"That is right," said the Old King. "Real poets are rare in these days. Even if I appear to them in all my splendour the stupid people merely remark 'a curious cloud formation,' and think they know all about it. You are young"--he went on--"you will forget all that you have seen here; but the feeling will remain that the heavens are near you. Who knows but what you may be a real poet in the future, a poet who shall open men's eyes once more to the invisible world which lies so near them. Remember your beautiful costume and show always the cloud with the silver lining in your poems." "Which do you like best, work or play?" continued His Majesty in a voice like distant rolls of thunder. "Play, please Your Majesty," said Walter, tremulously. "Quite right, quite right, play play all the day--good folk say--good folk say! Do you cry much? My children are all such cry babies, and though I scold them and lecture them every day, they will not learn to behave better." Walter had no time to answer; for clouds came rolling up and almost hid him from view. "These are my troublesome children," said the Old King. Some of the clouds were dear little cuddly babies, others looked like great white poodles, others like huge black bears or crocodiles. With outstretched arms and winged helmets strange forms rode by on swift horses with floating manes resembling the Walkuere of old; the lightning played across the sky as they passed. Truly they were a strange family with much originality. "Now, children, be off with you, and whatever you do, _don't cry_," said the Old King. But even as he spoke, one little cloud dissolved in raindrops and wetted the fine clothes of the company. Presently a push and a bustle began. Long, narrow tables were brought into the hall, and in a short space of time they were covered with the most wonderful dainties in the way of sweets and cakes, jellies, puddings and fruit. Walter sat down hastily: a fine plate of Easter eggs and nuts was before him. He helped himself plentifully, and even filled his pockets, which was not quite good manners you know, but seemed to excite no notice. A venerable water-sprite rose presently and proposed the health of the Old King. Wine-glasses were filled to the brim with golden or crimson wine; as the glasses clinked together, the vibrations sounded sweet yet sad like some high violin note, as it dies on the string. Then a wind arose, summer lightning played round the room, illuminating vividly the faces of that strange company; a roar of thunder shook the castle. Brunhilde's fire sprang up suddenly round the outer walls, so that the scene was brighter than daylight. The tables were cleared away, and the wildest revels began. The Old King faded into the distance like a mountain-peak. A goblin seized hold of Walter and tore him round in the maddest fashion.