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 Hazaras 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 Kabul.

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 Kabul had risen, and, aided by outsiders and some of the

immediate relations of the King, had declared for Babar's young cousin

Weis-Khan, 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 Kasim drily. "The devil is in it

when women are left alone too long."

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

Kasim sniffed. "The Most High's step-grandmother Shah-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 Kasim 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 Herat 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 Kabul 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 Kasim's bridge. Here Babar detailed his force,

sending Shirim-Taghai 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 Kasim 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 Shah-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 Kabul!" 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 Kasim, 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 Kasim 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.

_Nizami_.

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, Kasim had been right. Herat had been plundered by

the arch-enemy Shaibani. 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 Yenkam, 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 Khorasan,

thy Yenkam 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 Yenkam 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 _nastalik_ saw I never than hers."

So the letter was written and despatched express to the care of his

Yenkam at Khorasan, 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 Gharib 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 Gharib;

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 Yenkam would be

with her daughter in a day or two, they would together take Ma'asuma

back in her litter to Kabul 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 Gharib-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, Gharib-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.

Gharib-Beg's wife! The woman he had called "Maham--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 Kazi." 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. "Maham," 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 Kabul 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.

Maham, 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.

"Maham! Maham!" 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."

Maham 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 Gharib-Beg's hearty assent to

their union. She had come from Khorasan 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, Maham, 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 Shah-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 Yenkam, "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 Maham 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 Kasim 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 Kabul."

"And from me," added Maham, 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 Maham'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 Kabul 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 Hindustan; even old Kasim, though he had

the key, did not realise how Maham managed to set aside his proposal

of an attempt on Badakhshan 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 Shah-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

Kabul, 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 Maham's firm hand or from mere ambition,

old grandmother Shah-Begum announced her intention of leaving Babar's

protection, and going with her grandson to snatch at the sovereignty

of Badakhshan. 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 Maham'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 Turkhoman 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.

"Maham," 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."

Maham'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 Maham, who used to reply in her beautiful

_nastalik_ 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.

"Maham! 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 Humayon. 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! Maham! 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, Maham, 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"

"Humayon."

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

But that evening as Maham 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, Maham?" 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 Kasim crossly to Shiram-Taghai. "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-Risak in

Kabul 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, Shiram, 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."

Kasim 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. Maham 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-Risak 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

Khorasan 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 Andijan troopers.

Yet, as he stood waiting in the darkness of the ditch at the Khorasan

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!...

"Maham?"

"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 Kabul

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!

Kasim-Beg, of course, was at his beloved young master's side, and so

was Shiram-Taghai 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 Kasim, 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 Kasim's jaw dropped. "My liege!" he exclaimed. "When fortune was

against the Chagatai 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 Kasim 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 Kabul 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.

"Kasim-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 Kasim'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 Kharwa 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 Shirbash 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-Risak, 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 Kasim-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 Yakub-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 Nazir, 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-Risak 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-Risak also, ever a weakling, had the gratitude and

good taste to die comfortably and conventionally ere long, so Kabul

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 Kabul. Humayon grew and flourished. A daughter and then a son were

born, and Maham 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.

There was another soul, however, which touched Babar in a lower plane.

Sultan Said Khan, his cousin, the son of the dead and dispossessed

younger Khan of Outer Moghulistan, sought refuge at Kabul, and there

sprung up between the two young men perfect love, accord, and trust.

"The two-and-a-half years I spent as exile in Kabul," writes this same

Said Khan, "were the freest from care or sorrow of any I have

experienced, or am likely to experience. I lived on friendly terms

with all, welcomed by all. I never had a headache (except from the

effects of wine) and never felt sad (except on the account of the

ringlets of some beloved one)."

But Babar himself still abstained from wine, or at any rate from

intoxication. Love had stepped in at Herat to keep him from yielding

to the first of Said Khan's temptations, and the other form of

amusement was never to his liking.

Then there was another refugee who forty years afterwards sets

down his impressions of Kabul and its King. This was Haidar, yet

another cousin, ten-year-old-orphan, whose father had been that

Doghlat-commoner rebel of two years back.

What matter? His mother had been a maternal aunt. That was enough for

Babar. Besides the poor child had no other protector.

His welcome must have made a vivid impression on Haidar, for, as one

reads, the scene rises before one. The timid child wrapped in the one

old shawl which the forlorn party of refugees possessed, attempting to

kneel at the feet of that glorious figure with life or death in its

hands. The merry laugh, the swift stoop to catch up the child and hold

it close with comforting words. Then afterwards, the elegant mansion,

its rooms all spread with many coloured carpets and soft cushions,

with everything in the way of furniture, food, clothing, servants, and

slaves, so fully prepared as to leave nothing to be desired in the

whole building. And afterwards, again, the promises of kindness, the

threats of severity by which the little lad's love of study was

stimulated and encouraged. The lavish praise bestowed on any little

virtue or new accomplishment, the quick blame for anything mean or

lazy; these were such as most men would scarce do for their own sons.

"It was a hard day for me when I lost my father," writes Haidar; "but

I scarce felt the loss owing to the kindness of the Emperor."

"Have a care, youngster," he would say when, study time over, young

Haidar came as usual to play with Baby Humayon. "He is smaller than

thou art. Never be rough with weaklings. 'Tis not their fault. God

made them so. And he is thy cousin, likewise."

"But Humayon holds his own already," said Maham, proudly. "There is no

boy of his age in the court can come nigh him."

Babar laughed and put his arm round her. "Yea! Yea! little mother! He

is true ph[oe]nix, and we are the happiest folk in Kabul, which means

much." Then his face fell, he walked to the arched window-way and

looked out over the garden.

"What is't, my lord," said Maham, at his elbow in an instant.

He looked at her affectionately.

"Nothing, my moon! 'Tis only this. The dear mother lies yonder in the

Mercy-of-God. I would not bring her back, if I could. And little

Ma'asuma--" he paused--"I would not bring her back either, wife, if I

could. She was too tender for this world--aye! even for me. So she

sleeps peacefully--God rest her!--but Dearest-One--" his voice

broke--he turned away and Maham had nothing to say.

That thought was the fly in the pot of ointment, it was the one bitter

drop in the Crystal-Bowl-of-Life.

CHAPTER IX

"Bring! bring the musky scented wine!

A draught of wine the memory cheers,

And wakens thoughts of other years."

So the months, even the years sped on bringing calm. Sometimes Babar

felt a trifle regretful over the old storms. The glints of sunshine

between had seemed, mayhap, the brighter for them. He was now only

nearing his twenty-ninth year, and yet he felt almost as if life had

ended for him. He looked round on his growing family, on his gardens,

his aqueducts, his highly-disciplined small army; all were well in

their way, but for all that his restless eyes followed the doings of

Shah-Ismael of Persia, who, young as he was, a mere boy in fact, had

dared to send the arch-enemy, the Usbek-raider, Shaibani Khan, a

spinning-wheel and a spindle, and bid him if he would not fight, go

sit in a corner and busy himself with the little present like the

woman he was!

It had been splendid, that interchange of discourtesies. First of all,

the Shah's demand for a treaty followed by Shaibani's contemptuous

advice to make no claim for kingship through his mother, who had

withdrawn herself from the circle of distinction by her marriage;

since he, Shaibani, made one through his father, a Sultan and son of a

Sultan. This was accompanied by a beggar's bowl and staff with the

script: "In case you wish, as is fitting, to follow the profession of

your father, I remind you of it and the verse--

"'Clasp the bride of sovereignty close to you if you will, But don't

you dare to kiss her until the swords are still.'"

Shah-Ismael, however, had been no whit behind. Back had come the

spindle and distaff with the rhyming insult--

"Who boasts of his dead fathers only owns

Himself a dog that loveth ancient bones."

After that, naturally, there was but one end--extermination of one or

the other. Which would it be?

Shah-Ismael, with his thousands of disciplined and heretical

_kizzilbashes_, or Shaibani Khan with his hordes of wild Mongols?

"God's truth," said Babar to old Kasim who had been ailing this while

back, "I scarce know which to choose. I hate the Red-caps almost as

much as the Moghuls."

Old Kasim's eyes were growing a little dim for the things of this

world; perhaps he saw those of the next more clearly in consequence.

"There be good men on both sides, Most-Clement. A flat face and split

eyes count no more than a red-cap when we have lost clothes and bodies

at the Day-of-Judgment."

The shrewd commonsense of the remark clung to Babar's receptive brain

long after the speaker had gone to his account.

"Yea, I am restless," admitted Babar to calm Maham. "I cannot help it,

my moon! I am not made as thou art. There was a book at Samarkand when

I was a lad that treated of the Great Waters. And it said they rose

and fell as the moon waxed and waned. So 'tis thou who art

responsible, sweetheart; though God knows, thou art ever full moon to

me." And he sat down instantly to write a _rubai_ on that fancy. He

had not half finished it, however, when news came that drove

everything else out of his head.

Shah-Ismael had defeated Shaibani in full force at Meru; the

Usbek-raider was dead, smothered in a band of escaping Mongols.

"I must go," muttered the young King hoarsely; "I must go. Samarkand

is mine by right."

So, with hardly more than an hour's preparation he was off, though it

was the dead of winter, across the snows to join forces with his

cousin of Badakhshan.

The fighting fever was on him once more. He could not, he did not even

try, to resist it. And Maham let him go; she was too wise to attempt

to chain her wild hawk.

"When spring comes we will meet in Samarkand," she said quietly.

He took Haidar, the boy, with him though, because the lad wept and

refused to be left behind. And right proud was the lad, when at the

very first fight, it was the opportune arrival of a party of his

father's old retainers who had come out to join their young master,

that turned the tide of victory towards Babar.

"Let the name of Haidar Mirza be inscribed on the first trophy," said

the Emperor smiling; and the boy's blood went in a surge of sheer

delight to his face.

But, despite the fact that he was able to reach the river, and settle

himself in some measure of security at Kundez, Babar felt himself not

sufficiently strong to attempt Samarkand without help. And there was

none to whom he could apply save Shah-Ismael, who had already sent him

a letter containing guarded offers of friendship. It rather went

against Babar's orthodox grain to ask a favour from a persecuting

Shiah heretic; but old Kasim's words came back to him.

Yes! there was good on all sides, and--_pace_ the priests!--a man

might be an honest fellow in spite of his saying "Ameen" in schismatic

fashion. For Babar, like many of his like, had no taste for dogmatic

differences and preferred to differentiate by visible and audible

signs.

So Mirza-Khan, his cousin, was despatched to Irak in order to make the

best terms possible, and Babar, meanwhile, sent for his family from

Kabul. The spring had passed to summer ere they arrived at Kundez, and

Babar, now reinforced by some of the surrounding tribes, crossed the

Amu and marched on to await events at the strong fortress of Hissar.

It was close on eighteen years since he had been encamped with his old

uncle, Sultan Hussain, upon the opposite bank. Close on eighteen years

since, one darkling dawn, he, a lad of thirteen, dear old Kasim-Beg

and half-a-hundred or so of rough, honest Andijan troopers had ridden

through Khosrau Shah's picket, and he, Babar, had lost the Crystal

Bowl which Gharib had given him.

And now? He looked across to the frightened girl, the mother of his

children, in a way the mother of himself, and thought what a

marvellous thing Life was. Even as he saw it, limited by Birth and

Death, isolated by those five personal, bodily senses which none could

say he shared exactly with his fellow, how strange it was to watch the

compensating balance at work on all things, keeping all things as it

were to true, perfect level. He looked back over his life and saw that

balance everywhere, save in one thing. The tragedy of Dearest-One

remained as ever poignant, unappeased.

"Thou art sad, husband! what is't?" asked Maham, fondly. She was ever

quick to see his moods.

"Nothing, wife," he answered gaily. "Save that today or to-morrow at

least comes the answer from Shah-Ismael. What will the red-cap heretic

reply?--God knows!"

So with a laugh he left her for the cares of State.

But he had scarcely gone before he was back again, white, trembling, a

gold-dust-sprinkled letter in his hand.

"It hath come," he said brokenly. "It hath come--and oh!

Maham--Dearest-One! Dearest-One!"

He fell at her feet, buried his face in her lap and sobbed like a

child. She must be dead, thought Maham, and to her lips came the usual

blankly-tame commonplaces of consolation.

"Nay, 'tis not that!" he said, recovering his calm. "She is alive and

well--and Shah-Ismael, who hath found her, is sending her back to me

with all honour--" he sprang to his feet suddenly and raised his right

arm high.

"Oh, God! may my arm wither if ever it strike a blow against this just

man, may my tongue dry up if ever it utter word of blame; I, Babar, am

his servant for ever! There is nothing I will not do for him."

"Does he not desire aught of thee in return?" asked Maham when Babar

had fairly outwearied himself in joy, in confessions of past regret,

in promises of future content.

"Aye! Yea! he asks much, but not more than he has a right to ask--not

more than I will give cheerfully. And he is sending men also, Maham. I

shall have an army of sixty thousand! With that Samarkand is assured,

and, of a truth, no man can deem it a disgrace to own justice as his

sovereign lord! I hold it an honour."

And he upheld this view of Shah-Ismael's proposal that if the aid of

the Persian _kizzilbashes_ were given to conquer Samarkand, Babar

should acknowledge the Persian Satrapy as over-lord, against all the

criticism of his nobles; not that there was much, for it was

indubitable that without such help Samarkand would remain unwon. And

Babar had many arguments in favour of this nominal vassalage. To be

part of a great Empire, was always an advantage; besides the Kings of

Samarkand had always in the past acknowledged a suzerain lordship. It

had given stability to the dynasty; and it was of late years only,

since this dependence had been removed, that Samarkand had been

bandied from one ruler to another.

When a man is set on a thing, arguments for it grow in the very

hedgerows; and Babar with the tempting bait of his sister's safe

return before his eyes, was too full of real gratitude to hesitate an

instant.

But it was not for a month or more that he was to enter Samarkand

victorious.

It was a perfect autumn day when, after dismissing the Persian

contingent, Babar made his triumphant entry. All along the route, high

and low, nobles and poor men, grandees and artisans, princes and

peasants, alike testified their joy at the advent of one who had

already twice before come to them as King, and who had endeared

himself to them by his kindness and generosity.

The streets were all draped with cloth and gold brocades; pictures,

drawings, wreaths, were hung up on every side. Such pomp and splendour

no one has ever seen or heard of before or since. He was received at

the Gate by the great men of the city, who assured him that the

inhabitants had for years been longing that the shadow of his

protection might be cast upon them.

Babar, who was dressed, rather to their regret, in the uniform of a

_kissilbash_ General (which smacked of heresy, almost of unbelief)

responded heartily, and all eyes followed his splendid figure as he

rode through the streets saluting the crowd right and left. He was in

the highest spirits, for he knew that in the very Palace where she had

been left ten long years before, his dearest sister was awaiting him.

Dearest-One! It seemed almost too good to be true.--God save the man

who had brought this happiness into his life!

Impatient, headstrong in all his emotions, he would gladly have cut

short his reception and gone straight to her; but the people would not

be denied a sight of their hero. If the angels were crying aloud

"Enter in peace!" and the populace was shouting "God save the

Emperor!" the least he could do was to listen to them patiently.

So it was nigh dusk before he found himself, trembling with sheer joy,

in the Garden-Palace and saw before him a tall, slender figure in

white--

"Dearest-One! Dearest-One!" he cried and was kissing her feet, her

hands, her thin, worn face.

"Brotherling! Brotherling!"

That was all they said. And then they held back to see each other. She

saw strength, and health, and manhood such as she had scarce dreamed

of, even for him; a man of past thirty in the very prime of all

things. And he saw a woman of nigh forty with streaks of silver in her

dark hair, upright, tall, but with a weariness even in her joy.

"I am sorry, Dearest-One," he said humbly as he had said to her many a

time when as a child he had grieved her.

"And I am glad," she replied softly.

That night the city seemed on fire. Flares blazed from every house,

the flickering lines of countless lights seemed to interlock one

street with another. Vast crowds surged through them, and far and wide

rose Babar's praise.

But at the door of a mosque an old white-bearded _mullah_ sat and spat

calmly. "He wore the accursed red-cap of the schismatic--Wherefore?"

And the folk who heard him looked at each other and echoed:

"Wherefore?"

That was the question. Asked by one to-day, it was asked by

half-a-dozen the next, by a hundred the week after, when Babar,

faithful as ever to his promises, had the Kutba, the Royal

Proclamation, read in the name of Shah-Ismael as over-lord. A thousand

asked it when the first gold coin was struck bearing the hated Shiah

legends. The Emperor, the man they had welcomed, was a heretic. He and

his army wore the red-cap.

Samarkand, head centre of orthodoxy, became alarmed, began to whisper.

"I am no heretic, but a keeper of promises," said Babar grimly, and

went on his way. He had become a trifle arrogant, and inclined to

resent any interference. The Samarkand folk were rude, ignorant,

bigoted; he would not even try to pacify them.

So the winter passed and spring set in--(the plentiful drops of her

rain having clothed the earth in green raiment)--and with the warmer

weather the Usbeks once more appeared like locusts on the edge of the

Turkhestan desert and the fight for Samarkand began all over again.

And this time Babar with not a wish ungratified, Babar in the

plenitude of his pride and strength, was forced to flight; for

religious bigotry is the hardest of all foes to fight.

A horde of _kizzilbashes_, it is true, was sent by his over-lord to

help him; but they only made matters worse. First by their

confirmation of heresy; next by their brutality in murdering high and

low, the sucklings and the decrepit.

Sick at heart, Babar found himself once more a wanderer; once more a

prey to the treachery of Moghul troops, from which he escaped one

night with bare life and in his night clothes.

His one consolation was that Maham, Dearest-One and his children, were

safe with relatives in Khost.

No! he had another consolation; for the man who had set aside wine as

an enhancement of pleasure, now took to it as a lessener of care. The

Cup-of-Life for him was filled again and again with the Wine-of-Death,

and he laughed as he quaffed at its bubbles on the rim. Vaguely, too,

came to him a sort of disgust at dogmatic creeds. He would sit and

sing Sufic odes with fervour, and praise.

Perhaps with a man of his temperament, it was only to be expected.

"The wine, the lamp which night and day

Lights us along our weary way.

Saki! thou knowest I worship wine,

Let that delicious cup be mine,

Wine! pure and limpid as my tears."

BOOK III

FRUIT TIME

1525 TO 1530

CHAPTER I

"The Long Years slide,

The Door of Life stands wide,

Ghosts creep inside,

With their dead fingers hide

Present from Past.

Dear God be kind!

Grant that I keep enshrined

Within my mind

The Love of Human-kind,

Until the Last"

Babar sat overlooking a Kabul valley, a tall, straight, still athletic

man of two-and-forty.

Twelve years had passed since, broken, crestfallen at his failure to

keep the loyalty of Samarkand, he had shaken the dust of his kingly

hopes in Transoiana from him for ever, returned to Kabul and set

himself another emprise--the conquest of India. Thus far he had not

succeeded. Three or four attempts had been made, in themselves

satisfactory, in result futile. On his last expedition he had got as

far as Lahore; but he had had to return for reinforcements to Kabul,

leaving a doubtfully-loyal governor in the Punjab. So he was still no

more, no less, than King-of-Kabul; for those twelve years had brought

a marked diminution in the vivid initiative of his younger years. He

was up at dawn as usual, it is true; the wine he had drunk overnight

had never been allowed to cloud his days; yet those twelve

comparatively empty years remained, and remain, in mute testimony to

the toxic power of the body over the mind. He felt this himself

vaguely; for he was always sensitive to the touch of truth.

He had begun wine-bibbing of deliberate intent. He had told himself

that he would only indulge for ten years, until he was forty. Indeed,

wanting one year of that age he had drunk more copiously as a sort of

send-off to virtue. But virtue had not come. As he sat overlooking the

valley where his twelve thousand troops were encamped, the instinct to

enhance his keen enjoyment of the beauty he saw found words in an

order for a beaker of good Shiraz wine, and an intimation that the

Pavilion-of-Spirits was to be prepared, his friends and boon

companions warned.

The royal cup-bearer brought a golden goblet filled to the brim, and

he quaffed it down like mother's milk; so--the cup still in his hands

that hung between his knees--sat drinking in that intoxicating beauty

of the splendid world.

For it was still splendid to him; though for twelve years he had

seldom gone to bed strictly sober. His face, however, showed no sign

of his life, save in a certain premature haggardness of cheek. The

eyes were clear as ever, and had gained in their falcon-like keenness

by reason of his slight stoop, not from the shoulders, but the neck.

It was sunset. The crests of the surrounding hills showed softly

violet against the clear, primrose sky. The girdle of the distant snow

peaks were losing the last faint flush of day; the cold icy pallor

that was Creeping over them, matched the low, level mist streaks which

were beginning to stretch, like a winding sheet, over the darker

purple shadow of the valley. A shadow that looked like the sky at

night, all set as it was with constellations of camp fires ...

"Slave! Another goblet of wine!"

But, even as he gave the order, a twinge of conscience made him

remember the Arabic verse: "The breach of a promise avenges itself on

the promise breaker." But it was only a twinge. After all, most of the

wine parties had been guileless and innocent. He could scarcely

recollect being miserably drunk more than once or twice; and then he

had always suffered horribly in the stomach for his sin. And but one

or two parties had been disagreeable, as when one Gedai, being

troublesome-drunk had tried to recline on the royal pillow, and had

had to be turned out neck and crop by royalty itself; such royalty

having invariably a stronger head than the other carousers.

But even that had been rather funny; though not so funny as on the day

when, drinking in the open, they had been apprised of the enemy's

approach and Dost-Mahomed could not--despite skins full of water--be

got on his horse; so Amni, being solemn-drunk, had suggested that

rather than leave him in that condition to fall into the enemy's hands

it would be better at once to cut off his head and take it away to

some place of safety!

The very remembrance brought laughter. Babar tossed off the second

beaker of wine, and stood up quoting Nizami's verses:

"Oh! bring the musky scented wine,

The key of mirth which must be mine,

The key which opens wide the door

Of rapture rich and varied store,

And o'er the temper casts a spell

Of kindness indescribable."

In those last words lay the secret of Babar's superiority to the

debasing influence of his life.

His kindness was simply indescribable, and he stuck to his code of

honour and morality with a certain fastidiousness. Men must carry

their liquor like gentlemen, no man must be pressed to drink wine, no

private house be unwillingly defiled with its use, even if the Emperor

were the guest. Above all things, wine must not interfere with duty.

He would follow the advice he had had cut on the side of the little,

red granite cistern among the Judas trees in the Four-corner Garden of

Kabul--the little cistern that was so often filled with redder

wine--he would sing with the singers and lutists:

"Sweet are the smiling Springs,

Sweet what each New Year brings,

Sweet is a cup of wine,

Sweeter is Love divine.

Oh, Babar! Seize them all.

They pass beyond recall."

He would seize all; but he would remain a kindly gentleman.

And so--if he were to send his letter to Maham, his dear wife, his

ever-sweet guardian and friend, that night, he must finish it ere

going up the Pavilion-of-Spirits!

They were constant correspondents, those two, and although they had

only parted from each other at the Garden-of-Fidelity a day or two

before, he had plenty to say to her, both as his moon, the woman who

was the chief influence of his life, and also as the head of his

family. For Maham's other children having died in infancy, leaving

none but Humayon in direct descent, Babar, by her advice, had married

again. The youngest of three sons thus born he had made over at birth

to Maham who was bringing the little Hindal up as her own. At the

tribunal of his own heart, this was ever an action to be slurred over.

It had doubtless brought great grief to the real mother, a good woman

who had done her duty by him in giving him children. Still it had all

been settled by usual custom. The auguries had been consulted before

the birth of the child, and Maham had taken the chance of its being a

girl. Yet ... In good sooth that whole year, with its episode of the

taking of Bajour, touched a lower level than any other in Babar's

thoughts. He had been six and thirty, it was the first time he had

used match-lock men or artillery, and somehow--possibly because he had

begun to take drugs as well as wine--he had reverted to inherited

instinct. He had been minded to emulate his ancestor Timur--he had

done so ...

Three thousand infidels put to the sword!...

Babar escaped from the remembrance and palliated the action by telling

himself that the Afghans were an impossible race, strangely foolish

and senseless, possessed of little reflection and less foresight. What

trouble had not the Yusufzais given him until he had attached them by

marrying the daughter of their chief.

That, anyhow, had not been sordid. Babar recalled the whole incident

with pleasure. How he had gone, disguised as a wandering mendicant to

the chief's fort, during a feast, in order to spy out the land. How

the Lady Mubarika--the Blessed-Damozel--had noticed the handsome

beggar and sent him food from her own dish. How he had thanked her,

found out she was not betrothed, and had wrapped the food she had

given him in his handkerchief, hidden it in a hole in the wall, and

gone back to claim her as his bride.

"I have no daughter," came back the proud answer.

"Ask her concerning a wandering mendicant," Babar replied, "and if

more proof be wanted, find the food the gracious Lady gave wrapped in

my handkerchief and hidden in a breach of thy fort. So let it be

peace!"

And peace it had been; for the Lady Mubarika...! Could he ever forget

her grace and dignity as she stood before him for the first time as a

bride? When she had let slip her veil and laid her pale hands on her

pale bosom.

"My lord! Remember that the whole tribe of Yusufzais sits enshrined in

my heart!"

It had been fine!

No! Even though Maham had held his soul, that, and his passionate

appreciation of it, had been a gleam in a dark year. And no one had

ever had an unkind word for the Lady Mubarika. Childless, reserved,

quiet, she was yet a power in that household he had left behind him in

Kabul. So he wrote to his moon:

"Thou hast good friends with thee. That Dearest-One and the

Blessed-Damozel are as sisters to thee, is ever a consolation to me.

Also that our farewell was in that same garden where my first love

died, and rose again in thee. In truth it was in its greatest glory;

the flowers yellow, purple, red, springing everywhere, all mingled

together as if they had been flung and scattered abroad from the full

basket of God. The pomegranate trees so beautifully yellow, the fruit

hanging red upon the boughs. The grass plots covered with the second

crop of white and pink clover. The orange bushes so green and

cheerful, laden with their golden globes. In good sooth, of all the

gardens I have planted--God knows how many--this one is the crown;

none could view it without acknowledging its charm. Humayon hath come

to join me as arranged, though somewhat tardily, for which I spoke to

him with considerable severity; nathless with difficulty, my moon,

since he is thy son and the beauty, and vigour, and valiance of his

seventeen years would disarm an ogre.

"Bid Ma'asuma be a good girl till my return and tell her I will keep

her husband's life safe as my own; and greet little Rosebody from her

father. Lo! is there aught in the wide world more captivating to a

man's heart than his female children. Except perchance, my moon! his

wife."

Ten minutes after despatching this, sealed and signed, by

special runner, Babar was the centre of the merriment in the

Palace-of-Spirits. In good sooth at that early hour, it was innocent

and guileless enough. A party of men, chosen chiefly because they were

of like temperament to himself, all of them distinguished by general

_bonhommie_ and not a few by wit and accomplishments, all met together

to enjoy themselves, sometimes with the aid of aromatic confections,

sometimes with wine or spirits.

To-night it was the latter, so the fun waxed fast.

The screens of the tent had been thrown back; they could see the

valley beneath them studded with fire stars.

"Look! Most-Clement!" cried Tardi-Beg. "Yonder, I swear, is the

_Heft-Aurang_."

Babar bent his keen eyes hastily on the flickering lights. Aye, the

_Heft-Aurang_--the Seven thrones! The thought took him back with a

rush to Baisanghar, dead these twenty years; from him, memory fled to

Gharib and the Crystal-Bowl-of-Life. He carried the copy Maham had

given him in his bosom always, though he seldom used it. It was too

small for wine! But some day--aye!--some day soon--he would keep his

promise to himself and forswear drinking.

"Yea!" remarked Ali-Jan, not to be outdone, "and yonder to the right

are the Brothers."

"And look you to the left, the Warrior," stuttered Abul-Majid. "His

sword is somewhat crooked."

"'Tis thine eyes are askew," laughed Shaikh-Zin. "Thou never hadst a

head worth a spoonful of decent Shiraz."

So in laughter, and quips, and cranks, the merriment waxed. They could

most of them string verses after a fashion, and some of them began

reciting their latest efforts. The climax being reached when Ali-Jan

gravely gave a well-known couplet as his own!

"When lovers think, their thoughts are not their own,

But each to each Love's communings have flown."

"Hold thy peace, pirate!" came Babar's full joyous voice. "That is

Mahomed Shaikh. Thou couldst not write such an one for thy life."

Ali-Jan, who was already far gone, waggled his head. "Lo!" he said

with a hiccup, "I could do--doz-shens!"

"And I." "And I," chorused others militantly, for the spirits were

rising fast.

"So be it!" cried Babar, as ever the most sober of the party. "Let us

all try and parody it _extempore!_ Now then, Ali-Jan--'tis thy turn

first. Rise and out with it _instanter!_"

Ali-Jan rose gravely and stood swaying. "When--" he began solemnly.

"When--"

Then he subsided, gravely and solemnly. The roar of consequent

laughter was dominated by Babar's joyous shout, "I have it! I have

it!"

"When Ali drinks, his legs are not his own,

Each seeks support and neither stands alone."

"Shabash! Wah! Wah! Ha! Ha! Ha!" The uproarious mirth echoed out into

the still night.

"The Emperor is merry," quoth the sentries in the valley, with a

smile.

"Aye! but he looks ill for all that," said an orthodox old trooper. "I

saw him shiver yestere'en when he swam the stream in his clothes, and

the water was lukewarm. Time was, not so long ago, when he would have

swum an ice torrent and felt no cold; now, he hath taken a chill."

Whether the man was right in the cause thereof, he was correct in the

illness. The next morning found Babar down with so severe a defluxion,

fever, and cough, that he spat blood. The court physician dosed him

with narcissus flowers steeped in wine, and Ali-Jan, Tardi-Beg and all

the other boon companions sat with the monarch to cheer him up by

laying the blame of the illness on the cold, or the heat, or what not.

But Babar himself knew whence the indisposition proceeded, and what

conduct had led to this chastisement. What business had he to laugh at

folk in verse for his own amusement? Still less, no matter how mean or

contemptible the doggerel, to take pride in it and write it down? It

was regrettable that a tongue which could repeat the sublimest

productions, should lend itself to unworthy rhymes; it was melancholy

that a heart capable of nobler conceptions should stoop to meaner and

despicable verses. From henceforth he would abstain religiously from

vituperative poetry.

This excellent resolution--or something else--proved curative; and

Babar was soon on the mend and was able to write the following:

"Oh! what can I do with you, flagrant tongue?

On your account I deserve to be hung.

How long will you utter bad parodies,

One half indecent, the other half lies?

If you wish to escape being damned--Up rein!

Ride off--nor venture near verse again."

To which he appended a quatrain in his best Arabic:

"Oh, God! Creator of the World! My soul

I broke upon the Wheel of Evil sore.

Cleanse me from sin, my God, and make me whole,

Else cursed shall I be for evermore."

He felt better after thus committing his penitence to writing. So with

renewed vitality, and gathering his force together as he went along,

he crossed the Sind river to find the moment ripe for his emprise.

India was in a turmoil, divided by two rival claimants to its throne.

The whole country was over-run by armies, more or less independent;

the whilom Governor of Lahore at the head of one, numbering over forty

thousand men, chiefly Afghans.

It broke up, however, by sheer invertebrate disintegration, ere Babar

could reach it, and he passed on, unopposed, by the lower Kashmir

hills, by Bhimber and Jhelum till he arrived at Sialkot, keeping all

the while close to the skirts of the mountains where retreat and

safety might be found if needs be.

But now, before him, lay the wide plain of the Punjab. Here for the

first time in his life, Babar faced a real galloping country where

horsemen could, indeed, charge to some purpose. But with flat plain

behind him it was necessary that the plain should be friendly. To

ensure this needed delay, he had to negotiate, to threaten, to pacify.

Half-a-dozen petty chiefs had to be brought to their senses, and those

senses were so dull, so rude, so provokingly stupid. What for instance

could be said to a man who actually claimed to be seated in the

Presence, when nobles and princes of the blood-royal stood by in all

humility?

Babar's language on such occasions was always frank, truthful, utterly

unanswerable.

"The Most-Clement hath settled _his_ hash," remarked the

Prime-Minister with a smile, when the old ex-governor of Lahore,

having been caught, was brought before the Emperor, with the two

swords which the rebel had boastfully hung round his neck as sign of

unyielding opposition, still dangling under his chin. This by Babar's

own order, to emphasise the trouncing which sent the old sinner away

unharmed, but sadder and wiser.

"Yea!" replied the Emperor quite gravely. "Yet I told him naught but

what he deserved most truly, for I had done much for him. And, as thou

sawest, he had no answer. He did, indeed, stammer out a few words, but

not at all to the purpose, for what reply could he make to such

confounding truths?"

"Of a surety, none," assented his hearers, still with a smile. Folk

had to smile often over Babar's frank, outspoken clarity.

So, by slow degrees, and not without many a drinking-party, Sirhind

was reached; and here the Emperor's soul was refreshed by the sight of

a rivulet of running water! It was almost unbelievable; and no doubt

he drank a libation of something stronger in its honour.

Then, but a few miles farther on, he came upon an extremely beautiful

and delightful place with a charming climate, where, perforce, he had

to halt a few days if only to explore the neighbouring country which

promised well. Doubtless he was close to the southern spurs of the

Sewalik hills, and here, in one of the side valleys, he found himself

on the bank of one of those oleander-set streams, where the

butterflies get mixed up with strange sweet-scented flowering shrubs.

One of those streams which in the dry season are beds of boulders with

a half-hidden trickle of water amongst the stones; but which, in the

rains, swell extremely and rush down in a perfect torrent to join that

strange Gaggar river which rises forty feet in a night, and sweeps

away, resistless, to a still stranger fate--to total disappearance in

the sands of the Rajputana desert. A fate which must have impressed

the Emperor with his keen appreciation of the poetry in life.

And here, in early March, these same flowering shrubs must have been

budding, the butterflies must have been fluttering over the new russet

shoots of the maiden-hair fern; and in sheltered spots Babar's

favourite Judas trees must have been in bloom.

The temptation was too great! He called another halt, and set to work,

not to drink, but to make a garden; while, not to lose time, he sent

out scouts and spies to bring him intelligence as to his enemy's

movements. Doubtless as he laid out his favourite Four-cornered

Garden, he drank success to it, and dreamt happy, if confused, dreams

of stone-watercourses and bright fountains after the Kabul pattern;

for he wrote and told Maham all about it. And he told her also that

her son Humayon was bearing himself like a hero and had gone out with

a light force to reconnoitre and disperse some wandering bands of

marauders; but that he would be back again of course, for his

eighteenth birthday on the 6th, when there was to be a great festival

on the occasion of the first beard-cutting; such a festival as would

have delighted the heart of the old grandmother Isan-daulet--on whom

be peace!

And his thoughts waxed soft and young again with the remembrance of

that shaving of his own--on his eighteenth birthday--on the upland

meadow close to the Roof-of-the-World when there was but one real tent

in his encampment, and his following had consisted of more than one

and less than two hundred tatterdemalions. Times had changed; and yet

he was defying Fate to the full as much as in those far away days; for

against his twelve thousand troops all told, the whole strength of

Northern India was gathering itself upon the plain above Delhi. That

fateful plain where hundreds of thousands of men had already given up

their lives in battles which for their time had decided the fate of

Hindustan.

What would that fate be now?

He was not without thought; but he was without fear. He meant to win.

Meanwhile till the fateful moment of fight arrived there was the

Garden! When that was fairly started, news came that the enemy had

begun to advance slowly. It was time therefore to be on the move. But

the broad, calm stream of the Jumna river was not to be allowed to

slip past without being pressed into the service of pleasure, so,

while the army held down the bank for two marches Babar sailed down in

an awning-covered boat and explored many a side stream where the

bottle-nosed alligators lay on the sand banks like logs, and great

flocks of flamingoes, white in the distance, rose startled into

flaming red clouds. And in the still evenings so cool, so pleasant,

Babar, who had a genius for the comfortable, ordered aromatic

confections to be served, and the party floated down stream in dreamy

content, trailing their hands in the refreshing water and singing

low-toned songs in a whisper, until, suddenly the boat touched a

sandbank, and Shah-Hussan went over on his back, laid hold of

Kali-Gokultash, who was cutting a melon, and both fell into the water,

the latter leaving the knife he held, stuck point down in the deck!

And what is more, he refused to regain the boat, but continued

swimming in his best gown and dress of honour till the shore was

reached!

But there--a fine figure of a young man, handsomer in face than his

father ever was, taller in height, yet without the latter's

inexpressible charm--stood Humayon to join in the laughter for a few

moments, but then to give news which ended fooling.

The advance party of Sultan-Ibrahim's army was within touch.

Babar was ready on the instant. He was out of the boat before it was

moored, giving orders, short, sharp, stern.

The time for play was over.

CHAPTER II

"It is the time of roses;

Green are the young wheat fields;

The onward march of the foes is

Hid by a dark night's shield.

Over the sand hills, sun-dried,

Thirsting for blood of men,

An hundred thousand on one side,

On the other only ten!

What will the Dawn be showing,

Fate of the Parched Mouth?

Will the Cup-of-Death be flowing

With blood of North or South?"

All that night the Emperor sat in his tent working out his plan of

attack. Even his brief connection with the red-cap Persian Army had

given him an insight into a new science of war; for though it was

brutal in the details of its methods, these methods had been learnt

from the Turks; who in their turn had learnt them still farther West.

And Babar was a born general. He had that firm touch on the pulse of

his army by which he knew its moments of weakness, and when to seize

and utilise the fierce throb of fight-fever, that comes at times to

the blood of the most peaceful.

So the Emperor made his plan first; and then, being wise, bowed

to the wisdom of his ancestors by calling together a general council

of all who had experience and knowledge; but not, be it noted, until

every part of his scheme was in order and ready. Not until right and

left wings, and centre, had been apportioned; not until the gun

carriages--seven hundred in all--had been _laagered_ together with

twisted hide ropes as with chains; not till the tale of hurdle

breast-works and sandbags was complete.

Then he laid his plan before the Council; and naturally, it was

approved. Mindful, also, of the prejudices of the rank and file, he

performed the old Turkhi ceremony of the "_vim_" or full dress review,

at which, as General, he had to estimate the total number of men at

his command.

"The most revered father was out by a good thousand or two, to-day,"

said Humayon, who, arrayed in gorgeous trappings, looked a hero after

a woman's heart. "He was wont to be more accurate."

Babar smiled gaily. "A thousand or two to the good is better than to

the bad, when men's hearts fail them," he replied. "And some, see you,

are in great terror and alarm. For sure, trepidation and fear are

always unbecoming, since what God Almighty has decreed, men cannot

alter. Still I blame them not greatly. Of a truth they have reason.

They have come a four-months' journey from their own country; they

have to engage an enemy over an hundred thousand strong; and worse

than all, a strange enemy, understanding not even their language, poor

souls!"

He was full of commiseration; for all that he abated not one jot or

tittle of his plan, and his very firmness brought a measure of

confidence even to the timid.

The little town of Paniput reached, Babar took up his position there,

the city and suburbs protecting his right. The left he entrenched,

leaving the centre free for his _laager_ of guns and breastworks,

behind which stood the matchlock men. But at every bow-shot distance

apart, a space was left through which flanking parties of cavalry

might issue forth to charge. When all was ready the army began to feel

more secure, and more than one general ventured the opinion that with

a position so well fortified, the enemy would think twice about

attacking.

But Babar shook his head. "Consider not," he said, "of our present

enemy as of our past ones. Judge not of Ibrahim-Sultan, as of our

Princes and Khans in the north who _knew what they were about_, who

could discriminate when to advance, when to retreat. This young man

has shown himself of no experience. Already I find him negligent in

movement. He marches without order, he halts without plan, and will

doubtless engage in battle without forethought: _therefore_ we must be

prepared."

It was an anxious time, that wait of six days for assault, but,

despite the skirmishing attempts made by small parties of cavalry to

induce the enemy to engage, nothing happened. A night attack carried

out against Babar's own judgment, fared no better; but, mercifully, it

ended without the loss of a single man, though one bold soldier--a

boon companion of the Emperor's--was wounded.

That day at sunset there was a false alarm, and the army was drawn up

ready for action; only, however, to be drawn off again and led back to

camp. Again about midnight, the call-to-arms uprose, and for

half-an-hour all was confusion and dismay, many of the troops being

new to the work, and unaccustomed to such alarms.

"Lo! it will steady their nerves," said Babar lightly, with another

gay smile, "and by God who made me! even mine are somewhat agee this

night. Go! saddle me Rakush, slave! I am for a ride round for an hour

or so."

A minute or two later he was on his favourite charger pacing his way

silently over what would be the battle-field. And as he passed on, his

horse's feet sinking in the thirsty sand, or echoing on the hard

lime-stone soil, his mind was busy over the chances of the future. He

meant to win; but many a man whose bones lay buried beneath that

useless waste--useless for all save battle--had had as high a hope as

his, as steady a determination.

How many thousands--nay! hundreds of thousands of hopes had not that

vast sterile plain of Paniput ended for ever? The common folk told him

that on dark nights you could hear, rising from the ground, the voices

of the dead men below, the clash of arms, the noise of fight. Mayhap

it was so. Mayhap all the sounds of life went on, and on, and on.

Tears, love, peace, war, life, death; all were the same in the end.

All were part of that Great Whole which somehow, always managed to

escape before you could grip at it.

He reined up his horse to listen; but only the familiar sound of the

night came to his ear. The distant and persistent baying of a dog, the

booming whirr of some night insect as it flew unseen, the faint rustle

of a dawn wind over the sand.

It was time he were going back to work; back to face what the day

might bring forth.

It brought what he awaited. When the light was such that one object

could just be distinguished from another, patrols galloped in; the

enemy were advancing in order of battle.

There was no confusion this time. "Use doth breed a habit in a man,"

was wisdom known to the Emperor. So, swiftly, each fell to his proper

place, the flanking parties on the left ready with instructions, so

soon as the enemy was in touch, to make a circuit and take them in the

rear. Babar himself took his post on a slight eminence. He knew that

with such overwhelming odds against him all depended on the handling

of his men, so there must be no fine fighting for him. That was not

his work.

His keen eyes watched the oncoming line of the enemy. It was bent to

the right and the order came immediately--"Reinforcements from the

reserve in support." Had he been a modern-day Staff-College man, the

martial phrase could not have come more correctly!

And he noticed another thing. The enemy had not expected to find such

strong defences. They were coming along almost at the double; yet the

front rank hesitated, almost halted. This was the psychical moment.

Intensify this hesitation, and the ranks behind would be thrown into

confusion. "Right and Left divisions charge! And bid the flanking

parties use all possible speed," came the swift order. In a few

minutes both Left and Right were engaged and the wheeling horsemen

could be seen coming round to the rear. Those overwhelming numbers

told, however; the Left, too impetuous, wavered visibly; but Babar's

keen eye saw it. To send support from the main body needed but a few

words. So, attacked on right and left, with the flanking parties

harassing the rear, the huge army was driven in on itself, and,

huddled together, fell into confusion, unable either to advance or

retreat. Then came the final order to the Centre "Engage!" and the

fight was virtually won. After all, the artillery had little to do

beyond a few discharges in front of the line to good purpose.

The sun had mounted spear-high when the onset of battle began, but by

midday the enemy was completely broken and routed, and Babar's troops

victorious and exulting. The arduous undertaking had been made easy,

and a mighty army in the space of half-a-day laid in the dust. It

seemed incredible. Babar remaining behind while he despatched parties

of pursuit, rode, somewhat sad-eyed, over the battle-field. Here had

been a fine stand! Five or six thousand dead bodies piled one upon

another. Well! those had been brave men, dying for some cause, some

point of honour. It was not until late in the afternoon that the

cause, the point of honour, was made apparent. Ibrahim, their King's

dead body was found in their midst. One Tahir found it, cut off the

head, and brought it into the Headquarters' tent.

"Slave! Why didst do that? He was at least King to those poor souls.

Take it back," said Babar sternly, then went on with his work.

Humayon, Kwajah-Kilan and several more of the best officers, with a

light body of troops were despatched in utmost haste to occupy Agra,

ere it had time to hear of the victory, and a smaller force to march

without halt to Delhi and seize the Fort and treasuries. For Babar,

with his small army, could not afford to give time for rally. This

done he and his staff rode through the enemy's deserted lines, and

visited the dead leaders' pavilions and accommodations.

"They had best bring the dead fool's body here," said Babar briefly,

"and bid the men not touch the tent. Stay! set a watch on it till his

friends come, as they will, likely, at nightfall."

It was a kindly thought, but in a way it was unwise; for the Afghans

of Delhi, seeing their cause lost, kept alive their hatred of the

northern invader by raising miserable Ibrahim to martyr rank, and

making pilgrimages to his grave.

But Babar was never clear-sighted in this world's ways; he did most

things by impulse and it was Heaven's grace that such impulses

generally led him aright.

Three days after this Zahir-ud-din Mahomed Babar was proclaimed

Emperor of India in the mosque of Delhi, but the conqueror himself did

not go into the city. He preferred to remain with his army encamped by

the Kutb-Minar among the relics of dead Kings, feasting his eyes on

the strange new beauty of carven stone and straight architrave. He

would not have thought it possible to get so majestic a building

without the use of the arch.

But the Kutb-Minar! Babar found himself looking at it at all hours of

the day and night. It fascinated him. That marvellous shaft of stone

so deftly modulated in tint, from its purplish red base, through pale

rose-pink to vivid orange, as, spurning the world, it shoots into the

blue sky, filled him with glad amaze. How and why and in what quality

did it surpass all other buildings he had ever seen? Was it because,

as folks said, its proportions were correct, or was there in it the

secret of all true art? Babar knew his history well; he knew it was

but three hundred years since, by order of Eibuk the slave, that

column had been built by the Hindu architects who had to work with the

material of their own desecrated and destroyed temples.

The temptation to revenge, to follow the destruction of religion by

that of art, must have been great; but these men had been true

artists. To them Self was nothing. They chiselled, they cut, they

planned, perfection before their eyes. And they had touched close upon

it; so their work remained, almost as it had left their hands,

undimmed by Time, a record of Selflessness.

Babar could feel this vaguely, could spend half the night

circumambulating the tombs of the Saints; could climb the dizzy stair

at dusk to see Canopus flicker into light on the purpling heavens, and

bring memories of the past with it. He could even come down again,

full of kindly thoughts for the womenkind at Kabul and write long

letters to his paternal aunts telling them how splendid their grand

nephew looked at the head of his troops, and how the army had taken to

calling him, Babar, "Kalendar[3]-King," because he gave away all his

own chances of plunder.

---------------------

[Footnote 3: Kalendars are men vowed to poverty.]

---------------------

"Nathless," he wrote, "I am keeping certain presents for my aunts and

cousins, which shall be sent when opportunity offers."

But, almost before the ink of such effusions was dry, he would be out

on an awning-covered boat slipping down the sliding moonlit river,

trailing his hand in the water while his brain grew dizzy with wine or

drugs.

For danger was past at present; he could afford to get drunk.

And he did. The journey down to Agra, where Humayon had done his part

well, and had, in addition, quelled a Rajput rebel to the West, was

more like a pleasure-party than a march of war. Babar enjoyed it

immensely, and his eyes were everywhere, noting each strange bird and

beast, and flower. He even began to write down his impressions

concerning his new kingdom.

Perhaps because by now--the end of April--the hot weather had begun to

set in, his verdict was distinctly unfavourable. The whole country,

and especially the towns, were in his opinion extremely ugly. The

latter had a uniform ugliness which was dispiriting. Then the gardens

were poor and without wells. The excessive levelness of the plain,

also, was monotonous.

On the other hand the fruits were distinctly worthy of notice, though

how anyone could eat a jack-fruit was beyond comprehension. It smelt

horribly, it looked like a sheep's stomach stuffed and made into a

haggis, and its taste was sickly sweet.

He was disappointed also in the mango, and could only damn it with

faint praise by saying that "_such mangoes as are good are

excellent_."

The Gazetteer, however, had to be finished another time, for Agra was

reached, bringing more urgent work. His first view of the place he

meant to make his capital was disappointing in the extreme. It was the

10th of May and a dust storm was raging. None who have not endured one

in Northern India can have any idea of the discomfort these electrical

disturbances bring with them. The air, hot and heavy, seems to parch

the skin; a shimmer, bringing dizziness to the brain, lies between the

eyes and all things. Then, suddenly, a puff, as of smoke, drifts past.

The sky reddens, lowers. A low, moaning sound as of coming wind is

heard; and then, with a furious gust, it is there. For an instant or

two, the trees bending, shivering in the storm, show like spectres;

the next all things are blotted out by the dancing, raging, stinging

sand-atoms which leap into the air and positively fray the skin as

they sweep past, driven helter-skelter by the gale. Then a drop or two

of dry rain falls, perhaps a little more, and after half-an-hour or

so, the weary traveller who has sought shelter behind the first bush,

or in the first hollow, can go on his way.

Such a storm was at its height when Babar entered the palace of his

predecessor. But he bore it with singular composure. India had been to

him for years a Land-of-Dreams, and he meant to stay there, despite

dust. But his nobles spat the sand out of their mouths and reviled all

things Indian, until Humayon in full durbar, pulled out the great

Moghul diamond which had been given him voluntarily by the Rajah's

people of Gwalior in gratitude for saving their lives and property

from his soldiery; for Humayon, so long as he served his father,

followed in his footsteps of humanity.

He laid it on a cushion of orange satin embroidered in silver, and

handed it to his father. Not so brilliant doubtless then as it is now

when it shines as the Koh-inoor, it was still a marvel, and the

northern nobles crowded round it in wondering delight. In value it

must have been equal to half the daily expense of the whole world;

enough therefore to pay for many discomforts and disagreeables.

But Babar's eyes scarce brightened.

"Tis more suitable to the young than to the old, sonling," he said

affectionately. "Take it back, Humayon, and give it to thy wife--when

thou hast one! Thy mother--may her life be happy--cares not for

jewels: nor in truth do I. A rose is better than a ruby."

And that night when he had settled some affairs of state, and pardoned

a few Hindustani nobles who had resisted his advance, he set to work

upon a _rubai_ on that fancy; but he was in too didactic a mood for

poetry. He felt that he had done everything that had been required of

him; so he wrote in his diary instead--

"In consideration of my confidence in Divine Aid, the Most-High did

not suffer the distress and hardship of my life to be thrown away; but

defeated my most formidable enemy and made me conqueror of the _noble_

country of Hindustan" (this adjective was the result of some thought,

for Babar was nothing if not truthful)--"This success I do not ascribe

to my own strength, nor did this good fortune flow from my own

efforts, but from the fountain of the favour and mercy of the

Most-High."

After which he took an aromatic opiate confection and went to bed.

CHAPTER III