“Of whom?”
“Of the King, sir. If he's alive, he's getting a rare old horse now.”
“Think of him! I wish I did not, Rake.”
“Wouldn't you like to see him agen, sir?”
“What folly to ask! You know—”
“Yes, sir, I know,” said Rake slowly. “And I know—leastways I picked it out of a old paper—that your elder brother died, sir, like the old lord, and Mr. Berk's got the title.”
Rake had longed and pined for an opportunity to dare say this thing which he had learned, and which he could not tell whether or no Cecil knew likewise. His eyes looked with straining eagerness through the gloom into his master's; he was uncertain how his words would be taken. To his bitter disappointment, Cecil's face showed no change, no wonder.
“I have heard that,” he said calmly—as calmly as though the news had no bearing on his fortunes, but was some stranger's history.
“Well, sir, but he ain't the lord!” pleaded Rake passionately. “He won't never be while you're living, sir!”
“Oh, yes, he is! I am dead, you know.”