“I see you feel my atmosphere!  There’s awe in your face!  None may be in this atmosphere and not be thus affected; for it is the very atmosphere of heaven.  I go thither and return, in the twinkling of an eye.  I was made an archangel on this very spot, it is five years ago, by angels sent from heaven to confer that awful dignity.  Their presence filled this place with an intolerable brightness.  And they knelt to me, King! yes, they knelt to me! for I was greater than they.  I have walked in the courts of heaven, and held speech with the patriarchs.  Touch my hand—­be not afraid—­touch it.  There—­now thou hast touched a hand which has been clasped by Abraham and Isaac and Jacob!  For I have walked in the golden courts; I have seen the Deity face to face!” He paused, to give this speech effect; then his face suddenly changed, and he started to his feet again saying, with angry energy, “Yes, I am an archangel; A mere archangel!—­I that might have been pope!  It is verily true.  I was told it from heaven in a dream, twenty years ago; ah, yes, I was to be pope! —­and I should have been pope, for Heaven had said it—­but the King dissolved my religious house, and I, poor obscure unfriended monk, was cast homeless upon the world, robbed of my mighty destiny!” Here he began to mumble again, and beat his forehead in futile rage, with his fist; now and then articulating a venomous curse, and now and then a pathetic “Wherefore I am nought but an archangel—­I that should have been pope!”

So he went on, for an hour, whilst the poor little King sat and suffered.  Then all at once the old man’s frenzy departed, and he became all gentleness.  His voice softened, he came down out of his clouds, and fell to prattling along so simply and so humanly, that he soon won the King’s heart completely.  The old devotee moved the boy nearer to the fire and made him comfortable; doctored his small bruises and abrasions with a deft and tender hand; and then set about preparing and cooking a supper —­chatting pleasantly all the time, and occasionally stroking the lad’s cheek or patting his head, in such a gently caressing way that in a little while all the fear and repulsion inspired by the archangel were changed to reverence and affection for the man.

This happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper; then, after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the boy to bed, in a small adjoining room, tucking him in as snugly and lovingly as a mother might; and so, with a parting caress, left him and sat down by the fire, and began to poke the brands about in an absent and aimless way.  Presently he paused; then tapped his forehead several times with his fingers, as if trying to recall some thought which had escaped from his mind.  Apparently he was unsuccessful.  Now he started quickly up, and entered his guest’s room, and said—­

“Thou art King?”

“Yes,” was the response, drowsily uttered.