the mouth of Nathan? It is her fault that she does not perform the last service for David the King.”
“She is old. She is burdened with years and illness,” objected Semej.
“Hush! The King moves,” whispered Banahash.
“No—it was just a rustling noise in the outer hall. Slaves are bringing the warming pans, and the coals.”
Seven negroes in short, red tunics entered. They bore bronze pans filled with glowing coals, which shone like the sweet star, Sahil, when it first pierces the mist of evening and looks down upon a sleeping world. They placed two pans at the foot of the king, two at the head, and one on either side. They sprinkled myrrh and powdered incense upon the coals, and disappeared as softly as phantoms. The seven glowing pans lighted the dim room and sent up a blueish smoke that filled the air with fragrance. The pale face of the king looked paler. The four men who sat and watched him sank lower their heads upon their breasts.
To the warmth of the summer night was added the heat of the steaming pans. Beads of sweat stood out upon the brows of the watching men, and dotted like pearls their long, black beards.
The door opened. A man of giant body stood upon the threshold. His hair and beard were unkempt. They knew neither oil nor comb. His caftan was girdled with a rope. His knotty, muscular feet were covered with dust. His naked breast was weather stained and looked like the trunk of a gnarled fig tree.
