Fidá slept that night on a divan in an antechamber of the Rajah’s suite, instead of in his lawful place, the house of slaves behind the palace. This breach of duty came about simply enough. After the tumultuous breaking-up of the party in the theatre, the slaves in attendance on the Rajah and his officials seized the opportunity for retiring, and disappeared with such quiet zeal that, three minutes after Ahalya’s departure from the stage, Fidá found himself alone on the daïs in the empty room. Rai-Khizar had rushed away to his delinquent wife; and the officials, tired out, lost no time in betaking themselves to their own apartments. Fidá was perfectly well aware of the situation of the house of slaves. He had dressed there in the early evening. But the Asra had no intention of passing the night in that uninviting spot if it could be helped. After a moment’s consideration, therefore, he left the theatre and wandered through the tangled web of little rooms constituting the royal suite, till he came upon one room which promised comparative safety for the night. It was unlighted. He believed it to be out of the way of the more inhabited part. And all round it ran a divan well covered with cushions. So, without stopping to consider consequences, Fidá lay down upon the pleasant couch, buried his tired head in a pillow, and in five minutes was sleeping the sleep of the slave.
He woke by degrees. First there was the consciousness of light; secondly of a weight upon his heart; thirdly it was extraordinarily still. Evidently he was not in camp. Was it Delhi—the palace? He opened his eyes to see—and he saw. Memory brought a groan to his lips; but he stifled it, half-uttered, and lay still to consider his situation. The first thing that occurred to him was that it must be past the hour of morning prayer. Rising, then, he turned his back to the sunlight that streamed in through a half-screened window, and, having gone through the form of ablution permitted when water is not at hand, he began the Niyyat, speaking in Arabic. The syllables fell lovingly from his lips, and his heart swelled with the comfort of his religion. Except the moment at Ragunáth’s door on the previous evening, this was the first solitude that had been his since the day of battle in which he had been taken captive by the Rajah. During the succeeding days he had stumbled through his prayers as he lay bound in tents, or rode, strapped to the mule, along rough paths through the hills. At last he was alone, unhampered, free to take the attitudes of prayer, free also to whisper the words of his own tongue, which of late years he had seldom used in ordinary intercourse with men.
Yet Fidá was not to end his devotions as he had begun them. He was standing with eyes cast down, repeating the Subhán:
“Holiness to thee, O God!
And praise be to thee!
Great is thy name,
Great is thy greatness;
There is no deity but thee!”
when a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway, and the captive’s words were stopped short as he met the eyes of Rai-Khizar-Pál, his conqueror.
So amazed was he that Fidá forgot to kneel or to give any sign of abasement. Thus they stood, gazing each at the other. Perhaps some mute message was carried from the slave to the master; for the Rajah’s expression little by little softened, till at length he asked quietly: