Once this was done, Kalaphangko turned his attention to the public finances, justice, religion, and ceremonial matters. The nation began to feel the “heavy weight,” to use the words of our distinguished poet, Camões—for no less than eleven tax dodgers were forthwith beheaded. The others, who naturally preferred their heads to their money, rushed to pay their taxes, and order was quickly restored. The courts and legislation were greatly improved. New pagodas were built, and religion seemed to gain a new impetus, since Kalaphangko, imitating the ancient Spanish arts, ordered the burning of a dozen poor Christian missionaries who were wandering those parts; the bonzes called this action the “pearl” of his reign.

What he lacked was a war. On a more or less diplomatic pretext, Kalaphangko attacked a neighboring kingdom, in what was the shortest and most glorious campaign of the century. On his return to Bangkok, he was greeted with splendid celebrations. Three hundred boats decorated with blue and scarlet silk went out to receive him. On the prow of each boat stood a golden dragon or swan, and all the boats were crewed by the city’s finest inhabitants. Music and cheering filled the air. At night, when the festivities had ended, his beautiful concubine whispered in his ear:

“My young warrior, repay me for the pangs of longing that I felt in your absence; tell me that the greatest of celebrations is your sweet Kinnara.”

Kalaphangko responded with a kiss.

“Your lips have the chill of death or disdain on them,” she sighed.

It was true; the king was distracted and preoccupied, for he was plotting a tragedy. It was getting close to the time when they should return to their own bodies, and he was thinking of escaping that clause in their agreement by killing his beautiful concubine. He hesitated because he did not know if he, too, would suffer upon her death, given that it was his body, or even if he would have to succumb with her. Such were Kalaphangko’s thoughts. But the idea of death cast a shadow over his brow, while, imitating the Borgias, he clutched to his breast a little vial of poison.

Suddenly he remembered the learned academy; he could consult it, not directly, but hypothetically. He summoned the academicians; they all came except their president, the illustrious U-Tong, who was ill. There were thirteen of them; they prostrated themselves and, in the Siamese manner, said:

“Mere despicable straws that we are, we hasten to answer the call of Kalaphangko.”

“Arise,” said the king benevolently.

“No, the place for dust is underfoot,” they insisted, their knees and elbows on the ground.

“Then I will be the wind that lifts up the dust,” replied Kalaphangko, and, with a gracious, tolerant gesture, he stretched out his hands to them.