Part 12 (2/2)
”That is my riddle,” she said. ”Let the world guess it, and honor the real giver of it.”
What could it be? Even the Queen raised herself in curiosity; a sign in itself of commendation.
”Sure I know not,” she began musingly, when Fatma sprang to her feet in theatrical appeal.
”Not so! Ornament of Palaces,” she cried. ”This may puzzle the herd; it is plain to the mother of Princes. It lies too lowly now for recognition, but in its proper place----” She s.n.a.t.c.hed the hair from the cus.h.i.+on, and, with a flourish, laid it on the head of a figure which appeared as if by magic behind her. A figure dressed as a young Moghul Prince, and wearing all the crown jewels.
”My son, Jewun!” cried the Queen, starting angrily. And the adverse clique, taking their cue from her tone, shrieked modestly, and scrambled for their veils.
Fatma salaamed to the very ground.
”No! Mother of Princes, 'tis but my riddle--the heir-apparent.”
Zeenut Maihl paused, bewildered for an instant; then in the figure recognized the features of a favorite dancing girl, saw the pun, and laughed uproariously, delightedly. The English sentry on the drawbridge leading to Selimgurh might have heard her had there been one; but within the last month the right to use the citadel as a private entry to the palace had been given to the King. It enabled him to cross the bridge of boats without the long circuit by the Calcutta gate of the city.
”A gold mohur for that to Fatma!” she cried, ”and a post nearer my person. I need such wits sorely.” As she spoke she rose to her feet, the smiles fading from her face as she looked out along that white eastward streak; for the jest had brought her back to earnest, to that mixture of personal ambition for her son and real patriotism for her country which kept her a restless intriguer. ”I need men, too,” she muttered. ”Not dissolute, idle weatherc.o.c.ks or doting old pantaloons!
There are plenty of them yonder.” So she stood for a second, then turned like lightning on her attendants. ”What time----” she began, then seeing Hafzan, who had unveiled at the door, she gave a cry of pleasure. ”'Tis well thou hast come,” she said, beckoning to her, ”for thou must know G.o.d! if I were free to come and go, what could I not compa.s.s? But here, in this smothering veil----” She flung even the gauze apology for one which she wore from her, and stood with smooth, bare head, and fat, bare arms, her quaint little pigtail dangling down her broad back. Not a romantic figure truly, but one in its savage temper, strength, obstinacy, to be reckoned with. ”What time”--she went on rapidly--”does the King receive his initiates?”
”At five,” replied Hafzan. Seen without its veil, also, her figure showed more shrunk than ill-formed, and her pale, thin face would have been beautiful but for its look of permanent ill-health. ”The ceremony of saints.h.i.+p begins then.”
”Saints!” echoed the Queen, with a hard laugh. ”I would make them saints and martyrs, too, were I free. Quick, woman! pen and ink! And stay! Fatma's puzzle hath driven all else from my head. What time was't that Hussan Askuri was bidden to come?”
”The saintborn comes at four,” replied Hafzan ceremoniously, ”so as to leave leisure ere the Chief Eunuch's return with the answer.”
Zeenut Maihl's face was a study. ”The answer! My answer lies there in Fatma's riddle; take two gold mohurs for it, woman, it hath given me new life. Write, Hafzan, to the chamberlain, that the disciples must pa.s.s the southern window of the King's private room ere they leave the palace. And call my litter; I must see Hussan Askuri ere I meet him at the King's.”
An hour afterward, with bister marks below her eyes, and delicate hints of causeful, becoming languor in face and figure, she was waiting the King's return from the latticed balcony overhanging the river, where he always spent the heats of the day; waiting in the cl.u.s.ter of small, dark rooms which lie behind it, on the other side of the marble fountain-set aqueduct which flows under a lace-like marble screen to the very steps of the Hall of Audience.
”Is all prepared?” she asked anxiously, as a glint of light from a lifted curtain warned her of the King's approach.
”All is prepared,” echoed a hollow, artificial voice. The speaker was a tall, heavily built man with long gray beard, big bushy gray eyebrows, and narrow forehead. A dangerous man, to judge by the mixed spirituality and sensuality in his face; a man who could imagine evil, and make himself believe it good. It was Hussan Askuri, the priest and miracle-monger, who led the last of the Moghuls by the nose. It was not a difficult task, for Bahadur Shah, who came tottering across the intervening sunlit s.p.a.ce, was but a poor creature. The first impression he gave was of extreme old age. It was evident in the spa.r.s.e hair, the high, hollow cheeks, the waxy skin, the purple glaze over the eyes. The next was of a feebleness beyond even his apparent years. He seemed fiberless, mind and body. Yet released at the door of privacy, from the eunuch's supporting hands, he ambled gayly enough to a seat, and exclaimed vivaciously:
”A moment! A moment! good priest and physician. My mind first; my body after. The gift is on me. I feel it working, and the historian must write of me more as poet than king.”
”As the king of poets, sire,” suggested Hussan Askuri pompously.
Bahadur Shah smiled fatuously. ”Good! Good! I will weave that thought with mine into perfumed poesy.” He raised one slender hand for silence, and with the fingers of the other continued counting feet laboriously, until with a sigh of relief, he declaimed:
”Bahadur Shah, sure all the world will know it, Was poet more than king, yet king of poets.”
Zeenut Maihl gave a cry of admiration. ”Quick! _Pir_-sahib, quick!”
she exclaimed. ”Such a gem must not be lost.”
”But 'tis yet co be polished,” began the King complacently.
”That is the office of the scribe,” replied Hussan Askuri, as he drew out his ink-horn. He was by profession an ornamental writer, and gained great influence with the old poetaster by gathering up the royal fragments and hiding their lameness amid magnificent curves and flourishes.
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