“Ay?” said Media, “what say you to that, now, Babbalanja?”
“It may be even so, my lord. Shall I tell you a story?”
“Azzageddi’s stirring now,” muttered Mohi.
“Proceed,” said Media.
“King Normo had a fool, called Willi, whom he loved to humor. Now, though Willi ever obeyed his lord, by the very instinct of his servitude, he flattered himself that he was free; and this conceit it was, that made the fool so entertaining to the king. One day, said Normo to his fool,—‘Go, Willi, to yonder tree, and wait there till I come,’ ‘Your Majesty, I will,’ said Willi, bowing beneath his jingling bells; ‘but I presume your Majesty has no objections to my walking on my hands:—I am free, I hope.’ ‘Perfectly,’ said Normo, ‘hands or feet, it’s all the same to me; only do my bidding.’ ‘I thought as much,’ said Willi; so, swinging his limber legs into the air, Willi, thumb after thumb, essayed progression. But soon, his bottled blood so rushed downward through his neck, that he was fain to turn a somerset and regain his feet. Said he, ‘Though I am free to do it, it’s not so easy turning digits into toes; I’ll walk, by gad! which is my other option.’ So he went straight forward, and did King Normo’s bidding in the natural way.”
“A curious story that,” said Media; “whence came it?”
“My lord, where every thing, but one, is to be had:—within.”
“You are charged to the muzzle, then,” said Braid-Beard. “Yes, Mohi; and my talk is my overflowing, not my fullness.”
“And what may you be so full of?”
“Of myself.”