“Lady, I would show the difference between the magnanimity of the Mahomedan and the Hindoo. You have thrice sought my life with an asperity of passion, sanctioned only by what you consider the sacred obligations of revenge. You have refused to listen to terms of honourable accommodation. You have expressed towards me the deadliest animosity. You are in my power, and I could in a moment prevent all further exercise of your hatred; but I forbear. You are free. I have commanded an escort to be ready once more to bear you to the gates of your native city.”
The Rajpootni turned her head; a tear for an instant glazed her eye, but the warm glow of pride dried it in its crystal formation, and it ceased to flow. She uttered not a word, but silently quitted the tent, making a haughty salaam to the Emperor as she passed, mounted a litter which had been prepared to convey her, and in a short time was once more within the gates of Chittore. Her heart now swelled with thoughts of desperation and of death. She acknowledged the magnanimous forbearance of her enemy, and accepted life only to perform a last and awful duty among her family and her countrymen. Her soul dilated with the solemn purpose which she was about to fulfil—the crisis had arrived.
FOOTNOTES:
[31] See Brigg’s translation of Ferishta, vol. ii., page 230.
CHAPTER III.
The inhabitants of Chittore now gave themselves up to despair. Their governor was dead, a great number of the garrison had been slain in the late sally, and no hope of rescue appeared. The effect was dreadful. The fear of falling into the enemy’s hands drove many to deeds of desperation only heard of among those whose minds have been obfuscated by the gloom of that superstition of which idolatry is the monstrous parent. Whole families destroyed themselves, dying in each other’s arms, and with their expiring breaths cursing those who had induced them to embrace such a dreadful alternative. There was scarcely a house that was not filled with the dying and the dead. The groans of death within mingled with the clamours of war without, and the great conqueror of nature was about to reap a full harvest of triumph.
Day after day passed, and these scenes were repeated. Corpses lay in the streets, and “there was none to bury them;” so that the steams of pestilence began to rise and load the air with the elements of destruction. For two or three days the heroic widow of Jugmul, who now directed the defence of Chittore, was confined to her couch; but the moment she was able to rise, she quitted her house and repaired to the ramparts. The despair of the citizens had reached her ears; she heard it in moody silence, but calmly gave her orders, and, summoning her chief officers, among whom was Peirup Singh, she said—
“The enemy are invincible, and we have nothing now but to prepare for our final change. I need not tell you how the Rajpoot comports himself at this hour of extremity.”
“Nay, why this despair?” asked Peirup Singh. “We are not yet vanquished. The garrison is still numerous, our soldiers are brave, and our enemies enfeebled by the late conflict.”
“They are mighty in their strength; we are only mighty in our weakness—they to vanquish, but we to perish. I need not bid you prepare, because I know none of our blood can be backward to meet death as becomes the brave.”