Finally, Borla nodded his head in satisfaction, and bowed peremptorily before looking up at his Emperor wisely.
"Puffat," rumbled Borla, who had a very deep voice, "is the offspring of a distant but honorable relation on your mother's sister's daughter's cousin's side, thrice—Ahem!; removed, in each instance."
"Ah! 'Thrice', you say? A most noble number," Emperor Euphrates agreed, raising his eyebrows and then frowning over the more meaningful possible aspects of this curious twist of fate.
"Quite so, your Majesty," agreed Borla dryly and noncommittally.
Emperor Euphrates turned to the widows and waved encouragement with an imploring motion of his right hand, using the common bartering gesture of the market place, and imploring them with a partially raised, cupped hand.
"Say on," said Emperor Euphrates, with a brief, commanding nod of royal encouragement.
One called Puffat, said three or four women, who all began to speak at once and in various overweening affectations and mannerisms -the dreary virtues of long-ago beauties, these- had been extremely sick and in pain beyond torment with the gain-green in his leg, when Kadrug had taken over the sluice gates, and slain Rababull with the edge of the sword when he valiantly went forth to battle.
Meanwhile, the women further alleged, Master Rababull's trusted blood-relation, Conabar, had crept to the House gates unawares and mercilessly slain Old Maskron when that unsuspecting worthy came and opened them.
Then the intruders, acting on their leader Conabar's orders, had promptly searched out and summarily executed all of Master Rababull's remaining children in a pathetic blood-bath.
At this, Emperor Euphrates had somewhat testily held up a forestalling hand, and after their jibber-jabber had died away, he said with a frown, "Eh, about one called Puffat…"