THE HUNTER
When he was well on his way the King came quietly out of the wood and approached his favorite.
“Was there ever a greater king than I, Hildebrand?” he asked.
“Never since sun-birth,” Hildebrand responded, with glib emphasis. “The glory of Solomon, the sword of Cæsar, the beauty of Adonis, the lyre of Orpheus, the strength of Hercules, the grace of Apollo, the sum of all possibilities—God-man, or man-God, what shall our poor lips call you?” He made the monarch a profound obeisance, too profound to permit Robert to see the mockery shining in his eyes.
The monarch drank the delicious draught with more than royal gravity as he answered:
“You are a wise man. But if I have immortal merits, I have very mortal desires. This is not the first time that I have climbed to these summits.”
Hildebrand had raised his head, and mockery had given ground to surprise.
“Indeed, sire?” he asked. The King was silent for a moment, musing on sweet memories, and when he spoke it was with smiling lips.
“My honest father, worthy man, forbade hunting in these happy hills, which gave me an itch to beat their coverts. Last week, while you were away at Naples, I rode in these hills till I could ride no longer, left my horse, lost my way, till in the very heart of the forest I met a girl—indeed, at first my joy mistook her for a goddess.”
“Was she so fair?” Hildebrand asked, questioning rather the delight on Robert’s face than the weight of Robert’s words.