man--old now with a vengeance since he had reigned a good fifty
years--still keep butting rams and amuse himself with cock fighting?
Above all, did he still on festival days put on that small turban tied
in three folds, broad and showy, and having placed a plume nodding
over it in that style go to prayers? Babar wrote in his own hand--in
the Babari writing which he had just invented and of which he was
vastly proud--a letter to the kindly old man, telling him that he had
set out from Kâbul and hoped to be with him shortly. This he entrusted
to an ambassador who with the Dreamer-of-Dreams started express for
Herât; he himself having a small job on hand by the way, in the
punishment of some wandering tribes to the west.

It was not much of a task; but summer quarters in the hills had a
fascination for Babar, and he remained on the top of one of the many
ranges he had to cross; despatching Kâsim-Beg meanwhile with a body of
troops to scour the countryside for rebels.

There was a sense of freedom about the wide upland stretches of sweet
grass, where flocks and herds grazed placidly, where flowers blossomed
by the million, and the tall fir forests edged the downward slopes.
The whole world of blue waving hills touched the blue sky. One might
be adrift on a huge raft in the River of Life. Babar would doff shoes
and wander barefoot for hours, content with a chance shot after an
escaping deer, or a chance following of his own vagrant thoughts. And
these often fled in the direction of a House-of-Rest wherein dwelt a
frightened girl. He could not help it. He was made sentimental to his
heart's core. Remove the pressure of fine fighting, of ardent
ambition, and there he was, ready to be touched by pity, love,
admiration. And the thought of the woman to come was a perpetual
stimulus to his imagination. The mere fact that he did not know her
name was delightful; it took from the idea all trace of earth. And
Babar, though the very reverse of ascetic in his tastes and pleasures,
had ever been repulsed by sensuality. His was the Epicurean enjoyment
of the spirit, as distinct from that of the mind, or that of the body.
So in his thoughts he called the woman he intended should be his wife
"My moon," which is the eastern equivalent of "My queen"; and, in easy
dilettante fashion wrote more than one ode to that luminary. Most of
them were in Persian and contained exactly the proper number of feet,
and rang the appointed interchanges of meaning and words with
faultless accuracy. He was quite proud of them, and thought better of
them than of the one in Turkhi; which, however, he set to music and
sang, for his innate good taste was for ever breaking loose from
scholastic tradition. He twanged the tune on a _cithâra_ as he sat on
a rock in the moonlight and felt quite light-hearted over his own
unworthiness; it fitted so neatly into the rhyming fall ...

       Moon of still night!
         Whence the bright light
           that enfolds
       In its pure smile
         Earth's untold guile;
           that upholds
       Silver in glow,
         whiter than snow,
           this my hand
       Tuning thy praise?
         Whence come thy rays?
           From what land
       Bringest thou peace,
         thus to release,
           from its sin
       Stricken sad heart,
         wailing its part
           in Life's din?
       Lo! from God's sun
         must thou have won
           thy kind light.
       Though I am clay,
         watch me alway
           through the night.
       I am of earth;
         thine is the birth-
           right divine.
       Moon of my soul,
         thine is this whole
           heart of mine.

The distance from Kâbul to Khorasân was over eight hundred miles; so
with even every-day marching the journey would have taken some time,
and Babar was in no particular hurry. Less so than ever when news came
to him with the return of his ambassador, that Sultan Hussain had
suddenly died from an apoplectic seizure. At first Babar felt inclined
to turn back. His uncle, he knew, had left his kingdom, in unheard of
fashion, to his three legitimate sons, in defiance of the old saw
about the ten dervishes, and Babar had too much experience to believe
that such an arrangement could work satisfactorily. However he had
other motives for advancing, and therefore he continued his route,
and, passing over the last range of high hills, found himself in the
country where the advanced detachments of the Usbek force were already
raiding. This in itself was an attraction, bringing as it did a chance
of fine fighting. He found his cousins, the new Kings, encamped, ready
to meet the advancing foe on the Murghâb river; or rather he found two
of them. The third, from private motives of pique had refused to join
the confederacy. This appeared to Babar to be inexpressibly mean, when
everyone else had united and were sparing no efforts to oppose an
enemy so formidable as Shaibâni. He could not understand how any
reasonable man could pursue a line of conduct which must after his
death, stain his fair fame. Surely everyone with the commonest grace
would push forwards his career, so that, even if closed, it would
conduct him to renown and glory, since fame is truly a second
existence?

These sentiments, however, fine as they were, did not make much mark
on the luxurious camp on the banks of the Murghâb. His cousins
received Babar fairly well, though their manners required some
polishing up by old Kâsim-Beg's inflexible rules of etiquette. Of
course, the fact that two of the younger and illegitimate princes did
not come out as far as they ought to have done to welcome their Kingly
cousin was objectionable; but that might be put down to delay in
starting due to an over-night debauch, rather than to intentional
slight. But when it came to the State reception in the Audience Tent,
Kâsim had to pluck at his young master's girdle and remind him with
this jog, that he was to go no further, but to await his eldest
cousin's advance. Which he did obediently, knowing that old Kâsim held
his King's honour as his own, and was keenly alive to his consequence.

But he, himself, was always forgetting these _convenances_, where he
was concerned. If you really felt affectionate it was a nuisance
having to wait, and bow, and scrape.

The State reception, however, went off very well and it was followed
by a sort of entertainment at which wine was served in goblets of
silver and gold, that were put down by the meat!

Fateful innovation which sent old Kâsim back to his own camp hungry,
in the highest of dudgeons.

"Had it been a drinking party, sire," he protested, "'twould have been
my own fault for being there. But at an official dinner, 'twas
scandalous. No faithful Mussulmân could touch a morsel of food so
defiled."

Babar, somewhat regretful at a rather abrupt departure, murmured an
excuse to the effect briefly, of "_autres tempes, autres moeurs_";
whereat Kâsim-Beg, a purist for the old ways, broke out hotly:

"Lo! sire! the Institutions of Ghengis Khân have brought your
Highness' family well through much trouble. Sacredly have they
observed them in their parties, their courts, their festivals, their
entertainments, their down sittings, their risings up, and it would
ill become their descendant to flout them."

Babar flushed up; in his heart of hearts, he was not quite such an
admirer of the old Turk. "Lo! the Institutes are good enough," he
said; "a man may well follow them; yet are they not of Divine
authority, so that one be damned for disobeying them. Besides, see
you, what hope would there be for the world if folk made no change? If
a father has done wrong why should not a son change it to what is
right?"

Old Kâsim, munching away at the dry bread and pickles which was all
his servants could produce, snorted. "'Tis the other way round most
times; and see you, sire, I give those Kings your cousins one year,
one little year, to hold Herât! Then the Kingdom of their father--God
rest his soul since he had gleams of grace and once let one of his
God-forgetting sons go before the magistrate--held--despite wine
bibbing--for nigh fifty years, will have gone for ever."

"Aye," replied Barbar, thoughtfully. "I have noticed that myself. Some
men drink with impunity. I wonder if 'twould hurt me?"

"God forbid! your Majesty!" said old Kâsim with a tremble in his
voice. "Shall all our care, mine and the saintly Kwâja who held you as
a boy in his guardian care, be wasted? God forbid, say I."

But Babar said nothing; he knew that in his inmost heart he had had
for years a great longing just to see what it was like to be drunk! It
could scarcely hurt for once, and the land of inebriety could hardly
be the arid desert it had been painted for him, or so many folk would
not wander in it.

He was always open to reason on all points. Nevertheless he gave out
solemnly that he drank no wine, and his cousins, being good hosts,
refrained from pressing him to do so.

Badia-zamân, the elder of the three, doubtless thought little of him
for the abstinence. To be young, good-looking, able to enjoy yourself
in every way and yet not to take the best of Life, seemed to him sheer
foolishness; and he showed his estimate in his manner, so that Babar
came home from his second interview in a fume of anger.

"This shall not be!" he said hotly. "Kâsim! send proper
representations that young as I am, I am of high extraction. Twice
have I by force regained my paternal Kingdom, Samarkand. To show want
of respect to one who has done so much for his family by repelling the
foreign invader is not commendable."

For a marvel the young King was on his dignity, much to old Kâsim's
joy. And with good result; for nothing more could have been desired at
the next audience which Babar attended with his full retinue. And a
fine figure he looked, dressed in the very latest fashion with a gold
brocade coat, a flowered undershirt and white silk baggy trousers all
lined with gold thread. His hair, too, was scented and curled and his
turban tied with a difference. A very different person this from the
ragged, out-at-elbow fugitive, or even the stern young soldier in his
tarnished coat of mail, fighting for life against overwhelming odds.

He rather liked the change. It was a new experience to ruffle with
gilded youth, and he ruffled fairly until his boon companions began to
play indecent and scurvy tricks, when he left, disgusted for the time
being. But the entertainments were wonderfully elegant. There was
every sort of delicacy on the comestible trays, and _kababs_ of fowl
and goose; indeed dishes of every sort and kind. The Prince-Kings vied
with each other in the refinement of their luxuries, and certainly
Badia-zamân's parties deserved to be celebrated; they were so fine, so
easy, so unconstrained. On the other hand Mozuffar's entertainments
were more amusing, especially when the wine began to take effect.
There was a man who danced excessively well; a dance of his own
invention.

"Dance or no dance," grumbled old Kâsim, "the Princes thy cousins have
taken four months to reach this place. And now news comes that a
plundering party of Usbeks is well within touch not more than forty
miles off--and they dance! 'Twill be to another tune ere long."

"Mayhap they would let me go," said Babar eagerly, "'twould be a
diversion."

So he was off to lay his proposition before his Cousins; but they,
afraid of their own reputations, would not suffer him to move. The
fact was, as he admitted to old Kâsim privately, the Princes, though
very accomplished at the social board or in the arrangements for a
party of pleasure, and though they had a pleasing talent for
conversation and society, yet possessed no knowledge whatever of the
conduct of a campaign, and were perfect strangers to the arrangements
for a battle, or the danger and spirit of a soldier's life.

This left nothing more to be said; especially as his hearer agreed
with every word.

Early autumn, however, had passed, and Shaibâni, being a careful
general, prepared to withdraw his forces against the winter's
cold. This being so, there was no longer any reason--there had been
but little before--for remaining in camp at the Murghâb, and the
Prince-Kings proposed a return to Herât and invited Babar to accompany
them.

"Were I your Highness," said old Kâsim sturdily, "I would not go. So
far God in His mercy has kept virtue on the lips of the King, and kept
wine away from them. But in that God-forsaken city of Herât who knows
what might happen? They tell me even the women there are castaway, and
that your uncle the late King's widow drinks like a fish--may God
reward her!"

"I have never seen a woman drink wine," said Babar quite thoughtfully.
"Have you?"

Kâsim looked at his young master critically.

"New things are not always good things, sire," he replied drily, "and,
as was mentioned ere we set out from Kâbul, God only knows what may
happen there if we delay our return too long. Already have five months
passed and 'tis a fifty days' march homewards."

"Not if we take the high road," said Babar.

"The high road," echoed the old general; "that may be covered with
snow any moment now."

"Yet will I chance my luck," returned Babar gaily. "See you, old
friend, I have my reasons! I must see Herât--in the whole habitable
world they say there is not such a city; besides ..."

He paused, for his was a truthful soul even to itself; and he knew
that the past six weeks of jollity and convivial male merry-making had
considerably dimmed his desire to do his duty and marry. Still he had
promised himself he would try and seek out his Cousin Gharîb's
betrothed--for she had never been his wife--and he meant to do it.
Between whiles of course. For he must make the most of his time in
Herât. Yes! it would be a pity to miss the chance of his life. To be
in the most refined of cities which possessed every means of
heightening pleasure and gaiety; in which all the incentives to, and
apparatus for, enjoyment were combined into one vast invitation to
indulgence, and _not_ to indulge, would be foolish. If he did not
seize the present moment, even to the point of tasting wine, he was
not likely to have such another.

And, certainly, wine seemed to raise the level of a man's mind. His
cousins were but dullards out of their cups. And there was no need to
exceed. To be dead-drunk was no pleasure to anyone.

       The Load of Love, nor Earth nor Heav'n can bear,
       Yet thou, Improvident! wouldst lightly wear
       The lovers' yoke, give up the flaming sword,
       Fool! Love only can bear love! Beware! Beware!
                                            _Ebd-ul-Homîd_.

Herât was entered. It was his!

Babar, his eyes wide with curiosity and appreciation had ridden
through what were to him interminable streets. He had seen towers and
pleasure houses and palaces rising on all sides, had noted the crowds
which surged out from every side alley to see one who was already
renowned in the songs of half Central Asia, as the embodiment of
youthful valour. And all had been simply inconceivable in its beauty,
its size.

Yusuf-Ali who had been appointed his guide, rode at his right hand,
and supplied him with endless information. Close on a million of
people in the town and suburbs. Over a hundred and seventy thousand
occupied houses. Nigh on four hundred public schools.

Shops! Why there must be at least fifteen thousand of them!

The statistics went in at one ear and out at another. It was the sheer
beauty of the place which held Babar's mind. The wide valley, the
surrounding hills just touched with snow. The white buildings
following the blue curves of the river. The marble colonnades
terracing the slopes, the marble palaces crowning the heights; and,
dense-packed between high carven houses, the multi-coloured crowd all
intent on pleasure. Roars of laughter rising from it at every passing
jest, a chorus of "Victory, young champion!" following him as he rode
along.

By God and his prophet! Life was a splendid thing to live!

Had he had Prince Fortunatus' purse in his pocket he would have flung
gold pieces along every inch of the way.

Even in the mausoleum of his lately deceased uncle, where, in
accordance with etiquette he had, before even taking up his quarters
in the palace assigned to him, to pay his respects to the female
members of his uncle's family, his ceremonial condolences were
somewhat marred by the _joie de vivre_ which simply exhaled from
him. Yet he was none the less sympathetically impressed by the dim
Dome-of-Kings all lit up darkly by swinging lamps, by tall funereal
tapers throwing flickering shadows on the purple-crimson pall fringed
with gold that covered the catafalque.

Dim blue clouds of incense filled the air; their scent mixed with the
perfume-sodden rustle of the silks and satins beneath the circle of
ivory-tinted mourning veils that enshrouded the crouching figures of
the female mourners. The low guttural chant of canons appointed to
sing prayers for the repose of the dead, rose monotonously, a fitting
background to the little conventional sobs and cries, as each lady in
turn stood up to embrace the newly arrived member of the family.

There were so many aunts to embrace; but Babar went through them
decorously; with a little real emotion when he hugged Aunt Fair, and
some rather obvious impatience when fat, silly, Astonishing
Beauty--who loved young men--hugged him.

They did not, however, keep up the "_marsiah_" for long; the
ladies--who after the expiry of five months had got over the first
flush of grief--being anxious to have their handsome relative's budget
of news.

So they all repaired to Khadîjah-Begum's house and had a repast. It
was very refined and--rather to Babar's disappointment, for he was
curious to see a woman drink wine--strictly teetotal; doubtless
because Payandâ-Begum, the late King's chief wife and--as his father's
sister--Babar's real aunt, was present. And she was naturally of the
highest circle of distinction and of the most correct behaviour.

Khadîjah-Begum on the other hand, whom Babar now saw for the first
time, showed her low birth despite the fact that as favourite wife she
had managed the court for years. Even the knowledge that she was
Cousin Gharîb's mother could not prevent Babar's putting her down at
once as a vulgar talkative woman who posed for being a person of
profound sense.

There was another Begum of the late King's present, however, on whom
the young observer, seeing her for the first time, passed a very
different opinion. This was one Lady Apak, a delicate fair woman who
spent her childless life in nursing other people's children, and who
Babar felt deserved all the respect and kindness it was in his power
to give.

He was not sorry however, when, various other visits paid, he
found himself in the house assigned to him. And sure, no better
place could have been discovered in the whole habitable world! For it
was the garden palace which the great Master-of-all-Arts, Messer
Ali-Shîr--dead this while back, God rest his soul!--had designed and
built for himself. Babar spent hours wandering through its cool
corridors, sitting awhile in cunning alcoves whence the enchanting
view, framed in gilt filigree arch, showed like a picture indeed. He
sampled the rose-water baths, all mosaicked like a garden with buds,
and leaves, and blossoms; he sat stroking the soft silk pile of
carpets, green and set with flowers as thick as Andijân meadows in
spring. And there was one, deeply darkly verdant and almost covered
with the softest, fleeciest white furry blobs, on which he could have
lain down and cried, so keenly did it bring back the mantle of clover
lambskin into which he had poured the first grief that had come to his
young life.

He read round the walls of the central marble hall, veined and
mosaicked with precious stones, the boast that in after years one of
his descendants was to use in the Court-of-Private-Audience at Delhi.

"If Earth holds a Paradise--it is this, it is this, it is this."

Yes! it was true! Not only in the hall, but in every niche and
corner--in the ivory carven bedstead, in the crystal goblets inlaid
with coral, in the curiously beaten metal-work, in the very shading of
the coloured tiles, here was perfection of Beauty. Even with their
shoes doffed in respectful Oriental fashion, Babar could hardly endure
to see servants, whose minds he knew were not attuned to that high
level, passing backwards and forwards in what he felt to be a Shrine.
He dismissed them all and sat, pillowed by the softest down, looking
out from the colonnade which gave on the garden. It, also, must be
beautiful beyond compare. He would see that to-morrow. To-night it was
sufficient to revel in the burnished dusk of the orange trees, seen in
the soft moonlight, to watch the glittering radiance of the fountain
drops against that background of distant hills--purple--aye!
positively purple even in this light. Lo! it was beauty concentrated
almost to pain. Beauty, unearthly, beyond the senses. Something not to
be seen, or heard, or tasted, or touched, or even felt. Beauty that
brought an utter abnegation of Self.

"This slave has a letter for the Most High," came a clear sweet
voice. "It is from his Cousin Gharîb. It was to be given--if occasion
came--in private, and in person if possible. So I have brought it."

Babar turned quickly. At first to see nothing. Then several paces away
faintly outlined against one of the square white pilasters he caught
the silhouette of a white, curiously shadowless figure. A woman's
figure surely; slim, elegant, despite the enshrouding veil.

He rose swiftly; his heart beating. His dead cousin! Could it be--No!
Impossible--And yet--

"With deepest reverence--mother," he said almost mechanically, as the
figure remaining quiescent he stepped forward to take what it held
out. He could see the hand--a marble hand in the moonlight--beyond the
line of the pilaster.

A pretty hand too, with fingers pointed and delicate.

"May God reward you," came his mechanical thanks, as instinctively he
stepped back again.

The figure remained quiescent, silent. In the moonlight he could see
clearly the sweeping black curves of the writing. The letter was very
brief.

"_Shouldst thou, cousin, ever come to Khorasân, I have counselled her,
who was my wife in name, to give you this. I make no claim, I express
no wish save this--I should like her to be happy, for I have loved
her--and thou also, O Babar. Farewell! May the Crystal Bowl give Love,
not Tears_."

For an instant Babar stood confounded, irresolute: it was so
unconventional: so almost impossible. Yet it fitted strangely with the
place; with his vague feeling that had been beyond even Time and
Space.

[Illustration: "'THIS SLAVE HAS A LETTER FOR THE MOST HIGH'"]

There was a ruby jewelled lamp swinging from the arch between them. It
scarce gave light, but it sent a patterned shimmering rose upon the
white marble floor. A gentle breeze swayed the lamp; the rose
flickered between them backwards and forwards. His eyes were on it as
he stood holding the letter, the moonlight catching at the signet ring
he wore, dallying with the gold embroidery of his light silken coat.

"Is it possible," he said at last, fluttering a bit like a girl, "that
she who stands before me--"

"Yea, I am she," came the composed reply.

It settled the young man by bringing conviction of his own confusion.

"But how--" he began, a certain blame in his surprise; and once again
the answer was ready, grave, sufficient.

"My lord's slave comes every Friday after the custom of her
family--she is of the blood of the divine Jâmi as doubtless my lord
knows--to place flowers on the tomb of the now sainted Messer
Ali-Shîr--may his ashes rest in peace--who is interred by his own wish
in this garden, and who was her distant relative. But in life he was
ever kind to this dust-like one, teaching her, and allowing her to be
his disciple. So her litter comes hither often. It awaits her return
yonder at the grave. Thus the letter was easy to deliver in person,
and it is delivered. May God keep the King."

Faintly the figure moved as if to go; but Babar stepped a step
forward. His head was in a whirl, his heart curiously steady.

"And has the cupola of chastity no word to say of herself?" he asked.

"What word is there to say, my lord?" came the quick reply. "I have
performed my duty. The rest lies with my lord."

There was just a suspicion of raillery in the voice which spurred
Babar to hardihood.

"Then I would fain know if--if she who thus deigns to honour me is
satisfied with--with what she sees?"

"But yea! my lord, quite satisfied! And this is not the first time she
has seen my lord. She was at the window when he made his entry to the
town."

"Then the lady has doubly the advantage," said Babar with an
irrepressible laugh. "Yet will I not ask her to make us equal and
unveil. That were not meet at such a time and place."

There was just that faint suspicion of conscious virtue about the
remark, but it was met promptly, coolly.

"Nor is there need. My lord would not be frightened at what he saw, as
I, poor foolish child, was frightened. But I lived to be wiser. I
lived to know that deformity of body is as naught before deformity of
mind. But my lord has neither. Nor has this dust-like one. She is
counted beautiful, and though she catalogues not her own charms, she
hath two eyes, somewhat large, that look straight, a passable nose,
thirty-two sound teeth, even and white, and a mouth that can say kind
things harshly, and--an' it please my lord--harsh things kindly. Shall
the recital proceed further, my lord?"

"By God and the prophets no!" cried Babar catching fire at last.
"There is but one more thing between us. Lady, wilt thou take me for
husband?"

"Of a surety; therefore came I here." So far the reply was as ever,
cool, collected, without shadow of emotion; now the sweet, polished
voice broke faintly. "There is but one matter of which I would remind
my lord. I am older than he by three years. And I am not quite like
other women. Messer Ali-Shîr taught me much. If my lord would rather
someone else--"

The rose light on the pavement flickered between them backwards and
forwards.

"Lady," said Babar, and involuntarily he drew himself up to his full
height, "in my childhood they married me to one for whom I cared
little. She left me, saying truly, I did not love her. Awhile back my
mother--God rest her soul for she was very dear to me--married me to
yet another wife whom, mercifully, God took; since we were as cat and
dog. But I have never loved a woman. I do not now; perhaps I never
shall. 'Tis well to be prepared."

Was it a faint sigh, or only another breath of wind that set the
swinging lamp swaying.

"I am prepared. And God may send the father's love to the mother of
his son."

There was silence. The splash of the glistening fountain made itself
heard faintly; the soft coo of a dove in the orange trees seemed a
lullaby to the whole wide world.

"Lady," said Babar when he spoke at last, "I have sworn to myself that
none should know of my marriage till it was accomplished. Till I could
place my wife before them and say 'See her whom I have chosen.' I stay
but a week or two in Herât. My kingdom calls me back. Is it possible
that ere I go the formulas may be said privately, so that when good
fortune enables me to send to Herât it may be for my wedded wife that
I send?"

There was a pause Then the cool, quiet voice replied, "Wherefore not,
my lord? I have said I am ready."

"But when?" Babar spoke anxiously, almost appealingly. He felt himself
as wax in a woman's hand--a woman he had never seen.

"Next Friday, my lord, when I come again to lay the flowers at the
shrine. If my lord makes preparation, and if he changeth not his mind,
his servant will be there."

"Unless she also changeth her mind," interrupted Babar with forced
lightness.

"That might be," came the answer. "Yet is it not so likely as the
other. The caged bird does not choose its song. And now farewell. God
have you in his keeping."

The figure stooped to gather its flowing robes together, and something
in the supple elegance of the movement sent Babar's blood to his heart
and head.

"Not so, my moon," he cried, every atom of him vibrant with emotion.
"Not so do we part." And with two swinging strides he was across the
flickering rose light on the marble floor, took the hand held out to
him unflinchingly, and stooped to kiss it.

"Wife and mother, guardian and friend, so shalt thou be to me, so help
me God."

The next instant he was alone staring into the night, wondering if he
had fallen asleep and dreamt it all.

No! It was a reality. His signet ring was gone. He must have put it on
that firm delicate hand, the memory of whose touch thrilled him
through and through.

And he had called her his moon. Yet his heart was beating tranquilly.

When he lay down on the carven bed he did not toss and turn. He did
not even feel inclined to indite a sonnet to his mistress's eyebrow or
compare her to anything in heaven above or the earth beneath.

He was simply content, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It was not
till the next morning that he recollected that he did not know the
lady's name, nor where she lived.

Not that either ignorance mattered. He would find out next Friday.

                              CHAPTER IV

       Noisy the Tavern where Life's wine has sped
       From variant cup to fuddle variant Head;
       Love peeps through crannied Door; each Drinker straight
       Flings cup aside to follow Her instead.
                                                 _Ebd-ul-Hamîd_.

There was not much time for thought in Herât. Early in the morning
Babar was astir to ride out with Yusuf to some of the sights, and find
the first collation of the day spread in some suitable place.

Then on his return there was the State visit to the Court, where with
pomp and circumstance he took his place as King of Kâbul.

After that, each day had its entertainment at some new palace of
delight, and sometimes after dinner had been served, the party would
be carried off by one of the guests to a further and more intimate
circle of amusement.

Once this was done by no less a person than Khadîjah-Begum herself.
She took a few of the young princes to the King's Pleasure House, a
delightful little edifice of two storeys high which stood in the midst
of a still more delightful garden. The upper storey was simply
perfect! Four little apartments at the four corners, each with a wide
balcony, and between them and enclosed by them, one large central
arched Hall. Every portion of this upper storey was covered with
frescoes representing the battles of Babar's grandfather Sultan
Abusa'id.

And it was all so charmingly arranged. Carpets and hangings
everywhere; especially in the balcony where the party assembled and
where Babar as the guest of the evening was placed above his hosts.
These little attentions always flattered Babar and he never failed to
notice them. So the entertainment began with a cup of welcome which
was charged and drunk by the host in chief. Then the cupbearers began
to fill up the cup of the others with pure wine which everyone,
including Khadîjah-Begum, quaffed as if it had been the water of life!
Only the tall good-looking young King refused, even when, the party
waxing warm, and the spirit mounting to their heads, they took a fancy
to make the young abstainer drink also.

The night was fine, the moonlight streamed in upon fruit and flowers.
Jelâl the flute player fluted to perfection, and Bechâb on the harp
might have wiled doves from their nests. Then Hâfiz sang well in the
Herâti style, low, delicate, equable. Everything tempted to pleasure
and Babar sat with a half-frown on his kindly face watching the others
get lordily drunk.

Then mercifully a false note was struck by one of his own following.
Jahângir Mirza, who was far gone, insisted that his favourite singer
of Samarkand should delight the company. And the man sang (as he
always did) in a loud harsh voice and out of tune; altogether a
dreadful, disagreeable performance. So disagreeable that the Khorasân
Princes, though far too polite to stop it out of respect to Babar, had
to yawn and furtively protect their ears. This, and the reflection
that if he was to yield and taste wine it would be more courteous to
do so when he was the guest of the eldest of the Princes, and not of
the younger, decided him not to give way; at that party at any rate.

But he was no wet blanket; for after a time, having had enough of the
Pleasure-House, they repaired to the new Winter-Palace, where Yusuf,
being by this time extremely drunk, rose and, for a marvel, danced
remarkably well; possibly because he was a musical man. Here they all
got very merry and friendly. Babar was presented more or less
ceremoniously with a corselet, a sword, a belt, and a whitish Tipchak
horse, and someone sang a Turkhi song well. On the other hand while
the party was hot with wine two slaves again performed indecent scurvy
tricks. But this time Babar did not leave. He remained to the bitter
end when the party broke up at such an untimely hour that Babar
thought it best to stay where he was; the others doubtless, being too
drunk to move.

Perhaps it was this experience, coming in such close contrast to the
marvellous peace of that moonlight night when, as if in a dream, he
had handfasted a nameless woman, that made Babar listen to old Kâsim's
horror-struck remonstrances concerning his young master's failing
adherence to orthodoxy in the matter of wine.

The rigid old Mahomedan was fairly scandalised, and made such a fuss
that the Khorasân Prime-Minister intervened, and took _his_ young
masters to task so severely that they wholly laid aside any idea of
urging their cousin further to drink.

Rather perhaps to that cousin's private regret. It seemed a thousand
pities to leave Herât without having tasted all Life's pleasures; all,
that is, that were not indecent or scurvy. And a man could be drunk
and yet remain a gentleman.

Still, when the elder prince did give the promised party, at which
Babar had promised himself he would for once drink wine, he still
refrained, though he fretted because his nobles thought it necessary
only to drink by stealth, hiding their goblets and taking draughts in
great dread. It was so foolish; when they knew he was never one to
object to the following of common usage, if so be the follower could
reconcile it to his own conscience.

He was altogether a trifle hoity-toity at this supper party; for a
whole goose, after Herâti fashion, being set down before him, he did
not touch it; and, on his host's asking if he did not like it, said
frankly, that being accustomed to the unrefined habit of having his
food served in gobbets, he did not know how to carve it.

Whereupon his host obligingly sent for the goose, cut it up, and
placed it himself before his guest. Badia-zamân was, of course,
unequalled in such attentions, and life was very delightful; yet still
Babar's thoughts began to turn to the next Friday, and after that to
Kâbul. His future life seemed more settled than it had ever been
before.

But Fate had a surprise in store for him, as he found out one
afternoon, when, after his usual kindly custom, he had gone to pay a
duty visit to his paternal aunts. Running down the narrow stairs which
led to Payandâ-Begum's upper storey, he came full tilt on two veiled
women coming up. The stair was but shoulder wide; no room to pass,
even had the first figure not been so appallingly stout. Impossible to
pass, rude to turn one's back on those who were evidently of the
circle of distinction--

Nor could he, King of Kâbul, retreat step by step like a lackey. He
stood for a second gracious, debonnair; then with a merry "Your
pardon, mother," wedged his arms tight between those narrow walls, so
swung himself back. And there, in two such bounds, he was up the six
steps and at the top of the stair.

"Have a care, nephew," shrieked a fat, familiar voice from the first
bundle. "Thou wilt fall and crush thy Yenkâm!"

"My bridesmaid!" cried Babar joyously, repeating the pet nickname.
"Say not so! When didst thou come?" And he was down the stairs again
to embrace a favourite aunt he had not seen for years, and help her
mount the remaining steps.

So, still panting, the elderly matron unwound her veil and stood
revealed; fat indeed.

"Lo! Yenkâm," said Babar, his eyes twinkling. "Had I fallen, I should
have fallen--soft."

"Fie on thee, scapegrace! God send thee not a skinny old age,"
retorted Habee-ba-Begum good humouredly. "But what of thy cousin
Ma'asuma here? Ma'asuma that is like the fairy princess, weighing but
five flowers--have a care of thy veil, child!"

The tiny little figure, slim and graceful, which now stood beside the
fat one, apparently made a court salutation beneath her thick veil,
and a bird-like voice said, with a laugh in every tone, "My cousin
Babar, never having seen my smallness, Mother, cannot gauge it."

The young King returned the salute in his best manner. "If the
gracious lady would allow me to judge," he began, when his Yenkâm cut
short his hardihood.

"Fie! no nonsense, children! Ma'asuma! Follow me. Thou must be
presented at once to thy eldest aunt. I shall see thee, scapegrace!
doubtless, later on."

So, with a nod to Babar, bundled propriety moved off down the
corridor.

Was it chance?--Was it really a trip over a tiresome veil...?

Anyhow Habee-ba-Begum had rounded a corner, and those two young things
stood staring at each other as if they had never seen anything in the
wide world before.

It was a real case of love at first sight.

As for him, he did not even realise what she was like. He only knew
that she was beautiful exceedingly. And she knew he was a Prince
indeed.

The mirth in their eyes died down. Then hers grew startled, his caught
fire. So they stood; till suddenly hers flamed back into his, and with
a low cry she huddled her draperies round her, turned, and fled after
her mother.

Babar stood still as a stone. What had happened to him? He felt
confused, lost, yet utterly, entirely, absurdly happy.

After a time he walked soberly downstairs feeling vaguely that the
world was a new world, and that he must go and find himself.

Once in the street he went on walking blindly, on and on, till he
found himself in desert places outside the town. Then, aimlessly, he
turned back and walked as he had come, wandering through the city as
though in search of mansions and gardens.

Yet all the while he felt as if he could neither sit nor go, neither
stand nor walk.

He was literally obsessed by a passion, pure in its very intensity; a
passion which at one and the same time made him long to be with its
object, yet covered him with shame and confusion at the mere thought
of her beauty.

He returned after long hours to Ali-Shîr's palace, worn out in body,
but yet more restless in mind. He had decided that this must be
love--love at long last. In that case he must write verses, and began
to catalogue the beauty of the face he had seen.

He remembered, now, that they were unusual; for little Cousin Ma'asuma
had the rare distinction of fairish hair and blue eyes. A little
flowerful face, merry, sparkling; rebellious curling hair flecked with
red gold--a tint of rose and creamy _champak_--

All this he remembered dreamily as he laboured to fit together the
fine mosaic of a Persian love ode.

      "Impassioned loved one! fairest of the fair,
       The waving tendrils of thy bronze gold hair
       Spread round thy face each one a separate snare;
       Thine eyes are vi'lets, centred by black bees
       Who seek to drain their sweetness to the lees;
       Thine eyebrows arch--"

He got so far as this, then threw away his pen in disgust.

Anyone could write that sort of stuff. He had read pages of it in
books: had sung such rhymes by the score. But that sort of thing had
nothing to do with his great love for Ma'asuma and hers for him.

For she had loved him, of course. The reverse was incredible, absurd.

He turned round and buried his face in the downy cushions that had, as
usual, been spread for him in his favourite corner of the colonnade.

He had had no dinner. He did not want any. He had refused his cousin's
invitations with some excuse. He forgot what--it did not matter.
Nothing in the wide world mattered but his love for Ma'asuma and hers
for him.

The moon was still bright. Not quite so bright as it had been that
night, five days ago, when he had promised to marry someone else.

Babar sat up, leant his head on his hand and began to consider how
matters stood. Oriental in mind, marriage was to him by no means
synonymous with love. He could legitimately have four wives at a time.
If he liked. But honestly he felt he would rather not. Still--as
nothing possibly could prevent his making Ma'asuma his wife--if the
other nameless lady wanted to be his wife also, he would acquiesce. He
would not go back from his promise. Only--what a pity he had called
her his "Moon"! That name belonged to his love by right.

So, as he sat dreaming, a voice said with the nasal twang of the
common folk--

"A letter for the Presence."

The coincidence of time and place startled him. He looked up
half-expectant of that tall, slim, female figure. But this was a lad
in the uniform of the Palace servants. A message mayhap from one of
the Begums. He took it carelessly from an awkward brown hand and
opened its seal.

A scent of fresh violets came to him as he did so.

And the letter?

It was written in the finest Babari hand--the hand he had
invented!--with a delicacy, an accuracy at which even the inventor of
it marvelled, and it contained but a quatrain; but such a quatrain!
Babar's scholastic appreciation of the form forced its way through his
emotional delight at the words. Ali-Shîr himself could not have
written anything neater, more absolutely correct in prosody. And in
such difficult metre too, with its enlay of rhymes.

      "My heart has part in this thy smart.
       Dear heart! have part in this my smart!
       Our sighs do rise twin to the skies;
       Thy heart, my heart, are not apart."

And it was signed:

      "Thy true friend Ma'asuma."

Yea! That was worth writing! That told the tale. Babar sprang to his
feet. The whole world seemed filled with radiance. He and Ma'asuma
were the only people in it.

But what should he answer? What should he write? Nothing but the
truth--God's truth.

"I love thee. I love thee, Ma'asuma. I love thee."

In his haste, his brimming emotion, the words fell from his lips, as
seizing pen and paper he set them down and signed them.

"Is that the answer?" asked the waiting lad as Babar held out the
missive impatiently. "Am I to take that to my mistress?" A faint
hesitancy over the latter words made the young man look at the boy--a
dull, rather sullen face, but not ill-looking.

"Yes!" he replied joyously. "Take it to thy mistress. It is my answer,
now and always!"

The lad _salaamed_ and went, leaving Babar in a heaven of perfect
content.

Two days later, on Friday evening, however, he was waiting to fulfil
his promise in Ali-Shîr's tomb. Absolutely Oriental as his outlook
was, so far as marriage was concerned, he yet wondered, vaguely, if he
were fool or knave in acting as he did. For the path of true love,
never very rough when Kings are concerned, had been made very smooth,
indeed, for the two young people. Babar had sent his Akâm to see his
Yenkâm and the whole affair had been settled in five minutes with
enthusiasm. Even the preliminaries had been arranged. It being nigh
December, Babar should return to Kâbul and make preparations there,
while Yenkâm would complete hers at Herât, and with the first blink of
returning spring, the marriage should take place at some intermediate
place. Meanwhile the young people, after Chagatâi fashion, had been
allowed to see each other and were in the seventh heaven of delight.
The betrothals were to be made public in a few days; though already
Babar's conduct was suspicious. For he refrained from his cousin's
convivial parties and mooned about in the gardens composing "Sonnets
of the Heart," as he was pleased to call them, in his native Turkhi
which gave him much more freedom than the severely technical Persian
odes.

These he sent as written to his dearest dear, and they invariably
brought back the most beautiful replies, more correct, if not
quite as genuine in feeling, as his own effusions. He felt he was,
indeed, in luck to find so peerless a maid, perfect in beauty and in
intelligence. One of these compositions--the last--lay in his
waist-wallet, as he waited in Ali-Shîr's tomb. The moon had not yet
risen, and all was dark. Yet he got up once or twice from the parapet
rail on which he sat, and paced aimlessly up and down.

In truth he was restless; vaguely dissatisfied with himself. He was
going to explain, of course--oh, yes! he would explain; but it might
have been better to write. Yet how could he, knowing neither her name
nor where she lived? He could have found out of course; but that might
have been to put his paternal aunts on the scent. They were dear
creatures, but dreadful scandalmongers. Besides he had so much to say.
A personal explanation would be easier; less abrupt, kinder. Not that
he meant to back out--far from it. He was ready to be a good, just,
generous husband; unless of course, the nameless one preferred not to
take second place, as she must do. There was no helping that. It was
not his fault. Love had come ...

He paced quicker as he remembered the words which had so touched
him-- "And God the Father may send a father's love to the mother of
his son." Well! God send He might; though that would be a different
sort of love altogether from this absorbing passion. Anyhow he could
do no more. A Kâzi, able if necessary to perform the marriage
ceremony, was within call. He, himself, was ready. All that was
wanting was the lady. Surely she was late in coming.

A rustle made him start and listen; but it was only the doves in the
orange trees.

No one! No one!

The moon rose after a time over the garden and flooded the terraces
with such silvern brilliance that the very pebbles on the path showed
distinct.

But no one came--no one!

Could she have heard?

Impossible; it was still a Court secret, and she was a religious
recluse--so far as he knew.

Besides; even if she had changed her mind, she might have come--or
sent a message.

So, at last, in rather an ill humour he went back to the Palace and
dismissed the waiting Kâzi with a handsome fee.

There was one more Friday ere he left Herât; and, feeling ill-used,
sore, yet in a way mightily relieved, he waited in Ali-Shîr's tomb for
another hour or so. No one should say _he_ had failed in his part of
the bargain! He was quite ready. Besides he had told the woman plainly
that he was not in love with her; so she had no right to feel
aggrieved. If she did.

But that could scarcely be. Every good Mussulmân knew she had no claim
to a whole man--though little Ma'asuma had every bit of him. Yea!
every bit. So it was as well, doubtless, that no one came.

And as he went back to the palace his only regret was that he should
have called the nameless one "My moon."

The title belonged to his love, of right; but she would, she could
never bear it because of the nameless one who had changed her
mind--apparently; but she had not sent back his ring!

                              CHAPTER V

       Forward and onward! do not ask the task,
       Fortune importune! Is not strife true life?

Kâsim-beg was in a fever to leave Herât. Marriage, he said, was good,
and it was proper to choose a cousin, who was doubtless charming;
though for his part he believed the rather in choice by outsiders; for
if the result was not happy there was no self blame, and self blame
was the devil for destroying decent calm. But Kingship was more
important still, and as the Most High had not been so very secure on
his new throne before he had started, he simply could not afford to be
away more than six months.

And Babar could not but admit his faithful old minister was right. So
he said farewell reluctantly to little Ma'asuma and started at the
head of his small army for Kâbul. And as he rode up the last slope
whence he could see the gilded city of Herât, he told himself he could
not have done it better. He had seen everything--he ran over the list
of the sights in his mind, and found eighty-two of them! In fact the
only one worthy of notice which he had omitted was a certain convent.
He flushed a little at the remembrance, and set the thought aside with
self-complacence that he had come through the temptations of the most
luxurious town in the world quite unscathed. He had not played any
indecent or scurvy tricks, he had not touched wine. He had altogether
been quite a virtuous prince. So, with characteristic buoyancy,
despite the fact that he had said good-bye to his first and only love,
he settled himself in the saddle, and his face for home.

Here difficulties arose at once. It began to snow the very day they
left Herât, and Babar was for taking the low road for safety's sake.
It was the longer of course, but the hill road was at all times
difficult and dangerous; in snow practically impassable.

But Kâsim-Beg, who had been in a fuss for days, behaved very
perversely, so that in the end Babar gave way and they started for the
passes, taking one Binâi, an old mountaineer, as their guide. Now
whether it was from old age, or from his heart failing him at the
unusual depth of the drifts, is uncertain; but this is sure--having
once lost the path he never could find it again so as to point out the
way!

However, as Kâsim-Beg and his sons were anxious to preserve their
reputation as route-choosers, they dismounted, beat down the snow and
discovered something like a road along which the party--much reduced
by defections due to the delights of Herât--managed to advance for a
day, when it was brought to a complete stand by the depth of the snow,
which was such that the horses' feet did not touch the ground. Seeing
no other remedy, Babar ordered a retreat to a ravine where there was
abundance of firewood, and thence despatched sixty or seventy chosen
men, to return by the road they had come, and, retracing their
footsteps, to find on the lower ground any Huzâras or other people who
might be wintering there, and to bring a guide who was able to point
out the way. This done they halted in the ravine for three or four
days awaiting the return of the men who had been sent out. These did,
indeed, come back, but without having been able to find a guide.

What was to be done? Nothing but place reliance on God and push
forward. So said Babar, a light in his clear eyes as he recognised
that he was in a tight place, that before him and his lay such
hardships and sufferings as even he had scarcely undergone at any
other period of his life. But then at no other period of his life had
Love been waiting, her rosy wings fluttering, for him to win through.

"Warm yourselves to the marrow this night," he said to all. "Eat your
fill and carry firewood in place of the victuals. We shall need every
atom of strength we can save and spend."

But he himself spent a wakeful night and wrote a Turkhi verse to
console himself. It ran thus and was rather poor; though nothing else
was to be expected under such circumstances:

      "Fate from my very birth has marked me down,
       There is no injury I have not known,
       Not one! So what care I what fortune bring?
       No harm unknown can come to me, the King."

They were up betimes, a long straggling party doing their best to
struggle on by beating down the snow and so forming a road along which
the laden mules could go. It was luckily a fine day and by evening
they could count on an advance of three miles. What was more, as no
snow had fallen, they were able to send back along the beaten track
for more firewood. So it went on for two or three days. Then the men
began to be discouraged, and Babar set his teeth. With Love awaiting
him at the other side, he meant to get over the Pass.

He only had about fifteen volunteers from his immediate staff, but
those fifteen, headed by vitality incarnate, worked wonders. Every
step taken was up to the middle or the breast in soft, fresh-fallen
snow; but still it was a step, and he who followed did not sink so
far. Thus they laboured. As the vigour of the person who went first
was generally expended after he had gone a few paces, another advanced
and took his place.

"Lo! gentlemen, 'tis as good as leap-frog," cried the young leader
joyously, and thereinafter they strove for steps. And as ever Babar
came out first. "See you," he said gravely, in explanation of his own
prowess, "'tis I brought you hither; and if we do not beat hard we
shall be beaten."

At which mild joke Kâsim laughed profusely, though he felt as if he
could have killed himself for having thus jeopardised his young hero's
life.

The fifteen or so who worked in trampling down the snow, next
succeeded in dragging on a riderless horse. This generally sank to the
stirrups and after ten or fifteen paces was worn out. The next fared
better and the next, and the next. And after all the led horses had
thus been brought forward, came a sorry sight. The rest of the troops,
even the best men and many who bore the title of "Noble" advancing
(not even dismounted!) along the road that had been beaten down for
them by their King! Some of them, certainly, had the grace to hang
their heads. But this was no time, Babar felt, for reproach or even
for authority. Every man who possessed spirit or emulation must have
hastened to the front without orders; and those without spirits were
worse than useless at such a time.

"We must do without them, Kâsim," said the young King, when his
minister would have spoken his mind. "'Twill not mend matters with
cowards to tell them they be such. Could any tongue circle the lie I
would praise them for their bravery, but with Death staring us in the
face I stick to Truth."

And to work also. The life and soul of the fifteen, he kept them going
by jokes and quips and the singing of songs. Aye! even when storm and
snow came with blinding force and they all expected to meet death
together. Then it was that, ahead of all, Babar's full mellow voice
rang out in such ballads as:

                        THE HAND OF THE THIEF

       The bog was black outside Kazân,
       now it is red!
       Last night there came a rich car-wân,
       Blood has been shed!

       Now Adham-Khân was over-lord,
       Judging the right
       Of quarr'l betwixt the Black-Sheep-Horde
       And they of the White.

      "Oh! Adham-Khân avenge the wrong,
       Thou art the head."
      "My hand holds fast the skirt that's long,"
       Smiling he said.

       Then rose in wrath young Zulfikâr,
       Girt on his sword.
      "Now show I him in full durbâr
       Right is the Lord."

       He saddled steed and rode away
       Over the sand,
       His hauberk rattling roundelay,
       God at his hand.

       And Adham-Khân, he sat in state
       Holding his court.
      "Now who is he who comes so late
       What has he brought?"

      "I bring a gift from the Black-Horde-chief,
       Thy honour's friend,
       And lay the hand of a common thief
       On thy skirt's end."

       The stiff dead hand skimmed through the air,
       Lay like a stone.
       Of all the court not one did dare
       Right to disown.

      "Oh! warrior hear! Against the right
       Keep thou from strife;
       But if the wrong is _done_ then fight
       Fight for thy life."

They were, in truth, fighting for dear life. And there was a chance of
it ahead of them; for, nigh the top of the great Zerrin pass, lay a
cave wherein shelter might be found. At least so said Binâi the guide.
But the snow fell in such quantities, the wind was so dreadful, so
terribly violent, it needed all Babar's courage not to give in.

But the rosy fluttering wings of Love would not let him yield. He
could not lose little cousin Ma'asuma. The very thought of her warmed
him; the scent of her hair came to him with the snow.

The drifts deepened, the possibility of path narrowed in the steep
defile, the days were at the shortest, with difficulty could the
horses be kept on the trampled road, yet all around was certain death
in unfathomed snow-depths.

Babar's face was stern. He was nigh his end, and he knew it.

And then, suddenly, a shout from keen-eyed Tengâri, old Kâsim's son.
"The cave! The cave! Yonder is the cave."

And it was; but to all appearance disappointingly small. Not large
enough to hold one-half of those seeking shelter, though the
surrounding cliffs in some measure tempered the bitter fierceness of
the wind.

"The Most High had better go in," said Kâsim, as Babar set to work
arranging what best he could for his troopers. "I will see to the
men."

But Babar shook his head and went on. He felt that for him to be in
warmth and comfort while his men were in snow and drift, for him to be
enjoying sleep and ease while his followers were in trouble and
distress would be inconsistent from what he owed them and a deviation
from that society in suffering that was their due.

"'Death in the company of friends is a feast.' At any rate, so runs
the proverb," he remarked lightly. "And indeed, Kâsim, having brought
these poor souls to this pass, it is but right that whatever their
sufferings and difficulties, whatever they may have to undergo, I
should be equal sharer in all."

So when he had done what he could and shown others what to do, he took
a hoe and dug down in the snow as deep as his breast without reaching
the ground, then crouched down in it. The day was darkening, evening
prayer time had passed, and still belated troopers came dropping in.
The snow was now falling so fast that the men in the dug-out shelter
ran some chance of being smothered as they slept from sheer fatigue.
Babar himself found four inches of snow above him as he scrambled out
of his hole when a last party straggled in, bringing Binâi the guide,
with the welcome news that the cave was far larger than hasty
observation would expect, and that a narrow passage led to quite a
spacious cavern within where there was ample room for all.

Joyful news indeed! Sending out to call in all his men, Babar soon
found himself, by one of his own extraordinary changes of luck, in a
wonderfully warm, safe, and comfortable place. For there proved to be
firewood within the cave, and such as had any eatables, stewed meat,
preserved flesh, or anything else they might have, produced them for a
common meal. Thus all escaped, as by a miracle, from the terrible
cold, the snow, the bitter, bitter wind.

And the rosy wings of Love fluttered gaily, as Babar laid himself down
to sleep--the first sleep he had had for days.

It was the turning point; though there was still distress and misery
to come.

The snow, however, had ceased to fall by the morning, the wind had
died down. Moving with the first blink of dawn they still had to tread
down the snow in the old way: but it was with more hope. The cave in
which they had rested was, as they were aware, close to the beginning
of the last steep ascent to the Great Pass. This, the shortest way,
they knew to be impassable, and even Kâsim and his sons, warned by
experience, did not advise its attempt. Bad enough was a lower valley
road of which old Binâi the guide had vaguely heard. Yet it was their
only chance, so they took it. But evening found them still in the
defile; and such was its precipitate nature, that there was nothing
for it but for every man to halt where he found himself, dismount,
scrape a hole in the snow for himself and his horse if possible, and
so await the tardy dawn to bring sufficient light for safe advance. It
was an awful night. The retreat of the storm had brought frost; icy,
keen, piercing; and though none of the hardy troopers actually lost
their lives, many lost hands and feet from frostbite. Babar himself
kept his blood warm by pacing up and down, singing at the top of his
voice with that curious instinct of shouting which comes always to
humanity with the grip of cold. Mayhap it cheered the others to hear
the mellow melodious chants echoing so blithely over the snow.

He sang many things, but his favourite was the

                     SONG OF THE SMILING SHEPHERD

       From Sunset until Dawn-of-Day,
       My forehead frozen with the Frost,
       I shut mine eyes like Wolf-at-Bay
       And sing to find the Sheep I've lost.

       When Angels walk at Break-of-Day
       Among pale wormwood on the lea,
       Upon the Night-of-Power, they say,
       My smiling soul came unto me.

       It had a palace of pure gold
       In Paradise and yet it chose
       To leave the Heat-of-Heaven for Cold
       And help me find the Sheep I love.

       So in the Dark and in the Snow
       We twain make up one Perfect-Whole
       And sing glad songs the while we go
       A Smiling-Shepherd, Smiling-Soul.

Dawn came at last and they moved down the glen. It was not the usual
road,--that was more circuitous--but with the snow filling up the
valley and obliterating precipices, ravines, crevasses, there seemed a
chance of being able to manage a shorter route, and time meant so much
to those exhausted men.

Yet Babar himself halted for awhile, and so did a few of his immediate
followers when his horse stumbled, fell, could not rise.

"Take mine, my liege," said half-a-dozen voices. But the young man's
face set.

"I will not leave the beast," he said resolutely. "It hath done me
good service and may do it again. See you! bring some of the men's
lances and their halter ropes. Samûr and I live together, or die
together," and he laid his young cheek to the horse's soft muzzle
affectionately.

Then starting up, he set the men to work to form a criss-cross raft or
sledge of lances on to which Samûr was pulled by main force.

"'Tis all down hill now," said he when it was finished, and seizing a
rope strained at it.

"Nay! Sire!" remarked old Kâsim drily--"If the Most Excellent choose
to risk lives for the sake of a dumb brute, let them be the lives of
dumb brutes, not Kings. Troopers! Six horses to save one!"

Babar hung his head, but held to the rope.

"Doubtless I am a brute also," he murmured half to himself, "so let me
be dumb; save for this--God made me so!"

The staunch old warrior heard the words and shook his head. Yet in his
heart of hearts he would not have altered one jot or one tittle in his
idol. Zahir-ud-din Mahomed Babar was for him the first gentleman in
the world.

"Truly," said the latter with pious cheerfulness after a time, during
which the sledge slipped easily down the steep slopes of snow, "it is
well said

      'Looked at wisely with clear eyes
       Ills are blessings in disguise.'

But for this extreme depth of snow which till now hath seemed our
worst enemy, we should all be tumbling down precipices and being lost
in crevasses."

This was obvious; but it cheered the party, until in the far distance
something more tangible showed to bring sudden alacrity to outwearied
steps.

A hut surely!

And that figure on the lessening snow slopes--was it a man?

Still it was nigh bed-time prayers before they extricated themselves
from the mouth of the valley and the villagers of Yâka-Aulang came out
to meet the forlorn party, to help, and even to carry, some of them
into warm houses, and thereinafter to slaughter fat sheep for them,
bring a superfluity of hay and grass for their horses, and abundance
of wood to kindle their fires.

Once again Babar felt that to pass from the cold and snow into such a
village with its warm houses, and to escape from want and suffering to
find such plenty of good bread and fat sheep as they did, was an
enjoyment that can only be conceived by such as have suffered similar
hardships, or endured such heavy distress.

But better by far to him than this material satisfaction, was the glow
at his heart when an old white-headed patriarch nodding by the
fireside, mumbled--

"Never has it been done before, never since the memory of man hath
Zerrin been passed in such snow. Never hath any man ever conceived
even the idea of passing it at such season--Never! Never!"

It was something to have done! After this, marching was easy. But the
strain had told upon the courage of the rank and file, and once when
the little party came upon a clan of Hazâras who disputed passage in a
narrow defile, there was near disaster. The young King, who was in the
rear, galloped up to find his force retreating before a deadly flight
of arrows.

"Stand!" he shouted. "Stand!" But the men would not be rallied.
"Fools!" he cried, rising in his stirrups, a fine young figure,
unarmoured, without sword or lance, without helmet or aught but his
bow and quiver--for the attack was entirely unforeseen and he had
been, for the time, off-duty--"Call ye yourselves servants to stand
still while the master works? Lo! He who hires a servant hires him for
his need; not to stand still like a slipped camel!"

So with a wild _huroosh!_ he set his horse spurring forward. The
reckless bravery did its work. The men roused by it turned to follow.
The ambuscade was reached, the hill beyond climbed after the enemy,
who, seeing the troopers were in real earnest, fled like deer. So the
danger passed; but Babar wondered vaguely that night if it was to be
ever so; if the great mass of humanity ever needed a flaming match ere
they would catch fire.

But there was more trouble to come, as, with such haste as was
possible--for the snow which was very heavy that winter, hindered them
even in the valleys--they pushed on towards Kâbul.

It was one day at noon when, being almost perished with the frost,
they had alighted to kindle fires and warm themselves ere going on,
that a messenger on horseback arrived with ill news. The Moghuls left
behind in Kâbul had risen, and, aided by outsiders and some of the
immediate relations of the King, had declared for Babar's young cousin
Weis-Khân, on whose behalf they were now besieging the Fort, which in
capable and loyal hands was still holding out for the rightful King.

"Said I not so, sire?" remarked old Kâsim drily. "The devil is in it
when women are left alone too long."

Babar flushed. "The devil is in a Moghul thou meanest."

Kâsim sniffed. "The Most High's step-grandmother Shâh-Begum is of pure
Moghul descent, I grant, if that is what my liege means. I stake my
word she is in it. Did I not beg the Most High to send her packing
back to Tashkend? Aye! and the boy and his mother too. Also the other
aunt of my liege's who married the commoner Doghlat; wherefore, God
knows, since some of us had better right to royal wives than he. But
if 'tis a question of aunts! the Most High is soft as buffalo butter."

Babar bit his lip. He felt that old Kâsim had right on his side; but
what could one do? They were women, and he was undoubtedly the head of
the family. But this was serious; the more so because the messenger
said that reports had been diligently circulated to the effect that
he, Babar, had been imprisoned in Herât by his cousins; and would
never return.

"They must know that I shall return," said the young leader grimly,
and forthwith wrote despatches to be conveyed to known loyalists in
the town, advising them of his immediate appearance, of which,
however, they were to say nothing. A blazing fire on the last hill-top
would herald his approach; this was to be answered by a flare on the
top of the citadel, showing that it was ready for a combined
surprise-attack on the besieging force.

With these orders given stringently, Babar set out at nightfall. By
dawn Kâbul lay before them and a glow of light from the citadel
answered their signal fire. All therefore was in readiness, so they
crept on to Syed Kâsim's bridge. Here Babar detailed his force,
sending Shirim-Taghâi with the right wing to another bridge; he
himself with the centre and left, making for the town. Here, instantly
all was uproar and alarm. The alleys were narrow; the assailants and
defenders crowded into them could scarce move their horses.

"Dismount! cut your way through!" rang out the order and it was
obeyed. A few minutes later Babar was in the Four-corner Garden where
he knew the young aspirant was quartered, but he had fled. Babar
followed in his track. At the gate he met an old friend, the
Chief-Constable of the town, who made at him with a drawn sword.
Babar, after his usual fashion, had despised either plate-mail or
helmet, and when, whether from confusion of ideas arising from the
battle of fight, or from the snow and cold affecting his eyesight, the
swordsman failing to recognise his King or heed his cry of "Friend,
Friend," hit a shrewd blow, Babar was like to have his arm shorn off.
But the grace of God was conspicuous. Not even a hair was hurt.

So, as quick as he could to the palace of Doghlat-commoner, where he
found Kâsim already on the track of the traitor; but the latter had
escaped! Here a Moghul who had been in Babar's service deliberately
fitted an arrow to his bow, aimed at the King and let go. But the
uproar raised around him, the cries and shouts "That is the King! That
is the King!" must have disconcerted his aim, for he failed of his
mark. And here also one of the chief rebels was brought in
ignominiously, a rope round his neck. He fell at the young King's
feet.

"Sire," he whined, "what fault is mine?"

The young face was stern indeed. "Is there greater crime," came the
clear, cold answer, "than for a man of worth and family as thou art,
to conspire and associate with revolutionaries?" Then the contemptuous
order came sharp, "But remove that rope and let him go hang himself.
He is of my family, no harm shall happen to him through me."

So on again through the town (where the rabble had taken to clubs and
were making a riot) in order to station parties here and there to
disperse the crowds and prevent plunder.

Thus, growing cooler, more dignified as stress ceased, to the
Paradise-Gardens where the Begums lived. No time like the present to
show his mettle, to let these foolish women know that he did not
consider their intrigues worth a man's consideration. He found
the chief-conspirator Shâh-Begum huddled up, out of all measure
alarmed, confounded, dismayed, ashamed. All the more so when that
brilliant young figure paused at the door to make its accustomed and
reverential salutation. He looked well, did Babar, with the fire of
fight still in his eyes, a certain quizzical affection about his
mouth. "I salute thee, O revered step-grandmother," he said
cheerfully, good-humouredly.

So crossing, he went down on his knees in filial fashion and embraced
the old lady cordially.

Whereupon, of course, she began to whimper. Babar sat back and looked
at her kindly.

"Wherefore, revered one? Lo! I am not vexed. What right has a child to
be so because his mother's bounty descends upon another? The mother's
authority over her children is in all respects absolute, save that
this grandson, and not the other is King of Kâbul!" Then he laughed:
"Lo!" he added, "I am so sleepy. I have not slept all night. Let me
rest my hand on thy bosom, grandmother, as I used to rest it on my
mother's."

The whimper changed into a storm of sobs.

And afterwards when the young aspirant and the Doghlat-commoner had
been caught and brought up for condign punishment by Kâsim, he forgave
them both.

"But the traitor deserves death, sire," stuttered the stern old
martinet. "He hath been guilty of mutiny, rebellion. He is criminal,
guilty; and the younger one is devil's spawn."

"You mistake, old friend," said the young King quietly; "they are of
my family."

Poor old Kâsim had to content himself by assenting loudly in whatever
company he found himself that however much the King might try to wear
away the rust of shame with the polish of mildness and humanity he was
unable to wipe out the dimness of ignominy which had covered the
mirror of those miscreants' lives.

                              CHAPTER VI

       Yes! Love triumphant came, engrossing all
       The fond luxuriant thoughts of youth and mind;
       Then in soft converse did they pass the hours,
       Their passion like the season fresh and fair.
                                                 _Nizâmi_.

The Judas trees were in full blossom. But a day or two before they had
been dry branches, brown, wrinkled, to all appearances dead. Now, with
a swiftness nigh miraculous they had flushed, every inch of finest
twig, to rosy red under their mantle of sweet-scented bloom. The
ground underneath them was already carpeted with fallen flowers, their
five-petalled cups, like those of a regal geranium, still perfect
utterly.

"'Tis like the blossoming of love in the heart, is it not, little
one?" said Babar idly, as, lying amid the spent blossoms he raised one
to perch it coquettishly on the goldy-brown curls that rested on his
breast.

He had been married five months to little Cousin Ma'asuma but it
seemed to him like five days. Aye! though happenings stern and sad had
filled the interval, Kâsim had been right. Herât had been plundered by
the arch-enemy Shaibâni. His cousins had fled, leaving wives and
children to fall into the hands of the conquerors.

At another time Babar's hot anger might have led him to attempt
reprisals, though he knew it would be but an attempt. But in these
first months of marriage he could not find it in his heart to leave
little Ma'asuma for any time--if, indeed she would have allowed him to
do so. For small, young, delicate as she was, those violet eyes of
hers could set hard as sapphires. Aye! and have a gleam in them too,
like any gem.

The first time Babar saw it, he caught her in his arms and half
smothered her with kisses until she bade him peremptorily put her
down. And then they had both laughed, and Babar had vowed in his
heart, that never had lover been so fortunate as he. His mistress
was--what was she not? Briefly, she was all things to him. He had
never been in love with a woman before, and his self-surrender was
complete.

Small wonder, indeed, if it were; for there was something almost
uncanny in the beauty of the face which looked up at him, love in its
eyes.

"Put it on thine own rough head, man," she said superbly, "thou
needest ornament more than I."

And it was true. From the tiny silvern and golden slipper she had
kicked off, to the light, gold-spangled veil which just touched her
curly head, she was ornament personified. The dainty heart-shaped
opening of the violet-tinted gauze bodice she wore over a pale green
corselet was all set with seed-pearls and turquoises, hung on cunning
little silvern tendrils. And the corselet itself! all veined with
golden threads and pale moonstones. So with the flimsy, full, almost
transparent muslin petticoat, pale pale green, that lay in shrouding
folds over the violet-tinted under garment. All edged and embroidered,
all scent-sodden with the perfume of violets--his favourite flower
then; to be his favourite flower till his death. Truly a marvellous
small person from head to foot!

"Have a care, man," she said sternly, as he crushed her closer to him,
"or we shall quarrel; and 'tis not good for me to quarrel--now."

He released her quickly, yet cautiously; gentle as he was, he was
always forgetting, he told himself, that she was doubly precious to
him--now.

"Lo! dear heart!" he said penitently, "we have not quarrelled these
five days."

"Not since I was angry because the tire-woman overdyed my hands with
henna," she replied mischievously. "And thou didst tell me there were
worse evils for tears. As if I cared; so long as my hands were not
pretty ... for thee." She held them up for him to admire. And they
were pretty. Delicate, and curved, and pink, like rose-petals. He
kissed them dutifully; so much he knew was expected of him, and he
loved the task.

"And as penance for rudeness, man," she went on, her face all dimples,
"thou wert to write me a love ode on the subject. Hast done it,
sirrah?"

"That have I," assented her lover husband gladly. "Dost know, little
one, I string more pearls now than ever; but thou--thou hast not
written one line since we were married; yet thou hadst the prettiest
art."

Ma'asuma lay back on her resting-place and laughed softly. "Someday,
stupid, I will tell thee why. But now for thy verses."

Babar caught up his lute and sat tuning it, his eyes wandering away to
the girdle of snows that clipped the blue hill-horizon. They were in
the garden of the New Year; alone, save for that dear grave yonder
where the jasmine flowers were drooping their scented waxen stars.

Dear mother! How glad she would have been to see Ma'asuma, to think of
the grandson who was so soon to make life absolutely perfect. Yes! the
cup of life, the Crystal Bowl could hold no more. He lost himself in
dreams, to be roused by an impatient, "Well! I listen."

Then he turned and smiled at her as he began with exaggerated
expression.

      "Oh, fair impassioned, whom God hath fashioned
       My love to be,
       Thy hands so tender, thy fingers slender
       Rosy I see.
       Be they flower-tinted or blood-imprinted
       From my poor heart?
       Torn by thy smiling, tears and beguiling
       Feminine art.
       Yet, sweet calamity! dwell we in amity
       Each perfect day.
       Yea! in the bright time. Yea! in the night time,
       Lovers alway."

"Sweet calamity!" she echoed, pouting her lips and trying hard to
frown, as the song finished. "Couldst find no other title for thy
lawful wife? And yet--" here smiles overcame her--"Lo! Babar! 'tis a
beautiful name and I am thy sweet calamity alway, alway!" Then
suddenly, to his dismay, she began to cry softly, the big tears
running down her pretty cheeks in easy childish fashion. "Nay!" she
went on, half-smiles again at his solicitude, "I am not ill,--there is
naught wrong. 'Tis only that I am lonely when thou art doing King's
work, which must be done. If only foster-sister would come, I should
not be so frightened."

"But my Yenkâm, thy mother, will be here--" protested Babar.

Ma'asuma shook her head. "It is _now_, dear heart! And foster-sister
will not come unless thou askest her. She said so. Couldst not write
to her, Babar?"

"But I know not foster-sister, nor aught of her, save that she was
good to my Ma'asuma, for which, may Heaven reward her!"

Ma'asuma sat up, her charming face happy in thought. "Oh! so good, my
lord! Not a real foster-sister, either; but we sat under one veil and
drank milk out of one cup. That was when we first came to Khorasân,
thy Yenkâm and I. And since then she--Babar!--Be not angry but I will
tell thee--I meant to have told thee--I should have told thee
before--"

The violet eyes showed trouble once more and Babar kissed them
deliberately. "What, sweetheart?" he asked carelessly. He knew the
gentle kindly heart too well to fear any revelation.

"Only it was she, not I, who wrote the verses--the verses I sent--I
was too stupid. And she is clever--oh! so clever!"

Despite his certitude the young man looked startled. "So," he said at
last, "Fortune hath not given me the grace of a poetess to wife. So be
it. But who is this paragon?"

Ma'asuma, however, was too delighted at having got over her confession
so happily to refrain from autocratic dignity.

"That I have said. She is foster-sister and of the circle of
distinction. Thy Yenkâm can tell thee of genealogies; they tire my
head. So write! Dost hear?"

Babar laughed. He loved to take orders from those sweet lips; besides
a certain zest came with the idea of writing to an unknown poetess.

"Yea! I will write," he said meekly, "but I will have to regard _zals_
and _zes_; for more elegant _nastâlik_ saw I never than hers."

So the letter was written and despatched express to the care of his
Yenkâm at Khorasân, and six weeks later little Ma'asuma sat beside her
foster-sister in the summer house of the new Garden of Fidelity which
Babar was laying out at Adinahpore, and whither he had taken his young
wife whose daily increasing delicacy filled him with concern. Of all
the gardens that Babar planted and watered, this was the one nearest
his heart. In a most romantic situation, on the south side of, and
overlooking the river, its groves of oranges and citrons grew
untouched by hard winter frosts, while every flower, every tree of his
beloved hill country flourished side by side with those of warm
climates. Above it towered the White-Mountain and the Almond-Spring
Pass, below it the valley debouched into wide fertility.

And Babar was hard at work, delving away himself like any Adam; making
a four-square cross of marble reservoirs, through which the clear,
hill stream might run, planting new flowers from here, there,
everywhere. The tan of his sunburnt face and hands contrasted sadly
with the sallowing skin of the girl-wife, who, despite his care, was
sinking under her task of son-bearing.

"Then he knows not who I am," said the tall, slender woman on whose
knee Ma'asuma was resting her pretty, weary head. "I deemed thou hadst
told him, as we agreed." She spoke gravely and her level black brows
were faintly knit. The rest of the face was richly beautiful in strong
sweeping curves, but those level brows and the dark, thoughtful eyes
beneath them held the attention. "Not that it matters," she added
quickly, seeing tears ready to brim over the violets upturned to her.
"After all, 'tis nothing to thy lord--or to any other man--whether I
be widow to Mirza Gharîb Beg or no, so long as I be honourable woman.
Therefore tell him not, now that I am here." And Babar coming in to
see his wife found the veiled new-comer courteous in speech, charming
in manner. Found also such favourable change in his darling's spirits,
that a glow of comradeship for his _aide_ rose up in his soft heart at
once.

So they were very happy together, those three, and by degrees
foster-sister's thick enshrouding veil was changed for a more filmy
one and Babar could get a glimpse of those glorious eyes and see the
little satirical smile about the strong curves of the mouth.

They reminded him vaguely, why he knew not, of his dead Cousin Gharîb;
but he never spoke of this to Ma'asuma. With her burden of coming life
it would be unlucky to speak of the dead. Thus a week or two went by,
and all insensibly the man learnt to rely on the woman who shared with
him the charge of the girl.

"The Most-Benevolent one is very good to my wife," he said suddenly
one day, "and my gratitude can only lie in words."

The Most-Benevolent bowed gravely. "Thanks are not needed.
Ma'asuma-Begum came into this dust-like one's life, when it was
unhappy. She hath been God's best boon to me."

"And to me also," answered the young husband sadly. Do what he would
he could not escape from fear, the shadow of impending evil seemed to
darken his life. He had to brisk and hearken himself up to face the
future; for perilous times were at hand. The fateful seventh month, so
much dreaded by Indian midwives was beginning; but his Yenkâm would be
with her daughter in a day or two, they would together take Ma'asuma
back in her litter to Kâbul by easy stages, and all would, all _must_,
go well.

It was one glorious morning in early August when this feeling of ill
to come, made him catch up his lute to chase away thought by song. He
had carried little Ma'asuma himself down to the tank half surrounded
by burnished orange trees which was the very eye of the beauty of the
garden. They had dismissed all attendants, bidding them leave behind
them their trays of sherbet and sweetmeats. But not even the perfect
loveliness of hill, and sky, and garden, not even the faint flush, as
of returning health, on the invalid's face could charm the splendour
of Life into Babar's soul. The Crystal Bowl seemed dull, opaque.

This must not be.

He set the strings of his lute a-twanging and began--

            "Clear crystal bowl. Thy wine bubbles laugh--"

The figure seated by the tank side, its reflection in the water, rose
suddenly as if startled, gathered its draperies round it, so, with
face averted, strolled off into the garden.

"There!" came Ma'asuma's reproachful voice, "thou hast driven her
away, stupid!"

The young man arrested in his song looked hurt. "But wherefore? 'Tis a
good song."

"Good mayhap," came the thoughtless answer, "but, see you! It reminds
her of Gharîb-Beg who wrote it."

"And wherefore not?" asked Babar swiftly.

Little Ma'asuma looked scared. "Lo! There I have told thee! and I said
I would hold my tongue! Because, see you, Gharîb-Beg married and left
her in the old days; whether rightly as some say, or foolishly, as
others, I know not; but 'twas so. She was religious for long years and
when I went to the school to learn the Holy Book, we became friends.
And oh! Babar, thou wilt never know how good she was to me when I fell
in love with my lord--and he with me." The roguish face, looking more
like itself than he had seen it for months, nestled on to his
shoulder.

He put his arm round the slender figure and drew it to him
mechanically, grateful that her words had given him time to pull
himself together.

Gharîb-Beg's wife! The woman he had called "Mahâm--his moon!"

"So." he said with an effort, "she was my cousin's wife; but wherefore
... was I not told?"

Ma'asuma pouted. "Because I did not at first. And then when she came,
she would not have it--why I know not--save that mayhap, before the
son was coming, I wanted thy praise for--for such things as verses.
And now, my lord must say naught. Promise me he will not, or she will
be vexed."

"I will not vex her," he said diplomatically, and changed the subject
adroitly by picking up a tiny red-silk cap half embroidered with seed
pearls on which his wife had been working, and which had fallen on the
path.

"Lo!" he laughed, "is that the way to treat my son's head-dress!" And
he held the ridiculous little object out on his forefinger and twirled
it round. So the question passed. But he was of too frank a nature to
palliate concealment and that night when the moon had risen, he found
himself once more confronting a tall, slender figure that stood,
aggressively this time, against a marble pillar. But there was no
swinging lamp to cast a rose reflection between them.

"Yea! Zahir-ud-din Mahomed Babar," said the proud voice. "It is even
as my lord hath divined. I knew. I was the lad who brought my lord his
mistress's message--which _I_ had written. It was to me that my lord
gave his 'I love thee, ever, ever!' This being so, what else was there
left to do, save what was done?"

The finality of her words struck Babar like a blow. He never minced
matters even with himself.

"Naught," he said gloomily. "Naught." Then he added, "But now?"

The veiled figure caught him up quickly. "Now? She must not know; she
must never know."

Babar stood still and leaning his head on his arm against the
pilaster, looked out into the garden. It lay silvern, peaceful, a
thing of perfect beauty, a place wherein no sinful man should walk or
set foot. "Lo!" came the sweet voice. "I have kept--I will keep my
lord's ring. It was not he who broke faith, but I."

"The Most-Noble is very good," he said simply and left her. There was
no more to say.

Had there been more, there would have been little time for it.

A hasty twinkling light showed ere long adown the palace colonnade.
Voices came in excited whispers. Her Highness, the Begum, was not
well. God send it might be nothing; but 'twas the fateful month.

Fateful, indeed! All that night long Babar waited in a fever of
anxiety, listening to the fitful wails, the thousand and one slight
sounds of sudden, direful sickness. What were they doing to his
Ma'asuma? his little Ma'asuma, his love, his heart's darling, his
little one? Would he ever see her again?

The dawn came, and still he watched, still he waited. The birds in the
bushes began to sing--to sing forsooth! while she lay in the shadow of
death! Heartless! cruel! For she must die! so small, so slender, how
could she stand out against those long hours of agony. Noon passed and
still he waited, every nerve in his strong young body wearied by
imagined pain.

It was not till sun-setting that a voice roused him as he sat crouched
in on himself:

"My lord has a daughter."

He was on his feet in a second, setting the idea aside as trivial.
What was son or daughter to him beside his dearest dear?

"She?" he asked breathlessly.

"My lord had best come and see," replied the kind, sympathetic voice;
he recognised it faintly, but it made no impression on him.

The small room was hot and close; full of smoke also from a useless
fire hastily lit up. And Ma'asuma lay covered by endless quilts. But
it was Ma'asuma herself who lay there peaceful as if already dead; but
her face was alight with feeble smiles. Only for a moment, however;
then the curly, goldy-brown head turned restlessly on the pillow.

"I am sorry--" she murmured, "I--I wanted it to be a son, but--but--"
the voice trailed away into weaker sobbing.

"Hush! silly one!" said Babar gently, his heart in his mouth as he
noted her looks. "What God gives is best. If she is like thee she will
be all I need."

A small trembling hand fluttered out to a corner of the coverlet.
"Like me. I know not. Babar! What wilt thou call her, when I am gone?"

The words cut him like a knife, because he knew they were true; there
was something which told him that the dearest thing on earth to him
was fast slipping from his grasp. Yet the simplicity of his nature
kept him calm.

"I will give her her mother's name," he said quietly.

Ma'asuma sighed with content and was silent for a space. Then after a
while her voice, weaker than ever, rose again, a low, monotonous voice
that told of ebbing strength.

"Babar! who will nurse my child? Give her not to strange women. Lo! I
never loved strangers; nor dost thou, thou, dear heart. Foster-sister
where art thou? Send the strangers away and the slaves, and come
close. I want thee."

One wave of Babar's hand cleared the little room, and once more came
that faint sigh of content.

"That is nice. Only thou, and I, and she, and little Ma'asuma--all the
folk I love in the world. That is right." For a moment she seemed to
sleep, and when she opened her eyes there were dreams in them.

"Set the window wide. I would see the sunset," she said in quite a
strong voice and when the red light flooded into the little dark room
she lay in it peacefully.

"Will it not mayhap hurt?" whispered the tall figure in white.

"She is past hurt," whispered Babar back. His heart was as a stone. He
could not have wept, he could not even feel grief.

"Thy hand, my heart," came the voice feeble again, "and thine,
sister--how warm they are and mine grow so cold--so cold. Yet that
matters not. I am only--only the Kâzi." The ghost of a flickering
smile hovered over the lips that, in the monotonous Arabic drawl of
the professional priest, began on the opening sentences of the
Mahomedan wedding service.

The man and the woman standing instinct with Life, looked helplessly
at each other and instinctively drew apart.

Ma'asuma's violet eyes seemed to strive with coming darkness. "Don't,"
she murmured. "It is not kind! Look you, I cannot see; and my hands
are so weak. Be quick or I shall not hear. Say it quickly and then
there will be peace, then I shall have given my lord a son--then we
shall all be at rest. It is the last thing--"

There was a second of silence and then Babar's clasp on the hand he
held beneath that small chill one tightened, and his voice rang clear.

"Before God I take this woman to be my wedded wife."

And swift on the words came a woman's voice, "Before God I take this
man to be my husband, the father of our son."

A sigh of content seemed almost to end life, and there was silence for
a space. But it was broken by a pitiful, helpless murmur, "The ring! I
have forgotten the ring."

"I have it already, sweetheart," came the woman's voice, soft, calm,
soothing. So they stood, till the chill little hands grew more chill
in the warm clasps that held them; finally one withdrew itself slowly,
slowly, and Babar was left alone with Death and Love.

The tall white figure fell on its knees and wept softly; but Babar
stood still, stern, calm. What use to kiss unconscious lips? What use
to strain at broken cords?

"She hath found freedom," he said after a time. Then he turned to the
kneeling figure. "Mahâm," he said quietly. "Thou wilt see to little
Ma'asuma for me, wilt thou not?"

It was sunrise when they laid to rest Babar's first and in a way, his
only love. The birds were singing in the garden he had made so
beautiful. The roses that decked the grave were full of scent.
But Babar noticed none of these things, he moved about calm,
self-controlled, conscious of but one thing, that he was glad he was
not at Kâbul where he would have had wailing women and ceremonial
condolences. Here, in the open, among the flowers, all was peace. He
need not even realise that his dearest-dear was dead.

But he had overrated his emotional strength, or rather he had
underrated it as he always did. All the day long, as he went about as
usual, his face haggard, his manner courteous and gentle, a storm was
brewing within, and when sunset came again, bringing the sadness of a
dead day with it, the tempest burst.

Mahâm, her eyes red with weeping, was seated in the dusk of the little
room where Ma'asuma had died, with the dead woman's babe on her lap
when she looked up to see a tall, swaying figure standing at the door.
A helpless, bewildered figure that stretched out bewildered hands to
her.

"Mahâm! Mahâm!" it cried, "save me! Save me from myself."

She rose instantly, laid the sleeping infant on the bed, and went to
him.

"Thou art tired," she said, as a mother might have said it. "Come
hither and rest awhile, my lord. Sleep will bring peace."

                             CHAPTER VII

       I am the dust beneath thy feet, my sweet;
       Thou art the cloud that sprinkleth rain amain.
       Lo! as green tongues of grasses spring to bring
       Their thanks for moisture given to root and fruit,
       So, all my being blossometh and saith
       "Dear God be praised for Love of Thee and Me."

Mahâm had her work cut out for her. But she was a wise woman and from
the first gauged Babar's volatile, kindly, affectionate nature to a
nicety.

He had had a shock, and one with such fine-strung nerves as his
required time for recovery. Therefore, with easy ability, she took the
tiller ropes and steered his craft and hers through the troubled
waters which instantly raged about him. She even, rather to their
resentment, succeeded in pacifying Babar's step-grandmother and his
paternal aunts as to her position (which she claimed at once) as
Babar's wife. They had been betrothed for months, she told them;
indeed for long years the intent to marry had been existent. So
much so that they had her late husband Gharîb-Beg's hearty assent to
their union. She had come from Khorasân at Ma'asuma Begum's earnest
wish, and the marriage had taken place when it did--this she left
hazy--entirely to please her when she was ill and ailing. Doubtless
the dear little thing had had a prescience of her own death. Such
angels of Paradise often had. She, Mahâm, could never hope to hold the
same place in the King's affection; still it was lucky things had
happened so, or the Most-Clement might have gone out of his mind with
grief, deprived as he was in the wilds of Adinapur of the consolations
of all his womenkind. And the gracious ladies knew how dependent he
had always been on them, as well as on his deceased mother--on whom be
God's peace--and his unfortunate sister. Besides, she could be useful
in bringing up the King's little daughter.

"If thou wilt give him a son 'twould be to more purpose," quoth
outspoken Shâh-Begum.

"God helping me, I will, madam," came the cool reply.

"She is well spoken," admitted the old lady grudgingly, after the
interview was over.

"And of the inner circle. 'Deed! now that one comes to consider it,"
wept Babar's Yenkâm, "more suited for the work than my fairy, who was
ever too lightsome for such task. And, look you! there be no question
of evil eye or such things. She loved my Ma'asuma as herself, and was
ever good to the child. It is doubtless God's will."

"Yea! Yea! God's will," snivelled fat, silly Princess Astonishing
Beauty; but little Ak-Begum's keen eyes were soft.

"There is more in it than mayhap we know," she said softly. "And she
hath a good, clever face. So God send our kind Babar peace."

Good wishes were well enough doubtless, but Mahâm felt that action
must be taken; and at once. My lord the King must not be allowed to
lounge at home, eating his heart out; and to this purpose she sent for
old Kâsim and explained her views.

"Lady," he replied, "I would rather, in faith, have had my master free
of all feminine wiles. The last seven months have passed without much
glory, and my sword rusts in its scabbard. But this I will say, for a
woman, the cupola of chastity shows much sense. The King would be best
away from Kâbul."

"And from me," added Mahâm, coolly. "So look to it, Sir General, and
take him--where thou canst."

As it so happened, the times fell in with her desire. The Timurid
family was at its lowest ebb; Babar himself, being, for the moment the
only member of it which had kept his kingdom independent; the rest
having either succumbed utterly to the great Usbek-raider or become
mere vassals to his power. Thus the King's position was weak, even if
he had been himself. But Mahâm's clear eyes appraised her haggard
young King as he went about grave, silent, doing everything by an
effort. That was not the stuff for single handed combat against Fate.
Then sorrow set his feet firmer than ever on the path of what he
considered right; and this mood was not one in which to rely on those
Moghul troops of his who were ever ready to take offence at strict
discipline. No! he must be induced to divert attention from Kâbul by
carrying war to some further field. The further the better, so long as
it gave those same Moghul troops opportunity for legitimate raiding.

Babar himself never knew how much one woman's influence had to do with
his resolution to march on Hindustân; even old Kâsim, though he had
the key, did not realise how Mahâm managed to set aside his proposal
of an attempt on Badakhshân in favour of the larger, more imaginative
project; but it was done.

So one day Babar, sad-faced still, but with a certain spring in his
walk came to say good-bye to his little daughter and to the woman who
quietly, unobtrusively, had done so much for him.

"Yea!" she said smiling, "I will be Queen whilst thou art gone, Babar,
never fear. Nor Shâh-Begum, nor Mihr-Nigar nor any other woman in the
Palace shall give trouble, this time, I warrant me. And the child will
thrive! Aye! it will thrive. So there is no gnawing thought at thy
heart, remember--"

She paused for a second and something in her face made Babar say
hastily:

"Nor in thine, I pray, kind wife."

"Nor in mine," she echoed with a brilliant smile. "And now, ere he go,
I have something for my lord--a remembrance of someone he loved well
and whom I--respected."

She put her hand in her bosom and drew out thence all warm and faintly
scented a small crystal bowl.

Babar gave a cry of delight. "The Bowl! The Bowl! How didst find it?
Did he give it thee? Did he really give it me?"

Her kind eyes smiled on him. "That I cannot say; and this is not the
Bowl, but perchance a likeness of it. 'Twas the dear dead one, my
lord, who told me the tale when thou didst tell it to her. So, knowing
what sort the cup must be, since there is an old man in my native
village who still can make them after a fashion, I sent to him
pressingly for one. My lord will remember that 'twas in this village
graveyard that the Crystal Bowl was found. Doubtless one of olden
time. This is but a copy--and poor doubtless, since the old craftsman
can scarce see--but it may serve to remind my lord--of many things."

"And much kindness--" said Babar gravely, and as he took the bowl he
kissed the hand that held it out to him.

No! it was not the Bowl. It was but a dim likeness of it; but as he
placed it in his bosom he felt vaguely that he had more than he
deserved.

The next few months passed swiftly. Once in the saddle and out of
Kâbul, Babar's spirits began to rise. But he soon found it inadvisable
to pursue his intentions on India. The very idea of his absenting
himself so far, roused the insolence of the wild border clans. Here
was their opportunity, whilst the cat would be away, to resort to
their favourite plunder. So it was mid-winter before it was possible
for him to advance, and by that time the complexion of affairs had
changed.

To begin with the Usbek-raider had retreated, patching up a sort of
peace hurriedly, and returning westward over more important business.
Then, whether by reason of Mahâm's firm hand or from mere ambition,
old grandmother Shâh-Begum announced her intention of leaving Babar's
protection, and going with her grandson to snatch at the sovereignty
of Badakhshân. The crown had been hereditary in her family, she
declared, for over 3,000 years and though as woman she could not claim
it, she knew her grandson would not be rejected.

This intention, involving as it did a breaking up of conventional
family life, brought back Babar in protest. The old lady had never
been on the best of terms with him, she had once almost succeeded in
her intrigues against him, but he had always treated her generously;
and then, worse than her defection, was that of his own mother's
sister who insisted on accompanying her.

It was intolerable! Babar went straight to his grandmother and argued
with her; coming back irritated and annoyed by failure to make any
impression on the old lady's obstinacy, to his own palace, where,
without giving notice, he made his way alone to Mahâm's apartments.

As he entered her room he could see her reclining amongst cushions in
the cupola'd balcony, his little sleeping daughter in her lap. She was
crooning to it the lullaby which Turkhomân women sing sleepily during
a night march. Her pose was exquisite; there was a look of almost
motherhood in her face; he paused to listen as she sang:--

      "Sleep, croodie! Talk with God!
       Know not the path I've trod.
       Dad knows not! Why shouldst thou!
       Sleep, childie! Sleep just now.
       Don't fear! I keep awake.
       Heigh ho! My bones do ache.
       Heigh ho! My horse does pull.
       Can't it see river's full!
       No pebbles in _that_ bed,
       Mine holds an hundred.
       Dreams! Dreams! Who lies dead?
       Someone in the river's bed.
       Praise God! _He_ rests his head.
       Hush! Hush! I hear thee, sweet.
       Mums arms around thee meet.
       Praise God! The night's nigh past;
       Darling sleeps at last! at last!"

The curious drowsiness of the rhythm held him almost silent for a
while, so did a great surge of admiration for this self-restrained,
kindly, capable woman who had taken her full position as his wife so
firmly, without any feminine flutterings or sentimentalities. Truly
that sort of thing was what he, with his volatile emotionality, needed
to make him not only successful, but persistent.

"Mahâm," he said almost timorously, "I have come back to thee--and the
child."

She gave a little cry, started to rise, then pointed to little
Ma'asuma. "I should waken her!" she said in a low voice, "but welcome,
thrice welcome is my lord--to me and to the child."

Her voice lingered over the words; her smile had a certain gravity in
it.

"But thou," he said anxiously. "Hast not been well, wife? Thy face
shows ill--why didst not write to me?"

"Because 'twas not worth while," she replied. "And I am most better.
The spring comes and with it health. And I have had anxiety over thy
grandmother. What said she?"

The deft turn succeeded. Babar gave vent to his dissatisfaction in no
measured terms. "See you," he said, "Have I ever failed in my duty or
service? When my mother and I had not even a single village nor a few
jewels, I treated all my relations, male or female, as members of my
family. I have made no difference between my maternal and my paternal
connections. I say not this to appraise myself. I simply follow the
scrupulous truth as everyone knows. And now, even my mother's sister
desires to leave me! I am her nearest relation. It would be better,
and more becoming for her to remain with me."

Mahâm's face showed whimsical smiles. "Not, my lord, unwillingly.
God's earth holds not a more deadly poison to happiness than a
discontented woman. So let them go; my lord has plenty of paternal
aunts."

There was a certain patience in her tone! But Babar, still protesting,
yielded; and set himself solemnly to settle the judicial as well as
the executive system of his kingdom. It was about this time that he
wrote his famous Essay-on-Jurisprudence which for many long years was
to be a work of reference.

His enquiries took him out often into the out districts which, now
that spring was advancing were excessively pleasant, abounding in
tulips and indeed in all plants of every description. He began again
to write poetry; pretty things still touched by profound, if somewhat
scholastic, melancholy such as this--

      "My heart's a rose full flaming,
       Its petals opened wide,
       To give her without shaming
       Myself and all beside.

       Ah me! in vain I lavished
       My love on her dear heart,
       An envious thorn has ravished
       Her hand with deadly smart.

       Her life-blood is a-falling
       To dim my petals o'er.
       Oh, Springtime! cease thy calling,
       This rose will bloom no more."

He used to send them to Mahâm, who used to reply in her beautiful
_nastâlik_ hand that was always a joy to Babar's simple delight in
anything and everything artistic. And he wrote, also, and told her of
the thirty-five different kinds of tulips he had gathered, and of the
inscriptions he caused to be cut on springs and rocks. And of a
certainty when he visited, as he did, the Garden-of-Fidelity at
Adinapur, he must have had much to tell her of a small flowerful grave
there, where his sad heart was laid.

It was all very pathetic; sweetly pathetic. A noble young King, doing
his duty bravely, though glad life was over for him forever.

Even the crystal cup which he carried in his bosom, and from which he
drank ever the water of the cool mountain springs, brought him only
modified comfort. Perhaps, because, from a sense of duty to himself,
he would not allow it to bring more.

And then suddenly the whole wide world changed for him.

"Mahâm! My son!--my son!" was all that he could say when urgent
summons brought him to a smiling mother and a new-born infant.

"He is like thee," she said, a tremor in her calm voice.

"God forbid!" interrupted the father hastily. "God send he be like
thee--the best woman in the world--the best--the very best!"

Never were such rejoicings. The paternal aunts, who of late months had
been let into the secret, were almost crazy with delight. And
wherefore not? When a King has lived to be six-and-twenty without a
son; when despite three marriages only two children have been borne to
him, miserable little daughters, one dead, one but a few months old,
it is time to be festive over a proper birth. And was there ever such
a baby? So tall, so strong, so handsome and so altogether
satisfactory. No wonder his father, who ever had a pretty wit, called
him Humâyon. That might portend the ph[oe]nix, the bird of good omen,
besides half-a-dozen other side meanings, each charming in its way.

But Babar, leaning over the happy mother said softly, "He shall be my
protection in the future. Lo! Mahâm! I have put myself outside myself
as they say in the child-stories of our youth. Who was't who put his
life safe in a gold box? Well! my life is hid in my son's. So there,
my wife, have a care of us both--for, verily in some ways, Mahâm, I
need looking after like an infant."

The feast of nativity was a very splendid feast. Everyone who was Big,
and everyone who was Not, brought their offerings. Bags on bags of
silver money were piled up, until everyone was forced to confess that
never before had they seen so much white money in one place.

And the entertainments! There were fireworks and marionettes and
conjuring tricks. In fact a perfect fair for a whole week in the Great
Four-square-Garden on the hill.

But the greatest amusement of all was one to which the Palace Ladies
invited a select audience.

It was organised by the Fair Princess who had a genius that way, and
its _piece de resistance_ was a huge roc-egg brought in by fairies,
which, cracking in most realistic fashion, disclosed the most
magnificent ph[oe]nix that ever was seen, with feathers of every hue
and plumes galore (it had, of course, a gold crown on its head) which
monstrous bird being removed, like a tea cosy, appeared no less a
personage than

      "The Heir Apparent"

      "Humâyon."

Endless was the laughter, the tears, the embracings, the gratulations.

But that evening as Mahâm and Babar sat hand in hand, looking at the
sleeping infant, its mother cried suddenly--

"'Tis Ma'asuma's child also, thou must remember, husband. 'Twas for
her sake I married thee."

"Not for mine own, one little bit, Mahâm?" he queried a trifle sadly.
"Well! if that be so, I must be lover instead of husband for a time."

                             CHAPTER VIII

      "Like a wide-spreading tree whose roots en-thread
       Earth's bosom, gaining Life from out a grave,
       So stood he stalwart while each weary head
       Sought for the shelter that his courage gave."

"Look you! what a young man sees in a mirror, an old one can see in a
burnt brick," quoth old Kâsim crossly to Shirâm-Taghâi. "Did I not
tell the Most-Clement that benevolence such as his, is doubtless fit
for Paradise where man shall have shed his sins; but 'tis in this
world, pure incentive to wickedness. To leave Prince Abdul-Risâk in
Kâbul where, seeing he is the late King's only son, he hath some right
to claim power, was foolish; not to believe when old servants as you
and I, Shirâm, tell him intrigue is going on, is well nigh criminal.
Yet God knows it all comes from kindness of heart! In truth, old
friend, to be king one should be as Timur, the Earth Trembler, who
never spared man, woman or child who stood in his way."

"Aye," assented Shirim-Beg whose beard by this time, after long years
of faithful service, required a purple dye to pass muster. "And yet,
to my mind, the King is most hard on the Moghul soldiery. What means
life to a Moghul without rapine and plunder? Bread without salt,
friend! Bread without salt! Yet the Most-Clement is so inclement that
thou hadst trouble to save the lives of those three last week."

Kâsim gloomed. "Aye! and I know not now if I were not wrong, since
those same are the head and front of this present offending of
which--God save his innocence--the King takes no heed, having it
forsooth, that my surmisings art not entitled to credit! Look you! he
is so set on making his men wheel in step and to time, that he hath
forgotten how quick honest rebellion can step when it chooses."

It was true. Babar, profoundly happy in the birth of his son,
profoundly absorbed in the new title of Emperor which he had, in
consequence, bestowed upon himself, was impervious to suspicion, and
busy expending his exuberant vitality in marshalling and
man[oe]uvering his troops. He was out all day in camp; thus, at once,
being more ignorant than usual of what was happening in the city, and
having less time to listen to cautions; the latter being, in truth,
the last words suitable to his feelings. He could not, for the life of
him, see a single cloud ahead, and being absolutely full of good
intentions towards his world, refused to believe that the world could
have any ill intentions towards him.

But his eyes were opened one night, and that rudely.

He took his evening meal as a rule in the Four-corner Garden on his
way back to sleep in the Secluded-Palace. It was a charming place; the
summer house all lit with coloured lamps, hung with beautiful
draperies; and there were ever musicians, singers and dancers ready to
amuse the King, who lingered late at times, especially on moonlit
nights when the garden showed entrancingly beautiful.

But it was moonless and fairly early, when two friends arrived from
the city in hot haste, full of the discovery of a plot to seize and
assassinate His Imperial Majesty that very night.

Babar downright refused to believe it. Even treacherous Moghuls, he
said, must have some reason for rebellion; and what had he done to
them?--Nothing! Nor to anyone else. There might be disaffection.
In what kingdom was it not to be found? But for wide-spread
disloyalty?--No! it was frankly impossible. So he set warning aside.

Nevertheless the party broke up early and started through the darkness
for the city. The running lanterns ahead threw light only on the
forward path, and Babar was engrossed in solving a question of drill;
so it was not till he reached the Iron Gate that he realised he was
alone, save for the three or four household slaves who ran beside his
horse. In the darkness every one of his escort had disappeared!

In a second he saw that something was, indeed, amiss. But in the same
second he saw what had to be done. Mahâm and her son must be reached
and placed in safety. That accomplished he would have time to
consider.

But as, with a rapid order to the slaves, he turned sharp down a more
secluded alley, a man running full tilt, brought up suddenly at the
sight of him. It was an old friend, one Mahomed-Ali.

"Thank God! I have you, Sire," cried the runner breathlessly. "Go
back! Go back! The Moghuls are in arms, the traitor Abdul-Risâk at
their head--I was in the market place a minute syne and they await the
Most-Clement there. Go back! Go back!"

Babar dug his spurs to his horse's flank. "Nay! I go on," he said
recklessly.

But Mahomed-Ali hung to the bridle. "Most-Clement! listen. They will
await thee there till midnight. If the King does not come till then
what signifies it? Naught; since the Most-High is given to gardens
and is often late. So they are there--safe! Now 'tis not yet ten of
the chime. If, therefore, the King will be wise, turn his horse,
and ride out to the Camp-of-the-Veterans beyond the Hill Garden,
I and my following--if the Most-Noble will send a token to the
Gracious-Lady--will bring her safe thither before the carrion have
wind of anything. Sire! 'tis the better way! To go on is certain
death--for all--The Moghuls...."

"God curse them!" muttered Babar. But he was no fool to let his own
wild anger needlessly endanger those two precious lives. Therefore his
resolution was taken at once, and he fumbled for his signet ring--

No! not that--it might be used to ill purpose. The Crystal Bowl was
better--none would send that but he, and so she would be the readier
to act upon it.

"Aye" he said slowly. "But mark you! I turn but to the Ditch by the
Khorasân gate. There will I wait. Take this to the Queen and say I
pray her come--in half-an-hour mind, in half-an-hour! If thou comest
not by then--"

His face said the rest and augured ill for failure, as, gathering the
few slaves together lest any might escape and blab, he drove them and
the torch bearers before him towards the further gate. With time for
thought he reviewed the position and was satisfied at his action. At
the worst, it meant but a delay of half-an-hour when time was
literally no object; since it was his appearance which would start the
traitorous scheme. He set his lip and his hand clenched on his sword
at the very thought. Again, his retreat amongst tried loyalists might
save the situation altogether; for he would be ready for instant
retaliation if needs be. If not, no harm was done. He had simply spent
the night amongst his oldest friends, the Andijân troopers.

Yet, as he stood waiting in the darkness of the ditch at the Khorasân
gate, his heart beat in his ears. He could hear nothing. And time
passed--It must be nigh on the half hour! Time to tighten sword-belts
... Hark! that was a jingle--the jingle of a swift borne doolie!...

"Mahâm?"

"My lord, I am here," came the answer and Babar shook his fist at the
darkling city. All was quiet nigh at hand, but from the distant market
place came sounds of rough merriment.

"Till to-morrow, friends!" he muttered, then paced his horse beside
the doolie with a whispered word or two of encouragement.

Now that imminent danger was over anger, sheer, almost reckless anger
took the place of anxiety.

"To-morrow!" he whispered to himself again; "To-morrow!"

But that to-morrow to which he had appealed so confidently brought
bitter disappointment.

Dawn showed him an almost empty camp. Out of all his soldiers a bare
five hundred remained with him. The rest, with most of the Kâbul
courtiers had slipped off to the city during the night on pretence of
looking after their families, or saving their property from the Moghul
plunderers. Disloyalty was widespread indeed!

Kâsim-Beg, of course, was at his beloved young master's side, and so
was Shirâm-Taghâi and half-a-score other trusty friends, all of the
old school. They waited the livelong day for the old order to up
saddle and away; since what could five hundred swords, be they ever so
nimble, do against a city full of soldiers? But the order never came.
It was close on sunset when Kâsim, impatient at the delay, suggested
that it was time to move.

"I go not," replied Babar coolly; "See you, old friend, never again do
I seek shelter like a rat in its hole till I have no other chance. I
fight in the open."

Old Kâsim's jaw dropped. "My liege!" he exclaimed. "When fortune was
against the Chagatâi in one place, he ever sought her favour in
another."

"And found it not, most times," put in Babar with a grim smile. "I
have had too much of fighting and running away. I have been at it my
life long. Now let us see how it does to fight and stick to it--to the
death."

"To the death by all means, sire," said old Kâsim with affectionate
admiration, "but 'tis madness all the same."

If it were so, there was distinct method in it. Babar threw up strange
earthworks round his camp and disposed pickets in quaintly modern
fashion on the points of vantage in the hills. This done he sat down
calmly and awaited events, much to the discomfiture of those within
the city. They were not besieged, of course, but there was an enemy to
be reckoned with beyond the gates where an enemy should not be. Being
hopelessly in a minority, he ought to have run away.

"Lo!" said one soldier to another doubtfully, as, hand over his eyes,
eaves-wise, he looked out keenly from the watch towers, "I dare swear
that is the King going his rounds. How I mind me of his smile as he
passed the meanest."

"Aye!" would come the assent, "but none were mean in his army. We all
felt brave men. At least so 'twas with me. I could have swaggered it
with Rustam."

And both pair of eyes would hold a vague regret. A regret that
deepened as day after day skirmishes that were almost battles,
resulted invariably in a retreat back to the walls of Kâbul for the
night.

For Babar's five hundred were ready to fight all the twenty-four
hours, while the insurgent twelve thousand preferred their beds.

And the next dawn rose calm over that orderly encampment, which it was
no use trying to rush because of its cunning defences. Then Babar's
cavalry had learnt to charge without an inch of spare room between
stirrup and stirrup, so that there was no hope of passage or escape
between that close-linked, supple, chain of lance and sword.

Altogether it was disconcerting. Then no one had a moment's peace. To
show your head beyond the gates was to bring down on you the King in
person, heading a reckless band of picked swordsmen.

"Kâsim-Beg is the best fencer in Asia," murmured a trooper with a
slash on head and arm; "'tis small wonder I got this from him. And his
teaching hath made even the rank and file better at swordsplay than
our leaders--curse them--who sit at cards and drink, while we--" The
rest was sullen silence.

"Yea!" said another, with a leg bandaged. "And I got this from a mere
back blow of the Most-Clement's. See you, he hath youth on his side,
as well as all old Kâsim's art. I saw him, as I fell, cleave a Moghul
to the very chin."

So round the watch fires at night it became the fashion to applaud the
prowess of the foe. With this result that in the morning, more than
one place was vacant on the ramparts; the holder of it had slipped
away in the night to join Babar's forces.

As time went on, the latter grew more and more adventurous. His
military skill, his personal strength, his courage, his invincible
spirit, brought mingled admiration and dread to his enemies.

"Lo! he is a true _Shaitan_," admitted one of the chief rebels. "Didst
hear that when he was at the Khârwa Fort he amused himself by leaping
from battlement to battlement--and there is sheer fall of a thousand
feet to the river below."

"Aye!" assented another gloomily. "And Shirbâsh saith he hath seen him
do it with a trooper under each arm."

So ran the stories, the one outdoing the other.

At last, one day, just before the opposing forces began the clash of
arms, the armies stood thrilling, aghast, expectant, as a tall young
figure rode out alone, and in a voice that echoed and re-echoed,
challenged Abdul-Risâk, the usurper, to single combat.

The challenge was refused.

"Then send your best man," cried Babar, "and may God show the right."

There was a pause; and then from out the rank and file of the
insurgents rode one Ali-Beg, and a chorus of approval went up on both
sides.

The opponents were well matched. Both young, both in the very pink of
training.

"Art ready, friend?" came Babar's clear joyous voice, and with a dash
they were at each other.

"Now God send he remembers the trick of wrist," said Kâsim-Beg under
his breath, "for Ali-Beg hath it to perfection. He was my best pupil
at Samarkand."

But Babar remembered it. How, he felt, could he forget anything with
so much for which to fight? His eyes blazed, not with anger--what
cared he for the actual enemy?--he was but the dummy of possible
defeat--but with calm will. He meant to disarm this fellow--not to
hurt him.

The horses reeled against each other, the sword arms were interlocked,
for Babar, at close quarters, would not let his antagonist break
loose.

God and his prophets! they would be down! Nor horse nor man could
stand that boring pressure, that invincible strength. Wrist against
wrist; and beneath them struggling legs and tails and fear-snorting
crests!

There! over!--A confused heap upon the ground, but Babar uppermost
with two swords in his hand.

A shout of triumph rose from the five hundred. But as the discomfited
champion rode back without his sword, another rode forward to take his
place.

This was not in the bond; still Babar, checking his laboured breaths
to more even rhythm, threw away the second sword and sprang to his
horse, which had risen unhurt but dazed.

"Come on, friend!" he shouted; "I am ready!"

This was a very different sort of adversary. A lean, ewe-necked horse,
a nimble, dapper, little swordsman with a blade like a razor, who
buzzed and wheeled, and settled and fled again like a hungry mosquito.

Babar with his half-dazed horse was at a disadvantage for a time and
the razor-like edge caught him on the little finger once. But only
once. The next instant in one furious charge, a back-hander with the
flat of the sword had sent the King's antagonist spinning from his
saddle like a tee-totum.

So it was with five champions, one after the other.

Babar more and more weary, yet more and more triumphant in fierce
vitality with every victory, unhorsed, disarmed, or routed every one
of them. Raising a laugh, indeed, in his own favour when Yakûb-Beg,
last but one, escaped by hard riding from the rain of pitiless blows
which fell instead on his horse's rump, urging it to greater speed.

Only once did sheer merciless anger leap to Babar's eyes, and that was
when Nâzir, the Usbek, letting go his horse's bridle during a
close-locked tussle of sword arms, drew a dagger with his left hand
and would have plunged it in his adversary's heart.

Then, with one wild cry of rage, Babar's hand left his sword, clipped
his adversary round the middle, literally tore him from his horse and
flung him head downwards on the ground, where he lay unconscious, the
dagger still in his hand, the blood oozing from his nose and ears.

"Take the carrion away," shouted the young champion, breathless, "and
come on, if there be any more."

But there were none ready for personal combat; so the battle began.

It was one of Babar's best battles--at least in his own opinion. And
it was the prelude to many another, in every one of which Babar drove
home his lesson of sheer courage. Finally Abdul-Risâk fell into his
hands, and from that moment there was peace; since folk could
withstand the King's prowess, but they were helpless beneath his
magnanimity.

To be forgiven, not grudgingly or of necessity, but with open-hearted
friendliness, was disarmament pure and simple; for all but Moghuls.
And the Horde in this instance, disgusted at defeat, took abrupt
French leave. Abdul-Risâk also, ever a weakling, had the gratitude and
good taste to die comfortably and conventionally ere long, so Kâbul
was left at peace.

Such peace as Babar's life had never known before. He was in the
plenitude of his manhood, his strength, and, even after all these
years, the imagination warms to the picture of his glad content. A
trifle flamboyant, perhaps, he may have been in his consciousness of
virtue, in his very successes. But nothing came amiss to his happy
nature. The plants he planted throve, the flowers he loved blossomed,
he was as keen over repairing a ruined aqueduct as he had been over
taking a fort. He knew the name of every bird and beast in his
kingdom; he learnt their habits, when and where they are to be caught.
He tells of the strange migration of fishes, and with keen
appreciation of the pathos and poetry hidden in the tale, how the
flights of summer birds are driven in stormy weather against the chill
glaciers of the Hindu-Kush Mountains and perish in their thousands.
Then he interests himself in his people. Knows the race of which they
come, the language they speak, and the superstitions in which they
believe. And he is stern over some of these. There is a celebrated
rocking tomb much frequented by pilgrims of which he discovers the
trick and visits his hot wrath on the manipulators, daring them to
repeat the imposture; for deceit is the one thing he cannot forgive.

So during the next three years, not only peace, but happiness reigned
at Kâbul. Humâyon grew and flourished. A daughter and then a son were
born, and Mahâm remained the anchor to which Babar's versatile,
volatile, affectionate nature was moored. A woman of education, of
natural talent, she could enter into that side of his life from which
the majority of his companions were shut out; and between the two
there was always the inward and spiritual tie of which the Crystal
Bowl was the outward and visible manifestation.