"To Hades with the Priest!" cried the King.
"Would it be wise to break with Menelaos?" timidly suggested the scribe.
"You are right, Timon. The High Priest will be convenient in Jerusalem,—like the handle to a blade. Has Menelaos paid up all he promised?"
"Yes; the nine hundred talents are safe."
"Nine hundred talents! That rascal must have robbed the Temple."
"Well, if he did, it will save your Majesty the trouble of finding the hidden coffers. They say that the old King Solomon put his gold into wells as deep as the earth, and that only the High Priest knows where they are."
"A good thought!" said the Glorious, thumping the bald head of the scribe with the royal seal. "Your skull, Timon, is as full of wisdom as a beggar's is of fleas. When Menelaos has gobbled down all the gold there is in Jerusalem, we will open his crop and let out the shekels, as they do corn grains from a turkey's gullet. A good thought! But enough of these things. They tire me. Business is for slaves, not for kings. Did you note to-day how the people looked as I appeared in the procession?"
"Your Majesty's glory can but grow upon the multitude. It is like that of a mountain,—of a sunset—of—of the Great Sea when the glowing orb of day with rays like the dishevelled hair——"
"Stop, good Timon; no flattery. You know I never could abide flattery."
"No words could flatter your Majesty." The scribe bowed upon the marble floor, and kissed the feet of his master.