There was a pause. Akbar was about to rise, so ending the ceremony, when down the wide centre, betwixt the serried ranks of the soldiers, showed a man.
He walked slowly, his head was bent, and on his right arm was knotted a blue handkerchief.
"News of death!" commented the soldiers, quickly recognising the emblem--"Whose?"
"Whose?" asked the courtiers rapidly, while Akbar stood arrested.
"Whose?" queried Birbal quickly. He had been busy all night; had heard nothing.
"His half-brother of Kabul," said Abulfazl sadly. "The runner came in but half an hour agone; and this seemed the best way of breaking it; the shock will help----"
"Now heaven be thanked!" cried Birbal. "Not that I do not grieve--for the King; but this may make his decision less final. He must go now for the sake of Kingship--but His Dream in Red Sandstone may see him yet once again!"
[L'ENVOI]
O Gardener wide open the gate of the garden.
Let in the rose from her long winter sleep;
Bid the tall cypress stand sentinel-warden,
Spreading soft shade where the narcissus keep
Heads drooping down in their slumbering deep.
Bid the shoot harden,
Bid the sap leap!
Gardener! array all with manifold flowers.
Figure the garden like damask of old,
Tell of its hues in the turtledove's bowers,
Gild the bare ground with the pansies of gold
Pomegranate lips, stained with wine have you told
"These are the rose hours
Nightingale bold!"
Lo! she returns with bud-cradle of birth
Rose of the wine-house she brings to the earth,
Drink to the Spring time, to Love, and to Mirth.