_'Twas in the bath a piece of perfumed clay
Came from my loved one's hands to mine one day
Art thou then musk or ambergris? I said,
That by thy scent my soul is ravished.
"Not so," it answered, "naught but clay am I,
But I have kept a rose's company_."
--Sa'adi
It was nigh twelve of the night, and Akbar was awake. He sate on the
low divan which served him as a bed, and in a measure as throne also,
when he was in camp; but there was little else about the magnificent
apartment in which it stood to suggest the smallest withdrawal of
luxury, still less of comfort. The walls were of the finest Kashmir
shawls draped in panels between the parcel-gilt tent poles, and the
floor was covered with strangely-glistening silken carpets from
Khotan. A marvellous lustre of precious stones hung from the roof, and
beside the divan stood the seven-light cresset stand, the golden and
gemmed scent brazier, and the clepsydra with its lotus bowl, without
which the King spent no night.
He was alone for the time, though countless guards doubtless stood in
the vast city of huge tents which formed the King's camp. Weary work
indeed, is it to even read the catalogue of such a camp. Of the
hundreds of tents of scarlet cloth bound with silken tapes, fitted
with silken ropes, some of which would seat ten thousand people. Of
the great circle of double-storied screen around the "Akass-deva"
lamp--the King's lamp that showed the way to God's Justice. Then the
dais for Common Audience with its avenue of five hundred feet by three
hundred broad, and its great circular enclosure of over one thousand
feet diameter. Truly the mind wavers over the tremendous size of it,
and refuses to grasp the possibility of a pavilion with fifty-four
rooms in it!
Such, nevertheless, was the camp in which Akbar sate alone awaiting a
favoured visitor.
For he had made up his mind to see this little "Queen of Women" with
whom his son was said to have fallen in love.
It was easy. She was but a child, and he the father of his people. So
he had ordered Ghiass Beg to bring her to the camp privately at twelve
of the night, when all was quiet.
Then, he felt, he would be able to judge aright. Since what was this
challenge of his but mere childishness? Everyone, even Birbal, was
keen to win or lose; but if he lost or won, how did that affect the
truth?
Was Love powerful enough to wean Salim from his life of debauchery?
The idea of it had not been; but the compelling force depended on the
woman. Was this child of twelve----? Pshaw it was impossible.
Yet he must see her, he felt; for it was a momentous decision, not to
be made lightly.
He rose, and walking over to the clepsydra, watched the lotus cup
sinking with the weight of time.
So sank beauty under the weight of years.
And then, suddenly, to him came the remembrance of Atma Devi. Ye Gods!
if from the beginning he had had a mate such as she--a woman to whom
the honour of the King outweighed the honour, nay, even the love of
the man, he need not now have stood uncertain, hesitating whether to
leave all, even his sons, to wallow in the mire of conventionality--to
leave all, and dream out his dream of Empire in his own way. For he
would have had not only sons, but heirs.
Should he so leave all? Should the morrow see the camp no more
spectacle to the wedding festivities, but a real departure?
He could take her with him as an inspiration--the sudden unlooked for
thought caught him unawares, left him surprised.
"The Captain of the Palace Guard without and the Chief Eunuch have
urgent news," came the obsequious voice of a page.
"Bid them in," he replied, returning to the divan, almost glad of an
interruption to what was disturbing in the uttermost.
"Dead!" he echoed incredulously to the news they brought. "The Lord
High Chamberlain dead--by whose hands?"
"By mine, Most High," answered a trembling voice as the Sergeant of
the Guard fell at the King's feet. "We had warning that the English
jeweller was to be in Mistress Atma Devi's rooms to-night at eleven.
We went. All was dark. We found him as we thought, in her very arms.
Yet when Justice was done and we brought the light, it--it was Mirza
Ibrahim."
"In whose apartment?" Akbar's voice was very cold, very quiet.
"In the Charan-woman's, Most High! Lo! there is some mistake,
doubtless. Yet she was brought in by the Mirza's orders--she had the
fairest apartment set apart for her and--and he visited her this
evening--just after Majesty, so the woman said."
Akbar rose to his feet fiercely.
"What has that to do with it, slave?" he interrupted, his voice full
of swift sudden anger, "go on with the noisome tale!"
"Of a truth, sire, there is no doubt lamps were lit and wine brought.
So he deserved death, and the woman too----"
"Aye!" assented the King, "she deserved it more! Didst kill her too?"
He felt outraged beyond words; every atom of his manhood rose in hot
anger against the woman who had dared--aye! dared to make him think of
things he had forgotten, when she herself---- Ah! it was past mere
anger.
"Nay! Most High. She--she showed us the Signet of Majesty and so----"
Under his breath a curse broke from Akbar's lips. Aye! he remembered
now! He had given her the ring, and with the memory came back such an
impotent flood of pure savage rage as never before in all his life had
he felt. The Mogul scratched showed the Tartar; for an instant not
even his ancestor Timur could have felt more bloodthirsty. The shame
of it alone cried for instant revenge.
The thought brought him outward calm.
"She dies at dawn," he said quietly. "As women do who sin in God's
night. Bring her here, _then_. She shall affix the seal to her own
death-warrant. Write it now, and lay it on yonder desk so that it may
be ready."
"And till then, Most High?"
"Leave her where her lover died; being Hindu she may learn to follow
him without fear."
For already bitter anger was passing; inflexible justice taking its
place.
"His Highness the Lord Treasurer waits without with a dhooli," said
the page once more.
"Close the screens, let no one enter. Bid the Lord Treasurer bring the
dhooli to the outer tent and remain there himself." The order was
given calmly, but he who gave it was in a whirlwind of passionate
protest.
And this woman--this common strumpet of the bazaars--had talked to him
of Love; had, in reality, set him on the first step which had led him
so far from common-sense; which had brought him here to an interview
with a chit of a child at dead of night!
A slim white figure parting the curtains which separated this inner
pavilion from the one beyond, brought him back to his bearings. It was
not the child's fault; she must be courteously dealt with.
"Wilt not unveil, my child?" he said gravely, "there is none to
fear----"
"And Mihr-un-Nissa fears none," came the reply, as the cloud of white
drapery thrown back, fell on the ground, and the girl stepping forward
lightly from the billowy folds, stood to salaam.
There was a moment's pause; then eager, warm, came Akbar's verdict.
"By all the Gods of Indra! by Allah and his Prophet! thou art
beautiful indeed, my daughter."
A deeper flush tinged the rounded cheeks, but the girl looked frankly
into the admiring eyes.
"I am glad."
Something in her conscious unconsciousness made him ask quickly,
"Wherefore?"
"Because they call me Queen of Women, sire, and the Queen should
please the King," she answered demurely.
"Thou hast a ready wit, child. Dost wish to be a Queen?"
There was not a trace of sauciness in her quick reply. "It depends,
sire, upon the King."
Akbar felt completely taken aback; he recognised in this slender
little maid-ling of twelve, the germs of something that might grow to
greatness indeed.
"I am a churl, lady," he said at last, "to keep Beauty standing.
Seat yourself so, beside me, and we can talk. Or stay!" A whimsical
smile irradiated his face, he put out his hand to lead her to the
throne-divan. "Sit thou upon the seat of Majesty, and I will sit at
Beauty's feet. I have much to learn from it."
She did not even protest. She took her place with childish dignity,
and waited for him to speak. Frankness seemed the only possible
approach, so he plunged at once in _medias res_.
"Lady, dost thou love my son Salim?"
The cupid's-bow of her lips smiled over a cold definite "No."
Akbar's parental pride rose instantly.
"And why, prithee?"
The answer was nonchalant, uncompromising.
"I like not his looks."
"Yet he is not ill-favoured," protested the proud father, beginning to
feel injured, "he is stalwart and young, hath fine eyes, and----"
"He is not so good looking as his father is--even now," said
Mihr-un-nissa, sagely nodding her head.
"But for that 'even now' fair daughter," said Akbar nettled, "your
compliments might make one shy! Then thou lovest Sher Afkan?"
The flush came again. "He is a brave soldier, anyhow," said the little
maiden holding her head high.
"A brave soldier, indeed!" assented Akbar gravely, yet feeling
inclined to smile, "but as for looks, hath he not a scar upon his
face?"
"'Twill be a place whereon a wife may lay her kisses," retorted
Mihr-un-nissa hastily, then grew crimson with shame at having
inadvertently used an argument which had evidently done duty in
sparring matches on the subject with her mother.
Akbar laughed out loud, then grew grave. "Of a truth Mistress
Quick-wit, women are beyond men's comprehension! But we have been
playing with words hitherto. Now let us be serious--let me see thy
mind. Why dost not like my son?"
Instant, clear, decisive, came the reply.
"Because he doth not love his father."
"Wherefore does he not love him? What proof hast thou?" asked Akbar
hotly.
Mihr-un-nissa's face had no pity, even in its deep unfathomable eyes.
"Because, Great King, he seeks ever to betray Jalal-ud-din Mahomed
Akbar. Oh!"--the words once started rushed out now like a torrent--"I
know they say it is better Akbar should not know! I know how they
all--even my Lord Birbal--keep things back, saying the King's mind
should be tranquil. But it is not so! Kingship is the truth! Kings
must know all things! There is the diamond--They have kept that back,
I dare swear. It was stolen, Most High----"
"Stolen!" echoed Akbar stupidly, "who was it--who spoke of that
before?" Then memory returning, impotent rage once more rose in him.
"Well, what then?" he queried roughly.
"I say the King should know!" came the high girlish voice. "Pain is
but a safeguard from ill. He should know, aye, and use his knowledge
that it was stolen for the Prince--that he wore it in his turban and,
that if it hath gone back to safekeeping 'tis not because of remorse
upon the Prince's part, but because the King exchanged the Turban of
Brotherhood----"
"It is not true," muttered Akbar, hiding his head in his hands.
"Child--say it is not true." Something in him told him it was true,
therefore he fought against it all the more fiercely.
"Will saying it alter fact?" went on the inexorable young voice. "My
King, the knowledge of all this is to be King; ignorance is--is
foolishness!"
She stood up, a startled look in her eyes. "Have I, have I made thee
cry?" she said solicitously. Then she burst out fiercely, "Oh, if I
were Queen I would have no son, no husband. I would be Queen indeed."
Akbar had stood up also, his face blurred by emotion, but strong and
stern.
"I have to thank thee for the Truth. Strange I have had to learn it
from a little maid's lips. Lo! Mihr-un-nissa, wilt thou not love my
son?"
She shook her head, "Had he been more like----" she paused, and hung
her head, shy for the first time.
He took her little hand, and stooping, kissed it. "And had the Queen
of Women but been fifteen years older--thou art sure, child, thou
wouldst not care to be Queen?"
Her face grew grave, the perfect features took on dignity. "Queen I
shall be. The crystal says so. But not now, for I am too young and he
would break my heart. Why should I give up youth?" Then suddenly
recollecting her role of virtuous wisdom, she added solemnly, "But God
alone knows what the future may hold."
When she had gone Akbar sate down, feeling dazed by the many unlooked
for buffettings which Fate had given him that night.
To begin with, he had been within an ace of dishonour himself. Aye!
there was no use denying it. It must have been unrecognised passion in
himself which had led him into this childish, unkinglike challenge.
And now had come this dishonour of degenerate heirs; for what use was
there in dissociating Salim from Murad, Murad from Danyal? His sons
were all alike--were they indeed his sons, these dissolute drinking
louts?
He paced the tent almost in despair. Pride, anger, love, justice,
tearing at his heart.
Yes, he must go! He must leave his City of Heirship for ever. He must
cast off earthly shackles and live only for the immortal dream.
Birbal's slim figure stealing through the curtains roused him to
instant anger, almost as instant patience; since how could he judge of
those bound by conventional standards?
"What now?" he asked briefly. Something uncompromising in his tone
made the minister begin an excuse. He had been close by, and hearing
that Majesty waked----
Akbar walked up and laid his hand on Birbal's shoulder.
"Lie not, friend," he said, "hath the stolen diamond been found? Sh!
hold thy peace. I know the tale. A queen of common sense hath told it
to me; and rightly told it. What, she said, was pain but a warning
against evil. That is truth; but is the stone found? That is what I
ask."
Birbal, whose jaw had almost fallen in his blank surprise, was on his
knees, instinct telling him to attempt no excuse.
"Sire! I have it with me now. The madwoman Atma Devi----"
"What of her?" asked Akbar fiercely.
Truth was the only resource, so Birbal told it. "She sent a message to
bid William Leedes come to her at one o' the night in the Preacher's
dhooli; and I, fearing treachery--for I never trusted woman yet
without regretting it--went myself. For the safe-conduct given by
Majesty to these strangers was a fertile field for the breaking of
promise."
Akbar interrupted him impatiently.
"And she met you, where?"
"In truth where there was scant foothold for a goat," said Birbal
glibly, trying to get through with confession lightly, "on the wide
eave of the turret. Belike she heeded not the danger, being as she
said, under sentence of death at dawn. And it was that made her yield
the gem to me--'twas her last chance--for she held fast to her promise
to give it to none save unto the jeweller's own hand. So she stood
there, with death in a falter, administering fearful oaths and----" He
had been feeling in his breast and now held forth the Luck of the King
"here it is, sire."
In the light of the cressets, the gem glowed familiarly like soft
moonshine; but Akbar peremptorily set it aside.
"Thou art under oath to deliver it to none but the jeweller. Traitor!
are women to be more faithful than men?"
Birbal grovelled at the King's feet, but Akbar did not notice him.
He was dully trying to piece the parts into a whole, telling himself
he would hear the truth when Atma Devi should be brought to him at
dawn.