King-Errant. Flora Annie Webster Steel

CHAPTER I

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      " … for I know

      How far high failure overleaps the bounds

      Of low successes--"

      Lewis Morris.

      The fortified town of Andijân lay hot in the spring sunshine. Outside the citadel, in the clover meadows which stretched from its gate to the Black-river (a tributary to the swift Jaxartes which flows through the kingdom of Ferghâna) a group of boys and men were playing leap-frog.

      "An ushruffi he falls," cried one watching the leaper.

      "A dirrhm he doesn't!" retorted another who had a broad, frank, good-natured face.

      "There! He's done! I said so," continued the first not without satisfaction, for he was rival for championship.

      "Not he!" asserted the second gleefully as the stumble was overborne by an extra effort. "Trust him and his luck! He wins! Babar wins!"

      And Nevian foster-brother's voice was the loudest in acclaim as the frog-like figure with wide-spread legs, after successfully backing the long row of bent slaves arranged--with due regard to difficulty--adown the meadow-path, finally overtopped the last and with a "hull-lul-la la!" of triumph subsided incontinently into the white clover. And there it lay on its back gazing at the blue sky cheerfully.

      It was that of rather a lanky boy; to western eyes a well-grown one of at least fifteen, with a promise of six feet and more of manhood in its long, loose-jointed limbs. But Babar, heir-apparent to this little kingdom of Ferghâna was only in his twelfth year. His face, nevertheless, was extraordinarily intent, with an intentness beyond his years, as he lay silent among the clover; for something had come between him and his game, between him and the work-a-day world. Something that came to him often with the sight of a wide stretch of blue sky, a narrow stretch of blue river, or even with the sight of a flower upon that river's brim.

      How glorious! How splendid it was--this world in which he, forsooth, played leap-frog! The clover on which he lay, how sweet it smelt, how soft it was! It was just like a mantle of lambskin, covered as it was, till you could hardly see a speck of green, with its white, furry blobs of blossom.

      A lambskin mantle!--that was a good description!

      And the sky was like the turquoises that folk brought down from the higher hills in the summer when they were not weaving the purple cloth, which somehow always got mixed up in his mind with the pale blue. Why both recalled the multi-coloured tulips on the mountain slopes was a puzzle, except that one beauty recalled another. At that rate, however, memory in Ferghâna would be unending, for though it was, as everyone knew, situated on the extreme boundary of the habitable world, it was abundantly pleasant!

      The lad's amber-tinted hazel eyes darkened as he ran over in his mind the excellencies of his native valley hidden away at the back of the Pamirs.

      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.

      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.

      Meanwhile those others, the bearded nobles and broad-faced courtiers who had crowded out at the news, looked at each other in doubt.

      What had best be done? The times were troublous. Their new King was over-young. The King of Samarkand, the King of Tashkend, his paternal uncles, were already on the war-path. The former almost within striking distance; and this news of death would hasten, not retard.

      In such case, might not refuge in the hills be wise? At any rate till Kâsim-Beg, most faithful of Governors, and Hassan-Yakoob, wiliest of advisers, could be recalled from the front?

      But, while they still cogitated, Babar, who even at that age was not to be handled, rose suddenly, the tear-stains still on his sun-tanned cheeks. His voice, however, was firm.

      "To horse, gentlemen!" he cried. "I go to secure my kingdom!"

      He