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He might be a child in worldly matters, said the High Priest, but if the King supposed that he did not know the difference between home-grown domestic and frozen imported foreign, it was time his Majesty was disabused of the idea. If, on top of this little unpleasantness, King Merolchazzar were to become an adherent of this new Gowf, the Vizier did not know what might not happen.
Merolchazzar, the high-priest, muttered something about the anger of the Gods at the toleration shown to a sect of impious heretics who ate pigeons broiled, "whereas," said he, "our religion commands us to eat them roasted.
The High Priest had not the advantage of understanding one word of what the King was talking about, but he gathered with satisfaction that Merolchazzar was pleased and wholly without suspicion. He clasped an unseen hand more firmly about the handle of his knife, and accompanied the monarch to the next altar. Merolchazzar stooped, and placed a small round white object on a little mound of sand.
It would be certain to cause displeasure among the priesthood; and in those days it was a ticklish business to offend the priesthood, even for a monarch. And, if Merolchazzar had a fault, it was a tendency to be a little tactless in his dealings with that powerful body.
"Rely on me, by Hec!" said the High Priest grimly, as he fingered his weapon. The High Priest was as good as his word. Early on the morrow he made his way to the Linx, and found the King holing-out on the second green. Merolchazzar was in high good humour. "Greetings, O venerable one!" he cried, jovially.
The art was in its infancy then, and the best the minstrels could do was this and they did it just as Merolchazzar, raising the hoe with painful care, reached the top of his swing and started down: "Oh, tune the string and let us sing Our godlike, great, and glorious King! He's a bear! He's a bear! He's a bear!"
Merolchazzar has been a pretty good king, of course. No one denies that. A fair general, no doubt, and a plus-man at lion-hunting. But, after all look at it fairly is life all battles and lion-hunting? Isn't there a deeper side?
Then shall the land yield its increase, and the fruits of the earth shall be no more blasted by the vengeance of Heaven." "Nay," said the king, "the ground lies under no general curse from Heaven. The season has been singularly good. The wine which thou didst thyself drink at the banquet a few nights ago, O venerable Merolchazzar, was of this year's vintage.
There were sixteen more verses, touching on their ruler's prowess in the realms of sport and war, but they were not destined to be sung on that circuit. King Merolchazzar jumped like a stung bullock, lifted his head, and missed the globe for the twenty-sixth time. He spun round on the minstrels, who were working pluckily through their song of praise: "Oh, may his triumphs never cease!
King Merolchazzar uttered a loud cry. "By Tom, the son of Morris! Can this truly be so? What is thy handicap?" The Princess stared at him, wide-eyed. "Truly this is a miracle! Art thou also a worshipper of the great Gowf?" "Am I!" cried the King. "Am I!" He broke off. "Listen!" From the minstrels' room high up in the palace there came the sound of singing.
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