“I shall go to the feast,” said Pylea, quietly, “and guard you as much as I can. The queen will retire early. You must leave the feast immediately she goes; for a time, then I shall walk you about in the gardens till you are quite sober. After you get me the ring you may return to the table and enjoy yourself.”
“And what about tomorrow?” asked the king, fearfully.
“If you do not get the ring tonight, sire, tomorrow you will be dead,” answered Pylea, impressively.
“But who will take the blame?”
“I shall,” answered Ned. “I shall write a letter to the queen, and return the ring after I have used it; she will then think that I have taken it. Only get it first, and then make yourself dead drunk afterwards. That will remove her suspicion, if she has any respecting you.”
“I’ll keep sober and do it,” cried the king, almost resolutely. “Afterwards, perchance, I may empty a few goblets to avert suspicion. Pour me out another cup of wine.”
“No more at present,” said Pylea. “Remember what you have to do.”
His majesty was used to being controlled by his female subjects, therefore did not repeat his request. He did not stay long, however, after the arrangements were completed.
The gods had gifted him, as they generally do limited and feeble minds, with an amazing amount of vanity and self-complacency. He possessed all the composure, easy assurance, and superciliousness of a tenth-rate actor, weak author, singer, or juvenile critic. He was like the rest of his class, utterly depraved in his habits and instincts; cruel, selfish, crafty, and cold by nature, as well as timid and treacherous. But he was a most highly educated dilettante, and a proficient in those small imitative arts and sciences which his warlike spouse so openly despised; he could paint well, cook well, and play well, according to the stiff, faulty, and formal laws of a limited past. Every art, science, and tradition in this country stood still. Nothing had progressed during the centuries in this land except the women. In fact, he patronised and dabbled in most of the refined branches of that effete civilisation. He had no sense of humour. Shallow-minded and conceited people never are witty, nor can they appreciate a subtile jest. He affected cynicism, but it was of the feeble and tasteless order. In matters of tradition and custom he was a dogged believer and slave. Strength and authority he cringed abjectly under. Insult passed over him like water from the back of a duck. When not under the immediate influence of fear, he was as impervious to all other emotions as consuming vanity could make him. He considered himself as the super-refined salt of the earth, and his wife as a superb animal, who pleased his artistic senses with her matchless charms, and protected him with her strength. He was supremely satisfied with himself, and also with her, and delighted to speak about and extol her superior points.
As for the other little drawbacks of his self-indulgent existence, his ignoble place and loss of dignity, he did not feel any more shame in the servitude than a flunkey can; while regarding his eventual destiny, as long as he did not feel the noose at his neck, he was as happily oblivious to it as the contented pig is amongst the acorns.