“‘They sent their soldiers against him, and took him prisoner; they dressed him, by way of mockery, in crown and sceptre, and in a silken cloak, and made him go out to the place of execution, bearing a heavy cross. Oh, my child, the good King loved the high mountains. At night he used to climb them to talk with those who dwelt in heaven, and he liked by day to sit on the mountain-side and talk to the listening people. But now they led him up on a mountain to crucify him. They drove nails through his hands and feet, and hung the good King on a cross, as if he had been a robber or a malefactor.
“‘And the people mocked at him. Only his mother and his friends wept, that he should die before he had been a King.
“‘Oh, how the dead things mourned his death!
“‘The sun lost its light, and the mountains trembled; the curtain in the temple was rent asunder, and the graves opened, that the dead might rise up and show their grief.’
“The little one lay with her head on her grandmother’s knee, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
“‘Do not weep, little one; the good King rose from his grave and went up to his Father in heaven.’
“‘Grandmother,’ sobbed the poor little thing, ‘did he ever get any kingdom?’
“‘He sits on God’s right hand in heaven.’
“But that did not comfort her. She wept helplessly and unrestrainedly, as only a child can weep.