Isori looked at her bibulous-faced and purple-nosed consort with a mocking yet indulgent curl of her proud lip, as he bent humbly before her. Then she said, in a rich, clear voice—
“Hast thou composed many couplets during our absence, Sotu? I can perceive that thou hast partaken of many cups.”
“Immortal one, I have not been idle,” answered the poor king, fumbling nervously in the breast of his robe, and wisely ignoring the latter portion of this wifely greeting. He produced a roll of papyrus. “I have here a powerful epic to read to you, which I composed in honour of your victory, O brave Isori.”
“Ah! that is sweet. Keep it till after supper, when thou wilt be in thy best form.”
“But, gracious and great one, I hoped to read it here, before our people.”
“Ride thou at my side, Sotu, King of Karnadama, and give that roll to one of the servants,” she said, with chilling coldness.
Sotu sighed deeply, but yielded, and together the badly assorted pair went between the sphinxes.
About two hours later Ned and his followers were commanded to appear in the presence. It was a trying ordeal, but our heroes braced up their courage, and stalked through the crowd of courtiers and warriors with erect heads and bulging chests. They were no slavish male Karnadamains, and they meant to show what men ought to look like; what Britishers are in every land under the sun, except the Transvaal.
It was a much more extensive reception-hall than the dining chamber, vast although that was.
Four lines of columns with lotus capitals supported the flat roof. The walls were richly covered with varied coloured enamels and plated gold; the floor was of highly polished marble or granite of different tints wrought in subtle patterns of mosaic. It was a noble throne-room, the vast proportions of which dwarfed the humanity that it was meant to hold.