This particular square of roof belonged to a tiny outhouse, which stood on a long narrow roof belonging in its turn to an arcaded slip of summer-house standing on a square, set round by high parapet walls. Quite a staircase of roofs. Her one had had a thatch set against the wall, but it had fallen in with the weight of bricks and mortar. Still she might be able to creep between it and the wall for shelter. And on the slip of roof below, Indian corn was drying, during this break in the rains. Rains which had filled a row of water-pots quite full. Since she could not make those above her hear, she thought it might be as well to secure herself from absolute starvation, before broad daylight brought life to the wilderness of roofs around her. So she scrambled down a rough ladder of bamboo tied with string, and, after a brief look into the square below, came back with some parched grain she had found in a basket, and a pot of water. She would not starve for that day. By this time it was dawn, and she crept into her shelter, listening all the while for a sound from above; every now and again venturing on a call. But there was no answer, and by degrees it came to her that she must rely on herself only for safety. She was not likely to be disturbed that day where she was, unless people came to repair the thatch. And under cover of night she might surely creep from roof to roof down to some alley. What alley? True, her goal now lay behind her, but these roofs, set at every angle, might lead her far from it. And how was she to know her own stair, her own house, from the outside? She had passed into it in darkness and never left it again. Then what sort of people lived in these houses through which she must creep like a thief? Murderers, perhaps. Still it was her only chance; and all that burning, blistering day, as she crouched between the thatch and the wall, she was bolstering up her courage for the effort. She could see the Ridge clearly from her hiding place. Ah! if she had only the wings of the doves--those purple pigeons which, circling from the great dome of the mosque, came to feast unchecked on the Indian corn. The people below, then, must be pious folk.
It was past midnight and the silence of sleep had settled over the city before she nerved herself to the chance and crept down among the corn. No difficulty in that; but to her surprise, a cresset was still burning in the arcaded veranda below, sending three bars of light across the square through which she must pass. It would be better to wait a while; but an hour slipped by and still the light gleamed into the silence. Perhaps it had been forgotten. The possibility made her creep down the brick ladder, prepared to creep up again if the silence proved deceptive. But what she saw made her pause, hesitating. It was a woman reading from a large book held in a book-rest. The Koran, of course. Kate recognized it at once, for just such another had been part of the necessary furniture of her roof. And what a beautiful face! Tender, refined, charming. Not the face of a murderess, surely? Surely it might be trusted? Those three months behind the veil had made Kate realize the emotionality of the East; its instinctive sympathy with the dramatic element in life. She remembered her sudden impulse in regard to the knife and its effect on Tiddu; she felt a similar impulse toward confidence here. And then she knew that the doors might be locked below, and that her best chance might be to throw herself on the mercy of this woman.
The next moment she was standing full in the light close to the student, who started to her feet with a faint cry, gazing almost incredulously at the figure so like her own, save for the jewels gleaming among the white draperies.
"Bibi," she faltered.
"I am no bibi," interrupted Kate hurriedly in Hindustani. "I am a Christian--but a woman like yourself--a mother. For the sake of yours--or the sake of your sons, if you are a mother too--for the sake of what you love best--save me."
"A Christian! a mem!" In the pause of sheer astonishment the two women stood facing each other, looking into each other's eyes. Prince Abool-Bukr had been right when he said that Kate Erlton reminded him of the Princess Farkhoonda da Zamâni. Standing so, they showed strangely alike indeed, not in feature, but in type; in the soul which looked out of the soft dark, and the clear gray eyes.
"Save you!" The faint echo was lost in a new sound, close at hand. A careless voice humming a song; a step coming up the dark stair.
"O mistress rare, divine!"
God and His Prophet! Abool himself! Newâsi flung her hands up in sheer horror. Abool! and this Christian here! The next instant with a fierce "Keep still," she had thrust Kate into the deepest shadow and was out to bar the brick ladder with her tall white grace. She had no time for thought. One sentence beat on her brain--"for the sake of what you love best, save me!" Yea! for his sake this strange woman must not be seen--he must not, should not guess she was there!
"Stand back, kind one, and let me pass," came the gay voice carelessly. It made Kate shudder back into further shadow, for she knew now where she was; and but that she would have to pass those bars of light would have essayed escape to the roofs again.