Just then, one of the ordinary processions round the temple formed opposite the shrine. Priests, bearing offerings of flowers and lighted lamps, holy water and incense, preceded by musicians, and chanting a hymn, passed out into the court. Several of the temple girls were dancing before it; and Tara, led on by an excitement she could not control, had seized a pair of cymbals, and began to clash them in the cadence of the hymn as the procession moved.
Three times round and round did the priests pass, and at the second Gunga joined it, dancing wildly and tossing her arms on high as she circled with the rest. Tara, however, remained amongthe priests, singing with them; yet, in the elastic grace of her step, as well as in the expression of her face, it was evident that she shared the fervour of the scene, and could not control herself, while her clear ringing voice mingled sweetly with the deeper-toned chant of the men.
Maloosray saw Tara, and watched the eyes of Moro Trimmul wandering from one girl to the other with an intense expression of passion. "Ah, my poor friend!" he said to himself, "that is the devil sitting at thy heart, and looking out of thine eyes! Alas! alas! who is she—that girl?" he asked of Jeswunt Rao, who sat by him.
"She is our new Moorlee," replied the man; "is she not beautiful?—But listen to Moro Trimmul."
Never had the Brahmun's art been so effectively exercised by him before. In the recitation of passages from the Ramayun his voice, high and sonorous, pervading every portion of the court, delivered the appeals to war, the description of the demigod's forces, and portions of the battles, with a power which was listened to with breathless interest; while the pleadings of Seeta, the beloved wife, and her passionate confessions of love, were accompanied by tender actions, and tones as low and sweet as a woman's. Now rolled forth the majestic Sanscrit verse in its measured numbers, and again it was changed to the sweet Mahratta vernacular, that all could understand. At every interval the applause of the whole assembly arose in hoarse murmurs and loud clapping of hands, while many wept passionately.
No one would have moved till morning, but there was yet much to do; and, as Moro Trimmul sat down, Vyas Shastree ordered the distribution of wreaths of flowers to the chief guests, which announced the close of recitation for the night. Now, therefore, the main body of the people got up and began to separate, and in a short time only those were left who had been specially requested to stay. Now, too, the cressets, no longer fed with oil, went out one by one; and the deep gloom of night was fast spreading over the courts and buildings around.
"Will you not remain, Shastree," said Moro Trimmul, "to speak with these people?"
"No," he said; "no; there is no one to go home with the women. I thought you would accompany them."
"It will be late," he replied, gloomily; "no, I cannot come to-night."
"Your declamation was noble, Moro Trimmul," said the Shastree; "I had never heard the passages so spoken. Who taught you this style?"
"That is the way our master likes them said. No one taught me," he replied; "and if you could hear the whole in one of his assemblies in the deep forest, you would feel that you were a Mahratta."
"So I am—so I am," returned the Shastree quickly; "do you doubt it?"
"Not your faith, Vyas Shastree," replied Moro Trimmul, "only your energy. But go; I will come early to-morrow;" and, turning away, he entered the vestibule and joined Maloosray and others who awaited him. Guards of men, he saw, had been placed at each of the porches, so that no one could enter but those privileged.
A solitary lamp flickered on the altar where the image still rested, and cast a feeble and uncertain light into that portion of the vestibule which was immediately before it, and where Maloosray, Moro Trimmul, and the rest now seated themselves. Otherwise the spacious area was altogether in deep gloom, a portion only of its massive stone pillars catching rays of light, and seeming like giants standing around in solemn array.
We need hardly, perhaps, follow Maloosray in his narrative, which was listened to with breathless interest by his hearers. He had never as yet come among them, but his name and feats were well known through many a rough ballad both of love and war. There he sat, face to face with them; his large soft eyes flashing with excitement, and adding force to the few but burning words he spoke. Tannajee was no novice in the art of reading men's hearts; and among the mountains and valleys where he lived, there were already thousands of the best youth of the country at his command.
"Now," he said finally, "ye have heard all. We are before the Holy Mother, who comes to our Prince in his dreams, and tells him what to do; she who will scatter these impure cow-slaying Moslems like sheep before the wolf. O Holy Mother!" he continued, rising and bowing with joined hands in adoration to the image, "here are thy children; bless them, make them bold and true; they will swear not to hang back when 'the fire is on the hills,' and when they can strike for thy honour. Hear thou the oath, and accept it."
As he paused and looked round there was at first a low murmur of acquiescence. Then they who had been sitting started to their feet, and as many as could reach it rushed to the threshold of the sanctum and touched it reverently:—those who could not, stretched out their arms towards it over each other's heads, while wild cries of "Jey Kalee!" "Jey Toolja Máta!" "Bome, Bome!" (We swear, we swear!) rang through the vestibule, and were taken up by those without.
"Now, let us write the names," cried Maloosray, when the excitement had in some degree subsided; "sit down again, friends, and if there be a scribe among ye let him come forward."
The Putwari, or hereditary clerk of the temple, was there, with his writing materials tied up in a bundle, and he sat down and took them out.
"Light one of the large lamps," said Moro Trimmul to an inferior priest, "and set it in the midst; we are not afraid of our faces before the Mother."
As the wicks were lighted, one by one, the assembly seemed to dilate. Light after light flickered, but grew stronger. "A true omen," cried Maloosray, with fervour; "that is as we shall be, my friends. Light after light will appear to ye from afar; each may waver for a while, but when 'the fire is on the hills' ye will see all plainly. Be silent now, and let us write."
It was, indeed, a strange and impressive scene. In the midst sat Maloosray and Moro Trimmul, with the scribe; around, the heads of local families, Nimbalkurs, Bhóslays, Sindias, Ghoreparays, and a host of others, each anxious to be named in the record, and leaning forward to catch the eye of the scribe. Beyond them—some kneeling, others standing—was a crowd of eager faces, all bearing the same expression of excitement—one behind another on every side—while the light fell upon their bronzed features and glistening eyes, till those in the background were scarcely distinguishable.
One by one—chiefs, gentry, yeomen—gave in their names and complements of men, and page after page was filled by the record till no more remained.
"It is done, friends," said Maloosray, rising, as the Putwari had added up the totals, and signed his name as the scribe; "there are more than fifteen thousand men recorded. Enough for the time, and more hereafter. By-and-by, when 'the fire is on the hills,' ye will be welcome; till then, separate and be quiet, else Afzool Khan will come upon you, and we can give you no help. We will abide the storm and let it pass over us, and so must you all."
As he spoke the last words, those who had been sitting rose, and all in turn saluting Maloosray, the meeting broke up. The retainers of the respective leaders gathered round their masters, and the several parties followed each other out of the temple precincts.
"I shall depart before daylight, Moro Trimmul," said Maloosray, as they proceeded to the postern which led to the bottom of the ravine, below which their ponies and attendants awaited their coming; "wilt thou follow?"
"I have more to do here, Tannajee," he replied; "but after the Now Râtree I will come. I must watch Afzool Khan and Pahar Singh."
"Take care they do not watch thee," returned Maloosray. "Yet I fear not for thy enemies; of them thou art careful. I fear for thee, because of that girl who played the cymbals. She is the devil that I see sitting at thy heart, and looking out of thine eyes. I watched thee as they followed her. It were well for thee to come now, even now; come!"
"Impossible," returned the Brahmun, turning away. "Go!"
"As thou wilt, friend," returned Maloosray. "Words were always useless with thee; but be wary."
Moro Trimmul watched the party as they descended the steps to the tamarind trees below. He saw them mount and ride off, the torches with them throwing a ruddy glare upon the crags and brushwood above the path,—and his heart bade him follow; but as one of the temple watchers was about to close and bar the door, he turned aside. All in the building was dark and deserted now. The image had been taken from the altar, and put into its silken bed for the night, and a faint lamp occupied its place. A few attendants flitted hastily here and there across the dark courts and still darker vestibule, anxious to get away, and the watchers only were all that would soon remain.
"Maharaj!—Moro!" said a female voice in a low whisper, as he passed between the pillars of the temple, "stop!"
Moro Trimmul knew the voice. "Why art thou so late here, Gunga?" he said hastily. "Begone!"
"I feared you were angry with me," said the girl, putting her hand on his arm. "You would not look at me as I danced, only at her. I could not go till I had spoken with you. Ah, you are not angry with me? Lo! I will do your bidding, though my heart break and I die. Sit here, beloved, and speak to me; come," and she tried to draw him to her gently.
"Thou art one of the devils that are pulling me into hell!" cried the Brahmun fiercely; and, pushing her violently from him, he rushed wildly across the court.
Gunga fell back heavily against the pillar nearest to her, and as she recovered herself, the pain of the fall obliged her to sit down, involuntarily leaning against it. She drew her hand with a gesture of weariness across her face and brow, then looked to see if there were blood upon it. "Hath it come to this?" she said bitterly; "hath it come to this—and for her? Ah, me for her!"
The girl had listened unobserved, in a dark niche near the shrine, to what had transpired at the meeting, and her first thought now was revenge, sure and deadly. A word from her, and the Mahomedan officer in charge of the town would seize Moro Trimmul, and imprison him in Nuldroog. As the thought occurred to her she rose, and, hastily traversing the court, began to mount the stepswhich led up the ravine; but her heart failed, and ere she had ascended a few of them she wavered, sat down, and wept bitterly.
"They would kill him," she said, "and he must not die. No; I was wrong, and he will forgive me; and to-morrow I will go to him as he desired." Hers was a callous heart: but it had softened to her lover, and refused to do him harm.
Time or country, what matter? How often is the history of woman's love and man's passion like this! how often does such erring love frame excuse for bitter wrong, endured from him who,—of all the world,—should least inflict it!
A few days had elapsed, and it was a quiet afternoon in the Shastree's dwelling. The household work had long been done; the visit to the temple and the noonday worship were over. Vyas Shastree had remained there in discussion with other Brahmuns; Radha, complaining of a headache, had fallen asleep; Tara had read all that her father had appointed her to study during the day, and was waiting his return to have certain passages explained to her before she proceeded with her task.
The house was perfectly still, and from the town no sound reached them, for the heat without was great, and until evening there would be comparatively few persons astir. It was calm, and large white clouds were sailing slowly over an intensely blue sky, gathering into masses pile upon pile, of dazzling brightness, as the sun's rays fell upon them. The heat and peculiar state of the atmosphere caused the outlines of buildings and of the mountains to waver; and wherever the eye rested on any object, the air between seemed to quiver with a tremulous motion.
Hot as it was, Tara had not been deterred from her self-imposed duty. Throwing a heavy folded sheet over her shoulders and head, she had accompanied her father to the noonday service; nor, since the occasion when she took upon herself the office of the priesthood, and devoted herself to the duties of the shrine, had she on any pretence missed or evaded the necessary attendance.
At first, perhaps, it was a severe trial. The licence, accorded by general custom to the attendant priestesses, was to her abhorrent; and, on the other hand, Tara's unapproachable purity had given offence to them. While Gunga, therefore, and two or three others, proposed the prohibition of Tara's service, the rest, fearing the consequences, and having a real respect and love for the girl whom they had watched from her childhood, refused to interfere with her.Tara did them no harm, they said, and her father could punish all, were any annoyance given to his daughter.
It is probable that matters might have continued in this state for some time longer, but for the scene we have already recorded, and the increasing jealousy of Gunga, expression of which could hardly be repressed by her; and on the day we now write of, the girl's behaviour had been studiously offensive to Tara until rebuked by the attendant Brahmuns, when she retired sulkily.
More insulting than that, however, was Moro Trimmul's manner to herself; and for the first time Tara had felt what she long dreaded,—the shame, as it were, of her vocation—the unavoidable exposure to any libertine glance which might fall on her; but she had rallied herself at the shrine, and, secure in the protection of the "Mother" she adored, had persevered in her duty without interruption.
There was, as we have said, perfect stillness in the house, only broken by the dull monotonous whirr of the spinning-wheels, as her own and her mother's flew swiftly round, with which the buzz of flies in the verandah and court seemed to harmonize. Her mother appeared particularly intent upon spinning some remarkably fine yarn; and as the thread had broken on several occasions, when Tara had spoken to her, and she had complained of it, both had fallen into a silence, which had not been interrupted. Gradually, then, the small troubles which had gathered about Tara returned to her recollection; and, as is generally the case on such occasions, began, in spite of herself, to increase in proportions.
Tara's was not, however, a suspicious nature, and she had soon struck out a course for herself in regard to the sisterhood. "It is the money they want, not me: if I save it all, and give it to the Putwari to divide amongst them daily, it will surely be enough," she thought; and this she determined to do. In regard, however, to Moro Trimmul, it was very different. "Why did he look at her as he had done that day?"
Then her thoughts reverted to the time when she had first remarked him in the temple, a solitary stranger worshipper, to whom her father had spoken kindly. Her memory followed clearly his gradual steps to intimacy; but there was nothing she could charge him with, as an approach to familiarity in their intercourse. Through all the licence of the marriage time—through all her visits to his aunt and sister—there had been no violation of propriety; on the contrary, an habitual and respectful avoidance of her—or, at most, a distant and courteous salutation. Why should it have altered?
But since the night on which Gunga had spoken to her, and Moro Trimmul had made his famous declamation of the scene in the Ramayun, there had been a change. He either avoided heraltogether, or his eyes dropped furtively as she passed, or met hers, as they had done that day, in a glance new to her, and inexpressibly offensive. Tara shuddered as she remembered it, and the action broke the thread she was spinning. She did not resume her work, and her hands fell listlessly on her lap as her foot ceased its motion. For a time her eyes wandered vacantly among her flowers, about which some gay butterflies were flitting and chasing each other in the bright sunlight; but suddenly a large dragonfly, which had been hovering over them, darted at one and carried it off; and as she started forward, gazing intently after it, a bird chased the insect, caught it, and flew away.
Perhaps the sudden cessation of the whirr of Tara's wheel had attracted her mother's attention; for after a while, as it was not resumed, she looked up. "What dost thou see?" she asked, anxiously; for ever since the day on which Tara said the goddess appeared to her, Anunda had been anxious, she hardly knew why: but she dreaded a return of that strange and violent excitement. "What dost thou see, beloved?"
Tara did not apparently hear the question, or did not notice it. Her hands, which had been involuntarily extended, fell upon her lap listlessly as before; but she turned towards her mother. "How long does he remain, mother?" she asked abruptly.
"He! who, daughter?" returned Anunda.
"Radha's brother," replied the girl, as a shiver seemed to pass through her; "Radha said he would go after the marriage, yet he delays. Why, mother—why does he not go?"
"Nay, and how should I know?" replied Anunda. "What is he to me? All I wanted was Radha, and we have got her; and he may go or come as he pleases. Thy father told me he had business here with the Nimbalkur and others till the Now Râtree was over, and he assists in the recitations. More I know not. Why dost thou ask? What is he to thee, Tara?"
"Nothing, mother; but so long?—will he stay so long?"
"Radha told me yesterday he must soon rejoin his people in the west, and leave her; and she was crying about it. Does that content thee, Tara?"
"I would he were gone, mother," said Tara, rising from her low stool, kneeling, and throwing her arms about Anunda as she sat on a similar one, while she hid her face in her dress. "Cannot he go sooner?—cannot Radha send him away?"
"Why, daughter? why?—Ah! he hath not spoken to thee, child; he dare not! Tell me," she continued, in a more agitated tone, as her daughter clung almost convulsively to her, "what is this? Why dost thou fear him? Thou—thou dost not? ... thou canst not——"
"No, no, mother," cried the girl quickly, guessing her mother's thoughts, and looking up innocently; "fear not. I am not a Moorlee to love; ... fear not! But ah, mother, I dread him! I will not go to the temple while he is there. I ... I dare not—I dare not go. May the Holy Mother forgive me for neglect; but when he departs, I will serve her night and day."
"Thou art very beautiful, my child," said her mother, smoothing back the glossy hair and stroking the soft cheek which lay passively in her lap. "Ah, thou art very beautiful; and I fear such as he! Yes, if it be as thou sayest, it were better, indeed, to live secluded for a while. I will tell thy father, and he will understand it."
"Yes, he will surely understand," said Tara absently; "but ah, mother, was not that an omen? I thought it was, and I came to thee."
"What omen, Tara? I saw nothing, child."
"A thought came into my mind, mother," she said sadly, "that I was the butterfly sporting among the flowers, and he the fierce glistening insect that darted upon it and bore it away. But then, mother, the bird came and took both. Why was that?"
"Thou art not well, Tara," replied her mother, not understanding her, for she had not noticed the occurrence, and, seeing her shiver, thought her feverish. "Thou art not well; lie in my arms for a while, and the cold will pass away. O Holy Mother!" she cried aloud, as Tara, sobbing convulsively, hid her face in her bosom, "let not evil come to this child—thine and mine. O, be good to her, as thou hast taken her!"
"Would that it were so," said the girl, after a while, and still sobbing. "I would go, mother, if she would take me. What use am I in life? It would be bitter to leave the house and all of ye, but I should be with her. Did she not promise this when she touched my hair? Ah, yes; and she will not forget it."
"Hush, child; let this fancy pass from thee. Sleep, now, here. I will sing thee the old song. Nay, thou shalt not leave me! There is room at thy mother's heart, and strength still in her arms, to hold thee safely."
As Tara laid herself softly down in the old place, and her mother, rocking herself to and fro, sang the low sweet lullaby of childhood,—the girl's sobbing gradually stopped, and a gentle sleep fell upon her. Anunda watched the change anxiously. At first her brow was contracted, as if with pain, and a broken sob came now and again with her breathing; but gradually the head fell back on her arm, the sweet mouth opened slightly, and tears, which had had no vent before, welled gently from under the closed eyelids as the features relaxed into a smile.
"Yes," thought Anunda, as she bent over her child, while her owntears fell hot and fast, "the Mother is with her now, and she is again happy."
"What hath happened?" asked Radha soon afterwards, as, refreshed by her sleep, she rose, and came gently towards the low spinning-chair on which Anunda still sat. "Is she ill?"
"Hush!" returned Anunda, in a whisper. "If we can lay her down I will tell thee, but we must not wake her. I think.... I think the Mother hath been with her again; but I will tell thee."
Radha hastily spread out a soft mattress and pillow close to the stool, and, raising Tara together, they laid her down upon it, as they would a child. Her mother patted her gently as she lay, and gradually the same sweet smile as at first again stole over her face.
"Look, she sees the Mother!" said Anunda reverently. "It is always so, and nothing can wake her till the time is past. Ah, thou art happy now, my child, be it ever so with thee!"
"What did she say, sister?" asked Radha, as, having thrown a light sheet over the sleeping girl, they sat down to watch her apart, lest the noise of the wheels—for Radha had taken Tara's and joined the broken thread—should awaken her. "What did the goddess say?"
Anunda hesitated. As yet no difference had arisen between them, and Radha still looked up to her, more with the respect of a child for its mother than as a sister-wife would comport herself to her equal. Should she tell Radha all? It had occurred to her that he had imposed upon her some task which she hesitated to perform—that Radha had some impatience of her brother's presence. It might be a demand for money—it might be in relation to the political objects of his mission, of which Anunda had a deep dread, lest her husband should become an active party, and so be embroiled with the Mahomedan officers of the country. She considered for a moment: but Anunda's was no timid nature. She was not afraid of Radha; and with Tara's happiness at stake, she could risk no ceremony with the sister of him who had evidently caused more than a passing cloud.
"Radha," she said gently, "thou art more than a sister-wife to me. Nay, as a daughter I have trusted to thee the happiness which lay nearest my heart and hers; and I believe thee faithful to it, and that this home and all in it is growing precious to thee."
"To me? Ah, yes, O sister and mother, too! Radha is new to you all," she replied, "but will be true now, very true, and will not fail! O mother, if you could know what it is to me to have a loving home!"
"Then Tara must not be injured—no evil must come to her," said Anunda, interrupting her.
"To Tara, mother? We are sisters, who will do her evil?"
"I fear thy brother, Radha—not thee. Hath he said aught to thee?" returned Anunda.
"My brother! O, heed him not, he will soon go," returned Radha, her features expressing distress and agitation, and she already feared the worst.
"Ah, then, it is as I expected—as she dreaded. Radha, this must not be. Hast thou any power over him?"
"None," said the girl, bursting into tears, for what she had most apprehended appeared to have reached her at last—"none. He has been wilful always—to me, to our father when he lived, and to all. Where he goes—who are his companions—what he does—no one knows except our Prince whom he serves, and Tannajee—who came so suddenly that night—whom I showed to you. No, mother, I have no power and no influence. What does he care about me?"
"He must care," said the matron stoutly, "or he must care for me; and yet, for thy sake, I would not provoke him. But, O Radha! when thou hast had a child lying at thy heart—drinking its life from thy breast—climbing about thee—thou wilt understand what a woman can dare for it—what I could dare for Tara! Wilt thou speak to him, or shall I?"
Radha feared her brother. She did not know the extent to which his unscrupulous and profligate mind might carry him, but she had not forgotten his threats. Though she felt assured that, with the protection her husband could afford her, she was now beyond all ordinary harm at his hands, she feared the consequences both to herself and Tara with which he had before threatened her, and she dreaded his violence. Could he have been mad enough to speak to Tara? Could he have sent any insulting message to her? Something must have occurred, and she felt too sick at heart to ask.
"Thou art silent, Radha," continued Anunda; "why?"
"I love Tara; I love him too," she said earnestly, the tears starting to her eyes. "Yes, I will speak to him, even though he should strike me. Mother, I can bear it from him. Can you send me to him?—now, now!—or send for him? If I am to go, let it be at once, for this is a matter in which I cannot hesitate. O dear mother!" she continued, rising and advancing, "I am a child yet to thee. Let me put my head on thy breast for once, and bless me there as thou wouldst Tara: bless me ere I go to him. No, not so, not so; but as Tara lay on thy breast, so would I too, for once."
"Come, Radha!" cried Anunda. "O child! O sister-wife! come; henceforth between thee and me there is no veil. I had longed to draw it away, but thou hast done it now, and I am happy. Yes, henceforth ye are to me as one," she continued, smoothing the soft cheek as it lay at her heart—"new and old, but alike."
"Enough; now I am content," cried the girl, rising and clappingher hands, "and there shall be no fear for Tara. Send some one with me and let me go; he should not come here."
"No, Radha," said Anunda, calling a trusty woman-servant to accompany her, "not here. Go to him, and return soon."
"Is my brother within? has he returned from the temple?" asked Radha of a man sitting in the porch of the house in which Moro Trimmul resided, and, though in another street, was only a few steps distant. "Is he come, Chimna?"
"Yes, lady, he is come," returned the man, who was an old retainer of the family, and had known her from infancy; "but if you take my advice, you will not go to him now: he has eaten nothing, and is in one of his rough angry moods. I did but speak to him as he entered, and got as many curses as will serve me for a month. Why not come another time?"
"Nay, Chimna, but it is an urgent matter, and I must now have speech of him," she replied. "Go, say I am come, and that he must admit me. Begone at once," she continued, seeing him hesitate, "else it will be worse for you."
"I had rather you went yourself," returned the man, "what if he should beat me? But no matter, I will go; perhaps I may not do you much more service, for he speaks of departing."
"Ah, indeed! When?" exclaimed Radha. "He is not ill?"
"Soon, perhaps," replied the man, putting his finger to the side of his nose, as a caution to secrecy, while he stepped across the court to the verandah, "very soon, I think. No, he is not ill, only vexed with something."
Radha's heart beat fast in her bosom. O, if it were but true; and that her brother, alarmed or repentant, no matter which, were about to depart, it would solve all difficulties at once. That very day—to-morrow! It seemed hard to wish him gone; yet there would be peace to Tara and to her mother, which was endangered by his presence. Surely he would see her. Yes; Chimna was now descending the steps of the house, and beckoned to her with a smiling face. She crossed the court at once, followed by the servant.
"He is in the upper room," he said, "and bid thee come alone: perhaps he is not well, for he is lying down, and seems weary. No wonder he was in ill-humour with me, after that long disputation with the Nassuk Brahmun to-day in the temple,—some relation of the Shastree's, I believe, lady."
"Enough, Chimna; take care of my servant till I return," saidRadha. "You can sit here; if I want you I will call;" and so saying she passed through a door into the inner court, and up the steps which led to the apartments above, which were steep and narrow. The door was closed at the top of them, and she knocked before she opened it. Her brother unfastened it inside. "Enter," he said quickly; "it is well thou art come, I was thinking how I could see thee, Radha. Sit down there," and he hastily arranged a few pillows and a travelling mattress for her, "and speak to me;" and at the same time threw himself heavily upon a low bed which was close to the seat he had contrived.
"O, I am weary, Radha," he continued, "very weary. I have no sleep, no rest; I cannot eat, and there is a burning thirst ever with me. I shall die if this lasts long."
"Brother, you are ill," she replied; "this place does not agree with you? Why not go away for a time and change the air? Chimna says you have eaten nothing; why is this? With all there is to do for the master, this is no time to be ill. Is there nothing better for him than lingering here? Surely Tannajee brought news of him?"
"Ay, sister, and there is more," and he pointed to a heap of letters on the floor; "enough to make one tremble for the result of years of toil and strife with the men of Islam. Listen: Maloosray brought word of their preparations at Beejapoor, and they write that to-day or to-morrow Afzool Khan and his son Fazil, with all the forces at Nuldroog and Sholapoor, and many others, will begin a march upon Wye and Purtâbgurh. What can we do?"
"Is this Moro Trimmul, my brother, who is speaking?" said the girl, with some scorn in her tone, and drawing herself up. "I thought he, like Tannajee and the master, could see no hindrance to the cause of the Holy Mother but death. He used to say so in—in—the old times," she added tenderly.
"The old times?" he echoed. "Yes, the old times, when thou hadst a royal lover, girl; not a drivelling book-worm!"
"Hush, Moro," returned Radha sharply; "no more of that. Thou hast buried it in the marriage, and he is kind to me. Why remember it?"
"Is it to be forgotten? Dost thou forget it, Radha?—then, when we brought thee back from him?"
"He never loved me," she returned; "he could not love a mad child; he told me so when he gently put me away."
"Not for the mad child, but for the beautiful girl, would he care; he does care, Radha. O sister, why was this hateful marriage done, so far away from us?"
"Nay, brother, thou knowest best; but I am content—he is very kind to me; and they all love Radha now, even Anunda."
"Radha," said her brother, raising himself on his arms and looking at her intently, and till his eyes seemed to flash with a light glowing beneath them. "Radha, do not lie. If thou art my sister, thy heart is far away among the blue mountains and their deep forests, and with our Prince. If it be not so, the witchcraft of that house hath compassed thee with a spell, as it has me."
"Witchcraft, brother? they do no witchcraft," she replied simply.
"By the Mother, they do," he cried; "feel my hands, feel my head, they are burning, and Tara has set me on fire."
"Moro, thou art ill; this is fever," returned his sister anxiously. "I was like this yesterday, and Anunda gave me some medicine, and I slept, and it passed away. Let me fetch some, or send the woman for it."
"No, no, Radha," he said hoarsely, "this is no fever; this is a spell on me, and I cannot break it. This is the spell Tara wears round her neck, Gunga told me of it. It would not let her speak; it draws me to her, and then puts me away till I burn. O sister, I burn all over, and at night when there is no one with me—O, it is terrible, terrible; and she comes and mocks me, and holds out water and flowers, and then snatches them away. I tell thee she is a witch, a devil, and she has set me on fire. Bring her to me and I will tell her so."
"Brother, dear brother," said the girl, "you are ill, and there is no one to tend you. I will stay; why did you not send for me? why not tell me of this sooner? Now, I will not leave you, you must not be alone."
"Radha, I am not ill," he replied; "I need no tending. Was I ill yesterday, when I overcame the Brahmuns from Punderpoor in the discussion at night, and when I could have said the Ramayun by heart? Was I ill to-day when I strove with the Nassuk Brahmuns in logic? No, girl, I am not ill in body, only at heart. And when she comes to the temple, and goes round the shrine crowned with flowers, clashing the cymbals and singing hymns with the priests, then I see the charm on her bosom, and it sparkles; and I hear her ringing voice, and I grow mad, Radha—mad ... and this fever comes on me, and I burn as they do in hell—as I do now. Look!" he cried in a shrill cry of pain, "look, she is there, mocking me now, and pushing me in.... O Tara!" he continued in a plaintive voice, after a pause, stretching out his hands and shutting his eyes, as he turned away, "do not kill me, do not burn me; I kiss your feet, I worship you, beloved! do not harm me!"
"What can I do? what can I do?" cried Radha, wringing her hands. "He will die. Ho, Chimna!"
"Silence, Radha; for your life call no one. I will strike you ifyou do," he said, raising his arm. "Look, she is gone! she was there—there, even now. I turned away, for her eyes burned me; there was no love in them—none. She came and mocked me, and you are witness of it. Why did she come in the air? She is a spirit—a witch—and it is always thus. There—look——"
Radha looked tremblingly where he pointed. It was impossible not to be infected with the terror and misery of his face and voice. The room had open arches of wood on one side, across which heavy curtains were drawn; but they were partially open, and, looking through them, all she saw was the terraces of the houses of the town gradually descending into the great ravine: the crags and precipices of its further side: with the trees, and gilded spires and pinnacles of the temple between. Beyond these, the rugged mountain and the plain below, hazy with quivering light, and melting into the sky.
"You see nothing, sister?" he said. "No, she is gone now."
"No, Moro, there is nothing there but the town and the temple. O Holy Mother!" continued Radha, stretching out her hands to it, "save him; save my brother! I vow to thee——"
"Make no vows for me, Radha," he said to her, sharply catching her arm; "she is my enemy; I know it. She loves Tara better than me; she will not give her to me. I asked her for Tara long ago; see what has come of it. I have done all the secret rites that her worship enjoins, but she is not content; she mocks me, and when I look at her eyes they glitter with malice. To-day she seemed to glower at me from among the smoke, and Tara was there offering flowers. They both mocked me. Yes, they are devils; but I fear them no more, Radha. May her house be desolate, and her shrine desecrated."
"Hush, brother!" cried the girl, putting her hand before his mouth, to stop what she believed to be horrible and deadly blasphemy. "Hush! what if she heard you? O Mother, gentle Mother, forgive him this madness. I vow to thee——"
"You will make me curse you, Radha," he said, again grasping her arm violently. "Did I not tell you I would have no vows to her, liar and murderess as she is? Yes, I see it now. You, too, are one with them, and are come to mock me; and yet, Radha," he continued, looking at her tenderly, "was this good of you after all I have done for you? O, faithless!"
"Moro," returned Radha, weeping sorely, and sobbing so that she could hardly speak, "I am not faithless. I am true to you, even to death, my brother."
"Good," he said gravely; but again fixing his eyes upon her, so that she could hardly bear his intense gaze. "True? Ah, yes, if all are false, Radha should be true—true to him and to me. Now,listen," he continued, slowly and impressively, "if thou art true, tell Tara I am in fear of her charm; bid her look kindly on me—bid her put it away from her breast. I will kiss her feet; I will daily measure with my body every step she takes round the shrine, so that she give me one kind look,—so that I see that love in her eyes which is burning in me day and night—day and night.
"But that is not all," he resumed, after a pause. "Am I mad? Dost thou think me so for this raving? By the gods, no! Only for her. Let her look to herself. And I say to thee calmly, sister, thou must say all this to-night, else beware! Listen, I have but one desire in life, that is Tara—one object only to live for, that is Tara. I plead nothing, I say nothing, only that I am not mad.
"Now, listen again. You have much to live for—the pleasures of life, the enjoyments of wealth—honour as the wife of Vyas Shastree,—children to come, and your husband's love, with your children's; but remember, Radha, they are all in my hand. A word from me to him, and you are sunk lower than the Moorlees. All this joy will pass from you. He will cast you out, and I will not shelter you. You shall be worse than the vilest, and men shall mock you. By ——" and he swore a horrible curse, "I will do this and more, Radha, if you refuse. Answer me, girl," and he shook her violently and painfully in his passion.
"Moro!" cried his sister, gasping for breath, "listen. I said once before you might kill me if it pleased you, and I bared my breast to you. Now again, if you dare to look at it without shame, it is before you. But, listen to my words, I will do no treachery; no, brother, no treachery. I am of the same blood and the same spirit as yourself, and you well know I could be true and fearless once, and so may God and the Mother help me, I will be fearless now in a better cause. Yes, strike," she continued, as, without speaking, he hastily raised himself, seized a naked dagger that was concealed under his pillow, and brandished it with one hand, while he pressed her down with his knee, and held her forcibly against the wall with the other. "Strike! your blow will be more merciful than your words," and she shut her eyes, expecting the stroke, yet not flinching from it.
"Stay—hold!" cried a shrill woman's voice, as a hasty rustling of silken garments was heard for an instant between the door and the bed, and Moro Trimmul's hand was seized in a powerful grasp; "wouldst thou do murder? Shame on thee, and she thy sister!"
"She is a devil, too, and mocked me," exclaimed the man moodily, but dashing the knife to the ground. "Who let thee in, Gunga? Go, I want thee not—away! tempt me no more, else I will strike!"
"Fear him not, lady," cried the girl, picking up the dagger hastily; "he dare not strike you now, else,"—and her eyes flashed—"else, Moro Trimmul, thou shalt do no more evil: none to me, none to her.Beware! I have no fear, and no scruple; let her go safely, and I will stay with thee."
"Go, Radha," he said. "Go, sister——"
"I will not go, Moro Trimmul," cried his sister excitedly. "I was not afraid of you when that dagger's point was at my heart. For myself I am not afraid of your threats, or your words. What you can do to me, what you can say of me, I know not. Whatever it be, and this girl is witness, I fear it not. What men would say of the Pundit who wronged his sister—you know; and how they would revile and spit at you. Say it, sir, and I follow you through Dekhan, through Hind, till I die by your hand. If you make me shameless you shall be shameless with me; but this remember, I warn them all in the house of you,—I warn Tara of you,—and no harm shall come to her, for your honour is dearer to me, than mine to you."
"If thou hast any influence over him," she continued to Gunga; "lead him aright. Thou mayst have saved him a great crime to-day, for there was blood in his eyes when he kneeled over me with the knife; but better I should have died than harm should have come to them through me. Lead him away from those evil thoughts, and Radha will be grateful to thee all her life, and may often help thee."
"I love you, lady, and honour you," said the girl, reverently touching Radha's feet; "but in this matter I have no power, much as I desire to help you and him; nor, indeed, in any other now,—yet I will do what I can. He loved me once," said the girl, bursting into tears, "before he knew Tara; but that is gone, for she has his love and cares not for it. Now he only curses me and beats me, yet I will not, I cannot leave him, lady. Forgive the poor Moorlee; but it is better for me to bear his wrath than for him to be left alone. Last night he was fearfully excited, and threatened my life, but I escaped. He grows worse towards evening; but fear not, I will not leave him."
"I will come and watch with thee," said Radha, in a whisper, for her brother had again thrown himself on the bed, and covered himself with a sheet, and she feared to excite him; "let me come?"
"It may not be, lady," replied the girl. "If he kill me, what matter? who would miss the Moorlee, or grieve for her? But you, his sister, must not meet this peril; the Holy Mother has already saved you from one terrible danger, and fate is never to be dared twice. Only believe that one as devoted as yourself watches him, and one to whom life is of no account. Go, do not speak to him now. This madness will pass away, and I will come and tell you of him."
"Is she gone, Gunga?" said Moro Trimmul to the girl, who, after Radha's departure, had sat down by the bed and was fanning him. "I hear no one speaking to you."
"Yes, I sent her away. I feared for her," she replied.
"It was well done, Gunga, else—else I might have killed her——Ay, girl," he resumed, after a pause, "I had killed her but for Tara. Why did she come and not stay? Why did she take the knife from me?"
"Thou art always raving of that girl like a fool, Moro Trimmul," said Gunga impatiently. "It was I that saved thy sister, else there was blood in thine eyes, and a devil at thy heart; what if thou hadst struck her?"
"She and Tara are one," he said gloomily; "yes, they are one, and thou, too, wilt go to them. Go, Gunga, they will give thee money."
"May dirt fall on their money, and thine too," she replied sulkily. "I want none of it."
"Thou art insolent, girl."
"I am a fool, Moro Trimmul, to bear with thee," she retorted, without moving. The girl's quick perception showed her that any toleration of his bad humour would only increase it, and of life she was utterly reckless. What tie held her to the man who now seemed almost to loathe her, she knew not: a fascination, perhaps, which she could not resist.
He was long silent, again drew the sheet over him, and lay quietly; at length he removed it and sat up.
"Thou art not gone, Gunga?" he said; "why art thou here?"
"I know not," she returned, "except that I am a fool."
"Go," he continued, "they will be wanting thee in the temple."
"I am not going," she replied; "another will take my work. I will not leave thee now."
"Gunga," he resumed, after a moody silence, "is there peace between us?"
"Such peace as thou wilt have," she replied.
"And if I love thee again?"
"Pah!" she cried; "love!—it is a thing to spit upon now. Can love go from one to another, and return as it went? Can a garland of Champa flowers be worn all night, and keep their freshness and fragrance till the morning? Do not men fling them away as refuse?"
"Then, why come to me, girl? why follow me?"
"Thy heart tells thee already," she said, fixing her eyes full on him, "we have one thing only in common now. That girl—I told thee so at the Pâp-nâs that day, and I tell thee so again—when I trample that charm of hers under my feet, and her throat with it, I shall be content, and thou art safe. Yes, Moro Trimmul, but for hope of revenge on her, I would have killed thee when thy love went to her. But thou art a coward; I know it; thou wilt do nothing."
"Thou wilt not say so if I carry her off and put her to shame."
"Ah!" cried the girl, rising and standing over him, "is it so? I tell thee, Moro Trimmul, I will follow her and fawn on her like adog—I will abase myself before her—I will lick the dust from her feet, if that will help thee to do this."
"Listen to what I say," he continued, raising himself on his arm. "I am calm now—quite calm—I burn no longer. I was mad when she—when Radha—came. I thought I had a chance through her; but she defied me, and there is none."
"Women know women best," said the girl. "I told thee so long ago, but I was not believed."
"I believe thee now," he replied; "and we have only ourselves to rely upon. Ah, surely this is a strange calmness which has come over me. It is not before death, Gunga?"
"No, fear not," returned Gunga. "Love is passing into revenge; I know what it is. Yes, thou wilt act now, Moro. Take her hence but for a day, and she is thine for ever, and will become a Moorlee like me—like the rest of us. Enough, Moro Trimmul. No other harm shalt thou do to her than this? Hast thou the spirit—the courage?"
"I will do it," he said gloomily. "That is what I had determined on myself. When can it be done?"
"On the last night of the ceremonies," she said; "I can get the key of the postern, and keep it open unobserved; and as Maloosray and others went that night, so canst thou take Tara; and I have friends among the Ramoosees, who will help us. I am their priestess, and they dare not refuse me. Take us both; I must see her humiliation. O Shakti powers!" she cried, stretching out her arms, "aid me in this. Ye are more powerful than the Mother, and ye hate her. Art thou determined, Moro Trimmul?"
"I will not change," he said; "the illusion is past."
"Swear on my throat and feet, and I will believe thee."
"I swear," he replied, touching her neck.
"Now I will leave thee, Moro," said the girl. "I have no fear for thee; there will be no more delirium with new thoughts."
"I will follow thee to the temple," he replied; "go on before. I dare not stay here alone; she would come to me——"
Some days have passed at Beejapoor since we were last there, not idly, certainly. A large army had to be prepared for the field, and for a long, difficult, and perhaps hazardous service. The treasury was opened, and the arrears of all troops disbursed; for the men had to provide as well for their own wants as for those of their families during their absence. The condition of the artillery was looked towith particular care, and preparations made for rough roads and rougher service than other parts of the Dekhan afforded. Sivaji's mountains were high and steep, the jungle and forest next to impenetrable, yet Afzool Khan had taken up the "birra," the gage of service, and had determined to bring the rebel bound to the throne of his young King, there to receive death or pardon, as might be most fitting.
But the old Khan was no boaster. He had seen something of that country when, as a younger man, he had governed those provinces; and in his tours through them had shared the hospitality of Shahji, the father of Sivaji, and had been guided by Sivaji himself through many a rough hunting expedition; he therefore remembered enough to adopt precautions in all respects, and, so far as lay in his power, they were made.
That was not a country for the operations of cavalry, and it was therefore more to the infantry and artillery that he trusted: and it would not be wise to weaken the royal forces in and about the capital too much, lest the Moghuls should take advantage of it, and make incursions across the frontier, nay, even attack the capital itself.
His own Paigah, and troops that had been in quarters for the rainy season at his own town of Afzoolpoor:—some of the Wuzeer's Abyssinian levies, which were at Nuldroog,—some bodies of the old Dekhany horse under Alla-ool-Moolk, the Dâgtorays and Bylmees, were particularly selected; and, with some of the best infantry, the army was complete.
Nothing could exceed the spirit and devotion of the troops. In the beautiful Jumma Mosque, where more than five thousand men assembled daily for prayer, the preaching of the Peer, and the other ecclesiastics of that noble edifice—which yet remains as perfect as it was at the period of this history—eloquently set forth the merits of the Jéhâd, or religious war, in the eyes of God and the Prophet; and the certainty of paradise and its houris, to all who, falling by sickness or in battle, would surely enjoy them. Nor was it in the Jumma Mosque only that this fervour existed. In the royal Palace precincts, the city mosques—at the tombs of the ancestors of the Kings—the beauteous Ibrahim Roza, and noble mausoleum of Sultan Mahmood, nothing was left undone by the preachers to make the war popular, and to blacken the character and motives of the rebels. Frequently, indeed, to such a pitch of excitement were men wrought, that it was difficult to restrain them from attacking Hindus indiscriminately in the streets, and, in the expressive language of the Peer, from "making a pyramid of a lakh of heads before the palace gates." But it was no part of the royal policy to allow such religious fury vent at the capital or by the way: suffice it that, at the end of a long and toilsome journey, which would be made light through religious fervour,there would be free licence to slay, and the raid of Afzool Khan would become memorable in the history of the kingdom.
As the camps of the different leaders, too, formed without the walls, on that great plain which encompassed the city, bards and minstrels, in companies or singly, balled-singers, and, above all, troops of dancing women—thronged to them; and day and night, audiences were formed, sometimes in the tents, sometimes in the open air, where the feats of Sivaji and Maloosray were sung in the native Mahratta or Canarese, with verses added for the occasion, urging the faithful to destroy them.
We may be sure that, if the old Khan and Fazil were active in the field, Lurlee and Zyna were no less so in the house. To Lurlee war was familiar. She had been long weary of a monotonous life in the city, varied only by an occasional day's excursion to the royal palaces at Toorweh, the Ibrahim Roza, or to the Khan's own garden, which was without the walls; and she remembered vividly the time when, for months together, the Khan's tent, or a temporary lodging in a village, were her only home, moving hastily or leisurely, as the service required, from place to place, in her palankeen or on horseback, as might be.
Ah! she was young and active then, and with the sharing of a rough bivouac or hurried march,—scanty food, often cooked by herself, a horse-cloth to lie upon, and a shelter contrived with four spears and a sheet thrown over them—and hard fighting to boot,—were her pleasantest memories of the Khan's love and her own happiness. If she were not so young, the old spirit was at last roused; and, day by day, as the preparations went on, the good lady told Zyna of the old wild times, and excited her desire to share in the new expedition.
To Zyna's great joy her father had directed that the whole family was to move. Lurlee was indispensable to the Khan in the field, where, indeed, her truest value was apparent; and Fazil could not be denied the command he had earned by his sagacity and valour. Who, then, could protect Zyna, even did he desire to leave her? True, the royal Bégum had offered a home, and with it her love to the maiden; she should be her little secretary, and write the King's private letters to her father while he was absent. But it could not be: that loving heart would have pined without those whose daily converse had been its life for years, and the invitation was affectionately but respectfully declined.
We may, perhaps, also hint another reason, not more powerful, certainly, than the love of those nearest and dearest to her, but working with it, nevertheless, in no mean degree. Kowas Khan had not suffered by his father's treachery. It was not only that Afzool Khan and Fazil answered for him with their lives and honour; butit had become clear to the King, and to those who had examined the late Wuzeer's correspondence, that the son had been kept ignorant of his father's plans; so, when the period of mourning was past, Kowas Khan had been taken to the royal court by the Khan and his son, and invested with robes of honour. Of the King's participation in the secret of his father's murder Kowas Khan had no knowledge, and could have none. It was believed to have been committed in revenge by some discharged soldiers, and it were better that he died as he had done, than that his treacherous intention should have succeeded, or that the ignominy of a public execution should have followed its detection.
While, therefore, the young man was still residing at the Khan's house with his mother, and other younger members of the family, he renewed his proposals for Zyna, which were heartily seconded by her, and other female relatives. It was, however, no time for such affairs; and with a tacit consent that, when the campaign was over, there should be no more delay in the marriage, Kowas Khan contented himself with being told by Lurlee Khánum—when the worthy dame had retired behind a screen—that, after a strict investigation, she had come to the conclusion that his temperament was fire and Zyna's air, and that, in consequence, their union promised to be felicitous in the highest degree; and that her friend the Moolla agreed with her.
Did our space admit of it, we would tell how friends on both sides met for the betrothal; and how,—there being no time for more lengthened ceremonies,—they stood up and interchanged packets of betel-leaf covered with gold and silver foil. How both sides swore that those they represented should never swerve from the contract; how the first, and hundred and tenth chapters of the Kôrán, were said devoutly by the Moolla and the assembly; and what good things were provided at night by Lurlee Khánum and her trusty cook Kurreema, for those who came to the quiet ceremony. Many were the complaints of Lurlee's female friends, and perhaps Zyna's also, that there was not greater rejoicing; but Afzool Khan made it known that, when the marriage did take place, there should be no stint; and so the neighbours were satisfied for the present, and consoled themselves with hope for the future.
Bulwunt's wounds had proved of less consequence than was supposed at first, and loss of blood had caused the weakness under which he suffered on the night of the scene in the temple. He was now able to move about, and even to ride, and in the ensuing campaign, in a country which he knew thoroughly, his local experience would be of great use. He was not, however, sanguine as to the result. As he expressed it, hunting Sivaji and Maloosray would be like chasing the wind; it would be heard and felt, but never seen. Nevertheless they might be brought to terms, and hereafter become worthy servants of the royal house.
Everything, therefore, being prepared, and the royal astrologers having fixed a fortunate day and hour for the commencement of the march, the whole of the troops were drawn out in battle-array on the plain north of the fort, and the young King bade the leaders God-speed. Descending from his elephant, he embraced the old Khan, his son, and other noblemen and gentlemen of note; and as the royal Nagárás, or kettle-drums, which had been directed to accompany the force, struck up a march, and were answered by those of every body of horse, infantry, and artillery on the field,—the troops at once proceeded to their several destinations, a few miles distant, shouting the war-cries of their several leaders.
It was necessary, however, for the Khan himself, with his son and Kowas Khan, to visit Nuldroog, where a great portion of the army lay, and whence some of it was to accompany him; for though the troops at Beejapoor, which had been under the late Wuzeer, had shown no signs of disaffection, those at the fort were suspected, and their loyalty must be put to the proof ere the army could proceed. Lurlee Khánum and Zyna, therefore, were despatched under guidance and escort of Bulwunt Rao and others, to Sholapoor, to await the Khan's arrival; and with a party of horse lightly equipped, his son Fazil, the Peer—who had declared his intention of witnessing in person the discomfiture of the infidels, and seeing to the religious exercises of the army during its march—and Kowas Khan, Afzool Khan proceeded by the direct road of his own town of Afzoolpoor to the royal fort.
We need not follow their journey, for the country affords nothing interesting or remarkable for description. After passing the town of Almella, they crossed the Bheema, now falling rapidly, and already fordable in some places for horsemen: and Afzoolpoor, lying near the further bank, was safely reached on the third day.
Here the Khan found employment for two days more: for he was in no hurry to leave his own town, and the various matters to which he found he had to attend. His own last resting-place, a lofty, handsome, square building, with a massive dome, and the mosque adjoining it, were all but completed, and their consecration was necessary. This was performed by the Peer, the Moollas of village mosques around, the Kazee of Nuldroog, and the representative of the saint Boorhan Sahib, who lived at the pretty village of Boorhanpoor, some miles to the north, where the saint's tomb had been erected. "It was well," said the old Khan, "to have the place ready; who could tell whether it might not be required soon?" Who could tell indeed? and so the ceremonies were completed.
Nor would the hospitable representative of the Boorhanpoor saint allow the Khan's party to pass his village without entertainment. Parties of leaders of the troops at Nuldroog, now only a few milesdistant, came to the festivities, and, in the meeting with them, all apprehensions were removed from the Khan's mind. Swearing on the holy book before the saint's shrine, they declared their fealty to the King, and their attachment to their young master, in terms which could not be mistaken.
The Khan was to march early next morning for the fort, but his departure was delayed purposely to allow of the troops to send out parties to perform the ceremony of "Istikbal," or meeting; and, after again partaking of the good Durwaysh's hospitality, the party rode on without interruption.
The road from Boorhanpoor to Nuldroog leads up the pretty and fertile valley of the Bóree river, which is skirted by low grassy hills for several miles. Then leaving the river, as the hills grow bolder, it rises gradually through passes among them, and, after several steep and stony ascents, gains a level plateau, from whence the fort and town are distinctly seen below.
Soon after leaving their post, the party began to meet others from the fort, dressed in their gayest and best costumes; and these, having made their salutes to the Khan, rode forward to the front, so that gradually the men in advance swelled to a considerable number, and had all the appearance of an independent body of cavalry. Out of this, wherever the ground afforded room, and was free from ruts and stones, men dashed at speed, wheeling and circling their horses, so that their movements appeared like those of a real skirmish.
When they reached the level plain on the summit of the plateau above the town, the Khan was met by the Killadar, or governor of the fort, the principal officers of the troops, the civil authorities, and others; some on horseback, others on gaily-caparisoned elephants with clashing bells. Both parties dismounting, and the leaders having embraced each other,—the officers presenting the hilts of their swords as Nuzzurs, or offerings to the Khan,—the procession—for it had now become one—moved on slowly in gorgeous array, amidst the firing of matchlocks and camel swivels and welcome guns from the fort; and the appearance of the Khan and his gallant son, as they rode together through the main street and bazar, dressed in rich cloth-of-gold, was a subject of general remark and approbation by all classes. The prospect of a campaign, always pleasant to the soldiers, especially under so renowned a leader as Afzool Khan, increased the general satisfaction of all concerned.
As they passed its first gate, the booming of cannon from the ramparts announced their arrival within the fort, and was answeredby guns from the encampment on the heights to the west. Passing the ditch by a causeway, they entered the fausse-braye by a narrow passage, and thence ascending slightly to the main entrance, with its massive flanking bastions of black basalt, the interior was reached—at that time a busy place, crowded with houses and shops in some parts, but in others laid out in open gardens, and spaces where the troops could assemble.
A curious and picturesque spot in many respects is this fort. Built upon a tongue of basalt, which is precipitous on three sides, and of considerable height, it is joined to the level portion of the plateau to the west, on which the town stands, by a neck considerably narrower than the enceinte; and on this side a double wall with bastions, and a deep dry ditch, form the defences. Round the edge of the precipices of the hill itself, is a single wall of great strength, with large bastions at intervals; and the river Bóree, lying deep in the valley below, washes the base of the hill on two sides, north and east.
To the north, to secure a constant supply of water to the fort, a stupendous dam of masonry has been thrown across the river upwards of seventy feet high, and of proportional thickness, by which the water is held up in the valley, so as to form a pretty lake of the same depth at the dam, which extends above the town. On the other side of this dam is another fort on a smaller knoll, which serves as atête-de-pontto the dam, and completes the fortification.
To the old Khan the place was familiar. He had often taken turns of duty there to watch the frontier, but to Fazil and his friend it was new; and when ceremonies of reception and the introduction of Kowas Khan to the officers of his father's levies, now his own, were finished, the friends accepted the offer of the Killadar to examine the marvels of the place.
The wonderful dam, through the upper sluices of which the stream was precipitated into a deep pool at its foot, in two pretty cataracts; the suite of apartments in the body of the dam itself, over which the river rolled in flood, and fell in a sheet before its windows; and the noble Cavalier at the east end, from the top of which extensive views of the country on all sides were obtained, were duly admired. It was evening when the friends reached the summit of the Cavalier, and they sate there watching the glorious sunset, over town and fort and lake, in which the piles of gold and crimson clouds broken with dark purple, with the sombre masses of fort walls and bastions, and precipices on which they stood, were reflected in its deep waters.
It was not so easy to prepare the troops required there as at the capital; but the Khan was anxious that nothing should be wanting in their equipment, and a few days was required to complete preparations for the field. This delay enabled the chief officers of the country to arrive and pay their respects, and, among others, PaharSingh, no longer disguised, but in his proper character as one of the wardens of the frontier marches, attended and did service with a body of picked men, both horse and foot, which rivalled, if they did not surpass, the royal troops in completeness and splendour of appearance.
Very different were the chief and his nephew now, in comparison with the time when we last saw them; and in the noble figure, dressed in light chain armour and cloth-of-gold, riding a superb grey horse, and giving commands to his men, no one could have recognized the old ragged Fakeer and his cry of "Ulla dilâyâ to léonga," which still often rang in the ears of those who had heard it.
The building, which went by the name of the King's Palace, and which was kept for the use of royal officers of rank, or even for royalty itself, should the King have occasion to visit the fort, had been assigned to Afzool Khan and his retinue; and, after the transaction of daily business in one of the public halls of the fort, he retired, after evening prayer, to his apartments, finding relaxation in a game of chess with the priest, who was a stout opponent, or hearing or dictating his public correspondence.
It was the fourth evening after his arrival, after an unusually busy day; the priest was occupied with a sermon in the mosque, and the Khan had retired into one of the rooms of the house, which, being built into part of the fort wall, possessed a projecting oriel window, commanding a view of the whole of the east side of the fort, with its walls and rugged cliffs. By day these precipices did not appear extraordinarily remarkable; but when shrouded in the gloom of evening and night, with the river brawling beneath them in its rocky bed, their height and effect were indefinitely increased, and the murmur of the river below became delightfully soothing.
One corner of this oriel, furnished with cushions, had become the favourite resort of the Khan. Here he had been sitting alone and undisturbed, and occupied with despatches and other papers the whole of the evening; and he was about to retire to rest when an attendant entered, somewhat abruptly.
"I said I was not to be disturbed, Allee," he cried; "what dost thou want?"
"My lord, there is a man without, who says he has urgent business, and he must have speech of you alone. I said it was impossible; but he declared you would be angry with me if you knew he were denied, and that I was to say to you, 'Ulla dilâyâ to léonga,' and you would understand."
"Admit him, instantly," said the Khan, to his servant's astonishment. "Ha, Pahar Singh again! what new work has he now got here for us?"
Muffled closely in a sheet, with his sword under his arm, the chiefapproached the Khan, and bent lowly before him. "Send that man away, and hear what I have to say," he said; "it is important."
Allee looked at the chief suspiciously, as though he were trusting his master to a dangerous character; but, at a reiteration of the order, he returned to depart.
"Take this weapon with you, friend," said the chief, laughing, "thou art afraid of it, perhaps; not so thy lord,—nor of me. Keep it for me, however, till I come out."
Allee took the sword. "I did not like the look of him," he said to another without, who belonged to the fort. "Who is he?"
"Dost thou not know Pahar Singh?" returned the man; "that is his famous sword Dévi, which has drank many a man's blood; come, let us look at it. There will be something to do, surely, as he is with the Khan."
"I have but a few words to say, Afzool Khan," said Pahar Singh, as the servant retired; "and I can do a good service, if it please you, my lord, to join in it or aid it."
"If it be a service to the King's cause, why not?" said the Khan; "but none of thy blood feuds, Pahar Singh; thou canst not use the royal troops for thine own purposes."
"Nor do I need them, my lord," returned the chief, somewhat stiffly. "I have enough men of my own to answer for those matters; nay, indeed, for this also, if I have your permission; and only that my rascals are somewhat too free of hand to be trusted in a town at night, I had done it myself ere this."