Why am I drunken, fools? Because I supThe wine of love from out the bosom's cupAnd the soft scented tresses of dark hair trip upMy fuddled feet.Because my wine-stained mouth has found her lipsToo close for kisses, so their nectar dripsTo brain and heart, and body, in slow sipsOf passion sweet.
Why am I drunken, fools? Because I supThe wine of love from out the bosom's cupAnd the soft scented tresses of dark hair trip upMy fuddled feet.
Because my wine-stained mouth has found her lipsToo close for kisses, so their nectar dripsTo brain and heart, and body, in slow sipsOf passion sweet.
"His Royal Highness, the Heir Apparent," murmured Birbal, cynically as, looking half-mechanically to the sit of his turban, he went forward. Time was when love--but never wine--had tempted him also;this, however, was flagrant disobedience of the King's orders and he must see to it. Siyah Yamin was the town's darling, but even she had her limits and must confine herself to them.
He smiled sardonically, thinking of the torrent of words he was about to face, since she, likely, would be the only one with her wits about her.
And he was right!
As he set aside the silken curtains which hid the interior of her painted pavilion from sight, he found the place half-full of drowsy girls and sodden revellers; but she, raising herself from her cushions on her elbow, greeted him instantly with shrill jest.
"The King himself! Oh! the honour! Nay, 'tis not the King, but the King's Counsellor. Sir! I would rise," she continued pointing and making a graceful wriggle of apparent effort, "but that my treasure, my lover, my husband, lies dead-drunk at my feet."
Birbal gave a quick glance at the prostrate figure among the cushions.
"Yea!" she continued, her baby face at strange variance with her words, which came, clipped hard and fast with defiance, from her soft-parted lips. "'Tis Syed Jamâl-ud-din, of Bârha, sure enough. A good soldier to the King though at this present somewhat overcome with love for poor me and liquor; as indeed is the Prince of Proprieties yonder. Ah! Most Revered! Oh! Most Excellent of Heirs Apparents! rouse thee to greet this Select Emissary of a Fateful Father."
Prince Salîm, a big, heavy looking lad, stared stupidly at the newcomer, his cup arrested at his lips.
"What'sh devil he coming here for?" he muttered fiercely. "That's what I wan'ter know. What'sh a devil----" Then his ferocity subsided amid a titter from Siyah Yamin.
"Heed him not, Birbal, Prince of Jesters. Slaves, bring a cushion! Sit thee down, so, beside me--we be the only two sober ones. Cupbearer, the cup! And bring the snow from holy Himâlya to cleanse it; for see you most Brahman Birbal, Siyah Yamin is fast Mahommedan since she married!La-illaha-il-ullaho."
"Madam," said Birbal interrupting her mocking creed impatiently, "if you would play your part as the wife of a Syed of Bârha----"
Siyah Yamin gave a little shriek of dismay. "My veil! Here! women, my veil! lo! I was forgetting."
"A truce to jesting, madam," said Birbal sternly. "Time will show if what thou sayest be true; meanwhile----" he glanced round, hastily taking in the company. "So! Meean Khodadâd! Hide not thyself behind the Prince as ever! God! if I could kill thee 'twere better for us all!"
Khodadâd, on whose face sate enthroned all the evil which in the younger revellers showed as yet fleetingly, roused himself to laugh insultingly.
"What! Kill a Tarkhân? Lo! Brahman, even thy caste in that case would not save thee from the hangman's noose. None can punish me, fool, I am Khodadâd--'God given.'"
"God given!" echoed Birbal passionately. "That bringsonebalm--no man need shrink calling thee son! And as for thou, Lâlla!--go! accursed by thy father!"
"What'sh all this," murmured Prince Salîm rising unsteadily. "What'sh all this fush?"
"My Prince," said Birbal, restraining his voice to respect, "this is no place for you--no place for the Heir to India--no place for one who will be King when his great father----"
Prince Salîm dashed his cup down with a curse.
"Let be a shay! I tell you I am King here! Am I not King, and the Shadow of God? Am I not a shay?"
He looked round on his company triumphantly; but Birbal, utterly exasperated, bowed.
"No, my Prince," he replied politely, "thou art drunk, boy, and the substance of a fool!"
Siyah Yamin's tinkling laughter led the chorus of mirth in which for the time even Birbal's anger passed.
Beauty is no bond maiden; Lot it holdsThe veil which hides it from all earthly loversBut to holy-hearted noble-souledUnveils and all its loveliness discovers.
Beauty is no bond maiden; Lot it holdsThe veil which hides it from all earthly loversBut to holy-hearted noble-souledUnveils and all its loveliness discovers.
There was another, and very different tinkle of soft laughter, a rustle of silks and satins which in their stirring gave out multi-scented perfumes of orange and rose, musk, and ambergris; for Auntie Rosebody was in full swing of one of her recitals, and all the harem knew that they were as good as cornelian-water for raising the spirits.
Not that spirits required raising on this day of days, on which the accession of the Most Auspicious, the Most Excellent, the King-of-Kings was commemorated! Pleasurable excitement simmered through the whole women's apartments. For weeks past, preparations for the feast had been going on, and to-day would bring full fruition to all their labours. Dressed in their best, the harem waited for the ceremonials to begin.
"Ha! la! la!" went on Aunt Rosebody, enjoying her own tale of past glories. "That was a feasting, for sure A Mystic Palace, and three Houses; one of dominion, one of good fortune, one of pleasure. So my brother Jahânbâni-jinat Ashyâni--on whom be peace--chose pleasure. And he took three plates full of gold coins. 'There is no need to count,' said he, 'let each lady take a fistful.' So we scattered them in the empty tank, and the guests scrambled for them.
"Then the King, my brother, seeing this, said to our Dearest Lady"--here the little speaker's little hands fluttered faintly as if in blessing--"on whom be God's uttermost peace for ever, 'If you permit, why not let the water in?' At first 'Dearest Lady,' out of the gentleness of her heart said no, but afterward she climbed out and sate on the top steps! Ha! la! la! la! It was like the Day of Resurrection! When the water came, everyone tumbled about and got so excited, but the King called 'No harm done! Come out and eat aniseed candy!' So to end my story everyone came out, everyone ate candy, and none got cold!Bis-millah!"
The little lady hitched her veil straight--it had fallen from her abundant gray hair during her vivacious gesticulations--and beamed round on the audience seated about her on cushions.
"Bis-millah!" echoed their laughing voices. To look at Aunt Rosebody was enough for laughter. Despite her years, nothing damped the keen enjoyment of life which was hers by right of descent. Her nephew Akbar had it at times also; but the cares of life crept in at others. Not so with Aunt Rosebody. Even her recent pilgrimage to Mekka had not aged her, though Salîma Begum her daughter looked years older, andherdaughter the little "Mother of Plumpness" had come out of the five years journeying quite thin.
But one thing disturbed Auntie Rosebody's equanimity, and that was the misdeeds of her darling grand-nephew, the Heir Apparent. These she would weep over, scold over, and finally condone.
So the smiles died from her puckered face as Lady Hamida Begum, the boy's grandmother, swept into the arcade her face pale with proud vexation.
"Say not so! sister-in-law!" exclaimed the little lady, tears in her voice already. "Say not he hath been drunk again? Oh! my life! What is to be done?"
Lady Hamida set her lips. "It is true," she replied, "and my son--his father--is deeply angered. And what wonder, though in truth"--she sighed--"this setting aside of all loose livers in Satanstown----"
"Oh! 'tis a premium on discovery," moaned Aunt Rosebody. "Why cannot my nephew let folk go to the devil discreetly, and none be the wiser save Providence? Oh! my life! what is to be done?"
"Pray for him," suggested Salîma Begum nervously.
"Yes! Pray for him!" assented an older Salîma who, being related in cross-road fashion to half the harem had lost all individuality.
"Prayers!" whimpered the little lady wrathfully. "Have I not already given up my pilgrimage to the scapegrace, and if that avails not, what are prayers? How was it, know you, Hamida?"
"The tale is not for virtuous ears," replied the Lady Hamida icily. "It is sufficient that my grandson has once more been brought home in a state unbecoming the heir to my son."
"Tra-a-a!" said an elderly woman dryly, as she looked up from thetarikhor numerical hemstitch she was laboriously composing in a corner. Then she took a pinch of scented snuff and removed her spectacles; for Râkiya Begum, as the political wife of Akbar's boyhood, was titular head of the Mahommedan harem as the mother of the Heir-Apparent was head of the Hindu.
"With due deference," she went on composedly, "it is in the blood. His great-grandfather----"
Aunt Rosebody caught her up fiercely. "But never clown-drunk like this boy! When my father of blessed memory was drunk, he was as the Archangel Gabriel,--of the most entertaining--the most exhilarating--And he gave it up! Does he not say in his blessed book of memoirs: 'Being now thirty-nine and having vowed to abandon wine in my fortieth year, I therefore drank to excess.' What would you more? And his recantation! 'Gentlemen of the army! Those who sit down to the feast of life must end by drinking the cup of death!' It stirs one like the Day of Resurrection! But this boy--'tis all his Hindu mother's fault."
"And his grandfather took opium," continued Râkiya, relentlessly.
Lady Hamida looked up with chill dignity. "Let the earth of the grave cover the dead, daughter-in-law. What my husband did is known to me better than to you."
Râkiya Begum put the spectacles on her pinched nose once more.
"I offer excuse," she replied ceremoniously. "I was but going to remark that both blessed saints, despite these habits, were good enough kings. It is the unprecedented abstemiousness of the present Lord of the Universe, who looks neither at wine nor women, which throws the Prince's indiscretions into relief."
Her words brought solace. After all who could expect a boy of eighteen to be Akbar?--who, in truth, scarcely slept or ate. And this brought the remembrance that if Salîm was sick--as he invariably was after a drinking bout--the pile of good dishes which the Beneficent Ladies had been preparing these many days back against this feast might as well not have been made! The thought was depressing.
"I wonder," sighed Aunt Rosebody, "what 'Dearest Lady' would have advised."
A hush fell over the company. It seemed as though the sweet wise presence of a dead woman filled the room. A dead woman who even in life had earned for herself that title, who lives under it still in the pages of her niece's memoirs.
"She would have counselled patience as ever," answered the Lady Haimda. "Lo! Elder-Sister-Rose! Such tangled skeins can be but disentangled by Time. I remember when my marriage----" She broke off and was silent. Elder-Sister-Rose might know the story, might even remember for her memoirs the very words of the pitiful little tale of girlish refusal overborne; but these others? No! sufficient for them the fact that the unwelcome marriage had made her mother to the King-of-Kings.
"It must not spoil the day anyhow," summed up Aunt Rosebody at last, decisively drying her eyes, "and by and by, perhaps, when his mother hath done giving the boy Hindu medicines--in truth, though I admit my nephew is right in deeming the idolaters fellow mortals, their drugs are detestable--we may have a chance with a cooling sherbet such as my father--on whom be peace--ever loved after a carouse. Meanwhile is everything ready for the weighing?"
"All things," replied Lady Hamida proudly. "My son shall lack for nothing."
"Then the poor will at least benefit, God be praised!" said Râkiya Begum tartly as she rose. "Though this weighing of the Sacred Personality is a heathenish custom unsanctioned by our Holy Book; but what with his Majesty's divine faith, what with the shaving of beards, the keeping of dogs, and mixed marriages, a pious Musulmâni such as I, had best take off her spectacles lest she see too much."
She took them off with a flourish and a loudSobhan-ullah!which echoed militantly through the wide arcaded room.
Then she prepared to put on herburkaveil; for trumpets were sounding outside that it was time for the Beneficent Ladies to take up their secluded coign of vantage in order to see the coming show.
"There is no need for all-over-dresses," suggested Lady Hamida gently. "My son hath arranged seclusion in a new fashion."
"I offer excuse!" replied Râkiya with a sniff, "but my honourable veiling is of the old fashion."
With that she led the way in her ghostly goggle-eyed wrapper.
Such tinkling of jewels! Such perfume from stirred scent-sodden silks! Such hurried needless mufflings with diaphanous veilings! Such final eagerness of outlook, when they could peep through the latticing, see the throne almost within touch of them, and--curving from it in a vast semicircle of which it was the centre--see the packed rows on rows of nobles glittering with jewels awaiting the coming of the King. So entrancing was the sight that the due and stately greeting of the rival women who trooped to their places from the Hindu harem, lacked something of lengthy dignity, and there was a general sigh of content as every eye settled down to a peephole.
"Look!" chattered even silent Salîma. "Yonder is Sher Afkân new back from the Deccan war! A goodly man, and betrothed, they say, to Ghiâss Beg, the Treasurer's daughter--a little witch for beauty. They call her Queen of Women--Mihr-un-nissa--and she not twelve years old!"
"See, Amma-jân!" whispered little Umm Kulsum, the "Mother of Plumpness," "that is Budaoni beside the Makhdûm--O God of the Prophet, may the Holy One's blessing rest on me!"
"Yonder is Faiz, the poet--oh fie! He hath his dog with him--the unclean beast," giggled another.
"Aye! Abulfazl, his brother, will likely come with the King; they say his stomach grows bigger every day trying to swallow what his Majesty will not eat."
Râkiya Begum gave a cackling laugh. "Stomach or no stomach, he is the wonder of the age. He hath approved this concealed one's verses."
"Mine also," bridled Aunt Rosebody. "He hath asked and used my memory in his history. But wherefore delays the King? The show is like a peacock's tail without an eye, and he away."
It was an apt simile. The almost inconceivable magnificence of the scene made the eye wander. The acres on acres of gorgeous pavilion flashing with silver-gilt columns, glowing with silken Khorasân carpetings, filled to the roofing with tier on tier of grandees of the empire ablaze with jewels, multi-coloured as a flowerful parterre--all this needed centralising, seemed incoherent without a figure on the throne. The very curve of waiting elephants--a solid wall of gold trappings encrusted with gems which stretched on and on beyond the pavilion on either side like some huge bow--seemed as if it might have gone over the horizon, but for the tight-packed bowstring of the populace blocking the distant view from sight with myriads of eager watching eyes.
Suddenly a great blare of sound!
At last--at last! The Royalnakarahat last! And see! sweeping round ahead of a scintillating knot of horsemen, banners, lances--one man!
The King! The King!
A low moaning surge of sound came from the packed humanity for an instant. The next it was lost in the wild shrieking bellow which seemed to crack the skies as two thousand elephants threw up their trunks head-high and let loose their leviathan throats.
An imperial salute indeed! One that never grows stale, and the thrill of it paled Akbar's cheek as, with the shining sun, standard of the Râjpûts on one hand, the glorious green banner of Islâm on the other, he rode forward to take the throne which he had wrung alike from Hindus and Mahommedans.
Of what was he thinking, as grave, courteous, he returned the obeisances of all? He was thinking with a passion of regret in his heart of a lad of eighteen found drunk in Siyah Yamin's Paradise.
And now, seated on the throne, his figure, clad in simple white muslin--with the milky sheen of a rope of pearls, and the dull white gleam of the diamond he always wore in his turban--its only ornament--seemed to centre the magificence in curious contrast.
"The King--may he live for ever!--looks well enough," commented Râkiya Begum, charily concealing her pride, "but why doth he not wear a gold coat like his fathers? These innovations will surely lead him to hell."
"Sobhan-ullah!" assented Salîma nervously.
They were such simple, straightforward Beneficent Ladies with their high features, high courage, high sense of duty, of family, of tradition, all swathed and hidden away in scent-sodden silks and satins. They formed as it were a masked battery of pure benevolence behind the throne, unseen, but felt; for Akbar gave a glance round to where he knew his mother must be sitting ere, facing his empire for a second or two in silence, he rose and stepped forward to the great silver-gilt steel-yard which stood in front of the dais.
A blare ofnakarahssounded the advance, and Aunt Rosebody from her peephole said in an agonised whisper: "God send everything be ready!"
"Even the Mystic Palace, O Khânzâda Gulbadan Khânum! was not more prepared!" replied Lady Hamida, "Eunuchs! take out the gold!"
Then, as the slaves staggered forth under their burden, she sate clasping little Umm Kulsum's hand murmuring softly, "He did not weigh so heavy--once!"
She was back in memory to the terrified travail of long years ago in the wilderness when, as a queen flying from her enemies, she had first wept at the rough looks of the hastily summoned village midwife, then hugged her for very joy when the boy-baby was put into her young arms.
The "Mother of Plumpness" nestled closer to her in the sheer sympathy which she had, and to spare, for all comers. Her round bright eyes, indeed, had already sought and found the posy of violets which the King wore half-hidden by the rope of pearls around his neck. She grew them in her garden, so that the Most Excellent might ever wear the flower he loved so well; that his grandfather Babar had loved so well also.
Akbar, meanwhile, seated in the scales awaited the great platter of gold, and a sigh of relief rose from behind the lattice as the steel-yard, recovering from the impact, oscillated, then settled to fair equipoise.
The gold, anyhow, was of the right weight!
"Give it to the poor!" said the King and the taut bowstring of the populace gave out a surging thrill.
"The ornaments next!" whispered Aunt Rosebody feverishly, and held her breath as with due decorum the second huge tray was hefted to the scale.
What had happened? Was there a faint unevenness in the swing? Would there be the least deficiency?
Ere the question, rising in ten thousand minds, could be formulated fairly, it was settled by one small hand which flashed through the latticing, and a scarce-heard chink told that a little gold bracelet had fallen just where it should fall.
Akbar holding to the gilded chains as the balance steadied to level rest, did not smile. He only threw back at the lattice one all-comprehending remark of superhuman gravity.
"Thanks! most reverend aunt!"
Gulbadan Begum fell from her peephole with a little shriek of outrage, and the remaining ten weighings, and the distribution of chicken, and sheep, and goats, one of each for each year of the Most Auspicious reign, had all been set aside for the poor ere she had recovered her composure.
"Now is there peace, as the squirrel said when he had pulled the sting out of the wasp," she remarked, hurriedly fanning herself with the plaited edge of her tinsel-set veil, "but 'twas like the Day of Resurrection!" This being her favourite standard for a disconcerting event.
"Who flings, finds as he flings!" remarked Râkiya Begum with much acerbity, "and if women learn men's tricks they must expect scandal. 'Tis the fault of ill-regulated youth!"
"Ill-regulated?" burst out Aunt Rosebody in instant wrath. "My father--on whom be peace--loved to see his girls--but there! No quarreling on this great day! Here come the elephants!"
They came, heading the review. Close on two thousand of them, three abreast, moving like a wall, only their slow shifting pads showing beneath their fringed war-armour. And as each trio passed, up went the snaky trunks, and from between curved tusks a bellowing trumpet shrieked out.
"Not to-day, Guj-muktar!" called the King appeasingly as one mighty beast paused; and the wise monster passed on shaking its huge head as if to rid himself of an unwelcome burden; for Guj-muktar was Akbar's favourite mount, and objected strongly to a strange driver.
Then came the camels all scarlet and gold, with swinging tassels, their riders bent almost double in sitting the long stilted stride. Then the horses neighing, prancing, curvetting, led by gorgeous grooms waving long yak's-tails. Next the hounds, lean, hungry-looking, pacing beside their keepers, followed by the hawks quaintly hooded and leashed, their bells jingling, looking like stuffed birds, so still were they upon the falconers' wrists.
Finally--quaintest sight of all to the three Englishmen who seated beside Pâdré Rudolfo the Jesuit, watched the scene with wide eyes--the hunting leopards, their cat-like faces shifting and peering, their dog-like limbs sinewy and sinuous, their long slender tails swaying at the tip with rhythmical feline regularity.
"Samand!"
The King's voice echoed softly through the hot air. There was a spotted, painted flash in the sunlight as a leash was slipped, and a great creature was purring at Akbar's feet like a huge cat and rubbing its back against the throne. The King's hand went down to it, and its head continued the rubbing with still louder purrs.
"Lo! It is not meet," remarked Râkiya Begum with dissatisfaction. "The Most Auspicious is no better than amahoutor a hunter."
"He cannot help the beasts loving him," spoke up little Umm Kulsum hotly.
"I offer excuse," snapped the head of the harem. "He need not love them in return. Come, ladies! All is over save the soldiery, and they are of no interest to virtuous women."
She gathered up her flock austerely, the Lady Hamida and Auntie Rosebody lingering to discuss Prince Salîm's absence from the assemblage.
"He was not there! I looked even in the backmost row," declared the little lady in a flutter. "What thinkest thou, Hamida? Can he be in prison!"
"More likely sick in his mother's hands," replied Hamida coldly. "She was not with us either, and, didst see? They were feeding Prince Danyâl with sweeties all the time!"
"Trash!" ejaculated Aunt Rosebody vehemently. "What can they do but drink with sugar in their mouth from morn till eve? If they would but give the lad over to me----"
Here she gave a little shriek of relief, for there, as she entered the arcaded reception room, was the scapegrace seated sulkily among cushions.
"Thou--thou evil one!" she began in shrill tones which yet suggested endless excuses. "So thou hast been overtakenagain, and in a public place! Why canst thou not be as thy great-grandfather was in his cups--but that is not edifying for the young. Ah! Salîm! Salîm! How came it about, sweetheart?"
"'Twas the meddler Birbal--may God scorch him," growled Salîm sulkily. "He came after his cub--else Khodadâd had stuffed the guards full of gold."
"Khodadâd! Lo! Tarkhân though he be, he should die for high treason. And where was it?--What? thou wilt not say. Go! Umm Kulsum and thou also Khadîja--go to the threading the beads. Thoushalttell me, boy. Whisper it--What! Siyah Yamin's! And thou new-betrothed! Oh! had but thy father settled thee with a true bride of my race she would have kept--or killed thee!" She gave a little shriek. "What! Jamâl-ud-din--the scorpion! saith he hath married her--the piece! Shame! Shame!"
Then she suddenly put her head on one side and regarded her grand-nephew distastefully. "Lo! Salîm thou growest too fat. Wine and women will kill thee, and 'tis well that Birbal--mind you I say naught for him or against him, though he hath made me laugh often enough."
"He shall laugh on the wrong side ere long," cried Salîm savagely. "Aye! he shall learn not to jest at me."
The lively little face grew keen. "At thee? What said he? Come, sweetheart, let me hear. I will decide if there be wit in it."
"Wit!" echoed the Prince angrily. "No wit, but insult for which he shall pay. Look you, when the Hindu infidel interfered with sermons I bid him silence. 'Am I not King?' said I (as I shall be), 'and the Shadow-of-God?' 'No,' says he with that cursed bow of his, 'thou art drunk, boy, and the substance of a fool.'"
Aunt Rosebody attempted gravity; then her laughter brimmed over, and the whole room giggled in response, including the bead-threading girls.
"Oh! my life," the little lady was beginning when one of the women guards entered hurriedly, crying, "The King! honourable ladies, the King!"
He was amongst them almost before the circle of fond relatives about the young Prince had time to rise, so hiding him from view. For an instant Akbar stood to make his courtly greeting, then, seeing his mother's pale face light up, he flung his turban with its royal heron's plume aside--his shoes he had already left at the door--and so passing quickly to Hamida's side took both her hands and raised them to his head.
"Mother! I thank thee--for all!"
Her fingers even in his strong grip lingered there lovingly as if she felt the child's curls still; then she said with a quiver in her voice:
"It was nothing, son--the good wishes were more weighty than the gold."
He gave her hands a little squeeze ere he released them.
"Than the jewels, mayhap!"--here he turned with a mischievous smile to Aunt Rosebody who stood divided between joy at seeing him, and dread lest he should see Salîm. "ForthemI have to thank my aunt----"
"How dost know it was I?" she challenged furiously.
He looked at her with immense gravity.
"First," he said, "'twas the smallest hand in India! Next, no other woman could shy so straight. When one has played ball, polo, God knows what, in one's youth----"
"Calumnies! Calumnies!" interrupted Aunt Rosebody, her face puckering with amusement. "The Most Excellent's remark was truly scandalous!"
The word was unfortunate; it roused memories.
"There be worse scandals than that to the King's honour this day," he said, his face clouding. "Know then, Beneficent Ladies, that the son I have forgiven--how many times? sure it comes nigh to the Pâdré's seventy times seven--has been found drunk again in a common stew. And he is coward too; he hath not dared to face his father----"
He paused, his anger turning to ice, for Prince Salîm--to do him justice no coward--took heart of grace, and rose above the shelter of the women-folk, who seeing themselves no longer needed stood back, leaving the father and son face to face.
They were a great contrast. Both tall and strong; but the one all curves and softness, the other lean, sinewy.
"I was ill," began the Prince sullenly, when Akbar interrupted him with a contemptuous laugh.
"Ill? Hast not even a body for drunkenness? Go thy way, boy, if thou wilt. I have other strings to my bow."
"My son!" appealed Lady Hamida who, knowing the King's temper, knew that once lost it might carry much with it, "the boy has come to us----"
"And what does he here amongst virtuous women, madam, and how came they to admit him?" asked Akbar sternly. "Did I, son and nephew, even in the hottest hours of youth inure them to such insult? Go, boy! Go with Jamâl-ud-din, the exile, and his paramour. I have other sons!"
A blank horror settled down on the Beneficent Ladies. Never had things come to such a pitch before, and some of the younger women sobbed audibly. Only little Auntie Rosebody, with the courage of despair stood looking first at the father then at the son, regret, anger, irritation, showing in her small puckered face.
"Oh! my life! Oh! nephew Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar," she cried at last. "Look at him--oh! look at him! He is a fat-tailed sheep and thou art a hunting leopard! How can he race with thee? Give him time, nephew, give him time!"
Something in Salîm's sheepish attitude appealed to the King's sense of humour, a suspicion of a smile showed about his mouth.
"At his age, madam," he began sternly, the memory of his strenuous youth rushing in upon him. Why! at eighteen, dissatisfied with his agents of Empire he had dismissed them, and taken the whole conduct of affairs upon his own shoulders. At eighteen he had begun to dream. At eighteen his mind was busy with the problem of how to unite a conquered India; how to efface from it all memory of coercion, and make it look to him and his, not as to ephemeral conquerors but as God's viceregents, the upholders of justice, mercy, toleration, and freedom. At eighteen----
Suddenly he flung his right hand out in a hopeless gesture of finality. What use were dreams, even the dreaming of a King, if they were only to last for one poor mortal life?
"There is no end to the dreaming of Kings." Bah! The woman had lied. There was an end! An end to all things.
But the worst of his passion was over. He turned yet once more to his son and forgave him yet once again.
The world-revealing cup of the King JamsheedCounselled the King in his pleasures and in his need.--Firdusi.
The world-revealing cup of the King JamsheedCounselled the King in his pleasures and in his need.
--Firdusi.
The Prince Salîm, despite all efforts of his friends, accepted his father's reprimand in dutiful fashion. Truly Akbar--may he be accursed!--hath a very devil of persuasion in him for those he loves."--The scribe's hand paused in its swift swooping over the Persian curves, and he looked up for an instant with all the evil of his handsome face concentrated into an expression of bitterest antagonism. Then he turned his head, listening ere he went on with his news-letter.
"So far little has been gained. Yet the poison works. The prince, grown older, than his brothers--who are themselves coming on for rebellion--resents this leading, as of a young colt, and will ere long assert himself. Already he is fit for intrigue; by and by it may be for murder. And Akbar once gone--by what means God knows!--Salîm will be our tool. Thus the dead to-day brings forth another to-day, and so we (more especially this Mote-speck-in-the-Light, Dalîl, of the Kingly House, Tarkhân, who waits in unmerited exile for his Lord's service expectant of his Lord's recall) hope, knowing that all God's strength dwells not in one man's body. Meanwhile the King's action in this matter hath stirred up the whole city. Ere noon Jamâl-ud-din left, accompanied by a goodly gathering of his clan all incensed at the sentence of exile passed on their captain. He hath gone to his relatives of Bârha and will doubtless rouse them to resistance. But the jade Siyah Yamin hath done more for our cause than any, since I have but now returned from seeing her leave-taking; for the baggage hath elected to follow her lawful spouse. Truly 'tis said 'A torn ear clamours for more earring!' Half the town were at the heels of her palanquin wherein she sate veiled like any cupola of chastity, but full of an evil tongue. Truly it was a sight to set pumpkins a-sinking and mill-stones a-floating, since none knew what to make of it, with the light men gathering up the flowers she flung, and the light women praising her in jest for her fidelity. But it hath done our cause good service, and the King may repent him of his virtue ere long. Thus remaineth matters at this present. Whilst I, Dalîl, knowing that straight fingers hold naught, crook mine in the service of the Head of my House, Mirza Jâni Beg,looking for reward. This goes by the hand of Sufardâr, envoy, whom I await this day past, but----"
In the act of writing the words "who comes not" the scribe paused again. This time there was no doubt of a sound presaging interruption, and the writer, thrusting the papers under a fold of his embroidered shawl took up a lute which lay beside him, and leaning back amongst the scented cushions began to strum a love song and sing in a high tenor voice:
Oh! Love! I am caught in the snareOf the scented net of her hairOh! Love! I am stricken deadWith hunger for her, and with drouthHer foot is upon my headWould my kisses were on her mouth.
Oh! Love! I am caught in the snareOf the scented net of her hairOh! Love! I am stricken dead
With hunger for her, and with drouth
Her foot is upon my head
Would my kisses were on her mouth.
"A merchant selling essence of rose by my Lord's orders," said an obsequious dwarf extravagantly dressed; one of the smartest deformities in fact to be found in the service of the young nobility of the court. His cunning face, full of almost malignant comprehension, had been overlaid with servile admiration as he had waited for the song to end.
"Let him enter," came the yawning reply, "and, Yahéd, close the doors on us. The lamp flickers in the evening wind!"
The song went on lazily--
Oh! Love! I am held by the powerOf her bare brown bosom-flowerOh! Lo/ve! I am lost in the mesh!In the very thought of a sipAt the nectar of soft warm fleshAnd the touch of her lip.
Oh! Love! I am held by the powerOf her bare brown bosom-flowerOh! Lo/ve! I am lost in the mesh!
In the very thought of a sip
At the nectar of soft warm flesh
And the touch of her lip.
Then the door closed, and he turned swiftly on the figure which had entered.
"So, at last! I have been awaiting thee these four-and-twenty hours. And wherefore was there no due notice of arrival? Lo! my liver dissolved when the arch-heretic, Abul, spoke at the King's audience of an envoy from Sinde. For aught I knew Jâni Beg might have failed to secure the crown. It was a relief to see thy face--but how came all this Sufardâr?"
He spoke as one having authority, but the supposed merchant answered sulkily as he unwound his close-draped shawl, so disclosing, in truth, the slender spareness and the high pallid features of the envoy from Sinde.
"If thou canst tell me how it came about, Oh! Dalîl Tarkhân of the House of Kings," he said, "thou knowest more than I, the companion of thy youth; since I know naught. A blank as of death lies behind me from the time we encamped at noon yesterday, five miles beyond the city."
The whilom scribe looked cynically at the dull opium-drugged eyes.
"A blank!" he echoed. "How much of the Dream-compeller goes to make that for thee now a days, Oh! Sufar?"
Those dulled eyes lit up with sudden fire. "No more, I swear to God, than the noon-day pellet of twelve years agone. Thou knowest the old Tuglak tombs about Biggâya's Serai? The tents were late and it was hot, so I slept in one of them----"
"Curse thee! Sleep where thou willst," interrupted his companion impatiently, "but give me the packet. I must answer it, if answer be required." He held out his hand, scented, manicured, be-ringed like any modern lady's.
The envoy's face showed uneasiness. "If thou wouldst listen, thou wouldst learn," he said vexedly. "I slept and dreamed. Then I woke; but it was to to-day, not to yesterday."
"But thou wast at the Audience--for I saw thee! Aye! and I wondered what Birbal, the heretic pig, had to say to thee as he kept the King waiting."
The envoy shook his head slowly. "It is a blank; and hearken,Mirza sahib, the packet hath gone!"
"Gone!" echoed the other again, his face paling at the thought of Akbar's ever-swift punishment for treason. "Thou hast lost the letter; and this tale of forgetfulness----"
The envoy from Sinde leant forward and laid one warning finger, slender, almost emaciated, on his companion's well-kept hand. "'Tis no tale, but a mystery. The packet was ever in my girdle cloth, and left not my side day nor night. None knew of it. And I remember nothing of my sleep, except my dream." He shivered and looked round apprehensively. "It was a dream of nigh thirteen years ago--of--of a rose-garden,Mirza Dalîl!Oh! thou mayst laugh, but I curse the day that ever I took a part in that damned work of thine. It comes between me and my prayers."
Mirza Dalîl laughed airily. "It comes not between me and mine; but then I am Tarkhân. There must be nine deadly sins ere even earthly punishment be thought of, and I am but at my seventh; or stay, is it eighth? Truly I know not and it matters not. But this tale of thine--What says thy retinue?"
The envoy's face fell.
"They say I woke as ever, and gave the orders for the audience but I remember naught, save----"
"Turn thy forgetfulness toward rose-gardens, opium-eater!" interrupted the man he called Dalîl sternly. "Have I not ever told thee thou wert but as a beast to give up the heavenly dreams of hemp for the clogging sleep of the poppy. Thou wert drunk, that is all--or hast been since. So remembrance is left with the drug. As for the packet--thou hast lost--or sold it. Lucky for me, no names come from Sinde, and none here know me save as Khodadâd--Khodadâd, the gift of God, the companion of princes, the chamberlain of pleasures to the Heir-Apparent! Khodadâd adventurer, made Tarkhân on the battlefield by the King's brother, the rebel of Kabul, because, being above myself with hemp, I saved his life!MadeTarkhân, thou prophet of God! and I a Tarkhân by birth. Still," he continued, checking himself in his reckless mirth, "thou art in luck. But mark me, if by this loss suspicion comes--aye! even a suspicion that Khodadâd is of the Kingly House (younger brother, aye! even though he be a bastard, of the fool Payandâr who went mad over the rose-garden) thy life is not worth much. Go therefore. Here is thy packet." He drew out the paper he had written, set the seal he wore on his first finger to it, folded it neatly, then continued with an evil smile, "Mind I say naught in it against thee. Thou mightestlosethe letter if I did. But I will see thou comest not with messages again."
"Lo! that will I not," muttered the envoy, wrapping his shawl round him as before. "This very sight of thee recalls the rose-garden--I seem to hear her piteous cries----"
Khodadâd lay back amongst his cushions and laughed.
"Thou art far gone in opium, Sufardâr!" he said chuckling. "Ere long thou wilt see the devil clutching thee, for sure! God's prophet, man, hadst heard as many maidens' screechings as I!" He was silent but smiling, evidently in pursuit of memory, and when the envoy had gone he lay back among those scented cushions and allowed himself a certain latitude of remembrance. At five-and-thirty there were few experiences of which he had no cognizance; but it needed many experiences to leave a mark on a Tarkhân! As he lounged lazily the soft night air fanning his perfumed hair, his smooth yellow skin oily with unguents, every atom of his body and soul surcharged with sensuality, there yet came to him an uprush of almost wild pride in his race, in the honours, the privileges which distinguished it even from the common herd of princedom. A Bârlâs Tarkhân! Bârlâs the brave! Master of seven distinctions in procession or audience. Free of every part of a king's palace by night and day! Aye and more! Having the right to drink with the King! So that when the Royal cup was handed from the right, the Tarkhân's cup was handed from the left. And still more. With the right to set his seal to all royal orders, above the King's seal! Unpunishable too--until the uttermost. And then? If Mirza Dalîl's face grew gray as he thought of that uttermost assize, it was not altogether in fear, since there are some things pertaining to race which bring with them an almost passionate acquiescence even in terror; and this thought of the final verdict of his peers, to be carried out by those peers with many ceremonials, had in it an element of pride.
Besides, here, in a far country away from those peers, there was small danger of the Silent Session being held.
So he looked out over the vast shadows of the town, wondering vaguely how he should fill up the night with iniquities. He would have an excellent companion--which was half the battle--since he had been asked to sup with Mirza Ibrahîm, the Lord Chamberlain. There would be business first, no doubt, due to the Heir-Apparent's childish knuckling under, since some new intrigue must be set on foot to weaken Akbar's authority; but once that was over Ibrahîm might be counted on to make the hours hum. So he clapped his hands for the tiremen and fresh dressing, and shaving, and scenting; then, after due dallying with cosmetics and dyes, set off--the very pink of fashion--in his gilded litter in which he lay lazily fanned with a peacock's feather fan by a tiny boy who sate at his feet dressed in a girl's tinsel-set garments, his hair braided on his forehead in the virginal plaits.
As he was borne through the silent streets with running torches beside the ambling porters, a host of pipe-bearers, toothpick holders, keepers of aphrodisaical pills, and general panderers trotting behind him, he was Eastern vice personified; soft, perfumed, relentless.
So he disappeared into the Palace and the star-lit world was quit of him for a time; for the night was spangled beyond belief. Spangled with myriads of stars, not white as in northern climes, but holding in their shine faint hints of rose, and green, and blue, and amber.
Against the clear obscure, the terraced town showed like some vast fort, turreted, battlemented, from which one by one the twinkling lights disappeared as the hours of the night wore on; until at last only a few lay sparsely about its feet circling the outcast colony of Satanstown where, by Akbar's orders, vice dwelt and turned darkness into day. Above, all was shadow, save for one light high up on the palace whose outline struck firm against the velvet of the sky. It shone from Akbar's balcony; Akbar who after his usual habit watched while his subjects slept. To-night, however, something more than mere meditation absorbed him, as he sate, girt about the middle of his loose, white, woollen garment like some Franciscan monk. His face dark, aquiline, not so much ascetic as strenuous, was bent on William Leedes, the English jeweller, as he weighed in his balance the great uncut diamond from the King's turban.
The gold and gemmed setting from which it had been removed lay on the floor, and the irregularly ovoid stone itself gave out flickering brightnesses as it oscillated gently under the light of the seven branched golden cresset-stand in the alcove. Beneath this stand, backed partly by the tendril-inlaid curves of agate and chalcedony, lapis-lazuli and cornelian upon the marble wall, and partly by the pearl embroidered yellow satin cushions amongst which the King reclined, was a beautifully embossed silver clepsydre, or water clock, in which the floating bowl was fashioned in enamel like a sacred lotus; and beside this stood the marvellous censer, a triumph of goldsmith's and jeweller's art from which day and night arose the scented smoke which Akbar loved. Beyond, through the arches of the balcony, lay the night, velvety dark.
"Five hundred and sixty carats," murmured William Leedes to himself, "the largest known diamond in this world!--and of a most elegant water; but----" He looked up, his face full of denial. "It would mayhap lose half its weight in the cutting, great King," he said sharply, "and--God knows in His grace but we might cut out the King's Luck thereby."
He looked as if for support to the two men who stood behind him. They were Râjah Birbal and Shaik Abulfazl. The latter, seeing his master frown, interrupted the jeweller in hasty excuse.
"I but told him, Most Exalted, that the populace hold the stone a talisman; and sure at all times the luck of the Most Excellent has been stupendous. Still, we of the enlightened give praise where praise is due and not to stocks and stones."
Birbal shrugged his shoulders. "Say, rather, Shaikjee," he remarked urbanely, "that the wise see an Eternal cause even in stocks and stones."
The eyes of those two counsellors of the King were on each other in rivalry; but the King himself bent forward to touch the diamond with one pliant finger, and a faint fear showed in his face. Then he leant back once more.
"Luck is of God," he said, "and this stone----" he paused beset by recollections of the years he had worn it--ever since as a boy of three he had made his way safely through the great Snow-land.
"The stone, sire," put in William Leedes, firmly, "is as God made it. 'Tis well to remember that----"
He was looking at the King and the King's eyes were on his; for the time the whole of the rest of the world was empty for them both.
"Aye! But what of that He wishes it to be? What of that, sir jeweller?" came the swift answer, "therein lies kingcraft, to see what His will needs--and give it."
William Leedes bowed silently and there was a pause; then bluntly, suddenly, he said, "Yet, Great King, would I rather have naught to do with the cutting thereof."
In an instant Akbar's eyes flashed fire.
"Thou hast not, slave! 'Tis I who order it. Birbal! to thy charge the arrangements. The room next Diswunt the painter's, in the Court of Labour, is vacant. See it prepared. Double the guards if necessary--to thee I leave--the King's Luck."
A faint smile came to his face, but Birbal and Abulfazl looked at each other, and finally the latter spoke.
"This dust-like one," he said tentatively and yet with firmness, "presumes not to offer wisdom to its fount; but to the minds of the Most Exalted's devoted slaves it seems as if to the populace, there might be danger in Royalty appearing without the talisman to which all have looked as security for the King's success in all ways. Therefore if Majestywillordain the cutting of the Eastern gem in Western fashion, let it at least condescend to wear in its place--until the gem return--a veritable Mountain of Light doubtless a substitute. Pooroo, the false jewel maker, who can deceive all but a diamond itself, hath the cast of the King's Luck, made when the Most Exalted changed the setting thereof. Let him fashion a double to deceive----"
"Deceive?" came Akbar's voice with a note of affectionate reproach in it, "deceive whom? Fate or the people? Lo! Abulfazl! to what end? Since if the talebe not truethat luck lies in the stone, what need to regard it? And if itbe true, how shall the false gem hoodwink God?"
He raised himself as he spoke, holding the diamond in his palm as an orb.
"Luck!" he said dreamily, "thou art mine to-night; and to-morrow is Fate's! Go!"
He gave the Eastern wave of dismissal and sank back amongst his cushions; sank back with more than usual lassitude, for the day had left him weary. It was no small thing to one of his temperament to quarrel with his son, his heir. It was a still greater thing to forgive him causelessly.
Therein lay the sting. The causelessness of the forgiveness, the lack of any security against a recurrence of the offence. So, as he thought of this, with a rush came back the memory of many a similar scene, and his fingers clasped in upon themselves as the disappointment ate into his very soul. Surely he had a right to expect more of Fate?--he who had waited so long, so patiently for an heir--since in those long years of waiting the very thought of mere sonship had been forgotten in the heirship. Yes, even now, Love seemed too trivial to count against Empire! Yet it was Love which had prompted forgiveness. Love of what?--what? Of himself surely--the love which claimed to live in his son--to live on....
"Shall I bid the Reader of Wisdom to the Wise resume his task," came Birbal's voice. Noting the King's weariness he had lingered behind the others.
The King started, then looked round cheerfully. "Not to-night, friend; I have food for thought, and if I lack more--it waits below," he said, and leaning forward, rested his arm on the marble balustrade of the balcony, so pointed downward into the void darkness of the night. Through it like a little line of light fading into nothingness, ran the signal string attached to the quaint contrivance by which the King could secure, when the mood seized him, the presence of an opponent for some midnight argument. One touch at the cord and through the darkness the disputant waiting below, would by an ingenious system of counterpoise rise in a domed dhooli to the level of the balcony. Akbar laid his finger on the tense string, then once more looked back suddenly into Birbal's face.
"Ah! friend!" he said bitterly. "Could we but sound the Great Darkness as I can sound this little night, certain that my need will bring some sage, or fool, or knave, to keep Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar, Defender of the Faith, from wearying for sleep! But from the great Depths there comes no answer. The mystery is unfathomable--man's reason wanders bewildered in the streets of the City of God."
His voice sank in silence; then yet once again, he roused himself.
"Farewell, friend, for the night--the night that will bring to-morrow--Ye Gods! How will it be when the Night of Death closes in--on one of us?"
Birbal sank to his knees and touched his master's feet with his forehead. He had no other answer; so silently he passed through the great wadded curtains of gold tissue which separated the alcove from the rest of the room, leaving the King alone, lost in thought.
The problem of a future life had pressed on him all his days, and yet, he told himself as he sate thinking, the fact had not interfered with his enjoyment of the present one. Verily he had drunk of the cup of life to the dregs. His vitality had spared neither himself nor his world.
The memory of man is curiously creative. Out of the welter of remembrance it chooses this and that in obedience to no law, but arbitrarily, whimsically. It passes by unseen the peaks of past passion, and makes mountains of the merest mole-hill of caprice.
So, as Akbar looked back over his life, he found many a triviality standing out as clear, as untouched by Time, as many a tragedy, many a palpable turning point in his career.
The first snow he ever saw? The sight came back to him as if he had seen it yesterday, though five-and-forty years had passed since that perilous journey from Kandahar to Kabul in charge of his foster-nurse Anagâh. Dear Anagâh! How he had loved her! More, in a way, than he had loved his absent, stately mother; but he had vague recollections of that quaint meeting with the latter after three long years of separation, when his father, as a joke, had brought him--a little lad-ling of six--into a great circle of unveiled women and bidden him to choose a mother for himself.
He had chosen right, but the very recollection of his choice had gone. All he remembered was quick clasping arms and a kiss--surely the sweetest kiss of his life.
The sweetest? No!
That (even after five-and-twenty years the horror, the despair of it seemed to overwhelm him again) had been the last passion-fraught kiss he had given to--to a murderer--to Adham! Adham his foster brother--his playmate Adham, whom he loved, whom he trusted.
Oh! God! the tragedy of it! Why did such things come into this little trivial life?
Yet it was inevitable. If Adham were to come to him now as he had done that day; reckless, defiant, presuming on his position, boasting of the foul murder of an old man whom he conceived to be his enemy, the same swift justice must follow.
The beads of sweat started to Akbar's brow as he remembered the sudden grip of his own strong young arms, the relentless forcing backward to the parapet's edge, and then--before the final fling--that kiss!
And thereinafter silence. No! not silence--tears! Anagâh--dear Anagâh's tears. She had died of a broken heart because of her son's death--died without one word of forgiveness for the doer of justice.
Yet he did not regret the deed, though he had always, even as a boy, been tender of life.
"I will fight a whole enemy, I will not slay a wounded one."
The very words of his refusal when his tutor had bidden him whet his maiden sword on the rebel Hemu came back to him, and led him on to remembrance of the day when this feeling for the sanctity of life had risen in him not toward man only but toward all creatures. That was a later memory, and the scene reproduced itself before his mind's eye complete in every detail.
The long laborious encircling of game drawing to its close--the opposing ends of the great arc of thousands upon thousands of men who for two days had been sweeping across the country driving all wild things before them, were narrowing, closing in--and he, the man called King, was watching, luxuriously posted, his court about him, for his first shot.
And then? Then close beside him achinkarafawn, looking at him with great soft dim eyes, startled, but not afraid!
"His Majesty was seized suddenly with an extraordinary access of rage such as none had ever seen the like in him before, and thebattuewas given up; nor has he since, so pursued game, but prefers to go out alone and spend hours in arduous chase."
That is how his quick, almost despairing remorse, regret, pity, anger with himself had appeared to the outside multitude. To him it had been a crisis in his life; one of the few things which had left an indelible mark on his mind.
Aye! few things. For love had not touched him as, for instance, it had touched his grandfather.
"To-night at midnight after three long years, I met Mâham again."
Babar had set that down in his memoirs, after--according to Aunt Rosebody's tale--he had run out on foot from the palace on hearing of the near approach of the long expected caravan from Kabul and met his dearest dear six miles out along the road. Even his father's more passionate love for the fourteen year old Hamida, seen when Humâyon was five and thirty, had not been his. If it had been, perhaps his sons might have been different!
And so in an instant, overwhelmingly, Akbar was back in the old dreary disappointment; the old defiance of fate following fast on its heels.
The boy would do well enough! Even if some things passed, even if ideals had to go, what then? The dynasty would remain. He and his and the City of Victory he had built with such high hopes should endure for ever, even if churlish Nature denied them a cup of cold water.
For ever! For ever! With the words came back the old puzzle. Oh! If he could only see, only know!
He sate staring fixedly, abstractedly, at the clear translucence of the diamond which he still held in the palm of his left hand, while his right rested on the marble balustrade close to the summoning string which dived into the depths below.
So after a while he seemed to sleep, for his muscles relaxed and the right hand slipped, to hang over into the darkness, whence a faint sound as of metal on metal rose waveringly, followed almost immediately by the monotonous burr of a rope passing over pulleys.
It did not rouse the King, though it sent Birbal, who was lingering beyond the wadded curtain, to peer through it stealthily, curious to see what antagonist in argument the King had summoned.
Beyond the arched openings of the balcony, the domed roof of the swinging dhooli rose into sight, and a moment afterward its occupant laid a thin hand on the balustrade steadying himself to arrest.
Despite the high-peaked, white, woollen cap, the white, woollen robe of a Sufi ecstatic which the figure wore, Birbal's recognition of the face was instant, complete.
"Smagdarite!" he exclaimed.
The newcomer held his finger to his lip, but his eyes were on the King. "Hush!" he whispered, "See, he dreams. The diamond hath found him, and he knows himself."
Something in the man's tone sent a thrill through his hearer, and his eyes followed the lead given them swiftly.
Akbar did not move. He leant amongst the cushions, gazing at the diamond, but seeing it not; for the veil had fallen from the Unknown and lay hiding the Known.
"What doest thou mean--mountebank!" whispered Birbal in return, his own voice sounding strange to his ears as he stepped closer, bending over the King. "He doth but doze. Wake, my liege, wake!"
The other's fine fingers were on his wrist, gripping it hard.
"At thy peril! though, mayhap, thou couldst not wake him if thou wouldst. Lo! Birbal! Philosopher! learned beyond most! seest thou not that the man sleeps indeed! Hast thou not heard, hast thou not read of the death in life whereby the soul, set free, wanders at will, not in Time, but in Eternity? So wanders Akbar now! He is not here--he is in the future."
Birbal paled despite his disbelief.
"Who art thou, man of many faces," he gasped, "and how earnest thou here?"
"He summoned me," replied the Sufi solemnly. "Wherefore God knows. As for me, I am the Wayfarer of Life. What I have learned I have learned. And this"--he pointed to the dreaming figure--"I know, that if my lord desires to hear the future he has but to ask this sleeping soul. The Self which lurks ever behind these trivial selves of ours will tell him."
For an instant Birbal hesitated. Beset by curiosity as he was, something in him cried aloud not to know; for, agnostic at heart, doubter to the very core, he knew already. Knew that all his master's dreams were but dreams; that like all other things in heaven and earth they must pass. Then came the thought that the forewarned are forearmed, and he knelt at that master's feet.
"Great King," he whispered, "tell us what is seen?"
There was no answer, and on the silence the Sufi's voice rose quiet, but compelling.
"Oh! Self-behind-the-Self, speak! What of the future? Is Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar there, as King?"
There was no pause; the reply rang immediate, resonant.
"He is not there and yet his work remains, to run, a glittering warp among the woof. See! how the westering sun turns all to gold--gilt that is pinchbeck of all baser metals.
"The land is thick with little crooked lines, but Akbar's roads were measured straight to give an evening rest to tired travellers. He is not there, but I--who lived in him--I linger still in Justice, Mercy, Truth. Sons of his soul are these, sons of his love, not of his mortal body--Oh! Salîm! Salîm----!"
The pause was eloquent of sudden personal distress, the clear dreaming eyes clouded and there was silence. Then hurriedly, disconnectedly, the voice took up its tale.
"What was the thought which racked me to the soul? Something I have forgotten utterly."
So once more came silence while those two watchers waited.
"Hush!" whispered the Wayfarer, signing back the fresh questioning which trembled on Birbal's lips, "he speaks again!"
The King's head had drooped as if to deeper sleep, for his voice lost its resonance and seemed to come from very far away.
"And they too--in the years they shall forget. Their dream of empire shall die as mine; and so we Twain, soul-welded into soul, shall pass, shall live forgetting, unforgotten ('the dreaming of a King can never die'). And all their faults shall fall from them. Ah God! The cry of little children, the wail of murdered women in my palace walls--do ye not hear them, aliens! Lo! I swear, such were not raised while Akbar reigned as King. Yet even this shall pass to peace, to rest--to greater ease--more gold--more luxury.
"Oh! subjects of Akbar! arouse ye! Wake! Life is not comfort! there is that beyond which India always sought, for which she seeks. This is no land of golden sunsetting--it is the land of coming dawn, of light in which to search for Truth unceasingly.
"What do they say arousing me from sleep? 'They wait me in the House of Argument?'
"Ah! well! I go, though it avails us not! India is Akbar's to the end of Time--like him it knows not and it fain would know, the secret of its birth and of its death. What are the words thou soughtest for in the years--Akbar? His son? I see them not! I only see the Self that knows, that sees, that hears, the everlasting Truth behind Life's lie.
"The rest I have forgotten."
The voice sank in silence, the head to deeper sleep, and the left hand slacking its grip dropped nerveless on the knee, so that the shining orb it had held rolled from it like a giant dewdrop until it found a resting place at Akbar's feet.
Birbal with a little cry caught at the King's Luck.
"Take it back! Oh, Master, take it back!" he whispered, laying it once more softly in the King's empty palm. "Hold fast to thyself. Lo! the whole world equals not Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar."
Then in a perfect passion of resentment he turned to the Wayfarer. But in those few seconds the latter's hold upon the balustrade had been withdrawn, the counterpoise had reasserted itself, and Birbal peering out over the balcony could see the dome of the dhooli disappearing in its downward course of darkness.
To slip through the wadded curtain and make his way to the swinging station at the foot of the wall was but the work of a minute or so. Yet he was too late. The newly arrived Sufi from Ispahân, the yawning attendants declared, had had his interview and gone--none knew whither.
The east was all flushed with rose-leaf clouds when Akbar awoke and smiled to find Birbal wrapped in his shawl watching him with curious, doubtful eyes.
Would the King remember? That was the question.
"Lo! friend," he said affectionately. "So may I wake in Paradise after a dreamless sleep and find thee there."