"Is it thou, Siyâla?"
Âtma holding the cresset high peered out into the darkness of the stair.
A tinkle of soft laughter came from the shadows. "So! thou hast not forgotten the old signal, Âto! yet it was years agone that I gave thee the bracelet, and thou gavest me thine. Still have I come for the sake of it! That is enough, Yasmeen! I stay here till an hour ere dawn; then fetch me."
The last was called in a low voice down the darkness and thereinafter followed the sound of retreating steps; yet still no figure showed in the circle of cresset light.
"Wilt not come in Siyâl?" said Âtma impatiently, "if by chance someone came and found us women----"
Another tinkle of laughter rose from the shadows and out of them stepped swaggering a slender youth, the very print and spit of fashion, made taller by a high-wound turban, his hand on the jewelled scimitar stuck in his tight-wound girdle.
"They would say that Âtma Devi had found a proper lover," laughed the masquerader. "La! Âtma, on my soul I do love thee!--thou art so monstrous serious, and thy large eyes have a fire in them. Be mine, sweet widow!"
"Peace, Siyâl! This is not time for jesting. Come in and let me shut the door. I have matters of privacy to say."
"Say on," retorted the other gaily, "but not here. And call me not Siyâl! I am thy true lover Sher-Khân. In truth, Âtma," here the voice changed to seriousness, "this disguise was necessary, seeing where I bide! In God's truth we bazaar women have to go for trickery to the chaste zenânas. I had but to tell Yasmeen I wished to go out and this"--she touched her costume--"was forthcoming instanter. Lo! I shall doubt every likely lad I see for the future as myself disguised!--who knows, indeed, but what I was born to be a man! Come sweetheart, I cannot talk here! Come with thy Sher-Khân."
She stepped forward and laid her hand on Âtma's wrist.