The gentleman answered him in the same speech, then gave a careless laugh and waved him away with his hand.

The wolf bestowed one last reproachful glance upon the gentleman and ran on.

“He begs me to save him,” the gentleman explained.

“Oh, could you not do it, sir? I hate to see these noble creatures die!”

“Tender-hearted Stephen!” said the gentleman, fondly. But he did not save the wolf.

Stephen was not enjoying the wolf hunt at all. True, the hunters were brave and their hounds were faithful and eager; but it was too soon after the loss of Firenze for him to take pleasure in the deaths of any creature, especially one as strong and handsome as the wolf. Thinking of Firenze reminded him that he had not yet told the gentleman about his meeting with the blue-skinned man in the cart and the prophecy. He did so now.

“Really? Well, that is most unexpected!” declared the gentleman.

“Have you heard this prophecy before, sir?”

“Yes, indeed! I know it well. All my race do. It is a prophecy of …” Here the gentleman said a word which Stephen did not understand.² “Whom you know better by his English name, John Uskglass, the Raven King. But what I do not understand is how it has survived in England. I did not think Englishmen interested themselves in such matters any more.”

“The nameless slave! Well, that is me, sir, is it not? And this prophecy seems to tell how I will be a king!”

“Well, of course you are going to be a king! I have said so, and I am never wrong in these matters. But dearly as I love you, Stephen, this prophecy does not refer to you at all. Most of it is about the restoration of English magic, and the part you have just recited is not really a prophecy at all. The King is remembering how he came into his three kingdoms, one in England, one in Faerie, one in Hell. By the nameless slave he means himself. He was the nameless slave in Faerie, the little Christian child hidden in the brugh, brought there by a very wicked fairy who had stolen him away out of England.”

Stephen felt oddly disappointed, though he did not know why he should be. After all he did not wish to be king of anywhere. He was not English; he was not African. He did not belong anywhere. Vinculus’s words had briefly given him the sense of belonging to something, of being part of a pattern and of having a purpose. But it had all been illusory.

48
The Engravings

Late February–March 1816

“You are changed. I am quite shocked to see you.”

“Am I? You surprize me. I am perhaps a little thinner, but I am not aware of any other change.”

“No, it is in your face, your air, your … something.”

Strange smiled. Or rather he twisted something in his face and Sir Walter supposed that he was smiling. Sir Walter could not really recall what his smile had looked like before.