Caerleon followed him out, intending to comply with the request, but speech was impossible in presence of the cry of welcome that went up as soon as he became visible. For some minutes he was perforce silent, while the people shouted themselves hoarse, flung their caps into the air, leaped for joy, embraced one another, and wept copiously. He felt oddly reminded of his coming of age, and how he had risen to make his speech at the great dinner his father had given to the Llandiarmid tenants amid a scene of excitement such as this, when the sturdy farmers had sprung up like one man, and drunk his health with acclamations. They had presented him with an old silver punch-bowl--rather an incongruous gift for an uncompromising temperance man--and it had put him into an awkward predicament. A happy thought had struck him, he remembered, and he had told them that he would use the bowl for salad--a statement which was regarded as an exquisite joke, and received with shouts of approving laughter. It was queer that this should all pass through his mind now, as he stood waiting until the rejoicing calmed down a little, and he was able to obtain a moment’s silence. He found himself almost as much at a loss for words as on that earlier occasion, but at last he managed to say-- “Gentlemen” (he felt strongly that this form of address sounded as though he were speaking to his former constituents rather than to his subjects, but it was difficult to know what other to use. “My people” would be a ridiculous affectation as yet, and “Men of Thracia” sounded theatrical). “Gentlemen, your trusted leader, M. Drakovics, has done me the honour of inviting me in your name to accept the crown of Thracia. It is only fair for me to tell you that I don’t feel at all equal to the task of governing; but I have thought over the matter, and I hope that I am doing the right thing in undertaking it. God helping me, my sole aim will be to do what I can for the good of Thracia and the peace of Europe. I feel sure that I may count upon the help and advice of M. Drakovics in the difficulties which are sure to meet us, and I can promise to stick to you if you will stick to me.” There! it was over, and he was conscious that he had made a wretched mull of what he had meant to say, and felt certain that Cyril was grinning behind him, and maturing chaff on the subject of “House of Commons oratory,” but M. Drakovics was translating his words to the Thracians, and they were replying with shouts of applause which echoed back from the mountain-side. “Long live the English prince! Long live King Carlino! Down with Scythia! Long live Thracia and King Carlino!” “I say, you know, this won’t do,” Cyril was saying to M. Drakovics, as soon as the three on the balcony could hear each other speak. “What do they mean by talking like that? His name is Philip. He can’t go down to posterity as King Caerleon. It would be as bad as King York or King Lancaster. You must put them right.”