say this about her, that the artists of that day could not find a finer head to preserve for posterity.
“Florilla,” whispered the King.
Rogus hid behind some shrubbery and listened. To be sure he knew all about it, because he had suspected it long.
“Yes, my King,” replied Florilla.
“May I be permitted to enter the Kingdom of Heaven?”
“Why ask? A King commands.”
“I have left your husband busy at court, so he can not surprise us. Perhaps, too, the end has come for him. Here is the death sentence.”
“With the seal of the Minister?”
“Of course.”
“A shabby trick in my father,” thought Rogus.
“Bring it up to me in an hour,” whispered Florilla.
“Within the hour I will put all my serving women to sleep.”
An hour was a long time for a King who was in love to wait. The evening was hot. An odor of heat arose from the earth. There was no breeze and the Nile was smooth as a mirror. A conceited bee swam boldly upon a rose leaf, without fear of shipwreck. The King looked long at the enticing water, until a desire arose in him. And what a King desires— He seated himself beside some shrubbery near Rogus and took off the yellow shoes with the golden spurs. He laid aside his purple cloak and the gold colored vest with the diamond buttons. He took the silver whistle from his neck, and then took off all his costly royal
