r heads and said, Ah, me!

In the spring songs that the poet sang the praise of the spray of spring
flowers was conspicuously reiterated; and the king winked and smiled at
him when he heard it, and the poet smiled in answer.

The king would put him the question; "Is it the business of the bee
merely to hum in the court of the spring?"

The poet would answer; "No, but also to sip the honey of the spray of
spring flowers."

And they all laughed in the king's hall. And it was rumoured that the
Princess Akita also laughed at her maid's accepting the poet's name for
her, and Manjari felt glad in her heart.

Thus truth and falsehood mingle in life--and to what God builds man adds
his own decoration.

Only those were pure truths which were sung by the poet. The theme was
Krishna, the lover god, and Radha, the beloved, the Eternal Man and the
Eternal Woman, the sorrow that comes from the beginning of time, and the
joy without end. The truth of these songs was tested in his inmost heart
by everybody from the beggar to the king himself. The poet's songs were
on the lips of all. At the merest glimmer of the moon and the faintest
whisper of the summer breeze his songs would break forth in the land
from windows and courtyards, from sailing-boats, from shadows of the
wayside trees, in numberless voices.

Thus passed the days happily. The poet recited, the king listened, the
hearers applauded, Manjari passed and repassed by the poet's room on her
way to the river--the shadow flitted behind the screened balcony, and
the tiny golden bells tinkled from afar.

Just then set forth from his home in the south a poet on his path of
conquest. He came to King Narayan, in the kingdom of Amarapur. He stood
before the throne, and uttered a verse in praise of the king. He had
challenged all the court poets on his way, and his career of victory had
been unbroken.

The king received him with honour, and said: "Poet, I offer you
welcome."

Pundarik, the poet, proudly replied: "Sire, I ask for war."

Shekhar, the court poet of the king did not know how the battle of the
muse was to be waged. He had no sleep at night. The mighty figure of the
famous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved like a scimitar, and his proud
head tilted on one side, haunted the poet's vision in the dark.

With a trembling heart Shekhar entered the arena in the morning. The
theatre was filled with the crowd.

The poet greeted his rival with a smile and a bow. Pundarik