A broken glass that held the red-wine of Strife,The corpse of a man, besprinkled with essence of rose,A child asleep on the threshold of larger life,Such is thy dawn-wake, lover who seeks repose.Lend, for the Love-of-God, to my thirsty heart thy bowl,So with the dawn-waked winds He shall refresh thy soul.
A broken glass that held the red-wine of Strife,The corpse of a man, besprinkled with essence of rose,A child asleep on the threshold of larger life,Such is thy dawn-wake, lover who seeks repose.Lend, for the Love-of-God, to my thirsty heart thy bowl,So with the dawn-waked winds He shall refresh thy soul.
He muttered a curse on Sufi nonsense, and flinging himself into therâthagain, bade the servant return cityward. So, after a while he dozed, seizing on time for sleep when naught else could be done. He was aroused by a sharp jolt, a sudden drawing to one side on the part of the driver.
"What is't, fool?" he queried, sharply.
"Protector of the Poor" replied the man "It is the King!"
He was on his feet in an instant, rubbing his eyes in the gray dawn-light in time to see a rider whirl past alone.
The King undoubtedly; but his escort? Was this all? An old man bent with service, dropping farther and farther behind, not so much from any fault in his mount, but simply from lack of riding.
That anyhow could be remedied.
"Your horse!" he cried, and the old servitor, a tall, bony Mahommedan, recognising Birbal instantly, recognising also the advantage of the slim Hindu in a stern chase, obeyed.
"What is it? Where goes he?" asked Birbal briefly, hands busy shortening stirrups.
"Shakîngarh--to the burning. The Most-Auspicious slept when the madwoman--she who calls herself Châran came up in the Preacher's dhooli. Two horses are aye kept saddled in the yard below. The King was on Bijli in a twinkle, and I--there was none else--scrambled on Chytue shouting for some one to follow."
But Birbal had gathered up the reins and was off. Chytue lightened by the change of riders, sweeping on at a thundering gallop, lessening the distance at every stride between him and his stable companion.
Akbar looked round to frown; then to smile. "A race!" he cried gleefully. "How now Bijli?" The mare answering to the call shot forward like an arrow from a bow.
A race indeed! thought Birbal. A lost one, too, most likely, for the gray of the false dawn was passing into primrose.
How had they managed it--they must have killed the old man; and he would be burnt at sunrise, and then Akbar's promise to the little coward of a Râni--oh! curse all women!--
Fifteen miles good, though in the far distance behind him the low, jagged ridge of Sikri loomed like a cloud. One by one the mud mounds which tell of village sites, rose out of the treeless western horizon, showed silent, lightless, smokeless in the half-light, then sank, dwindled, to join that shadow of the ridge. How many more of them must be passed before dawn ... before dawn ...
So thought the rider behind, cursing himself as he rode, for having forgotten this easy-broken promise of his King.
But Akbar, riding ahead, had forgotten anxiety in determination, and as, at a deviating curve in the track, he struck boldly across country, his every vein thrilled with joyful excitement.
The dawn was coming! Under his horse's flying hoofs the interminable sequence of sandy by-paths through the sun-baked fallows chequered with fields of young millet and maize, seemed to slip past. As the light grew, the purple eyes of the feathery vetches seemed to look at him tear-drenched with dew, the goldy-green balls of the colocynth apples as they cracked under the thundering feet gave out a bitter, bracing, wholesome smell.
Down in an old backwater of the river which held a few acres of damper ground, a flight of cranes rose, to wing a wedge-shaped way to the west.
"Oh! for the wings of a dove."
That was what Pâdré Rudolfo sang.
Was that a spiral trail of smoke on the horizon? Aye; but from a village rubbish heap. After all, a funeral pyre was nothing more; a mere rubbish heap of accessories in which a soul had played its part.
Yea! but as when one layethHis worn out robes awayAnd, taking new ones sayethThese will I wear to-day.So putteth by the spiritLightly its robe of fleshAnd passeth to inheritA residence afresh.
Yea! but as when one layethHis worn out robes awayAnd, taking new ones sayethThese will I wear to-day.So putteth by the spiritLightly its robe of fleshAnd passeth to inheritA residence afresh.
The words of the Bhagavad-Gita recurred to his mind, bringing with them as they do to every human mind that knows them, a sudden sense of companionship, of hand clasping in the wilderness of life.
The pale primrose of the dawn was reddening fast. A few more minutes and the sun's edge would for half a second sparkle like a star on the rim of the world; and then, with the coming of sunlight, the King's Shadow, swifter than the King himself would speed ahead, lengthening out, reaching, touching all things before he, the flesh and blood, could touch them!
Ah! The Shadow was the real man! He glanced backward. He had come fast. No one was in sight. Following the whimsey of his thought he told himself it was always so. Behind, out of sight, almost out of mind, rode the world, in front the Shadow--the Will, the Ideal, the Unattainable.
Faint and far on the horizon a square speck of light showed the tower of Shakîngarh, the Falcon's Nest. There was little time to spare then, for the sun shone on its battlements.
Little indeed! for as the gleam of the village clustering about the feet of the fortress rose to view, a sound of shawms and trumpets arose also. But there was no spiral of smoke as yet to tell of fire.
Bijli, responding to the spur, swept on over the more cultivated country. An old canal, dug hundreds of years before by some dead dynasty sent sinuous channels through the fields; high cactus hedges, shutting out the view, formed impenetrable barriers. With irritation at the delay, Akbar had to follow a winding cart track, deep-rutted beyond words--an old way--the old way that made reform so difficult!
The sun at last! Akbar's shadow sped before him, climbing the thorn enclosures, which at a sharp corner barred the way.
If he himself could but so override difficulties.
Ye Gods! Smoke!
Bijli, at racing speed, was round the corner in a second. Before her lay a mud wall, beyond that an open space, a dense crowd encircling a huge pile of wood.
As she rose like a bird to the leap, Akbar saw nothing but a smoking flaming torch in a man's hand.
"Hold!" he shouted "Akbar the King forbids it."
Bijli, over the wall, was treating the crowd, as she was given to treating a squash atchauganwith kicks and bites, and an instant after, Akbar slipping to the ground, stood stern beside the pile.
There was a murmur of sheer surprise; but Akbar had no eyes for anything but the dulled, drugged, acquiescence of a girl's face as, dressed in bridal finery, she sate on the funeral pyre with an old man's head upon her lap.
"Unloose her! let her go!" came the order, bringing consternation; yet also relief. For half Shakîngarh knew the greed of land and gold which led to this enforcedsuttee. Briefly, the young wife had powerful friends who would claim her full widow's share; therefore she must die.
But a buxom woman, deep-breasted, arrogant, had seized the arrested torch from her husband and was brandishing it fiercely; for being wife to the old profligate's eldest son she had everything to gain by this getting rid of a rival.
"King?" she echoed, "By thine own word only! And even so King of men only! We women claim our right! She shall not be defrauded of it! Our father shall not go to the realms of Yama unattended."
"Then go thyself, woman," retorted Akbar peremptorily. "Thy part is done. Thy breasts have given suck to grown sons. Hers await an infant's lips! At thy peril, fool, or on thine own head be----."
He started forward to seize the torch she was in the act of thrusting into one of the firing places that were ready filled with resins, oil, and cotton wool.
To escape him she leaped nimbly to the pyre and with outstretched arm sought another feeder of the flames. As she did so, something that had lain like a withered branch moved and shot arrow-like at her bare ankle.
"Snake! Snake!"
Her yell of ultimate fear rang out and was caught up by the crowd. The torch dropped recklessly, she was down on her knees rocking herself backward and forward.
"A judgment! A judgment! Let her burn!" The cry of the crowd merged instantly into condemnation; but Akbar had leaped after her, dispatched the cobra--which hidden in some hollow log had doubtless crept out for warmth when the first sun rays had touched the pyre--and crushing out the torch flame with his heel, had his mouth on the woman's ankle.
To no purpose. Even in that brief second the poison had reached the heart, and after a few moans of agonised fear, merciful drowsiness invaded heart and brain, she breathed slowly and yet more slowly.
Akbar stood up and looked about him dazedly. This instant response of Providence in his favour filled him with exulting awe. The almost fanatical enthusiasm for himself, for his ideals, which so often possessed him, seized on him; and Birbal, riding up in weary haste, found him the centre of an enthusiastic crowd who, granting him supernatural power, were busy substituting a dead woman for a living girl, while the latter sate stupidly in the sunlight watching the flames blaze up round another victim with that burden of an old man's head upon her lap.
Anyhow, the promise was unbroken; but Birbal, as he rode back behind Majesty, told himself there was trouble ahead. Such incidents were not wholesome, especially when every effort must be made to keep the King down to practical politics. So little might make him break away.
"So, Shaikie, hath lost one chance of Love," said Akbar, suddenly, when after a long and silent ride, the towers of Fatehpur Sikri showed clear again.
"And Empire hath gained many chances of stability," replied Birbal drily. "With grandsons of Râjpût descent, Majesty may hand on the crown, when God's time comes, in security."
"Of what?" asked Akbar swiftly. "That my dream will be fulfilled--the dream of a King." And then suddenly he almost drew rein. "The woman must be rewarded, Birbal--she who came, God knows how, to warn me. I would not have her escape reward."
"As Majesty has bidden her act Châran at the Festival to-day," replied Birbal, still more drily, "there seems small chance of her escaping notice."
The King's face broke suddenly into charming, whimsical smiles. "Of a truth, friend! I must be a thorn in the flesh even to thee; and to those others. God knows how they bear with me."
"Or how they will bear with her," acquiesced Birbal, grimly. For all his liberal culture, his boasted freedom from prejudices, he was conventionality itself in somethings, and it irked him to think of a woman masquerading as a Châran.
And yet Âtma Devi looked her best when a few hours afterward she knelt on the floor below the short flight of steps on the second of which the Emperor sate on the royal yellow satin cushions, while the throne, a marvel of gold and gems, occupied the highest step. Her long black hair, unbound, encircled by a steel fillet, fell like a veil over her shoulders, but left her bosom half-hidden by a man's steel corselet bare. A cuirass of steel chains hanging below the corselet covered the muslins of her woman's drapery, and her shapely arms, strenuous under the weight of the huge straight sword, held hilt downward, balanced it straight as a die, steady as a rock, point skyward.
In truth, the whole scene was magnificent beyond compare. The ordinary reception was over, but there was to follow one of the great episodes of the gorgeous yearly round of splendid yet curiously imaginative festivals, which marked Akbar's court. That is to say, the Emperor having challenged his court to play chess with him, was to play the game with the living chessmen who stood duly ranged on the huge chequered board of black and white marble which still exists at Fatehpur Sikri, just beyond the flight of steps which leads downward from the Hall of Audience.
So Akbar alone, the empty throne above him, occupied those empty steps at the foot of which his challenger crouched. Opposite, on the other side of the marble board the court, a blaze of colour and gems--save for a knot or two of Ulemas in their dark robes--stood ranged; while between them, immovable as statues, waited the living chessmen. The very horses of the knights, black and white, scarce moved a muscle, and the unwieldy masses of the elephants, which in the Indian game do the bishop's duty looked carved of stone. Black and silver, white and gold, each and all ablaze with black and white diamonds. The pawns (peons, footmen) cased in gold or silver armour each carried a pennant in black or white velvet embroidered in gold or silver; and the great castles or forts--also of gold or silver--were worn as corselets by huge giants of men, who each held aloft a royal standard of the Râjpût sun or the crescent moon of Mahommed.
Overhead the hard, blue Indian sky; as a background rose-red palace or grass-green trees; and through it all insistent, never ceasing, like the shiver of cicalas on a summer's night a low tremor of muted strings, and deadened drums.
"Challenge for the King, O Châran!" came Akbar's voice and on it, almost clipping the last sound, followed a blaring clang, as the great steel sword sweeping forward hit the marble floor. The sound echoed and re-echoed through the arches, almost confusing the wild chant borne upon it.
Ohí! the King,Challenge I bringLet every manIn the world's spanDo what he canTo best the King.
Ohí! the King,Challenge I bringLet every manIn the world's spanDo what he canTo best the King.
A faint shiver ran through the crowding courtiers, and Birbal standing in a group composed of the King's greatest friends and allies, looked round anxiously. As a rule these contests were foregone conclusions. To begin with, the King was undoubtedly the best chess-player in his dominions; then as a rule the games were generally of the mostjejeunedescription--mere spectacles of games. But to-day some new interest seemed to make the spectators' faces sharp, and though he could scarcely see how even defeat could be construed into such failure as Akbar had meant in his challenge, he felt vaguely uneasy.
"Thinkst thou they mean mischief?" he said to Abulfazl.
The latter smiled. "Mischief? not they! Mirza Ibrahîm hath as ever, forwarded the schedule and the King hath seen it"--he laughed,--"'Tis an irregular opening, but the onslaught is trivial--an elephant's charge----."
He paused, interrupted by the herald on the other side who took up the challenge on behalf of the Emperor's court.
Birbal looked over to his master. He could scarce tell why, but he was not satisfied. To begin with, that master's eyes were too dreamy. Had he perchance heard that Prince Salîm, seeking consolation from Love, had been found drunk in Satanstown that morning? As like as not; some of those sour-faced holy ones of set purpose had told him.
Ah! if the next few days were but over. If this Râjpût betrothal had but gone so far that there was no drawing back!
How many hours yet were there before this gnawing anxiety lest he should be overreached, and the King overpersuaded, should be past?
Akbar, nevertheless, showed intent enough upon his game. He was leaning forward his head on his hand, rapidly and in a low voice, calling out each move to the figure beneath him. And, ever, almost ere the tone ended, came that clash of steel on stone, that high strident cry "Ohí! The King! peon torukh'sfourth" and so on.
Yet in truth Birbal was right. Akbar was preoccupied. The morning's ride, with its hint of omnipotence, had, naturally enough, roused his physical and mental vitality to the highest pitch, and so dissociated him still further from his surroundings, and brought back the old question, "Why should he cling longer to the ancient pathways?" Being a King, accredited by God, seeing the truth clearly, why should he not cast aside old shackles, cease to attempt immortality through his unworthy sons, and achieve it for himself, by himself alone?
And something had happened that very morning which had almost driven from him all hope of one son at any rate. Not the escapade in Satanstown of which he had, of course, been informed. That was bad enough, bringing with it, as it did, scorn of a love which could so solace itself. No! it was not that! It was this: He had seen, being carried to a hospital almost lifeless, the body of a slave brutally beaten by Salîm's orders, before Salîm's eyes, and the sight had forced from Akbar's lips the bitter question as to how the son of a man who could not see God's littlest creature suffer without pity, could be so barbarous?
Would it not be better to give up the struggle?
All this was in Akbar's mind, as half-mechanically, working as good chess-players can with a portion of their intellect only, so that they can carry on many games at one and the same time, he marshalled his forces swiftly in these opening moves.
And now the board was clearer. Behind it on either side stood a long row of prisoners. The final onslaught was at hand.
"It is an elephant's attack" murmured Abulfazl and then checked himself--"they have changed it!" he exclaimed louder as the court herald cried.
"Ghorah(knight) tobadshad's(king's) seventh."
"Wherefore not?" sneered one of the Mahommedan faction who stood hard by. "There be many alternatives in a game of chess."
Birbal looked hurriedly round him. There was evident eagerness on the very faces where he expected to find it; aye! and there was anticipation in many more. Then he glanced at the board, seeing in an instant that this move altered the whole defence: but even as he recognised this, and recognised that an answering change would make it strong as ever, the Châran's cry rang out.
"Badshah's rukhtakeswazir" (Queen).
Akbar had let the move slip--had evidently been in a dream, was still in one! Yet it would need skill now to extricate himself for by God! he, himself, had not seen that before! It would be checkmate in two moves if therukhwere moved. The only defence--what was the defence?
"Wazir's rukhtakespeon."
Inexorably the Court-herald's voice echoed through the arches and out into the garden. It was followed by a little tense murmur from the crowd.
Ye Gods! what was the defence?Ghorahto---- No! that was fatal. The king of course! The king one step backward and the game was won!
Would Akbar see it?
His attention had anyhow been aroused. He had leant forward, his elbow on his knee, his brows bent. The question was--how much of his mind had been withdrawn from dreams.
"He is not here!" murmured Abulfazl hurriedly, "but surely they cannot----"
"They can and dare all," interrupted Birbal "Oh! devils in hell."
For clear from the King's lips came the words, "Ghorahto----"
This time, however, that clang of steel on stone blurred the closing tones of the King's lips and the Châran's rose on it clear.
"Badshahto his eighth."
Birbal gasped, the King started, the courtiers stirred swiftly. But Birbal's quick wit was the first to recover from surprise.
"Repeat the move, O Châran of Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar, Emperor of India! It hath not been fully heard!"
Instantly the clang repeated itself, and the words followed high, strident, unmistakable.
"By the order of the King,badshahto his eighth."
"But we protest," cried the Makhdûm-ul'-Mulk, finding voice, and Akbar rising, looked angrily downward and prepared to speak.
"Great sire!" interrupted Birbal advancing on the very board itself--"we protest also against disorder. A Châran's voice duly challenged, is the voice of the King. Naught can alter it, save treachery. Where is the treachery here? He speaks that which he hears. Question the woman. Ask her what she heard?"
A great wave of sudden curiosity swept over the King's mind. What would this woman say? So far Birbal was right. She could be punished for treachery--but----
"Speak, Âtma Devi, Châran of Kings. What didst thou hear?" His voice was strangely soft, but so clear that it could be heard by all.
There was not a quiver in the straight-held sword of steel, no tremor in the firm mouth that gave the answer.
"I heard what I spoke!"
There was an instant's pause; she sate motionless, her face impassive, the half-shut eyes gleaming coldly out at all the world. Then Birbal laughed, a quick cackling laugh.
"The move is played, messieurs! Answer, it if ye can!"
And then he looked admiringly across at Âtma Devi; in truth she was man indeed, in woman's--nay! by the Gods! she was man altogether--a man amongst men; for that was checkmate--checkmate to the King's enemies.
'Tis Eve O Sakil fill the wine cup highBe quick! the clouds delay not as they fly.Ere yet this Fading World to Darkness goesMy senses darken with thy wine of Rose,Till Fate makes flagons of my worthless clay.Then fill my empty skull with wine I praySo neither Death nor Judgment shall be mineThe Grave a brimming cup of Limpid Wine.--Sa'adi.[14]
'Tis Eve O Sakil fill the wine cup highBe quick! the clouds delay not as they fly.Ere yet this Fading World to Darkness goesMy senses darken with thy wine of Rose,Till Fate makes flagons of my worthless clay.Then fill my empty skull with wine I praySo neither Death nor Judgment shall be mineThe Grave a brimming cup of Limpid Wine.
--Sa'adi.[14]
_Âtma, back in the palace, was once more racking her mind what to do about her remaining responsibility, the diamond. So far Fate and the Gods had guided her aright. She had managed to give the King timely warning that the little coward would claim his promise (better, sure, if she had burned!) then, having little time for thought, and knowing, in truth, that she had no chance of escaping unmolested through the strictly guarded entrances to the King's private apartments, she had returned by the swinging dhooli to her own, thus for the time keeping her method of escape secret from her gaolers. So, immediate urgency being over, she had set to work first to conceal what till then she had hidden in the dark braids of her hair; for she guessed at once, by the luxury with which she was surrounded, that tirewomen would appear in the morning, that every temptation would be plied to make her yield to Mirza Ibrahîm's lawless desires. She smiled at the thought. Yea, let him come; but not till after she was prepared. So she deftly cut a snippet of brocade from a hanging, and greasing it in an oil lamp rolled the diamond and the Wayfarer's square stone together, so as to form a fine large packet, stitched it together with gold thread she found ready on an embroidery frame, and hung it once more on the greasy black skein, telling herself none would interfere with so palpable a talisman. For the rest she had the Death-dagger of her race, which she hid until dressing-time was over in a woman's work-basket; though nothing, she told herself, would happen before her appearance at the Festival as Châran. So, seeing always but a short space into the future, she lay down and slept.
When she had wakened, servants had been ready to fly in lawful command, to temporise soothingly with unlawful ones, and she had smiled grimly, telling herself they were afraid of her, and that when the end came, she need only fear the violence of poison.
But that again was not yet.
Even after the Festival was over, after she had lied so calmly to save the King's honour, she had hours to spare. The Mirza would need darkness for his proposals; so she had quite smilingly put on the gorgeous dress of a court lady which on her return from the Audience was all she had found in the place of her own old red garments. What did it matter? The steel hauberk of her father's, the circlet, and the sword were still hers. These she had worshipped, these would look down on her death for honour. So if her white robe trailed on the ground and was sewn with stars, if her jewelled bodice flashed under the light folds of a saffron pearl-set veil, what was that to her, the King's Châran, who carried a death-dagger in her waistband?
Nothing mattered so long as her hardly-thought-out project for the delivery of the King's diamond could be brought about. If the message could be sent--if old Deena the drum-banger would take it, then the jeweller might come disguised as a Sufi in the Preacher's dhooli, and she could fulfil her promise; she could give it into his very hands--yea even if she had to yield, before that, to the Lord Chamberlain's desires.
Even this supreme sacrifice she was prepared to make if they failed to send Deena, or if the Feringhi failed to come. For she must have time.
She leant listlessly on the steps below the cupola toying idly with a scrap of silk-made writing paper and pen and ink. A slave-woman, gaoler, duenna--whom Âtma had sent from her very side on plea of chilliness, was standing a little way apart, making believe to drive away the sunset-time mosquitoes with a peacock's feather fan; in reality watching every movement of her charge.
Would Deena come? She had sent for him calmly to drum to her rhythm of pedigrees. That was her right, and he was so far a hanger on of the Mirza's that they might count him of themselves; yet he might be true to her also.
"The drumbanger waits," said a eunuch at the door, and her heart leapt to her mouth.
"Lo 'tis luscious as honey to a bee; lascivious to the liver, as saffron pillau to the stomach!" ejaculated the old man admiringly, In truth Âtma looked superlatively handsome amid the fine feathers of silken carpets and satin cushions.
"Thy liver, and thy stomach, sinner!" retorted Âtma carelessly, as she crumpled up the scrap of paper and flung it into the lacquered pen-tray. "But come! to work! Since I am here as King's woman I may be called on any moment to sing in the harem; and I sing few women's songs: none of the modern style."
She broke into the high trilling commencement of a not over-respectable ballad of the bazaars.
Deena's wicked old face took on an air of outraged virtue, his hands refused to touch his drum.
"Nay! mistress most chaste," he protested in an injured tone, "salvation comes not that way to old Deena. He can get drumming and to spare of that sort elsewhere."
Âtma stared at him, and held his eyes with her large meaningful dark ones.
"'Tis not drumming, but deeds, that count, sir sinner," she said slowly. "As King Solomon said to the peacock who remained to salaam by drumming his wings, while the hoopoe gained his golden crown by running a message."
Deena's old face set instantly like a stone. No muscle quivered, but his wicked old eyes twinkled. He understood in a second what was wanted of him, for intrigue was his very food and drink. It made him feel years younger to carry a love letter. This would have naught to do with love of course; but the joy was in the deception. Happen he meant to help, happen he did not, it was all one to him; it meant the deceiving of a duenna.
"Shall I then take a message for the mistress most chaste?" he asked hardily, winking the while at the latter as if taking her into his confidence.
"Message?" echoed Âtma scornfully "Nay! no message! My lord Ibrahîm, my lover, will come when he thinks fit, and go whenIchoose, like a cur with his tail belly-wards!"--she had been full of such jibes all day--"So let us to work; the song of the Tale of the Wisdom of the Princess Fortunata can hurt no woman folk! But take heed to the time!" She broke at once into irregular chanting.
Listen women! I pray to the wiseSanyogata, the Queen's adviceTo Prithvi on courage and cowardice.
Listen women! I pray to the wiseSanyogata, the Queen's adviceTo Prithvi on courage and cowardice.
Then she changed rhythm and the words swept on like a torrent.
What fool asks woman for advice--The worldHolds her wit shallow. Even when the truthComes from her lips, men stop their ears and smileAnd yet without the woman, where is man?We hold the power of Form--for us the FireOf Shiv's creative force flames up and burns;Lo! we are Thieves of Life, and sancturies of soulsAnd sanctuaries of souls! of souls!
What fool asks woman for advice--The worldHolds her wit shallow. Even when the truthComes from her lips, men stop their ears and smileAnd yet without the woman, where is man?We hold the power of Form--for us the FireOf Shiv's creative force flames up and burns;Lo! we are Thieves of Life, and sancturies of souls
And sanctuaries of souls! of souls!
There was a sudden check of irritation; the singer interrupted herself to complain of lack of accord; then continued:
Vessels are we of Virtue and of ViceOf knowledge and of utmost ignoranceAstrologers can calculate from booksThe courses of the stars; but who is heCan read the pages of a woman's heart?Our book hath not been measured, so men say"She hath no wisdom" but to hide their lackOf understanding. Yet we share your lives,Your failures, your successes, griefs, and joys.Hunger and thirst, if yours, are ours, and DeathParts us not from you; for we follow fastTo serve you in the mansions of the SunThe mansions of the Sun.
Vessels are we of Virtue and of ViceOf knowledge and of utmost ignoranceAstrologers can calculate from booksThe courses of the stars; but who is heCan read the pages of a woman's heart?Our book hath not been measured, so men say"She hath no wisdom" but to hide their lackOf understanding. Yet we share your lives,Your failures, your successes, griefs, and joys.Hunger and thirst, if yours, are ours, and DeathParts us not from you; for we follow fastTo serve you in the mansions of the Sun
The mansions of the Sun.
Yet once again some discord in voice and music seemed to rouse ire.
"Fool!" cried Âtma, "hast no sense! Thou art like a sitting hen with thy cluck, cluck, cluck, all out of tune! Take a paper if thou canst not remember and set it down in notation. See there is a bit yonder."
She pointed to the pen-tray and Deena with contrite face took the crumpled scrap, smoothed it out on the top of his drum and thereinafter, with some slight exaggeration in displaying a fair white surface, proceeded to write down quaint musical hieroglyphics. Then folding it, notation uppermost, stuck it into the drum-brace.
"Now let us try again, mistress most chaste," he said cheerfully. "For old Deena never failed a woman yet; least of all one who hath oft times stood between him and damnation."
There was a faint tremble as of relaxed tension in Âtma's voice as she went on:
Love of my heart! Lo! you are as a swanThat rests upon my bosom as a lake,There is no rest for thee but here, my lord!And yet arise to Victory and FameSun of the Chanhans! Who has drunk so deepOf glory and of pleasure as my lord!And yet the destiny of all is Death.Yea! even of the Gods! And to die wellIs Life immortal. Therefore draw your sword,Smite down the Foes of Hind. Think not of Self,The garment of this Life is frayed and worn--Think not of me--we Twain shall be as OneHereafter and for ever. Go! my King.We Twain shall be as One, as One!
Love of my heart! Lo! you are as a swanThat rests upon my bosom as a lake,There is no rest for thee but here, my lord!And yet arise to Victory and FameSun of the Chanhans! Who has drunk so deepOf glory and of pleasure as my lord!And yet the destiny of all is Death.Yea! even of the Gods! And to die wellIs Life immortal. Therefore draw your sword,Smite down the Foes of Hind. Think not of Self,The garment of this Life is frayed and worn--Think not of me--we Twain shall be as OneHereafter and for ever. Go! my King.
We Twain shall be as One, as One!
The nicest musical ear might have detected small change in Deena's accompaniment, but Âtma professed herself satisfied.
"And now," asked the old go-between, as she leant back wearily, "What next?"
"Nothing," she answered. "One is enough for a day. Thou canst come to-morrow--for reward or punishment."
"And the mistress hath no orders, no message?" he asked, winking at the duenna elaborately.
"Nothing; save to get thee gone as quick as may be. See him out, woman!"
That faint tremor of voice only betrayed that her nerves were almost at breaking point; that she felt the need of solitude for a second.
When it came she passed swiftly to the sword of her fathers and kissed it passionately. Then flinging her arms on the parapet she gazed out over the plain scarce seeing the pageantry of sunset that was being enacted on the distant horizon.
What had she written on that scrap of paper? It had necessarily to be guarded--but had she said enough?
"To the Feringhi jeweller! Come disguised as a Sufi in the Preacher's dhooli to-night at one o'clock. Âtma Devi will give thee the luck thou desirest."
After all it did read like a love letter. So much the better perhaps, with Deena as messenger. Anyhow the message was sent.
What, therefore, lay before her? Within measurable distance of probabilities now, she could face them. Supposing the Mirza came that night? Oh! where was the use of considering what at the worst she might have to do, in order to secure leisure at one o'clock! For, thathadto be gained. Aye! even though before that hour, say at eleven, she had to----
One, and eleven! Her mind, unaccustomed to strain, circled vaguely. There was only a pin's-point difference between the two hours on paper, just a mere scratch, a duplication and yet--mayhap!--between them, tonight, a whole life--1 and 11--Strange! so little difference!
"Why didst thou lie to-day, woman?" said a voice beside her, "to save my honour?"
She turned with a cry and fell at Akbar's feet. He had met Deena's outgoing, had sent the duenna packing by a word backed by the display of the ring which was Royalty's sign manual in all matters pertaining to the women's apartments; so entering, had flung aside his muffling shawl and for the last few seconds had been watching Âtma. For a sudden new perception of her beauty had come to him, perhaps with the sight of her in a dress familiar to him, since it is generally some such subtle hint which, at first, makes a man's eyes differentiate one woman from another.
Down at his very feet, Âtma's voice was yet proud. "To save the honour of the King."
Akbar was quick in comprehension--"Who never dies--Not to save Jalâl-ud-din-Mahomed Akbar! Still, thou needst not have lied."
"This slave only said what the King would have said."
A quick frown flew to his keen face. "Thou speakest bravely woman! But 'tis true. Akbar's brain was clouded. How came thine to be so clever?"
"My father was a chess-player," she said simply. "He taught me. And it was not difficult, Most High. It was trivial."
For a second he looked really angry; then said quietly. "True again, O Châran. Stand up, woman! Wherefore shouldst thou grovel before--triviality?"
Standing there beside her their eyes met, and his showed admiration.
"So thou didst not lie, because the King can do no wrong. Then art thou, woman, to be judge? thy thought, thy standard, always to be right?"
"It--it was to-day, Great King," she said gravely.
He laughed outright.
"This is wholesome as a draught of bitter apples! Lo! Châran, thou didst give me a lesson in love last time we met. Give me one in tactics to-day! Not tactics in chess--that is past praying for--but in Kingship."
She looked at him with pitiful humility. "This slave knows not, she is only woman!"
"And yet thou didst come at dawn to save me from a broken promise! I have not thanked thee yet for that; but in truth"--here his voice grew softer, and leaning his elbow on the parapet, he looked into her eyes, "thanks being all on one side----" Then suddenly curiosity beset him. "How didst thou come?"--he looked down rapidly--"not by yonder projecting eave? not by that, surely? Why! even my head----" He paused a while, and her silence assuring him, murmured: "And thou didst thatfor me?"
"For the King, Most-High!" she protested in a low voice as she clutched convulsively at the talisman. For through her swept with tumultuous force her first real knowledge of what her womanhood might hold. Ye Gods! have pity! she must not lose herself. The King's Luck must be safe first. He must never know the tale.
He looked at her curiously. Her lips were parted her breath came fast.
"Thou hast the nerve of ten," he said rapidly, "thou couldst walk yonder ledge where I--even I--might fear to fall, and yet----" His hand, reaching out as they stood close together by the parapet, caught her wrist swiftly, and clasped it. "Yet now thou art afraid--afraid of what?"
Her pulses bounding under his cool, firm touch seemed to suffocate her.
"Aye," she admitted, turning her mind frantically to excuse, "I fear--I fear the night, alone in a strange place."
In truth she did fear it. Her soul shrank now, knowing what she might have to sacrifice. But for the blind, half-confusing memory of one o'clock she would have fallen at his feet and begged for freedom. She might have done so had she had time to count the cost.
"Strange?" echoed Akbar, haughtily. "Dost forget it is the King's house?--that the King is guardian? Though in truth," he added with a smile "Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar sleeps to-night in his pitched camp beyond the gates." The memory seemed to obsess him with other ideas, for he turned away gloomily.
"Farewell, widow. Akbar will strive to be King--thou hast done thy best to make him one, anyhow," he added almost angrily. But as he went, something in her face and form recalled his youth, and he hesitated. Then drawing off a ring hastily he strode over to her, and taking her hand roughly, slipped it on her finger.
"Yea, thou hast done many things for me," he said proudly, "so let me do one for thee. This ring, the Signet of the Palace, may calm thy fears for to-night. None dare harm its possessor without my order. At thy peril, use it not unworthily. I----" He paused, drew his shrouding shawl round him, and corrected himself--"It will be reclaimed at dawn."
The dusk had died down almost to dark, the stars grew clearer and clearer on the growing violet of the sky. Âtma stood gazing with unseeing eyes over the wide plain that was losing itself rapidly in shadow. She was scarcely thinking at all. She was only feeling how increasingly hard it was becoming to dissociate Akbar from the King, Love from Love.
"The Lord High Treasurer hath called to inquire and craves admittance."
She awoke to realities at the duenna's voice, but with a new element in her outlook on the future--a palpitating horror at the thought of the sacrifice she had faced calmly but an hour ago.
"He--he is welcome," she said faintly. There was no use shirking, and she might be able to put him off till after one.
But his first words told her theirs was a fight for life in the present.
"All in the dark!" he said lightly, "so much the better mayhap, mistress, for Ibrahîm's peace of mind, seeing that he hath but a few hours to count his own. The jackal hath to eat his bones betimes."
"What meanest my lord?" she asked hurriedly.
"That his Majesty the King will feast on the flesh," he replied recklessly. "Ah I have heard He hath been here this last half-hour. In troth, but that he interferes with my quarry, I would say thank God the anchoritehathfound his meat. As it is, I have come earlier to handsel my share." Then he turned swiftly to the duenna. "Leave us for a while. I would speak alone with this lady."
When she had gone he said curtly. "Thou hadst best sit down. I have much to say."
"Say on," replied Âtma laconically, as without the faintest sign of trepidation she sate herself calmly down amid the silken carpets and cushions; for behind her propped against the marble pilasters, were the hauberk, the sword of her fathers, to give her courage. It was the Mirza who showed uneasiness. He walked up and down as if uncertain how to begin.
"Well," she asked with a scornful smile as she played idly with the pens in the open pen-box, "what hast thou to say?"
He cast aside doubt at her words, flung himself on the steps, and leaning forward peered through the dusk into her eyes. "What thou wilt not care to hear; so brace thyself--if thou canst, woman! Thou didst send by Deena----"
"He has betrayed me," she exclaimed involuntarily.
"Or died! Take it as thou willst. The letter was sent to its destination anyhow, for it served our purpose. Thou knowest the King's challenge? Well, we have sought all day to get hold of the Feringhi jeweller, so that his death might break the King's safe conduct. But Birbal hath been too quick for us. He hath him safe cooped up in his house. Butthouhast called the man here."
Âtma, with a cry, rose to her feet. "I meant but----" she began.
"What thou didst mean matters not now, though I have my suspicions," broke in the Mirza brutally. "Sit down, I tell thee, and listen. Whether thy call be, as I hold it to be, one that even Birbal would admit, time will show. But if this doubly damned infidel be found within the palace precincts it is death. And see here"--he held out a paper.
"I cannot see," she murmured dully. "It is too dark." And in truth, even as she spoke, the palace gong sounded one stroke.
How often it sounded one she thought as the Mirza struck a light. But this time it meant half-an-hour beyond eight. One, yes--it was the knell of doom.
The spark had come to the tinder-roll, and now a sputtering oil lamp in the sevenfold cresset showed her the writing on the paper. "To the Sergeant of the Palace watch. At one of the clock, guard the Preacher's dhooli and enter the apartment of Âtma Devi. Her lover will be there."
"He is not my lover," she began.
"But he will be there at one." He laughed devilishly, "Now listen. None but me know of this--as yet. Âtma," his voice took on urgency, almost appeal, "grant me thyself--and this paper shall be destroyed."
So it had come. She was the price of honour. Would it not be the simplest way?
"It must be to-night," he whispered hoarsely, "Tomorrow the King----"
She could have struck him full upon the mouth, but she sate trembling with tense desire to do so.
"If I promise," she asked firmly, "may this paper be mine?" She had noticed that it was signed and countersigned by the captain and commandant of the guard. If she had it, it might be difficult to get another. Anyhow it would show good faith.
Ibrahîm's face grew hard. "Nay, fair one," he said, "hardly till the promise is fulfilled. I must have due security."
And she must have it also, she thought fiercely. Aye, she knew him, devil-spawn, vile utterly. He meant to take all from her and send the order too. She might give him everything at eleven and yet at one--eleven and one!--11 and 1!
She glanced hastily at the paper; then sate silent her face hardening, her hands still playing idly with the pens in the pen bag.
"Think over it, bibi" he said insinuatingly for even the faint lamp light showed her bewilderingly beautiful. "It is not so much to ask! I am no ill-favoured churl, and before heaven, I love thee. Then, surely, thou wouldst not betray the King."
Betray the King! No! that must never be. She had thought of a way to prevent that.
"And--and if I give the audience thou desirest at--at eleven?" she began slowly.
He fell at her feet rapturously. "Âtma! I swear!"
She stilled him with a wave of her hand. "I must think," she cried, and rising, walked to the parapet. Only however, to return after a second.
"I consent," she said quietly. "At eleven be it--thou wilt not send this?" She showed the paper she still held.
"Nay," he replied with a bow as he took it from her. "I will keep it ever next my heart as security for happiness--at eleven."
When he had gone she broke into a sudden, wild laugh, and flung the pen she held concealed in her right hand into the pen tray.
"Only a fly's foot on the paper, but it will show truth or untruth!" she muttered.
Then she sate down and waited; there was nothing else to be done. She dare not use the King's signet--if indeed this token of mere personal safety to herself would be of any avail--since that might lead to his discovery of the diamond's theft. And that (this had grown to an immutable creed) must never be!
"Light not so many lights," she said to the servants who came in with long garlands of flowers and coloured lights; but they went on with their work. It was by the Lord Chamberlain's orders they said. And they brought her new jewels, and scattered rose-oil-water about the cushions, and spread a low stool-table with fruit, and goblets, and wine flagons.
She sate and watched them, interested as she would not have been but for the awakening of her womanhood under the King's touch. Now she understood; now for the first time she realised the philosophy of Siyah Yamin.
So Ibrahîm, coming in early--she smiled mysteriously at his haste--found her watching the slave-women who were reaching up to place coloured lights amongst the roses twined round the cupola, and as they worked they sang in a quaint roundel: