“Certainly, Your Majesty.”
“Let me hear how it sounds.”
The Minister opened the Golden Book and read the last lines: “A good king is like a gardener who trims the trees often.”
“Very well said,” opined the king, putting on his fez. He walked to the private garden by the shore of the sacred Nile, the garden which no one was permitted to enter.
The servants and courtiers whom he met on the way bowed to the ground as he passed. “We greet you, great King Morus.”
His glowing, golden garments dazzled all eyes, and beneath his proud step the earth trembled. The nightingale in the garden sang of love, as if it divined the King’s thoughts. The white lilies bowed their heads. The roses strewed fragrant leaves across his path, and the azaleas whispered a name—not the name of the king—but instead the name Florilla, the enchanting woman who was step-daughter of Narciz. Within the palace all were wondering where the King was going. The Minister whispered to his son: “He is carrying someone’s head in his pocket.”
Rogus, frightened, felt for his own head. He found it just where it always was, upon his neck, between his two shoulders.
He spoke at once to the watchman who stood by the garden gate:
“Here is a purse of gold. Exchange clothes with me, and let me into the garden.”
