"His Luck? What mean you?" asked the Prince quickly.
Khodadâd shrugged his shoulders lightly. "The diamond, Most Noble, was not in the kingly turban at the audience, and folk say--with what truth I know not--that it hath gone to the English jeweller to be cut Western fashion."
Salîm's heavy face became vital in an instant with a curious mixture of anger and fear. "Gone!" he echoed. "My father has no right!--it is mine to wear also when I am King. I tell thee 'tis an heirloom of luck----"
"Mayhap the luck will not be cut out of it, mayhap it is but talk after all," put in Ibrahîm deftly, diminishing the immediate wound, so that its venom might have time to work. "Remember the saying: 'The truth none heed; lies are the world's creed.' Time enough for trouble when your turn comes; meanwhile let us sing!"
He let his hand stray idly to the strings of the latest fashionable instrument which stood by his side. It was a sort of guitar, shaped like a peacock, real feathers being let into the frets to form a tail.
Nothing on earth is hidden; in the field
The little buds of ruby or of pearl
Burst into flowers so tinted, and the blaze
Of diamonds in hard marble heart concealed
Waits for Time's touch on all things to unfurl
Their stony shroud, and give them back the rays
In which gems glisten as they were always.
The tinkle of the satara, and the high trilling voice filled the quaint arches of the building in which the Prince lounged idly, surrounded by all the luxuries of young and sensual life.
It was the Pânch-Mahal, or Five Palaces, that puzzle to archaeologists of to-day, few of whom seem to know that it was built as a playground for Akbar's long-looked-for, eagerly-loved heir to many hopes. Here from sun or storm alike, shelter could be found; shelter that could bring with it no sense of being cribbed, cabined, or confined, since in these four column-supported and arcaded platforms, each superimposed on the next in lessening squares, no two things are absolutely alike. Carven capital, fluted pillar, and scrolled entablature each tell a different tale, and in the wide aisles, open to every wind of heaven, a child might learn, almost as it might learn from nature, the unending mutation, the ceaseless variety of life.
Whether it served its purpose who can say? One thing is certain; Salîm as he lay sullenly, resentfully searching the long processions of bird and beast, fruit and flower, magical monsters and mythical men that lay carven before his eyes, seeking therein more cause for rebellion, found himself assailed on all sides by the memory of an eager-faced teacher who called him son.
His father!