Ohí! The King, The King,
Challenge I bring
Ohí! The King--the----
The last word never came. In her effort to rise she overbalanced and slipped in a huddled heap at Akbar's feet.
He stood quite still. He knew that she was dead; that nothing but worthless clay lay there; the deathless spirit--the dreamer that never dies--had fled--whitherward? His way, surely!
So as he stood, he felt Kingship rise in him, as he had never--no not even he the prince of dreamers--felt it before.
Ohí! The King the King!
He stooped, gathered the dead thing in his arms, and laid it on the low throne. He did not even kiss the dead face, though the scent of roses clung round her. For an instant he felt inclined to take the gift of the Wayfarer from her as a remembrance. Then he remembered himself.
Such things might be for Jalâl-ud-din the man. He was the King. She should take Love with her.
Outside the bugle notes were echoing each other merrily through the camp. All things were astir with the dawn.
And he, the King was needed elsewhere. He called, and a servant entered.
"Lo! I have killed the woman," he said pointing to the divan briefly. "Give her fit burning, at once, ere the sun rise. She is suttee--she hath died for a man."