the left wing to bear upon Aurangzíb's right, which wavered, and seemed on the point of breaking, when reinforcements opportunely came up from the centre. After this the engagement became general. Dárá, towering high above his horsemen on a beautiful Ceylon elephant, led his centre against Aurangzíb, carried the enemy's guns, after severe loss, and routed the camel corps and infantry. With the shock of horsemen against horsemen the real struggle began. No Mughal Prince, as yet, knew the colour of the 'white feather,' and Dárá displayed all the splendid valour of his famous blood. Emptying their quivers upon the Deccan horse, he and his men came to the sword, and fought hand to hand till the enemy began to break and fly.
It was the critical moment of the fight. The day was going against Aurangzíb. The flower of his cavalry was driven back, and he was now standing with scarcely a thousand men about him, awaiting Dárá's onslaught. Never was cool courage put to a severer test: but Aurangzíb's nerve was steel. 'Dilí, Yáráná, Take heart, my friends,' he cried. 'Khuda-hé! There is a God! what hope have we in flight? Know ye not where is our Deccan? Khuda-hé! Khuda-he!' Thereupon he ordered the legs of his elephant to be chained together, to make retreat impossible. The mere order was enough to restore the ebbing courage of the few squadrons that still stood beside him.
A fortunate distraction at this instant diverted
