Not a sword or a dagger. No! He knew what they held and with a wild hope of pardon, his strained eyes sought, beyond these nearer things, the semicircle of faces before which he stood. The moonbeams showed them clear yet blurred. How like himself they were, these chieftains of the Barlâs clan! And whence had they come? From the grave surely, some of them, or were they only simulacra? Was it indeed the race which sate in judgment on him? The race; and so himself. Ah! in that case what hope--what chance of life had he, Dalîl?
And then suddenly there leaped to clearness the figure which centred the wide semicircle of dim countenances.
It was dressed in regal robes, it wore the emeralds of Sinde, and there was no mistaking the face which stared at him with cold implacable justice.
"Payandâr!" he gasped--"hast come back from the dead to kill me?"
"From a life that has been a death I come to judgment," was the reply. "Chiefs of the Barlâs clan, assembled for this high purpose, listen! Listen to the record of this man's iniquities and say if the cup be full."
It was a long record, yet Dalîl's memory gave assent to all, and as each crime was counted a surging murmur of acquiescence came from those listening faces. It seemed to deaden the miserable man's senses, for after a time he forgot all things but that one accusing figure in its royal robes, and the hard, cold, accusing voice.
"It is but eight," he muttered hoarsely, "no Tarkhân can be condemned by eight----"
"Listen O Chief of the Barlâs clan," interrupted the accuser, "to the ninth crime. Yestermorn he did of vile licence kill with his lustful kiss----"
Khodadâd essayed a mocking laugh.
"With a kiss? What then? Lucky for any maiden to be so honoured by a Tarkhân; so much the more lucky for such a devil's mash of deformity."