"Account as wind or dust
The world's pleasures and pain.
Be not raised up or crushed
By its good or its bane.
As a mere throw of dice
Is the life of a man.
Fortune goes in a trice,
Just a flash in the pan.
Take then a cup of wine,
Drink it down to the dregs,
And don't grumble or whine,
'Tis but the fool who begs."
His voice failed him when he had got so far. He sat solemn-drunk gazing at Canopus, wondering how many years ago it was since he had first seen it from the top of the Pass.
How clear, how cold the night-air had been. How the star had sparkled! How the glad life in him had answered to the thrill of that distant, heaven-sent, throbbing light ...
Well! The night was as clear, as cold now. The stars?--how they sparkled and shone, all colours like jewels ...
Yes! all things were the same except himself ...
"Gentlemen!" he said suddenly, rising unsteadily to his feet, "I give you leave. I--I go to my bed."
But he was up before dawn next day to see Ali-Kool put the final touches to the great gun he had been making. For, after all, the casting had been a success, needing only a little alteration to make it perfect. In the afternoon it was tested, and threw one-thousand-six-hundred good paces, which was not so bad.
And all Agra was in a turmoil of preparation for the coming march; but there was so much to be done that a few days passed before Babar, at the head of all his available troops, moved out in battle array to occupy the rising ground at Sikri, where the huge tank promised abundance of water. He had been in a fever of impatience to get there, lest the Pagans, also seeing its many advantages as a camping ground, might forestall him. But the 17th of February found him preparing for the biggest battle of his life in the very place where his grandson Akbar was, in after years, to build his Town-of-Victory.