"Hold her!"
As she staggered back, her balance gone by Birbal's swift arrest of the blow, a mocking voice fell on her ear.
"Did I not tell thee so, sister! Thou art too good-looking for death!"
It had all passed so quickly that folks were still almost incredulously craning to see, when sudden silence came to that group on the clear square before the dais. To Siyah Yamin, muffled in her chaste veil, to Âtma Devi with her bare defiance, to Birbal's eager acute face as he still held back that hand with the dagger.
"Speak! What hast thou to say?" said the King through the silence.
"This," came the reply, clear, resolute, as Âtma Devi drew from out her bosom a folded paper. "It was the death word of the King's Châran."
"Take it and read," said the King, and Abulfazl stepping forward, took the paper. His practised voice sounded sonorously through the wide hall.
"Avenge the lie for which I die. Siyah Yamin is Siyâla, daughter of Gokal, Brâhmin, of Chandankaura, Râjpûtana. We are sisters of the veil. I saw her married with the Seven Steps and the Sacrificial Fire to the death-dagger of my race which grants no divorce. She is Bride of the Gods for ever and ever and ever. The Gods curse him who steals her from them. Ye Bright Ones avenge the lie!"
"Is this true, woman?" asked the King, sternly.
From behind the veil came the gay mocking voice, "Let her prove it."