_Ebd-ul-Homid_.

Herat was entered. It was his!

Babar, his eyes wide with curiosity and appreciation had ridden through what were to him interminable streets. He had seen towers and pleasure houses and palaces rising on all sides, had noted the crowds which surged out from every side alley to see one who was already renowned in the songs of half Central Asia, as the embodiment of youthful valour. And all had been simply inconceivable in its beauty, its size.

Yusuf-Ali who had been appointed his guide, rode at his right hand, and supplied him with endless information. Close on a million of people in the town and suburbs. Over a hundred and seventy thousand occupied houses. Nigh on four hundred public schools.

Shops! Why there must be at least fifteen thousand of them!

The statistics went in at one ear and out at another. It was the sheer beauty of the place which held Babar's mind. The wide valley, the surrounding hills just touched with snow. The white buildings following the blue curves of the river. The marble colonnades terracing the slopes, the marble palaces crowning the heights; and, dense-packed between high carven houses, the multi-coloured crowd all intent on pleasure. Roars of laughter rising from it at every pa.s.sing jest, a chorus of "Victory, young champion!" following him as he rode along.

By G.o.d and his prophet! Life was a splendid thing to live!

Had he had Prince Fortunatus' purse in his pocket he would have flung gold pieces along every inch of the way.

Even in the mausoleum of his lately deceased uncle, where, in accordance with etiquette he had, before even taking up his quarters in the palace a.s.signed to him, to pay his respects to the female members of his uncle's family, his ceremonial condolences were somewhat marred by the _joie de vivre_ which simply exhaled from him. Yet he was none the less sympathetically impressed by the dim Dome-of-Kings all lit up darkly by swinging lamps, by tall funereal tapers throwing flickering shadows on the purple-crimson pall fringed with gold that covered the catafalque.

Dim blue clouds of incense filled the air; their scent mixed with the perfume-sodden rustle of the silks and satins beneath the circle of ivory-tinted mourning veils that enshrouded the crouching figures of the female mourners. The low guttural chant of canons appointed to sing prayers for the repose of the dead, rose monotonously, a fitting background to the little conventional sobs and cries, as each lady in turn stood up to embrace the newly arrived member of the family.

There were so many aunts to embrace; but Babar went through them decorously; with a little real emotion when he hugged Aunt Fair, and some rather obvious impatience when fat, silly, Astonishing Beauty--who loved young men--hugged him.

They did not, however, keep up the "_marsiah_" for long; the ladies--who after the expiry of five months had got over the first flush of grief--being anxious to have their handsome relative's budget of news.

So they all repaired to Khadijah-Begum's house and had a repast. It was very refined and--rather to Babar's disappointment, for he was curious to see a woman drink wine--strictly teetotal; doubtless because Payanda-Begum, the late King's chief wife and--as his father's sister--Babar's real aunt, was present. And she was naturally of the highest circle of distinction and of the most correct behaviour.

Khadijah-Begum on the other hand, whom Babar now saw for the first time, showed her low birth despite the fact that as favourite wife she had managed the court for years. Even the knowledge that she was Cousin Gharib's mother could not prevent Babar's putting her down at once as a vulgar talkative woman who posed for being a person of profound sense.

There was another Begum of the late King's present, however, on whom the young observer, seeing her for the first time, pa.s.sed a very different opinion. This was one Lady Apak, a delicate fair woman who spent her childless life in nursing other people's children, and who Babar felt deserved all the respect and kindness it was in his power to give.

He was not sorry however, when, various other visits paid, he found himself in the house a.s.signed to him. And sure, no better place could have been discovered in the whole habitable world! For it was the garden palace which the great Master-of-all-Arts, Messer Ali-Shir--dead this while back, G.o.d rest his soul!--had designed and built for himself. Babar spent hours wandering through its cool corridors, sitting awhile in cunning alcoves whence the enchanting view, framed in gilt filigree arch, showed like a picture indeed. He sampled the rose-water baths, all mosaicked like a garden with buds, and leaves, and blossoms; he sat stroking the soft silk pile of carpets, green and set with flowers as thick as Andijan meadows in spring. And there was one, deeply darkly verdant and almost covered with the softest, fleeciest white furry blobs, on which he could have lain down and cried, so keenly did it bring back the mantle of clover lambskin into which he had poured the first grief that had come to his young life.

He read round the walls of the central marble hall, veined and mosaicked with precious stones, the boast that in after years one of his descendants was to use in the Court-of-Private-Audience at Delhi.

"If Earth holds a Paradise--it is this, it is this, it is this."

Yes! it was true! Not only in the hall, but in every niche and corner--in the ivory carven bedstead, in the crystal goblets inlaid with coral, in the curiously beaten metal-work, in the very shading of the coloured tiles, here was perfection of Beauty. Even with their shoes doffed in respectful Oriental fashion, Babar could hardly endure to see servants, whose minds he knew were not attuned to that high level, pa.s.sing backwards and forwards in what he felt to be a Shrine.

He dismissed them all and sat, pillowed by the softest down, looking out from the colonnade which gave on the garden. It, also, must be beautiful beyond compare. He would see that to-morrow. To-night it was sufficient to revel in the burnished dusk of the orange trees, seen in the soft moonlight, to watch the glittering radiance of the fountain drops against that background of distant hills--purple--aye!

positively purple even in this light. Lo! it was beauty concentrated almost to pain. Beauty, unearthly, beyond the senses. Something not to be seen, or heard, or tasted, or touched, or even felt. Beauty that brought an utter abnegation of Self.

"This slave has a letter for the Most High," came a clear sweet voice. "It is from his Cousin Gharib. It was to be given--if occasion came--in private, and in person if possible. So I have brought it."

Babar turned quickly. At first to see nothing. Then several paces away faintly outlined against one of the square white pilasters he caught the silhouette of a white, curiously shadowless figure. A woman's figure surely; slim, elegant, despite the enshrouding veil.

He rose swiftly; his heart beating. His dead cousin! Could it be--No!

Impossible--And yet--

"With deepest reverence--mother," he said almost mechanically, as the figure remaining quiescent he stepped forward to take what it held out. He could see the hand--a marble hand in the moonlight--beyond the line of the pilaster.

A pretty hand too, with fingers pointed and delicate.

"May G.o.d reward you," came his mechanical thanks, as instinctively he stepped back again.

The figure remained quiescent, silent. In the moonlight he could see clearly the sweeping black curves of the writing. The letter was very brief.

"_Shouldst thou, cousin, ever come to Khorasan, I have counselled her, who was my wife in name, to give you this. I make no claim, I express no wish save this--I should like her to be happy, for I have loved her--and thou also, O Babar. Farewell! May the Crystal Bowl give Love, not Tears_."

For an instant Babar stood confounded, irresolute: it was so unconventional: so almost impossible. Yet it fitted strangely with the place; with his vague feeling that had been beyond even Time and s.p.a.ce.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'THIS SLAVE HAS A LETTER FOR THE MOST HIGH'"]

There was a ruby jewelled lamp swinging from the arch between them. It scarce gave light, but it sent a patterned shimmering rose upon the white marble floor. A gentle breeze swayed the lamp; the rose flickered between them backwards and forwards. His eyes were on it as he stood holding the letter, the moonlight catching at the signet ring he wore, dallying with the gold embroidery of his light silken coat.

"Is it possible," he said at last, fluttering a bit like a girl, "that she who stands before me--"

"Yea, I am she," came the composed reply.

It settled the young man by bringing conviction of his own confusion.

"But how--" he began, a certain blame in his surprise; and once again the answer was ready, grave, sufficient.

"My lord's slave comes every Friday after the custom of her family--she is of the blood of the divine Jami as doubtless my lord knows--to place flowers on the tomb of the now sainted Messer Ali-Shir--may his ashes rest in peace--who is interred by his own wish in this garden, and who was her distant relative. But in life he was ever kind to this dust-like one, teaching her, and allowing her to be his disciple. So her litter comes. .h.i.ther often. It awaits her return yonder at the grave. Thus the letter was easy to deliver in person, and it is delivered. May G.o.d keep the King."

Faintly the figure moved as if to go; but Babar stepped a step forward. His head was in a whirl, his heart curiously steady.

"And has the cupola of chast.i.ty no word to say of herself?" he asked.

"What word is there to say, my lord?" came the quick reply. "I have performed my duty. The rest lies with my lord."

There was just a suspicion of raillery in the voice which spurred Babar to hardihood.

"Then I would fain know if--if she who thus deigns to honour me is satisfied with--with what she sees?"

"But yea! my lord, quite satisfied! And this is not the first time she has seen my lord. She was at the window when he made his entry to the town."

"Then the lady has doubly the advantage," said Babar with an irrepressible laugh. "Yet will I not ask her to make us equal and unveil. That were not meet at such a time and place."

There was just that faint suspicion of conscious virtue about the remark, but it was met promptly, coolly.

"Nor is there need. My lord would not be frightened at what he saw, as I, poor foolish child, was frightened. But I lived to be wiser. I lived to know that deformity of body is as naught before deformity of mind. But my lord has neither. Nor has this dust-like one. She is counted beautiful, and though she catalogues not her own charms, she hath two eyes, somewhat large, that look straight, a pa.s.sable nose, thirty-two sound teeth, even and white, and a mouth that can say kind things harshly, and--an' it please my lord--harsh things kindly. Shall the recital proceed further, my lord?"

"By G.o.d and the prophets no!" cried Babar catching fire at last.

"There is but one more thing between us. Lady, wilt thou take me for husband?"

"Of a surety; therefore came I here." So far the reply was as ever, cool, collected, without shadow of emotion; now the sweet, polished voice broke faintly. "There is but one matter of which I would remind my lord. I am older than he by three years. And I am not quite like other women. Messer Ali-Shir taught me much. If my lord would rather someone else--"