The morning ceremony was at length over, and, somewhat wearied by it, and by sitting inactive so long, Sivaji rose and passed into his private apartments, to which the shed or pavilion was a temporary addition. The rough mountain fortress afforded no royal palaces. A few terraced houses, divided by courts, with some thatched out-offices and stables, stood on an elevated spot near the walls; and the Rajah's favourite retreat was a small vaulted apartment, which joined the fort-wall—indeed, formed portion of it—and from which a small projecting window, placed immediately above one of the deepest precipices, looked out over the valley and mountains, and commanded a view of part of the ascent.
It was a habit of Sivaji's to go to no ceremony, nor return from any, without saluting his mother. Did he ever leave the house orreturn to it, he touched her feet reverently, while she gave him her blessing. The son's faith in his mother was only equalled by her faith and love for him; and as a pattern of filial piety and devotion, his example is still inculculated upon the Mahratta youth by many a village schoolmaster.
She met him at the threshold of the door, and, as was her wont, passed her hands over his face and neck, kissing the tips of her fingers; while, bowing low, he touched both her feet, then his own eyes and forehead.
"Is Tannajee arrived, son," she asked, "that thou hast broken up the reception so early?"
"No, mother," he said; "but come with me, for my spirit is heavy, and there is a shadow of gloom over me which thou only canst dispel. No, there is no news, and that vexes me."
She followed him into the apartment we have mentioned. A plain cushion had been placed near the window upon a soft mattress, and he flung, rather than seated himself, upon it, and buried his face in his hands, turning away from her.
She sat down by him, and again passed her hand over his face and neck, and kissed her fingers without speaking.
A mother's loving hand! O ye who know it, who possess it as the rude waves of life come breaking one by one against you, be thankful that it is there in its old place, soothing and sustaining like nought else of earthly comfort! Ye who have lost it, never forget how lovingly it used to do its blessed work. In times of anxious trial, perplexity, and sickness most of all,—ye shall feel it still, in the faith which leads ye where it is gone before, and awaits your coming. So, forget it not!—forget it not!
For a while both were silent. The mother knew the feelings which filled her son's mind too well to interfere with their course. Still she sat by him, and patted him occasionally as she used to do when she soothed him to rest as a child. "If he could sleep," she thought, "this gloom would pass away; but it will do so nevertheless."
He lay still, sometimes looking out into the blue air, watching the swallows as they passed and repassed the window in rapid flight to and from their nests, which hung to the ledges of the precipices—or the groups of people ascending and descending the pathway to the gates. Again, burying his face in the cushion, he lay still, and his mother watched, and gently waved the corner of her garment over his head, lest any insect should light on him and disturb him. There was no sound save the dull buzzing of flies in the room, and sometimes the loud monotonous note of a great woodpecker from the depths of the ravine below.
He turned at length, and she knew the crisis was past. "Mother," he said, "hast thou been with the goddess to-day? To me she isdim and mournful; I ask my heart of her designs, but there comes no answer. Is her favour gone from us?"
"Who can tell her purposes, my life?" she replied, "we are only her instruments. O, fail not in heart! If there be troubles, should we not meet them? If she bid us suffer, shall we not suffer? But, O, fail not—doubt not! Remember thy father doubted and failed, and what came of it but weary imprisonment, fine, pain, shame, and failure? O, not so, my son: better thou wast dead, and I with thee, than to doubt and fail."
"The trial will be heavy, mother," he returned. "Here we are safe, and I fear not for thee: but for the rest, the cause is hopeless, and that is what vexes me. Years of stratagem and arrangement are gone with that man's death, and all we have planned is known."
"And if it be known, son, dost thou fear?" she exclaimed. "What has been gained by these communications with a traitor? O son, he who is not faithful to the salt he eats, is untrue to all besides. I—a woman only—and the priests will tell thee not to trust a woman's thoughts or designs—I tell thee I am glad: I rejoice that a trial has come to thee. One hour such as thou hast passed now, with thine own heart to speak to thee, is worth more to the cause than a thousand priests or a lakh of swordsmen. I tell thee I am glad: for such things only can teach thee to trust thyself, and not to look to others."
"And thee, mother?" he said, smiling.
"No, no—not to me," she replied quickly, "except the goddess speaks by my mouth. No, not to me. I am but a woman else, fearful of thee, my son—fearful of the bullet, the sword, the lance, the wild fray of battle—fearful of——"
"Nay, mother," he cried, sitting up and interrupting her, "not of the sword or the battle; there I am safe,—there I fear not. Were I but there now, this heaviness at my heart would pass away. 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' the cry—the shout rings in my ears and urges me on; then there is no time for thought, as now in this silence."
"And it shall ring again, my son," she replied. "Fear not—doubt not, only act: that is all. Wilt thou be like thy father, drifted here and there by every current of rumour like a straw upon the sea? 'Such a one will not join, what can I do? Such a thing threatens, what can I do? This man says this, shall I follow it? That man says the other, shall I follow it?' So he followed as others led; so he acted as others advised. What came of all? only shame, my son. Had he said to all, Do this, they would have done it. O Mother, O Holy Mother," she cried, standing up and lifting her joined hands towards the deep blue sky, "come from thence—come from the air into thy daughter's heart; teach me what to say, howto direct him, or direct him thyself! O Mother, we do all for thy name and honour, and for the faith so long degraded: let us not fail or be shamed!
"Not thus, son," she continued after a pause—"not thus will the spirit come upon me, but in the temple must I watch alone and pray and fast, ere she will disclose herself to me; and I will do so from to-night. Yes, she will be entreated at last. Perhaps," she continued simply, but reverently, "the Mother is in sorrow herself, and needs comfort. No matter, I will entreat her."
"Surely she hath heard already," replied her son after another pause, "for my soul is better for thy words—stronger, mother. Yes, I see how it will be; nor Moro Trimmul, nor Tannajee, nor Palkur, nor any one but myself. I had thought to lay all these matters before the people at the Kutha to-night, but I will not. I will only say we must work for ourselves—against the Emperor, against the King, and most against Afzool Khan. If they will only trust in me—yes, mother, if they will only trust in me—we shall have victory, and I will not disappoint them or you."
"Now, a thousand blessings on thee, Sivaji Bhóslay, for those words," cried his mother, passing her hands over his head. "I have no fear now—none. Go to the Kutha—tell them all that their time is come; and when you cry 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' each shout of theirs in reply will echo the death-cry of a thousand infidels. Now, let me depart, my son; it is well for me to go to the Mother, and sit before her; haply she may come to me. Better to be there, than that a woman should be near thee, when the woman's spirit has passed out of thee."
"Bless me, then, my mother, and go; nor will I stay here long," he replied. "The shadows are even now lengthening in the valleys, and I should have the people collected ere it is dark."
She placed her hands upon his head solemnly: "Thus do I bless thee, my son—more fervently, more resignedly than ever. Go, as she will lead thee in her own time. To all thy people thou wilt not alter, but, to the Moslems, be stone and steel. Trust no one—ask of no one what is to be done, not even of me. Do what is needful, and what thy heart tells thee. Show no mercy, but cut out thine own path with the sword. If thou wilt be great, do these things; if not——: but no, thou wilt be great, my son. She hath told me so; and thou wilt reckon the true beginning of it from that silent watch there, by the window. I go now, but stay not thou here. See, there are none ascending, and even those descending the hill are fewer. Go to them."
He watched her intently as she left him and disappeared behind a curtain, which fell before a door of the apartment leading to the small household temple. An expression of triumph lit up his largedark eyes and expressive features. "She said I must act for myself," he cried aloud. "Yes, mother, I will act for thee first, and then for the people; and there shall be no idle words again—only 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' when the fire is on the hills."
The servants and attendants of the lady awaited her without, and preceded her to the temple, which was situated in a court by itself,—a small unpretending building, which her son had built at her request. The usual priests sat by the shrine, feeding the lamps with oil, and offering flowers and incense for those who needed their services. This, too, had been a busy day for them, for the Rajah's temple had been opened to those who came to the fort; and many a humble offering and donation of copper coins to the priests, from the soldiery, had been the result. The court had now been cleared of all visitors, and the doors shut. As the lady advanced and sat down before the shrine, the priests made the customary libations and offerings, and stood apart, not daring to speak, for her visions of the goddess were well known, and much feared, and this might be the occasion of one of them. So, as she sat down, the priests and her attendants shrank back behind the entrance to the sanctum, and awaited the issue in silence.
Very different from Tara, as she had sunk down in her strange delirium before the shrine at Tooljapoor, the Máhá Ranee, as she was called, but more simply and lovingly the "Lady Mother," was perfectly calm and self-possessed. A small, grey-headed, slightly-formed woman, of graceful carriage and shape, which had altered little, if at all, from the best period of her youth: nor, except in her hair, had age apparently told much upon her: for the arms were still as round, the skin of her cheek as soft and downy as ever, and the firm springy tread of the small naked foot showed no decline of vigour. Her son often told her she was yet the most beautiful woman in Maharástra; nor indeed, in the clear golden olive of her skin, in the delicate mould and sweet expressive character of her features, above all, in the soft lustre of her eyes, had she many rivals.
She had seated herself directly before the shrine, on which was a small gold image of the goddess upon a golden pedestal; and the water-vessels, lamps, and other articles of service were also of gold. The full light of the lamps within shone out on her, and glistened on the white silk garment she wore, with its broad crimson and gold border—upon the jewelled bracelets on her arms—and the large pearls about her neck. The end of her saree, heavy with gold thread, hadfallen a little aside as she seated herself, and her soft throat, and a little of the crimson silk bodice below, could be seen—enough to show that if the face were calm, the bosom was heaving rapidly, and under the influence of no common emotion. No one dared to speak to her, or interrupt her thoughts or prayers, whatever they might be; and when she seated herself before the shrine in this manner, the priests and attendants knew she expected a "revelation," and had to wait, even though it might be for many hours, for the issue.
When it came, it was with various effect. At times calm, with glistening eyes and throbbing bosom, her hands clenched convulsively, she would speak strange words, which were heard with a mysterious reverence, and recorded by an attendant priest; at others, the result was wild delirium, when they were obliged to hold her, and when the excitement was followed by exhaustion, which remained for days.[14]Now, however, she sat calmly, her eyes cast down, but raised occasionally with an imploring look to the image, seldom altering her position, and seemingly unconscious of the time which passed.
Long she sat there; the shadows of the mountains lengthened, till only their peaks shone like fire, and then suddenly died out. The moon rose, and the little court was white under her silver beams, and still the lady sat and moved not. The chill night breeze at that elevation had caused an involuntary shiver to pass over her, which her favourite attendant thought was the precursor of the usual affection, but nothing followed; and seeing it was caused by cold, had, apparently unobserved, cast over her a large red shawl, which fell in soft folds round her person. It was far in the night when she arose from that strange vigil; and, dreamily passing her hands over her face and neck as if to arouse herself, sighed, and advancing to the threshold of the shrine, joined her hands together, and bowing reverently before the image, saluted it, and silently turned away.
"Not to-night, Bheemee," she said to a woman who approached her bearing her sandals, and laid them down at the entrance to the temple,—"not to-night. The Mother bids me go; she is sad, and will come another time. Hark! what is what?" and she paused to listen.
A hoarse roar, a cry as though of a wail of thousands of voices, came from all sides at once, floating up the precipices, echoed from the rocks, and reverberating from mountain to mountain. It seemed to those present, who were already filled with superstitious expectation, as if spirits cried out, being invisible, and that some unearthly commotion was in progress around them. In the pure mountain air, still as it was, these sounds seemed to float about them mysteriously, now dying away, and now returning more faintly than before, till they ceased, or only a confused perception of them remained. The fierce shout or wail, however, occurred but once; what followed was more diffuse and undecided.
"Something has moved the people more than ordinarily, lady," said a priest who advanced from the outer court. "The assembly can be seen from the bastion yonder, and I have been watching it while you were within; if you would look, follow me."
She drew the shawl more closely around her, and went with him through the court to the bastion, which, situated on the edge of an angle of the precipice, commanded a view of the town and valley below. The moon shone clear and bright, else she had looked into a black void; but the air was soft and white, of a tint like opal, as the moon's rays caught the thin vapours now rising. Some thousands of feet below, was a bright spot in a dell, filled with torches, which sent up a dull smoke, while they diffused a bright light on all around. There were many thousands of people there, mostly men, and there was a glitter as of weapons among them, as the masses still heaved and swayed under the influence of some strange excitement. She could make out no particular forms, but she knew that her son sat in the pavilion at the end, and about that there was no movement. As she looked, the shout they had first heard arose more clearly than before—"Hur, Hur, Mahadeo! Dônguras-lavilé Déva!"[15]
"O Mother," she cried, stretching out her arms to the sky, and then to the dell below, "enough! thou hast heard the prayer of thy daughter: thou wast there with him, not with me. Now I understand, and it is enough. Come, Bheemee, it is cold," she said, after a pause, and in her usual cheerful voice, "thou shouldst have been yonder in the Kutha, girl, and all of you. Well, the next, to-morrow night, will be a better one, and you shall all go, for I will go myself with the Maharaja; come now, they will not return till daylight;" and descending the steps of the bastion, she followed her servants, who preceded her, to the private apartments.
Below, Sivaji had been busy since before sunset. He had descended the mountain on foot, attended by his body-guard, and a large company of the garrison of the fort—a gay procession, as, accompanied by the pipers and horn-blowers of the fortress, it had wound down the rugged pathway in the full glare of the evening sun; and, amidst the shouts of thousands, and a confused and hideous clangour, caused by the independent performances of all the pipers and drummers of the clans assembled—the screaming, quivering notes of the long village horns, the clash of cymbals, and the deep tones of some of the large brass trumpets belonging to the temple, which had been brought down from the fort,—Sivaji passed on round the village to the spot which had been cleared for the Kutha.
It was a glen from which all wood had long been cleared away, and short crisp grass had grown up in its place, which, moistened by the perpetual drainage of the mountain, was always close and verdant. Near enough to the village to serve as a grazing ground for its cattle, the herbage was kept short by them; and the passage round and round its sides of beasts of all kinds, goats and sheep, cows, bullocks, and buffaloes, had worn them into paths which formed, as it were, a series of steps, rising gradually to the edge of the forest above.
In the midst was a bright green sward, soft and close, and of some extent, and at all times of the year the resort of the village youth for athletic exercises—wrestling, leaping, archery, shooting with the matchlock, or, most favoured of all perhaps, the sword-playing for which the Mahratta soldiery were almost celebrated. A projecting mound, which might have been artificial, and was possibly the partly completed embankment of some intended reservoir, stretched nearly across its mouth, and while its grassy surface afforded seats to many of the spectators, it shut out the valley beyond, from all observers.
At the upper end of the dell, which in shape was a long oval, and slightly raised above the level sward, was the Rajah's seat, a platform of sods and earth, covered with dry grass, and then with carpets from the fort, upon which the Guddee, or seat of state, was placed. Directly the Rajah had retired from the morning ceremony, the cushions had been taken down the mountain and placed on this dais, which afforded room also for many personal friends and priests who attended the ceremony with him.
In the centre of the sward, but near the upper end, was the place for the players. The smoothest portion of turf had been selected, and around it wattled screens were built, made of leafy branches, for entrance and exit, and also to allow of changes of dress, rest during intervals of performance, and the like. The stage, if it might be called one, was bounded by wild plantain trees cut off at the root, and set in the ground so that the broad leaves continued fresh and green; and above these were twined branches of teak with their large rough foliage, bamboos, and other slender trees readily felled and transported, while long masses of flowery creepers had been cut from the forest, and hung from poles at each side above the players' heads in graceful festoons. Inside all this foliage, were huge cressets of iron filled with cotton-seed soaked in oil, and all round the area below, and especially round the Rajah's seat, similar torches had been arranged, which would be lighted as the ceremony began, and illuminate the whole.
Before the stage, there was a small altar of earth, on which brightly polished brass vessels for pouring libations were set out, and above them, upon a silver pedestal, a small silver image of the goddess had been placed for worship.
Early in the afternoon, people had begun to assemble there, and after the Rajah's arrival in the town, a new procession was formed to accompany him to the place. Thousands had rushed on before it; along the valley, over the shoulders of the mountain, and as best they could, so as to secure good places for the sight; and by the time the head of the procession crossed the little brook which bubbled out beneath the mound, and ran leaping and tinkling down the valley, and had entered the glen,—the whole of its sides and the mound had grown into a dense mass of human beings closely packed together. There were comparatively few women; those who sat there were for the most part the Rajah's Mawullees and Hetkurees, armed as if for battle, ready, if needed, to march thence on any enterprise, however distant or desperate.
A clear space had been left for the advancing procession. In front the Rajah's pipers, playing some of the wild mountain melodies, which echoed among the woods and crags above, broken now and then by blasts of horns and trumpets, and the deep monotonous beat of many large tambourine drums, the bearers of which were marshalled by the chief drummer of the fort, who, with his instrument decked with flowers and silken streamers, strutted or leaped in front of all, beating a wild march. Then followed Brahmuns, bare-headed and naked to the waist, carrying bright copper vessels of sacred water, flowers and incense, with holy fire from the temple on the mountain, chanting hymns at intervals. After them, the players and reciters, male and female, in fantastic dresses, wearing gilt tiaras to resemble the costumes seen in carvings of ancient temples, among whom were the jesters or clowns, who bandied bold and free remarks with the crowd, and provoked many a hearty laugh and sharp retort. After these the Rajah's own guard, some with sword and buckler only, others bearing matchlocks with long bright barrels, who marched in rows with somewhat of military organization; then the servants; and last of all Sivaji himself. Slowly the procession passed up the centre; then the leading portions of it dividing on each hand, the Rajah, advancing, mounted the small platform. Ere he seated himself he saluted the assembly, turning to each side of it with his hand raised to his head, and all rose to welcome him with clapping of hands and shouts which made the wooded glen and the precipices above, ring with the joyous sound. Then all subsided into their seats, and the preliminary sacrifices and offerings began.
FOOTNOTES:[14]A series of very curious and most interesting papers on this subject, by the late Xavier Murphy, Esq., were published some years ago in the "Dublin University Magazine."—M. T.[15]"O Mahadeo! the fire has lit the hills!"—the Mahratta invocation to battle which is used also as the heading to all threatening notices.
[14]A series of very curious and most interesting papers on this subject, by the late Xavier Murphy, Esq., were published some years ago in the "Dublin University Magazine."—M. T.
[14]A series of very curious and most interesting papers on this subject, by the late Xavier Murphy, Esq., were published some years ago in the "Dublin University Magazine."—M. T.
[15]"O Mahadeo! the fire has lit the hills!"—the Mahratta invocation to battle which is used also as the heading to all threatening notices.
[15]"O Mahadeo! the fire has lit the hills!"—the Mahratta invocation to battle which is used also as the heading to all threatening notices.
We need not describe them. After the sacrifice of several sheep before the altar, to propitiate the goddess in the form of worship peculiar to lower castes, the Brahmuns continued the rest of the ceremonies. Here were the same recitations of religious books, the Shastras and Poorans; the same processions sweeping round the altar with offerings, and hymns chanted by the priests at stated periods; the same invocations of the deity to be present, as we have already seen in the temple at Tooljapoor; and as they proceeded, shadows lengthened, the sun disappeared behind the mountains, and gloom fell rapidly on the glen and its people.
Very soon, however, it was lighted up; men bearing huge copper vessels of oil on their shoulders, went round the area pouring cans full upon the cotton-seed in the iron cressets, and then lighting them, and a blaze arose from each which illuminated a large space around. Gradually the whole were lit; and the effect was as strange as beautiful.
Tier upon tier of closely-wedged human beings, whose white dresses and gay turbans and scarves appeared even brighter by night than by day, arose on all sides, those nearest the light being clearly seen, while the others, rising gradually to the top, were less and less distinct, till they seemed to blend with the fringe of wood above, and disappear in the gloom. Below, about the place of performance, and around the Rajah's seat, the illumination was brightest; and the thick smoke of incense rising from the altar hung over all like a canopy, diffusing its fragrance to the farthest edges of the assembly. Above, the grim mountain precipices hung threateningly over all, fringed at the top by walls and towers, hardly perceptible in the distance, except where they projected against the sky; and on which, and on the woods, as the night advanced, the bright light of the moon fell with a silvery lustre which our northern climate does not know.
To act a Hindu play is by no means so simple a matter as to act an English one. It frequently lasts several days. On this present occasion it would occupy three nights. There was the introduction, the middle, and the catastrophe. There would be pleasant witty interludes of broad farce between the scenes, acted by the clowns in various characters; satires upon Brahmuns, and priests generally, being a favourite subject: upon landlords and tenants: upon servants and masters: upon lovers—merchants—in short, upon all social topics. There would be political satires also; and the Rajah would see himself represented according to the popular belief, whatever it might be, flatteringly or the contrary, and would take the joke good-humouredly.
So the entertainment proceeded. We, who sit for an hour or two with a languid indifference, or real approbation, as it may be, of theatrical representation here, can hardly appreciate the intense absorption of a Mahratta audience at one of their religious plays, where gods and demigods, represented by clever players and singers, engage in earthly struggles of love or war, and evince human sympathies and passions. So hour after hour passed, and Rajah and people alike sat and listened and watched; now to a grand scene from the Mahabarut or Ramayun; now to a merry farce, or description by the "chorus" of what was to come next; now to a plaintive mountain ballad introduced into the general performance.
It was near midnight, perhaps, when a single horseman suddenly turned the corner of the mound, and, entering the area unperceived, where it was not crowded, rode slowly up the centre. His noble horse seemed jaded and weary, for it moved languidly, yet, when it saw the lights and people, raised its head and gave a shrill and prolonged neigh. Its flanks were smoking, and its coat a mass of foam, proving that it had been ridden hard and fast.
The rider's face was tied up, as is customary with Mahratta horsemen; but as he advanced he unwound the scarf about it, and the stern features and flashing eyes of Tannajee Maloosray appeared to all. For an instant he was not recognized, and his advance, indeed, had hardly been noticed at the upper end of the assembly; but some one who saw him cried "Tannajee!" and the name spread from mouth to mouth, rising into a roar of welcome among the people, as the rider struggled on through the crowd which now pressed about him. Dismounting near the altar, Tannajee gave his horse to a servant; and as Sivaji and all about him rose to meet him, he ascended to the royal seat, and was embraced by his prince in a loving greeting. He had been long absent, and was expected; but his sudden arrival alone, and at that time of night, boded strange tidings; and while his arms were yet around his friend, Sivaji anxiously asked what news he had brought.
"Of sorrow, yet of joy, my prince," replied Maloosray, disengaging himself. "I heard the news at Jutt, and I made a vow which only that altar can clear me of, that I would not sit or rest till I had told it to you and to the people.—Rise, all of ye!" he shouted to the assembly in that voice which, clear and sonorous, they had often heard above the wildest din of battle, "and listen to my words!"
They rose to a man instantly, and with a rustling sound: after which, there was perfect silence. Every face of those thousands was turned towards the speaker. Every form, from the highest tiers to the lowest, bent forward in eager expectation of what should follow.
"Listen," he continued, "O beloved prince and people: we have fallen upon evil days, for the goddess, our Mother, has been insulted,and her temple at Tooljapoor desecrated. Yes," he continued, lifting up his hand to stay the cry which was about to break out, "Afzool Khan has cast down the image of Toolja Máta, plundered the temple of its wealth, slain the Brahmuns, and sprinkled the blood of sacred cows over the shrine; and now the altar there, and the Mother, are my witness that I have told this grief to ye truly!"
Then burst forth that strange wild cry which the lady mother had heard above in the fort. Some wept, others shrieked and beat their mouths, or cast their turbans on the ground. Individual cries, no matter whether of grief or revenge, were blended into one common roar from those thousands, which ascended to the sky, and, reverberating from side to side of the glen, went out through the woods,—up the mountain-sides and precipices of the fort,—softened by distance,—yet uniting to produce that unearthly yell or wail which had arrested her as she left the shrine, and caused the watching priests to shudder.
Apparently, the people waited to hear from their prince a confirmation of the news, or intimation of what was to be done; for, at a motion of his hand, they were once more silent, and listening with rapt attention.
"I thought the Holy Mother was in sorrow," he said, "for she has hidden her face from me these many days, and my mother too sought her, but in vain. And now we know the reason. O friends! O people! shall it be so? Shall the Mother's temples be desolate? Not while Sivaji Bhóslay lives, and ye live! Better we died in honour than lived to be pointed at as cowards, while she is unrevenged! Listen," he continued, using the same gestures as Tannajee to keep the people quiet, as he took up the sword lying at his feet. "This, ye all know, is named after the Mother; see!" and he drew it slowly from the scabbard, "she hath a bright and lovely face, but it must be dimmed in Moslem blood: let her drink it freely! So I swear, and so ye will answer to my cry—Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!"
As he spoke he flung the scabbard passionately on the ground, and waved the glittering blade high in the air. Already was men's blood fiercely stirred by his words, and the Rajah's action rendered them almost uncontrollable. Not one of all that assembly who wore a sword was there, that did not draw and wave it as his chieftain had done; and the light flashing from polished weapons, and the frantic shouts of the old war-cry, as men swayed to and fro, still more excited the rude soldiery—"Hur, Hur, Mahadeo! Dônguras-lavilé Déva!"
No wonder that the sound had gone up the lofty mountain, and was the more clearly heard as the Ranee, looking from the tower above, saw far below the heaving masses in the glen, and caught the bright glitter of their weapons.
But there was silence at last. It seemed as if the men expected to be led there and then against their hereditary foes. That, however, was not to be yet. During the clamour, Maloosray had told his chieftain that Afzool Khan's army was on its march, and that means must be taken to oppose it. So the Rajah once again spoke out in those clear ringing tones which were heard by all.
"Not now, my people," he cried—"not now. If we have sworn to revenge the Mother, she will wait her time, and herself deliver this arrogant Moslem into our hands. Then, O my friends, shall she drink infidel blood, and be satisfied to the full. So fear not: if this news is terrible, it is yet good; so let us rejoice that we have the more cause to be united in avenging it. And now sit down once more; and play on, O players! Who shall say that Sivaji Bhóslay and his people were scared from their Kutha by Afzool Khan?"
"That means, my friends," cried Pundree, one of the clowns, after turning a preliminary somersault in the air, then resting his hands on his knees, and wagging his head with mock gravity, "that the master intends to kill the old Khan himself, and that the Mother will eat him. Now, as I am going to eat the sheep that have been killed there, just to save her the trouble, she will be very hungry—very hungry indeed; and if her belly is not filled by Afzool Khan, ye are to kill all his people and satisfy it. Else beware!—No one likes to be hungry, good folks; and I, for one, am always ill-tempered and beat my wife when there is no dinner, or it is badly cooked. I dare say the Mother is much the same, and if she be so, nothing goes right in the world; so see that ye strike hard, my sons, and get plenty of food for her when the master bids ye. Do ye hear? Do ye understand? As for the cooking of it, ye may leave that to the devil; and remember that I, Pundrinath, the son of Boodhenâth, have told ye all this, and will bear witness against ye and Tannajee Maloosray if ye do it not; and so—beware, beware!"
And then, amidst the laughter caused by the quaint speech and actions of the privileged jester, the play proceeded, while Sivaji heard from his friend Maloosray the tale of the Wuzeer's death, the Kótwal's execution, and the sack of Tooljapoor.
It was more than ever evident to Sivaji, that to attempt to oppose Afzool Khan in the field with the men about him, would be madness; but he might be drawn on, by specious promises of submission, into wilds where his cavalry and artillery would be useless, and in those jungles the men then present would be ample against ten thousand Mahomedan infantry.
Then it was determined to send those agents to Afzool Khan's camp with whose arrival there we are already acquainted.
But the arrival of an Envoy from the Mahomedan General was an event of no small importance to the Rajah Sivaji. In order to further the plan he had conceived, and partly executed, in the despatch of envoys to the Mahomedan camp—it was his object to disarm all suspicion; and while assuming an appearance of insignificance and weakness which should impress upon the mind of a new-comer his insufficiency to make any resistance, the Rajah was making arrangements which, as Maloosray and other friends knew, boded action of no ordinary kind. When the time came, he would act, he said, as the goddess directed. His mother had been silent for many days, and almost constantly sat in the temple before the altar; and it was certain there would be some special revelation. She had spread the end of her garment[16]before the Mother, and she had never done so, they said, in vain; but she was silent, and so they waited.
Afzool Khan's Envoy had been received with the utmost distinction. When within a few miles of the fort he had been met by a deputation of Brahmuns and inferior military officers, and delayed only long enough to have the necessary astrological calculations made as to a propitious moment for entrance into the town. There, a house was assigned to him: servants of the Rajah appointed to attend on him: and his escort was supplied with forage and food in abundance. Nothing was wanting to give assurance of simple but earnest hospitality.
The day after, an audience of the Rajah was fixed upon. The Envoy was desired to choose his own time; and the astrologer in his suite, with that of the Rajah, having ascertained a lucky conjunction of planets, the Envoy was carried up the mountain-side in a palankeen to the fort-gate, where sheep were sacrificed before him, cannon fired from the ramparts, and the fort pipers, drummers, and horn-blowers, performed a rude and very noisy welcome. Then the men on guard at the gate, with others of the garrison of the fort, formed a street, which reached as far as the Rajah's pavilion; and the palankeen being carried along this, amidst the firing of matchlocks and shouting of the title of the King of Beejapoor by the royal bard and herald in his suite, the Envoy was set down before the same rude pavilion which we have before described, where the Rajah Sivaji awaited him.
To all appearance an insignificant little man, dark, youthful in appearance, with only one ornament in his turban, dressed in the plainest clothes, and without even the gold embroidered cushion on which he had been seated on the day of the Kutha. Punto Gopináth wondered much when he remembered the exaggerated accounts of the Prince which were sung in ballads, told by bards and reciters, and were believed by the people. Was this the saviour who was to come? Was this the man who was to rescue the Hindu faith from obloquy, if not from destruction:—protect Brahmuns, foster learning, endow and enrich temples? Above all, was this the man who was to defy the forces of Beejapoor, the fierce Abyssinians, the fiery Dekhanies—the noble park of artillery? There were no troops, no means of offence visible. True, the fort itself was strong, but the garrison was small, and unworthy of consideration in comparison with the thousands who were even now nigh at hand.
These thoughts hurried rapidly through the Envoy's mind as he passed up the street of men, and the Rajah's authorities and higher order of servants, who stood on each side of this approach to the hall itself. Puntojee Gopináth was a big man in every sense of the word. His body was large and corpulent, and he stooped much. His head was wrapped in a white cashmere shawl, which increased its naturally disproportionate size. His features were massive but flaccid, and his cheeks shook, while his head wagged from side to side as he walked. His eyes were large, but red and watery; and the protruding under-lip, full, and set in deep lines at the corners, gave him an air of pompous self-sufficiency.
With all this, the Brahmun was a shrewd, astute person. He was vain, and usually confident. Now, however, as he saluted the Rajah, he felt the eyes which scanned him from head to foot had already taken a measure of him, which might be favourable or otherwise. Perhaps it was flattering, perhaps mortifying; he could not say which. They were in any case different eyes to those of his own rulers and officers, who were Mahomedans. Their eyes took things for granted, and he was accustomed to placid acquiescence, or perhaps to occasional fierce bursts of passion, which never affected him. These eyes, on the contrary, were restless and inquisitive, leaving an impression that they had seen and understood hidden thoughts, and would bring them out, lurk where they might.
Perhaps, for the first time in his public life, the Brahmun was disconcerted; but it was no time to show this; and recovering himself, he offered the prescribed salutation, and sinking into the seat pointed out to him, which was beside, but rather in front of the Rajah, with a loud exclamation of Rámchunder! which was his habit—he settled himself on his heels after the most approved courtly fashion, placed his hands gravely upon his knees, twisted up his moustaches, and felt his habitual confidence return.
We need not, perhaps, follow the conference. The Envoy, as instructed, at first took a high tone as to outrages and treason on thepart of the Rajah, and of the clemency and wisdom of the sovereign he represented. There should have been no attempts at insurrection, because the cause was hopeless by force, and the royal ear was ever open to suppliants for justice, if timely submission were made.
The Rajah did not reply personally, but this pitiless scrutiny of the Envoy continued without interruption, and the address was answered by Krishnajee Bhaskur, one of his own Brahmun officers, eloquently and yet respectfully:—What had been done? No redress had been given for injury, for extortion, and local oppression. In despair, some retaliation had been made. It was the mountain custom, even by village against village; and did not affect higher relations, which would only become the more firmly consolidated when the cause of quarrel was past. "But," he added, in conclusion, "the details are private matters, and will be discussed better in privacy, and through Afzool Khan alone, does the Rajah wish to have them arranged. What have we here to oppose him? We have no concealments, no means of defence against such a force as his?"
"Indeed, no," said Sivaji, smiling. "An army of elephants has been sent to crush ants' nests, as the proverb hath it; and if the noble Khan will remain, and take charge of the country now under me, I will resign it to him cheerfully, and become his servant. Wilt thou say this to him?"
"Indeed, my prince," returned the Brahmun, putting up his joined hands, "we who were in Beejapoor well know how much Afzool Khan helped your father, when he was confined, in the old Sultan's time; and how much the rigour of his imprisonment was softened by the Khan's kindness. Ah! he is a humane and generous man, and has no personal enmity against you, my lord."
"We will at least put it to the proof," returned the Rajah good-humouredly. "You are witness that you have seen no preparations for defence or resistance, and the sooner he comes the better. We cannot hurry him and the force, but we will at least make preparations for a peaceful entertainment; and if the Khan will accept of our rude mountain hospitality instead of the Jehâd we hear he has been preaching against us, it will be a happy thing for all."
"A happy thing indeed!" said Bulwunt Rao, who, in the suite of the Envoy, had as yet sat silently, and had not been recognized; "and when public affairs are settled, private justice may be done to suppliants like me, who, only for state quarrels, dare not have entered this fort."
"Who art thou, friend?" asked Sivaji; "a suitor to me, and from Beejapoor?—a Mahratta among Moslems? Who art thou?"
"I may not mention my name here, my lord," said Bulwunt Rao, rising, and again saluting the Rajah reverently; "but I can tell it in private. One whom injustice and evil fate have led where he is, and who, only for them, would have been serving you."
"How can I serve thee?" asked the Rajah sharply; "I am not usually hard of access; therefore come to me when thou wilt, and I will hear thee."
"I will come," returned Bulwunt Rao, looking round to all, "and put thee, Sivaji Bhóslay, to the proof. Men vaunt the Rajah's justice," he continued—"he will find much to do for me;" and he sat down again.
An awkward pause ensued in the assembly, which no one seemed inclined to break: and the person who officiated as master of the ceremonies, having observed a signal from the Rajah, brought in flowers, with pân leaves, and distributed them in order of precedence to the Envoy and all his suite. Bulwunt Rao, however, would take nothing.
"If justice is done me," he said, rising again, "my share of flowers will come with it, and will be hung about my neck in honour; if not, they will hang here,"—and he touched his sword-hilt—"better."
"This savours of a threat, sir," said Sivaji, with flashing eyes.
"The meanest will turn against oppression," returned Bulwunt; "and Sivaji Bhóslay has just pleaded this in extenuation of his own acts. I, too, make the same reply, my prince; and when you know my history, you will confess I am no traitor to Mahrattas."
"All are dismissed," said the Rajah, rising; "see that these gentlemen are safely escorted below;" and amidst the confusion which occurred in many persons rising, and as the Durbar broke up, he whispered to the Brahmun who had been spokesman, and who was one of his most confidential servants, "See that the Khan's Envoy be separately accommodated. I must visit him privately to-night, and thou must be with me, Krishnajee; I will come to thee at the first watch."