"Krishna plays his flute." A voice came from the sentries at the door. "And longing _gopis_ burn." Again Hawksworth's guard. "With a maid's desire." Immediately the sentries slid back the ancient iron bolt that spanned the face of the door. Then came the rasping scrape of another bolt on the inside being released. When he heard the sound, Hawksworth felt a surge of fear and stared around wildly at the faces of the guards. They all stood menacingly, with a regal bearing and expressionless faces. Each man had his hand loosely on his sword. The door creaked slowly inward, and Hawksworth realized it was almost a foot thick and probably weighed tons. The guards motioned him forward and stood stiffly waiting for him to move. He calculated his chances one more time, and with a shrug, walked through. The room was enormous, with a high vaulted stone ceiling and a back wall lost in its smoky recesses. Rows of oil lamps trailed down the walls on either side of the door. The walls themselves were heavy gray blocks of cut stone, carefully smoothed until they fit seamlessly together without mortar. He asked himself how air reached the room, then he traced the lamp smoke upward and noticed it disappeared through ornate carvings that decorated the high roof of the chamber. A heavy slam echoed off the walls and he turned to see the door had been sealed. As his eyes adjusted to the lamplight he searched the chamber. All he could see were long, neat rows of bundles, lining the length of the stone floor. With a shock he realized they were the bundles from the caravan. Otherwise the room seemed empty. At that moment he caught a flicker of movement, a tall figure at the far end of the chamber, passing shadowlike among the bundles, an apparition. Then a voice sounded through the dense air. "At last we meet." The stone walls threw back an eerie echo. "Is the place to your liking?" "I prefer sunlight." Hawksworth felt the cool of the room envelop his skin. "Where I can see who I'm talking to." "You are speaking to Prince Shapur Firdawsi Jadar, third son of the Moghul. It's customary to salaam, Captain- General Hawksworth." "I speak for His Majesty, King James the First of England. The sons of kings normally bow before him." "When I meet him, perhaps I will bow." Jadar emerged from among the bundles. He had an elegant short beard and seemed much younger, somehow, than Hawksworth had expected. "I'm surprised to see you alive, Captain. How is it you still live while so many of my Rajputs died?" "I live by my wits, not by my caste." Jadar roared with genuine delight.