"Sit thou here then, by Smagdarite," continued Birbal, recovering from his laugh, "and drum from a distance, lest thou be utterly damned for deserting honourable company. Hark! she begins!"
Âtma had by this time sunk to the ground beside the King. Her flimsy scarlet skirts curved about her like overblown poppy petals. Her dark eyes, full of fire, were fixed on the unconscious figure so close beside her, and, under the slow circling of her lissome forefinger the little drum held in her left hand was beginning to give out an indescribably mysterious sound like the first faint sobbing of air before an organ pipe breaks into a note.
From the distance, almost unheard, came the muffled throbbing of old Deena's drum, and the thin thread of the rebeck, light yet insistent like a summer gnat; both kept to the same stern delicacy of rhythm.
The singer's voice, high and clear, rose on it almost aggressively--
Hark! and hist!
To the list
Of the kings who have died
In their pride,
To the wide,
wide,
world.
MÎRUN-KHÂN!
Lo! He dreamt he was King!
But he died
In his pride
To the wide,
wide,
world.
SO HIS SON SULÎMÂN