"My heart rot carrion wise,My liver be eaten with flies,My lights blown up with sighs,Myself, my son, and all that I prizeBurn in a fire that never diesIf ever I open my lips to sayThe things I have heard and have seen to-day."
"My heart rot carrion wise,My liver be eaten with flies,My lights blown up with sighs,Myself, my son, and all that I prizeBurn in a fire that never diesIf ever I open my lips to sayThe things I have heard and have seen to-day."
"So!" said Mihr-un-nissa when the formula was over, "that's done. And as for thee?" she passed quickly to Âtma Devi, who, half stunned by the swift mastery with which the girl had taken the whole business out of her hands, still stood leaning blankly against the blank wall and looked her curiously in the eyes. "Why wouldst thou not tell? And wherefore didst thou steal the diamond?"
Then as she stood childishly curious, comprehension came to her and she smiled half-contemptuously half-mysteriously.
"So, thou also lookest a slave," she said, "poor slave!"
But as she and Fâtima went whisperingly down the stairs, the faint clatter of their loose slippers mingling like castanets amid the soft swishing of silk, the jingling of jewels, she paused to listen to a bird-like voice singing:
Love dost live in the red rose garden?Love dost grow from a red rose root?Dost set thy springe with th' boughs that hardenOr twine it soft with the young green shoot?Love! dost thou lurk in the red rose-bud?Love! is thy throne in the rose-heart's crown?Love! does the perfume of red rose floodIn on the soul till the senses drown?Nay!Love lives not in a garden of roses,Root nor bough nor the young green shoot,Bud nor chalice the perfume enclosesOf Love lying lowly at Love's own feet.For Love is the Rose, Love is the StarLove is the heart of things near and afar,And afar--and afar--and afar!
Love dost live in the red rose garden?Love dost grow from a red rose root?Dost set thy springe with th' boughs that hardenOr twine it soft with the young green shoot?Love! dost thou lurk in the red rose-bud?Love! is thy throne in the rose-heart's crown?Love! does the perfume of red rose floodIn on the soul till the senses drown?
Nay!
Love lives not in a garden of roses,Root nor bough nor the young green shoot,Bud nor chalice the perfume enclosesOf Love lying lowly at Love's own feet.For Love is the Rose, Love is the StarLove is the heart of things near and afar,And afar--and afar--and afar!
Mihr-un-nissa shook her head, as the whispering descent began again. Of a truth Love was far, very far, away.
Yet when from off the table of God's graceHe gives what each may carry to their placeSatan draws nigh, "Even for me" he says"A portion has been portioned in God's ways."--Sa'adi.
Yet when from off the table of God's graceHe gives what each may carry to their placeSatan draws nigh, "Even for me" he says"A portion has been portioned in God's ways."
--Sa'adi.
The Most Illustrious, the Mighty in Power, the High in Pomp, the Exalted in Splendour, the Father of his People, the Conqueror of the Age, the Pole Star of Faith, the Sun of the World, Jalâl-ud-din Mahommed Akbar, Great Mogul, Emperor of India, sate enthroned on a dais which had been erected for the purpose of the festivities on the uppermost terrace of the Palace Gardens.
The violet blackness of the sky above him was ablaze with stars, as only an Indian sky can blaze, when the dust held in the atmosphere has been laid by recent rain. And, to the infinite relief of the town and all concerned in its welfare, rain had fallen--fallen in torrents, suddenly sharply, during the later hours of dawn, leaving every tank full, every street washed clean under the vivid blue sky which the storm seemed to have washed also.
Relief had come from heaven, but no one looked at the stars, for the blaze below held all eyes. A circle of Bengal lights so arranged that the King's head should show against them, shed veritable sunlight on his golden throne and on the white-robed figure that sate on it; for, as ever, Akbar was dressed with studied simplicity. True, the Benares muslin with its fine stitched edging of silver had taken years in the loom, the ropes of pearls he wore over it were worth a king's ransom, but there was no note of colour anywhere, and the turban, guiltless of all ornament save the heron's plume of chieftainship, showed dull without the calm radiance of the great diamond. Yet all things centred on the man who sate enthroned, because it was his thought, his imagination which had inspired the whole marvellous spectacle that was being held in the terraced garden surrounded by distant half-seen palaces.
And it was marvellous, indeed! The dais (behind which in darkest shadow rose the latticed vantage ground of the court ladies) was semicircular, round-fronted and was superabundantly lit by that crown of twelve Bengal lights (representing the twelve solar months) which hung like a halo round the man who claimed to be the Sun of his World. A big claim, but in this instance it was made with such magnificent straightforwardness, such clear perception of all that the claim entailed, as to disarm criticism. This dais, some ten feet high, rose from a semicircular round-fronted plinth which was lost in shadow, partly because of a projecting eave which prevented the light from above striking on it, and partly because seven equi-distant lights (representing the seven days of the week and in varying colours showing the tints of a rainbow) were so cunningly set in shades round the dais that their light left the plinth in darkness and shot out, in ever widening rays, through the garden, growing less and less distinct until at its farther end colour seemed lost in a general mist of light.
And in six of these rays, red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo, violet, widening with the light, sate, in ordered rows, on the red side the Hindus and Buddhists of the court, upon the violet side the Mahommedans, the Jains, the Jews. Only the central green ray, compounded of these two factors blue and yellow remained empty, showing nothing but a narrow marble walk bordered on either side by wide water ways, out of which fountains shot high into the still, dark air; shot, illumined so far by the lights, then, rising high above them, mere ghostly shadows on the darkness, to fall again in drops that grew iridescent as they fell.
There was no other illumination in the garden; but the distant palaces were outlined in every curve, every detail, by little soft flickering lamplets like stars.
The running water in the waterways came out of the dark plinth below the dais, and about fifty yards from it, ran under a wider crossways marble platform which ended the narrow pathway; emerging from this short hiding to fall rippling over a marble slope, where (safe-sheltered from every drop in deftly cut niches) cunning little coloured lamps shone, converting the whole cascade into a rainbow. Hence, united, the stream of the two waterways merged into one, and flowed to disappear from the garden through a low archway tunnelled beneath the palace; thence to find its way by underground passages to the tank at the bottom of the Sikri ridge.
Even as a mere spectacular effect the scene was striking, but once the inner meaning of it, so clear to the mind of the white-robed figure on the throne, was grasped, it became of absorbing interest as representing the vast empire which Akbar had so far succeeded in welding together. First the surging misty radiance of the crowd at the end; then, strengthening as each ray narrowed, the broad demarcations of the various religions professed by Akbar's subjects. Râjpûts in their red robes on the one side elbowing the Brâhmins in the orange of the ascetic; Shiahs in purple beside the Sunnis in indigo; while in the yellow ray sate Buddhists in their devotional colour; in the blue the Sufis, the Jews, the Jains, all the smaller cults that are to be found in India.
Between them, centring all, shone the green ray of the true faith, the perfect equality of toleration and freedom which was Akbar's ideal--and it was empty!
Perfect as the scene was, every soul in the garden that night felt a consciousness of vague depression, vague expectation. Eyes wandered as they were not used to wander from that central figure on the throne.
"'Tis the talisman which the scapegrace wears," whispered Aunt Rosebody ruefully from behind the latticed screen to little Umm Kulsum who was holding her hand--she had been holding it practically ever since the fatal moment, a few hours back, when they had seen the Prince walk away unconcernedly with the hidden diamond in his turban of state. "Oh! Ummu, I feel so cold down my back. But there is no remedy against one's own acts! Though why such temptation should be put in the way of an old woman only God and His Prophet knows! But 'tis always so. He had but one eye and the grit fell in it."
"We did what we thought best, auntie!" whimpered the Mother of Plumpness, "and we can take it back when the Audience is over--or we can die!"
Aunt Rosebody shook her head mournfully. "Dying is no good" she protested, "but why doth not the scapegrace come and have done with it! If oil isn't ready when the frying pan's ready, it had best go away!"
"In truth it appears long waiting, mayhap, for the last day," sighed Umm Kulsum tragically.
"Last day!" echoed Aunt Rosebody snappishly. "Lo! who wants a last day? Not I. Sure I am betwixt and between. Earth too hard, sky too far like the swallows. Please God they'll hurry up and let me get to my prayers. Lo! there goes Khodadâd with a smile on his face. True is it that lies only shine in the dark."
In truth Khodadâd stepped jauntily and his face shone with content as he passed to his place in the light-screened plinth where the court officials were gathered awaiting the signal which was to summon them to the dais above, there to range themselves behind the Emperor for the coming audience.
"It is nigh time," said Mirza Ibrahîm, who as Court Chamberlain had charge of the ceremonies. "Gentlemen are you ready?"
Then he bent forward to the newcomer and whispered something. The whispered reply brought such satisfaction to Ibrahîm's face also, that he stared with open contempt at Birbal, who lounging in, lazily late, was making his way toward him.
"My lord has nearly missed his chance," he said meaningly.
"Nay! Sir Chamberlain," replied Birbal coolly, "I am about to take it, and--and give it." He held out a paper as he spoke. "The matter is urgent, since as the Envoy comes with all the Insignia of Royalty, he must be presented before the Heir-Apparent. But such etiquettes are safe in the hands of a Chamberlain! For the rest, he and his retinue await reception at the gate."
"What is't?" asked Khodadâd in an undertone as he saw Ibrahîm's face change. But his own turned grayish green, as, over the shoulder he read the titular address:
"I, Payandâr Tarkhân of the House of Sinde coming by order----"
"Impossible," he gasped. "This--this is some jest of my lord Birbal's. Payandâr is----"
"There be other Tarkhâns so called besides the one who died in the wilderness," retorted Birbal slowly, "and this one comes as King--so he says. Read through the document, Mirza Sahib, and see if all is in order. If so, do the duty of Chamberlain; and be quick about it, for yonder go the royalnakârahs. The Hour of Audience has come. Gentlemen! to our places. I will inform the Emperor."
A minute later, the court officials stood in a serried semicircle behind the King, and the green light, the central light of the seven, had divided into two and shone guarding either side of a narrow marble staircase which was disclosed leading upward to the dais. At the foot of this stood Mirza Ibrahîm, reading aloud, in a voice which betrayed his agitation, the titular names and designations of the Amir of Sinde. His mind was busy with a thousand questionings. What did it all mean? And why had Khodadâd been so disturbed? Surely their plans were secure? Surely the Prince had been told of the talisman? Surely this knowledge would breed confidence--and so--with aid--defiance? Every one was ready. That very night might see conspiracy successful at last, the Prince, at last, forced into taking his part.
"Let the Royalty of Sinde, as represented by him who wears the Insignia of Royalty be welcome to the Court of the Sun of the World."
The words were spoken by Abulfazl, as Prime Minister. His face showed a slight astonishment which was reflected even on Akbar's. He leant forward as if eager to see the unexpected visitor, and all eyes followed his toward the dim radiance of the distant crowd. Something there was in the multitude of faces, half seen though deep-shadowed, which thrilled many of the lookers. But the thrill passed into something like an electric shock, as tearing the still night air with discordant clangour, an almost inconceivable clash and crash of copper kettledrums and brass cymbals seemed to crack the ears that heard it.
Instinctively almost every one present drew back from the sound, blinked, then opened eyes afresh upon the world of coloured lights and hidden imaginations. Even Akbar started, and Birbal, looking eagerly into his eyes, gave a quick sigh of relief.
So swiftly had the start come and gone, yet so real had been its effect upon every nerve, that people felt dazed, uncertain, waking as it were to the perception that a figure was standing on the crossway platform of marble above the rainbow cascade--standing almost alone, though backed by a confused crowding of retinue on either side the central waterway.
The only other figures really visible were two misshapen dwarfs, one in front, bearing a tasselled lance, the other behind, bearing a tasselled lance also. But both showed jet black from head to foot, and each carried, the front one on his breast, the one behind on his back a round, brilliant mirror. Or was it a brilliant light? Certain it is that as the dwarfs strutted forward, leading and following the central figure these round plaques shot out a dazzling brilliance, and for, an instant seemed to cloud all else.
The next thing that became clear was the vivid green of emeralds; such ropes of them, shining like young green wheatfields, in the green radiance shed by the central light of green.
"The emeralds of Sinde, sure enough," said Mân Singh half to himself, and settled down comfortably to look, as he sate heading the red ray of Râjpûts. But there were others in those converging rays who stared and said doubtfully, "Sure, yonder are Birbal's daughter's two dwarfs that all know!" Until hushed by some neighbour's contemptuous denial, they also saw their mistake, and looked with believing eyes. There was one man, however, who, though he denied strenuously grew grayer and grayer as he watched the slight figure with the long black curls resting on its sloping shoulders, and the slight beard scarce covering the thin narrow cheeks. '"Tis Sufurdâr for sure!" muttered Khodadâd fighting against fear--"it is but the emeralds that bring the resemblance--that is all!--before God, that is all!"
So, the green light in which the little group was enveloped growing greener as the three figures approached the dais, they advanced, until at the foot of the stairs, the dwarfs stood one to each side, the one who had walked in front wheeling to show his mirror also to the watching eyes.
To that confused crowd at the end of the garden these two shining spots glowed beneath the green lamps. That was all; and the familiar words of welcome given as Akbar motioned the representative of Sinde to the cushions beside him took all the strangeness from the scene. It was the beginning of the marriage festival; other Princes had sent, or would send their representatives. Sinde, no doubt to curry favour with the Mogul, had sent its Royalty by the hand of an envoy; but the great event of the evening was yet to come. For that was the reception of the Bridegroom-Elect, the Heir-Apparent--the man who might come to his own any day, since Akbar was ever reckless of his own life. Had he not escaped by a miracle being killed atchauganbut the other day?
So the whole assembly stirred as one man, when the Royalnakârahssounded once more, and Prince Salîm followed by a right royal retinue showed, where the Envoy of Sinde had showed, on the marble platform above the rainbow cascade.
"Lo! Ummu!" whispered Auntie Rosebody, "we did the right thing. He looks the Archangel Gabriel. Let me go to bed in the dark, my day is full!"
And in truth the Prince had never looked better in his life. Perhaps the whole-heartedness of his plunge into Love's sea was the only reason why his hopes ran high; perhaps he knew of the talisman he carried, but carried it with no evil intention; perhaps again those hopes of his had gone further than mere Love, so that he saw himself master of the situation, able to give the Râjpût girl whom he had never seen the go by, able to do in future what he chose, what he desired. But certain it is that every eye followed his youthful dignity with admiration, and more than one looked furtively from the son to the father, appraising both. In that father's mind, however, was no hint of jealousy, only unmixed joy.
As he raised his son from his obeisance and kissed him on both cheeks, it seemed to him as if, at long last, content had come to him. The questionings which had so harassed him of late seemed to have fled. Here was an heir, indeed!
"How well thou lookest Shaikie!" he whispered affectionately in the young man's ear ere taking him by the hand and leading him forward so that they might be seen by all the populace.
A goodly pair indeed! The younger man, somehow--for this evening at any rate--with more personal charm about him; but the elder one even in his plain dress, his unadorned turban, a king every inch of him.
"Heralds! read out the Titles of this my beloved son, Salîm!"
Akbar's voice raised in command penetrated to the farthest corner of the garden and every ear strained to catch the honours that were to be showered on this Heir to Empire. Aunt Rosebody's face, flushed with anxiety grew crimson dark with sheer delight as she listened.
"Captain of Ten Thousand--praise be to Allah!" she commented breathlessly. "What! a Viceroy in the Northeast--now may I go to Paradise!--Master of Distinctions!--what! Sunshade and Fly whisk! Umm Kulsum! I go again to Mecca to give thanks--And the jewels--notsir-a-pa, head to foot!--notsir-a-pa!--Yes!--Now may they kill me--one can take two kicks from a milch cow! Unalienable--did I hear right--Ummu tell me! tell this poor old woman who--who--cannot believe--her ears."
"Unalienable, never to be neglected. Always to be considered by right, election, and consent Crown Prince." So far the Mother of Plumpness repeated in a trembling voice; then the two women fell on each other's necks and wept.
"Bring the well!" murmured Auntie Rosebody. "I'll drown myself."
And Akbar stood holding his heir by his right hand, full of a great triumph.
"Lo! I have given thee all, Shaikie" he said fondly, "art content?"
"Not all!" said a quiet voice beside him. "There is yet one honour withheld from this Peerless Prince, this Honourable Heir."
It was the Envoy from Sinde who as the representative of royalty stood on Akbar's left hand a step behind him.
Akbar flashed round on him haughtily. "What honour hath Sinde to suggest?"
"The honour of Brotherhood to the Sun of the World. The honour of the exchange of turbans!"
The converging rays of spectators suddenly seemed to quiver, as if some of their component parts stirred, but the Emperor stood still, his eyes upon the envoy's.
Then his own narrowed with quick thought. "Sinde is right," he said slowly, "there is no tie like brotherhood. It is the chain which links the whole world to One." He turned swiftly to his son withdrawing his hand from him and so for an instant standing apart, dissevered, independent.
The stir in the rays grew more evident, but his voice quieted it.
"Brother," it said, and its ringing tones filled the wide spaces, "let us exchange the sign of brotherhood!"
His own simple turban with its heron's plume was in his hand.
For an instant Prince Salîm hesitated; the next his more elaborate one with its hidden diamond was in his. It could not be otherwise.
"So!" smiled Akbar, giving himself up as he did always, to imagination, to sentiment, to dreams. "Take thou the inner place, Shaikie, next my heart--my arms are longer!"
Long enough any how to reach round Salîm's less sinewy ones and place the tufted turban of Kingship on the young man's head, where being a trifle too large it slipped well down over the ears and forehead.
"Thou must grow to it, little brother," quoth Akbar in fond pleasure. "As for me I must walk circumspectly lest my brotherhood fall!"
And in truth the Prince's turban showed all too much of the grizzled hair.
"Ummu! I will go back and say thanksgiving till dawn," faltered Auntie Rosebody behind the screen. "Truly what is to be, won't rub out. The Lord had it in His keeping, all the time, and we were wondering which side of the wall the cat would jump! So the King hath his own again, and Salîm hath more grace than the scapegrace deserves. Truly you may toil and sweat. What Fate wills you'll get."
The proverb might have been quoted by many another in the assembly had they been able to realise at once the full meaning of the little incident. But a sort of blank amaze settled down even on those conspirators who grasped at once that the chance of immediate defiance was over. Mirza Ibrahîm looked at Khodadâd, Khodadâd at Mirza Ibrahîm, and their glances betrayed one and the same thought.
This was no accident. Someone had split on their secret. Who?
"Come, my brother!" said Akbar, taking his son's hand and advancing toward the marble steps. "Now that the conferring of titles is over, let us pass to amusement."
The court ushers rushed to their places, the royalnakârahssounded, and the cortège of the select few passed downward amid a seething shout of content from that dim crowd at the end of the garden. But above that strange sound like a surging wave, which seems to sweep along any densely packed mass of men, rose another.
This had a rumble in it, a sharp hiss, then a deafening low, long continued roar.
Akbar, who had just reached the narrow marble pathway, stopped dead and looked round him sharply.
"The reservoir!" he cried, "the reservoir above!"
His instinct was right. The rain of dawn had found some weak spot in the masonry and the next instant, bursting its hidden way beneath the dais and hurling great blocks of marble before it, a huge volume of water rose spurtling into the air.
"Run for it, Shaikie, run for it! Leap from the platform!"
The cry came not one moment too soon. Keeping within bounds by the very force of its onward impulse, the great wave of water, which would have hurled them down the marble cascade, but just touched their heels, as choosing different sides they leapt to safety.
Leapt turbanless, their ill-fitting head-dresses having tumbled off at their first start.
The general shriek of horror at the impending catastrophe subsided into confused babels of relief centring round the Prince on the left, the King on the right. So none noticed two men one on the right, one on the left of the wide central waterway who instantly started to race two half-floating half-sinking objects which, swept over the cascade by that wild impulse of flood, were now unsteadily swirling down to be engulfed under the low archway leading to subterreanean passages. And neither Khodadâd nor Birbal had eyes for anything save the prize of that race.
A sudden swerve to the left taking the Prince's turban with its talisman almost within reach of the enemy, decided Birbal. He paused a second. Then his low forward dive gave him a yard or two, and he rose to find his hand and Khodadâd's both clutching at what they sought. But his was the nearer.
"Not so fast, Tarkhân-jee," he jibed breathless, unable to resist retort, even in that moment of stress. "Beware stealing or thy list of crime is full! This is my master's."
Then the current caught him and hurled him almost helpless to the other side. Half a yard farther and he would have been sucked down into the archway, but a thin arm clutched at him and the clutch held.
A brief struggle and he stood beside therebeckplayer, gazing at him stupidly, but half conscious of who he was. Only for an instant however; the next he faced Khodadâd who, backed by Mirza Ibrahîm was scowling at him across the water.
"Your pardon, gentlemen," he gasped politely, as before their very eyes, he calmly searched for and tore out the talisman which Umm Kulsum and Aunt Rosebody had sewn so deftly into the folds of Salîm's turban? "but I would fain see if this be my master's headdress given him in brotherhood by his son. Yes! of a surety it is. It will be kept, messieurs, the appointed time, and returned in due course--with the talisman--by all the gods! with the talisman--I wot not if it be a true or a false one--to those who gave it."
With that he turned on his heel regardless of the volley of curses from over the water.
But he rounded fiercely on therebeckplayer's sardonic request to be remembered in that he had saved the master's life.
"Thou art the devil, juggler," he said and there was real fear in his voice. "Get thee gone, since, before God, I know not who thou art."
A laugh followed him.
Longing for the Unseen as never oneLonged, passionate, for Seen; remembering noneFrom dawning to the setting of the sunSave Secret Things unheard, unseen, unwonNo man shall know, till this world's life is done.--Sa'adi.
Longing for the Unseen as never oneLonged, passionate, for Seen; remembering noneFrom dawning to the setting of the sunSave Secret Things unheard, unseen, unwonNo man shall know, till this world's life is done.
--Sa'adi.
"I would have sent for thee," said Âtma softly, "but there was none to send. The whole town was away at the festival--so I stayed." She sighed almost fiercely in her regret at having been let and hindered, though her eyes were tender, as she gazed down on little Zarîfa who lay in the Wayfarer's arms. It was bare dawn, and, in the shadow of the wall one could but just see the perfect outline of the sleeping face that nestled close to his pallid mask.
"She fails fast, methinks," added the woman in a lower tone.
"Aye! she fails--at last," echoed the man's voice. As if to give them both the lie, the whispered words brought a sudden smile to Zarîfa's face. Her eyes opened full of swift desire, her whole deformed body pressed closer to the breast on which it lay, and there was unmistakable appeal in the soft curved cheeks, the curved waiting lips. The Wayfarer answered it instantly and laid his to hers.
The kiss was long; his mask came up from it with a certain repulsion of expression, at once tender and cruel.
"Yea, it is true! She nears womanhood, and what hath she to do with its blessing, or with its curse," he muttered, looking at the face, which, satisfied, had sunk to sleep once more, a smile still hovering over it; then he laid the misshapen bundle of humanity he held--so small, so helpless, so apart from everything save limited life--on the string bed, whence he had taken it, and covered it gently with the quilt; for the air of dawn was chill.
Âtma stood looking down on the beautiful face, feeling a hot anger rise in her heart against all mankind.
"Thou didst never love her mother, or thou wouldst not speak so," she said scornfully.
The Wayfarer, who at the parapet was watching the slow growth of dawn, turned on her swiftly. "Not love her, woman?" he echoed passionately, fiercely. "That God knows! It is her father that I hate--it is for him I wait!"
"Her father? Artthounot then----?" began the Châran in surprise, but therebeckplayer had recovered his calm monotony of manner.
"Her father truly," he said, "since of Love I brought her into the world, of Love I care for her, of Love I give her Love."
As he spoke his fingers were busy about his neck, and Âtma seeing him stoop over the sleeper, saw also that he left something in the ghostly half-seen folds of the white quilt.
"What is't?" she asked curiously, stooping also, conscious of a certain unreality in what had passed, in what was passing. She had sate up all night beside Zarîfa, unable to leave her, unable to get a message sent to summon any one; and so, unable to hear what was happening, when so much might happen.
The nervous tension of that night of waiting, of watching had been great; yet she had forgotten it when in the false dawn the Wayfarer had suddenly appeared. Since then she had been absorbed, as he was, in the child--this child of Love!
Ye Gods! What was it that exhaled roses? The whole air was full of their scent--her very eyes seemed to see them, crowning the sleeping head, hiding the scant contour of the deformed body: and to her, ignorant in a way, yet from her birth familiar with mystical thoughts, credulous of all mystical things, the sudden inrush of unreality brought small surprise but quick curiosity, and she caught imperatively at the Wayfarer's hand.
"Who art thou, Lord!" she asked simply. "In the name of this Rose of Love tell this slave."
The man drew back from her touch resentfully; his face grew more human, less deathlike, and Âtma watching it wondered at the change in it, and asked herself, if this were indeed the poor musician who played for the chance hearers of the bazaars.
"Thou hast spoken a compelling word, sister," he said, "so thou shalt be told. But guard the secret if thou lovest--any! I am Payandâr--whether king or hind matters little. Mayhap I am both, since I am Love incarnate and Hate incarnate. That is Spiritual Love which knows not Sex, and Earthly Love which lives by it. And I--doubtless thou hast heard the tale, told as a legend--I loved one who was to be my wife. But she whom I held sacred, my brother, of wanton wickedness, dishonoured. Yonder child is his--so the Earthly Love that is in me still, despite the Rose Garden of the wilderness, waits till the measure of his iniquity shall be full. It will not be long."
He stretched his hand out menacingly, and turned to go.
"Thy brother?" she echoed, "who----"
He stopped her with a sudden wild gesture.
"Ask not that, fool!" he cried passionately. "Lo! thou art very woman, cleaving to the detail, seeing naught of the spirit. Thou canst not even see that I have lied? I tell thee sheismy child--the child of the sins which I, Tarkhân, inherited even as he did--the child of many sins that are in me, even as they are in him."
He stooped over the sleeper and kissed her on the forehead.
"Master!" said Âtma tremulously as she saw him cross to the door. "Must thou go? I have waited long--and now----"
"There comes one who will bring thee news, and I will be back ere long," he answered, and even as he spoke a voice full of importance, breathless with hurry, came from the stairs.
"Mistress Âtma! Mistress, I say. God send she be not out, or, if mischief come of it, I will be double damned for double treason."
The next instant old Deena the drumbanger, his drum hitched to his back like a huge hump, hustled the departing musician at the door and flung himself blubbering at Âtma's feet.
"Lo! chaste pillar of virtue! said I not ever ill service was as the feeding of snakes--one never knows but when one has to turn on them rather than that they should turn on thee," he began tumultuously, "but I have come! Yea! old Deena hath to remember his soul and if mistress Siyah Yamin----"
"Siyah Yamin! What of her," queried Âtma sharply even as she added, "Speak, lower, fool! Thou wilt disturb the child."
Deena made a grimace of apology, pursed his face up, looked at the sleeper, shook his head with elaborate regret, and then hitching his drum round to equalise his balance, squatted with his elbows resting on it, ready for a calm whispered recital of what he had come prepared to tell.
"There is no need to begin at the beginning," he said tentatively and was rewarded by Âtma's curt "Tell all, slave! I have been held here by the child all night and know nothing."
"Thank God for ignorance!" ejaculated the old gossip piously, and went on to recount the events of the past night.
Âtma listened quietly. She started and clasped her hands tighter when she heard how the King and Prince Salîm had exchanged turbans, but her long night's vigil had brought so many visions of what Birbal's wit might compass that she scarcely felt surprised. The story of the bursting of the reservoir and, the miraculous escape of the father and son, however, told as it was from the outside (for old Deena naturally knew nothing of the extraordinary import of the incident he was describing) roused her instant alarm.
"Prate not about their bareheadedness!" she broke in on his tale of how the two had stood before the multitude shorn of honourable headgear but mighty in monarchy--"the turbans man! the turbans! what of them?"
Deena's wicked old eyes lost their sparkle, his tone grew peevish. "Lo! mistress! wouldst spoil the picture. Doubtless they drowned. Who thinks of turbans when----"
Âtma was on her feet. "Bide thou here! I must go," she said hurriedly. She felt she could no longer stand inaction. All this had came about--if, indeed, it had come about "Yea! I must go to Siyah Yamin," she repeated blindly.
Old Deena laid a detaining hand on her red skirt. "Not there! mistress! Not there. Lo! thou hast not heard what I come to tell. Thou didst bid me begin at the beginning and I began; but 'tis not only scorpions' tails that end in a sting, and this one hath venom in it I swear. If thou hadst heard--Nay listen! mistress! 'Twas Meean Khodadâd and Mirza Ibrahîm who came raging to Siyah Yamin's half an hour agone. I had gone back thither after the show was over to have speech with Yasmeen and the hussy was virtuous and would not let me in. So, standing there I heard----"
"What?" asked Âtma fiercely, "Canst not speak without twists and turns?"
"Lo! Mistress! let my tongue follow my brain as the potter's donkey follows muddy breeches thinking them his master," replied Deena mildly. "I am at the very prick o' the point. They swore vengeance on thee for what I know not, protesting that thou and thou only couldst be the cause; and then they swore at Siyah Yamin for telling thee; but gingerly, for look you Siyâla is not one to threaten lightly--but she said--doubtless with that smile which makes a body feel like a camel without legs----"
"What said she, fool?" interrupted Âtma exasperated.
"That without the seeing of thee she could not tell; whereupon they said that if they saw thee----"
Âtma caught up a white cloth and wrapped it round her. "Stay thou here!" she said imperatively, "the child sleeps and I will be back in half an hour."
She was well down the stairs ere Deena ceased to call feebly! "Not so! oh mistress most chaste, not so!" and resigning himself to circumstances closed the door, hasping it lightly by the bottom hook and chain, then sate down beside the sleeping child.
"Even as a Peri," he murmured to himself as he looked at the face showing more clearly now in the coming light. "Truly God knows His own work--yet is there no mortal sense in sending such a countenance of beauty with no body to match it fit for hugging."
So he dozed off into the sleep which pure vice had taught him to take in snatches.
Meanwhile Âtma hurrying through the still deserted alleys felt her mind too much in a tumult for concentration; thus, as she almost ran past the high unarched doorways, the blank walls shutting out all things, the constant burr of the unseen hand-mills busy over their daily task of grinding flour came to join the unceasing burr of thought that whirled in her brain. Doubt as to her own wisdom had assailed her the night long, and now with this uncertitude concerning the fate of the diamond, she felt she could have killed herself for the part she had played in its theft. Why had she played it? Why? Why? The futility of fighting against Fate came home to her, as from a closed courtyard rose shrilly the voice of a woman chanting the song of the Grinding Stone and the Grounden Wheat:
Red Sandstone and red-husked wheatWhirl in your dancing, part and meetMy right hand is your master,What if the stone be rushed?What if the grain be crushed?Men and women must eat,The cry of the child be hushed.Whirl faster and faster,God's right hand is our master!What though Love mates with Lust,Though Just yield to Unjust,What care the Stone and the Wheat,For men and women must eat,The cry of the child be hushed,So Dust grind Dust!
Red Sandstone and red-husked wheatWhirl in your dancing, part and meetMy right hand is your master,What if the stone be rushed?What if the grain be crushed?Men and women must eat,The cry of the child be hushed.Whirl faster and faster,God's right hand is our master!What though Love mates with Lust,Though Just yield to Unjust,What care the Stone and the Wheat,For men and women must eat,The cry of the child be hushed,So Dust grind Dust!
Dust grind dust! She smote her hands together and sped on. She could at least challenge these men for the truth, and tell them that they lied. She had told no tales!
And as she made her breathless way toward Satanstown, Mirza Ibrahîm and Meean Khodadâd were making their way back from it. They had gained nothing from Siyah Yamin save biting words and contemptuous gibes. She had done her part and there would be time to hold her fool when it was proved that Âtma had betrayed her. For herself, she did not believe it; and in so saying she for once spoke her real thought. She knew, briefly, that treachery was out of the question with her sister of the veil.
But the two men held, manlike, to what was on the surface.
"Fret not, Khodadâd," said Mirza Ibrahîm with a sinister smile, as they passed out from the courtesan's house, "there is no hurry to settle scores with the madwoman. I, being Chamberlain, claim her as the King's woman, and then----"
"Then may I go shares with thee, or take thy leavings!" muttered Khodadâd fiercely. "That may be thy revenge; but I am Tarkhân."
"Tarkhân or no, it grows too light for us now, Meean Sahib, so fare thee well for the time," remarked Ibrahîm significantly. And in truth the sky was beginning to show pearly over the pile of the city.
"Tarkhâns need no darkness for their deeds," retorted Khodadâd recklessly. His temper, as ever, had overmastered him, he was literally beside himself with rage and disappointment. These two confederates were fools! What man could succeed, bound hand and foot by chicken-hearted cowards like Ibrahîm, and the rest of them? But he--aye! he would take revenge, dawn though it was! for he was Tarkhân, accredited to evil deeds.
"To Siyah Yamin's Paradise," he said flinging himself into the palanquin which followed behind him. The madwoman lived in the same tenement. So much he knew, and the rest would come; if he had luck. If not there was no harm done. Pure devilry possessed him; he could not rest without some attempt at retaliation.
And so old Deena woke from his snatched snooze at whispering voices outside, followed by a steady calculated shouldering of the door, a slip of the ill-hasped chain, and the sudden consequent sprawl of half a dozen stalwart Abyssinians on to the roof.
"Back slaves!" said Khodadâd, his voice low and hoarse with passion that leapt up with the chance of satisfaction. "And close the door behind you."
Old Deena scrambled to his feet. "My lord! my lord!" he expostulated, every atom of virtue in him rising up scandalised at the intrusion, all the more so perhaps, because of his loose life. "This roof is the abode of chastity."
"Fool!" said the Tarkhân seizing him easily by the throat. "The woman--where is she? Speak low or I strangle thee."
"She--is--not here," gasped the old man--"Mercy lord! mercy!"
"Not here!--thou liest!"
Still holding Deena fast pinned against the wall Khodadâd's eyes flashed round the roof. There were no shadows now; the morning light clear and fresh filled every corner.
"Ye gods! and devils!"
The words came low, almost soft, with the sudden inrush of admiration, as Khodadâd's hands fell away from the old man's throat, and he took one step toward the bed.
"My lord! My lord!" cried Deena starting forward. "She is ill, she is a child--she is----"
He staggered back from the blow dealt him recklessly.
"She is beautiful--that is enough!" came with a chuckling laugh. "Wake, my houri! Wake up my peri of Paradise."
There was a faint scream, the mere cry, as it were, of a wounded bird. "Nay beauty! thou shalt kiss me! What! Scent of roses and no love? Pâh! how the perfume gets into my brain. Never but once before--but this is no time for the past! Nay! struggle not. Such beauty needs no veiling."
The little murmuring wail died to silence, and the half jibing voice was silent also. So, horror-struck, Khodadâd stood for one instant before the deformity he had unshrouded. Then with a curse he turned and fled.
Deena, still dazed with the blow, crept over to the bed and covered crippledom again.
"Little one," he crooned, "there is no fear--he will not come back."
But there was no answer, and he leant swiftly to listen for a breath.
"Little one! Little one!" he cried. He could hear none, and as he stooped his wrinkled face puckering into tears, a voice behind him said quietly: "She is dead! Lo! it was time."
Deena turned to see therebeckplayer who closing the door softly, came to stand beside the bed.
"Dead! Dead!" blubbered the old sinner. "Yea! Yea! it is so--his kisses killed her--only his kisses."
"Whose?"
The question echoed and re-echoed over the roof instinct with a sudden new fire, a sudden authority, and it reduced Deena to snivelling submission.
"Only a kiss lord, only a kiss; but Meean Khodadâd----"
He paused struck dumb by the expression on the Wayfarer's face. Grief, horror, exultation showed on it, and over all a great awe as of one who sees a mystery.
"Khodadâd! Oh! Thou most Mighty! Khodadâd! It is the end."