CHAPTER II.
Within a few weeks after the events related in the preceding chapter, Chan Lody was apprised of Shah Jehan’s accession to the imperial throne. He was too powerful an Omrah not to be conciliated; the Emperor, therefore, despatched his son Morad with a message to invite Lody to visit the capital, promising him oblivion of all past indignities, with assurances of future favour. The Chan, trusting to the dignity of his own character, and hisinfluence among the nobles, who honoured him as a man of lofty courage and impregnable integrity, consented at once to repair to Agra with his family, considering that his presence at the seat of government might be of some advantage to the state, as he was determined to watch with jealous scrutiny the motions of the reigning sovereign, to whose accession he had always been vehemently hostile. He, however, received Morad with courteous hospitality, as the saviour of his daughter’s life; and the young prince, remembering the impression which the lovely Jahanira had made upon him, offered himself to the father as her suitor. This was an alliance not at all coveted by Chan Lody, who, though he was by no means wanting in ambition, bore nevertheless too great an antipathy to the reigning Emperor to be desirous of a family connexion with him.
“My daughter,” said he to Morad, “is the person most concerned in this matter. You must consult her. She knows my wishes and her own. Whatever her choice may be, I shall not obstruct it. When you have gained her consent, I shall not withhold mine.”
Morad obtained an interview, and made his proposals. Jahanira paused, and surveyed him with a calm countenance, yet every feature radiant with that mind of which they were all most eloquent interpreters. After an earnest, but still respectful, scrutiny, she replied, “Prince, you are of noble birth, and therefore an alliance with you could not dishonour me; you are of a manly and agreeable person; you have the reputation of being brave, generous, just, and, in short, of possessing all the best qualities that belong to great and good men; personally, therefore, I cannot object to you as the disposer of my future life. Moreover, you have saved that life; gratitude, consequently, would induce me to accede to any honourable proposal which you could make me: but my father and yours bear a deep enmity against each other, and this is an impassable bar to such an alliance as you seek between the house of Timour and that of Lody.”
Morad was mortified at this rejection, and returned to Agra with the poison of disappointment rankling in his bosom. He kept the matter secret from his royal parent, who, he knew, would have felt the greatest indignation at his having made sucha proposal to the daughter of a man who had treated him with offensive indignity.
Shortly after this, Chan Lody arrived with his family at Agra, and took up his abode in a large house surrounded by strong and lofty walls, not far from the palace. A few days after his arrival, he appeared at court, attended by his two sons. He was received by the Emperor with constrained courtesy, which satisfied him that the royal forgiveness so solemnly pledged to him was hollow and unsound. He was obliged to perform certain ceremonies which he considered not consistent with his rank and influence in the state; but seeing the impolicy of resistance at that moment, he patiently submitted to the indignity, though he clearly perceived that it was meant as a tacit retaliation. His son Azmut, a fine spirited youth of sixteen, followed his father into the hall of audience. The usher Perist, keeping him prostrate before the sovereign longer than the customary ceremony required, Azmut started up from the ground, sprang upon his feet, and was about to turn his back upon the royal presence when Perist struck him smartly upon the head with his rod, and ordered him in a peremptory tone, again to prostrate himself. The boy’s spirit was kindled; with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks he drew his sword, and made a stroke at the usher’s head, which would have proved fatal, had not his weapon been struck down by some of the guards, who, on state occasions, were always in attendance in the courts of Mogul potentates.
Lody, suspecting that his life was aimed at, drew his dagger; and his two sons, placing themselves on either side of their father, with their weapons bared, produced a scene of general consternation. Many of the Omrahs unsheathed their swords, but the known valour of Chan Lody kept them in awe. The Emperor leaped from his throne, and ordered the refractory noble to be seized, together with his sons. One of the mace-bearers, who happened to be near Azmut, laid hold of him, but the youth instantly buried a crease in his throat. The confusion increased. Two Omrahs fell beneath the arm of Chan Lody, who, rushing from the presence, followed by his sons, sought refuge in his own house, and ordered the gatesto be instantly closed. He was proclaimed a rebel, and orders issued for his immediate apprehension; but the house to which he had repaired was so strongly fortified, that the fulfilment of the royal mandate was anything but an easy matter.
The Emperor’s rage was now at its height; all his former hostility revived in full force, and he determined that the refractory Omrah should pay the extreme penalty of his rashness. He commanded Morad to besiege him in his castle. The latter, though he had scarcely recovered from the mortification to which he had been subjected by the beautiful but haughty daughter of the refractory noble, nevertheless undertook the command with some reluctance, respecting the virtues of the man whom, though he certainly did not love, he nevertheless could not despise.
The house was invested; and the rebel, as Chan Lody was pronounced to be, summoned to surrender. He returned an answer of defiance. In reply to Morad’s summons, he appeared with his sons and daughter upon the walls, and said, pointing to the latter, “You shall receive our answer from the lips of a woman, but that woman the daughter of Chan Lody.”—“Prince Morad,” said Jahanira, advancing to the very edge of the wall, “the brave never succumb to tyranny. Life is really only enjoyed by the free; and tyrants grant not liberty when they can exercise their power upon those who do not acknowledge it. We are resolved never to yield, Prince Morad; and even if your legions should overwhelm us, I need not remind you that the brave have a certain refuge in death.”
The siege was pursued by Morad with such vigour for several days, that it was evident the besieged must shortly capitulate. Lody was embarrassed. He saw that there remained only one course—to cut his way through the enemy, and escape to Malwa. Desperate as the attempt was, he resolved to make it on the following morning. His sons and daughter determined to accompany him in his perilous flight. He communicated his intention to his women and the various members of his family, most of whom, he said, he must leave to the imperial mercy. Tears and groans followed the communication, but there was noalternative betwixt death and captivity. He endeavoured to persuade his women that they, at least, would be treated with clemency. They answered with him renewed tears. He turned from them in an agony of grief; but his determination was taken, and, retiring to his apartment, he gave vent to the overflow of his feelings. Calling his three sons, he arranged with them the time for the desperate sally which was to be made on the following morning. His daughter, whom he loved as a son, and perfectly adored for the elevated heroism of her character, was present at this arrangement, and they finally separated for the night.
Lody could not sleep, and quitted his chamber to break the gloomy train of his thoughts. He passed into a large court, which was flanked by the women’s apartments. The night was dark, the sky overcast, and the whole aspect of nature seemed to suit the gloomy habit of his soul. The dew fell heavily, but it cooled his fevered brow. As he passed by the apartments of his women, he heard groans as of persons in agony. He stopped to listen—they were repeated; there could be no mistaking the sound. His heart throbbed audibly. He entered—listened—all was still; every light had been extinguished. He passed through the different chambers, but there was no sound. He called upon several, who were wont to answer his summons with a ready alacrity; there was no reply. What could be the cause? Horrible, but indefinite, suspicions crowded upon his mind. He at length entered into an inner apartment, and, stumbling over some obstacle, fell upon his face. He arose, and, in a small ante-chamber, perceived a light glimmering faintly behind a curtain. Upon removing the drapery, he perceived the dead body of a female favourite. He raised the lamp from the floor, and saw that his hands and dress were stained with blood. Returning to the chamber in which he had fallen, a sad revelation of the mystery of the groans and succeeding silence was made horribly manifest. The floor was covered with gore, which still feebly welled from the bosoms of several women, in whom life was yet scarcely extinct. Every member of his harem was dead, or in the last pangs of dissolution. They had considered suicide as the preferablealternative to falling into the power of those who were enemies to Chan Lody.
The sight was overpowering. The sacrifice had been noble, but it poured a tide of agony through the bosom of him for whom it was so unanimously made. The mothers of his children lay dead among the lifeless forms before him. He looked upon them, and, after the first terrible burst of grief had subsided, he uttered a vow of deep and implacable revenge. Summoning his children, they joined in his vow. Jahanira embraced her mother’s corpse, and supplicated vengeance upon the heads of those who had forced her to self-immolation.
Tears rolled over Lody’s cheeks, but he dashed them off, and called upon his children to assist him in performing the obsequies of the dead. His eye dilated with an expression of energetic resolution as he raised the bodies from their gory beds, wrapped them in clean linen, and, assisted by his sons, carried them into a garden beyond the court, where, having hastily dug a large hole, they buried them in one common grave. There was no prayer uttered—no ritual form observed—but the fervent aspiration of earnest and sorrowful hearts went up as a memorial to God.
As they quitted the garden, the young dawn began to glimmer in the east. Lody summoned his followers; though few, they were determined. It was a desperate cast, but the late scene had given an impulse to the spirits of each and all. The danger of the enterprise vanished before the daring which impelled him, and those who were so dear to him, to brave the peril, and either secure their escape or perish.
On a sudden, the gates were thrown open. Lody rushed out, followed by his three sons and his daughter, who spurred their horses towards the city walls. The imperial troops were struck with awe at the daring of this small but determined band. They swept onward like the whirlwind; all who opposed them were cut down. The light was still so imperfect, that the imperial troops, being suddenly roused by this unexpected assault, were confused, and fell before the swords of Lody and his followers, who finally succeeded in cutting their way through their foes, and escaping by the city gates.