“Your help, my brave Siddha, comes too late,” he said, in a faint voice; “my work for the Emperor and his kingdom is over. One last command I give you: if you suspect who the murderer is, keep his name from Akbar.”
“Nara Singh,” answered Siddha, “was, I see clearly, only a hireling; the real murderer is—” and here he hesitated to say the name.
“Salim,” continued Abú-l Fazl; “I had already been warned against him.”
Exhausted, the dying man sank back in Siddha’s arms; but shortly after, consciousness returned, and he found the strength, though his voice was scarcely audible, to send a last greeting to his imperial friend, whom he had so faithfully served all his life. “Say to Akbar that my last thought was of him, and tell him I die in the firm conviction of the truth of those principles of which we have so often spoken, and so lately as yesterday. The glory of the sun I shall hardly see more, though I feel that the light still lives in me, but that also will be soon extinguished. I do not complain; I believe that I have been in a position to do some good to my fellow-men, though less than I wished, and so I die content. Strive, my young friend, so to live, that you may one day say the same. And now farewell,” whispered the Wazir, after a short pause, gently pressing Siddha’s hand. His head sank on his breast, and Siddha soon felt that his arm only supported a corpse.[1]
At about the same time, but far away from this spot, another drama was being played, which, though in some respects different from the tragedy of the Wazir, in others resembled it closely. Among the mountains of the Himálayas, especially near Badari-natha, a burning heat had for some time reigned. At evening, the beneficent heavenly time, dark rain-clouds appeared, promising drink to the thirsty earth, but they were again driven away by the evil Vritra, the dark demon; and the next day the burning rays of the sun returned to dry up and parch all vegetation. At last the mighty Indra, monarch of the heavens, rose up and prepared himself for the strife. Again at evening the clouds gathered, and again the demon strove to disperse them; then Indra seized his lightning, and flung it among the mountains with so mighty a blow that it re-echoed, rattling and thundering from all sides. Vritra felt the stroke, but would not at once abandon the combat, and only a few heavy rain-drops fell here and there on languishing nature. Again fell the mighty blow, while the mountain tops and valleys were lighted by one dazzling blaze; gigantic trees were cleft in two, and heavy masses of rock were flung down into the ravines. Then the rain fell heavily, and brooks and mountain streams began to swell and rush downwards to the valleys. At last the fearful battle was over, rain ceased to fall, lightning flickered through the twilight, and no sound broke the silence except the rushing of waters.
Then Gurupada, the hermit, left his dwelling, to enjoy the fresh air laden with fragrance. He seated himself beneath his verandah, overgrown with roses and jasmine. He sat there enjoying the peace of nature and the new life which the refreshing rain had called forth; while he thought of the ancient epic of the clouds, with Indra the slayer of Vritra[2] as its hero, which floated before his mind, as if it had been a poem of yesterday. Then sombre and disquieting thoughts forced themselves upon him. The accounts that Kulluka had lately brought from Kashmir and Agra filled him with anxiety respecting the future of his dearly-loved country. “And so,” said he to himself, “it must in the end come to what I have so long feared, and hoped to have averted by many years of self-inflicted banishment. A strange ruler is on the point of seizing on our unhappy country, and the road is smoothed to him by our own fatal disunion. He is right from his point of view: he must restore order in a neighbouring State when the anarchy continually causes disturbances in his own empire; and if this cannot be accomplished while the independence of that country is respected, then must it be forced to subjection. But is there in truth nothing that can be done? No, no,” continued he. “Kulluka’s proposal that I should return, and, perhaps supported by Akbar, take the government from the hands of my weak brother—no, that would not do. My return would only be a temporary remedy, even if it were that. And I have become too old and unpractised in the art of ruling again to reign, and, above all, there, where youth and energy are required. Life cannot last much longer; I am weary and long for rest; I have long sighed for union with the immortal Brahma, whence we take our short independent existence, and to which we shall return again.” And Gurupada slowly closed his eyes as he stretched himself upon a soft bed of fresh moss. A flash of lightning, that for a moment lit up the valley and all around, awoke and called him back for a few moments to his reflections.
“And perhaps it is as well that things should indeed go as they seem fated to do. A renewed party warfare, of which the end can never be foreseen, would impoverish our people, and bring our country to ruin. But should it be subjected to a wise and just government, its industries and commerce would revive, and its former prosperity return. Akbar is a prince who knows how to make his subjects happy; and to-day many people bless him who formerly resisted his rule. Yet it is hard for a country to see itself deprived of a liberty which has been its boast for centuries. Ah, that it might be spared me to see this happen to my own country!” So saying, he laid his head down again, with a sigh, and, half listening to the rushing of the brook, fell into a light slumber. All seemed in the deepest rest far and near; there was nothing to disturb the old man’s sleep, except that every now and then he became aware of the humming of an insect, and felt it brush his cheek gently; and then a strange, unaccountable feeling crossed him that he was not alone. Again he looked up, but could see nothing, and even the insect seemed to be driven away by his sudden movement. In a short time it returned, then flew away, and again returned, until the sleeping man took no further notice of it, and gave himself up entirely to slumber. This was not so heavy but that the slightest cause would again awaken him. Suddenly he put one hand to his neck and seized a cord that had been flung round it; with the other he felt around him, and touched a cold, slippery body that had been rubbed with oil. Having freed himself from the cord, he seized his assailant with both hands, but in vain; he slipped through his fingers and appeared to escape. The stillness of night was broken by a sharp cry, answered by a growl, and close by Gurupada saw two fiery balls gleam. In another moment a flash of lightning showed him his tiger Hara, with its powerful claws fixed in the body of a man who lay stretched on the ground.
At the sound of this cry the servant hurried from the house with a torch, the light of which showed Gurupada that his sight had not deceived him; and he at once understood what had happened. The man that lay there had attempted to strangle him; but, just in time, he had felt the cord; and the tiger, driven by some instinct, had followed the Thug as unobserved as he himself had approached the hermit.
“Back! Hara,” cried Gurupada, springing forward and seizing the tiger by the neck; “back, I say.”
At first the animal would not move, and then, slowly and unwillingly obeying the voice of its master, it drew out its claws, and retreated growling, for a few paces, and laid itself down.