[CHAPTER XIX]
Love sent music to sing Love's praise
So Harmony came to this world's sad ways.
Master of melody, Cæsar of sound,
Each chord he struck fettered reasoning,
Till man and beast by it quite were bound
Into friendship fast and companioning.
Yea! at the note of his crooked lyre
One wakened up, one was lulled to sleep,
And the whole wide world grew quick with desire
To dance and to die, to laugh and to weep.
At the burst of his blended melody
The heart of the wise knew the mystery.
--Nizâmi.
"Lo I am true!" cried Âtma menacingly, "Art thou so also, O! Siyâl?"
She had been with the courtesan for full half an hour, time was running short, and yet she felt that she had gained nothing, and knew scarcely more than she had done when she had climbed the steep oil-greased narrow stairs to the balcony room. She had been eager then to face fact--if need be--keen to test the loyalty of her fellow conspirators; but now she stood baffled before Siyah Yamin's easy but inflexible contempt. That someone had betrayed them the latter said was indubitable; and as Âtma was the only outsider, she must be the culprit. Not necessarily a conscious offender. But, by all she held most sacred, did not Âtma know of some indiscretion, could she not, briefly, guess--and then the noisy, yet silvery laugh had rung out at the Châran's tell-tale face. Her tongue, however, had been loyal. She had refused to say a word. Not that she felt in any way bound to shield Mihr-un-nissa from the possible revenge of those whose game she had given away, but because it was out of the question to tell of the secret visit of a screened lady.
So Siyah Yamin had declined information except by fair barter; declined it with jibes and smiles; but now sudden pallor came to her face, she shifted her eyes uneasily from Âtma's half accusing ones.
"True?" she echoed, and, and her voice had a petulant ring in it. "Aye! as true as it befits womanhood to be! Lo! Âto I grow tired of my sex at times and would I were a man!" She pressed her hands close to her heart, then suddenly burst out again into her hard silvery laugh "And thou? sweet widow--dost not pine for thy lover Sher Khân? Is he not here despite these--petticoats?" She flounced out her clinging muslins.
"Peace, fool! So thou wilt not tell" said Âtma frowning, "then I must ask elsewhere."
"Aye! Ask!" jibed the courtesan. "There be many with tongues beside poor little me who will, look you, have confidence for confidence. Belike the Beneficent Ladies, or mayhap Rajah Birbal for the Envoy from Sinde whom some deem a mere simulacrum of a man, or even the Feringhi jeweller--to say nothing of the King himself."
Her eyes were keenly on the Châran's face as she spoke, but there was no flicker of expression to give her any clue. In truth Âtma was absolutely in the dark. She did not even know if the turban were lost or found. Her mind ran riot over supposition in either case. If the former, it could not remain lost for ever in those underground chambers. It might even now have drifted to the tank where a hundred hands might find it. She must go and watch. And yet, what use? The rather send divers to search below; if indeed any man would so adventure his life! And for this she must proclaim a cause, proclaim that she knew of the theft. And after all there might be no reason for this. Birbal, with his quick wit, must have saved the turban. He must; yet not even he could outwit Fate.