“Well, Mr. Mallock,” he said next; “and I hear that you wish to leave my service?”

“If Your Majesty pleases,” said I.

“My Majesty doth not please at all; but he will submit, I suppose.  Tell me, sir, why it is that you wish to leave.”

“Sir,” I said, “the reasons are pretty plain.  I have displeased Your Majesty for the past half-year; and I cannot forget that, even though, Sir, you are graciously pleased to compliment me now.  Then I have quarrelled with my Cousin Jermyn, so that I have not a kinsman left in England; and—­and I have lost her whom I was to make my wife this year.  Finally, if more reasons are wanting, I am weary of a world in which I have failed so greatly; and I must go back again to the cloister, if they will have me there.”

All came with a rush when I began to speak, for His Majesty’s presence had always an extraordinary effect upon me, as upon so many others.  I had determined to say very little; yet here I had said it all, and I felt the blood in my face.  He listened very patiently to me, with his head a little on one side, and his underlip thrust out, and his great melancholy eyes searching my face.

“Well! well! well,” he said again, “if you must be a monk there is no more to be said.  But what of your apostleship in the world?”

“Sir,” I cried—­for I knew what he meant—­“my apostleship as you name it has been a greater disaster than all the rest:  and God knows that is great enough.”

He was silent a full half minute, I should think, still looking on me earnestly.

“Are you so sure of that?” said he.

My heart gave a leap; but he held up his hand before I could speak.

“Wait, sir,” he said.  “I will tell you this.  You have said very little to me; but I vow to you that what you have said I have remembered.  It is not argument that a man needs—­at least after the first—­but example.  That you have given me.”

Then I flushed up scarlet; for I was sure he was mocking me.

“Sir,” I cried, “you might have spared—­”

He lifted his eyes a little.

“I assure you, Mr. Mallock,” he said, “that I mean what I say.  You have been very faithful; you have ventured your life again and again for me; you have refused rewards, except the very smallest; you have lost even your sweetheart in my service; and now, when all is within your reach again, you fling it back at me.  It is not very gracious; but it is very Christian, as I understand Christianity.”

I said nothing.  What was there to say?  I seemed a very poor Christian to myself.

“Come! come, Mr. Mallock,” pursued the King very gently and kindly.  “Think of it once again.  You shall have what you please—­your Viscounty or anything else of that sort; and you shall keep your lodgings and remain here as my friend.  What do you say to that?”