He looked at her curiously. Her lips were parted her breath came fast.
"Thou hast the nerve of ten," he said rapidly, "thou couldst walk yonder ledge where I--even I--might fear to fall, and yet----" His hand, reaching out as they stood close together by the parapet, caught her wrist swiftly, and clasped it. "Yet now thou art afraid--afraid of what?"
Her pulses bounding under his cool, firm touch seemed to suffocate her.
"Aye," she admitted, turning her mind frantically to excuse, "I fear--I fear the night, alone in a strange place."
In truth she did fear it. Her soul shrank now, knowing what she might have to sacrifice. But for the blind, half-confusing memory of one o'clock she would have fallen at his feet and begged for freedom. She might have done so had she had time to count the cost.
"Strange?" echoed Akbar, haughtily. "Dost forget it is the King's house?--that the King is guardian? Though in truth," he added with a smile "Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar sleeps to-night in his pitched camp beyond the gates." The memory seemed to obsess him with other ideas, for he turned away gloomily.
"Farewell, widow. Akbar will strive to be King--thou hast done thy best to make him one, anyhow," he added almost angrily. But as he went, something in her face and form recalled his youth, and he hesitated. Then drawing off a ring hastily he strode over to her, and taking her hand roughly, slipped it on her finger.
"Yea, thou hast done many things for me," he said proudly, "so let me do one for thee. This ring, the Signet of the Palace, may calm thy fears for to-night. None dare harm its possessor without my order. At thy peril, use it not unworthily. I----" He paused, drew his shrouding shawl round him, and corrected himself--"It will be reclaimed at dawn."
The dusk had died down almost to dark, the stars grew clearer and clearer on the growing violet of the sky. Âtma stood gazing with unseeing eyes over the wide plain that was losing itself rapidly in shadow. She was scarcely thinking at all. She was only feeling how increasingly hard it was becoming to dissociate Akbar from the King, Love from Love.
"The Lord High Treasurer hath called to inquire and craves admittance."