He had entered the presence of Ned and his followers the most woebegone and shivering wretch that ever stood on the gallows. But the sight of their stalwart forms and resolute faces restored his confidence. It was like a reprieve to the condemned felon, a week's engagement to the needy and improvident actor. From abject terror he bounded into the regions of insufferable assurance, like an inflated air-ball. He insisted on reciting his epic before he took his departure, and dwelt lingeringly over its choice language and far-fetched imagery. Fortunately it was brief, for he was one of these poets whose muse is gaspy in her leaps, as well as obscure in her metaphor and phrases. Like a small phial, his mind could not carry or give much at a time, but he fondly believed that what he gave was quintessence. His thoughts were aged, stale, and feeble, but he dressed them well, and considered, as so many of our moderns do, that the dressing was all that need be considered or admitted. Our heroes bore the infliction meekly, for they remembered their own lost and adored diary; but Pylea and her companions, and also the Kaffirs, yawned most rudely. Ned, thinking to please this royal poet, further presented to him a spare compass which he had, also a revolver and a rifle, with some ammunition. Sotu accepted the compass with effusive thanks, but he shuddered and recoiled before the other gifts. "Send these to the queen; she will appreciate them, and they may soften her wrath, after you are gone. Meantime I must go, as I have to superintend my cooks. There is a new dish which I am introducing tonight from an ancient formula, and I find wonderful amusement in preparing it." "Indeed," answered Ned, politely. "What is it?" "The forgotten art of cooking quails. We pluck and partly boil them alive in oil before stuffing and roasting them. The natural juices are thus retained, and the flesh is tenderer than by keeping them until stale." "Ah!" murmured Ned, trusting in his heart that this refined cook might also have a little slow boiling in oil before he was too stale. "I have invented some pots, with lids specially contrived to keep the birds' heads outside. We plunge their bodies in the cold oil, and bring it very gradually to the boiling-point. We are able to tell in this way when they are sufficiently done, and that is the instant they expire. It is a pleasant sight to watch their heads during the process." "Is it, sire? For the watcher, or for the birds?" "The watcher, of course," replied the king, smiling, as he caught what he thought was the joke. "We remove them then, stuff them with garlic, pine-apple, and bananas, and slightly roast them within tamarisk leaves. I shall send you a dish of them tonight. They are most delicate in flavour and rarely succulent." Ned bowed. He felt like kicking this callous and cowardly fiend, but policy forced him to dissemble.