“Ah, dear lord, to think that thou must serve! He—Look. There is a stir opposite.”
Two slaves had entered the veranda of the south wing, and went running down it, shouting, as they went, some unintelligible words. At the sound, men came pouring out of the interior rooms, and turned in the direction of the courtyard, whither, in a moment or two, there moved a long procession of priests, soldiers, and petty officials. The last of these had not yet disappeared when every rear doorway and opening in the main building near by began to let forth slaves, who came toward their particular house in a straggling group of almost two hundred.
“It is a big sacrifice,” observed Fidá, who was familiar enough with Indian customs to know that no Sudra can participate in the service of the gods.
“Yes, early this morning there stood erected in the courtyard a great altar, to which many men were bringing fagots and flowers. It will be an animal sacrifice also; for a dozen sacred cows were tethered in an enclosure there when I passed through.”
“The animal sacrifice is not common. I have never seen one. It must be in honor of victory.”
Ahmed did not answer. His eyes were fixed on a man who had come out of the palace alone and was running toward the slave-house. “That is Kanava,” he whispered, as the man drew near. Fidá beheld a cruel face, marked with lines of habitual ill-temper and impatience, and rendered doubly unpleasant by the deep pock-marks which pitted it everywhere. His dress was that of the common slaves; but the band about his head was of beaten silver. At his appearance the clamor in the slave-house suddenly ceased. Ahmed jumped to his feet, but Fidá remained seated, his empty bowl in his lap. Kanava scowled at the breach of respect, and shouted:
“Up, slave! Up! You are summoned. Come!”
Fidá rose obediently, went to the first opening in the trellis, and stepped to Kanava’s side. Together they started toward the palace, and the groups left behind looked after Fidá, with new respect; for, though he had been rash, Kanava had neither struck nor abused him, and was now, moreover, walking not in front of him, but at his side.
As they neared the palace, Fidá’s curiosity as to their errand rose. But he would ask no questions, and Kanava did not offer information. So in silence they entered the palace, walked down long corridors to the audience hall, now cleared of every trace of last night’s festivity, and finally to the threshold of the outer door, where, without a word, Kanava turned and left the Asra standing stock-still before a remarkable scene.
He had but an instant’s view of the thing in its entirety:—a vast, close-packed sea of people, garlanded, decked, nay robed, in the brightest flowers; in the centre of the living mass a high, square altar, piled with firewood; and surrounding the altar, ranged in symmetrical order, twelve sacred cows, twelve accompanying priests, and twelve huge, earthen jars. All this Fidá took in at one, swift glance. The next instant a universal shout arose, and he was seized and drawn through the crowd, which opened for him, by two young Brahmans, naked except for loin-cloths and the sacred cord. In a moment Fidá was beside the altar, where stood the Rajah, flaming with jewels, and Ragunáth, scarcely less magnificent. Here, without a moment’s delay, the bewildered captive was taken in hand by two snatakas, and bound, hand and foot, with ropes. Then, as at some signal, the twelve priests began to chant those verses of the Rig-Veda that are designed for the great Srahda sacrifice. The crowd was silent now. There was not a whisper; there was scarcely a movement among them all. The twelve gray cows stood, as if long accustomed to such sights, mildly surveying the people. Fidá felt himself like them. He was stunned into perfect tranquillity. His eyes wandered aimlessly; he listened without interest to the words of the chant. He counted the number of flowers in the garland round the neck of the nearest cow. And all the time his mind was really circling about one idea, too horrible to be faced. For he had no doubt that he was to be the first offering in that triumphal sacrifice. This was the reason for Ragunáth’s evasion about his ransom. This was the explanation of Rai-Khizar’s mildness. Fidá looked toward the Rajah, whose eyes were fixed reverently on the ground. The next instant, however, he had caught Ragunáth’s glance, and the minister was smiling at him—a small, cruel, white-toothed smile, a smile like a grimace, that sent a sudden bolt through Fidá’s heart. Ragunáth could smile upon him in his death-hour! In that moment hatred was born in the Arab:—a hatred for this man, which, through all their future intercourse, never lessened and was never still.