Amal. I can't say; but it's quite clear to me. I fancy I've seen it often in days long gone by. How long ago I can't tell.
Do you know when? I can see it all: there, the King's postman coming down the hillside alone, a lantern in his left hand and on his back a bag of letters climbing down for ever so long, for days and nights, and where at the foot of the mountain the waterfall becomes a stream he takes to the footpath on the bank and walks on through the rye; then comes the sugarcane field and he disappears into the narrow lane cutting through the tall stems of sugarcanes; then he reaches the open meadow where the cricket chirps and where there is not a single man to be seen, only the snipe wagging their tails and poking at the mud with their bills. I can feel him coming nearer and nearer and my heart becomes glad.
Gaffer. My eyes aren't young; but you make me see all the same.
Amal. Say, Fakir, do you know the King who has this Post Office?
Gaffer. I do; I go to him for my alms every day.
Amal. Good! When I get well, I must have my alms too from him, mayn't I?
Gaffer. You won't need to ask, my dear, he'll give it to you of his own accord.
Amal. No, I would go to his gate and cry, "Victory to thee, O King!" and dancing to the tabor's sound, ask for alms. Won't it be nice?
Gaffer. It would be splendid, and if you're with me, I shall have my full share. But what'll you ask?
Amal. I shall say, "Make me your postman, that I may go about lantern in hand, delivering your letters from door to door. Don't let me stay at home all day!"