A personal explanation would be easier; less abrupt, kinder. Not that he meant to back out--far from it. He was ready to be a good, just, generous husband; unless of course, the nameless one preferred not to take second place, as she must do. There was no helping that. It was not his fault. Love had come ...

He paced quicker as he remembered the words which had so touched him-- "And G.o.d the Father may send a father's love to the mother of his son." Well! G.o.d send He might; though that would be a different sort of love altogether from this absorbing pa.s.sion. Anyhow he could do no more. A Kazi, able if necessary to perform the marriage ceremony, was within call. He, himself, was ready. All that was wanting was the lady. Surely she was late in coming.

A rustle made him start and listen; but it was only the doves in the orange trees.

No one! No one!

The moon rose after a time over the garden and flooded the terraces with such silvern brilliance that the very pebbles on the path showed distinct.

But no one came--no one!

Could she have heard?

Impossible; it was still a Court secret, and she was a religious recluse--so far as he knew.

Besides; even if she had changed her mind, she might have come--or sent a message.

So, at last, in rather an ill humour he went back to the Palace and dismissed the waiting Kazi with a handsome fee.

There was one more Friday ere he left Herat; and, feeling ill-used, sore, yet in a way mightily relieved, he waited in Ali-Shir's tomb for another hour or so. No one should say _he_ had failed in his part of the bargain! He was quite ready. Besides he had told the woman plainly that he was not in love with her; so she had no right to feel aggrieved. If she did.

But that could scarcely be. Every good Mussulman knew she had no claim to a whole man--though little Ma'asuma had every bit of him. Yea!

every bit. So it was as well, doubtless, that no one came.

And as he went back to the palace his only regret was that he should have called the nameless one "My moon."

The t.i.tle belonged to his love, of right; but she would, she could never bear it because of the nameless one who had changed her mind--apparently; but she had not sent back his ring!

CHAPTER V

Forward and onward! do not ask the task, Fortune importune! Is not strife true life?

Kasim-beg was in a fever to leave Herat. Marriage, he said, was good, and it was proper to choose a cousin, who was doubtless charming; though for his part he believed the rather in choice by outsiders; for if the result was not happy there was no self blame, and self blame was the devil for destroying decent calm. But Kingship was more important still, and as the Most High had not been so very secure on his new throne before he had started, he simply could not afford to be away more than six months.

And Babar could not but admit his faithful old minister was right. So he said farewell reluctantly to little Ma'asuma and started at the head of his small army for Kabul. And as he rode up the last slope whence he could see the gilded city of Herat, he told himself he could not have done it better. He had seen everything--he ran over the list of the sights in his mind, and found eighty-two of them! In fact the only one worthy of notice which he had omitted was a certain convent.

He flushed a little at the remembrance, and set the thought aside with self-complacence that he had come through the temptations of the most luxurious town in the world quite unscathed. He had not played any indecent or scurvy tricks, he had not touched wine. He had altogether been quite a virtuous prince. So, with characteristic buoyancy, despite the fact that he had said good-bye to his first and only love, he settled himself in the saddle, and his face for home.

Here difficulties arose at once. It began to snow the very day they left Herat, and Babar was for taking the low road for safety's sake.

It was the longer of course, but the hill road was at all times difficult and dangerous; in snow practically impa.s.sable.

But Kasim-Beg, who had been in a fuss for days, behaved very perversely, so that in the end Babar gave way and they started for the pa.s.ses, taking one Binai, an old mountaineer, as their guide. Now whether it was from old age, or from his heart failing him at the unusual depth of the drifts, is uncertain; but this is sure--having once lost the path he never could find it again so as to point out the way!

However, as Kasim-Beg and his sons were anxious to preserve their reputation as route-choosers, they dismounted, beat down the snow and discovered something like a road along which the party--much reduced by defections due to the delights of Herat--managed to advance for a day, when it was brought to a complete stand by the depth of the snow, which was such that the horses' feet did not touch the ground. Seeing no other remedy, Babar ordered a retreat to a ravine where there was abundance of firewood, and thence despatched sixty or seventy chosen men, to return by the road they had come, and, retracing their footsteps, to find on the lower ground any Huzaras or other people who might be wintering there, and to bring a guide who was able to point out the way. This done they halted in the ravine for three or four days awaiting the return of the men who had been sent out. These did, indeed, come back, but without having been able to find a guide.

What was to be done? Nothing but place reliance on G.o.d and push forward. So said Babar, a light in his clear eyes as he recognised that he was in a tight place, that before him and his lay such hardships and sufferings as even he had scarcely undergone at any other period of his life. But then at no other period of his life had Love been waiting, her rosy wings fluttering, for him to win through.

"Warm yourselves to the marrow this night," he said to all. "Eat your fill and carry firewood in place of the victuals. We shall need every atom of strength we can save and spend."

But he himself spent a wakeful night and wrote a Turkhi verse to console himself. It ran thus and was rather poor; though nothing else was to be expected under such circ.u.mstances:

"Fate from my very birth has marked me down, There is no injury I have not known, Not one! So what care I what fortune bring?

No harm unknown can come to me, the King."

They were up betimes, a long straggling party doing their best to struggle on by beating down the snow and so forming a road along which the laden mules could go. It was luckily a fine day and by evening they could count on an advance of three miles. What was more, as no snow had fallen, they were able to send back along the beaten track for more firewood. So it went on for two or three days. Then the men began to be discouraged, and Babar set his teeth. With Love awaiting him at the other side, he meant to get over the Pa.s.s.

He only had about fifteen volunteers from his immediate staff, but those fifteen, headed by vitality incarnate, worked wonders. Every step taken was up to the middle or the breast in soft, fresh-fallen snow; but still it was a step, and he who followed did not sink so far. Thus they laboured. As the vigour of the person who went first was generally expended after he had gone a few paces, another advanced and took his place.

"Lo! gentlemen, 'tis as good as leap-frog," cried the young leader joyously, and thereinafter they strove for steps. And as ever Babar came out first. "See you," he said gravely, in explanation of his own prowess, "'tis I brought you hither; and if we do not beat hard we shall be beaten."

At which mild joke Kasim laughed profusely, though he felt as if he could have killed himself for having thus jeopardised his young hero's life.

The fifteen or so who worked in trampling down the snow, next succeeded in dragging on a riderless horse. This generally sank to the stirrups and after ten or fifteen paces was worn out. The next fared better and the next, and the next. And after all the led horses had thus been brought forward, came a sorry sight. The rest of the troops, even the best men and many who bore the t.i.tle of "n.o.ble" advancing (not even dismounted!) along the road that had been beaten down for them by their King! Some of them, certainly, had the grace to hang their heads. But this was no time, Babar felt, for reproach or even for authority. Every man who possessed spirit or emulation must have hastened to the front without orders; and those without spirits were worse than useless at such a time.

"We must do without them, Kasim," said the young King, when his minister would have spoken his mind. "'Twill not mend matters with cowards to tell them they be such. Could any tongue circle the lie I would praise them for their bravery, but with Death staring us in the face I stick to Truth."

And to work also. The life and soul of the fifteen, he kept them going by jokes and quips and the singing of songs. Aye! even when storm and snow came with blinding force and they all expected to meet death together. Then it was that, ahead of all, Babar's full mellow voice rang out in such ballads as:

THE HAND OF THE THIEF

The bog was black outside Kazan, now it is red!

Last night there came a rich car-wan, Blood has been shed!

Now Adham-Khan was over-lord, Judging the right Of quarr'l betwixt the Black-Sheep-Horde And they of the White.

"Oh! Adham-Khan avenge the wrong, Thou art the head."

"My hand holds fast the skirt that's long,"

Smiling he said.

Then rose in wrath young Zulfikar, Girt on his sword.

"Now show I him in full durbar Right is the Lord."

He saddled steed and rode away Over the sand, His hauberk rattling roundelay, G.o.d at his hand.

And Adham-Khan, he sat in state Holding his court.

"Now who is he who comes so late What has he brought?"

"I bring a gift from the Black-Horde-chief, Thy honour's friend, And lay the hand of a common thief On thy skirt's end."

The stiff dead hand skimmed through the air, Lay like a stone.

Of all the court not one did dare Right to disown.

"Oh! warrior hear! Against the right Keep thou from strife; But if the wrong is _done_ then fight Fight for thy life."