'Ari! father! There it is. Did I not say so?' remarked the painted one, pausing, as a low moan rising to a banshee skirl broke the sodden stillness of the air.
'Râm! Râm!' ejaculated the peasant piously. 'It is a bad year for sure, rain or no rain.'
So, having finished his water-melon, he broke a morsel of opium from the lump he carried in a fold of his turban, rolled it under his tongue and dozed off, still propped up against the wall. And the sunset faded leaving the world hotter than ever, though in the crypt beneath the staircase of the Mori gate the air was cooler than outside, despite the fire which flickered fitfully over the blackened arches. It flickered also on the silver bracelets circling Chândni's round brown arm as she lay curved across a string bed, her jingling feet swaying softly in tune with the tinsel fan she waved above the bold outlines of throat and bosom. And the fan, in its turn, kept time with the flicker of the fire, and the wheezing breath of a smith's bellows rousing the charcoal embers into dancing flame, or letting them die down to a dull red glow.
'Thou art long, oh lohar-ji!' she said, looking backwards at the bare bronze figure crouching before a low anvil. 'All these hours to make a key--when thou hast a mould before thine eyes, too!'
'True, oh mother! but the key is not as our father's keys, and the hand lacks cunning in new patterns. Lo! I had made one for the treasure-chest of kings in half the time. But there! 'tis done. See how it fits its bed like the seed of a pomegranate! God send it may do its work fairly and well!'
'God send it may, for thy sake, smith-ji,' she replied carelessly. 'Here, take the rupees, and have a care no key is forged to unlock thy tongue regarding this matter. The Diwân is old, but there are others behind him, and behind him again, and Chândni behind them all.'
The reckless triumph of her words rang through the low arches, as she brought her feet to the ground with a clash.
Five minutes afterwards she was looking down on a slender key lying in Zubr-ul-Zamân's nerveless hands.
'I have won the prize,' she said; 'the pearls are mine.'
The hands quivered, and the keen old eyes seemed to seek her out from head to foot, revelling in her beauty and her boldness. Then the light died out of them, the head sank again. 'The game is played,' he muttered. 'The game is played.'