"Lady," he replied, "I would rather, in faith, have had my master free of all feminine wiles. The last seven months have pa.s.sed without much glory, and my sword rusts in its scabbard. But this I will say, for a woman, the cupola of chast.i.ty shows much sense. The King would be best away from Kabul."

"And from me," added Maham, coolly. "So look to it, Sir General, and take him--where thou canst."

As it so happened, the times fell in with her desire. The Timurid family was at its lowest ebb; Babar himself, being, for the moment the only member of it which had kept his kingdom independent; the rest having either succ.u.mbed utterly to the great Usbek-raider or become mere va.s.sals to his power. Thus the King's position was weak, even if he had been himself. But Maham's clear eyes appraised her haggard young King as he went about grave, silent, doing everything by an effort. That was not the stuff for single handed combat against Fate.

Then sorrow set his feet firmer than ever on the path of what he considered right; and this mood was not one in which to rely on those Moghul troops of his who were ever ready to take offence at strict discipline. No! he must be induced to divert attention from Kabul by carrying war to some further field. The further the better, so long as it gave those same Moghul troops opportunity for legitimate raiding.

Babar himself never knew how much one woman's influence had to do with his resolution to march on Hindustan; even old Kasim, though he had the key, did not realise how Maham managed to set aside his proposal of an attempt on Badakhshan in favour of the larger, more imaginative project; but it was done.

So one day Babar, sad-faced still, but with a certain spring in his walk came to say good-bye to his little daughter and to the woman who quietly, un.o.btrusively, had done so much for him.

"Yea!" she said smiling, "I will be Queen whilst thou art gone, Babar, never fear. Nor Shah-Begum, nor Mihr-Nigar nor any other woman in the Palace shall give trouble, this time, I warrant me. And the child will thrive! Aye! it will thrive. So there is no gnawing thought at thy heart, remember--"

She paused for a second and something in her face made Babar say hastily:

"Nor in thine, I pray, kind wife."

"Nor in mine," she echoed with a brilliant smile. "And now, ere he go, I have something for my lord--a remembrance of someone he loved well and whom I--respected."

She put her hand in her bosom and drew out thence all warm and faintly scented a small crystal bowl.

Babar gave a cry of delight. "The Bowl! The Bowl! How didst find it?

Did he give it thee? Did he really give it me?"

Her kind eyes smiled on him. "That I cannot say; and this is not the Bowl, but perchance a likeness of it. 'Twas the dear dead one, my lord, who told me the tale when thou didst tell it to her. So, knowing what sort the cup must be, since there is an old man in my native village who still can make them after a fashion, I sent to him pressingly for one. My lord will remember that 'twas in this village graveyard that the Crystal Bowl was found. Doubtless one of olden time. This is but a copy--and poor doubtless, since the old craftsman can scarce see--but it may serve to remind my lord--of many things."

"And much kindness--" said Babar gravely, and as he took the bowl he kissed the hand that held it out to him.

No! it was not the Bowl. It was but a dim likeness of it; but as he placed it in his bosom he felt vaguely that he had more than he deserved.

The next few months pa.s.sed swiftly. Once in the saddle and out of Kabul, Babar's spirits began to rise. But he soon found it inadvisable to pursue his intentions on India. The very idea of his absenting himself so far, roused the insolence of the wild border clans. Here was their opportunity, whilst the cat would be away, to resort to their favourite plunder. So it was mid-winter before it was possible for him to advance, and by that time the complexion of affairs had changed.

To begin with the Usbek-raider had retreated, patching up a sort of peace hurriedly, and returning westward over more important business.

Then, whether by reason of Maham's firm hand or from mere ambition, old grandmother Shah-Begum announced her intention of leaving Babar's protection, and going with her grandson to s.n.a.t.c.h at the sovereignty of Badakhshan. The crown had been hereditary in her family, she declared, for over 3,000 years and though as woman she could not claim it, she knew her grandson would not be rejected.

This intention, involving as it did a breaking up of conventional family life, brought back Babar in protest. The old lady had never been on the best of terms with him, she had once almost succeeded in her intrigues against him, but he had always treated her generously; and then, worse than her defection, was that of his own mother's sister who insisted on accompanying her.

It was intolerable! Babar went straight to his grandmother and argued with her; coming back irritated and annoyed by failure to make any impression on the old lady's obstinacy, to his own palace, where, without giving notice, he made his way alone to Maham's apartments.

As he entered her room he could see her reclining amongst cushions in the cupola'd balcony, his little sleeping daughter in her lap. She was crooning to it the lullaby which Turkhoman women sing sleepily during a night march. Her pose was exquisite; there was a look of almost motherhood in her face; he paused to listen as she sang:--

"Sleep, croodie! Talk with G.o.d!

Know not the path I've trod.

Dad knows not! Why shouldst thou!

Sleep, childie! Sleep just now.

Don't fear! I keep awake.

Heigh ho! My bones do ache.

Heigh ho! My horse does pull.

Can't it see river's full!

No pebbles in _that_ bed, Mine holds an hundred.

Dreams! Dreams! Who lies dead?

Someone in the river's bed.

Praise G.o.d! _He_ rests his head.

Hush! Hush! I hear thee, sweet.

Mums arms around thee meet.

Praise G.o.d! The night's nigh past; Darling sleeps at last! at last!"

The curious drowsiness of the rhythm held him almost silent for a while, so did a great surge of admiration for this self-restrained, kindly, capable woman who had taken her full position as his wife so firmly, without any feminine flutterings or sentimentalities. Truly that sort of thing was what he, with his volatile emotionality, needed to make him not only successful, but persistent.

"Maham," he said almost timorously, "I have come back to thee--and the child."

She gave a little cry, started to rise, then pointed to little Ma'asuma. "I should waken her!" she said in a low voice, "but welcome, thrice welcome is my lord--to me and to the child."

Her voice lingered over the words; her smile had a certain gravity in it.

"But thou," he said anxiously. "Hast not been well, wife? Thy face shows ill--why didst not write to me?"

"Because 'twas not worth while," she replied. "And I am most better.

The spring comes and with it health. And I have had anxiety over thy grandmother. What said she?"

The deft turn succeeded. Babar gave vent to his dissatisfaction in no measured terms. "See you," he said, "Have I ever failed in my duty or service? When my mother and I had not even a single village nor a few jewels, I treated all my relations, male or female, as members of my family. I have made no difference between my maternal and my paternal connections. I say not this to appraise myself. I simply follow the scrupulous truth as everyone knows. And now, even my mother's sister desires to leave me! I am her nearest relation. It would be better, and more becoming for her to remain with me."

Maham's face showed whimsical smiles. "Not, my lord, unwillingly.

G.o.d's earth holds not a more deadly poison to happiness than a discontented woman. So let them go; my lord has plenty of paternal aunts."

There was a certain patience in her tone! But Babar, still protesting, yielded; and set himself solemnly to settle the judicial as well as the executive system of his kingdom. It was about this time that he wrote his famous Essay-on-Jurisprudence which for many long years was to be a work of reference.

His enquiries took him out often into the out districts which, now that spring was advancing were excessively pleasant, abounding in tulips and indeed in all plants of every description. He began again to write poetry; pretty things still touched by profound, if somewhat scholastic, melancholy such as this--

"My heart's a rose full flaming, Its petals opened wide, To give her without shaming Myself and all beside.

Ah me! in vain I lavished My love on her dear heart, An envious thorn has ravished Her hand with deadly smart.

Her life-blood is a-falling To dim my petals o'er.

Oh, Springtime! cease thy calling, This rose will bloom no more."

He used to send them to Maham, who used to reply in her beautiful _nastalik_ hand that was always a joy to Babar's simple delight in anything and everything artistic. And he wrote, also, and told her of the thirty-five different kinds of tulips he had gathered, and of the inscriptions he caused to be cut on springs and rocks. And of a certainty when he visited, as he did, the Garden-of-Fidelity at Adinapur, he must have had much to tell her of a small flowerful grave there, where his sad heart was laid.

It was all very pathetic; sweetly pathetic. A n.o.ble young King, doing his duty bravely, though glad life was over for him forever.

Even the crystal cup which he carried in his bosom, and from which he drank ever the water of the cool mountain springs, brought him only modified comfort. Perhaps, because, from a sense of duty to himself, he would not allow it to bring more.

And then suddenly the whole wide world changed for him.

"Maham! My son!--my son!" was all that he could say when urgent summons brought him to a smiling mother and a new-born infant.