Nor could he, King of Kâbul, retreat step by step like a lackey. He stood for a second gracious, debonnair; then with a merry "Your pardon, mother," wedged his arms tight between those narrow walls, so swung himself back. And there, in two such bounds, he was up the six steps and at the top of the stair.
"Have a care, nephew," shrieked a fat, familiar voice from the first bundle. "Thou wilt fall and crush thy Yenkâm!"
"My bridesmaid!" cried Babar joyously, repeating the pet nickname. "Say not so! When didst thou come?" And he was down the stairs again to embrace a favourite aunt he had not seen for years, and help her mount the remaining steps.
So, still panting, the elderly matron unwound her veil and stood revealed; fat indeed.
"Lo! Yenkâm," said Babar, his eyes twinkling. "Had I fallen, I should have fallen--soft."
"Fie on thee, scapegrace! God send thee not a skinny old age," retorted Habee-ba-Begum good humouredly. "But what of thy cousin Ma'asuma here? Ma'asuma that is like the fairy princess, weighing but five flowers--have a care of thy veil, child!"
The tiny little figure, slim and graceful, which now stood beside the fat one, apparently made a court salutation beneath her thick veil, and a bird-like voice said, with a laugh in every tone, "My cousin Babar, never having seen my smallness, Mother, cannot gauge it."
The young King returned the salute in his best manner. "If the gracious lady would allow me to judge," he began, when his Yenkâm cut short his hardihood.
"Fie! no nonsense, children! Ma'asuma! Follow me. Thou must be presented at once to thy eldest aunt. I shall see thee, scapegrace! doubtless, later on."
So, with a nod to Babar, bundled propriety moved off down the corridor.