Bhavani was entombed in the temple room of the palace, in the place whence his father had been lately removed. The ceremonial of cremation was magnificent; but there was one grave lack in it. No willing women accompanied him into the flames. There were no blood relatives, no children, to mourn at his bier. The spectators, who could remember his father’s entombment, compared with this the wailing concourse which had assembled about that funeral pyre, on which lay the body that had been carried all the way back to Mandu from the disastrous plain of Dhár. Here was no terrible grief of dying concubines and dust-covered widows: no deep-throated sobbing of warrior sons. Two aliens, man and woman, stood together, hand in hand, beside the frightened little bride of Viradha; and these were all, beside the people, that mourned Bhavani’s death. Truly, the royal line of Mandu was fading away! The long ceremony brought to every heart a feeling of emptiness, of forlornity, that was not easy to overcome. The people felt it, and even the Brahmans; and there were those who covertly wondered if young Viradha, returning home, would find his own awaiting him.
Fortunately for himself, Oman had no time, in the next few weeks, to grieve. Not knowing just how it came about, he found himself in the position of regent, all Mandu having voluntarily demanded their government of him. There being no other hand ready for the helm, he accepted the place, constituting himself keeper of Viradha’s state, guardian of his honor, treasurer of his heritage: holding himself ready at any moment to deliver all these into the hands of the young King. He clung closely to Bhavani’s methods, finding himself little at a loss to fill a place the duties of which, from constant observation, he had learned so well.
Thus a month passed away. Oman, occupied almost day and night, saw little of Zenaide, whose burden of grief was hers to bear alone. Oman, even in his sadness, had found consolation in an unexpected effect of his labor of the past ten years. He perceived that what he had hoped for against hope was true: the people loved him. Through his years of work among them they had treated him ill. They had been deaf to his teachings; they had mocked at his laws; they had reviled him for heresy to their faith. He had come to believe that he had brought good to not one soul. And now, suddenly, upon the accession of a little pomp, they went to him, sought his counsel, obeyed and loved him more than they had ever obeyed and loved even Bhavani. Oman took their devotion for the best that it brought; and rejoiced that his way was made easy for him. Now he longed only for the return of Viradha, which could not be much further delayed. He had gone away in December. It was now the end of March. Surely the thought of his young wife must draw the warrior homeward soon. Nay, Oman had a presentiment that the course of events would force him back.
Oman was right. Viradha did return, shortly. It was the last week in March, and the spring was in its loveliest, early beauty. Was it right that this renewal of youth, these ever-recurrent love-yearnings of nature, should be broken by the harsh voices of war, an autumnal woe of blood and death? Yet this came: so swiftly, so overwhelmingly, that there was no time for consideration or planning. Only action was necessary; and only action was taken.
The first premonition of disaster came upon the afternoon of the second day of April, when two or three wounded and exhausted fugitives reached the haven of Mandu, bringing the startling news that Viradha and his little army were close at hand, in full retreat before a victorious Mohammedan horde, who had pursued them clear across the mountains. It was a thunderbolt; for none had ever dreamed that the plateau, defended by the whole wide range of the Vindhyas, could be in danger from the conquerors of Delhi. But the word of the fugitives had to be accepted. Their plight was unquestionable. Within twenty-four hours Viradha and his men would be in Mandu, where something, no man said what, must happen.
Through the night, every soul on the plateau labored as never before. Even the children were pressed into service; and Brahman and Sudra worked side by side, placing barriers along the causeway, which, when the Manduvians had reached the plateau, could be thrown across the narrow bridge, and the invaders shut away. It was the only plan of defence that occurred to Oman as feasible; and none of those that sat in council with him could find a better. All was uncertain. They could only busy themselves as best they could;—and wait.
The waiting was not long. Through the whole of the morning of the third, fugitive soldiers continued to pour in from the mountains, bringing word of the valiant, the desperate bravery of Viradha in his retreat, and of the overwhelming force of the invaders. Oman sat in the great audience hall, questioning every soldier that came in, ordering, thinking, planning, till, about one o’clock in the afternoon, there came to his ears the sounds of a great, confused clamor:—the distant battle-din that proclaimed the arrival of the Rajah and his army.
Then, had any one been there to watch, he might have thought that the Saint of Mandu had gone suddenly mad. A spirit of fury had, indeed, rushed upon Oman. He ran out of the palace into the courtyard, where, by his command, a horse was waiting for him. He sprang upon it. All the man, all the one-time Asra bravery of Fidá, was seething in his blood, beating in his brain. From a staring slave-boy he seized a shield and spear, but waited for no armor. Clad in his accustomed white garments, a white turban on his head, and, for his one ornament, the great ruby hung about his neck, he started away, at full gallop, down the road toward the causeway. As he advanced, the sounds grew nearer: the noise more hideous. And above it all, from time to time, like a sentence of doom and death, came the strange accents of that strangest of all battle-cries: “La-ilaha-il-lal-laha!” which, twisted, means: “There is no God but God.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE SIGN OF THE RUBY
The galloping horse, with its white rider, dashed round the curve in the road that opened upon the great stone causeway; and Oman perceived that he was none too soon. It was upon that narrow bridge that the long, horrible retreat of the young Rajah of Mandu had reached its climax. Here he made his last stand against the invincible Prophet-horde. The scene on the causeway was indescribable. Oman had one moment’s survey of it: one moment, during which all his strength, all the fury of race and loyalty that were in him, rushed into his two arms, into his brain, into his eyes. Then, without pause, he was carried down into the writhing, struggling mass.