"What was it?" they said to each other. Hushmut knew by instinct.
He was thinking of the roof of the palace pleasure-house, of the winding stair that led to it, down which it would at least be possible to fling a foe, before the end came; and She was thinking of the marble plinth below, where, when that end came, a woman might find safety from men's hands in death.
So they came on through the growing shadows.
Hushmut shuffled to the door and watched the figures calmly, indifferently, as they neared him; for the way to the winding stair lay up the steps which rose just beyond the low door of his distillery in the plinth.
Perhaps the dusk hid him from those two; perhaps even in broad daylight they would not, in their fierce desire to reach not safety but resistance, have seen him.
They did not, anyhow; but as they passed the door the girl's muslin flounce caught hard on its lintel hasp, and as in frantic haste she stooped to rip it free, the scent of those rose-leaves Hushmut had given her, still lingering in the ruffles at her breast, seemed to pass straight back into those same rose-leaves in his own.
That was all, nothing more. But it brought back his last words to her: "May He who knows the secret of the rose protect the bride."
Strange!
The same instant his long-fingered brown hand was on her white one as she tugged at her dress.
"This way, Huzoor!" he cried in a loud voice, for the man to hear. "There is a secret passage here; it leads to safety."