gravel of the path. His brows were drawn over contemplative eyes,
and the hint of a sour smile lifted the corners of his lips.
Presently the brows relaxed, and his gaze traveled to the
opposite side of the path, where the British minister sat in the
full glare of the sun.

In the middle of the path, as rigid as a block of white marble,
reposed a young bulldog, his moist black nose quivering under
the repeated attacks of a persistent insect. It occurred to the
king that there was a resemblance between the dog and his master,
the Englishman. The same heavy jaws were there, the same
fearless eyes, the same indomitable courage for the prosecution
of a purpose.

A momentary regret passed through him that he had not been
turned from a like mold. Next his gaze shifted to the end of the
path, where a young Lieutenant stood idly kicking pebbles, his
cuirass flaming in the dazzling sunshine. Soon the drawing in
the gravel was resumed.

The British minister made little of the three-score years which
were closing in on him, after the manner of an army besieging a
citadel. He was full of animal exuberance, and his eyes, a
trifle faded, it must be admitted, were still keenly alive and
observant. He was big of bone, florid of skin, and his hair--
what remained of it--was wiry and bleached. His clothes,
possibly cut from an old measure, hung loosely about the girth--
a sign that time had taken its tithe. For thirty-five years he
had served his country by cunning speeches and bursts of fine
oratory; he had wandered over the globe, lulling suspicions here