“O impeccable Tisroc，” said the Vizier. “In comparison with you I love neither the Prince nor my own life nor bread nor water nor the light of the sun.”
“Your sentiments，” said the Tisroc， “are elevated and correct. I also love none of these things in comparison with the glory and strength of my throne. If the Prince succeeds， we have Archenland， and perhaps hereafter Narnia. If he fails.I have eighteen other sons and Rabadash， after the manner of the eldest sons of kings， was beginning to be dangerous. More than five Tisrocs in Tashbaan have diedbefore their time because their eldest sons， enlightened princes， grew tired of waiting for their throne. He had better cool his blood abroad than boil it in inaction here. And now， O excellent Vizier， the excess of my paternal anxiety inclines me to sleep. Command the musicians to my chamber. But before you lie down， call back the pardon we wrote for the third cook. I feel within me the manifest prognostics of indigestion.”
