"Give me back one hour of Kabul!

Let me see it ere I die.

Ah! my heart is sick and heavy;

Southern gales are not for me,

Though the hills are white with winter;

Place me there and set me free."

So in anticipation of Prince Charles at Versailles might Babar have

said as he stood disconsolate on the banks of the river Jumna at Agra.

He had started at dawn, full of high hope to find some place where he

could lay out an elegant and well-planned pleasure-garden, and lo! the

whole country side was so ugly and detestable, that for the moment he

felt inclined to fall in with his courtiers' advice to leave India to

stew in its own juice. There was no denying that as a country it had

few pleasures to recommend it. To begin with, the people were not

handsome. Then they had no idea of the charms of friendly society, of

frankly mixing together, or of familiar intercourse. They had little

comprehension of mind, no politeness of manner, no fellow feeling.

Then they had no good horses, no good flesh, no grapes or musk melons,

no ice or cold water, no good food or bread in their bazaars, no

baths, or colleges, no candles--not even a candlestick!

Why! Even if their Emperors or chief nobility had occasion for a

light, they had to send for dirty, filthy men called "Lighters," who

held an iron tripod--smelling horribly and dripping rancid oil--close

under their masters' noses!

Pah! It was disgusting!

For a wonder Babar was in a real evil temper. He could scarcely

remember having felt so irritable before; except that once, when he

had been trying to mount a fidgety Biluch mare and had struck her in

his impatience with his half-closed fist and had thereby dislocated

his thumb, which had troubled him for months; a just punishment for

losing his temper with a dumb animal which knew no better.

Besides, that time, he had been half-drunk. But now?...

He felt inclined to cry. A state of mind in which this man of the West

and North has the sympathy of thousands upon thousands of others;

since there is scarce an Anglo-Indian who has not felt the same on

hot, breathless May mornings when the dull eyes, seeking for some

object on which to rest, find none, save a wide waste of sand, an

indeterminate _kikar_ tree, and an aggressive crow bent on showing you

that he is as black inside as he is outside.

"The Most-Clement will forget the unloveliness when he stands once

more in the Garden-of-Fidelity," remarked Kwajah-Kilan with intent;

and Babar actually scowled at him. Yet he had not the heart to say in

so many words that he had no intention of returning to that

Garden-of-Fidelity. The very thought of its beauty made him feel sick;

but there was duty as well as beauty to be considered.

And here again he has the sympathy of how many thousand western

workers in Hindustan? In truth Babar should be the patron saint of the

Indian Services!

But all things were against him that year. The very heat was

uncommonly oppressive; men dropped down as if they had been affected

by the simoon wind, and died upon the spot. Then there was always

dislike and hostility between the new comers and the people, and it

was difficult to find grain, or provender. The roads, too, became

impassable, and the villagers, out of hatred and spite, took to

thieving and robbery. Yet in such a furnace how was it possible to

send out proper protection to the districts?

Still Babar set his teeth and stuck to the saddle.

"What! thou also?" he said reproachfully to Kwajah-Kilan when in the

privacy of the small Audience-Chamber, the latter urged the wisdom of

doing as all the past conquerors of India had done; that is leaving so

soon as the treasures had been divided. "And I counted thee my best

friend."

"The Most-Clement knows I am that," protested the Kwajah, stoutly.

"That is why I urge immediate departure. The men lose heart. The

Badakhshanis never engage for more than three months' fighting, and

they have stood sixteen. They were promised leave--"

Babar broke in impatiently. "Then let them go! They are but

mercenaries; not gentlemen of honour."

Kwajah-Kilan flushed up. "I have ever been gallant man, sire; but I

see no use in stopping to die of ghastly ailments. There is a black

death they call cholera which I like not."

So he went on again, and again.

And this was but the beginning of many similar objections, not only by

the older Begs and men of experience. Had that been so, there would

have been no harm in it. But what sense or propriety was there in all

the world eternally repeating the same tale, in different words, to

one who himself saw the facts with his own eyes, and had formed a cool

and fixed resolution in regard to the business in which he was

engaged? For Babar meant not only to conquer India, but to be its

Emperor. He meant, with all the strength of his vivid vitality, to

found a dynasty; he meant that his son and his son's sons should

inherit what he had won for them. What propriety, therefore, was there

in the whole army, down to the very dregs, giving their stupid and

unformed opinion on a matter which they were not capable of judging?

It was bad enough that men whom he had raised from low rank to the

dignity of nobles in the expectation that if he had chosen to go

through fire or water they would follow him backward and forward

without hesitation, should dare to arraign his measures, and show

determined opposition to his plans and opinions!

He did not stand their disloyalty for many days. A Council was called

of all nobles of whatever rank, and they came to it sheepishly yet

stubbornly, full of admiration still for their chief, yet determined

not to yield.

It was a grilling afternoon. The Audience-Hall literally throbbed with

heat, and more than one man loosened the collar at his throat and

gasped as they waited for the Emperor. They had expected him to enter

in state; but there he was on the platform of the throne, a plain man

like themselves. Despite the heat, he wore chain-mail and helmet, and

his hand was on his sword. Plain soldier, indeed; but there was that

in his face and mien which marked him out apart, though, as he stood,

he shivered visibly and as he began to speak his teeth chattered. For

Babar was in grips with his first taste of Indian fever, and the

ague-fit was on him sharply. But even as he stood there shivering and

shaking, it passed, and with a wild rush the hot stage sent an uncanny

light to his eyes, and made the words leap to his blue lips.

"Gentlemen and Soldiers! Empire cannot be achieved without the

materials and means of war. Royalty and nobility exist by subjection,

and subjects by obedience. After long years, after great hardships,

measuring many a toilsome journey, many a danger, after exposing

ourselves to battle and bloodshed, our formidable enemy has been

routed. We have achieved the end; we are masters of India. And now,

without visible cause, after having worn out our very lives in this

emprise, are we to abandon what we have gained? A mighty enemy has

been overcome, a rich kingdom is at our feet. Are we, having won the

game, to retreat to Kabul, like men who have lost and are discomfited?

No! I say! A thousand times no!--"

The fever, swift to flare up, had fair hold of him now and his words

seemed to whip like scorpions--

"Let no man who calls himself Babar's friend ever dare to moot the

very idea again. But if there be one amongst you who cannot summon up

courage to stay--let him go. I want him not."

There was silence, but no one stirred. They had not the courage for

_that_ at any rate.

So Babar went back to his bed, his blood pulsing in every vein, his

head bursting, until the hot stage passed into the sweating stage, and

he sat up weakly, half-laughing, half-crying.

"Lo! I felt like a God," he said. "A God with a pain everywhere. Did I

say enough?"

"Too much for me, Most-Clement," quoth Ali-Jan with a smile. "I stop

till death."

And most of the hearers had come to the same decision. Only

Kwajah-Kilan, obstinate as a mule, refused to remain. So, as he had a

fairly numerous retinue, it was arranged that he should return to

Kabul in charge of the presents Babar was sending home.

And this, with the necessary thought it entailed lest any should be

disappointed, proved a welcome distraction for the Emperor, who in

good sooth, what with recurring attacks of fever and general malaise

due to the climate, needed something to keep up his spirits in the

long, weary, hot days and nights, during which military operations

were perforce at a standstill. And Babar was in his element choosing

this and that, apportioning presents with all the fervour of a child

at Christmas. No doubt his heart ached the while he wrote instructions

for a regular gala to be held in the Four-corner Garden, and he must

have felt life flat indeed when Kwajah-Kilan had set out northwards. A

certain interest of anger, however, re-awoke, when a friend returning

from escort-duty to the party as far as Delhi, told him, with ill

concealed smiles, that ere leaving the Fort there Kwajah-Kilan had

scribbled on one of its walls--

"If safe and sound I cross the Sind,

Damned if I ever wish for Hind."

Babar's cheek flushed dark red when he heard this _jeu d'esprit_.

"As his Emperor still remains in Hindustan," he said with hurt pomp,

"there is evident impropriety, first in composing, and then in

publishing such vituperative verse; and so I will tell him."

Which he did, by sending after him post haste an urgent messenger with

his reply--

"Babar thanks God who gave him Sind and Ind,

Heat of the plains, chill of the mountain cold.

Yea! let the scorch of India bring to his mind

Bitter bite of frost in Ghazni of old."

The touch about Ghazni was, he thought, peculiarly happy, since he had

appointed Kwajah-Kilan Governor of that province! And ere the

excitement of this passage of wits had died down to dulness, another

touch had come to set the Wheel-of-Life spinning once more at full

speed. One of Maham's charming, cheery letters brought most unexpected

news. After some years, on the very verge in fact of her woman's life,

she was again expecting to be a mother. "And I pray it may be a boy,"

she wrote, "for though Hindal, the son whom my lord gave so generously

to my empty arms, is very, very dear to me, my heart leaps at the very

thought of one who shall be my lord's and mine also."

Babar was overwhelmed with delight and anxiety. Even by special runner

it took weeks for a letter to reach Kabul, so Maham, he knew, must be

near her time ere his warnings, his happy hopes, his loving affection

could reach her. But he wrote off in hot haste, begging her to rely on

Dearest-One for all things, entreating her to behave in all ways as if

he were at hand. "And thou knowest, dear heart," he said, "what I

would be like were I in Kabul now. Verily, my moon, who hast so often

chidden me for fretting wide-eyed the livelong night because Humayon

or Gulbadan or one of the others had a stomach-ache, I should be past

bearing. But when I think of what has happened and what might happen,

I would mount Rakush and ride Kabul-wards, were it not for some small

good sense, and these pitiful folk who would deem me traitor to

myself.

"Lo, we will call him Faruk, wife, since distance separates us."

After this he set to work upon his abandoned plan of a pleasure

garden. Beggars, he said to Ali-Jan, must not be choosers. If there

was no better spot than the plain over the river, he must e'en make

the best of it. And the first thing to do was to sink a well; the next

to plant roses and narcissus in corresponding beds.

The third thing was to hold a drinking party upon the spot close to

the river, and make the place as pretty as it could be made with

coloured lights and illuminations, garlands of flowers and palms cut

off wholesale and planted in the ground. It seemed a pity to destroy

the trees; but that was Hindustan fashion. Everything for show at the

moment; no thought for the future. Still it was well done, and the

Indian jugglers performed some fine feats.

The rains had by this time set in and the air was singularly

delightful, though rather moist and damp. It was, for instance,

impossible to shoot with the Kabul bow which is pieced with glue; and

everything, coats-of-mail, clothes, furniture, became mildewed. Even

books--and Babar was avid concerning books--suffered, and the flat mud

roofs leaked. Still, life was more enjoyable than it had been, and

jolly Ali-Jan when in his cups, said gravely--

"The chief excellency of India is that it is large, and that it holds

plenty of gold and silver."

They were a fairly merry party, these northerners in the Fort at Agra;

merry, good-natured, _insouciant_, and they began to win golden

opinions for themselves amongst the people, thanks to the Emperor's

strict discipline. Here were no robbers, but gallant men ready to

drink, or love, and pay for both like honest folk.

And their leader was a friendly soul, who sent assurances of safety

and protection to all who voluntarily entered into his service. Then

he was a fine fellow to look at, with kindly eyes and a ready smile;

active, vivacious. Absolutely unlike, therefore, the solid, solemn,

stony-eyed, lazy voluptuary which for hundreds of years had been

India's conception of a king. Here, honours and rewards were for ever

being bestowed, and the small native Princes invariably received back

their lands, after they had made their obeisance. So whatever the

northern conqueror's object might be, it was clearly not gold.

That in itself was a relief.

Thus the long months sped on, bringing, to one man at least, continued

effort. Fever had laid hold of Babar; without his dear women-kind he

felt lost and he had had to send his son and his best friend out with

small forces to settle the country. Still he held on dutifully, giving

feasts to his people, despite the rain which more than once drenched

them through to the skin. As well it might, seeing that it rained

thirteen times on one feast day! But in early October a special

messenger arrived from Kabul with the joyful news of little Faruk's

birth. And the same post brought a budget of letters written before

the event, by Maham and by the paternal aunts and cousins to the fifth

degree, describing the marvellous festival which had been held

according to order in the Four-corner Garden. Everything had been done

exactly as His Majesty had directed. Every Begum had had her own tent

and screen set up with all due luxury in the garden; it had been lit

and beautifully illuminated at night and all the best singers and

dancers of Kabul had been assembled to give music. Never had been such

a merry making! Never such a circle of happy faces and sparkling

jewels in the sunshine; for the day had been brilliantly fine.

"Then," wrote Maham, who was out and away the best scribe, "we made

Kwajah-Kilan read out the instructions given him so that we might hear

and rejoice in our lord's thought for us. So he read in a sonorous

tone not so sweet as my lord's, but passable--'To each Begum is to be

delivered as follows: one special dancing-girl of the dancing girls of

Sultan-Ibrahim, with one gold plate full of jewels, ruby, and pearl,

cornelian and diamonds, emerald and turquoise, topaz and cat's eyes,

besides two small mother-of-pearl trays full of golden coins. Two

brazen trays shall be piled with silver coins and three with rich

stuffs of sorts, so that there be nine in each. Another dancing-girl,

a plate of jewels, and one each of gold and silver coins, must be

presented to each of my elder relations. And have a care that each and

all get the _very_ dancing-girl and the _very_ plates of jewels that I

have chosen myself for them. So let jewels, and gold coins, and silver

coins, be presented to all the ladies and kinsmen and foster-brethren,

while one silver coin is to be given (as an incentive to emulation) to

every man, woman and child in Kabul, to make them remember me, and

pray for me.'

"And even so, my lord, 'twas done, though it needed not money to make

Kabul remember its beloved King During those three happy days, every

soul was uplifted with pride, and recited the first chapter of the

Blessed-Book for the benediction and prosperity of his Majesty, as

they joyfully made the prostration of thanks for his victories. But

how can this dust-like one convey her thanks for the special gifts so

graciously given in private to me and others. Let the others speak for

themselves. I sit with a heart full of gratitude before that heaped-up

tray, knowing not where to set my first stone of thanks. For, lo! the

superstructure will be so heavy that it must have good foundation. Lo!

there be two things amid the many quaint conceits of Hindustan, the

many rare and beautiful gifts, on which I will rest my load of loving

gratitude. First--(or is it second? I know not) the dearest little

dresses fashioned after the manner of Indian princelings for your son,

so soon to be born. Believe me, my lord, I wept happy tears over them.

And yet methinks the book in my lord's own hand--it hath not lost its

cunning--giving me the verses he hath composed during the last year is

sweeter, more dear. The father comes, see you, before the child.

Hindal is beside himself with delight at the wooden toys; so neat, so

quaint, so clever! Truly they must be good workmen in Hindustan. So

slight they are, yet do they please the little ones more than gold.

And Gulbadan--truly she is a rosebud now--hugs her doll and hath

taught it already to make the respectful salutation to Majesty she

herself hath lately learnt. So we are all smiles. Nay! it was more

than smiles when poor, dear, fat Astonishing Beauty Princess sat, the

tears streaming down her face, nodding her head over the recitations,

while the tassel of the head-ornament my lord sent her, dangled over

her nose like a yak's tail on a camel!

"And the trick on old Asas came off beautifully, even as my lord

arranged it. For when the faithful thing asked Kwajah-Kilan, 'What has

my lord sent me?' he replied with truth, 'One gold coin.' So the old

man was amazed, and disappointed, and fretted about it and we said

nothing. So then at last, as my lord had commanded, the old man was

blindfolded and he was led into our apartments to receive his gift. A

hole had been bored (as ordered) in the gold coin--(it weighed nigh

six pounds) and a string put to it. So it was hung round his neck. My

lord should have seen him! He was quite helpless with surprise at its

weight, and delighted, and very, very happy. He took it in both hands,

and wondered over it and said, 'No one shall get it--no one! No one!'

Then we all laughed too and gave him more money, so he was fine and

pleased.

"Thus all went well, save for the absence of my lord--"

Babar read so far, stopping at times for a laugh, for a pause of sheer

delight. Now he let slip the letter and sat awhile staring out at the

ugliness, the fremdness of India.

What would he not have given to be there? To see them all! To see the

blaze of July blossom, to hear the water trickling through the stone

runnels, to watch the white flocks of clouds on the vast meadows of

sapphire overhead ...

The thought was too much for him. His eyes filled with tears; then he

brushed them aside with the order:

"Slave! A cup of wine!"

That night over the water, where strange new buildings were fast

rising and where new-planted flowers and shrubs were thriving so fast

in the kindly rains that already the townspeople, marvelling at the

growing beauty, called the place Kabul, the revels were fast and

furious, and Babar, before he got miserably drunk, gained loud

applause for a song he had just translated from the Hindi. It ran as

follows:

"Oh! Watchman of night, awake!

For the dawning is nigh;

The black bees hum as their way they take

Through the lightening sky.

Oh! far away in the jasmine bowers,

The robbers will rifle the honey-flowers.

Watchman! Awake! Awake!

Oh, watch of the night, arise!

For the windows unclose;

A blue gown hung with pearl-fringing lies

On a bosom of rose.

Oh! close at hand in the old man's tower

The lovers will wanton a happy hour.

Watchman! Arise! Arise!

Oh, rouse thee, watchman, rouse!

Lo! the rain of night is past!

Her veil is dank, 'neath her level brows

The heavy tears fall fast.

Oh, far away lies her lovers part

And close at hand lies her broken heart.

Oh! Watchman, rouse thee, rouse!"

"Tis a rare song," hiccupped Jan-Ali, "but devil take me if I can tell

what it means."

"Tis the tale of a wanton," quoth Tardi-Beg gravely, "and see you, she

wore a blue gown fringed with pearl."

Babar looked at them both with irritation.

"Before the Lord!" he said almost sharply, "I know not which is best;

understanding, or the lack of it."

Then he burst into a roar of laughter.

"They be merry devils over in Kabul," quoth a surly-faced cook in the

royal kitchen. "Mayhap they may laugh the wrong side of their mouths

ere long."

CHAPTER IV

Fate knocked at the Door of Death,

My soul in her hollow hand.

Angels opened it. Lo! God saith,

To whom gave He this command?

Take him back to the Gates of Life

And set his feet in the way

So he and his children and his wife

Will praise my mercy alway.

_Babar_.

The oncoming of cooler weather brought renewed activity once more. So

far Agra was almost the southern limit of Babar's Empire. Below it,

and to east and west, the Pagans--as these northern Mahomedans called

the Hindus collectively--still held undisturbed sway. In truth they

had never been touched by invasion from the north; the marauders had

generally turned tail and fled before the scorch of the hot weather

ere they had time to reach and harry so far south. And of all the

Pagans the one most to be feared was Rana Sanka, the Rajput chief of

Udaipur. Sooner or later Babar knew there must be a trial of strength

between them; but he meant to put it off as long as he could.

Meanwhile there were menaces to Agra closer at hand; notably the

strong fort of Biana which had lately gone over to the Rajput side.

That was not to be endured, and Humayon, who was an excellent

second-in-command, set out to reduce the renegades to order, Babar

meanwhile remaining in Agra and making preparations for the big fight

that was bound to come.

One of these was the casting of a big siege cannon for the purpose of

battering Biana, which was sure to be recalcitrant to the last. The

task was entrusted to Master-gunsmith Ali-Kool, than whom no better

craftsman lived in all Asia. He had learnt his art away in the far

West, and called himself ever Ali-Kool of Turkey. A small, spare bit

of a man with sparse whiskers and a faint pitting of small-pox--or

gun-powder--over a puffy face. But an excellent artificer, staking his

reputation on a big gun that should throw a fifty-pound shot over four

miles! It was a big order, and Babar's imagination caught fire. He was

down at the furnaces every day watching the preparations. Eight

furnaces in a circle, centring the huge clay mould. But it was at

night that he loved to see the roaring flames with the naked, black

figures of the stokers dancing about them, and the lurid glow of the

half-molten metal lighting up the very heavens above. The heat was

intense. None of his courtiers could stand it for long, but he, his

eyes keen with curiosity, doffed raiment and went about naked as he

was born, save for a waist-cloth.

"The Most-Clement prepares himself for Paradise," remarked the most

caustic wit of the party; and Babar laughed gaily. "I prefer Hell in

time rather than in eternity, friend," he replied; and as usual began

an extempore versicle on the idea.

"Will it be at dawn to-morrow, master?" he asked of Ali-Kool late one

evening.

"At dawn to-morrow," replied the master-gunsmith boastfully, "the

largest cannon in Asia will be found in the armoury of Babar

Padishah!"

He was nearly beside himself with excitement; but at dawn next day he

stood, pale to ashen-greyness, still as a stone.

Everything was ready. It only needed the word to open the sluices and

let the molten metal run into the mould. And that word was the name

the gun was to bear in the future.

"Now! Most-Clement!" palpitated Ali-Kool.

"Deg Ghazi!" came Babar's full voice; the which being interpreted

means Holy-Victorious-Pot. A yell of clamouring voices, a clash of

implements half-drowned the christening.

Then like streaks of light the molten metal crept with slow swiftness,

gathering speed as it flowed, bringing with it fierce, almost

unbearable heat. The mould filled--half-full--three-quarters--

And then? Then the metal ceased to run. There was no more in the

furnaces...!

Ali-Kool was like one demented.

"Hold the man," shouted Babar, whose eyes were ever alert for other

people as well as himself, "or he will do himself a mischief!"

And indeed it was time! Poor Ali-Kool was on the edge of the mould as

if about to throw himself into the molten metal, waving his arms about

wildly, and calling High Heaven to witness that it ought not, it could

not, have occurred. And Babar's kindly touch on his shoulder, his

kindly words--"Nay, Master-_jee_, such things do happen at times to

the best of us," only brought grief and shame to strengthen anger. He

was disgraced--he had disgraced the Emperor ...

"Not one whit!" laughed Babar. "And as for thee--here! Slaves!

Bring quick a robe of honour--the best! and here, where the

misadventure--they are sent by God, remember, O Ali-Kool!--occurred

will I invest thee and make thee noble!"

It was a fine group. The kingly figure so full of human sympathy, the

broken-hearted artificer smiling perforce a watery smile, the crowding

workmen, the _insouciant_ courtiers, both full of approval. And tuning

all to the perfect harmony of true Life, the appeal to that which lies

beyond chance and misadventure.

"Lo! His Majesty hath the touch of consolation to perfection," said

Tardi-Beg.

"Yea!" assented Ali-Jan, "but I would he had as fine a sense of

danger. Dost know that he hath put on four Hindustani cooks to his

Royal Kitchen, because forsooth, he hath never tasted the dishes of

this accursed country and must needs try them?"

"Aye!" said Mahomed Bakshi, who was Superintendent-of-the-Household,

"and what is worse, they be the Royal cooks of the late King! Heard

you ever such fool-hardiness? Lo! I have put on two new tasters; but

what is that? These idolaters have strange ways and strange poisons."

"And strange dishes!" put in Tardi-Beg. "Lo! I eat none at the

Emperor's supper parties."

"Nor I," chorused several.

"Gentlemen!" said Mahomed Bakshi. "You speak without thought for the

interior of a kitchen. Poison may go into any pot. 'Twere better to

eat nothing. Then would my labours be less."

"Thy percentages also," laughed a recognised wit. "Heed him not,

gentlemen. 'Tis but his way of keeping our stomachs empty, so that

more profit fills his pocket."

So the subject was dismissed with a joke; though in truth it was far

from being one. For Babar's somewhat reckless appointment of these

four Hindustani cooks, had set in train one of those fine-drawn female

plots to poison which seem inseparable from the seclusion of women. It

is as if the concentrated, confined vitality, denied outlet in natural

ways, seeks expression in pure venom. The late Sultan-Ibrahim's mother

lived, by Babar's generosity, in comparative State. He had assigned

lands to her, treated her with the utmost respect, and when he

addressed her, did so as "mother." But the mere chance of having a

Hindustani cook in the royal kitchen was too much for gratitude.

The result Babar wrote to Maham when, considerably the worse for the

incident, he was still living on water-lily flowers brayed in milk.

"The ill-fated lady, having heard of my appointment of cooks,

delivered no less than a quarter of an ounce of poison to a female

slave and sent it to Ahmed, her taster, wrapped up in a folded paper.

He, seducing the man by promise of vast lands, handed it to one of the

cooks, desiring him by some means or another to throw it into my food.

The man did not throw it into the pot, because I had strictly enjoined

my tasters ever to watch the Hindustanis; fortunately, therefore, he

only threw it into the tray. In this fashion. When they were dishing

the meat, my graceless tasters must have been inattentive, for he

managed to throw about one-half of the poison on a plate which held

some thin slices of bread. These he covered with meat fried in butter.

The better half in his haste he spilt in the fireplace.

"It was fried hare. I am very fond of hare, so I ate a good deal and

also fried carrot. I was not, however, sensible of any disagreeable

taste. But while I was eating some smoked-dried meat I felt nausea.

Now the day before while eating this smoke-dried flesh I had detected

an unpleasant taste in a part of it. I therefore ascribed my nausea to

that incident. But it was not so. I was very ill. Now I have never

been ill in that way even after drinking wine. Suspicion therefore

crossed my mind immediately. I desired the cooks to be taken into

custody, and directed the rest of the meat to be given to a dog, and

that it be shut up. The dog became sick, his belly swelled, he could

not be induced to rise until noon next day when he rose and recovered.

Two young menials in the kitchen who had partaken of the food also

suffered. One indeed, was extremely ill, but in the end both escaped.

"And so did I.

"Next morning I held a court, and the miscreants being questioned,

detailed the whole circumstances of the plot in all its particulars.

The master-taster was ordered to be cut in pieces; the cook flayed

alive; the female slave to be shot by a matchlock. The ill-fated lady

I condemned to be thrown into custody for life: one day, pursued by

her guilt she will meet with due retribution in penitence.

"Since then I have lived chiefly on antidotes and lily-flowers, and

thanks be to God! there are now no remains of illness. But I did not

fully comprehend before how sweet a thing life is. As the poet says:

"'He who comes to the Gate of Death knows the value of Life.' Truly

when this awful occurrence passes before my memory, I feel myself

involuntarily turn faint; but having overcome my repugnance even to

think of it, I write, so that no undue alarm or uneasiness might find

its way to you. God has, indeed, given me a new life. Other days await

me, and how can my tongue express my gratitude. The ill-fated lady's

grandson Ibrahim had previously been guarded with the greatest respect

and delicacy; but when an attempt of so heinous a nature was

discovered to have been made by the family, I do not think it prudent

to have a son of the late King in this country. So I am sending him to

my son Kamran, away from Hindustan. I am now quite recovered."

This was true, but the nervous shock remained. Babar had been close to

death in its most sordid form. To die like a poisoned rat was to him,

with his breezy, open-hearted love of frankness in all things, a

horrible fate. His repugnance even to think of it was real; but he

hovered between two methods of forgetfulness--the drowning of thought

in the wine-cup, and the anodyne of repentance and forgiveness. Deep

down in his heart, he felt himself foresworn in not having kept to his

promise of reform when he was forty; but he could not make up his mind

to take the plunge and give up wine. It was, he told himself, the only

comfort in that cursed country, the one thing that made life possible.

With its help, even fever and ague were bearable.

It was, therefore, in the midst of drinking bouts, that news came

which roused him to other activities. It had never needed much to

change the habitual toper into a clear-sighted man of arms. And never,

in all his life, had news of such significance brought Babar up with a

round turn.

Rana Sanka of Udaipur was on the move. The quarrel could no longer be

put off. The fight for final supremacy was nigh at hand.

The news came when the Christmas rain was just over, and Babar,

exhilarated as he always was by the freshened verdure of trees, the

sudden start into growth of the wide wheat fields, was heightening his

enjoyment by a feast over the river in "Kabul," which day by day under

his fostering care, showed more and more likeness to the sponsor

country. Humayon was back from a successful expedition and was of the

party; no kill-joy, his father thought fondly, though he drank no

wine; not from scruples but from lack of liking.

It was, of course, a wonderfully innocent and guileless party. No

coarse jokes, no scurvy tricks. But the most of them were

incontestably drunk, and even Babar's strong head was fast becoming

fuddled when the special messenger arrived. Canopus was shining away

like a moon in the South, and Babar looked at it gravely, yet

truculently.

"Gentlemen!" he said solemnly, and it was all he could do not

to hiccup. "Draw your s-s-words, gentlemen. We have to fight

a--a--dam-ned--p-pagan--to--to-morrow. Meanwhile I'll sing you a song:

"Account as wind or dust

The world's pleasures and pain.

Be not raised up or crushed

By its good or its bane.

As a mere throw of dice

Is the life of a man.

Fortune goes in a trice,

Just a flash in the pan.

Take then a cup of wine,

Drink it down to the dregs,

And don't grumble or whine,

'Tis but the fool who begs."

His voice failed him when he had got so far. He sat solemn-drunk

gazing at Canopus, wondering how many years ago it was since he had

first seen it from the top of the Pass.

How clear, how cold the night-air had been. How the star had sparkled!

How the glad life in him had answered to the thrill of that distant,

heaven-sent, throbbing light ...

Well! The night was as clear, as cold now. The stars?--how they

sparkled and shone, all colours like jewels ...

Yes! all things were the same except himself ...

"Gentlemen!" he said suddenly, rising unsteadily to his feet, "I give

you leave. I--I go to my bed."

But he was up before dawn next day to see Ali-Kool put the final

touches to the great gun he had been making. For, after all, the

casting had been a success, needing only a little alteration to

make it perfect. In the afternoon it was tested, and threw

one-thousand-six-hundred good paces, which was not so bad.

And all Agra was in a turmoil of preparation for the coming march; but

there was so much to be done that a few days passed before Babar, at

the head of all his available troops, moved out in battle array to

occupy the rising ground at Sikri, where the huge tank promised

abundance of water. He had been in a fever of impatience to get there,

lest the Pagans, also seeing its many advantages as a camping ground,

might forestall him. But the 17th of February found him preparing for

the biggest battle of his life in the very place where his grandson

Akbar was, in after years, to build his Town-of-Victory.

It was just a year since Babar had entered India. Now he was faced by

the strongest man in it, and the fight must be to the bitter end.

Yet he could not resist the seduction of an aromatic comfit before he

threw himself, outwearied, on his camp bed. But he said his prayers

before he took it, and tried to forget that long-made promise that

forty should see him sober.

CHAPTER V

"Like to a thunder cloud that rears itself

In towering mass across the peaceful sky,

Equal in threat, until the vivid snake

Of lightning, shot--God knows from East or West!

Flashes fierce war between the blended foes,

So stood those warriors, each to each a twin

In honour, courage, indivisible."

The camp at Sikri looked West. With the ridge of red rock behind it,

the wide tank to the left of it, nothing more could be desired in

position. And Babar had fortified it, in addition, after his usual

custom. The swivel guns, united every fifteen feet by heavy chains and

backed by a deep ditch, gave security to the front, while tripods of

wood similarly linked, protected the right flank. Mustapha the Ottoman

had done signal service in disposing the remaining artillery according

to the Turkish fashion. An exceedingly active, intelligent, and

skilful gunner was Mustapha; but unfortunately Master-gunner Ali-Kool

and he were at deadly enmity; so they had to be kept apart. Babar, a

trifle weary, kept them so with consummate tact. He had, so to speak,

lived on diplomacy for the last year. He had pursued his policy of

magnanimity without one swerve, and little by little the tide of

popularity had set his way.

One by one insurgent chiefs had sent in their submission, so that in

this camp at Sikri were many who but a year before had been sworn foes

to the Northmen.

So far he had succeeded. Alone, unaided--at any rate in thought--he

had won half Hindustan, not so much by the sword as by statesmanship.

And yet on the 24th February as he stood watching the Khorasan

pioneers and spademen throwing up further earthworks, he felt for the

first time in his life forlorn. Perhaps the darkness of the day

depressed him. It was late afternoon, and for days rain had been

brewing; the heavy rain which sometimes falls in March to bring bumper

crops to the wide fields.

Purple clouds hung like a pall under the sky and brought a weird,

vivid glint as of steel to the stretches of green wheat. Far away on

the south-western horizon this glint shimmered into a broad band of

light that told where, before long, the hidden sun must set.

There, in that light, the spear-points of the advancing foe would

glisten. Did they glisten now? Or was that only the shimmer of

countless millions of wheat blades going forth to war against

starvation?

The fanciful idea came to Babar's brain, as such quaint thoughts did

come often, while he was looking over the wide, ominous plains,

recognising, also, that it was not an encouraging landscape to the

ordinary eye.

But nothing was encouraging. The long waiting had told upon the temper

of his troops, it had given time for desertions. Then a trifling

defeat to a skirmishing party had intensified the growing alarm; a

well-deserved defeat, due to gross lack of judgment on the commander's

part; but the rank and file could not be expected to give weight to

arguments. A disaster spelt disaster to them, nothing more nor less,

especially if they were afraid ...

And they _were_ afraid.

Small blame to them! Babar himself did not view his adversary with

equanimity. He admitted it. For Rana Sanka of Udaipur was true man; a

fitting representative of Rajput valour. There was no need to say

more. Aye! true man, though he lacked an eye, lost in a broil with his

brother, an arm lost in pitched battle, and was crippled in one leg

broken by a cannonball! True man, undoubtedly, though but a fragment

of a warrior scarred by eighty lance and sword wounds! Babar thought

of his own good luck in many a battle, almost with regret. Aye!

Pagan, Rana Sanka might be--it was best anyhow to call him so to the

troops--but he was worthy foe for all that, and he could bring

two-hundred-thousand horsemen into the field, if need be.

Two-hundred-thousand!

No wonder the troops were timorous; no wonder their nerve was going

fast. Babar, tall, lean, with clear, anxious eyes thanked God for the

distraction which had come to the camp but yesterday. About five

hundred persons attendant on a grandson of his dead uncle of Khorasan

had arrived in the environs of the camp, and with quick insight Babar

had seized the occasion to send out a numerous escort to hide the

smallness of the newly-arrived force, which thereinafter figured in

the order book as "important re-inforcement from Kabul"; since by fair

means or foul, the men's courage must be kept up.

And the butler who had been sent to Kabul for wine had returned too

with fifteen camel-loads of choice Ghazni!

But this was no time for drunkenness, though a goblet or two might

be--must be--permissible; for of one thing there was no doubt. Never

in all his life had Babar stood nearer to habitual toping. He had had

a hard time of it; he had been cut off from the domestic life which

had ever been his safeguard, he had had to fight fever and poison.

Briefly he was overwrought. That was noticeable in the nervous

restlessness of his hand upon his sword hilt as he strode about his

camp moodily watchful for every sign of discontent or depression. And

there were many. It seemed almost as if no one could utter a manly

word, or give a courageous opinion. Save his own son Humayon, his

son-in-law Mahdi (husband to the little Ma'asuma to whom Babar had

given her mother's name) and one general, not a soul spoke bravely as

became men of honour and firmness. Not one.

Going his rounds that evening a new factor for discouragement cropped

up. He was passing the tents of some of his best Kabul troops, when a

voice bombastic, prophetic, met his ear.

"Lo! the stars cannot lie!" it said; "and Mars being in the ascendant

to the West, it follows of a certainty that any force coming from the

East will suffer disastrous defeat. Be warned, oh! warriors! The

heavens cannot lie!"

Before the last words had well ended, Babar stood before the speaker

literally blazing with wrath and recognising in him Mahomed Shereef, a

well-known Kabul astrologer. He was seated before a chart of the

stars, and swayed backwards and forwards rhythmically, whilst before

him, filling the close tent with scented smoke, burnt a brazier. Its

blue salt-fed flame flared on the fearful faces of a dozen or more

soldiers.

"God send thee to hell!" burst out Babar. "How camest thou hither,

infamous fool?--Why didst not stay in Kabul?"

The man--he had a pompous, self-satisfied face--was shrewd. He knew

his power, and held his own.

"I came hither, Most-Clement, with the wine camels, being minded to

give the benefit of my science to His Majesty and His Majesty's

soldiers."

"Science!" echoed Babar hotly; "thou meanest lies."

"The stars cannot lie," began the soothsayer, but Babar in a perfect

passion of wrath had him by the throat.

"Here! guards! seize this rascally fellow," he cried, then hesitated.

"No!" he went on, loosing his hold and flinging the man from him in

contempt. "Let him go! Punishment would but invite credence. But mark

my words, villainous soothsayer! if any more be heard of this

opposition of Mars--" He paused again and this time burst into bitter

laughter. "No! Let these men sup their fill of horrors if they wish

it--but they shall hear me first."

He turned to his soldiers and stretched out his right hand in appeal.

"Men! I have led you all these years. Have I led you into more danger

than brave men dare face? Aye, once! for thou, O Shumshir--" his quick

eye had seized on an old veteran--"wert with me even then! Aye! once

at Samarkand when Babar got the worst beating of his life--when Babar

fled like a rat to his hole, starved for six months and escaped with

bare life--but--but not with honour--No! with dishonour!" His voice

had risen and almost broke over the last word from sheer stress of

emotion. "And wherefore was I beaten?" he went on more calmly;

"because I fought on star-craft, because the stars lied to me. They

said I would win and I was beat! So! set the snivelling sayings of

that silly worm against the experience of Babar, your leader, if you

will. But you will not! You will leave jugglery and devils'-craft to

your foes the Pagans; for the trust of the true Moslem is in the Most

High God--_Allah-hu-Akbar!_"

He gave the cry of faith from full lungs and it was echoed by the men.

For the time he had scotched fear; but only for a time. The astrologer

was at worst a diversion in the long weariness of waiting, and round

the camp fires the soldiers talked of nothing else.

"Lo! he is good prophet," said one; "he told my wife's sister her son

would die and he did."

"And 'tis all well enough to call it devils'-craft," put in another,

"but who made the stars, save God?"

"And to what use were they made?" asked a third argumentatively, "save

to guide men aright? There is no other good in them."

This proposition was so palpably true to the knowledge of those days

that even Babar himself had no weapon against the argument. Nor could

any deny that Mars was in the ascendant in the West!

The Emperor as he sat wearied out with anger and irritation could see

it for himself shining red; steadily, placidly red.

"Oh! for God's sake, gentlemen!" he said captiously when he had

exhausted every argument he could think of to allay the evident alarm

even of his highest nobles, "let us leave it hanging in the heavens

and get to Paradise ourselves. Cup-bearer! the new Ghazni wine. That

may help us to forget foolery. Mayhap it would have been better to

have brained the knave on the spot--but a man can but do his best."

He drained his cup to the lees, held it out for more, and called for a

song.

"Thank God for wine!" he muttered under his breath as he felt the

fumes rising to his brain.

Never had merriment been more fast and furious; never had Babar drunk

more recklessly.

Song after song rent the night air, mingled with outcries and loud

laughter; but there was sufficient decorum left for comparative

silence when the Emperor himself lifted up his voice in "The Buss"; a

favourite Turkhoman ditty. It had rather a quaint, plaintive tune, and

a catching refrain which was duly bellowed by the others.

"He (his moustache twirled) called to her aloud,

'Give me a buss, lass! Lo! your lips are red.'

She (her bright hair curled) spoke him back full proud,

'Give me a gold piece, merry sir,' she said.

'Merry sir,' she said, etc.

'Lass! I would give thee golden fee galore,

But my purse, alas! is in wallet tan

Of the saddle bag my swift camel bore,

And, see you, my dear, that's still at Karuwan,

Still at Karuwan,' etc.

'Lad! I would buss you, were my lips but free,

Only, as you see, they won't ope a span,

Mother locked my teeth! Mother keeps the key,

Mother (like thy camel) 's still at Karuwan,

Still at Karuwan.

Mother (like thy camel) 's still at Karuwan.'"

The endless refrain went on and on sillily, mingled with the twanging

of the _citharas_ and boisterous laughter.

It was a roaring night, and Babar, for once blind-drunk, fell asleep

at last among his cushions. The others had been carried back to their

several tents, so, when he roused to the crow of a cock he was alone

save for drowsy servants.

But half-sober, he sat up and listened gravely.

"Oh, Cock!" he quoted with a hiccup. "Oh, Cock...!

"Cock, flutter not thy wings,

It is not nearly day.

Why with shrill utterings

Drivest thou sleep away?

Lo! in the Land of Nod,

To perfect peace I'd come.

Oh, Cock! there is a God

Will surely strike thee dumb,

Surely--strike thee--dumb--"

He stood up, stretched with a lurch, passed unsteadily to the doorway

of the tent, raised the curtain, and looked out.

Far in the east a great drift of spent rose-leaf clouds lay softly

between the lightening sky and the lightening earth.

And see! already their curled petals were catching the underglow of

the hidden sun.

Babar stood still and held his breath hard, sobered in every fibre of

his being, yet elate with something new that fled to heart and brain

like molten fire.

A new day! A new day! A new day!

The words surged, not through him only, they echoed to the very sky.

It is not given to all, this sudden exaltation, this sudden absorption

of the self into something beyond self, and Babar, the fumes of last

night's wine still hanging between him and clear thought, could only

realise that something had come to him; that something was irrevocably

settled for ever.

"My charger, slave!" he said hoarsely. "It--it is time I went my

rounds."

It stood ready at the door; he mounted, and, after his wont, rode off

alone.

The fresh cool air of a North-Indian winter dawn bit softly at his

cheek and brought him knowledge of his own conversion.

Wherefore he could not tell, but he was going to drink no more. He had

done with wine, for ever. All these last four or five years since he

was forty, he had been cheating himself--aye! and his God too,--with

lies. Now there was to be truth.

There was no special reason for this resolution; it was, indeed,

hardly a resolution of his own. It had come to him with those

dawn-red, rose-leaf clouds flung from some Garden of Paradise.

Wherefore it had come, he could not say. He had often seen dawn-clouds

before; he had often--ah! how often--made resolutions. These were

different. This resolution was not his.

"Bid a general parade be commanded at the second watch," he said on

his return from his survey of the posts; then passed into his office

tents, and began his daily work of supervision.

"'Twill be to harangue us all," grumbled a fine-weather soldier

sullenly, "but, King or no King, I fight not with one who wars against

the fiat of the stars."

"Nor I!" answered another; and though few were so outspoken, a certain

dour opposition, sat on almost every face in the great concourse of

men who, in the full glare of the noonday sun, massed themselves round

the great Audience-Tent in obedience to their leader's command.

He came out from the shadow of the tent, clad in his loose white

tunic, jewelless, swordless, a simple man in the prime of life; a man

with a kindly, human face, but with a clear eye that seemed to see

right to the heart of things. He held a crystal cup in his right hand,

full to the brim with red wine.

"Noblemen! Gentlemen! and Soldiers!" rang out the strong mellow voice.

"All who sit down to the Feast of Life, must end by drinking the Cup

of Death. Therefore it behooves all to be ready for that last Draught

by repenting him of the evil he has done. Lo! I repent me of my sin. I

repent me of my broken promise. Now! with the salvation of a righteous

death before me, I cast away my great temptation!"

As he spoke, the crystal cup he held flew from his hand and the red

wine scattered from it as it fell shivered to atoms, soaked into the

dry sand leaving a stain as of blood.

"Lo! I repent," he repeated, his face afire; "who follows me?"

"I do, sire!" said one Asas, the heaviest drinker in the camp, and

Babar turned on him a face radiant with friendly thanks.

"That makes it less hard," he said joyously. "Thou hast more to

renounce than I!"

"And I also, Most-Clement!" put in a soft grave voice. "I follow fair

where Babar goes." It was Tardi-Beg, quaint, frolicsome soul, on whom

the Emperor vented much of his boyish fun, and who was satisfied with

one kindly glance of perfect sympathy.

"And I!"--"And I!"--"And I!" came here, there, everywhere.

Then followed a memorable, an almost unbelievable scene. From the tent

behind Babar came slaves bearing great trays of silver and gold

goblets, ewers, measures; strong men bearing casks and skins of wine,

a smith or two with his anvil.

"Break up the gold and silver and give it to the poor, and pour the

wine back to the storehouse of God!" came Babar's voice. "Where it

falls shall be built a well whence travellers may quench their

thirst."

For a minute or two the army watched the hammers falling, watched the

red wine sinking into the sand; then it caught fire at the sight and

men crowded round in hundreds to cast their wine-cups on to the pile

and take the oath of abstinence. But the Emperor himself stood silent.

He was thinking how glad Maham would be; Maham who had so often

striven to wean him from his sin.

But after the stir and excitement of the morning, the evening closed

in dark and gloomy. A few spots of rain fell, and Babar, made restless

probably by the lack of his usual stimulant, decided on moving

forwards to meet the enemy. Anything seemed better than inaction. This

was done; but even the bustle of marching failed to rouse the men's

spirits. The warnings of the old astrologer returned in greater force,

a general consternation and alarm prevailed amongst great and small.

Something more must be done; so once again Babar called a grand

parade; but this time he held the Holy Koran in his right hand. It was

many days now since wine had crossed his lips; he had felt no desire

to drink, no temptation to break his oath, and yet that abstinence had

told upon him physically. He was more high-strung than ever; more

exalted. And so he struck even a higher note.

"How much better is it to die with honour than to live with infamy,"

he cried. "Lo! The Most-High is merciful to us. If we fall, we die the

death of martyrs since we fight the Pagan. If we live, we live the

victorious avengers of the Faith. Let us then swear on God's holy word

that none of us will turn his face from Death or Victory till his soul

is separated from his body. 'With fame, even if I die, I am content.

Fame shall be mine! though my body be Death's.'"

The Persian verse came to him unsought, echo from his far youthful

days when Firdusis' Shah-namah had been the delight of his boyhood.

But it came to him Godsent. Familiar to almost all, it, and this

declaration of Holy War stirred the whole army to its heart. The

effect was instantly visible; far and near men plucked up courage.

None too soon. That very evening a patrol brought in the news that the

enemy was within touch.

All was bustle, for Babar was too experienced a general to engage an

overwhelming foe without having some entrenched position upon which to

fall back.

A day or two was occupied in throwing up earthworks a mile or two

ahead, so it was not till the 16th of March, 1527, that the guns and

the troops moved on to take up their position, Babar himself galloping

along the line, animating the various divisions, giving to each

special instructions how to act; giving almost to every man orders how

he was to behave, in what manner he was to engage.

It was the last opportunity he was to have of bringing the personal

equation to bear upon his force, since ere they had settled into camp,

the great moment, awaited for six long weeks was on them. Without loss

of time the Emperor sent every man to his post, the lines of chained

guns and waggons was linked up, the reserves withdrawn from the

front--their great strength was ever a special feature of Babar's

generalship--and there was nothing more to be done save await the

onset.

Humayon commanded the right. Mahdi Kwaja, Ma'asuma's husband, the

left, Babar reserving the centre for himself. Once again, his plan was

to force in the enemy's wings and so create confusion. But ere this

could be done, his own wings had to withstand attack.

At half-past nine in the morning, a furious charge of the flower of

Rajput chivalry almost shook Humayon's force. His father was on the

watch, however; reserves came up speedily, and Mustapha's guns from

the right centre were brought into action. Despite their deadly fire,

fresh and fresh bodies of the enemy poured on undauntedly, and Babar

saw his reserves dwindling; for the attack had been equally fierce on

the left. Now, therefore, was the moment of effort. Now something must

be done or nothing. The battle had raged for hours; now it must be

decided one way or the other.

"Flanking columns right and left, wheel and charge!" came the order.

"Guns in the centre advance! Cavalry charge to right and left of

matchlock men! Wings to follow suit if they can! Now then!

Master-Gunner Ali-Kool! let us see if thou canst whip Mustapha!"

"The Most-Clement _shall_ see!" yelled the old man; and, uncovered by

the charging cavalry the big guns with their huge stone balls began on

their task. The battle was now universal and the unexpected movements,

made all at the same moment, had the desired effect upon the enemy.

His centre was thrown into slight confusion.

Babar set his teeth. "Reserves to the flanking columns! And steady,

steady, in front!--no rushing--close in--close in."

But this was no battle of an hour or two as at Paniput.

Step by step the gallant Rajputs disputed the way of that steady

boring. They made repeated and desperate attacks on the Emperor's

centre in the hopes of recovering the day: but all were received

bravely, steadily, without one waver. How could there be one with that

marvellous general behind, sitting his horse like an oriental

Napoleon, cool, collected, unarmed, ready of resource, of reserve?

By this time one of the flanking columns had got round to the enemy's

rear; the Rajputs were forced into their centre. Briefly, Babar had

won the battle on his own settled lines. By sunset, the brave

defeated, still numerous, had nothing left to them, but to cut their

way as best they could through those encircling, suffocating arms and

so effect what retreat they could.

But the victory was final, it was complete. When the moon rose that

night it shone upon multitudes of gallant dead. Rana Sanka had himself

escaped, though severely wounded; but never again was he or any other

of his family to take the field against the Moghul power. They had

learnt to fear the Northmen.

The enemy being thus defeated, parties were sent after the fugitives

to prevent their reforming. Babar felt, vaguely, that he was guilty of

neglect in not going himself, but he was thoroughly spent and weary of

bloodshed. He had gained his point; he had proved himself the better

man of the two, and for the present that was enough for him. So, after

riding a few miles in pursuit, he turned to reach his own camp about

bedtime prayers.

At the door of his tent a dim figure showed, and profuse gratulations

on victory rose out of the darkness in a well-remembered and bombastic

voice.

It was Mahomed Shereef the astrologer. This was too much! Babar,

wearied as he was, poured forth a perfect torrent of abuse. No word

was too bad for the miserable fool. But when he had thus relieved his

heart, he suddenly began to laugh.

"Lo!" he said, "thou art heathenishly inclined, perverse, extremely

self-conceited and an insufferable evil-speaker. Yet art thou also an

old servant. Therefore, see here!--the Treasurer shall give thee a

whole lakh of rupees, so that thou go to the devil out of my

dominions. Never, my friend, let me see thy ill-omened face again!

All's well that ends well."

Indeed as Babar laid his head on the pillow that night as undoubted

master of India, his one regret was that he could not have had a

personal tussle with his brave and honourable adversary.

He had been worth beating.

And he had been beaten--effectually.

CHAPTER VI

Distraught am I, since that I gave up wine,

Confused, to nothing doth my soul incline

Regret did once my penitence beget;

Now penitence induces worse regret.

_Babar_.

Babar wrote these verses from a full heart; for he found much

difficulty in reconciling himself to the desert of abstinence.

And it was a desert indeed! After the storm of war had come peace--at

least comparative peace--and a flat calm was never to his taste even

in youth. And here it was aggravated almost beyond bearing by a

thousand-and-one minor troubles. To begin with, ere he had commenced

the Holy War against that honourable Pagan, Rana Sanka, he had told

his soldiers that if successful, as many of them as wanted it should

have leave to return home. And this promise had to be fulfilled. Then

Humayon's division had consisted almost entirely of levies from

Badakhshan where the young Prince had been governor, and these were

seized with a great longing for home. As Kabul was imperfectly

defended, it seemed best therefore to send both the division and its

leader back; indeed Humayon himself needed a rest. He had worked

magnificently and now a young wife was awaiting his return; so, in

God's name let him go. And little Ma'asuma should have her husband

back also; a good sort, though he need not have shown his discomfort

quite so openly. Still, let him go also, to return when the

approaching hot weather was past, as governor of Etawah.

Then Tardi-Beg! Babar's heart sank as he thought of life without the

man who for years and years had been more of a charge than a help in

manners mundane; but in all things super-mundane what a joy!

Thoughtless, profuse, a lover of the glass, how often had he not

turned a frown to a laugh--a merry, innocent laugh? Truly, ever since

he, Babar, had come across him, an irresponsible lovable _darvish_,

and had prevailed upon him to give up religion in favour of fighting,

he had been a perpetual stand-by to that side of Babar's nature which

was not even perceived by the mass of his _entourage_. And now to have

none ready with quip and crank that held just the salt of life

wherewith it must be salted!

Yet Tardi-Beg must go too. That renunciation of his had re-aroused

religion in his heart, and it must be allowed free course. He also

would see the gardens of Kabul, would feel its fresh breezes, drink

its ice-cold water.... Truly! if one did not drink wine, the water

should at least be cold!

Babar gulped down a tepid draught disgustedly, and worked away at the

verses he meant to send by his friend to those other friends who had

deserted him last year. They were in Turkhi and ran as follows:

"Oh, ye! who left us alone to die

'Neath the sultry heat of an Indian sky,

Who shirked the labour of life to fly

Back to its comfort, its jollity,

Lo! you have had your recompense fair,

Of joy and delight your proper share.

But we have struggled to hold our own,

Have tilled and laboured without a moan,

And God's great mercy a way has shown

To patient content as the seed was sown,

You in Life's garden God's harvest missed.

I gather it here in _Hesht-Bishist_."

_Hesht-Bishist_ or the Eighth-Paradise being the name of his favourite

garden in Agra.

In fact verses and gardens were his greatest amusement that hot

weather, much of which he spent at Dholpur where he was busy laying

out pleasure-grounds and building palaces. He had disbanded most of

his troops until the rainy season was over, and sent his nobles to the

several districts assigned to them. Thus he was left alone to fight

out the temperance battle by himself. It did not agree with him

evidently, for twice he nearly succumbed to sudden illness; but he

brought religion to bear on the question with a grave simplicity all

his own, and kept feasts and fasts with the strictest orthodoxy.

Even here, however, he could not be quite conventional; for, never

since he was eleven, having held the Festival of Ramzaen two years

running in the same place--a fact which gives testimony to his

unsettled life--he could not make up his mind to break through the

usage. So he ordered a fine camp to be pitched at Sikri, and deserted

his capital.

Thus the months sped by bringing disappointments and minor pleasures.

The news which came to him that Humayon--Humayon the magnificent, the

darling of his heart--had on his way through Delhi broken open the

treasure-houses there and marched off Kabul-wards with their contents,

hurt him extremely. He had never expected such conduct from him, so he

wrote him a letter containing the severest reprehensions, and

thereinafter fell ill for seventeen days. It was not so bad a fever,

however, as that which seized on him in October after he swam the

Ganges at Sambal, in order to ride alone (having separated from

his people by a finesse--for no reason at all) to Agra. He lay

half-delirious then for nigh four weeks, his brain busy all the time

with versifications.

He only recollected one of them, however, when at last, a mere

skeleton of a man, he rose from his bed. He set it down, however, to

show how bad he had been.

"My fever grows each day,

My slumber fades away,

My pains go on increasing--

My patience is decreasing."

He laughed over the doggerel, as he sat joyously eating fruit once

more, and reading a letter which told him that in a month's time two

of his paternal aunts would actually pay him a visit. They had come

south with little Ma'asuma whom her husband was taking to Etawah.

He was full on the instant of preparations. An architect was sent for

and orders given for a special palace to be decorated for their

reception. He himself, passing rapidly through convalescence went out

to meet them in a boat above Secunderabad. It was a most joyful

meeting, and Babar hugged the old ladies as they had never been hugged

before. It was almost unbelievable, this delight of family life once

more. To hear their shrill voices, with the beloved Turkhi accent,

prattling away about the dear loved ones in Kabul was almost too much

for him. But they bewailed his looks and chattered of old Chagatai

recipes for deer's broth and mares'-milk cheeses till he shut his eyes

and tried to believe they were his dearest mother and his revered

grandmother at Andijan and that he was still King of the valley at the

extreme limit of the habitable world, and not Emperor of all India.

Then he opened them and took in and loved the quaint old-fashioned

dresses and everything about them that was unlike the gorgeously ugly

East which in his heart he loathed. But it was his, and it would be

his son's and his son's son's; so there was no more to be said.

Nevertheless the meeting accentuated his dislike to India and he found

it necessary to put something into life to make up for its lack of

real interest. He had taken the title of _Ghazi_ or "Defender of the

Faith" after his victory over Rana Sanka. Now he felt that another

Holy War against the heathen might bring the lacking zest to life. It

might, anyhow. But he failed to see it clearly in the Crystal Bowl

which Maham had given him. He used it chiefly as a divining cup now;

or rather as a sort of scrying crystal into which he would look, and

dream dreams.

But he never saw anything in it save his own thoughts. He could not,

however, after his illness, summon up sufficient energy to start this

Holy War that winter, and so another hot weather found him still at

Agra. It was his third spent alone in a country he disliked fervently.

But the gardens he had planted were growing up, the flowers he had

gathered from far and near were blossoming. Kabul, over the river, now

bore some faint resemblance to its namesake. Here he held a grand

festival for his veteran soldiers. There were not many now who had

been with him since as a boy he had wandered over the upland alps at

Ilak; and it was fitting they should be singled out for distinction.

It was a fine feast indeed. Babar sat in a small octagonal pavilion on

the river bank, and before the repast was served, sports and games

were displayed on an island just opposite. Here, there were fights

between furious camels and elephants, ram fights and wrestling

matches. Meanwhile the presents were being given. Vests and rich

dresses of honour, besides gifts of other value were bestowed, while

Babar, always at his best as bountiful _entrepreneur_, had many a

smile and jest, many a kindly remembrance of past days to give with

the other presents. Then came food, Hindustan jugglers and acrobats

who did surprising tricks; besides many dancing-girls who performed

outlandish dances. Finally, towards evening prayer time, a great

quantity of gold and silver and copper money was scattered amongst the

crowd and there was a precious hubbub and uproar.

Altogether it was like the light-hearted old Kabul days and Babar felt

the better for it. So, the cool setting in once more, he started on

his Holy War against the Pagan; but, though he tried hard to take an

interest in it, somehow it fell rather flat. He was more struck with

the beauty of Rajputana than with the virtue of exterminating the

idolaters who lived there. A country where there was abundance of

running water, small pretty lakes, where little spots of rising ground

afforded beautiful sites for houses, and where the houses in existence

were beautiful and capacious, of hewn stone wrought with great skill

and labour, was not a country to devastate. So he came back again, to

work on annexation with the pen instead of by the sword, and to

receive three more paternal aunts who came crowding to claim his

boundless hospitality.

They, however, brought sad news from Kabul. Little Faruk, the son he

had never seen, was dead. There was a piteous letter from Maham all

blistered with tears. The child had never been strong--surely God's

judgment must be on her that all her children died--but he had gone to

play with his little brothers and sisters in Paradise. So there was

none left now but Humayon, whom God preserve; Humayon who was looking

these days for a child of his own. God send it were a son. Not that it

would matter much to heartbroken Maham. And scribbled underneath the

flourish of a signature were these words: "If my lord desireth another

son let him take another wife. I am accursed."

Babar wept over this postscript more than over the rest of the letter.

He was very sorry, of course; but the Child was but an abstraction to

him, while the thought of his Dearest-dear's grief was bitter indeed.

He wrote her the most loving of letters, begging her not to hurt him

by such words. Even had he not had, by her forethought and kindness,

other sons, Humayon would have satisfied him. Humayon was a son of

whom anyone might be proud; so handsome, so courtly, so brave.

And by the same messenger he sent congratulations to the new-made

father; for by this time the news of the birth of a grandson had been

brought by special runner.

"To Humayon," he began, "whom I remember with such longing to see him

again, health."

It, also, was the most loving of letters. "Thanks be to God," he

wrote, "for giving to you a child, to me a comfort and an object of

love. You have called him Alaman--the Protected of God--May God

protect him and bestow on thee and on me many years made happy by the

name and fame of Alaman."

He went on to tell his son gently but firmly that indolence and ease

suit but ill with royalty. Did not the poet say:

"The world is his who gives himself to work;

Inaction is no fellow to ambition;

In wisdom's eyes all men may find repose,

Save only he who seeks a King's condition."

And then, with a certain pathetic bitterness, he told him that for two

years he had had no direct news of his son, though in the last letter

the latter had complained of separation from his friends.

"It is but ill manners in a prince," he wrote, "to complain of this,

seeing that if one is fettered by situation, 'tis ever most dignified

to submit to circumstance. Truly there is no greater bondage than that

in which a King is placed, and it ill becomes him to grumble at

inevitable separations."

So, with perhaps a vague sense of injury, he remarked that though

Humayon had certainly written him letters and that with his own hand,

he could never have read them over, "for had you attempted to do so,"

he wrote--and the letter is still extant, "you must have found it

absolutely impossible. I did, indeed, contrive to decipher your last,

but with great difficulty. It was excessively crabbed and confused; a

real riddle in prose! Then, in consequence of the far-fetched words

you employed, the meaning is by no means very intelligible. You do not

excel, I know, in letter writing, but if in future you would write

unaffectedly, with clearness, using plain words, it would cost less

trouble both to the writer and the reader."

Babar himself was at the time in a distinctly literary mood, for as a

demonstration of joy on the birth of Humayon's child and the marriage

of Kamran, one of Babar's other sons, he sent--in addition to other

lavish presents--two copies written in his own Babari hand of all the

translations and original poems he had composed since coming to India.

And this was no small task, for in his last attack of serious illness

he had set himself to translating into verse a religious tract, as a

curative measure. It had not, however, proved very successful, though

in his ardour he had composed on an average, fifty-two couplets a day.

For he still suffered continually from fever and often from dysentery.

In fact, though he could still swim over the Ganges in three and

thirty strokes, take breath and swim back again in like number, he was

beginning to realise that life was passing. Surely, by now, he had set

his foot with sufficient security upon the throne of India to warrant

his sending for those dear ones who were never very far from his

thoughts and resuming the happy, simple family life which suited him

best.

He pondered over this question for some months. It meant, of course, a

delay in his own return to Kabul. But that was inevitable. Hindustan

was not yet sufficiently settled to allow of his absence. Divided in

his mind between intense longing to see his native country again, and

his ideal of kingly self-denial, he hesitated; until news of discord

in the Royal clan decided him, and he wrote to Kwajah-Kilan, the

Governor at Kabul, to take instant steps to start the Royal Family for

Hindustan. His letter told his old friend that the affairs of the

country had been reduced to a certain degree of order; ere long he

hoped to see them completely settled. Then without losing an instant

of time he would set out, God willing, for his western dominions. "My

solicitude to visit Kabul again is boundless and great beyond

expression. How is it possible indeed that its delights could ever be

erased from the heart? How is it possible for one like me, who have

made a vow of abstinence from wine, to forget the delicious melons and

grapes of that pleasant region? Very recently some one brought me a

single musk-melon. While cutting it up I felt myself affected by so

strong a sense of loneliness, and of exile from my beloved country

that I could not help shedding tears even as I ate it."

So, after giving minute instructions on various subjects, especially

as to the planting of trees at a place called the Prospect, and the

sowing of beautiful and sweet-smelling flowers and shrubs, he went on

to detail his own experiences in reconciling himself to the desert of

penitence. "Last year my desire and longing for wine and social

parties were beyond measure excessive; to such an extent, indeed, that

I have caught myself shedding absolute tears of vexation and

disappointment. (For God's sake do not think amiss of me for this.) In

the present year, praise be, these troubles are over. This I ascribe

(in part) to the occupation of my mind in the poetical translation of

a tract; of which no more at present. Let me advise you, too, to adopt

a life of abstinence. Social parties and wine are doubtless pleasant,

in company with our jolly friends and old boon companions. But with

whom can _you_ enjoy the social cup? Truly if you have only Shir-Ahmed

and Hindai for the companions of your gay hours and the jovial goblet,

you cannot find any difficulty in abstinence."

This, Babar felt, was unanswerable. So far as he was concerned he knew

that drunkenness in the company of blockheads had been no better than

sobriety. And he was not born to suffer fools gladly.

After he had taken the irrevocable step and sent for his Dearest-dear,

he went out and looked at the stars before settling himself to sleep,

telling himself that he felt years younger at the very thoughts of

seeing them all again.

After four years! four long years. They would not have changed, of

course; to him at least they could never change. But how about

himself? He had grown gaunt and grey. Still at heart he was

young--Aye! as young as when he had first bidden the Crystal Bowl

bring him the whole, not the half of Life.

Well! he had had his share. And there was Canopus hanging in the

south!

"All hail _Soheil!_"

CHAPTER VII

Good old St. Martini patron of the drunk!

Lo! in thy summer thou givest potent draught

To warm our cockles ere the world be sunk

In winding sheet of snow. This is thy craft,

O cheerful saint! to give ere the year dies

A euthanasian drink of cloudless skies.

There was no question as to the youth of the man who on Midsummer Eve

A. D. 1529 was riding post haste from Kalpi to Agra, a distance of

close on a hundred miles, to meet his wife and children. He sat his

horses, laid out along the sandy sun-bitten roads, as only a Chagatai

Turkh could do, and when he flung himself from his last mount at

midnight in the Garden-of-the-Eighth-Paradise, he had indeed passed

beyond the Seventh-Heaven-of-Happiness.

It seemed simply incredible that before many hours were over he should

see Maham again. Maham, his moon, his more than wife!

It was no joyous festival to him, this Eve of St. John; but surely in

some occult fashion, the youth of all Christendom as it rejoiced with

garlands and merry shoutings and dances, must have reached him in far

India. Perhaps--since there is no limit to such unconscious

influences--the immemorial festival of summer that has been held since

the world began, added its quota of perennial life to the vitality

that was still ready to leap up at any stimulus.

Certain it is that in this, the commencement of this St. Martin's

summer of his life, Babar needed no pity for spent power.

He had been delayed by storm and wind and rain. Only a few days before

he had had an awkward experience which might have resulted in serious

injury. He had been sitting, writing, in his tent at past midnight

when the clouds of the rainy season broke, and there was suddenly such

a tempest, and the wind rose so high that it blew down the pavilion,

with the screen which surrounded it, on his head. He had had no time

even to gather up his papers and the loose sheets that were written;

so they all got drenched. However, with much trouble they were picked

up here, there, everywhere, and set to dry in a woollen cloth over

which carpets were thrown. But he had had to put a jesting postcript

to Maham's letter to say the blisters were not tears. They wrote to

each other constantly, these two, and letters from Maham made ever a

red-letter day in the Diary which Babar kept.

But now this was over! There would be no more need for writing, since

she was within a few miles of Alighur where, God willing, he meant to

meet her so soon as he had seen that all things were in order for her

reception at Agra.

Never was there such a fussy host as he showed himself.

"Truly, nephew Babar," snorted Khadijah, his chief paternal aunt, when

he cavilled at some domestic arrangement in Maham's private apartment,

"I am woman and I ought to know. If men, and especially Kings, were to

do their own work and leave such things to those who understand,

'twould be better."

He looked quite crestfallen, so that the Fair-Princess, filled with

pity, nudged him to say that if he sent her the flowers she would see

to their being properly placed.

Whereat he was grateful and went off to his beloved gardens to choose

what he wanted. Not roses or marigolds. Those were familiar. He must

show his Dearest-dear, and little Gulbadan too, who was to come with

this advance party, the beauties of Hindustan. They must be shown that

there were some beauties! So he picked the red oleander he had found

in the old gardens at Gwalior and the snowy gardenia. Then for scent

there was the sweet pandanus. But his favourite of all, the scarlet

hibiscus, could not be gathered till the very last, as it withered so

soon. In a single hour its beauty would have gone; and Maham must see

how cunningly the thing like a heart showed in the very middle of the

broad flower. She must see the marvellous colour, deeper, richer, more

beautiful than the pomegranate.

Then there were endless orders to give about fountains, and fireworks,

and food. For everything of good in Hindustan must be laid at Maham's

feet the moment she arrived.

After this there were papers to be signed, and letters to be sent out

to various governors; for Babar had been many months away from his

capital on a campaign in Bengal. Still, if Maham kept to her

programme, he would have plenty of time for the fifty odd miles to

Alighar if he rode fast; and she could hardly be due there for another

twenty-four hours.

But he had reckoned without the loving heart on the other side. Maham,

as eager as he for the joyful meeting, had pushed on, and reaching

Alighar, had left little eight-year-old Gulbadan to follow at leisure

in charge of her nurse, and had come on straight post-haste to Agra.

"Your Majesty!" faltered a breathless messenger, rushing into the

Presence unceremoniously--all Agra was on the _qui vive_, and this was

no time for the delay of etiquette--"Her Highness is on the road--four

miles out--I have just passed Her--"

Babar stood up dazed. Maham! To fling his pen aside and start was

instant. No time for a horse, not even for shoes. As he was,

bareheaded, in his slipper shoon, he was out. In the dust under the

stars he ran, and with God only knows what star-drift and dust-atoms

in his brain. Earth there might have been, but of a surety there was

heaven also.

Canopus of Victory shone to the South; the Warrior, perchance, showed

to the North. But he saw neither. Venus shone like a young moon but

cast no shadow on his path. And down the straight dusty road came a

litter jingling as it jolted. He laughed aloud in his joy as he

sprinted the last few yards.

"Maham! Maham!"

For the rest, what does it matter? Let those two keep it to themselves

for all time and eternity.

"My lord! let me descend and walk, too," faltered Maham after a bit,

but he shook his head lightly.

"Nay, my moon--that would delay us and thou must get

home--_home?_--God! what delight! Now then, ye bearers, a good foot

first, or the King will do gangleader and make the pace!"

His joyous threat roused instant laugh, and with a will, the tired men

set off at an amble, chanting in time to their steps. At every minute

nobles, apprised of the unexpected arrival, came galloping up, to fall

into the tail of the little procession after vain efforts to make the

Emperor take their horses. But Babar would none of them. He wanted to

hold his wife's hand as he strode beside her and hear her sweet

familiar voice saying "Yea" and "Nay" to the torrent of his words.

They crossed the river, and were in _Hesht-Bishist_. That is all there

is to say; that is all we know.

Except that ere the blessed night was over Babar wrote in his diary:

"Sunday. At midnight I met Maham again. It was an odd coincidence that

she and I left to meet each other on the very same day."

After all there is no need for more. One can imagine Babar

translucently, boyishly, content. One can imagine how fear at his

altered looks gripped at his more than wife's heart, bringing with it

a passionate determination to stand between him and needless worry.

There was no chance of that for the present anyhow; all was pleasure

and delight. Early in the morning little Gulbadan arrived in charge of

the Wazir and his wife, who had been sent out to meet her. They came

across her close to the Little-Garden, and, the child being hungry,

they spread a carpet and gave her a hasty breakfast.

"There are many dishes," remarked the little lady superbly, and

afterwards described the meal as having been drawn out to "fifty roast

sheep, bread, sherbet and much fruit." For the dainty child of eight

had inherited much of her father's gift of words. She was rather small

for her age and extraordinarily self-possessed. With a vast

discrimination in etiquette also, as befitted a Royal, or rather

Imperial Princess.

"There is no need to rise for her," said the Wazir hastily, when his

wife entered and little Gulbadan would have saluted her. "She is but

your old serving woman."

This, however, did not suit the little lady who had also her father's

gracious manners. And all the while she was bursting with impatience

to see the man who her little life long had been held up to her as a

model of all that was good, and kind, and brave. Five years is a long

time when one can but count eight in all; and the child's recollection

only carried her back vaguely to someone very tall and straight who

used to hold her close so that she could feel something beating

inside. Was it her father's heart or her own? That was not likely any

more; for she was quite a big girl and her hair was plaited in

virginal fashion.

Besides she had all her little bowings and genuflections ready. She

rehearsed them gravely in the litter as she went along to pay her

respectful duty to royalty.

But after all they did not come into the meeting. She had not even

time to fall at the Emperor's feet, for, in an instant, he had her in

his arms.

"And then," as she told Maham afterwards in the seclusion of the

women's apartments, "this little insignificant personage felt such

happiness that greater could not be imagined."

Maham laughed. "Truly thou art a quaint little marionette, Gulbadan!

And what dost think of thy father?"

The little maiden pursed up her lips and sat quiet for a minute. Then

she said firmly: "I think he is too beautiful to put into words."

Her father, however, did not share her opinion in regard to _her_

looks. He was never weary of praising them, and it was a pretty sight

to see him holding her by the hand as he took her round to inspect all

his new buildings and gardens. And nothing would serve him but that

they must go out, both of them, and see Dholpur, which, in a vague

way, might remind them of beloved Kabul. And from Dholpur they went to

Sikri where they spent a happy month rowing about in the big tank.

Here little Gulbadan used to sit for hours at her father's feet while

he wrote up his memoirs in the summer house of the great garden.

"Lo! little mouse," he would say, looking round to lay a kindly hand

on her smooth head, "mayhap thou mayest write a book thyself some day;

thou hast more brains than thy brothers." And he sighed; for of late

Humayon had not been very satisfactory; nor, for the matter of that,

were Kamran and Askari, his other two grown-up sons, exactly after his

own heart.

Gulbadan shook her head gravely. "The Emperor speaks in ignorance of

my brother Alwar," she said, not without hauteur, "but when my mother,

Her Highness, Dildar-Begum arrives next week the Emperor will admit

that his son is a rarity of the world, and a unique of the age."

Her dignity was supreme, and Babar laughed. "Nicer than Hindal,

Gullu?" he asked, knowing her preference for the boy who had been

brought up with her under Maham's care.

The child flushed up visibly, and tears stood in her eyes. "Lo!" she

said, "Hindal is indeed my brother. Mayhap he is not clever; but I

love him, I love him!"

The Emperor caught her in his arms and kissed her tears.

"So do I, sweetheart, so does everybody. Lo! I dare swear it! we all

love each other, do we not?"

In truth it seemed like it. Babar's three wives were there after a

time and yet none of them quarrelled; perhaps because no one in the

wide world could have quarrelled with childless Mubarika, the

Blessed-Damozel, and Dildar was too much occupied with little Alwar to

think of anything else. He was, indeed, a marvellous child, of

extraordinary beauty and brains. One of those children over whom old

folk shake their heads and say: "He is not long for this world."

Though barely six he was, as his little sister had said, a unique of

the age, and Babar, who had not seen him since he was a baby in arms,

was almost pathetically proud of him.

His devotion, indeed, raised a suspicion of jealousy even in Maham's

generous heart for her own son Humayon--and one evening as the husband

and wife were sitting together in the open balcony of the Palace, she

hinted that Humayon might have to play second fiddle in his father's

graces.

Babar came over to her and laid his head--it was fast grizzling--on

her lap in the old affectionate Turkhi fashion.

"Little mother!" he said, and there was a break in his voice, "say not

stupidities. Lo! thou knowest, as I do, that life became doubly dear

to me, when thou didst lay my first-born son in my arms. Thou knowest

that I have done all these things--these many things for him--my

heir."

There was a faint stir at the door, and Babar turned to look. Then

with a bound he was on his feet.

"Humayon!" he cried joyously; "Humayon himself! Look! little mother!

thy son! thy son!"

And Humayon it was, unsent for, unexpected, but welcome as roses in

May. The Emperor had not the heart to chide him for leaving his

governorship, since his presence made the loving hearts of those two

open like rosebuds, their eyes shine like torches.

Never was such merry-making as they had that night. It was Babar's

rule to keep open table every day, but on this occasion he gave a

spread feast, and heaped every kind of distinction upon his handsome

son. And in truth he deserved it, for his manners and his conversation

had an inexpressible charm, he realised absolutely the ideal of

perfect manhood.

So at least his parents agreed, as, after the state dinner was over,

they sat, a family party, in the Gold-Scattering-Garden. There was a

little tank there, cut out of solid red rock, which in his

unregenerate days Babar had intended to fill with red wine. It was now

brimming, in honour of this happy meeting of so many, with lemonade,

and they sat and quaffed it by gobletfuls contentedly. And Alwar

recited his set pieces, and Gulbadan did a stately Turkhi measure, and

nothing would serve Maham but that my lord should sing her his latest

love-song. She had not heard him sing for years, and though he had

sent her and his sons plenty of didactic and pious songs of his

composition and translation, he had included no love-songs. And he had

had such an excellent touch with them in the old, old days.

Whereat Dildar giggled faintly, till Dearest-One, who, tall, pale, a

childless widow now, had also come to see her brother, said softly:

"Aye! it was given him by the Good God who sends Love as His best gift

to the World. Yea! Sing to us of Love--brotherling."

So he took the lute and sang sweetly enough, though his voice had lost

its youthful ring.

"Ah! would I were the morning wind

To braid her scented hair.

Ah! would I were the noonday sun

To kiss her cheek so fair.

Ah! would I were the lamp at eve

Where she her court doth keep.

Ah! would I were the happy moon

To watch her in her sleep.

My heart is like a famished wolf

That licks the frozen snow

The while it tracks its quarry far

Wherever it may go.

From morn till night I follow her

But she no word doth deign.

Oh! ice chill maid! for pity's sake

Give me at least disdain.

Wind! make each scented tress unbind.

Sun! set her life-blood free.

Lamp! make her weary for true love.

Moon! bring her dreams of me."

"'Tis only a translation," he said thoughtfully, "but I like it--'tis

so simple."

And then his mind drifted away to that spring morning among the

flowers on the high alps at Ilak when he had wondered at the look in

Dearest-One's eyes. And his hand went out to seek hers and found it.

So they sat there hand in hand like children for a space, and a great

weariness of the uselessness of life came to Babar.

"Lo!" he said suddenly, "I will make over my kingdom to thee, Humayon.

Thou art young. I grow old and I am tired of ruling and reigning. A

garden and those I love--what more can any man desire?" He spoke half

in earnest, half in jest.

Maham turned pale; Dildar and the paternal aunts and khanums--by this

time there were ninety-six in all!--cracked their thumbs, and even

Dearest-One shook her head and said quickly: "May God keep you in His

Peace upon the throne for many, many years."

But the Blessed-Damozel who always sat a little apart only smiled. "My

lord means the Garden of the Eighth Heaven," she put in quickly. "Yea!

there is peace there, and rest for everybody."

"My lady says sooth," acquiesced Babar and their grave eyes met.

But little Gulbadan was agog because it was time the fireworks began

or _Nanacha_ would be sending her to bed, so the idea of abdication

ended in Babar's catching her up in his arms and carrying her off to

see how the wheels turned round. Then Alwar, while Dildar gave little

shrieks of horror (in which she was joined in louder echo by the

Astonishingly Beautiful Princess who invariably wept and laughed to

order) actually set fire himself to a bomb and when it exploded

clapped his hands with glee.

"When I am a big man like my father, the Emperor," he said boastfully,

"I will fire ten guns at a time."

"'Tis silly to say such things," retorted Madam Gulbadan superbly.

But the child's keen little face was not in the least abashed.

"Lo! sister, 'tis silly of thee to say no when thou canst not tell

where I shall be as grown man. Likely in some bigger place than this."

And he waved his hand contemptuously towards Babar's great palaces.

Whereat they all laughed; for they were a merry, happy party. So they

feasted and enjoyed themselves. As little Gulbadan wrote in after

years: "It was like the day of Resurrection."

CHAPTER VIII

Death stood among my flowers, his bright wings furled:

"This bud I take with me to that still world

Where no wind blows, where sunshine does not fade,

Yon open rose is yours," he gently said;

But I refused. He smiled and shook his head,

So empty-handed back to Heaven sped

And lo! by sun-scorch and the wild wind shorn

Ere eve, my bud, my blossom both were gone.

Humayon remained with his father for a week or two. Handsome,

_insouciant_, always agreeable and of a curious dignity of carriage he

seemed cut out to be a King. Wherever he went, no matter in what

society he might be--even his father's--the eye rested on him with

pleasure. And yet Babar's eyes, fond as they were, failed to see

something he fain would have seen. There seemed no sense of

responsibility, such as he, Babar, had had at his years. Yet it was

hardly fair to judge the lad by the standard of one who had perforce

been thrust into power at eleven years of age. And, after all, Humayon

was barely two and twenty; still quite a lad. There was time yet.

So, weary as he was, Babar said no more about abdicating; he even

tried to think no more about a plan he had cherished of going back for

the next hot weather to Kabul and leaving Humayon in charge of

Hindustan.

"My Kabul," as he ever called it; saying to his sons in jesting

earnest--"Let none of you covet it for I will not give it! It is mine

own, my very own. The only thing in God's earth I care to keep, for

there He gave me happiness."

Still he was happy enough as it was in Hindustan, and, thanks to

Maham's good care, felt more himself. But, like all women, she was a

trifle fussy.

"Lo! my lord," she said, one extremely hot Friday when a dust-storm

was blowing, and Babar, despite this, was preparing for his weekly

visit to his paternal aunts; a duty he had never once neglected when

in Agra for three whole years. "How would it be if you did not go this

one Friday? The Begums could not be vexed seeing how good you are to

them."

Goodness, she thought privately, was a mild word, considering that

each and all of the ninety-six female relations had palaces and

gardens assigned to them and that the Court architect had standing

orders to give precedence to whatever work, even if it were on a great

scale, the ladies desired to have done, and to carry it through with

all might and main.

But the bare suggestion hurt the Emperor's affectionate heart.

"Maham," he said in pained astonishment, "it is not like you to say

such thoughtless things. Think a moment. They are the daughters of my

fathers, deprived by God of their parents. Therefore, being female,

they are helpless. I am the head of the family; if I do not cheer

them, who will?"

Maham could not forbear a smile. No one, in truth; but Babar, beloved,

kindly Babar, would think twice about a pack of old women; and she

would not change him for worlds. So, despite her anxiety for his

health, she said no more.

All that winter they were an extraordinarily happy family party.

Humayon had been sent as Governor to an up-country province, and not

back to Badakhshan where he and his half-brother Kamran had almost

come to blows. And family quarrels were, in the Emperor's opinion,

positively indecent, besides being so unnecessary; since there were

always plenty of outsiders with whom to have a fine fight. Then the

news from Bengal, where the success of his arms was being assured, was

satisfactory. Babar did not mind beating the down-country Pagans; it

was different in Rajputana where you had to kill real men. But, even

there, peace was coming fast; for few brave soldiers could withstand

Babar's frankly outstretched hand of friendship. And he asked for so

little in return. He took no money, no land. He only claimed

suzerainty; and it was much to have a strong man as final referee.

Then Babar's friend Tardi-Beg came back to him, not as soldier, but in

the _darvesh's_ peaked cap and white blanket frock. However he came he

was welcome, especially to Mistress Gulbadan who appropriated him

wholesale. They were a quaint pair, as hand in hand they inspected the

gardens, and the stables, and all the ins and outs of the Royal

household; for the little lady had great ideas of management.

And Babar would follow, as often as not with Alwar, who was but a

weakling in body, perched on his broad shoulder.

The "four children," as Maham would call them as they played at ball

together in the marble alleys; Tardi-Beg with his cap off, his shaven

head glittering to match little Gulbadam's tinsel and jewellery;

Alwar, a miniature of the Emperor even to the tiny heron's plume in

his bonnet; Babar, his haggard face beaming. The men enjoyed

themselves quite as much as the children, and if Babar accused his

friend of chucking easy ones to Gulbadan, Tardi-Beg asserted that

Alwar never got a hard one; whereat the little lad wept; but his

sister stamped her foot and said she wouldn't play any more unless

they played fair. A remark that, of course, brought the immediate

capitulation of Tardi-Beg and Babar.

[Illustration: "THE FOUR CHILDREN, AS MAHAM WOULD CALL THEM"]

Yes! they were very happy, very guileless, very innocent, as Babar

himself had written so often over less commendable amusements.

And then suddenly came a bolt out of the blue. Alwar, little Alwar, to

whom every day seemed to bring some new charm of unbelievable

intellect beyond his years, fell sick. From the very first he lay

quiet, exhausted, spent; but smiling. It was a trick he learnt of his

father.

So, after two or three days he died, his hot, thin, little hand in

that father's. It was as if the sun had gone out of the sky to the

whole household. Even the Blessed-Damozel shed slow tears as she

wreathed the dead darling in drifts of scented gardenias and put a

scarlet slipper blossom with its quaint "something like a heart" upon

the breast.

Babar, placing the light corpse in the niche cut for it in the

flower-filled grave, felt as if it were his own heart he were burying;

but it was _Darvesh_ Tardi-Beg who recited the committal prayer, and

that gave him comfort.

Besides he was a man, and the women had to be sustained. The poor

mother, Dildar-Begum, was literally frantic with grief. Doubtless, she

said, the child had been poisoned, because its father loved it so;

doubtless, in her mad despair, she accused Maham of doing the deed.

Polygamy is a fair-weather craft; it is apt to fail in a storm.

But the poor soul was mad. Everyone saw that; and the women took it

more quietly than the man. Even blur-eyed, half-silly Astonishingly

Beautiful Princess nodded her head and remarked sagely: "They say that

sort of thing always in grief-time, nephew; so why fuss about it. She

will forget it after a time."

And Ak-Begum came with her bright squirrel eyes all soft with tears to

Babar, and whispered: "We all know it is not true, nephew. Our lady is

God's kindness itself; so why fret."

But it did fret the man and added a bitterness to his grief, which

even Maham could not sweeten.

"If my lord will listen to this slave," said the Blessed-Damozel at

last, "it will be better to beguile the poor distraught one by change

of scene. Lo! the lotus must be out in the Dholpur lakes. Why not go

there for awhile? Good rain has fallen; it is cooler now."

So they all went, sailing down the river Jumna in tented boats. Far

and near the wide level plain was tinted green with fresh spring

grass. The parch of an Indian summer was over. This was the Indian

spring. With magical, marvellous quickness the flowering trees burst

into blossom, the Persian roses budded in a single night, and down

amongst their grey-green, velvet leaves you could positively hear the

calyx burst as the scented petals struggled to the sun. The climbing

gardenias hung like white scarves round the dark cypresses, the hedges

of Babar's favourite slipper flower were ablaze with their great flat

scarlet circles.

Yes! it was spring! So as they journeyed, the sad little party became

more cheerful. The women, especially, had begun to talk of their

departed darling as one of God's angels; even his mother had sobered

down to copious tears, and pathetic requests that she might be given

back her other son Hindal--whom Maham certainly _had_ taken from her

as a baby.

"Let her have the boy, my lord," said Maham pitifully. "Lo! it is but

fair she should have one son; and I have Humayon."

So Babar blessed her for her kind heart, and sent off a special

messenger to Kabul for Hindal, a boy of nigh ten years old who had

been left behind with his tutor to complete his education.

The Emperor felt happier when this was done; perhaps because in his

kind heart of hearts he had never been quite sure of the righteousness

of giving Hindal over to another woman. It was the only action of his

in regard to his womenkind which he could not have conscientiously

upheld against all comers at the bar of his own judgment.

It was great gain, therefore, to find his Dearest-dear of a mind with

himself. For all that he felt--as strong men so often do when limited

by feminine outlook--rather battered and worn.

In no fit state therefore for the bad news which came to him by

special runner as he sat by the Water-lily tank at Dholpur.

Humayon, wrote the Court Physician, in Delhi, was very ill of fever.

It would be best if his mother were to come at once, as the Prince was

much prostrated.

Humayon! First, Alwar, his youngest; then his eldest son! Was he to

lose them both? Babar was in his essence very man. Trouble came to him

overwhelmingly. He might face it bravely; but he always faced the

worst. It was Humayon, bested in his fight for life that he saw;

whereas Maham with the eternal hopefulness of woman, which springs

from her eternal motherhood, would not let herself even think of

defeat. Upset as she was by the dreadful news, she yet spoke quietly

of how she would bring her invalid son back, and how his father had

best return to Agra and have everything ready to receive their

darling.

"I would fain come, too, dear-heart," said Babar pitifully.

But Maham would not hear of it. Even so much would be to admit danger,

and there was none--there could be none. Nathless, let urgent orders

be sent along the route so that there should not be an instant's

delay.

She was quite calm and collected to him; but she broke down a little

to the Blessed-Damozel who somehow or another--why, folk never

knew--was ever the recipient of confidences.

"Thou wilt look after him, lady," she said quite tearfully, "and see

that he wearies himself not with over-anxiety?"

"All shall be as if thou wast here, sister, so far as in me lies," was

the quiet reply, and Maham was satisfied. What Mubarika-Begum said she

would do, would be done. Maham knew that; for she knew (what Babar did

not) that Mubarika's life had been one long self-denial.

Years and years younger than her husband, she had left a young lover

behind her in her father's palace when she had come as a bride to make

peace between her clan and the King of Kabul. She had chosen her part,

she had respected and admired, in a way she had loved Babar; but

passionate romance had never clouded her eyes.

"Yea! I will guard him as thou wouldst," she said again, "and mayhap

in thy absence, and with this common grief and anxiety to soften

memory, Dildar also will learn how good, how kind thou art, thou

Star-of-the-Emperor's life."

But even Mubarika, so calm, so gracious, so tactful, could not prevent

the mental strain from telling on Babar's bodily health. Prolonged

anxiety, great grief had always prostrated him for a time, even as a

young man; and now illness and hard work had aged him before his

years.

"Would to God he could but drink a bit--he need not get drunk," wailed

Tardi-Beg who, being tainted with Sufi doctrines, would orate for

hours concerning cups divine, and ruby wines. But Babar had never

broken a promise in his life, and was not going to begin now.

Besides, Maham had been right. Humayon was brought to Agra alive. That

was much. In the first fulness of his joy at seeing his son once more,

Babar almost forgot anxiety.

"He will soon be well, dear-heart," he said cheerfully; "he does not

look so very bad. When the fever leaves him--"

But it was Maham's turn to be despondent. "It does not leave him," she

said.

That was true; as yet the crisis had not come, and it was long in

coming. Day after day he grew weaker; day after day the brain, weary

of fighting at long-odds for life, grew more and more drowsy.

"My sisters! I want to see my sisters!" would come the low muttering

voice, reft of almost all its youth, its tone. And those three,

Gulchihra, Gulrang, and Gulbadan, Rose-face, Rose-blush, Rose-body,

Babar's three rose-named daughters, would creep in with tears and kiss

him. A pathetic little picture. The girlish faces all blurred with

tears, the tinkling of bracelets, jewelled earrings, head ornaments,

what not, the rustling of scent-sodden silks and satins, and that poor

head on the pillow turning from side to side, rhythmically restless.

Even Babar himself, had to see after a while that the Shadow-of-Death

lay on his son.

"Maham!" he said pitifully,--"the boy, the boy--"

Poor mother! For nigh on four-and-twenty years she had been this man's

stay and stand-by. He had come to her consoling arms as a child comes

to its mother. She had given him in passionate devotion more than he

perhaps realised, for they had been faithful friends always, and the

friendship had overlaid the love; but she failed him now, for she was

at the end of her tether. So she stood dry-eyed, almost cold.

"Why should my lord grieve," she said, "because of my son? There

is no necessity. He is King. He has other sons--I have but this

one!--therefore _I_ grieve."

For a second Babar stood as if turned to stone, then he answered

almost sternly: "Maham! Thou knowest that I love Humayon as I love no

other son of mine, because he is son of the woman I love best. Thou

knowest that I have sought and laboured for kingship for him and for

him only. Thou knowest--" softness had crept back to his voice--"Nay!

what need to tell thee, since thou knowest that there is nothing in

the wide world I would not do for Humayon?"

"Thou canst do nothing! There is naught to be done," she muttered,

still tearless, calm; and something in her pitiful despair roused

instant response in his ever-ready vitality, and he threw back his

head with a gesture of negation.

"There is naught I would not dare, anyhow," he said, "and what is

dared is often done. Take heart! my moon! All is not lost. Defeat

comes not till Death--who was it said that long years ago--Aye! Defeat

comes not till Death--And even then--God knows--He knows...! He

knows...!"

CHAPTER IX

"Death makes no Conquest of this Conqueror,

For now he lives in Fame."

"Then there is no hope to save Death," said Babar sternly. He stood,

his face blanched, amongst a group of Court-physicians, professional

prayer-makers, astrologers, sorcerers; frail reeds at which anxiety

caught distractedly in its despair. And they were all silent save a

priest who mumbled of God's goodness. Prayer remained, said the

unctuous voice.

But that strong human heart was almost past petitions; it craved

something more tangible.

"Is there naught to be given--naught that I could do to make God

listen from His High Heaven? Naught that would mayhap soften His hard

heart?" he asked sharply: he was thinking of a ransom: many a soldier

had had to offer one; he, himself, had given a dear one--once....

Some of those who heard, looked at each other. This death to them

meant little; but here was an opportunity for personal gain that could

do no harm to anyone. So they whispered among themselves, and greed

grew to some of the faces that encircled the man, to whose face it had

never come, once, in all his life. For Babar had been giver, not

taker. He had lavished all things on his world; he had been

spendthrift even in forgiveness.

"Is there naught, gentlemen?" he asked drearily.

Then the chief-preacher spoke. "It hath been written, and is, indeed,

approved, that in such times of stress some Supreme Sacrifice to the

Most High may be effectual--"

"But it must be Supreme," put in a coarse-faced reader of the stars,

his mind busy with money, "a small gift will not suffice--"

"Aye," added another voice. "Look, you! It must be the most precious

possession of a man; that which he holds dearest. In this case I would

suggest--"

But Babar, who was standing, his back to the light, held up his hand

for silence.

"Then I give my life," he said quietly, but his voice rang strong and

firm; for he had come straight from his interview with Maham and her

words had roused every atom of his marvellous vitality.

"Yea! I give my life--for sure there is naught that a man can hold

more precious."

Absolute surprise kept his hearers silent for a moment. The very

suggestion in one so instinct with life, made it incredible; then

dismay came to some faces, disappointment to others.

"Your Majesty!" began his faithful servant, the Wazir swiftly--"Our

Emperor's life is too precious--"

"Naught is too precious, friend, to save Humayon!" came the equally

swift reply.

"Yea! the Wazir is right," palpitated one who saw money slipping

through his fingers. "Some lesser thing, yet still supreme, might be

found. What of the Great Diamond--"

"No stone can outweigh my son's life. No! I offer myself to God--it is

all I have." The strong voice rang firmer than ever.

"But the offering must be dear to both parties," put in a pompous

voice. "And since, by the generosity of the Emperor, the diamond in

question--whose value represents they say one day's revenue of the

habitable world--was bestowed upon the Prince Humayon, it fits in

double manner the circumstances--"

Babar turned in quick reproof and scorn to the speaker. "Knowest thou

so little of love, friend? Lo! I am dearer to my son than many

diamonds. Could he speak now--" Babar's voice almost broke--"he would

say, 'I am not worth the price of thy life, my father, for it is all

the world to me.' But he cannot speak! He is in the grip of Death, so

I have my say!"

And he flung out his right arm as he had been used to fling it out

when leading on his soldiers to some desperate charge--"Come!

gentlemen," he said, command in every word, "let us lose no more time.

It is precious. I will give my all--may God be merciful!"

The sick room was hushed. Humayon lay motionless, unconscious, on a

low bed set in the middle of the bare, spacious corridor. A physician

sat to one side holding his patient's wrist, so appraising, minute by

minute, the fluttering battle between Life and Death. On the other

side knelt the poor mother; all unveiled, for they had sent for her,

thinking the supreme moment was at hand, and she had no thought for

anything save her dying son. Her right hand was stretched out in

helpless appeal over the loved form which seemed to take up so little

room amongst the quilts. But her left hand was held fast, consolingly,

under the folds of a white veil which shrouded another female figure

close behind her; for Mubarika-Begum, the Blessed-Damozel, was ever to

the fore in sickness or in trouble.

But Babar did not notice either of them. He stepped swiftly to the

head of the bed and stood looking down on the face of his dying son.

Almost it seemed as if he were too late; as if Life had already

unfolded her wings and fled. Then, with eyes literally blazing with

inward fire he stretched out his hands, trembling with nervous strain,

and began his prayer of intercession.

"O God Most High! If a life may be exchanged for a life, and they tell

me it is so, then I, who am Babar, give mine for his, who is Humayon!

Let my strength bear his weakness."

"Husband! No! No! Not that--" moaned Maham, awakened to a sense of

what was passing. But the figure behind her bent forward and whispered

in her ear--

"Let be, sister! Canst not see that God's mist clouds his brain from

this world. Lo! Maham, both thy dear ones stand before the Throne. Let

God decide!"

And with a low sob, Maham fell on her outstretched arms; she said no

more; she felt nothing save that cool, tightening clasp of sisterhood

upon her hand.

The hot sunshine streamed in upon the floor, the distant sounds of

life outside were dulled to a low murmur as of bees, and on it came

softly-hurried steps, as Babar, with clasped hands, circumambulated

the bed solemnly. That he knew was the ritual of sacrifice. Round and

round patiently, his voice rising above the low sobbing of a faithful

friend or two ...

"On me, kind God! be all his suffering. May all my strength be his. I

gave him life once, Most-Clement! Let me give it to him again! Let my

strength be his weakness; his weakness my strength."

Over and over again; over and over! The fire dying out of the man's

eyes with the nervous strain, until his very steps hesitated--"On me

be his suffering! On me! on me!" Then suddenly, through the room,

thrilling every soul in it, a woman's sobbing ghost of a shriek!--

"He moved! His hand moved--I felt it."

Babar swayed towards the voice. "I have prevailed," he muttered. "I

have borne it away--" threw up his arms blindly, staggered and fell in

a dead faint on to sobbing Tardi-Beg's breast. The rest crowded round,

awestruck, curious.

"He is dead--God hath accepted the sacrifice," they said.

The face of Babar's best friend worked; of that, who could say, but

for the present it was not true.

"Not he!" he cried roughly. "Give him air! 'Tis but the strain on him,

and what that has been all these years, fools do not know. Here,

slaves! Carry him to his chamber! Nay! Madam Mother! there is no cause

for anxiety! H'st! no noise, you there, lest you disturb the Prince

who in good sooth seems coming to himself!"

And it was true. The nameless change which comes to a fever face when

the crisis is passing showed clear upon Humayon's.

"Her Royal Highness had best stay with the invalid," went on

Tardi-Beg, "I can attend the Emperor in this passing indisposition."

But a veiled white figure rose quietly. "I go with His Imperial

Majesty," said Mubarika-Begum. "There is no fear, sister; as the

gentleman says it is but a fainting fit. The Emperor hath been

over-anxious."

So when Babar came to himself, which he did rapidly, he found the

Blessed-Damozel bending over him.

"My son?" he asked faintly.

"The prince is better," she replied. "The fever hath gone--he will

recover."

Babar gave a sigh of relief and turned his face to the wall.

Possibly the strain had been too much for him, coming as it did after

long years of steady, hard work. Perhaps he had worn himself out with

sheer, restless energy. Doubtless those ten years of drink, possibly

even the four of total abstinence, had something to say to this

premature break-down; for in years he was but forty-eight. Yet, deny

it as they would, it was soon evident to all, that he had lived

through the tale of heart beats allotted to him by Fate.

Humayon, with the speed of youth, recovered and came to his father's

bedside; but Babar never rose again. Perhaps he would not have done so

if he could, for he had a made a promise. He had given his life to God

in exchange for his son's, and there was an end of it.

But he was quite cheerful. Only to two people did he speak openly of

coming death. One was Tardi-Beg who stayed with him night and day. To

him he spoke lightly, almost jestingly, of his long desire to follow

his example and become a _darvesh_.

"For years--aye! three years--I have desired to make over the throne

to Humayon and retire to the Gold-Scattering-Garden! What gay times we

have had there, friend, with the flowers, and the birds, and the

children--and our own wits! Now shall I retire to Paradise, and God

send it be as innocent, as guileless."

And to Mubarika he talked of his beloved Kabul and his mother's grave.

"Lo! thou shalt lay me there, lady, for the others have children, and

thou dost love thy Kabul also!"

Then he lay and looked at her with kindly questioning eyes, until he

said, "It hath come to me at times, that I did thee a wrong in taking

thee, a young girl, from thy tribe. Say, is it so? I would have the

truth."

Then she spoke softly. "Yea! it is so, Zahir-ud-din Mahomed Babar

Emperor of India. Yet was the wrong righted long ago. By sacrifice

comes life. And my people have lived in peace."

"As we have," he said half-appealingly.

She laid the hand she held on her forehead. "As we have, my lord."

But there was one other wrong about which he was not so satisfied.

Before death came he wanted to restore Hindal to his mother. And

Hindal did not come. He had started from Kabul but had been delayed by

marriages in his tutor's family.

"I must see him," complained his father. "Write and bid him come at

once. I need him sorely."

It was the one bitter drop in the cup which he drank contentedly,

smilingly. He held an audience every day, laughing and joking with his

old friends over past times, and when evening came he would sit with

some woman's hand in his and talk of little things.

Sometimes it was his most reverend of paternal aunts, sometimes it was

even poor Astonishingly Beautiful Princess. And little Ak-Begum

brought him posies of violets, or, best of all, Dearest-One would sit,

her hand in his, and both would be unable to say anything because

their thoughts reached so very, very far back.

And there was always a joke when Maham gave him his medicine in the

Crystal-Bowl-of-Life. It had found its proper use at last, he said:

for this it was neither too big nor too small.

So the days slipped by.

"Why does not Hindal come? Where is he?" he said fretfully, one

evening; and they told him that the boy had reached Delhi and would be

with him in a day or two.

"Who brought the news?" he asked, and when they said it was the

tutor's son who had come on in hot haste to re-assure the Emperor, he

bid them bring the messenger up, and a tall, half-grown lad appeared.

"Thy name," asked Babar faintly.

"Mir-Bardi," replied the youth.

The dying man laughed, his old boyish laugh. "Master Full-of-fun," he

translated, "a good name for the companion of my son. Say! how tall

hath Hindal grown?"

The lad hesitated. "Lo! I wear a coat the Prince bestowed on his

servant. The Most-Clement can judge by that."

"I cannot see," murmured the sick man impatiently. "Come hither, boy,

that I may feel how tall my son hath grown."

So with fluttering fingers the hand that had once been so strong felt

the brocaded coat.

"It is well," he said at last, "but I would that I had seen him. I

wanted to give him back to his mother myself."

All Christmas Day he lay but half-conscious.

"Baisanghar," he said faintly, when Dearest-One leant over to kiss

him. And when Maham begged him with tears to drink his medicine,

he did so with a smile, then thrust the cup into her bosom and

whispered--

"Lie there, friend, and bring her comfort."

Towards evening he roused and sent for his nobles, and for Humayon.

"To you I leave my son," he said; "fail not in loyalty to him. And to

you, my son, I commit my kingdom, and my people, and my kinsfolk. Fail

not in loyalty to them."

After that he lay silent, with wide-open, smiling eyes. That was his

farewell to splendid life.

Night was passing to dawn when the end came.

Black fell the day for children and kinsfolk and all. They bewailed

and they lamented. Voices were uplifted in weeping. There was utter

dejection. Each passed that ill-fated day in a hidden corner.

* * * * *

On a hill-side above the town of Kabul there lies a garden planted

long years ago by a man who loved his world.

Thither a new world comes to make holiday. The man himself has gone.

As the white marble slab that looks up into the cloudless sky says

shortly:

"Heaven is the Eternal Home of the Emperor Babar."

But his spirit remains in the endless Spring of leaf and flower, in

the happy vitality of the Children who still lay flowers to cover the

words of hope.

THE END