ll be trying to unlock the door with it the next thing,” grinned Wynkin.
“Certainly,” replied Charles majestically. “That is the purpose for which I require it.”