Ghyas-ud-din Tughlak, the Moghul, had heard of the beauty of the daughters of Rana-Mal-Bhatti, the Rajput: and he wished a Rajput princess for the wife of his brother Rajab.

But when he sent to ask this, Rana Mal made a haughty answer—“No daughter of the Moon could wed with a slayer of cows.”

Then Tughlak demanded at once, and in cash, a whole year’s tribute to be paid to Delhi. And Rana Mal was sad, for though the people stripped themselves bare, it would not be easy.

And the sound of the people’s crying reached the ears of Rana Mal’s old mother, who came to her son’s house weeping, with unbound hair, to plead for the people. And as she came Naila, the most beautiful of Rana Mal’s daughters, saw her and ran to open the door to her.

“Why weeps my grandmother?” asked Naila.

“Because of you,” said the old woman. “The Turk is taxing our people, because your father will not give you in marriage to the Turk as he desires.”

“If to give me to the Turk will save our people,” said Naila, “send me at once, grandmother. Think only that the robber Turks have carried off one of your jewels.” So did Naila give herself for her country.

And afterwards her only son Firoz Shah served his people in the same spirit. He was loved by them all. Cruelty gave place to kindness, taking to giving, hating to loving—and for thirty-seven years there was peace and prosperity and goodwill in Delhi.

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