It was only a verse from Hafiz.
Each man has his gift; to one a cup of wine, to another the heart's blood; so ask not life from the picture on the wall.
The man of wit, of intelligence beyond most, stood looking at the picture in silence. Then he bent to pick up a scrap of crushed paper which lay before it.
As he smoothed it out his face was a study in distaste which grew to quick sympathy as he read. It contained but a few words from Sa'adi:
Wide is the space 'twixt him who clasps his love
And he who watches for her door to move.
And below this in flowing curves:
"Watch no longer, cripple! Gulamâr hath consolation if 'tis needed."
Birbal crushed it in his hand again and walking straight to the corbeilled balcony looked out. In the dawn light a confused, dark bundle as of clothes lay on the angled steps of the Arch of Victory. The distaste vanished from Birbal's face. He stood looking down, infinite pity in his eyes, as he quoted softly:
Yea! He who made me from the clay
And set my soul within it and alway.
Pities and pardons, and enfolds me ever
In His beneficence. Shall I not lay
My heart back in His Hand?
"He--he hath killed himself," cried William Leedes, who had followed to look also.