Page:The King of the Dark Chamber.djvu/69

Rh When death, the old hag, steals to our doors
 * We snap our fingers at her face,

And we sing in a chorus with gay flourishes
 * Fol de rol de rol.

Look over there, Koshala, who are those coming this way? A pantomime? Somebody is out masquerading as a King.

The King of this place may tolerate all this tomfoolery, but we won’t.

He is perhaps some rural chief.

What country does your King come from?