"'Twas chance," said the man; "what of it?"
"Nothing," replied I; "nothing,—we have an old superstition about it in my country, but 'tis an old woman's tale, I dare say."
I paced on in silence. Ya Alla! what a conflict was raging in my heart! I have told you I disregarded omens: I cared not for them, only as they were the soul of Thuggee as far as my men were concerned; and to humour them I feigned to be particular in their observance. But my soul quailed when I was put to the proof. Every tale I had heard of the vengeance of Bhowanee at a conscious neglect of her commands and omens flashed in rapid succession across my mind,—how one had died, eaten by worms; another been overtaken by what the world called justice; how another had lost his wife or children,—and I too had yet a child! I say I quailed in mental terror for awhile; but mine was a stout heart, a noble spirit; and it roused at my call, like that of a good steed, which worn and weary with travel, yet at the approach of strife or danger bears his master as gallantly as though he were fresh from his stall. Yes, my soul rallied. Away with such idle tales, fit only to be bugbears to children, said I mentally; Ameer Ali is not to be frightened by them. And to lose the charm,—the object of my anxiety, when almost within my grasp! I laughed aloud.
"You are merry, Meer Sahib," cried Laloo, who I saw was at his place; "tell us your thoughts, that we may laugh too; and by Alla! we need it, for a more unsainted country I never saw."
"'Twas but a thought," said I. "Know you where my hookah is?"
"I do not," he replied, "but I will call for it." And the word was passed by those who followed us for it to be brought.
This was the preparatory signal. Every one heard it and took his post. The place could not be far, and with my last words had passed away every chance of life to our companions. Nor was it far off; a few moments' walking brought us to the brink of the nulla. I first descended into it, and disengaged my roomal. I was ready; one by one the others followed me, and we were now in the middle of the dry and sandy bed, mingled together, the victims and their destroyers. I saw the time was come, and I gave the jhirnee.
They fell,—ay all! and almost at the same time. There was no sound, no cry, all that I heard was a faint gurgling noise from the husband of the woman, who had writhed in her death-agony under my fatal grip; a few convulsive throes and she was dead! I tore away the bodice which covered her bosom; I thrust my hands into it, and groped upon the still warm breast for the prize I had so earnestly longed for. I found it tied to a silk cord,—which defied my utmost efforts to break; but I unsheathed my dagger and cut it, and I hugged the treasure to my heart in a frenzy of exultation. One look at the face, thought I, and the Lughaees may do their work; and I gazed on it. It was beautiful, very beautiful; but the expression and the eyes—, Sahib! why did I look at it? I might have spared myself years of torment had I not done so. That face, of all that I have ever seen in death, haunts me still, and will ever haunt me, sleeping or waking.
Not that it had any particular effect on me then. No, it was afterwards, as you shall hear, and when I had discovered what I had done. Yes, she was beautiful, fair as my own Azima, as delicate and faultless in form. The Lughaees shall not behold these beauties, thought I, nor could I listen to their coarse remarks; so I covered up the bosom, folded the body decently in the sheet which had been around her, and sat down by it to await their coming.
"How, Jemadar Sahib!" said Gopal, as he came up to me, "have you not stripped the body? But let me do so; yonder sheet is worth two rupees."