CHAPTER X.
Surely, thou dost not expect strangers to pay for thy books. And, surely, thou wouldst not ask thy friends to buy them. Seek some other way of achieving wealth through letters. And let me know if thou findest it.—The Pauper Poet.
Right royal was the welcome given to the caravan and its illustrious passengers on reaching the suburbs of the capital of Nhulpar. Imposing ranks of soldiery, horse and foot, lined both sides of the broad road for at least five miles without the gates. On entering the city, they found the streets carpeted with roses, hung on both sides with gorgeous banners, and canopied with evergreen arches spangled with flowers of every hue.
Before coming into the presence of the king, they were treated to a rare feast of intellect. First, a chorus of ten thousand school-children, attired in white, sang a hymn of welcome, consisting of three hundred and forty stanzas, each replete with a tender thought or dainty conceit. Then followed an address from the chief men of the city, setting forth at much length the ancient friendship existing between the two nations,—a friendship which was now about to be cemented more firmly than ever. With great felicity and originality of thought the speaker pointed out that the people of Ubikwi and the people of Nhulpar were of the same origin, speaking the same language, that of Omar and Abdullah. “We must be friends,” he said, “for the sake of our common blood, our common language, and the common Koran which teaches us all. A quarrel between two such peoples would be a crime against humanity.”
If the speaker overlooked the fact that such crimes had been committed once or twice already, with the enthusiastic consent of both parties, that was neither here nor there. The sentence was well turned, and that is enough to expect of a state oration.
Kayenna and her suite, most of them being mutes, listened with rare courtesy and patience to the addresses which followed; but Shacabac, who had not yet broken his fast,—and it was now high noon,—was visibly and audibly wearied by the ceremonies, and devoted one hundred and sixty-three pages of his inimitable diary to a scathing denunciation of the vice of prolixity.
There were addresses from
The Incorporated Association of Muezzins;
The Imaum Brotherhood;
The Dancing Dervishes, who spoke as well as danced;
The Santon Society;
The Ancient Order of Arabian Knights, one thousand and one strong, each in turn relating a sprightly anecdote;
The Brethren of Backsheesh, numerous and influential;
The Camel Drivers’ Association;
The Fraternity of Water Carriers;
Thirty-two ex-presidents of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, seated in a beautiful chariot drawn by a cream-white pony;
Citizens generally.
Following these came interesting songs and recitations by local talent, all encored. Nor was the impatience of Shacabac relieved when a portly personage in spectacles was introduced by the presiding officer as “the far-famed and immortal Ben Haround, the Pauper Poet.”
“Truly, a tautological title,” murmured the Sage, as the bard, stepping forward, proceeded to unroll many lengths of an ode written for the occasion, or for any occasion, and respectfully dedicated to the illustrious Prince of Ubikwi. The verses, unfortunately, have not been preserved, notwithstanding that the Poet presented to Kayenna a copy beautifully woven in silk, and distributed among the throng several thousand other copies printed on a cheaper material. Ben Haround’s works had a large circulation during his lifetime; but his zeal in disseminating those gems of poesy kept him constantly poor, whence came his title of the Pauper Poet, to distinguish him from the opulent bards of other lands.
This being the first visit of the Ubikwians to Nhulpar, several youths in brazen armor, bearing tablets and writing instruments, pressed forward at this point, and, respectfully accosting the strangers, begged to be informed regarding their “impressions of the country.”
Happily, at this juncture, the King himself rode up, and averted an international quarrel by ordering the indiscreet youths to be immersed in a caldron of brine for the next twenty-four hours. Then, courteously welcoming his guests, he gave order that the feast should be spread.
The King of Nhulpar sat at the head of the banquet table. On his left sat Kayenna; beside her the lovely daughter of the King, and at her side the child whom all believed to be the son of Muley Mustapha. Shacabac was awarded a place on the opposite side of the table, next to the favorite spouse of Nhulpar, the mother of the intended bride. Women are not commonly admitted to share in the feasts of state; but exception had to be made in the case of Kayenna, and the others were allowed to keep her countenance,—a provision entirely unnecessary with her.
Shacabac vainly endeavored to catch her eye and signal a warning, when he perceived, to his dismay, that the Princess of Nhulpar was engaged in animated discourse with the potential cause of all future trouble, the Prince of Ubikwi, who, in truth, bore his assumed honors with becoming gallantry. Never, indeed, had a genuine prince carried himself with more debonair grace.
The illusion was perfect, so that even hardened, old courtiers exchanged furtive winks and nudges, as who should say, “Our coming King hath a merry way with the women, and will not lose his bride for lack of brave wooing!”
Meanwhile Kayenna and the King kept up a gay conversation. The royal mother beamed approval on the young people, and indulged in the original remark to the Sage that “Heaven made and hath matched them,” whereat Shacabac, stifling a groan, smiled a courtier’s smile and murmured assent.
After the feast there were speeches, dignified, gracious, affectionate, and not too brief; but Shacabac had broken his fast, and feared naught that fate might bring until—until it brought the worst,—discovery, discomfiture and ruin.
“The nuptials will be celebrated at sunset,” said Kayenna to him as the wedding dinner ended, and the ladies retired to their apartments to prepare for the great festivities.
“But, Great Allah,” he exclaimed in horror, “do you know what then? Unless something happens, we are lost,—thou, I, the gentle Princess, thy daughter”—
“Have no fear, good Shacabac,” she replied smilingly: “something will happen ere thou knowest it.” Again she smiled, the smile of confidence or of fatuity, he could not tell which, and moved away in the bridal train.
And something did happen,—something not down on the programme of King or Queen, Sage or Soothsayer. As the last of the retinue disappeared behind the hangings, a trumpet-blast was heard without the court, and a messenger, who had evidently ridden in hot haste, was admitted to the royal presence.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bending low, “I bring evil news. There is trouble in Ubikwi. The great Pasha Muley Mustapha is besieged in his palace by a rebel rabble, led by a scurvy Soothsayer, and, unless help be sent to him forthwith, woe to him and his household, and to all the friends of Ubikwi!”
The King of Nhulpar, as we have said, was a warrior who loved the music of battle. The sound of clashing arms was sweet to his ears, and the savor of blood was as fragrance to his nostrils. The call to action came at an opportune moment; for the preparations of the past weeks had been a burden to his soul, which liked not the effeminate adjuncts of matrimony.
“Ha, sayst thou so?” he exclaimed. “Then, by the beard of the Prophet, thy words are welcome. I would fain see how this stripling, my son-in-law and heir to be, can bear himself in the lists of war. He seemeth over-confident in those of love, for one of such stern stuff as the King of Nhulpar should be. Here, slave, go to the apartments of the Prince of Ubikwi, and say to him that the King beseeches his company on a pleasant joust. Bid the wedding guests await our return, which may be anon or later.”
“‘I bring evil news’”
“Allah help our Kayenna now and her bantling!” exclaimed Shacabac to himself, as the warlike preparations went on. “I can but join the cavalcade, though little stomach have I for blows and blood. Nathless, I think that my head will be safer at Ubikwi than before the jaws of this battle-loving king. Verily, the sandal-maker should stick to his sandal-wood, and the man of wisdom to his preaching, leaving to fools the dangerous work of practising the same.”