“The cramp again. His limbs are stiff and cold. We cannot soothe him. He cries for you.” She gathered the man’s hand in hers, and led him from the room.
CHAPTER XXV
Hand in hand, the Raja, coatless and waistcoatless, the one gem in his turban flashing brilliantly in the waning afternoon light of the long, twisting corridors, his cerise braces streaking his white-shirted back, as if a broad thong had lashed it, her saffron cloth now russet-dark, now red-gold as they passed through the shadows great porphyry pillars threw, or into the light from open windows and arches. She led him, and he clung to her hand, as he had at twilight when he had done his first walking with her clasp for his stay and confidence.
It was a long, long way this that they took through the vast palace of Rukh; to him it seemed endless. At last she paused by a closed carven door. Two scimitared men on guard, drew aside and made obeisance.
Rukh caught his breath, smothering an oath. “Mother,” he sobbed, “will he die?”
Ak-kok lifted her thin old arms in caress and comfort to his face, and he caught her wrists and held them there.
“Now I have brought you, he will drink perhaps the cup I have made. If he drinks, the cramp may pass, and all may be well.”
The Raja motioned towards the heavy door, Ak-kok signaled one of the guards, the man ran and opened it, Rukh put up a trembling hand and lifted the curtain of broad-striped silk inside the door, and he and Ak-kok entered the room.
On a low native bed, ropes threaded across sides and ends of chased and beaten silver, a child lay moaning on a snow-leopard pelt. Charms—a tiger’s eye, a cheeta’s claw, a little jade god—hung in his flat embroidered cap of green silk, charms strung on a red silk cord hung about his neck, charms dangled over his acorn-shaped little belly, rich bangles clinked on his arms as he tossed them in pain, and jeweled anklets circled above each dimpled foot—and he wore nothing else. Toys strewed the silk floor-carpets, half a dozen serving women, wild-eyed and useless, cluttered the room—all but one who was kneeling down watching a saucepan that hummed on a low brazier. A girl richly robed, heavily jeweled, exquisitely beautiful, crouched on the floor weeping piteously but without a sound. She lurched a little towards Rukh as he passed her, not rising, just moving a little to lay her face on his shoe. He paid her no attention, but stumbled down by their child: La-swak, whom he loved more than he loved Rukh.
“The cramp is passing a little, my lord, I think,” the girl whispered. Still he gave her neither word nor glance. And she hid her face in her hands. She had seen his European clothes, if old Ak-kok had not, and she knew that when her husband and lord wore European clothes there were European women—or, a thousand times worse—a European woman; and a cramp worse than over-fed, sugar-plum-stuffed La-swak ever had felt, or ever would, writhed and twisted his mother.