‘Prophet of Alla! what ails thee?’ said the Sultaun to him. ‘Why dost thou stare so, and roll thine eyes, Rhyman Khan? art thou ill?’
‘I am well,’ he answered, ‘quite well. Ha! ha! quite well; but as I am thy slave, and have eaten thy salt for years, could I hear thy words unmoved? By Alla, no! therefore let me go, it is my right, for I am his elder.’
‘Go, both of ye,’ continued Tippoo; ‘you have been friends, nay more, father and son; take whom ye will with ye. Go—may Alla shield ye both from danger! Go—if ye fall, your places will be indeed vacant, but your memories will dwell in the hearts of those who love brave deeds, and ye will die as martyrs in the cause of the faith; and this is a death that all covet; but we will pray for your success. Inshalla! victory awaits you, and honour and my gratitude when ye return. Go! ye have my prayers, and those of every true believer who will behold ye.’
Both saluted him profoundly, and then turning, their eyes met. ‘Come!’ said the Khan, ‘we delay.’ There was a burst of admiration from the assembly—a shout which rose and spread abroad to those without. ‘Who will follow Rhyman Khan?’ he cried aloud; ‘whoever will, let him meet me at the southern gate in half-an-hour;’ and so saying, he hurried rapidly in the direction of his home.
All was confusion there, for the lady Ameena, with Sozun and Meeran, were missing; he ordered his best horse to be prepared for action, and, without speaking, he passed into the apartments of Ameena and fastened the door.
They were as she had left them—nothing had been disturbed: her larks were singing cheerily; her looree, which knew him well, fluttered its bright wings, and screaming tried to fly to him; her gazelle ran up with a merry frisk, and rubbed its nose against his hand, and butted gently with its forehead, gazing at him with its large soft eyes. Her flowers were fresh and bright, and their odour was sweet in the cool morning air. His eye wandered around: every well-remembered object was there; but she whose joyous smile and sweet tones had made a heaven of the place, where was she? dead and cold he thought, disfigured in death by his own hand. He cast himself frantically on the bed, which remained in disorder even as she had left it, and groaned aloud.
How long he lay there he knew not: he had no thought of present time, only of the past, the blissful past, which floated before his mental vision, a bitter mockery. Some one knocked; it recalled him to his senses.
‘They wait,’ said Daood, ‘the Patél and a hundred others; he has sent for thee.’
‘I come,’ cried the Khan, ‘I come: it was well he remembered me; he seeks death as I do,’ he added mentally.
‘The lady Kummoo would speak to thee,’ said a slave, as he passed out.