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. "A child of blood and
battle, without energy, without ambition!"

Nehal Singh, who had paced forward to the foot of the throne, turned and
looked back.

"Ambition I have had," he answered, "energy I have had. Like my thoughts,
they have beaten themselves weary against the bars of their cage. What
would you have me do?" He strode back to the door, and, pulling aside the
curtain, let the full dazzling sunshine pour in upon them. "See out
there!" he cried. "Is it not a sight to bring peace to the soul of the
poet and the dreamer? But for the warrior? Can he draw his sword against
flowers and trees?"

The old man smiled coldly, but not without satisfaction.