"Mercy on us!" said the Widow Pickle. "I didn't know it was alive! What do you suppose it is?"
The Private Secretary took a second look and turned deathly pale.
"Madam," said he in a whisper, "it is none less than his Royal Highness, though what has come to him I can not say. But that it is the King I can swear by these two fingers on his hands and by the pink strawberry mark upon his shoulder."
"Your Majesty!" cried the faithful Private Secretary, "calm yourself, I beseech you. Pray be seated."
The King continued to bound up and down.
"Your Majesty," said the Private Secretary, "how came you in this unfortunate condition? I am very much distressed, indeed, your Majesty. But will you not be seated?"
The King violently shook his head and resumed his agitation, until at length the Private Secretary grasped him by one arm and so at last brought him to a stop and placed him upon the Royal Throne.
"Why, your Majesty," said the Private Secretary, "you are light as a feather! Pray, tell me, how has this happened?"
The King could only squeak as before, but now he made a violent motion toward his feet. The Private Secretary understood him, as any good Private Secretary should be able to understand even the inmost thoughts of his King.
"Quite right, your Majesty," said he. "I shall send at once for the Court Physician."