Then the sight of Akbar Khân, still rocking himself backwards and forwards, a perfect pendulum of protesting innocence and helpless remorse, roused the old priest to the present. He took up the rapier he had laid aside in crossing the chapel, and passed over to where the old eunuch was bemoaning the high-handedness of fate. It was a tyranny, indeed! Who could have foreseen such an ending to a very ordinary intrigue? Who could even have dreamt of it? Had not men and women loved and met, thus, since the beginning of time?
So, to the sinner's outraged experience of life and love came the saint with his, and with the face and sword of St. Michael and All Angels.
"Tell me the truth," he said sternly; "and tell it quickly, for there is no time to lose."
In truth there was not much to tell. It was all so simple, viewed as a whole; so complex in detail. And, as he listened, the anger left Pidar Narâyan's face wistful, wondering. More so than ever at the last mumbling excuse.
"It all comes, Ge-reeb-pun-wâz, from the Almighty having made the Missy-baba so like her sainted ancestress--Anâri Begum--on whom be peace."
Anâri Begum! On whom be peace! Her sainted ancestress, on whom be peace!
He stood for an instant looking towards the Altar, towards the dead girl; then he echoed under his breath, "On whom be peace!"
That was the end.
Peace on those women who had loved and died; and on the men who had loved them--lived for them--perhaps died for them.
But for the rest who lived and loved still? A quick life seemed to come back to him at the thought of these, a desire to save them from death.