"What do you want?" said the king.
"That it may please your majesty to be better acquainted with us,"
answered they. "We are your majesty's subjects."
"I know you are. I shall be most happy," answered the king.
"We are not what your majesty takes us for, though. We are not so
foolish as your majesty thinks us."
"It is impossible to take you for anything that I know of," rejoined
the king, who wished to make them talk, and said whatever came
uppermost;--"for soldiers, sailors, or anything: you will not stand
still long enough. I suppose you really belong to the fire brigade; at
least, you keep putting its light out."
"Don't jest, please your majesty." And as they said the words--for they
both spoke at once throughout the interview--they performed a grave
somerset towards the king.
"Not jest!" retorted he; "and with you? Why, you do nothing but jest.
What are you?"
"The Shadows, sire. And when we do jest, sire, we always jest in
earnest. But perhaps your majesty does not see us distinctly."
"I see you perfectly well," returned the king.
"Permit me, however," rejoined one of the Shadows; and as he spoke he
approached the king; and lifting a dark forefinger, he drew it lightly
but carefully across the ridge of his forehead, from temple to temple.
The king felt the soft gliding touch go, like water, into every hollow,
and over the top of every height of that mountain-chain of thought.
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