"Nay, she hath killed him--he painted her in his heart's blood," replied Birbal grimly, stooping for a closer look at the nigh empty bowl, the incarnadined brush.
"Yet I fail to see," began the jeweller, when his companion swept him into silence with a rush of contemptuous irritation.
"Fail to see? How shouldst thou see, strange-bred as thou art from the uttermost guile of India--this old, old India that was guileful long ages before thy island came into being? What canst thou or thy kind know of the bottomless deceits, the dregs of many years, the sediment of many men which must underlay the smooth levels of India? But I, Brâhmin, Indian bred, I see all; and I see here the wagging beards of Mahommedan doctors, virtuous, tradition-bound; I see the lawless desires of libertines like Ibrahîm, the deep designs of Khodadâd--misnamed mayhap! But under all I see the ancient harlotry of womankind. Aye! even what they call Love--misnamed again! Yea, I see the scented balcony in Satanstown where this----"
He pulled himself up and laid his hand compellingly on the jeweller's arm. "But of that hereafter. For the present keep council if thou lovest life. To you and to me only is that gem no diamond. Cut an hundred facets on it an thou wilt; but if its falseness be found out, ere I will it, thou diest. Dost hear?"
Then his tone softened a little. "Stay! this scrawling must not stand to tell its tale. Water and this brush, sir jeweller, will send it flying--do this for me--and for thyself."
He paused, to give another look at the lad's last work. "Lo! there is genius in it, for 'tis the jade herself. Poor fool! pity he had not read the master to better purpose."
So he passed out with studied carelessness humming as he went another bit of the wisdom of Hafiz:
Wisdom is wearisome--very!
Bring the noose of wine for its neck,
Let us drink, my friend, and be merry,
There's nothing to fear or to reck.
The sun is wine and the Moon's the cup;
Pour the Sun to the Moon and we'll drink it up. And be merry--be merry--very!
[CHAPTER XV]
I have oft said it, and again I say
That I, poor soul, did never choose my way,
But like taught birds, in hooded darkness heard
What was the Master's will, the Master's word
Bramble or rose whate'er His order gives
I take in joy--knowing the Gardener lives.