“Dog! Leave thy gluttony and come to the King. He calls for his ‘cup-bearer’.—Faithful cup-bearer thou! Come!”
At the blow, both Mohammedans leaped to their feet; and the Asra stared upon the eunuch, his face flaming with anger. Ahmed, indeed, would have thrown himself upon the man, but that Fidá fortunately regained his temper, and, restraining the lad’s arm, bent his head before the messenger, and with a slight smile at Ahmed’s outraged expression, followed his guide from the room.
They passed through a hallway more richly furnished than any Fidá himself had ever seen; and then, crossing a corridor, turned down a narrow passage into the open doorway of the “theatre”—a large, irregular room, with a slightly elevated platform at one end, and the usual daïs at the other.
The place was brilliantly lighted. Rai-Khizar-Pál lay upon a divan; and disposed about him were his usual companions, together with one or two new officials, and a dozen or more slaves, who crouched back in the shadow of the hangings. In one corner of the room, below the stage, sat three musicians, playing, upon their strange-shaped instruments, a rhythmical minor air. The stage was occupied by six nautch-dancers, gayly and scantily clad, of their type good-looking, perhaps. They were performing a dance with which Fidá was familiar enough, having seen it many times at Delhi. It was called the “serpent”, and appeared to be highly acceptable to the spectators. The Rajah was laughing and talking genially, and even Ragunáth’s face wore a smile. At the entrance of Fidá, Rai-Khizar called him to the couch and good-naturedly abused him for deserting his post. The Arab offered no excuse, and was finally ordered to his task of pouring wine. Cups and jar stood close at hand; and from time to time the whole company drank a toast to some favorite performer. Fidá, refreshed by food and encouraged by the leniency of his master, watched the stage with some interest. In the course of an hour many dancers came and went. There were sometimes six, again two, occasionally one, on the stage; and all the time the low, droning, monotonous music never ceased.
In time the audience began to grow drowsy under the effects of light, wine, and unceasing sound. Rai-Khizar had nodded on his pillows, and Ragunáth yawned openly. By and by all the dancers left the stage, and the musicians’ tune died away. The Rajah started up, demanding to know why the dance stopped without his command. But, while he spoke, the music began again, this time with a different air, a swinging, graceful melody, new to its hearers. A little murmur of approval came from Manava and Purán. The rest waited. Then Fidá, his curiosity awakened, saw a woman run on to the stage:—a woman fair-skinned, dark-eyed, with a wreath of poppies woven into her hair, and garments of scarlet gauze flying about her slender, beautifully shaped figure. For an instant he shut his eyes; and, before he could open them again, there burst from two throats the same hoarse cry:
“Ahalya!”
Rai-Khizar-Pál and Ragunáth together had started to their feet; but she who danced only smiled and half lowered the lids of her dark and lustrous eyes.
“Ahalya!” shouted the Rajah, in a frenzy of excitement. “Ahalya! Get thee from this room! How darest thou appear—in this place? Kasya—take her away!”
As the enormity of his wife’s offence grew upon him, Rai-Khizar’s wrath waxed hotter till he stood panting with emotion as Kasya dashed upon the stage. Ragunáth, entirely forgetting himself, stood still, gazing upon the charming figure of the young woman, with a light in his eyes that was all too easy to read. Of the rest, slaves and officials alike watched the scene with impartial interest, all but Fidá, who, even after Ahalya, rebellious and laughing at her escapade, had left the room, still crouched in the shadow of the canopy, the blood pounding at his temples, his heart literally standing still, his brilliant eyes staring as at the vision of the wonderful red and white beauty of Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál of Mandu in Malwa.