Babar bent his keen eyes hastily on the flickering lights. Aye, the Heft-Aurang--the Seven thrones! The thought took him back with a rush to Baisanghâr, dead these twenty years; from him, memory fled to Gharîb and the Crystal-Bowl-of-Life. He carried the copy Mahâm had given him in his bosom always, though he seldom used it. It was too small for wine! But some day--aye!--some day soon--he would keep his promise to himself and forswear drinking.
"Yea!" remarked Ali-Jân, not to be outdone, "and yonder to the right are the Brothers."
"And look you to the left, the Warrior," stuttered Abul-Majîd. "His sword is somewhat crooked."
"'Tis thine eyes are askew," laughed Shaikh-Zîn. "Thou never hadst a head worth a spoonful of decent Shirâz."
So in laughter, and quips, and cranks, the merriment waxed. They could most of them string verses after a fashion, and some of them began reciting their latest efforts. The climax being reached when Ali-Jân gravely gave a well-known couplet as his own!
"When lovers think, their thoughts are not their own,
But each to each Love's communings have flown."
"Hold thy peace, pirate!" came Babar's full joyous voice. "That is Mahomed Shaikh. Thou couldst not write such an one for thy life."
Ali-Jân, who was already far gone, waggled his head. "Lo!" he said with a hiccup, "I could do--doz-shens!"
"And I." "And I," chorused others militantly, for the spirits were rising fast.
"So be it!" cried Babar, as ever the most sober of the party. "Let us all try and parody it extempore! Now then, Ali-Jân--'tis thy turn first. Rise and out with it instanter!"