And thereinafter two whole hunts produced nothing. Whether it was a fresh fall of snow in the hills that brought ill luck Babar could not say, but he looked at his cousin with awe.

"Thou hast more power I verily believe," he said, "than the Dream-man whom Uncle Hussain keeps--"

"For his amus.e.m.e.nt," put in Poverty-prince with a frown. "But _that_ is black magic; mine is white. I do naught. 'Tis thy mind that answers--" he broke off and his large eyes--the only unmarred feature in his face--narrowed themselves to a piercing glance. "Wherefore should I not say it, cousin? Has it not struck thee, that had'st thou been born crooked and not straight, or had I been born straight and not crooked, we should have been as two twins? That is why I like thee, and thou likest me."

The boy sat and stared at him, almost incredulously. He could not imagine his youth and strength pent up in that prison of a body; and yet ...

Yes! without doubt there was some tie. Else why should he feel so intimate--why should he speak to Poverty-prince of things which every decent young Mahomedan was taught to keep to himself; for instance of Dearest-One and the possibility of her marrying Baisanghar?

The blood rushed to his face, however, with shame when he felt his cousin's hot, long-fingered, trembling hand close on his wrist in quick arrest.

"Marriage--say not the word! Dost not know? Nay--I forgot thy youth--and I will not soil thine ears with the tale. But we in foul Herat know most wickedness, most degradations. And there is that in miserable Baisanghar's life that bars marriage with any woman worthy the name. Aye! and he knows it--poor maimed soul enmeshed for ever by the wickedness of one who should have protected him--May G.o.d's curse light on him for ever. So think not of marriage, cousin."

Babar shook off his cousin's clasp haughtily. It was not that he resented having substance given to his vague doubts of Baisanghar--it was better to know for sure; but interference with his womenkind was intolerable. And he had brought it on himself!

"By your leave," he said with terrific dignity, "we will speak no more on such private matters. 'Tis my own fault. Such subjects are not meet for public conversations."

Poverty-prince lay back on his cushions and kindly raillery took possession of his face. "Not meet, sayest thou cousin-ling? Yet are they the best half--nay! the three quarters of life. Dost know that even to me, cripple, marriage hath played the major part?"

Babar's eyes involuntarily travelled over the distorted body, the crumpled limbs, and Poverty-prince laughed cynically.

"Thou art right, boy," he went on; "loathsome to sight and touch, what had I to do with weddings. But princedom weighs heavy with the pandars of the court. And 'twas done early. Mayhap they did not dream I would grow up so monstrous--as I did." He paused and his pale face grew paler, his hot fingers clasped and unclasped themselves. "Mayest thou never--nay! thou will not--see fear upon a girl's face. I saw it. Dost understand? Nay, thou art but a child still. Thank G.o.d! I did. So she waits for release by my death. And then--" He paused again and this time bright, cold raillery took possession of his face as he said: "Thou wilt make a fine bridegroom, cousin-ling, some day! Fair maids will not be alarmed at thee!"

"Likely I shall be of them," answered the boy stoutly; and it was true; barring Dearest-One, the stupid, mincing creatures filled him with dismay.

This pa.s.sed but a few days before Kasim, who thought his young charge had had quite enough of the camp, proposed starting homewards. There seemed no prospect of the campaign coming to a close. Quite a variety of strategical movements had been made, mines had been dug, forts besieged, but the result was nil. And time was pa.s.sing. Events had not been going smoothly at Samarkand, the moment for intervention might be near and Grandmother Isan-daulet had sent a messenger advocating return.

None too soon, for the very same day King Hussain's runners brought news of a conspiracy to turn out Baisanghar, and bring in a younger brother Ali-Khan.

"But he is not of the blood, either," said Babar hotly. "Kasim! we must go back at once." The desire for conquest was stirring in him once more.

"The sooner the better, sire," replied the stout warrior, settling his sword belt. He had wearied terribly among the smart soldiers and was longing for a real raid once more.

"To say farewell," echoed Poverty-prince, when Babar looked in that night at his cousin's tent; "I thought it was not to be for a week yet." And his hot hand clasped the cool one with a lingering touch.

"There was news from Samarkand," replied the lad, regret tempering the keenness which had come to his face with the prospect of action. "And, cousin, it matters little--'tis but a few hours' difference--"

"A few hours?" echoed the cripple, speaking, for the first time since Babar had known him, almost regretfully; "that means much to one who has but a few days or weeks to live. Not that it does so really, coz,"

he added, recovering his usual serenity. "And thou wilt spare me one of the hours? I dare claim so much of my twin?"

The pathetic playfulness of the appeal went straight to the lad's soft heart; he fell on his knees beside the cushions, then sat back in the Mahomedan att.i.tude of prayer. "Nay, brother," he said--and there was quite a tremble in his young voice--"say not so--I am but a poor creature beside thee. Thou art--truly I know not what! Sometimes I think an angel from G.o.d's paradise--thou art so splendid!"

"Knowest thou if angels be splendid?" asked Poverty-prince with radiant raillery. "For myself I know not--only this--that I shall miss my double--" He looked at the lad's lithe limbs, at his long legs, his great stretch of arm. "And to think," he muttered, "that I might have been born so--My G.o.d! to think of it."

Then suddenly he clapped his hands and gave a peremptory order to the servant who appeared.

"See that I be not disturbed--that no one enters."

He waited till they were alone, then drew something from his bosom and held it before him in both hands. It was a tiny crystal bowl scarce large enough for his finger tips. But they held the glittering thing lightly. It looked like a diamond body to two fluttering ivory wings, as he said slowly, musically.

"It hath lain in my breast, ever. I found it in the hand of death," he said dreamily, "but the Riddle-of-Life ends for me, and begins for thee. So take it, when I have told thee how it came to me."

Those ivory hands of his seemed more like wings than ever as, still holding the bowl before him, he lay back and it showed clear against the shadows of the tent.

"Thou knowest," he went on, "the graveyards of the hill-folk? Set on an hill and thick with iris flowers--the flowers of immortality--the green sword leaves guarding the blossoms, guarding the quiet dead below? It was the day I saw fear in a maiden's eyes--there was such a graveyard not far from her father's dwelling--he is dead now and she awaits the release of death amongst beneficent ladies in a House-of-Rest at Herat--and I bid them carry me there; for my heart was aflame and I cursed G.o.d for this carcase, seeing she was fair. So they left me there overlooking the valley, and when they had gone I lay amid the crushed iris and writhed--but of that no more. It hath pa.s.sed.

"So, suddenly, between my empty wide-spread arms and clutching fingers I saw something amid the crushed blossoms. It must have been a very old grave on which I lay, since the iris roots matted thick upon it as if to hide the dead that lay in the hollow of it; for the rams and the winds sweeping on that high exposed spot had torn the covering of soil from Mother Earth's bosom. What I saw was this crystal cup. Perchance it had been used when the dead was laid to rest, and forgotten.

Perchance some sad lover had set it there with flowers and tears in the poignancy of first grief, and gone away to love another. Who knows? The iris-roots had grown to a cup around it; twisted, white, iris-roots like dead fingers; and I took it from them. Take thou it, O Zahir-ud-din Mahomed, from one close to the Adventure of Death. I burden the gift with but one condition--if ever thou comest across a frightened maid--" here his whole face became radiant with smiles--"be not afraid of her. So take it cousin-ling. It is no cup of King Jamsheed to bring thee counsel in thy need. Yet it hath its virtue to those, who, like thou hast, have eyes to see. It can bring content."

Content! was this the secret of Poverty-prince's charm? Babar, bold, young, every fibre of him keen-strung for the Life, on the brink of which he stood, cared little for content. Yet he took the cup and looked at it curiously. Quaint of a surety! Taller than it was broad.

Small enough to lie in the hollow of the hand. The brim over-thick by reason of heavy bosses below the edge: five bosses like those in blown gla.s.s, but oval, like eyes. The rest faintly frosted by fine scratchings (were they without or within?--within surely) which, were they letterings, would need a magnifying gla.s.s ere they could be deciphered. But at the bottom, so disposed that one must read in drinking, these words showed clear:

"Save the cup of life, what gift canst thou bring?"

That was from Hafiz surely?

"Aye! divine Hafiz," replied his cousin answering his thought boldly.

"Now, hold it to the light, cousin-ling, and see its virtue."

The boy did as he was bid, feeling dazed and dreamful. A seven-lamped tripod behind his cousin's cushions had been lit--at least he could not remember that it had been there when he came in--Seven little lamps ...

Why! those five bosses were deftly arranged to gather the light and send it ... G.o.d and His Prophet! How beautiful!

Through the clear eye before his eyes he saw his cousin's face--all glorified--splendid utterly ...

That something which came to him ever with the sight of beauty, filled him with joy ...

But stay! the bosses must be magnifying gla.s.ses also! He could read something.

What was it?

_Ishk_ (love)? or _Ashk_ (tears)?

"Thou wilt see more clearly when thou hast learnt to use the five eyes of the soul," came his cousin's voice; "then thine own thoughts will return to thee from the Mirror-of-Life. Now put it into the bosom of thy fur coat. There is room there for it and majesty likewise. And now I will sing the Song-of-the-Bowl ere thou goest."

He clapped his hands once more, and the boy sighed and rubbed his eyes dreamily. Surely the seven lamps had been lit? But now they were not; the semi-darkness of the scent-sodden tent closed in on him, and that was his cousin's every-day voice:

"Bring me my dulcimer, slave! Lo! King-ling, it suits the measure better than the _cithara_ and I am proud of the tune! 'Tis my own."

So, after a while, the tinkling notes began, the voice rose plaintively:

[Ill.u.s.tration: Three Bars of Music with words]

"Clear Crystal Bowl! Thy sun-sparkles blind Every poor soul whose eyes seek to find Way through Life's wilderness on thy bright brim, Crystal Bowl!

What wilt thou bring to him, Darkness or Light?