CHAPTER XVI
“LA-ILAHA-IL-LAL-LAHA”
Ten years glided away. Oman was more than forty, and Bhavani about fifty-five. To the worker among men the time had seemed longer than that spent on the Silver Peak. There he had, after a little, won faith in himself. Here he came gradually to perceive that he was accomplishing nothing of that which he had set out to do. Little by little he was made to realize that those who are wholly of the world can get no help out of the great, abstract truths: the high standard of religion. This at last he perceived. But he would stoop to no creed petty enough to catch the belief of his people. It was, indeed, only what is discovered by all men who seek to bring high truths home to narrow minds:—that the great, polluted religions have, by slow process of retrograde development, been constituted by the masses for the masses, who must thenceforth only be left alone to peck over and over the heap of chaff from which the last kernels of truth have been long since snatched away.
Fortunately, during this period of thankless labor, Oman had not lost touch with a wider world. Bhavani and Zenaide, the man and the woman, were still his refuge. To them he carried some of his weariness, and from them got constant renewal and refreshment. Their lives had become tranquil,—singularly so, indeed. Only Bhavani, as he grew older, sometimes chafed at the thought that he alone, of all Manduvian rulers, had been peaceful, had brought no glories of conquest and plunder home to his people. He fretted lest Mandu’s prestige had been dimmed by his policy; though he could not deny that he had trebled the strength of his kingdom in wealth and in population.
“Ah,” he would sometimes say, “at my death the country will be fit for Viradha’s rule. He will find her ready to give him soldiers and gold for his wars. He will be what my father was. With all thy teachings, Oman, thou hast never eradicated in him the warrior spirit.”
And Oman would shake his head, his eyes growing sad; for he was not a lover of war.
This matter of the long-continued peace in Mandu was not wholly owing to the policy of its present Rajah; for, during all the early part of his reign, there had been quiet in the turbulent north. Now, however, sinister rumors began to spread and grow. It was, indeed, a time of universal disquiet; for this was the middle of the constructive period of Indian history: the time of the fusion of two great races. Conquest had begun two hundred years before, under the great lord of Ghazni. The second conqueror, Mohammed Ghori, had been dead but forty years. And, since then, the first line of slave kings, founded by Aybek, had been broken by another slave:—Balban, the mighty minister of studious Mahmoud. Under him began the first concerted campaigns into Gujerat and Malwa, which were eventually to result in the conquest of everything north of the Dekkhan. In Delhi, now the capital of Moslem India, there dwelt more than one powerful general of the Prophet’s faith. Among these, Osman-ibn-Omar, the Asra, had won high reputation for the courage and daring that were, indeed, characteristic of his race. In his youth he had known Lahore, even mountain-built Ghazni; and now, his father long ago honorably dead in battle, the son, himself more than sixty years old, dwelt in Delhi, yearning for new wars. And it was eventually he, still bearing in mind an old, disastrous campaign of Dhár in the Vindhyas, who now, in the year 1249, swore to his lord a mighty oath that in him Malwa should find its conqueror. He would go down to the south, and learn whether a cousin of his, whilom head of the Asra race, were still, by any chance, alive and in captivity among the unconquered natives. But of this matter the folk of Mandu, peacefully engaged in the garnering of rice and millet, knew nothing, and as little cared.
Oman, perhaps, had some premonition of what was about to come. At any rate, during this winter, his spirit was restless. He had recourse to many long-abandoned methods of tranquillizing himself. He felt that he was becoming world-troubled. The still waters of his nature had been disturbed and set into motion by a too intimate knowledge of various matters. And all his efforts after calm brought him but temporary relief.
Part of his trouble lay in the sad knowledge of Bhavani’s state. The beloved of Mandu was afflicted with a mortal disease, slow in its fatal progress, but so sure that no man knew of a single prayer, a single sacrifice, that could prove efficacious. Zenaide and Oman, much depending on each other, did not scruple to speak of the inevitable: the shadow of death that hovered daily over them. Zenaide grew strong, now. It was that strength of despair that upholds us at the last. Even Oman, knowing, as he did, her inmost heart, marvelled sometimes at the calm that possessed her. She was no longer young; but, unlike most of her race and class, middle age had not made her ugly. She had lived too well for that. Beauty of spirit, gathered during her years of painful youth, the time of her sacrifice, brought its reward, clothing her with a dignity and a serene beauty that mere happiness cannot give. Bhavani’s wife was dead: had died as she had lived, among her embroideries and her trivialities, regretting to the last the zenana life in which she had been brought up. Bhavani, always reverent toward her in life, felt no acute sorrow at her decease, and, after her burial, returned to his usual way of life, affecting nothing. There were still those in Mandu who wondered if he would not take to wife the woman to whom he had been far more devoted than ever he was to the daughter of Dhár. But Bhavani never entertained a thought of marrying her who had been the greatest courtesan in Malwa. Nor did Zenaide herself regard marriage as a possibility. Youth had passed both from her and from him who, all unknown to her, had passionately loved her. The fire of youth, quenched in its height, had found another life, had been transmuted into a deep and holy affection that demanded no closer bond than that of friendship. If the thought of marriage ever came to the woman, it was only with the wish that, in the suffering he endured almost constantly, she might comfort him as only women can. But Bhavani preferred to die as he had lived: austerely and alone. If he was aware how closely his people watched him, he gave no sign. Oman sometimes wondered if the Rajah dreamed of the storm that his marriage with Zenaide would have raised among the people. Only Oman, from his constant intercourse with the lower classes, knew how blindly and how bitterly the woman of the water-palace was still hated. But Oman himself, had the two chosen to unite themselves, would have uttered not one word of remonstrance:—would, indeed, have given his life in their defence. So had time changed his earlier, rigid views.
It was in this year 1249 that Viradha-Pál, the young prince, began to take his place in the government of Mandu as a person of importance. Indeed it was time that he came into his own. Bhavani had kept him too long in the background. Mandu was beginning to whisper that he should have been at war for them these five years past: that it behoved a Kshatriya to follow his profession. And Viradha, allowed liberty of action, proved himself worthy of his people by quickly claiming his own. Bhavani let him go; for he knew that the spirit of the old warrior kings was upon the youth; and he knew also, still better, that the time approached when a warrior would be sorely needed in Mandu. For Bhavani, in his peacefulness, was by no means blind to the outlook of India; and it was no surprise when Viradha came to him with tales of Mohammedan invasions in the north, and demands of an army with which to march against the alien race. Bhavani acceded to his demands, making, however, one stipulation. Viradha must marry. Then he might leave his wife and go forth to battle. Such was the rule in the Orient.
Thus it came about, after all, that there were marriage feasts that year in Mandu. A princess was brought from Mandaleshwar, on the north bank of the Narmáda, far to the east. And there was a great Brahman sacrifice, and the usual three days of ceremonial. The deserted zenana was opened once more, and a new woman installed there in her loneliness. One week her husband tarried by her side. Then he took his man’s privilege, and left her alone in her state, while he marched away at the head of his little army—fifteen hundred men—into the echoing north. The benedictions and the adoration of all Mandu followed him. Old Bhavani had been a good ruler, the kindest, the most just of men. But, after all, men were made for war, and it was better that the princes of men should be generals than judges. Alas for Mandu! Rejoicing in its newly raised standards, shouting itself hoarse with its own battle-cries, deaf to presentiment, to rumor, to the prophecies of the gods, what wonder that it heard nothing of that faintly-echoing cry that was ringing out over all the plains and heights of India? The cry that had risen out of the black Kaaba of far Mecca, and now rolled, in one continuous shout, from western Granada to Benares, the holy city, transcending speech by its sharp fanaticism, finding by force a home in every land: “La-ilaha-il-lal-laha!” This was the cry that Viradha had gone forth to oppose. It was the same cry to which Viradha’s grandfather had answered with his death.
The young prince went away in the middle of the Ashtaka month (December). His going made no change in Mandu, save that it gave the people an added interest outside their monotonous lives. The pleasant winter passed slowly away. Bhavani had begun to depend much on his appointed teacher of men; and Oman left his unheeded labors among the lowly in order to watch over his dearly loved lord. Bhavani was sad; missed his son; suffered keenly, but did not complain. Oman himself never suspected how much that royal soul endured, silently. But, as the days passed, he became more and more aware of a changing aspect in many things. There was in him a sense of foreboding, a feeling of finality, indefinable, omnipresent. Zenaide also felt it, and her melancholy became unconquerable. She knew what the outer senses could not tell her; and even Oman’s quietly proffered sympathy was repelled. Bhavani doubtless guessed all that passed in their minds; but he could not take their burden from them. He knew himself to be too near the end. He could only spare them anxiety by the silent endurance of pain.
The end came sooner than even he, perhaps, had expected. It was in February, about the middle of the month; and early thrills of spring hung in the air. On the eighteenth day, at noon, Oman, who was in his own room after a long morning in the school, was roused by Bhavani’s favorite slave and conducted swiftly through the palace to Bhavani’s bedroom. Bhavani was on his couch; and Oman, who had not seen him since the previous evening, at once knew everything. The room was in confusion. Evidently many people—doctors, priests, slaves—had been there recently. Why they were now gone, Oman could not surmise. Bhavani lay breathing in long, heavy gasps, with intervals of startling length. His face wore the gray hue of death. His eyes were closed; but he felt Oman’s entrance, for he put out his hand, and Oman took it and fell upon his knees beside the bed.
“Let me summon help for thee,” he said, in a low, clear voice that suggested nothing of what he felt.
“No,” gasped the dying one. Then, after an effort, he added: “I hear Brahma’s voice. Shall I not—answer it?”
Oman could not speak. He buried his head near the face of his friend. It seemed to him, at that moment, that Fate had found a cruelty too great for passive endurance. For Oman loved this man as he had never hoped to love in life. It was like tearing his heart in two to watch that inevitable, resistless advance of death. Yet, with the heroism that was in him, he accepted Bhavani’s own decree: feeling, indeed, that there was no human help for his King.
Moments passed:—an hour:—and still Oman knelt by the bed. Suddenly it seemed as if the Rajah’s breath was coming a little more easily, a little less terribly. Quickly he lifted his head, and looked. There was a change. Bhavani looked older, grayer, more shrunken. But his eyes were half unclosed, and he seemed to be in less pain. While Oman gazed, unable to speak, scarcely to think, a shadowy smile crossed the Rajah’s lips, and he began to murmur a few unintelligible words. Oman bent to catch them, and Bhavani’s eyes rested on his face.
“Fidá,” he whispered, low, but distinctly: “we played together—with Ahalya—”
“Yes. Yes!” answered Oman, hoarsely.
“Brave things. Let us play again. I always Arjuna. Thou, O Fidá, Yudishthir, the King.—Ahalya, the beautiful Draupadi. I have won her from all the rest. But now—we are marching away—from Hastinapur. We are seeking heaven. It is a long journey. We reach the sea. Dost thou remember all the places, Fidá? Agni stops us awhile; and then—we come into the plain that leads to Himavan. I have read it many times. See,—they are gone, all of them! Nakula and Bhima and Draupadi are dead in the desert. But I go on alone into the hills—and—yes, this time he is there!—Sakra—O God!—I come!—Behold, I come!”
Smiling, gasping out these words of one of his childhood’s games, that was, in fact, an epic of the pilgrimage of life, Bhavani, holy among men, slipped away out of existence, perhaps ascending in Sakra’s own chariot, that had so often awaited him in his young imagination.
Till long after he knew that Bhavani was gone from him, Oman knelt there, by the bed, gazing blindly on the still, waxen face. Presently he became aware that there were others in the room. Slaves crept in and out, and brought doctors and officials, and those who were to care for the high dead. Then, dazed and bowed down with his weight of grief, Oman rose and passed out, through the palace, between little knots of whispering men who made way for him and looked after him, longing but not daring to question. He left the palace behind and went on to the duty that was his. The heart in him bled. There were no thoughts of help or of comfort in his brain; yet he knew that none but him could tell the woman of their common woe. So he turned toward the water-palace, where he was always admitted without delay.
Zenaide was in the wide, central court of her dwelling, lying on a pile of cushions placed beside the marble pool. In her hand she held a piece of millet cake, which she had been crumbling for the fishes in the water. At Oman’s entrance, however, she rose, and went to him, hastily. As she looked into his face, Oman, without speaking, watched her expression change from gayety to wonder, and so to fear, till he knew that there was not much to put into words. Now she reached out both her hands, and Oman took them into his own.
“Tell me,” she said, faintly.
“Dost thou not know?” he asked, his voice seeming to him to come from another world.
“Bhavani,—” she began; but her voice broke.
“There is no longer a Bhavani,” he answered, wondering at himself for the speech.
She took it quietly, letting his hands drop from hers, and turning away so that, for some seconds, he could not see her face. Then she moved nearer him again, and said, in tones not natural, but still well controlled: “Come, let us go into a smaller room.”
Oman assented in silence; and she led the way down a short passage to that apartment in which they had held their first interview, many years before. And there she caused him to sit down upon the broad divan, while she took her place at his knee. Again, in their woe, their hands met. And then Zenaide, bowing her head, let tears come. Oman could not weep. His grief was deeper: far more terrible, indeed, than he had believed it could be. His own great creed brought him no comfort.
Bhavani was entombed in the temple room of the palace, in the place whence his father had been lately removed. The ceremonial of cremation was magnificent; but there was one grave lack in it. No willing women accompanied him into the flames. There were no blood relatives, no children, to mourn at his bier. The spectators, who could remember his father’s entombment, compared with this the wailing concourse which had assembled about that funeral pyre, on which lay the body that had been carried all the way back to Mandu from the disastrous plain of Dhár. Here was no terrible grief of dying concubines and dust-covered widows: no deep-throated sobbing of warrior sons. Two aliens, man and woman, stood together, hand in hand, beside the frightened little bride of Viradha; and these were all, beside the people, that mourned Bhavani’s death. Truly, the royal line of Mandu was fading away! The long ceremony brought to every heart a feeling of emptiness, of forlornity, that was not easy to overcome. The people felt it, and even the Brahmans; and there were those who covertly wondered if young Viradha, returning home, would find his own awaiting him.
Fortunately for himself, Oman had no time, in the next few weeks, to grieve. Not knowing just how it came about, he found himself in the position of regent, all Mandu having voluntarily demanded their government of him. There being no other hand ready for the helm, he accepted the place, constituting himself keeper of Viradha’s state, guardian of his honor, treasurer of his heritage: holding himself ready at any moment to deliver all these into the hands of the young King. He clung closely to Bhavani’s methods, finding himself little at a loss to fill a place the duties of which, from constant observation, he had learned so well.
Thus a month passed away. Oman, occupied almost day and night, saw little of Zenaide, whose burden of grief was hers to bear alone. Oman, even in his sadness, had found consolation in an unexpected effect of his labor of the past ten years. He perceived that what he had hoped for against hope was true: the people loved him. Through his years of work among them they had treated him ill. They had been deaf to his teachings; they had mocked at his laws; they had reviled him for heresy to their faith. He had come to believe that he had brought good to not one soul. And now, suddenly, upon the accession of a little pomp, they went to him, sought his counsel, obeyed and loved him more than they had ever obeyed and loved even Bhavani. Oman took their devotion for the best that it brought; and rejoiced that his way was made easy for him. Now he longed only for the return of Viradha, which could not be much further delayed. He had gone away in December. It was now the end of March. Surely the thought of his young wife must draw the warrior homeward soon. Nay, Oman had a presentiment that the course of events would force him back.
Oman was right. Viradha did return, shortly. It was the last week in March, and the spring was in its loveliest, early beauty. Was it right that this renewal of youth, these ever-recurrent love-yearnings of nature, should be broken by the harsh voices of war, an autumnal woe of blood and death? Yet this came: so swiftly, so overwhelmingly, that there was no time for consideration or planning. Only action was necessary; and only action was taken.
The first premonition of disaster came upon the afternoon of the second day of April, when two or three wounded and exhausted fugitives reached the haven of Mandu, bringing the startling news that Viradha and his little army were close at hand, in full retreat before a victorious Mohammedan horde, who had pursued them clear across the mountains. It was a thunderbolt; for none had ever dreamed that the plateau, defended by the whole wide range of the Vindhyas, could be in danger from the conquerors of Delhi. But the word of the fugitives had to be accepted. Their plight was unquestionable. Within twenty-four hours Viradha and his men would be in Mandu, where something, no man said what, must happen.
Through the night, every soul on the plateau labored as never before. Even the children were pressed into service; and Brahman and Sudra worked side by side, placing barriers along the causeway, which, when the Manduvians had reached the plateau, could be thrown across the narrow bridge, and the invaders shut away. It was the only plan of defence that occurred to Oman as feasible; and none of those that sat in council with him could find a better. All was uncertain. They could only busy themselves as best they could;—and wait.
The waiting was not long. Through the whole of the morning of the third, fugitive soldiers continued to pour in from the mountains, bringing word of the valiant, the desperate bravery of Viradha in his retreat, and of the overwhelming force of the invaders. Oman sat in the great audience hall, questioning every soldier that came in, ordering, thinking, planning, till, about one o’clock in the afternoon, there came to his ears the sounds of a great, confused clamor:—the distant battle-din that proclaimed the arrival of the Rajah and his army.
Then, had any one been there to watch, he might have thought that the Saint of Mandu had gone suddenly mad. A spirit of fury had, indeed, rushed upon Oman. He ran out of the palace into the courtyard, where, by his command, a horse was waiting for him. He sprang upon it. All the man, all the one-time Asra bravery of Fidá, was seething in his blood, beating in his brain. From a staring slave-boy he seized a shield and spear, but waited for no armor. Clad in his accustomed white garments, a white turban on his head, and, for his one ornament, the great ruby hung about his neck, he started away, at full gallop, down the road toward the causeway. As he advanced, the sounds grew nearer: the noise more hideous. And above it all, from time to time, like a sentence of doom and death, came the strange accents of that strangest of all battle-cries: “La-ilaha-il-lal-laha!” which, twisted, means: “There is no God but God.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE SIGN OF THE RUBY
The galloping horse, with its white rider, dashed round the curve in the road that opened upon the great stone causeway; and Oman perceived that he was none too soon. It was upon that narrow bridge that the long, horrible retreat of the young Rajah of Mandu had reached its climax. Here he made his last stand against the invincible Prophet-horde. The scene on the causeway was indescribable. Oman had one moment’s survey of it: one moment, during which all his strength, all the fury of race and loyalty that were in him, rushed into his two arms, into his brain, into his eyes. Then, without pause, he was carried down into the writhing, struggling mass.
The plan of defence prepared over night for Viradha’s assistance had come to naught. The two armies had fought their way, hand to hand, all down the rocky defile that led to the plateau; and they reached the causeway in an inseparable mass. It had taken the whole morning for the Moslems to force the defenders from the entrance of the pass, two miles above, to the bridge. The men of Mandu, knowing well the consequence of defeat, had fought as never men fought before; and now, on the threshold of their homes, they made the supreme effort. The retreat was over. The fight on the causeway was the death struggle. When it ended, there would be no more resistance to the followers of Mohammed.
Like others on that bridge, Oman too had gone mad. He did not think, he did not feel. He was a machine. His horse, trained to war, had plunged into the very thick of the battle. On every side men were fighting together: man to man, two to one, three to one, but always without concerted action, always as in a series of duels. Of those in the mêlée, Oman was the only one who wore no armor; and how, during the first ten minutes, he escaped with his life, it would be impossible to say. After that, his shield was omnipresent, his sword all-pervading. Man after man went down before him. Those of Mandu that saw him, marvelled. Their Saint had become inspired by a demon. The Mohammedans regarded him with suspicious fear. Was this an angel, a Jin, come from heaven to defend a chosen country? It seemed, for a few minutes, as if his appearance might turn the tide of battle. But victory was not for Mandu. Where the war-cry of the Prophet now rose in India, it was not to be stilled by any bravery, any heroism. Just now, no one looking at that close-writhing mass of combatants could have told which way the fight was going. But there was, for the Indians, a very sense of defeat, a gradually increasing fear, born of presentiment. Oman felt it with the rest; but still he fought, with the fierceness of despair.
Not yet, in the closely packed company, had he caught a glimpse of the young Rajah. Dealing out his blows and parries almost mechanically, Oman found time to wonder in which of the heaps of dead and dying piled against the high balustrades of the causeway, the son of Bhavani lay. But presently the horror of that thought was removed. Just before him, upreared on a bleeding horse, helmetless, blood-smeared, worn almost beyond recognition with the work of the last week, was Viradha, closely beset by a powerful Moslem, whose rich accoutrements and shining scimitar proclaimed him of rank. In a kind of maze, Oman watched the young man parry blow after blow, saw the terrible weapon finally plunged down with undefensible stroke, and, in the same instant, waking from his trance, flung himself forward across the young man’s body and lifted his face to that of the Mohammedan. There was a strange shock. The Moslem recoiled from the blow he had dealt, his eyes fixed in fascination on something that shone on Oman’s uplifted breast:—the Asra ruby, blazing in the sun.
Oman recovered himself swiftly, and drew back from the body beneath him. His attempt had been vain. Viradha lay supine upon his horse, limp and motionless, the bright life-blood gushing out of his very heart. He was dead. Oman knew it before he looked. The hope of Mandu was gone; and, in the same instant, the battle was ended. Like one in a dream Oman heard the din gradually fade into silence, and saw the great Moslem chief lean over, draw his weapon from the young body, and then straighten up and look about him with a half smile. The Manduvians, those that remained, had lowered their arms, and were piteously begging for quarter. But Mohammed spares not the unfaithful. Oman, perceiving what a hideous, silent carnage was beginning, felt a new rush of fury, and hurled himself at the Mohammedan leader, the slayer of Viradha. At once two other Arabs fell upon him, from the right and from the left, and Oman surrendered, as the general gave two or three sharp orders, and the soldiers, stopping short in their attack, seized Oman by the arms, lifted him forcibly from the saddle, and dragged him down till he stood on his feet. Then they led him back along the causeway to one of the empty watch-towers. Into this they climbed with him, bound him fast, hand and foot, with his own sash and two leathern straps from their accoutrements, and then, with some words incomprehensible to him, they descended to the bridge again, leaving him alone. For a moment his thoughts swam through seas of blood. After that, the deadly reaction of passion setting in, he mercifully fainted.
He was unconscious for a long time. When he came to himself again, there was a singular stillness around him:—the stillness of many dead, not to be broken by the faint, indistinguishable sounds of the horde on the plateau. It was late in the afternoon; for the sunlight was pouring through an opening in the west wall of the watch-tower. Oman looked into the yellow light till he was half blinded. Then he closed his eyes. He was in great pain; and half of him was numb with lying for so long in one position. Unknown to himself, he had, in the battle, received one or two wounds, not serious, unfelt, indeed, in the excitement, but which now troubled him severely. This, and the ache of his arms and ankles where the fetters held him, threw him into a kind of stupor of pain. He could hear the flies buzzing over his blood; but he could not think of anything. Why should he? Everything was gone; and the mass of fact was too overwhelming to be realized. His brain, recently overactive, was as weary as his body. He was aware only of the lengthening afternoon, his own pain, and his rising thirst.
After a while the sun set, the swift twilight passed, and the young moon shone in the west, above the dead, sunset colors. Oman was sleepy. It seemed fitting that, with night, he should rest. He wondered a little if he was to die in the watch-tower, forgotten, and raving for water. To his dulled mind it made little difference, just now. Wondering, stupidly, he fell asleep.
Oman had, however, been by no means forgotten. Shortly after moonset, which was very early that night, he was waked by two men—soldiers—who, penetrating his retreat, undid his bonds by the light of a torch, and addressed certain sharp words to him in their unknown tongue. Oman, obeying the instinct of common sense, rose to his feet, swayed and reeled with numbness, and was promptly pummelled into sensibility by one of the men who seemed to understand what he needed. So, presently, the three of them, Oman with a soldier on either side, descended the narrow stone steps of the tower and came out upon the causeway. Here was a sight to try the nerves of the Mohammedan conqueror himself. All was deathly still, yet already men were working by the light of torches, the sickly, flickering glare of which cast streaks of light and shadow over the horrid scene. The whole width of the bridge reeked and steamed with blood; and here and there separate bodies blocked the central path. Against the high balustrades, on either hand, were great, inextricable heaps of slain. At the sight, Oman’s gorge rose; but, at the same time, there shot into his mind the question: “Why am I not lying here? What was it that preserved me from death?” He had seen Osman’s look; but he could not account for it. He only knew that quarter had been given him where nobody else was spared; and, even before this scene of horror, he sighed; for he had long since been ready to face the Unknown Beyond.
It was a long walk to the end of the plateau. Oman wondered a little why the conquerors had made the palace, instead of the town, their headquarters, never dreaming that, in six hours, Osman and his army had swept Mandu from one end to the other, after the manner of a race long accustomed to conquest. When the prisoner and his guides passed the water-palace, Oman gazed sorrowfully upon its dark outline and its empty door. Where was Zenaide, the Lady of Mandu? Alas! Who could say? Finally, when the captive was on the verge of exhaustion, they reached the palace courtyard, and here, at last, found a scene of life. In the centre of the court, where so many holy sacrifices had burned to Agni and the Hindoo Trinity, was an immense bonfire, at which torn and weary soldiers were cooking food. Everywhere were men, talking, shouting, laughing in their barbarous tongue. But nowhere could Oman find a familiar face. Where were all the slaves that had been wont to pass and repass through this court by night and day? Where were the officials? Had they followed the fate of their defenders? At the thought, Oman trembled like a woman. However, he and his guides crossed the square, and entered the audience hall, where there was a scene indeed.
The place was lighted by a hundred torches and hanging-lamps that threw a yellow, smoky glare over the confusion below. An impromptu feast had been prepared for the general and his officers; and, the wine-cellars found and rifled, these good Moslems for one night waived the tenets of their creed and celebrated the day’s carnage after the Delhi[10] fashion, by drinking themselves either maudlin or insane. As Oman, in his blood-stained robes, appeared upon the threshold, Osman, the great general, not so drunk as his men, was walking toward the daïs at the head of the room, where stood the royal throne. Catching sight of the figure in the doorway, however, the conqueror paused, with one foot on the step and turned a little toward him. Oman got a distinct picture of him there. The leonine head was bare, and the heavy, whitish hair and beard framed a face of fierce and vigorous strength. Most of his armor had been removed; and he was clad in a crimson robe, heavily embroidered and studded with jewels. His undertunic was a vivid green; and in his belt was stuck a dagger, the hilt of which flashed with emeralds and blood-stones. This was Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra, head of that perishable race; and he turned, in his hall of conquest, to meet the deep-eyed gaze of him who wore the lost charm of the Asra.
[10] The law against drunkenness was never strictly kept by the Mohammedans during the conquest of India. The Delhi kings were notorious for debauchery.
Lifting his voice above the general clamor, the conqueror summoned Oman to him. The captive obeyed, moving slowly forward till he could have touched the hand of his captor, who still stood gazing at him. Again their eyes met; and this time, before the penetrating glance of the hermit, the eyes of the warrior fell. After an instant, however, they were lifted again, and Osman, speaking in perfect Hindustanee, said:
“Thou art he whom they called, this afternoon, the white Demon?”
“I do not know what men called me.”
“Thou wouldst have saved the young Rajah from my scimitar?”
“Assuredly,” answered Oman, scowling; and the conqueror laughed.
In a moment, however, he was serious again, and, dropping all preliminaries, demanded: “That stone—the ruby that you wear upon your neck—what is it called? Where found you it?”
A sudden flash of understanding, of more than understanding, rushed over Oman. Out of the long, long ago came remembrance of this same man that now stood before him; and he asked, suddenly, the involuntary question:
“Art thou Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra?”
“Yes. By the Prophet, how knewest thou I was ibn-Omar?”
Oman did not answer. He took from his throat the chain on which hung the great ruby; and, with an indescribable gesture, he went forward and slipped it over the head of the Mohammedan. “It is the Asra ruby,” said he. “It has found its race again. My trust is finished.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room; nor did any one attempt to stop him. Osman, confounded, dazed, indeed, by the assurance of Oman’s act, remained motionless, staring after him. The two guards who had brought him from the tower, and had watched the scene with speechless astonishment, seeing that their lord gave no commands about his recapture, stepped aside to let him pass. And the others in the room never noticed him at all.
Heeding nothing of what lay behind, entirely fearless of the conquerors, Oman left the hall in which Rai-Khizar-Pál, and Bhavani, and lately he himself, had been wont to sit in council, crossed the broad courtyard where the slave Fidá had so often watched, and finally reached the road, which was silent, and lighted only by the stars. The palace of Mandu was behind him, but he had yet one other mission to fulfil. He went on to the water-palace, which, a little while before, he had beheld, still with the stillness of death. Was Zenaide there? Or whither was she gone? He must know. For she had now only him in the world to look to.
When he came to the door of the building he found, to his amazement and consternation, that it stood open. No slave was on guard; but within, near the marble pool, hung a burning lamp that cast a faint light round about. Oman halted beneath it, and listened intently for some sound. There was one:—the softest, intermittent sighing:—a low cry, like the wailing of a new-born child. Unhesitatingly Oman followed the direction from which it came—followed through room and passage, till he had reached the inner apartments of Zenaide, and penetrated to the sanctum: her sleeping chamber. Here he found her.
All that he at first perceived was a long, narrow room, the walls hung with palest blue, on which were embroidered white flocks of doves. There were many tiny lights round about, and against the walls knelt half a dozen women, wailing and beating their breasts. Beside these were one or two of the male slaves, standing about dejectedly, but uttering no sound. This was Oman’s first glance. Then he perceived something else, which instantly swallowed up every other thought. At the far end of the room stood a bier, hung with blue embroideries; and upon it, quiet, peaceful, still as a marble figure, lay the priestess of Radha, in her last sleep. The great eyes were shut. The wonderful, red-dyed hair was bound smoothly into a high crown above her brow, and one or two white lotos flowers were fastened above her ears. Her garments were all white, her feet encased in white shoes. There was but one spot of color anywhere. Over her heart, beneath her left breast, was a stain of moist crimson, that widened and spread a little, even as Oman gazed. It told him all that he would have asked. He stood silent over her, while the women and slaves crept close, looking up to him with some sign of hope in their heavy eyes. But, for the first time, perhaps, Oman had no hope to give. His thoughts, indeed, were not here. He was thinking of the slow order in which every one that he had known and loved in his life had passed into the other land. It was beginning to come home to him that his own hour of liberation was near. His eyes travelled slowly over Zenaide’s perfect form, from her face, which now, in its repose, showed the marks of time and sorrow, down her white arms, and to her white-clothed feet. Then, suddenly lifting his hands over her, he said, softly: “Rest thee, rest thee, in peace!”
Then he turned to go. But the living ones crowded about him, demanding what they were to do.
“The invaders cannot forbid the right of burial. On the morrow let her be burned, and the ashes placed in an urn. By night let one of ye convey this to the palace temple and lay it upon the tomb of the Lord Bhavani. Thus they shall meet in blessed death.”
Then Oman would have gone, but that one of the women, Zenaide’s favorite attendant, ran to him and laid her hand upon his arm, saying: “And thou, my lord, whither art thou going?” Her voice sank to a whisper, for she felt her presumption.
“Whither I go ye know not. Sufficient it is that ye see me for the last time. I commend your mistress to your care. Farewell.”
Then Oman, in his stained garments, with the marks of fetters on his wrists and ankles, left the room of mourning and passed through the house till he came again to the central room. Here, the crises of the day at last ended, his body was overcome with weariness; and he lay down beside the marble pool, and slept.
CHAPTER XVIII
SUNSET
When Oman opened his eyes again, red dawn was just breaking upon a silent world. Kneeling at the pool, he performed his ablutions, and then walked to the open door. How fragrant the morning was! The air was rich with the perfume of flowers. Even in the early freshness there was a promise of heat; and drowsy bird twitterings complained of it. But Oman, standing quiet in the door of the water-palace, thought not of nature. He was looking out across still Mandu, the conquered land; and the heart in him bled and ached. Yesterday he had fought for his people, his country, his lord. To-day there remained only the bitterness of irretrievable defeat. And Oman’s one thought now was for the people:—the men and women of the fields, who were left to bend beneath the conqueror’s yoke. These lowly ones, for whom he had labored so long, he could help no more. If he went among them to-day, and listened to their plaints, he should have no comfort for them, could counsel nothing but that which it were best for them to learn for themselves:—submission.
Oman, faint from long fasting, leaned his head against the door, and looked out across the quiet fields. His thoughts were turned to strange things. He remembered that it was the fourth day of April:—the day when Mandu was accustomed to worship at the distant tombs of Rai-Khizar-Pál, the Woman, and the Slave. There would be no prayers offered there to-day. What matter? What mattered anything? To the strange one, leaning upon the dawn, came a great peace. Perhaps he slept. Certainly he dreamed; for there passed before him, in the faint light, a pageant of those whom he had known. And they called to him, softly, and welcomed him with greetings. First of all, from out of the long ago, came Kota, his mother, who looked on him with tender eyes, as one who had worshipped her first-born; and, with gentle motions, she beckoned to him. Next was Hushka, the Bhikkhu, clad in worn, yellow robes, with a pale nimbus round his head. There was peace in his shining eyes, and Oman knew that he no longer dreaded the weary eight months’ pilgrimage. He had won his eternal Arahatship. Then followed Churi, madness no longer written in his haggard face. He smiled upon Oman, and called a greeting, in friendly voice. After him came Bhavani, looking as in life, an expression of high dignity mingling with the infinite affection in his face. Behind, moved young Viradha, with many wounds; and Zenaide, newly dead, with lilies in her hands. Slowly, slowly they passed from sight: phantasms, perhaps, of Oman’s brain. He thought them gone, when, out of the gray mist, came two more, hand in hand, spirits interlocked, faint, shadowy, as if they did not live even in their ghostly land: a man and a woman. Seeing them, Oman shuddered violently, and shut his eyes. When he looked again upon the world, there was nothing there. He felt only a great warmth in his heart, a burning eagerness to answer the calling of his dead. Thus he straightened up, and started forth, looking neither to the right nor left, in the direction of the great palace.
His way was lonely. He met no one till he had passed round the building where the Asra chieftain lay asleep. Behind the palace sat a little group of slaves, eating a meal of millet cakes and milk, which they timidly offered to share with Oman. Oman sat with them, and broke their bread, and drank of their simple beverage; then, rising, he offered them a ring which he wore in memory of Bhavani:—a circlet of plain gold; all that he had upon him of any value. Wondering, the simple creatures accepted it, not in payment for what he had eaten, but because high lords walk always abroad with gifts for the poor. And, proffering thanks to Oman and to Vishnu indiscriminately, they watched the hermit begin his descent of the plateau.
It was nearly noon when he stood at last upon the plain. He had been a long time coming down; for he had been often obliged to pause and rest. He began to realize that he was shattered by the struggle of yesterday. Body and nerves played him false, and the result of his many years of austere living suddenly threw itself against him and broke his force. Nevertheless, he proceeded, walking feebly across the plain toward the river bank, wondering a little how, when he had reached the river, he was going to finish his journey. None seeing him would have believed that he could walk five miles more. Yet that was what he had set out to do. He wished to go to the river temple, to pray for the three that were buried there.
His passage across the plain was strangely solitary. The rich fields, in which stood crops already a foot high, the young spears calling for water, were deserted. Here also was the trace of the invader. All the people of the lowland, quickly getting news of Mandu’s disaster, had driven together their herds of cattle and buffalo and retreated with them into the jungle:—a heedless, sheeplike retreat, that lost them their half-year’s crops, but could not make encounter with the soldiers of the Prophet less inevitable.
An hour after noon, weary and faint, tottering, indeed, as he moved, Oman reached the bank of the bright-flowing Narmáda. Here he found that his providence had not deserted him. On the shore, close at hand, drawn a little up from the swift water, lay one of the broad, flat-bottomed boats used occasionally by peasants for ferrying the stream. The guiding-poles lay in it—a fact that told much. Those that had used the boat would not use it again, else they had taken the poles with them. Oman stared at it for a few moments, uncertainly. Then he waded into the water, and dragged it, with great effort, after him. When it was afloat, he threw himself upon it, took one of the poles, pointed his barge down-stream, and then, as the current took it with a rush, lay down supine, folded his arms across his breast, and shut his eyes.
The afternoon of the first day of Mohammedan Mandu was growing late. Yellow shadows lengthened across the fields. To the south, the flat, alluvial plain stretched away, dotted now and then with a mud town, or fringed with the jungle into which, in the India of that day, all civilization sooner or later resolved itself. In the north, not very far distant, rose the great rock of Mandu, crowned with her circle of stone palaces; and back of that, a silent, threatening horde, stood the dark Vindhyas, barriers of the Dekkhan.
Of these things Oman saw none. He knew that they were there, but his eyes were at rest, and the troubles of life and of conquest had left his heart. He was floating swiftly into the sunset. His boat, guided as if by magic, swept on, down the rushing current, till the tiny, dark blot of the temple-tomb grew, and took shape, and drew near upon the right bank. After a time Oman stood up to watch, waiting for a moment when he could beach the boat beside the building. But help was not demanded of his hands. As they neared the destination, the river curved; and suddenly, driven by some counter-current, the boat whirled off and ran aground, exactly in front of the tomb. It was, perhaps, the selfsame twist that had, more than forty years before, thrown the bodies of the man and woman up out of their grim refuge. To him that was waiting to enter the temple, it was a miracle. He felt that he had chosen a true way; that his act in leaving Mandu had been approved by a higher mind than his.
Now, in the golden afternoon, he stood alone before the tomb. A vast stillness encompassed him as he moved forward and unlocked the heavy doors. There, in the dim mustiness of the long-closed place, stood the two sarcophagi; and, as always, when he came alone hither, he had a feeling of intimacy with the dead. But this sense had never been so strong as now. He knelt beside the ashes of Ahalya and Fidá, and prayed to the great Brahm; and, as he prayed, there arose in his breast an overmastering desire:—the desire to lay himself down in the shadows of the little place and sleep. After a time he passed over to the resting-place of the old Rajah, and dumbly craved his forgiveness for the wrong done him by his wife and his slave. Then, finally, he went outside again, and stood upon the bank of the stream.
Sunset had come. The Narmáda rushed by: a tempestuous flood of crimson and gold. The world was alight with fiery glory. It was the sign of the conqueror in the land. Only the being who stood alone in his surrounding solitude, the long years of his expiation and atonement behind him now, could turn his face fearlessly, without dread, toward that coppery sky. As he gazed into it, the gray and violet shadows came stealing out over the splendor. The day was dying. It was again the prophecy of the India that should, in time, conquer its conquerors.
With a palpitating heart, Oman gazed about him, overcome by the strangest emotion. It was as if his souls were straining at their fetters. Yet still there was a sense of desolation, a lack of something that was to come. Darkness was around him. Then suddenly, out of the west, from the now hidden fires there, it appeared:—the slender, gray-winged bird, the mysterious complement of his souls. As of old, straight to his breast it flew, trembling and warm. Clasping it close, Oman lifted his head and murmured softly:
“Lord, it is finished. Let me now go.”
Then he turned, and slowly, very slowly, walked into the temple. One outside, looking in through the shadows, might have perceived that he laid himself down upon the tomb of the two that had sinned of old; and that the bird upon his breast was still. A little later, moved, perhaps, by the evening wind, the doors swung gently to upon the body that had now delivered up its long-imprisoned souls.
What befell on High I do not know. But the hermit of the Silver Peak, the Saint of Mandu, was gone. Nor was he seen upon earth again.
THE END