There was a highly seasoned stew with meat and vegetables, a dish of fresh fruit, and a bowl of milk beside which was a little jug containing something which resembled marmalade. So ravenous was she that she did not even wait for her companion to reach the table, and as she ate she could have sworn that never before had she tasted more palatable food. The old woman came slowly and sat down on one of the benches opposite her.
As she removed the smaller vessels from the larger and arranged them before her on the table a crooked smile twisted her lips as she watched the younger woman eat.
“Hunger is a great leveler,” she said with a laugh.
“What do you mean?” asked the girl.
“I venture to say that a few weeks ago you would have been nauseated at the idea of eating cat.”
“Cat?” exclaimed the girl.
“Yes,” said the old woman. “What is the difference—a lion is a cat.”
“You mean I am eating lion now?”
“Yes,” said the old woman, “and as they prepare it, it is very palatable. You will grow very fond of it.”
Bertha Kircher smiled a trifle dubiously. “I could not tell it,” she said, “from lamb or veal.”
“No,” said the woman, “it tastes as good to me. But these lions are very carefully kept and very carefully fed and their flesh is so seasoned and prepared that it might be anything so far as taste is concerned.”
And so Bertha Kircher broke her long fast upon strange fruits, lion meat, and goat’s milk.
Scarcely had she finished when again the door opened and there entered a yellow-coated soldier. He spoke to the old woman.
“The king,” she said, “has commanded that you be prepared and brought to him. You are to share these apartments with me. The king knows that I am not like his other women. He never would have dared to put you with them. Herog XVI has occasional lucid intervals. You must have been brought to him during one of these. Like the rest of them he thinks that he alone of all the community is sane, but more than once I have thought that the various men with whom I have come in contact here, including the kings themselves, looked upon me as, at least, less mad than the others. Yet how I have retained my senses all these years is beyond me.”
“What do you mean by prepare?” asked Bertha Kircher. “You said that the king had commanded I be prepared and brought to him.”
“You will be bathed and furnished with a robe similar to that which I wear.”
“Is there no escape?” asked the girl. “Is there no way even in which I can kill myself?”
The woman handed her the fork. “This is the only way,” she said, “and you will notice that the tines are very short and blunt.”
The girl shuddered and the old woman laid a hand gently upon her shoulder. “He may only look at you and send you away,” she said. “Ago XXV sent for me once, tried to talk with me, discovered that I could not understand him and that he could not understand me, ordered that I be taught the language of his people, and then apparently forgot me for a year. Sometimes I do not see the king for a long period. There was one king who ruled for five years whom I never saw. There is always hope; even I whose very memory has doubtless been forgotten beyond these palace walls still hope, though none knows better how futilely.”
The old woman led Bertha Kircher to an adjoining apartment in the floor of which was a pool of water. Here the girl bathed and afterward her companion brought her one of the clinging garments of the native women and adjusted it about her figure. The material of the robe was of a gauzy fabric which accentuated the rounded beauty of the girlish form.
“There,” said the old woman, as she gave a final pat to one of the folds of the garment, “you are a queen indeed!”
The girl looked down at her naked breasts and but half-concealed limbs in horror. “They are going to lead me into the presence of men in this half-nude condition!” she exclaimed.
The old woman smiled her crooked smile. “It is nothing,” she said. “You will become accustomed to it as did I who was brought up in the home of a minister of the gospel, where it was considered little short of a crime for a woman to expose her stockinged ankle. By comparison with what you will doubtless see and the things that you may be called upon to undergo, this is but a trifle.”
For what seemed hours to the distraught girl she paced the floor of her apartment, awaiting the final summons to the presence of the mad king. Darkness had fallen and the oil flares within the palace had been lighted long before two messengers appeared with instructions that Herog demanded her immediate presence and that the old woman, whom they called Xanila, was to accompany her. The girl felt some slight relief when she discovered that she was to have at least one friend with her, however powerless to assist her the old woman might be.
The messengers conducted the two to a small apartment on the floor below. Xanila explained that this was one of the anterooms off the main throneroom in which the king was accustomed to hold court with his entire retinue. A number of yellow-tunicked warriors sat about upon the benches within the room. For the most part their eyes were bent upon the floor and their attitudes that of moody dejection. As the two women entered several glanced
