"Thou hast it, Siyâl! Thou didst steal it and betray--all men! Best give it to me--or--or I shall have to kill thee--sister of the veil."
But Siyah Yamin was true to her womanhood, and every atom of her fought for full possession as she struggled madly.
"It--it is mine." she gasped. "No one shall have it--I claim--I am the woman and I will have----"
Suddenly there was silence. Resistance melted out of Âtma Devi's arms; her insistent hand, still seeking, found what it sought. She gave a sharp cry of joy and relaxed her hold.
But the dainty figure her insistence had supported, doubled up limply and fell in a huddled heap upon the ground.
She sank beside it on her knees. She would have killed it, as she had said. Aye, killed it remorselessly! but surely she had not----
"Siyâl? Siyâla? Sister?"
But she called in vain. The very glare of hatred and fear was dying from the eyes over which the impenetrable veil of death was creeping.
She watched them for a second or two, then closed them, and stood up. She was not frightened nor remorseful at what had happened. Vaguely she felt relieved. It was womanhood which had died there on the roof in the Paradise of Lust. Now that she had time to think, she saw it all. It was so simple. Siyâla, beset by the desire of possession, had ordered the false gem maker to make two false stones, and palming them off on the conspirators had kept the real one, trusting to her luck that the one supposed to be the true gem would never again fall into the hands of the jeweller. But it had. The exchange of turbans had brought discovery close at hand, so she had meant to fly; and doubtless for once had spoken truly, when she said she had returned during the night to gather up the broken fragments of her first cup of joy.
So, quietly, methodically, Âtma straightened out the huddled figure that had held the deva-dasi, sister of the veil, daughter of the Gods, covering it decorously with the tinselled muslin scarf Sher Khân had worn in gay mockery of his sex. So it was pure Womanhood that lay there with face upturned to the dark. Then taking the light, Âtma searched under the rose-bushes for the broken cup. She found the bowl intact save for the one curved splinter Siyâla had gathered up. The stem, too, jarred and chipped, would still stand upright; so, making a little pile of dust she set them together beside the dead woman's hand, and left her lying there in the shadow, with the diffused light from the Lamps of the Dead below making a far-away halo to that central darkness.