“Don’t you know me?”
“No.”
“I am the King.”
“Or a fool. Get out! You are lucky that I am not too sleepy to give you a good beating in the name of the King.”
King Morus then began to speak gently. He recalled that this was the way to get on with underlings.
“Listen—my noble Hero! To-night I bathed in the Nile. Some one stole my clothes. I swear to you that I am King Morus.”
“You fool,” declared the soldier.
Crawling along the wall, weak and dejected, he made his way to the palace of his adored one. He decided to knock and ask for clothes. He also made up his mind to reduce the entire city to ashes—just as soon—just as soon—as he procured clothes.
Clothes? Is this all there is to a King? Then he saw the beggar. The old good-for-nothing was up and awake and waiting for the wine shops to be opened.
“Give me that covering of yours,” said the King. The beggar threw him a look of scorn.
“You don’t feel quite so high and mighty, do you? Where did you pawn your clothes? It’s a shame the way the wine merchants carry on. If I were the King I’d hang them all.”
“That’s just what I’ll do,” whispered Morus— “if you’ll only give me your covering.”
“You’d like to trick me, would you, you rascal?”
“I’m the king.”
The beggar looked amazed.
