‘I am thankful,’ replied the man: ‘thou wilt gain much favour for this and thy gifts to Brahmins—thirty thousand years of protection for every offering.’
‘Inshalla!’ said the Sultaun; ‘go! time flies.’
It was noon, the day was bright and hot, and a strong mirage flickered upon the white tents of the English camp, the parched ground around them, and the black and rocky bed of the river. In the camp many men were moving about, and marching to and fro. The Sultaun was looking at them with his telescope, but saw nothing to excite alarm. He was gayer than usual, for he had seen his face in a jar of oil, and the reflection had been fortunate.
‘Rain will fall to-night in the hills,’ he said to a favourite near him, Rajah Khan, as he observed some heavy masses of white fleecy clouds in the west, which hung over the nearer hills and shrouded the distant peaks. ‘The Brahmins are right, the sacrifice has done good; after all, only a few Feringhees have gone to hell before their time—ha! ha!’
‘May your prosperity increase!’ said the officer; ‘they have deserved their death.’
As he spoke a man rushed up the steps of the cavalier. Tears were in his eyes, and his manner was wild.
‘What has happened, O fool?’ said the Sultaun; ‘hast thou seen the devil?’
‘Khodawund!’ said the soldier, speaking with difficulty, ‘the Syud, the holy Meer Ghuffoor is dead.’
‘Merciful Alla!’ cried Tippoo, ‘art thou sure of this?’
‘Alas! quite sure, Light of the World! I carried him away: behold his blood.’