"But seen her!" echoed the old lady in her turn. "That came after in my time; but God knows how things go nowadays. Then what didst speak about?"
He had to give a Bowdlerized version of what had passed; yet, even so, Mumtâza Mahal looked shocked. "A bold hussy; but thou wilt bit and bridle her."
He burst out angrily--for his own recital had shown him the folly of castle-building on so slight a foundation--"I am a fool," he said, "and so art thou for all thy years!"
Her little black eyes flashed angrily. "Not I! Did she not say she would like to be a Begum? and if that means not--"
"And could I make her one?" he interrupted fiercely. "I--a risaldar on a bare pittance--with no prospect of rising. Dost dream me Nawab, fool?"
The old lady's face grew cunning in a second, the instinctive love of intrigue roused by the mere suggestion. She leant towards him eagerly. "And wherefore not, Roshan? Are all things fixed? Do rulers never change? I live here in a corner, nothing but a poor woman: yet I hear more, it seems, than thou dost. I hear of discontent, of desires, of things that call for change. But to-day, they spoke of men being killed to make light for these infidels, and Gorakh-nâth, jogi, hath sworn a miracle."
He turned on her with a bitter, reckless laugh. "Is that new? Is there not always talk? The wise listen not."
A vast importance, a real dignity came to her in an instant. "If the Huzoors had listened to such talk in '57."
A thrill ran through him; the thrill of secret curiosity, almost of expectation regarding the great Rebellion from which so many things date, which young India always feels in the presence of their elders, who passed through it.
"Thou dost know, of course," he said, catching his breath; "thou canst remember."