In a second, and before Siddha had finished, Faizi’s wife had comprehended all. She had, convinced that her lover had left in command of his detachment, seen no reason why she should not openly show herself at the great festival, nor for keeping herself veiled. Then he must have seen and recognised her, and have heard her real name; the affair was too plain to require any explanation, nor were questions and explanations among her tactics. She looked at him entreatingly with her soft blue eyes, raising her clasped hands towards him, then tottered, and without one word sank back on the divan, hiding her face in the cushions.
For some time Siddha gazed silently at her; so beautiful, so irresistibly lovely had she never appeared to him as just in that moment when he had determined never again to see her; and he felt that this last look would be imprinted on his mind for ever.
“Go, go at once,” whispered a voice to him; “no words more, nor farewells, or it will be too late to escape the enchantment, that already begins to work.”
Then she slowly raised her head, thrusting back the luxurious locks that fell in waves around her, and passed her hand over her face, as one that awakes from a deep sleep or swoon.
“Rezia,” said Siddha, “let me call you so once more; I thought to leave you without one word of preparation would not have been honourable; but do not make this parting still harder to me. You, I trust, will agree that to part is unavoidable. Unknowingly, I have sinned against hospitality, and repaid the truest friendship with the grossest ingratitude. To continue doing so would be the worst of crimes.”
“You are right, my friend,” said Rezia, gently. “To part, I feel, must to you appear unavoidable. I have long feared it, and for that reason dissembled my name; but hear me for a few moments before you leave me for ever, for I would not that you should remember me with contempt. Listen to what I have to say, not in defence, but in excuse of my conduct. I deceived you, it is true, and more than once. I began by deceiving you the first time we met. I had seen you shortly after your arrival at Agra, though you did not see me, and that first sight of you awoke an interest that was not diminished by what I heard in answer to my inquiries, and then rashly I determined to make your acquaintance, making use of that letter to Kashmir as my pretence. To what that acquaintance led, aided by my weakness and love, alas! you know too well; but then, indeed, I did not know that there was any bond of friendship between Faizi and you. And when later on, to my horror, I discovered it, I should have had the courage to break off all that we were to each other by confessing who I was. But, ah! I was weak, Siddha; weak as only a woman who loves can be, who loves the man of her choice with passionate fondness. I feared the parting that your sense of honour would pronounce to be necessary, and I was silent. Can you forgive me, Siddha, before we bid each other good-bye for ever?” And timidly, as though afraid of his anger, she stretched out her hand to him, and sank back, slowly and wearily, on the cushions, her eyes filled with tears.
For a time he struggled with himself a bitter and terrible battle, but, alas! of too short duration.
“Rezia,” he cried, clasping in his arms the woman who not only ruled him but forced him to forget all that honour bade him to hold dear,—“Rezia, without you there is neither life nor existence, and with you no crime and no shame.”
He had indeed spoken the truth, and made use of no exaggeration when he told her that she was dearer to him than life, and dearer than honour. And so the evening passed on. Siddha was partly disturbed, partly overwhelmed with an indescribable happiness; sometimes despising himself, and then again rejoicing in his fatal passion. It was late before he passed down the well-known path, and was about to open the little door in the garden wall, when, to his astonishment, it opened, and the figure of a man passed through, who, without remarking him, attempted to close it after him. But a sudden exclamation from Siddha made him turn round. Who could it be? Faizi himself perhaps. Siddha could have bitten out his tongue for his foolish imprudence, but it was too late.
“What, in the name of Shaitan, are you doing here?” cried the new comer; and Siddha at once recognised the voice of Prince Salim, whose figure was scarcely visible in the dimness of night.