With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,"--
And the Thakur answered, "Ay."

He drew and struck: the straight blade drank
The life beneath the breast.

"I had looked for the Queen to face the flame,
But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame--
Sister of mine, pass, free from shame,
Pass with thy King to rest!"

The black log crashed above the white:
The little flames and lean,
Red as slaughter and blue as steel,
That whistled and fluttered from head to heel,
Leaped up anew, for they found their meal
On the heart of--the Boondi Queen!


THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief,
of him is the story told.
His mercy fills the Khyber hills--
his grace is manifold;
He has taken toll of the North and the South--
his glory reacheth far,
And they tell the tale of his charity
from Balkh to Kandahar.