"Mayhap they would let me go," said Babar eagerly, "'twould be a diversion."
So he was off to lay his proposition before his Cousins; but they, afraid of their own reputations, would not suffer him to move. The fact was, as he admitted to old Kâsim privately, the Princes, though very accomplished at the social board or in the arrangements for a party of pleasure, and though they had a pleasing talent for conversation and society, yet possessed no knowledge whatever of the conduct of a campaign, and were perfect strangers to the arrangements for a battle, or the danger and spirit of a soldier's life.
This left nothing more to be said; especially as his hearer agreed with every word.
Early autumn, however, had passed, and Shaibâni, being a careful general, prepared to withdraw his forces against the winter's cold. This being so, there was no longer any reason--there had been but little before--for remaining in camp at the Murghâb, and the Prince-Kings proposed a return to Herât and invited Babar to accompany them.
"Were I your Highness," said old Kâsim sturdily, "I would not go. So far God in His mercy has kept virtue on the lips of the King, and kept wine away from them. But in that God-forsaken city of Herât who knows what might happen? They tell me even the women there are castaway, and that your uncle the late King's widow drinks like a fish--may God reward her!"
"I have never seen a woman drink wine," said Babar quite thoughtfully. "Have you?"
Kâsim looked at his young master critically.
"New things are not always good things, sire," he replied drily, "and, as was mentioned ere we set out from Kâbul, God only knows what may happen there if we delay our return too long. Already have five months passed and 'tis a fifty days' march homewards."
"Not if we take the high road," said Babar.
"The high road," echoed the old general; "that may be covered with snow any moment now."