“Yes, his honour is a learned pundit, but I will not trouble him,” said Kareem, independently.
He thought he would rather take it, and have it explained by a Moulvi in a bazaar, nearer home. But in all the city quarter, was not found one man who could translate it, though passed from hand to hand, and learned patriarchs in horn spectacles pored over it, peered into it, turned it backwards and forwards, and upside down, and decided that it was in some dead tongue, and doubtless was a charm against Jadoo (Magic) or the Evil Eye! Finally, Kareem fell back on his young master’s advice, and, with much salaaming and many apologies, submitted the little scrap to the collector. Mr. Colebrook examined it carefully through his glasses, and then by means of a microscope, and asked Kareem “how he came by it?”
“Protector of the Poor, it is all I possess, and was round my throat as an infant.”
The collector was very busy just at this time and said, “As soon as I have any leisure, Kareem, I will see what I can make of this,” and Kareem withdrew with profuse thanks. For so long did his master ponder over the parchment, that Kareem’s hopes faded away, and he had almost forgotten the amulet, and believed its contents to be a myth. But one day, at the end of the rains, he was summoned into the collector’s office. That gentleman was alone, and, rising, closed the door, and beckoning to Kareem to come near, said rather mysteriously, “I have had great difficulty in making it out”—showing the writing. “Indeed I had nearly given it up; but at last I got a clue, and I have read it!”
“Yes, your highness.”
“You must keep what I am going to read to you a secret”—Kareem’s eyes sparkled. “It is for your own good, and now listen,” lowering his voice to a whisper. “This”—displaying the scrap—“is in ancient Persian characters, and relates to a treasure that has been buried for more than three hundred years.” Kareem endeavoured to speak, but failed to articulate. “Yes—apparently some of the spoils of Mahommed of Guznee, who took and conquered the Punjab, and made twelve raiding expeditions into Hindustan. Doubtless this is some loot that the victors failed to carry off and concealed—possibly they were hotly pursued.
“It says”—now taking off his glasses and applying a microscope to his eye and reading very slowly—“‘Eighty koss north from Hassanpur, on the edge of the Goomptee river, that is within fifty paces, near the great bridge and between milestone and saal tree, I, Fateh Din, bury a rich store of jewels and gold, by reason of one camel being sorely wounded and the enemy pressing on fast. May Allah preserve it for me and mine!’”
The syce’s eyes seemed double their usual size, his face worked with emotion, he could not speak; he could only gasp and sob as the collector went on—
“This is the catalogue, only a partial one apparently,” turning and reading the reverse of the parchment.
“‘Two khantas (necklaces) of rubies and pearls, very large. Four sirpech (forehead ornaments) of diamonds. Twelve bazabands (armlets) of choice emeralds. Five turals (plumes) of great brilliants. One coat embroidered in seed pearls, five gold stirrups.’