"If Abulfazl has time for gratitude to his Creator"--broke in a voice polished to the keenest acerbity--"can he not find a better subject for it than mere man, even though the man be his father?"
Abulfazl turned in perfect good-humour on his bitterest enemy, the rival historian Budaoni, who, as opponent-in-chief of all reforms, still wore a beard, while his green shawl and turban showed him an orthodox Mahommedan.
"Not so, Mulla-sahib," retorted the Shaikh carelessly. "I will leave the remark as a Shiah[[3]] sin for you to chronicle in your Sumi[[4]] fashion."
So saying, he also passed on to stand beside the King, and, as Birbal had already done, strive to rouse him from his dreams.
"My liege!" he said, "the deputation from the English Queen----"
For an instant Akbar looked at him, resentfully; then the despotic finger raised itself, and Abulfazl fell back to join Birbal in failure.
From behind in the circle of the courtiers came an airy laugh.
"Will you not try, Oh! most learned! to rouse him with religion, since politics and art have been given congé, or shall I, as pleasure, fling myself into the breach?" said an overdressed noble with a handsome evil-looking face as he bowed ornately to the group of long-bearded Mahommedan doctors who held themselves together in contemptuous condemnation of all things.
"Where God sends meditation, Mirza Ibrahîm, He may haply send penitence also," replied their leader, the Makhdûm-ul'-mulk. "For that, we men of God wait with what patience that we can."
"I would we could rouse him," murmured Birbal, standing apart, "the generalissimo said true. He has need of all his skill--and yours, Shaikh-jee."