Part 42 (1/2)

”I came hither, Most-Clement, with the wine camels, being minded to give the benefit of my science to His Majesty and His Majesty's soldiers.”

”Science!” echoed Babar hotly; ”thou meanest lies.”

”The stars cannot lie,” began the soothsayer, but Babar in a perfect pa.s.sion of wrath had him by the throat.

”Here! guards! seize this rascally fellow,” he cried, then hesitated.

”No!” he went on, loosing his hold and flinging the man from him in contempt. ”Let him go! Punishment would but invite credence. But mark my words, villainous soothsayer! if any more be heard of this opposition of Mars--” He paused again and this time burst into bitter laughter. ”No! Let these men sup their fill of horrors if they wish it--but they shall hear me first.”

He turned to his soldiers and stretched out his right hand in appeal.

”Men! I have led you all these years. Have I led you into more danger than brave men dare face? Aye, once! for thou, O Shums.h.i.+r--” his quick eye had seized on an old veteran--”wert with me even then! Aye! once at Samarkand when Babar got the worst beating of his life--when Babar fled like a rat to his hole, starved for six months and escaped with bare life--but--but not with honour--No! with dishonour!” His voice had risen and almost broke over the last word from sheer stress of emotion. ”And wherefore was I beaten?” he went on more calmly; ”because I fought on star-craft, because the stars lied to me. They said I would win and I was beat! So! set the snivelling sayings of that silly worm against the experience of Babar, your leader, if you will. But you will not! You will leave jugglery and devils'-craft to your foes the Pagans; for the trust of the true Moslem is in the Most High G.o.d--_Allah-hu-Akbar!_”

He gave the cry of faith from full lungs and it was echoed by the men.

For the time he had scotched fear; but only for a time. The astrologer was at worst a diversion in the long weariness of waiting, and round the camp fires the soldiers talked of nothing else.

”Lo! he is good prophet,” said one; ”he told my wife's sister her son would die and he did.”

”And 'tis all well enough to call it devils'-craft,” put in another, ”but who made the stars, save G.o.d?”

”And to what use were they made?” asked a third argumentatively, ”save to guide men aright? There is no other good in them.”

This proposition was so palpably true to the knowledge of those days that even Babar himself had no weapon against the argument. Nor could any deny that Mars was in the ascendant in the West!

The Emperor as he sat wearied out with anger and irritation could see it for himself s.h.i.+ning red; steadily, placidly red.

”Oh! for G.o.d's sake, gentlemen!” he said captiously when he had exhausted every argument he could think of to allay the evident alarm even of his highest n.o.bles, ”let us leave it hanging in the heavens and get to Paradise ourselves. Cup-bearer! the new Ghazni wine. That may help us to forget foolery. Mayhap it would have been better to have brained the knave on the spot--but a man can but do his best.”

He drained his cup to the lees, held it out for more, and called for a song.

”Thank G.o.d for wine!” he muttered under his breath as he felt the fumes rising to his brain.

Never had merriment been more fast and furious; never had Babar drunk more recklessly.

Song after song rent the night air, mingled with outcries and loud laughter; but there was sufficient decorum left for comparative silence when the Emperor himself lifted up his voice in ”The Buss”; a favourite Turkhoman ditty. It had rather a quaint, plaintive tune, and a catching refrain which was duly bellowed by the others.

”He (his moustache twirled) called to her aloud, 'Give me a buss, la.s.s! Lo! your lips are red.'

She (her bright hair curled) spoke him back full proud, 'Give me a gold piece, merry sir,' she said.

'Merry sir,' she said, etc.

'La.s.s! I would give thee golden fee galore, But my purse, alas! is in wallet tan Of the saddle bag my swift camel bore, And, see you, my dear, that's still at Karuwan, Still at Karuwan,' etc.

'Lad! I would buss you, were my lips but free, Only, as you see, they won't ope a span, Mother locked my teeth! Mother keeps the key, Mother (like thy camel) 's still at Karuwan, Still at Karuwan.

Mother (like thy camel) 's still at Karuwan.'”

The endless refrain went on and on sillily, mingled with the tw.a.n.ging of the _citharas_ and boisterous laughter.

It was a roaring night, and Babar, for once blind-drunk, fell asleep at last among his cus.h.i.+ons. The others had been carried back to their several tents, so, when he roused to the crow of a c.o.c.k he was alone save for drowsy servants.

But half-sober, he sat up and listened gravely.