The diplomat in turn watched the king as he engaged in the
aimless drawing. His meditation grew retrospective, and his
thoughts ran back to the days when he first befriended this
lonely prince, who had come to England to learn the language and
manners of the chill islanders. He had been handsome enough in
those days, this Leopold of Osia, gay and eager, possessing an
indefinable charm which endeared him to women and made him
respected of men. To have known him then, the wildest stretch of
fancy would never have placed him on this puppet throne,
surrounded by enemies, menaced by his adopted people, rudderless
and ignorant of statecraft.
"Fate is the cup," the diplomat mused, "and the human life the
ball, and it's toss, toss, toss, till the ball slips and falls
into eternity." Aloud he said, "Your Majesty seems to be well
occupied."
"Yes," replied the king, smiling. "I am making crowns and
scratching them out again-- usurping the gentle pastime of their
most Christian Majesties, the confederation. A pretty bauble is
a crown, indeed--at a distance. It is a fine thing to wear one--
in a dream. But to possess one in the real, and to wear it day
by day with the eternal fear of laying it down and forgetting
where you put it, or that others plot to steal it, or that you
wear it dishonestly--Well, well, there are worse things than a
beggar's crust.
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