CHAPTER VICHURI
Fidá had lived in the palace of Mandu for nearly a month before he had his first glimpse of one of the most important persons in the lower stratum of its life, a man with whom he was later to become but too familiar:—Churi, the eunuch. They beheld each other first, distantly, in the poppy field. On the evening of that same day they met again. It was about sunset, and Fidá was at the well in front of the house of slaves, washing out certain of the Rajah’s drinking vessels, when he became aware of a white-robed figure standing at his side, and, turning, gave a sudden start to find himself gazing into a pair of eyes one of which was of a lustrous brown, the other of a pale, greenish hue. The owner of the eyes smiled slightly; and then Fidá recalled Ahmed’s description of the doctor, he whose position ranked next to that of Kasya among the guardians of the zenana.
“Thou art Churi,” observed Fidá, wondering if the man had seen him start.
Churi nodded, and took thoughtful survey of the Mohammedan. During this look Fidá felt, uncomfortably, that his secret soul had been penetrated by thosesingular eyes. Churi’s words, however, when he spoke again, were simple enough: “Did Ragunáth trouble thee to-day?”
Fidá smiled. “Nay. Why dost thou ask?”
“His face boded thee no good when I saw it. He is a man scrupling not to lie.”
“Have I lived a month in Mandu and know not that?”
Churi chuckled. “Thou hast no need of help?” said he.
“None.”
“Then I will delay thee no longer. Yet remember that no slave in this palace need have any fear of that mighty counsellor.”
Fidá shrugged. He felt himself suddenly put upon the status of a servant who discusses the persons whom he serves; and, furthermore, Churi’s words seemed to dispel the secret satisfaction he had felt in having outwitted Ragunáth that afternoon. Even these thoughts it is possible that Churi robbed him of; for, as the latter turned away, the smile was still upon his lips; nor did it wholly fade as he went back to his quarters, which were at the other end of the palace, beyond the zenana wing.
In his own sphere, Churi was a privileged person, commanding a respect and an interest above that of Kasya, the incorruptible. Like Kasya, Churi had a room of his own; though he by no means always occupied it alone. So great was his skill in medicine and surgery that he took the place of first official physicianin the palace, though he had had many rivals for the place, and the Rajah was still obliged to employ a corps of priests who strove, by means of spells and charms, to prove their methods superior to those of the eunuch with his herbs, simples, and tourniquets. Churi’s opponents troubled him little, however. He appreciated his gift; and generally cared for the sick among the slaves and eunuchs in his own room. Two of his fellows had, in spite of his care, recently died there of the malignant fever so common at this season of the year. And to-night, having no desire to eat alone, Churi took his evening meal of millet and ghee with the other eunuchs in the common room. While he was still there, chatting with a companion or two, Kasya invaded the apartment, evidently in search of some one; and, finding Churi, seized upon him, and drew him back to his own room, where they could be alone. As they went, Churi broke silence:
“The young lord was safely found to-day?”
They were out of possible ear-shot before Kasya answered: “Too safely. He was in the rooms of Ragunáth. But my lord himself was not there. Kanava had the child, and I do not understand the alarm. Tell me, didst thou overtake the Ranee before she reached the ruin?”
During this last question Churi had begun to laugh. “Oho! I perceive! Mine eyes are enlightened!”
“What sayest thou?”
“Oho! The faithful Kasya walks out with the Ranee. My lord councillor is disappointed, captures the child, amuses him in his rooms with toys, spreads the alarmthat he is lost, brings back the faithful Kasya to the search, and then goes to join the Ranee in the poppy field! Oho!”
“Ragunáth! Hedared!”
Churi laughed again. “Dared he not? The Lady Ahalya was in the middle of the poppy field. Neila and I stood, by command, near the ruin. Then the councillor appeared. He had come through a path in the little jungle. At very sight of him the Ranee fairly fled to us, whereupon we set out again for the palace. Nor have I seen him since.” Churi stopped rather abruptly, wondering how this ingenious version of the truth had ever come out of him. Was it worth while to add the important details? There was no time to consider. Kasya was furious.
“This—this, at last, shall go to the King! This even I cannot countenance from the man—”
“Not so fast, comrade. What hast thou to carry to the King? Young Bhavani wanders by accident into Ragunáth’s rooms. My lord himself goes for a walk. By accident he meets the Ranee Ahalya in the poppy field. They scarcely speak. She returns home with her woman and me;—my lord remains there on whatever business is his. Bah, Kasya! The fool is punished now. Doubt it not. The Ranee can lash a man with her eyes, an she will; and Ragunáth was not favored to-day. I swear that by Lakshmi. A turmoil is never the result of wisdom. Let it rest, Kasya.”
Churi was committed in good earnest, now. For his own sake the affair must not go up to the Rajah.
“I thought—” Kasya bent his brows, “I feared the Ranee did not disdain him wholly. If you speak truth, however—”
Churi shrugged.
“Then let it pass. In time we shall show him that the Rajah’s will is done in Mandu.” And, with a sigh, Kasya turned and departed.
Churi’s desire for company had gone, apparently; for he made no move to return to the common room. For a few moments he stood in his own doorway, brows drawn, head bent, meditating. Then he turned inside, and dropped the hanging across the open space, to prevent interruption. Stretching himself out on an improvised but remarkably comfortable divan, he gave himself up to a more critical consideration of the drama that had been revealed to him that afternoon. It was a thing that he had never dreamed of. A day before, he would not have believed that he could be so calmly reviewing the situation that evidently existed between the one thing he cared for in Mandu—Ahalya—and the Mohammedan captive. If it piqued him that he had had no knowledge of its beginnings,—he, to whom every intrigue enacted in the palace during the last ten years had been an open book,—he could console himself with the reflection that he was still the only one that knew of it at all. But he wished especially to understand himself with regard to Fidá, toward whom, as yet, he felt no animosity. Fidá, however, continued to baffle him. He could come to no satisfactory opinion. His concealment of what he knew from Kasya,though it had come about accidentally, gave him little anxiety; for it was perfectly consistent with his usual methods: those plots and plans and hopes in which he, even he, the eunuch, constantly indulged.
Doctor Churi was, in fact, a person out of the ordinary. He had been the child of a Rajput woman and an Arab. For his birth, his mother had been put to death, and he himself, in his babyhood, sold into slavery. Before he was even aware of the existence of right and wrong, he had been made a creature apart from ordinary men. And when he was old enough to understand this, his soul rose up in revolt. From that time, his whole nature was warped; and he became an iconoclast in his every thought. His brain was unquestionably fine. His talent for medicine was manifested at an early age, when he tried to poison himself with opium, and was only saved by the quick skill of the doctor in whose charge he was still living. Under this man’s tuition, he gained his knowledge of anatomy and the power of herbs. At the age of eighteen he was sold to Rai-Khizar-Pál, his education having trebled his value. At the time of the transaction, Churi was made aware of the sum paid for him; and it was then that his great idea came: which was, by some means to obtain the equivalent of the amount, and with it buy himself into liberty.
Since that day, twelve years had passed away. Churi was thirty years old; and the little hoard of copper pieces which he had been able to store up, was still pitiably small. Meantime his heart had grown bitter,and his mind had taken to winding through tortuous ways of perception and imagination. He was known to many evil thoughts, but to few evil practices. And there was in him a volcanic passion of humanness kept relentlessly in check, that occasionally betrayed itself above the surface in some eccentric outburst.
The man led a solitary and loveless existence; yet as all human things must know some softening of the heart toward some one, so Churi had, by degrees, come to feel a strong interest, a more than interest, in the Ranee Ahalya, the universally beloved. She was very different from the other women in the zenana; and Churi had been first attracted to her by the quality rarest in women: that quality which she had in marked degree, and he not at all—disinterestedness. Because she had never had ends to gain, because she curried favor with none, he gave her the only genuine devotion that he had ever felt for any one; and, where her interests were concerned, was accustomed to waive his own. Perhaps it was this instinct in him that had suggested the lie to Kasya; and thereby, probably, he saved the life of Fidá. But it was quite for his own amusement that Churi now lay on his divan considering the incidents of the afternoon. All the result of these thoughts was, that he decided to see something of the Asra in the near future, and that the Lady Ahalya would perhaps bear a little watching also.
Fortune favored Churi’s first decision in a very simple way. Two or three nights later Fidá, who had not been in the house of slaves for forty-eight hours,went there to find his young comrade, Ahmed, lying in one corner of the porch, uncovered to the evil air of night, and burning with fever. Another slave, also Arabian, stood near by, regarding the sick boy helplessly. When Fidá appeared, Ahmed, who had lain with closed eyes, heeding nothing, sat up, stretching out his hands to his master. Fidá took them tenderly into his own, and was frightened to feel how hot they were. Wrapping the boy in his cloak, he bent over him, keeping off the swarm of little flies and insects that hovered around, and listening with alarm to the boy’s half-delirious murmurings. Something must be done. He was not to be left in this state. Surely even slaves were given help. And as he cast about, anxiously, for means of assistance, he was addressed by one Chakra, a soldier, who stood looking into the veranda:
“If thou couldst bring Churi to the sick boy, he would not die.”
“Ah! Churi! Where is he?” cried Fidá.
“I will show thee where he lives.”
“Come, then!—Nay, better, I will take the boy to him.”
Ten minutes later the physician, squatting comfortably in the doorway of his own room, perceived a small group approaching out of the darkness. First came the soldier, quite subdued by Fidá’s peremptory manner; and then Fidá himself, with Ahmed in his arms. Churi got up and went toward them a step or two, peering with his strange eyes.
“Thou, Chakra?” said he.
“I come with a slave who brings you a boy sick of a fever.”
“Oh,” said Churi, recognizing Fidá. “Come into this room.—Is the boy thy son?” he demanded, sharply, of the Asra.
“Nay, I have no son,” answered Fidá, calmly. “But this boy is my friend, who followed me into captivity. And he is sick. I fear he is very sick.”
They were now inside the room, where two lamps burned. Fidá laid his burden down in a corner, and then, as Ahmed clung to him, sat down beside the boy, who gave a faint moan of satisfaction. The soldier had already gone; and Churi, after a moment’s survey of his two self-invited guests, came over and made a speedy examination. It took little astuteness to perceive that the boy was dangerously ill, with a fever that was common enough at that season of the year. When he was assured of its nature, Churi turned to Fidá, saying:
“Let him remain here. I will care for him. But it is not well that thou shouldst also stay. Go, then, and fear not.”
Fidá made two or three attempts to release himself from the boy’s hold, Churi watching him. Then Fidá shook his head. “He will not suffer me to leave him.”
“I will do it. See.” Churi placed himself immediately in front of the Asra, and laid his hands, with great gentleness, where those of the Mohammedan had been. Ahmed, drowsy with fever, did not notice thechange. “Now go, softly,” commanded Churi, in a whisper, and Fidá obeyed.
Such was the beginning of Ahmed’s sickness. It endured for more than five weeks, and, but for Churi’s unceasing care and skill, had lasted scarcely three days. It was, moreover, the beginning of an intimacy between the eunuch and Fidá, which developed with a rapidity and a completeness that surprised them both. During the first few days, when the danger was extreme, no one was allowed to see the sick boy. But after that Fidá was admitted regularly; and, first for the sake of Ahmed, then on his own account, he spent three quarters of his spare time in the sick room. Churi having a private interest in Fidá, he succeeded in making himself so interesting that the slave, though suffering doubly from captivity and from hopeless love, was drawn out of himself by the strength of the other’s personality.
Ahmed’s convalescence was a fruitful period. Churi had returned to the regular zenana duties, modified when there were any sick whom he must attend; and so the hours in which he saw the captive were much fewer, but thereby more prized. Churi early disclosed the fact that he had Arabian blood in his veins; and Fidá, in a passion of yearning for his people, made this almost a symbol of brotherhood, and poured out to his new-found confidant all his life-story, with its fury of battle and its dulness of peace. Churi studied the young man keenly; for just at this time pressure was being brought to bear on him from another quarter,and amazing possibilities began to shape themselves in his imagination. Ahalya, chafing with impatience, longing, and bitterness, in her pretty prison-house, had become imprudent, and told him half of what he already knew.
Churi had high responsibilities when he served the zenana. His duties during the day were light enough; but by night, his was the task to fasten every door and window looking out upon the unguarded court of the zenana; and his night-watch at the inner entrance, in the antechamber connecting the women’s wing with the palace, was between the hours of twelve and two. Here was the trust which he had never betrayed. And here, also, were possibilities which he had never considered. The problem was before him now, however; for his feeling for Fidá grew daily stronger. He was beginning to consider things which, had they been suspected by a single soul in Mandu, would have sent him, and with him Fidá, on the quickest road to death.
Meantime, weeks had gone by. The autumn rains were at hand, and it was more than a month since the Rajah’s men had left for the north on Fidá’s behalf. Daily now their return was looked for; and, with every twelve hours of delay, Fidá grew more wretched. His mind was full of fear. It was not at all out of the nature of his uncle to have murdered the ambassadors for the money they might have with them, or for any fancied disrespect in their demeanor. Had this thing been done, Rai-Khizar-Pál must know it ere long, andthen even the meagre joys of captivity would end for him. And at this time Fidá did not want to die. The existence of Ahalya made slavery more than bearable; for while he lived in the same building with her, the hope of seeing her again never quite left him. He loved her. He had told her that he loved her. That fact never failed to bring exhilaration upon him. Even the hope of freedom could not reconcile him to the idea of losing her forever. In his sanguine moments there flitted through his head the wildest plans:—storming the palace at the head of an army, bearing her forth in triumph, and carrying her home with him to Yemen, where they should live together forever in the house of his fathers, in the holy city.
But, in time, these dreams were brought to an end by the return of the messengers from their long journey. On the night of the twenty-fifth of October, Fidá lay asleep in the little box of a room that had been made his own. He had gone to bed early that night, for the Rajah was hunting in the hills, and his services were dispensed with. It was nearly midnight when the slave opened his eyes to find a soldier of the guard standing over him. He started up, and was presently following the man stupidly through rooms and passages till they had come to the audience hall, where the Rajah, dressed in dusty hunting-garb, sat on his daïs, a frown of deepest anger on his brow. In front of him were five men, worn, dishevelled, heavy with sleep. Save for this little group, the vast room was empty. The torches flickered, ghost-like, into shadowy corners.The deep night-stillness was only broken by the rattling of the soldier’s armor and weapons as he walked.
In his first glance at the scene in the hall Fidá, now fully awake, recognized the situation. As his guide stood aside, he walked alone to the foot of the royal divan, and prostrated himself there, kissing the ground before him, in the deepest reverence a Moslem can do. When he had risen again, he lifted his eyes to the conqueror’s face and found the Rajah regarding him solemnly, with something like compassion.
“O King, live forever! Thou hast summoned me.”
“I summoned thee, Fidá ibn-Mahmud ibn-Hassan el-Asra, to hear thine uncle’s message to me. Thou seest my men are returned.”
Fidá, gone white to the lips, looked into the Rajah’s eyes, and, albeit his voice was unsteady, said quietly: “Let them speak.”
“Radai Sriyarman, repeat the message of Omar el-Asra.”
The soldier nearest Fidá turned slightly toward him, and began, speaking as if by rote: “Omar the Mohammedan, answering our demand of five thousand copper pieces,[3]specified jewels, and treaty of eternal peace with Mandu as the price of the freedom of Fidá el-Asra, spake thus: That what was demanded was greater than the value of any man. That he would give, with the permission of the Lord Aybek of Delhi, the large price of five hundred dirhems for his nephew;and, we refusing the offer, he then returned this message to Rai-Khizar-Pál, Maharaj’ of Mandu: ‘Let the King beware that he touch not one hair of the head of Prince Fidá. The sword of the great Prophet is ablaze over the land, and, in a year’s time, all the country from Lahore to the great Ghats will be under the rule of the faithful. Let Fidá, my nephew, be of good heart. Let him be assured that any injury to him will be avenged a thousand-fold upon the people of Mandu, and that the King himself shall answer for his daring with his life. Thus speaks Omar of the Asra, a follower of Mohammed, in the name of Allah, the one God, the compassionate, the merciful.’”
[3]Before the Mohammedan conquest, copper was the standard of currency in India.
[3]Before the Mohammedan conquest, copper was the standard of currency in India.
“Thou hearest it! Thou hearest this message of thy kinsman?” shouted Rai-Khizar, stirred anew to wrath with the rehearing of the insolent message.
“Ah! Dost thou not perceive? My uncle desires my death—longs for my death, that he may know himself the head of his race!” Fidá cried, in an agony of bitterness. Then, while the Rajah gazed down upon him in astonishment, the slave once more fell upon his face before the conqueror: “O King, live forever! Let the King show mercy to his slave! Let him remember how I refused to assume the state of the ransomed when the messengers left Mandu. Let Rai-Khizar-Pál remember that I am his slave, defenceless. Let him show himself more merciful than my own people!”
Fidá pled passionately, scarce knowing why it was that life had suddenly become so precious to him. To the surprise of the soldiers, and, perhaps, to his own, hiswords served. The Rajah sat silent for some moments, his pride and anger struggling with his sense of justice. In the end the good triumphed. His frown softened, and he rose to his feet, saying:
“Thou shalt live, then, Asra, by my mercy. Return to thy kennel! But, by Indra, the Mohammedan hath not yet seen the last of Rai-Khizar-Pál!”
Fidá, scarcely believing in his own deliverance, scarcely able to grasp the scene that had just passed, stumbled from the room, and returned to the place that the King had called his kennel. All that night he tossed and turned on his uneasy bed, sleeping fitfully, glad when he woke out of his dreams. Relief at his scarce-hoped-for escape for a time prevented his facing the future. But at last he began to realize the fact that the hope, so slight and so desperately clung to, of release, was gone: that henceforth he faced a life of unremitting toil, of thankless servitude. Years—centuries, perhaps—must elapse before the Mohammedan rule could spread through Malwa. Nay, India might rise and drive the invaders back across her cruel mountains before the prophet’s followers had looked upon the Dekhan. And as Fidá grimly strangled his new-springing, infant hope, his cup of misery seemed full. Despair gripped him; and in its iron arms he slept.
Two days passed before Fidá again visited Ahmed. There was some excuse for his absence, perhaps, for he was now become a slave indeed, and had been given new tasks, one of which might, perhaps, have been regarded as something of a favor. The charge ofyoung Bhavani’s horsemanship was placed with him; and every afternoon, for an hour, he was commanded to lead the young prince up and down the road beside the water palace, instructing him as to his seat, the carrying of weapons, and the management of his animal. Although the spirit of his new work made Fidá ache with the memory of his free warrior days, still he was proud of the confidence reposed in him; and he and the young prince soon took a fancy for each other. At first Rai-Khizar-Pál frequently appeared at some period of the lesson; and, having convinced himself that his slave was really fitted to instil the knightly spirit into his son, Fidá found himself restored to a part of his former favor.
The matter of the riding lessons and the companionship with Bhavani were not given up while Fidá lived in Mandu; and, long before he left it, despair over his captivity had been driven from his heart. For forty-eight hours after the return of the ambassadors of ransom, he hugged misery close, and the future was veiled in black. But on the third day his lonely fortitude gave way, and, when Bhavani’s lesson was over, he stole down to the house of eunuchs and into Churi’s familiar room. Ahmed, convalescent now, lay sound asleep upon his bed. But upon Fidá’s appearance, Churi came forth from a shadowy corner, and took him by the hand.
“Come, let us sit here, Asra,” he said, in a low voice, at the same time leading his visitor to the place where he had been sitting.
Fidá, mildly surprised at his manner, settled himself. Churi sat down at his side, and stared at him, meditatively, for some minutes. Then a distorted smile broke over his face. “I was waiting for thee, prince of the Asra.”
“I am no prince,” returned Fidá, savagely. “I—”
“Yet,” broke in Churi, “I bring a message to you from a—princess.” He paused. Fidá sat staring at him, incredulous of his ears.
“I have a message for Fidá, Prince of the Asra,” repeated Churi, at length, with emphasis. “Wouldst hear it?”
“Speak!” answered the slave, hoarsely.
“These, then, are the words I was told to say to thee: ‘Why comes not the Asra to her that waits? The way shall be easy to one greatly aspiring’.” Churi spoke in the lowest voice; and Fidá strained forward to catch the words.
“‘Why comes he not to her that waits? The way shall be easy—to one greatly aspiring’,” he repeated, trying to grasp all that it meant.
“And there was this to be given,” continued Churi, taking from his girdle, and handing to Fidá, a faded and wilted poppy.
Fidá grasped the flower in his hand, and started wildly to his feet. “Take me to her!” cried he. “Take me to her, Churi! Allah give thee life!”
“Quiet! Quiet! Shall the whole palace hear thee?” Churi glared at him, without moving from where he sat. In his face there was no sign of life. And,at his words, and still more by the cold indifference into which his expression had relapsed, Fidá’s flaming eagerness was chilled. His face grew questioning. The hand holding the poppy dropped to his side. Then Churi spoke, slowly:
“I have delivered to thee the message. Find thou the way.”
“Churi!”
The eunuch smiled, vaguely.
The smile accomplished much. Fidá’s impatience gave way. Determination took its place. He sat down again beside his tormentor, placed the poppy carefully in his own sash, and then leaned persuasively toward his expressionless companion. “Tell me, Churi, wherein I am wrong,” he said, sweetly.
Now, Churi had got himself into an anomalous position. He had, as a matter of fact, accepted a gift from Ahalya for the transmission of her message; and he was perfectly well aware that she expected him to go much farther in the betrayal of his office than she had asked in words. But Churi was not quite prepared for these lengths. His actions during the last few moments had been instinctive. He was trusting to chance to show him a method of procedure. After some little thought, he answered Fidá as truthfully as he could.
“Thou’rt wrong in this, Asra, that thou acceptest this message for truth when it says: ‘the way is easy to one greatly aspiring’. The way is not easy, but, rather, so difficult that I see no means of traversing it.”
“Dost thou not, indeed? Ah, but thou aspirest not, Churi. That is the difference.”
Churi shrugged.
“Now I already see the feat performed. Shall I explain it to thee?”
“I am a listener, Asra.”
“Then hark. Between the hours of twelve and two, the zenana is guarded by one that is a kindly man. At the hour of his watch this fellow, for just the shadow of an instant, falls asleep. Lo! The way is open!” Fidá smiled delightedly.
Churi, however, turned on him a solemn look. “Truly thou hast little regard for the life of the ‘kindly one’. Knowest thou not the penalty for a guardian that sleeps?”
Once again Fidá sprang to his feet. “Name of Allah, man, why hast thou brought this message then? Was it to drive me mad? Am I a fool to be mocked at? What meanest thou?”
Churi’s color changed perceptibly. “I mock thee not,” he said, in a voice that rang untrue. “I mock thee not. Behold, thou demandest of me my safety, my fidelity, my life. Is that so small a thing to ask—as a gift?”
“A gift! Ah! I see.” Fidá’s head sank upon his breast, and, for a moment, he was lost in thought. Then, looking Churi straight in the eyes, he said: “I am a slave—thou knowest that. What wilt thou have of me? Wilt thou take my life when once I have done the bidding of—the beloved?”
“Thy life is useless to me.”
“Killing me, thou couldst save thine honor.”
“I am no murderer.”
“Then—wait! Wait.” Fidá’s hand flew to his sash. He was not treasureless. Nay, at this moment there was, on his body, a fortune greater than that asked as his ransom. True, it was worth more to him than his freedom. He had been willing to suffer slavery rather than deliver up his race to death. But love!—Ah, the Asra had always held that greater than life. Love was beyond price. Should not the Asra ruby buy him the love that must eventually kill him? Instantly impulse answered that death, after the love of Ahalya, would be as nothing. Yet he waited to weigh the question further; and was met on every hand by reason flanked with love. What promise did life hold out to him:—the dry, lonely, lowering life of the slave? At the end death would come, and the ruby be buried with him, or pass to the conqueror of the alien race. Let him, then, buy a great, brief joy with it, and afterwards a speedy exit from his slavery.
Fidá drew forth the golden box, Churi watching him with surprise and interest. Pressing the hidden spring, he let the ruby roll into his palm, and held it out to Churi.
“Look,” said he. “Take it into thy hand and look.”
The eunuch complied; and, seeing how the wonderful stone gleamed and glowed even here in the shadows, his eyes brightened and his lips twitched.
“This is the key to the zenana. Take it, Churi, and unlock the door for me—to-night.”
Churi looked up into Fidá’s face, and found there sincerity and earnestness. For a moment he hesitated, considering, counting the cost. At last his eyes fell. “How much is this ruby worth?” he asked, in a low voice.
“More than was asked for my ransom.”
“Why, then, didst thou not ransom thyself with it?”
“It holds in it the fate of the Asra. For her, only, would I surrender it.”
“Hath the Rajah seen it?”
“Yes, and suffered it to remain with me for the sake of my people.”
“How, then, shall I take it from thee?”
“Because I give it—freely.”
Churi’s hand closed slowly on the stone. His eyes were glittering as he rose at last. “Come, then, to the antechamber, to-night,” he murmured.
Fidá’s face grew radiant. “Wilt thou tell her?”
“I will tell her.”
“At midnight to-night—oh, my beloved!”
Churi stared at him still. “Truly thou aspirest greatly,” he said, with envy in his heart.