onverse awhile with Moguls or
Mandarins, for from the East come the arts and knowledge of the world,
and the converse of their people is polite. Thus Nehemoth passes on
through the other Audience Chambers & receives, perhaps, some Sheihks
of the Arab folk who have crossed the great desert from the West, or
receives an embassy sent to do him homage from the shy jungle people
to the South. And all the while the slaves with the ringing palanquin
run westwards, following the sun, and ever the sun shines straight
into the chamber where Nehemoth sits, and all the while the music from
one or other of his bands of musicians comes tinkling to his ears.
But when the middle of the day draws near, the slaves run to the
cool grooves that lie along the verandahs on the northern side of the
palace, forsaking the sun, and as the heat overcomes the genius of the
musicians, one by one their hands fall from their instruments, till at
last all melody ceases. At this moment Nehemoth falls asleep, and the
slaves put the palanquin down and lie down beside it. At this hour the
city becomes quite still, and the palace of Nehemoth and the tombs of
the Pharaohs of old face to the sunlight, all alike in silence. Even
the jewellers in the market-place, selling gems to princes, cease from
their bargaining and cease to sing; for in Babbulkund the vendor of
rubies sings the song of the ruby, and the vendor of sapphires sings
the song of the sapphire, and each stone hath its song, so that a man,
by his song, proclaims and makes known his wares.

'But all these sounds cease at the meridian hour, the jewellers in the
market-place lie down in what shadow they can find, and the princes
go back to the cool places in their palaces, and a great hush in
the gleaming air hangs over Babbulkund. But in the cool of the late
afternoon, one of the King's musicians will awake from dreaming of his
home and will pass his fingers, perhaps, over the strings of his harp
and, with the music, some memory may arise of the wind in the glens of
the mountains that stand in the Isles of Song. Then the musician will
wrench great cries out of the soul of his harp for the sake of the old
memory, and his fellows will awake and all make a song of home, woven
of sayings told in the harbour when the ships came in, and of tales in
the cottages about the people of old time. One by one the other bands
of musicians will take up the song, and Babbulkund, City of Marvel,
will throb with this