_'Tis Eve O Sakil fill the wine cup high
Be quick! the clouds delay not as they fly.
Ere yet this Fading World to Darkness goes
My senses darken with thy wine of Rose,
Till Fate makes flagons of my worthless clay.
Then fill my empty skull with wine I pray
So neither Death nor Judgment shall be mine
The Grave a brimming cup of Limpid Wine_.
--Sa'adi.[14]
---------------------
[Footnote 14: Sir Edwin Arnold's translation.]
---------------------
Atma, back in the palace, was once more racking her mind what to do
about her remaining responsibility, the diamond. So far Fate and the
Gods had guided her aright. She had managed to give the King timely
warning that the little coward would claim his promise (better, sure,
if she had burned!) then, having little time for thought, and knowing,
in truth, that she had no chance of escaping unmolested through the
strictly guarded entrances to the King's private apartments, she had
returned by the swinging dhooli to her own, thus for the time keeping
her method of escape secret from her gaolers. So, immediate urgency
being over, she had set to work first to conceal what till then she
had hidden in the dark braids of her hair; for she guessed at once, by
the luxury with which she was surrounded, that tirewomen would appear
in the morning, that every temptation would be plied to make her yield
to Mirza Ibrahim's lawless desires. She smiled at the thought. Yea,
let him come; but not till after she was prepared. So she deftly cut a
snippet of brocade from a hanging, and greasing it in an oil lamp
rolled the diamond and the Wayfarer's square stone together, so as to
form a fine large packet, stitched it together with gold thread she
found ready on an embroidery frame, and hung it once more on the
greasy black skein, telling herself none would interfere with so
palpable a talisman. For the rest she had the Death-dagger of her
race, which she hid until dressing-time was over in a woman's
work-basket; though nothing, she told herself, would happen before her
appearance at the Festival as Charan. So, seeing always but a short
space into the future, she lay down and slept.
When she had wakened, servants had been ready to fly in lawful
command, to temporise soothingly with unlawful ones, and she had
smiled grimly, telling herself they were afraid of her, and that when
the end came, she need only fear the violence of poison.
But that again was not yet.
Even after the Festival was over, after she had lied so calmly to save
the King's honour, she had hours to spare. The Mirza would need
darkness for his proposals; so she had quite smilingly put on the
gorgeous dress of a court lady which on her return from the Audience
was all she had found in the place of her own old red garments. What
did it matter? The steel hauberk of her father's, the circlet, and the
sword were still hers. These she had worshipped, these would look down
on her death for honour. So if her white robe trailed on the ground
and was sewn with stars, if her jewelled bodice flashed under the
light folds of a saffron pearl-set veil, what was that to her, the
King's Charan, who carried a death-dagger in her waistband?
Nothing mattered so long as her hardly-thought-out project for the
delivery of the King's diamond could be brought about. If the message
could be sent--if old Deena the drum-banger would take it, then the
jeweller might come disguised as a Sufi in the Preacher's dhooli,
and she could fulfil her promise; she could give it into his very
hands--yea even if she had to yield, before that, to the Lord
Chamberlain's desires.
Even this supreme sacrifice she was prepared to make if they failed to
send Deena, or if the Feringhi failed to come. For she must have time.
She leant listlessly on the steps below the cupola toying idly with a
scrap of silk-made writing paper and pen and ink. A slave-woman,
gaoler, duenna--whom Atma had sent from her very side on plea of
chilliness, was standing a little way apart, making believe to drive
away the sunset-time mosquitoes with a peacock's feather fan; in
reality watching every movement of her charge.
Would Deena come? She had sent for him calmly to drum to her rhythm of
pedigrees. That was her right, and he was so far a hanger on of the
Mirza's that they might count him of themselves; yet he might be true
to her also.
"The drumbanger waits," said a eunuch at the door, and her heart leapt
to her mouth.
"Lo 'tis luscious as honey to a bee; lascivious to the liver, as
saffron pillau to the stomach!" ejaculated the old man admiringly, In
truth Atma looked superlatively handsome amid the fine feathers of
silken carpets and satin cushions.
"Thy liver, and thy stomach, sinner!" retorted Atma carelessly,
as she crumpled up the scrap of paper and flung it into the lacquered
pen-tray. "But come! to work! Since I am here as King's woman I may be
called on any moment to sing in the harem; and I sing few women's
songs: none of the modern style."
She broke into the high trilling commencement of a not
over-respectable ballad of the bazaars.
Deena's wicked old face took on an air of outraged virtue, his hands
refused to touch his drum.
"Nay! mistress most chaste," he protested in an injured tone,
"salvation comes not that way to old Deena. He can get drumming and to
spare of that sort elsewhere."
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 peacock 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 scrap, 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 damnation."
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 Gods! 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 passed swiftly to the sword of her fathers and kissed
it passionately. 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 scrap 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 muffling
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!"
"And yet thou didst come at dawn to save me from a broken promise! I
have not thanked thee yet for that; but in truth"--here his voice grew
softer, and leaning his elbow on the parapet, he looked into her eyes,
"thanks being all on one side----" Then suddenly curiosity beset him.
"How didst thou come?"--he looked down rapidly--"not by yonder
projecting eave? not by that, surely? Why! even my head----" He paused
a while, and her silence assuring him, murmured: "And thou didst that
_for me?_"
"For the King, Most-High!" she protested in a low voice as she
clutched convulsively at the talisman. For through her swept with
tumultuous force her first real knowledge of what her womanhood might
hold. Ye Gods! have pity! she must not lose herself. The King's Luck
must be safe first. He must never know the tale.
He looked at her curiously. Her lips were parted her breath came fast.
"Thou hast the nerve of ten," he said rapidly, "thou couldst walk
yonder ledge where I--even I--might fear to fall, and yet----" His
hand, reaching out as they stood close together by the parapet, caught
her wrist swiftly, and clasped it. "Yet now thou art afraid--afraid of
what?"
Her pulses bounding under his cool, firm touch seemed to suffocate
her.
"Aye," she admitted, turning her mind frantically to excuse, "I
fear--I fear the night, alone in a strange place."
In truth she did fear it. Her soul shrank now, knowing what she might
have to sacrifice. But for the blind, half-confusing memory of one
o'clock she would have fallen at his feet and begged for freedom. She
might have done so had she had time to count the cost.
"Strange?" echoed Akbar, haughtily. "Dost forget it is the King's
house?--that the King is guardian? Though in truth," he added with a
smile "Jalal-ud-din Mahomed Akbar sleeps to-night in his pitched camp
beyond the gates." The memory seemed to obsess him with other ideas,
for he turned away gloomily.
"Farewell, widow. Akbar will strive to be King--thou hast done thy
best to make him one, anyhow," he added almost angrily. But as he
went, something in her face and form recalled his youth, and he
hesitated. Then drawing off a ring hastily he strode over to her, and
taking her hand roughly, slipped it on her finger.
"Yea, thou hast done many things for me," he said proudly, "so let me
do one for thee. This ring, the Signet of the Palace, may calm thy
fears for to-night. None dare harm its possessor without my order. At
thy peril, use it not unworthily. I----" He paused, drew his shrouding
shawl round him, and corrected himself--"It will be reclaimed at
dawn."
The dusk had died down almost to dark, the stars grew clearer and
clearer on the growing violet of the sky. Atma stood gazing with
unseeing eyes over the wide plain that was losing itself rapidly in
shadow. She was scarcely thinking at all. She was only feeling how
increasingly hard it was becoming to dissociate Akbar from the King,
Love from Love.
"The Lord High Treasurer hath called to inquire and craves
admittance."
She awoke to realities at the duenna's voice, but with a new element
in her outlook on the future--a palpitating horror at the thought of
the sacrifice she had faced calmly but an hour ago.
"He--he is welcome," she said faintly. There was no use shirking, and
she might be able to put him off till after one.
But his first words told her theirs was a fight for life in the
present.
"All in the dark!" he said lightly, "so much the better mayhap,
mistress, for Ibrahim's peace of mind, seeing that he hath but a few
hours to count his own. The jackal hath to eat his bones betimes."
"What meanest my lord?" she asked hurriedly.
"That his Majesty the King will feast on the flesh," he replied
recklessly. "Ah I have heard He hath been here this last half-hour. In
troth, but that he interferes with my quarry, I would say thank God
the anchorite _hath_ found his meat. As it is, I have come earlier to
handsel my share." Then he turned swiftly to the duenna. "Leave us for
a while. I would speak alone with this lady."
When she had gone he said curtly. "Thou hadst best sit down. I have
much to say."
"Say on," replied Atma laconically, as without the faintest sign of
trepidation she sate herself calmly down amid the silken carpets and
cushions; for behind her propped against the marble pilasters, were
the hauberk, the sword of her fathers, to give her courage. It was the
Mirza who showed uneasiness. He walked up and down as if uncertain how
to begin.
"Well," she asked with a scornful smile as she played idly with the
pens in the open pen-box, "what hast thou to say?"
He cast aside doubt at her words, flung himself on the steps, and
leaning forward peered through the dusk into her eyes. "What thou wilt
not care to hear; so brace thyself--if thou canst, woman! Thou didst
send by Deena----"
"He has betrayed me," she exclaimed involuntarily.
"Or died! Take it as thou willst. The letter was sent to its
destination anyhow, for it served our purpose. Thou knowest the King's
challenge? Well, we have sought all day to get hold of the Feringhi
jeweller, so that his death might break the King's safe conduct. But
Birbal hath been too quick for us. He hath him safe cooped up in his
house. But _thou_ hast called the man here."
Atma, with a cry, rose to her feet. "I meant but----" she began.
"What thou didst mean matters not now, though I have my suspicions,"
broke in the Mirza brutally. "Sit down, I tell thee, and listen.
Whether thy call be, as I hold it to be, one that even Birbal would
admit, time will show. But if this doubly damned infidel be found
within the palace precincts it is death. And see here"--he held out a
paper.
"I cannot see," she murmured dully. "It is too dark." And in truth,
even as she spoke, the palace gong sounded one stroke.
How often it sounded one she thought as the Mirza struck a light. But
this time it meant half-an-hour beyond eight. One, yes--it was the
knell of doom.
The spark had come to the tinder-roll, and now a sputtering oil lamp
in the sevenfold cresset showed her the writing on the paper. "To the
Sergeant of the Palace watch. At one of the clock, guard the
Preacher's dhooli and enter the apartment of Atma Devi. Her lover will
be there."
"He is not my lover," she began.
"But he will be there at one." He laughed devilishly, "Now listen.
None but me know of this--as yet. Atma," his voice took on urgency,
almost appeal, "grant me thyself--and this paper shall be destroyed."
So it had come. She was the price of honour. Would it not be the
simplest way?
"It must be to-night," he whispered hoarsely, "Tomorrow the King----"
She could have struck him full upon the mouth, but she sate trembling
with tense desire to do so.
"If I promise," she asked firmly, "may this paper be mine?" She had
noticed that it was signed and countersigned by the captain and
commandant of the guard. If she had it, it might be difficult to get
another. Anyhow it would show good faith.
Ibrahim's face grew hard. "Nay, fair one," he said, "hardly till the
promise is fulfilled. I must have due security."
And she must have it also, she thought fiercely. Aye, she knew him,
devil-spawn, vile utterly. He meant to take all from her and send the
order too. She might give him everything at eleven and yet at
one--eleven and one!--11 and 1!
She glanced hastily at the paper; then sate silent her face hardening,
her hands still playing idly with the pens in the pen bag.
"Think over it, bibi" he said insinuatingly for even the faint lamp
light showed her bewilderingly beautiful. "It is not so much to ask! I
am no ill-favoured churl, and before heaven, I love thee. Then,
surely, thou wouldst not betray the King."
Betray the King! No! that must never be. She had thought of a way to
prevent that.
"And--and if I give the audience thou desirest at--at eleven?" she
began slowly.
He fell at her feet rapturously. "Atma! I swear!"
She stilled him with a wave of her hand. "I must think," she cried,
and rising, walked to the parapet. Only however, to return after a
second.
"I consent," she said quietly. "At eleven be it--thou wilt not send
this?" She showed the paper she still held.
"Nay," he replied with a bow as he took it from her. "I will keep it
ever next my heart as security for happiness--at eleven."
When he had gone she broke into a sudden, wild laugh, and flung the
pen she held concealed in her right hand into the pen tray.
"Only a fly's foot on the paper, but it will show truth or untruth!"
she muttered.
Then she sate down and waited; there was nothing else to be done. She
dare not use the King's signet--if indeed this token of mere personal
safety to herself would be of any avail--since that might lead to his
discovery of the diamond's theft. And that (this had grown to an
immutable creed) must never be!
"Light not so many lights," she said to the servants who came in with
long garlands of flowers and coloured lights; but they went on with
their work. It was by the Lord Chamberlain's orders they said. And
they brought her new jewels, and scattered rose-oil-water about the
cushions, and spread a low stool-table with fruit, and goblets, and
wine flagons.
She sate and watched them, interested as she would not have been but
for the awakening of her womanhood under the King's touch. Now she
understood; now for the first time she realised the philosophy of
Siyah Yamin.
So Ibrahim, coming in early--she smiled mysteriously at his
haste--found her watching the slave-women who were reaching up to
place coloured lights amongst the roses twined round the cupola, and
as they worked they sang in a quaint roundel:
Shine earthen lamps, outblaze the stars
So cold, so white, so far.
Shine little lamp, hide Heaven's light
Love comes to Love to-night.
"Bid them remove them, my lord," she said eagerly. "Lo! they are
garish. Are not mine eyes and the stars sufficient for--for lovers?"
She hung her head and looked at him. Her cheeks showed a crimson flush
beneath the corn-coloured skin, her eyes blazed, indeed, like many
stars.
He gave the order instantly, and as it was being executed walked to
the parapet whence he could feast his eye upon the picture she made as
she sate in the cupola, the rose garlands bending to touch her, the
light of the seven-lamped cresset on the step below her shining full
on her face, and glinting behind her on cold steel of sword and
hauberk. Aye! she was right. The coloured lights were garish; she was
colourful enough herself; she needed no adventitious aids to passion;
that hint of cold steel was enough! His blood rose to fever heat.
"Quick slaves! quick!" he cried. "Are we to be kept waiting all night."
Her laugh rang out provocatively. "My lord is before his time. It is
not yet eleven! Drink to our love, Mirza--or stay! Let us drink to the
truth between us!" She filled two goblets of the good red wine and
passed him one. "So! to the truth between us," she cried; then, as she
drained the glass flung it far into the darkness of the night. It
showed curving comet-like, then sank, a distant tinkle telling where
it had smashed to atoms. "Thine also! Thine also! Ibrahim!" she cried.
"To the Truth between us!"
He muttered something unheard, flung his glass away, then essaying a
laugh caught up a lute and began to sing in high airy trills:
Lo! the green-hued sea of heaven
And the crescent moon its ship
Bear me, dearest, to the haven
Where Love's Anchor I may dip
In the harbour of thy bosom.
Find in shelter of thy lip
Kisses seven! Kisses seven
Oh! what nectar--One more sip
Surely thou wilt be forgiven
Even angels sometimes trip.
As he stood there dressed in white from head to foot, becurled,
bescented, bedandyfied, Atma thought of the man who had stood there
before, and something purely savage crept into her smile.
"Lo! thou singest well" she said. "So do I, give me the lute?"
The servants had gone. He crossed to her, passion in his eyes. "I came
not here for lutes." he cried almost brutally, "I came for love!"
She motioned him back with her hand. "It is not yet--eleven! And I
will sing--of--of--love."
He drew a long breath. She was surpassing beautiful with that enticing
smile. Why should he be greedy of his pleasure?
Love of my heart, bring blushes to my face,
Seek not at wisdom's hand, excuse or grace.
Speed thou my blood in passion's tireless race
Till lip meet lip, and arm with arm embrace
For the love of the heart has no end----
"Atma! I love thee!"
His quick cry sank before her steady voice:
But the grave
But the cold, cold grave
But the grave!
He gave a slight shiver and drew back; then threw himself beside her.
"Come!" he said, "there is life before the grave!"
She shook her head playfully. Not even Siyah Yamin with all her
knowing wiles, could have played her part better.
"It is not yet--eleven" she answered and if her face showed haggard it
was belied by her gay laugh. "Lo! keep to compact, Mirza Sahib. There
is another verse; by then, it may be--eleven!"
She paused a second as if her keen ears had caught some faint sound,
then she swept the strings with a resounding force that echoed and
re-echoed through the roof, drowning all else.
Love of my soul, bring courage to my heart
Seek not at passion's hand her lure and art.
Claim thou the whole of me and not the part
Though Death meet Death and Life from Life depart
For the love of the soul has no end in the grave.
In the cold, cold grave.
In the grave.
A crashing chord, dissonant, fierce, overbore all things, and out of
it rose mellow the first chime of eleven.
She leant forward, her eyes full of allure, on his. "Out with the
lamps, Love needs no light," she quoted rapidly.
"One!" Her curved red lips smiled, parted, and one of the cressets was
gone. Its dying breath exhaled perfumes of musk.
Again the mellow note rang out.
"Two," she whispered and again a cresset flickered, went out.
"Three."
"Four." This time the Mirza seemed to be listening.
"It will be counting kisses by and by when light fails," she suggested
gaily, pointing to the three remaining lamplets.
"Five--"
There were but two now. She was leaning closer to him, his arm had
stolen round her waist.
"Six--"
Something made her glance hastily to the door, but the bounding blood
in his pulses seemed for him to have invaded the whole world, and he
heard nothing.
"_Seven!_--"
It was dark now, and from the darkness came the long-drawn sound of a
kiss; then of another.
_Eight_--_Nine!_--The chiming hour went on.
His arms were round her. Aye, but hers were round him also. Arms like
iron, lips like steel upon his mouth.
"_Ten!_"
"Die dog!" she whispered with the kiss. "Nay, thou shalt take it."
He struggled fiercely.
_Eleven!_
"Die in mine arms, for thine untruth, traitor!"
"Help!" he choked feebly. "Harlot! let me go!"
But it was too late. The palace guard under orders for eleven, not for
one, had found their quarry in the dark. Had found him in a woman's
arms, and swift daggers did their work.
There was not a quiver in Mirza Ibrahim's body when, turning it over,
they discovered by a lantern's light their mistake and started back in
horror.
"Yea, he is dead," said Atma as she stood, fast held for future
punishment. There was sombre menace in her voice, her eyes blazed with
a cruel fire. Then she turned on her captors.
"Loose me, slaves. I carry the Signet of the King. Seek his orders
concerning me."
It was true. The signet was on her finger. So releasing her, they
double-guarded the door, while, with the dead body of the Lord
Chamberlain as witness, they sought superior wisdom.
Left alone, Atma found the old sword as solace and clasped it to her
bosom. She had but killed for the King; a? her fathers had killed many
a time.