"Think not of the past, Meer Sahib, what happened was predestinated, and was the will of the All-powerful!"
"I have indeed no alternative but to submit, good Moola. But my time is short, and night advances; ere morning breaks, I must be far away from this, where my associates expect me. One favour I would beg,—it is, to see my child: one look will be sufficient for my soul to dwell on in after years, for I am assured that it will be the last—you will not deny me?"
"I will not, Meer Sahib; she is now at play with a neighbour's child in the zenana, and if you will follow me I will show her to you. One look must be sufficient for you; after that she is mine, and I will be a father to her. Follow me." I did; I followed him through a court-yard to the door of a second, which was the entrance to his zenana. I heard the merry voices of the children, as they played with light and joyful hearts, and I could distinguish the silvery tones of my precious child's voice, so like those of her mother, which were now silent for ever.
"We will not disturb them, Meer Sahib," said the Moola in a whisper, as he pushed open the door gently; "look in, so that you may not be seen; you will easily distinguish your daughter."
Yes, she was there, my child, my beautiful child! still delicate and fragile as she had ever been; but her face had a joyous expression, and she was as merry as those by whom she was surrounded. Long, long I gazed, and oh, my heart yearned to rush in, and for the last time to clasp her to my bosom and bless her. But I restrained myself; she would not, could not have recognized me in the disguise I wore and I should have only needlessly alarmed and terrified her. Yet I put up a fervent prayer to Alla for her protection and happiness, and I tore myself from the spot—dejected, yet satisfied that she still lived and was happy.
"Enough!" said I to the Moola, when we regained the outer apartment; "I now leave you; be kind to my child, and Alla will more than repay you for aught of care or anxiety she may cause you. What I have given you will be ample for a dowry to her in marriage with any person you may select—any one who may be ignorant of her father's shame."
"I will: and rest assured that wherever you are, whatever your after lot in life may be, you never need give one anxious thought about Meeran; for I again repeat it, I am now her parent, and she has also found another mother."
"I believe you," said I; "and if ever I am again favoured by fortune and in a situation to come to you without shame to her, you shall take me to her and present a father to his child: until then you hear not of me again."
I left him. I had borne up against my feelings, I had struggled against and overcome them so long as I was with him; but as I passed his threshold the fond love of a parent would not be stifled: I was overcome by bitter grief, and I sat down and wept, for I felt that I had seen my child for the last time,—and it was even so; I have never beheld her since, Sahib, nor ever been able to get a clue to her fate. May Alla grant she is happy, and knows not of mine! But of this more hereafter.
I wept! yes, I sat at the threshold of what had been my own home and wept, yet not aloud. My eyes were a fountain of tears, and they welled over their lids, and coursed down my rough visage, and fell hot upon my hands. My memory was busy with the past, that period of bliss when all earthly joy was my portion, and with it wealth and fame. All was gone—gone like the fleeting dream—a mockery, which, gorgeous or blissful as it may be while it possesses the sleeping senses, is broken—even the remembrance of it lost—by awakening to reality. Alla help me! I said, in the bitterness of my heart at that moment; I am, indeed, desolate, and it matters not what becomes of me: I have no hope.