The Arab slave, acting as major-domo, ranged them in the order of their rank, facing the curtained alcove in which lay the body of their ruler.
Then, as silence fell upon the throng, the curtains were drawn and those assembled gazed upon an impressive scene.
Upon a couch covered with costly furs reclined the Khan, his sunken features dimly outlined in the soft light and the jewelled stars upon his breast glinting darkly as his bosom rose and fell. Over him bent the strange physician, administering from a golden cup the draught which it was understood would restore the sick man to intelligence for a brief period. But after a glance at this tableau all eyes were turned to the upright form of a young man standing with folded arms at the head of the couch. He was clad in a magnificent robe of purple satin richly embroidered with pearls, and by his side hung the famous cimeter known to every sirdar as the sword of Keedar Khan, and which had been entrusted by Burah to the priests of the monastery for safe keeping until Prince Ahmed should be called to Mekran.
There was something in the majestic presence of the heir, his haughty bearing and the look of pride in the calm grey eyes that wandered from one to another of the faces confronting him, that sent a thrill through all the assemblage. To some that thrill meant elation, to some fear; but to all it brought a subtle recognition of the fact that here was the heritage of power, that the son of Burah and grandson of Keedar was a man to be promptly obeyed.
The physician, passing an arm under the sick man’s head, supported him to a sitting position, and Burah Khan, after taking his son’s right hand in his own, began speaking to his people slowly and in low, halting accents.
“Here—is Prince—Ahmed, my son and rightful—heir. I, Burah Khan, standing—in the shadow of—death, do acknowledge him to be my—successor—to the throne of Mekran. Sirdars of the—Nine—Mighty Tribes of the—Baluchi, do ye, also, acknowledge him—to be your—Khan and Master—when I am gone?”
So still was the throng that every word of the faltering voice was distinctly heard. As it ceased the nine sirdars drew their swords and cast them at Ahmed’s feet, crying aloud:
“We acknowledge Ahmed to be our Khan, when Allah claims his sire, Burah Khan.”
Answering the shout was a sob and a sudden fall. The spectators drew aside with significant looks as slaves carried the fainting vizier from the chamber. Then all eyes turned again to the alcove.
Burah lay back upon his couch with closed eyes, and Ahmed knelt beside him.