A Prince of Dreamers Part 23

"Come! Come!" she murmured deeply, almost drowsily, "but seek not to bind. Or ever you were, I was. Yet I am yours!" Her eyes flashed down upon those liveried bearers of her dhooli, servants of her courtesanship. "Raise me shoulder high, slaves," she cried, "so that all may see Siyal the Beloved of the G.o.ds, the beloved by men."

So shoulder high she stood smiling while a hoa.r.s.e pa.s.sionate breath surged through the vast a.s.sembly.

And then, suddenly, she set up the oldest chant in the world, the golden jingles about her feet clashing to its rhythm, the heavy gold bracelets sliding and clashing on her arms as she waved them in the dance of the _devaad-asi_--

I am the dancer Prakrit, The wanton of change and unrest, And the sound of my dancing feet Roused the Sleeper self-em-meshed, And the eyes that were blind with peace Looked out and saw I was sweet, So the worlds whirled to my feet And Life grew big with Increase.

Death danced in the arms of Birth And Tears were coupled with Mirth And Cold things hurried to Heat And Heat to Flame and Fire, Till the whole world, racked with desire, Kept time to my dancing feet.

"Prakrit! Prakrit!"

She paused in her swift twirling and the long sinuous end of her silken scarf which had floated round her undulating, almost alive in its likeness to the clutching creeping arm of an octopus, hovered in the air for a second then fell on her outstretched arm in delicate desireful folds.

Something like a faint sigh breathed through the audience. There was no other sound. Every man was spellbound, as swaying, posturing, yielding, she went on, allure in her eyes, her voice--

I am the Woman Prakrit, The Keeper and Wanton of s.e.x, And the clash of my dancing feet Is a lure that ruins and wrecks.

Men's lips touch mine and desire The Nothingness that is sweet, And their souls flock to my feet To die in a kiss of fire.

And I give them Death for Life, And I bring them Sorrow and Strife, As I suck their senses away As they follow and follow for aye The fall of my dancing feet.

Prakrit! Prakrit!

"Prakriti!--Prakriti!--Prakriti!"

The answering cry came mult.i.tudinously. But on it came the voice of the King.

"Syeds of Barha! Do you claim this woman or shall she go?"

There could be but one answer, with that unveiled, unabashed figure, challenging every eye, flaunting before all men, making their very bodies and souls thrill to the cadence of her dancing feet.

The Syeds' hands felt their sword hilts sullenly, but their spokesman had no choice of words.

"Let her go. We of Barha harbour no harlots--no idolaters."

So through the audience, in obedience to her sign, the servants of her courtesanship carried her, seated, discreetly smiling, decorously salaaming. But once outside, the crowd which followed her to Satanstown caught up the song she had sung and bellowed it to the skies, filling the lanes and byways with the tale which, told so many ways, brings the mind back at last to the beginning of all things--to the "Sleeper sleeping self-em-meshed."

As the procession pa.s.sed a narrow turn, two men dressed as natives, almost of native complexion, yet of such curious dissimilarity of features from the crowd around them that the eye picked them out instinctively as strangers, stood back on a high piled doorstep to escape the crush.

"_Vadre retro Satanas_" muttered the taller of the two, crossing himself and thus giving a glimpse of a violet ribbon on his breast hung with the Portuguese Order of Christ. Its white cross charged upon a red one glistened for an instant in the sun like silver.

They were Jesuit missionaries, and the smaller of the two, as he watched, crossed himself also and murmured under his breath, "G.o.d help us! She is like a Madonna!"

And, in truth, Siyah Yamin silent, possibly fatigued by the excitement, seated with her childish face upraised, her eyes seemingly full of wistful thought fixed on vacancy, as if somewhere out of sight lay something very precious, looked innocent enough to touch that other pivot of feminine life, Motherhood.

And I give them Death for Life, And I bring them Sorrow and Strife, And I suck their senses away As they follow and follow for aye The fall of my dancing feet.

Prakrit! Prakrit!

The chorus bellowed out to the skies, as the procession swept on, leaving Father Ricci and Father Rudolpho Acquaviva to continue their way to the little mission chapel which Akbar had built for them.

So they went on their way, while in lessening sound came the chorus which holds the Secret of the Sin for which all religions promise forgiveness.

It brought a vague, throbbing restlessness to the hot air.

CHAPTER X

_Opportunity flies, O brother.

As the clouds that quickly pa.s.s.

Make use of it now, for another Will never be yours, Alas!_ --Hafiz.

"Birbal! Lo! It is always Birbal. May G.o.d's curse light on him for an infidel!"

Prince Salim's young, sullen face lowered gloomily, he flung aside the half-tasted sweetmeat he had taken from the golden basket which was always held within his reach by a deaf and dumb slave.

"Ameen!" murmured Mirza Ibrahim piously.

Khodadad who in the _pet.i.t comite_ of the Heir-Apparent's innermost circle of friends was enjoying the newly imported luxury of smoking, puffed a cloud into the scented air, smiled, bowed gravely; finally yawned. In truth the Prince wearied him not a little with his childish petulance, his hasty resentments, his invariable failure to take action; for he had just enough of his father in him to desire power, to feel aggrieved at his own subordinate position, yet not sufficient to make him set his desire above comfort, even above family affection.

They managed such matters better in Sinde. There, since time immemorial, fathers had killed superfluous sons, sons had killed a superfluous father, and brother removed brother without ridiculous reference to relationship.

Khodadad looked at the Heir-Apparent negligently through a blown ring of tobacco smoke and appraised him critically. In a way, it was true, this great lout of a lad formed the most convenient nucleus round which conspiracy against the King might gather, since he would carry with him the sympathy of the Orthodox, that is, of at least two-thirds of the court.

But if he would not move he must be left behind, and conspiracy must go on without him. It was nothing to Sinde who sate on the throne of India, so it were not Akbar with his strong hand on the throat of all rulers who chose to rule in the good old fashion. If Salim could be squared well and good, Sinde would help him to his own--on condition.

But if not? Khodadad's sinister face grew more sinister.

"That ended it anyhow," continued Mirza Ibrahim who was recounting the events of the morning; for the Prince was a late riser and seldom attended audience. "His Majesty appealed to the infidel, who was backed, of course, by other idolaters such as Man Singh."

Prince Salim shot a savage glance at the speaker. "Have a care, fool,"

he cried, "Man Singh will be of my house when I am married."

Mirza Ibrahim spread out his hands in apology. "This slave's tongue slipped over the tangled knot of matrimony," he replied suavely. "But as I say, the King, forwarded by Birbal and others of his kidney began to inquire, the firebrand of a madwoman--she was a picture for looks as she stood breathing defiance--by the prophet! I envied the idolater his hold upon her!--began on childish tears, and ere one could cry rotten fruit there was Siyah Yamin, true daughter of the devil, outraging everybody and making each man's skin thrill to her dancing feet--even, I dare swear, the King your father's, if he be human enough for such frailty!"

Prince Salim gloomed round from another sweetmeat.

"Some men stand above humanity, Sir Chamberlain," he said sullenly, "as some who call themselves men sit below monkeys."

Mirza Ibrahim lifted his eyebrows in courtly surprise, bowed, and went on undisturbed. "In truth the jade was superb; so they carried her back shoulder-high to Satanstown, where half the young blades still linger, hoping for a smile. But not I. The madwoman is my quarry!

Strange one can look fifty times at a woman and only fancy her the fifty-first."

He spoke calmly as one who took his _amours_ rationally.

"And the Syedan? What said they?" asked the Prince.