said he was more of a god than old Daniel that was a man. Then they
turned him out on the snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came
home in about a year, begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel
Dravot he walked before and said:—‘Come along, Peachey. It’s a
big thing we’re doing.’ The mountains they danced at night, and the
mountains they tried to fall on Peachey’s head, but Dan he held up
his hand, and Peachey came along bent double. He never let go of
Dan’s hand, and he never let go of Dan’s head. They gave it to him
as a present in the temple, to remind him not to come again, and though
the crown was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never would Peachey
sell the same. You knew Dravot, sir! You knew Right Worshipful Brother
Dravot! Look at him now!”
He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a
black horsehair bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook therefrom
on to my table—the dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning
sun that had long been paling the lamps struck the red beard and blind
sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded with raw
turquoises, that Carnehan placed tenderly on the battered temples.
“You behold now,” said Carnehan, “the Emperor in his habit as he
lived—the King of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. Poor old
Daniel that was a monarch once!”
I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I recognized the
head of the man of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I attempted to
stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad. “Let me take away the
whiskey, and give me a little money,” he gasped. “I was a King
once. I’ll go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the
Poor-house till I get my health. No, thank you, I can’t wait till you
get a carriage for me. I’ve urgent private affairs—in the
south—at Marwar.”
He shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the
Deputy Commissioner’s house. That day at noon I had occasion to go
down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the
white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously
after the fashion of street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in
sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the houses. And he
sang through his nose, turning his head from right to left:—
“The Son of Man goes forth to war,
A golden crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar—
Who follows in his train?”
I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage and
drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the
Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me whom he did not
in the least recognize, and I left him singing to the missionary.
Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of
the Asylum.
“He was admitted suffering from sun-stroke. He died early yesterday
morning,” said the Superintendent. “Is it true that he was half an
hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?”
“Yes,” said I, “but do you happen to know if he had anything upon
him by any chance when he died?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said the Superintendent.
And there the matter rests.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Man Who Would Be King, by Rudyard Kipling