"And his attendants?"
"Let any of proper rank sit with him, the rest can remain in the outer court."
"Very good, my lord," said the servant, and he shut the door.
During this interruption, a very pretty piece of pantomime had been executed between the eyes of Fazil and the Lalla. It would have been more complete, perhaps, could Fazil have used his hands also, but he dare not. As it was, however, the Lalla seemed to understand all that was required; and the delightfully comprehensive manner in which he half shut his eyes, bowed his head, and smiled blandly though almost imperceptibly, would have been fit example for any diplomatist. Nothing could be seen by the Kótwal, for, in order to speak to the servant, it had been requisite for him to lean behind the Lalla's back.
Jehándar Beg lost two points by his movement; one we have seen, the other was a more serious one. For as he moved, the letters which had been given to him by Moro Trimmul's agent, and which he had put into a side-pocket of his dress, protruded a little as he reached over, and, when he settled himself again, remained projecting half out of that receptacle. He was not aware of it, but they attracted Fazil's immediate attention. These he must have at any risk—for he had seen the seal of the rebel Rajah on them—and he again roused his father by the short cough they had agreed upon.
"Now, Lallajee, tell us all. You see you are among friends; but we are hungry for fruit—flowers do not satisfy us," said Jehándar Beg, jocosely rubbing his hands, and speaking in Persian, his own language.
"My lords, what can I say?" returned the Lalla, simply. "I am what you see, a poor scholar. Delhi is full of such, and we are starving. Every one said, 'Go to the King of the Dekhan; he is wise, he is generous, he is accomplished; he is a patron of literature.' So your poor servant prepared two copies of verses; one in Sanscrit, in which the third letter of every line is the same, T——"
"Mashalla!" said Jehándar Beg, laughing, "Te-tum—te te, te-ta-te to, Te ta-hah! Like that, Lallajee? O yes; our Brahmuns here make odes, in which all the words end in skri, pri, dri; or else msh, kshsh, rshsh-dshush. One would think all the mud in the Dekhan was squelching under their feet; but go on."
"My lord is pleased to be witty," returned the Lalla, with a bland smile, turning towards his host and joining hands. "Then I had a Persian ode. It was nothing—nothing—a poor thing altogether; only, if my lords wish, I could repeat it. Methinks there was some elegance about it, if nothing else."
"God forbid!" returned the Kótwal, echoed by Fazil and the Khan. "Go on."