There was, however, one point on which Osman Beg seemed to be inflexible. He declared that though the Moolla and Kazee of the fort had refused their offices in regard to Zóra's marriage to him—and those present on the occasion gave equally clear and convincing testimony as to the non-performance of the ceremony, and the indignity put upon all by being asked to partake in such a mockery—in spite of all this, Osman Beg steadily persisted in asserting that Zóra was his wedded wife; that he had had means in private of having the ceremony performed, to which Zóra had consented; and that wherever, and howsoever, he might meet her or find her, he would claim her as his wife before the King, the Queen, and all the ecclesiastical or other courts of law in Beejapoor.
The Governor could not account for this, and he could not obtain the evidence of the two women from Moodgul. Osman Beg, in his blind fury, had, without reflection, had the hair of both cut off, their faces blackened, and mounted them barebacked upon asses; they, with the money he had given them, which he was too proud to take back, were sent across the river towards Moodgul. There they had complained to the Nawab, who declined to interfere; and all that was known of Máma Luteefa and her confidential servant was, that they had gone to Golconda, to pursue their avocations in a place where they were unknown, or at least were not remembered. It is possible, I think, if Osman Beg had retained them in his service, or had not ill-treated them, he might have instructed them how to support his unvarying assertion that Zóra was his wife, though she had escaped from him, as he believed, to join his cousin Abbas Khan, with whom she had had communication while he was confined to the fort by his wound. Day after day did the Governor return to the case, and had gradually accumulated all the evidence procurable, which was attested by the Moollas, Khadims of the mosque, and Sheykh Baban, the Jemadar, all of whom expressed not only their willingness, but their desire, to be sent to Beejapoor should the case go to trial in the head Mufti's court. Of this, however, there will be more to say hereafter; and in this seeming divergence our only wish is that the reader should lose no point of importance in the thread of this history.
On the night, or rather the morning, of Zóra's escape, she and her grandfather had been taken from the bank of the river direct first to Jumalpoor, and afterwards to Korikul. The old Dervish had been a passive instrument in Runga's hands. He had heard with the utmost terror of Zóra's abduction; he had cried to the Lord in an almost perpetual moan for the child's protection, and he had wandered from the house to the mosque to pray, and, finding no comfort, had returned to the house and moaned there. He had searched all the women's apartments, and called her name repeatedly, almost to the weariness of old Mamoolla, who had chidden him for not putting better faith in God and in the child's friends. Had not the pán-seller's wife twice come and declared that as yet the child was safe, and would be rescued before any harm could reach her. But all in vain. The old man could not be brought to understand how the Nawab, with all the forces of the fort at his disposal, could be outwitted by at most two or three men; how his darling could be brought to him openly through the fort, even though it might be by secret paths. The poor old man's mind was a chaos of utter misery and despair, which found no rest or hope in any assurance. He suffered Runga's men to remove all his property, which they did carefully and honestly; and, as even Mamoolla said afterwards—for she, also, was too much excited in her mind to be capable of any thought—without losing an end of a thread or a bit of string. All the old Syud's books, his drugs, his medicines, his charms and amulets—in short, everything that he prized on earth—had been carried away.
And so it was with Zóra, her two cows and the goats, her books and simple clothes, and the strong box which contained some gold and ornaments which had belonged to her mother. And when they reached Korikul, which they did the next day, Runga Naik had all opened in her presence, and his Brahmin scribe made inventories of what belonged to both, as also did Zóra at the same time. So far, therefore, all was well; they had lost nothing, but the change was very sad and very hard to bear. From the first glance at her, the Lady Keysama had taken a prejudice against poor Zóra, who appeared to her like a young dancing girl; and although her clothes were poor, not to say mean, and she had no ornaments, indeed, presented only the appearance of an ordinary Mussulman's daughter, yet, with all, there was a look of intelligence and of superiority in her glorious eyes, in the carriage of her head, and her figure in general, which at once separated her from anyone of inferior grade to herself.
The Lady Keysama did not like this. She even felt jealous of poor Zóra when she arrived and was led in by Runga Naik, preceded by two Beydur slave girls. Keysama had, indeed, risen to salute her, bade her be seated, asked a few questions, to which Zóra had replied timidly, for the fame of the lady's fiery temper was notorious through the country, and was not unknown to her, and almost immediately dismissed her with the gift of a new sari, a muslin scarf, and a piece of soosi cloth, with some pán, hoping that she would find comfortable lodgings and live happily. In truth, the dame had already entertained a violent jealousy against Zóra, and, in the course of a day or so, told her husband that she doubted the whole story of the abduction, and that it was evident he had brought her for his own purposes.
The Lady Keysama was not, ordinarily speaking, a jealous wife, but she was suspicious, and mistrustful of anything out of the ordinary course, such as the rescue of Zóra; and as she said to herself, if the Nawab had carried off any one from Korikul, would not her lord resent it; and what did it matter to Runga whether the Nawab married the pale-faced girl or not, it was no business of his, and his bringing her to Korikul was, in her estimation, entirely unnecessary and unjustifiable. I do not mean to say that she openly accused her kind lord of infidelity to his face, or that he had to endure lectures upon the subject, but what has been recorded was in her thoughts; and it is not extraordinary, if the tempers of Eastern women be considered, that she set herself to watch, and that her ears were open to any reports and conjectures which her humble friends might bring to her.
Meanwhile for some days Zóra and her grandfather were very comfortably established by their friend in an empty house which had belonged to a weaver, who, for reasons of his own, had left the town and established himself at Sugger; and as the house he had lived in was the property of the lord of the town, it was now at Runga Naik's disposal. True, it was not so commodious as that at Juldroog, but it was more than sufficient for them. It was close to the mosque, and a door from a spacious yard behind opened into the ground which surrounded the mosque, part of which was a cemetery overshadowed by some fine trees. The Moolla lived hard by on the other side, and his wife was a kind, motherly woman, and paid them frequent visits. As usual with most mosques, there was a large colony of pigeons attached to it; there were parroquets and mynas, with other birds in the trees, so that Zóra and her grandfather were soon at their ease, and rested thankfully under the shelter of their protector's hospitality, and the old man soon began to find his way to the mosque at prayer-time; and as Mussulman weavers are for the most part pious persons, there was always a good attendance, especially at afternoon prayer, when the day's work was done.
The fame of the sanctity of the aged recluse of Juldroog had for years past been spread throughout the country even to a distance; and though he had not assumed the title of saint, or made any pretensions to be one, yet had he died in Juldroog, there is little doubt he would have received all the honours of one after that event. Miracles would have been asserted as proceeding from the worship of his last resting-place, and there is no doubt it would have risen in popular esteem. Indeed, it was evident that, even in this strange place, the veneration for the old Syud was increasing.
As he sat daily in the mosque, and discoursed eloquently upon the sublime subject of "Turreequt," or path to Heaven, he charmed and delighted his hearers; and the rank of the old recluse as a Syud, his eloquence and kindly manner of teaching, had a wonderful effect on his audience, who had never listened to words like his before—unless, indeed, they went on some pilgrimage to any celebrated shrine, where holy and learned men assembled and instructed the people in sermons. Then the Syud's fame as a physician was perhaps among the lower orders even greater than that of his learning, and was not confined to Mussulmans but extended to Hindoos, to whom, although they were unbelievers, he was as charitable and attentive as to his own people.
Thus between morning prayers and noon, and frequently afterwards, he was asked for advice; and he wrote charms, amulets, exorcisms, and the like, with the help of Zóra, who, except when he was expounding doctrines in the mosque, never left him. Every day at the hours of prayer, when the muezzin had cried the Azán, or invitation, Zóra used to lead him forth by the door in the yard-wall; and some considerate poor folk had made a smooth path from thence to the steps of the mosque, where there was always someone present to help him up; and Zóra would either return to old Mamoolla, or, folding her scarf over her face, say her prayers in some corner of the building where men did not look at her.