"Oh! have done with second-hand wisdom," said the girl, superbly. "And it was not him--It was the Prince--Prince Salîm."
Fâtima let loose a shriek. "Oh! my liver! An' thou darest to tell me! 'Tis bread and water for a week, miss----"
"And I spoke to him and he spoke to me," continued the culprit, calmly; out of sheer perversity, reversing the order of events.
Fâtima let loose a louder shriek. "What! Lo! the noose is round thy neck, and mine too! May the devil be deaf! If folk hear----"
But the girl who had drawn aside with distaste and was now seated half in and half out of the palanquin, interrupted the duenna contemptuously. "Futtu, thou art a full-weight fool. Why dost not remember it needs skill to do wrong instead of making thy nose red with wrath?"
Suddenly she stood up, a curiously defiant figure. "Lo! I am sick of saws and sayings. I want to know at first hand! And I will know. Call the carriers. I go to Âtma Devi. Lo! I have tried, as thou knowest, to see in the ink again; but it comes not. I lack the charm she said; she shall teach it me. Nay!" she continued stemming Fâtima's rising flood of denials, "See here, fool. If thou deniest me I go straight home, and tell--not my mother, she would be pleased--but Sher Afkân's, and then----" She clasped the old woman's neck with both hands and squeezed it tight. "Does it feel nice, Futtu?" she asked solicitously.
So it came to pass that just as the sun was setting, its last rays sparkled on Mihr-un-nissa's jewelled hair, as she sate on the Châran's roof waiting for the drop of ink to fall into her palm. She was more woman than child now, since she had watched the birth of desire, and of something more than desire, in Prince Salîm's eyes. So that was love! A queer thing, at best, it must be to feel as he must have felt, before he could look so poor a slave. If that was love, she could not give it back. What! give homage to a lout of a lad? And yet the Queenship! Oh! if it had been Akbar himself, then she would have known what to do, for he was King indeed! Or if--yes! if it had been "him," for he was a man indeed!
Drop ink and hide my flesh,
Cover my worldly ways.
Then let God's light afresh
Mirror God's praise.
Drop ink, drop deep,
Cover in sleep
My night of nights and bring the day of days.
This time the chanted words thrilled little Mihr-un-nissa through and through. For once--and perhaps for the first time in her young life she was in deadly earnest. But, once again poor Âtma's mind was far from her spell. Ever since Deena that morning had brought her word of Diswunt's death, regret, remorse had warred with her defiance. It was strange. What did it mean? Had he regretted? And wherefore? At times absorbed with fear lest she should have betrayed the King, she had been ready to seek out Birbal and tell him the truth, risking her own life. But there was her promise, her sisters-troth with Siyah Yamin. That cut both ways. It forced her to silence, so long as the courtezan kept troth. And had she not? Had not Âtma Devi seen with her own eyes Aunt Rosebody's hand close on the diamond? Could it be in better keeping?