So in concert with her nobles, she arranged that word should be sent to Ala-ud-din that she was coming, as he commanded, to release her lord: but that she craved a few minutes’ speech of her lord, before parting with him for ever. And Ala-ud-din granted her request.
The Lotus-Lady at the prisoner’s tent
So, for the camp of the enemy set forth a great procession of palanquins and mace-bearers; and Ala-ud-din was not afraid, for he knew that so great a lady might not be abroad without her waiting-women and her mistresses of the robes, and her mace-bearers and the slaves who did her bidding—one slave for each separate little duty of the care of her lovely person.
And now the Lotus-Lady was at the prisoner’s tent of her lord; and now she had bid him farewell, and the long line of palanquins had turned once more towards Chittore.
And Ala-ud-din said: “Ha! now will I have both the Prince and his bride!” and he ordered the palanquins to stop, thinking to make an easy capture of the prisoner whom he had just exchanged, among the palanquins of the women-folk.
But the warriors of Chittore had prepared a surprise for Ala-ud-din, the traitor. Forth from every palanquin streamed the bravest of Chittore’s Rajput knights—the very palanquin-bearers were warriors: and they fought and routed Ala-ud-din and his hosts, and carried their Prince and his lady safely to the palace of their fortress home.
And Ala-ud-din fled in haste to Delhi.
But Ala-ud-din never forgot this second disgrace. Nor, it is said, could he forget the face of the Lotus-Lady.
He must have been a bad man indeed, and no knight at all, in that even the vision of Perfect Beauty had not the power to kill in him that which was base and self-seeking. So yet once more, he sallied forth against Chittore long years afterwards, when the Baby-King was full grown, and with his twelve brave sons, and Bhimsi, and the other brave Rajput princes, kept faithful guard over the honour of knighthood in Rajputana.