We know what Heaven or Hell may bring,
But no man knoweth the mind of the King.
That unsought counsel is cursed of God
Attesteth the story of Wali Dad.

"His sire was leaky of tongue and pen,
His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen;
And the colt bred close to the vice of each,
For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech.
Therewith madness-so that he sought

The favour of kings at the Kabul court;
And travelled, in hope of honour, far

To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are.
There have I journeyed too—but I

Saw naught, said naught, and-did not die!
He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breath
Of this one knoweth' and 'that one saith,'-
Legends that ran from mouth to mouth
Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South.
These have I also heard- they pass
With each new spring and the winter grass.

"Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God,
Back to the city ran Wali Dad,
Even to Kabul-in full durbar

The King held talk with his Chief in War.
Into the press of the crowd he broke,
And what he had heard of the coming spoke.

"Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled, As a mother might on a babbling child;

But those who would laugh restrained their breath,
When the face of the King showed dark as death.
Evil it is in full durbar

To cry to a ruler of gathering war!
Slowly he led to a peach-tree small,

That grew by a cleft of the city wall.

And he said to the boy: 'They shall praise thy zeal So long as the red spurt follows the steel.

And the Russ is upon us even now?

Great is thy prudence-await them, thou.

Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong,
Surely thy vigil is not for long.

The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran?
Surely an hour shall bring their van.
Wait and watch. When the host is near,
Shout aloud that my men may hear.'

"Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise
To warn a King of his enemies?

A guard was set that he might not flee-
A score of bayonets ringed the tree.
The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow,
When he shook at his death as he looked below.

By the power of God, who alone is great,
Till the seventh day he fought with his fate.
Then madness took him, and men declare
He mowed in the branches as ape and bear,
And last as a sloth, ere his body failed,
And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed,
And sleep the cord of his hands untied,

And he fell, and was caught on the points and died.

"Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise
To warn a King of his enemies?

We know what Heaven or Hell may bring,
But no man knoweth the mind of the King.
Of the gray-coat coming who can say?
When the night is gathering all is gray.
Two things greater than all things are,
The first is Love, and the second War.
And since we know not how War may prove,
Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!"

WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI

More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi, an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps, on his saddle-bow. He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety. A Maratta trooper tells the story:—

THE wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck,

Our hands and scarfs were saffron-dyed for signal of despair,

When we went forth to Paniput to battle with the
Mlech,-

Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there.

Thrice thirty thousand men were we to force the
Jumna fords-

The hawk-winged horse of Damajee, mailed squadrons of the Bhao,

Stark levies of the southern hills, the Deccan's sharp

est swords,

And he the harlot's traitor son the goatherd Mulhar

Rao!

Thrice thirty thousand men were we before the mists had cleared,

The low white mists of morning heard the war-conch

scream and bray;

We called upon Bhowani and we gripped them by the beard,

We rolled upon them like a flood and washed their ranks away.

The children of the hills of Khost before our lances

ran,

We drove the black Rohillas back as cattle to the

pen;

'Twas then we needed Mulhar Rao to end what we

began,

A thousand men had saved the charge; he fled the field with ten!

There was no room to clear a sword-no power to strike a blow,

For foot to foot, ay, breast to breast, the battle held us fast

Save where the naked hill-men ran, and stabbing from below

Brought down the horse and rider and we trampled them and passed.

To left the roar of musketry rang like a falling floodTo right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance

and blade