“I suppose,” he said, after a pause, “that in this studious house you talk and think history, and more especially French history. It must be very quiet and peaceful. Much more restful than acting in it as my friend de Gemosac has done all his life, as I myself have done in a small way. For France takes her history so much more violently than you do in England. France is tossed about by it, while England stands and is hammered on the anvil of Time, as it were, and remains just the same shape as before.” He broke off and turned to Sep. “Do you know the story of the little boy who was a King?” he asked, abruptly. “They put him in prison and he escaped. He was carried out in a clothes-basket. Funny, is it not? And he escaped from his enemies and reached another country, where he became a sailor. He grew to be a man and he married a woman of that country, and she died, leaving him with a little boy. And then he died himself and left the little boy, who was taken care of by his English relations, who never knew that he was a King. But he was; for his father was a King before him, and his grandfathers--far, far back. Back to the beginning of the book that Miss Liston holds in her hand. The little boy--he was an orphan, you see--became a sailor. He never knew that he was a King--the Hope of his country, of all the old men and the wise men in it--the holder of the fate of nations. Think of that.” The story pleased Sep, who sat with open lips and eager eyes, listening to it. “Do you think it is an interesting story? What do you think is the end of it?” “I don't know,” answered Sep, gravely. “Neither do I. No one knows the end of that story yet. But if you were a King--if you were that boy--what would you do? Would you go and be a King, or would you be afraid?” “No. I should go and be a King. And fight battles.” “But you would have to leave everybody. You would have to leave your father.” “I should not mind that,” answered Sep, brutally. “You would leave Miss Liston?” “I should have to,” was the reply, with conviction. “Ah, yes,” said Colville, with a grave nod of the head. “Yes. I suppose you would have to if you were anything of a man at all. There would be no alternative--for a real man.” “Besides,” put in Sep, jumping from side to side on his seat with eagerness, “she would make me--wouldn't you, Miriam?” Colville had turned away and was looking northward toward the creek, known as Maiden's Grave, running through the marshes to the river. A large lug-sail broke the flat line of the horizon, though the boat to which it belonged was hidden by the raised dyke. “Would she?” inquired Colville, absent-mindedly, without taking his eyes from the sail which was creeping slowly toward them. “Well--you know Miss Liston's character better than I do, Sep. And no doubt you are right. And you are not that little boy, so it doesn't matter; does it?”