“Verily, great and worthy nazir,” quoth Yoo-ti-hu, “I can show thee pleasanter sport than that. Seest thou yon Bird of Paradise, with plumage more bright than the colors of Iris? Behold, your highness, how I shall shoot him!” Yoo-ti-hu drew his bow—shut his eyes—and let fly an arrow. The bird fell quivering among the bushes. Tally-yang-sang was no less pious than philosophical, and this feat surprised him exceedingly. With curiosity depicted in his countenance, he walked forward to where the bird had fallen. “A little farther,” said Yoo-ti-hu. “Here?” “Still farther.” “Here, then.” “On.” “Now?” “Yes—there lies the bird. But tell me,” said Yoo-ti-hu, with a boldness that surprised the Grand Nazir, “dost thou certainly mean to carry my head to the king?” “God is great,” quoth Tally-yang-sang. “And Mahommed is his Prophet!” added Yoo-ti-hu; with which he started up such a tune on his lute, as caused the venerable chamberlain to skip and dance like one possessed of the devil. “The spirit of Ebris seize thee!” roared Tally-yang-sang, capering about among the bushes, and leaving a strip of skin on every thorn, “the devil take thee for a musician!” and on he skipped and danced till the tears ran down his cheeks—the blood streamed from his jagged and scarified limbs—and his capacious breeches were completely torn from his legs. Yoo-ti-hu continued the music with unabated ardor. Tally-yang-sang forgot his orisons and paternosters; and up and down—left hand and right hand—ladies chain—balancee—reel—jig—and Spanish waltz, danced the bare-legged amateur, roaring with pain, and uttering horrible imprecations. “God is great?” quoth Yoo-ti-hu. “His curse be on thee!” roared Tally-yang-sang. “Music hath charms,” said Yoo-ti-hu. “Exercise is the staff of life,” philosophised Yoo-ti-hu. “Blast it!” shrieked Tally-yang-sang. “Piety is pleasant,” moralised Yoo-ti-hu. “Damnable!” roared Tally-yang-sang. Yoo-ti-hu perceived the vigor departing from the limbs of the Great Nazir, whereupon he struck up a still livelier air. Tally-yang-sang curvetted and pranced—whirled hither and thither his bare spindles, and leaped madly among the thorns. In an agony of pain he cried, “Dear, gentle Yoo-ti-hu,—I beseech thee to stop!” “Verily,” quoth Yoo-ti-hu, “I value my head.” “I shall not harm a hair,” groaned Tally-yang-sang. “Words are cheap,” said Yoo-ti-hu. “But I swear—I solemnly swear!” piteously cried Tally-yang-sang. “By what?” “By the Prophet!” “Nay.” “By God himself!” “Swear by thy beard!” “Never!” “Then dance!” Another good hour did Tally-yang-sang caper about, roar and blaspheme, till cruelly excoriated from head to foot. “Do you swear?” asked Yoo-ti-hu. “I do.” “By that which is sacred?” “By my beard!” In a truly pitiable condition the Grand Nazir limped toward the palace. Yoo-ti-hu followed—admiring the bandy and scarified legs of the great Tally-yang-sang, and muttering benedictions on the genius.