The neighbourhood of this spot was shunned as an enchanted region; and the desolation spread by the inexorable Bistamia around her dwelling, only tended to increase the superstitious horror with which she was universally regarded.
The Mogul’s situation was now far more distressing than it had been since his captivity among the fakeers. He could not behold his lovely companion suffering on his account without the keenest emotions. But for him she would be at that moment free; and yet the bitterness of these reflections was, in some measure, qualified by the knowledge that her liberty was worse than bondage, exposed as she had been to the loathsome advances of a man whom she could not look upon without abhorrence, and to whose detestable passions her innocence might have been eventually sacrificed. He felt, therefore, some consolation, amid the harassing thoughts which poured like a turbid flood upon his mind. He was forbidden to hold any conversation with his fellow-captive; so that, although they could see each other’s misery, they were not allowed the sad consolation of reciprocating their thoughts. The moment he made an effort of this kind, one of his naked guards stood before him, and drowned his voice with horrible imprecations.
Four of these wretches were left as a guard over him and the partner of his captivity. They indulged in that loose freedom of conversation peculiar to the lowest and most depraved natures. Seated upon the bare stones of the apartment they smoked and chewed bhang[41] until they were nearly stupified. One of them then brought a leathern bottle full of arrack, from a hole underneath one of the pillars; and this strong spirit they continued to drink until they were all in a state of disgusting intoxication. They then danced before their prisoners, raving like maniacs, and flourishing their clubs over their heads with terrifying violence. Fatigued at length with these exertions, they threw themselves prostrate, and were soon in a swinish sleep.
The dead body of the fakeer still lay where it had fallen when the soul quitted its deformed tabernacle for a brighter or a darker destiny. The odours which exhaled from it were becoming extremely offensive; and the prospect of soon breathing an atmosphere teeming with the foul particles of corruption, was anything but a promising subject of contemplation to the wretched captives.
The thoughts of escape now took entire possession of the Mogul’s mind. His guards were powerless, and he began to try the strength of his chains. He was fastened to the leg of a gigantic figure which stood in a niche, and which, therefore, the darkness of the place had hitherto prevented him from examining. It happened that the sun, being at this moment opposite to a small aperture in the roof of the building, poured a narrow but strong stream of light upon the figure. On examining minutely the limb to which he was fastened, the prisoner observed a large crack in the stone, just above the ankle; this opened in the slightest degree when he pulled the chain. He felt confident that, by a great effort, he could break off the stone limb; though even then he would only free himself in a degree, for his wrists were bound together by a handcuff, to which the chain was attached that fastened him to the statue. The discovery, however, gave him some hope of eventually being able to take advantage of it; and his mind became considerably calmed. He dreaded Bistamia’s return, remembering her horrible menaces, and having good reason to believe that she would not fail to put them into execution, if something did not intervene to cross her sanguinary purpose.
The fakeers still slept. Except their loud breathings, nothing was heard to disturb the gloomy silence that reigned around. It was already long past noon, and no tidings had been received of the hostile armies. At length distant shouts came suddenly upon the ear. They sounded like the acclamations of triumph, mingled with those frantic yells peculiar to the fakeers when under a state of violent excitement. The sounds gradually approached, and it soon became evident that victory had favoured the Moguls. The clash of arms was now heard, cries of the pursuing and pursued were distinctly perceptible, and at length rose to a tumult.
In a few moments, Bistamia entered the vestibule, spotted with gore. The whole upper part of her bronzed fleshless body was uncovered. Her appearance was positively hideous. There was a deep gash in her neck, whence the blood bubbled. She staggered towards her granddaughter—a dagger glimmered in her bony fingers. She raised it over the head of the trembling girl, who sat mute and motionless under her harpy clutch, blanched with terror. The old crone gave a gasp; a guttural chuckle followed, and her arm fell; she fixed her teeth, whilst her eyes glared on those of her victim.
The Mogul, in a paroxysm of alarm for the safety of one who had put her life in jeopardy for him, threw his whole weight on the chain which attached him to the statue. The cracked limb gave way. He rushed towards the hag, raised his chained hands to strike, but perceived that she was motionless. Her arm had not force to impel the dagger which had fallen from her feeble grasp, and the wretched creature lay dead on the bosom of her grandchild.
A party of Moguls entered. The drunken fakeers were instantly put to death, and the two captives released. The apartments beyond the vestibule were searched, and vast hoards of wealth discovered, which were seized, and ultimately deposited in the imperial treasury. The lovely Zulima was received with flattering courtesy by the Emperor, and shortly after became the wife of her late companion in chains, who proved to be the son of Shaista, one of Aurungzebe’s favourite generals.