A Prince of Dreamers Part 59

"Not mine in thee? Not mine, the Charan's in the King? Nay, it shall not be so atma the Charan dies!"

Her hand which had s.n.a.t.c.hed out the death-dagger of her race held it high above her head; but Akbar was too quick for her. His was on hers; so arrested, it remained, bringing her face closer to his.

"Nay, my Queen!" he said and the softness of his voice sent despair and delight through her veins. "Thou hast said thou lovest me, as I do thee. Is that not enough for poor mortal man? What is Kingship compared to it? Let it go! Kiss me, sweetheart--kiss me but once, and thou wilt learn----"

She lay pa.s.sive on his shoulder, her eyes, full of the fire of love immortal, found and held his.

"What shall I learn, Great King?" she whispered falteringly.

"To take even love from my hand," he said, bending closer.

Her whole body seemed to yield to him, she nestled closer, finding soft rest in his strong arms.

"Yea!" she whispered, raising her lips for the kiss. "I will take--all things from the hand of the King."

So, ere he could prevent it, ere, taken by surprise, his iron muscles could counteract the strong downward sweep of her right hand, his, clasping hers, followed the flash of the death-dagger of her race.

It found fit sheathing close to her heart.

"atma," he whispered sinking to his knees with the dead weight he held. "atma!"

He did not call her love or queen; he knew too well that she was slipping away from such empty t.i.tles.

A low murmur made him bend his ear closer.

"May the--G.o.ds pity--us Dreamers--who--dream----"

The old refrain. The first words surely he had heard from her lips.

But at least she still lived.

Gathering her in his arms he carried her to the divan; then knelt supporting her on his breast. If she died she should die as a queen--in the King's clasp--upon his throne.

So there was silence.

The dawn was coming fast. It showed in streaks of shimmering gray light between the dark screens.

"atma!"

There was no sound.

Then suddenly gay, light-hearted as a bird, a bugle rang out; followed by another, and another.

The dying woman stirred.

"The--the dawn has come!" she whispered to herself. And then, suddenly, as if galvanised to an instant's life, she sate up and the tent rang with her cry.

Ohi! The King, The King, Challenge I bring Ohi! The King--the----

The last word never came. In her effort to rise she overbalanced and slipped in a huddled heap at Akbar's feet.

He stood quite still. He knew that she was dead; that nothing but worthless clay lay there; the deathless spirit--the dreamer that never dies--had fled--whitherward? His way, surely!

So as he stood, he felt Kingship rise in him, as he had never--no not even he the prince of dreamers--felt it before.

Ohi! The King the King!

He stooped, gathered the dead thing in his arms, and laid it on the low throne. He did not even kiss the dead face, though the scent of roses clung round her. For an instant he felt inclined to take the gift of the Wayfarer from her as a remembrance. Then he remembered himself.

Such things might be for Jalal-ud-din the man. He was the King. She should take Love with her.

Outside the bugle notes were echoing each other merrily through the camp. All things were astir with the dawn.

And he, the King was needed elsewhere. He called, and a servant entered.

"Lo! I have killed the woman," he said pointing to the divan briefly.

"Give her fit burning, at once, ere the sun rise. She is _suttee_--she hath died for a man."

So he strode through the screen to the larger tent, and gave the signal for the uprising of Majesty.

In a second the huge weighted curtains at the end had swung to their high looped places, and advancing, he took his seat upon the canopied dais behind them. On the far level horizon the pearl gray of dawn was changing to primrose, darkening even as it changed to rosy-red; for Dawn comes swiftly in the cloudless skies of India. Before him, thronged with courtiers, circled the vast enclosure of the Inner Audience, opening out into a wide avenue wherein, drawn up on either side, stood soldiers in battalions. Their spear points struck at the sky; for beyond was nothingness. Only a wide, empty plain reaching up to a wide, empty sky.

ALLAH-HU AKBAR!

The cry rose from a thousand throats.

Akbar was indeed the King.

His enemies had failed.

Yet there was one thing which must be done before the dawn, if all was to be well, and Birbal looking somewhat crestfallen, stepped forward at a signal from the throne; behind him came William Leedes the jeweller.

The latter was saying "Ave-Mary's" under his breath, partly from pure fear of evil, partly from thanksgiving for delivery from evil.

"Mirza-Rajah Birbal," came the King's voice clear and resonant, to be heard of all men. "Deliver up the diamond called the King's Luck which was stolen, but which the King's Charan atma Devi hath died to restore" (Birbal started, then hung his head). "Deliver it up to the Western jeweller, William Leedes, in accordance with the oath by which she bound you."

Then turning to the Englishman the royal voice became less stern.

"And you--who are without blame--take it once more to thy lathe.

Akbar's will hath not changed. His Luck shall shine. Aye! and his empire shall shine--as _he chooses_; let subjects, princes, friend--yea--even sons, say what they may!" Then changing gravity for cheerfulness he called down the line of soldiery: "Gentlemen! make ready for your march! Akbar goes forward! He leaves this Town of many Tears and Lack of Water behind him for ever!"

As he spoke the curved edge of the sun showed like a star for a second across the waste of desert that stretched as a sea before him, and from behind, from the Darkness of the Tents, from the Shadows of Man's Habitations, came the Procession of the Hours. In rosy pink like Dawn-Clouds, the pair of little children, no longer wide-eyed and solemn, danced at the head; and behind them, radiant with smiles followed the choric singers each with an unlit taper, singing the Song of the Dawn that has been sung in India since the Dawn of Days.