A Prince of Dreamers Part 52

atma stared at him, and held his eyes with her large meaningful dark ones.

"'Tis not drumming, but deeds, that count, sir sinner," she said slowly. "As King Solomon said to the peac.o.c.k who remained to salaam by drumming his wings, while the hoopoe gained his golden crown by running a message."

Deena's old face set instantly like a stone. No muscle quivered, but his wicked old eyes twinkled. He understood in a second what was wanted of him, for intrigue was his very food and drink. It made him feel years younger to carry a love letter. This would have naught to do with love of course; but the joy was in the deception. Happen he meant to help, happen he did not, it was all one to him; it meant the deceiving of a duenna.

"Shall I then take a message for the mistress most chaste?" he asked hardily, winking the while at the latter as if taking her into his confidence.

"Message?" echoed atma scornfully "Nay! no message! My lord Ibrahim, my lover, will come when he thinks fit, and go when _I_ choose, like a cur with his tail belly-wards!"--she had been full of such jibes all day--"So let us to work; the song of the Tale of the Wisdom of the Princess Fortunata can hurt no woman folk! But take heed to the time!"

She broke at once into irregular chanting.

Listen women! I pray to the wise Sanyogata, the Queen's advice To Prithvi on courage and cowardice.

Then she changed rhythm and the words swept on like a torrent.

What fool asks woman for advice--The world Holds her wit shallow. Even when the truth Comes from her lips, men stop their ears and smile And yet without the woman, where is man?

We hold the power of Form--for us the Fire Of Shiv's creative force flames up and burns; Lo! we are Thieves of Life, and sancturies of souls And sanctuaries of souls! of souls!

There was a sudden check of irritation; the singer interrupted herself to complain of lack of accord; then continued:

Vessels are we of Virtue and of Vice Of knowledge and of utmost ignorance Astrologers can calculate from books The courses of the stars; but who is he Can read the pages of a woman's heart?

Our book hath not been measured, so men say "She hath no wisdom" but to hide their lack Of understanding. Yet we share your lives, Your failures, your successes, griefs, and joys.

Hunger and thirst, if yours, are ours, and Death Parts us not from you; for we follow fast To serve you in the mansions of the Sun The mansions of the Sun.

Yet once again some discord in voice and music seemed to rouse ire.

"Fool!" cried atma, "hast no sense! Thou art like a sitting hen with thy cluck, cluck, cluck, all out of tune! Take a paper if thou canst not remember and set it down in notation. See there is a bit yonder."

She pointed to the pen-tray and Deena with contrite face took the crumpled sc.r.a.p, smoothed it out on the top of his drum and thereinafter, with some slight exaggeration in displaying a fair white surface, proceeded to write down quaint musical hieroglyphics. Then folding it, notation uppermost, stuck it into the drum-brace.

"Now let us try again, mistress most chaste," he said cheerfully. "For old Deena never failed a woman yet; least of all one who hath oft times stood between him and d.a.m.nation."

There was a faint tremble as of relaxed tension in atma's voice as she went on:

Love of my heart! Lo! you are as a swan That rests upon my bosom as a lake, There is no rest for thee but here, my lord!

And yet arise to Victory and Fame Sun of the Chanhans! Who has drunk so deep Of glory and of pleasure as my lord!

And yet the destiny of all is Death.

Yea! even of the G.o.ds! And to die well Is Life immortal. Therefore draw your sword, Smite down the Foes of Hind. Think not of Self, The garment of this Life is frayed and worn-- Think not of me--we Twain shall be as One Hereafter and for ever. Go! my King.

We Twain shall be as One, as One!

The nicest musical ear might have detected small change in Deena's accompaniment, but atma professed herself satisfied.

"And now," asked the old go-between, as she leant back wearily, "What next?"

"Nothing," she answered. "One is enough for a day. Thou canst come to-morrow--for reward or punishment."

"And the mistress hath no orders, no message?" he asked, winking at the duenna elaborately.

"Nothing; save to get thee gone as quick as may be. See him out, woman!"

That faint tremor of voice only betrayed that her nerves were almost at breaking point; that she felt the need of solitude for a second.

When it came she pa.s.sed swiftly to the sword of her fathers and kissed it pa.s.sionately. Then flinging her arms on the parapet she gazed out over the plain scarce seeing the pageantry of sunset that was being enacted on the distant horizon.

What had she written on that sc.r.a.p of paper? It had necessarily to be guarded--but had she said enough?

"To the Feringhi jeweller! Come disguised as a Sufi in the Preacher's dhooli to-night at one o'clock. atma Devi will give thee the luck thou desirest."

After all it did read like a love letter. So much the better perhaps, with Deena as messenger. Anyhow the message was sent.

What, therefore, lay before her? Within measurable distance of probabilities now, she could face them. Supposing the Mirza came that night? Oh! where was the use of considering what at the worst she might have to do, in order to secure leisure at one o'clock! For, that _had_ to be gained. Aye! even though before that hour, say at eleven, she had to----

One, and eleven! Her mind, unaccustomed to strain, circled vaguely.

There was only a pin's-point difference between the two hours on paper, just a mere scratch, a duplication and yet--mayhap!--between them, tonight, a whole life--1 and 11--Strange! so little difference!

"Why didst thou lie to-day, woman?" said a voice beside her, "to save my honour?"

She turned with a cry and fell at Akbar's feet. He had met Deena's outgoing, had sent the duenna packing by a word backed by the display of the ring which was Royalty's sign manual in all matters pertaining to the women's apartments; so entering, had flung aside his m.u.f.fling shawl and for the last few seconds had been watching atma. For a sudden new perception of her beauty had come to him, perhaps with the sight of her in a dress familiar to him, since it is generally some such subtle hint which, at first, makes a man's eyes differentiate one woman from another.

Down at his very feet, atma's voice was yet proud. "To save the honour of the King."

Akbar was quick in comprehension--"Who never dies--Not to save Jalal-ud-din-Mahomed Akbar! Still, thou needst not have lied."

"This slave only said what the King would have said."

A quick frown flew to his keen face. "Thou speakest bravely woman! But 'tis true. Akbar's brain was clouded. How came thine to be so clever?"

"My father was a chess-player," she said simply. "He taught me. And it was not difficult, Most High. It was trivial."

For a second he looked really angry; then said quietly. "True again, O Charan. Stand up, woman! Wherefore shouldst thou grovel before--triviality?"

Standing there beside her their eyes met, and his showed admiration.

"So thou didst not lie, because the King can do no wrong. Then art thou, woman, to be judge? thy thought, thy standard, always to be right?"

"It--it was to-day, Great King," she said gravely.

He laughed outright.

"This is wholesome as a draught of bitter apples! Lo! Charan, thou didst give me a lesson in love last time we met. Give me one in tactics to-day! Not tactics in chess--that is past praying for--but in Kingship."

She looked at him with pitiful humility. "This slave knows not, she is only woman!"