"To the Feringhi jeweller! Come disguised as a Sufi in the Preacher's dhooli to-night at one o'clock. Âtma Devi will give thee the luck thou desirest."
After all it did read like a love letter. So much the better perhaps, with Deena as messenger. Anyhow the message was sent.
What, therefore, lay before her? Within measurable distance of probabilities now, she could face them. Supposing the Mirza came that night? Oh! where was the use of considering what at the worst she might have to do, in order to secure leisure at one o'clock! For, that had to be gained. Aye! even though before that hour, say at eleven, she had to----
One, and eleven! Her mind, unaccustomed to strain, circled vaguely. There was only a pin's-point difference between the two hours on paper, just a mere scratch, a duplication and yet--mayhap!--between them, tonight, a whole life--1 and 11--Strange! so little difference!
"Why didst thou lie to-day, woman?" said a voice beside her, "to save my honour?"
She turned with a cry and fell at Akbar's feet. He had met Deena's outgoing, had sent the duenna packing by a word backed by the display of the ring which was Royalty's sign manual in all matters pertaining to the women's apartments; so entering, had flung aside his muffling shawl and for the last few seconds had been watching Âtma. For a sudden new perception of her beauty had come to him, perhaps with the sight of her in a dress familiar to him, since it is generally some such subtle hint which, at first, makes a man's eyes differentiate one woman from another.
Down at his very feet, Âtma's voice was yet proud. "To save the honour of the King."
Akbar was quick in comprehension--"Who never dies--Not to save Jalâl-ud-din-Mahomed Akbar! Still, thou needst not have lied."
"This slave only said what the King would have said."
A quick frown flew to his keen face. "Thou speakest bravely woman! But 'tis true. Akbar's brain was clouded. How came thine to be so clever?"