He whose soul by Love is quickened, never can to death be hurled;Written is his name immortal in the records of the world.
He whose soul by Love is quickened, never can to death be hurled;Written is his name immortal in the records of the world.
Then it was that Akbar turned and looked at Birbal. The latter was instant in reply to the unspoken questions.
"The love of a lad of eighteen, Most High, can scarce be counted love. And might we learn the honourable family of the lady? That hath been omitted."
Ghiâss Beg prostrated himself, "My daughter, sire! The shame of this plea overwhelms me, but in justice to Majesty, I cast away honour. My daughter, sire, a most excellent, admirable, and beautiful young lady."
"But surely," put in Abulfazl swiftly, suavely, "already betrothed to Sher Afkân, captain in the King's horse?"
Akbar frowned. "Is this so?" he asked and listened, the frown deepening, to the altercation that followed. Finally, he raised his hand.
"Enough," he cried, "that ends it. What is talked of is bespoken; and not even a King's son hath right to interfere."
The Makhdûm-ul'-mulk was the next to prostrate himself and speak. "True O Ruler of the Universe! but the Head of the Church hath ever had the right to annul such promises, and Majesty having assumed that title, might exercise the functions thereof." The suggestion was deft, but it failed.
"For my son's benefit," retorted Akbar "not so, Makhdûm-sahib. The office is held more incorruptible now."
"The August Pillar of Empire mistakes," put in a younger man, alert, intelligent. "It is for the good of Empire. Lo! we be here as humble friends, advisers, counsellors. With all duty be it spoken, the young Prince--may he live for ever!--hath given cause for anxiety. This chaste cupola of chastity of whom undesirable mention has been made, whose name my unworthy lips refuse to utter, hath a reputation for great wisdom as well as beauty. If then the Heir-Apparent were wedded to her, if love----"
Akbar raised his hand again sharply, and Birbal divining hesitation, whispered in his ear.
"Remember the Râjpût Allies sire; a hint of this----"
The King checked him haughtily, "Peace! That goes on as ever. I was but thinking--thinking of the boy and--and the girl." Then he raised his voice. "Gentlemen! I admit much of what hath been said. The Prince hath given cause for anxiety--he gives it still. And if Fate had been beforehand with fact, such might have been good solution for much anxiety. But she is behindhand. The wedding festivities of the Heir-Apparent have already begun----"
"The nuptials could be simultaneous, Most High," interpolated the younger man, who was court lawyer. "It is a royal custom----"
"And the young lady is already betrothed," went on Akbar inexorably. "That in itself is sufficient. The King's promise is given in the first, her father's in the second. Akbar will break neither." And then suddenly resentment, perhaps a faint regret, seemed to come to him and his voice rose. "Lo! have I ever broken faith? Has not my yea been yea, my nay, nay?"
"Of a truth it has, Great Sire," answered the court lawyer deftly as his forehead once more touched the dust. "Yea! even beyond the ordinary faith of kings, since Akbar hath not shrunk in the past from rescinding orders he hath made in error. Will he not do so now? Will he not bow to Fate?"
It was boldness beyond belief, and both Birbal and Abulfazl stood aghast. Yet it was a master-stroke, for Akbar paled and was silent.
"Fate," he echoed at last, and the tone of his voice brought Birbal's to his ear in earnest entreaty--but it was too late. "So be it! Fate shall be the arbiter for this boy and this girl. Let her see to it!" His eyes lit up, a certain buoyancy seemed to lift him above the dull world. "I, Akbar, challenge her! Ye say Fate hath intervened. Let her intervene! If in the hours from dawn to dawn, she can make the King go back from his word in one thing, to her the victory! If not, to me."
The words rang out through the maze of arches in the Diwan-i-Khas. Then there was silence, till on the silence the King's laugh rang out. "Look not so solemn, friends--and foes mayhap!--Akbar, like all things else is in the hands of Fate."
But as Birbal went out with Abulfazl, he cursed and swore. "Aye!" he assented "'tis true enough. All things are in the hands of Fate; but wherefore should the King be in the hands of his enemies? They will strain every nerve----"
"'Tis but for a short time--from dawn to dawn." put in Abulfazl consolingly, "and we must strain every nerve also." Then suddenly his face softened. "Lo! I would not have him otherwise, Birbal. He is like a racehorse! The least touch of the bit of Fate and--for all his words--he chafes against it. 'Tis not Acquiescence, it is Defiance that wings his challenge."
"Aye!" grunted Birbal with a whimsical smile, "and a half-hearted belief that Love is all things."
Take to the garden thy carpet of prayerWait, and watch how at God's commandThe daffodils girdles of green prepare,How sentinel straight the cypresses stand.Forget thyself in the Path-of-LifePlunge for a second in God's own Sea,And the Seven Tides of the Water of StrifeWill never encompass thee.--Hafiz.
Take to the garden thy carpet of prayerWait, and watch how at God's commandThe daffodils girdles of green prepare,How sentinel straight the cypresses stand.Forget thyself in the Path-of-LifePlunge for a second in God's own Sea,And the Seven Tides of the Water of StrifeWill never encompass thee.
--Hafiz.
"Lo! I have prayed," said Auntie Rosebody, captiously, "and I have watched, but naught has come of it save a brow-ache. Truly Ummu, at my age, piety is fatiguing and 'tis better to trust the senses God gave than seek a new gift from him. Belike He is tired of old Gulbadan, and would as lief she took her rest decently in death like the rest of her generation. One cannot expect Him to count an old woman as worth so much to the world as a young one."
Little Umm Kulsum looked shocked.
"Nay, Auntie," she began, "are we not taught----"
"Taught," echoed the old lady tartly, "aye, we are taught much that is not true and more that is no use to us when we lose our way. But there! it serves me right! None lose themselves on a straight path; so mine--nay!--it is mine, child, not yours--hath been crooked, that is the truth. But I have made up my mind. The diamond shall go back to the jeweller from whom it was taken, for 'tis my belief that his Majesty the King knows naught about it. When I came from morning prayers and found him paying his respects to the Lady Mother, my conscience was exalted to the edge of confession and I began, as one does begin, to skirt round the subject--I never could abide, like my revered father--on whom be peace--to go head foremost into cold water. But the fount of my penitence soon ran dry in the parched desert of his ignorance. 'Tis useless telling a blind man that you have stolen his spectacles! So I gave over, came hither, and ordered ado-piâzawith double spice of onions to it, for I was sick with fasting. And it hath cleared my brain. The diamond shall go back, and I will trust the red madwoman as thou didst suggest last night. For his Highness the Most-Auspicious spoke of her this morning to Lady Hamida, and bid us all look out to see this Châran--forsooth!--at the Durbar to-morrow! Truly my august nephew hath a wit like a camel's cantrip; it leaves one uncertain whether to laugh or to weep! But he must hold her faithful, so I will write a letter to the Feringhi in a feigned hand, appointing time and place for restoration. This she shall take; and afterward I will lay strict oaths on her, such as not even a woman could evade, and she shall have the stone, and bring back receipt therefore. So that settles it, and may God forgive silly old Gulbadan!" She frowned fiercely. "Yea, grand-daughter, that is the sting in the scorpion's tail! For once Khânzâda Gulbadan Begum hath been a fool! She hath acted without counting the cost."
So, secretly and in haste, Âtma Devi was sent for and shewn into the little corbeilled balcony overhanging the lofty outside wall of the palace, where there could be no eavesdroppers save the purple pigeons that cooed and strutted on the wide cornices.
"The diamond!" she said incredulously. "Oh! Beneficent Ones! it is not stolen! Or rather it hath been given back. My lord Birbal must have replaced it, for the King knows naught about it."
"'Tis my lord Birbal who knows naught about it, foolish one," said Auntie Rosebody, peremptorily, "for he sent it back here safe sewn in the Prince's turban. Lo! unbeliever, look, and see if I lie."
Her small henna-tinged palm went into her bosom, and there, like a huge dewdrop among rose leaves, lay the gem.
"The King's Luck," murmured Âtma in stupefaction, "the King's Luck! And yet my lord Birbal knew--this slave knows that he knows, and the King does not know--this slave knows that he does not know."
"Oh cloud not perspicacity with noes and not noes!" cried Aunt Rosebody wrathfully and yet with a whimper in her voice. "If the Most-Excellent is ignorant--as I, too, believe him to be, and as I pray he may ever remain--that is the more reason why this should go back at once."
"Aye!" assented Âtma, her face scarcely less bewildered than little Umm Kulsum's as she sate rocking herself to and fro, mechanically repeating penitential verses of the Koran, "but my lord Birbal knew--wherefore?"
"Wherefore," echoed Aunt Rosebody vehemently protesting. "Lo! if thou wilt ask questions, I shall lose my way again. Remember the saying
'Ask not the road of twainIf one can make it plain.'
'Ask not the road of twainIf one can make it plain.'
And for my part, I think the better of Birbal for his silence. If my nephew knew that his heir had filched his Luck from him----" and then suddenly she dissolved into tears, "Oh! Gulu! Gulu! beloved of thy father! why didst not think of this before, thou silly--old--fool?"
Umm Kulsum joined her in tears, only Âtma Devi sate calm, frowning. "Aye," she assented gravely, "I see. The Most High must never know. Therefore if the Beneficent Lady will give me the letter I will see it delivered, and when dark comes I can take the King's Luck to the place appointed."
Aunt Rosebody gave a sigh of relief. "Truly thou art not so bad, good red-woman. Ummu! my pen and ink. And we--we three will swear never to open our mouths concerning this again, least of all to the Most-Auspicious. No! not even as dying confession to ease our miserable souls."
"Lo! I promise," sobbed Umm Kulsum. "God gives the reward of silence."
"Yea! I promise," murmured Âtma softly.
And so it came to pass that just as Birbal had almost given up hope of coming even upon a trace of the lost diamond; when, thrown back upon himself, he was meditating the possibility of a private audience with the Beneficent Ladies, and a complete throwing of himself upon their mercy, he received a message to come down without delay to the Hall of Labour. He found William Leedes attempting to make out the meaning of a little scented note in a brocaded bag, which had been left for him at the outside door.
"A woman's writing for sure," said Birbal quickly at his first glance. "See how the curves are clipped showing lack of decision." He read the first words--"Ye Gods!" he muttered; so ran hastily through the few lines which appointed a place for the due restoration of the missing gem.
Then he refolded the letter, replaced it in its covering without a word, and stood silent, all the confident vitality gone from face and figure. Suddenly he sniffed at the brocaded bag. "Aye! violets!" he murmured. "The Lady Umm Kulsum's favourite flower! By heaven and earth, Birbal! thou art a fool!" He flung his arms out so recklessly that it seemed as if he would strike himself. "'Tis my mistake after all, sir jeweller! I must have confused the true and the false, for this is from the palace." he said bitterly, "and all my searchings, my chase after that vanishing quantity the harlot Siyah Yamin hath been lost time! I am a fool!"
It was a few minutes ere his quick brain had regained sufficient self-confidence to work; but then it worked rapidly. At nine o'clock--it was now six--by the large flat stone at the Anup tank, not only William Leedes must be in evidence, but he, Birbal, and a strong guard of deaf and dumb slaves must be concealed close by so as to prevent any possibility of treachery. For Birbal did not forget Akbar's curious challenge to his courtiers that day, or that the safe conduct given to the Englishman was a promise which an assassin's dagger might easily break. Ralph Fitch and John Newbery were too far away to be points of attack, but William Leedes must be guarded. Aye! and endless other possibilities must be foreseen, and precautions taken against defeat. For in this case defeat would mean a change in the King's whole line of policy. It is true that it would also, in all probability, mean his acceptance of practical politics and so bring him round to Birbal's point of view--namely that Kingship must follow certain definite and familiar lines; but Birbal's wholehearted love of his master could not brook defeat for him. What action he took must be free, not forced.
So in the interval between the time of receiving the notice of appointment and the appointment itself Birbal set seriously to work in consultation with Abulfazl.
"The hounds of hell will scour heaven and earth to find some pitiful failure," he said finally, almost grinding his teeth with impotent regret. "Lo! Shaikh-jee! What ails the King at times to give such handle to his enemies?"
"It is his sense of strength," replied Abulfazl calmly. "He feels like a God, and of a truth he is one." The Prime Minister's flattery had grown to be part of himself; he really thought of Akbar as he wrote about him.
"Perchance!" growled Birbal, "but he lives among men, and men know how to trick their gods. I can think of no more promises; if thou dost, guard against failure, for my leisure may be scant."
As he made his way to the appointment, he told himself that it might be scant indeed; since, somehow, he must recover the diamond that night. Despite his unbelief, his clear wit, his critical outlook on all things, he could not escape from the feeling that the best safeguard to his master would be the repossession of the lucky stone. Yes! he must recover it.
The night was dark, dark enough to favour the posting of men unseen in the shadow of the trees to the left of the big flat stone. So dark that even the still levels of the tank lay unrevealed, save here and there, where a feeble oil rushlight shone on the shore showing the little platter of food for the dead on which it stood, the fading chaplet of flowers twined around the offering.
So dark, so still, so quiet. No sign anywhere of movement.
Stay! up yonder where the steps might begin, a twinkling light. Was it some other bereaved woman coming to place her remembrance on the water's edge--or was it the messenger? By heaven! it bore to the left--just a twinkling light, no more. Birbal held his breath. And now, grown nearer, the faint circle of radiance showed a hand holding a little platter of offerings, and on the wrist a fold not of white but red drapery.
By all that was holy, Âtma Devi! Then she was at the bottom of it, after all!
The next minute he and his slaves were surrounding her and the dark figure of William Leedes, who had risen from the large flat stone where he had been waiting.
She stood quite still, apparently not much surprised, and her eyes met Birbal's without fear.
"Yea, kill me when I have fulfilled my errand," she said quietly, "but not till then. I have sworn to give it to none but the jeweller. Is he here?"
"Take it from her, sir jeweller," came the quick order. "I can settle with her afterward."
There was a pause as Âtma Devi appraised the Feringhi's strange dress, then from amongst the little pile of uncooked grain upon the platter of the dead, produced the diamond. It shone with a faint lambent glow in the flickering light of the oil lamp. A sigh of satisfaction came from Birbal, but William Leedes bent closer to look at what he held and his face as he raised his head showed ghastly gray.
"It also is false, master," he faltered. "See yonder is the scratch my tool made on it----"
"False," Birbal stood transfixed, feeling, even amidst his stupefaction, a quick sense of relief that after all he had made no mistake. "False," he echoed, and turned on Âtma Devi. She also stood surprised, so surprised that Birbal realised in an instant that she was innocent of all complicity in whatever had brought about this astounding revelation. So without a word, he drew out the other false gem which he had brought with him, and laid it beside its marrow on the jeweller's palm.
"There be two false stones, sister," he said striving to be calm, feeling that it was his only chance of getting any hint on which he could work from her, "but where is the real one; dost know?"
Her great, wide eyes roved helplessly from the twin stones to the jeweller's face, so back to his; then back again to the stones.
"Pooru must have made them," she said slowly, "but I wist not they were even made."
Then suddenly she threw up her arms and clapped her hands together high above her head. The platter of death offerings with its little lamp falling from her hold, dashed itself to pieces on the stones, and there was darkness. So from it came her wail--"Lo I have betrayed the King, I, his Châran! Yet I know nothing." She sank huddled in a heap upon the ground.
"There is no use wasting further time here," said Birbal roughly after several vain attempts to rouse Âtma Devi from ineffectual despair. "Leave her to her own condemnation. This points to deeper plotting than I dreamt of, and there is no moment to lose."
As he hurried off, he marshalled half a hundred theories before the judgment seat of his brain....
The biggest villain--who was the biggest villain? Khodadâd without doubt, but he was dead. Couldhehave had the diamond? It was becoming plain to Birbal that in this scheme of theft some one had played for the chance of the Great Diamond never coming again within reach of a jeweller's lathe. Someone had kept the real stone, and played off false ones upon the conspirators. He must search Khodadâd's house; aye even the corpse which still awaited the next dawn for burial. Then there was Siyah Yamin; but that devil's limb had once more disappeared. She would be found, of course--no power, not even fear, could keep a woman of her kidney quiet for long. But this was all in the future, and deep down in the cynical heart of the man lurked a clamour that his King, his master, should have the benefit of his luck stone within the next few hours. It must not be in the keeping of his enemies. It must be secure in the safe custody of a friend.
Yet he felt curiously helpless. Though he had ransacked Fatehpur Sikri, aye and Agra also, in search of the so-called Sufi from Isphahân--the mountebank, the juggler with men's senses, he had not come upon a trace of him. William Leedes was of no use, and the only other human being friendly to the King who knew of the diamond's loss, was the half-crazy woman whom he had left crushed in despairing remorse by the Anup tank. Most likely she would go home and kill herself with the death-dagger of her race.
Well she was of no use. From beginning to end, she had been a hindrance, not a help.
And Âtma, meanwhile, was feeling that the Seven Tides of the Waters of Strife had overwhelmed her.
What had she done? She had persuaded Diswunt to give the opportunity for the theft of the diamond, it is true; but only that she might take it--as she had taken it--to the keeping of the Beneficent Ladies. And they had given it back to her. She sate unconscious of the passage of Time, puzzling herself vainly to account for those twin stones which had lain shining in the jeweller's palm.
Wash white the pages! In no bookLove's rule is written. Wherefore lookNot in my words for Flattery; nor dareTo claim me as thy rightful share.Traced on my brow is Love--Fate wrote it there.--Hafiz.
Wash white the pages! In no bookLove's rule is written. Wherefore lookNot in my words for Flattery; nor dareTo claim me as thy rightful share.Traced on my brow is Love--Fate wrote it there.
--Hafiz.
The gongs striking eleven roused her. She stood up and looked about her, feeling lost, forlorn; and lo! she was in a world of stars. For it was the Night of the Dead, and every little hovel, every house, and homestead, and palace in the town behind her, glittered with the small lamps set to illuminate the feasts that are laid out for wandering spirits. And as she looked out over the unseen levels of the tank, the stars were there also, twinkling farther and farther away to the horizon in every hamlet and village. For an instant the inner vision of the soul was hers, and she saw, as it were a map stretched before her, the wide plain of India receding on and on into the darkness of the night, all sown with such stars in constellations.
And every star was the memory of some dear face; every star was set for some loved wandering soul!
She felt like a disembodied spirit herself as she looked down at her feet, remembering the little decorous platter in which she had hidden the diamond. Should she go back to the Beneficent Ladies and tell them what had happened? No! She had done her part toward them; she had given the gem they had given her into the jeweller's own hand as she had promised; so that was the end.
But it was not the True Luck; thus her duty, so far as she herself was concerned, still remained. She must try and find it, and if she failed there was always the death-dagger; for she must be true, though she was a woman.
"True! Aye! as true as it befits womanhood to be."
Who had said that?
Siyâla?
Then in a second she knew, and turning swiftly on her heel ran toward the town. Siyâl! Siyâla was the thief! She had the King's Luck. Ye gods! had it come to this. Her sister of the veil, the little dainty, delicate, perfumed piece of femininity which she had borne with, nay, had almost loved as a half-forgotten part of herself--she, and she only, was preventing her, Âtma, the representative of Chârans, from playing her man's part in Châranship. An uttermost loathing of herself, as woman, came to the mind that had been educated to believe in her womanhood as nothingness, the while she hurried through the full bazaars toward Satanstown. She almost had to fight her way through one portion where the crowd filled every inch of the roadway past Khodadâd's house. He was lying in state there with all the royal insignia of a Tarkhân about him. That had not saved his corpse, however, from quick searching by the hands of the city police (for treasonable papers was the excuse) but now that Birbal had come and gone unsatisfied, the professional wailers were once more skirling away their mercenary grief, and through the wide arches of the upper floor the swaying heads of the hired priests could be seen as they chanted their orisons for the dead.
"Who is't?" she asked, faint curiosity rising in her as she passed.
"Khodadâd, Tarkhân. Hast not heard?" answered someone. "They found him dead at dawn, the blood pouring from his veins, and the white horse from which he had fallen by his side."
"Aye! but thou forgettest neighbour!" said another eager voice "his hands were tied and----"
"God send his soul to the nethermost hell for treachery," broke in Âtma on the gossiping, as she fought her way on.
"Ari, sister! Have a care," protested the crowd. "Thou hittest like a man, and will hurt."
But she was gone ere the sentence ended in a broad laugh, and a rough jest on him who had such a termagant to wife.
Old Deena caught sight of her as she came breathlessly along the balconied lane. There were lights and to spare here, but Siyah Yamin's house stood a dark block amongst its radiant neighbours.
"Thou art too late, mistress most chaste," he called, "the singing bird is fled."
"Whither?" she gasped.
He shook his wicked old head and leered with his wicked old eye.
"No-whither so far as this world knows. A many have been after her, even my Lord Birbal, without success. She left for the desert to my Lord Khodadâd's devil's feast last evening and hath not returned. Now he is dead, and she hath disappeared! Belike the white horse carried her off too; or belike," he spoke in a lower voice, "the desert was but fair doubling ground for pursuit."
Âtma stared at him uncomprehending.
"But I need her," she muttered.
A hard metallic laugh rang from a neighbouring balcony.
"No woman needs woman!" came a coarse jeering voice. "But such a strapping wench could mayhap play a man's part. Play it, sister, and God go with you."
Âtma turned and fled from the burst of wild laughter that followed on the sally. There was nothing left now for her, truly, but the man's part. She must find the death-dagger of her race, and die as they had died.
But not for honour; for dishonour!
By the time she reached the winding tenement stair which led upward to her roof she had grown calm, and her mind, set loose from the urgency of the present, had begun to wander amid past scenes. Yea! yonder were the steps leading down to the cellar where the Wayfarer had lain asleep, half dead in dreams, with Zarîfa's face upon his bosom. A strange man indeed! What was it he had said about Love? Her hand sought her throat involuntarily and finding the quaint green stone clasped it.
Roses! Roses! Roses! Their scent bewildered her!
Then in a second she saw all, she understood all. Aye! she, the woman in her, had loved the King and she had been ashamed of it. But this--this was different. This was the mortal following the immortal! She was going to death as to a funeral prye, to find herself sexless, beyond the flames.
She stumbled on and on, up and up, every atom of herself forgotten save the deathless desire for Unity which lies behind sex, until, suddenly, some unfamiliarity beneath her feet made her pause.
Had she come too far? She stopped in the mirk darkness to feel the step on which she stood, so, groping felt the wall.
A nail. And something had caught on it. What?
A tiny scrap of fringe. And that was scent--not bewildering scent of roses; but bewildering scent of musk and ambergris--the essences of Satanstown!
Siyah Yamin's paradise!
The thought leaped to her brain; a second or so afterward she stood at the secret door. It was ajar.
But this time the darkness of the roof showed like a black shadow against the diffused radiance from the town below.
"Siyâla" she cried, but there was no answer. She moved forward a step; then, bethinking herself, turned back, locked the door and thrust the key in her bosom. If anyone were there, they would have to meet her face to face.
So, her eyes becoming accustomed to that outside radiance, that central shadow, she half-felt her way down the broad path from the door toward the place where, when last she had seen it, silken curtains had still hung, and the remains of feasting had still lain rotting--rotting surely, slowly by day and night.
But there was nothing now. Even the dead roses had disappeared and her feet as she walked sank softly in the carpet of sand and dust that covered all things. Was that a darker shadow flitting back as she advanced? She turned swiftly, heard an ineffectual rattle of the lock, and the next instant, in her haste, her outstretched hands pinned a slight figure to the door.
"Lo! Âto," came a petulant voice, "thou art rough as any man! I am here if thou needst me, so take thy big hands from my frail body and let me light a light. 'Twas thy step--manlike again--made me extinguish mine, for fear."
A spark from the tinder box showed small hands shaking; and the following light, a second too soon, found traces of sharp terror behind the mocking smile on Siyah Yamin's face. She was dressed as she had been before in man's clothes, but this time they seemed to sit ill on her shrinking figure; yet she strove hard for boldness.
"Well! what is't, Âto?" she went on recklessly as if trying to put off time. "Somewhat of the King I will go bail--the King thou dost not love! ha! ha!" Her jeering laugh roused a muffled echo from the low, empty walls.
"Yea, I love the King as woman loves man," replied Âtma gravely. "What of that. It is illusion. It will pass."
Siyah Yamin gave a little soft shuddering sigh.
"Come!" she said sharply, "we cannot talk so. Come! widow! follow thy lover, Sher Khân." She sprang forward light in hand, and her slender figure fled forward leaving darkness behind her; darkness through which her light song echoed.
What says philosophyLove's an illusion!Silly delusion!Give me your lipsTake mine! Such sipsProve Love felicity.Wisdom is wearisomeCloser, my dearie, comeLet us find Unity--
What says philosophyLove's an illusion!Silly delusion!Give me your lipsTake mine! Such sipsProve Love felicity.Wisdom is wearisomeCloser, my dearie, comeLet us find Unity--
"Peace Siyâl!" said Âtma, sternly interrupting the ribald verses.
"Peace? oh yea! let there be peace between us." laughed the courtesan, as she sank down on the dusty step of the dais, and put the light beside her. But her wide eyes belied her light words.
Fear sate behind their glitter, watching wickedly; and every subtle sense sought for some means of escape, some method of cajolery. "Wherefore not," she rattled on. "Lo! I give you in his Monkey-Majesty! He is not a man after my heart. Yet, I would not his enemies got the better of him, as they will do. What! hast not heard? He challenged them this day to write failure across a promise of his, or change across his mind. From dawn to dawn it was. And see you, Âto" the hurried palpitating voice steadied, as the wild search for some false trail happened upon one. "Thou art the King's Châran and must warn him! They have sent poison out to the paralysed profligate at Shâkin-garh--he will be burnt at dawn and with him the girl whoserâm-ruckithe King wears. There is small time to lose, Âto--I know it, I tell thee--I heard it from their lips--go thou, then, with warning."
She leant forward; her face full of guileful, beguileful beauty, close to the grave level brows that met in a steady frown.
"Aye! I will go, Siyâl--but not without the King's Luck. Give it me. Thou hast it in thy bosom--thy hand has hovered there. Give it me, I say." She essayed to grip those fluttering fingers but Siyah Yamin was on her feet in a second, and stood back, swaying unsteadily, one hand clasped to her heart.
"I--lo! it is not true. 'Tis something here that hurts"--she beat her breast sharply. "Be not so rough, Âto! Thou wert always rough as a man. Lo! in the old days it was I, little Siyâla who was to marry Âtma Singh, and now--now--Sher Khân." she paused, tore off her dandified turban, and let the great plaits and coils of her hair fall loose. "See I am woman again, and thou--thou art man! And, Âto, hist! Knowest thou why I came back here to-night?--would I had never come. It was to find the broken pieces of the glass goblet I broke." Her small face melted almost to tears, the babyish lips trembled over the words. "Yea! Yea! it is true. I came for them!--I was going away--for ever--and I remembered. Lo! Âto, a woman always remembers her first lover, even if she be courtezan. Yea! thou wilt remember the King, so have pity! What! dost not believe? Lo! I was looking when thou camest, and frightened me into putting out the light. See here if I lie." With her right hand she tore something out of her bosom and shifting it swiftly to her left held it out. It was a curved fragment of the blown-glass goblet which had fallen with a crash upon a rosebush, whose red wine of Shirâz had trickled thirstily to the rose's root.
Twined upon it in golden tracery lay part of its legend--
Take the cup of Life with laughing lip,Forget the bleeding heart within.
Take the cup of Life with laughing lip,Forget the bleeding heart within.
She caught at the words hysterically. "So have I taken Life, Âto, as all women should; I have drunken heart's blood. Âto! touch me not! or before God I---- What dost seek, madwoman?
"The King's Luck, harlot! Thou hast it in thy bosom. Give it me, or----"
They were locked in each other's arms, but Âtma Devi was a second too late, for Siyah Yamin had drawn something besides a broken glass-sherd from her bosom, and her right hand with a flash of steel in it rose high, then fell on the Châran's broad breast. Âtma staggered under the blow, but the poniard blade crashing on the collar bone turned aside upward and cleft the muscles of the neck harmlessly. She had the weapon wrested from the small hand in a second, and her voice, breathless from exertion yet steady, went on relentlessly.
"Thou hast it, Siyâl! Thou didst steal it and betray--all men! Best give it to me--or--or I shall have to kill thee--sister of the veil."
But Siyah Yamin was true to her womanhood, and every atom of her fought for full possession as she struggled madly.
"It--it is mine." she gasped. "No one shall have it--I claim--I am the woman and I will have----"
Suddenly there was silence. Resistance melted out of Âtma Devi's arms; her insistent hand, still seeking, found what it sought. She gave a sharp cry of joy and relaxed her hold.
But the dainty figure her insistence had supported, doubled up limply and fell in a huddled heap upon the ground.
She sank beside it on her knees. She would have killed it, as she had said. Aye, killed it remorselessly! but surely she had not----
"Siyâl? Siyâla? Sister?"
But she called in vain. The very glare of hatred and fear was dying from the eyes over which the impenetrable veil of death was creeping.
She watched them for a second or two, then closed them, and stood up. She was not frightened nor remorseful at what had happened. Vaguely she felt relieved. It was womanhood which had died there on the roof in the Paradise of Lust. Now that she had time to think, she saw it all. It was so simple. Siyâla, beset by the desire of possession, had ordered the false gem maker to make two false stones, and palming them off on the conspirators had kept the real one, trusting to her luck that the one supposed to be the true gem would never again fall into the hands of the jeweller. But it had. The exchange of turbans had brought discovery close at hand, so she had meant to fly; and doubtless for once had spoken truly, when she said she had returned during the night to gather up the broken fragments of her first cup of joy.
So, quietly, methodically, Âtma straightened out the huddled figure that had held thedeva-dasi, sister of the veil, daughter of the Gods, covering it decorously with the tinselled muslin scarf Sher Khân had worn in gay mockery of his sex. So it was pure Womanhood that lay there with face upturned to the dark. Then taking the light, Âtma searched under the rose-bushes for the broken cup. She found the bowl intact save for the one curved splinter Siyâla had gathered up. The stem, too, jarred and chipped, would still stand upright; so, making a little pile of dust she set them together beside the dead woman's hand, and left her lying there in the shadow, with the diffused light from the Lamps of the Dead below making a far-away halo to that central darkness.
Closing, and locking the door, she flung the key through a narrow loophole in the stairway, through which that same radiance of the Dead could be seen faintly; so passed down to her own door.
There was much to be done. The diamond, however, being so far safe, her first care must be to warn the King that the little coward of therâm-ruckiwas in imminent danger. For this she must make her way to the palace.
She made it quicker than she had thought for, since, as she unlocked her door, figures started out on her from the darkness below, and she felt what the Beneficent Ladies called an "all-over dress," being respectfully yet firmly pulled over her.
"By the King's command, bîbî," said the oily voice of a eunuch. "Thou hast been appointed of his household, and the Lord Chamberlain hath ordered us----"
She made no effort at escape, knowing herself helpless, but she could defend herself.
"The Lord Chamberlain, being here himself," she interrupted at a venture--and a faint stirring as if those around her turned to look at someone told her that her surmise was correct--"can take me prisoner if he choose; but let him remember that the King desires my presence as Châran at the Great Durbar. So let him treat me ill at his peril."
Mirza Ibrahîm who had, indeed, come to see his orders executed, said nothing; but he inwardly swore that the jade should repent her defiance. There were endless possibilities for a Lord Chamberlain once the wild-cat were fairly housed within reach.
Âtma meanwhile in her screened dhooli felt herself going palaceward contentedly enough. So far was good. But how to get her message conveyed to the King.
Yet conveyed it must be, and before long; for the soft radiance of the Lamps of the Dead had begun to die down. The wandering spirits had had their feasting; they must be in their graves by dawn.
Could she escape? Could she by good luck see a friend? bribe one of the bearers?
But time slipped by without opportunity and she found herself lodged at last in a very handsome apartment consisting of a room and beyond that a slip of roof with a latticed cupola before any chance had come of accomplishing her desire.
"Nay! no more! I need nothing more. I will call if so be," she said to the servants who fawned about her. "Go! I tell thee."
She must think, she must devise some plan. The room was well appointed; even a long pen-box with a quaint pot of glazy ink stood by a low stool, so she could write. Meanwhile she must have a few minutes in the open. The musk of the tented dhooli had almost been too much for her.
So, out on the roof of this cupola's bastion or turret, half way down the palace wall, she leant, her arms on the parapet, and looked downward and upward. Above, to one side, was the palace; but which part of it? Below her was one of the wide eaves so characteristic of Indian architecture, and it ran, after skirting the turret octagonally along the walls, into the darkness. There was foothold for one with a strong head, doubtless; but what then?
As she thought a sound of whirring ropes met her ear, and something dark slid down the wall from far above her.
The preacher's dhooli! Then the King's balcony was somewhere above her! Could she? How far did the eave run. It would need ten yards at least. And could she start the equipoise if once she got a hold on the ropes?
Stay! She would only have to signal.
Oh clear the cushioned thrones from those who sleepPreach thou the Truth, let the Untruth be dumbTill gladsome voices once more fill both worldsFreshen the universe--Be thou our soulWe are dead bodies. Bring us back to lifeThou art our guard, the caravan is lone.Thou art our army, let thy standard wave.Lo! the day steed is weary; the dim nightTo all around us; bid thy seraphimHerald the coming dawn, and wake us, Lord,As helpless babes we sleep and sleep and sleepUpon the threshhold of another world.--Nizami.--A. D. 1140.
Oh clear the cushioned thrones from those who sleepPreach thou the Truth, let the Untruth be dumbTill gladsome voices once more fill both worldsFreshen the universe--Be thou our soulWe are dead bodies. Bring us back to lifeThou art our guard, the caravan is lone.Thou art our army, let thy standard wave.Lo! the day steed is weary; the dim nightTo all around us; bid thy seraphimHerald the coming dawn, and wake us, Lord,As helpless babes we sleep and sleep and sleepUpon the threshhold of another world.
--Nizami.--A. D. 1140.
Birbal had been wakeful. The discovery of the second false gem had thrown him back on himself. At dawn all his energies must be turned toward making it impossible that the King's rash, almost incredibly rash challenge, should bring disaster on the policy of years; so ere that dawn came endless plans for the recovery of the missing jewel must be set in train. Then, if possible, he must find the juggler with men's senses, the man whose marvellous art had helped him before. There was a chance that King Bayazîd might know his whereabouts; so an hour or so ere daylight, all other things having been started, Birbal's swift-trotting bullocks drew up at the garden gate of the River Palace. All was dreamful as before. Here no lamps of the Dead shone in the wide arcades, only on the roof the light which burnt ever in Rupmati's shrine, showed the gaunt length of her lover asleep on cushions beneath it.
"The Sufi from Isphahân?" he said drowsily. "He who called himself the Wayfarer, pretended to be Payandâr, andwasmusician! Yea! he left a message for thee--that his work was accomplished. He whom he watched was dead, the danger was overpast; therefore he went, whither I know not. Neither do I care. He sang me aghazalere he left--it hath a good lilt to it."
And Birbal as he ran down the stairs again, heard that same lilt of it ringing after him.