His own simple turban with its heron's plume was in his hand.
For an instant Prince Salîm hesitated; the next his more elaborate one with its hidden diamond was in his. It could not be otherwise.
"So!" smiled Akbar, giving himself up as he did always, to imagination, to sentiment, to dreams. "Take thou the inner place, Shaikie, next my heart--my arms are longer!"
Long enough any how to reach round Salîm's less sinewy ones and place the tufted turban of Kingship on the young man's head, where being a trifle too large it slipped well down over the ears and forehead.
"Thou must grow to it, little brother," quoth Akbar in fond pleasure. "As for me I must walk circumspectly lest my brotherhood fall!"
And in truth the Prince's turban showed all too much of the grizzled hair.
"Ummu! I will go back and say thanksgiving till dawn," faltered Auntie Rosebody behind the screen. "Truly what is to be, won't rub out. The Lord had it in His keeping, all the time, and we were wondering which side of the wall the cat would jump! So the King hath his own again, and Salîm hath more grace than the scapegrace deserves. Truly you may toil and sweat. What Fate wills you'll get."
The proverb might have been quoted by many another in the assembly had they been able to realise at once the full meaning of the little incident. But a sort of blank amaze settled down even on those conspirators who grasped at once that the chance of immediate defiance was over. Mirza Ibrahîm looked at Khodadâd, Khodadâd at Mirza Ibrahîm, and their glances betrayed one and the same thought.
This was no accident. Someone had split on their secret. Who?
"Come, my brother!" said Akbar, taking his son's hand and advancing toward the marble steps. "Now that the conferring of titles is over, let us pass to amusement."