The gardener soon finished his task of cutting the narcissi, and though
he might not, without audacity, look at his Sovereign-master, his
Sovereign-master looked at him, furtively, from under half-closed
eyelids, watching him as he bound the blossoms together carefully, with
the view of giving as little trouble as possible to those whose duty it
would be to arrange them for the Royal pleasure. His work done, he
walked quickly, yet with a certain humble stealthiness,--thus
admitting his consciousness of that greater presence than his own,--
down a broad garden walk beyond the terrace towards a private entrance
to the palace, and there disappeared.

The King was left alone,--or apparently so, for to speak truly, he was
never alone. An equerry, a page-in-waiting,--or what was still more
commonplace as well as ominous, a detective,--lurked about him, ever
near, ever ready to spring on any unknown intruder, or to answer his
slightest call.

But to the limited extent of the solitude allowed to kings, this man
was alone,--alone for a brief space to consider, as he had informed his
secretary, certain documents awaiting his particular and private
perusal.

The marble pavilion in which he sat had been built by his father, the
late King, for his own pleasure, when pleasure was more possible than
it is now. Its slender Ionic columns, its sculptured friezes, its
painted ceilings, all expressed a gaiety, grace and beauty gone from
the world, perchance for ever. Open on three sides to the living
picture of the ocean, crimson and white roses clambered about it, and
tall plume-like mimosa shook fragrance from its golden blossoms down