Eleven!
"Die in mine arms, for thine untruth, traitor!"
"Help!" he choked feebly. "Harlot! let me go!"
But it was too late. The palace guard under orders for eleven, not for one, had found their quarry in the dark. Had found him in a woman's arms, and swift daggers did their work.
There was not a quiver in Mirza Ibrahîm's body when, turning it over, they discovered by a lantern's light their mistake and started back in horror.
"Yea, he is dead," said Âtma as she stood, fast held for future punishment. There was sombre menace in her voice, her eyes blazed with a cruel fire. Then she turned on her captors.
"Loose me, slaves. I carry the Signet of the King. Seek his orders concerning me."
It was true. The signet was on her finger. So releasing her, they double-guarded the door, while, with the dead body of the Lord Chamberlain as witness, they sought superior wisdom.
Left alone, Âtma found the old sword as solace and clasped it to her bosom. She had but killed for the King; a? her fathers had killed many a time.