When Mihr-un-nissa fled from the Prince in the garden, she did not fly far. Just round the corner waiting for her return, stood her covered palanquin, her dutiful duenna. For MussumÂt FÂtima had long since given up attempting to control her young mistress. To begin with, she had found out that Mihr-un-nissa was not as other girls. She was wild as a young hawk, but there it ended. Except in so far as uttermost mischief went, she was to be trusted; there never was any fear of love letters or any improprieties of that sort. So, if she chose to fancy sitting beside a fountain by herself in the women's garden, where was the harm? She was a mound of sense; so much so, that on this hot afternoon (heaven knows why the child had insisted on coming out--to ruin her complexion, doubtless, if she could--but she couldn't--from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot there wasn't a speck or a freckle) no one could blame a body for dozing in the dhooli and dreaming.

"La! child! How thou didst frighten me," gasped FÂtima, as a tornado of yellow and purple draperies flung itself breezily on the top of her fat person.

"Oh! Futtu! Futtu!" panted the girl, half laughter, half tears. "I have seen him!"

"What, again!" shrilled the duenna, waking instantly to a sense of her responsibilities. "Impudence! knowest thou not that paper boats don't float for ever, and that who lacks modesty lacks conscience?"

"Oh! have done with second-hand wisdom," said the girl, superbly. "And it was not him--It was the Prince--Prince SalÎm."

FÂtima let loose a shriek. "Oh! my liver! An' thou darest to tell me! 'Tis bread and water for a week, miss----"

"And I spoke to him and he spoke to me," continued the culprit, calmly; out of sheer perversity, reversing the order of events.

FÂtima let loose a louder shriek. "What! Lo! the noose is round thy neck, and mine too! May the devil be deaf! If folk hear----"

But the girl who had drawn aside with distaste and was now seated half in and half out of the palanquin, interrupted the duenna contemptuously. "Futtu, thou art a full-weight fool. Why dost not remember it needs skill to do wrong instead of making thy nose red with wrath?"

Suddenly she stood up, a curiously defiant figure. "Lo! I am sick of saws and sayings. I want to know at first hand! And I will know. Call the carriers. I go to Âtma Devi. Lo! I have tried, as thou knowest, to see in the ink again; but it comes not. I lack the charm she said; she shall teach it me. Nay!" she continued stemming FÂtima's rising flood of denials, "See here, fool. If thou deniest me I go straight home, and tell--not my mother, she would be pleased--but Sher AfkÂn's, and then----" She clasped the old woman's neck with both hands and squeezed it tight. "Does it feel nice, Futtu?" she asked solicitously.

So it came to pass that just as the sun was setting, its last rays sparkled on Mihr-un-nissa's jewelled hair, as she sate on the ChÂran's roof waiting for the drop of ink to fall into her palm. She was more woman than child now, since she had watched the birth of desire, and of something more than desire, in Prince SalÎm's eyes. So that was love! A queer thing, at best, it must be to feel as he must have felt, before he could look so poor a slave. If that was love, she could not give it back. What! give homage to a lout of a lad? And yet the Queenship! Oh! if it had been Akbar himself, then she would have known what to do, for he was King indeed! Or if--yes! if it had been "him," for he was a man indeed!

This time the chanted words thrilled little Mihr-un-nissa through and through. For once--and perhaps for the first time in her young life she was in deadly earnest. But, once again poor Âtma's mind was far from her spell. Ever since Deena that morning had brought her word of Diswunt's death, regret, remorse had warred with her defiance. It was strange. What did it mean? Had he regretted? And wherefore? At times absorbed with fear lest she should have betrayed the King, she had been ready to seek out Birbal and tell him the truth, risking her own life. But there was her promise, her sisters-troth with Siyah Yamin. That cut both ways. It forced her to silence, so long as the courtezan kept troth. And had she not? Had not Âtma Devi seen with her own eyes Aunt Rosebody's hand close on the diamond? Could it be in better keeping?

"If the gracious child will complete the circle of magic," she began, when Mihr-un-nissa's laugh rang out disdainfully.

"What! to see what thou thinkest? Not so! What I shall see, what I shall do, is of my own gift. Stand back woman!--touch me not!"

She chanted the words lingeringly and for an instant there was silence while those two women, the fat, worldly duenna, and the passion-distraught denier of her sex, listened and looked with long-drawn tense breathings. It was deadly earnest to them also. Would she see? Could she see? Such things were, they knew, beyond the magic frauds of fortune-tellers.

And then suddenly the sweet round voice rose eagerly.

"I see! Holy prophet! I see--It is the Prince; but Lord! how fat he hath grown and how old--I think he is the King----"

FÂtima under her breath muttered "An old King's better than a young Prince."

Mihr-un-nissa flashed round on her. "'An egg to-day's better than a hen to-morrow,' so there! saw-sayer!" Then she looked again. "Sher AfkÂn this time. He hath a scar upon his face that suits him well, and a drawn sword."

"'The soldier gains his bread, by the risking of his head,'" murmured the irrepressible FÂtima.

"'Lie you must, or your belly will bust,'" quoted Mihr-un-nissa shamelessly, too interested, really, to do more than fling a reply in this war of wise sayings. "Lo! clouds--clouds--nothing but clouds again. What's this? Crossed swords and someone fighting for his life. Holy Prophet! save him! save him! Clouds again. That is my face grown old--and I am all in white," the girl's voice seemed to shrink in on itself; her eyes, startled, looked indeed as if across the chasm of the years she saw herself as she would be. "Surely I am widow--and there's the King once more." She drew back from her own hand as she might have drawn back from fate. "Then he was not killed," she muttered in a low whisper. "It must have been the--the other. Oh help! help! help!"

She started to her feet, and as if in answer to her scarce audible cry, a violent knocking shook the door.

"Open! Open! in the King's name, open!"

The command reduced even Mihr-un-nissa to the conventional quiet which on such occasions sinks on an Indian woman's house, when those are within who should not be seen.

You might have heard a pin drop.

"Âtma Devi, ChÂran of the King, open to his demand," came Birbal's voice, clear, unmistakeable, followed quickly by the order--"Break open the door, slaves, I must see if she be within ere seeking elsewhere."

There was no time to lose. Instinctively FÂtima, holding fast to her charge and dragging her with her, fled noiselessly to the closed door of the slip of a room where ZarÎfa lay sleeping, and Mihr-un-nissa herself seeing no other way out of the impasse, allowed herself to be dragged, as stealthily, as noiselessly.

None too soon, for as the latter motioning her duenna arbitrarily to the farther corner of the darkness was limply closing the door so as to allow a crack for hearing, a crash told that one bolt of the outer one had given way, and Âtma Devi's voice rang out--

"Hold! I will open to my Lord Birbal."

His voice in return came through from without. "So thou wouldst spare thy lock, widow! See that thou spare thy life also! Slaves--get you gone--await me on the landing below, and if I call, come."

A moment after he was facing Âtma Devi, his face pale with contemptuous passion.

"No lies, widow," he began at once. "I have come for the truth. Old Deena, the drumbanger, hath blabbed somewhat! I have gathered more in the bazaars. Thou art in this plot of the King's Luck, or thou knowest something of Siyah Yamin's part in it. Speak or----"

The flash of the poniard he held met an answering flash, as Âtma slipped forward, the death-dagger of her race ready on the instant, her passion roused instinctively at the sight of his.

"The King's ChÂran," she replied haughtily, "knows how to die--knows how to protect the King's Luck; and as for Siyah Yamin she is my sister of the veil. Between us lies troth--to death."

That had been her chief thought during the past few hours. It had indeed been her consolation in the vague regrets which had assailed her. Siyah Yamin was hand-fast to her. The courtesan had repeated the oath solemnly when Âtma Devi in restless anxiety had gone to her again; what is more she had given words of warning against Birbal, against the faction which he and Abulfazl represented. She had stigmatised them as self-seeking, as those who led the King astray. And had he not gone astray? Was there not, to begin with, this new edict forbidding widows to burn with their husbands? Would not the next step--if these two remained his advisers--be the forbidding of women to be widows indeed?

Every atom of womanhood in her, all tangled and torn apart by the plucking fingers of natural instinct and inherited ethics, rose up in revolt against herself, against everybody, everything in the world save that one thing--the King's honour, the King's Luck.

She stood surging in uttermost rebellion, and Birbal realised that a deftless word, almost a deftless look, would send the dagger of her race to her woman's heart.

So, realising also his mistake in having thus driven his last chance of discovery into such sharp antagonism, he shrugged his shoulders, strolled over to the parapet, and sate dangling his legs in his usual debonair fashion. But his keen eyes were on hers.

"Thy pardon, sister," he said. "Who can doubt that the King's ChÂran has his luck at heart, and it is for this, that I have come to thee. Now listen."

He paused and but for his intentness those keen eyes of his might have seen the faintest quiver of the door opposite him, as if someone behind it wished to hear better.

"The King's Luck, given to the stranger to be cut, hath been stolen from the lathe, and a false gem put in its place. Shall I tell thee how?" his questioning eyes found hers with a baffling stare in them and he went on. "A thief--PÂhlu, prince of thieves most likely, but I have naught against him as yet--managed entry to the empty workshop next to the diamond by scarce-seen clamps in the outer brick wall. He must have worked hard, and risked his life many dark, midnight hours; but he did it. The clamps remain. And doubtless he had a silken rope. Then Diswunt, the King's painter, beguiled the foreign jeweller out of his cell for a second or two. So the deed was done. But who beguiled Diswunt? Siyah Yamin doubtless. I have proof of that--but the boy was loyal. It would need some sense of duty, of devotion, to beguile him; that I know. Now, thou didst go to his house, not once but twice--of that, also, I have found proof. Wherefore? That is what, in the King's name, I ask?"

He paused for a reply, but none came, and his face hardened.

"Now listen further," he went on again. "Of another thing I have but too much proof. The court is astir. But now, I passed that hell-doomed cur KhodadÂd, and he smiled at me--at me, his bitterest enemy! So he is content. Some plot is afoot, and the foundation of all plots is the Prince SalÎm--they seek to oust Akbar and place the drunken lout, slave to his own passions and so slave to theirs, upon the King's throne."

Âtma laughed scornfully. "That will they never do--my Lord the King hath too many friends."

"And too many enemies, also," retorted Birbal. "Fool thou dost not see, thou dost not understand--thou art but a woman of whom men expect naught!"

It was growing dusk rapidly so a faint widening in the door-chink passed unnoticed.

"Now listen again!" he went on yet once more. "Thou hast been often to Siyah Yamin's of late, and Deena hath a tale of two veiled women at the Palace last night----"

There was the faintest flicker of a flinch in Âtma's eyes, and he was on his feet in a second, stretching out an accusing hand toward her.

"Thou wast there--thou and that accursed harlot--deny it not!"

She withdrew a pace and set her back to the wall. "I deny nothing, and I affirm nothing, my lord," she replied coolly, obstinately, though she felt torn in two by the conflict of her doubts.

"Fool!" he blazed out again. "I tell thee every second may be precious! Listen--if thou canst listen, being but woman! Not only the court, but within the last hour or so the soldiery, the people, show unrest also, and we may be undone this night! I myself can scarce understand.--It has come in a second like a miracle--as of some talisman----" his quick wit caught at his own words--"I have it!--The King's Luck! the Prince hath it."

In a second he had gripped both Âtma's wrists with his lithe hands and held her pinned to the wall. "Tell me, fool! All things rest on it mayhap--all things for which we have worked and hoped--for which he hath worked and hoped--the peace, the unity of India. Say! woman! Didst give it to the Prince?" Then seeing the utter obstinacy of her face, he realised the futility of wasting time with her, when he had found a cue which might lead to much elsewhere, and throwing her hands from him with a curse on all womanhood, he turned to go relying on his own keen wit.

But another keen wit joined to a mind capable of comprehension had been at work behind the chink. There was a faint scuffle, a muffled shriek, as FÂtima, who had heard nothing, made a dive at her little mistress's dress as she flung the door wide, and stepped out. Fate forced the duenna to grip the veil, so she only made matters worse; for Mihr-un-nissa stood bare-headed before the strange man.

Birbal, however, even in his hurry to seek help elsewhere, did not need such trivialities as veils to make him pause with instant consideration for the dignity of the slim young figure which barred his way.

"My lord," came the full rich young voice, "need not rail at all womankind. Here is one who will tell him the truth for the sake of Kingship. Peace! Âtma!" continued the girl, turning hotly on the ChÂran who would have interrupted, "thou understandest not, so be silent! My lord! I judge the talisman of the King's luck to be at this moment in Prince SalÎm's turban. For at the palace this morning, I saw KhÂnzada Umm Kulsum sewing somewhat into a relic bag for this purpose, and she denied me knowledge. Nay! I am sure of it----."

She paused and Birbal asked quickly:

"Will the Queen-of-Women give reason?"

The girl's face suddenly dimpled into smiles, a mischievous twinkle took her eyes captive.

"Because the Most-Excellent the Heir-Apparent straightway came out of the Palace and fell in love with me."

A shriek of horror from FÂtima who was employed in attempting to re-enshroud the young girl's beauty emphasised the absolute impropriety of the remark, but Birbal bowed to the very ground.

"That is Luck beyond the Luck of Kings, madam," he said, "and reason beyond question. This Speck of Dust in the Court of Intellect gives thanks for the Truth, and withdraws his earthly clay"--he paused, for as he turned to go he saw the rebeck player standing on the threshold. "Back slave!" he cried at once impetuously--"this roof is sacred to a Queen."

But the musician's pale face lit up suddenly. "A Queen suffers no ill from the eyes of a King," he replied, fixing his gaze on Mihr-un-nissa. So for an instant they stood, measuring one another; then the man turned quickly to Birbal, "Come, my lord," he said, "the Sufi from IsphahÂn desires to see the Most Excellent!--when he can withdraw his earthly clay from the presence of the Queen of Queens."

Mihr-un-nissa stood looking after them as they disappeared, nodding her head with a superior air. Then, in sudden change, she clapped her hands together joyfully like a child. "That is good," she cried. "It is lovely to be called that. Lo! I would do most things for that--except marry the Prince! Yea! most things so that it was the Luck of a real King!" Something in her own words made her pause. "That must be safeguarded," she murmured, as if to herself. Then she wheeled round and caught the fat duenna by both hands and tried to force her to her knees.

"Kneel, FÂtima, or I will hurt thee! Kneel, dost hear? What! thou disobeyest me!" A stamp of her foot emphasised her order, and brought the fat duenna down in a hurry.

"Say! didst hear aught?" asked the girl superbly. "In the room, I mean, not here."

"Highness, not a word!" protested FÂtima; "but what I heard here--what I saw here--have made me deaf and blind for ever."

"So much the better, Futtu, so much the better," nodded Mihr-un-nissa wisely. "Still 'tis always best to be on the safe side. So put thy mouth in the dust and say after me:

"May crows pick out mine eyes.

"Say! dost hear?

"May crows pick out mine eyes."

An ineffectual murmur came from the dust.

"May pigs devour my thighs."

The dust had evidently got into the speaker's mouth, for the words became more and more inaudible, as the stern young teacher went on:

"My heart rot carrion wise,
My liver be eaten with flies,
My lights blown up with sighs,
Myself, my son, and all that I prize
Burn in a fire that never dies
If ever I open my lips to say
The things I have heard and have seen to-day."