"Of whom?"
"Of the King, sir. If he's alive, he's getting a rare old horse now."
"Think of him! I wish I did not, Rake."
"Wouldn't you like to see him agen, sir?"
"What folly to ask! You know--"
"Yes, sir, I know," said Rake slowly. "And I know--leastways I picked
it out of a old paper--that your elder brother died, sir, like the old
lord, and Mr. Berk's got the title."
Rake had longed and pined for an opportunity to dare say this thing
which he had learned, and which he could not tell whether or no Cecil
knew likewise. His eyes looked with straining eagerness through the
gloom into his master's; he was uncertain how his words would be taken.
To his bitter disappointment, Cecil's face showed no change, no wonder.
"I have heard that," he said calmly--as calmly as though the news had no
bearing on his fortunes, but was some stranger's history.
"Well, sir, but he ain't the lord!" pleaded Rake passionately. "He won't
never be while you're living, sir!"
"Oh, yes, he is! I am dead, you know."
"But he won't, sir!" reiterated Rake. "You're Lord Royallieu if ever
there was a Lord Royallieu, and if ever there will be one."
"You mistake. An outlaw has no civil rights, and can claim none."
The man looked very wistfully at him; all these years through he had
never learned why his master was thus "dead" in Africa, and he had too
loyal a love and faith ever to ask, or ever to doubt but that Cecil was
the wronged and not the wrong-doer.
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