For already bitter anger was pa.s.sing; inflexible justice taking its place.

"His Highness the Lord Treasurer waits without with a dhooli," said the page once more.

"Close the screens, let no one enter. Bid the Lord Treasurer bring the dhooli to the outer tent and remain there himself." The order was given calmly, but he who gave it was in a whirlwind of pa.s.sionate protest.

And this woman--this common strumpet of the bazaars--had talked to him of Love; had, in reality, set him on the first step which had led him so far from common-sense; which had brought him here to an interview with a chit of a child at dead of night!

A slim white figure parting the curtains which separated this inner pavilion from the one beyond, brought him back to his bearings. It was not the child's fault; she must be courteously dealt with.

"Wilt not unveil, my child?" he said gravely, "there is none to fear----"

"And Mihr-un-Nissa fears none," came the reply, as the cloud of white drapery thrown back, fell on the ground, and the girl stepping forward lightly from the billowy folds, stood to salaam.

There was a moment's pause; then eager, warm, came Akbar's verdict.

"By all the G.o.ds of Indra! by Allah and his Prophet! thou art beautiful indeed, my daughter."

A deeper flush tinged the rounded cheeks, but the girl looked frankly into the admiring eyes.

"I am glad."

Something in her conscious unconsciousness made him ask quickly, "Wherefore?"

"Because they call me Queen of Women, sire, and the Queen should please the King," she answered demurely.

"Thou hast a ready wit, child. Dost wish to be a Queen?"

There was not a trace of sauciness in her quick reply. "It depends, sire, upon the King."

Akbar felt completely taken aback; he recognised in this slender little maid-ling of twelve, the germs of something that might grow to greatness indeed.

"I am a churl, lady," he said at last, "to keep Beauty standing.

Seat yourself so, beside me, and we can talk. Or stay!" A whimsical smile irradiated his face, he put out his hand to lead her to the throne-divan. "Sit thou upon the seat of Majesty, and I will sit at Beauty's feet. I have much to learn from it."

She did not even protest. She took her place with childish dignity, and waited for him to speak. Frankness seemed the only possible approach, so he plunged at once in _medias res_.

"Lady, dost thou love my son Salim?"

The cupid's-bow of her lips smiled over a cold definite "No."

Akbar's parental pride rose instantly.

"And why, prithee?"

The answer was nonchalant, uncompromising.

"I like not his looks."

"Yet he is not ill-favoured," protested the proud father, beginning to feel injured, "he is stalwart and young, hath fine eyes, and----"

"He is not so good looking as his father is--even now," said Mihr-un-nissa, sagely nodding her head.

"But for that 'even now' fair daughter," said Akbar nettled, "your compliments might make one shy! Then thou lovest Sher Afkan?"

The flush came again. "He is a brave soldier, anyhow," said the little maiden holding her head high.

"A brave soldier, indeed!" a.s.sented Akbar gravely, yet feeling inclined to smile, "but as for looks, hath he not a scar upon his face?"

"'Twill be a place whereon a wife may lay her kisses," retorted Mihr-un-nissa hastily, then grew crimson with shame at having inadvertently used an argument which had evidently done duty in sparring matches on the subject with her mother.

Akbar laughed out loud, then grew grave. "Of a truth Mistress Quick-wit, women are beyond men's comprehension! But we have been playing with words. .h.i.therto. Now let us be serious--let me see thy mind. Why dost not like my son?"

Instant, clear, decisive, came the reply.

"Because he doth not love his father."

"Wherefore does he not love him? What proof hast thou?" asked Akbar hotly.

Mihr-un-nissa's face had no pity, even in its deep unfathomable eyes.

"Because, Great King, he seeks ever to betray Jalal-ud-din Mahomed Akbar. Oh!"--the words once started rushed out now like a torrent--"I know they say it is better Akbar should not know! I know how they all--even my Lord Birbal--keep things back, saying the King's mind should be tranquil. But it is not so! Kingship is the truth! Kings must know all things! There is the diamond--They have kept that back, I dare swear. It was stolen, Most High----"

"Stolen!" echoed Akbar stupidly, "who was it--who spoke of that before?" Then memory returning, impotent rage once more rose in him.

"Well, what then?" he queried roughly.

"I say the King should know!" came the high girlish voice. "Pain is but a safeguard from ill. He should know, aye, and use his knowledge that it was stolen for the Prince--that he wore it in his turban and, that if it hath gone back to safekeeping 'tis not because of remorse upon the Prince's part, but because the King exchanged the Turban of Brotherhood----"

"It is not true," muttered Akbar, hiding his head in his hands.

"Child--say it is not true." Something in him told him it was true, therefore he fought against it all the more fiercely.

"Will saying it alter fact?" went on the inexorable young voice. "My King, the knowledge of all this is to be King; ignorance is--is foolishness!"

She stood up, a startled look in her eyes. "Have I, have I made thee cry?" she said solicitously. Then she burst out fiercely, "Oh, if I were Queen I would have no son, no husband. I would be Queen indeed."

Akbar had stood up also, his face blurred by emotion, but strong and stern.

"I have to thank thee for the Truth. Strange I have had to learn it from a little maid's lips. Lo! Mihr-un-nissa, wilt thou not love my son?"

She shook her head, "Had he been more like----" she paused, and hung her head, shy for the first time.

He took her little hand, and stooping, kissed it. "And had the Queen of Women but been fifteen years older--thou art sure, child, thou wouldst not care to be Queen?"

Her face grew grave, the perfect features took on dignity. "Queen I shall be. The crystal says so. But not now, for I am too young and he would break my heart. Why should I give up youth?" Then suddenly recollecting her role of virtuous wisdom, she added solemnly, "But G.o.d alone knows what the future may hold."

When she had gone Akbar sate down, feeling dazed by the many unlooked for buffettings which Fate had given him that night.

To begin with, he had been within an ace of dishonour himself. Aye!

there was no use denying it. It must have been unrecognised pa.s.sion in himself which had led him into this childish, unkinglike challenge.

And now had come this dishonour of degenerate heirs; for what use was there in dissociating Salim from Murad, Murad from Danyal? His sons were all alike--were they indeed his sons, these dissolute drinking louts?