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Updated: May 14, 2025
But she was only in a tent; a small tent, which had been pitched in a hurry in an out-of-the-way valley among the low hills that lead from the wide plains of India to Afghanistan. For Head-nurse's master and mistress, King Humâyon and Queen Humeeda, with their thirteen months' old little son, Prince Akbar, were flying for their lives before their enemies.
Here she gave a withering glance at the gentle looking woman who was Baby Akbar's wet-nurse, who, truth to tell, was looking just a little sad at the thought that her nursling would soon leave her consoling arms. "Heavens!" exclaimed the voice from within, "say you so?" And the next instant the curtain parted, and there was Queen Humeeda, Baby Akbar's mother, all smiling and eager.
Perhaps he did know, because he allowed Down's kitten to play with his tail! Winter passed to spring and spring to early summer, and yet no certain news came of King Humâyon or Queen Humeeda.
"The son of Humâyon the heroic, the grandson of Baber the brave could never be frightened at anything!" And in truth the little lad was not a bit afraid, even when a distant flash of lightning glimmered through the dusk. "Heavens!" cried gentle Queen Humeeda, "his Majesty will be drenched to the skin ere he returns."
But the nurses were women, Faithful nothing but an old soldier, and the two others were mere boys. Some one else must be left. Who? Then he remembered Foster-father, Foster-mother's husband. He was the man. Solid, sober, clear-headed. So, as Queen Humeeda was being hurriedly wrapped in a shawl by the two weeping nurses, he gave them a few directions.
And then once more pretty Queen Humeeda hugged and kissed her little son, and all the rest applauded him, and made so much of him that he began to think he had done something very fine indeed, and crowed and clapped his hands in delight. But the merriment did not last long, for there was a clatter of horses and swords outside the tent. "My husband!" cried Queen Humeeda in a flutter.
And when he stood up after his prostration, in soldier fashion he held out the hilt of his old sword for the baby to touch in token that its service was accepted. Queen Humeeda, who stood beside her little son, guided his fat fingers to the sword; but at the very moment a vivid flash of lightning made her give a shriek and cover her face with her hands.
In the first row, or the second row, or the third row? What matter? There is a glad cry of "Amma-jân! My Amma-jân. There you are!" And a little flying figure in rose-coloured satin has dashed across the floor to fling itself into the arms of Queen Humeeda. Little Akbar has found his own darlingest mother, and there is not a dry eye in the whole assemblage.
And by-and-bye came green crowds, every shade of green mixing and mingling in harmony. And inside the arched pavilion of the house of Good Fortune were green rustlings of silk, green shimmerings of satin as three hundred ladies of the Court, all veiled with green veils, took their seats in a semicircle. Three hundred ladies in green all dressed alike! Which was Queen Humeeda?
So the governorship of Kâbul was made over to a trusted noble of the Court, one Shurruf Khân by name, who was made as it were Regent for little Prince Akbar, who was left with his attendants in regal state at the palace in the Bala Hissar, while Queen Humeeda went back to India, taking Bija with her, on a visit to her mother's relations.
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