Riding though the green of handsome woods, parting the trees now, comes the Prince and a proudly liveried entourage of only two. The firs there are not packed tightly together, so the riding there is easy, somewhat exhilarating—and there is just enough foliage to get lost in; branches, so that one or two are sure to brush the cheek and leave it stinging lightly with life.

When riding through, the Prince is overtaken by a band of peasants, is dragged from his fine horse: a rearing stallion who rebels quite badly until freed, then stays by his master’s side even afterwards, watching with kindly, wild brown eyes as the Prince is bound in coarse rope, his head is struck off with a rock.

The liveried gentlemen are split open, their coats of blue velvet stripped of them, ripped a little, for the sake of the loathing of finery; are then are put on, as the rights of the country-folk are, in this case, the rights of the dead. There is no bickering over who gets which coat—these are not robbers, or highway men, after all, but peasants—and the prince himself is at first only stripped slightly, for the sake of his tunic. Then, on a second thought, his silken leggings, his shoes stuffed haphazardly into the bag carried between them, if only for the sake of their diamond-and-emerald studded buckles.

The golden circlet is disentangled from the loosed and damped blond locks of the prince’s fallen head. The saddlebag is rooted through, the money there divided with a general equality, the ermine ripped off the cloak within and, once petted fondly, stuffed into several distracted pockets while the saddle is removed from the horse, examined, and put back again. The beast of burden can carry it.


Wilson Korges is a young writer. They hold a vast interest in poetry, dead kings, and the phenomenon of nostalgia. They have a grand time in both California and Iowa.