Pale as death, Israel tried to answer something; but knowing not what to
say, stood frozen to the ground.

"You are a Yankee--a Yankee," said the King again in his rapid and
half-stammering way.

Again Israel assayed to reply, but could not. What could he say? Could
he lie to a King?

"Yes, yes,--you are one of that stubborn race,--that very stubborn race.
What brought you here?"

"The fate of war, sir."

"May it please your Majesty," said a low cringing voice, approaching,
"this man is in the walk against orders. There is some mistake, may it
please your Majesty. Quit the walk, blockhead," he hissed at Israel.

It was one of the junior gardeners who thus spoke. It seems that Israel
had mistaken his directions that morning.

"Slink, you dog," hissed the gardener again to Israel; then aloud to the
King, "A mistake of the man, I assure your Majesty."

"Go you away--away with ye, and leave him with me," said the king.

Waiting a moment, till the man was out of hearing, the king again turned
upon Israel.

"Were you at Bunker Hill?--that bloody Bunker Hill--eh, eh?"