“I solemnly beseech your mightiness to take my word,” groaned Tally-yang-sang, eyeing the lute with horror,—“Do, Great King of Gazaret! and the blessings of heaven be on thee!”
“Nay,” cried the king, “we must have a fair and impartial investigation. Yoo-ti-hu, thou art commanded on pain of loosing thy head to strike us a tune on thy lute!”
“For God’s sake,” implored the grand nazir, “since ye must hear it, I pray and beseech ye to bind me to a post.”
Exactly in the middle of the court stood a post, ornamented with divers beautiful designs, carved in wood and in gold; and to this was the chamberlain firmly tied.
“Truth is mighty,” quoth the king, “and will out. So proceed Yoo-ti-hu, in the name of God and Mahommed, his Prophet!”
Yoo-ti-hu forthwith struck up his liveliest air; and lords, rajas, and moguls; sages, philosophers and mamelukes; officers of the guard, sicaries and mandarins; slaves, young and lovely, and old and ugly; disciples of Mahommed; priests, friars, saints and heretics; pages, trainbearers, and virgins of incense—sprang to their feet and danced hither and thither—hornpipe, jig and merry reel—in such glee and confusion as were never heard of before or since. The venerable writer had leaped from the desk—the decrepit Pokatoka from his throne; the sharp-featured old queen from her chair of dignity and joined in the general melee. But the groans of the gouty—the blasphemies of the pious—the laughter of the young—and the remonstrances of the sage, were all drowned in the lusty roars of Tally-yang-sang, who cruelly bruised his head against the post in trying to beat time—tore the live flesh from his back so eager was he to dance—and uttered a horrid imprecation at every ornament on the post.
“Yoo-ti-hu! Yoo-ti-hu!” cried the breathless Pokatoka.
“Yoo-ti-hu!” screamed the dancing queen.
“Yoo-ti-hu! Yoo-ti-hu!” was echoed and re-echoed around by the nobles and courtiers; and to and fro they skipped, as Yoo-ti-hu plied his merriest tunes—the floor groaning—the perspiration streaming from their cheeks; and their breath failing at every jump.
“Dear, pleasant, Yoo-ti-hu,” cried the king, in the heat of a Spanish jig, “I do beseech thee to stop.”