"What could they say, with that dancing daughter of the devil all unveiled. In God's truth they breathed the more free, knowing themselves rid of the necessity for, sooner or later, sewing her into a sack and committing her and their honour to the silent bottom of the nearest river."
Khodadâd laughed suddenly, immoderately. "It will be a jest to hear the tale of how the virtuous mothers of Bârha received the Darling of the Town as daughter-in-law! Let us appoint a time for it! What say you, my Prince?"
Salîm frowned his silence; he was in a virtuous mood that morning, having as yet hardly recovered his rebellion after the check his father had given to it.
Ibrahîm looked at Khodadâd with a covert sneer, and took up provocation.
"The Most Illustrious Prince had better ask of Birbal what the Syedân said or what Akbar did; since he, only, was present at the secret interview."
Prince Salîm burst out with an oath, "Curse Birbal! I would to God the jesting hound were dead!"
Khodadâd's evil face came up alert, eager from his smoke-wreaths. "Is that, in truth, the wish of--of the Most Excellent the Heir-Apparent to the throne of India?" he asked, and there was something in his steady stare which made Salîm shift his eyes evasively.
"What good were death," he grumbled. "'Twould but make him and his advice grow in grace with my father, as do all folk who die in sanctity. If thou couldst kill the King's trust in him, that would be different."
"It, also, might be compassed," suggested Khodadâd suavely; but once more Salîm said nothing. Ibrahîm concealed a yawn by putting a scented sweatmeat into the cavern of his mouth, then proceeded with his daily task of poisoning the Prince's mind against authority.
"Yet, seeing that our gracious King Akbar gives up his Luck--as folk say he hath--to the infidel, Birbal's wisdom may yet be needed, so, 'twere a pity----"