Love to her mind
Came like the wind,
All stealthy as the cat is.
But those not blind
Next morn will find
Footsteps beneath her lattice.
A flickering smile showed on the rebeck player's lips. "My lord has learnt that of lust in the bazaar. If he desires to learn of love he should go--to Bayazîd!"
The faintly inflected play of words was out of keeping with the man who made it; but the vague questionings concerning him which for days past had been in Birbal's mind seemed to have vanished with his first look at the miserable, almost squalid figure, the dull eyes, the deathlike mask of the face. What could the fellow be but street musician? Except--since women were incomprehensible--the widow's lover!
Something of curiosity, however, remained.
"Bayazîd?" he echoed haughtily. "What knowest thou of the drunkard who calls himself King of Malwa?"
"That he is King of Musicians, my lord, and this slave's master. He could tell my lord all concerning love. Aye! even as well as the Sufi from Isphahân."
Those dull eyes seemed to take on a leer and Birbal stared at them, startled back into questionings.
"The Sufi? What dost know of him?" he asked quickly.
"Naught!" replied the musician evasively. "Save that the servants said he sups at the river palace this night; he and another king--Payandâr of Sinde mayhap."
He looked up again with that leer in his eyes, and the wonder died out of Birbal's. The man was palpably a trickster; palpably trying to play on credulity--credulity in Birbal, prince of doubters!