“Oh, Herr Graf,” cried the child, as Cyril rode up to the side of the carriage, “is he very bad? Must he go to prison?”
“He has been very bad, but I think he is sorry, Majestät,” responded Cyril, with perfect gravity; “and he need not go to prison if you can get the Queen to forgive him.”
“Mamma, you aren’t sending him to prison?” cried King Michael; “you won’t make him go? Oh, do let him off, please do. It is your own little son who asks you,” and he buried his tear-stained face in his mother’s dress.
“Darling, I should be delighted to let him go,” said the Queen, blushing, and somewhat confused by the presence of the deeply interested crowd which had gathered round the two vehicles, and was listening with the utmost attention to all that passed; “but I am afraid——”
“Will you promise that he shall be good in future, Majestät?” interposed Cyril. “A King’s word must be kept, you know.”
“Oh yes!” cried the child joyfully. “Prisoner, please come out.” The Metropolitan descended from his own carriage, and approaching that of the Queen, kissed the hand which King Michael, talking all the time, held out to him. “I know I ought to call you something else, but I can’t remember it; and you are a prisoner now, aren’t you? Mamma is going to let you off, and not send you to prison, but you must be good now, because I have said you will be, and a King’s word must be kept.”
“Madame,” began the Metropolitan, “I owe your Majesty many thanks,” but she interrupted him.
“No, your Beatitude must not thank me. Thank my son, who thus repays the injury you sought to do him.”
“You are right, madame,” replied the old man. “I thank his Majesty.”