And the Boy was now twenty years of age.

Suddenly Paul Zalenska broke their long silence.

"Do you know, Uncle, I sometimes have a queer feeling of fear that my
father must have done something terrible in his life--something to make
strong men shrink and shudder at the thought--something--_criminal_! Oh,
I dare not think of that!" he went on hastily. "I dare not--I dare not!
I think the knowledge of it would drive me mad!"

His voice sank to a half-whisper and there was a note of horror in his
words.

"But, what a king he must have been!--what a miserable apology for all
that royalty should be by every law, human or divine! Why isn't his name
heralded over the length and breadth of the kingdom in paeans of praise?
Why isn't the whole world talking of his valor, his beneficence, his
statesmanship? What is a king created a king for, if not to make
history?"

He fought silently for a moment to regain his self-control, forcing the
hideous idea from him and at last speaking with an air of finality
beyond his years.

"No, I won't think of it! May the King of the world endow me with the
strength of the gods and the wisdom of the ancient seers, that I may
make up by my efficiency for all my father's deplorable lack, and become
all that my mother meant me to be when she gave me to the world!"