ection, and she was horribly afraid now that something
might happen which would lead her to betray herself by unseemly
laughter. She could only pray inwardly that it would not, as she
followed with Ruby to the King's Parlour.

This was a lofty hall with windows opening on to the terrace; the walls
were composed of great slabs of malachite, and twisted columns of the
same supported a ceiling of elaborately carved pink jade. At one end was
a dais, where a table was spread with what King Sidney referred to
somewhat disappointedly as "a cold snack," though he did it ample
justice nevertheless.

The Marshal sat on his right hand; at his back stood the Court
Chamberlain, while chubby-faced little pages served cakes of bread on
bended knee, and filled the golden goblets with Maerchenland's choicest
wines, which the King considered "a trifle on the sour side." The Royal
Household looked on from a distance--to the exquisite discomfort of the
Queen.

"I really can't enjoy my food, Sidney," she complained in an undertone,
"with every mouthful I take watched by all those members of the
nobility!"

Suddenly she coloured with annoyance as she found she was being
addressed in a gruff, strangled voice from a quarter it was difficult at
first to locate. "Mr. Troitz," she demanded, "_who_ is that
ill-mannered person who seems to be trying to talk to Me with his mouth
full?"

"The voice, your Majesty," he replied in the most matter-of-fact tone,
"appears to proceed from the boar's head."

"How dare you try to impose on me by such a story? It's that wretched
little astrologer man. Ventriloquism and Conjuring always go together,
and I'll be bound he's underneath the table now!... Well," she said,
after she had satisfied herself by looking, "if he's not there, he's
somewhere in the room!"

The Court Chamberlain assured her that the Astrologer Royal was not only
absent, but incapable of such a liberty; it really _was_ the boar's head
that had spoken, as animals in Maerchenland would on rare occasions--even
after suffering decapitation.

"There was Falada, Mummy," cried Ruby eagerly. "Don't you remember? The
horse that talked poetry after its head had been cut off and nailed over
the arch! Miss Heritage can tell you all about it."

But Miss Heritage could not--she was far too deeply engaged in wrestling
with an inward demon of unholy mirth that threatened at any moment to
gain the mastery.

The head began again. But whatever feli