"Not that way, stupid! Here--it's a dear little balcony all by itself with steps down to the river and a boat."
"Perfect!" he exclaimed with an answering laugh, as he disappeared after her.
But in that instant's pause two figures had passed into the other end of the long passage from the chapel. Two figures, one of which, half-disdainfully, half-regretfully, had been going round the beauties of the palace; the other, gambolling sideways by reason of its curbing deference its urging servility, engaged in garrulous tales of past glory.
"Yea! Ger-eeb-pun-wâz," it was saying, "Bun-avatâr used to meet Anâri Begum here. She liked him best in uniform, and she wore--"
It was then that, framed in the distant archway, seen clear against the radiance of the garden, that vision of a laughing girl, a flashing uniform appeared.
Old Akbar Khân gave a faint mumbling petition to be preserved, and fell back, his teeth chattering.
"Anâr--Anâr--herself," he muttered. "And he--God help us all! Why did they light up the garden?"
But Roshan Khân knew better. His eyes were younger. And he had the key--the key of that shimmering silver dress.
"Fool!" he said sharply. "They are no ghosts. 'Twas Dering-sahib and--and--" he gave a bitter laugh--"one of his mems. They do such things often."
But as he walked on, his hands clenched themselves to the tune of the words which sang in his brain, "God smite his soul to hell! God smite his soul to hell!"