CHAPTER LVI.
A Scene In The Land Of Warwicks, Or King-Makers
Wending our way from the temple, we were accompanied by a fluent, obstreperous wight, one Znobbi, a runaway native of Porpheero, but now an enthusiastic inhabitant of Vivenza.
“Here comes our great chief!” he cried. “Behold him! It was I that had a hand in making him what he is!”
And so saying, he pointed out a personage, no way distinguished, except by the tattooing on his forehead—stars, thirty in number; and an uncommonly long spear in his hand. Freely he mingled with the crowd.
“Behold, how familiar I am with him!” cried Znobbi, approaching, and pitcher-wise taking him by the handle of his face.
“Friend,” said the dignitary, “thy salute is peculiar, but welcome. I reverence the enlightened people of this land.”
“Mean-spirited hound!” muttered Media, “were I him, I had impaled that audacious plebeian.”
“There’s a Head-Chief for you, now, my fine fellow!” cried Znobbi. “Hurrah! Three cheers! Ay, ay! All kings here—all equal. Every thing’s in common.”
Here, a bystander, feeling something grazing his side, looked down; and perceived Znobbi’s hand in clandestine vicinity to the pouch at his girdle-end.
Whereupon the crowd shouted, “A thief! a thief!” And with a loud voice the starred chief cried—“Seize him, people, and tie him to yonder tree.”