royal highness has told you what I have done in your Majesty's
service. I should be happy in your Majesty's approval."

I made him no answer.

"A king, sire," he went on, "should sip at all cups and drain none, know
all theories and embrace none, learn from all men and be bound to none.
He may be a pupil, but not a disciple; a hearer, but always a critic; a
friend, never a devotee."

I felt my mother's hand resting on my shoulder; I sat still, looking in
the Prince's eyes.

"Mr. Owen has done his work well," he went on, "but his work is done. Do
you ask, sire, why he is gone? I will give you an answer. I, Prince von
Hammerfeldt, would have Augustin and not Geoffrey for my master and my
country's."

"Enough for to-night, Prince. Leave him now," my mother urged in a
whisper.

The Prince bent his head slightly, but remained where he stood for a
moment longer. Then he bowed very low to me, and drew back a step,
still facing me. My mother prompted me with what I suppose was the
proper formula.

"You are convinced of the Prince's wisdom and devotion in everything,
aren't you, Augustin?" she said.

"Yes," said I. "Will Mr. Owen write to me?"

"When your Majesty is older, your Majesty will, of course, use your own
pleasure as to your correspondence," returned Hammerfeldt.

He waited for a moment longer, and then drew back further to the door.

"Speak to the Prince, Augustin," said my mother.

"I am very grateful to the Prince for his care of me," said I.

Hammerfeldt came quickly up to me and kissed my hand. "I would make you
a true king, sire," said he, and with that he left us.

[Illustration: Hammerfeldt came to me and kissed my hand.]

So they took my friend from me, and not all the kindness with which I
was loaded in the time following his loss lightened the grief of it.
Presently I came to understand better the meaning of these things, and
to see that the King might have no friend; for his friend must be an
enemy to others, perhaps even to the King himself. Shall I now blame
Hammerfeldt? I do not know. I was coming to the age when impressions
sink deep into the mind; and Geoffrey Owen was a man whose mark struck
very deep. Besides, he had those theories! It was not strange in
Hammerfeldt to fear those theories. Perhaps he was right; with his
statecraft it may well be that he could have done no other than what he
did. But to my fifteen-years-old thoughts these reflections were not
present. They had taken