It was nigh twelve of the night, and Akbar was awake. He sate on the low divan which served him as a bed, and in a measure as throne also, when he was in camp; but there was little else about the magnificent apartment in which it stood to suggest the smallest withdrawal of luxury, still less of comfort. The walls were of the finest Kashmir shawls draped in panels between the parcel-gilt tent poles, and the floor was covered with strangely-glistening silken carpets from Khotan. A marvellous lustre of precious stones hung from the roof, and beside the divan stood the seven-light cresset stand, the golden and gemmed scent brazier, and the clepsydra with its lotus bowl, without which the King spent no night.

He was alone for the time, though countless guards doubtless stood in the vast city of huge tents which formed the King's camp. Weary work indeed, is it to even read the catalogue of such a camp. Of the hundreds of tents of scarlet cloth bound with silken tapes, fitted with silken ropes, some of which would seat ten thousand people. Of the great circle of double-storied screen around the "Akass-deva" lamp--the King's lamp that showed the way to God's Justice. Then the dais for Common Audience with its avenue of five hundred feet by three hundred broad, and its great circular enclosure of over one thousand feet diameter. Truly the mind wavers over the tremendous size of it, and refuses to grasp the possibility of a pavilion with fifty-four rooms in it!

Such, nevertheless, was the camp in which Akbar sate alone awaiting a favoured visitor.

For he had made up his mind to see this little "Queen of Women" with whom his son was said to have fallen in love.

It was easy. She was but a child, and he the father of his people. So he had ordered GhiÂss Beg to bring her to the camp privately at twelve of the night, when all was quiet.

Then, he felt, he would be able to judge aright. Since what was this challenge of his but mere childishness? Everyone, even Birbal, was keen to win or lose; but if he lost or won, how did that affect the truth?

Was Love powerful enough to wean SalÎm from his life of debauchery? The idea of it had not been; but the compelling force depended on the woman. Was this child of twelve----? Pshaw it was impossible.

Yet he must see her, he felt; for it was a momentous decision, not to be made lightly.

He rose, and walking over to the clepsydra, watched the lotus cup sinking with the weight of time.

So sank beauty under the weight of years.

And then, suddenly, to him came the remembrance of Âtma Devi. Ye Gods! if from the beginning he had had a mate such as she--a woman to whom the honour of the King outweighed the honour, nay, even the love of the man, he need not now have stood uncertain, hesitating whether to leave all, even his sons, to wallow in the mire of conventionality--to leave all, and dream out his dream of Empire in his own way. For he would have had not only sons, but heirs.

Should he so leave all? Should the morrow see the camp no more spectacle to the wedding festivities, but a real departure?

He could take her with him as an inspiration--the sudden unlooked for thought caught him unawares, left him surprised.

"The Captain of the Palace Guard without and the Chief Eunuch have urgent news," came the obsequious voice of a page.

"Bid them in," he replied, returning to the divan, almost glad of an interruption to what was disturbing in the uttermost.

"Dead!" he echoed incredulously to the news they brought. "The Lord High Chamberlain dead--by whose hands?"

"By mine, Most High," answered a trembling voice as the Sergeant of the Guard fell at the King's feet. "We had warning that the English jeweller was to be in Mistress Âtma Devi's rooms to-night at eleven. We went. All was dark. We found him as we thought, in her very arms. Yet when Justice was done and we brought the light, it--it was Mirza IbrahÎm."

"In whose apartment?" Akbar's voice was very cold, very quiet.

"In the ChÂran-woman's, Most High! Lo! there is some mistake, doubtless. Yet she was brought in by the Mirza's orders--she had the fairest apartment set apart for her and--and he visited her this evening--just after Majesty, so the woman said."

Akbar rose to his feet fiercely.

"What has that to do with it, slave?" he interrupted, his voice full of swift sudden anger, "go on with the noisome tale!"

"Of a truth, sire, there is no doubt lamps were lit and wine brought. So he deserved death, and the woman too----"

"Aye!" assented the King, "she deserved it more! Didst kill her too?" He felt outraged beyond words; every atom of his manhood rose in hot anger against the woman who had dared--aye! dared to make him think of things he had forgotten, when she herself---- Ah! it was past mere anger.

"Nay! Most High. She--she showed us the Signet of Majesty and so----"

Under his breath a curse broke from Akbar's lips. Aye! he remembered now! He had given her the ring, and with the memory came back such an impotent flood of pure savage rage as never before in all his life had he felt. The Mogul scratched showed the Tartar; for an instant not even his ancestor Timur could have felt more bloodthirsty. The shame of it alone cried for instant revenge.

The thought brought him outward calm.

"She dies at dawn," he said quietly. "As women do who sin in God's night. Bring her here, then. She shall affix the seal to her own death-warrant. Write it now, and lay it on yonder desk so that it may be ready."

"And till then, Most High?"

"Leave her where her lover died; being Hindu she may learn to follow him without fear."

For already bitter anger was passing; inflexible justice taking its place.

"His Highness the Lord Treasurer waits without with a dhooli," said the page once more.

"Close the screens, let no one enter. Bid the Lord Treasurer bring the dhooli to the outer tent and remain there himself." The order was given calmly, but he who gave it was in a whirlwind of passionate protest.

And this woman--this common strumpet of the bazaars--had talked to him of Love; had, in reality, set him on the first step which had led him so far from common-sense; which had brought him here to an interview with a chit of a child at dead of night!

A slim white figure parting the curtains which separated this inner pavilion from the one beyond, brought him back to his bearings. It was not the child's fault; she must be courteously dealt with.

"Wilt not unveil, my child?" he said gravely, "there is none to fear----"

"And Mihr-un-Nissa fears none," came the reply, as the cloud of white drapery thrown back, fell on the ground, and the girl stepping forward lightly from the billowy folds, stood to salaam.

There was a moment's pause; then eager, warm, came Akbar's verdict. "By all the Gods of Indra! by Allah and his Prophet! thou art beautiful indeed, my daughter."

A deeper flush tinged the rounded cheeks, but the girl looked frankly into the admiring eyes.

"I am glad."

Something in her conscious unconsciousness made him ask quickly, "Wherefore?"

"Because they call me Queen of Women, sire, and the Queen should please the King," she answered demurely.

"Thou hast a ready wit, child. Dost wish to be a Queen?"

There was not a trace of sauciness in her quick reply. "It depends, sire, upon the King."

Akbar felt completely taken aback; he recognised in this slender little maid-ling of twelve, the germs of something that might grow to greatness indeed.

"I am a churl, lady," he said at last, "to keep Beauty standing. Seat yourself so, beside me, and we can talk. Or stay!" A whimsical smile irradiated his face, he put out his hand to lead her to the throne-divan. "Sit thou upon the seat of Majesty, and I will sit at Beauty's feet. I have much to learn from it."

She did not even protest. She took her place with childish dignity, and waited for him to speak. Frankness seemed the only possible approach, so he plunged at once in medias res.

"Lady, dost thou love my son SalÎm?"

The cupid's-bow of her lips smiled over a cold definite "No."

Akbar's parental pride rose instantly.

"And why, prithee?"

The answer was nonchalant, uncompromising.

"I like not his looks."

"Yet he is not ill-favoured," protested the proud father, beginning to feel injured, "he is stalwart and young, hath fine eyes, and----"

"He is not so good looking as his father is--even now," said Mihr-un-nissa, sagely nodding her head.

"But for that 'even now' fair daughter," said Akbar nettled, "your compliments might make one shy! Then thou lovest Sher AfkÂn?"

The flush came again. "He is a brave soldier, anyhow," said the little maiden holding her head high.

"A brave soldier, indeed!" assented Akbar gravely, yet feeling inclined to smile, "but as for looks, hath he not a scar upon his face?"

"'Twill be a place whereon a wife may lay her kisses," retorted Mihr-un-nissa hastily, then grew crimson with shame at having inadvertently used an argument which had evidently done duty in sparring matches on the subject with her mother.

Akbar laughed out loud, then grew grave. "Of a truth Mistress Quick-wit, women are beyond men's comprehension! But we have been playing with words hitherto. Now let us be serious--let me see thy mind. Why dost not like my son?"

Instant, clear, decisive, came the reply.

"Because he doth not love his father."

"Wherefore does he not love him? What proof hast thou?" asked Akbar hotly.

Mihr-un-nissa's face had no pity, even in its deep unfathomable eyes.

"Because, Great King, he seeks ever to betray JalÂl-ud-din Mahomed Akbar. Oh!"--the words once started rushed out now like a torrent--"I know they say it is better Akbar should not know! I know how they all--even my Lord Birbal--keep things back, saying the King's mind should be tranquil. But it is not so! Kingship is the truth! Kings must know all things! There is the diamond--They have kept that back, I dare swear. It was stolen, Most High----"

"Stolen!" echoed Akbar stupidly, "who was it--who spoke of that before?" Then memory returning, impotent rage once more rose in him. "Well, what then?" he queried roughly.

"I say the King should know!" came the high girlish voice. "Pain is but a safeguard from ill. He should know, aye, and use his knowledge that it was stolen for the Prince--that he wore it in his turban and, that if it hath gone back to safekeeping 'tis not because of remorse upon the Prince's part, but because the King exchanged the Turban of Brotherhood----"

"It is not true," muttered Akbar, hiding his head in his hands. "Child--say it is not true." Something in him told him it was true, therefore he fought against it all the more fiercely.

"Will saying it alter fact?" went on the inexorable young voice. "My King, the knowledge of all this is to be King; ignorance is--is foolishness!"

She stood up, a startled look in her eyes. "Have I, have I made thee cry?" she said solicitously. Then she burst out fiercely, "Oh, if I were Queen I would have no son, no husband. I would be Queen indeed."

Akbar had stood up also, his face blurred by emotion, but strong and stern.

"I have to thank thee for the Truth. Strange I have had to learn it from a little maid's lips. Lo! Mihr-un-nissa, wilt thou not love my son?"

She shook her head, "Had he been more like----" she paused, and hung her head, shy for the first time.

He took her little hand, and stooping, kissed it. "And had the Queen of Women but been fifteen years older--thou art sure, child, thou wouldst not care to be Queen?"

Her face grew grave, the perfect features took on dignity. "Queen I shall be. The crystal says so. But not now, for I am too young and he would break my heart. Why should I give up youth?" Then suddenly recollecting her rÔle of virtuous wisdom, she added solemnly, "But God alone knows what the future may hold."

When she had gone Akbar sate down, feeling dazed by the many unlooked for buffettings which Fate had given him that night.

To begin with, he had been within an ace of dishonour himself. Aye! there was no use denying it. It must have been unrecognised passion in himself which had led him into this childish, unkinglike challenge. And now had come this dishonour of degenerate heirs; for what use was there in dissociating SalÎm from MurÂd, MurÂd from DanyÂl? His sons were all alike--were they indeed his sons, these dissolute drinking louts?

He paced the tent almost in despair. Pride, anger, love, justice, tearing at his heart.

Yes, he must go! He must leave his City of Heirship for ever. He must cast off earthly shackles and live only for the immortal dream.

Birbal's slim figure stealing through the curtains roused him to instant anger, almost as instant patience; since how could he judge of those bound by conventional standards?

"What now?" he asked briefly. Something uncompromising in his tone made the minister begin an excuse. He had been close by, and hearing that Majesty waked----

Akbar walked up and laid his hand on Birbal's shoulder.

"Lie not, friend," he said, "hath the stolen diamond been found? Sh! hold thy peace. I know the tale. A queen of common sense hath told it to me; and rightly told it. What, she said, was pain but a warning against evil. That is truth; but is the stone found? That is what I ask."

Birbal, whose jaw had almost fallen in his blank surprise, was on his knees, instinct telling him to attempt no excuse.

"Sire! I have it with me now. The madwoman Âtma Devi----"

"What of her?" asked Akbar fiercely.

Truth was the only resource, so Birbal told it. "She sent a message to bid William Leedes come to her at one o' the night in the Preacher's dhooli; and I, fearing treachery--for I never trusted woman yet without regretting it--went myself. For the safe-conduct given by Majesty to these strangers was a fertile field for the breaking of promise."

Akbar interrupted him impatiently.

"And she met you, where?"

"In truth where there was scant foothold for a goat," said Birbal glibly, trying to get through with confession lightly, "on the wide eave of the turret. Belike she heeded not the danger, being as she said, under sentence of death at dawn. And it was that made her yield the gem to me--'twas her last chance--for she held fast to her promise to give it to none save unto the jeweller's own hand. So she stood there, with death in a falter, administering fearful oaths and----" He had been feeling in his breast and now held forth the Luck of the King "here it is, sire."

In the light of the cressets, the gem glowed familiarly like soft moonshine; but Akbar peremptorily set it aside.

"Thou art under oath to deliver it to none but the jeweller. Traitor! are women to be more faithful than men?"

Birbal grovelled at the King's feet, but Akbar did not notice him.

He was dully trying to piece the parts into a whole, telling himself he would hear the truth when Âtma Devi should be brought to him at dawn.