FOOTNOTES:
[17] The celebrated Hindu temple in the southern point of India.
[18] A treacherous and deadly weapon, in the shape of tiger's claws, which, fitted on the fingers, shuts into the hand.
[CHAPTER LXXVIII.]
The morning broke, calm and beautiful. Long before the highest peaks of the mountains blushed under the rosy light which preceded the sunrise, the Khan and Fazil, with Zyna, had risen and performed their morning prayer. The deep booming sound of the kettle-drums woke the echoes around, and reverberated from side to side of the valley, retiring to recesses among the glens, and murmuring softly as it died away among the distant peaks and precipices. As yet, the valley was partially filled with mists, which clung to its wooded sides; but as the sun rose, a slight wind sprang up with it, which, breaking through these mists, drove them up the mountain, and displayed the scenery in all its fresh morning beauty, as though a curtain had been suddenly drawn from before it.
Behind them were the stupendous mountains of the Maha-bul-eshwur range; before, at a short distance, and divided from them by a chain of smaller hills, rose up the precipices of Pertâbgurh, glittering in the morning light, and crowned by the walls and bastions of the fortress.
Long before daylight the lady Lurlee had risen, and, careful for her husband, had, in conjunction with Kurreema, cooked his favourite dish of kichéri and kabobs. "It was a light breakfast," she said, "and would agree with them better than a heavier repast, and dinner would be ready when they returned." So Afzool Khan, his son, and the priest, ate their early meal, not only in joyful anticipation of a speedy return, but of accomplishing what would result in honour to all concerned.
They remembered afterwards, that as an attendant brought before the Khan the usual mail shirt he wore, and the mail-cap, with its bright steel chains, over which his turban was usually tied when fully accoutred, he laughingly declined both. "They will be very hot and uncomfortable," he said, "and we are not going to fight. No, give me a muslin dress," which he put on. A few words about ordinary household matters to Lurlee, a few cheering sentences to Zyna, as he passed from the inner and private enclosure of the tent, and he went out among the men.
Fazil followed, fully armed and accoutred for riding. There had been a good-humoured strife between Fazil and the priest the night before, as to who should be the one armed follower to accompany his father, and he had chosen the priest. "Fazil was too young yet," he said, "to enter into grave political discussions with wily Mahrattas, and would be better with the escort." So the soldier-priest, like the Khan, discarding the steel cap, gauntlets, and quilted armour in which he usually accoutred himself—appeared, like Afzool Khan, in the plain muslin dress of his order; and having tied up his waist with a shawl, and thrown another over his shoulders, stuck a light court sword into his waist-band, which he pressed down on his hips with a jaunty air, and called merrily to Fazil, to see how peacefully he was attired.
The escort awaited them in the camp, and the spirited horses of fifteen hundred gallant cavaliers were neighing and tossing their heads as Afzool Khan, Fazil, and the priest rode up. "Forward!" cried the Khan cheerily; and as the kettle-drums beat a march, the several officers saluted their commander, and, wheeling up their men, led them by the road pointed out by the Brahmuns and guides in the direction of Pertâbgurh.
At that time, single men, who looked like shepherds tending sheep, and who were standing on crests of the hills, or crouching so as not to be seen, passed a signal that the Khan and his party had set out. It was still early, and the time when, of all others perhaps, armies such as the Khan's, were most defenceless. Many, roused for a while by the assembly and departure of the escort, had gone to sleep again; others, sitting over embers of fires, were smoking, preparing to cook their morning repast, or were attending to their horses, or in the bazar purchasing the materials for their day's meal. The camp was watched from the woods around by thousands of armed men, who, silently and utterly unobserved, crept over the crests of the hills, and lay down in the thick brushwood which fringed the plain.
As the Khan's retinue neared the fort, parties of armed men, apparently stationed by the roadside to salute him as he passed, closed up in rear of the escort; and others, moving parallel to them in the thickets, joined with them unseen. Quickly, too, men with axes felled large trees, which were thrown down so as to cross the road, and interlaced their branches so as to be utterly impassable for horsemen; and all these preparations went on in both places silently, methodically, and with a grim surety of success, imparting a confidence which all who remembered it afterwards attributed to the direction of the goddess whom they worshipped. As it was said then, as it is still said, and sung in many a ballad, "not a man's hand failed, not a foot stumbled."
At the gate of the fort the Khan dismounted from his horse, and entered his palankeen. Before he did so, however, he embraced his son, and bid him be careful of the men, and that no one entered the town or gave offence. He could see, looking up, the thatched pavilion on the little level shoulder of the mountain, and pointed to it cheerfully. "It is not far to go, Huzrut," he said to the Peer, "I may as well walk with these good friends," and he pointed to the Brahmuns who attended him. But Fazil would not allow it, nor the Peer either. "You must go in state," they said, "as the representative of the King ought to do," and he then took his seat in the litter.
"Khóda Hafiz—may God protect you, father!" said Fazil, as he bent his head into the palankeen, when the bearers took it up; "come back happily, and do not delay!"
"Inshalla!" said the Khan smilingly, "fear not, I will not delay, and thou canst watch me up yonder." So he went on, the priest's hand leaning upon the edge of the litter as he walked by its side.
On through the town, from the terraced houses of which, crowds of women looked down on the little procession, and men, mostly unarmed, or unremarkable in any case, saluted them, or regarded them with clownish curiosity. No one could see that the court of every house behind, was filled with armed men thirsting for blood, and awaiting the signal to attack.
The Khan's agent, Puntojee Gopináth, being a fat man, had left word at the gate which defended the entrance of the road to the fort, that he had preceded the Khan, and would await him at the pavilion. He had seen no one since the night before, and he knew only that the Khan would come to meet the Rajah. That was all he had stipulated for, and his part was performed. He believed that Sivaji would seize Afzool Khan, and hold him a hostage for the fulfilment of all his demands; and the line of argument in his own mind was, that if the Khan resisted, and was hurt in the fray which might ensue, it was no concern of his. But he did not know the Rajah's intention, nor did the Rajah's two Brahmuns who had ascended with him; and they all three now sat down together upon the knoll, waiting the coming of Afzool Khan from below, and the Rajah from above.
As the agreement had specified, except one each, there were to be no armed men: no other people were present but one, who seemed to be a labourer, who was tying up a rough mat to the side of the pavilion to keep out the wind and sun. Gopináth looked from time to time up the mountain-road, and again down to the town, speculating upon the cause of delay in the Rajah's coming; and the others told him he would not leave the fort till the Khan had arrived below, and showed him a figure standing upon the edge of the large bastion which overhung the precipice above, relieved sharply against the clear sky, which was fronting towards the quarter by which the Khan's retinue should come, and apparently giving signals to others behind him.
"Your master is coming," said the Secretary, "they see him from above;" and, almost as he spoke, the bright glinting of steel caps and lance-heads, with a confused mass of horsemen, appeared on the road to the fort, among the trees, and they sat and watched them come on. Then the force halted in the open space before the outer gate, where the Khan's little procession formed, and entered the town. After that, the houses and the trees of the mountain-side concealed them. How beautiful was the scene!
The wind had died away, and the sun shone with a blaze of heat unknown elsewhere, striking down among those moist narrow valleys with a power which would have been painful, but for the cool refreshing air by which it was tempered. The distant mountains glowed under the effect of the trembling exhalations, which, rising now unseen, tempered the colours of the distance to that tender blue and grey which melts into the tint of the sky. The rugged precipices above were softened in effect; and the heavy masses of foliage, festoons of creepers, and the dense woods, rich in colour, combined to enhance the wonderful beauty of the spot. There was perfect silence, except the occasional monotonous drumming notes of woodpeckers in the glens, and the shrill chirrup of tree-crickets which occasionally broke out and was again silent.
In a few minutes, the shouts of the Khan's palankeen-bearers were heard below, and the litter suddenly emerged from a turn in the road, being pushed on by the combined efforts of the men. The Brahmun's heart bounded when he saw the figure of the priest beside the litter, holding to it, and pressing up the ascent vigorously. "Will he escape?" he said mentally; "the Mother forbid it,—let her take him!" A few more steps, and the palankeen was at the knoll; it was set down, and the Khan's shoes being placed for him by a bearer, he put his feet into them and got out, speaking to the priest, who was panting with his exertion.
"Is he not here, Puntojee?" cried the Khan to the Brahmun, who saluted him respectfully.
"No, my lord, not yet. Ah! look," he continued, as he turned towards the pass, "there are two men on the path, and that one, the smallest, is he."
The men coming down appeared to hesitate, and waved their hands, as if warning off some one.
"It is the bearers," said one of Sivaji's Secretaries. "The Rajah is timid, and fears the crowd he sees."
The Khan laughed. "Good," he said to the men. "Go away; sit down yonder in the shade. You will be called when I want you;" and as they got up and retired, the two men advanced slowly and cautiously down the pathway.
Afzool Khan went forward a few paces as Sivaji and Maloosray came up. "You are welcome, Rajah Sahib. Embrace me," he said to Sivaji. "Let there be no doubt between us;" and he stretched forth his arms in the usual manner.
Sivaji stooped to the embrace; and as the Khan's arms were laid upon his shoulders, and he was thus unprotected, struck the sharp deadly tiger's-claw dagger deeply into his bowels, seconding the blow with one from the other dagger which he had concealed in his left hand.
Afzool Khan reeled and staggered under the deadly wounds. "Dog of a Kafir!" he cried, pressing one hand to the wound, while he drew the sword he wore with the other, and endeavoured to attack the Rajah. Alas! what use now were those feeble blows against concealed armour? Faint and sick, the Khan reeled hither and thither, striking vainly against the Rajah, who, with the terrible sword now in his hand, and crying the national shout of "Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!" rained blow upon blow on his defenceless enemy. It was an unequal strife, soon finished. Falling heavily, Afzool Khan died almost as he reached the earth.
Meanwhile, Maloosray had attacked the priest with all his force and skill, but the Peer was a good swordsman, and for a short time held his ground. Neither spoke, except in muttered curses, as blows were struck; but Tannajee Maloosray had no equal in his weapon, and as he cried to the Rajah, who was advancing to his aid, to keep back—the priest, distracted by the assault of another enemy, received his death-blow, and sank to the ground.
"Jey Kalee!" shouted both. "Now, blow loud and shrill, Gunnoo, for thy life," continued the Rajah, "and thou shalt have a collar of gold."
The man who had appeared to be a labourer, seized his horn, which had been concealed in the grass, and blew a long note, with a shrill quivering flourish at the close, which resounded through the air, and echoed among the mountains; and thrice repeated the signal.
Then a great puff of smoke, followed by a report which thundered through the valley, burst from the bastion above. Those who were looking from the fort, and the Rajah himself, who ran to the edge of the knoll, saw the wreaths of fire which burst from the thickets about the plain where the Mahomedan cavalry stood, and a sharp irregular crash of matchlock shots came up from below, and continued. Hundreds died at every volley, and there were writhing, struggling masses of horses and men on the plain—loose horses careering about; and some men still mounted, strove to pierce the barriers which had been made on every side, crowded on each other, and, falling fast, became inextricable. Soon, too, the Mawullees, under Nettajee Palkur, emerged sword in hand from their ambush, and attacked those who survived. Some escaped; but of the fifteen hundred men who had ridden there in their pride that morning, few lived to tell the tale.
Moro Trimmul had taken up his position over night on a hill overlooking the main camp of Afzool Khan's army. A few boughs placed together formed a cover and screen on a high knoll, which commanded a view of the camp beneath, and of the summit of the fort whence his signal was to come. He sat there watching, and observed the force below, careless, without a guard, without weapons—the men sitting idly, wandering about, or cooking, as it might be. Every moment seemed interminable; and the eyes of those who looked with him were strained towards the fort.
"One," he cried at last, as the first puff of bright smoke burst from the bastion—"two—three—four—five! Enough. It is complete, my friends. Now, cry 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' and upon them. Spare no one! Come, friends, let us sack the Khan's tents first, where I have some work of my own to do."
"Beware," said an elderly officer, who stood near him—"beware, Moro Pundit, of the master, if thou disobey him in this. He will suffer no insult to the women."
"Tooh!" cried Moro Trimmul, spitting contemptuously, "I am a Brahmun, and he dare not interfere with me. Come!"
Ten thousand throats were crying the battle-cry of the Hetkurees, as they burst from the thickets upon the bewildered army. Why follow them? In a few hours there was a smell of blood ascending to the sky, and vultures—scenting it from their resting-places on the precipices of the mountains, and from their soaring stations in the clouds—were fast descending upon the plain in hideous flocks.
Shortly after the Khan had left—he could scarcely have reached the fort—two figures, a man and a boy, ran rapidly across the camp at their utmost speed towards the Khan's tents—they were the hunchback and Ashruf. When Fazil had dismissed them, the night before, they had taken the road to Wye; and immediately beyond the confines of the camp, where the road ascended a rocky pass, had been seized by the Mahratta pickets posted there. In vain they urged they were but Dekhan ballad-singers; they were not released. "Ye shall sing for us to-morrow," they said, "when we have made the sacrifice, the ballads of the goddess at Tooljapoor;" and, bound together, they lay by the tree where the party of men was stationed. There they heard all, but were helpless.
"Ah, masters," said Lukshmun, as daylight broke, "unbind us; we are stiff with the cold; we will not run away; and I will sing you the morning hymn of the goddess, as the Brahmuns sing it at Tooljapoor. See, my arms are swelled, and the boy's too."
"Loose him, brother," said one of the men, "we shall soon now have the signal. Wait you here," he added, as Lukshmun finished the chant, "and we will fill your pouches with Beejapoor rupees when we come back."
"Alas!" said the hunchback, with a rueful face, "this little brother came from Wye last night, to say my elder brother, Rama, was dead. Good sirs, let me go and bury him," and he began to sob bitterly.
"Let them go, Nowla," said another of the men; "they will be only in our way; we can't stop to guard them."
"My blessings on ye, gentlemen! Only let us go now, and we will come to you and sing congratulations when you have won the victory," said Lukshmun humbly.
"Go," said the men, "but do not return to camp, else we will slay you if we see you there."
"They will die, or worse," said the hunchback, whispering to Ashruf, "for Moro Trimmul is the leader here. Come, let us save the Khan's wife and the lady Zyna," and they turned into the jungle in the direction of the camp.
The boy was bold and quick-witted. As they ran on, "I can get into the zenana," he said, "under the tent wall, and perhaps we can make them change clothes, and fly—but if they stay?"
"I will get the ponies ready," replied the other, and they ran the faster over the plain, unperceived.
They reached the tents, and the boy entered as he said. Who would believe them? Zyna heard the tale with sickening dread, and Lurlee, assured by the others, at first disbelieved him, and threatened him with stripes. The women-servants crowded around, and some began to shriek, and were with difficulty pacified; others mocked him and turned away. Still the boy urged: and the hunchback, desperate, and dreading the delay, now found his way into the enclosure, and prostrated himself before them.
"I know the country," he said: "fly! take what jewels you can carry, and come. God be with them, lady!" he continued, as Zyna and Lurlee cried aloud for their husband and brother—"God be with them! they are mounted and will escape, and we may yet meet; but stay not here, else ye will die, or be dishonoured, and the Khan will kill me."
Then another voice was heard without, shouting. It was Shêre Khan, who had been left in charge of the private camp. "Go!" he cried, "I see men moving in the woods, and there is confusion and treachery." And others said the same. Then, too, they heard the five guns of the fort, and there broke from the mountains around a hoarse roar of voices, "Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!"
This decided them. A hurried change of clothes, some coarse garments thrown over them, and the ponies being led within the enclosure, the ladies were lifted on them and carried out. O, to see the stupid misery of those women! Hitherto secluded, they could understand nothing; they had no power to resist; and why they should be taken out among men, when the shouts and screams of the camp were growing wilder every moment, they could not understand. So they wrung their hands in speechless terror.
"Come with the ladies, Shêre Khan," cried Lukshmun; "come, save thyself, old man!"
"No," he replied sadly; "my time is come, and the sherbet of death will be sweet. Go thou, and all of ye who can," he added to those who had gathered with the women. "Quick! quick! else it will be too late."
The shouts of "Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!" were already mingling on the confines of the camp with the battle-cries of the Moslems, who had rallied in small parties, and the flood of attack was there stayed for a little: this saved the fugitives. Close by the enclosure of tent walls ran the rivulet, and its banks were high and covered with brushwood on the sides, which concealed the party. Lukshmun, with a true freebooter's instinct, led Zyna's pony down the bank, accompanied by some of the terrified women-servants, and Lurlee followed. So they proceeded at a rapid pace down the stream, meeting no one, and concealed from view.
They heard the hideous din of shouts, screams, and shots increase behind them, but it gradually softened with distance, and in a little time Lukshmun turned up the sandy bed of a tributary brook, on the sides of which the jungle was thicker, while the bed was narrower and more tortuous; and, bidding every one tread only in the shallow stream which flowed in the midst, in order to afford no traces of footsteps, he hurried on, still leading Zyna's pony by the bridle. "Fear not, lady," he said confidently,—"the worst is past, and God will be merciful; fear not."
In the camp there was but a short resistance. On the one hand, the desperate valour of the mountain soldiery, the certainty of plunder, revenge for Tooljapoor, and the example of Moro Trimmul and other leaders; and on the other, the helpless, disorganized, bewildered mass before them, rendered the assault irresistible. The first attacking bodies were succeeded by mass upon mass of fresh assailants from all quarters, and these successive tides of men surged resistlessly across the camp, overwhelming all.
When Moro Trimmul and his party reached the Khan's tents, they found no one. The tracks of the ponies, where they had descended the bank, were, however, visible, and were taken up by his followers, who dashed forward like bloodhounds on a scent. "Away after them, Kakrey!" cried the Brahmun to a subordinate officer. "Thou art a better tracker than I. Bring them to me,—then," he added to himself, "Fazil Khan, we will see who wins the game,—you or I."
[CHAPTER LXXIX.]
The ambassador's family, with whom Tara had received protection, had arrived at Pertâbgurh the day before the events related in the last chapter. At Wye some traces of her mother's family, the Durpeys, had been found, but they were now residing at or near Poona: it would require several days to communicate with them; and a much longer period for them, or any one of them, to come for Tara and take her away. Meanwhile, therefore, there was no resource but to stay where she was, and to endure, what was daily becoming more and more insupportable.
Personally, Govind Rao, the Envoy, was kind to her, and continually renewed his offers of assistance and protection; but from his sister, the widow Pudma Bye, Tara had to endure insult and ill-usage, from which the Envoy's wife was unable to save her. Few, indeed, in the house, chose to risk the bitterness of Pudma's tongue, or the virulence of her spite. Her brother even feared her, and avoided her as much as possible.
So she employed herself in ascetic penances and religious exercises, fasted long and often, and mortified herself in various ingenious ways, with a view to establishing a character for sanctity which should make her famous. As might be supposed, she, the general distributor of the family alms, had many friends among the priestly Brahmuns, who attended the house and partook of her brother's charity; and it was an object with many, by flattering her vanity, to make those alms as large as possible, and to induce her to undertake ceremonies which could not be performed without priestly aid, and, necessarily, money.
The chief of these priests was one Wittul Shastree, an elderly man of grave aspect, but with a hard expression of countenance, which might proceed from austerity or avarice, or both combined. He was the agent or commissary of the prince superior of the Brahmuns of the province, and held authority sufficient for the disposal of cases of heretical error, misconduct as to caste affairs, and other matters of religious discipline. On grave occasions of ceremony he directed these proceedings, and, in virtue of his office, was in proportion feared by all who might by any possibility come under his influence or power.
Tara's presence in the family could not be kept a secret. The fact of a widow existing there who wore silken garments and jewels, and who had not her head shaved, was an infringement of caste discipline which required prompt investigation; and as the Envoy arrived at the fort, the Shastree betook himself to Pudma Bye, as well to receive the donations which were his due since she had been absent, as to make inquiry.
The Envoy himself was absent at the Rajah's Kuchéri. Amba Bye was busy arranging her house after her long absence, and Tara was assisting her with an alacrity and intelligence which at once surprised and gratified her. On her own part, the worthy good-natured dame was not slow in evincing warm affection: which had arisen out of the helpless condition of Tara on the one hand, and the loving confidence which she had displayed on the first evening of their companionship.
Ah! it was a cruel struggle for the poor girl. Perhaps we, who belong to another creed and faith, can hardly estimate it. And yet the springs and motives of human action have parallels so close everywhere, that we can at least follow the events which had to be endured, alike without aid, and without sympathy.
Poor Tara! could she deny herself the secret contemplation of the noble youth who, she knew, was her lover? Could she forget the sweet companionship of Zyna, the rough but loving caresses of the Khan's wife, and the hearty greeting of the Khan himself? Alas, no! it was impossible, and yet all these were in direct antagonism with her own creed, with the people of her own faith. What had she been taught to believe, but that Brahmuns were the gods of the earth—divine emanations, incapable of sin, and only resting here for a while in expiation of the errors of former births, till they were absorbed again into divinity, as a drop of rain-water in the sea, or as the sparks falling back into the fire!
She herself was a Brahmun of the highest rank and caste: the very idea of a Mussulman should have been abhorrent and repellant to her. Was it so? Alas, no! She, an orphan as she believed herself, had felt her sorrow soothed, and her honour powerfully protected: she had been received into loving communion with a noble family: she could not help contrasting their soft polished manners with the rude homely speech and rough demeanour of those with whom she now was—far ruder among those mountains, than even among the people of her own town.
Again, and far above all, that portion of the old old story which she had heard and believed, when she knew herself to be beloved, would not be forgotten. It lay at her heart, rankling sometimes and chafing, because so impossible—and again was remembered in a sweet confidence which, though more impossible, was yet inexpressibly soothing. "He will remember me—he now thinks of me," she would say to herself in the lonely night, when ofttimes a bitter cry was rung from her, which no one knew of; "and he would take me away if he could—ah yes! he would have done it—if he could."
From the first moment antipathy was conceived against Tara by Pudma Bye, that virtuous lady had continued to brood over it with increasing dislike to her. She had tried to excite in her brother abhorrence for Tara's condition; and, failing that, in Amba Bye, with whom she had as little success. Both believed Tara to be a priestess of the goddess whom they feared. The Envoy had tested her knowledge of sacred books, which was nearly equal to his own, for he did not pretend, he said, to be a scholar; and in several disputations with other Brahmuns who, attracted by the news of Tara's learning, had come to hear her read and recite what she knew, she had acquitted herself with favourable impressions upon all. But the woman's hatred of the girl's beauty, and her ascetic austerity, which would have made Tara like herself, could not be controlled; and, under the influence of the Shastree, was likely to have full scope.
But Wittul Shastree could not restrain himself; and, unable to get speech of the master and mistress of the house, Pudma Bye was resorted to—a willing communicator of all that she herself thought, all that she had said and argued, and all that she had heard of Tara's sojourn with the impure Mussulmans. As for herself, she did not, she said, believe Tara's story of Moro Trimmul's outrage; she, on the contrary, believed what he said, that it was a meritorious attempt to withdraw her from a scandalous position—scandalous alike to herself and to the faith.
The Shastree's mind was at once made up as to his course. There had been several offensive stories current in regard to young widows lately, and not without reason: and they had escaped his punishment. This at least was sure—the Envoy dare not deny, and could not evade his power; and if Tara appealed to the Rajah himself, it would be on a point of caste discipline with which he—Rajah though he was—would not dare to interfere.
"Let us hear her first," he said to the lady, as, having listened to Pudma Bye's account of Tara, he sat in the outer verandah of the house the morning after their arrival, while Tara was within; "wilt thou call her, daughter? we should not judge unheard."
Poor Tara's heart failed her sadly when Pudma called her. She clung to Amba Bye instinctively, trembling as she saw the priest sitting without, and protested against meeting him. "He is a stranger to me; what have I to do with him?" she said. "Let me go away. I am not his to be questioned, but the Mother's at Tooljapoor."
"Go," whispered Amba Bye to her; "he is all-powerful here,—over the Rajah, over my husband, over all. Go, tell him the truth. I will not leave thee. Go, Tara."
"Wilt thou now screen her, sister?" cried Pudma Bye, in a shrill voice, and stretching out her bare skinny arms to Tara. "Is her shame to be our shame—we that have no spot or stain upon us? If thou art bewitched, I, that perform the nine penances daily, should not be exposed to this! Come, girl! it is pollution to touch thee—nevertheless, come, else I will drag thee to him."
"Go!" cried Amba, frightened at the other's voice of threat and scorn combined, of which she had had long and sad experience in the house. "I dare not keep thee now,—she is terrible. Go, Tara, and answer what they ask thee. Say the truth and the Mother will hear thee. O, that my lord were here! O, that he were here!" and she sat down, sobbing and wringing her hands helplessly.
"Come," cried Pudma, as, seizing Tara by the arm, she pulled her forward. "Art thou a child, to be ashamed,—thou that art a Moorlee?"
Tara's limbs trembled so that she could hardly move.
"Ah, Mother," she prayed silently, "I am not false to thee yet; let me not be tried more than I can bear. I will go, even to death, but not to shame. O Mother, not to shame! Let me go, lady," she continued to Pudma Bye, "I will follow thee."
She did so, and, bending down submissively before the priest, stood up with her hands joined in an attitude of supplication. For a moment the stern man's features relaxed into an expression almost of kindness, certainly of extreme interest. The youth of the girl, her gentle grace, the sad but beautiful expression of her face—above all, its purity of expression—sent conviction to his heart that there was no room for calumny, none even for suspicion.
Pudma saw the hesitation, and, herself resolute, resumed rapidly and passionately—
"Is that a figure to be a widow and a priestess—that thing with a golden zone, and necklaces and ear-rings, and a silken garment like a harlot? Is that a widow who daily combs her hair, braids it, puts sweet flowers and oils into it, decking it for a lover? O Shastree, is that what a virtuous widow should be? Is that a condition of penance and austere privation whereby to inherit life eternal?"
The Shastree's features changed rapidly. "It cannot be," he said; "such adornment and beauty is not of a virtuous woman. Now I believe thee, sister, and thy brother must be spoken to. He cannot keep a thing so offensive in his house, and be among us."
"Hear me, my lord," said Tara, appealing to him piteously. "I am pure—I have done no evil—I am an orphan and a Moorlee, but not as others; such as I am, the holy Bhartee Swâmi, whom I have served hitherto, hath made me. Write to him if you will——"
"What is this?" said Govind Rao, who entered at the moment, interrupting her; "what art thou asking of her, friend? Let her alone; she is my care."
"Look," returned the other, rising, "if thou art satisfied to have one like that remaining in thy house, the Swâmi must know of it, and there will be a fine, and shame will come to thee among the council. If she be a widow, let her be treated as widows should be. If——"
"If I am a Moorlee of the goddess, as ye call me," said Tara, interposing, "I am already shameless in your eyes, and no widow: let me go. No Moorlee is asked what she does, or what she wears. The Mother will not have those near her who are disfigured, and I cannot break the vow I have made to her; she would destroy me."
Panting and excited, flushed with the desperation of her speech, Tara stood erect, with her eyes flashing, her glowing beauty exciting the involuntary admiration of the men, and the virulent hatred of the woman who sat with them.
"See, brother!" cried Pudma Bye, "look at the witch—look at her glowing eyes. It was by these shameless eyes that she won men's hearts at Tooljapoor. Beware! beware of yourselves, lest ye too fall! Ah!" she continued with a scream, "put her away—kill her; but let her not go—Brahmun as she is—to the cow-slayers!"
"Peace," said her brother; "why this spite, Pudma? what hath she done to thee? Peace, and begone to the inner rooms. Begone!" he cried in a louder tone, and stamping his foot, "begone! Dost thou not hear?"
"I hear," she replied doggedly; "but I will not go, unless the Shastree bid me. Choose now between us: send me out of thy house to thy shame, and keep her, to thy worse shame; or send her away. There can be no compromise between good and evil, shame and dishonour."
"She speaks truly, friend," said the Shastree mildly. "It must be done. How do we know she is a priestess?"
Tara had not entirely lost the presence of mind which she naturally possessed, though she found it failing rapidly. "Put me to the proof," she said quickly,—"the proof. If there be a temple of the Mother's here, let me sit in it before her a night and a day—haply she may come to her child, as she did at Tooljapoor. Ye can watch me too, there. If she come not—then she hath abandoned me, and ye can kill me if ye please, sirs; better ye did so, for I am indeed friendless."
"Not so," cried the widow; "thou hast friends, Tara, many and powerful—myself the greatest of all; but—not as thou art. Choose!"
"I have chosen, lady," said the girl sadly. "Take me to the temple now—even now,—and leave me there. A vessel of water is enough, and a woman to watch me at night, if ye will not watch yourselves. I have already eaten, and want no food. I would go to the Mother."
"It is some device, brother," said Pudma suspiciously; "some device to fly, to escape, or——"
He smiled and shook his head. "It requires a braver heart than a girl's to face the mountain-paths alone at night among the bears and the panthers, sister, and nought but a bird could escape down the precipices. Why these unjust suspicions? Art thou ready, Tara? If so, follow me, and thou too, Shastree; we will settle this matter at once. There is no one now in the Rajah's temple. He has already paid his devotions, and is preparing to meet the Khan. Come, the ordinary priests are there, and there is no fear of her. Come, Tara, fear not. If thou art true, the Mother will defend thee. Dost thou trust her, girl?"
"Take me to her," she replied. "I have no refuge but with her. I am ready." Then she turned to embrace Amba Bye, who now entered sobbing, and fell upon her neck.
"I will come to thee by-and-by," she whispered. "It is but a step, and I will watch with thee at night. I have a vow to pay to the Mother. Go with my husband."
We know the place already. It was where Sivaji's mother had sat. A few words to the attendant priest by Govind Rao and the Shastree, explained the ordeal to which Tara had voluntarily subjected herself, and she was permitted to approach the shrine and make her obeisance and offerings. They watched her, and saw that she did her office as one used to the duty; and when it was finished, she went before the shrine, sat down, and began to chant the morning hymn of the goddess in low and sweet tones, rocking herself to and fro.
"There can be no doubt of this, Shastree," said Govind Rao,—"she is what she tells us."
"She may be," he replied, "but till the goddess comes into her and speaks by her mouth, she may not be fully believed. Let us leave her," and they went.
Tara grew absorbed in her devotion: she noticed no one. By-and-by a gun was fired from a tower near her, and four others followed. Then a pause ensued, and the priest fed the lamps with fresh oil, tinkled the bell on the shrine, and poured libations to the image, renewing these ceremonies with much earnestness. Tara scarcely noticed them, for though it was broad noonday without, it was dusk within the closed vestibule. By-and-by a girl, bearing a tray of lighted lamps, and garlands of flowers, entered, but so that her face could not be seen, and, delivering some to the priest, began a ceremony herself, which was strangely familiar; and as Tara turned her head for an instant, she saw that it was Gunga, and that she herself was recognized.
Gunga clapped her hands with joy. "At last," she cried excitedly, "at last! See, I am worshipping for the victory which he has gained by this time. Hush! thou wilt see Zyna here presently. Moro will bring her captive; then there will be three with him—I, and thou, and she. Ha, ha, ha! a merry three, girl. Dost thou hear, O Tara?" But some strange chill had struck at Tara's heart, and, sinking down on the floor, for a time she was insensible.
[CHAPTER LXXX.]
Gunga's appearance is easily explained. On his arrival at Pertâbgurh Moro Trimmul had been sent to bring up some of the Rajah's Hetkurees from the Concan, the tract below the mountains next the sea, and he had besought the post of honour in the ensuing attack upon the Mussulman camp, which had been granted to him.
In this he had two motives: the one, personal distinction, and the desire of retaliation for Tooljapoor, which was shared commonly with all Brahmuns; and, secondly, and probably most urgent, the desire of revenge upon Fazil Khan, and, if possible, the capture of his sister and family. That either Afzool Khan or his son would survive the fight, he did not think possible, or if they escaped death, and were captured, that they would be spared.
Of the Rajah's intentions in regard to the Khan, he had no idea; and when Maloosray and Palkur were with their prince on the night preceding the Khan's visit to the fort, Moro Trimmul was in company with his own men, placing them in positions in the woods, ready to obey the signal which had been communicated to him. Gunga, therefore, had been sent on to the fort under charge of his servants, and directed not only to have the house swept and prepared, but, as the guns were fired from the fort, to offer sacrifice for him in the temple, and await his coming.
"Dost thou know her?" asked the Brahmun priest of Gunga, when he heard her speak to Tara, and observed the effect of her address.
"Know her?—Yes, Maharaj," returned Gunga, "she is a Moorlee of the temple at Tooljapoor, and I am another,—that's why I know her."
"It is curious," said the man, musing. "There, raise her up till my wife comes; we have had charge of her given to us, and she is to watch here to see if the Mother comes to her to prove herself what she says she is. Did she ever prophesy?"
"The Mother came to her once," replied Gunga, "when she was made a Moorlee; but I never saw her come afterwards. If she would be a true priestess, she perhaps would come; but she is only half a one at heart, and that's why trouble follows her."
"What trouble?" asked the priest.
"O, her father and mother are dead, killed in the fight at Tooljapoor, and she is here, among strangers, with no one to help her; is not that trouble enough, Maharaj?" replied the girl. "And she is so beautiful, too; they say she is a witch, and steals men's hearts, and throws them away; but I don't know that she is—she is only beautiful—look at her."
"Ah, that's the worst I have heard yet," said the man, musing.
"Yes, but she is pure, quite pure, sir," returned Gunga earnestly, "not like me and the rest of us; and we envied her, and I hated her; but I don't hate her now, and when she wakes I will tell her so. Tara, Tara! wake! She is not dead, sir, is she?" continued the girl dreamily, pushing away Tara's hair from her face, and looking into her eyes: "she does not answer me. O, speak to her!"
"No, she is alive," replied the Brahmun, feeling her hand and forehead. "Wait, I will bring some water."
"Would she were dead—dead ere he came," Gunga muttered to herself. "He will not spare her now—ah me! not now: and in the heat and confusion of victory, who will care for her? All those she loved last, too, are dead—all gone—and that fair boy with the rest! Ah me, better she died! Tara, drink! here is water!"
A woman came with a brass vessel full, and helped Gunga to raise her up, while she poured some into her mouth, and sprinkled her face gently. They saw Tara heave a great sigh; and presently, as the woman fanned her with the end of her garment, she awoke and looked dreamily around her—first to the woman, then to Gunga, against whom she was reclining. Her first impulse was to rise, but in the attempt she sank down again, and buried her face in her hands.
"Why art thou here?" she cried piteously. "O Gunga, go? leave me." She did not yet comprehend what had been said of victory, for she made no allusion to it.
"No, Tara, not now," said the girl—"not now. I will tell thee why. Go," she continued to the woman. "You are kind. Go now. I have that to say to my sister which no one must hear. Go! We are priestesses, and will serve the Mother in our own fashion. But if I need shelter for her, wilt thou give it?"
"Ah," replied the dame, "we are poor people, and can do little; but the Máhá Ranee is kind and just—I will speak to her."
"True," replied Gunga absently; "if needs be, I will come to thee again—now, go. Tara!" she continued, stretching out her hands to her imploringly when the woman had gone out—"O Tara, look up! look up, and see if I be like what I was;—cast me not away now, for we are both in the like misery! O Mother!" she cried to the image on the altar, "bid her speak to me, ere it be too late;—bid her trust to me, and save herself! Tara, behold I kiss your feet; trust me now, as I swear on them not to fail you. No, no, never, never more—never more, except in death. See what I do!"
She arose, went to the shrine, and prostrated herself before it on her face, so that her hands embraced the feet of the image. "O, kill me, Mother—O, kill me, Mother!" Tara heard her cry, in a passionate burst of weeping; "kill me, if thou wilt, for touching thee, who am not worthy; but hear me, and help me to save Tara. She is thy child. O, let me save her for thee. I will,—I will, if thou wilt bid her trust me, for I am not lying now. I am true to thee and to her!"
The words were almost inarticulate, and gasped or sobbed, rather than spoken. They fell strangely on Tara's ears as Gunga still moaned rather than spoke. "Mother—O Mother, I am true, I am not lying; bid her trust me! bid her trust me!"
It was impossible to resist them. Tara rose and went across the vestibule to her. "Gunga," she said, "get up, I am here: what wouldst thou of me?"
The girl arose, put away the dishevelled hair from her face, and again bowed before Tara, embracing her knees. She was not repulsed this time. The priest had watched the scene wonderingly—he could not understand it. Tara was standing beside the door of the shrine, the light from within streaming out upon her. Her slight figure was drawn up to its full height, and her beautiful features were calm—almost sublime in their expression. Lying at her feet, and clasping them, was the other girl, still moaning in apparent agony.
"She hath done some terrible crime," thought the Brahmun, "and the other will intercede for her."
"O Tara—O Tara," cried Gunga piteously, "I dare not look up to thee now; all my shame is rushing back into my heart; my words and my touch are alike pollution to thee! O Tara, I dare not ask forgiveness—I who have wronged thee so foully. Speak, for time passes quickly, and they will be here—wilt thou trust me now? O Mother, Mother! what can I do? what can I say to make her trust me—to make her forgive me?"
"Look up, Gunga," said Tara, sitting down, and gently parting the hair on the girl's forehead, "what hast thou done? It was he, not thou; see, I forgive thee freely."
"O yes, it was he, not I," she cried,—"I resisted, and he used to beat me. Yes, he beat me cruelly only yesterday, when he left me, and then it came into my heart to save thee! Yes, the Mother told me—I know it now—to come here, and I have found thee. Listen!" she continued, rising, and looking hurriedly about her. "There is no one near—all are gone. Come! come! we are not seen;—come at once,—do not delay: we can escape during the confusion. Hark! they are fighting below—come! I tell thee the tigers and the bears on the mountain, are better for me and thee than they. Dost thou not hear?"
"It is the men firing for the Khan's arrival," said Tara gently; "there is no fighting. Who should fight?"
"Ah no," cried Gunga, "they are attacked,—the Khan is already killed. I heard it as I came in—they are all dead or dying. O Tara, I tell thee that no one will escape,—no, not one. Hark! the din increases, and thou art here: alas! alas! O Mother! tell it to her," she exclaimed, with passionate gesticulation, to the senseless image before them—"tell it to her—she will not believe me—Tara, dost thou not hear?"
Just then, an eddy, perhaps, of the mountain-wind, brought up to them from the deep valley below, a hoarse, confused din of shouts, shots, and conflict. It could not be mistaken. Tara had heard it once at Tooljapoor, but this was far more tremendous.
"Come!" again shrieked Gunga, seizing her arm, and dragging her away—"come! It is our last chance for life—do not throw it away. We can get out and hide among the bushes; and I will never leave thee, Tara, never."
But she spoke to one now wellnigh bereft of sense. The Khan killed, the rest attacked, and the fierce turmoil of the fight coming up stronger and stronger, till the fretted roof of the temple seemed filled with the sound, overpowered Tara; for at last, the hideous truth seemed to flash upon her, as she sat down and buried her face in her lap in an attitude of mute despair; but Gunga would not let her rest.
"Ah, I am believed now," she cried wildly: "listen! Moro Trimmul, with thousands upon thousands, has attacked the camp, and he swore to me to bring the Khan's wife and daughter hither. O Tara! will he spare them? He swore he would not, and he beat me when I pleaded for them. Look! here are bruises on me. I tell thee he will not spare them or you. Come!"
"I will die here,—I will not go from the Mother, Gunga," replied Tara. "I am her child now—only hers: let her do with me as she wills, I will not go. Save thyself, care not for me," and she arose and prostrated herself before the shrine. "O Mother," she cried piteously, "I will not leave thee again. Death or life, what matters it to me? let it be as thou wilt. I have promised not to leave thee, and I am here waiting." Then rising, she seated herself as she was used to do before the shrine, and spoke no more.
"I can at least die with thee, Tara; I will not leave thee," said Gunga. "Whatever comes, let it come to us both; I am as ready to die as thou art—I will not go."
They sat there long. The sun declined, and the evening was drawing in. Once only Gunga had gone out to see whether she could gain any intelligence, and had returned saying the doors of the temple enclosure were shut. The Brahmun priest had disappeared like the rest, but there were shouts as if of victory which rung through the building in bursts, evidently growing nearer. Tara seemed not to hear them. It might be that utter despair possessed her, or, as Gunga hoped, that some manifestation of the goddess was about to take place. She scarcely moved now, but when the shouts grew louder she shuddered, and drew the end of her garment more closely around her as if she were cold.
It was thus that the Máhá Ranee, Sivaji's mother, found her and Gunga as she entered with her attendants for the evening prayer and worship, and to give thanks for the victory.
As the lady had approached the temple, the attendant priest told her of Tara, and why she had been left there by the Shastree and Govind Rao, and the tale had excited her curiosity, if not her compassion.
"She is sitting there before the Mother," he said, "and does not speak. Perhaps she will answer you, lady, but it seems as though a fit were coming on her. I will tell her at least that you have come," and, stepping forward, he advanced to Tara and whispered in her ear.
The Máhá Ranee followed, and paused as she entered the vestibule. The light shone full upon Tara, and her expression of deep misery could not be mistaken. Long afterwards, the first sight of that pale, wan, despairing face recurred to the lady with pain, and she never forgot the look of hopeless grief which Tara had first turned upon her.
"There is no inspiration in that face," said the lady to the priest,—"none. It seems to me the Mother hath forsaken her. Of what is she accused?"
"She was taken from the Mussulman chief, we hear," said the Brahmun, "and was to have become a Mussulmani. They say, too, she is a sorceress, and does evil with her eyes; but Govind Rao placed her here, and knows about her."
"I fear her not," cried the Ranee, with flashing eyes. "Who is she, that she dare sit in my presence? Put her out! Away with thee, wench!" she continued to Tara, "get thee hence! If thou art forsworn, begone! The Mother hath drunk blood to-day, and will not spare thee! Take her away, Bheemee—she is an offence to us."
"Get up, girl," said Bheemee roughly, as she advanced, followed by several other women—"get up; dost thou not hear? else we will cast thee out."
Gunga came forward boldly. "Do not touch or hurt her," she said: "I fear she is not now in her right mind. If I may take her, I will look after her. Get up, Tara," she whispered in her ear: "come, we will go and hide ourselves. Come, for thy life, come!" and she tried to lift her up and drag her away.
But Tara could not rise; her limbs seemed paralysed by grief or terror, and she did not evidently understand what had occurred. Not noticing the Máhá Ranee, she disengaged herself from Gunga, and once more stretched out her arms to the shrine before her, and cried in piteous tones which affected many around her to tears, "O Mother, I will not leave thee: do with me as thou wilt, even to death!" and so lay moaning.
"Send for Govind Rao and Wittul Shastree, lady," said the old Brahmun priest, who was sobbing and wiping his eyes: "they know of her, and you will hear about her from them."
"Good," replied the Ranee, already softened, "let them be brought instantly,—they are without. We will await their coming."
Some little time elapsed, and others assembled. No one knew what was going to happen. After a while Tara seemed to regain sense and to remember why she was there, for she sat up, and they saw her lips moving as if in prayer. As the trumpets sounded the setting of the first watch at sunset, and the great kettle-drums and pipes played the evening music in the Nobut Khana above the gate, the Brahmun priests entered with the usual offerings, and began to chant one of the evening hymns of praise, as they moved round the shrine in time with the faint clash of the silver cymbals, which one of them carried. Then, timidly and faintly at first, but increasing in power as she sang, Tara joined the chant. It was an emotion which she could not restrain, and which not even the sense of desolation and dull misery which had overwhelmed her, could repress. She was unconscious of the effect it produced upon those who listened to her, as her full rich voice rose above the hoarse and unmusical chant of the priests; but as it gradually ceased, and the sound died away in the recesses of the temple, it affected many of those who heard it to tears, and was never forgotten.
"No wonder," said the Ranee, who had listened to the hymn with emotion which she hardly chose to acknowledge,—"no wonder they say she is a sorceress. See, she has no fear—no perception of what is to happen, or who are around her. That is not natural; it is magic, and may not be looked upon."
"Lady," said Wittul Shastree, who, with Govind Rao and the other Brahmuns, now approached her, "we attend you; what are your commands?"
"We doubt the girl yonder, and they tell us she is dangerous, and a sorceress; we would have her removed ere we render sacrifice for victory," she replied; "but the priests tell us she is there by your order. Is it so?"
"By her own will," said the Shastree; "not our orders. We would have made her over to the council for chastisement and discipline, because, as a priestess of Kalee, she hath been residing among the Moslems; but she claimed ordeal and sanctuary with the goddess, and we sent her here. Has any vision appeared to her?" he asked of the attendant priest.
"None," replied the man. "They have been talking together, she and the girl beside her, who wanted her to get up and go away; but she has not stirred since the five guns were fired, and she was told of the victory."
"I will ask her again what she wishes, lady," said Govind Rao, "but better than I, Moro Trimmul should do it, who, we hear, has married his sister to her father. He, too, is without with the Rajah; they have just come up into the fort."
"Let him be called," replied the lady, "and keep out other strangers. Be ye all seated, sirs," she continued to the Brahmuns who had accompanied the Shastree, "while this inquiry lasts."
[CHAPTER LXXXI.]
The inner part of the vestibule was not large,—a square room, supported upon massive stone pillars at the corners, with a slightly raised dais all round; and as the Brahmuns entered and took their seats, Tara could not avoid noticing them, and appeared more conscious of surrounding occurrences than before. Thinking she would rise, Gunga approached to assist her, but Tara motioned her away. "My time is not yet come," she said; "I will not go;" and again she drew her garment about her, and resumed her silent position.
But not for long. There was a sudden movement among those without, and a way was cleared for one who came in rapidly.
"Who wants me here?" cried a strong manly voice, apparently hoarse from shouting. "A girl! what girl? Let me pass."
As he strode in through the men who were sitting behind, Tara turned her head, and suddenly beheld her enemy.
She rose at once, excited and defiant, so noble in her manner, so expressive in her abhorrence, that Moro Trimmul shrank back a step, abashed.
"Begone!" she cried, stamping her foot. "There is the Mother; not a second time shalt thou take me from her. My fathers," she cried, appealing to all around, "he would twice have dishonoured me, and I have been saved. Now I am under your protection, O, give me not to him! Take me to the mother of the Rajah; she will protect me."
"She is here," said the Shastree, stepping forward; "and thy fate shall be decided before her. Fear not, daughter."
"Friends," said Moro Trimmul, looking round, "have care for my honour! Twice have I rescued her from shame. Once when she was escaping from Tooljapoor; once in separating her from those who have been slain. Give her to me, for her shame to be hidden away for ever."
"I will not go; I will not go!" cried Tara, entering the door of the shrine, and clasping the feet of the image. "Kill me if ye will, here,—I am ready; but I will not go with him."
"I claim them both, sirs," cried Moro Trimmul passionately; "her, and her sister Moorlee yonder. Beware, all of ye, how ye interfere with the family honour of a respectable man. I will brook it from no one, not even from Sivaji Bhóslay himself! Have I won a victory to-day at the Mother's command, and am I to be disgraced and humbled before her, by a deranged girl and doting priests, ere it is closed? Come forth, Tara!" he called, in a hoarse voice—"come forth, else I will tear thee thence. Away with her," he cried to two of his attendants, who had seized Gunga, and were holding her fast—"away with her to my house, and bind her there; I will bring the other. Now, friends, beware who stays me, for, by the gods, he dies, be he who he may!" and he drew his sword, and was advancing, when the Shastree stepped before him.
"Madman," he cried, stretching forth his hands; "forbear! put up thy weapon,—no one here dreads it. We are Brahmuns, as thou art! Fear not," he continued to Tara, who had stood up also by the altar, and was trembling violently, but not with terror. "Fear not; thou art under the protection of the council, and he dare not interfere with thee."
"Fool and dotard," exclaimed Moro Trimmul under his breath, and from between his clenched teeth, "I will settle with thee for this, one day yet. As ye will, sirs," he continued bitterly, looking round and panting as he dropped his sword's point. "My honour is in the hands of a priest's council at last, not in my own keeping, and I am helpless; but hasten what ye have to do, for I will not leave ye till ye have decided in regard to her. Look at her—harlot and witch, sorceress and devil—who hath already destroyed men's souls,—will ye believe the Mother protects such as she is?"
"Let it be so," said the Shastree. "Tara, art thou willing to abide the night, as the issue of the ordeal suggested by thyself, to wait her coming? If so, we will stay here with thee."
"Mother," she said in a low voice, turning to the altar, and joining her hands in supplication before the image—"Mother, if I am thy child, tell me what to say to them; or, if thou wilt, let me be another sacrifice to thee, and it will be well. Mother,—O Toolja Máta! dost thou hear?—Tara is ready before thee—ready to come!"
Low as the words were spoken, they were heard by all; and remembering the events of the day, and believing in the power of the goddess, it was expected the girl would fall and die where she was, on the solemn invocation; but it was not so. For a few moments she stood gazing intently at the image, without altering her position of supplication; then she smiled, her hands dropped, and she turned at once and faced the assembly. Not even in her first office as priestess had her beauty been more glorious—the expression of her features more sublime.
"O priests and elders," she said calmly and simply, in her sweet musical voice, "hear my last words: I am an orphan and a widow, I have no one left on earth to protect me,—not one. To be in danger of that man's evil designs, is to die, hourly. Did he succeed as he has tried, it would be to live in shame; now I can die in purity. The Mother calls me; she will not come to me, though I have asked her. She is far from me, yet she beckons to me; look, there!" and she stretched forth her hand to the roof—"she calls me, and I come, pure, and purified by fire. Now listen, all ye Brahmuns; I am true and pure, and I am sutee henceforth. When ye will, and where ye will, I am sutee; and on his head be curses, and the vengeance of Kalee, who forbids it. Let me die in the fire, and I am happy! What she puts into my mouth, I say to you truly. Let no one forbid it."
No one spoke, no one answered. The people before her rose as one man. Many trembled, some wept, and women screamed aloud; but Tara stood there unmoved, her bosom heaving rapidly, and the glowing beauty and rapture of her face unchanged.
"Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja Máta!" exclaimed the Shastree; "let it be as she says, brothers. Henceforth she is sutee, and we accept the sacrifice, for the Mother hath said it by her lips. Ah, the ordeal is fulfilled indeed, and to the honour of her votary! Fear not," he said, "daughter: by this act is thy husband delivered from hell; and all thou hast suffered in this life is sanctified unto thee. Bring flowers, bring garlands," he cried to the people; "crown her here at the altar, and let her be worshipped."
"Tara, Tara!" cried a husky voice close to her, entreatingly; "Tara, what hast thou done? Art thou mad? O girl, why hast thou doomed thyself? Come, there is yet time: come with me!"
"Begone!" cried the girl, interrupting him; "I spurn thee, Moro Trimmul, before all these elders: false and cruel as thou art, I am at last beyond thy reach!"
"Come away, Moro," said Maloosray roughly, who had just entered, and dragged him backwards with one hand, while he seized his sword and wrested it from him with the other; "art thou a child? dost thou fight with priests and women? Come with me; the Rajah calls thee." The Brahmun struggled to be free, but Tannajee's powerful arms were about him, in which he was borne away, helpless to resist.
Not in her first admission to the office she had held, not in the holiest of ceremonies at which she had before assisted, was greater honour ever done to Tara than now. Bedecked with garlands, with incense burnt before her, the priests present formed themselves into a procession, and, chanting hymns of praise, led her round and round the shrine. The temple court and its precincts were now filled with people, who took up the shouts of victory—"Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja Máta!" and as she passed onwards, throwing handfuls of flowers among them, all who could reach her, touched her garments reverently, or prostrated themselves before her, with frantic cries for blessings. And so they led her on.
How many sweet memories crowded into Tara's mind now, and urged her on. There was no fear, no irresolution—father, mother, Zyna, Fazil—all dead, as she thought, and a fierce and ruthless enemy persecuting her to the last. All she could think on was, that she was free, that no one could harm her now. Had they then led her to death, she would have gone, singing the hymns triumphantly.
Late that night Moro Trimmul returned to his place of residence. Long before, when Sivaji's power was in its infancy, and the young men had taken possession of the mountain-built fort, and led their bands forth to plunder and destroy the Mahomedan villages around, Moro Trimmul had fitted up a hollow bastion on one of the angles of the precipice—in which the builder had left a small room and anteroom—as his place of shelter. The inside was rudely plastered with clay; and a sleeping-place, also of clay, had been raised from the floor, on which was placed a mattress and pillow. In the face of the bastion a small oriel window had been built, which had a balcony projecting from the wall, large enough for two people to sit in. Seated there, you looked down a dizzy depth upon the forest below; but on all sides the precipices, the woods, and their deep glens, and the varied mountains beyond, formed a combination of glorious beauty, which there, above all other places in the mountain fortress, was most deeply felt.
Thither had Gunga been taken by the Brahmun's servants on the morning of the battle. He had charged them to have the place swept and newly plastered with clay, and Gunga, with having it done as he wished. On its completion, she had gone into the temple to worship for him in the exercise of her vocation, as the signal was to be given, which they all told her of. She knew of his design. He had charged her to watch Tara, and, if she saw her, to give him information of her actions. He had told her that he should bring Fazil's sister to the fort, for he felt sure she could not escape him. Herself, Zyna, and Tara should be confronted at last. How long should the latter elude him? For the Khan, Gunga cared nothing; for Zyna and Fazil as little—they were Mussulmans, and must perish,—but for Tara!
Ah yes, strange indeed, perhaps, yet not unnatural, had been the revulsion. The jealousy which had urged Gunga to hate the girl, and assist in plots for her ruin, had strangely altered to love. Twice had Moro Trimmul been foiled; twice he had fallen savagely upon her, and beaten her cruelly. We know when he did when Tara was last rescued, and how Gunga, relenting, had not then abandoned him. But it had not ended there. The fierce rage of disappointment had broken out again and again, and he had vented it upon her brutally. She had borne this patiently at the time; but she had now sworn to herself, in the temple of the goddess at Wye, not only to lend herself no more to Moro Trimmul's design, but had formed the resolution to assist Tara to escape—to carry her off by mountain paths; and she knew that if they could once enter the forest near the fort, they were safe.
Day by day, as these thoughts passed through Gunga's mind, the love for Tara grew stronger, till it became an absorbing passion. Would she but trust her—would she but believe her—they might yet again see their beloved Tooljapoor, and she would work out her forgiveness by devotion. It was not too late, she thought: but....
We have already told how she met her in the temple: but it is impossible to describe her despair at her failure to induce Tara to escape, or when the man she dreaded, bid his servants seize and bind her. If she could have remained with Tara—only near her....
Alas! it was too late now. She had scarcely been carried, shrieking, from the temple, by the servants of Moro Trimmul, when another man followed, and said Tara had become a Sutee, and was to be burnt next day beside the tank in the fort. Then Gunga felt the heroism of the girl's resolution. At least Moro Trimmul could not injure her; she would soon be beyond reach of his persecution. It was well—yes, it was well. She could at least see her die; and then?...
The desire of death sat hard at her heart. At first she shuddered at it; but once it had entered, it abode there and grew stronger. If Moro Trimmul cast her off now, it would be but to be haunted by the memory of the girl she had wronged so cruelly, and the love for whom, and the despair of whose forgiveness, had pursued her night and day—night and day: but it seemed to have reached her at last. "Yes, she touched me kindly," she said to herself; "she parted the hair from my face as a sister would have done: ere she spoke to me she forgave me: and I will see her die, decked in flowers, as a holy and pure sacrifice. I will worship her as she goes to death, and then I will follow her. O Tara, there, not here, I may be forgiven before the Mother."
Moro Trimmul's servants had taken Gunga, and literally obeyed the orders they had received; bound her with one of her own garments, lest she should do herself or them injury, and laid her gently upon the couch in the inner room. How long she had lain there she had no idea; but, as the time passed, it only confirmed her resolution. She would die, no matter how. There was nothing definite in her mind, but that she would die: a dull despair blunting every faculty—a reality of determination before which her very senses seemed to refuse office.
She heard Moro Trimmul ask without where she was, and the servant answered that she was within, lying on the couch. A small lamp had been lighted and placed in a niche; and as he entered and stood over her, she feigned sleep. She felt him unfasten the bandage round her arms, and then he dragged her roughly to her feet.
"Devil!" he cried, "this is thy doing, and she is gone. Lost! O Tara, how beautiful thou wast in living death!" he continued, apostrophizing her, "speaking thy own death-sentence—as I listened, I could have died for thee."
"Thou art a coward, Moro Trimmul," cried the girl, scornfully and desperately; "thou darest neither die thyself, nor kill me. Thou die with Tara? she would spit at thee, as I do."
He struck her brutally to the ground with his clenched hand. "Lie there, witch! devil!" he cried. "Thou hast been the cause of all this; alone, I could have done it. Thou and she are one now, else why didst thou not decoy her here? Did I not tell thee to do so? Speak!" and he pushed her with his foot as she lay.
She arose. "Moro Trimmul," she said calmly, but with desperation in her voice, "may the Mother forgive me what I have done with thee against Tara; that is all I pray now. Between me and thee all is ended, long since. Let me go. I will serve thee no longer, I spit at thee and defy thee; and in the Rajah's court, before every image of Kalee in the Dekhan, if I live, I will sing thy shame and her honour. Let me go out!"
She saw him set his teeth, as his eyes flashed with a wicked glare, draw a knife from his waist-band, and spring at her. The glitter of that knife was the last thing, perhaps, of which she was conscious, except that she seized the hand that held it, instinctively, and then came a struggle for life. But only a brief one. A weak girl, before a powerful man, could not endure long,—sickened, too, as she was by his previous blow. Back—back, he forced her to the window, which was open; on the little balcony without, they swayed to and fro fearfully for a moment; but he wrenched his hand free by a desperate effort, and, striking her one heavy blow with the knife, where he knew not,—as the body dropped heavily in his arms, he pushed it forth into the dark air. He did not hear it fall, though he listened; but in the morning, the vultures, which lived on pinnacles of the precipices, were seen descending in hundreds to their hideous feast below.
[CHAPTER LXXXII.]
Fazil Khan had followed the progress of his father up the mountain-side with intense interest. The little pavilion on the knoll, the group of Brahmuns already there, and the open and nearly level spot which had been selected as the place of meeting, were distinctly visible from where he stood with Bulwunt Rao, and a few other of his trusty associates and retainers. Around, the horsemen—now mostly dismounted—were dispersed in picturesque groups, talking together or lying lazily upon the soft sward holding their horses' bridles, and shading their eyes from the sun.
In the town through which his father had gone, there appeared no stir. A few men were lounging about the gate, and upon the bastion near it, and thus were looking out upon the Moslem horsemen apparently in idle curiosity. The gate was open, and the townspeople, and women with jars of water on their heads, were passing to and fro unconcernedly as usual. There was nothing to excite suspicion or apprehension, except in the mode of reception of his father, and the strange, unusual proposition, that the first interview should be on the mountain-side, and alone; but Bulwunt Rao had explained this characteristically, and with a fair show of reason, and Fazil, though uneasy, was obliged to be content: there was no remedy now.
So the Khan's progress in his palankeen had been watched with intense anxiety as he ascended the rugged pathway. At times the bearers could be seen, and the priest holding the side of the litter to help himself along: again the thick foliage, and turns in the road, hid them from view. At length Fazil saw the Brahmuns on the knoll rise and advance a few steps, and the palankeen emerge upon the open space, where it was set down; and his father got out, adjusted his turban and shawl, and stood with the rest. Then the bearers and the priest moved a little aside; and as the two men from above appeared, his father advanced to meet them, and embraced one.
It was but for a moment, and the fatal result was at once apparent. With a cry of horror, which aroused many around him who had not been watching the proceedings above, Fazil saw his father reel and fall, rise again, as his sword flashed in the air, and with the Peer maintain the unequal combat we have already described. No sound reached those below; they could only see the flashing of the weapons in the sun, and the struggle of the combatants. Involuntarily, Fazil urged on his horse. Alas! of what avail now? Others had been watching as well as he; and the blast of the horn, which rose shrill and quivering as the Khan fell, was answered by volleys of matchlock shots from the woods around. The gates of the town were shut, and the walls and bastions manned as thickly as men could stand on then, whose fire on the horsemen below was hot and deadly.
The effect of the surprise upon the helpless cavaliers need not be detailed. Panic-stricken, and hemmed in on every side, they rode hither and thither, vainly seeking places of egress through the woods, or by the way they came, and were shot down in scores either where they stood, or as they gathered in groups and charged hither and thither in the vain attempt to reach a foe. Among these, Fazil Khan, with Bulwunt Rao and some others, had kept together; and, in the emergency, Bulwunt's clear perception, not only of the danger, but the best means of extrication from it, saved his young master. On the first perception of his father's fate, Fazil had seen that it was impossible to give help. The town and its walls stood between him and the ascent to the fort, and were utterly impassable. His next idea, in his grief and desperation, was to die with his men as martyrs to the faith; and he was about to dismount, and take his chance on foot, when Bulwunt stopped him.
"No, Meah," he cried, "not while there is hope. They who will be helpless indeed without you, will need you yonder in camp. If it must be, I will die with you, but not now. Follow me, and we will soon join them."
Well was it for Fazil Khan that in his retainer he possessed equally, a devoted friend and one who had known the country as a youth. In his recent visit to the fort, Bulwunt Rao had explored some of his old haunts. One pathway, lying near that by which they had come, was hardly visible from the plain, but if it could be gained, it opened out afterwards into a long glade, which joined the main-road below. It might be guarded, and they could but fight their way through it or fall. Certainly it was better than the way they had come, before which, from the deadly fire maintained there, the horsemen had already fallen in a heap.
"Look," continued Bulwunt Rao, pointing to the entrance to the main-road, "there is no hope there. They have been at their old trick of felling trees across it, and no horse can pass. The Abyssinians have fallen in a heap, and if we try, we shall but follow them. We need not be martyrs yet, Meah," he laughed cheerfully. "Now, set your teeth, my sons," he continued to the men around, "and follow me. We may not all get through; but, Bismilla! come, and let God take whom he pleases."
There might have been fifty men; and others, as many more perhaps,—as they saw these ride together in a desperate race in one direction,—joined them. Bulwunt Rao and Fazil were leading; and as they approached what seemed a portion of impervious wood, Fazil's heart failed him for a moment. "You are wrong, Bulwunt Rao," he cried. "We cannot get through this—let us turn."
"Madman!" exclaimed the other, seizing the bridle of his horse. "By your mother and sister, I swear I am right! Follow me, my children," he shouted, looking back, while he again urged his horse to its utmost speed; "we are near now."
He was right. A portion of the jungle jutted out beyond the rest, and made a slight shoulder, as it were, behind which was the path. As they turned round the corner, they saw a body of foot-soldiers drawn up across it; but ere these could raise their matchlocks to fire, the impetuous horsemen were among them, trampling some down, and hewing fiercely at others with their long Spanish swords.[19] The attack was irresistible, and, the first line of men forced, they encountered no others. Straggling shots were fired at them from the sides of the mountain, but without effect; and after riding nearly a mile down the glade at the same speed, the pathway turned into the main-road, and they heard the din of the fight die away behind them. Of the fifteen hundred gallant cavaliers who had ridden that morning from the camp at Jowly, they were the only survivors.
While Nettajee Palkur was finishing his bloody work on those who remained after Fazil Khan's escape, by closing up the pathway, and attacking from all sides at once, such of the horsemen as remained in the field,—Moro Trimmul was busy with his part of the general slaughter; and as the fugitives rode on, the din of the fight behind growing fainter as they proceeded, they were met by that of the greater work in front,—more furious, and more terrible.
Yet they pressed on, until, reaching a rising-ground which overlooked the field, they could see it all in its hideous reality. The Mahrattas had seized the Beejapoor guns, and that point of defence no longer remained to the Mahomedans. Thousands of the enemy's footmen, in compact masses, were charging disordered groups of men huddled together, who made a vain resistance. Great numbers of horses were careering madly about, but, for the most part, the troop-horses were still at their pickets, and were now protected by the Mahrattas. It was evident that the surprise had been as complete and irretrievable as at the fort.
Casting his eyes round this field, in sickening apprehension—indeed, in almost hopeless despair—the young Khan looked towards the tents where he had left his sister and Lurlee. The tents were standing, but the outer enclosure walls were thrown down, and a crowd of followers and soldiers were apparently struggling together in the plunder of what they contained. The place was apart from the field itself, and Fazil pointed to it; he could not speak.
The men with him had had no time for thought. From the moment the Khan had died at Pertâbgurh till they drew rein on the eminence over the camp, they had ridden for life. But the worst was now evident; and what they had hoped to find, was gone. The conviction that all their companions,—those whom they had loved in life, were dead, at once fell upon their hearts; and Bulwunt Rao, and many another rough veteran, burst into passionate weeping.
Fazil appeared calm, but it was the calm of desperation and of misery. "Why do you weep, friends?" he said. "They are all dead; why should we live? Death is better than dishonour! Come and see—Bismilla!"—and he turned his horse's head in the direction of the tents.
None thought of the risk. "Bismilla!" shouted the men, as, with teeth hard set for a last struggle in life, they rode a mad race to their old camp. Near it they passed many a familiar face lying upturned to the sun; and, hewing their way through a crowd of plunderers which were upon the area that had been covered by the Khan's tents, Fazil saw that their walls were torn down, and that no one remained; and in the bed of the rivulet which, lying low, screened them from observation, they drew rein. In his misery Fazil would have dismounted, and again sought death on foot, but Bulwunt Rao saw the intention, and prevented it, as he had done before.
"No, no, Meah," he said roughly; "you are our master now; and as the gods have enabled me to save you once to-day, so we will all try again. If they you sought have been taken, they are in honourable safety with the Rajah: if they are dead, there is no help but in submission to God's will."
A shout from several of the men caused Fazil to look round. He saw some persons running towards the party who had emerged from the thick jungle on the other side of the stream. They were grooms who had hidden themselves.
One of them clasped Fazil's knees. "They are safe," he cried; "Meah, they are gone this way with the hunchback and Ashruf, who would not let us follow lest we should be seen. They went down the river; and see! here are their tracks. Come!"
What need to speak more now? The new interest absorbed all other considerations. Several of the grooms were good trackers, and the hoof-marks of the two ponies could not be mistaken. They knew them well.
Late in the afternoon—often bewildered in deep silent forests, often thrown out, often despairing of success, often passing hard rocky ground where Fazil could see no tracks whatever, but where Bulwunt Rao and the trackers held their way with confidence, a small group of people were discovered, from a knoll where the trackers stood for a time uncertain, sitting near a large banian tree, on the bank of a mountain stream.
At a little distance, too, from them, sat a few men armed with matchlocks, who were apparently guarding the rest.
Fazil and the scouts approached, cautiously leading his horse; and the first greeting was a rough one from the guards, who raised their guns to fire; but the next, a frantic cry of welcome from the hunchback and Ashruf, who ran forward and prostrated themselves before him.
"O Meah, they are safe—they are safe!" cried Lukshmun, rising first. "Come and see," he cried, bursting into tears; "and the gods have sent thee."
Hearing his cry, Goolab rushed forward, clasping his knees, and, unable to speak, was sobbing passionately.
Yes, they were safe—Lurlee and Zyna. A rude bower of leafy branches had been hastily made, with a screen of boughs twisted into stakes in front; and so concealed were they by the thick brushwood, apart from the grassy glade, that the little commotion which Fazil's coming had caused, had not been heard by them. Having dismounted, and preceded by old Goolab, who, in her uncontrollable joy, now ran before, screaming the news of his arrival, he entered the enclosure—and the two desolate women, whose utter despair nothing as yet had soothed or alleviated, fell upon his neck and wept aloud.
How long they sat into the night they could not tell. Kakrey, the Mahratta officer who had followed the party by Moro Trimmul's order, had overtaken them; and, touched by the beauty and sorrow of the women, had not molested them. The nearest Mahomedan garrison was Kurrar, a town at some distance; but he had engaged to guide and protect them thither, and the reward promised by Lurlee was at once confirmed, and even enhanced by Fazil. Kakrey had already told them that the Khan's escape was impossible; and they were thus prepared for the sad news which Fazil brought.
Kakrey decidedly objected, however, to Fazil's horsemen, and even to Lukshmun and Ashruf; they were strangers, and would be inevitably suspected. Fazil and his men must take another road, he said; and the ladies must submit to hardships among mountain villages and rough tracks for some days. They had no other chance of escape but in disguise, and alone with him. He had already procured rough food and coarse clothes, and there was little time for rest; ere the morning he must take them away.
Poor Lurlee! All night while Fazil sat there, she had pored over the book of astrological diagrams in a hopeless puzzle of mind. Why should she have been mistaken? Why should her husband have died who had left her so hopeful in the morning? Were they all wrong? was all this, the faith of her life, false?
It seemed so; but one thing was at least certain, that Tara's nature and Fazil's were alike; and she appeared, in spite of her grief, to return to this discovery with a peculiar zest. "I am not wrong," she said, "in this; look!"—but we will spare the detail. She was too much bewildered by far, to understand as yet the loss that had befallen her, nor was she at all convinced that she was a widow. No, the stars could not be wrong; and for all they could say, she only believed the more that the Khan would return. "Who had seen him die?"
Fazil was convinced of Kakrey's good faith. Bulwunt Rao unhesitatingly answered for him. They were neighbours, and had been boys together. Fazil's promises of reward were too profuse to have aught in competition with them. It was hard to persuade Zyna that he must leave her again; but as they were situated, they could not remain together, and must separate. For Fazil would not leave his men, and he determined, with Bulwunt and the hunchback, to hover as long as possible about the vicinity of Wye. He might be joined by other fugitives, he might rescue many of his people, and even make head against the enemy; above all, perhaps he might get news of Tara, and assist her. He should avoid the Mahratta horse, and with a guide like Bulwunt Rao, and one of Kakrey's followers, who volunteered to accompany him, he could either conceal himself or advance as needful.
So, with many tears, and almost despairing, Lurlee and Zyna, dressed as peasant women in the coarsest clothes, left him ere morning dawned. Lurlee was not remarkable; but the fair skin and beautiful features of Zyna were often objects of wondering interest and admiration among the mountain peasantry, as they journeyed on.
Three days afterwards, Fazil and his men, who had been joined by other stragglers on foot and on horseback, were lying during the day in the place of concealment which had been chosen by Kakrey's follower, and approved of by Bulwunt Rao and the hunchback. In the depth of the jungle near Wye, there was a large banian tree, planted by a small temple now deserted, because of some evil repute. The tree had flourished while the temple had decayed, and was large enough, with its offsets, to have sheltered thousands. The outside boughs trailed on the ground, screening everything within, where the bare, gaunt branches, and the naked roots falling from them, rose high into the air, covered above with a thick foliage. A bright rill sparkled past the tree; grass was abundant on the hill-sides, and a liberal price for grain had induced some villagers near, to supply the men's wants for a few days. Every day, the hunchback and the boy Ashruf, disguising themselves as mendicants, had sung ballads in the town of Wye, in order to gain information of passing events.
They were lying concealed in this hiding-place when, in the afternoon of the third day, the hunchback broke in upon Fazil and some others sitting together. "Bid them all go away," he cried excitedly; "I have strange news, Meah, for thee,—for thine ear only."
The men rose and went to a distance. "Can it be of his father?" they said.
No, it was not of him; he was beyond all hope now, and his bloody head festering in the sun above the gate of Pertâbgurh.
"Meah," said the man, in a low voice, "Tara the Moorlee is alive, but they are going to burn her to-morrow; and I saw them taking wood to the river-side to make the pile. They say the goddess came to her at Pertâbgurh, and told her, before the Rajah, to be a Sutee, and he is going to make a great show of her to the people. I waited till I saw her come into Wye in a palankeen, and I would have told her you were here, but I could not get near her for the crowd—they were throwing flowers upon her. The people do not know her name, but I knew her: it is Tara. O Meah, you will not let the Brahmuns do this!"
"By Alla and the Prophet, no!" cried the young man, starting to his feet. "Dost thou know the place?"
"I—I can lead a Duróra on the house," said Lukshmun hesitatingly. "God forgive me, it is not the first I have led, and I observed it all before I left."
"Where is Bulwunt Rao? Call him."
"He is asleep," replied Lukshmun; "I will go and bring him."
"Meah wants you; come," he said to Bulwunt Rao, after waking him; and when he joined Fazil, all was told him; and the three men consulted long and earnestly as to how the girl might be rescued.
"O, were but Rama and a score of Pahar Singh's Ramoosees here," said Lukshmun, "we could go and bring her to you to-night, without waking her; but your Mussulmans would make but a poor hand of that work."
So, after discussing the subject in every way, there seemed no chance of success but in an effort to carry her off from the pile itself. The attempt might succeed or fail; but the men who would undertake it were at least desperate, and to abandon the girl to her fate without endeavouring to rescue her, was not to be thought of. In any case, they must leave their hiding-place on the morrow, or starve. A long march might take them at once beyond the disturbed country; and they were not, in their present mood, likely to falter in their project.
Tara! Her name aroused a thousand sweet memories. The day after the interview with the Rajah, she was to have been demanded as a subject of their King; and, in the Rajah's apparently submissive mood, Fazil had anticipated no refusal. What had happened to place her in the situation in which she was, he could not conjecture; but Bulwunt Rao and Lukshmun understood at once that she was the victim of Brahmun intrigues excited by Moro Trimmul, and rejoiced in the prospect of frustrating his intentions. Finally, the whole project was explained to the men; and in their hearty acquiescence, and in the excitement of a new and desperate action, the young Khan lay down that night, and, for the first time since the slaughter, slept soundly.