to the darkness, and his voice rose perceptibly. "Yet it came from thee, my cousin," he replied blandly, "with thy salutations. In a packet of silken paper--such as ladies use for their trinkets, and tied with crinkled gold-thread such as ladies use--"
"Yea! it was I, Mirza Baisanghâr," came a voice from the darkness; a voice clear, unabashed. "I sent it--I, the Princess Royal, so there is no need for fine wit to beat about the bush. I sent it, because--because my brother the King gave thee the horse and I was loth--loth it should die."
The voice trailed away faintly, and Mirza Baisanghâr's eyes brimmed over with soft mirth; while Babar, forgetful of all save outraged etiquette, said sternly:
"Sister! and I told thee to go."
"And I went," retorted the voice rebelliously, "so far as eyesight goes. None can see me and 'tis the woman's right to listen."
Prince Baisanghâr laughed aloud. "By the prophet! she speaks truth, coz; ladies have the law of listening all over the world; aye! and of speaking too. So let be, since we are cousins and free-born Chagatâi of the house of Ghengis."
But Babar stickled. "Aye, we are; but thou art not--not on thy mother's side."
"My mother!" echoed Baisanghâr, his voice full of amusement. "Lo! I admit it! On my mother's side I am beyond salvation, being of the wild Horde-of-Black-Sheep! for which may God forgive me since 'tis not my fault I was not born a White-Lamb!" He named the two great divisions of his Turkhoman ancestry with infinite zest, then went on lightly: "But I fail of myself in other ways--many of them. I made an ode concerning it, a while past, that sets Baisanghâr Black-Sheep-Prince forth to a nicety!" and he began airily to hum a tune.
"Sing it to us, cousin," came that sweet voice from the darkness.
There was a moment of silence, as if the hearer were startled, perhaps touched; then came the almost stiff reply:
"My fair cousin is too kind. The ode as verse is nothing worth. And its subject is, beyond belief--bad! Still, since she is Princess-Royal and I am but her slave, the order is obeyed."
So through the night and out into the stars his high tenor voice rose and trilled in minor quavers.
1. Some-times with pi-ous-ness I crawl
To-wards High Heav'n on whit-ed wall
2. Or rest a-while on tree or flow'r
And dream but on-ly for an hour.
3. Back to the dust and dirt I fly
Where un-sub-stan-tial shad-ows lie.
The quavers ceased, and there was silence from the darkness; but Babar's boyish voice rose cheerful as ever.
"'Tis good, cousin, and, in a measure, true. Yet need it not be so, surely. Thou hast no lack of parts. Who is more accomplished, of more pleasant disposition or more charming manners?"
"I came not hitherto to be catalogued for sale," interrupted Baisanghâr curtly. "Of a truth I am admirable. I sing, I dance, I paint--yea! I paint uncommon--I could paint one fair lady's portrait could I but see her--"
Still there was silence from the shadows, and a frown came to the laughter-loving face. "But I waste time," he continued, "and I have much to say, for thine ear alone."
He spoke to the darkness, and he waited, his face softening while a whispering sound as of light departing feet rose for a space then died away in the distance.
It was a good half hour afterwards that Mirza Baisanghâr, who knew his way well about the palace at Andijân, came with buoyant step down the spiral stairs which ended in a narrow vaulted passage that led to the sally-port.
His cousin, from whom he had parted most affectionately, had given him the pass-word, so, secure from molestation, he was carelessly humming the refrain of his own ode …
"Back to the dirt and dust I fly
Where unsubstantial shadows lie."
The light-hearted, cynical words echoed along the arches and on them rose a curious sound, half cry, half sob, followed by a torrent of hot denial.
"It is a lie! It is not true and thou knowest it. Why shouldest thou say such things of thyself, O Baisanghâr?--they--they--hurt!"
The young man stood still as if turned to stone.
"Dearest-One," he whispered at last, using the familiar name he was accustomed to hear--"Dost really care--so much?--And I--" he paused and a mirthless laugh rang false upon the darkness--"Princess--I cannot even thank thee--I--I dare not--save for the horse-medicines--" Here the artificial note left his voice and with a sudden cry "If I could--if I could, beloved," his eager hands went out and found what they sought, a lithe, warm, young body ready to his arms. But almost ere he clasped it he thrust it from him roughly.
"Go!" he said briefly. "Go, girl--and forget me--if thou canst. Yet remember this--if ever woman's lips touch mine, they would be yours--but that will be never--never!"
The next instant he was gone. Dearest-One stood, straining her eyes unavailingly into the darkness for a space: then she cowered down in on herself and sat shivering, her wide eyes open, fixed. But there was nothing to be seen in her heaven or earth: nothing to be realised, save that he would not even touch her.
CHAPTER III
"Draw near, O Man! and lift thy dreamy eyes.
See! this the ball; this the arena too
Where, mounted on the steed of Love, the prize
Is to be won by him who--God in view--
Strikes skilfully.
The Goal is distant; narrow too the Field;
Yet strike with freedom. God will send the Ball
Thy hand as sped in faith, where it should fall.
Backwards and forward strike and if thou yield
Yield cheerfully."
Grandmother Isân-daulet proved true prophet. Ere forty days had passed from that patched up peace, another hasty messenger bearing a blue 'kerchief of death had arrived at Âkshi whither the court had gone to celebrate the late king's obsequies. Ahmed, the King of Samarkand had been seized with a burning fever and after six days had departed from this transitory world.
Babar was sorry. His uncle, he said, had been better than most. A plain, honest Turk not favoured by genius, who had never omitted the five daily prayers except when honestly drunk. And that was but seldom, seeing that when he did take to drinking wine, he drank without intermission
