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 naught but an

archangel — I that should have been pope!'

So he went on for an hour, while 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 humanely, 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