"The Most High is heavier than I am," urged an entreating voice at his elbow, "and it is my lord they want, not this slave whose horse is fairly fresh."
Babar set his teeth again; but he felt the truth of the words and exchanged horses. Jân-Kâli could slip aside down some ravine. They would not follow him. It was he, Zahir-ud-din Mohamed Babar, that was wanted.
Again came the plea--"My horse is fresher than the Most High's."
And yet again Babar exchanged steeds.
On and on, the horses flagging, followers dropping out, until but two remained--the King and his foster-brother Kâli-Gokultâsh.
"Sire!--you had best go on!" muttered the latter as his horse stumbled and almost fell.
"Whither?" called back the King bitterly. "Come on! be it Life or Death, let us meet it together."
And ever and ever, as they went on blindly, he paused to look back, to wait ...
And once, when he looked back there was no one near at hand. Only in the far distance, coming closer and closer, dark figures--were there two or more?
But now, alone, hopeless, the worst seemed over. Babar dug spurs into his horse, weary but willing, and was off with renewed vigour in his veins. It was himself against the world once more! He would fight it out to the end--the bitter end!