"And to me also," answered the young husband sadly. Do what he would he could not escape from fear, the shadow of impending evil seemed to darken his life. He had to brisk and hearken himself up to face the future; for perilous times were at hand. The fateful seventh month, so much dreaded by Indian midwives was beginning; but his Yenkâm would be with her daughter in a day or two, they would together take Ma'asuma back in her litter to Kâbul by easy stages, and all would, all must, go well.
It was one glorious morning in early August when this feeling of ill to come, made him catch up his lute to chase away thought by song. He had carried little Ma'asuma himself down to the tank half surrounded by burnished orange trees which was the very eye of the beauty of the garden. They had dismissed all attendants, bidding them leave behind them their trays of sherbet and sweetmeats. But not even the perfect loveliness of hill, and sky, and garden, not even the faint flush, as of returning health, on the invalid's face could charm the splendour of Life into Babar's soul. The Crystal Bowl seemed dull, opaque.
This must not be.
He set the strings of his lute a-twanging and began--
"Clear crystal bowl. Thy wine bubbles laugh--"
The figure seated by the tank side, its reflection in the water, rose suddenly as if startled, gathered its draperies round it, so, with face averted, strolled off into the garden.
"There!" came Ma'asuma's reproachful voice, "thou hast driven her away, stupid!"
The young man arrested in his song looked hurt. "But wherefore? 'Tis a good song."
"Good mayhap," came the thoughtless answer, "but, see you! It reminds her of Gharîb-Beg who wrote it."
"And wherefore not?" asked Babar swiftly.