He cared less and less for the things we care about, for the affairs
of Shap, the business-man in London. He began to despise the man with
a royal contempt.
One day when he sat in Sowla, the city of the Thuls, throned on one
amethyst, he decided, and it was proclaimed on the moment by silver
trumpets all along the land, that he would be crowned as king over all
the lands of Wonder.
By that old temple where the Thuls worshipped, year in, year out, for
over a thousand years, they pitched pavilions in the open air. The
trees that blew there threw out radiant scents unknown in any
countries that know the map; the stars blazed fiercely for that famous
occasion. A fountain hurled up, clattering, ceaselessly into the air
armfuls on armfuls of diamonds. A deep hush waited for the golden
trumpets, the holy coronation night was come. At the top of those old,
worn steps, going down we know not whither, stood the king in the
emerald-and-amethyst cloak, the ancient garb of the Thuls; beside him
lay that Sphinx that for the last few weeks had advised him in his
affairs.
Slowly, with music when the trumpets sounded, came up towards him from
we know not where, one-hundred-and-twenty archbishops, twenty angels
and two archangels, with that terrific crown, the diadem of the Thuls.
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