Amal. I shall ask him to make me one of his postmen that I may wander far and wide, delivering his message from door to door.
Madhav [Slapping his forehead] Alas, is that all?
Amal. What'll be our offerings to the King, Uncle, when he comes?
Herald. He has commanded puffed rice.
Amal. Puffed rice! Say, Headman, you're right. You said so. You knew all we didn't.
Headman. If you send word to my house then I could manage for the King's advent really nice—
Physician. No need at all. Now be quiet all of you. Sleep is coming over him. I'll
sit by his pillow; he's dropping into slumber. Blow out the oil-lamp. Only let the star-light stream in. Hush, he slumbers.
Madhav [Addressing Gaffer] What are you standing there for like a statue, folding your palms.—I am nervous.—Say, are they good omens? Why are they darkening the room? How will star-light help?
Gaffer. Silence, unbeliever.