"Death makes no Conquest of this Conqueror,
For now he lives in Fame."
"Then there is no hope to save Death," said Babar sternly. He stood, his face blanched, amongst a group of Court-physicians, professional prayer-makers, astrologers, sorcerers; frail reeds at which anxiety caught distractedly in its despair. And they were all silent save a priest who mumbled of God's goodness. Prayer remained, said the unctuous voice.
But that strong human heart was almost past petitions; it craved something more tangible.
"Is there naught to be given--naught that I could do to make God listen from His High Heaven? Naught that would mayhap soften His hard heart?" he asked sharply: he was thinking of a ransom: many a soldier had had to offer one; he, himself, had given a dear one--once....
Some of those who heard, looked at each other. This death to them meant little; but here was an opportunity for personal gain that could do no harm to anyone. So they whispered among themselves, and greed grew to some of the faces that encircled the man, to whose face it had never come, once, in all his life. For Babar had been giver, not taker. He had lavished all things on his world; he had been spendthrift even in forgiveness.
"Is there naught, gentlemen?" he asked drearily.
Then the chief-preacher spoke. "It hath been written, and is, indeed, approved, that in such times of stress some Supreme Sacrifice to the Most High may be effectual--"
"But it must be Supreme," put in a coarse-faced reader of the stars, his mind busy with money, "a small gift will not suffice--"
"Aye," added another voice. "Look, you! It must be the most precious possession of a man; that which he holds dearest. In this case I would suggest--"
But Babar, who was standing, his back to the light, held up his hand for silence.