And so he wrought; and still wrought; mumbling — chuckling a low rasping

chuckle at times — and at times breaking again into words:

'It was his father that did it all. I am but an archangel — but for him, I should

be pope!'

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The king stirred. The hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside, and went down

Upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form with his knife uplifted. The

Boy stirred again; his eyes came open for an instant, but there was no

Speculation in them, they saw nothing; the next moment his tranquil

Breathing showed that his sleep was sound once more.

The hermit watched and listened for a time, keeping his position and scarcely

breathing; then he slowly lowered his arm, and presently crept away, saying:

'It is long past midnight — it is not best that he should cry out, lest by

accident some one be passing.'

He glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there, and another

One yonder; then he returned, and by careful and gentle handling he managed

to tie the king's ankles together without waking him. Next he essayed to tie the

Wrists; he made several attempts to cross them, but the boy always drew one

Hand or the other away, just as the cord was ready to be applied; but at last,

When the archangel was almost ready to despair, the boy crossed his hands