The Clicking of Cuthbert

the nephew of the moon, had been handed the bitter fruit of the

citron."

The quaint old idiom is almost untranslatable, but one sees what he

means.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the King stood sombrely surveying the garden, his attention was

attracted by a small, bearded man with bushy eyebrows and a face like a

walnut, who stood not far away on a gravelled path flanked by rose

bushes. For some minutes he eyed this man in silence, then he called to

the Grand Vizier, who was standing in the little group of courtiers and

officials at the other end of the terrace. The bearded man, apparently

unconscious of the Royal scrutiny, had placed a rounded stone on the

gravel, and was standing beside it making curious passes over it with

his hoe. It was this singular behaviour that had attracted the King's

attention. Superficially it seemed silly, and yet Merolchazzar had a

curious feeling that there was a deep, even a holy, meaning behind the

action.

"Who," he inquired, "is that?"

"He is one of your Majesty's gardeners," replied the Vizier.

"I don't remember seeing him before. Who is he?"

The Vizier was a kind-hearted man, and he hesitated for a moment.

"It seems a hard thing to say of anyone, your Majesty," he replied,

"but he is a Scotsman. One of your Majesty's invincible admirals

recently made a raid on the inhospitable coast of that country at a

spot known to the natives as S'nandrews and brought away this man."

"What does he think he's doing?" asked the King, as the bearded one

slowly raised the hoe above his right shoulder, slightly bending the

left knee as he did so.

"It is some species of savage religious ceremony, your Majesty.

According to the admiral, the dunes by the seashore where he landed

were covered with a multitude of men behaving just as this man is

doing. They had sticks in their hands and they struck with these at

small round objects. And every now and again----"

"Fo-o-ore!" called a gruff voice from below.

"And every now and again," went on the Vizier, "they would utter the

strange melancholy cry which you have just heard. It is a species of

chant."

The Vizier broke off. The hoe had descended on the stone, and the

stone, rising in a graceful arc, had sailed through the air and fallen

within a foot of where the King stood.

"Hi!" exclaimed the Vizier.

The man looked up.

"You mustn't do that! You nearly hit his serene graciousness the King!"

"Mphm!" said the bearded man, nonchalantly, and began to wave his hoe

mystically over another stone.

Into the King's careworn face there had crept a look of interest,

almost of excitement.

"What god does he hope to propitiate by these rites?" he asked.

"The deity, I learn from your Majesty's admiral is called Gowf."

"Gowf? Gowf?" King Merolchazzar ran over in his mind the muster-roll of

the gods of Oom. There were sixty-seven of them, but Gowf was not of

their number. "It is a strange religion," he murmured. "A strange

religion, indeed. But, by Belus, distinctly attractive. I have an idea

that Oom could do with a religion like that. It has a zip to it. A sort

of fascination, if you know what I mean. It looks to me extraordinarily

like what the Court physician ordered. I will talk to this fellow and

learn more of these holy ceremonies."

And, followed by the Vizier, the King made his way into the garden. The

Vizier was now in a state of some apprehension. He was exercised in his

mind as to the effect which the embracing of a new religion by the King

might have on the formidable Church party. It would be certain to cause

displeasure among the priesthood; and in those days it was a ticklish

business to offend the priesthood, even for a monarch. And, if

Merolchazzar had a fault, it was a tendency to be a little tactless in

his dealings with that powerful body. Only a few mornings back the High

Priest of Hec had taken the Vizier aside to complain about the quality

of the meat which the King had been using lately for his sacrifices. He

might be a child in worldly matters, said the High Priest, but if the

King supposed that he did not know the difference between home-grown

domestic and frozen imported foreign, it was time his Majesty was

disabused of the idea. If, on top of this little unpleasantness, King

Merolchazzar were to become an adherent of this new Gowf, the Vizier

did not know what might not happen.

The King stood beside the bearded foreigner, watching him closely. The

second stone soared neatly on to the terrace. Merolchazzar uttered an

excited cry. His eyes were glowing, and he breathed quickly.

"It doesn't look difficult," he muttered.

"Hoo's!" said the bearded man.

"I believe I could do it," went on the King, feverishly. "By the eight

green gods of the mountain, I believe I could! By the holy fire that

burns night and day before the altar of Belus, I'm sure I could!

By Hec, I'm going to do it now! Gimme that hoe!"

"Toots!" said the bearded man.

It seemed to the King that the fellow spoke derisively, and his blood

boiled angrily. He seized the hoe and raised it above his shoulder,