“_Way there for the King’s servitor_”] The King obediently began to move with stolid precision towards the chamber door. First one soldier stood back to let him pass; and then another; and then another. He walked through the door of the crowded chamber. With the same grave, steady, mechanical gait he reached the stairs. “Way there,” said the officious Sergeant, behind him, “for the King’s servitor!” With keen looks of curiosity, the men besieging the rickety old stairs found a passage for him somehow, through which he contrived to squeeze the royal person. His clothes and his body pressed against their pistols and their breast-pieces; their breaths saluted his face; but step by step he came down into the kitchen. “Way there for the King’s servitor!” said the Sergeant again. The kitchen was hardly so thronged as the stairs. There was one man in it, however, who might undo all. From his chair in the chimney corner peered the landlord’s astonished face. “Way there for the King’s servitor!” The landlord was huddled in his chair, as pale as death. His face was drawn and hideous; his eyes were half closed, and the eyeballs had shrunk to such a degree that they seemed to be buried in his head. But when the King came down the stairs, and the great voice of the Sergeant heralded his approach, Gamaliel wrenched his eyes open and sat up in his chair. He was startled and unstrung. The whole thing was too vivid for a dream, and yet it was impossible. These soldiers had come expressly to fetch the King; and here was the King walking unmolested out of their hands. It was surely the King. There was his long, shambling form, his loose limbs, his breeches and jerkin of leather, his impassive countenance. Yes, it was the King looking at him, the landlord. Sure, there was a half-amused gleam come upon the King’s face suddenly; and, see, he had set a finger to his lips. He was demanding silence of him. The old man knew, as he sat in his chair, that the King was escaping, and that his own fortune was slipping away. He was perfectly conscious of these two overmastering facts; he sat in the full possession of his faculties. He had only to speak the word and the prize he had sweated blood to secure was his. The word must be spoken. “Way there for the King’s servitor!” The King, ever with his slow, regulated, mechanical tread, was passing through the men standing inside and outside the kitchen door. The landlord opened his swollen lips, but his tongue had not the power to move. The veins rose in his forehead into great distended knots; he struggled frantically. The moment of a lifetime was passing; the King was escaping, and Gamaliel Hooker knew it. One word--oh, God! only just one little word, and the King would not go!