gathered up her flock austerely, the Lady Hamida and Auntie Rosebody lingering to discuss Prince Salîm's absence from the assemblage.
"He was not there! I looked even in the backmost row," declared the little lady in a flutter. "What thinkest thou, Hamida? Can he be in prison!"
"More likely sick in his mother's hands," replied Hamida coldly. "She was not with us either, and, didst see? They were feeding Prince Danyâl with sweeties all the time!"
"Trash!" ejaculated Aunt Rosebody vehemently. "What can they do but drink with sugar in their mouth from morn till eve? If they would but give the lad over to me----"
Here she gave a little shriek of relief, for there, as she entered the arcaded reception room, was the scapegrace seated sulkily among cushions.
"Thou--thou evil one!" she began in shrill tones which yet suggested endless excuses. "So thou hast been overtaken again, and in a public place! Why canst thou not be as thy great-grandfather was in his cups--but that is not edifying for the young. Ah! Salîm! Salîm! How came it about, sweetheart?"
"'Twas the meddler Birbal--may God scorch him," growled Salîm sulkily. "He came after his cub--else Khodadâd had stuffed the guards full of gold."
"Khodadâd! Lo! Tarkhân though he be, he should die for high treason. And where was it?--What? thou wilt not say. Go! Umm Kulsum and thou also Khadîja--go to the threading the beads. Thou shalt tell me, boy. Whisper it--What! Siyah Yamin's! And thou new-betrothed! Oh! had but thy father settled thee with a true bride of my race she would have kept--or killed thee!" She gave a little shriek. "What! Jamâl-ud-din--the scorpion! saith he hath married her--the piece! Shame! Shame!"
Then she suddenly put her head on one side and regarded her grand-nephew distastefully. "Lo! Salîm thou growest too fat. Wine and women will kill thee, and 'tis well that Birbal--mind you I say naught for him or against him, though he hath made me laugh often enough."
"He shall laugh on the wrong side ere long," cried Salîm savagely. "Aye! he shall learn not to jest at me."
The lively little face grew keen. "At thee? What said he? Come, sweetheart, let me hear. I will decide if there be wit in it."
"Wit!" echoed the Prince angrily. "No wit, but insult for which he shall pay. Look you, when the Hindu infidel interfered with sermons I bid him silence. 'Am I not King?' said I (as I shall be), 'and the Shadow-of-God?' 'No,' says he with that cursed bow of his, 'thou art drunk, boy, and the substance of a fool.'"
Aunt Rosebody attempted gravity; then her laughter brimmed over, and the whole room giggled in response, including the bead-threading girls.
"Oh! my life," the little lady was beginning when one of the women guards entered hurriedly, crying, "The King! honourable ladies, the King!"
He was amongst them almost before the circle of fond relatives about the young Prince had time to rise, so hiding him from view. For an instant Akbar stood to make his courtly greeting, then, seeing his mother's pale face light up, he flung his turban with its royal heron's plume aside--his shoes he had already left at the door--and so passing quickly to Hamida's side took both her hands and raised them to his head.
"Mother! I thank thee--for all!"
Her fingers even in his strong grip lingered there lovingly as if she felt the child's curls still; then she said with a quiver in her voice:
"It was nothing, son--the good wishes were more weighty than the gold."
He gave her hands a little squeeze ere he released them.
"Than the jewels, mayhap!"--here he turned with a mischievous smile to Aunt Rosebody who stood divided between joy at seeing him, and dread lest he should see Salîm. "For them I have to thank my aunt----"
"How dost know it was I?" she challenged furiously.
He looked at her with immense gravity.
"First," he said, "'twas the smallest hand in India! Next, no other woman could shy so straight. When one has played ball, polo, God knows what, in one's youth----"
"Calumnies! Calumnies!" interrupted Aunt Rosebody, her face puckering with amusement. "The Most Excellent's remark was truly scandalous!"
The word was unfortunate; it roused memories.
"There be worse scandals than that to the King's honour this day," he said, his face clouding. "Know then, Beneficent Ladies, that the son I have forgiven--how many times? sure it comes nigh to the Pâdré's seventy times seven--has been found drunk again in a common stew. And he is coward too; he hath not dared to face his father----"
He paused, his anger turning to ice, for Prince Salîm--to do him justice no coward--took heart of grace, and rose above the shelter of the women-folk, who seeing themselves no longer needed stood back, leaving the father and son face to face.
They were a great contrast. Both tall and strong; but the one all curves and softness, the other lean, sinewy.
"I was ill," began the Prince sullenly, when Akbar interrupted him with a contemptuous laugh.
"Ill? Hast not even a body for drunkenness? Go thy way, boy, if thou wilt. I have other strings to my bow."
"My son!" appealed Lady Hamida who, knowing the King's temper, knew that once lost it might carry much with it, "the boy has come to us----"
"And what does he here amongst virtuous women, madam, and how came they to admit him?" asked Akbar sternly. "Did I, son and nephew, even in the hottest hours of youth inure them to such insult? Go, boy! Go with Jamâl-ud-din, the exile, and his paramour. I have other sons!"
A blank horror settled down on the Beneficent Ladies. Never had things come to such a pitch before, and some of the younger women sobbed audibly. Only little Auntie Rosebody, with the courage of despair stood looking first at the father then at the son, regret, anger, irritation, showing in her small puckered face.
"Oh! my life! Oh! nephew Jalâl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar," she cried at last. "Look at him--oh! look at him! He is a fat-tailed sheep and thou art a hunting leopard! How can he race with thee? Give him time, nephew, give him time!"
Something in Salîm's sheepish attitude appealed to the King's sense of humour, a suspicion of a smile showed about his mouth.
"At his age, madam," he began sternly, the memory of his strenuous youth rushing in upon him. Why! at eighteen, dissatisfied with his agents of Empire he had dismissed them, and taken the whole conduct of affairs upon his own shoulders. At eighteen he had begun to dream. At eighteen his mind was busy with the problem of how to unite a conquered India; how to efface from it all memory of coercion, and make it look to him and his, not as to ephemeral conquerors but as God's viceregents, the upholders of justice, mercy, toleration, and freedom. At eighteen----
Suddenly he flung his right hand out in a hopeless gesture of finality. What use were dreams, even the dreaming of a King, if they were only to last for one poor mortal life?
"There is no end to the dreaming of Kings." Bah! The woman had lied. There was an end! An end to all things.
But the worst of his passion was over. He turned yet once more to his son and forgave him yet once again.
