"The Kâzi was a saint," interrupted Babar with certainty; "I know it; first because the men who martyred him have all since died. That is one proof. Then he was a wonderfully bold man. Most men have some anxiety or trepidation about them. The Kwâja had not a particle of either, which is also no mean proof of sanctity."
Old Isân-daulet chuckled. "Then are all my family canonised," she said, "and Paradise will have small peace! But sing, boy, a rattling Turkhomân ballad and bawl it fairly, if thou canst, now-a-days."
But Babar had learnt better than bawling over in Uncle Hussain's camp, and though his grandmother shook her head over his rendering of "Toktâmish Khân" still 'twas a fine song with a good stirring chant to it:
The pale white willows grow in the sand,
Toktâmish Beg.
Choose one to hobble thy horse's leg
That thy bay steed stand.
Thy red blood drips on the yellow sand,
Toktâmish Khân.
Wilt bind his wound, wife of Mirza Jân
With thy jewelled hand?
The wound is doleful, the kiss was sweet
Toktâmish Kull.
Which poison, man! makes thine eyes so dull
And thy breath so fleet?
Oh! my bay horse neighed when I did sing,
And Mir Jân's wife
Swore she would love me all my life
And gave me a ring.
Thy steed will find him a rider soon
And fair Narghiss
Will have a new lover to cuddle and kiss
Ere another moon.
But thy mother is old; she has lost her brave
Toktâmish Khân;
Let her carry her sheaf to Death's wide barn
And dig her a grave!
The firelight danced on the young face as it sang cheerily. The Khânum, his mother, wept unobtrusively at the thought of what she would do if her young brave were to die. Old Isân-daulet beat time with precision; Dearest-One smiled gently; but Nevian-Gokultâsh--the Heart-of-Stone--held up his finger.