"Would those who were to come be familiar or strange? I wondered. The latter, most likely, since Chiragh Shah, the Chaplaoo, had long since passed from court life, almost from remembrance.
"They were strange; as they challenged me, I drew the cloth from my face without fear.
"'The Prince's room!' they cried, dagger-point at my breast. But that could not be. There must be no suspicion, only certainty, only soothed certainty. 'I have been waiting to show it to my lords,' I answered. 'Lo! he sleeps sound--yea! he sleeps sound, his face toward the Kut.'
"So, with smooth words, I led them in the dark----"
The memory of the darkness seemed to fall as darkness itself on the old brain, and Chiragh Shah sate silent in the sunshine for a few seconds. When he spoke again, it was as if years had passed. "It was the last lie that was worth the telling," he said, almost triumphantly.
"And a good lie, too," came the shrill voice from behind the door chink. "See you, boy!--call the old man by his right name in your paper, or may God's curse light on you for ever!"
Thus adjured, Prem Lal, who, throughout the whole tale, had been fluttering his dictionary from one synonym to another, suggested sycophant; that was, he explained, one who flatters and lies for personal profit.
"Profit!" echoed the voice. "Small profit dâdâ gained. Was not the Prince killed with his brothers next day by Hudson Sahib; so there was no one left even to reward the old man?"
"Save God," suggested Prem Lal, piously trying to escape somehow from the dilemma.
"And there is gain, and gain," admitted the spokesman, combining new and old, east and west.