Tell me with what thy thoughts are concerned. I
would fain know, and thy face has told me nothing."
Nehal Singh let the curtain fall back into its place, and the yellow patch
of sunshine upon the marble faded. He looked at his companion steadfastly,
but with eyes that saw nothing.
"My thoughts!" he repeated, in a low, musical voice. "My thoughts are
valueless. They are like caged birds which have beaten their wings against
the bars of their cage and now sit on their golden perches and dream of
the world beyond." He laughed gently. "No, my father. You, who have seen
the world, would mock at them as dim, unreal reflections of a reality
which you have touched and handled. For me they are beautiful enough."
The old man lifted himself on his elbow.
"Thinkest thou never of thyself?" he asked. "In thy dreams hast thou never
seen thine own form rise at the call of thy waiting people?"
"My waiting people!" Nehal Singh repeated, with a smile and a faint
lifting of the eyebrows. "No people wait for me, my father. So much I have
learned. I bear a title, a tract of land acknowledges my rule--but a
people! No, like my title, like my power, like myself, so is the people
that thou sayest await me--a dream, my father, a dream!" He spoke gravely,
without sadness, the same gentle, wistful smile playing about his lips.
The other sank back with a groan.
"The All-Highest pity me!" he exclaimed bitterly.
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