"Nor any good," broke in Mân Singh hotly; "and it will but strengthen her madness! What! a woman to claim a Châran's[[5]] place--to give her body to the sword?--her honour to the dust for the King's? Psha! Bid her go back to her spinning wheel!"
Abulfazl smiled largely. "Lo! even Râjpût manhood lives in the woman for nine long months--none can escape from the dark life before birth. Yea! let her pass in, Birbal--she can do no harm."
"Nor good," persisted Mân Singh stoutly.
Birbal's shoulders moved once more. "I would not swear," he answered airily, "since Akbar is not of the common herd. Go then, good mad soul, and sing thy pedigrees, and you,"----he paused pointing at the quaint green stone. "What call you that, musician?"
The rebeck player paused also, keeping his eyes downward submissively.
"They call it smagdarite, Excellence. It comes from Sinde."
"Sinned or no sin," echoed Birbal gaily, "the devil is in it. But 'tis a good name. Pass on Smagdarite! Stay"--here the old man half-hidden by his drum essayed to follow--"whom have we here? Old Deena the drum-banger! In what vile stew of Satanstown didst spend the night, villain?"
Thus apostrophised, Deena's comically wicked, leering, old face hid itself completely in a salaam behind the drum, and came up again puckered with pure mischief.
"That is a question for the virtuous Lord Chamberlain, Mirza Ibrahîm," he replied, demurely.
The sally was greeted with a boisterous laugh, and Mirza Ibrahîm--whose fine clothes dispersed a perfect atmosphere of musk--scowled fiercely. For Satanstown, as ultimate exile of all the bad characters of the city was in his charge, and report had it that he pursued his duty of inspection with more than usual assiduity.