Sivaji's early career had been dissolute, but that was a venial fault among the people. His companions were the young Mahratta gentry,—yeomen, and farmers, whom he best loved to draw about him; above all, young Brahmuns who would join him, whether as priests or soldiers, or both, in his wild enterprises. Moro Trimmul was one of these—one who had grown into his deepest confidence. So long as Moro's father lived, he had in some degree restrained his son; but his private meetings with his prince were still frequent; and in the plays and recitations, of which Sivaji was passionately fond, Moro was generally an actor and reciter. Thus it was that Sivaji frequently came to Wye, and put up at the Josee's house; and so he came to know Radha—a beautiful child then, whom he could caress without hindrance. He a Mahratta, she a Brahmun—any union was impossible; and yet she grew to be more than interesting to him as she advanced in age.
Eventually Radha's betrothed husband died. Other offers were made for her, but were always refused, so peremptorily, that people believed the report designedly set afoot by her brother and Sukya Bye, that she was to be married to a distant relative who, now absent on pilgrimages, would return and claim her, or she would have to be taken to him. And so the girl grew, the time for marriage passed, and the Rajah's visits, often clandestine, were encouraged by aunt and nephew, with what ultimate hope of result might be imagined. Yet both were careful there should be no scandal.
Perhaps their scheme might have succeeded had not Sivaji himself, now feeling his way to power, seen the peril of the connection. Was she wife or widow, there might have been fewer scruples, but, an unmarried Brahmun girl would be a burden, a disgrace, which he dared not encounter—one that would not fail to be resented by the priests, whom it was his aim to gain. He could not spare one so devoted, so able, and so unscrupulous as Moro Trimmul, nor could he replacehim; he needed many such, and he loved him too much to break with him on this point.
It was a hard struggle. But the young prince, whose firm will and self-control finally won him a kingdom, successfully resisted the opportunities deliberately offered. As the girl grew, as his intercourse with the house became more and more unreserved, it was clear to him that her love for him was growing as part of her existence. The girl, for whom he had always a kind word and free greeting, who claimed the privilege of serving "her Rajah," when he put up at their house, became by degrees shy and reserved; cried if he spoke kindly to her, and trembled if he approached her. He could not be mistaken in those eyes: they told their own story—love.
Under such circumstances, among such people, love is passion. It has no medium except in maturer age and constant association. The girl—still a child in years—loved deeply, passionately; and as she grew older, month by month, day by day, the news of her prince's exploits, now beginning to be sung in ballads through the country, excited her fearfully. Her aunt and brother had detected her in more than one attempt to escape to him, and, fearful of the result, had prevented it. Had he taken her away, would they have pursued? Surely not; but he was careful—he admitted his own danger to himself—and he gradually avoided the house, though he clung the more closely to Moro Trimmul. Radha found means to send occasional messages to him—a child's love, a child's yearning for him were told to him; and we know that, in some instances, a child's love—there and here the same—is more passionate, because more pure and more absorbing, than a woman's. What was marriage to her? If she could only be with her Rajah—to serve him, to live with him, to ride, nay, to fight with him—she would go, or die.
The last time Sivaji had seen her she had grown desperate. She had never spoken so to him before; but she had told him she must die if he did not take her away. "Nay, but I will come with thee," she cried, "even if thou cast me out among thy servants." And he confided this to her brother. "For my sake," he said, impressively, "if not for thine and hers, keep her safe; take her away and have her married; the farther away from hence the better. It is no use speaking to her. Moro Trimmul! save me from the temptation, thyself from the contumely this would bring upon us. I know what is in thy heart; but, beautiful as she is, it cannot be."
So a plan was quickly arranged between them. Moro had an intimate acquaintance with the Mahratta gentry of the Dekhan, and he was despatched to canvass them. This necessitated journeys from place to place. He was well provided with money, and he travelled, as one under vows of pilgrimage, to different shrines. Thus opportunity might occur for marrying Radha; and, leaving all servantsbehind him but a few men in whom he had perfect confidence, he took his aunt Sukya Bye with him as protection to his sister. No one cared to inquire who the young prince's envoy and counsellor was, or what his family affairs were. Enough that he had a sister and an aunt with him, and was conducting his secret mission with admirable policy and address.
Thus he at length arrived at Tooljapoor alone. The rainy season had set in, and travelling was no longer pleasant or easy. The town was a good position for his purpose, and there were many rich families and landholders in the "Bâlâ Ghaut" province to be brought over. For a time he secluded himself, and lived humbly in a hired lodging or in one of the courts of the temple. Here he had seen Gunga, and here also he daily watched Tara as she and her mother performed their worship. Even thus early the advantage of marrying his sister to the Shastree, of whose household circumstances Gunga had told him, had appeared most desirable; but as his passion for Tara grew, it was a thing to be accomplished at all hazards. Gunga did not appear able to help him, for it was clear that neither the Shastree nor his wife noticed the inferior priestesses of her class, and Tara never spoke to them. He therefore secured a good house for some months, and sent for his aunt and Radha from Punderpoor, where he had left them: and, till their arrival, had busied himself in obtaining local information for the furtherance of his future designs.
On leaving their home at Wye, and after Radha's first paroxysms of disappointment were past, Sukya Bye and Moro Trimmul had instructed the girl what to do. Perhaps, in despair of accomplishing her ends, or with the desire of all Hindu girls for an early settlement, she was an apt scholar. Radha was to deny all knowledge of her age, to assume a childish demeanour, to acquiesce modestly, and as she saw other girls do, if she were proposed for. She was assured she would be given to none but a man of wealth—her beauty would secure her this. If possible he should be young; but this was a difficult point, and what matter if he were old? She could have jewels, rich clothes, an establishment of her own—she would have all these secured to her, and afterwards would be her own mistress.
But if she refused, or opposed these efforts in her behalf, she would soon be too old to be assisted at all. As it was, few would believe her to be within the marriageable period for Brahmun girls. In a year, nay less, her marriage would be impossible, and she must be treated like a widow, shaven and degraded, or married to a dagger,[4]and turned into a temple to shift for herself.
Was it wonderful that the girl submitted to, nay, even assisted in, their deceptions, or that those eyes looked dreamily after her own prince, while her spirit, chafing within, carried her, in those moments of abstraction, away into his glorious mountains, to be loved and caressed as she felt he, and, he only, could love and caress her if she were with him?
FOOTNOTE:[4]Female devotees are married to a sword or dagger, as emblematical of union to the divinity to which they have been devoted.
[4]Female devotees are married to a sword or dagger, as emblematical of union to the divinity to which they have been devoted.
[4]Female devotees are married to a sword or dagger, as emblematical of union to the divinity to which they have been devoted.
After preparations for the Shastree's marriage had been actively commenced on both sides, there was no further hindrance. Moro Trimmul having been made known to the Shastree by Anunda, as she had promised, the two men soon found a day in the calendar, so far unexceptionable as regarded planetary influences, that they at once fixed upon it; and the ladies, having been consulted, declared there were no objections or hindrances now, for on both sides of the houses everything was prepared.
Meanwhile his new acquaintance was a delightful addition to Vyas Shastree's circle of friends. Who more accomplished for his age than Moro Trimmul, more fascinating in manner, or astute in argument and judgment? He had not the refined beauty of his sister, except that his eyes were, like hers, large, soft, and very black, with the same habit of dilation, relaxing into an almost womanish tenderness: but when aroused, their excited expression was infinitely more fierce than Radha's, even to savage cruelty. The mouth was always coarse and sensual, but there was at least good-humour about it if he were not angered, and a strength of character in the countenance which could not be mistaken. Now, nothing occurred to cause even a passing cloud, and the days which intervened between the betrothal and the marriage were pleasantly spent by all. Even Radha was interested, and clung more closely to Tara than ever; for with Anunda, as with her aunt, she preserved the habitual reserve and respect required by their positions.
"I will go to the temple, daughter," said Anunda one evening, "and keep thy father there. Do thou bring Radha here, and let her look at the dresses and jewels: if there is anything she wants in addition, tell me, and we will get it." The good lady could not do too much.
Kind Anunda! it was so considerate. Could any doubt of her ultimate happiness remain in the girl's heart? What other "sister wife" would have cared so for her?
Oh, the girl's delight at those gorgeous clothes and jewels! She had heard of splendid gifts at marriages, and there was one at Wyein which she had helped to deck the bride; and when she had seen her—she was but a mere child—dressed in a brocade garment stiff with gold, she had wondered whether it would ever be possible to possess one like it. There were several—green and gold, crimson and gold, purple and gold. The most glossy of Pyetun silks, soft muslin sarees from Narrainpett and Dhunwar, of which she had heard, but had never seen; they did not come to her country: all were beautiful.
Then the ornaments. There were massive gold chain anklets, with small bells to them, armlets, bracelets, ear-rings, necklaces. There was the sacred "talee," which would be tied round her neck. Tara showed them all as they were laid out in cotton upon a tray covered with red muslin. How beautiful they were! and all would belong to her; they would be put on her the day of the ceremony, and her own taken off as she entered the house. Then the place where she was to be bathed and dressed was newly coloured and plastered, and the comfort of the house and its pretty decorations—all satisfied the girl's longing. It was what she had pictured to herself; and Tara said her father was kind, so kind—he would love his little wife after his quiet fashion, and deny her nothing.
So it was not to be wondered at if any repugnance which she had felt was fast passing away, and if, when her brother asked her whether she would be content, she told him she was grateful for what he had done; and for the time perhaps she was so.
Sukya Bye had told her nephew of Radha's visit to the Shastree's house by stealth with Tara: she was afraid he might hear of it otherwise, perhaps through the servants or Gunga, and was rejoiced that he considered it a happy circumstance. "She will be satisfied with the wealth," he said, "and all that she sees will excite the desire for more, and so, aunt, we shall best hold her to our purposes. She cannot recede now; and, while moulding the Shastree to her will, by-and-by she need not forget Sivaji Rajah." But he did not tell this to Radha; and neither by her brother, nor Sukya Bye, was any reference made to the past. When all was beyond chance of disturbance, he would set her to work to compass his own ends.
The Shastree and Pundit were of different schools of philosophy; the former, as we know, belonged to the ancient, and, as he considered, orthodox, Vedantic school of Véda Vasa; the Pundit to the more modern Mimansa school of Jomiai, and to the doctrines and mythological histories of the Poorans. So they had discussions, in which other Brahmuns of the town joined, while the ladies sat behind a screen and heard their disputations, and Tara explained to them what she could follow. Or the friends played at chess, both having excellent skill;—the Shastree calm and steady, the Punditfiery and impetuous, as were their natures; and so they had many an earnest battle.
It was not long before the politics which then agitated the country began to be discussed between them. They lived under the same Mahomedan government, that of Beejapoor: but while Tooljapoor and the districts around it were as yet in entire subjection, those to the west—particularly the wild rugged country beyond Wye, the Mawuls or mountain-valleys of the Ghauts, stretching into the Dekhan—owed but a slight allegiance to the Mahomedan dynasty, and perhaps had never been completely subdued. Here it was that many of the oldest Mahratta families had taken refuge after the overthrow of the Hindu dynasty of Deogurh, the modern Dowlutabad, and the subsequent subjection of the country by the Mahomedan Emperors of Delhi; and it was among these families, the Bhóslays, Nimbalkurs, Morays, Ghoreparays, and others, that the germs of that combination to resist—to them an oppressive and corrupt government—existed, which was presently to be ripened into a successful revolution.
On the other hand, this dynasty of Beejapoor had already been attacked by the immense power of the Emperors of Delhi; and while the independent kingdom of Ahmednugger—itself at one period little inferior in splendour to that of Beejapoor—had been entirely subdued, and the princes of its house annihilated by the Moghuls, any combination to resist them by the two states had not only been rendered impossible, but it was clear that Beejapoor would follow its example: and those were not wanting who hoped, under a new power, to regain many privileges which hitherto had been withheld from them.
But it was in the antagonism of the two contending Mahomedan powers that the Hindu families of the Dekhan saw the means of emancipation from both. It might be a work of time, and of immense labour and skill: but the opportunity seemed to present itself; and while feigning submission alike to the Moghuls, as after the conquest of Ahmednugger their forces were poured into the provinces which had formed that kingdom, and, on the other hand, to the older-established dynasty of Beejapoor, a stirring spirit began to be aroused among the Mahrattas; and that secret combination silently progressed, of which Moro Pundit was one among many other agents employed by Sivaji, the prince to whom all now looked as the present head, if not the instigator, of the movement.
It had, in fact, already been some time covertly in progress. Shahji Bhóslay, the father, of Sivaji, had commenced it in a series of wild irregular forays and raids from his patrimonial estate, which was situated among the Mawuls west of Poona, against the Mahomedan posts and garrisons of the western provinces of Beejapoor. For atime he was successful, but only as a mere freebooter; and in the end he was defeated, taken prisoner, and confined in a dungeon in Beejapoor for several years by the monarch Mahmood Adil Shah, the father of the king reigning at Beejapoor at the period of our tale. But Mahmood was not implacable. On the intercession of his mother, by whose wise counsels he had often been guided, Shahji was not only released but raised to a high command, and during the subsequent invasion of Beejapoor by the Moghuls did good service, and so the progress of the Mahratta power was stayed.
Of his two sons, Sivaji early took the lead, and, encouraged by his mother, a lady of high family and ambition, and admirable judgment, he aspired to be the head of a Mahratta confederacy. What progress he eventually made is already matter of history, which will have no record in these pages; but at the time of which we write, he was strengthening himself in his own wild country, collecting adherents, canvassing those who still held aloof, fortifying rugged and inaccessible strongholds, and, by the suddenness and successful issue of his continuous forays, was rendering himself famous in the eyes of the people. While he treated with both of the rival Mahomedan powers by turns, he took his own course; and yielding alternately to each whenever their force was locally in excess of his own, was in reality faithful to neither.
To Sivaji, also, belonged the prestige which none else had dared to assume—that of receiving aid from heavenly powers. The goddess Bhowani was the tutelar deity of his family; and it was the popular belief that she had chosen his father as the champion of her faith, but that he had transgressed warnings and visions, and, implacable as she was believed to be, she had cast him off. It was otherwise, however, with his second son Sivaji. She had chosen him to be the scourge of the cow-slaying, impure, and licentious Mahomedans. The cries of her votaries had arisen to her, and the land was to be purged of uncleanness. Temples would be again filled with Brahmuns, and the sweet incense of pure sacrifice would ascend to her. The mother of Sivaji, it was reported, saw and recorded visions, too glorious to relate, in which her son was a victorious conqueror, and the infidel Mahomedans were slain in tens of thousands by the Mahratta people in those great battles which were to ensue. And these visions were believed.
As yet these prophecies were circulated privately among the people, but there was not a Mahratta, far or near, who did not know of them. Ballads were written about them, and sung at fairs and markets. Women composed and chanted extempore verses as the household mills flew merrily round in the early morning. Men sang them to their oxen as they ploughed, or drew water from their wells; and so a spirit spread through the people which eventually became irresistibly powerful.
In this excitement, too, existed the incentive to the worship of Bhowani at all her most celebrated shrines; and everywhere—to gather her votaries together, to excite them to action, and to warn them to be ready when the time arrived—were agents such as Moro Trimmul, despatched by the young chieftain. Nothing appeared on the surface. Experience had taught extreme caution. There were no assemblies of armed men, no displays of force: an occasional successful raid or resistance by Sivaji kept up what might well be called the national spirit; but all delayed to strike, till, in the expressive Mahratta phrase, Dônguras, lavilé Déva, "the fire was on the hills."
Very dexterously, therefore, and after having prepared him for the communication, did Moro Trimmul confide to the Shastree some of the popularly-reported plans of his friend and prince, and sought his counsel and assistance, and partly also the purport of his own mission. He asked information as to the families of the Bâlâ Ghaut, the Nimbalkurs of Wasi, the Kallays of Nelinga, the Bhóslays and Ghoreparays of Akalkote, all neighbours; and also respecting the wealthy yeomen and farmers of the country. He did not mention Pahar Singh, with whom, through the Gosaees of Kullianee, and their agency at Tooljapoor, he had already opened negotiations, and found the robber chieftain fickle and undecided, extravagant in his demands for estates, for high command, and other rewards.
Nor did he disclose that weightier secret, known to his prince and himself, on which, for the present, the success of their enterprise rested. Khan Mahomed, the Wuzeer, or Prime Minister, of Beejapoor, might be detached, it was said, from the royal interest of his house; and he was then, with a large army, lying at and about Nuldroog, little more than twenty miles distant from Tooljapoor. To this man, at his own request, in phrases only to be interpreted by himself, a letter had been forwarded through the Gosaee banker's agent at Tooljapoor; but no reply had been received. Nor was Moro Trimmul sanguine on the subject, for reports of the Wuzeer's intrigues in other quarters were in men's mouths. No; it was from the Mahratta families alone that he had expectations; and he knew that at the ensuing festival, all or most of the province would assemble at Tooljapoor.
To say that he found a zealous coadjutor, or hoped for one, in the Shastree, would not be correct. The Shastree was not ambitious. He enjoyed already, as we know, a very lucrative and prominent position, in which he was honoured and respected. He avoided all Mahomedans upon principle; but the governors of the province often sought his advice and assistance in civil and judicial matters regarding Hindus, and he was not only never molested, but, on the contrary, respected and treated with consideration, and had even beeninvited to court. He had, therefore, no quarrel with the Mahomedans, and he well knew their power. He had watched Shahji's failures, and he had noted the effect of Sivaji's efforts; still he admitted there was more chance of success now than before; and he agreed to assist Moro Trimmul, by bringing him into communication with the gentry of the province, provided he were not required to take any prominent part in what should follow. To say that Vyas Shastree was indifferent in this matter, would be incorrect; but to anticipate enthusiasm or personal zeal would have been impossible from his character, and Moro Trimmul did not expect them.
"After the ceremony," he said to the Shastree, "Radha, of course, will remain with you. Sukya Bye will return to Wye with the servants. Give me, then, letters to the Nimbalkurs of Wasi, and to such others as you please, and I will go alone. Introduce me as a reciter of plays, and I will make my own way unnoticed and unsuspected. Here I can be of no use, and may even attract suspicion."
To this plan Vyas Shastree gave his cordial consent. Moro Trimmul would go before the Now Râtree, and return for the festival.
I am afraid it would take more time than the limits of this history will afford, were I to describe minutely all the festivities and observances of Radha's marriage. I assure you, dear readers, that a proper, orthodox Hindu marriage, is a very tiresome affair; and, like many other marriages, perhaps, everybody is glad when it is over. Very noisy, tediously minute in ceremonial, liable to interruption from disputes—it is often an arena for rival factions of families to fight out all the ill feeling, discontent, and jealousy which have accumulated for years. Sometimes the feasts provided are not eaten, and have to be thrown away or given to beggars. Musicians won't play, processions can't be formed, or are interrupted in progress: offence is taken at trifles, and the whole proceeding rocks to and fro as though it would tumble to pieces altogether, till it suddenly comes right, and affairs go on—to a happy conclusion, or otherwise, as it may be.
When all prospers, it is a right merry affair; but I am afraid you, dear young lady, would be very weary if you had to be married as Radha was. No such thing as going to church comfortably in a luxurious carriage, to be attended to the altar by six loving and lovely bridesmaids, to hear there a short, simple, affecting service and blessing, to sign your maiden name for the last time in the vestry, and to go home, having dried your eyes on the most delicateof lace-bordered cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, to a champagne breakfast, all the delicacies of the season, a carriage and four, and—unlimited bliss in prospect.
Ah, no! with Radha it was very different. Her marriage ceremonies—will you believe it?—occupied ten days of really very hard work. So many dressings and undressings; so many bathings; so many anointings; so many changes of ornaments; such smotherings in flowers, and in large sheets, lest her husband should see her; such being carried from place to place by the servants, lest her feet might touch the ground—once too by her husband, whom she could feel, but not see; and a rare strong arm and hand his was, taking her up, she felt, as if she were a child, and gently and respectfully too. Then worshippings at the great temple, where she had never been before, and where the priests put flowers on her and led her into the shrine where "the little Mother" sat, with her weird red eyes blinking through the smoke, and Radha was half frightened by them; greetings, too, from the people with whom the marriage was popular; and the flower-sellers and comfit-makers poured baskets of their stocks over her and her decorated litter, while she looked curiously about her from under the veil of jessamine flowers which covered her face, and acknowledged with shy timid gestures their hearty salutations. No doubt a great deal of this was excellent fun, and the girl's spirits rose with the genial joyousness; but at times she was very weary.
Seldom had there been a merrier wedding. What jokes were played off by her brother, who was a capital hand, as we know, at acting plays, disguising himself, and personating characters, with which he mercilessly interrupted the orthodox ceremonies. Now a Mahomedan mendicant, whose intrusion was resisted by the servants, and whose presence had polluted the food, proved to be he; or the pipers' instruments were filled with wax, and they blew discordant screeches, or could not blow at all; or a pertinacious begging Brahmun or Byragee pestered them when most engaged, insisted on seeing the bride, or threatened, otherwise, to cut himself and bring trouble on her. Now one thing, now another; teasing his sister, playing a sly joke with Anunda, tormenting the Shastree in all manner of ways, he was the life of the meeting, and always so disguised as to dress, figure, and even voice, that no one recognized him.
Then were there not all the pipers of the country? the temple musicians, and drums of all kinds, tenor and bass? Such crashes of noise! Village bands, the temple musicians, and the hired performers, and dancing women, all playing different tunes at the same moment. The horn-players and drums of half the country came in hopes of largess; and there was one burly fellow from Andoora,near Nuldroog, whose horn had wreaths of flowers tied to it, with gold and silver tinsel ribbon, the wild screams of whose instrument, and sometimes its mellow quivering notes, could be heard high above all the others.
And, to be sure, what feasting! The household cooking-pans were not half big enough, and those from the temple had to be borrowed: and the neighbours' kitchens, on both sides, were filled with cooks. Pecks and bushels of rice, butter, vegetable stews, and curries; sweet things, hot things, savoury things; and Anunda's famous "poorees," reserved for the choicest guests—some even made by herself and Tara.
There was no room in the house or in the courts for eating, so the street outside was swept and watered; and every day, early in the afternoon, you might see a posse of stout young Brahmuns laying down fresh green plantain-leaves in double rows on the ground, with broad alleys between them, and then long files of clean-shaven Brahmuns sit down behind them; and after them a procession of men bearing on their shoulders huge pans full of rice, hot from the kitchen, and slung on poles—baskets of hot bread, poorees, curries, stews, and the like, would march down the middle, ladling out portions of all to each, and helping liberally to melted butter, hot "chutnees," and other toothsome condiments.
And the men ate and ate till they could eat no more, and the crowds on the house-terraces above them watched the eating, cheered the eaters, and bandied free jokes from side to side of the street at themselves, the eaters, the carriers of the viands, or the passengers. So they ate and ate by hundreds and hundreds at a time; and many a hungry Brahmun, hardly knowing how to get a meal of coarse jowaree cakes in his own home, took his water-vessel and blanket, travelled from twenty to thirty miles round to the wedding, received a hearty welcome, and ate as he had perhaps never eaten before, and remembered it all his life afterwards.
Yes, it was a capital wedding; and the village and town gossips who criticised it at the time, and spoke of it afterwards, could actually find no fault. There was not a poor old hag in Tooljapoor or Sindphul, ay, and for the matter of that, in other villages further distant, who did not get a hearty meal; or if she were too infirm to stay and eat, a liberal dole of flour, or rice and butter, with salt and pepper. Not a family of Mahrattas in the town, nor, indeed, respectable Mahomedans either, who had not materials for a meal sent to them, accompanied by pipe and tabor, horn and drum, or band and trumpets, according to the scale of their rank. And from all friends, presents for the bride, in proportion to their means, from the richest silken and gold sarees, down to a humble cotton bodice, added to the stores with which Radha was already provided.
One by one the ceremonies were finished. The last—the solemn rite of actual marriage—as the bride and bridegroom sat side by side, when the consecrated thread was wound round them by the attendant Brahmuns, and the mystic hymns and invocations chanted; when their garments were tied together in the irrevocable knot, and they repeated the promises and vows, much like our own, to love and cherish each other—then Radha's veil was raised; and though he had seen her form for many days in succession, Vyas Shastree now saw his young wife's beautiful face for the first time.
It was a happy look, in one of her happy moods. Those glorious eyes were not excited, but soft, timid, and shyly raised to him in trust and confidence. Anunda and Tara had watched for the effect upon him with beating hearts and clasped hands. There could be no doubt of the expression of his face—wonder first, then gratification, perhaps love. "Thou wast right, wife," he said afterwards; "she hath a nymph's form, a deer's eyes, and a mouth like Kāmdeo."
So it was all finished at last; the guests departed, the courts were swept, and the house again cleaned out. The garlands of leaves and flowers still hung at the gate, and from pillar to pillar of the verandah; and certain post-nuptial ceremonies performed at the temple was all that remained of the outer show of the marriage. Within was the girl-bride, happy in being free from her brother, whom she feared though she loved him, and from her aunt, whom she disliked as well as feared; happy in her new sister-wife, to whom she felt like a daughter; happier in Tara, a sister in truth, and she never had known one before; content, too, to see the Shastree unreservedly, and to feel that her beauty grew on him—for as yet, beyond a few words, they had not spoken.
As Moro Trimmul had determined, Sukya Bye was despatched to their home a few days after the ceremony. She had pleaded hard to be allowed to stay over the Now Râtree, and Anunda had asked the favour at her instance; but her nephew was distinct in his refusal, yet not so as to display anger or vexation. It was simply impossible, he said; she had been too long absent from home, and he himself must go on his own affairs. So she received parting gifts of rich silk cloths from Radha, Anunda, and the Shastree, and departed to Wye.
The last night that Moro Trimmul was to remain at Tooljapoor, he took an opportunity of telling Radha that he should pretend to go out, but conceal himself in the school court, which was not lighted, and that she was to come to him when all were asleep or retired; he should wait for her there, for he had much to say to her.
So he had. How he had restrained himself hitherto he knew not.How, day by day, he had seen Tara, spoken to her, amused her, excited her, gloated over her beauty, which, if remarkable abroad where she was guarded, was in a thousand degrees more captivating and enthralling in the free household intercourse—and yet had done nothing towards possessing himself of her—was what he could neither understand nor endure any longer. Gunga could not help him; he saw clearly that Tara utterly refused communication with her: utterly refused to participate in the lower degrees of ceremonies and orgies at which Gunga assisted with a lower order of priests who officiated for the inferior castes of the people; and she refused the mystic marriage to the sword of the goddess, which the "Moorlees" performed in order to cloak their profligacy.
Gunga, therefore, baffled for a while, bided her time; but she and her sister priestesses had vowed revenge, and were all in Moro Trimmul's interest. Meanwhile his sister must help him; and this, with cruel perseverance, it was his object to effect through her at any risk.
He waited long, for the girl could not get away unobserved. At last she came, scared and terrified lest her absence should be detected; but all were asleep—Tara beside her in the verandah, the Shastree among his books in the book-room, Anunda in her own sleeping-room within. She did not find her brother in better temper for his detention.
"Take this," he said to her, returning a gold anklet of Tara's, which Radha had borrowed from her to be copied; "for I go to-morrow early, and shall not see thee again till the Now Râtree; but thou hast kept me long, girl, and I had much to say to thee."
"The Shastree was awake reading: even till now I could not pass his door," she said; "be quick, brother."
"Ah, thou art trembling. Is this the girl who would have fled to Sivaji Rajah; and art thou changed already into a Shastree's wife?" he said, with a sneer.
The girl shivered. "Do not say such things, brother. I strive to put them away, and they will go, perhaps; yes, they will go, when no one tells me of him."
Her brother laughed. "No, they shall not go, Radha, if I can prevent it; but thou must be patient, girl. So much for thyself; now for me."
"What can I do, brother?"
"Thou canst gain Tara for me. Nay, Radha," he continued, as she trembled still more, and hung to the court door in terror, "none of this cowardice! I tell thee it must be, and thou must do it."
"Brother! brother!" gasped the girl, piteously. "Not I—not I! What can I do? O, not I! O, not I!"
"What canst thou do? Much," he returned, sharply; "listen,Radha. Such things are no sin. She is a Brahmun, as I am; she is a widow. She is a Moorlee, as free as Gunga, or any of them, and she can please herself. I know she is not indifferent to me: it is for thee to improve this. Speak to her of me, lead her to think of me, tell her what deeds I have done with thy Rajah—I am with him in them—and sing her our country ballads. I tell thee, girl, if thou doest all this, it will gain her."
"Never, brother, never; she has no heart for thee. She shuddered yesterday when I spoke of thee. I saw her—I could not be mistaken. Her heart is with the gods, in her books, cold and dead. O brother, think not of her! What can I do?"
"Is it so, sister?" he said sneeringly. "Then she must be awakened, and that dead heart gain new life; Radha, thou must do it, thou!—else"—he felt the girl shivering as he grasped her arm, and shook her savagely—"else, wilt thou be long here? Would this Shastree keep thee one hour in his house if he thought, much less if he knew, thou hadst been married before, girl? Yes, married before! Ah, that touches thee! And listen more, if my affair is not furthered he shall know it. What if he cast thee out? Thou canst go to the temple like Tara; thou canst go to him—to Sivaji—but thou wilt be a reproach and an outcast. Choose!—to be happy as I have placed thee, or as I have said. One or other, girl! the last, and what I have risked for thee—what I have done for thee—will be repaid. O sister! what Sivaji Rajah is to thee, a burning thought day and night, so Tara is to me, and more. Dost thou hear?"
"I—I," gasped the terrified girl, "I hear—I hear. O brother, be not cruel, do not destroy me; or, if thou wilt, one blow of thy knife—now—now—here," and she bared her breast. "It will be mercy—strike!"
"Poor fool," said Moro Trimmul, "I would not harm thee. Go, remember what I have said, and do as I tell thee. If she be in the same mood when I return, why then——Go," he continued, interrupting himself, "I can wait no longer. Fear not, my blessing is on thee," and he put his hands on her head. "For his sake, my lord, my prince and thine, thou shalt come to no harm. Go!" And saying this he put her gently away from him into the court, closed the door, and easily climbing the low wall, dropped into the street beyond.
"One thing more ere the night passes," he said, as he walked rapidly through the deserted streets to the house they had lived in, near the Shastree's: "if she is there, well; if not, I must seek her. What she wanted must have been brought ere this."
"She is within, master," said a man sitting at the gate, with a black blanket round him, who spoke ere Moro Trimmul could ask; "she has been here an hour or more; and here are some things the sonar brought this evening when you were absent."
"Good," said the Pundit, passing in; "see that no one enters."
The man laughed. "It is too late, master, now. No one will come. Are we to leave early?"
"Tell them to bring the horses at daylight," he replied; "we will get on to Darasew before noon. We must be at Thair before night. Is all prepared?"
"Yes, the saddle-bags are packed, and Bheema and myself remain; all the rest went with the lady Sukya."
"Then go and sleep, for we have a long journey to-morrow. I do not need thee. Give me the key of the court door. I can lock myself in, and I shall be awake long before you in the morning."
He entered the court and locked the gate behind him. A lamp was burning in a recess of the verandah, and its light fell upon the figure of the girl Gunga, who had covered herself with a sheet, and, most likely weary with waiting for him, had fallen asleep. She did not hear him; and as he had left his shoes by the side of the outer door, there was no noise whatever from his bare feet.
Moro Trimmul stood over her, and, as he did so, she moved uneasily in her sleep, turned and said something; he could not catch the words. Then some cruel thoughts passed suddenly through his mind. Gunga knew too much; a blow of his knife would silence for ever all chance of disclosure of what had been done for Radha; the gold he had to give her would be saved. There was a large well or cistern behind the house; the wall of the back-yard hung over it; it was a place where the women of the town washed their clothes, and was so held to be unclean. That would hide her. A Moorlee? What Moorlee had not jealousies and strifes? Who would care for her? And he drew the dagger and stood over her in an attitude to strike.
Why he hesitated he could never tell; certainly it was not from fear. Perhaps some lingering feeling of compassion for one so young—perhaps the memory of some caress—stayed the blow for an instant, for he did not strike. The light fell full on her eyes and face as she turned, and she smiled and awoke suddenly.
"I dreamed of thee, beloved," she said, stretching out her arms to him, "and thou art here——But why the knife?" she continued, quickly sitting up, as the light gleamed on the blade. "Moro!—I—I—I—fear thee; why dost thou look at me so? Ah!" and she covered her eyes with her hand, expecting death.
"Only to cut these strings," he said, with a hard laugh, recovering himself and dividing the cord which was tied round the paper containing the gold anklets. "Look, Gunga!" and he held them up to the light, and shook them till the little bells on them clashed gently.
"Thou art good," she said, looking up as he held them above her, still shaking them; "they are very, very beautiful, but thou wilt notgive them to me, for thou hast not got Tara. Ah! thou hast just come from her, and wilt not give them. Go! go back to her."
"But my sister is her father's wife, and these are heavier than Tara's. I have not broken faith with thee, Gunga," he replied, "nor my oath at the Pâp-nâs temple. Take them—they are thine henceforth. And now wilt thou go with me, Gunga? I have prepared a horse for thee, and Bheema can walk."
"To the end of life," cried the girl, who had risen to her knees to put on the anklets, and who now clasped his feet,—"to the end of life! Kill me if thou wilt, Moro Trimmul, who would care? It would be no pain to Gunga."
A thick heavy rain was falling, which had lasted nearly all day without intermission, and the afternoon was now advanced. The sky was one uniform tint of dark grey, in which, near the horizon, some yellowish, lurid colour occasionally appeared. Dark masses of cloud came up slowly from the south-west at times, causing a deeper gloom as they passed overhead, accompanied by bursts of rain, which sometimes fell in sheets, deluging the ground, and dashing up muddy spray from the soft earth. The air was stifling; and there was a strong sulphurous smell with the rain, which increased the disagreeable effect of the close, hot atmosphere. Sometimes a gentle breeze, hardly sufficient to give the rain a slanting direction, arose, and felt refreshing; but as the heavy clouds passed, it died away, and the rain fell perpendicularly again, with a constant monotonous plash, which, coming from a wide plain, sounded like a dull roar.
Little could be seen of the plain itself; for not only was the rain too thick to allow of any distance to appear definitely, but there was a steamy mist rising from the previously heated earth, which increased the already existing dimness and gloom. Sometimes a few trees in the vicinity, which appeared tall and ghostly in the grey light and thick air, stood out more in detail as the rain slackened for a while, and seemed to give promise of breaking; and on these occasions two villages became dimly visible; one of them nearly a mile distant, the other perhaps half a mile farther, situated to the right and left of what, in dry weather, was a well-beaten road-track, but which could only now be known as such, by being bare of grass, and by the slightly raised banks, covered here and there by low bushes, which bounded it.
The place we are about to describe occupied the summit of a small eminence, below which, in a valley watered by a rivulet, was avillage surrounded by tall crops of grain, now coming into ear, mingled with fields of cotton, as yet very low, and pulse, and other cereals, generally about waist-high. This difference in the height of the crops left the valley comparatively open; and the road-track could be followed by the eye, whenever the mist and rain cleared a little—through the fields to the gate of the first village, before which there was an open piece of ground, past a small Hindu temple surrounded with trees, and up a slight ascent beyond, to a plain, along which it continued, till it disappeared among the tall jowaree fields and other cultivation of the next village. These two villages were called the greater and less Kinny.
The valley, or hollow, was little more than a descent in the undulation of the country; but, when the rain fell heavily at the nearer village, so as almost to conceal it, the effect from the eminence we describe was, as though it were actually deep and broad; and then also the farther village, with its trees, appeared distant, and sometimes was not visible at all. Thus alternating, as sometimes plainly in view, and at others not to be seen, these villages appeared to be objects of deep interest to three men, who occupied the spot we have just mentioned. Occasionally, and as the rain cleared a little, one or other of them would proceed to the top of a heap of stones near at hand, and look anxiously along the line of road, past the fields and the open space before the gate of the first Kinny, up the ascent beyond, and over the plain to the second; and there were moments when a man on horseback might easily have been descried even at the further village, certainly at the second, or between them, had such a person been upon the road; but no one appeared.
The spot was remarkable as the highest point for a long distance either way upon the road-track; and indeed, had the day been clear, a large extent of country could have been seen from it in all directions. Now, however, the view was very limited; and on the opposite sides from the two villages nothing could be seen but a plain, thinly covered with grass and bushes, and strewn thickly with black stones, which, uncultivated as it was for miles, looked doubly desolate through the misty air, being partially covered with pools of water of a yellowish brown colour, the result of the present rain. Over this plain, three roads or paths diverged from the place the men occupied. The main track, which had the appearance of being somewhat beaten, was broader than the others, and led westward to the town of Allund, about six miles distant,—the others to villages from two to four miles to the south and west.
The plain was, as we have said, very stony, and at the place we allude to, the heap of stones had been formed gradually by travellers who, coming from all sides, took up one from the path,and threw it, with a prayer to the local divinity, upon the pile. This had been done, no doubt, for centuries; still the stones upon the path appeared as thick as ever, and sorely impeded and harassed all travellers, whether on foot or horseback.
Over this heap of stones grew a large banian, and close to it several scraggy neem trees; a peepul, too, had once existed, but was dead. Part of the trunk and one large branch remained standing, white and dry, and a portion of another lay on the ground, from which chips of firewood had been cut from time to time. It looked as if it had been struck with lightning, which, indeed, was not improbable, as several branches of the banian were scathed and riven, probably from the same cause. Of all these trees, however, the banian or "burr," as it is called in the language of the country, was most remarkable.
Not possessed of the luxuriant foliage common to this tree in other places, probably because the soil was too poor and rocky, its huge gnarled boughs were bare of small branches and leaves; some were naked and actually withered, others apparently so, and all stretched their white gaunt arms into the sky, with a wild and ghastly effect against the leaden grey of the clouds. In process of the centuries of its existence, several boughs had become detached from the parent trunk, and were upheld by stems which had once been pendant roots, and had struck into the ground. These portions, if anything more bare, and more gnarled and twisted than the parent tree, rose loftily into the air, and with the same effect we have already noticed.
The larger boughs and stems were full of holes, which sheltered a numerous colony of small grey tree owls, whose bright yellow eyes stared from behind large boughs, and out of crevices in the trunks, or from among the ornaments of the roof of the temple below; while they kept up a perpetual twittering, as if they conversed together, which indeed perhaps they did. On hot bright days lizards, large and small, crept out of crevices and basked in the sun; and among them a family of huge black ones, with bright eyes and scarlet throats, which they inflated as they appeared to swell with importance. Shepherd boys believed these to be evil spirits, and if they were brave, pelted them with stones, or if otherwise ran off, as one of them issued forth and looked about curiously.
Some large holes, too, near the top of the tree, contained great horned owls, which, if attracted by any noise, sat, with stupidly-grave aspect and wide saucer-eyes, looking down upon the road—the tufts of feathers over their ears alternately erected and depressed—till they flew out with a loud hoot to look for some more undisturbed retreat. These owls, great and small, with the lizards, had the tree, for the most part, to themselves. Probably there was not enough foliage totempt other birds to rest there; for except an occasional wandering flock of chattering parroquets, mynas, or green pigeons, none frequented it by day. By night, however, it was otherwise: for it was then the roosting-place of the vultures, eagles, and other carrion birds of the district, with whom the owls did not apparently interfere.
At the back, partly behind the parent tree and the heap of stones, was a small and evidently ancient Hindu temple, consisting of one chamber and a porch. The chamber was not much larger than sufficed to contain the image, and allow a priest to officiate before it in case of necessity, and was too low to admit of a man's standing upright. The porch, which was supported in front by two roughly-hewn stone pillars, was somewhat larger; and the three men we have mentioned, were enabled to sit in it comfortably, protected from the rain. The doorway was narrow and low, and the inside of the chamber was dark; but a small Phallic emblem could be seen within set upon a low altar, and a rudely-sculptured stone bull, in a sitting posture, had originally been placed before the porch facing the image. The temple, image, and bull showed that the grove had been originally dedicated to Siva, or Mahadeo, in the form of that ancient "pillar and calf" worship so fatal to the Israelites of old, and which for them possessed so strange a fascination.
The temple was deserted, and, except on the annual festival of the god, when some priest from a neighbouring village swept out the chamber, brought a light to burn before the image, poured the usual libations, and hung a few garlands of jessamine and marigold flowers over it, no one ever came with intent to worship, and the place was utterly neglected. Last year's garlands were now but dry brown leaves hanging to a cotton thread; the chamber was dirty, and strewn with dead leaves; the stone bull in front was overthrown, and lying on its side, and even in bright sunshine the place presented a melancholy, deserted appearance. Sometimes, in the heat of the day, village lads, in charge of goats and cattle, would meet there, but only in lack of other shelter from the sun; for indeed the spot had an evil reputation, and not without reason.
It is not surprising that it was believed to be the resort of malignant spirits which love to dwell in such places, and of tricksy and mischievous sprites which inhabited the large holes in the old trunks, sharing them with the owls and lizards that lived there: vexed travellers' horses, causing them to cast shoes in the stones, or led wayfarers astray, especially at night, among the many paths over the stony plain—or bewitched cows and buffaloes, and dried up their milk. So, ofttimes, shepherds came with flowers, and poured libations of milk and curds, after a rude fashion, over a few large stones which lay among the gnarled roots of the great tree, and had been placed there as devoted to the local divinities—Fauns and Dryads—andtherefore held in rude reverence; and these, on such occasions, were smeared with red or black powder in a kind of deprecatory worship.
It was not for these reasons alone that the place was dreaded; it had, from other causes, even a worse reputation. It was notorious as the place of meeting for most of the gang robberies in the country; for assemblies of parties of highway robbers, and the distribution of stolen property. Watchmen on village towers at night, sometimes saw fires twinkling about the temple, and well knew the cause of them; and shepherd boys next day found rude clay crucibles and extinguished charcoal fires in one place where the trunk was hollow at the root of the tree, and thus knew that gold and silver had been melted there at night.
Murder, too, had been done there. On one occasion, not very long ago, several fresh corpses had been found in the old well barely concealed by leaves and bushes; and, more recently, a body found lying on the road had been dragged from the line of one village boundary to another—for several boundaries of village lands diverged from that spot—to escape the king's fine, till it was eaten by vultures and hyenas, and the bones lay and bleached under the great tree for many a day, to the terror of all wayfarers. In short, the place was thus esteemed evil for many reasons; and whether villagers or travellers came past it by any of the roads over the plain, or from the two Kinnys, alone or in company, they hurried past the temple, breathing a spell or prayer against the ghosts and spirits which dwelt in it, and heartily wishing themselves safe beyond its precincts.
The three persons who were sheltering themselves in the porch of the temple had apparently no apprehensions. Each in turn, throwing a coarse black blanket about him, mounted the heap of stones and looked eagerly toward the villages and along the line of road. The others sat together, rolling up leaves of the banian tree from time to time, which they filled with tobacco from their pouches, and smoked as fast as made. All three were heavily armed with long straight swords with solid basket-handles, from which a spike projected below the hilt, enabling the wearer to use his weapon double-handed, as well as to protect the wrist; shields of stout hide, with brass bosses, hung at their backs, and daggers of different forms were in their girdles. In the chamber of the temple their three matchlocks leaned against the wall—two being ordinary ones with long bright barrels, the other short and handsomely inlaid with gold,evidently of superior value to the others. The men wore their large crooked powder-horns, and bullet-bags, with tinder-boxes, attached to soft leather waist-belts, and their priming-horns, hung to the breast-buckles of their sword-belts, of buff leather. The matchlocks were ready for instant use; for the matches were lighted, and the smoke, from the match-ends, and that of a small fire made of dried twigs, filled the chamber and issued from the door.
The two men who were sitting in the porch—one had just gone and taken post again upon the stones—were stout square-built fellows, of dark-brown complexion, with peculiarly round powerful shoulders, which gave them almost the appearance of deformity. They wore coarse cotton tunics and tight drawers, which reached to the knee, leaving the lower part of the legs bare, and showing them to be sinewy and well exercised by constant travel. They had not removed their sandals, which were strong and studded with large-headed nails, and, as they sat together, the resemblance in figure was very striking. They were, in fact, twin-brothers, and, being Mahrattas, had been named, as is usual, Rama and Lukshmun, after the popular heroes of the Mahabarut. Even in features there was a strong resemblance; but the expression of the elder, Rama, was as gloomy, if not savage, as that of the younger, Lukshmun, was cheerful and good-natured.
The brothers had been long silent, and the third person, who, with a heavy black blanket thrown over his head, had been sitting for some time upon the stones, got up and returned to the porch as a fresh cloud passed overhead, accompanied by heavier rain than before, which gradually shut out the village and road from his view, shook the wet from the blanket, and stood looking gloomily at the sky and the torrents of water which were running off the ground towards the declivity of the eminence. There was a great contrast between this person and the others in every respect, and he merits, perhaps, a separate description.
Though young, he was evidently the leader of the party, and his comparatively fair complexion and regular features, as well as the caste-mark on his forehead, showed him to be a Rajpoot, descended from those emigrants from Northern India whom military service, even at that period, had tempted from Oude and Delhi to the remote Dekhan. In stature, as in powerful make, he much exceeded his companions, and his carriage was soldierlike and graceful. He wore a quilted tunic of what had once been gay red "mushroo," the strong satin of the country, but now stained and frayed; long tight drawers, turned up to the calf; a dark red turban, of fine texture, jauntily cocked aside, its gold thread end being turned back over the top; and his powder-horn, bullet-bag, and shield, as well as a little gold embroidery upon his sword-belt, all of a better qualitythan the others, with a fine single pearl ear-ring—proved him to be as much superior to them in rank, as his expression and deportment were in intelligence.
Gopal Singh, for such was his name, was, in truth, decidedly good-looking. Large black eyes, full of light, a prominent nose, bushy whiskers, very neatly trimmed, and a small moustache twisted upwards into close curls at the corners of a mouth delicately formed and almost effeminate in character when relaxed, but which, when the lips were compressed, seemed full of deep expression both for good and evil,—the chin, clean-shaved and prominent, betokening firmness,—all combined to form a countenance in which decision and energy were evident; but, in spite of his good features, their general expression was repellant, expressing cruelty and lawlessness of no common order.
"He will never get across the Benathoora to-day, my friends," he said, stepping into a dry corner of the porch and sitting down; "and we have a weary journey to Itga before us in this mud; yet I dare not face the master, my uncle, without some news of him."
"Maharaj," replied Rama, respectfully, folding his hands—"Great prince"—by which title (an ordinary one of respect), or that of Jemadar, Gopal Singh was usually addressed by them—"I know the Benathoora, and she will not come down before night; and if it be true that the man left Kullianee yesterday, there is plenty of time for him to be here by sunset. Depend upon it, he will make for Allund to-day, and there will have been no deep mud for some hours after he left. Couldst thou see nothing on the road?"
"Nothing, Rama. At one time I thought I saw him at the gate of the village yonder, but as the rain cleared off, it was only some cattle going in; then the mist closed up the view, and I could see no more, and came away. By Krishna, but this rain is something to see! I question whether he could cross the nulla down there before Kinny, it seems filling so fast."
"Ah! he can ford it well enough if he is bent on coming," said Lukshmun, "and he could not stop at either village, for I told the Gowra this morning, if a stranger came, to send him on with a guide, and to shut the gate if he wanted to stop. So, if he left Kullianee yesterday, he ought to have come a good distance before night; and if he started again this morning, there is no river, or nulla, between to stop him but the Benathoora, and that will be fordable till midnight, even with heavier rain than this. He would not stay for the rain to clear?"
"He must have left it," returned the Jemadar; "he dared not stay there. One of old Lukmun Geer's disciples was to accompany him to a village half-way to Allund yesterday, and send him on from thence with guides from village to village. We offered escort, but he would take no one—the fellow was suspicious."
"Then he is quite safe, Maharaj. The guides may plague him; but if he started under injunctions from the old Bawa's disciple, he will be passed on carefully," returned Rama.
"I hope he is, brothers. I would not lose our chance of the gold he has for something—nor indeed of himself."
"Gold! Jemadar," cried both eagerly, in a breath.
"Yes, my friends; good royal mohurs, I know; for the day before yesterday he rested at the Gosai's Mutt, and had a Hoondee cashed in the shop. It was a goodly pouchful, I know, and it will come to us if we wait patiently."
Gopal Singh lighted some tinder with his flint and steel, and then a leaf cigarette, as we may call it, and began to smoke in silence which was only broken by the dripping of the rain from the porch of the temple and the tree, the general plash over the plain, and the loud and continuous croaking of the frogs in the pools and puddles.
The Jemadar first broke silence. "Some one must look again," he continued, after a while; "and it is brighter now. Go thou, Lukshmun, take the blanket and sit close."
"It is not weather to turn out a dog," muttered the man, sulkily, getting up and stepping down from the porch; "but I will go, Maharaj, if it is your order. Shall I go on to Kinny," he continued, "and see if I can get tidings of him? Better that than sitting up there like a drenched scarecrow in a field."
"Good, brother, go! Try the nulla before you venture into the middle of it, lest it be too strong for you," said Rama.
"And wait there for a time," added the Jemadar. "If he do not arrive before night thou canst bring some flour, ghee, and sugar from the Patel; for if we are to watch here all night we had need to eat, and I must make some bread; but if the man comes, bring him on—he will be well-mounted and will not fear the nulla, and thou canst invent something about going back to Allund on urgent business."
"Trust me for that, Jemadar. If I have an ugly face I can speak soft words when I choose, and I know enough of the camp language to make him understand. Now, I am going." So saying, he doubled the blanket in a peculiar manner, so as to form a cloak, threw it over his head and shoulders, and folded the sides tightly about him; then taking off his sandals, which he carried in his hand, he strode away in the rain, as rapidly as the mud would admit.
"Take care of the thorns in the lane near the village; put on your sandals there: we can't have you troubling us with a Bábool thorn in your foot," shouted the Jemadar.
Lukshmun turned round and nodded his assent, and continued as before. They watched him silently till he disappeared over the brow of the eminence, when Rama said to his companion, "What if they have sent the man on by the other road, or warned him, Jemadar?"There was another road which passed about half a mile to the south of where they sat.
"He dare not, Rama; by his soul he dare not," replied the Jemadar, with flashing eyes and distended nostrils. "Do you think he would dare my uncle's vengeance? does he wish his cattle to be harried by Pahar Singh, and his village burnt?"
"Perhaps not; and it would be likely enough to happen, Jemadar," said Rama, laughing; "and, I suppose, we should have to come to do it. But what is to be done with the man?—That?" and he pointed significantly to the old well with his thumb.
"O no, Rama," returned the other, laughing in his turn. "Nothing of that kind, now. The man himself is precious, why, the uncle knows, and some more of them, though they have not told me. I only hope he will not make a fight of it and get hurt."
"Then we could not help it, of course, Jemadar."
"No, indeed, friend. But we are three to one, and he is only a Mutsuddee after all—not a man of war—he will be quiet enough, I dare say."
"Well, if I am to say the truth, Maharaj, I am glad of it," returned Rama. "It is all very well to kill people in a fair foray, or if anybody will fight in a Durôra, one's blood is up, and it does not matter; but, somehow or other, the last affair here was not agreeable, and ever since I have not liked the place at night. We need not add to the people that lie yonder," and he pointed over his shoulder to a corner of the tree, "unless, indeed, it is to be, then of course we can't help it."
"Nor I either, Rama. It is only pleasant here when there are fifty or sixty good fellows assembled, and the gold and silver are boiling in the pots yonder. I don't like this new business as well as the old——By Gunga, what a flash!"
Indeed the flash of lightning, which caused both to start to their feet, was nearly blinding. Without warning, except by the passage of another dark cloud above, it had fallen on part of the old tree which was separate from the rest—a branch supported by two roots which had struck into the ground—and had riven away part of it, which fell across the mound of stones with a loud and heavy crash, and was followed by a cracking peal of thunder, so loud and so near that the men involuntarily put their hands to their ears.
"It would have killed him if he had been on the stones," said Rama, who first spoke, as the peal, spreading itself over the heavens, was dying into deep growls in the distance. "By all the gods! was there ever such thunder?"
"It will break up the clouds, perhaps," returned the Jemadar, "and this rain will then stop. Yes, it was a narrow escape, indeed, and we may be thankful he went. It is a good omen for us, Rama!"
"I vow a rupee to be inlaid in the floor of the temple of Dévi, at Tooljapoor, and to feed twenty-four Brahmuns," said the man, reverently. "Yes," he added, looking up and over the plain, "I think it will break up before sunset."
But we must follow the spy on his double errand, while the pair, who still converse, speculate upon the probable issue of it, smoke by turns, and long for a break in the rain. And there is another person, too, who must needs be looked after on his journey hitherward.