"May the--Gods pity--us Dreamers--who--dream----"
The old refrain. The first words surely he had heard from her lips. But at least she still lived.
Gathering her in his arms he carried her to the divan; then knelt supporting her on his breast. If she died she should die as a queen--in the King's clasp--upon his throne.
So there was silence.
The dawn was coming fast. It showed in streaks of shimmering gray light between the dark screens.
"Âtma!"
There was no sound.
Then suddenly gay, light-hearted as a bird, a bugle rang out; followed by another, and another.
The dying woman stirred.
"The--the dawn has come!" she whispered to herself. And then, suddenly, as if galvanised to an instant's life, she sate up and the tent rang with her cry.