His Sacred Majesty was informed of these goings-on, and he commanded that no notice should be taken of the child, saying that if his son did not want people to walk over his legs he should not place his legs in a position where they were liable to be walked over. Philip was angry at this, but he said nothing and was no more seen, till one fine summer day when he went out into the courtyard to warm his shivering body in the sun.
Charles, riding back from the war, saw his son thus brewing his melancholy.
“How now?” cried the Emperor. “What a difference there is between us two, my son! At your age I loved nothing better than to go climbing trees after squirrels. Or, with the aid of a rope, to clamber down some steep cliff to take young eagles out of their nests. I might easily have broken my bones at the game; but they only grew the harder. And when I went out hunting, the deer fled into the thickets at sight of me, armed with my trusty arquebus.”
“Ah, my Lord Father,” sighed the child, “but you see, I have the stomach-ache.”
“For that,” said Charles, “good wine from Paxarete is a most certain remedy.”
“I don’t like wine. I have a headache, my Lord Father.”
“Then you should run and jump and play about like other children of your age.”
“I have stiff legs, my Lord Father.”
“And how should it be otherwise,” said Charles, “seeing that you make no more use of them than if they were of wood? But you shall go riding on a high-mettled horse.”
The child began to cry.