Chapter 18

Voldi’s eyes were blind with tears. Unable to speak, he nodded.

‘But—she could not do it,’ whispered Mishma, between laboured breaths; and when Voldi had shaken his head, the old man drew a satisfied sigh, and murmured, ‘That is good.’

There was a long interval of silence, after which the fading voice asked, ‘Is she with you?’

‘No, sire,’ said Voldi regretfully.

‘But—you will bring her home—to Arabia,’ entreated Mishma.

‘I hope to, sire, when I have completed the work she tried to do—for our country.’

Old Mishma slowly nodded his approval and lapsed into sleep. Zendi had drawn closer, during this difficult conversation. Voldi, suddenly aware of the King’s nearness, got to his feet—and saluted.

Bending over the bed, and raising his voice so that it startled the silent watchers, Zendi called:

‘Mishma! Open your eyes, Mishma! Harken! Have you a final request to make of your King? Speak, Mishma!’

The dying statesman tugged himself back to partial consciousness, clumsily moistened his dry lips, and whispered: ‘Voldi.’

The weary old head slowly sank. There was an ineffectual reaching of the lips for one more breath. Mishma was dead.

Turning about to face the company, Zendi drew himself up to his full height, and announced: ‘I hereby appoint Voldi to fill the vacancy in the King’s Council!’