Then arose the oaths of all, in hoarse tones, as they waved their arms on high, and swore to be faithful till death.
‘’Tis well!’ he said, ‘else ye had been kafirs, fit only to herd with the vile. I bless ye, O my friends. Alla, who sees my aching heart, knows that I believe you true—true to the last—true in prosperity, true now in adversity; while I—I have often deceived ye, often been capricious. Will ye forgive me? I am no Sultaun now, but a poor worm before Alla, meaner than yourselves. Will ye forgive me?’
Then the passionate gestures and exclamations of devotion to him by the enthusiasts knew no bounds; and their wild and frantic cries and expressions of service unto death—to the shedding of their hearts’ blood—broke forth without control. Those without, and the soldiery, caught up the wild excitement, thronged into the mosque, and filled the steps and the court, uttering violent exclamations.
‘Blessed be Alla! your old fire is still within you,’ cried Tippoo; ‘and were I but rid of Cornwallis, that host yonder would disperse like smoke before the sun: we might pursue them to annihilation. Will no one rid me of him? Will no one lead a sortie from the fort, and dashing at his tent, ere he be suspected, bear him or his head hither? I vow a reward, such as it hath not entered into any one’s thoughts to conceive, to him who doeth this: and those who fall ye well know are martyrs, and when they taste of death are translated into paradise, to the seventy virgins and undying youth.’
Unknown to each other, and from opposite sides, two men dashed forward eagerly to claim that service of danger. The one was Kasim Ali, the other a man from whose blood-shot eyes and haggard features—upon which anguish and despair were fearfully written—all shrank back as he passed them: it was Rhyman Khan.
CHAPTER XLV.
‘Kasim! Kasim Ali! thou art not fit for this service; thou art weak—thy cheek is pale. Go, youth!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘there are a hundred others ready.’
‘Not so, Light of Islam!’ replied the young man. ‘I was the first—it is my destiny—I claim the service; if it be written that I am to fall this day, the shot would reach me even in thy palace. I am not weak, but strong as ever I was; behold my arm.’ And he bared it to the elbow; the muscles stood out in bold projections as he clenched his hand. ‘Behold I am strong—I am full of power, therefore let it be so; Inshalla! your slave will be fortunate; there is no fear.’
‘It is my right,’ cried Rhyman Khan. The hollow tone of his voice as it fell on the Sultaun’s ear caused even him to start. ‘I was before him, bid me go instead; he is young and should be spared; the old soldier is ripe for death.’