“It is of no use to ask you anything,” I cried pettishly. “Yes, it is; you can tell me this—what is your name?”
“Salaman, my lord,” he replied, with a smile.
“Humph!” I said sourly, for I was getting into an invalid’s tetchy, weary state. “Salaman! why couldn’t they call you Solomon? That’s the proper way to pronounce it.”
“My lord can call me Solomon,” he said quietly.
“Of course I can,” I said, “and I will. Then look here, Solomon, did you bury that great snake?”
“Yes, my lord, as soon as it was light, and the others found and killed its mate. They are now dead, and covered with the earth.”
“That’s right. No fear of their getting out?” I added, as I remembered my dream.
He laughed and shook his head.
“Tell me this too; the rajah, will he be here to-day?”
“Who can say, my lord? His highness is master, and he goes and comes as he pleases. Perhaps he will come, perhaps he will not. I never know.”