She was quite calm and collected to him; but she broke down a little to the Blessed-Damozel who somehow or another--why, folk never knew--was ever the recipient of confidences.
"Thou wilt look after him, lady," she said quite tearfully, "and see that he wearies himself not with over-anxiety?"
"All shall be as if thou wast here, sister, so far as in me lies," was the quiet reply, and Mahâm was satisfied. What Mubârika-Begum said she would do, would be done. Mahâm knew that; for she knew (what Babar did not) that Mubârika's life had been one long self-denial.
Years and years younger than her husband, she had left a young lover behind her in her father's palace when she had come as a bride to make peace between her clan and the King of Kâbul. She had chosen her part, she had respected and admired, in a way she had loved Babar; but passionate romance had never clouded her eyes.
"Yea! I will guard him as thou wouldst," she said again, "and mayhap in thy absence, and with this common grief and anxiety to soften memory, Dildar also will learn how good, how kind thou art, thou Star-of-the-Emperor's life."
But even Mubârika, so calm, so gracious, so tactful, could not prevent the mental strain from telling on Babar's bodily health. Prolonged anxiety, great grief had always prostrated him for a time, even as a young man; and now illness and hard work had aged him before his years.
"Would to God he could but drink a bit--he need not get drunk," wailed Târdi-Beg who, being tainted with Sufi doctrines, would orate for hours concerning cups divine, and ruby wines. But Babar had never broken a promise in his life, and was not going to begin now.
Besides, Mahâm had been right. Humâyon was brought to Agra alive. That was much. In the first fulness of his joy at seeing his son once more, Babar almost forgot anxiety.
"He will soon be well, dear-heart," he said cheerfully; "he does not look so very bad. When the fever leaves him--"
But it was Mahâm's turn to be despondent. "It does not leave him," she said.