Siyâla?
Then in a second she knew, and turning swiftly on her heel ran toward the town. Siyâl! Siyâla was the thief! She had the King's Luck. Ye gods! had it come to this. Her sister of the veil, the little dainty, delicate, perfumed piece of femininity which she had borne with, nay, had almost loved as a half-forgotten part of herself--she, and she only, was preventing her, Âtma, the representative of Chârans, from playing her man's part in Châranship. An uttermost loathing of herself, as woman, came to the mind that had been educated to believe in her womanhood as nothingness, the while she hurried through the full bazaars toward Satanstown. She almost had to fight her way through one portion where the crowd filled every inch of the roadway past Khodadâd's house. He was lying in state there with all the royal insignia of a Tarkhân about him. That had not saved his corpse, however, from quick searching by the hands of the city police (for treasonable papers was the excuse) but now that Birbal had come and gone unsatisfied, the professional wailers were once more skirling away their mercenary grief, and through the wide arches of the upper floor the swaying heads of the hired priests could be seen as they chanted their orisons for the dead.
"Who is't?" she asked, faint curiosity rising in her as she passed.
"Khodadâd, Tarkhân. Hast not heard?" answered someone. "They found him dead at dawn, the blood pouring from his veins, and the white horse from which he had fallen by his side."
"Aye! but thou forgettest neighbour!" said another eager voice "his hands were tied and----"
"God send his soul to the nethermost hell for treachery," broke in Âtma on the gossiping, as she fought her way on.
"Ari, sister! Have a care," protested the crowd. "Thou hittest like a man, and will hurt."
But she was gone ere the sentence ended in a broad laugh, and a rough jest on him who had such a termagant to wife.
Old Deena caught sight of her as she came breathlessly along the balconied lane. There were lights and to spare here, but Siyah Yamin's house stood a dark block amongst its radiant neighbours.
"Thou art too late, mistress most chaste," he called, "the singing bird is fled."