CHAPTER III.
At midnight the granddaughter of Bistamia entered the dreary vestibule, and approaching the prisoner, he immediately released himself from his bonds. Several fakeers were sleeping in a distant part of the chamber, and among them the fanatic who had passed the red-hot iron through his cheek. The captive had scarcely cast aside his chains, when the fakeer started to his feet, and rushed forward like a demon. His appearance was beyond description hideous. The wound in his tongue, in which the iron rod was still fixed, prevented him from articulating; thus his efforts to speak were followed by unintelligible sounds, so discordant, that they seemed to come from the throat of some monstrous wild beast yet unknown to man. His eyes flashed with the lurid glow of a live coal, dimmed by the cold air, and the fires of which are fast fading. Some half-consumed logs still burnt upon the floor, where they had been kindled to prepare the evening’s meal as before, and afforded sufficient light to show the ferocious aspect of this truculent visionary. He seized the trembling girl in his arms, for this was the monster to whose embraces she was to be devoted by her grandmother, and was about to bear her off, when the Mogul raised his chain, and, hitting him with all his force upon the temple, struck him to the earth. The wretched man gave a horrible howl as he fell; this was accompanied with a smothered groan, and all was still. The floor was almost instantly covered with his blood. The temporal artery had been divided with the force of the blow, and he lay dead before his intended victims.
The other fakeers had by this time advanced and seized the prisoner, who prostrated two of the fanatics with his chain before they could succeed in binding him. Bistamia was summoned. When she saw her favourite dead, she shrieked like a maniac, and staggering towards her granddaughter, laid her skinny fingers upon the latter’s shoulders, and looking into her eyes as if she would work a demon’s spell upon her, cursed her with a loud and bitter imprecation.
“Thou shalt die before to-morrow’s sun goes to his rest, and thy accomplice with thee. The expiring groans of both shall swell the song of to-morrow’s triumph. Chain them to yonder wall.”
This order was instantly obeyed; they were each chained to a figure in recesses of the wall, about twelve feet apart. They could just see each other. A guard of fakeers was placed over them. They were not allowed to converse. Those ferocious bigots took delight in dwelling upon the horrible tortures to which the Mogul was to be exposed, by way of signalising their contemplated victory on the morrow. They felt a savage joy in exciting their prisoner’s terrors; and the tears of the beautiful girl, who had become the companion of his captivity, only excited their stony hearts to fresh insults.
Next morning, just as Bistamia was prepared to quit the vestibule for the purpose of heading her army of fanatics, a messenger entered, informing her that the Emperor had employed magical incantations, in order to secure her defeat.
She was startled at this intelligence: Aurungzebe’s known sanctity led her to fear that a spiritual warfare pursued by him would be likely to turn the tide of success against her.
“What are the methods of the enemy’s sorcery?” asked the hag.
“He has delivered to each soldier in his army a small billet, written with his own hand, and, as it is supposed, with his own blood, containing magical incantations. He has moreover ordered similar billets to be carried upon the point of a spear before each squadron, which the soldiers are persuaded will counteract the enchantments of their enemies; so that they are advancing with a degree of enthusiasm which I fear will be irresistible.”
Bistamia was perplexed, for she had sagacity enough to perceive that the same credulity which had induced Aurungzebe’s troops to believe in the witchcraft of an old woman, would give them at least equal confidence in the pretended charm of their Emperor.
“Well, should they drive us to the foot of this mountain, the stronghold behind will defy them: a few resolute spirits may defend the hill from a host; and success has given courage to thearmy of the fakeers. They will protect their potentate to the last drop of their blood.”
“But where is our leader?”
“Dead.”
“A bad omen of success!”
“Will not the presence of Bistamia inspirit the naked armies of Paradise, for thither they are on their way through a pilgrimage of warfare, to crush the outcasts? We shall teach them yet a terrible lesson. Come—to the field, and mind”—turning to the fakeers who had charge of the captives—“you look with a vigilant eye upon those doomed offenders who shall expiate their crimes with their blood. This night their death-pangs shall record our triumph.”
Dashing her long pale locks from her withered forehead, she seized a dagger and staggered from the spot.
She had some reason for the confidence she expressed in the strength of the place selected for her abode. The hill was steep, and accessible only by a single path. By rolling down huge stones upon the heads of a besieging force, a few resolute men might defend the ascent against multitudes. This had been already done with fatal success. Beyond the vestibule, in which the two prisoners were confined, was an extensive range of apartments, hollowed out of the living rock. The entrance was from the ruin, through a long passage only fifteen inches wide and thirty feet in length, cut through the solid stone, and protected by a sort of massive iron portcullis, which was let down about the centre, and raised or lowered by means of heavy chains. The dimensions of the excavations beyond were prodigious; there being cavern after cavern, in which were deposited immense treasures of various descriptions, but how realised has remained a mystery, though considered to have been the produce of sorcery.
The neighbourhood of this spot was shunned as an enchanted region; and the desolation spread by the inexorable Bistamia around her dwelling, only tended to increase the superstitious horror with which she was universally regarded.
The Mogul’s situation was now far more distressing than it hadbeen since his captivity among the fakeers. He could not behold his lovely companion suffering on his account without the keenest emotions. But for him she would be at that moment free; and yet the bitterness of these reflections was, in some measure, qualified by the knowledge that her liberty was worse than bondage, exposed as she had been to the loathsome advances of a man whom she could not look upon without abhorrence, and to whose detestable passions her innocence might have been eventually sacrificed. He felt, therefore, some consolation, amid the harassing thoughts which poured like a turbid flood upon his mind. He was forbidden to hold any conversation with his fellow-captive; so that, although they could see each other’s misery, they were not allowed the sad consolation of reciprocating their thoughts. The moment he made an effort of this kind, one of his naked guards stood before him, and drowned his voice with horrible imprecations.
Four of these wretches were left as a guard over him and the partner of his captivity. They indulged in that loose freedom of conversation peculiar to the lowest and most depraved natures. Seated upon the bare stones of the apartment they smoked and chewed bhang[41]until they were nearly stupified. One of them then brought a leathern bottle full of arrack, from a hole underneath one of the pillars; and this strong spirit they continued to drink until they were all in a state of disgusting intoxication. They then danced before their prisoners, raving like maniacs, and flourishing their clubs over their heads with terrifying violence. Fatigued at length with these exertions, they threw themselves prostrate, and were soon in a swinish sleep.
The dead body of the fakeer still lay where it had fallen when the soul quitted its deformed tabernacle for a brighter or a darker destiny. The odours which exhaled from it were becoming extremely offensive; and the prospect of soon breathing an atmosphere teeming with the foul particles of corruption, was anything but a promising subject of contemplation to the wretched captives.
The thoughts of escape now took entire possession of the Mogul’s mind. His guards were powerless, and he began to try the strength of his chains. He was fastened to the leg of a gigantic figure which stood in a niche, and which, therefore, the darkness of the place had hitherto prevented him from examining. It happened that the sun, being at this moment opposite to a small aperture in the roof of the building, poured a narrow but strong stream of light upon the figure. On examining minutely the limb to which he was fastened, the prisoner observed a large crack in the stone, just above the ankle; this opened in the slightest degree when he pulled the chain. He felt confident that, by a great effort, he could break off the stone limb; though even then he would only free himself in a degree, for his wrists were bound together by a handcuff, to which the chain was attached that fastened him to the statue. The discovery, however, gave him some hope of eventually being able to take advantage of it; and his mind became considerably calmed. He dreaded Bistamia’s return, remembering her horrible menaces, and having good reason to believe that she would not fail to put them into execution, if something did not intervene to cross her sanguinary purpose.
The fakeers still slept. Except their loud breathings, nothing was heard to disturb the gloomy silence that reigned around. It was already long past noon, and no tidings had been received of the hostile armies. At length distant shouts came suddenly upon the ear. They sounded like the acclamations of triumph, mingled with those frantic yells peculiar to the fakeers when under a state of violent excitement. The sounds gradually approached, and it soon became evident that victory had favoured the Moguls. The clash of arms was now heard, cries of the pursuing and pursued were distinctly perceptible, and at length rose to a tumult.
In a few moments, Bistamia entered the vestibule, spotted with gore. The whole upper part of her bronzed fleshless body was uncovered. Her appearance was positively hideous. There was a deep gash in her neck, whence the blood bubbled. She staggered towards her granddaughter—a dagger glimmered in her bonyfingers. She raised it over the head of the trembling girl, who sat mute and motionless under her harpy clutch, blanched with terror. The old crone gave a gasp; a guttural chuckle followed, and her arm fell; she fixed her teeth, whilst her eyes glared on those of her victim.
The Mogul, in a paroxysm of alarm for the safety of one who had put her life in jeopardy for him, threw his whole weight on the chain which attached him to the statue. The cracked limb gave way. He rushed towards the hag, raised his chained hands to strike, but perceived that she was motionless. Her arm had not force to impel the dagger which had fallen from her feeble grasp, and the wretched creature lay dead on the bosom of her grandchild.
A party of Moguls entered. The drunken fakeers were instantly put to death, and the two captives released. The apartments beyond the vestibule were searched, and vast hoards of wealth discovered, which were seized, and ultimately deposited in the imperial treasury. The lovely Zulima was received with flattering courtesy by the Emperor, and shortly after became the wife of her late companion in chains, who proved to be the son of Shaista, one of Aurungzebe’s favourite generals.
FOOTNOTES:[41]An intoxicating leaf.
[41]An intoxicating leaf.
[41]An intoxicating leaf.