“Your word.”
“My word as a Rajpút. But why do you ask it? you know well that I can do nothing but what you wish. Why should I keep silence respecting that which you must long have known? At last let me say freely, that you are dear to me, above everything, dearer than life or even honour. I love you with a passion and devotion that until now I should never have thought possible; I believed I knew what love was, but what I took for it was only a childish liking. You have taught me differently; teach me more; teach me what it is when love like mine is returned. No slave can be more submissive to the will of his master than I to you; no slave of Akbar’s or of any one but yourself. Whatever I may gain in the future, rank, esteem, riches, belong to you alone. And the power you have over me you may use or misuse as you will. But be mine, Rezia, mine as long as life lasts!”
“No, Siddha,” said she, softly withdrawing her hand from him, “it is not fitting that I should hear such language, nor that you should use it. Remember that I am not yet free, and you yourself have other ties.”
“Other ties!” cried Siddha, passionately; “I break them, or rather I broke them long ago; and could I not do so, I should curse the day when they were laid on me. And you, if you are not free, I will soon make you so. We will fly to Kashmir, to that far-away, beautiful country in the north, where, as you say, Siddha Rama’s name and influence is well known, and where none will dare to injure you whom I protect, your hated husband least of all.”
“And will that protection avail against Akbar and his favourites?” asked Rezia.
“Against him and his, as against all others,” was the proud reply; “and against him we shall know well how to defend the liberty of Kashmir, if it were only for a place of refuge for you and for me.”
“But I cannot be yours,” interrupted Rezia; “and it grieves me, in truth, that you have so spoken this evening. You might have spared us all this, and then our friendly intercourse might have continued, and led perhaps later to another and a closer tie. Now all must cease, however deeply it grieves me. Go now, say farewell, and forget me, it is better for you and—for me, whom you say you love.”
“In truth,” said Siddha, as he rose, and, with his head sank on his breast, drew back a few steps, “to part at once is perhaps the wisest course. I see but too plainly that my love is despised. It is true that for me, without you, there is no life, no happiness possible. Still the continued martyrdom of meeting you, day by day, loving you more dearly, and yet knowing that you belong to that hated, cursed stranger, is more than I can bear. Fresh disturbances have broken out in the south, in the Dakhin, and the Emperor has ordered part of the army on service there. I will implore him to let me join them; and there in battle with the wild mountain races I may soon find, not forgetfulness, that is impossible, but an early and longed-for death.”
“Ah, Siddha,” said sadly the sweet, loved voice, “why such violence because a weak woman (who finds the strife against herself and her own heart too much for her) seeks for a moment’s strength to withstand you? It is, as you said, better that we should part, and yet—I cannot let you go; remain, it is but a short pause; seat yourself again by my side, and let me enjoy, even though it may be for the last time, that quiet conversation, undisturbed by passion, that until now we have found so much pleasure in.”
And before Siddha was quite aware of what he did, he was again seated by the side of her who had so mastered his whole mind and understanding. At her desire he seized the lute that lay beside them, and tried to bring back to his recollection one of the songs of his native land, for which, in the winning way peculiar to her, she had begged; but vainly he tried, sometimes beginning and then breaking off, his memory failed him, and dejectedly he laid down the useless lute.