He had been brought back to his palace at mid-day, and now the evening was drawing on. The golden light of the westering sun stole in through perforated marble lattices, and lay in patches on the white pavement, and made the water that flowed tinkling through, a trough in the centre of the apartment shine like rubies and sapphires. The Arabian carpet on which, propped up with cushions, the rajah lay, had been drawn by his request close to this trough, and his long brown fingers played aimlessly with the water. As he lay, his lower limbs covered with shawls of the richest Oriental workmanship, and the upper part of his body wrapped in a padded cloak of silk embroideries, exhausted as he was with suffering, the peculiar dignity and beauty of his appearance must have struck anyone who saw him for the first time. It was a grand face, finely wrought, noble in form and expression. Those who looked upon it loved it. The jewelled turban, which he was never more to wear, lay beside the rajah on his pillow, and close at hand was a lacquered tray, containing a gold cup, an alabaster casket, and a silver bell. The words given above, only a few out of many, were spoken aloud. The effort of thinking was too great for the strength so swiftly ebbing away. Smiling sadly, the rajah put out his hand for the gold cup. He reached it, but he could not raise it to his lips, whereupon he touched the silver bell. While the sound was still vibrating through the air, one of the many dusky forms that were thronging the doorway stood before him. 'Hoosanee,' he said, 'call Chunder Singh.' Swift and silent as the shadow that sweeps across a ripe corn-field were the feet of the servant. But he had not far to go. In less than a minute a man, slender, but of commanding stature, dressed in snowy white, and wearing a red turban, stood, with head humbly bowed and eyes so dim with tears that he could scarcely see, before the rajah. 'My master wants me at last,' he said, an accent of reproach in his voice. 'I am tired. Give me to drink,' said the rajah. Chunder Singh raised his head and put the golden cup to his lips. He drank, and the death-like languor left his eyes. 'That is enough. I am stronger,' he said. 'I would it were the elixir of life,' murmured Chunder Singh, who was weeping bitterly. 'Your words bring back the past,' said the rajah, his lips parting in a sad smile. 'The Elixir of Life! Long ago, when we were boys together, how diligently we sought for it, Chunder, poring over the ancient Arabic manuscripts! We were to drink of it and live, age after age, age after age. We were to bring our grey experience to the use and service of the nations. We were to mould a new world, where righteousness would be the law and happiness--happiness, instead of misery--the common lot.' He paused. 'Dreams!' said Chunder Singh. 'Yet I wish now that they might return.'