几年前，一位国王在拉杰普特的一个邦去世了。他的妻子们不顾英国人反对苏提的命令，要不是大门被锁上，早就冲出宫殿了。但是其中一个伪装成国王最喜欢的舞女的人，穿过了警卫线，来到了火堆前。在那里，她失去了勇气，她祈求她的堂兄——一位宫廷男爵——杀死她。他这样做了，不知道她是谁。乌代·昌德病死躺在冈格拉山的船舱里。整晚我们都听到为垂死的拉杰普特国王的灵魂而响的丧钟，整晚从女人的翅膀上传来我们无法平息的哭声。整晚，贵族们来来去去，外卫的领主们;整晚，乌尔瓦尔的军刀和唐克的铠甲，梅瓦尔的头甲和马尔瓦尔的铠甲，在宫殿的院子里叮当作响。在宫殿屋顶的金色房间里，他整夜为呼吸而战;屏风后面有啜泣声，看不见的女人的沙沙声和耳语，还有布迪女王饥饿的眼睛，她可能不会分担死亡。他在黎明走过——死亡之火从山脊跳到河源，从马尔瓦平原跳到阿布的伤疤:当他们知道国王已经死了，哀号又哀号上升到天上，在可怕的西拿铁栏后面。 The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth And robe him for the pyre. The Boondi Queen beneath us cried: "See, now, that we die as our mothers died In the bridal-bed by our master's side! Out, women! -- to the fire!" We drove the great gates home apace: White hands were on the sill: But ere the rush of the unseen feet Had reached the turn to the open street, The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat -- We held the dovecot still. A face looked down in the gathering day, And laughing spoke from the wall: "Oh]/e, they mourn here: let me by -- Azizun, the Lucknow nautch-girl, I! When the house is rotten, the rats must fly, And I seek another thrall. "For I ruled the King as ne'er did Queen, -- To-night the Queens rule me! Guard them safely, but let me go, Or ever they pay the debt they owe In scourge and torture!" She leaped below, And the grim guard watched her flee. They knew that the King had spent his soul On a North-bred dancing-girl: That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god, And kissed the ground where her feet had trod, And doomed to death at her drunken nod, And swore by her lightest curl. We bore the King to his fathers' place, Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand: Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen On fretted pillar and jewelled screen, And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen On the drift of the desert sand. The herald read his titles forth, We set the logs aglow: "Friend of the English, free from fear, Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer, Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer, King of the Jungle, -- go!" All night the red flame stabbed the sky With wavering wind-tossed spears: And out of a shattered temple crept A woman who veiled her head and wept, And called on the King -- but the great King slept, And turned not for her tears. Small thought had he to mark the strife -- Cold fear with hot desire -- When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame, And thrice she beat her breast for shame, And thrice like a wounded dove she came And moaned about the fire. One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze, The silent streets between, Who had stood by the King in sport and fray, To blade in ambush or boar at bay, And he was a baron old and gray, And kin to the Boondi Queen. He said: "O shameless, put aside The veil upon thy brow! Who held the King and all his land To the wanton will of a harlot's hand! Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand? Stoop down, and call him now!" Then she: "By the faith of my tarnished soul, All things I did not well, I had hoped to clear ere the fire died, And lay me down by my master's side To rule in Heaven his only bride, While the others howl in Hell. "But I have felt the fire's breath, And hard it is to die! Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord To sully the steel of a Thakur's sword With base-born blood of a trade abhorred," -- And the Thakur answered, "Ay." He drew and struck: the straight blade drank The life beneath the breast. "I had looked for the Queen to face the flame, But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame -- Sister of mine, pass, free from shame, Pass with thy King to rest!" The black log crashed above the white: The little flames and lean, Red as slaughter and blue as steel, That whistled and fluttered fro