The sound of footsteps induced her to depart; and Bistamia entered, followed by several fakeers, who announced another defeat of the imperial troops by the naked army of an old woman.
“’Tis well,” she cried; “to-morrow I shall place myself at the head of my brave followers for a final victory, and the imperial sceptre shall shortly be swayed by a wiser head than ever surmounted the shoulders of an Emperor.”
In the course of that evening, the abode of Bistamia was filled with her victorious enthusiasts, who encouraged her absurd pretensions to the Mogul throne.
CHAPTER III.
At midnight the granddaughter of Bistamia entered the dreary vestibule, and approaching the prisoner, he immediately released himself from his bonds. Several fakeers were sleeping in a distant part of the chamber, and among them the fanatic who had passed the red-hot iron through his cheek. The captive had scarcely cast aside his chains, when the fakeer started to his feet, and rushed forward like a demon. His appearance was beyond description hideous. The wound in his tongue, in which the iron rod was still fixed, prevented him from articulating; thus his efforts to speak were followed by unintelligible sounds, so discordant, that they seemed to come from the throat of some monstrous wild beast yet unknown to man. His eyes flashed with the lurid glow of a live coal, dimmed by the cold air, and the fires of which are fast fading. Some half-consumed logs still burnt upon the floor, where they had been kindled to prepare the evening’s meal as before, and afforded sufficient light to show the ferocious aspect of this truculent visionary. He seized the trembling girl in his arms, for this was the monster to whose embraces she was to be devoted by her grandmother, and was about to bear her off, when the Mogul raised his chain, and, hitting him with all his force upon the temple, struck him to the earth. The wretched man gave a horrible howl as he fell; this was accompanied with a smothered groan, and all was still. The floor was almost instantly covered with his blood. The temporal artery had been divided with the force of the blow, and he lay dead before his intended victims.
The other fakeers had by this time advanced and seized the prisoner, who prostrated two of the fanatics with his chain before they could succeed in binding him. Bistamia was summoned. When she saw her favourite dead, she shrieked like a maniac, and staggering towards her granddaughter, laid her skinny fingers upon the latter’s shoulders, and looking into her eyes as if she would work a demon’s spell upon her, cursed her with a loud and bitter imprecation.
“Thou shalt die before to-morrow’s sun goes to his rest, and thy accomplice with thee. The expiring groans of both shall swell the song of to-morrow’s triumph. Chain them to yonder wall.”
This order was instantly obeyed; they were each chained to a figure in recesses of the wall, about twelve feet apart. They could just see each other. A guard of fakeers was placed over them. They were not allowed to converse. Those ferocious bigots took delight in dwelling upon the horrible tortures to which the Mogul was to be exposed, by way of signalising their contemplated victory on the morrow. They felt a savage joy in exciting their prisoner’s terrors; and the tears of the beautiful girl, who had become the companion of his captivity, only excited their stony hearts to fresh insults.
Next morning, just as Bistamia was prepared to quit the vestibule for the purpose of heading her army of fanatics, a messenger entered, informing her that the Emperor had employed magical incantations, in order to secure her defeat.
She was startled at this intelligence: Aurungzebe’s known sanctity led her to fear that a spiritual warfare pursued by him would be likely to turn the tide of success against her.