The next morning he awoke with the day.
“What a curious dream I have had,” he exclaimed sleepily.
But it was no dream. Straw rustled as he turned his head and by his side were the cap and bells which he was to put on. His room was bare, its walls were discolored, and presently he heard horses stamping in their near-by stalls. He was in a stable. The monkey was there, too; King Robert saw the horrid thing grinning and chattering in a corner. His past life seemed far away. He had to begin to live again, this time the butt and the jest of the palace.
Days came and went, and the Angel still sat on the throne. The island of Sicily prospered under his reign. The crops were good, the vintage was abundant and the people were happy.
King Robert yielded to fate, but he did not yield willingly. He became sullen and silent and was a sorry jester in spite of his gay dress and his jingling bells and the chattering monkey. The courtiers mocked him in innumerable ways and the nimble pages played pranks on him; he had to be content with scraps from the tables of his masters, and the monkey was his only friend.
Sometimes the Angel asked him, as though in jest, “Art thou the king?” and Robert, still defiant, replied haughtily, “I am, I am the king!”
Almost three years passed. Then messengers came from Valmond, Emperor of Germany, to tell King Robert that their brother, Pope Urbane, summoned him to come on Holy Thursday to his city, Rome. The Angel welcomed the ambassadors with fitting ceremony, and gave them magnificent presents, embroidered vests, velvet mantles, rare jewels and costly rings. Not only were his guests messengers from the great Valmond but they were mighty nobles.
As soon as he could get ready the Angel went with the ambassadors and a mighty train of followers over the sea to Italy. As the procession travelled along crowds gathered to watch its progress. Never had there been seen a more gorgeous assembly. The Angel and his courtiers and the ambassadors were dressed in splendid garments with gold and gems and laces and embroideries and velvets and satins and nodding plumes, each one according to his state, and their horses were resplendent with gold and silver and jeweled bridles. After them rode the servants, less fine but equally gay, and among the lowliest of these was poor Robert riding in mock state on an awkward piebald pony. As the ridiculous steed shambled along, his rider’s cloak of fox-tails flapped in the wind and his bells jingled. The king was very unhappy and his face showed it, but it was only a joke for a jester to look disconsolate and people were no more sorry for him than for the solemn monkey who perched demurely by his side and aped his ways. In all the country towns through which they went the gaping crowds stared at them and laughed.
The Pope received the Angel and the emperor with pomp. Trumpets sounded a welcome and banners waved joyously, as they met on St. Peter’s square. The Pope embraced and blessed his brothers, as he thought, for even he did not know that he was entertaining an Angel. While prayers and rejoicing were at their height Robert the jester burst through the crowd and rushed into the presence of the Pope and his guests.
“I am the king,” he cried, addressing the Pope, “look and behold in me Robert, your brother, King of Sicily. That man who looks like me and wears my robes and my crown is an impostor. Do you not know me? Does nothing tell you that we are akin?”