"Your Majesty!" faltered a breathless messenger, rushing into the Presence unceremoniously--all Agra was on the qui vive, and this was no time for the delay of etiquette--"Her Highness is on the road--four miles out--I have just passed Her--"
Babar stood up dazed. Mahâm! To fling his pen aside and start was instant. No time for a horse, not even for shoes. As he was, bareheaded, in his slipper shoon, he was out. In the dust under the stars he ran, and with God only knows what star-drift and dust-atoms in his brain. Earth there might have been, but of a surety there was heaven also.
Canopus of Victory shone to the South; the Warrior, perchance, showed to the North. But he saw neither. Venus shone like a young moon but cast no shadow on his path. And down the straight dusty road came a litter jingling as it jolted. He laughed aloud in his joy as he sprinted the last few yards.
"Mahâm! Mahâm!"
For the rest, what does it matter? Let those two keep it to themselves for all time and eternity.
"My lord! let me descend and walk, too," faltered Mahâm after a bit, but he shook his head lightly.
"Nay, my moon--that would delay us and thou must get home--home?--God! what delight! Now then, ye bearers, a good foot first, or the King will do gangleader and make the pace!"
His joyous threat roused instant laugh, and with a will, the tired men set off at an amble, chanting in time to their steps. At every minute nobles, apprised of the unexpected arrival, came galloping up, to fall into the tail of the little procession after vain efforts to make the Emperor take their horses. But Babar would none of them. He wanted to hold his wife's hand as he strode beside her and hear her sweet familiar voice saying "Yea" and "Nay" to the torrent of his words.
They crossed the river, and were in Hesht-Bishist. That is all there is to say; that is all we know.
Except that ere the blessed night was over Babar wrote in his diary: