With hasty step Salim paced up and down, while within his breast there was a bitter struggle between duty and passion, honour and self-will. To allow her, whom he had vainly striven to win, to go to his accursed rival was hard, almost beyond his powers. Still she was right; the exercise of his might would avail him nothing, only cause him to lose her respect, which he prized above everything. And then her last words, recalling his noble, generous father’s exhortation, which he had so deeply felt! Self-control, self-denial, the first duties and virtues indispensable to a prince—never before had he considered them seriously; and after his promises to lead a new life, should his first action be one which Iravati, with justice, called a cowardly exercise of power?
“Iravati,” he said, at last, “I submit, as I did before, to your will. What it costs me I need not say. Enough, I obey. Alas! as I said before, why did I not know you earlier? You would have made a different man of me; but this is all over, and I will endeavour to submit to the inevitable. Go, then; though I cannot but consider your resolution as rash, still I admit it to be courageous and noble. One thing more. It is not impossible that you may still find Siddha living, and then I understand only too well that you will be reconciled, and keep the faith you have sworn to him. I shall look upon this with envy, but neither seek vengeance on you nor on him whom you hold dear. Let it be said that the weak and selfish Salim controlled himself, and that the future ruler of Hindustan can rule his own heart. If, sooner or later, you or Siddha Rama have need of my protection, I give my princely word that it shall not fail you. Only one favour I ask of you, though you will receive none from me. Although it may be that we shall never meet again, do not refuse me your friendship, and do not think with anger and contempt of a man whose crimes towards you were caused by the deep love he felt for you.”
He awaited no answer, but hurried away. “My father!” he murmured, “for once at least you have cause to be content with your son.”
Chapter XVI.
Faizi’s Curse.
In a Buddhist monastery among the mountains, Siddha lay stretched on his sick bed, while Iravati watched by his side. Her joy had been great at finding him still alive when, after her long and dangerous journey, she at length arrived; but this joy had been tempered by the doctor’s assurance that his state was a most critical one. When she was admitted to his room, she found him still senseless; and who could say whether he would ever regain consciousness, or recognise her before his death?
After a long time of anxious watching, a slight improvement gave rise to hope, and Iravati was warned that if she would continue to tend the wounded man, she must allow herself more rest. Kulluka and the monks persuaded her to take short walks; and it was not without pleasure that she at times visited the little temple belonging to the monastery when the bell called the believers to prayer. With earnest attention she listened to the words of the chief priest when he spoke of the gradations of human life, and how sorrow fell on all, and how rare were the visits of happiness, and how the greatest bliss for man was to be freed from all human ties and to attain Nirvána.[1] In these teachings Kulluka found much with which he could not agree, and, in other circumstances, would perhaps have remarked to the priest that to live for the good of others was a nobler aim of life than to remain sunk in idle contemplation. But opposition was perhaps superfluous. The practice of these Buddhists was better than their teaching; for though they took no part in the turbulent life and sorrows of the world, still they did not spend their time in idleness. Unwearily they wandered amongst the mountains, visiting all the poor inhabitants, scattering their good deeds and consolation wherever misery was to be found, without respect of nationality, religion, or caste.
One evening Iravati was seated by Siddha’s couch, while the doctor watched him from the other side, when he slowly opened his eyes, and, throwing a hasty glance around him, seemed to recognise Iravati. He softly murmured her name, and again closed his eyes. The doctor made a sign to Iravati to withdraw, which she unwillingly obeyed, and hastened, with a heart full of joy, to seek Kulluka, and to impart to him the glad news. The next day the improvement still continued, and the patient could even speak. But Siddha made but little use of this power even when Iravati was with him; and though he knew her and his friend, he did not seem to remember any of the events that had happened,—a mist seemed to hang over his mind. Almost without consciousness he would sit, gazing before him, and only Iravati’s voice could arouse him from this stupefaction. This still continued, even after his bodily strength returned and he was again able to take exercise.
Once it happened, as he strolled with Iravati in the neighbourhood of the monastery, that some word of hers, or some object on which his eye fell—she herself could not tell which—seemed to awaken memory in him. Suddenly he stood still, gazing with wonder around him, and passed his hand over his face. Then shaking his head, he walked on, and then again stood still, gazing inquiringly at the high mountain tops, then at the blue sky, and at the valleys and woods that lay around. A deadly pallor crept over his face, and with a wild look he turned to Iravati. Memory had returned in its full strength, but how? and, perchance, was not forgetfulness both better and happier?