There was much gossip about the unknown king of Spor, who had never
yet been seen by any one except his subjects; and some thought he must
be one of the huge giants of Spor; and others claimed he was a dwarf,
like his tiny but ferocious dart-slingers; and still others imagined
him one of the barbarian tribe, or a fellow to the terrible Gray Men.
But, of course, no one knew positively, and all these guesses were
very wide of the mark. The only certainty about this king was that
his giants, dwarfs, barbarians and Gray Men meekly acknowledged his
rule and obeyed his slightest wish; for though they might be terrible
to others, their king was still more terrible to them.
Into this Kingdom of Spor Prince Marvel and Nerle had now penetrated
and, neither knowing nor caring where they were, continued along the
faintly defined paths the horses had found. Presently, however, they
were startled by a peal of shrill, elfish laughter, and raising their
eyes they beheld a horrid-looking old man seated upon a high rock near by.
"Why do you laugh?" asked Prince Marvel, stopping his horse.
"Have you been invited? Tell me--have you been invited?" demanded the
old man, chuckling to himself as if much amused.
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