"His own daughter," rang out the charge, harder, colder, crueller. "His daughter by the Rosebud of Love which he dishonoured. His daughter whom he called into being without cause, when he defiled her mother!"
Ah! now he knew! now he understood why--the thought came to Dalîl even as he fought blindly against it.
"Thou liest!" he murmured thickly. "She was Payandâr's spawn. He----"
"He is the accuser," returned the voice calmly, "and by his right of Tarkhân he swears it before the Last Assize. Speak, chiefs of the Barlâs clan, doth this man deserve sentence?"
Once again that surging assent mingled with the rolling of kettledrums, filled Dalîl's ears; but through it he heard the words:
"Executioners! open the veins of his neck and let the Barlâs blood go free of his vile body. Let him bleed to death while I, the king, mourn the spilling of good Barlâs blood."
Then from all around seemed to arise a low wailing, backed still by that quivering roll of the kettledrums. The veiled figures rose slowly; a blackness rose also obliterating all save awful fear. Ah! he knew what was coming! He knew. Was that the keen prick of a long lancet at his throat? Was that a warm stream trickling, trickling?
Oh! ye gods and devils! it was time to wake!
"Ohí my son! Ohí my brother!" The long-drawn wail rose louder and louder!
Wake! Wake! Wake! What a hideous dream it was. She was not--she could not be his----