noon
The king sat in his private garden in the shade of a potted orange tree , the leaves of which were splashed with brilliant yellow . It was high noon of one of those last warm sighs of passing summer which now and then lovingly steal in between the chill breaths of September . The velvet hush of the mid-day hour had fallen . There was an endless horizon of turquoise blue , a zenith pellucid as glass . The trees stood motionless ; not a shadow stirred , save that which was cast by the tremulous wings of a black and purple butterfly , which , near to his Majesty , fell , rose and sank again .