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lamps had been lit, and some refreshments which had been prepared for the honoured guest had been partaken. The attendant had left, and Prithwi Raj and Norendra Nath were alone in the tent, the boy Jamshid waiting outside.

Prithwi Raj had spent a pleasant evening, and was cordial and merry over a cup of sherbet. He no longer required to be urged to recite his effusions, one after another. A poet's modesty soon wears out before an admiring listener.

"Why, my friend, Norendra Nath, thou art a better judge of our Rajput poetry than any Rajput that I have known. Thou admirest the very lines which our friend the Emperor admires so much. May be, thou hast heard some of my verses in Raja Man Singh's camp in Bengal, and thou knowest true poetry when thou hearest it."

"Little time had Raja Man Singh to listen even to thy verses, Prince," said Norendra Nath, laughing. "The Afghans made us sing quite a different song."

"Maybe, then, that poetry comes natural to thee. I have heard that the East is the land of poetry and of love. Is that so, my young friend, and has thy young and ardent bosom tasted the joys of the one as of the other?"

The Prince was growing merrier and inquisitive as the sherbet disappeared and a fresh cup was placed before him. Norendra vainly tried to evade his glistening, inquiring eyes.