The crackling laugh echoed again. 'Fools' tales, woman, fools' tales. Why should the _Huzoors_ trouble? Have they not soldiers and guns wherewith to kill?' 'But they have driven out the _Mimbrâns_[2]-committee; they have taken possession of all things. Hâfiz Ahmad's wife, who lives as a _mem_, said so. She said her husband----' The laugh crackled again. 'Ay! he is _mimber_, yet he knows which side of the wall to jump. And what be the rights and wrongs of the quarrel, I know not; but, as thou sayest, the _Huzoors_ have taken the reins once more, for the plague is nigh. So they are meddling with God's work, and finding _hospitar'ls_ and who knows what. And Hâfiz Ahmad, for all his grievance, hath recommended his father's--yea! Khôjee, the neighbouring house--as _hospitarl_. So, see you, sister, if folk were wise the _hospitarl_ might come to them, and a swinging rent beside; since Behâri Lai, the town clerk, told me the doctors said they must have both houses or neither--they were so nigh. Here, then, is Noormahal's chance. Let her claim a writing for half-rent, since, having right of occupancy by her marriage-dowry, Jehân cannot let without her consent. That would stop wheel-spinning for bare bread, sister.' But Khôjee's thoughts were not for herself. 'Can the _Huzoors_ make us go,' she quavered; 'can they force her?' Lateefa shrugged his shoulders. 'Nay! nay! but if she choose.' 'Then is that the end,' interrupted Khôjee, with a sigh of relief. 'Noormahal will never choose. She hath but two things left of kingship--and it comes closer through her than through Jehân, mind you, though, being woman she hath no claim like he-two things, the house and the ring! And she will keep both--for her boy.' Lateefa had his gay balloon balanced afresh on his palm. 'If she can keep the boy,' he said sardonically; 'but even kites are ill to hold with a rotten string.' So, balancing his burden of nothingness from one hand to another, as jugglers play with a ball, he passed out under the broken plaster peacocks, singing significantly, in his high reedy voice, the dirge of motherhood which so often echoes out into the Indian sunshine from behind closed doors-- 'O child! who taught thee to deceive! O child! who taught thee thus to leave My throning arms? Didst thou not say Thou wert their king for aye! So soon dost thou deceive? So soon hast learnt to leave Thy sonship's crown? To fling it down. Thy throne Is lone. Ah, me! ah, me!'