It was a simple enough tragedy. Omar-Shaikh, his father had been feeding his tumbler pigeons on the scarp of a precipice which overhung the steep ravine below the fort at Âkhsi. He had been watching them against the blue void, throwing golden grain to make them play their antics, when the ground had given way beneath his feet and he had been precipitated on to the river rocks beneath. That was all. The little group of listeners showed shocked faces, but Babar, even as he heard the tale with dismayed grief, seemed to see the fluttering white wings of the startled pigeons, to see the startled soul amongst them, taking its flight--
Whitherwards?--Gone!... Never to be seen again! Yet how clearly he saw him now ... short, stout, a bushy beard hiding a humorous mouth ... the turban without folds and with such long ends ... the tunic all over tight ... how often the strings had burst and how angry he had been at consequent childish gigglings ...
A sudden spasm of remorse for idle thoughts sent the son's memory back to his father's kindness ... a good sportsman too, though but a poor shot with the bow ... still with uncommon force in his fists--everyone he had ever hit had gone down before father's....
The last word brought memory of a still dearer tie.
"My mother?" asked the boy swiftly, "my mother? How--"
Then the real meaning of what he had heard came to him. He gave a little short, sharp cry and cast himself face downwards on the sweet-smelling white clover.
And all the joy of splendid life passed from him.
Nevian foster-brother who worshipped him, went over to him and crouched beside him.
"It is God's will, sire," he mumbled mechanically. "Kwâja Kâzi says so, and Kwâja Kâzi is a saint."
But saintship did not interest that young human heart, face to face for the first time with the deprivation of death.