"There thou tellest truth, Siyâl," said Âtma coldly. "It is not love. Did I not tell thee so? But I came not here for this. We must speak and speak quickly."
So the two women, half seen in the suffused light of the empty roof, sate talking while the little lamplets twinkled like stars, and every here and there one, growing short of oil, flickered and went out leaving a gap of darkness.
"Three!" counted the courtesan with a yawn as the mellow echoing notes of the city gongs chimed through the night. "'Tis time I were gone!"
She caught up her turban, coiled her long hair beneath it, thus stood transformed at once into effeminate manhood. "And Sher-Khân," she continued swaggering, "hath not had even one kiss--sweet widow!--the perfume of thy hair is wrapped round my living soul----"
"Peace, Siyâl," said Âtma, who risen, stood sombre, thoughtful. "Then I can do no more. I have warned thee. If thou swearest, I will speak."
"And I will deny--what then?"
"Then is my death----"
Siyah Yamin burst into a peal of laughter.
"Death! Trust the men folk--aye!--Trust the King to put a spoke in that wheel! A woman is a woman, and thou art too good looking! Lord! I shall laugh to see it, and thou so serious. Come! let us drink to our success before we go."
She seized an empty wine cup, then stood looking at it for a second, checked by the sight of it. It was a blown glass goblet damascened with gold. She held it to the light, her small child's face grown suddenly soft. "The cup of pleasure," she murmured to herself. "How long is it since he gave it!" So, with a laugh, she filled it to the brim from a flagon that stood near.