“He must not succeed!” she exclaimed, in a clear voice.
Agahr shrank from the intentness of her gaze.
“Hear me!” she continued. “Kasam is our kinsman; the throne is his by right. Most of our citizens and many of the members of the Nine Tribes secretly favor his claim. A crisis approaches, and we must take advantage of it. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days. If his son Ahmed, who has been secluded for twenty years in a monastery, and is said to be devoted to Allah, is not here to be recognized as the successor to the throne, the people will acclaim Kasam their khan. It is all very simple, my father. The Lion of Mekran must not live seven days!”
“What, plotting again, cousin?” cried a cheery voice behind them. Agahr gave a sudden start and wheeled around with a frown, meeting the smiling face of Prince Kasam, but the girl moved not even an eyelid.
“Pardon me, uncle, for startling you,” said the young man, coming forward and taking a seat beside the vizier. “I arrived in time to hear cousin Maie doom Burah Kahn to an early death, as if the dark angel fought on our side. What a wonderful little conspirator you are, my Maie!”
She looked into his face thoughtfully not caring to acknowledge the compliment of his words or the ardor of his gaze. But Agahr said, gruffly:
“The conspiracies of women cost many men their heads.”
“Very true, uncle,” replied Kasam, becoming grave. “But we are in sore straights, and a little plotting may not come amiss. If the son of the old Lion—who, by the way, is also my cousin—is acknowledged by the sirdars, he is liable to make a change in his officers. We may lose our vizier, and with the office more than half our power with the people. In that event I can never become kahn.”
“The son of Burah must be a weakling and a dreamer,” said the girl, thoughtfully. “What can be expected of one who for twenty years has associated with monks and priests?”
“Twenty years?” exclaimed Kasam; “then my cousin Ahmed must be nearly thirty years of age.”