In truth Khodadâd stepped jauntily and his face shone with content as he passed to his place in the light-screened plinth where the court officials were gathered awaiting the signal which was to summon them to the dais above, there to range themselves behind the Emperor for the coming audience.
"It is nigh time," said Mirza Ibrahîm, who as Court Chamberlain had charge of the ceremonies. "Gentlemen are you ready?"
Then he bent forward to the newcomer and whispered something. The whispered reply brought such satisfaction to Ibrahîm's face also, that he stared with open contempt at Birbal, who lounging in, lazily late, was making his way toward him.
"My lord has nearly missed his chance," he said meaningly.
"Nay! Sir Chamberlain," replied Birbal coolly, "I am about to take it, and--and give it." He held out a paper as he spoke. "The matter is urgent, since as the Envoy comes with all the Insignia of Royalty, he must be presented before the Heir-Apparent. But such etiquettes are safe in the hands of a Chamberlain! For the rest, he and his retinue await reception at the gate."
"What is't?" asked Khodadâd in an undertone as he saw Ibrahîm's face change. But his own turned grayish green, as, over the shoulder he read the titular address:
"I, Payandâr Tarkhân of the House of Sinde coming by order----"
"Impossible," he gasped. "This--this is some jest of my lord Birbal's. Payandâr is----"
"There be other Tarkhâns so called besides the one who died in the wilderness," retorted Birbal slowly, "and this one comes as King--so he says. Read through the document, Mirza Sahib, and see if all is in order. If so, do the duty of Chamberlain; and be quick about it, for yonder go the royal nakârahs. The Hour of Audience has come. Gentlemen! to our places. I will inform the Emperor."
A minute later, the court officials stood in a serried semicircle behind the King, and the green light, the central light of the seven, had divided into two and shone guarding either side of a narrow marble staircase which was disclosed leading upward to the dais. At the foot of this stood Mirza Ibrahîm, reading aloud, in a voice which betrayed his agitation, the titular names and designations of the Amir of Sinde. His mind was busy with a thousand questionings. What did it all mean? And why had Khodadâd been so disturbed? Surely their plans were secure? Surely the Prince had been told of the talisman? Surely this knowledge would breed confidence--and so--with aid--defiance? Every one was ready. That very night might see conspiracy successful at last, the Prince, at last, forced into taking his part.