"And your grandsire, is he still living? I can see him yet, that terrible old man who wanted to cut out my eyes and tongue so that you could have a new toy."
Ulick smiled, and the current of his darker mood was diverted.
"Lucky for you that he fell asleep again before he could give the order for the irons to be heated. And so we ran away trembling, and I brought you to the vault underneath the sidewalk—do you remember?"
"I remember," said Constans, briefly.
"He is living still; think how old he must be! Nowadays he sleeps nearly all the time; sometimes for a week on end he will not leave his couch in the darkened room. Then again he will have himself apparelled and his great sword girded upon him, and he will come down into the court-yard and walk in the sun for hours. You should see those lazy rascals of guardsmen scatter at the first sight of him—like mice running to their holes when puss begins to yawn and stretch herself."
"You are still the heir?"
"Yes, unless the council sees fit to set my rights aside in favor of my cousin Boris. To tell the truth, neither of us is fit to be chief in Doom while Quinton Edge lives."
"Tell me."
"Why, you see, Boris is a brute whose brains, such as he has, are always fuddled with ale. And I——" Ulick stopped and laughed a little sheepishly.
"Well?"