The weather for the festivals was as perfect as they could have wished.
The full moon shone more brilliantly than usual, as if to congratulate
the king on his new title, the bells pealed forth their chimes again, a
chorus of maidens and boys in skiffs followed the state gondola of the
royal pair, singing the new song which had just been composed in their
honour, and which consisted of twenty-four stanzas, each one ending with
the lines:

"The luck and glory let us sing Of lucky Wendelin, our king!"

By his side sat his wife, who continued her complaints against the newly-
found brother, and urged her husband to make investigations as to whether
or not this architect were a true Greylock, "To be sure, both he and his
son have the grey lock," she said, "but then they both have light hair,
and the barber's craft has made great strides lately; and certainly that
fat-cheeked baby looks as if it belonged in the cradle of a peasant
rather than in that of a prince." Wendelin XVI did not listen to what she
said; his heart was very heavy, and every time one of the bells rang out
above the others, or the chorus sang, "lucky Wendelin, our king,"
particularly distinctly and enthusiastically, he felt as if he were being
jeered at and ridiculed. He longed to cry aloud in his shame and pain,
and to fly for comfort to his sympathetic mother and strong brother in
the other boat. When he stared into the water it seemed as if the fish
made fun of him, and if he looked at the sky he imagined the moon made a
mocking grimace at him, and looked down scornfully at the wretched man
whom they called "fortunate." He knew not where to gaze, he withdrew
within himself, and tried to shut his ears, while he wished to Heaven
that he could change places with the active sailor opposite who was
setting the purple sail with his brawny arms.