But Akbar had drifted too far from philosophy for such hoarded wisdom. He was back beside the speaker his arm around her.
"It is idle, Âtma I tell thee naught shall stand between us. Let Kingship go--thou art my Queen!"
She fought frantically against him and his claim.
"Sire, bethink you, if the challenge be lost?"
"What care I--thou lovest me--dare not to say thou dost not----"
"Yea! Yea! I love thee oh Jalâl-ud-din," she cried pleading with him, for himself, "but thou art the King. Thy faith must not fail."
"My faith in thee will never fail," he replied, "naught else matters."
"Not mine in thee? Not mine, the Châran's in the King? Nay, it shall not be so Âtma the Châran dies!"
Her hand which had snatched out the death-dagger of her race held it high above her head; but Akbar was too quick for her. His was on hers; so arrested, it remained, bringing her face closer to his.
"Nay, my Queen!" he said and the softness of his voice sent despair and delight through her veins. "Thou hast said thou lovest me, as I do thee. Is that not enough for poor mortal man? What is Kingship compared to it? Let it go! Kiss me, sweetheart--kiss me but once, and thou wilt learn----"