Now out of this arose a plan which came into King Humayon’s head, as so many other plans came, without very much thought; for he was full of kindly, not over-wise fancies.  And this one was that little Prince Akbar should choose his own mother!

It would be rather a hard task for a child who had not seen her for two years and a half, and who was but a baby of less than eighteen months old when he had parted from her!  But Humayon was convinced that his son would remember; and anyway, even if he did not, no harm would be done and it would be very amusing.  So orders were given for a huge entertainment in the Arta Gardens just outside Kabul.  They were the most beautiful gardens, not close cropped and orderly like English gardens, but with wide, bare, marble-paved walks and squares, big marble-stepped tanks full of waterlilies, all set in tangles of widespread roses and jasmine and gardenia.  And here Humayon’s fancy set up a Mystic Palace of three Houses:  The House of Pleasure; The House of Fortune, and the House of Power.  Never was such a beautiful Palace.  By day it shone with the reflected light of thousands and thousands of looking-glasses, by night it rose outlined in every detail by thousands and thousands of little lamps.  Every marble path was spread with priceless silken carpets, the very fountains were scented with attar-of-rose.  All the musicians and dancers and acrobats and jugglers of Kabul were commanded to be there, snow came from the higher hills to ice the drinks, and cooks worked day and night to prepare the most wonderful dishes.

“That is what I call a King,” remarked the Afghan sentry, whom Roy, going with his little master to see the preparations, found keeping guard at the gate.  “None of your skinflints like Kumran.  Aye!” he continued, seeing Roy’s look of surprise and distaste, “I have done what I said I would—­fought for Kumran till there was no more fighting to be done.  And now, like His Gracious Majesty King Humayon, I am enjoying myself.  I want no more!  Ha!  Ha!”

Little Prince Akbar, who was standing by, turned on him sharply.  “Thou art a slave, fellow, and know nothing of Kingship.  Roy and I do.  In his country Kings ride and shoot and play polo, and—­and do things.  Besides,” he added, “I want my mother.”

“Your Highness will have to choose her then, so I hear,” began the sentry almost rudely, and Roy started to rebuke him, but Prince Akbar was first.

“Of course I shall choose my own mother, slave.  She is quite different, you know, from any one else in the world.  Isn’t she, Roy?”

The Rajput lad passed his hand over his forehead.  “Mine was, Most Noble!  I should know her again if I ever saw her, but I never shall.”

“Say not that, boy,” said the sentry, who, despite his roughness, had a kind heart and was touched by the sorrow in Roy’s voice.  “I have an old comrade down Suryamer way and I will speak to him of thee and see what he says; then who knows but——­”