Part 61 (1/2)

”Let them come too. Naught hinders it.”

True. But the gold, the gold!

After he had left her, impatient of her hesitation, a sudden terror seized her, lest he might have sought the King, lest he might persuade him.

”My bearers--woman! Quick!” she called to Hafzan. ”Quick, fool! my dhooli!”

But even dhooli bearers have to fly when vengeance shadows the horizon; and in that secluded corner none remained. Everyone was busy elsewhere; or from sheer terror cl.u.s.tered together where soldiers were to be found.

”The Ornament-of-Palaces can walk,” said Hafzan, still with that faint malice in her face. ”There is none to see, and it is not far.”

So, for the last time, Zeenut Maihl left the summer-house whence she had watched the Meerut road. Left it on foot, as many a better woman as unused to walking as she was leaving Delhi with babies on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and little children toddling beside them. Past the faint outline of the Pearl Mosque, through the cool damp of the watered garden with the moon s.h.i.+ning overhead, she stumbled laboriously. Up the steps of the Audience Hall toward a faint light by the Throne. The King sat on it, almost in the dark; for the oil cressets on a trefoil stand only seemed to make the shadows blacker. They lay thick upon the roof, blotting out that circling boast. Before him stood Bukht Khan, his hand still on his sword, broad, contemptuously bold. But on either side of the shrunken figure, half lost in the shadows also, were other counselors. Ahsan-Oolah, wily as ever, Elahi Buksh, the time-server, who saw the only hope of safety in prompt surrender.

”Let the Pillar-of-Faith claim time for thought,” the latter was saying. ”There is no hurry. If the soubadar-sahib is in one, let him go----”

Bukht Khan broke in with an ugly laugh, ”Yea, Mirza-sahib, I can go, but if I go the army goes with me. Remember that. The King can keep the rabble. I have the soldiers.”

Bahadur Shah looked from one to the other helplessly. Whether to go, risk all, endure a life of unknown discomfort at his age, or remain, alone, unprotected, he knew not.

”Yea! that is true. Still there is no need for hurry,” put in the physician, with a glance at Elahi Buksh. ”Let my master bid the soubadar and the army meet him at the Tomb of Humayon to-morrow morning. 'Twill be more seemly time to leave than now, like a thief in the night.”

Bukht Khan gave a sharp look at the speaker, then laughed again. He saw the game. He scarcely cared to check it.

”So be it. But let it be before noon. I will wait no longer.”

As he pa.s.sed out hastily he almost ran into a half-veiled figure, which, with another behind it, was hugging one of the pillars, peering forward, listening. He guessed it for the Queen, and paused instantly.

”'Tis thy last chance, Zeenut Maihl,” he whispered in her ear. ”Come if thou art wise.”

The last. No! not that. The last for sovereignty perhaps, but not for hidden treasure. Half an hour afterward, a little procession of Royal dhoolies pa.s.sed out of the Palace on their way to Elahi Buksh's house beside the Delhi gate, and Ahsan-Oolah walked beside the Queen's. He had gold also to save, and he was wise; so she listened, and as she listened she told herself that it would be best to stay. Her life was safe, and her son was too young for the punishment of death. As for the King, he was too old for the future to hold anything else.

Hafzan watched her go, still with that half-jeering smile, then turned back into the empty Palace. Even in the outer court it was empty, indeed, save for a few fanatics muttering texts; and within the precincts, deserted utterly, silent as the grave. Until, suddenly, from the Pearl Mosque a voice came, giving the call to prayer; for it was not far from dawn.

She paused, recognizing it, and leaving the marble terrace where she had been standing, looking riverward, walked over to the bronze-studded door, and peered in among the white arches of the mosque for what she sought.

And there it was, a tall white figure looking westward, its back toward her, its arms spread skyward. A fanatic of fanatics.

”Thou art not wise to linger here, Moulvie sahib,” she called. ”Hast not heard? The Burn Bastion is taken. The King and Queen have fled.

The English will be here in an hour or so, and then----”

”And then there comes judgment,” answered Mohammed Ismail, turning to look at her sternly. ”Doth not it lie within these walls? I stay here, woman, as I have stayed.”

”Nay, not here,” she argued in conciliatory tones. ”It lies yonder, in the outer court, by the trees shadowing the little tank. Thou canst see it from the window of my uncle's room. And he hath gone--like the others. 'Twere better to await it there.”

She spoke as she would have spoken to a madman. And, indeed, she held him to be little else. Here was a man who had saved forty infidels, whose reward was sure. And who must needs imperil it by lingering where death was certain; must needs think of his battered soul instead of his body. Mohammed Ismail came and stood beside her, with a curious acquiescence in regard to detail's which is so often seen in men mastered by one idea.

”It may be better so, sister,” he said dreamily. ”'Tis as well to be prepared.”

Hafzan's hard eyes melted a little, for she had a real pity for this man who had haunted the Palace persistently, and lost his reason over his conscience.