"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!

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

Above the dark Upsaras1 flew, beneath us plashed the blood,

And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed.

I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao; I heard a voice across the press of one who called

in vain :

"Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur, ride!

Mulhar Rao!

Get aid of

Go shame his squadrons into fight-the Bhaothe Bhao is slain!"

Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume

and spray

When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna waterhead,

Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks

gave way;

But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.

I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might

hold;

A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life;

But Holkar's Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold,

And like a flame among us leapt the long lean
Northern knife.

1 The Choosers of the Slain.

I held by Scindia-my lance from butt to tuft was dyed,

The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain

What time beneath our horses' feet a maiden rose and

cried,

And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from the twain.

(He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago, A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water

there :

He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her

woe.

What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?)

Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside;

He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and struggled free.

Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows ride

From Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we.

'Twas Lutuf- Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track, A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid;

I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia

called me back,

And I-O woe for Scindia!-I listened and obeyed.