“Ay,” said Mujahid; “I should like to have a trial of skill with that sturdy father of yours. Do you think he would fear to encounter the strength of a boy of fourteen?”
“Nay,” said Musaood Chan, with a good-natured laugh, “the king’s spice-bearer could have no objection, I should fancy, in proving his strength to the king’s son.”
“It will be an unequal game—youth against manhood; yet I think I could make the spice-bearer turn his eyes to the sun without measuring my own length beside him.”
This freak of the prince excited the merriment of his juvenile friends; they expected to see their daring companion somewhat roughly handled in the grasp of Moobarik, who was generally reported a person of great strength; having been raised by the sovereign to his present dignity on account of his feats in arms.
Mujahid threw himself in the spice-bearer’s way, and after offering a courteous greeting, said, with a jocular air,
“Your son tells me you have so sinewy an arm that few champions in the wrestling-ground would be able to stand against you, if you were to condescend to encounter them in a trial of strength and skill.”
“My son says indeed true. I have on more than one occasion thrown the strongest men in the king’s army, and my arm has yet lost none of its vigour.”
“Are you willing to put it to the test?”
“I can find no worthy rival among my equals, and I should scarcely degrade my nobility by entering the arena against the hirelings of the king’s pleasures.”
“You need not fear to find a competitor of your own rank; for I am willing to try my powers and skill against yours, if you do not doubt your chances of victory.”