She stood up, a startled look in her eyes. "Have I, have I made thee cry?" she said solicitously. Then she burst out fiercely, "Oh, if I were Queen I would have no son, no husband. I would be Queen indeed."
Akbar had stood up also, his face blurred by emotion, but strong and stern.
"I have to thank thee for the Truth. Strange I have had to learn it from a little maid's lips. Lo! Mihr-un-nissa, wilt thou not love my son?"
She shook her head, "Had he been more like----" she paused, and hung her head, shy for the first time.
He took her little hand, and stooping, kissed it. "And had the Queen of Women but been fifteen years older--thou art sure, child, thou wouldst not care to be Queen?"
Her face grew grave, the perfect features took on dignity. "Queen I shall be. The crystal says so. But not now, for I am too young and he would break my heart. Why should I give up youth?" Then suddenly recollecting her rôle of virtuous wisdom, she added solemnly, "But God alone knows what the future may hold."
When she had gone Akbar sate down, feeling dazed by the many unlooked for buffettings which Fate had given him that night.
To begin with, he had been within an ace of dishonour himself. Aye! there was no use denying it. It must have been unrecognised passion in himself which had led him into this childish, unkinglike challenge. And now had come this dishonour of degenerate heirs; for what use was there in dissociating Salîm from Murâd, Murâd from Danyâl? His sons were all alike--were they indeed his sons, these dissolute drinking louts?
He paced the tent almost in despair. Pride, anger, love, justice, tearing at his heart.
Yes, he must go! He must leave his City of Heirship for ever. He must cast off earthly shackles and live only for the immortal dream.