“Do you mind if I talk a little? It may make me drowsy.”
“Talk if you like, Majesty,” said the old man. King Otto eyed him gravely.
“Would you mind if I got on your knee?” he asked; almost timidly. In all his life no one had so held him, and yet Bobby, that very evening, had climbed on his father’s knee as though it was very generally done. “I would like to try how it feels.”
“Come, then,” said the Chancellor.
The King climbed out of bed and up on his lap. His Chancellor reached over and dragged a blanket from the bed.
“For fear of a cold!” he said, and draped it about the little figure. “Now, how is that?”
“It is very comfortable. May I put my head back?”
Long, long years since the Chancellor had sat thus, with a child in his arms. His sturdy old arms encircled the boy closely.
“I want to tell about running away,” said the King, wide-eyed in the dusk. “I am sorry. This time I am going to promise not to do it again.”
“Make the promise to yourself, Majesty. It is the best way.”