It was a glorious victory for pure ethics and quite repaid Babar for having to remain for six weeks outside Samarkand. Besides, the peach gardens were in full bloom. It was curious going out into the pleasure ground of the city, to slash, and hack, and hew, and kill! But there was no other way for it, and many were the sharp skirmishes that took place with the townspeople where folk as a rule had been wont to disport themselves on holidays. But in war-time things got upside down; witness the dastardly deceit of the Lover's Cave where five of Babar's most active men were killed. Seduced by a treacherous promise to deliver up the fort if a party came thither by night, a picked troop was chosen for the service, with this result.

It rankled bitterly in the young commander's heart; he felt himself at fault for his greatest weakness--an inveterate habit of believing what he heard.

Yet he had his consolations. Day by day, as he waited, doing his best with the small force at his command to cut off the supplies from the city, the number of townspeople and traders who came out to traffic in the camp bazaar increased, until it became like a city and you could find there whatever is procurable in towns. And day by day, the inhabitants of the country around came in and surrendered themselves, their castles, their lands, high and low. Only the city of Samarkand held out. It was in the end of September and the sun was entering the Balance, when Babar, weary of waiting, made a feint march to the rear and the garrison of Samarkand, jumping to the conclusion that he was in retreat, rushed out in great number, both soldiers and citizens.

Then orders were given to the cavalry in reserve to charge on both flanks; whereupon G.o.d prospering the proceeding, the enemy were decisively defeated; nor from that time forward did they ever again venture on a rally. No! though Babar's soldiers advanced through the now leafless peach gardens to the very ditch and carried off numbers of prisoners close under the walls.

And still fair Samarkand stood secure. Seven whole months had the blockade lasted, and now the winter's cold was coming on to aid the garrison. In addition, the great Turkhestan raider Shaibani Khan was said to be on his way with a large force to intervene in the quarrel.

Both dangers had to be faced. Babar felt, in view of the first, that he must cantoon his men, and set to work marking out the ground for the huts and trenches; so, leaving labourers and overseers to go on with the work, he returned to his camp. None too soon, for the very next morning a hostile army showed to the north. It must be Shaibani, prince of Free-lances!

Nothing dismayed, by the fact that fully half his soldiers were away seeking winter quarters, Babar put the forces he had with him in array, and marched out to meet the enemy. Boldness met with its reward. Shaibani withdrew, and after giving the young King some nights of sleepless anxiety went back whence he came, and Baisanghar, disappointed in relief, resigned himself to despair and fled accompanied by two or three hundred naked and starving followers.

"In the whole habitable world are few cities so pleasantly situated as Samarkand." So wrote Babar when at the age of fifteen he found himself met as King by the chief men of the city, by the n.o.bles, by the young cavaliers, and escorted to the Garden-Palace where Baisanghar had lived. It was a great relief to him that his cousin had escaped, indeed he had taken no precautions to prevent his doing so. Babar's quarrel was not with him, but with his claim, and as the lad--for he was but a lad still--sat that night under the roof which had sheltered the deposed prince, he told himself he had been right when he had said to Dearest-One that Baisanghar would never make a king. There were no signs of kingship in that Garden-Palace. No plans or sketches, no dry-as-dust schedules. Not one of the papers and models such as he, Babar, already carried with him. Only a lute, a dulcimer, some dice-boxes. Not even luxury! Poor Baisanghar! Rightly had he called himself an unsubstantial shadow. His poetry was the best part of him; and his painting.

Babar sitting alone in the alcoved room which Baisanghar had evidently left in a hurry, lay back among the cushions of the divan and thrust his hand beneath them to adjust them to his head. There was something hard beneath their softness. He drew it out and found a small square frame. Of gold--no! it was green enamel and on it were set, like flowers, turquoises, rubies, amethysts, topazes.

Why did it remind him of the spring meadows about Andijan? The spring meadows set with forget-me-nots and tulips? It was a bit too dark where he was to see the pale painting it held, so he rose and took it to the light.

Dearest-One!

And with a rush came back accusingly something he had almost forgotten all these months of striving and stress. Poverty-prince! the Cup-of-Life! those bosses that gathered the Light and magnified what was written by Fate. Once or twice he had thought of it carelessly; but now...?

Why had the thought come back to him?

It was a speaking likeness. Faint-coloured, delicate as a dream.

Perhaps Baisanghar had meant it to be so. It was likely he did. Poor Baisanghar! For the life of him Babar could not help pity, even when he found the back of the frame was covered with fine writing--with verses!--not even when he recollected that it was to his sister that they were dedicated!

In truth there was little in them of offence, and Babar as he went to sleep that night, King of Samarkand, caught himself repeating them.

They were certainly very neat--very neat indeed. And now that he had had time to think, why should not poor Dearest-One see them? They had given him a kindlier feeling towards the writer, so why should not she...?

Why not, indeed! The Cup-of-Life held all things for all.

Yes! he would send, or give her the portrait as it stood. It was really an excellent piece of work; and the words were perfect--the construction, and the _grammar_ so good.

He fell asleep reciting them.

HEFT-AURANG[1]

THE SEVEN THRONES

Seven thrones and each a star Set in G.o.d's Heaven afar; Seven thrones and each for thee; Thank G.o.d there is no place Beside thy face For me! for me!

Seven sins! Ah! more than seven To cast me down from heaven; Seven sins; and each of me!

Thank G.o.d there is no place Beside my face For thee! for thee!

Seven stars and one a pole To guide the wandering soul To rest; but not for me-- There is no grace or place Beside thy face.

Ah me! Ah me!

[Footnote 1: The Persian name for the Great Bear.]

"Samarkand is a wonderfully elegant city."

So wrote its young King the next evening. He had spent the day in going round his new possessions and had found them to his liking. Not only was the little Mosque with its carven wooden pilasters quaintly beautiful, but the big one was magnificent with its frontispiece on which was inscribed in letters so large that they could be read a mile off:

"And Abraham and Ishmael raised the foundations of the House of G.o.d saying 'Lord accept it from us; for Thou art He who heareth and knoweth.'"

Then the gardens were a joy, the baths the best he had ever seen, the bakers' shops excellent, the cooks skilful. And the dried prunes of Bokhara, a fruit renowned as an acceptable rarity and a laxative of approved excellence, were to be found in perfection. Then there was the Observatory built by Ulugh-Beg, his ancestor, who had been a great mathematician. Babar had never seen an observatory before; indeed there were at that time but seven in the whole world, so it was an honour to possess one. He spent many days poring over its astronomical tables, trying to understand them; and finally put on a mathematical master, since no science could possibly come amiss to a King.

Meanwhile Nevian-Gokultash and Kasim and all the Andijan n.o.bles, bickered inevitably with the Samarkand grandees, and Babar found no small difficulty in keeping the peace.

Still, life was once more splendid; at any rate for the young King.

But the soldiers grumbled at the lack of loot. It was all very well to say that the country had voluntarily submitted and was therefore beyond plunder, and that from a city which had suffered the vicissitudes of war for two years and withstood a siege of seven months, it was impossible to levy anything by taxation. It was all very well to supply the inhabitants with seed corn and supplies to enable them to carry on till harvest time. But charity began at home, and home under these circ.u.mstances was best.

The wild Moghuls deserted first; then by twos and threes, the other men slipped away by night.

Yet still life was splendid. On those same clear winter's nights Babar could watch the stars with new-found knowledge.

"If the Most Excellent would watch the barracks instead," growled old Kasim, "it would be well. Our men grow thin. There are scarce a thousand of them left, all told; and new friends are not so good as old ones. The Samarkandis are doubtless fine fellows, as the Most Excellent appears to find them; but would they follow back to Andijan if occasion occur?"

And occasion did occur. A letter arrived from Babar's maternal uncle the Khan of Moghulistan who, urged doubtless by the deserters, wrote saying that as the former had possessed himself of Samarkand, it was only fair that his younger brother Jahangir, who, after all, _was the son of Omar Saikh's first wife_ should be given Andijan.

Kasim, who with his usual frown at all letters sat listening, spat solemnly on the ground. "Poison breeds poison," he said; "I deemed that talk had been spilt in the blood from Hussan Yakoob's hinder parts four years past. But 'tis never too late for mischief when women are left to themselves as they are at Andijan."

"But my grandmother is sagacious," began Babar.

Kasim shrugged his shoulders. "Saw you ever a woman who could manage a woman, sire? So have not I. Begum Fatima and she have been spitting at each other like wild cats, and what is wanted is a stick. Now, what is to be said?"

Babar spoke hotly. "That I will not hear of it! No! though I might of myself have made my brother governor. But of myself. This savours of command. He knows my men have gone back! I will not hear the tone of authority."

And Babar as he spoke felt himself tremble with anger. His voice was hoa.r.s.e, too, and his head ached. He had been sitting up all night in the Observatory to watch an eclipse of the moon, and despite his fur coat had felt chill; for February had brought bitter winds.

"So be it!" said old Kasim gleefully. He was getting weary of Samarkandi side, and foresaw more fighting now the spring was at hand.

Next day a special messenger, foot in hand from Andijan, found Babar in bed with a severe cold. And the letter from Kwaja Kazi did not mend matters. Briefly, the deserting soldiers, discontented, disloyal, were giving trouble, and if help were not sent at once events might come to a very bad termination.

That night delirium came to the young soul, as the young body lay fighting for breath against pneumonia.

The physician bled him, of course, and fed him with almonds and ginger. And they closed every door and window, so that the wood-smoke filled the room and such little lung-s.p.a.ce as was left. But splendid youth and health were his, and after a few days he lay outwearied with his hand-to-hand fight with Death, looking at the letters which had followed fast upon each other during his illness. And each brought worse news than the last. Andijan was besieged. Any moment his women-folk might fall into the hands of the enemy. He must start at once. To set aside Nevian-Gokultash's protestations, was easier than to rise and dress. Once up, however, he managed the council of war creditably, and for a day held his own bravely, giving orders for this and that.

A tall, thin, haggard young figure with sharpened features and eager eyes defying Fate; until suddenly voice left him, he struggled on for an hour or two, then lay unconscious. So weak that they did not dare bleed him again, but mercifully left him as he was. Only Nevian-Gokultash at his right hand, moistening the dear lips with cotton dipped in water, while Kasim sat still as a statue, the tears running down his furrowed cheeks.

Was this, then, the end of that vivid young life, the like of which had never been seen?

But the Samarkandi fellows who did not really care might go about the city as dogs, and yelp the news that Zahir-ud-din Mahomed their King was dying, nay! was dead. It was easy to see that this had been done, for hour by hour, day by day the Garden-Palace became more and more empty, more and more solitary.