“Nay, prince, what is past can never be forgotten. The death of Azmut, and the degradation of my parent, are scored with a fiery brand upon my heart, and cannot be erased. I have seen my brother slain—I have seen my father wronged. In this world, but one object remains to me and mine—revenge! We are a doomed family, Prince Morad; we shall perish together. There is no alternative between that and yielding our allegiance to a tyrant. The latter we shall never do; the former must be our destiny. We are prepared; but they who die desperately, with weapons in their hands, are to be dreaded. Let the oppressor tremble.”
“Jahanira! why should this be? I come to offer you freedom—to raise you to a dignity which you were born to adorn.”
“Freedom! Prince Morad? I have been free—I am free—I will be free—and there is no dignity higher than being the daughter of Chan Lody. Retire! this secret communication neither befits you to make, nor me to encourage. Why skulk under the cover of night to an enemy’s tents? Leave me, or I shall be compelled to treat you as a foe.”
“I came under the cover of night to avoid suspicion of treachery in the imperial camp. I have incurred some hazard, lady, in coming hither to declare myself, to release you and your family from certain death, and to offer you the heart of an Emperor’s son.”
“Which I reject, prince; for however I might respect the son of a tyrant, I never could wed him. My resolve is immutable. To-morrow, in the battle, remember that the daughter of Chan Lody has dared to reject the son of Shah Jehan!”
Morad was in the act of speaking, when she turned from him, waved her hand with an air of haughty courtesy, and ascended the hill towards her tent. Upon reaching it, she threw herself on her couch, agitated by a tumult of conflicting feelings. Prince Morad’s affection for her was not to be thought of without emotion; she had rejected him—even with bitterness, yet he had twice saved her life; but every other feeling was merged in her filial obligations.
“He is the son of my parent’s worst foe,” she said mentally; “I am therefore bound to withhold all feelings towards him but those of enmity.”
Morad was deeply mortified at the issue of his adventure. He had run the risk of incurring a base suspicion from his own party, and of being seized as a spy by the enemy, only to meet a cold and bitter repulse. He could not, however, withhold his admiration from the woman whose affections he sought to win, though she had met his advances with uniform haughtiness. He saw that hers was, in truth, as she had characterized it, a doomed family, and it grieved him that he could not rescue them from destruction.
Chan Lody’s followers were reduced to a mere troop; and, however strong his position, it was evident that he must eventually yield to such an immense majority of numbers. Morad dreaded the approaching onslaught. By daybreak the pass was to be stormed by the imperial army, and there could be no doubt of the issue. He would have laid down his life to rescue Jahanira from the impending doom, but this could not be.
Day dawned: the pass was attacked, and the imperialists were repulsed with great slaughter. Jahanira appeared among the combatants, fighting with a hero’s energy. The pass was again attacked; repulse followed as before, with immense loss on the side of the assailants. Lody’s small band, however, was diminished by every fresh attack, and he was at length obliged to abandon the pass, with only a few followers. Descending into the plain on the other side of the mountain, he resolved there to await the coming of the foe, and fulfil his resolution of dying in arms. He was not allowed long to pause after he had quitted the hills. The imperial troops appeared in sight, and he prepared himself for the sacrifice.