Midas, the fabled king, whose touch turned everything to gold. And
gold, and jewels--of what avail were these against the spectre?
The gardeners, moving with bare feet among the sinuous paths, were
quick to perceive that a cloud had fallen upon his spirit. They divined
his moods with the tactfulness of natural sympathy. On some
horticultural pretext one of them drew near and craftily engaged his
thoughts and conversation. At last he said something that made him
smile. One or two more appeared upon the scene, as if by accident. It
was evident that the master needed cheering up. They began to tell him
the fairy-tales he loved; tales of robbers and witches and
pirates--grand old tales that never wearied him. To arouse his interest
they joked among themselves, as though unaware of his existence. One of
them, and then another, sang some wild song of love and war which he
had picked up while wandering with his flocks among the craggy hills of
yonder mainland. He was laughing now; outdoing their songs and stories.
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