Unauthorized and abhorrent thoughts will sometimes invade the best human heart. Seeing the monarch unguarded before him; remembering that the war was imputed more to the self-will of the King than to the willingness of parliament or the nation; and calling to mind all his own sufferings growing out of that war, with all the calamities of his country; dim impulses, such as those to which the regicide Ravaillae yielded, would shoot balefully across the soul of the exile. But thrusting Satan behind him, Israel vanquished all such temptations. Nor did these ever more disturb him, after his one chance conversation with the monarch. As he was one day gravelling a little by-walk, wrapped in thought, the King turning a clump of bushes, suddenly brushed Israel’s person. Immediately Israel touched his hat—but did not remove it—bowed, and was retiring; when something in his air arrested the King’s attention. “You ain’t an Englishman,—no Englishman—no, no.” Pale as death, Israel tried to answer something; but knowing not what to say, stood frozen to the ground. “You are a Yankee—a Yankee,” said the King again in his rapid and half-stammering way. Again Israel assayed to reply, but could not. What could he say? Could he lie to a King? “Yes, yes,—you are one of that stubborn race,—that very stubborn race. What brought you here?” “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.”