The morrow, at the self-same hour,
       In the King’s path, behold, the man,
     Not kneeling, sternly fixed! he stood
       Right opposite, and thus began,

     Frowning grim down:—­“Thou wicked King,
       Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear! 
     What, must I howl in the next world,
       Because thou wilt not listen here?

     “What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace,
       And all grace shall to me be grudged? 
     Nay, but I swear, from this thy path
       I will not stir till I be judged!”

     Then they who stood about the King
       Drew close together and conferred;
     Till that the King stood forth and said,
       “Before the priests thou shalt be heard.”

     But when the Ulemas were met,
       And the thing heard, they doubted not;
     But sentenced him, as the law is,
       To die by stoning on the spot.

     Now the King charged us secretly:—­
       “Stoned must he be, the law stands so. 
     Yet, if he seek to fly, give way;
       Hinder him not, but let him go.”

     So saying, the King took a stone,
       And cast it softly;—­but the man,
     With a great joy upon his face,
       Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran.

     So they, whose lot it was, cast stones,
       That they flew thick and bruised him sore,
     But he praised Allah with loud voice,
       And remained kneeling as before.

     My lord had covered up his face;
       But when one told him, “He is dead,”
     Turning him quickly to go in,—­
       “Bring thou to me his corpse,” he said.

And truly while I speak, O King,
I hear the bearers on the stair;
Wilt thou they straightway bring him in? 
—­Ho! enter ye who tarry there!

THE VIZIER

O King, in this I praise thee not. 
Now must I call thy grief not wise,
Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,
To find such favor in thine eyes?

Nay, were he thine own mother’s son,
Still, thou art king, and the law stands. 
It were not meet the balance swerved,
The sword were broken in thy hands.

     But being nothing, as he is,
       Why for no cause make sad thy face?—­
     Lo, I am old!  Three kings, ere thee,
       Have I seen reigning in this place.

     But who, through all this length of time,
       Could bear the burden of his years,
     If he for strangers pained his heart
       Not less than those who merit tears?

     Fathers we must have, wife and child,
       And grievous is the grief for these;
     This pain alone, which must be borne,
       Makes the head white, and bows the knees.

     But other loads than this his own
       One man is not well made to bear. 
     Besides, to each are his own friends,
       To mourn with him, and show him care.