Peirup Singh, though a courageous man, was by no means prepared for such an issue as the Rajpootni’s widow seemed to contemplate. He loved her daughter, and, with the prospect of enjoyment before him, did not precisely see the necessity of that desperate alternative to which the late governor’s relict alluded. Even should they be obliged to capitulate, the magnanimity of Akbar was too well known to warrant the supposition that he would treat the vanquished with tyranny; the Rajpoot therefore thought that a capitulation in time to so generous an enemy would be their safest policy.
When he expressed these sentiments to her, who directed the movements of the besieged, she said, with an indignant glance at the proposer of so degrading an act of pusillanimity—
“What! does the suitor of my daughter make a proposal so unworthy of his race? It is enough; henceforward you are a stranger to my home.”
She turned from him, and would not hear his reply. Having given her orders in case an assault should be made by the foe, she visited the houses of those whom despair had urged to fatal extremities. The sad sight only nerved her heart to fiercer resolution. She looked upon the dead without a sigh. She conversed with the dying as if they were about to be hushed in a joyous sleep, and there was neither regret nor anguish in their expiring groans. The dead bodies scattered about the streets, and exhaling the elements of death, moved her not to an emotion. Her soul was passion-cased—it was absorbed by one intense feeling. Upon entering her home she was met by her elder daughter.
“Kherla,” she said calmly, “death has been doing much unsightly work among us. The conquerors will not find their garland of victory a beautiful wreath. The foul steams of decaying mortality will hang upon and blight it. My child, we must go to another change. Are you prepared to quit a base world for a brighter? Agni[32] must be our guide to the mutation which awaits us when these poor bodies shall have become ashes.”
“My mother, I am ready to perform the conditions of my destiny. I desire not to exist longer than I can live in the freedom to which I was born; and, rather than become the captive of the Moslem, I am willing to encounter the flames which shall give me a release from those bonds the foe are preparing to cast upon us.”
The mother embraced her child. The younger girl had overheard this conversation, and her heart palpitated. She had hitherto found life an acceptable and sweet possession. She, therefore, felt no desire to embrace the faggot, and have her spirit dismissed from her body on wings of flame. She was full of youth and health, highly susceptible of enjoyment, with a fine flow of animal spirits; and to her, therefore, death was at once a terror and an evil. She was summoned into the presence of her parent, who said with a calm but stern voice,
“Girl, you must prepare for your last hour. The summons of Yama has reached us, and we have no choice. When he calls, obedience is our duty, and the performance of our duty cannot but be a blessing. We must perish, my child.”
The poor girl shuddered but did not utter a word, knowing how ill the stern temper of her only surviving parent could brook resistance. She bent acquiescently, but the tear started into her eye as she turned from the bold mother to conceal her emotions. Having dismissed her children, the heroic matron began to prepare her mind for the approaching sacrifice.
The rite of the Johur was now determined on. The whole garrison, amounting to five thousand, three having already perished, were assembled. The governor’s widow told them that the last effort was to be made. Nothing remained between subjugation and death. They heard her without a murmur, but with that profound silence which, in a multitude, betokens an inviolable unity of purpose, and began to assume the saffron robe. They were soon prepared to sally from the gate. Peirup Singh was among them. He looked defiance but spoke not. Their swords gleamed in the sun. The stern Rajpootni gazed with a glancing eye of pride, as she beheld the brave band going forth to the sacrifice, knowing that their swords would be steeped in the blood of their foes. She waved her hand when all were ready; the gates were thrown open and they marched forth to the fatal conflict. Their shouts were deafening as they pushed forward like a living deluge. The Moguls knew what they had to expect from the desperate valour of these devoted soldiers. The onset was terrific. Death followed everywhere in the track of those unshrinking assaulters. There was no quarter accepted. The moment a Rajpoot was taken prisoner he fell upon his own sword. The carnage among the Mahomedans was dreadful. They fell by hundreds before the swords of those infuriated men who had devoted themselves to destruction. The Hindoos fought against an enemy more than five times their number with a determination that spread consternation through the Mahomedan ranks. Even Akbar was amazed. He appeared in person in the thickest of that awful struggle, and was twice wounded by a Rajpoot sabre: but his armour protected his life, and the half naked bodies of his foes exposed them to the invincible force of his sword.