She broke into the high trilling commencement of a not over-respectable ballad of the bazaars.
Deena's wicked old face took on an air of outraged virtue, his hands refused to touch his drum.
"Nay! mistress most chaste," he protested in an injured tone, "salvation comes not that way to old Deena. He can get drumming and to spare of that sort elsewhere."
Âtma stared at him, and held his eyes with her large meaningful dark ones.
"'Tis not drumming, but deeds, that count, sir sinner," she said slowly. "As King Solomon said to the peacock who remained to salaam by drumming his wings, while the hoopoe gained his golden crown by running a message."
Deena's old face set instantly like a stone. No muscle quivered, but his wicked old eyes twinkled. He understood in a second what was wanted of him, for intrigue was his very food and drink. It made him feel years younger to carry a love letter. This would have naught to do with love of course; but the joy was in the deception. Happen he meant to help, happen he did not, it was all one to him; it meant the deceiving of a duenna.
"Shall I then take a message for the mistress most chaste?" he asked hardily, winking the while at the latter as if taking her into his confidence.
"Message?" echoed Âtma scornfully "Nay! no message! My lord Ibrahîm, my lover, will come when he thinks fit, and go when I choose, like a cur with his tail belly-wards!"--she had been full of such jibes all day--"So let us to work; the song of the Tale of the Wisdom of the Princess Fortunata can hurt no woman folk! But take heed to the time!" She broke at once into irregular chanting.
Listen women! I pray to the wise
Sanyogata, the Queen's advice
To Prithvi on courage and cowardice.
Then she changed rhythm and the words swept on like a torrent.