“Girls, girls, girls—Glycerium, Euphrosyne, Hypsipyle—all of you come hither.”
Obedient to her voice, the girls came trooping in, from garden and gallery, fluttering like doves, murmuring like doves. Lycabetta held up her hand and they halted, wonder in their lovely eyes to see the priestess of Venus giving audience to the loathly fool.
“Dainties,” Lycabetta cried, “his Majesty honors us with his presence to-night.”
And as she spoke she pointed with extended arm to the deformed, dishonored man. Glycerium alone voiced the surprise of her fellows.
“His Majesty!” she repeated.
Lycabetta swooped in among her women, laughing and whispering, catching now one and now another of her pretty minions by the hand, as if seeking to choose the fairest.
“He is crack-brained, and calls himself the King,” she murmured. “Let him believe it for our sport.” Then she called aloud, gulling the suspicious visitor, “Do homage to the King, damsels, and perhaps he may fling his favor to the one of you that dances the most alluringly.”
Instantly the girls made a rush towards Robert, a wave of flowing hair, of laughing faces, of fluttering, transparent dresses, a wave that rippled close to him and then receded as the women swayed wantonly into postures of impudent supplication.
“Long live the King!” piped Glycerium; and “God save the King!” altered Euphrosyne; and the others, catching up the cries, repeated them, a babble of merry blessings, while Lycabetta crowned the clamor with the cry of, “Hail to the Lily of Sicily!”
Robert waved his hands angrily to banish the bright eyes, the bright voices, the bright bodies. They were supple and servile enough, but he did not need them then.