But all eyes were turned
upon Olivia. And, Prince Tabnit noting this, before she might speak
he suddenly swept his flowing robes embroidered by a thousand
needles to a posture of humility before his sovereign.
"Your Majesty," he besought, "I pray your consent to the bestowal
upon my most unworthy self of the hand of your daughter, the
Princess Olivia."
King Otho leaned upon the arm of his carven throne. Against its
strange metal his hand was cameo-clear.
"For the king," he was remembering softly, "'the Pyrenees, or so he
fancied, ceased to exist.' For another 'the mountains of Daphne are
everywhere.' Each of us has his impossible dream to prove that he
is an impossible creature. Why not I? To be normal is the cry of all
the hobgoblins ... And what does the princess say?" he asked aloud.
"Her Highness has already given me the great happiness to plight me
her troth," said Prince Tabnit.
King Otho's eyebrows flickered from their parallel of repose.
"In Yaque or in America," he murmured, "the Americans do as the
Americans do.
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