And she told how the King-eagle, hanging motionless over the
peaks of Gaurisankar, watches with golden eyes for his prey, and
falling like a plummet strikes its life out with his clawed heel
and, screaming with triumph, bears it to his fierce mate in her
cranny of the rocks.
"A gallant story!" the King would say. "More!" Then she told of
the tropical heats and the stealthy deadly creatures of forest
and jungle, and the blue lotus of Buddha swaying on the still
lagoon,- And she spoke of loves of men and women, their passion
and pain and joy. And when she told of their fidelity and valour
and honour that death cannot quench, her voice was like the song
of a minstrel, for she had read all the stories of the ages and
the heart of a Princess told her the rest. And the King listened
unwearying though he believed this was but a slave.
(The face of the man at the feet of the Dweller in the Heights
twitched in a white agony. Pearls of sweat were distilled upon
his brows, but he moved neither hand nor foot, enduring as in a
flame of fire. And the voice continued.)
So one day, in the misty green of the Spring, while she rested at
his feet in the garden Pavilion, he said to her:
"Little slave, why do you love me?"
And she answered proudly:
"Because you have the heart of a King.
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