a tyrant life.

Female wardens made a fit outpost for this palace of many women. Of the
number of the king's wives I have no guess; and but a loose idea of
their function. He himself displayed embarrassment when they were
referred to as his wives, called them himself "my pamily," and explained
they were his "cutcheons"--cousins. We distinguished four of the crowd:
the king's mother; his sister, a grave, trenchant woman, with much of
her brother's intelligence; the queen proper, to whom (and to whom
alone) my wife was formally presented; and the favourite of the hour, a
pretty, graceful girl, who sat with the king daily, and once (when he
shed tears) consoled him with caresses. I am assured that even with her
his relations are platonic. In the background figured a multitude of
ladies, the lean, the plump, and the elephantine, some in sacque frocks,
some in the hairbreadth _ridi_; high-born and low, slave and mistress;
from the queen to the scullion, from the favourite to the scraggy
sentries at the palisade. Not all of these of course are of "my
pamily,"--many are mere attendants; yet a surprising number shared the
responsibility of the king's trust. These were key-bearers, treasurers,
wardens of the armoury, the napery, and the stores. Each knew and did
her part to admiration. Should anything be required--a particular gun,
perhaps, or a particular bolt of stuff,--the right queen was summoned;
she came bringing the right chest, opened it in the king's presence, and
displayed her charge in perfect preservation--the gun cleaned and oiled,
the goods duly folded. Without delay or haste, and with the minimum of
speech, the whole great establishment turned on wheels like a machine.
Nowhere have I seen order more complete and pervasive. And yet I was
always reminded of Norse tales of trolls and ogres who kept their hearts
buried in the ground for the mere safety, and must confide the secret to
their wives. For these weapons are the life of Tembinok'. He does not
aim at popularity; but drives and braves his subjects, with a simplicity
of domination which it is impossible not to admire, hard not to
sympathise with. Should one out of so many prove faithless, should the
armoury be secretly unlocked, should the crones have dozed by the
palisade and the weapons find their way unseen into the village,
revolution would be nearly certain, death the most probable result, and
the spirit of the tyrant of Apemama flit to rejoin his predeces