FOOTNOTE:
[12] A large stone placed on the rear basement of the temple. Votaries are directed to place a hand on each side of it, and make a wish. If it turns to the right, the wish will be granted; if to the left, otherwise.
[CHAPTER LV.]
Just then, a company of well-equipped horsemen, in number about two hundred, rode into Afzool Khan's camp at Tandoolwaree; and the same gleam of sun, which had broken through the clouds and shone on the temple at Tooljapoor, and upon Gunga as she danced, caught the tips of their long spears,—and sparkled upon matchlock barrels, the bright bosses of their shields, and the steel morion of the leader.
There was no regularity of dress or equipment among the horsemen, but the fine condition and spirit of their horses, and the manner in which they moved, proved them to be accustomed to act together, as the look of the men gave assurance of their being well tried in war. In their front was a man on a piebald horse, over which were slung two large kettle-drums, which were occasionally beaten with a sonorous sound by the person who sat behind them: and two men, both round-shouldered, one of whom carried a small green standard, with a white figure of Hunoomán, the monkey god, sewn upon it, rode beside him, one on each side. Pahar Singh was true to his word; and, entering the camp at a time when his arrival would create no particular observation, proceeded to some vacant ground in a field on the west side of it, where, drawing up his men, he bid them dismount, and, without unsaddling their horses, tether them and await his coming.
"What is the uncle about to-night?" said our old friend, Lukshmun, to the kettle-drummer, as the halt was made, "and why do we stop here? He told us we were to go on to Sholapoor, to prepare forage for the Khan's army."
The man laughed. "Ah, brother!" he said, "dost thou not yet understand the uncle's ways? Now, to my perception, as he has come to the west of the camp, we shall have to go east. Home, perhaps, who knows?—the devil,—if this be one of his errands,—as it most likely is. Certain we have something to do out of the common way, else he would not have stayed apart all day nor picked the men and the mares; nor would he have brought you and Rama and the young master. Well, we shall soon see, for he has gone off to the Khan's tents, where a Durbar appears to be going on."
"Yes, he may be waiting for orders," returned the hunchback. "May the Mother give him luck of them;—better luck than we had in that wild ride after Maloosray, when neither mud, nor stones, nor rivers, stopped us; and when we drew breath at the Hórtee pass, you could have heard the mares breathing and snorting a coss off! That was not the way to catch Maloosray! Yes, he had done too much that day; and the blood had got up into his eyes and head," he continued, after a pause, and wagging his head wisely, "but he is cool now; what will he do?"
"Something," said his companion; "what do we care? Now, help me to get these kettles off the mare's back, Lukshmun, else I shall be whipped if he comes and finds them on. Ho, Rama, come and help, brother. What ails thee? art drunk?"
"May thy tongue rot," replied that worthy, dismounting from his mare; "who told thee I was drunk?"
"Well, then, art thou sober? if that please thee better," returned the man, laughing. "But what ails thee? thou hast not spoken a word since we set out."
"No matter, my eyes are blinded with blood," returned Rama sulkily. "What we are to do to-night will be evil. I saw an omen I did not like before we set out, and three hares have crossed us since. Is that good? I tell thee I cannot see in that direction," and he pointed to the west, "for the blood that is in my eyes."
"The sun is bright enough, Rama," said Lukshmun, laughing, "and the liquor was strong, brother. Thou wilt see better by-and-by, when the night falls."
"Peace, ill-born," cried Rama, aiming a blow at him with his spear-shaft; "only thou art my brother I had put it into thee."
"Ill or well born, we came of the same mother," retorted Lukshmun; "as for me, with this hunch on my back, by the gods, thou sayest true. But go to sleep, my friend, and get the blood out of thine eyes; I like it not. He is generally right when he says this," continued Lukshmun to the kettle-drummer. "Yes, we shall have work to do, and some of us may have to sup with the gods to-night. I pray it may not be Rama, for his wife is a devil; and as for his children—cubs of a wolf are easier to manage."
Leaving these worthies to discuss the probabilities of the night, which was also the theme of conversation among the men, we may follow Pahar Singh and his nephew to the Durbar tent; where, seated at its entrance, were Afzool Khan, his son, the Peer, and other officers of the force, enjoying, as it were, the cool breeze of evening; while reports were heard and read, papers signed, and orders given. Carpets had been spread for some: others sat on the bare ground, or on their saddle-cloths, removed for the purpose. All seemed merry, and the Khan's face was beaming with pleasure. He was, in truth, enjoying his old life, and his spirits had risen with it, with the hope, not only that Pahar Singh would not fail him, but in the capture of the chief malcontents of those provinces, that he should strike a deep blow at the root of the widespread Mahratta confederacy.
Pahar Singh and his nephew dismounted, and, advancing, offered the hilts of their swords to the Khan and those near him in succession, and while receiving and replying to their welcome, took their seats among the rest. "Our time will come, Gopal," said the chief; "wait patiently, they will send for us after the evening prayer."
He was right. As the sun set, the assembly broke up. Performing their ablutions, as a priest sang the Azân, or invitation to prayer, they again collected, marshalled by the Peer, who took his seat in front, looking towards Mecca. All present, joined by hundreds of others from the camp, knelt on the ground in ranks, and obeying his movements, rose—bowed themselves—or kneeled, in unison—as the various changes of the Moslem liturgy required. When the service was over, all, wishing each other peace, with the blessing of God and the Prophet, separated for the night.
"Come into my tent," said the Khan to Pahar Singh, "thou art welcome. What of the work?"
"I am ready," he said; "I have two hundred of my best people with me."
"And I am not behind thee; my people are ready also, and wait thy pleasure," replied the Khan.
"Who is this, father?" cried Fazil, who now entered, having remained to speak with some friends. Fazil had not recognized the Fakeer of the King's Durbar, nor the Jogi of the temple; but there was a vague impression on his mind that he had seen the face under other circumstances.
"Pahar Singh, son; dost thou not know him?" he replied.
"A brave youth, the worthy son of a brave sire, may not object to receive the offering of an old soldier," said the chief, putting out his sword-hilt to Fazil, who touched it courteously; "and he shall have his share of the work if he may, Khan Sahib."
"What work? what is this?" whispered Fazil to his father, and taking him a step aside. "Do not trust him—he is one of them—all men say so. He is not true."
"He is as true as I am," replied the Khan. "I have already proved him, and thou wilt know all by-and-by. He has received the King's pardon, and confirmation of all his possessions. Do not doubt him, for he can render important service."
"Enough, father," said Fazil aloud; and, turning to Pahar Singh, "Where you go I will follow; but who will lead us?"
"I will lead one party, and my son here another. Come thou with me, Khan, and send thy son with mine," replied the chief promptly.
"Where are we to go?" asked Fazil.
"We cannot say till we are on the road," said the chief, smiling. "'Thieves,' they say, 'have longer ears than asses.' I have one of my trumpeters here; and when it is time to move, a shrill blast will be blown: till then, eat and make your preparations, as I will mine;" and saluting them, Pahar Singh and his son walked to their horses, and, mounting them, rode away.
"And do we go with them alone, father?" asked Fazil, following the chief with his eyes, and in a tone of apprehension.
"No," said the Khan, "the order I gave for the Paigah and the Abyssinian horse to march to-night to Sholapoor is for this service, and we shall lead them."
"Excellent," cried Fazil joyfully; "then I fear nothing; but who is this Pahar Singh? Surely I have seen him before."
"Certainly, in the Durbar at Nuldroog, when the deed of confirmation was given to him."
"I was not there, father: I heard of it."
"Ah, true! Well, then, dost thou remember the Kullunder Fakeer of the King's Durbar?"
"Protection of God!" cried Fazil; "ay, and the Jogi of the temple. Strange, I thought I had seen those eagle eyes somewhere. I had not forgotten them. Now, father, I will go with him; but tell him not that I was at the temple. He might resent the death of his follower, and recede from us."
"An excellent caution, son; no, he shall never know it."
"What are the Abyssinians getting ready for?" asked the Peer, who came up at that moment. "Some secret service at Sholapoor, as Ibrahim Khan tells me? There is no mutiny, no disaffection, Khan?"
"It is a secret service, my friend," replied Afzool Khan, smiling, "and Fazil and I are going with them; but there is no mutiny, or cause for any, and we do not go to Sholapoor."
"Where, then?" cried the Peer. "Let me come; nay, I will take no denial: whither thou goest I will follow."
"It were better not, Huzrut," replied the Khan; "it will be a rough ride, and perhaps some rough work at the end of it; nevertheless, as thou wilt. Come, sirs, we had need to eat first. Come, Bismilla!"
[CHAPTER LVI.]
"A dark night, my lord," cried Pahar Singh, as the Khan and his son, accompanied by the Peer, rode up to a large fire which, kindled by dry thorns from the hedges, sent up a ruddy blaze high in the air as some loose fodder was thrown on it, displaying the tall form of the chief, as he stood there with his nephew and several others, "and ye are welcome; and here are the rest, too," he continued, as the foremost men of the body of cavalry crowded up, the strong light revealing the dark faces of the Abyssinians and the noble horses on which they were mounted. "Bismilla! as ye say, let us mount and depart."
"I have not kept you longer than I could help," said the Khan, "and the men are divided into bodies, as you directed, under their own leaders. With me are some of my people, and the noble Ibrahim Khan himself with his; and I will remain with you as you proposed. The rest of my men go with my son."
"When we get near the place, Khan," said Pahar Singh, "I will give directions. And now, beat the drum, Lukshmun, and do you and Rama look after the guides—you know the road; go on, and beat the drum occasionally to let us know where you are."
"I would it were daylight, father," said Fazil; "it will be no easy matter guiding all those men in the dark."
"Fear not, my lord," cried Pahar Singh, "we shall see better when we are away from those fires, which only blind us. The roads are dry, and your Beejapoor horses don't fear stones. In three hours or more we shall be near the place, then a rest, and some arrangements; and after that you can give your own orders, and we, your servants, can execute them. Come, sirs, we can strike into the road at the end of the field by the trees."
"Shall we have no torch on this unsainted errand?" said the Peer, rather peevishly.
"Huzrut," said Pahar Singh, "this is hardly work for a man of God, and the roads are rough. No; we must manage with what light the sky gives us, for we have to deal with wary people, and 'twere a pity to take the Khan so long a night ride and show him no sport. If you are afraid the road will be too rough, do not come: but ride with the force to-morrow."
"Afraid!" cried the Peer contemptuously. "I, a servant of God, afraid! Astagh-fur-oolla! If there is any work to do, thou shalt see whether a priest cannot strike as hard a blow as a layman. The Khan can bear me witness that wherever he goes I am ever beside him."
"Pardon me," cried the chief, laughing, "I will doubt no longer. I only fear that, in catching thieves, there may be less need for our swords than for contrivance to outwit them."
"And may not we know how, father," cried Fazil, riding to his father's side, as they reached the end of the field, "what this contrivance is, and where we go?"
"To Tooljapoor, my lord," replied Pahar Singh in a low voice, not so as to be heard by the Peer: "a nest of traitors is assembled there, and we need to take them out of it. Keep together, now, I pray ye, gentlemen: I must ride before all for a short distance, and will rejoin ye by-and-by."
"Tooljapoor!" exclaimed the Peer, when Pahar Singh had disappeared, "a nest of idols and thieves, indeed. The haunt of a devil in the shape of an old woman, whom they all worship. I know her, with her red eyes; and when I have seen the idolatrous Kaffirs bow down before her by thousands, I have longed for the sword of our lord the Prophet to be among them. 'Inshalla!' when——"
"Peace, Huzrut," said the Khan, in a soothing tone, interrupting him. "I have promised that the temple and the idol come to no harm, on condition of taking none who are there, and——"
"Well, well, Khan," returned the Peer impatiently. "I am not a Roostum, to slay all the unbelievers myself, or to overturn that abode of devils! Do as thou wilt, friend; do as thou wilt. I will not strike till thou dost—till I hear thy war-cry; after that—'Futteh-i-Nubbee' (Victory to the Prophet) say I!"
"Ameen!" said the Khan dryly, "but I trust there will be no need of it. Come, Fazil, let us turn into the road and keep it, before the main body comes up. Listen," continued the Khan, as they rode on by an open pathway among the fields of tall corn. "His plan is for the town to be surrounded above, and a ravine below to be blocked up. He would give thee the latter work, son, as the people will try to escape thence."
"By the Prophet, an excellent plan," said the priest,—"no better could be devised. A few horsemen across the mouth of the glen will catch all that come out of the temple like fish in a net. I know the place well. No one could get up the sides of that glen at night,—no, not one."
"I would rather go with thee, father," said the young man; "my place is with thee; surely any one could manage below, and if there be danger——"
"There will be no danger, son," he returned: "these people will be caught in their own trap, worshipping their horrible idol, and will be unarmed. I shall keep outside the gates, and watch for the fugitives. Pahar Singh knows the men he wants, and will take his own people and some of the Abyssinians inside. If needs be, we can meet in the temple, but there must be no question in regard to this arrangement, which even the Peer ratifies."
"Surely, my lord," said the priest, "it is the fittest in all respects; and Pahar Singh, considering that he is an infidel and robber, seems a man of some propriety of manner, and is doing our lord the King good service."
"Dost thou remember the cry, 'Ulla dilâyâ to léonga!' and the tall Kullunder who brought the Wuzeer's papers to the Durbar?" asked the Khan; "that was Pahar Singh."
"Ulla dilâyâ to léonga!" exclaimed the priest. "Yes, I remember. 'Puna-i-Khóda!' (protection of God) was that he? Then the night before there was the same cry in the fort as I left the King; could that have been he also? I thought it might have been some drunken Kullunder, as they said it was."
"The night before Khan Mahomed was killed?" cried the Khan and Fazil in a breath.
"Yes; why do you ask?" returned the priest; "it was near morning."
"It was curious enough," said the Khan carelessly, "but those Kullunders are very early; they like to be on foot when the women are grinding at their mills, to get a handful of flour."
"Yes, it was about that time," said the priest unsuspiciously, and the conversation dropped.
It was almost impossible to reunite again; for the road, which was pretty broad and free from stones at first, shrunk to a narrow path, through corn-fields on each hand, and it was difficult for more than two to ride abreast with comfort; and sometimes, indeed, that even could not be managed. They passed several villages at irregular intervals, and proceeded without check or halt. Pahar Singh, for the most part, rode in front of his own troop; but returned occasionally to the Khan and his son, who, being between the advanced guard and the main body, were unimpeded by the crowding which elsewhere unavoidably existed.
Whether it was that their eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, or that the gloom of the first part of the night had relaxed in some respect, it hardly signified; for, without betraying their presence at any distance, there was light enough to distinguish the path; and to follow, without much inconvenience, the men who preceded them. These were, as we know, ignorant of their destination: and most believed it might be Puraindah, or somewhere on the western frontier, where disturbance had occurred.
Those in advance, however, halted at length; and the rushing sound of the trampling of the heavy body of horse, which had continued through the night like a dull hoarse roar behind, gradually grew fainter as the mass of men collected and stood still. The Khan and his son, with the Peer, were speculating as to whether that was to be the place of divergence, when Pahar Singh and his nephew rode up, and at once put an end to the doubt.
"We separate here," he said; "and this, Meah Sahib, is my son who will lead you; you will find him true and intelligent. Do not go to Sindphul," he added to Gopal Singh; "Lukshmun knows the high-road to Rutunjun by Uljapoor, and that will take you close under the pass between Sindphul and the town. Keep in the hollow near the river, and when you hear our shouts above, turn into the ravine, and get up as far as you can. We will give you time before we ourselves move into the temple."
A few words of farewell, as father and son dismounting, embraced each other; a commending of each other to God and the Prophet; and Fazil and his father separated.
The ground on which they had halted was level, and covered with thick corn-fields, which extended, almost unbroken on their left hand, to the south; but on their right, small watercourses and ravines rendered any passage between the road westward and the hills impossible. Where they stood, the hills were low, and a passage or gap in them to the right was pointed out by Pahar Singh as the direction of the main body: in front, they appeared to grow higher, and a bluff termination of one bay, which stood out a dark gloomy mass against the sky, was pointed out by Pahar Singh to the Khan as near the town, and a light which seemed at times to glow in the air about its brow, as the illumination of the town and the temple.
Ibrahim Khan, and several other officers of minor rank, had now joined the group, and in a few words Pahar Singh explained how they were to act. One body would turn to the right close to the town, and guard the roads towards Little Tooljapoor and Bóree; another party would spread to the left, on the plain which led to the top of the pass; the third, which would be commanded by Pahar Singh and Ibrahim Khan, would enter the town and seize the temple gate, where there could be no egress for any one except through it, or the postern below. Up the precipices of the glen, and over the high walls of the temple, escape was impossible.
"Come, sirs," said Pahar Singh, after a delay which, to the Khan, appeared intolerably long; "they are now near enough: follow me;" and, turning his horse up the pass, the men, taking the direction from those in advance, moved after them as fast as the stony nature of the ascent would allow.
It had been a rare night of enjoyment to the crowds assembled in the temple, and attracted by the unusual amount of entertainment, the town itself was nearly deserted by its Hindu inhabitants, who—men, women, and children of all ranks, classes, and ages—had betaken themselves to the lower court, which was as full as it could well be packed: the people sitting in rows, as we have described on a previous occasion, on the ground, or perched upon terraces, the roofs of houses, and upon that of the vestibule.
As the night wore on, and the assembly seemed in no humour to separate, Anunda, foreseeing the confusion which would arise when the ceremonies should conclude with the last procession, had proposed to Tara, as she joined them for a while in their accustomed seat on the roof of the vestibule, to retire before the crush began; but Tara herself was in the highest spirits: she had no fear of Moro Trimmul; he had not so much as saluted her or seemed to notice her. Gunga and the other priestesses had exhibited a flattering deference, assisted her to bring garlands, and danced before her, as the processions passed round the shrine, singling her out as their object of respect—almost of adoration.
Few who had noticed Tara that night—and who did not?—ever forgot the triumphant looks and gestures of the seemingly inspired girl as she moved lightly and gracefully before the priests; or the sweet, thrilling voice, which seemed to rise high above the rest in the solemn hymns and chants of the ceremony. She felt secure in the protection of her father, and even of the other girls, who had besought her to stay till all was concluded; and the last service, more solemn and more meritorious than the preceding, would be at the sacred hour of the moon's change.
"Do thou and Radha go," she said; "it will be well. I cannot leave anything unfinished, else the Mother will be angry, and I shall regret it. I will stay near the shrine, and return with my father."
Anunda did not object, and she and Radha, congratulating themselves upon having left early enough to escape inconvenience, gained the gate of the temple unobserved, and made their way through the deserted streets without interruption. There was no one in the house; all the women-servants were absent at the ceremony. The watchman who guarded the outer door of the house—one of the hereditary Ramoosees of the town—sat with two of his men in the porch, and, when the women came in, asked leave to go and see the last procession, which was readily granted; so they were left alone: but without apprehension.
From the terraced roof they looked out for some time, for the brilliant illumination lighted up the temple spires, and from the large oil-cressets a heavy smoke arose, which, floating above the temple and its glen, caught the glare below, and ascended high into the air; and so still was the town, that the measured cadence of the recitation could be heard, though not the words; while occasionally a burst of music or solemn hymn suddenly broke the silence, which was otherwise oppressive.
Radha heard her brother's voice when his turn came, and listening to it, wept silently. When should she see him again?—would absence cure the madness that now possessed him?
"Weep not, child," said Anunda, throwing her arm around her, and guessing her thoughts; "it is well he goes. When he departs, thou wilt trust us the more, and be dearer unto us."
[CHAPTER LVII.]
Meanwhile the rites proceeded, and the recitations. Moro Trimmul was declaiming, with unusually excited gestures and eloquence, the impassioned passages which had been assigned to him, often interrupted by the cries of "Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja!" and the clapping of hands which proceeded from the people whenever a favourite sentiment or allusion to the glorious days of Hindu power occurred in the text. Before concluding his part, which was the last of the night's performance, he had withdrawn to the back of the temple, and beckoned to Gunga, and a brief colloquy passed between them.
There was no faltering in the purposes of either. Gunga had noticed the departure of Anunda and Radha with exultation which she could hardly conceal. She had gone to Tara after she resumed her position at the shrine, touched her feet, and thanked her for remaining. Other priestesses, too, had crowded round her, and, excited as they were, all united in determining that the last procession should be unusually remarkable.
"See," said Gunga, as she came to him, "all is ready. There is no one by the door inside; but try it, and ascertain who are outside. Be thou ready only, and trust to me for the rest. Nay, I will come with thee—look!"
The place was dark, for there was no illumination behind the temple, and by its mass a broad shadow was thrown on the recess in which the door was situated. The girl stepped into it, followed by the Brahmun, and opened the door slightly. A number of dark forms were sitting without on a small terrace, from whence descended a flight of steps into the ravine. One rose. "Wagya!" she said in a low voice.
"I am here, lady," he replied; "is it time?"
"Not yet. When the next procession passes round the corner yonder, come out to look at it; you will not be noticed. Have you the blanket?"
"It is here," he said, holding one up; "and they are all ready yonder," and he pointed to the trees, where there was a dull glow as of the embers of a small fire—"palankeen, horses and all."
"Be careful of her as you carry her out," she continued. "If she is hurt——"
The man laughed. "There is no fear," he said; "she will be carried daintily like a child, and cannot struggle in this."
"Good," she replied; "now be careful, and watch."
"Art thou satisfied?" she continued to Moro Trimmul, who had remained behind the door.
"Yes; thou art true, Gunga. I am true also, and here is the zone; put it on, and let it shame hers," he replied, taking the ornament from underneath his waist-cloth where he had concealed it.
"Ah!" she cried, taking it and clasping it round her waist, "thou art——"
"What is that?" he cried, interrupting her and catching her arm; "there is some disturbance without. What can it be? Listen!"
"I will look," she said; "stay thou here."
She turned the corner of the temple, but could proceed no farther. Every one had risen: and there was a wild, struggling, heaving mass of people before her, from among which piercing shrieks of women and children, mingled with hoarse cries of men, were rising fast in a dreadful clamour: while several shots, discharged in quick succession at the gate above, seemed to add to the general terror and confusion.
"They are fighting at the gate!" cried a man near her; and a cry of "the Toorks, the Toorks!" followed in agonizing tones from the women.
Gunga did not hesitate. She, perhaps, of all that crowd, was the most collected. Darting to Moro Trimmul she said hastily, "Do not move—I will bring her;" and so passed round to the back of the temple. As she did so, she met Tara and several other girls, some screaming, others silent from terror, but evidently making for the postern.
"My father! O Gunga, my father!" cried Tara piteously, "come with me, we will find him. Come; I have none but thee, Gunga, who dare seek him; come with me!"
"Yes," she said, "round this way; I saw him a moment ago. Come, we will get down the steps; I know the way up the mountain from below. Come!" cried Gunga with a shriek; and seeing that Tara hesitated, and that people were crowding through the vestibule into the dark portion of the court, and hiding themselves among the cloisters,—she caught her arm and dragged her forward.
Moro Trimmul saw the action, and, unnoticed in the confusion, seized Tara from behind and bore her to the postern. The girl's shrieks seemed to ring high above all others in that horrible tumult, but they were quickly stifled in the blanket thrown over her, while she was borne rapidly down the steps by those stationed there, to whom Moro Trimmul resigned her.
"Thou canst not return, Moro," said Gunga, who had closed and locked the door unobserved and flung away the key; "let us fly for our lives. Hark! they are fighting within, and may follow us."
"O for my sword to strike in once for those poor friends!" cried Moro Trimmul with a groan. "They have been seeking me, and the rest will suffer. What art thou but liar and murderess, O Toolja! that thou dost not protect thy votaries? must they perish in thy very presence?"
"Hush, and come fast," cried Gunga, dragging him down the steps. "Fool, wilt thou die with the rest? Away! mount and ride for thy life; I will bring her after thee."
The Khan and his companions, as they had arranged, separated into three bodies as they reached the town; and as they filed off to the right and left in succession, the Khan, with the Peer and others, rode into the gate, and secured it. They had met no one outside the town; inside were a few of the royal soldiery on duty, who, themselves surprised, could have made no opposition, even had the Khan been an enemy.
Down the centre street, which was also empty, except of stragglers coming from the temple, the horsemen poured, now pressing on fast from the rear; and a body of them, dismounting in the centre of the town, rushed forward down the bazar to secure the entrance to the temple. Then some people, who were advancing, saw danger, and hastened to warn those in charge to shut it, turning back with loud shouts, others coming on. A party of the Nimbalkur's men, who were in attendance with their chief's horses, and were around the entrance within, mounted the small bastions at the sides, while others shut the doors.
Those who reached them first were Pahar Singh and Ibrahim Khan, with some of the Abyssinians and other followers, mingled together, each striving to be foremost.
"Open the gate; we mean no harm," cried Pahar Singh in Mahratta; "we are on the King's service, and if you resist, your blood be on your own heads!"
"We will admit no one," cried a voice from the bastion. "Go! ye are robbers, and we will fire on ye."
"I say it again," returned the chief, "we are a thousand men, and I cannot save you if you hesitate. Open the gate!"
There was no reply, but several matchlocks were pointed from the parapet above, which was loopholed.
"Hast thou the axe, Rama?" asked the chief.
"It is here," said the man, drawing a heavy axe-head from his waist: and, coolly fitting a helve to it, lifted it above his head. "Shall I?"
"Strike!" cried Pahar Singh.
Several heavy blows fell on the gate, and a man called out from the bastion, "Desist, or we fire."
But Rama heeded no warning. Again two crashing blows, struck with his full force, had splintered some of the wood-work, and he had uplifted his arm for another, when one of the men at a lower loophole fired. Rama swayed to and fro for a moment, and, falling heavily to the ground, the blood gushed from his mouth in a torrent.
Pahar Singh did not speak, but he gnashed his teeth in fury. Rama, of all his inferior followers, was the one most devoted—and was brave to recklessness. The chief saw that the shot must have been deadly. He might have shared the same fate; but the men without, his own as well as the Abyssinians, returned the fire, and distracted the aim of those within.
"By——" and the oath was lost in the clamour—he cried, putting his sword between his teeth, seizing the axe, and striking at the door with his whole force, "ye shall die, sons of vile Mahratta mothers. Every one of ye shall howl in hell for that poor fellow."
Blow after blow followed; and as the panel near the lock broke under them, a number of the chief's men and the Abyssinians rushed against the door, which gave way under their combined weight and force, and entrance was effected.
On the noise of the first shouts reaching them, the Khan, the priest, and others, rushed down the street, and arrived at the scene of action. The firing was increasing, and several of the Khan's followers and Abyssinians had fallen. Some were already dead, others wounded; and, wedged as they had been in a mass, every shot had told on them, while those who defended the gate could not be seen. Its being forced, however, changed the feature of the contest; and the Khan, who, in the heat of the excitement, forgot his caution and warning to the men, now shouted his battle-cry; while the priest, struggling in with the rest, cried to the men—"Bismilla!—in the name of God and the Prophet—slay, slay—ye true believers! Heed not death—ye will be martyrs! Let not the Kaffirs live, who have killed the faithful. Send them to hell, to perish with their devil's idols. Kill! kill!"
With such cries, had men of Islam been hounded on by their priests before. Was he to be less? Here, in the very holiest of infidel temples, should the might of Islam be felt.
But, in truth, the men needed but little excitement; what was there before them was enough. Who did not remember that it was a Jéhâd, a war of the faith, which had been preached to them daily? Who did not remember that to slay infidels in war earned the blessing of the Prophet and paradise? So, with Pahar Singh leading them, his sword between his teeth, and striking down men right and left with every blow of his axe, the infuriated soldiery rushed in a body down the steps and into the large court below.
Who can describe the scene? Shrieking women and helpless men strove to fly before them, but in vain; and the bloody work of their enemies, as they pressed forward, hewing with their long sharp weapons at the unresisting masses, was quick and deadly. Pahar Singh saw Nimbalkur and several other chiefs standing resolutely before the entrance to the shrine, sword in hand, awaiting the onset. "Yield," he cried, "your lives will be spared; why shed blood? Jey Rao, be wise, down with your sword;"—and for an instant the parties stood opposite to each other glaring defiance. But bloodshed was not yet to be stayed. Some of the infuriated Abyssinians again dashed into the mass of the people with a shout of "Deen, Deen!" striking indiscriminately at all before them, and the Mahratta chiefs were swept into the temple. As they were followed, Vyas Shastree, who, remembering his old skill in weapons, and unable to control himself, had seized sword and shield and mixed with the rest,—struck at a huge negro who was foremost, and wounded him severely.
"Dog of a Kaffir," cried the man, grinding his teeth, "get thee to hell!" and had not his arm caught that of a fellow-soldier who was near, depriving the cut of its force, Vyas Shastree had spoken no more. As it was, the blow descended upon his bare head,—he fell senseless among the crowd of dead and dying,—and those who entered the temple, trampled over him as one of the slain.
Pahar Singh's object was to save the shrine if possible, but he felt himself helpless against the crowd of Moslems who, headed by the priest, now filled the vestibule, shouting their fanatic cry of "Deen, Deen!" Life was dear to him, dearer than the idol, for which, in truth, he had no particular veneration, though he had dread. "If thou canst not save thyself, Mother," he muttered, "I am not going to die for thee," and, stepping aside, the men of Islam pressed on.
The priest was among the foremost to enter the sanctum, where two old Brahmuns, cowering beside the altar, were instantly slain; and, seizing the necklaces of pearls and precious stones, he tore them away from the neck of the image, with one hand flinging them out among the people, while with the other he overthrew it, and, trampling it underfoot, spat upon the face in scorn and contempt.
If the men in the temple courts, impelled by religious fury, showed no mercy, and, hunting unresisting men and women into dark corners, slew them indiscriminately till the areas were filled with dead and dying, lying in heaps as they had fallen by the sword or had been trampled down; those who had remained outside were, in their turn, no more humane. Under the cry of "Deen, Deen!—for the faith, for the faith!" more cruelty was perpetrated in Tooljapoor than it has ever since forgotten; and daylight revealed a scene of plunder, rapine, and destruction, such as may be conceived—but hardly described.
Anunda and Radha were safe at home, as we have already related; when, after an indistinct murmur, for which she could not account, the shots at the temple gate were suddenly heard; and, looking from the terrace, they saw the confusion in the court commence. Both were brave, but the terror of Anunda for her husband and Tara, was fast paralysing her senses.
"I will die here," she said; "take the wealth and jewels and leave me. Escape as thou canst, Radha; hide thyself, Moro will come and seek thee."
But Radha would not leave her; and, descending to the lower apartments, they sat cowering in their chamber, shivering at every sound, and, having extinguished the light, remained in utter darkness.
"Lady, lady!" cried a man's voice in the outer verandah; "where art thou?"
"It is Jánoo Näik, the Ramoosee," said Anunda in a whisper. "God reward him for coming; he is true; Radha, let us go with him."
"Lady, lady! the house is not safe! come, come," continued the man earnestly; "leave all—my people will guard it—only come. Your honour is more than wealth, and you can only save it by flight."
The terror of violence brought them forth. "Follow me," he said; "here are twenty men to guard the house—no one will molest them."
The women followed silently, sobbing as they went. The Ramoosee led them northwards out of the town to the edge of the great ravine, and descended a steep path, which they knew led to a spring in one of the broad steps or ledges of the mountain, near which was a recess in the rock familiar to both. "Stay here," he said; "no one can see you. I must return: here, I should only betray you."
"At least, take away our ornaments," said Anunda; "we dare not keep them. Keep them thyself, or hide them somewhere;" and the women hastily took off all they wore, and laid them on the ground before him.
Jánoo sat down on his hams, and counted them deliberately. "There are thirteen pieces, large and small, gold and silver together. Yes, they are safe with me. Now, take my blanket, though it be a Mang's; sit in it till daylight. Ye can bathe afterwards and be clean. I will come early if I can, and take ye down the hills to Afsinga, or else send my son."
So saying, and without waiting for a reply, he left them, ascended the path rapidly, and disappeared over the ledge of the mountain; and the women remained, shivering with fright and cold, and listening in terror to the shots, which rose above the confused roar of screams and shouts proceeding from the town.
On the other side, in the ravine, the progress of the band who carried off Tara was but a short one. Struggling vainly with her captors, she found resistance hopeless. Borne in the arms of two men, others held her hands and feet; and over her one of the thick coarse blankets of the common people had been thrown, which prevented cry of any kind. Tara felt that the men were gentle with her, and in spite of her terror, she retained her senses completely. She was aware that she was taken down the steps, and hurried along rapidly at a run; then there was a pause, and she was thrown into—rather than placed in—a palankeen, the doors shut to violently, and kept closed. They were carrying her away. Who could it be but Moro Trimmul, that was to leave that night? Even now her father might hear her screams, and terror lent strength to her voice; but in vain—succour from him was indeed hopeless.
As may be supposed, nothing had prevented the progress of the party under Fazil and Gopal Singh; and the latter, a pleasant companion, had amused the young Khan with anecdotes of his uncle, and of their border life. He knew the ground perfectly, and they soon reached their destination; and while part of his men were drawn up between the rivulet and the pass, and some even ascended the pass itself, he conducted Fazil into the temple glen, which turned to the right out of the main ravine. At its mouth was some level ground, and the horsemen had just occupied it when the attack began above.
It would have been impossible for the bearers of Tara's litter to carry it over that rough path in the dark; and as she had been put into it, a torch was lighted, which was instantly seen by Fazil and Gopal Singh.
"Not a word from any one," cried the latter; "some one is escaping. They cannot get away from us. Now, Meah, be careful."
"Strike, if any one resists," said Fazil to the men about him; "but it is better to take them alive. Look, 'tis a litter—who can it be? Peace, all of you; be silent!"
The gloom of night and some bushes concealed them, and the advancing party saw and suspected nothing. Moro Trimmul was riding in front, Gunga following him. The palankeen was behind with the Ramoosees and servants around it on all sides. The baggage-ponies had already gone on before.
"Stop!" cried Fazil, as he laid hold of the Brahmun, and held his naked sword over him. "Who art thou?—nay, struggle or attempt to escape, and I will kill thee.—A Brahmun? Who art thou?"
Moro Pundit had had no time to dress himself for the journey. His clothes were in the palankeen. Naked to the waist, with his hair streaming about his shoulders, he had come as he had been reciting. He had no weapons, nor means of resistance; and, though a powerful man, was no match for Fazil, who held him like a vice.
"Moro Trimmul, by the gods!" exclaimed Gopal Singh, who recognized him as the light from the torch fell upon him. "Ah, Maharaj!" he added, "you don't know me, but I have seen you before."
"Then we are indeed fortunate, friends," said Fazil joyfully; "and who is in the litter?"
"My wife," said the Brahmun sullenly; "do as ye will with me, but let her and the servants go on."
"Then thou hast married only lately, Pundit?" said Gopal Singh dryly; "thou hadst no wife three days ago. We had as well look at her, at all events, Meah, and prevent her screaming."
"Open the door! release me! release me!" cried Tara from within in piteous accents. "Let me go! let me go! Ah, sirs, for your mothers' honour, release me!"
"Art thou his wife?" asked Fazil, dismounting and opening the door of the palankeen; "if so, fear not, we have no war with women."
"Not so; I am not his wife," cried Tara hastily, disengaging herself from the litter, and throwing herself at Fazil's feet. "O sir, save me! Noble sir, by your mother's, by your sister's honour, save me from him; he would have carried me away. Nay, I will not rise till you tell me you will take me to my father. O return with me and rescue him, else he will be slain! Come, I will lead ye back; he is a priest of the temple!"
"It cannot be, girl," said Fazil, more disturbed by Tara's beauty, and more agitated than he cared to acknowledge to himself. "It cannot be till daylight, and no one will touch your father if he be a Brahmun; so sit in the litter and fear not. And thou art not his wife?" and he pointed to Moro Trimmul.
"O no, my lord," said the girl trembling; "you have been sent by the Holy Mother to deliver me, else he would have carried me away by force. Do not give me to him, I beseech you."
"Fear not," said Fazil; "no harm shall come to thee here. There is more in this matter than we can now find out, friends," he continued to those about him; "but bind that Brahmun on his horse, and tie it to one of your own."
"Ah, sir, I will do that beautifully," cried Lukshmun, "and with his own waist-cloth too. But, friends, see that my wife does not run away, while I am busy for the master there—to my mind she is the handsomest of the two."
It was Gunga who, knowing the path, had turned from it when Moro Trimmul met Fazil, and, slipping from her horse, had tried to escape among the bushes; but the quick eye of Lukshmun had detected her, and he had seized and dragged her forward.
"May earth fall on thee, dog!" cried the girl, struggling with him, "foul hunchback as thou art, let me go."
"Not so," he said, "I know thee, Gunga. My lord, she is one of the Moorlees of the Mother up yonder; and are not all women taken in war slaves?"
"Peace," cried Fazil; "sit quiet there, girl; move not, else I will have thee tied. Ah, that will do, friend," he continued, as Lukshmun finished his careful binding up of Moro Trimmul; "you have not hurt him?"
"Master," replied the man, wagging his head, "it is a plan of my own, and while he is helpless to move, he is in no pain. Is it not so, Maharaj? Now sit quiet on your horse, Punditjee, while I look after my wife; she has a noble gold belt, which she has promised me. Is it not so, O lotos-face?"
"My lord," said Gopal Singh, interrupting, "the disturbance above grows worse—had we not as well send the women and others to the rear? If there is any rush this way, they may come to harm."
"A good thought, friend," replied Fazil.
"It is no use," said Gunga, "the door is locked, and the key was thrown away: no one can escape from thence by this road."
So they remained, while the tumult increased to a roar which filled the glen, above which shots were now and then heard; then fell to a dull murmur, and finally seemed to die away in the distant town. The temple lights became dim, and went out one by one, and the ravine grew dark. Then the stars shone out, and after a while dawn broke, and the mountain, and the rugged precipices of the glen and town above, were gradually revealed in the grey light.
[CHAPTER LVIII.]
A weary delay and suspense had been endured till the day broke. Tara had been told, in kind and respectful tones, by the young Khan, whose protection she had claimed, to rest in the palankeen, and he had considerately shut the door to prevent annoyance to her by his men. So she sat undisturbed, but listening to the fearful din from the town and temple, shuddering at every cry and shriek; and when all was at last silent, speculating upon the probable fate of her father, and of her mother and Radha, in a dreamy uncertainty, mingled with extreme terror.
What had happened? That the town had been surrounded by the King's troops there could be no doubt; yet why the violence? Who could the young leader of the party be, by whom she had been arrested, who spoke her own Mahratta tongue so softly and so well? A strange thing, for he was evidently a Mussulman of rank. He had looked so grand and beautiful as the torchlight flashed upon his bright steel morion and silvery coat of mail. She had never seen aught like him before. He might resemble the god Rámchunder, she thought, when he went to battle with the demon Rawun; and she shut her eyes at a vision at once so beautiful and so terrible. Her gentle mind was all confusion, mingled with dreadful and undefined anticipation of misery; yet one thing was clear, she had been saved by that noble youth from Moro Trimmul and Gunga's united design—saved from worse than death.
The torch carried with her palankeen had been extinguished in the surprise, but the torch-bearer had been detained, and she could see him sitting near the litter pouring a drop or two of oil upon it now and then to keep it alight, yet without flaring. Once it did blaze up, and revealed for an instant the faces of the bearers sitting on their hams in a group, and the horsemen with Fazil in his bright armour standing around them; but all were strangers, else she would have spoken again—anything to divert her brooding thoughts and misery.
As the grey light of dawn increased she could see, through the small Venetian blinds of the litter, that the royal horsemen stood in groups at a short distance, all with their swords drawn. One party watched Moro Trimmul, who, tightly swathed in a cotton sheet so that he could not use his arms, sat upon his horse, which was tied to another. Gradually she could see his features, gloomy and stern; savage, indeed, as he writhed in the bandage which he was powerless to remove. Near him, on a strong pony, sat the girl Gunga, covered with a coarse white sheet, which had been thrown over her. A short stout man was holding her pony's head, and his own horse stood beside her. Around were the soldiers, all mounted, and apart from them their young leader, on a powerful white horse, which stood still, tossing its head, and champing its bit occasionally.
Past this figure, upon which her eyes rested wonderingly, as the growing daylight revealed it more fully, she looked up to the glen, and temple, and town, where all was still—a silence she thought like death. The usual sounds of waking life, the music at the temple, which always played as daylight broke, the earliest morning hymns, and clash of cymbals, were all wanting. They were at the mouth of the glen in a small paddock, near an old temple; she knew the place perfectly, and many a time had wandered there with her mother, or, with other girls, in search of flowers, and pieces of frankincense from the ancient trees which grew among some ruined walls. If the service in the temple had not been interrupted, it would have been proceeding at this hour, and the sound would come clearly to the place where they were; but the stillness was not broken. The men about her occasionally conversed in low tones or in whispers, but were for the most part silent.
It was now light enough to move, and the young Khan, calling to the bearers, bade them take up the litter and proceed. They were about to do so, when Tara again renewed her piteous appeal to him.
"O do not take me away!" she cried, "O release me! I can find my way up the mountain. My father was in the temple; my mother and all my people look for me. O noble sir, what am I to you? let me go; by your honour, do not deceive me!"
"Not so, lady," said Fazil, stooping from his horse towards the litter. "It is not fit for thee to go alone after last night's disturbance; and there are rough folk up yonder, for whom I will not answer with one so fair as thou art. No one ever relied in my honour that was deceived. Still trust, lady, and I will see thee safe amongst thy people; fear not."
"O noble sir," said Tara sobbing, "I do trust, I will trust; but O, give me not to him yonder, who is bound. He would have carried me away, and dishonoured me. O sir, you have been my preserver from this danger, and I kiss your feet. My father is Vyas Shastree, the chief priest of the temple, and we are well known. Take me to him, or send for him, and he and my mother will bless you. O noble sir, deceive not a helpless girl!"
"Vyas Shastree!" cried Gopal Singh, who had overheard the latter part of Tara's passionate appeal; "then this, Meah Sahib, is his daughter Tara, the strange new Moorlee; so beautiful that they say she bewitches all men who see her. Art thou not she, O girl? art thou not Tara, the Moorlee? Speak truly."
"I am Tara," she replied, "but no Moorlee. I serve only in the temple."
"It is a lie," cried Gunga sharply; "she is a Moorlee, and one of us; do not believe her. Was she not dancing in the temple when the disturbance began? He carry her off, Meah Sahib?" she cried to Fazil Khan, pointing to Moro Trimmul. "I tell you we had all arranged to go together, and because she is more dainty than I am, he got a palankeen for her."
"Peace, girl," cried Fazil; "be not shameless."
"O noble sir," exclaimed Tara, interrupting him, "heed her not; what matter what she says? only take me to my father, then you will know the truth. Indeed, indeed, I am no Moorlee like her; and forgive me for saying so much, but you are kind, and so I speak."
"Who is this girl?" said Fazil sternly to Moro Trimmul. "What art thou doing with her? Is she Vyas Shastree's daughter?"
"I give no answer; find out for yourself. Why do you ask of me?" replied Moro Trimmul sullenly. "Cut me to pieces, but you get no speech from me."
"It is no use, Meah, asking him," said Gopal Singh; "let us take her up into the town, and see after her people."
"Not yet," returned Fazil. "My father will most likely encamp at that village yonder, among the trees. Let these persons remain here, and we will go and see what they have been doing in the town. Stay thou here, Shêre Khan, with the men. See that no one disturbs this girl; keep the others apart, and wait for us by the trees yonder. Fear not," he continued to Tara; "I will bring news of thy people; keep close within the palankeen, and no one can harm thee;" and so saying, he turned his horse in the direction of the pass.
"Fear not, lady," said Shêre Khan, a fine old soldier; "he will be as good as his word. Ay, look after him; the bravest, gentlest, most faithful master that ever men served under. Yes, trust to his honour; he will not deceive thee, he is too brave and too innocent for that."
For the time it was a sweet assurance to Tara, and one utterly unexpected; for Mussulmans—or Toorks, as the Mahrattas called them—had hitherto been terrible people in her imagination; but the dread for her father lying at her heart had as yet no relief, and her suspense and terror continued.
Leaving Tara with his party below, Fazil Khan, with Gopal Singh, and others, rode up the pass, as soon as the rugged path could be safely traversed. What had happened in the temple? It was clear there had been some fighting—that Fazil had expected from the Mahratta chiefs; they would hardly be taken without resistance, and there was an undefined dread lying at his heart, that if the fanatical spirit of the men had been aroused by the Peer, some evil might have been done to the Hindu people or to the temple. Again and again he regretted that that holy person had not been sent on to Sholapoor with the main body of the force, and blamed himself for not having foreseen mischief.
Fazil Khan by no means shared the grim detestation of Hindus as infidels, in which his father gloried; and he had been no willing listener to the denunciations poured out against them by the Peer and other preachers, in the sermons on the Jéhâd or religious war, which had been preached at the capital and in camp. True, his father and the Peer, as well as others, resented the mingling, under the green banner of the faith, of Mahratta infidels with Moslems; but Fazil knew them to be good and true soldiers; and his friendship for Bulwunt Rao, and experience of his devotion, had changed the young Khan's feelings very materially. Perhaps, also, Bulwunt Rao's character had, in some respects, softened the Khan's dislike of "infidels," "Kaffirs," as he called them; but on occasions, the old fanatical spirit would break through all restraint, and urge him to deeds for which he had but little remorse. Too justly, therefore, Fazil feared this might have been such an occasion.
They gained the summit of the pass as the sun's rays, rising through lines of cloud which hung over the eastern horizon, spread like a rosy fan into the blue and yellow sky above, tinging the lower lines of cloud with tints of scarlet and gold, against which the dark purple masses of mountain stretching into the plain stood out in bold relief. About the space between the town and the edge of the mountain, some of the Abyssinian horsemen were distributed in groups; while further on were other bodies of men, some mounted, others leading their horses up and down. The Nagarchees, or kettle-drummers of each body, were beating the assembly vigorously, and single men were rapidly arriving from other quarters and joining their divisions. Fazil rode on with his companions, looking for somebody he knew, who might give him news of his father, when, from behind a mass of buildings which formed the corner of a street outside the town gate, a cavalcade approached, led by men of his own Paigah, and in the midst of which rode his father, the Peer, and Ibrahim Khan, the leader of the Abyssinians, accompanied by the tall, martial figure of Pahar Singh.
A hearty greeting ensued from all, and Fazil saw that his father and the Peer were flushed with excitement, while in the severe threatening aspect of Pahar Singh, there was an expression which he could not define, which might be either habitual—the result of the night's fatigue, or something more—perhaps grief.
"Come on, my son," cried the Khan cheerily; "we have ordered up provisions for the men, and can rest here in the Gosai's Mutt, before we ride on to Sholapoor, and get some kichéri cooked, which our friend Ibrahim Khan has promised to see after. Inshalla! we sent many a Kaffir to hell last night before his time," he continued, twisting up his moustaches, "and Tooljapoor will long remember firing upon Afzool Khan's men and killing true believers! but we did not get that Brahmun of Sivaji's,—what was his name, Pahar Singh?—though he was there when we came; and that was a pity. M—M—M——"
"Moro Trimmul," said Pahar Singh, interposing.
"Ay, that was it—thanks, friend; and what hast thou done, my son?"
"I have taken him!—that Moro whom ye sought," returned Fazil, "with two women and their servants."
"Now Alla be praised!" cried the Peer, "that he fell into thy hands, Meah, for that crowns our work; and alive?"
"Alive and unhurt, Huzrut."
"Are you sure it is he?" asked Pahar Singh. "There are as many Moro Trimmuls as there are Tannajee Maloosrays!"
"Your nephew says it is. He, and a humpbacked servant or retainer of yours, both knew him," returned Fazil.
"Yes, uncle," cried Gopal Singh, who now joined the group, "it is the true man; but he is sullen, and will not speak. We have left him below, safely bound; Lukshmun is watching him as a dog watches a rat, and there are all the young Khan's men and ours with him."
"Go, bring him up," said Afzool Khan; "let us examine him, and take his statement."
"Good, my lord; my nephew will go for him, if a Hindu may be trusted," said Pahar Singh, as Fazil thought, with a sneer.
"Certainly," replied the Khan, "let him be brought."
"And the women, Meah?" asked Gopal Singh.
"Not yet," he replied; "let the Brahmun come first;" and the young man, turning his horse, galloped towards the pass.
"What women?" asked the Khan carelessly.
"Two who were with him," replied his son. "I will tell you of them afterwards."
The house they were going to was only a few yards distant; Ibrahim Khan rode on, saluting them as he passed, and they dismounted and entered. "Embrace me, son," said the Khan, before he seated himself, "and give thanks to God for the victory. Alla has been merciful, and has——"
"Yes, he has permitted his servants to do vengeance on the infidels," said the Peer, interrupting Afzool Khan; "the idols of Satan have been overthrown, and their altar sprinkled with the blood of their infidel priests."
"Protection of God!" cried Fazil; "the temple has not been harmed, nor its people, I trust? We had no war against priests, father."
"Not the temple, Meah—not the temple," returned the Peer, rubbing his hands together complacently. "It would take a good deal of gunpowder to blow it up, and we have none; but for the rest, the work was well done. Inshalla! they will not be able to renew their devil-worship; and when the King, on whom be peace, gives permission, I—I, Peer Syud Bundagee—will come and destroy this house of idols, and build a mosque upon it; and true believers will be feasted with cow's flesh slain within its precincts. Ul-humd-ul-illa, who hath given us the victory!"
"Father," said the young man gravely, "is it as he says?"
"Even so, my son, and thank God for it; and I have vowed to give a thousand rupees to the work, in memory of the victory," replied Afzool Khan.
Fazil turned away, sick at heart. What evil might not have been done? more, even, than his fears had anticipated.
"And thou hast no congratulation for thy father, Fazil?" asked the Khan, in a tone of disappointment.
"O father, a thousand that thou art safe through last night," cried Fazil, "and——"
"No rejoicing for victory over the infidels?" asked the priest, with a sneer. "Thou hast a rare sympathy with them, I know, Meah Sahib; is this seemly in a Mussulman?"
"Not with rebels, not with the King's enemies," returned Fazil quickly; "but I never warred against priests and women yet, nor did he. What hath been done, father?"
"Well, son," replied the Khan, "they would not let us in after those Mahratta rebels, and Pahar Singh there broke down the door; meanwhile some of our men had been shot, for they fired first, and Huzrut there cried 'Deen, Deen!' and we all rushed in pell-mell and cleared the court; that is all." He said this apologetically, Fazil thought, and feared to tell the rest.
"Will you come with me, Pahar Singh?" said the young man; "you know the place; I would see it."
"Yes, I will come," said the chief, rising, and sighing as he replied; "perhaps it could not be helped, and yet some things were done which will stir Hindu minds sorely throughout the country. Come, Meah Sahib; it is not a pleasant sight, but I will go with you."
"Keep the prisoner till I return, father," continued Fazil; "I would fain hear what he says for himself."
"If thou wilt go, son, return quickly," replied the Khan, "but I had rather thou didst not. What is the use of it? what is done is done;" and Fazil thought his father sighed.
"I would rather see the worst with my own eyes, father," replied Fazil, "than hear lies from others. Come, sir," he added to Pahar Singh, who waited for him, "I attend you."
"He will be vexed at what he finds," said the Khan when Fazil was gone; "and it will distress his young heart. He has never seen the like, and it requires older eyes, like thine and mine, Huzrut, to look on such sights unmoved."
"Ay, true," replied the Peer; "but one or two battle-fields will be enough to cure him, and methinks he is over-tender to infidels. Well, we shall see what he advises about this Brahmun, for he is clear in council. The man ought to die."
"He will not care about the men," said the Khan, musing abstractedly, "but about the women who are dead; and that loving heart of his mother's which she gave him, will be grieved. God knows I would not have had it so."
"Ameen!" said the Peer, "nor I, Khan. But they were only Kaffirs after all, and did not Feroze Shah, of blessed memory, make a pile of infidels' heads before the gate of Gulburgah fort?"
Afzool Khan did not answer—he appeared ill at ease: and the priest, taking his beads from his waist-band, settled himself on his heels, with his eyes shut, assuming an attitude of complacent meditation on things divine, as they passed rapidly through his fingers.
[CHAPTER LIX.]
Fazil and Pahar Singh went out together into the street. The latter led the way through the gate and along the main streets of the town to its centre, where a busy, motley scene now presented itself. The Amil, or local civil officer, was seated in his Kuchéri, or hall of audience, surrounded by a crowd of people to whom he was giving orders for flour, grain, butter, sheep, forage, and the other countless necessities of the force which had so suddenly come upon him. They did not pause there, but turned down the main street leading to the temple, the gilded spires and other portions of which appeared at the end of it, the craggy sides of the glen, and, beyond all, the precipices of the Ram Durra, which were veiled in the blue morning vapour.
Now there was no doubt of what had happened. The pavement of the bazar, worn smooth by the naked feet of thousands of pilgrims and devotees in centuries past, was stained with blood which, as they advanced, was still wet and slippery in many places. Already had the town scavengers begun to wash it away, and were pouring vessels of water on the flags and sweeping them with brooms. A few shops only were open for the sale of flour, butter, and groceries, the owners of which sat within, with scared faces, evidently in the direst terror.
"They lay thick here," said Pahar Singh—the first words he had spoken, "but have been removed, and they are burying them yonder, outside, all together—infidels, as your father would say, and true believers. But stay, Meah Sahib, there is one of my poor fellows lying here in a shop. I thought him dead, but he is alive as yet; let us look at him. A poor fellow," he said, repressing a sob; "a poor hunchback, but he was like a dog to me—not a man. Perhaps he may know me now, or he may be dead; let us see."
Pahar Singh turned to the right into a small courtyard, in an open verandah of which several rough-looking men were sitting beside a body laid on the ground, and partly covered with a bloody sheet. They rose as the chief advanced, and saluted him.
"How is he now, Nursinga?" asked Pahar Singh; "will he live? Rama," he continued, bending over the man, whose eyes were evidently glazing fast, "Rama, dost thou know me—the master?"
The man looked vacantly around, hearing the words, smiled, and felt about with his hands, as if to clutch what it was denied him to see. Suddenly, and as the chief put his own hand into that which sought it, the dying eyes brightened, and met those of his master in a scared, wild gaze at first, but one which softened tenderly into a look of rapt affection. He tried to speak, but it was hopeless; to raise himself by drawing his master's hand to him, and clasping that he had in both his own—but in vain. The lips moved, and Pahar Singh bent his head down to listen. The bystanders could hear nothing; but Pahar Singh said in his ear loudly, "Yes, it shall all be done—all; fear not."
It was enough. Perhaps the man might have lingered a while if he had not been excited; but the old chief's words had suddenly rallied the flickering lamp of life. It had sparkled for a moment, and fell back, dull and smouldering, into the socket; the eyes again glazed, and the clasped hands relaxed their grasp, tried once more to recover it, failed, and fell powerless beside him, and the rugged bronzed features were fast growing into the strange majesty of Death.
"It is no use staying," said the chief, drawing away his hand to brush the tears from his eyes, "he will not know me again. Come, Meah; I, too, am growing a fool. See to him, all of you. If his brother come, well and good; if not, bury him decently, and not with the rest."
"Have you any retainer who is loved and trusted as you would trust a faithful hound?" asked Pahar Singh, suddenly turning round as they were walking out of the court. "Ah! I forget, dogs are impure to you Mussulmans," he continued; "forgive me."
"Nay, no forgiveness is needed," replied Fazil. "Yes, I have one as true and faithful to me as that poor fellow was to you."
"What is he?" asked the chief abruptly—"Mussulman or Hindu?"
"Hindu," replied Fazil; "a Mahratta."
"A Mahratta," cried the chief; "one of the enemies of your race? I marvel, and yet am glad. Yes, be true to him and he will never deceive you; he will give his life for you. Only be true, as I have been to mine. Two in a month," he muttered to himself; "one there, one here; my best and truest. What matter, Meah?" he continued aloud; "sooner or later the message reaches us all. Mine might have come last night, yet I am here."
Was this the old Jogi of the temple of Beejapoor? the sordid lover of gold, the pitiless robber and murderer? A strange contradiction in character as in acts; and now, sobbing as he walked out into the street, Fazil could see that tears were wet on his cheek, and glistened on the grizzled moustache where they had fallen.
"He was shot here," said the chief, pausing at the gate, "while breaking it in with his axe, and the shot came from that loophole. When I got in, the man who fired it died with a blow where he sat, so thou wert avenged, my poor hound. But what use is it, Meah, now my slave is gone? Come; you have already seen enough of this misery, and what is below there is worse. Will you go on?"
"Yes, I will go," returned Fazil. "I would know if one Vyas Shastree was slain, with others."
"Vyas Shastree, Meah!" cried the chief. "Why, he was in the temple. I saw him. Ah, the poor Shastree, I hope not, for I knew him well—a learned Brahmun, sir; indeed come, search for him is at least an object."
It was a terrible sight as they advanced. Why dwell on it? Many bodies had been removed, and all the wounded; but many still remained, men and women together, as yet unclaimed, and there was blood everywhere, glistening and drying in the sun. Near the temple porch were several bodies in a heap. Pahar Singh looked at them all narrowly, but the Shastree was not among them. One of the temple attendants was sitting in the vestibule, weeping in stupid grief; the chief shook him roughly, roused him, and he got up.
"Didst thou see Vyas Shastree?" he asked; "was he hurt last night?"
"He was killed," said the man, "there," and he pointed to the entrance. "He was fighting, and a negro killed him. Ere day broke, they took him up and carried him away."
"Dead?" asked Fazil.
"Dead," said the man,—"quite dead; I helped to put him upon the litter they brought for him, and they have burned him by this time."
"And his wife?" asked the chief, "Anunda Bye?"
"Seek her at her house," said the man, turning away. "She was not here, nor Radha Bye either. His daughter Tara was here, but no one knows what became of her."
It was enough. The Shastree was dead. Another man who advanced from behind the shrine said the same, and Fazil need ask no more. He looked around—the place was slippery with blood, and dark, except for a dim lamp in the shrine. He looked in,—the altar was bloody, and the image, its rich clothes torn and dabbled in blood, lay beneath, on its back, as it had fallen. The dim ray of the lamp fell upon it, upon a few gold ornaments still about its neck and arms, and upon the weird ruby eyes, that seemed to him to glow with a fiendish expression of malice.
"Evil spirit," he said, turning away, "if thou art in being among the devils, thou art at least helpless to rise, or to avenge thyself—lie there for ever. Why does the blessed Alla suffer thy abomination?"
"Come away," cried Pahar Singh to the young man. "Faugh! the place is evil; come—go not near the Mother, she may hurt thee."
"Do you believe in her?" asked Fazil.
"I fear her," was the reply; "she is very greedy and very terrible: she takes life for life, and more besides. Come—we will see after these women: I know the Shastree's house."
Life for life, and more besides! Those words came back with a strange vividness upon Fazil's memory in after times. Then, they but excited a shudder of regret at the superstition which suggested them.
"O that I had come up here, instead of going below!" said Fazil to his companion. "Had I but known the place, I would have done so. O my father, why was this done?"
"It could not have been stayed, Meah. As they say in Persian, 'Shooduni-Shooduni'—what is to be, is to be," returned Pahar Singh; "nay, for that matter, why did I bring your father and his men at all? Some of those pig-headed servants of Nimbalkur's began it by shutting the gate, and killing my poor Rama; and after the Peer Sahib's cry of 'Deen, Deen!' you might as well have tried to stop the Beema in flood as the men. All I could do was to save Nimbalkur and others, while the Peer was pulling down the Mother from her altar, and spitting on her. Aha! holy priest! we shall see who is strongest, the Mother or thee. Bless God for it, Meah, that thy father had nothing to do with that; and when the Peer proposed to send for cows to slay there, he would not have it done."
Fazil sighed. It was not that he feared the goddess Mother, though of her power then, as now, there was an undefined dread among Mahomedans, and ceremonies of propitiation, and deprecation of evil, were often performed privately even among the most strict in religious matters; but he dreaded the effect on the Mahratta people at large. No one could know of the true reason of Afzool Khan's advance on the town; the plunder and desecration of the temple would seem to all to have been the actual purpose; and the deed would produce a shudder of execration, he well knew, from one end of Maharástra to the other.
Thus conversing, they reached the upper gate, where one of the men in attendance on the dying retainer met them. The tears on his face needed no speech to explain them. "He is dead," said the man; "he never spoke afterwards."
"My poor fellow!" exclaimed Pahar Singh. "Ah! Meah, the best swordsman, the best rider—hunchback as he was—the best at all his weapons of all that I have; and the truest heart too, rough and faithful. Well, no matter now. Is Lukshmun there?" he continued.
"No, master, he is not. We have sent for him."
"Do not delay. Bury Rama at once. I do but accompany the young Khan; and then the horn will sound. Be quick."
They passed on, turning to the left, into a street which ascended to a higher level in the town. As they proceeded, evidences of plunder and violence were but too visible. Here a patch of blood on the pavement still wet—there portions of cloths,—brass and copper vessels dropped in flight,—doors broken in with axes, and the interior courts of such houses as were entered in dire confusion—women and men alike, weeping and wailing bitterly.
"This is the Shastree's house, Meah," said Pahar Singh; "enter and see."
There was no one in it. They went to the end of the courts, even to that in which was the temple and Tara's garden, all so trim and neat. The body of an Abyssinian was lying among the flowers, and another of a Mahratta near him. The sacred fire was still smouldering on the altar, and Pahar Singh reverently lifted some logs of wood, and put them on it. Here and there about the rooms were splashes of blood and marks of violence, but none of the room doors were open.
"Their property is safe, Meah," said the chief; "but who are alive, and who dead? There is no one here. Let us ask the neighbours."
They inquired of several. One man said that Jánoo Näik and the town Ramoosees had defended the house and beaten off plunderers; but they knew nothing of the women.
"Come," said Pahar Singh to Fazil, "we lose time here. Let us seek Jánoo Näik. I know him. He will be at the Kuchéri, and will know;" and they went.
Jánoo was found, but he had no idea of telling Pahar Singh, the robber chief, and a good-looking Mussulman, where he had hidden Anunda and Radha, who, now safely delivered from their night-watch on the ledge of the rock, had been guided by his son at early daylight over the hill to the village of Afsinga, where they were in safety. Jánoo had returned to his post; and if Fazil and Pahar Singh had opened the kitchen door they would have found five of his men in it, who had watched them narrowly, and were on guard over the house.
To their united inquiries Jánoo had but one answer,—the Abyssinians had attacked the house, carried off the women, and murdered them. "Alas, alas!" he said, pretending to weep bitterly, "they had not even Brahmuns' rites. They were flung into the trench without, and buried with the rest. Alas, alas! and so beautiful as they were. Do ye doubt? Look, here are some ornaments of theirs which I am going to give to the Sirkar," and he showed a small bundle tied up in a bloody cloth, the contents of which chinked as he handled it.
"We can do nothing more, Meah," said Pahar Singh.
"My lord, I ate their salt—why should I tell a lie?" he returned, with a real expression of sorrow. "Go and see if they be in their house." "They are after no good," thought Jánoo; "and if I could only find Tara Bye, the Shastree would give me a gold kurra. At any rate, I have prevented them asking more questions, I think."
"Poor girl," thought Fazil, "she is desolate indeed—father, mother, all dead. Had they any relatives here?" he asked of the Ramoosee.
"None, my lord. The Shastree's elder wife came from Wye in the Concan, they say; and the last one, Moro Trimmul's sister, also from thence. Here there is no one; and I would not tell them if there were," he added to himself. "What do they want with them?"
"We had better go, Meah Sahib," said Pahar Singh. "I will but tell Boorhan-oo-deen the Näik to seal up the house of the Shastree, and guard it from plunder, and join thee at thy father's. Do not wait for me."
Fazil went on sadly. The state of the girl whom he had already rescued from violence, affected him deeply. So beautiful, so strangely beautiful to him, unaccustomed to see the higher classes of Hindu women. "O that Zyna was here," he thought. "She might be a sister to her, and soothe away that grief. Who can break to her what has happened?"
As Pahar Singh had predicted, Fazil found his father and the Peer in the act of dismissing the Mahratta sirdars, apparently with respect; for there was a silver bottle of uttar standing upon a salver, and a tray with betel leaves on it, on the floor, in the centre of the room. Ibrahim Khan and several other officers were sitting around, and the priest had apparently relaxed from his devotional position. A servant took up the salver and tray as Fazil entered, and the chiefs prepared to rise at the signal, as did also the Khan.
"Have we leave to depart, Khan Sahib?" said an elderly man, with long white moustaches.
"Depart in peace," replied Afzool Khan. "I think you all understand now, that it happened inadvertently. 'Shooduni-Shooduni,' you know—what was to be, was to be; and what is done, is done. His Majesty shall hear favourably of your visit to me. Inshalla! he will be satisfied; and all intended fines and confiscations will be averted. Only for that Brahmun intriguer ye had been safe. Did the royal troops ever interfere with ye before? Mashalla, no! Ul-humd-ul-illa. No! Astagh-fur-oolla! No! and never will again."
"And the bounty for restoration of the temple, Khan Sahib?" said the old chief inquiringly.
"Ahem! Good. I will see about it; yes, I have no doubt the King will be merciful. Go in peace," said the Khan decidedly; and, saluting them again, they passed out.
"You see they are satisfied, son," said the Khan quickly; "we have told them it could not have been helped, and they agree. Well, what didst thou see? Did Pahar Singh tell thee how they fired first?"
"He did, father! he told me all, and I have seen all. I pray the merciful Alla never to show me such a sight again. O father, how many houses are desolate and in misery which were happy homes last night before we came!"
"Ameen! my son," returned the Khan, sighing: "yes, we all say so now. Do we not, Huzrut? But they fired first, and what was to be was to be!"
"And the idol was overthrown; that image of the devil's mother," cried the priest grimly. "Didst thou see that, Meah?"
"I did," said Fazil, "and rejoiced, though those devilish red eyes haunt me still."
"I spat on them, Meah, while they glared at me from the ground," said the Peer savagely; "and I, too, see them still, flashing though the priest's blood which gushed out upon them. But what fear, Meah, what fear? What sayeth the holy book, chapter twenty-second? 'Verily the idols which ye provoke, beside God, can never create even a single fly;' no, nor hurt one either, my son. Wherefore there is no fear—no fear; be comforted."
Fazil thought the priest shuddered as he shrugged his shoulders, and, shutting his eyes, settled himself once more on his heels, and began telling his beads with great devoutness. So a general silence fell among them.
[CHAPTER LX.]
The silence was oppressive. The Khan was smoking, and the dull, monotonous gurgle of the hookah went on incessantly, almost irritating Fazil, and provoking him to speak again; but his father had shut his eyes, and puffed mechanically, emitting the smoke through his nostrils, and the priest was evidently absorbed in devotional contemplation. Any interruption would be welcome.
"They have brought up the prisoner," said Ibrahim Khan, a strangely silent man, but good soldier, who rarely spoke to any one. "He is now entering the court door; shall he be ordered in?"
"Ay!" said Afzool Khan, "let him be disposed of before our breakfast. That kichéri, Khan Sahib?"
"Inshalla, it will soon be ready; I will go and see to it," he replied; and he got up and went out, as Gopal Singh, Lukshmun, and some others entered. Moro Pundit was bound as before, with a turban round his neck, the end of which was held by Lukshmun with one hand, while the other grasped a heavy naked sabre. The girl Gunga followed them.
Afzool Khan, the priest, and Fazil looked at the Brahmun from head to foot; but he did not quail, or betray any emotion whatever, except that his broad chest was heaving under the bandage, and his hands, which just appeared below it, were tightly clenched.
"This is Moro Trimmul", said Gopal Singh; "we all know him. He used to lodge here with the Gosais, and they are all here to speak to him. Is it not true, O Bawas?" he continued to some of the household who crowded in.
"It is he, my lord, sure enough," cried several of the Gosais in a breath; "it is Moro Trimmul, who lived here."
"Have ye got his papers?" asked the priest.
"They are most likely in the panniers and bags on the ponies," said Gopal Singh, "or in the palankeen. What matter?—here is the man himself."
"Ask him, my son, if he has aught to say. Ask him in his own tongue," said the Khan. "We would not destroy him unheard."
Fazil put the question.
"I did not intend to speak," said Moro Trimmul, "for I am in hands which know no mercy, and I need none. All who take work like mine are prepared to die at any hour. All I ask of ye is to let this girl go; she is a poor Moorlee who was faithful to me. Let her go, Khan Sahib, with the gold I gave her. As for me, as you have slain many innocent Brahmuns, I am not to be spared, for I have done all I needed, and my mission is ended."
"What hast thou done?" asked the priest.
"Thou art a priest of thy faith," answered the man, "I one of mine; what thou dost and wouldst do for thy faith, I would do and have been doing for mine. Does that content thee?"
"Enough!" cried the Khan, "he confesses. What shall we do with him?"
"Let him die, father," said Fazil solemnly. "He was contriving more evil than you know of, as his face tells,—now look at it as I speak,—yes: and he would have done it too. Let him die."
As Fazil spoke, a grey ashy paleness overspread the Brahmun's face, and a shudder passed through him; but he did not answer, and taking, as it were, a long inspiration, drew himself up to his full height, closing his fingers convulsively.
"Fazil," asked his father, "dost thou say death, my son?"
"I do," said Fazil, "in justice for this man's evil deeds, which have brought misery to hundreds, and will yet cause more."
"Shabash," cried the priest, "Ul-humd-ul-illa! there is good stuff in thee yet, Meah. What sayeth the holy book, chapter forty-seven? 'When ye encounter the unbelievers, strike off their heads, until ye have made a great slaughter.' Yes, let him die."
Afzool Khan mused for a while. The priest's quotation was correct, and his own fanaticism confirmed it. Was he, however, so appalled by the recent destruction of innocent Hindu life, that he hesitated as to this one? or was it in regard to the fact that Moro Trimmul was a Brahmun, and the popular objection to putting such men to death being great, that he now hesitated? Both causes probably combined to influence him.
"I am not going to do it, Punditjee," said Lukshmun to Moro Trimmul in a whisper, "because thou art a Brahmun; but there is no harm wishing thee as sharp a sword as this is. See!"
Moro Trimmul looked askance at the hunchback as he would have done at a reptile, and shrank instinctively from him. They saw his eye wander along the edge of the bright blade from hilt to point; but though he shuddered perceptibly, he said nothing.
Afzool Khan took his chin and beard in his hand, leaned his elbow on his knee, looked furtively once or twice under his bushy eyebrows at the priest and Fazil in turn, but did not speak, and again resumed his position. The prisoner's large bright eyes were fixed on him with an intensely inquisitive and earnest expression, and drops of sweat gathered on his brow and temples; but though his life hung on a word, there was no fear visible, and Fazil could not repress admiration of the man's calm bearing and contempt of death.
"It cannot be, Huzrut, yet," said Afzool Khan at length; "we have much to learn from him; and, after all, son, he was but doing his duty truly and faithfully. If I had sent thee on such an errand, or the King had sent thee, wouldst thou not have done the same? Take him away, put irons on him. He must be sent to the King, and judged at Beejapoor."
"Where thou wilt die under the Goruk Imlee tree like Jehándar Beg," said Lukshmun. "Ah, yes, that was a clean stroke of Rama's; and they don't care for Brahmuns there."
At that moment Pahar Singh entered. "Yes, that is the man," he said, looking intently at the Brahmun. Then turning to his follower, "Go, Lukshmun," he said, "they seek thee. Rama is dead, and thou shouldst go and pour the water at his burial."
"Dead!" cried the man, starting back, and dropping the end of the turban. "Dead! O no, master, not Rama!"
"Go, and thou wilt see," said the chief, turning away.
Lukshmun spoke no word. They saw his broad chest heaving, and he gasped for breath. The shock was too sudden and great, and he fell senseless against the wall. In doing so the gold zone which he had hung over his arm rolled away.
"It is mine," said Gunga, picking it up, and clasping it about her waist. "He gave it me, ask him;" and she pointed to the Brahmun; "ask him; and that fellow would have stolen it. May I go?" she continued, addressing the Khan; "I am only a poor Moorlee of the temple; you do not need me."
"Surely," said the Khan, "we want no women. Go!" and she made a humble salutation to him, and turned aside.
"Is he, too, dead?" asked Pahar Singh, turning to Lukshmun. "They were twins, ye see, sirs," he said to the bystanders, "and his spirit may have gone after his brother's."
But it was not so. Lukshmun had fainted, and revived as water was poured down his throat and a man fanned him with a cloth. He looked about him dreamily; then some one raised him up, and led him away.
"And he?" asked Pahar Singh of the Khan, pointing to Moro Trimmul. "Is he to die? what will ye do with him, Khan Sahib?"
"Not yet; he will go to Beejapoor," returned the Khan, "and answer for his deeds to the King."
"It is just," replied the chief; "he has only done what a good servant should do. He tempted me for his master, as I could have tempted him——"
"That is just what I said," said the Khan, interrupting.
"And he took no man's life," continued the chief, "and the law will spare his."
"The law," interrupted the priest scornfully, "the blessed law is not for infidels, save for their destruction. For what is written in chapter forty-seven——"
"Peace," cried the Khan, who dreaded a dispute between them, "let it pass. I have spared him. Take him away—keep him with the standard of the Paigah, and let no man or woman have speech of him; he can cook his own food."
They led Moro Trimmul away. He said nothing; but Fazil saw a smile of triumph, he thought, flash over his grave features. When they looked for the girl Gunga she had gone also, and was not to be seen. Fazil, too, had disappeared. As the Khan's breakfast was brought, the kichéri and kabobs he loved so well, he washed his hands, and waited awhile for Fazil's return; but able to contain himself no longer, drew near to the smoking dish, and crying, "Bismilla!" he, the priest, and those present, after the necessary ablutions, plunged their hands into the pile of rice, and ate heartily.
Fazil could no longer restrain himself. He had promised the girl he had left below the pass, to get news of her people for her; and, taking advantage of Pahar Singh's entrance, and the confusion occasioned by Lukshmun's fall, had slipped out unobserved. It was but a short distance, his horse was still saddled, and he mounted and rode as rapidly as he could down the hill.
The men were where he had left them, under the trees by the rivulet. Shêre Khan was on foot, standing by the palankeen, pointing to the road and to Fazil as he descended. Some of the men were on horseback, others lying in the shade holding their horses' bridles.
As he neared the palankeen, the old man slowly advanced, and Fazil could see there were tears on his furrowed cheek. He saluted the young Khan respectfully, and put his hand on his saddle-bow.
"I never saw grief like hers," he said, "nor such fear, nor misery, at your delay. 'Why did he go?' was all she could say at first—and since I soothed her, she has cried the more—'Why doth he delay?' Once I persuaded her to go and wash her face at the river and drink water, and she did so, and was the better of it. And, O Meah! she is so beautiful! Even our rough men say she is a Peri, not a woman. Speak gently to her, Meah."
Fazil dismounted and walked on. A large space had been left about the palankeen, and no one had intruded upon Tara. Towards the rivulet the doors were open, and she was sitting on the edge of the litter, but with her feet on the ground without, and her face buried in her knees. She did not look up till the young man was close to her; then, with irrepressible emotion, she threw herself at his feet.
"O take me to them!" she cried piteously—"take me to them! they are waiting for me, they are looking for their Tara! O sir, they will not rest, or eat, till they know I am safe. Let me go—take me to them. Why am I detained? I have done no evil!"
"Rise," said Fazil, "rise—I may not touch thee to raise thee up; but Alla has laid a heavy hand on thee, and thou must listen to true words, though they bring thee such affliction as thou hast not known in thy young life."
Tara raised herself to her knees and looked up. O, the misery of those great eyes in which were no tears—red, dry, and glistening: while the sweet features quivered under bewildering anticipations of what was to follow. Fazil could not bear to look on her, and turned away. "Would there were anyone else to tell thee but me," he said, "it would be well."
"Speak," she replied calmly, "there is no deceit in your tongue—he whom you left with me says so; he told me you would not deceive me, and this suspense is terrible, do not prolong it—speak. I will listen."
"Nor will I," returned Fazil; "sit down as thou wast, and may God keep thy heart, as I tell thee of thy misery. Yesterday there were a father, a mother, another wife, and thyself, in a happy home. Now three are gone, and thou art here."
He saw her, as he spoke, clutching nervously at her throat, which was heaving convulsively, and trying to swallow; and ere he could complete the sentence she had fallen sideways from her seat against the door of the litter, and lay there, powerless, for an instant. His habitual respect for women would have prevented his touching her, but she was so helpless that he raised her up, and, taking a pillow from the inside of the palankeen, placed it behind her, supporting it with his arm.
Gradually she seemed to recover a little. "Dead," she said gently, "all dead! O Holy Mother, why is this? Why am I not taken too?" and she shuddered, and cowered down, shrinking from him.
Fazil thought the truth might rouse her, and he was right. He dreaded her becoming insensible.
"Yes, so it has pleased God," he said. "Thy father was killed, fighting in the temple; and in the confusion afterwards, robbers attacked the house where your mother was and the other, and they also died."
"No—no, it could not be!" cried Tara, quickly and eagerly. "Jánoo Näik would be there; he would fight for them and protect them."
"Jánoo himself told me this: he told me he saw them dead—two women, very fair, the elder Anunda, and the younger wife, Radha Bye. Some of Jánoo's people are killed in the house, and he could not save them. Thy father?" he continued, as he saw her lips apparently moving, though the word was not spoken. "Yes, two men, priests in the temple, Khundoo Bhópey and Rama Bhópey—I asked their names—who lifted him upon the litter in which he was carried away, said he was dead and already burned. What can I do with thee or for thee now?" he continued. "Speak, and I will do it, lady, truly and faithfully."
"Is it true?" she asked dreamily, and with a rough husky voice, and staring at him with those great scared eyes. "The Bhópeys would not tell lies."
"I swear it by the dead, it is true," replied Fazil. "I have neither rested nor eaten till I found out the truth. Had there been any one, even a servant, I would have sent for thee. Jánoo told me there was no one belonging to thee in the town, no relatives;—and the Brahmuns are all fled. Men say they will not return to a polluted shrine, and Jánoo Näik and others said you had relatives at Wye, where we are going."
"Yes," she said calmly, and as if echoing his words, "there are relatives at Wye. Sukya Bye is there—and—no matter. Yes. I will go there—let me go."
"My mother and sister will be with us," added Fazil, "come to them. Zyna will be a sister to thee, and no harm shall come nigh thee. I would use no force—it must be of thine own free will; but the town yonder is filled with dead and dying, the temple is desolate, there is no one of thy people alive, and thou wouldst die of fear and sorrow. Come with us; Shêre Khan will take care of thee, as of a daughter, till we reach my sister. I will not come nigh thee, but he will tell me of thee. O lady, I am not false! I am a stranger to thee; but Alla threw me in thy path, when else, dishonour was before thee. From that, at least, I saved thee, and thou knowest it."
"Who art thou?" she said gently; "yes, I was saved from worse than death—who saved me?"
"I, Fazil, the son of Afzool Khan of Beejapoor," he said.
"They say Pathans respect women's honour," she returned, rousing herself. "A poor orphan girl will not be without pity in your sight. Ah! sir, I am sorely bewildered now," she continued, beating helplessly with her hands on her lap. "I cannot think or speak, and my heart is dried up; but he told me—that old man—that you were true, and they loved you, all of them!—and so be kind to Tara, and do not deceive her; she will die soon, and go away, and will trouble you no more."
"By Alla! by my sister's honour! I will be true to thee, O lady!" cried Fazil earnestly; "truer than thou canst now think. Enough; when thou art with Zyna thou wilt know all; till then thou wilt not see me. Call the bearers," he continued, to Shêre Khan; "take her on to camp, wherever it is; get guides from the next village yonder. Procure her food by the way, if she will eat. Here are twenty men with the litter; they will take thee into Sholapoor. Hark!" he continued to the men as they approached, "take this palankeen into Sholapoor at once, and ye shall have fifty rupees from Afzool Khan. Fear not, lady!" he said once more to Tara; "thou wilt be Shêre Khan's daughter till thou art with my sister." Then, mounting his horse, he rode rapidly up the pass.
Tara followed his figure with her eyes, and her heart went with them. He was so kind, so gracious, and so beautiful. She could not realize the fact of her sudden misery and desolation, and yet she could not doubt it. As he disappeared behind a turn in the road, the sense of that desolation became more acutely painful. But she had no time for thought. Shêre Khan rode up, bid her shut the doors of the litter, and told her he should not leave it; and a moment afterwards she felt it was taken up, and carried forward at a rapid pace, while the old soldier caracoled by her side, and the horsemen spread themselves around her, to screen as well as to protect the conveyance in which she lay.
[CHAPTER LXI.]
Fazil Khan rode rapidly up the pass, for he knew his father would await his coming ere he gave the final orders for the march. Truth to say, he was hungry enough, and a breakfast upon Ibrahim Khan's kichéri and kabobs would be very welcome. As he reached the top, a busy scene presented itself. Wherever he looked, little fires were lighted between three large stones, upon which the small cooking-pans used by the men, and carried in their saddle-bags, were placed; and the savoury smells which issued from them, and pervaded the air, proved that the stews and curries within were in very satisfactory progress, and were certainly very provocative of appetite. While one member of a small mess watched the pot, others were kneading dough, or patting out "chupatees" or unleavened cakes, with their hands, and baking them on their "towas" or iron plates. Hundreds of these operations were going on simultaneously in every direction; for the force had a long day's march before it to Sholapoor. There would be no midway halt, and men and horses must alike be fed. Everywhere, too, the merry laugh, the broad joke or banter incidental to camp life, resounded among the rude soldiery, and the cries of sellers of milk, curds, firewood, and fruit, mingled with them pleasantly.
Already was the scene of the night before forgotten. The dead for the most part had been buried out of sight; and if grief and misery sat at the heart of many a household in the town—mourning for relations slain, or property plundered or destroyed,—in the camp without, no such feelings existed among the fierce and fanatical men. A grim satisfaction prevailed at having defiled one of the holiest shrines of the Dekhan, plundered its property, and slain its priests. To all, the night's events had been those of ordinary skirmish and excitement: forgotten with the next petty cares of life, and anticipation of new scenes of adventure,—and possibly of new plunder.
"Where hast thou been, Meah Sahib?" cried one of a knot of his own men, whom he met almost as he reached the plain above the pass. "The Khan Sahib has been searching for thee, and is anxious. Ah! when wilt thou learn caution, and take some of us at least with thee? Remember this is not Beejapoor, and the people are not in good humour after last night. Any fellow with a gun behind one of those rocks——"
"Thanks, friend," said Fazil, interrupting him. "I did but go to Shêre Khan and the rest of them below, and tell them to precede us; but thanks for the caution nevertheless. Now, get ready soon, for I shall not be long away from ye," and he cantered on to the town.
Giving directions for a led horse to be accoutred for him, in lieu of that which had carried him through the night, Fazil entered the Mutt where he had left his father, and found him girding himself for the journey.
"Where hast thou been, son? we could not wait; but they have kept the kichéri hot for thee, and the kabobs are good; only they have too much pepper and garlic in them. The Khan's cookery is not refined, my son: not like thy mother's. Inshalla! she will have a famous dish ready for us this evening, for I am going to send on a camel. Hast thou any message?"
Fazil knew by his father's volubility that he was in good humour. The flurried, anxious expression of his face had departed, as well under the influence of a hearty breakfast as owing to the feeling that, under the circumstances, he had really done his best to smooth over the events of the night. It was unfortunate, certainly, that they had happened; but it could not be helped now. A donation from the King would soothe the Brahmuns. So he had again sent for the local Näik, and charged him to assure all of his sympathy and sorrow. Afzool Khan had taken advantage of the Peer's absence to do this, for in his presence he would have feared to commit himself by expression of any consideration for infidels.
"I did but ride down the pass, father," replied Fazil, "to speak with Shêre Khan, and send him on to camp. They will halt by-and-by, and refresh themselves. Yes, truly, something to eat will be welcome; therefore, sit down and rest. We have a long ride before us."
"The camel is ready," said the rider of it, entering. "What are your orders?"
"Write a line from me to thy mother, Fazil," said the Khan, "to say she is to have kichéri and kabobs ready for us, and that we have won a victory with little loss. That will cheer her, and put her in mind of old days, and we shall have a glorious dish. Inshalla! we shall be hungry, son!"
Fazil wrote what was needed to Lurlee, and added, on separate paper, a few lines to Zyna, to take care of Tara on her arrival. There was no time to write her story, but she would hear particulars from Tara herself. "Take this at your best speed," he said to the man. "Give it into the hands of Goolab Daee, and tell her it is for my sister only. You will overtake Shêre Khan by the way. Tell him to stop where he likes, refresh the men and horses, and push on. It is of moment that he should arrive before us, and he is already far beyond Sindphul."
"Good," replied the man; "your orders are on my head and eyes, and shall be done." In a few moments more, the clash of the bells of the animal he rode were heard as he started, and then died away in the distance.
What was best to be done?—to tell his father of Tara's being sent on under escort of the men, or to leave explanation about her till they reached Sholapoor? Fazil thought over this as he ate, and he ate heartily what was brought, and did justice to it; while his father sat and looked on approvingly, or told his son of what had been done to assure the people, and what he would do, in spite of the Peer, to obtain a donation for the temple. "Yes, it will be better to tell him," Fazil thought. "He will not object, as he is in this complacent humour, and we are alone."
"I had no opportunity of speaking, father, before, else I would have told you," he said, after he had washed his hands and sat down.
"What!" interrupted the Khan, who detected a tone of embarrassment in Fazil's voice—"what has happened? Didst thou lose any men? Who is dead?"
"No, no, father, we had no fighting," replied Fazil. "All I had to say was, that I sent the lady we took, with Shêre Khan. She had a palankeen, and the bearers said they would take her to Sholapoor at once. There were twenty of them, and it is only twelve coss."
"A lady, son! Who?" he answered in an indifferent tone.
"A Brahmun girl, father, of rank. She was escaping in a palankeen, and we took her when we took Moro Pundit."
"Indeed! His wife perhaps?"
"No, father; she said not. She has nothing to do with him; but she was in such grief at her people being killed in the town, that I could only make out she had relatives at Wye, and I sent her on under Shêre Khan. As she was richly dressed, and had valuable jewels on her, I feared to send her back, and she was willing to go."
"Poor girl, poor girl," said the Khan, sighing; "and she is young, you say. Alas, alas! to be so soon a widow!"
"Quite young, father—sixteen, perhaps—and very beautiful. O, so beautiful! I never saw one like her before."
"Wonderful!" returned the Khan. "Then she let thee see her?... Ah, Pahar Singh, well, so you are already prepared," he exclaimed, as the chief entered the room suddenly, and saluted them. "Have you eaten? Are your people ready? We go on to Sholapoor."
"I am come to bid you farewell, my lord," said the chief. "I have done my work with you for the present. My duty is not with the army, but on the marches; and I hear of a raid by the Golconda people which I must see to. My nephew Gopal Singh would fain have accompanied your son, but I cannot spare him. He is my only stay since—since ... no matter. My men would be worse than useless to you, and you will not miss what I could send. Nevertheless, if——"
"No, no," said the Khan, who in truth had dreaded rather than desired Pahar Singh's company, and that of his lawless freebooters; "no, you are better here in your own country, and I have already weakened the force too much at Nuldroog to withdraw you."
"Then we may go, Khan?"
"Certainly; you are honourably dismissed with thanks, and mention will be made of you, when I write, as you deserve."
"I have only one thing to say, Khan Sahib,—and I pray you to pardon my saying it,—and that is, beware of Moro Pundit. Had I been a Mussulman like you, I had not spared him: but as you have done so, it is not for me, a Rajpoot, to be concerned in a Brahmun's death. He is faithful to his cause, and he cannot be true to you."
"He can do no harm, friend," said the Khan, laughing. "I fancy the Nimbalkur and others have had a good lesson, and will keep quiet; and, for the rest, as I am going to scotch the head of the snake, we need not fear if its tail writhes a little; it can do no harm: but I thank you for your caution nevertheless, and you will see to my people of Afzoolpoor and its villages?"
"Surely, Khan Sahib; be under no apprehension—nothing can molest them. Now, put your hand on my head once more, embrace me, and let me go."
"Go," said the Khan, rising and doing as he wished—"go; be careful, friend; remember the royal clemency, and be true."
"Will you come with me for a moment, Meah?" said Pahar Singh, as he disengaged himself from the Khan's embrace.
Fazil got up and followed him. As they emerged from the courtyard into the street, Fazil saw that Gopal Singh and others, ready mounted, awaited their chief, and they saluted him courteously.
"Come hither, Lukshmun," said the chief.
The man was well mounted, and advanced. Fazil saw that his cheeks were wet with tears, and his eyes red and swollen. Hideous as the face now was, there was a dignity of sorrow in it which was not unimpressive.
"Meah," said the chief, "this is a foolish slave of mine, who implores me to send him with you; he wants no pay,—only food and clothes, and forage for his horse. He will be faithful to you in all danger and trial, and knows no fear. When you return from the campaign, send him to me again. Do you accept him?"
"I do, Pahar Singh, and will be to him as you were, that I promise," replied Fazil.
"Then dismount and kiss the young Khan's feet," said the chief.
Lukshmun obeyed him, dismounted, and prostrating himself before Fazil, embraced his knees. He then did the same to his master, lying at his feet, and sobbing bitterly.
"Get up, fool," said the chief kindly, drawing the back of his hand roughly across his eyes. "Go, thou art safer with him than with me, go! Take him, Meah," he continued, putting the man's hand into Fazil's, who raised him up. "Take him; he will be to you the faithful hound he was to me and my boy yonder: we can ill spare him, but, after what has happened, he is better away for a while. And now, sir, we part. Remember what I said to your father, and that while Mahrattas are weak they will be treacherous. I wish you well; in the words of your people, 'Khôda Hafiz.'"
So saying, the chief mounted, caused his spirited horse to execute several caracoles and plunges, and, with his nephew and followers, rode off rapidly to the plain beyond, where the shrill horn and deep drum of his troop were sounding the assembly.
"Had it been thus if you knew me, Pahar Singh?" thought Fazil, as the last of the rough troopers passed round the corner of the buildings to the plain beyond. "Hardly, I think; but it is well as it is, and your goodwill is better than your spite." As he turned round he saw the hunchback beside him. The bridle of his horse was hooked within his left arm; his hands, joined together, were raised to his nose, and he had balanced himself on his left leg, with the sole of the right foot pressed against the calf of the left. His grotesque features were twisted into a curious expression, in which grief and joy struggled for mastery.
"Your name is Lukshmun?" said Fazil.
"My lord, it is; I am your slave now and for ever:—till I die, if you permit me to serve you in my own way."
"And that is?"
"No matter now," said the creature; "you will find out. If I displease you, I will go away of my own accord and give no trouble; if I please you, let me be near you, and that is enough."
"How is this? You talk like a woman."
"Do you know anything of them, master?" replied the man. "Perhaps not; it takes a long life to know them, they say. Do I talk like a woman? Ah no, sir; to me you are the woman who has bewitched me, and I follow you blindly for the sake of the love I have for you, which sits in my heart."
"Since when, friend?" said Fazil, laughing.
"Since last night, when you were kind to that poor Brahmun girl who owes her honour to you, and long before that, of which I will tell you another time. Can I do anything now?"
"Hast thou eaten?"
"Yes; and I have enough here to last me two days," and he pointed to a bundle of cakes tied at his back. "I can give you one if you like, when you are hungry."
"I do not want it—I have eaten," said Fazil. "Can I trust thee already?"
"O, master!" cried the man piteously, as the tears started suddenly to his eyes. "Do not say that! I am a poor hunchback, who cannot say fine words, what is the use of my talking? If you mistrust me, bid me go. I will return to him who gave me to you—better that, than be doubted. Enough, shall I go?"
"No, stay," continued Fazil; "I will trust thee. Tie thy horse there, and give him some fodder from the bundle yonder.... That is well. Now go to the Kuchéri; say to the Näik, that Fazil Khan Meah wants the bundle of things given to him by Jánoo Näik, and he is to give it."
"And what if Jánoo is there, master? he will not allow it."
"That is why I do not go myself," said Fazil; "but if there is any difficulty I will come. Show this as a token, and it will suffice," and he took off his signet-ring.
"I will bring them without this, Meah, and yet I take it. Tell some one to mind the mare, else if she hears the horn she will break her rope;" and the man, throwing his coarse black blanket over him, shambled off at a quick pace towards the town. It was but a short distance. Fazil waited there looking at his own horses which were picketed in the street. He had no desire to rejoin his father, who was quietly smoking within. Fortunately, too, the priest rode up; said he wanted a hookah, dismounted, and went into the Mutt. He would be company enough.
Fazil watched the street narrowly. Had he done right in sending Lukshmun—ought he not to have gone himself? He could yet go if there were refusal, but there might be no occasion. In a little time, less then he had supposed possible, he saw the hunchback coming up the street at a sharp run, and as he reached Fazil, he put into his hand a heavy bundle of what felt like ornaments of gold and silver, tied in a cloth which was spotted with blood.
"Shabash!" cried Fazil, "it was well contrived. How didst thou get them?"
"Jánoo Näik is an ass, and the father of all the asses in Tooljapoor. I know him of old," returned Lukshmun. "He was there sitting like a scared owl on the steps of the Kuchéri. 'Come and drink,' says he to me. 'I will,' said I; 'wait, I have a message from the master to deliver.' Then I went in, and said to a Karkoon, 'Give me what Jánoo gave just now, the people are come for it.' He could not go in there, for he is a Mang. 'Take them,' says a Karkoon, opening a box; 'I don't like to touch them, they are bloody.' So I took them out, master, and here they are. As I passed Jánoo, I gave him a rupee, and told him to go to the Kullal's and get some drink ready, while I delivered my message—and he is gone. O, the owl, the owl! he will be drunk by this time; but, master, that man is as true as steel, and put these in trust; they were not loot to him. Wilt thou sell them here? No, not here?"
"Sell them!" cried Fazil, laughing; "no, surely—why?"
"O, the master never does—he always keeps the gold and silver, and buys them at his own valuation; but he gives us a share, nevertheless, and I shall miss mine of last night's work:—better, however, that the women have it."
"Ah! friend, I fear thou wilt have no such luck with me," returned the young man. "That is no loot, however; it will only go to its owner."
"Ah, Meah, I understand now," said the man quickly. "Yes, for her. Poor child! poor child! and when she sees the blood!—better throw that cloth away, and tie them up in a clean handkerchief."
"No," said Fazil, "keep it. It is evidence of the worst, and she needs to know it; but let us count them. Thirteen, you see, gold and silver; and look, there is blood on these anklets—let it stay. Yes, now I will trust thee."
Just then the Khan and the priest came out of the court, both accoutred for the march.
"I was seeing to the horses, father," said Fazil, in anticipation of his father's remarks, "and questioning this gift of Pahar Singh's; look at him—a strange being, is he not?"
Lukshmun advanced, prostrated himself, kissed the Khan's feet, but said nothing. The priest was acknowledged by a distant but respectful reverence only, and the hunchback seemed to regard him with antipathy.
"Strange enough, son," said the Khan, looking at him from head to foot: "ask thy mother about his horoscope when we get to camp. He may be lucky, after all—these hunchbacks often are so."
"My lord," said Lukshmun pleadingly, joining his hands, "all the Brahmuns like to try their hands on my nativity, and they all say I am lucky. For I am a twin, and they never could make out exactly which of the two was the eldest born; but they believed Rama was, who was always unlucky, and had a bad wife and worse children, and he was shot yesterday; so the bad luck and bad stars—sun and moon, and all—went with him; and now your slave is the luckiest of men, since he is the property of the noble Afzool Khan and his son Fazil. Surely the stars sent him."
"Thou hast a bold tongue," said the priest. "Peace, be silent."
"Ah, Maharaj!" returned the man, "holy men like you and the Brahmuns think too much upon divine glories, to mind what a poor fool like me says. I, too, know my prayers already, and shall become a Mussulman, when I have heard a few more of your reverence's sermons. O, they are wonderful! Bismilla—ir-rahman-ir-raheem!—--"
"Come," said the Khan, "they are beating the Nagárás everywhere, and as all are ready, we need not delay." So, mounting their horses, which were being led about, they rode on to the plain where the men were assembling fast, and closing in heavy masses upon their several standards. In a few minutes, the Paigah of Afzool Khan, Moro Pundit being in the midst closely guarded, moved on down the pass, followed by the Abyssinian cavalry; and their bright steel morions, gay scarves, trappings and standards, gleamed in the blazing sunshine. Yet it was not hot enough to be oppressive; a fresh westerly wind had arisen, driving before it large masses of fleecy cloud, which, as they passed, threw broad chequers of light and shade over the plain, rustling among the tall ripe corn, which bowed before it in golden wavy ripples, and refreshing the men who, though few had slept, were as yet unconscious of fatigue under the excitement they had gone through.
The people of the town watched the long line, that, owing to the rough nature of the road, straggled down the pass, with thankful hearts for deliverance from further molestation; and as the last of the men disappeared behind a shoulder of the mountain, a faint shout of "Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja!" rose from a group of men, consisting of the Nimbalkur and other chiefs who were assembling at his house. Others clustered about the edge of the tableland, and when they saw the long line emerge upon the plain beyond the groves and gardens of Sindphul, and heard the loud booming notes of the Nagárás growing fainter in the distance, many a heart breathed a prayer of thanks for deliverance, intermingled with defiance and deep curses on those from whose violence they had suffered.
In the temple a group of priests were sitting about the shrine weeping, and the image of the goddess still lay on its back, the ruby eyes flashing in the glare of the lamps now lighted about it. No one, as yet, dared to touch it, without some preliminary ceremonies of deprecation of her wrath. Within, the blood had been washed away—but without, in the court, it still lay in patches, blackening and cracking in the sun.
[CHAPTER LXII.]
There is nothing, perhaps, more effectual to deaden, if not to relieve recent misery, than the sensation of rapid motion. Leaning back in the palankeen, with the doors now shut, and the fresh breeze blowing refreshingly through the open blinds, Tara felt herself hurried swiftly and smoothly along, while her attention was at once occupied and distracted by the occurrences of the journey. Sindphul, its temple and trees: the lane which was the bed of the rivulet, through which the bearers plashed rapidly: the village gate now shut, and its bastions manned with men to keep out marauders: the long shady narrow lane, overhung with trees;—then, beyond, the plain, covered with rich crops of grain now ripening: the shouts of the men and boys, perched upon their stages in the fields, slinging stones at birds: the song, drawling and monotonous, of the bullock-drivers at the wells,—were all familiar objects and sounds to the desolate girl being carried rapidly by them. Would she ever see them again?
As they passed their own garden, she looked among the trees—perchance she might see Sudba, the old bullock-driver, or Purésh-ram, the gardener; but there was no one visible, else she had cried out to them. Were they dead, too? Ah! how often had she wandered among the trees there with her mother, and watched the butterflies among the flowers! The bearers stopped to change opposite the wicket gate, and she could see the bright beds of white jessamine, unpicked as yet, and large marigolds, and white and yellow chrysanthemums, which the men were saving for the Dusséra. Who would gather them now? Over them, the same bright yellow and white butterflies were hovering in hundreds, and the fierce green and blue dragonflies chasing each other, or darting here and there, quick as thought, and glistening in the sun. Then she remembered the omen in her garden as she sat spinning, and fell back on the pillow shuddering. It was true. She remembered too that the bird had sat for a while, and twittered a sweet low song. Was he that bird, that noble, gracious youth, who had spoken to her so gently, so kindly? She tried to follow the thread of this thought back, but failed. Her mind was sadly confused and wandering, now reverting to the omen, now to the objects she was passing, and the people they met:—who were they? what doing? whither going?—to the horsemen, the monotonous tramp of whose horses never ceased, some behind, some before, some around her,—fierce, dark-bearded fellows, whose very proximity she would have dreaded before,—who were now guarding her respectfully by his order; while the kind old man, to whose charge she had been specially committed, rode close to the side of the litter, and where the path was narrow, asked her, through the blinds, if she were well, and wanted anything.
Fazil, son of Afzool; she remembered the name. It was strange to Hindu lips, but had a musical cadence, which her memory retained as she repeated it to herself. Fazil, son of Afzool; and he had a sister Zyna. What would she be like? Would she be kind and loving to her? like Radha? Was he not beautiful, and very fair, almost ruddy.
Into all these channels, confused, and whirling her mind hither and thither like dust and straws before the wind, her thoughts wandered dreamily, apparently avoiding the bare, hideous fact that all were dead whom she loved—all who had protected her up to last night. But this would not long be denied its place. It was a horrible reality not as yet fully understood:—which her gentle mind could not grasp.
Dead! who saw them die? They were alive last night,—who had killed them? If she had seen them die, that, indeed, would be surety. No, it was not true. They could not be dead,—they could not have left her so helpless. It was some fraud, some deception. She had not gone far: Sindphul was close by: she would run and sit in the garden, and wait for her mother; and she half-opened the door of the litter. Shêre Khan rode by it, erect and stern, but bowed down to her as the door moved. "Do you want anything, lady?" he said. "Go to sleep; it will rest you."
The voice, kind as it was, dispelled the other thought, and brought back the bitter reality of desolation and the events of the night. How she had been lifted up—and the girl Gunga's laugh of triumph and mockery rang in her ears, and was before her eyes now, as she pressed her hands against them: the rude men who carried her down the steps: the fearful shrieks and din in the temple: the shots and blows, growing fainter as they carried her away: and, above all, the voice of Moro Trimmul, exulting with Gunga that they were safe from death, and had Tara captive. "To Rutunjun first," he had said, "and then——"
"From that worse than death he saved me," she thought, with a shudder. "Fazil saved me—Fazil, son of Afzool—else I were helpless with Moro now. And they were dead—her people, all dead? Yes, the detail Fazil had related was brief and circumstantial. The Bhópeys would not lie—why should they? They were weeping, and had taken him up dead. Her father, a negro had killed him, they said. She felt no hope could come out of this detail. They had lifted him up and put him.... No, she could not follow that. That beloved father, dead—disfigured with ghastly wounds!—mother, whom Jánoo had seen dead, and Radha ... all? He had said so. How could he—Fazil—know of Jánoo, or the Bhópeys, her father's dependants, so as to deceive her with names?"
So, round and round, whirling, dashing hither and thither like the motes in a sunbeam, staying nowhere, sometimes utterly blank, the girl's thoughts ministered to her fast growing misery. The hot dry eyes, red and swollen, looked out sometimes vacantly as the bearers changed shoulders. She felt powerless to move, careless as to what became of her. As the reality of the death of all, pressed on her mind occasionally with greater force, she sat up and gasped for breath, and again fell back upon the cushions; then the monotonous cries of the bearers as they shuffled along rapidly, and the dull tramp of the horses, with the sense of motion, were relief from mental agony: and, after a time, she slept.
The action of setting down the litter, awoke her with a start. Under some trees not far from a village gate, there was the small hut of a Fakeer. Shêre Khan was speaking to the old man, and the troopers were dismounting from their horses. Shêre Khan came to her.
"I have sent for the Josee's wife," he said. "The Syn here says she is a kind woman. She will bring you water and something to eat. We rest here while the men get their breakfasts, and the horses are fed. Fear nothing. Open the litter,—it is cool and pleasant in the shade under the trees," and then he left her.
So it was. She opened the door and looked out. A small grove of mango trees, with a smooth green sward below them, and some cattle and goats grazing there in the cool shade; a boy and a girl tending them looked inquisitively at her, and the girl came up shyly and sat down by her.
"Do you want water, lady?" she said. "I am the Josee's daughter, and those are my goats. I will go and tell my mother you want water. You are a Brahmun, are you not?"
Tara patted her head in assent—she could not speak; and the girl ran away, crying to the lad not to let her goats stray.
By-and-by the child and mother returned, and the latter brought a copper vessel of water and a drinking-cup.
"Here is water, lady," she said; "will you get out and wash your face? Surely, I know you," she continued quickly, as Tara turned her face to her. "Where have I seen you?"
"No matter," said Tara, "I do not know you."
"Perhaps not," said the dame drearily. "So many travellers come and go, and ... but no matter. Shall I cook anything for you? will you come to our house and bathe?"
"No," said Tara; "they will go on presently; I will stay here."
"Come hither, Ooma," she said to the girl, who was standing apart, and she whispered to her; "go, and come quickly," she added aloud.
"Do not send for any one else," said Tara; "I am well."
"Are you not ill?" said the woman. "Ah, your eyes are red and swollen."
"I have a headache," replied Tara; "it is so hot."
"Yes," said the woman, sitting down, and putting her arm kindly round Tara, and pressing her head against her own bosom,—"yes, you look tired and weary, but it will pass away. Wash your face and hands, and your feet—it will do you good, and refresh you. Put out your feet—so—I will wash them."
The cool water was refreshing as it was poured over her hands and feet; and after the woman had dried them with the end of her saree, she again laid Tara's head against her breast, and patted her as though she were her own child.
"You look so weary," she said; "have you travelled far?"
"From Tooljapoor," Tara replied.
"Is all well there?" asked the woman. It was a common question with no meaning to the asker, but of how much to Tara!
She could not answer, but clung, almost convulsively, to the kind breast on which she had laid her head.
"I see," said the woman; "so young and rich, and yet thou art in sorrow, lady—rest here." And she drew her the more closely to her, and patted her as before. So they sat till the child came back, who brought upon a plate, covered with a handkerchief, a few simple sweetmeats and some parched rice. "Eat," she said, "if ever so little; eat a bit of 'Luddoo,' and drink some water." Tara shook her head, and only nestled the closer to the soft bosom: it was strangely like her mother's.
"Poor thing, poor thing," thought the woman to herself, "what can ail her? Perhaps her husband is unkind. Eat, my rose," she said aloud, "eat this." And she broke off a piece of the cake and put it to Tara's mouth. "I made it myself, and it is quite pure and clean. Eat it; open your mouth." Tara did so mechanically, and she put it in.
Tara tried to eat, but her mouth was dry and hot; she could not swallow, and felt choking. The woman saw it, and rubbed her throat gently. The hardness and constriction seemed to relax, and she was able to swallow what she had taken, and to eat a little more, the woman feeding her.
"Good," she said kindly, "try again by-and-by. O lady, what heavy grief is on you that no tears come? Can I do aught for you?"
"Nothing," said Tara; "only do not leave me while they are absent."
So they sat silently. If Tara could have wept, it had been well; but that blessed relief was not to come yet. She was quiet, however, sitting there, almost stupified, resting her head against the woman's breast, who still patted her. Every now and then the great, sore, hot eyes looked out drearily. Some of the goats and cattle browsed under the trees, others had lain down resting in the shade. There was no sound but a faint rustle of the breeze among the leaves, the dim buzz of flies, and the droning song of a man, at a well in a garden near, singing to his bullocks, and the distant plashing rush of the water as it was emptied from the bag into the cistern.
And so they sat, till one by one the bearers gathered near them, and tied up their hookas on the palankeen as before. Then the horsemen came up, and she heard Shêre Khan asking her if she were ready, and telling the bearers to take up the palankeen. Tara had put the gifts she had received at the shrine under her waist-band, and remembered them. As the palankeen was taken up she took them out and put them into the woman's hand, who, expecting perhaps a few copper coins, stood looking at them in amazement.
"May your grief pass from you, and may God be merciful unto you, my child," said the woman. Ere Tara could reply, a bearer had shut the door, and the men ran on with renewed vigour.
Yes, the little change had refreshed her, and she again fell asleep, mercifully: and it was evening, and the shadows were lengthening fast, when she became aware that they approached a large town, passed through a busy bazar crowded with people, then emerged from it; crossed over a bridge, from which a large piece of water was visible on the left hand, and the towers and bastions of a fort washed by it; then the gloom of a deep-arched gateway, and light beyond. A respectably dressed elderly woman, in Mahomedan costume, took hold of the side of the palankeen, and ran along with it a short distance.
"Stop," she cried to the bearers,—"this is the place; put it down and go away."
Then Tara saw several other women advance and hold up a heavy sheet so as to screen her as she got out, and the door was opened; and Goolab, for she it was, speaking a rough dialect of Mahratta, bid her come forth. As she did so, and stood there, Goolab "took the evil off her," as was her custom;[13] and other women coming forward with plates, on which were coriander and mustard seed, waved them over her. Thus welcomed, Tara now stood waiting a signal to advance; and Goolab, seeing her trembling violently, put her arm round her, looking with wonder at the richness of her apparel and the heavy gold ornaments she wore, her exceeding beauty causing respect and silence even from the loquacious and privileged nurse.
"Enter," said a low sweet voice from within a curtain hanging across a doorway, which was slightly opened.