“Listen or not, as you will, to my tale,” answered Kulluka, calmly. “He was, I say, once a king, who, supported by good councillors, governed his kingdom with wisdom and prudence. He had no children, only a younger brother, a young man of great ability, to whom he was warmly attached, and whom he had chosen as his successor when death should take him, or when the weight of affairs of state should become too heavy for him to bear. But the brother was ambitious, and, in spite of some good qualities, he had not patience to wait his time. He allowed himself to be led away by parties in the state inimical to the existing government. First he intrigued secretly, and in the end he took up arms against his brother and lawful prince. But he and his followers were defeated, and brought prisoners to the capital. However, this did not put an end to the insurrection. Disturbances still continued, and the only means that remained to the king to suppress them was by the death of his ambitious and dangerous brother, however dearly he loved him, and by subjecting his followers to the same fate. But by so doing his throne would be founded on the blood of his brother and others; which might call endless feuds into life, to which there could be no other end but the utter exhaustion of the kingdom. Yet hardly anyone doubted that the king would, in the end, have recourse to this now unavoidable measure. Suddenly, a rumour spread that he had disappeared from the palace, and in all probability, though not certainly, had fallen a victim to treachery. Since that time he has never been heard of, and his brother, released from prison, ascended the throne as the lawful heir, and has reigned ever since, wisely retaining his brother’s councillors at his side. Though not ruling with equal wisdom, yet his reign has been fortunate, and peace has been restored to his country.”
Here, for a moment, Kulluka broke off his tale to look at his companion and pupil, but his countenance showed neither astonishment nor special interest.
“What you tell me,” he said, “is simply the history of our present king and his predecessor and elder brother Nandigupta,[10] which is known to all, to me as well as to every other Kashmiri.”
“Certainly,” replied Kulluka, “the history of which I remind you is well known. What is not known to every one, only to a few, is that King Nandigupta did not fall through treachery, is not dead, nor was he driven away. Of his own accord, and without the knowledge of his brother, nor of any but a few most trusty friends, he took refuge in a distant retreat, where by spreading a report that he had been slain, he saved his brother from a shameful death and his country from probable destruction.”
“And so Nandigupta still lives,” cried Siddha, “and he is——”
“As you doubtless have already guessed,” answered Kulluka, “the hermit we have just left; but you must hold his secret sacred. The secret of his kingdom and his race is entrusted to your honour. The son of his most faithful servant and friend should know it, and will know well how to guard it.”
“Why,” asked Siddha, half dissatisfied, “did you not tell me this while we were still there? I might then have thanked the prince for all the benefits which, in the days of his greatness, my father and all our race received at his hands. But, it is true, you had no right to speak as long as he himself did not do so. But I still have an opportunity; for Gurupada, if he will be so called, made me promise to seek him if ever I should find myself in circumstances of difficulty and need good advice.”
“And you have done well in giving your promise,” said Kulluka. “Keep your word. Gurupada is better and wiser than any of us.”
But Siddha scarcely heard. He was again immersed in thought. The meeting with the hermit, and the discovery of his secret, made a deep impression on him: that in the beginning of his journey he should have met with a princely philosopher, who, possessing almost unlimited power, and living in luxury, had willingly sacrificed all for love of his brother and his country; and who, happy in the consciousness of having done well, showed himself cheerful and contented with his simple life in the wilderness, with no other companions than a faithful servant and a beast of prey. Now he was on his road to the court of the fortunate and far-famed ruler of a great empire, who ruled his people more by wisdom than by the power of the sword; who had at his disposal enormous revenues; and who might call himself the ally of mighty princes in most distant countries, and protector of all known religions in the world.
The good Siddha, who had been accustomed to pride himself somewhat on his nobility and consequence, suddenly felt how small he was in comparison with two such men. It was indeed difficult to decide which was the greater of the two, and he wisely determined to suspend his judgment until he should have seen the Emperor Akbar himself.