“There will be no pardon at St. Ninians. Let us to Stirling; let us to Stirling. I know that the king has not been at home for a week past.”
“How can you know that?”
“Never mind how I know it. Will you do what I tell you?”
“Not I! I’m a lad o’ my word.”
“Then you are a doomed man. I tell you the king has not been in Stirling since you left St. Ninians.” Then with a burst of impatience James cried, “You stubborn fool, I am the king!”
At first the big man seemed inclined to laugh, and he looked over the beggar from top to toe, but presently an expression of pity overspread his countenance, and he spoke soothingly to his comrade.
“Yes, yes, my man,” he said, “I knew you were the king from the very first. Just sit down on this stone for a minute and let me examine that clip you got on the top of the head. I fear me it’s worse than I thought it was.”
“Nonsense,” cried the king, “my head is perfectly right; it is yours that is gone aglee.”
“True enough, true enough,” continued Hutchinson mildly, in the tone that he would have used towards a fractious child, “and you are not the first that’s said it. But let us get on to St. Ninians.”
“No, let us make direct for Stirling.”