'You mistake, sahib,' retorted George haughtily, 'this does not, did not belong to your grandfather; it belongs to an old woman who lives near the palace. She promised to sell it to me, and now I'm rather in a hurry to complete the bargain. Mem Boynton sahiba wants it, and they leave to-morrow or next day.' Dalel Beg, who had been turning the pot over and over in his hand, laughed. 'So you say it is another----' 'Certainly it is another,' interrupted George, annoyed beyond measure by his manner; 'it belongs, as I said, to an old woman. She has a daughter called Azîzan----' he paused, doubtful of putting Dalel on any woman's track. 'Azîzan!'--the Mirza signed his attendants to fall back with unwonted decision before he went on,--'Azîzan! tell me, Keene, a young girl? with eyes of light like potter's?' Evidently he knew something of, and was interested in, the girl, and George, now that it was too late, regretted having mentioned her name. 'Can't wait any longer now, I'm afraid,' he replied, glad of the excuse; 'just send one of your fellows up to my quarters with the pot, will you? Thanks, I've no time to lose.' Left thus cavalierly, Dalel Beg scowled after the young Englishman; then with a compendious oath turned back to the side door whence he had emerged, and, stumbling in his anger up the dark stairs, appeared again in Chândni's presence. He almost flung the pot beside her as she lay curled up on her bed, and then, driven to words by her arrogant silence began a volley of furious questions. What mischief had the woman been up to? How came it that the English cub had seen Azîzan? Azîzan, who after all was his half-sister, one of the race, though they did keep her out of his sight. And that oaf, that infidel---- His wrath was real, for beneath the veneer of modern thought the fierce jealousy of the Moghul lay strong as ever. Chândni gave a jeering laugh, 'Thou art too handsome for the maidens, O Dalel; too wicked also even for the race. Thou needest one like me to keep thee straight. Lo! there is nothing to know, nothing to tell. Hadst asked last night, the answer might have been other. I set a snare and it failed; for thou wert right--the boy is no boy, but a milksop. May fate send him death and us a black man in his place, else I stop not here!' Her jingling feet struck the ground with a clash and she yawned again. In truth she was tired of Hodinuggur, and longed for the Chowk at Delhi. Dalel, with a sneer adulterating his frown, looked at her vengefully, 'Wah! thou art a poor creature, putting the blame on others, after woman's way. Thy wiles are useless, forsooth, because the boy is a milksop. Then a strange mem comes and he sits drinking wine--my wine, look you, for his servant required it of me--until the dawn; then comes home tipsy after losing himself among the tent-pegs.' This was Dalel's version of the incident. It interested his hearer into provoking details by denial. 'It is a lie,' she said calmly.