“Here, then.”
“On.”
“Now?”
“Yes—there lies the bird. But tell me,” said Yoo-ti-hu, with a boldness that surprised the Grand Nazir, “dost thou certainly mean to carry my head to the king?”
“God is great,” quoth Tally-yang-sang.
“And Mahommed is his Prophet!” added Yoo-ti-hu; with which he started up such a tune on his lute, as caused the venerable chamberlain to skip and dance like one possessed of the devil.
“The spirit of Ebris seize thee!” roared Tally-yang-sang, capering about among the bushes, and leaving a strip of skin on every thorn, “the devil take thee for a musician!” and on he skipped and danced till the tears ran down his cheeks—the blood streamed from his jagged and scarified limbs—and his capacious breeches were completely torn from his legs. Yoo-ti-hu continued the music with unabated ardor. Tally-yang-sang forgot his orisons and paternosters; and up and down—left hand and right hand—ladies chain—balancee—reel—jig—and Spanish waltz, danced the bare-legged amateur, roaring with pain, and uttering horrible imprecations.
“God is great?” quoth Yoo-ti-hu.
“His curse be on thee!” roared Tally-yang-sang.
“Music hath charms,” said Yoo-ti-hu.