“Nay,—I have sworn on my beard to save it.”
“Generous Tally-yang-sang!” cried Pokatoka, “thou art too lenient of offence. Nevertheless, Yoo-ti-hu shall be punished.”
“Certainly,” said Tally-yang-sang, “it was my design to have him decently flayed to death.”
“Which shall be done,” quoth the king, “if thou provest the offence.”
Without further delay the bare-legged and excoriated Tally-yang-sang led the way to the palace; and caliphs, rajas, moguls and lords of Gazaret, followed admiringly in the rear.
V. The Trial and its Effects.
The grand council-chamber of the palace was presently crowded with courtiers, officers of the guard, sicaries, mandarins, and pashas,—at the head of whom, seated by his queen, and attended by a magnificent suite of pages sat Pokatoka, King of Gazaret. At a desk, immediately under the throne, sat a venerable Arabian writer, versed in hieroglyphics, and ready to take the minutes of the whole proceedings. Ranged around, stood a number of beautiful Circassians, Georgians, Nubians, and Abyssinians—slaves and witnesses from the king’s harem; but the diamond of these gems was Omanea, arraigned on charge of having unlawfully bestowed her heart on Yoo-ti-hu. The fact is, Tally-yang-sang was determined that the lovers should both be condemned, and had thus prepared matters for the prosecution. In order to establish the truth of his charge, he remained—much to the edification of the young slaves by whom he was surrounded—in the same plight in which the king had met him.
“Quintessence of piety and disciple of wisdom,” said the king, “proceed with thy charge.”
“Know then, courtiers, rajas, mandarins and officers of the guard,” quoth Tally-yang-sang, “that Yoo-ti-hu hath stolen the heart of Omanea, and that his highness, the king, commanded me to rid the offender of his head. This very evening I roamed in the royal gardens, meditating on the most agreeable plans of decapitation, when I espied the wicked Yoo-ti-hu. Having lured me into a horrid bush, he struck up a tune on his lute—the infernal strains of which caused me to dance till I was fairly torn to shreds—as you all may perceive. Then—”
“Stop there!” cried Pokatoka, “this story of the lute must be established ere you proceed farther.”