“Certainly.”
“Well, look at these letters.” And Salim handed to her two papers folded as letters, which Guldbadan’s trusted servant had stolen from her mistress and sold to him. They were hastily and passionately written, full of every expression of love, and contained one or two verses, written by Siddha, in which the name of the adored Rezia was repeated several times.
Iravati hastily read them through, and then read and re-read them, turning the letters round and round, looking at them from every side; then suddenly she let them fall from her hand, and would have sunk senseless to the ground if Salim had not supported her and placed her on a seat.
However deeply Iravati loved, she was no weak, nervous girl. In her veins ran the blood of an ancient and heroic race; and quickly recovering herself, she stood before the Prince, looking him firmly in the eyes.
“My fate,” she said, “is decided; for I must confess that what I have heard is really true. Another has taken possession of the heart that until now was mine, and mine alone. But do not think, Prince, you who rule over everything except a woman’s heart, that the way to it that was closed is now opened by your discovery; do not think that my promise is now vain because the word that was pledged to me in return is broken. As long as mine is not returned to me it is sacred.”
“How?” cried Salim in astonishment. “The lover whose faithlessness is known to you, forsakes and abandons you for another, and yet you are not free, and may not listen—I do not say at once, but some time hence, when other memories fade at last and disappear—to him who loves you above everything, and can lay at your feet power and honour, such as no one else can offer?”
“Salim,” answered Iravati, gently, as she strove to collect her thoughts; “you do not understand me, and perhaps you cannot do so. You do not understand us Hindu women, so different from those to whom you are accustomed. You think that the highest happiness for a woman is to be the favoured Sultana of some mighty ruler, and for many it does appear so; and you think it is enough to convince a Hindu woman of the faithlessness of her lover, to cause her to say farewell to all thoughts of the unworthy one.”
“And is it not so?”
“Our women,” was the answer, “know nothing of the temptations of greatness, where either duty or honour are concerned, and to their husband, or, which is the same thing, their betrothed, they remain faithful, even if their love is repaid by treachery. There are no bounds to the loyalty of a woman to her husband; and you know, though you may consider it only the consequence of superstition or exaggerated feeling, with what willing enthusiasm they will throw themselves on the burning pile that consumes the body of their dead husbands. You must have heard of our holy legends and heroic traditions, which describe the devotion of a wife to one unworthy of her. Doubtless the touching adventure of Damayanti must have come to your ears. Well, as far as in me lies, I will be another Damayanti.[1] Siddha has deserted me, but that is because the wicked Kali[2] has got possession of him, and tempted him to evil; not he himself that has brought this bitter sorrow to me. And when he awakes from this enchantment he will return, another Nala, and find me pure from any spot, and acknowledge that I knew better than he, how to watch over the honour of his name.”
“I willingly leave you,” said Salim, after a moment’s silence, “the happy hope of his return, however much it grieves me. But do not flatter yourself with such expectations. Believe me, I know the woman into whose snares he has fallen. I loved her till I saw you, and know that she is irresistible until a purer love conquers the passion one feels for her. Believe me, I know no more fascinating woman, as I know none purer or nobler than you.”