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"
Thou
art
King
?
"
"
Yes
,
"
was
the
response
,
drowsily
uttered
.
"
What
King
?
"
"
Of
England
.
"
"
Of
England
?
Then
Henry
is
gone
!
"
"
Alack
,
it
is
so
.
I
am
his
son
.
"
A
black
frown
settled
down
upon
the
hermit
's
face
,
and
he
clenched
his
bony
hands
with
a
vindictive
energy
.
He
stood
a
few
moments
,
breathing
fast
and
swallowing
repeatedly
,
then
said
in
a
husky
voice
--
"
Dost
know
it
was
he
that
turned
us
out
into
the
world
houseless
and
homeless
?
"
There
was
no
response
.
The
old
man
bent
down
and
scanned
the
boy
's
reposeful
face
and
listened
to
his
placid
breathing
.
"
He
sleeps
--
sleeps
soundly
;
"
and
the
frown
vanished
away
and
gave
place
to
an
expression
of
evil
satisfaction
.
A
smile
flitted
across
the
dreaming
boy
's
features
.
The
hermit
muttered
,
"
So
--
his
heart
is
happy
;
"
and
he
turned
away
.
He
went
stealthily
about
the
place
,
seeking
here
and
there
for
something
;
now
and
then
halting
to
listen
,
now
and
then
jerking
his
head
around
and
casting
a
quick
glance
toward
the
bed
;
and
always
muttering
,
always
mumbling
to
himself
.
At
last
he
found
what
he
seemed
to
want
--
a
rusty
old
butcher
knife
and
a
whetstone
.
Then
he
crept
to
his
place
by
the
fire
,
sat
himself
down
,
and
began
to
whet
the
knife
softly
on
the
stone
,
still
muttering
,
mumbling
,
ejaculating
.
The
winds
sighed
around
the
lonely
place
,
the
mysterious
voices
of
the
night
floated
by
out
of
the
distances
.
The
shining
eyes
of
venturesome
mice
and
rats
peered
out
at
the
old
man
from
cracks
and
coverts
,
but
he
went
on
with
his
work
,
rapt
,
absorbed
,
and
noted
none
of
these
things
.
