He rose, and walking over to the clepsydra, watched the lotus cup sinking with the weight of time.
So sank beauty under the weight of years.
And then, suddenly, to him came the remembrance of Âtma Devi. Ye Gods! if from the beginning he had had a mate such as she--a woman to whom the honour of the King outweighed the honour, nay, even the love of the man, he need not now have stood uncertain, hesitating whether to leave all, even his sons, to wallow in the mire of conventionality--to leave all, and dream out his dream of Empire in his own way. For he would have had not only sons, but heirs.
Should he so leave all? Should the morrow see the camp no more spectacle to the wedding festivities, but a real departure?
He could take her with him as an inspiration--the sudden unlooked for thought caught him unawares, left him surprised.
"The Captain of the Palace Guard without and the Chief Eunuch have urgent news," came the obsequious voice of a page.
"Bid them in," he replied, returning to the divan, almost glad of an interruption to what was disturbing in the uttermost.
"Dead!" he echoed incredulously to the news they brought. "The Lord High Chamberlain dead--by whose hands?"
"By mine, Most High," answered a trembling voice as the Sergeant of the Guard fell at the King's feet. "We had warning that the English jeweller was to be in Mistress Âtma Devi's rooms to-night at eleven. We went. All was dark. We found him as we thought, in her very arms. Yet when Justice was done and we brought the light, it--it was Mirza Ibrahîm."
"In whose apartment?" Akbar's voice was very cold, very quiet.