and arousing them there, a prince of the art of diplomacy.

He had not been sent here to watch this kingdom. He was touching
a deeper undercurrent, which began at St. Petersburg and moved
toward Central Asia, Turkey and India, sullenly and irresistibly.
And now his task was done, and another was to take his place,
to be a puppet among puppets. He feared no man save his valet,
who knew his one weakness, the love of a son on whom he had shut
his door, which pride forbade him to open. This son had chosen
the army, when a fine diplomatic career had been planned--a
small thing, but it sufficed. Even now a word from an humbled
pride would have reunited father and son, but both refused to
speak this word.

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."