"Wah, wah! Shabash!" cried Peer Khan and I, when it was ended; "this is rare fortune to hear two such skilful musicians in this unsainted jungle. Now it is your turn, Khan Sahib."
"More wine, Meer Sahib, 'Saqi mera!' more wine, for the sake of the Twelve Imams. Oh that there were a thousand bottles, that we could meet as we have done now every night! Good wine and good companions—have they not been ever the burthen of the songs of the poets?"
"Is there much left?" he continued, when he had drained the cup.
"About half the bottle," said I.
"Then give Motee a cup, Meer Sahib: he deserves it."
"Excuse me," said Motee, "but I am a Hindoo and a Brahmin."
"Thou shouldst have been a true believer, Motee; Khan would sound as well after thy name as Ram. Why, man, our blessed Prophet would have had thee to sing to him when thou hadst reached Paradise!"
Ghuffoor Khan's voice was now rather thick, and he made but a poor hand of the ghuzul he attempted; but it was very laughable to see him roll his eyes from side to side, like a dancing-girl, and to hear him trying to imitate their quavers and shakes. "Pah!" cried he, when he had sung a verse, "my throat is dry; I want more wine, I think, Meer Sahib; but the truth is, I caught a cold some days ago, and am still hoarse."
He tried again, after a fresh draught, but with no better success. In vain he coughed and hemmed to clear his throat; the wine, and the still better opium, were doing their work as quickly as we could desire.
"Do you sing again, Motee,—meree Motee! meree Goweya!" said the Khan insinuatingly. "A curse on the water of this country, which spoils a man's singing. Sing, man, and I will play; it cannot spoil that, at any rate; and the Meer Sahib hath provided an antidote for this night at least."