It was a high, clear voice full of little trills and bubblings like a bird's, and it sang on incessantly, as if to give those two time to recover from their confusion. And as it sang, the Persian vowels seemed as piercingly sweet as the perfume into which they echoed. "The rose-root takes earth's kisses for its meat, The rose-leaf makes its blush from the sun's heat, The rose-scent wakes-who knows from what thing sweet? Who knows The secret of the perfume of the rose?" As the song ended, a head showed above the tufted bushes. It was rather a fine head; bare of covering, its long grizzled hair parted in the middle lying in a smooth outward curve on the high narrow forehead, then sweeping in an equal inside curve between the ear and throat. So much, no more, was to be seen above the roses, save, for a moment, a long-fingered, delicate brown hand hiding the face in its _salaam_. "Who the _shaitan_ are you?" asked the young man fiercely in Hindustani. The head and hand met in a second _salaam_, then the face showed; rather a fine face, preternaturally grave, but with a cunning comprehension in its gravity. "I am Hushmut the essence-maker, _Huzoor_," was the reply. "I belong to the garden, and, being hidden from the noble people in my occupation of plucking roses for my still, I sang to let them know." The young Englishman gave a half-embarrassed laugh. "What does he say?" asked the girl. She had only been two months in India, and these had been spent in falling in love. "He thought we might like to know he was there, that's all--a joke, isn't it?" answered her lover. She smiled, and so holding each other's hands boldly they stood facing that head above the roses. It nodded cheerfully. "The _Huzoors_ are doubtless about-to-marry persons," came the voice. "It is not always so, even with the _Huzoors_. But this being different, if they require essences for the bridal let them come to Hushmut. Rose, jasmine, orange, sandal, lemon grass. I make them all in their season. Yea, even 'wylet'[4] which the _memi_ love. It is not really _banafsha_, _Huzoor_; they grow not in the plains. I make it from the _babul_ blossom, and none could tell the difference. Mayhap there _is_ none, since He who makes the perfume of the flowers in His still, may send the same to many blossoms, as I send my essences to many lovers; even the noble people!" --------------------- [Footnote 4: Violet.] --------------------- There was distinct raillery in the last words, and the young Englishman's smile vanished. "We people hold not with essences," he said curtly; adding to the girl, "Come, dear, I think we really ought to go back, your father will be wanting to go home--he has a lot of work, I know--" A shuffle in the bushes made the lovers pause, a curious shuffle such as a wounded bird makes in its efforts to escape.