"I wish thou had'st known Cousin Gharîb," he said suddenly, causelessly. "He would have understood. I cannot--not yet."
Then he turned and left her. What was the use of trying to comfort anyone when you did not know the cause of their sorrow? And Joy and Grief, Life and Death had to come if one were to live.
Then life was so full just at the present. The very story of Baisanghâr's escape was enough to make one's heart beat. Under sentence of death, and such a death! To be taken with pomp and ceremony to the foot of the throne in the Gokserai--the Green-palace--that wonderful palace, four stories high, built by the Great Timur in the citadel, where every kingly descendant of his must be enthroned, where every kingly descendant of his must die--and there to be strangled! With that before him, to have the nerve in a few minutes to unbrick a closed door, run to the bastion, fling himself over the parapet wall, and so find shelter in Kwâja Kwârka's house--the holiest man in the city! A thousand pities, indeed, that Baisanghâr had sunk so low. Aye! Dearest-One was right. One could condemn the sin, and yet do justice to the sinner. Yet there was a lack of kingliness too that was inexcusable. To allow his brother Ali to escape also was perhaps to err on the side of mercy, but to submit to be beaten by him in battle immediately afterwards was distinctly unnecessary!
It complicated matters, too, most dreadfully. For here was Baisanghâr, acclaimed by the people, more or less imprisoned in the City of Samarkand, and Ali-Mirza, nominated by the Court, beleaguering him from the Bokhâra side, while Khosrau Shâh, relieved from the necessity of defending Hissâr for his nincompoop by the withdrawal of Sultan Hussain back to Khorasân, was hastening all he knew to put in his oar for his nominee from the Hissâr side!
This being so, and neither of the three claimants having a shadow of right beside his, Babar's, there was nothing for it, but to be on the spot at once.
So kettledrums were beat and pennons unfurled, while Nevian-Gokultâsh saw to his young master's coat of mail, and the latter pored over the memoirs of his great ancestor Timur to see what wrinkles he could pick up in regard to the disposition of troops in a real fine fight; for, being a born general, he was dissatisfied with what he had seen, even with Uncle Hussain's smart soldiers.
Only Dearest-One took no interest in the military preparations; she embroidered no flag with crinkled gold. She sat on the roof and watched the young King ride out in all his bravery and then she prayed God for his safety, and also for the safety of that other one, who deserved none.
And, for a time, both her prayers were answered. The summer passed on to winter and still Samarkand, the protected city that has never really fallen, sat gaily secure in its wide suburbs and vast network of fortified gardens. Scarcity, indeed, pressed harder outside the walls than within. Then the nincompoop whose only object apparently in advancing on Samarkand had been to pursue his mistress, the daughter of a high Court official, succeeded in marrying her, and so retreated.
Thus Babar found himself confronting Baisanghâr supported by the populace, and Ali by the Court. They waited and looked at each other for some time; and then one morning, after preliminaries, Babar moved his army some twelve miles down the right bank of the river Kohik, and Ali-Mirza moved his down the left. So, with their armies behind them (though it would seem, somewhat helpless either for support or protection) the two young Princes each with five followers rode from their own side to the middle of the stream and with the chill water just touching their horses' bellies, agreed that if the summer came again they would harry Samarkand together.
After which solemn ceremonial Ali returned to his side of the river, and Babar to his; whence he set off to Ferghâna.