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

203

The Prince and The Pauper