Part 11 (2/2)

”Curse thee for a misbegotten hound!” bawled Mahb.o.o.b. ”Am I to lose the entrance fee I paid Gamu, the Huzoor's orderly, for first interview--when money is so scarce too! Read as it stands, idiot--'tis but an idle tale at best.”

The last was an aside to himself as he lay back in his cus.h.i.+ons; for, idle though the tale was undoubtedly, it suited him to be its Prime Minister. The editor laid down his pen hurriedly, and the polished Persian polysyllables began to trip over one another, while their murmurous echo--as if eager to escape the familiar monotony--sped from arch to arch of the long tunnel, which was lit about the middle by side arches on the guards' quarters, and through which the sunlight streamed in a broad band of gold across the red stone causeway.

The attributes of the Almighty having come to an end the reader began on those of Bahadur Shah, Father of Victory, Light of Religion, Polestar and Defender of the Faith----

”Faster, fool, faster,” came the fat voice.

The spectacled old man swallowed his breath, as it were, and went on at full gallop through the uprisal and bathing of Majesty, through feelings of pulses and reception of visitors, then slowed down a bit over the recital of dinner; for he was a _gourmet_, and his tongue loved the very sound of dainty dishes.

”May your grave be spat upon!” shouted the Chief Eunuch. ”So none were poisoned by it what matters the food? Pa.s.s on----”

”The Most Exalted then said his appointed prayers,” gasped the reader.

”The Light-of-the-World then slept his usual sleep. On awakening, the physician Ahsan-Oolah----”

Mahb.o.o.b sat up among his cus.h.i.+ons. ”Ahsan-Oolah! he felt the Royal pulse at dawn also----”

”The Most n.o.ble forgets,” interrupted a voice with the veiled venom of a partisan in its suavity. ”The King--may his enemies die!--took a cooling draught yesterday and requires all the care we can give him.”

”The King, Meean-sahib, needs nothing save the prayers of the holy priest, who has piously made over long years of his own life to prolong his Majesty's,” retorted Mahb.o.o.b, scowling at the speaker, who wore the Moghul dress, proclaiming him a member of the royal family.

There was no lack of such in the palace-fort, for though Bahadur Shah himself, being more or less of a saint, had contented himself with some sixty children, his ancestors had sometimes run to six hundred.

The Meean-sahib laughed scornfully as he pa.s.sed inward, and muttered that those who went forth with the dog's trot might return with the cat's slink, since the great question had yet to be settled. Mahb.o.o.b's scowl deepened; the very audacity of the interruption rousing a fear lest the king's eldest son, Mirza Moghul, whose partisan the speaker was, might have some secret understanding with Civilization. All the more need for haste.

”Read on, fool! Who told thee to stop?”

”The Princess Farkhoonda Zamani entered by the Delhi gate.”

Mahb.o.o.b gave a scornful laugh in his turn. ”To visit the Mirza's house, no doubt. Let her come--a pretty fool! Yet she had wiser stay where she hath chosen to live, instead of being princess one day and plain Newasi the next. There are enough women without her in the palace!”

So it seemed, to judge by the stream of female names and t.i.tles belonging to the curtained dhoolies, which had pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed the barriers, upon which the editor launched his tongue. But Mahb.o.o.b, as Chief Eunuch, knew the value of such information and cut it short with a sneer.

”If that be all! quick! the pen, and I will sign.”

A bystander, also in the Moghul dress, laughed broadly at the well-worn inuendo on the possibilities of curtained dhoolies in intrigue. ”Thou art right, Mahb.o.o.b,” he said, ”G.o.d only knows.”

”His own work,” chuckled the Keeper of Virtue. ”And the Devil made most of the women here. Now pigs! Canst not start? Am I to be kept here all day?”

As the litter went swaying out between the presented arms of the sentries, the white chrysalis of a Pathan veil stepped lamely down into the causeway. ”That, seeing there is no news, will be something to amuse the Queen withal,” came the sharp voice.

”There may be news enough, when that fat pig returns, to make it hard to amuse thy mistress, Mussamat Hafzan,” suggested another bystander.

The chrysalis paused. ”My mistress! Nay, sahib! Hafzan is that to herself only. I am for no one save myself. I carry news, and the more the better for my trade. Yet I have not had a real good day for gifts of grat.i.tude from my hearers, since Prince f.u.krud-deen, the heir-apparent, died.” There was a reckless cynicism in her voice, and he of the Moghul dress broke in hotly.

”Was poisoned, thou meanest, by----”

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