The heavens were still for a while; but as the body was laid in its last narrow resting-place, its face to the west, and as the Moolas chanted out ‘Salāam wo Aliekoom wo Ruhmut Ullāāh!’[[60]] again a crashing peal burst forth, and their words were lost in the deafening roar. Now peal after peal rolled from the clouds. As yet there was no rain nor wind, and the black mass appeared almost to descend upon the tall palm-trees which waved above, and flashes of lightning so vivid that the heavens blazed under the light, darted from it, and played fearfully around. Men looked at each other in awe and wonder, and felt their own littleness, when the mighty lay cold in death before them, and the thunder of his Creator roared, seemingly as in deprecation of the deeds of his life.
[60]. Peace and the grace of God be with you.
The companies formed on each side of the grave to pay their last tribute of respect to a soldier’s memory, and the word was given—‘Fire!’ The rattle which followed seemed to be taken up by the sky; away rolled the awful echoes into the far west, and, lost for a moment among the huge crags and mountains of the Ghâts, seemed to return with double force to meet the peals of artillery and volleys of musketry which broke from the Fort and the British army. The bands struck up again, but they were dimly heard; and, as all returned to the sound of their merry music, it seemed a mockery amidst the din and turmoil of that tempest.
But we must carry our readers back to Herbert Compton, over whom years had passed, chequered by no events save the visits of Jaffar Sahib, to urge upon him compliance with the Sultaun’s demands for assistance, plans of fortifications, or military instructions. The Sultaun had from the first taken it into his head that Herbert was a man of education and skill beyond his fellows; and as every idea was esteemed a revelation from Providence, he had clung to this one with all the obstinacy of his nature, for he had a necessity for the aid Herbert might have given. Often he would forget him for months. Once or twice, provoked by his obstinate refusals, he had issued orders for his death, and revoked as fast as he had written them. Herbert had lingered on upon those mountains, the cold and mists of which, exaggerated to the Sultaun, made him suppose that the place was the one where hardship would be the greatest, and life the most difficult to bear. But he knew not of that glorious climate, of its cool, fresh, elastic, invigorating breezes; of its exquisite scenery; of the thousands of wild flowers, and green hills and hanging woods; deep wooded glens, in which brawled clear and sparkling rivers, now chafing over a pebbly bed, now creeping still under some golden mossy bank, covered with wild thyme and violets, from among which peered the modest primrose, the graceful cyclamen and tall fern, which nodded over the sparkling water. He knew not what ecstasy it was to Herbert to lie at length upon the soft sward, and to listen to the melody of the blackbird, which in the joy of its heart trilled its liquid song, and was answered joyously by its mate—or to see the lark, high in air, wheeling around in wide circles, till it was lost to sight, the same as he had used to listen to with Amy in the groves of Beechwood. Herbert’s thoughts were often carried back to the past, remembering with the minutest exactitude every tone, every word of their sweet converse.
It was an unreal life, with none of the world’s occurrences before him; from his high prison he looked forth over a wide country, but he could only speculate idly upon what was passing in the world. He had no hope of deliverance,—for ever since the first siege of the city, of which he heard after the English had departed, he had ceased to think of liberty except in death. He had no hope that his life, his intellect, which he felt to be strong and vigorous, would ever be called into the action they were fitted for;—nor his kind heart, his affectionate sympathies find again objects on which to fix. He had no companion but nature, upon whose varying face he could always look with delight, while he listened to the brawling streams, the murmurs of the waving woods—those sweet voices with which she peoples her solitudes.
Yet latterly he had found a companion. One of the guards brought a dog; Herbert attached it to himself, and the man gave it him when he went away. He could speak to it—he could speak English to it; and as they would sit upon a sunny bank together, he listening idly to the murmuring plash of waters, the hum of bees, watching the bright flies, as they sported in the sunbeams, or the butterflies flying from flower to flower—drinking in the loveliness of the prospects, whether over the vast blue plains and endless ranges of mountains, or inwards, among the quiet peaceful valleys and swelling hills—he would, after musing a while, speak to his favourite of her he loved, of his home, of his mother; and often, when tears started to his eyes, and his voice faltered, the dog would look at him wistfully, and whine gently as he scratched him with his paw; he seemed to know there was something wrong, and he thus expressed his sympathy; and when Herbert arose to go, he would run in wide circles upon the mountain-side, chasing the larks from their nests, tearing the grass with his teeth, and barking so joyfully that Herbert’s spirit would be gladdened too.
But who can tell his yearnings for home—for the sight of a face beside those of his guards—for one word from a countryman? If ever he should escape, what tidings might be in store for him—of the changes, the events of years? Escape! alas that was impossible. Everywhere the same rugged sides presented themselves, everywhere the same vast forests below, to enter which was death, and beyond them the territory of the Sultaun. He often longed to make a second attempt to be free, but his better thoughts proved its utter impracticability.