Mumtâza Mahal looked at him for a moment incredulously, then she cracked all her finger joints over his head, or as nearly over it as her height would allow. "Said I not so?" she asked prophetically. "And when will the wedding be?" "Wedding!" he echoed petulantly; "there is no talk of wedding. I have but seen her." "But seen her!" echoed the old lady in her turn. "That came after in my time; but God knows how things go nowadays. Then what didst speak about?" He had to give a Bowdlerized version of what had passed; yet, even so, Mumtâza Mahal looked shocked. "A bold hussy; but thou wilt bit and bridle her." He burst out angrily--for his own recital had shown him the folly of castle-building on so slight a foundation--"I am a fool," he said, "and so art thou for all thy years!" Her little black eyes flashed angrily. "Not I! Did she not say she would like to be a _Begum?_ and if that means not--" "And could I make her one?" he interrupted fiercely. "I--a _risaldar_ on a bare pittance--with no prospect of rising. Dost dream me Nawab, fool?" The old lady's face grew cunning in a second, the instinctive love of intrigue roused by the mere suggestion. She leant towards him eagerly. "And wherefore not, Roshan? Are all things fixed? Do rulers never change? I live here in a corner, nothing but a poor woman: yet I hear more, it seems, than thou dost. I hear of discontent, of desires, of things that call for change. But to-day, they spoke of men being killed to make light for these infidels, and Gorakh-nâth, _jogi_, hath sworn a miracle." He turned on her with a bitter, reckless laugh. "Is that new? Is there not always talk? The wise listen not." A vast importance, a real dignity came to her in an instant. "If the _Huzoors_ had listened to such talk in '57." A thrill ran through him; the thrill of secret curiosity, almost of expectation regarding the great Rebellion from which so many things date, which young India always feels in the presence of their elders, who passed through it. "Thou dost know, of course," he said, catching his breath; "thou canst remember." "Ay!" she replied sternly, "and there was no more talk than there is now. 'Tis not a question of words. It is fate. Something happens, and then--then the _risaldar_ may be Nawab--as his fathers were." She had gone too far, and recalled him to himself. "Then let us await the happening," he said curtly. "Wait!" echoed the old lady, reverting to the main point. "Thou canst not wait. Having gone so far, the negotiations cannot drop. Thou must send the gift, and see what comes of it." "A gift!" he repeated. "What gift, and wherefore?" Mumtâza Mahal looked round as if for approval, tucked a packet of _pân_ into her cheek, and chuckled. She was on familiar ground now.