Its snow-clad hills clipping it on all sides save the west; its running streams; its violets--so sweet, but not piercing-sweet like a rose;--its profusion of fruits! Truly, that way they had over in the township of Marghinân of removing apricot stones and putting in chopped almonds instead was excellent indeed--
"Most Mighty!" came a voice breaking in on his thoughts. "There is news--bad news!"
The voice was breathless, yet full of concern, and Babar sprang to his feet, alert in a second. A messenger stood before him; one who had come far and fast. And in his hand was a blue kerchief; therefore he was a messenger of death.
Death? Incredible in this splendid joyful world! A sudden surge of resentful life-blood seemed to stop the boyish heart with its tumultuous claim for free passage.
"Well?" he asked thickly.
The answer came like a blow; dully, yet with stunning force.
"Your father, O King!"
His father! And he, Babar, was King! In the rush of realisation incredulity came uppermost.
"But how--?"
He stood there bare-headed, unbelieving, while the others crowded round to listen.