So Babar blessed her for her kind heart, and sent off a special messenger to Kabul for Hindal, a boy of nigh ten years old who had been left behind with his tutor to complete his education.

The Emperor felt happier when this was done; perhaps because in his kind heart of hearts he had never been quite sure of the righteousness of giving Hindal over to another woman. It was the only action of his in regard to his womenkind which he could not have conscientiously upheld against all comers at the bar of his own judgment.

It was great gain, therefore, to find his Dearest-dear of a mind with himself. For all that he felt--as strong men so often do when limited by feminine outlook--rather battered and worn.

In no fit state therefore for the bad news which came to him by special runner as he sat by the Water-lily tank at Dholpur.

Humayon, wrote the Court Physician, in Delhi, was very ill of fever.

It would be best if his mother were to come at once, as the Prince was much prostrated.

Humayon! First, Alwar, his youngest; then his eldest son! Was he to lose them both? Babar was in his essence very man. Trouble came to him overwhelmingly. He might face it bravely; but he always faced the worst. It was Humayon, bested in his fight for life that he saw; whereas Maham with the eternal hopefulness of woman, which springs from her eternal motherhood, would not let herself even think of defeat. Upset as she was by the dreadful news, she yet spoke quietly of how she would bring her invalid son back, and how his father had best return to Agra and have everything ready to receive their darling.

"I would fain come, too, dear-heart," said Babar pitifully.

But Maham would not hear of it. Even so much would be to admit danger, and there was none--there could be none. Nathless, let urgent orders be sent along the route so that there should not be an instant's delay.

She was quite calm and collected to him; but she broke down a little to the Blessed-Damozel who somehow or another--why, folk never knew--was ever the recipient of confidences.

"Thou wilt look after him, lady," she said quite tearfully, "and see that he wearies himself not with over-anxiety?"

"All shall be as if thou wast here, sister, so far as in me lies," was the quiet reply, and Maham was satisfied. What Mubarika-Begum said she would do, would be done. Maham knew that; for she knew (what Babar did not) that Mubarika's life had been one long self-denial.

Years and years younger than her husband, she had left a young lover behind her in her father's palace when she had come as a bride to make peace between her clan and the King of Kabul. She had chosen her part, she had respected and admired, in a way she had loved Babar; but pa.s.sionate romance had never clouded her eyes.

"Yea! I will guard him as thou wouldst," she said again, "and mayhap in thy absence, and with this common grief and anxiety to soften memory, Dildar also will learn how good, how kind thou art, thou Star-of-the-Emperor's life."

But even Mubarika, so calm, so gracious, so tactful, could not prevent the mental strain from telling on Babar's bodily health. Prolonged anxiety, great grief had always prostrated him for a time, even as a young man; and now illness and hard work had aged him before his years.

"Would to G.o.d he could but drink a bit--he need not get drunk," wailed Tardi-Beg who, being tainted with Sufi doctrines, would orate for hours concerning cups divine, and ruby wines. But Babar had never broken a promise in his life, and was not going to begin now.

Besides, Maham had been right. Humayon was brought to Agra alive. That was much. In the first fulness of his joy at seeing his son once more, Babar almost forgot anxiety.

"He will soon be well, dear-heart," he said cheerfully; "he does not look so very bad. When the fever leaves him--"

But it was Maham's turn to be despondent. "It does not leave him," she said.

That was true; as yet the crisis had not come, and it was long in coming. Day after day he grew weaker; day after day the brain, weary of fighting at long-odds for life, grew more and more drowsy.

"My sisters! I want to see my sisters!" would come the low muttering voice, reft of almost all its youth, its tone. And those three, Gulchihra, Gulrang, and Gulbadan, Rose-face, Rose-blush, Rose-body, Babar's three rose-named daughters, would creep in with tears and kiss him. A pathetic little picture. The girlish faces all blurred with tears, the tinkling of bracelets, jewelled earrings, head ornaments, what not, the rustling of scent-sodden silks and satins, and that poor head on the pillow turning from side to side, rhythmically restless.

Even Babar himself, had to see after a while that the Shadow-of-Death lay on his son.

"Maham!" he said pitifully,--"the boy, the boy--"

Poor mother! For nigh on four-and-twenty years she had been this man's stay and stand-by. He had come to her consoling arms as a child comes to its mother. She had given him in pa.s.sionate devotion more than he perhaps realised, for they had been faithful friends always, and the friendship had overlaid the love; but she failed him now, for she was at the end of her tether. So she stood dry-eyed, almost cold.

"Why should my lord grieve," she said, "because of my son? There is no necessity. He is King. He has other sons--I have but this one!--therefore _I_ grieve."

For a second Babar stood as if turned to stone, then he answered almost sternly: "Maham! Thou knowest that I love Humayon as I love no other son of mine, because he is son of the woman I love best. Thou knowest that I have sought and laboured for kingship for him and for him only. Thou knowest--" softness had crept back to his voice--"Nay!

what need to tell thee, since thou knowest that there is nothing in the wide world I would not do for Humayon?"

"Thou canst do nothing! There is naught to be done," she muttered, still tearless, calm; and something in her pitiful despair roused instant response in his ever-ready vitality, and he threw back his head with a gesture of negation.

"There is naught I would not dare, anyhow," he said, "and what is dared is often done. Take heart! my moon! All is not lost. Defeat comes not till Death--who was it said that long years ago--Aye! Defeat comes not till Death--And even then--G.o.d knows--He knows...! He knows...!"

CHAPTER IX

"Death makes no Conquest of this Conqueror, For now he lives in Fame."

"Then there is no hope to save Death," said Babar sternly. He stood, his face blanched, amongst a group of Court-physicians, professional prayer-makers, astrologers, sorcerers; frail reeds at which anxiety caught distractedly in its despair. And they were all silent save a priest who mumbled of G.o.d's goodness. Prayer remained, said the unctuous voice.

But that strong human heart was almost past pet.i.tions; it craved something more tangible.

"Is there naught to be given--naught that I could do to make G.o.d listen from His High Heaven? Naught that would mayhap soften His hard heart?" he asked sharply: he was thinking of a ransom: many a soldier had had to offer one; he, himself, had given a dear one--once....

Some of those who heard, looked at each other. This death to them meant little; but here was an opportunity for personal gain that could do no harm to anyone. So they whispered among themselves, and greed grew to some of the faces that encircled the man, to whose face it had never come, once, in all his life. For Babar had been giver, not taker. He had lavished all things on his world; he had been spendthrift even in forgiveness.

"Is there naught, gentlemen?" he asked drearily.

Then the chief-preacher spoke. "It hath been written, and is, indeed, approved, that in such times of stress some Supreme Sacrifice to the Most High may be effectual--"

"But it must be Supreme," put in a coa.r.s.e-faced reader of the stars, his mind busy with money, "a small gift will not suffice--"

"Aye," added another voice. "Look, you! It must be the most precious possession of a man; that which he holds dearest. In this case I would suggest--"

But Babar, who was standing, his back to the light, held up his hand for silence.

"Then I give my life," he said quietly, but his voice rang strong and firm; for he had come straight from his interview with Maham and her words had roused every atom of his marvellous vitality.

"Yea! I give my life--for sure there is naught that a man can hold more precious."

Absolute surprise kept his hearers silent for a moment. The very suggestion in one so instinct with life, made it incredible; then dismay came to some faces, disappointment to others.

"Your Majesty!" began his faithful servant, the Wazir swiftly--"Our Emperor's life is too precious--"

"Naught is too precious, friend, to save Humayon!" came the equally swift reply.

"Yea! the Wazir is right," palpitated one who saw money slipping through his fingers. "Some lesser thing, yet still supreme, might be found. What of the Great Diamond--"

"No stone can outweigh my son's life. No! I offer myself to G.o.d--it is all I have." The strong voice rang firmer than ever.

"But the offering must be dear to both parties," put in a pompous voice. "And since, by the generosity of the Emperor, the diamond in question--whose value represents they say one day's revenue of the habitable world--was bestowed upon the Prince Humayon, it fits in double manner the circ.u.mstances--"

Babar turned in quick reproof and scorn to the speaker. "Knowest thou so little of love, friend? Lo! I am dearer to my son than many diamonds. Could he speak now--" Babar's voice almost broke--"he would say, 'I am not worth the price of thy life, my father, for it is all the world to me.' But he cannot speak! He is in the grip of Death, so I have my say!"