He could also see the shadow of two human beings sitting between him and the red glow.

A man and a woman.

The sight seemed to inspire the careworn sage with a frivolous desire to sing.

It could hardly be called a song; it was more in the nature of a recitative without any rhythm, delivered rapidly but distinctly in a croaking and unsteady voice; and if Babalatchi considered it a song, then it was a song with a purpose and, perhaps for that reason, artistically defective.

It had all the imperfections of unskilful improvisation and its subject was gruesome.
It told a tale of shipwreck and of thirst, and of one brother killing another for the sake of a gourd of water.