There was no answer, and on the silence the Sufi's voice rose quiet, but compelling.
"Oh! Self-behind-the-Self, speak! What of the future? Is Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar there, as King?"
There was no pause; the reply rang immediate, resonant.
"He is not there and yet his work remains, to run, a glittering warp among the woof. See! how the westering sun turns all to gold--gilt that is pinchbeck of all baser metals.
"The land is thick with little crooked lines, but Akbar's roads were measured straight to give an evening rest to tired travellers. He is not there, but I--who lived in him--I linger still in Justice, Mercy, Truth. Sons of his soul are these, sons of his love, not of his mortal body--Oh! Salîm! Salîm----!"
The pause was eloquent of sudden personal distress, the clear dreaming eyes clouded and there was silence. Then hurriedly, disconnectedly, the voice took up its tale.
"What was the thought which racked me to the soul? Something I have forgotten utterly."
So once more came silence while those two watchers waited.
"Hush!" whispered the Wayfarer, signing back the fresh questioning which trembled on Birbal's lips, "he speaks again!"
The King's head had drooped as if to deeper sleep, for his voice lost its resonance and seemed to come from very far away.