“I’ll knock your head off.”
“I’ll send a friend to you in the morning.”
“I’ll send a bullet into you in the afternoon.”
“We’ll meet again,” says Giglio, shaking his fist in Bulbo’s face; and seizing up the warming-pan, he kissed it, because, forsooth, Betsinda had carried it, and rushed down stairs. What should he see on the landing but his Majesty talking to Betsinda, whom he called by all sorts of fond names. His Majesty had heard the row in the building, so he stated, and smelling something burning, had come out to see what the matter was.
“It’s the young gentlemen smoking, perhaps, sir,” says Betsinda.
“Charming chambermaid,” says the King (like all the rest of them), “never mind the young men! Turn thy eyes on a middle-aged autocrat, who has been considered not ill-looking in his time.”
“Oh, sir! what will her Majesty say?” cries Betsinda.
“Her Majesty!” laughs the monarch. “Her Majesty be hanged! Am I not Autocrat of Paflagonia? Have I not blocks, ropes, axes, hangmen—ha? Runs not a river by my palace wall? Have I not sacks to sew up wives withal? Say but the word, that thou wilt be mine own,—your mistress straightway in a sack is sewn, and thou the sharer of my heart and throne.”
When Giglio hear these atrocious sentiments he forgot the respect usually paid to Royalty, lifted up the warming-pan, and knocked down the king as flat as a pancake; after which, Master Giglio took to his heels and ran away, and Betsinda went off screaming, and the Queen, Gruffanuff, and the princess, all came out of their rooms. Fancy their feelings on beholding their husband, father, sovereign, in this posture!
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