beneath a pine-tree, a little way from his noisy, crowded camp. Four
secretaries were writing on their knees to his dictation. He was
undoubtedly a man of majestic appearance. He had a fine figure--tall,
supple, and marvelously preserved--and calm, noble features. The only
indications of old age were his long white hair and long white
moustaches. His dress was very simple--a jacket of black cloth, immense
blue cotton trousers, large boots of Russian leather, and a loose red
cap. A jeweled belt was the only costly thing he wore.

He raised his head at our approach.

"You are very welcome," he said with great gravity. "Please sit down
while I finish dictating my letters."

His servant brought us refreshments, consisting of coffee, Turkish
delight, and preserved fruit. Having put us at our ease, the king went
on with his correspondence.

"This," he said, "is to Messrs. Barley and Co., 31 Cavendish Square,
London."

"Excuse me, sire," said his secretary, bending over and whispering in
his ear.

"What does it matter?" said the king in a haughty tone. "I've done
nothing wrong. Let all the world come and listen if they want to. Now,
take this down."

And he dictated the following letter: