quette. A crown had been thrust on his head and a
scepter into his hand, and, willy-nilly, he must wear the one and wield
the other. The confederation had determined the matter shortly before
the Franco-Prussian war.

The kingdom that was, an admixture of old France and newer Austria, was
a gateway which opened the road to the Orient, and a gateman must be
placed there who would be obedient to the will of the great travelers,
were they minded to pass that way. That is to say, the confederation
wanted a puppet, and in Leopold they found a dreamer, which served as
well. That glittering bait, a crown, had lured him from his peaceful
Osian hills and valleys, and now he found that his crown was of straw
and his scepter a stick.

He longed to turn back, for his heart lay in a tomb close to his castle
keep, but the way back was closed. He had sold his birthright. So he
permitted his ministers to rule his kingdom how they would, and gave
himself up to dreams. He had been but a cousin of the late king, whereas
the duke of the duchy that is had been a brother. But cousin Josef
was possessed of red hair and a temper which was redder still, and,
moreover, a superlative will, bending to none, and laughing at those who
tried to bend him.

He would have been a king to the tip of his fiery hair; and it was for
this very reason that his subsequent appeals for justice and his rights
fell on unheeding ears. The confederation feared Josef; therefore they
dispossessed him. Thus Leopold sat on the throne, while his Highness bit
his nails and swore, impotent to all appearances.

Leopold leaned forward from his seat. In his hand he held a riding stick
with which he drew shapeless pictures in the yellow gravel of the path.
His brows were drawn over contemplative eyes, and the hint of a sour
smile lifted the corners of his lips. Presently the brows relaxed, and
his gaze traveled to the opposite side of the path, where the British
minister sat in the full glare of the sun.

In the middle of the path, as rigid as a block of white marble, reposed
a young bulldog, his moist black nose quivering under the repeated
attacks of a persistent insect. It occurred to the king that there was
a resemblance between the dog and his master, the Englishman. The same
heavy jaws were there, the same fearless eyes, the same indomitable
courage for the prosecution of a purpose.

A momentary regret passed through him that he had not been turned from
a like mold