“This has been an exciting day, your Highness,” Azimoolah remarked.
“Yes,” was the monosyllabic, and somewhat sullen answer.
“Why does your face wear a frown?” asked Azimoolah. “Your star has risen, and in its resplendent light you should be all smiles and mirth.”
“So I will try to be, Azi—so I will try to be,” and, laughing with a low hollow laugh, Nana Sahib put spurs to his horse, and sped towards his Palace, as if already he saw the brilliancy of that star darkening by a rising shadow—the shadow of a grim, retributive Nemesis.
Perhaps his mental ears did catch the sounds of the coming conqueror’s drums, and the roar of his guns; and his mental eyes see regiments of unconquerable British soldiers, exacting a terrible vengeance, and he himself, forsaken by his people, driven forth, a beggar outcast, wandering on and on, through trackless jungles, without a pillow for his head or roof to shelter him, and on his forehead a brand more terrible than that which ever branded the brow of Cain—flying forever from his pursuers; a guilty, conscience-stricken, blackened and despised wretch—too abject a coward to die, and yet suffering the agonies of a living death.
Whatever of these things he might have dreamed, he gave no utterance to his thoughts, but galloped on to his Palace, and issued orders that that night should be a night of revel.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES SWINGS.
The day following the slaughter at the Ghaut was a great day for Nana Sahib, for he was to be publicly proclaimed Peishwah, and his power in that part of the country was to be acknowledged supreme. The dream of years was fulfilled at last. He stood at the foot of the throne; he had but to mount the steps, and men would bow down before him as their ruler. Power, greatness, wealth—all were in his grasp. His foe lay crushed in the dust—his ambition and revenge were gratified; and in the pomp and glitter of the gorgeous pageant of that day, the voice of conscience was perhaps for a time stilled.