“Let us be calm,” he said; “we have at present only to do with suppositions, which may, as I hope, turn out to be groundless. But should it be so, could you, and would you, submit?”
This question was addressed as much to those standing around as to Abdul Kadir, and made a deep impression on Siddha. That Akbar had thought of founding a new religion had already come to his ears; but could it be that he thought of using force as an aid to conversion; was this possible?
“Therefore,” concluded Salhana, “let there be no division between us; let us consider together, and by unanimity and the use of legitimate measures we may ward off the dangers that threaten us, through the excited imagination of an otherwise excellent sovereign being worked on by fanatics and intriguers. But I believe that the Prince already signs to us that the feast is about to begin. Let us for the moment break off our conversation; I shall remain at your command, my lords. Perhaps I am in error; from my heart I wish that it may turn out so.”
As the guests were taking their places on the divans, Siddha heard, in passing one of the groups of talkers, a few words that attracted his attention—“And Kashmir,” asked one of the speakers; “is she informed?”
“Thoroughly,” was the reply; “the mine is almost ready to be sprung.”
“And the letter?”
“Is in the best of hands.”
Other guests divided Siddha from the two whose conversation he had accidentally heard, and he was soon seated, not far from Salhana, but divided from him by several young people, with whom he was soon in conversation; while servants carried round various refreshments, and rich wines flowed in the golden drinking-cups. Now and then the words he had heard crossed his mind, but their meaning was dark. Could they refer to secret divisions in his native land, which, according to Salhana were stirred up by Akbar. And the letter! Involuntarily his thoughts turned to Rezia’s letter that he had entrusted to Kulluka; but what could that have to do with state affairs? His attention was soon engrossed by the dancers who, accompanied by musicians, appeared on the stage at the end of the hall. Their bronze-coloured arms and necks were bare, while a long robe fell to their feet. To the music of stringed instruments and cymbals, they commenced one of those dances so dear to both Indians and Muhammadans, and which they can watch unwearied for hours. Now and then, for a change, their places were taken by singers, who treated their audience with extracts from the Persian poets, which Salim and his friends listened to with great pleasure, but which to Siddha appeared a little monotonous.
“Where is Rembha,” at last asked the Prince, “that she does not come and sing a few translated passages from an old Indian poem, that you, Siddha, doubtless know well—I mean the Gita Govinda?”
“Oh yes,” answered Siddha; “the pastoral of Jayadeva, which describes the adventures of the god Krishna with the shepherdesses, and his reconciliation with the beautiful Radha. I have myself attempted a translation.”[2]