"That is my riddle," she said. "Let the world guess it, and honor the real giver of it."
What could it be? Even the Queen raised herself in curiosity; a sign in itself of commendation.
"Sure I know not," she began musingly, when Fâtma sprang to her feet in theatrical appeal.
"Not so! Ornament of Palaces," she cried. "This may puzzle the herd; it is plain to the mother of Princes. It lies too lowly now for recognition, but in its proper place----" She snatched the hair from the cushion, and, with a flourish, laid it on the head of a figure which appeared as if by magic behind her. A figure dressed as a young Moghul Prince, and wearing all the crown jewels.
"My son, Jewun!" cried the Queen, starting angrily. And the adverse clique, taking their cue from her tone, shrieked modestly, and scrambled for their veils.
Fâtma salaamed to the very ground.
"No! Mother of Princes, 'tis but my riddle--the heir-apparent."
Zeenut Maihl paused, bewildered for an instant; then in the figure recognized the features of a favorite dancing girl, saw the pun, and laughed uproariously, delightedly. The English sentry on the drawbridge leading to Selimgurh might have heard her had there been one; but within the last month the right to use the citadel as a private entry to the palace had been given to the King. It enabled him to cross the bridge of boats without the long circuit by the Calcutta gate of the city.
"A gold mohur for that to Fâtma!" she cried, "and a post nearer my person. I need such wits sorely." As she spoke she rose to her feet, the smiles fading from her face as she looked out along that white eastward streak; for the jest had brought her back to earnest, to that mixture of personal ambition for her son and real patriotism for her country which kept her a restless intriguer. "I need men, too," she muttered. "Not dissolute, idle weathercocks or doting old pantaloons! There are plenty of them yonder." So she stood for a second, then turned like lightning on her attendants. "What time----" she began, then seeing Hâfzan, who had unveiled at the door, she gave a cry of pleasure. "'Tis well thou hast come," she said, beckoning to her, "for thou must know God! if I were free to come and go, what could I not compass? But here, in this smothering veil----" She flung even the gauze apology for one which she wore from her, and stood with smooth, bare head, and fat, bare arms, her quaint little pigtail dangling down her broad back. Not a romantic figure truly, but one in its savage temper, strength, obstinacy, to be reckoned with. "What time"--she went on rapidly--"does the King receive his initiates?"
"At five," replied Hâfzan. Seen without its veil, also, her figure showed more shrunk than ill-formed, and her pale, thin face would have been beautiful but for its look of permanent ill-health. "The ceremony of saintship begins then."