“They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, because they said he was more of a God than old Daniel that was a man.  Then they turned him out on the snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came home in about a year, begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel Dravot he walked before and said, ’Come along, Peachey.  It’s a big thing we’re doing.’  The mountains they danced at night, and the mountains they tried to fall on Peachey’s head, but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey came along bent double.  He never let go of Dan’s hand, and he never let go of Dan’s head.  They gave it to him as a present in the temple, to remind him not to come again; and though the crown was pure gold and Peachey was starving, never would Peachey sell the same.  You know Dravot, Sir!  You knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot!  Look at him now!”

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a black horsehair 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 be’old now,” said Carnehan, “the Emperor in his ’abit 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 recognised 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 whisky, 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 Poorhouse 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 house.  That day at noon I had occasion to go down the blinding-hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion of street-singers at Home.  There was not a soul in sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the houses.  And he sang through his nose, turning his head from right to left: 

“The Son of Man goes forth to war,
A golden crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar—­
Who follows in His train?”

I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage and drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the Asylum.  He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me, whom he did not in the least recognise, and I left him singing it to the missionary.

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of the Asylum.

“He was admitted suffering from sunstroke.  He died early yesterday morning,” said the Superintendent.  “Is it true that he was half an hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?”