name Narayan, and wove each letter of it through the web of his verses
in all mariner of combinations, took away the breath of his amazed
hearers.

For some minutes after he took his seat his voice continued to vibrate
among the numberless pillars of the king's court and in thousands of
speechless hearts. The learned professors who had come from distant
lands raised their right hands, and cried, Bravo !

The king threw a glance on Shekhar's face, and Shekhar in answer raised
for a moment his eyes full of pain towards his master, and then stood up
like a stricken deer at bay. His face was pale, his bashfulness was
almost that of a woman, his slight youthful figure, delicate in its
outline, seemed like a tensely strung vina ready to break out in music
at the least touch.

His head was bent, his voice was low, when he began. The first few
verses were almost inaudible. Then he slowly raised his head, and his
clear sweet voice rose into the sky like a quivering flame of fire. He
began with the ancient legend of the kingly line lost in the haze of
the past, and brought it down through its long course of heroism and
matchless generosity to the present age. He fixed his gaze on the
king's face, and all the vast and unexpressed love of the people for the
royal house rose like incense in his song, and enwreathed the throne on
all sides. These were his last words when, trembling, he took his seat:
"My master, I may be beaten in play of words, but not in my love for
thee,"

Tears filled the eyes of the hearers, and the stone walls shook with
cries of victory.