"Now! Most-Clement!" palpitated Ali-Kool.
"Deg Ghâzi!" came Babar's full voice; the which being interpreted means Holy-Victorious-Pot. A yell of clamouring voices, a clash of implements half-drowned the christening.
Then like streaks of light the molten metal crept with slow swiftness, gathering speed as it flowed, bringing with it fierce, almost unbearable heat. The mould filled--half-full--three-quarters--
And then? Then the metal ceased to run. There was no more in the furnaces...!
Ali-Kool was like one demented.
"Hold the man," shouted Babar, whose eyes were ever alert for other people as well as himself, "or he will do himself a mischief!"
And indeed it was time! Poor Ali-Kool was on the edge of the mould as if about to throw himself into the molten metal, waving his arms about wildly, and calling High Heaven to witness that it ought not, it could not, have occurred. And Babar's kindly touch on his shoulder, his kindly words--"Nay, Master-jee, such things do happen at times to the best of us," only brought grief and shame to strengthen anger. He was disgraced--he had disgraced the Emperor ...
"Not one whit!" laughed Babar. "And as for thee--here! Slaves! Bring quick a robe of honour--the best! and here, where the misadventure--they are sent by God, remember, O Ali-Kool!--occurred will I invest thee and make thee noble!"
It was a fine group. The kingly figure so full of human sympathy, the broken-hearted artificer smiling perforce a watery smile, the crowding workmen, the insouciant courtiers, both full of approval. And tuning all to the perfect harmony of true Life, the appeal to that which lies beyond chance and misadventure.
"Lo! His Majesty hath the touch of consolation to perfection," said Târdi-Beg.