“The fate of war, sir.”

“May it please your Majesty,” said a low cringing voice, approaching, “this man is in the walk against orders.  There is some mistake, may it please your Majesty.  Quit the walk, blockhead,” he hissed at Israel.

It was one of the junior gardeners who thus spoke.  It seems that Israel had mistaken his directions that morning.

“Slink, you dog,” hissed the gardener again to Israel; then aloud to the King, “A mistake of the man, I assure your Majesty.”

“Go you away—­away with ye, and leave him with me,” said the king.

Waiting a moment, till the man was out of hearing, the king again turned upon Israel.

“Were you at Bunker Hill?—­that bloody Bunker Hill—­eh, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fought like a devil—­like a very devil, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Helped flog—­helped flog my soldiers?”

“Yes, sir; but very sorry to do it.”

“Eh?—­eh?—­how’s that?”

“I took it to be my sad duty, sir.”

“Very much mistaken—­very much mistaken, indeed.  Why do ye sir me?—­eh?  I’m your king—­your king.”

“Sir,” said Israel firmly, but with deep respect, “I have no king.”

The king darted his eye incensedly for a moment; but without quailing, Israel, now that all was out, still stood with mute respect before him.  The king, turning suddenly, walked rapidly away from Israel a moment, but presently returning with a less hasty pace, said, “You are rumored to be a spy—­a spy, or something of that sort—­ain’t you?  But I know you are not—­no, no.  You are a runaway prisoner of war, eh?  You have sought this place to be safe from pursuit, eh? eh?  Is it not so?—­eh? eh? eh?”

“Sir, it is.”

“Well, ye’re an honest rebel—­rebel, yes, rebel.  Hark ye, hark.  Say nothing of this talk to any one.  And hark again.  So long as you remain here at Kew, I shall see that you are safe—­safe.”

“God bless your Majesty!”

“Eh?”

“God bless your noble Majesty?”

“Come—­come—­come,” smiled the king in delight, “I thought I could conquer ye—­conquer ye.”

“Not the king, but the king’s kindness, your Majesty.”

“Join my army—­army.”

Sadly looking down, Israel silently shook his head.

“You won’t?  Well, gravel the walk then—­gravel away.  Very stubborn race—­very stubborn race, indeed—­very—­very—­very.”

And still growling, the magnanimous lion departed.  How the monarch came by his knowledge of so humble an exile, whether through that swift insight into individual character said to form one of the miraculous qualities transmitted with a crown, or whether some of the rumors prevailing outside of the garden had come to his ear, Israel could never determine.  Very probably, though, the latter was the case, inasmuch as some vague shadowy report of Israel not being an Englishman, had, a little previous to his interview