bag embroidered with silver thread; and
shook therefrom on to my table—the dried,
withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning
sun that had long been paling the lamps
struck the red beard and blind sunken eyes;
struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded
with raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed
tenderly on the battered temples.

“You behold now,” said Carnehan, “the
Emperor in his habit as he lived—the King
of Kafiristan with his crown upon his
head. Poor old Daniel that was a monarch
once!”

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements
manifold, I recognized the head of the man
of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go.
I attempted to stop him. He was not fit to
walk abroad. “Let me take away the whiskey,
and give me a little money,” he gasped.
“I was a King once. I’ll go to the Deputy
Commissioner and ask to set in the Poor-house
till I get my health. No, thank you,
I can’t wait till you get a carriage for me.
I’ve urgent private affairs—in the south—at
Marwar.”

He shambled out of the office and departed
in the direction of the Deputy Commissioner’s