"It is not true," he retorted hotly. "Upon all things sacred do I swear to it."
"Aye, thou art in a fitting situation for thy oath to carry weight," she answered; "but, believe me I care not for thy escapades with natch girls, or thy drunken orgies. Of such I do not look for an account. Thy reason for this company is what I seek."
"Some accursed villain hath betrayed me," he muttered fiercely. "That dog of an astrologer, or can it be my good Moslem friend, the noble Ahmad Khan"?
"Nay," she replied sorrowfully. "It is thine own false heart, O Prasad, that hath betrayed thee. I know of no astrologer, and as for Ahmad Khan, thou art only adding an injustice to thy other wickedness by slandering the fidelity of a friend. Even when this villainy of thine was made plain to me, he it was who stood firm as a champion of thy miserable faith. I doubt not that now his heart is sore with grief."
"Then fair Lady," he exclaimed. "Since the Gods have willed it, that I shall appear in thine eyes as the vilest of creatures, life hath no more object. Take it, O Rani. I yield it to thee as readily here, as I would have done for thee amid the press of battle."
He drew a dagger from his girdle and offered the handle to the Rani. He bowed his head submissively.
She gazed upon him with sorrowful eyes. She took the dagger from him and for a moment grasped it tightly. Would she plunge it to his heart? He waited resignedly. It would be an act of mercy was his only thought.
Then she spoke in slow accents, first sternly, but toward the close with a quaver in her voice.
"As the Rani, I could, O Prasad, kill thee; but as Lachmi Bai thou—thou art forgiven. Oh! why hast thou thus treated me"?
The dagger flashed with a clatter to the pavement; her hand dropped listlessly to her side.