e human creature appeared to tell him
how the garden tools came to be broken and scattered.

In the meantime he trudged back to his own domain among the flowers, and
passed the dreary moments picking off the withered leaves. By-and-by a
light footstep was audible, and "Impudent Jack the jockey" arrived
whistling, with a heavy-jowled bull-dog at his heels, and stamped right
across the garden parterres, switching off the carnation-tops with his
cutty-whip.

"Holloa there, man! Mind what you're about!" cried Martin foaming with
wrath. "I wish His Majesty the old king saw you."

"The old king!" cried Jack, standing still, and gazing at Martin with
some amazement. "Why, Martin, the old king is _dead_ a week to-morrow,
and My Lord Lackaday is master now. And, as for the garden, my man, you
may set your mind at rest about that, for his new Royal Majesty has
given orders that the whole concern is to be turned into a lake for His
Majesty to fish in. Now!" And, so saying, _impudent_ Jack that he was,
continued his way, whistling louder, and switching off more carnation
tops than before.

Poor Martin was utterly dazed. Could it be true, or was it only a
cunning invention of Impudent Jack the jockey's?

Alas, the prolonged stillness that reigned in the park, and the forlorn
aspect of the castle windows, made his heart sink like lead within him.

Suddenly a postern door banged, and then a slow, dawdling step was heard
in the distance, and Martin perceived, approaching the "lime walk," My
Lord Lackaday, with his fishing-rod and tackle. There were two or three
young pages with him bearing baskets and nets; and he overheard one of
them say, "By-and-by your Majesty shall not have so far to go, once the
new pond here is finished."

This was more than Martin could endure. He dashed after the royal
fisherman, and screamed forth, "Can it be true that the flower gardens
are to be made a pond of? And how is your father's gardener then to get
his living?"

"Don't bother us," drawled out the new king; "we don't like flowers, nor
do we care whether you get a living or not!"

The blood rushed to Martin's head, and a singing sound filled his ears.
"A pond!" he cried. "A common fishpond! And how am I to earn my living
now? And what is to become of my wife and little Lionel?"

In his anger and despair, Martin sprang blindly forward, and kicked the
standard roses, and wrung the necks of the beautiful purple iris that
bloomed in the shade