"And after our roast beef, what next ?" The King of Portugal considered a while longer.

"Your boiled beef very nearly approaches it." So, if you had asked us on what first of all we prided ourselves in Troy, we had pointed to our Major.

If you had asked "What next ?" we had pointed to our Mayor.
And these, our Dioscuri, were one and the same man! In truth, I suppose we ought to have been proudest of him as Mayor; since as Mayor he represented the King himself among us--nay, to all intents and purposes _was_ the King.

More than once in his public speeches he reminded us of this: and we were glad to remember it when--as sometimes happened--we ran a cargo from Roscoff or Guernsey and left a cask or two privily behind the Mayor's quay door.

We felt then that his Majesty had been paid duty, and could have no legitimate grievance against us.
Was there any mental confusion in this?
You would pardon it had you ever been privileged to witness his Sunday procession to church, in scarlet robe trimmed with sable, in cocked-hat and chain of office; the mace-bearers marching before in scarlet with puce-coloured capes, the aldermen following after in tasselled gowns of black; the band ahead playing "The Girl I left behind Me" (for, although organised for home defence, our corps had chosen this to be its regimental tune).