Watchman! Awake! Awake!

Oh, watch of the night, arise!

For the windows unclose; A blue gown hung with pearl-fringing lies On a bosom of rose.

Oh! close at hand in the old man's tower The lovers will wanton a happy hour.

Watchman! Arise! Arise!

Oh, rouse thee, watchman, rouse!

Lo! the rain of night is past!

Her veil is dank, 'neath her level brows The heavy tears fall fast.

Oh, far away lies her lovers part And close at hand lies her broken heart.

Oh! Watchman, rouse thee, rouse!"

"Tis a rare song," hiccupped Jan-Ali, "but devil take me if I can tell what it means."

"Tis the tale of a wanton," quoth Tardi-Beg gravely, "and see you, she wore a blue gown fringed with pearl."

Babar looked at them both with irritation.

"Before the Lord!" he said almost sharply, "I know not which is best; understanding, or the lack of it."

Then he burst into a roar of laughter.

"They be merry devils over in Kabul," quoth a surly-faced cook in the royal kitchen. "Mayhap they may laugh the wrong side of their mouths ere long."

CHAPTER IV

Fate knocked at the Door of Death, My soul in her hollow hand.

Angels opened it. Lo! G.o.d saith, To whom gave He this command?

Take him back to the Gates of Life And set his feet in the way So he and his children and his wife Will praise my mercy alway.

_Babar_.

The oncoming of cooler weather brought renewed activity once more. So far Agra was almost the southern limit of Babar's Empire. Below it, and to east and west, the Pagans--as these northern Mahomedans called the Hindus collectively--still held undisturbed sway. In truth they had never been touched by invasion from the north; the marauders had generally turned tail and fled before the scorch of the hot weather ere they had time to reach and harry so far south. And of all the Pagans the one most to be feared was Rana Sanka, the Rajput chief of Udaipur. Sooner or later Babar knew there must be a trial of strength between them; but he meant to put it off as long as he could.

Meanwhile there were menaces to Agra closer at hand; notably the strong fort of Biana which had lately gone over to the Rajput side.

That was not to be endured, and Humayon, who was an excellent second-in-command, set out to reduce the renegades to order, Babar meanwhile remaining in Agra and making preparations for the big fight that was bound to come.

One of these was the casting of a big siege cannon for the purpose of battering Biana, which was sure to be recalcitrant to the last. The task was entrusted to Master-gunsmith Ali-Kool, than whom no better craftsman lived in all Asia. He had learnt his art away in the far West, and called himself ever Ali-Kool of Turkey. A small, spare bit of a man with spa.r.s.e whiskers and a faint pitting of small-pox--or gun-powder--over a puffy face. But an excellent artificer, staking his reputation on a big gun that should throw a fifty-pound shot over four miles! It was a big order, and Babar's imagination caught fire. He was down at the furnaces every day watching the preparations. Eight furnaces in a circle, centring the huge clay mould. But it was at night that he loved to see the roaring flames with the naked, black figures of the stokers dancing about them, and the lurid glow of the half-molten metal lighting up the very heavens above. The heat was intense. None of his courtiers could stand it for long, but he, his eyes keen with curiosity, doffed raiment and went about naked as he was born, save for a waist-cloth.

"The Most-Clement prepares himself for Paradise," remarked the most caustic wit of the party; and Babar laughed gaily. "I prefer h.e.l.l in time rather than in eternity, friend," he replied; and as usual began an extempore versicle on the idea.

"Will it be at dawn to-morrow, master?" he asked of Ali-Kool late one evening.

"At dawn to-morrow," replied the master-gunsmith boastfully, "the largest cannon in Asia will be found in the armoury of Babar Padishah!"

He was nearly beside himself with excitement; but at dawn next day he stood, pale to ashen-greyness, still as a stone.

Everything was ready. It only needed the word to open the sluices and let the molten metal run into the mould. And that word was the name the gun was to bear in the future.

"Now! Most-Clement!" palpitated Ali-Kool.

"Deg Ghazi!" came Babar's full voice; the which being interpreted means Holy-Victorious-Pot. A yell of clamouring voices, a clash of implements half-drowned the christening.

Then like streaks of light the molten metal crept with slow swiftness, gathering speed as it flowed, bringing with it fierce, almost unbearable heat. The mould filled--half-full--three-quarters--

And then? Then the metal ceased to run. There was no more in the furnaces...!

Ali-Kool was like one demented.

"Hold the man," shouted Babar, whose eyes were ever alert for other people as well as himself, "or he will do himself a mischief!"

And indeed it was time! Poor Ali-Kool was on the edge of the mould as if about to throw himself into the molten metal, waving his arms about wildly, and calling High Heaven to witness that it ought not, it could not, have occurred. And Babar's kindly touch on his shoulder, his kindly words--"Nay, Master-_jee_, such things do happen at times to the best of us," only brought grief and shame to strengthen anger. He was disgraced--he had disgraced the Emperor ...

"Not one whit!" laughed Babar. "And as for thee--here! Slaves!

Bring quick a robe of honour--the best! and here, where the misadventure--they are sent by G.o.d, remember, O Ali-Kool!--occurred will I invest thee and make thee n.o.ble!"

It was a fine group. The kingly figure so full of human sympathy, the broken-hearted artificer smiling perforce a watery smile, the crowding workmen, the _insouciant_ courtiers, both full of approval. And tuning all to the perfect harmony of true Life, the appeal to that which lies beyond chance and misadventure.

"Lo! His Majesty hath the touch of consolation to perfection," said Tardi-Beg.

"Yea!" a.s.sented Ali-Jan, "but I would he had as fine a sense of danger. Dost know that he hath put on four Hindustani cooks to his Royal Kitchen, because forsooth, he hath never tasted the dishes of this accursed country and must needs try them?"

"Aye!" said Mahomed Bakshi, who was Superintendent-of-the-Household, "and what is worse, they be the Royal cooks of the late King! Heard you ever such fool-hardiness? Lo! I have put on two new tasters; but what is that? These idolaters have strange ways and strange poisons."

"And strange dishes!" put in Tardi-Beg. "Lo! I eat none at the Emperor's supper parties."

"Nor I," chorused several.

"Gentlemen!" said Mahomed Bakshi. "You speak without thought for the interior of a kitchen. Poison may go into any pot. 'Twere better to eat nothing. Then would my labours be less."

"Thy percentages also," laughed a recognised wit. "Heed him not, gentlemen. 'Tis but his way of keeping our stomachs empty, so that more profit fills his pocket."

So the subject was dismissed with a joke; though in truth it was far from being one. For Babar's somewhat reckless appointment of these four Hindustani cooks, had set in train one of those fine-drawn female plots to poison which seem inseparable from the seclusion of women. It is as if the concentrated, confined vitality, denied outlet in natural ways, seeks expression in pure venom. The late Sultan-Ibrahim's mother lived, by Babar's generosity, in comparative State. He had a.s.signed lands to her, treated her with the utmost respect, and when he addressed her, did so as "mother." But the mere chance of having a Hindustani cook in the royal kitchen was too much for grat.i.tude.

The result Babar wrote to Maham when, considerably the worse for the incident, he was still living on water-lily flowers brayed in milk.

"The ill-fated lady, having heard of my appointment of cooks, delivered no less than a quarter of an ounce of poison to a female slave and sent it to Ahmed, her taster, wrapped up in a folded paper.

He, seducing the man by promise of vast lands, handed it to one of the cooks, desiring him by some means or another to throw it into my food.

The man did not throw it into the pot, because I had strictly enjoined my tasters ever to watch the Hindustanis; fortunately, therefore, he only threw it into the tray. In this fashion. When they were dishing the meat, my graceless tasters must have been inattentive, for he managed to throw about one-half of the poison on a plate which held some thin slices of bread. These he covered with meat fried in b.u.t.ter.

The better half in his haste he spilt in the fireplace.

"It was fried hare. I am very fond of hare, so I ate a good deal and also fried carrot. I was not, however, sensible of any disagreeable taste. But while I was eating some smoked-dried meat I felt nausea.

Now the day before while eating this smoke-dried flesh I had detected an unpleasant taste in a part of it. I therefore ascribed my nausea to that incident. But it was not so. I was very ill. Now I have never been ill in that way even after drinking wine. Suspicion therefore crossed my mind immediately. I desired the cooks to be taken into custody, and directed the rest of the meat to be given to a dog, and that it be shut up. The dog became sick, his belly swelled, he could not be induced to rise until noon next day when he rose and recovered.

Two young menials in the kitchen who had partaken of the food also suffered. One indeed, was extremely ill, but in the end both escaped.