Shine earthen lamps, outblaze the starsSo cold, so white, so far.Shine little lamp, hide Heaven's lightLove comes to Love to-night.
Shine earthen lamps, outblaze the starsSo cold, so white, so far.Shine little lamp, hide Heaven's lightLove comes to Love to-night.
"Bid them remove them, my lord," she said eagerly. "Lo! they are garish. Are not mine eyes and the stars sufficient for--for lovers?" She hung her head and looked at him. Her cheeks showed a crimson flush beneath the corn-coloured skin, her eyes blazed, indeed, like many stars.
He gave the order instantly, and as it was being executed walked to the parapet whence he could feast his eye upon the picture she made as she sate in the cupola, the rose garlands bending to touch her, the light of the seven-lamped cresset on the step below her shining full on her face, and glinting behind her on cold steel of sword and hauberk. Aye! she was right. The coloured lights were garish; she was colourful enough herself; she needed no adventitious aids to passion; that hint of cold steel was enough! His blood rose to fever heat.
"Quick slaves! quick!" he cried. "Are we to be kept waiting all night."
Her laugh rang out provocatively. "My lord is before his time. It is not yet eleven! Drink to our love, Mirza--or stay! Let us drink to the truth between us!" She filled two goblets of the good red wine and passed him one. "So! to the truth between us," she cried; then, as she drained the glass flung it far into the darkness of the night. It showed curving comet-like, then sank, a distant tinkle telling where it had smashed to atoms. "Thine also! Thine also! Ibrahîm!" she cried. "To the Truth between us!"
He muttered something unheard, flung his glass away, then essaying a laugh caught up a lute and began to sing in high airy trills:
Lo! the green-hued sea of heavenAnd the crescent moon its shipBear me, dearest, to the havenWhere Love's Anchor I may dipIn the harbour of thy bosom.Find in shelter of thy lipKisses seven! Kisses sevenOh! what nectar--One more sipSurely thou wilt be forgivenEven angels sometimes trip.
Lo! the green-hued sea of heavenAnd the crescent moon its shipBear me, dearest, to the havenWhere Love's Anchor I may dipIn the harbour of thy bosom.Find in shelter of thy lipKisses seven! Kisses sevenOh! what nectar--One more sipSurely thou wilt be forgivenEven angels sometimes trip.
As he stood there dressed in white from head to foot, becurled, bescented, bedandyfied, Âtma thought of the man who had stood there before, and something purely savage crept into her smile.
"Lo! thou singest well" she said. "So do I, give me the lute?"
The servants had gone. He crossed to her, passion in his eyes. "I came not here for lutes." he cried almost brutally, "I came for love!"
She motioned him back with her hand. "It is not yet--eleven! And I will sing--of--of--love."
He drew a long breath. She was surpassing beautiful with that enticing smile. Why should he be greedy of his pleasure?
Love of my heart, bring blushes to my face,Seek not at wisdom's hand, excuse or grace.Speed thou my blood in passion's tireless raceTill lip meet lip, and arm with arm embraceFor the love of the heart has no end----
Love of my heart, bring blushes to my face,Seek not at wisdom's hand, excuse or grace.Speed thou my blood in passion's tireless raceTill lip meet lip, and arm with arm embraceFor the love of the heart has no end----
"Âtma! I love thee!"
His quick cry sank before her steady voice:
But the graveBut the cold, cold graveBut the grave!
But the graveBut the cold, cold graveBut the grave!
He gave a slight shiver and drew back; then threw himself beside her. "Come!" he said, "there is life before the grave!"
She shook her head playfully. Not even Siyah Yamin with all her knowing wiles, could have played her part better.
"It is not yet--eleven" she answered and if her face showed haggard it was belied by her gay laugh. "Lo! keep to compact, Mirza Sahib. There is another verse; by then, it may be--eleven!"
She paused a second as if her keen ears had caught some faint sound, then she swept the strings with a resounding force that echoed and re-echoed through the roof, drowning all else.
Love of my soul, bring courage to my heartSeek not at passion's hand her lure and art.Claim thou the whole of me and not the partThough Death meet Death and Life from Life departFor the love of the soul has no end in the grave.In the cold, cold grave.In the grave.
Love of my soul, bring courage to my heartSeek not at passion's hand her lure and art.Claim thou the whole of me and not the partThough Death meet Death and Life from Life departFor the love of the soul has no end in the grave.
In the cold, cold grave.In the grave.
A crashing chord, dissonant, fierce, overbore all things, and out of it rose mellow the first chime of eleven.
She leant forward, her eyes full of allure, on his. "Out with the lamps, Love needs no light," she quoted rapidly.
"One!" Her curved red lips smiled, parted, and one of the cressets was gone. Its dying breath exhaled perfumes of musk.
Again the mellow note rang out.
"Two," she whispered and again a cresset flickered, went out.
"Three."
"Four." This time the Mirza seemed to be listening.
"It will be counting kisses by and by when light fails," she suggested gaily, pointing to the three remaining lamplets.
"Five--"
There were but two now. She was leaning closer to him, his arm had stolen round her waist.
"Six--"
Something made her glance hastily to the door, but the bounding blood in his pulses seemed for him to have invaded the whole world, and he heard nothing.
"Seven!--"
It was dark now, and from the darkness came the long-drawn sound of a kiss; then of another.
Eight--Nine!--The chiming hour went on.
His arms were round her. Aye, but hers were round him also. Arms like iron, lips like steel upon his mouth.
"Ten!"
"Die dog!" she whispered with the kiss. "Nay, thou shalt take it."
He struggled fiercely.
Eleven!
"Die in mine arms, for thine untruth, traitor!"
"Help!" he choked feebly. "Harlot! let me go!"
But it was too late. The palace guard under orders for eleven, not for one, had found their quarry in the dark. Had found him in a woman's arms, and swift daggers did their work.
There was not a quiver in Mirza Ibrahîm's body when, turning it over, they discovered by a lantern's light their mistake and started back in horror.
"Yea, he is dead," said Âtma as she stood, fast held for future punishment. There was sombre menace in her voice, her eyes blazed with a cruel fire. Then she turned on her captors.
"Loose me, slaves. I carry the Signet of the King. Seek his orders concerning me."
It was true. The signet was on her finger. So releasing her, they double-guarded the door, while, with the dead body of the Lord Chamberlain as witness, they sought superior wisdom.
Left alone, Âtma found the old sword as solace and clasped it to her bosom. She had but killed for the King; a? her fathers had killed many a time.
'Twas in the bath a piece of perfumed clayCame from my loved one's hands to mine one dayArt thou then musk or ambergris? I said,That by thy scent my soul is ravished."Not so," it answered, "naught but clay am I,But I have kept a rose's company."--Sa'adi
'Twas in the bath a piece of perfumed clayCame from my loved one's hands to mine one dayArt thou then musk or ambergris? I said,That by thy scent my soul is ravished."Not so," it answered, "naught but clay am I,But I have kept a rose's company."
--Sa'adi
It was nigh twelve of the night, and Akbar was awake. He sate on the low divan which served him as a bed, and in a measure as throne also, when he was in camp; but there was little else about the magnificent apartment in which it stood to suggest the smallest withdrawal of luxury, still less of comfort. The walls were of the finest Kashmir shawls draped in panels between the parcel-gilt tent poles, and the floor was covered with strangely-glistening silken carpets from Khotan. A marvellous lustre of precious stones hung from the roof, and beside the divan stood the seven-light cresset stand, the golden and gemmed scent brazier, and the clepsydra with its lotus bowl, without which the King spent no night.
He was alone for the time, though countless guards doubtless stood in the vast city of huge tents which formed the King's camp. Weary work indeed, is it to even read the catalogue of such a camp. Of the hundreds of tents of scarlet cloth bound with silken tapes, fitted with silken ropes, some of which would seat ten thousand people. Of the great circle of double-storied screen around the "Akass-deva" lamp--the King's lamp that showed the way to God's Justice. Then the dais for Common Audience with its avenue of five hundred feet by three hundred broad, and its great circular enclosure of over one thousand feet diameter. Truly the mind wavers over the tremendous size of it, and refuses to grasp the possibility of a pavilion with fifty-four rooms in it!
Such, nevertheless, was the camp in which Akbar sate alone awaiting a favoured visitor.
For he had made up his mind to see this little "Queen of Women" with whom his son was said to have fallen in love.
It was easy. She was but a child, and he the father of his people. So he had ordered Ghiâss Beg to bring her to the camp privately at twelve of the night, when all was quiet.
Then, he felt, he would be able to judge aright. Since what was this challenge of his but mere childishness? Everyone, even Birbal, was keen to win or lose; but if he lost or won, how did that affect the truth?
Was Love powerful enough to wean Salîm from his life of debauchery? The idea of it had not been; but the compelling force depended on the woman. Was this child of twelve----? Pshaw it was impossible.
Yet he must see her, he felt; for it was a momentous decision, not to be made lightly.
He rose, and walking over to the clepsydra, watched the lotus cup sinking with the weight of time.
So sank beauty under the weight of years.
And then, suddenly, to him came the remembrance of Âtma Devi. Ye Gods! if from the beginning he had had a mate such as she--a woman to whom the honour of the King outweighed the honour, nay, even the love of the man, he need not now have stood uncertain, hesitating whether to leave all, even his sons, to wallow in the mire of conventionality--to leave all, and dream out his dream of Empire in his own way. For he would have had not only sons, but heirs.
Should he so leave all? Should the morrow see the camp no more spectacle to the wedding festivities, but a real departure?
He could take her with him as an inspiration--the sudden unlooked for thought caught him unawares, left him surprised.
"The Captain of the Palace Guard without and the Chief Eunuch have urgent news," came the obsequious voice of a page.
"Bid them in," he replied, returning to the divan, almost glad of an interruption to what was disturbing in the uttermost.
"Dead!" he echoed incredulously to the news they brought. "The Lord High Chamberlain dead--by whose hands?"
"By mine, Most High," answered a trembling voice as the Sergeant of the Guard fell at the King's feet. "We had warning that the English jeweller was to be in Mistress Âtma Devi's rooms to-night at eleven. We went. All was dark. We found him as we thought, in her very arms. Yet when Justice was done and we brought the light, it--it was Mirza Ibrahîm."
"In whose apartment?" Akbar's voice was very cold, very quiet.
"In the Châran-woman's, Most High! Lo! there is some mistake, doubtless. Yet she was brought in by the Mirza's orders--she had the fairest apartment set apart for her and--and he visited her this evening--just after Majesty, so the woman said."
Akbar rose to his feet fiercely.
"What has that to do with it, slave?" he interrupted, his voice full of swift sudden anger, "go on with the noisome tale!"
"Of a truth, sire, there is no doubt lamps were lit and wine brought. So he deserved death, and the woman too----"
"Aye!" assented the King, "she deserved it more! Didst kill her too?" He felt outraged beyond words; every atom of his manhood rose in hot anger against the woman who had dared--aye! dared to make him think of things he had forgotten, when she herself---- Ah! it was past mere anger.
"Nay! Most High. She--she showed us the Signet of Majesty and so----"
Under his breath a curse broke from Akbar's lips. Aye! he remembered now! He had given her the ring, and with the memory came back such an impotent flood of pure savage rage as never before in all his life had he felt. The Mogul scratched showed the Tartar; for an instant not even his ancestor Timur could have felt more bloodthirsty. The shame of it alone cried for instant revenge.
The thought brought him outward calm.
"She dies at dawn," he said quietly. "As women do who sin in God's night. Bring her here,then. She shall affix the seal to her own death-warrant. Write it now, and lay it on yonder desk so that it may be ready."
"And till then, Most High?"
"Leave her where her lover died; being Hindu she may learn to follow him without fear."
For already bitter anger was passing; inflexible justice taking its place.
"His Highness the Lord Treasurer waits without with a dhooli," said the page once more.
"Close the screens, let no one enter. Bid the Lord Treasurer bring the dhooli to the outer tent and remain there himself." The order was given calmly, but he who gave it was in a whirlwind of passionate protest.
And this woman--this common strumpet of the bazaars--had talked to him of Love; had, in reality, set him on the first step which had led him so far from common-sense; which had brought him here to an interview with a chit of a child at dead of night!
A slim white figure parting the curtains which separated this inner pavilion from the one beyond, brought him back to his bearings. It was not the child's fault; she must be courteously dealt with.
"Wilt not unveil, my child?" he said gravely, "there is none to fear----"
"And Mihr-un-Nissa fears none," came the reply, as the cloud of white drapery thrown back, fell on the ground, and the girl stepping forward lightly from the billowy folds, stood to salaam.
There was a moment's pause; then eager, warm, came Akbar's verdict. "By all the Gods of Indra! by Allah and his Prophet! thou art beautiful indeed, my daughter."
A deeper flush tinged the rounded cheeks, but the girl looked frankly into the admiring eyes.
"I am glad."
Something in her conscious unconsciousness made him ask quickly, "Wherefore?"
"Because they call me Queen of Women, sire, and the Queen should please the King," she answered demurely.
"Thou hast a ready wit, child. Dost wish to be a Queen?"
There was not a trace of sauciness in her quick reply. "It depends, sire, upon the King."
Akbar felt completely taken aback; he recognised in this slender little maid-ling of twelve, the germs of something that might grow to greatness indeed.
"I am a churl, lady," he said at last, "to keep Beauty standing. Seat yourself so, beside me, and we can talk. Or stay!" A whimsical smile irradiated his face, he put out his hand to lead her to the throne-divan. "Sit thou upon the seat of Majesty, and I will sit at Beauty's feet. I have much to learn from it."
She did not even protest. She took her place with childish dignity, and waited for him to speak. Frankness seemed the only possible approach, so he plunged at once inmedias res.
"Lady, dost thou love my son Salîm?"
The cupid's-bow of her lips smiled over a cold definite "No."
Akbar's parental pride rose instantly.
"And why, prithee?"
The answer was nonchalant, uncompromising.
"I like not his looks."
"Yet he is not ill-favoured," protested the proud father, beginning to feel injured, "he is stalwart and young, hath fine eyes, and----"
"He is not so good looking as his father is--even now," said Mihr-un-nissa, sagely nodding her head.
"But for that 'even now' fair daughter," said Akbar nettled, "your compliments might make one shy! Then thou lovest Sher Afkân?"
The flush came again. "He is a brave soldier, anyhow," said the little maiden holding her head high.
"A brave soldier, indeed!" assented Akbar gravely, yet feeling inclined to smile, "but as for looks, hath he not a scar upon his face?"
"'Twill be a place whereon a wife may lay her kisses," retorted Mihr-un-nissa hastily, then grew crimson with shame at having inadvertently used an argument which had evidently done duty in sparring matches on the subject with her mother.
Akbar laughed out loud, then grew grave. "Of a truth Mistress Quick-wit, women are beyond men's comprehension! But we have been playing with words hitherto. Now let us be serious--let me see thy mind. Why dost not like my son?"
Instant, clear, decisive, came the reply.
"Because he doth not love his father."
"Wherefore does he not love him? What proof hast thou?" asked Akbar hotly.
Mihr-un-nissa's face had no pity, even in its deep unfathomable eyes.
"Because, Great King, he seeks ever to betray Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar. Oh!"--the words once started rushed out now like a torrent--"I know they say it is better Akbar should not know! I know how they all--even my Lord Birbal--keep things back, saying the King's mind should be tranquil. But it is not so! Kingship is the truth! Kings must know all things! There is the diamond--They have kept that back, I dare swear. It was stolen, Most High----"
"Stolen!" echoed Akbar stupidly, "who was it--who spoke of that before?" Then memory returning, impotent rage once more rose in him. "Well, what then?" he queried roughly.
"I say the King should know!" came the high girlish voice. "Pain is but a safeguard from ill. He should know, aye, and use his knowledge that it was stolen for the Prince--that he wore it in his turban and, that if it hath gone back to safekeeping 'tis not because of remorse upon the Prince's part, but because the King exchanged the Turban of Brotherhood----"
"It is not true," muttered Akbar, hiding his head in his hands. "Child--say it is not true." Something in him told him it was true, therefore he fought against it all the more fiercely.
"Will saying it alter fact?" went on the inexorable young voice. "My King, the knowledge of all this is to be King; ignorance is--is foolishness!"
She stood up, a startled look in her eyes. "Have I, have I made thee cry?" she said solicitously. Then she burst out fiercely, "Oh, if I were Queen I would have no son, no husband. I would be Queen indeed."
Akbar had stood up also, his face blurred by emotion, but strong and stern.
"I have to thank thee for the Truth. Strange I have had to learn it from a little maid's lips. Lo! Mihr-un-nissa, wilt thou not love my son?"
She shook her head, "Had he been more like----" she paused, and hung her head, shy for the first time.
He took her little hand, and stooping, kissed it. "And had the Queen of Women but been fifteen years older--thou art sure, child, thou wouldst not care to be Queen?"
Her face grew grave, the perfect features took on dignity. "Queen I shall be. The crystal says so. But not now, for I am too young and he would break my heart. Why should I give up youth?" Then suddenly recollecting her rôle of virtuous wisdom, she added solemnly, "But God alone knows what the future may hold."
When she had gone Akbar sate down, feeling dazed by the many unlooked for buffettings which Fate had given him that night.
To begin with, he had been within an ace of dishonour himself. Aye! there was no use denying it. It must have been unrecognised passion in himself which had led him into this childish, unkinglike challenge. And now had come this dishonour of degenerate heirs; for what use was there in dissociating Salîm from Murâd, Murâd from Danyâl? His sons were all alike--were they indeed his sons, these dissolute drinking louts?
He paced the tent almost in despair. Pride, anger, love, justice, tearing at his heart.
Yes, he must go! He must leave his City of Heirship for ever. He must cast off earthly shackles and live only for the immortal dream.
Birbal's slim figure stealing through the curtains roused him to instant anger, almost as instant patience; since how could he judge of those bound by conventional standards?
"What now?" he asked briefly. Something uncompromising in his tone made the minister begin an excuse. He had been close by, and hearing that Majesty waked----
Akbar walked up and laid his hand on Birbal's shoulder.
"Lie not, friend," he said, "hath the stolen diamond been found? Sh! hold thy peace. I know the tale. A queen of common sense hath told it to me; and rightly told it. What, she said, was pain but a warning against evil. That is truth; but is the stone found? That is what I ask."
Birbal, whose jaw had almost fallen in his blank surprise, was on his knees, instinct telling him to attempt no excuse.
"Sire! I have it with me now. The madwoman Âtma Devi----"
"What of her?" asked Akbar fiercely.
Truth was the only resource, so Birbal told it. "She sent a message to bid William Leedes come to her at one o' the night in the Preacher's dhooli; and I, fearing treachery--for I never trusted woman yet without regretting it--went myself. For the safe-conduct given by Majesty to these strangers was a fertile field for the breaking of promise."
Akbar interrupted him impatiently.
"And she met you, where?"
"In truth where there was scant foothold for a goat," said Birbal glibly, trying to get through with confession lightly, "on the wide eave of the turret. Belike she heeded not the danger, being as she said, under sentence of death at dawn. And it was that made her yield the gem to me--'twas her last chance--for she held fast to her promise to give it to none save unto the jeweller's own hand. So she stood there, with death in a falter, administering fearful oaths and----" He had been feeling in his breast and now held forth the Luck of the King "here it is, sire."
In the light of the cressets, the gem glowed familiarly like soft moonshine; but Akbar peremptorily set it aside.
"Thou art under oath to deliver it to none but the jeweller. Traitor! are women to be more faithful than men?"
Birbal grovelled at the King's feet, but Akbar did not notice him.
He was dully trying to piece the parts into a whole, telling himself he would hear the truth when Âtma Devi should be brought to him at dawn.
Look lover! Now indeed Love endeth rightThis is the only road. Oh, learn of meThat Death shall give thee Love's best ecstasyOh! If thou be'st true lover wash not handFrom that dear Stain of Love; from worldly brandOf Wealth and Self-love wash it. At the lastThose win who spite of Fortune's tempests standGlad to wreck all for Love--I say to theeI, Sa'adi, launch not on Love's boundless SeaBut, if thou puttest forth, hoist sail, quit anchor,To Storm and Wave trust thyself hardily.--Sa'adi[15]
Look lover! Now indeed Love endeth rightThis is the only road. Oh, learn of meThat Death shall give thee Love's best ecstasyOh! If thou be'st true lover wash not handFrom that dear Stain of Love; from worldly brandOf Wealth and Self-love wash it. At the lastThose win who spite of Fortune's tempests standGlad to wreck all for Love--I say to theeI, Sa'adi, launch not on Love's boundless SeaBut, if thou puttest forth, hoist sail, quit anchor,To Storm and Wave trust thyself hardily.
--Sa'adi[15]
"The Woman-Châran waits without under guard."
"Bid her in--alone!"
Akbar had been awaiting this it seemed to him for hours. Now that it had come he would have delayed, if he could.
The tent was still dark, but as the outer screen was lifted something paler, grayer than murk-night showed in faint square, grew blurred with moving shades, then disappeared altogether. The cresset light scarce reached into the shadowy corners of the tent, where hung faint clouds of scented smoke; but Akbar's keen eyes pierced the gloom clearly.
"What? Have they bound thee? I meant not so," He stepped to the tall dim figure and unloosed the cord with which its hands were tied.
"Come hither, woman."
The kindly office done, he was back on the throne, his face showing stern in the cresset light. As she came forward she stumbled slightly in her walk. They must have tied her feet also, when they were bringing her to the camp and she was numb and stiff. His heart went out to her in swift pity, then returned to him in swifter justice.
"The ring, woman! The signet that I gave thee," he said peremptorily. Until that was gone from her finger, even he could not touch her for harm. She held it out to him without a word, then sinking to her knees crouched at his feet. The folds of her star-set skirts clung round her closely, the saffron, pearl-sewn veil hardly hid her beauty of strong supple curves. She had begged to be allowed to die in the steel hauberk of the Châran, but they had jeered at her, saying the race was well quit of such representatives as she. So in her final arraignment she stood as simple woman.
Perhaps by so doing she gained advantage. Anyhow, Akbar who had meant to be sternly judicial, felt, now they were alone together, that this was no question of Culprit and Judge, but of a man and a woman. And with the feeling came, to his surprise, a sense of keen personal injury.
"Why hast thou done this thing?" he asked bitterly.
The long tension of the night, the sight of the man she knew she loved, the very touch of his hands as he undid the knot which had bound her, and now the regret, the pain of his voice, all conspired against calmness, though she fought for it desperately. There was but one refuge--the refuge of race.
"I--I did it for the King," she said mechanically, not realising the full meaning of her words.
He caught at it in a moment. "For the King? Thenthouart true."
She gave no answer. What was the use of explanation when she could not explain? When the King must never know aught concerning the theft of the diamond. Silence was better. God gave the reward of that.
"Âtma"--she shivered at the name, at the tone, of the King's voice--"I command thee, as King, answer truly. What was there betwixt thee and the Mirza?"
She sighed faintly. By forgetting what really mattered in the purely personal, he had enabled her to obey.
"That which is ever between a man and woman when they both need somewhat, my liege," she said simply. "So now I must die. It will be better."
She had told herself this a hundred times that night. She had done her work. Life might bring difficulties. Death was the only remedy. But she over-reached herself in self-sacrifice.
"Oh! let me die, my liege," she cried kissing the dust of his feet. "Majesty will forget." This hope was also in her blurred mind.
"It will not forget," he cried passionately, "unless it knows the truth. Speak! woman--Blazon out thy shame if shame there be, else I call Birbal with the diamond he took from thee----"
She was on her feet trembling with anger, outraged utterly.
"What! he hath told the Most-High! Oh! traitor, coward! And he swore--he bade me never tell----"
Akbar gave a sigh of relief. He understood now. This woman had been in the conspiracy of silence; and she would have kept that silence until death.
"Sit thee down again, King's Châran," he said almost with a smile. "The King was not to know. Aye! but he does know, so silence is of no avail. He knows all--how the Luck was stolen for the Prince Salîm, and how he, deceiving his father----"
Âtma gave a little cry and crept closer, almost as it were consolingly, to his feet.
"He is but young, my liege, he did not think," she pleaded. "Truly he loves his father--there is no cause for pain----"
In the slight pause Akbar's eyes showed suspiciously as if they held sudden tears. "Not so spoke she who told me," he said, his voice bitter. "Yet she also was woman!"
Âtma's slow brain busy over that "she" broke in on the silence.
"Was't Khânzada Gulbadan or Umm Kulsum?" she asked naïvely.
Akbar frowned quickly. "I wist nottheywere in the scandal," he said quite petulantly. "But what matters it if all the world knew--save only the King! Leave that alone, for God's sake, and tell me truly what lay between thee and Ibrahîm?"
To him so near desire, that was the fateful question.
To her also, for dimly she saw ahead. "Silence is best," she said obstinately. "It does not injure Truth,whose hiding place is immortality, whose shadow, death."
The well-worn quotation fell from her lips like the juice of poppy, restful, soothing, opiate; but Akbar was in no mood of acquiescence. He bent hastily and seized her by the wrist, fiercely, tenderly. All his blood was stirring in him as it had not stirred for years.
"I tell thee thou shalt answer! I, the King, command thee, Châran. Nay I, Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar, as man, command thee as woman. Tell me the truth----"
She shrunk back--looked into his eyes, whence peace and dignity had fled, leaving naught but man's passion--then gave a little sob, feeling her effort had failed. He was man, not King.
"Yea! I will tell thee, Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar!"
So she told him dully, piteously, of her treachery concerning Diswunt, of her immediate repentance, of her much searching. Of the Wayfarer and his strange gift that she wore even now around her neck and how it had helped her, until as she spoke a scent of fresh roses seemed to fill the tent where those two sate hand in hand; for the grip on wrist had slackened and her fingers now lay in his willingly, confidently. Then she told him of Mihr-un-nissa and the Beneficent Ladies, of the false gems and the true one hidden in a harlot's bosom, until interest growing in Akbar's eyes, she forgot herself in her story, as she told of the Mirza and his uttermost deceit. Her very hand withdrew itself unnoticed as she described the fly's foot upon the paper which had altered the hour, and her voice rang defiant as she gave her challenge for the Truth. So, instinct with the mere drama of the deed, she sprang to her feet and made as if she flung the goblet, curving like a comet, into the night. And Akbar sate and watched her with ever growing admiration as, action by action, she followed her own words.
It became breathless, palpitating--the seven lamped cresset--the chiming gong--even the long-drawn kisses----
Akbar's cheek paled--this was more than womanhood--this was his dream of it----!
"Die dog! Die for thine untruth!"
Her passion had risen to its height; she staggered, for it was Akbar whom she found within her clasp.
But it was Akbar who held her close, as men hold women whom they love, who strained her to his breast, murmuring, "Nay! thou shalt live, live for thine uttermost Truth."
The excitement died from her face in a moment, she drew back from him in deadly fear.
"My liege--my liege--not so--it cannot be--for pity sake, my liege."
"Cannot?" he echoed with an exultant laugh. "Wherefore can it not be. Am I not the King?"
"It is because the Most Highisthe King" she began--"Remember, my liege--the death warrant."
He had forgotten it; but he passed rapidly to the desk whereon it lay.
"That is easy remedied," said he seizing on it and making as if he would tear it up.
"Hold!" she cried peremptorily.
"Wherefore?" he asked as peremptorily.
She drew herself up to her full height. "Because I am keeper of the King's honour, and I forbid it."
"Again, wherefore?" Checked in his immediate intention his temper rose.
"Does my liege forget," she said and her voice was calmness itself, "that it is not yet Dawn? That to destroy that paper is failure?--that the King's enemies will triumph? It is not yet Dawn andthat"--she pointed to what he held--"belongs to To-day."
There was an awful silence. Akbar stood blinded by the truth. It was as she had said; to annul the death-warrant was to confess failure.
So, after a time his voice--or was it not his voice--sounded through the tent.
"It is not sealed. Thou hadst the ring--therefore it doth not count"
She had taken a step or two nearer to him as if to beg the paper of him, now she shrank back as from a snake, frozen with fear.
"What!" she whispered and her voice was close on tears. "Shall Kingship stoop to Craft--Leave that to the King's enemies."
But Akbar was past reproach; passion had mastered him and his hands instinct mobile with fierce life, met and parted again and again until the death-warrant torn to shreds lay in his clasp a mere handful of waste paper. "Lo!" he cried joyfully, "Let Kingship go! Jalâl-ud-din is man--he will reap man's harvest of love."
He flung what he held from him with the action of a sower who sows. The light scraps of paper hung in the air for a second then fell steadily, softly, like seed grains. Some of them fell on Âtma's white star-sewn skirts.
She stooped slowly to raise one and hold it up menacingly.
"Not a grain of the sheaves of life is stored by one who has trodThe furrows and fallows of passion, and sown no seed for God."
But Akbar had drifted too far from philosophy for such hoarded wisdom. He was back beside the speaker his arm around her.
"It is idle, Âtma I tell thee naught shall stand between us. Let Kingship go--thou art my Queen!"
She fought frantically against him and his claim.
"Sire, bethink you, if the challenge be lost?"
"What care I--thou lovest me--dare not to say thou dost not----"
"Yea! Yea! I love thee oh Jalâl-ud-din," she cried pleading with him, for himself, "but thou art the King. Thy faith must not fail."
"My faith in thee will never fail," he replied, "naught else matters."
"Not mine in thee? Not mine, the Châran's in the King? Nay, it shall not be so Âtma the Châran dies!"
Her hand which had snatched out the death-dagger of her race held it high above her head; but Akbar was too quick for her. His was on hers; so arrested, it remained, bringing her face closer to his.
"Nay, my Queen!" he said and the softness of his voice sent despair and delight through her veins. "Thou hast said thou lovest me, as I do thee. Is that not enough for poor mortal man? What is Kingship compared to it? Let it go! Kiss me, sweetheart--kiss me but once, and thou wilt learn----"
She lay passive on his shoulder, her eyes, full of the fire of love immortal, found and held his.
"What shall I learn, Great King?" she whispered falteringly.
"To take even love from my hand," he said, bending closer.
Her whole body seemed to yield to him, she nestled closer, finding soft rest in his strong arms.
"Yea!" she whispered, raising her lips for the kiss. "I will take--all things from the hand of the King."
So, ere he could prevent it, ere, taken by surprise, his iron muscles could counteract the strong downward sweep of her right hand, his, clasping hers, followed the flash of the death-dagger of her race.
It found fit sheathing close to her heart.
"Âtma," he whispered sinking to his knees with the dead weight he held. "Âtma!"
He did not call her love or queen; he knew too well that she was slipping away from such empty titles.
A low murmur made him bend his ear closer.
"May the--Gods pity--us Dreamers--who--dream----"
The old refrain. The first words surely he had heard from her lips. But at least she still lived.
Gathering her in his arms he carried her to the divan; then knelt supporting her on his breast. If she died she should die as a queen--in the King's clasp--upon his throne.
So there was silence.
The dawn was coming fast. It showed in streaks of shimmering gray light between the dark screens.
"Âtma!"
There was no sound.
Then suddenly gay, light-hearted as a bird, a bugle rang out; followed by another, and another.
The dying woman stirred.
"The--the dawn has come!" she whispered to herself. And then, suddenly, as if galvanised to an instant's life, she sate up and the tent rang with her cry.
Ohí! The King, The King,Challenge I bringOhí! The King--the----
Ohí! The King, The King,Challenge I bringOhí! The King--the----
The last word never came. In her effort to rise she overbalanced and slipped in a huddled heap at Akbar's feet.
He stood quite still. He knew that she was dead; that nothing but worthless clay lay there; the deathless spirit--the dreamer that never dies--had fled--whitherward? His way, surely!
So as he stood, he felt Kingship rise in him, as he had never--no not even he the prince of dreamers--felt it before.
Ohí! The King the King!
He stooped, gathered the dead thing in his arms, and laid it on the low throne. He did not even kiss the dead face, though the scent of roses clung round her. For an instant he felt inclined to take the gift of the Wayfarer from her as a remembrance. Then he remembered himself.
Such things might be for Jalâl-ud-din the man. He was the King. She should take Love with her.
Outside the bugle notes were echoing each other merrily through the camp. All things were astir with the dawn.
And he, the King was needed elsewhere. He called, and a servant entered.
"Lo! I have killed the woman," he said pointing to the divan briefly. "Give her fit burning, at once, ere the sun rise. She issuttee--she hath died for a man."
So he strode through the screen to the larger tent, and gave the signal for the uprising of Majesty.
In a second the huge weighted curtains at the end had swung to their high looped places, and advancing, he took his seat upon the canopied dais behind them. On the far level horizon the pearl gray of dawn was changing to primrose, darkening even as it changed to rosy-red; for Dawn comes swiftly in the cloudless skies of India. Before him, thronged with courtiers, circled the vast enclosure of the Inner Audience, opening out into a wide avenue wherein, drawn up on either side, stood soldiers in battalions. Their spear points struck at the sky; for beyond was nothingness. Only a wide, empty plain reaching up to a wide, empty sky.
ALLAH-HU AKBAR!
The cry rose from a thousand throats.
Akbar was indeed the King.
His enemies had failed.
Yet there was one thing which must be done before the dawn, if all was to be well, and Birbal looking somewhat crestfallen, stepped forward at a signal from the throne; behind him came William Leedes the jeweller.
The latter was saying "Ave-Mary's" under his breath, partly from pure fear of evil, partly from thanksgiving for delivery from evil.
"Mirza-Râjah Birbal," came the King's voice clear and resonant, to be heard of all men. "Deliver up the diamond called the King's Luck which was stolen, but which the King's Châran Âtma Devi hath died to restore" (Birbal started, then hung his head). "Deliver it up to the Western jeweller, William Leedes, in accordance with the oath by which she bound you."
Then turning to the Englishman the royal voice became less stern.
"And you--who are without blame--take it once more to thy lathe. Akbar's will hath not changed. His Luck shall shine. Aye! and his empire shall shine--ashe chooses; let subjects, princes, friend--yea--even sons, say what they may!" Then changing gravity for cheerfulness he called down the line of soldiery: "Gentlemen! make ready for your march! Akbar goes forward! He leaves this Town of many Tears and Lack of Water behind him for ever!"
As he spoke the curved edge of the sun showed like a star for a second across the waste of desert that stretched as a sea before him, and from behind, from the Darkness of the Tents, from the Shadows of Man's Habitations, came the Procession of the Hours. In rosy pink like Dawn-Clouds, the pair of little children, no longer wide-eyed and solemn, danced at the head; and behind them, radiant with smiles followed the choric singers each with an unlit taper, singing the Song of the Dawn that has been sung in India since the Dawn of Days.