(THE Princess of this story was one of the great Moghul dynasty of Emperors in India and was born in 1639.. She was granddaughter to the Emperor Shah Jahan and the lovely Lady who sleeps in the Taj Mahal, and daughter to the Emperor Aurungzib whose Moslem fanaticism was his ruin. The Princess's title was Zeb-un-Nissa Glory of Women. She was beautiful and was, and is, a famous poet in India and Persia. She wrote under the pen name of Makhfi - the Hidden One. Her love adventures were such as I relate, though I have taken the liberty of transferring the fate of one lover to another.

For her quoted poems I use the charming translations by J. D. Westbrook, who has written a short memoir of this fascinating poet-Princess. She was a mystic of the Sufi order, and her verses, "The Hunter of the Soul,' strangely anticipate the motif of Francis Thompson's 'Hound of Heaven.' The poems not specified as hers are a part of my story.)

I

The office of hakim (physician) to the Moghul Emperors being hereditary in my family from the days of Babar the Conquering Emperor, I was appointed physician to the Padshah known as Shah Jahan, and when His Majesty became a resident in Paradise (may his tomb be sanctified!) my office was continued by his Majesty Aurungzib, the Shahinshah, and rooms. of nobility were bestowed on me in his

palace, and by his abundant favor the health of the Begams (Queens) was placed in the hands of this suppliant and I came and went freely and was enlightened by the rays of his magnanimity. And my name is Abul Qasim.

But of all that Garden of Flowers, the Queens and Princesses, there was one whom my soul loved as a father his child, for she resembled that loveliest of all sweet ladies, the mother of her father she who lies sleeping by Jumna River in the divine white glory of the Taj Mahal (may the lights of Allah be her testimony!). In the sisters of my Princess I have seen, as it were, a beam now and again of that lost beauty, but in her it abode as an unchanging moonlight and at her birth she received the name of Arjemand in honor of that beloved lady whose loss so clouded the universe that the day of her death is known only by its chronogram of 'grief.' And the child received also the title of 'Glory of Women' and such this Princess most truly was. Of her might it be said: 'For the mole upon thy cheek I would give the cities of Samarkhand and Bokhara.' And a poet of Persia, catching a glimpse of her in her garden, cried aloud in an ecstasy of verse:

'O, golden zone that circles the Universe of Beauty,

It were little to give the Universe itself for what thou circlest.'

Yet this surprising loveliness was the least of her perfections. But how shall this suppliant, who is but mortal man,

describe her charm? Allah, when he made man and laid the world at his feet, decreed that one thing should be hidden from his understanding, so that still, for all his knowledge, he should own there is but one Searcher of Secrets, and this mystery is the heart and the enchantment of a woman. For if she be called the Other Half of man it is but as the Moon reflects the glory of her lord the Sun, and as a wise Hindu pundit told me for truth the Moon has a cold and dark side also where alone she revolves thoughts secret, silent, and perilous. Therefore to sift her in her secret spells is a foolhardy thing, and not in vain is it written by Aflatoun (Plato), the wise man of the Greeks, that the unhappy man who surprised a goddess bathing in the forest was rent in pieces by his own hounds.

Yet this feat must be attempted for, if there is a thing it behooves man to know, it is the soul of this fair Mystery who moves submissive beside him and surrenders Heaven to him in a first kiss and the bitterness of the Hells in a last.

Therefore I essay a tale of this Princess, the Glory of Women, who was an epitome of her sex in that she was beautiful, a dreamer, a poet, and at times sweet in gentleness as a summer river kissing its banks in flowing, and at others

But I write.

II

Seeing her intelligence clear as a sword of Azerbaijan, her exalted father resolved that his jewel should not be dulled by lack of polishing and cutting, and he appointed the wise lady Miyabai to be her first teacher. And lo! at the age of seven she knew the Koran by heart, and in her honor a mighty feast was made for the army and for the poor. As she grew, aged and saintly teachers were given her, from whom she absorbed Arabic, mathematics,

and astronomy as a rose drinks rain. No subject eluded her swift mind, no toil wearied her. Verses she wrote with careless ease in the foreign tongue of Arabia, but hearing from an Arab scholar that in a single line the exquisite skill betrayed an Indian idiom, she instantly discarded Arabic, because she would have perfection, and henceforward was a poet only in her mother tongue, Persian.

On this jewel no pains were spared, for the Emperor desired that her name might be splendid throughout Asia. And yet he drew her limit and sharply. For in her pride of learning she began a commentary on the holy Koran, and hearing this, he sternly forbade it. A woman might in her own sphere do much, he wrote, but such a creature of dust may not handle the Divine.

I, Abul Qasim, was with her when she received the Imperial order, and saw her take the fair manuscript and obediently tear it across, desiring that the rent leaves be offered to the Shadow of God in token of obedience. But those deep eyes of hers were not obedient beneath the veiling of silken lashes, and turning to me, to whom she told her royal heart, she said, 'What the hand may not write the heart may think, for in the heart is no Emperor. It is free.'

Yet the Emperor made amends and noble, so far as his light led him. Not for a woman the mysteries of the faith of Islam, which he held of all things the greatest, but, fired by the praises of her tutors, he sent throughout India, Persia, and Kashmir for poets worthy of his poet-Princess, bidding them come to Delhi and Agra and there dwell. A fitting company he made for her.

So, veiled like the moon in clouds, the Princess Arjemand was permitted to be present in the great hall of the palace at tournaments where the weapons were the wit and beauty of

words, when quotations and questions were flung about as it might be handfuls of stars, and a line given was capped with some perfect finishing of the moment's prompting and became a couplet unsurpassable; and so the poets and the wits broke their lances on each other, and often it was the golden voice from behind the veil that capped the wisest, and completed the most exquisite, and recited verses of her own which brought acclamation from the assembly.

'Not even Saadi (may Allah enlighten him!) nor Jalalu' din Rumi (may his eyes be gladdened in Paradise!) excelled this lady in the perfumed honey of words.' So with one voice they cried.

And this was not homage to the daughter of the Protector of the Universe. No indeed. For death has not washed out her name with the cold waters of oblivion; and now that she is no more beautiful, nor daughter to the Emperor, her verse is still repeated where wise men and lovers meet in their own concourses, and the soul of the Hidden One, still beautiful and veiled, is among them.

It will be seen that her life in the secret Palace must needs be solitary, for there was none among the ladies who shared her pleasures. But she had one friend, Imami, daughter of Arshad Beg Khan, and this creature of mortality who writes these words was also accounted a friend, though unworthy to be the ground whereon she set her little foot. Day after day did the Princess Arjemand, with Imami, write and study, and the librarians of the Emperor had little peace because of the demands for the glorious manuscripts and books collected by her ancestors from all the ends of the earth.

Great and wonderful was the new Palace of the Emperor, with tall rods of lilies inlaid in the pure marble in stones

so precious that they might have been the bosom adornments of some lesser beauty, and there were palms in tall vases brought by the merchants of Cathay, which made a green shade and coolness for two fountains, the one of the pure waters of the canal, the other of rose water, and they plashed beside a miniature lake of fretted marble rocks sunk in the floor, where white lotuses slept in the twilight.

But of all the jewels my Princess was the chief. Surely with small pains may the Great Moghul's daughter be a beauty, but had she been sold naked in the market place this lady had brought a royal price. Toorki and Indian and Persian blood mingled in her and each gave of its best. The silken dark hair tasseled with pearls that fell to her knees was an imperial crown. From the well-beloved lady who sleeps in the Glory of Tombs she had received eyes whose glance of meditative sweetness not even the men of her own blood, excepting only her stern father, could resist, and of her rose-red lips, half sensuous, half childlike, might it be said:

Their honey was set as a snare and my heart, a wandering bee,

Clung and could not be satisfied, tasted and returned home no more.

Of the soul within that delicious shrine her deeds must tell.

III

So she sat and frowned with a letter from the Emperor in her hand, for again she was thwarted. She had desired to read the Memoirs of her ancestor, the Emperor Babar, and, hearing this, her imperial father wrote thus:

'Happy Daughter of Sovereignty, there is one manner of reading for men who are the rulers, and for women who are the slaves another. It seems you go too far. What has a daughter of our

House to do with our ancestor, Zahir-uddin Muhammed Babar, the resident in Paradise? He writes as a man for men, and what profit for a woman? Plant not the herb of regret in the garden of affection lest I regret what is already given. The request is refused. Recall the verses:

know, and my father might know, that to be so bitter a saint in our Moslem faith that he insults and persecutes all the others of the Empire is to break our dynasty to powder.'

The blood dropped from my face as I heard her because had these words been carried to the Padshah not even her

pride,

For o'er the dusty bones of men the creature of

dust must ride.

"What an Emperor writes is not for the Princesses. His duty is rule. Theirs, obedience.'

Her eyes flashed, and calling for her pen she wrote:

'Exalted Emperor, father of the body of this creature of mortality, be pleased to hear this ignorant one's supplication. I represent that you have fed my mind on the bee's bread of wisdom, and from your own royal lips have I heard that the words of our ancestor (upon whom be the Peace!) are full of flavor and laughter, generous and kind, shining with honor and the valor of our family. Now, true it is that I am your female slave; yet may this worthless one bear one day a son to transmit your likeness to the prostrate ages. And since we do not breed lions from lambs, his mother should carry the laughter and fire of her race like a jewel in her heart. I repeat my petition to the holiest of Emperors from his suppliant daughter.'

'It will be granted,' said the Princess, 'even for the sake of that last word the "holiest." He values that title more than to be called the Shahinshah. And with all my heart I would it were otherwise.'

'And why, great Lady?' cried Imami. 'Surely the Padshah is a saint, having with his own hand written the Koran out in full, and his deeds and words will illumine Paradise.'

save the Princess, and in the Palace a bird of the air may carry the matter.

'Yes,' she went on, laughing coldly 'Akbar Padshah had in all ways the tastes of Solomon the Wise, and his Palace of Queens was a garden. But observe! These Queens were chosen from every faith and each had the right (like Solomon's - the Peace on him!) to worship as she would. There were Indian Princesses who adored Maheshwara, the Great God, and Krishna, the Beloved. There was a Fair Persian who worshiped the Fire. There was But in the zenana of my imperial Father'

She paused and Imami continued, "The Queens recite the holy Koran all day as becomes the ladies of an Emperor who sighs for the life of a fakir.'

'And would he had it!' cried the Princess with passion, 'for every day discontent grows among the Hindus that are taxed, beaten, and despised because they hold their fathers' faith. Is there one of them employed about the court or in the great offices as in Akbar's day? Not one. Yet Akbar Padshah in his deep wisdom built up the empire which my father with holy hands destroys daily.'

'O, brilliant Lady, for the sake of the Prophet, be silent,' I said, for she terrified me by her insight. Better is it for a woman that she should not know, or knowing keep silence. 'If these words reached the Padshah

'What is the end?' whispered Imami. 'Misery for himself, though that matters little, for he will accept it as the robe of martyrdom, but ruin for the Moghul Empire in India, and that matters much, for the astrologers whisper of a great white race from the sunset who know all things but God and Beauty, and their heel shall be on our necks. Oh that I were a man!’

Her face lit up into such pride and valor that I also wished it, for I knew her words were true as truth. But in India a woman can do nothing, and I trembled for my Princess.

So I said, salaaming, 'Princess, when the happy day comes that you wed, you shall make your lord lord of the world with your wisdom.'

She laughed, but bitterly.

'I shall never marry, wise man of fidelity. I have had lovers, yes; for one, Suleiman, my cousin, son of the brother whom my father slew because he stood too near the throne. By report I knew what he was, but I saw him and spoke with him that —'

'My Princess, and how?' I asked in astonishment, knowing that his presence in the Queens' Palace was death.

She looked at me with large calm eyes.

'My faithful servant, have you been so long about the Palace and know not that all things are possible? Prince Suleiman was veiled like a woman, and I saw his face and we spoke together. Should not cousins meet?'

I trembled when I heard, for had the Padshah guessed, what hope for her? His own three brothers had he slaughtered and Prince Suleiman was doomed, if this were known.

'And he saw your face, O Brilliant Lady?'

'Not he! And not for fear's sake, but because I liked him not at all. He stood and sighed, and said: "O Envy of the Moon, lift up your veil that I may

adore the hidden lips like the rubies of Badakhshan, the musk-dark tresses, the cypress form. O Waving Willow of Beauty, be pitiful to your slave!" But I caught up my lute and sang these verses of my own making:

'I will not lift my veil,

For if I did, who knows

The bulbul might forsake the rose The Brahman worshiper, Adoring Lakshmi's grace, Might turn, forsaking her, To see my face.

'My beauty might prevail.

Think how within the flower
Hidden as in a bower
Her fragrant soul must be,

And none can look on it.
So me the world shall see

Only within the verses I have writ.

'I will not lift the veil.

'And the fool caught me - Me! and would have torn it. And when I flung him off he swore a great oath that sooner or later he would have my face to see and my heart in his hand. A woman in fury as in dress! A contemptible creature, though beautiful as Yusuf, and my own cousin.'

'But, Lady of Beauty, what had you against him? He is brave as a sword of steel.'

'Do I not know all that goes on in this city? Do I not know that the Prince spends his nights and days in Shaitanpur (Devilsville), the quarter of pleasure, and was I to show my face to a man reeking from the embraces of the bazaar? No. I am Makhfi, the Hidden One; hidden I shall be until I am won by a deed unrivaled and a heart unfailing. I shall be no rival to Peri Mahal, the dancer, and such as she.'

And, even as she ended, a low voice at the curtain that veiled the doorway asked admittance; the heavy silk was drawn aside and a tall woman entered. The Frincess scarcely looked up.