The king sat in his private garden in the shade of a potted orange tree, the leaves ofwhich were splashed with brilliant yellow. It was high noon of one of those last warm sighsof passing summer which now and then lovingly steal in between the chill breaths ofSeptember. The velvet hush of the mid-day hour had fallen.There was an endless horizon of turquoise blue, a zenith pellucid as glass. The treesstood motionless; not a shadow stirred, save that which was cast by the tremulous wings ofa black and purple butterfly, which, near to his Majesty, fell, rose and sank again. From adrove of wild bees, swimming hither and thither in quest of the final sweets of the year, came a low murmurous hum, such as a man sometimes fancies he hears while standingalone in the vast auditorium of a cathedral
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