CHAPTER I.
In the forests of Candahar, a solitary traveller was pursuing his way. Overcome by the heat of noon he sat down on the margin of a small stream that gurgled through the thick underwood, allowing his horse to crop the fresh herbage upon its banks. The scene around him was gloomy but imposing. So thick was the growth of the jungle that the sun’s rays could not penetrate, except here and there, where patches had been cleared by the charcoal-burners or for purposes of fuel; and these were comparatively few. Some of the trees were of a growth so stupendous as to impart a character of sublimity to the whole aspect of the forest. Many of them reached the prodigious height of a hundred and thirty feet, presenting a straight branchless stem, which rose like a colossal pillar from the ground to the altitude of twenty yards without a single branch or even a sprout upon its surface. Under the vast leafy canopy which spread out above it, the wild elephant frequently reposed, and seemed, by comparison with the stately growth beside which it rested, but as some ordinary animal.
It is far from the haunts of men, amid the deep recesses of the forest, or on the summit of the distant mountain, that nature is seen to develop the noblest features of her beauty. The stillness that reigns around, the solemn repose of the scene, not broken in upon by human associations, nor interrupted by the voice of human intercourse, enhance the impression of grandeur produced by the sight of objects which cannot fail to elevate the soul to pious adoration of the great and illimitable God of the universe.
The stranger was impressed by the somewhat painful novelty of his situation, and solemn thoughts were awakened in his heart. He sat calmly gazing upon the brook as it bubbled before him, when his attention was suddenly roused by a crashing of the bushes, immediately accompanied by a loud roar, and in another moment his horse was prostrated by the paw of a huge lion. The traveller started from his seat, drew his sword, and coming behind the ferocious visitor, cut the sinews of its hind leg, and before the animal could turn, repeated the stroke on the other, and thus completely disabled it. The savage instantly relinquished its prey, but so tremendous had been the stroke of its paw and the succeeding laceration so extensive, that the poor horse rolled upon the streamlet’s bank in the agonies of death. The lion roared with appalling fury—its eyes glared—its mane bristled—but it was unable to resent the injury it had received. It dragged itself forward upon its fore-legs with a vain endeavour to retaliate. Its vanquisher approached fearlessly, struck it across the skull with his sword, and, repeating the stroke, laid it dead at his feet.
The loss of his steed was an untoward event, and as he would now have to make his way through the forest on foot,—as, moreover, the sun had long passed its meridian, he determined to pursue his journey without further delay.
Strapping to his shoulders a kind of wallet which had been fastened to his saddle, he commenced threading the thicket. His journey was long and arduous, but on emerging into an open space, he saw a doe grazing with her fawn. The latter had just been born, and the traveller coming suddenly upon them, secured the little one, while the affrighted dam fled in terror. Pleased with his capture, he bound the fawn’s legs, and placing it under his arm, proceeded on his way.
He now quitted the cleared space, and plunged again into the jungle, satisfied at having procured something to relieve his hunger, should he be obliged to pass the night in the forest. When he had at length reached a convenient spot where he might prepare a meal, he placed the fawn beside the trunk of a blasted tree, and having kindled a fire by the friction of two dry pieces of wood, he was about to sacrifice the little animal, but perceiving the mother at a short distance gazing upon him with an expression of the deepest distress, he paused. The tears rolled down her cheeks—her head was raised, and her eyes intently fixed upon the stranger’s countenance. They next turned upon her innocent offspring that lay bound at the root of the tree, unconscious of its danger, but still yearning for its parent. She gradually advanced within a few yards of the spot on which the traveller stood. He retired several paces; the anxious dam immediately sprang towards its young, lay down by it, and caressed it with an intelligible joy. On the traveller’s approach she quitted her fawn with a bound of terror, but still retreated only a few yards, manifesting the strongest symptoms of maternal suffering.
It was an affecting sight—an irresistible appeal to human sympathy. The heart of the stranger was moved to pity, his bosom heaved with generous emotion, and under the impulse of a fervid and holy exultation he released the fawn from his captivity. The tender creature instantly ran to its mother, which, with a cry of joy, passed forward towards the thicket; but before she was secluded from the sight of him who had delivered her young from death, she turned round as if with a look of grateful acknowledgment, and plunged with her delicate offspring into the close cover of the forest.
This was an act to gladden the heart of a good man. Life is the blessed boon of Heaven, and the greatest of its gifts: to the mere animal, the loss of it is the loss of all; and yet how wantonly does man trifle with the life of animals, to which it is an object of such high enjoyment; for dumb creatures, having no apprehension of pain, possess the highest sense of mere corporeal fruition, so long as they are not actually suffering.
The release of the fawn had softened the stranger’s sympathies and impressed his feelings. Taking from his wallet a small quantity of rice, which had been already boiled, he made a homely but grateful meal, and determined to pass that night on the spot, endeared to him by the consciousness, which it kept alive, of having performed a benevolent action.
It was a heavenly night. The light of a clear moon peeped through the trees, and seemed to dance in ten thousand phosphoric coruscations, as the slender branches, agitated by a gentle evening breeze, diverted its course for the moment, or trembled in its gentle beams. The forest gloom contrasted solemnly with the silvery light of the deep azure expanse above, and the general repose of nature, at that still hour when man retires to rest from the stir and bustle of day, added an additional tone of solemnity to the scene. The beast of prey was abroad, and, as it prowled, its occasional roar was a sort of diapason to nature’s imposing harmony.
The traveller having collected some dried leaves strewed them under the broad foliage of a tree, the branches of which formed a thick canopy within six feet of the ground, and casting himself upon this easy woodland couch, courted that slumber which his fatigue had rendered welcome. His reflections were peaceful. He reverted to the occurrences of the day, and though the loss of his steed was a subject of uneasy recollection, yet it was more than countervailed by the happy remembrance of that little episode in the brief chronicle of his life, which he never afterwards reverted to without satisfaction—the restoration of the fawn to its bereaved dam.
He lay for some time pursuing the quiet tenour of his contemplations, occasionally lapsing into a state of half-consciousness and then reverting, by a sudden impulse of the mind, to perfect, self-possession. At length, overcome by the active process of his thoughts and fatigue of body, he fell into a profound sleep, in which some of the most striking events of the past day were presented to his imagination, combined with new associations, and invested with new hues and a more varied colouring. He dreamed that he was visited by the Prophet, who approached him in shining garments, from which a glory was emitted so dazzling that he could not gaze upon it, and said—“The generosity which you have this day shown to a distressed animal has been appreciated by that God who is the God of dumb as well as of rational creatures, and the kingdom of Ghizny is assigned to you in this world as your reward. Let not your power, however, undermine your virtue, but continue through life to exercise that benevolence towards man which you have done this day towards the brute.” Having uttered these words, the celestial messenger disappeared, and the stranger awoke.
The moon was still bright in the heavens, but he could not again close his eyes in sleep. The vision was too strongly impressed upon his waking senses to allow them to yield to the gentle solicitations of slumber. He arose, and watched the clear “pale planet,” through the trees, as it slowly marched towards the horizon to make way for the brighter dawn.
The dews fell heavily, and a thin silvery mist began to rise and invest every object with an ashy tint, as the moon gradually faded in its far descent behind the distant hills. The grey dawn at length broke slowly over the plain, but was not perceptible to the traveller’s eye until the valleys were flooded with the young dewy light. The mist had thickened. The leaves of the trees dripped with their liquid burthen, and every spot that was not protected by a mantle of thick foliage, presented a bloom of moisture from the atmosphere, that seemed tinted with hues from fairy-land. Each blade of grass curved under its watery load, bending its delicate neck as if proud to bear the pure deposit of the skies. Everything was clothed in the same soft drapery, which was shaken off by the morning breeze, when each object resumed its natural variety of hue, and harmonious conformity of light and shadow.
The traveller gathered together the leaves on which he had slept, kindled them, and taking a small cocoanut hookah from his wallet, smoked his chillam; then, making a scanty meal from the cold rice, refreshed himself with a draught of the dews which he had allowed to drip during the night into a plantain leaf doubled up in the form of a cup.
Although his repast was a spare one, it was taken with a pure relish, and having once more strapped his few articles of baggage upon his shoulders, he prepared to resume his journey; but first turning his face towards the holy city, he offered up his devotions with pious fervour, and supplicated the protection of Heaven through his wanderings.
As he pursued his solitary way through paths to which he was a perfect stranger, he could not help recalling the vision which had haunted his sleep. It had come so vividly before him that he more than half persuaded himself it must have been intended to be a direct revelation from Heaven, and yet, that a man without a name, without a home, a stranger in the land, should become the monarch of a powerful empire, seemed one of those impossibilities only to be dreamed of, but never realised.
To his calmer reflections, the night-vision appeared nothing more than the lively operation of a fancy excited by sleep, and which had been rendered the more keenly alive to impressions from certain peculiar coincidences of events that had deeply interested him, and from those reflex images presented in slumber in consequence of the strong feelings which those coincidences had awakened within him. Nevertheless, in spite of the apparent unreasonableness of the thing promised, the utter improbability of such an event taking place, and the force of his arguments upon the folly of harbouring such a thought, he could not expel from his mind the singular revelation of that night.