Chapter LXXI
The morning ceremony was at length over, and, somewhat wearied by it, and by sitting inactive so long, Sivaji rose and passed into his private apartments, to which the shed or pavilion was a temporary addition. The rough mountain fortress afforded no royal palaces. A few terraced houses, divided by courts, with some thatched out-offices and stables, stood on an elevated spot near the walls; and the Rajah's favourite retreat was a small vaulted apartment, which joined the fort-wall--indeed, formed portion of it--and from which a small projecting window, placed immediately above one of the deepest precipices, looked out over the valley and mountains, and commanded a view of part of the ascent.
It was a habit of Sivaji's to go to no ceremony, nor return from any, without saluting his mother. Did he ever leave the house or return to it, he touched her feet reverently, while she gave him her blessing. The son's faith in his mother was only equalled by her faith and love for him; and as a pattern of filial piety and devotion, his example is still inculculated upon the Mahratta youth by many a village schoolmaster.
She met him at the threshold of the door, and, as was her wont, passed her hands over his face and neck, kissing the tips of her fingers; while, bowing low, he touched both her feet, then his own eyes and forehead.
"Is Tannajee arrived, son," she asked, "that thou hast broken up the reception so early?"
"No, mother," he said; "but come with me, for my spirit is heavy, and there is a shadow of gloom over me which thou only canst dispel. No, there is no news, and that vexes me."
She followed him into the apartment we have mentioned. A plain cushion had been placed near the window upon a soft mattress, and he flung, rather than seated himself, upon it, and buried his face in his hands, turning away from her.
She sat down by him, and again passed her hand over his face and neck, and kissed her fingers without speaking.
A mother's loving hand! O ye who know it, who possess it as the rude waves of life come breaking one by one against you, be thankful that it is there in its old place, soothing and sustaining like nought else of earthly comfort! Ye who have lost it, never forget how lovingly it used to do its blessed work. In times of anxious trial, perplexity, and sickness most of all,--ye shall feel it still, in the faith which leads ye where it is gone before, and awaits your coming. So, forget it not!--forget it not!
For a while both were silent. The mother knew the feelings which filled her son's mind too well to interfere with their course. Still she sat by him, and patted him occasionally as she used to do when she soothed him to rest as a child. "If he could sleep," she thought, "this gloom would pass away; but it will do so nevertheless."
He lay still, sometimes looking out into the blue air, watching the swallows as they passed and repassed the window in rapid flight to and from their nests, which hung to the ledges of the precipices--or the groups of people ascending and descending the pathway to the gates. Again, burying his face in the cushion, he lay still, and his mother watched, and gently waved the corner of her garment over his head, lest any insect should light on him and disturb him. There was no sound save the dull buzzing of flies in the room, and sometimes the loud monotonous note of a great woodpecker from the depths of the ravine below.
He turned at length, and she knew the crisis was past. "Mother," he said, "hast thou been with the goddess to-day? To me she is dim and mournful; I ask my heart of her designs, but there comes no answer. Is her favour gone from us?"
"Who can tell her purposes, my life?" she replied, "we are only her instruments. O, fail not in heart! If there be troubles, should we not meet them? If she bid us suffer, shall we not suffer? But, O, fail not--doubt not! Remember thy father doubted and failed, and what came of it but weary imprisonment, fine, pain, shame, and failure? O, not so, my son: better thou wast dead, and I with thee, than to doubt and fail."
"The trial will be heavy, mother," he returned. "Here we are safe, and I fear not for thee: but for the rest, the cause is hopeless, and that is what vexes me. Years of stratagem and arrangement are gone with that man's death, and all we have planned is known."
"And if it be known, son, dost thou fear?" she exclaimed. "What has been gained by these communications with a traitor? O son, he who is not faithful to the salt he eats, is untrue to all besides. I--a woman only--and the priests will tell thee not to trust a woman's thoughts or designs--I tell thee I am glad: I rejoice that a trial has come to thee. One hour such as thou hast passed now, with thine own heart to speak to thee, is worth more to the cause than a thousand priests or a lakh of swordsmen. I tell thee I am glad: for such things only can teach thee to trust thyself, and not to look to others."
"And thee, mother?" he said, smiling.
"No, no--not to me," she replied quickly, "except the goddess speaks by my mouth. No, not to me. I am but a woman else, fearful of thee, my son--fearful of the bullet, the sword, the lance, the wild fray of battle--fearful of----"
"Nay, mother," he cried, sitting up and interrupting her, "not of the sword or the battle; there I am safe,--there I fear not. Were I but there now, this heaviness at my heart would pass away. 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' the cry--the shout rings in my ears and urges me on; then there is no time for thought, as now in this silence."
"And it shall ring again, my son," she replied. "Fear not--doubt not, only act: that is all. Wilt thou be like thy father, drifted here and there by every current of rumour like a straw upon the sea? 'Such a one will not join, what can I do? Such a thing threatens, what can I do? This man says this, shall I follow it? That man says the other, shall I follow it?' So he followed as others led; so he acted as others advised. What came of all? only shame, my son. Had he said to all, Do this, they would have done it. O Mother, O Holy Mother," she cried, standing up and lifting her joined hands towards the deep blue sky, "come from thence--come from the air into thy daughter's heart; teach me what to say, how to direct him, or direct him thyself! O Mother, we do all for thy name and honour, and for the faith so long degraded: let us not fail or be shamed!
"Not thus, son," she continued after a pause--"not thus will the spirit come upon me, but in the temple must I watch alone and pray and fast, ere she will disclose herself to me; and I will do so from to-night. Yes, she will be entreated at last. Perhaps," she continued simply, but reverently, "the Mother is in sorrow herself, and needs comfort. No matter, I will entreat her."
"Surely she hath heard already," replied her son after another pause, "for my soul is better for thy words--stronger, mother. Yes, I see how it will be; nor Moro Trimmul, nor Tannajee, nor Palkur, nor any one but myself. I had thought to lay all these matters before the people at the Kutha to-night, but I will not. I will only say we must work for ourselves--against the Emperor, against the King, and most against Afzool Khan. If they will only trust in me--yes, mother, if they will only trust in me--we shall have victory, and I will not disappoint them or you."
"Now, a thousand blessings on thee, Sivaji Bhóslay, for those words," cried his mother, passing her hands over his head. "I have no fear now--none. Go to the Kutha--tell them all that their time is come; and when you cry 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' each shout of theirs in reply will echo the death-cry of a thousand infidels. Now, let me depart, my son; it is well for me to go to the Mother, and sit before her; haply she may come to me. Better to be there, than that a woman should be near thee, when the woman's spirit has passed out of thee."
"Bless me, then, my mother, and go; nor will I stay here long," he replied. "The shadows are even now lengthening in the valleys, and I should have the people collected ere it is dark."
She placed her hands upon his head solemnly: "Thus do I bless thee, my son--more fervently, more resignedly than ever. Go, as she will lead thee in her own time. To all thy people thou wilt not alter, but, to the Moslems, be stone and steel. Trust no one--ask of no one what is to be done, not even of me. Do what is needful, and what thy heart tells thee. Show no mercy, but cut out thine own path with the sword. If thou wilt be great, do these things; if not----: but no, thou wilt be great, my son. She hath told me so; and thou wilt reckon the true beginning of it from that silent watch there, by the window. I go now, but stay not thou here. See, there are none ascending, and even those descending the hill are fewer. Go to them."
He watched her intently as she left him and disappeared behind a curtain, which fell before a door of the apartment leading to the small household temple. An expression of triumph lit up his large dark eyes and expressive features. "She said I must act for myself," he cried aloud. "Yes, mother, I will act for thee first, and then for the people; and there shall be no idle words again--only 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' when the fire is on the hills."
Chapter LXXII
The servants and attendants of the lady awaited her without, and preceded her to the temple, which was situated in a court by itself,--a small unpretending building, which her son had built at her request. The usual priests sat by the shrine, feeding the lamps with oil, and offering flowers and incense for those who needed their services. This, too, had been a busy day for them, for the Rajah's temple had been opened to those who came to the fort; and many a humble offering and donation of copper coins to the priests, from the soldiery, had been the result. The court had now been cleared of all visitors, and the doors shut. As the lady advanced and sat down before the shrine, the priests made the customary libations and offerings, and stood apart, not daring to speak, for her visions of the goddess were well known, and much feared, and this might be the occasion of one of them. So, as she sat down, the priests and her attendants shrank back behind the entrance to the sanctum, and awaited the issue in silence.
Very different from Tara, as she had sunk down in her strange delirium before the shrine at Tooljapoor, the Máhá Ranee, as she was called, but more simply and lovingly the "Lady Mother," was perfectly calm and self-possessed. A small, grey-headed, slightly-formed woman, of graceful carriage and shape, which had altered little, if at all, from the best period of her youth: nor, except in her hair, had age apparently told much upon her: for the arms were still as round, the skin of her cheek as soft and downy as ever, and the firm springy tread of the small naked foot showed no decline of vigour. Her son often told her she was yet the most beautiful woman in Maharástra; nor indeed, in the clear golden olive of her skin, in the delicate mould and sweet expressive character of her features, above all, in the soft lustre of her eyes, had she many rivals.
She had seated herself directly before the shrine, on which was a small gold image of the goddess upon a golden pedestal; and the water-vessels, lamps, and other articles of service were also of gold. The full light of the lamps within shone out on her, and glistened on the white silk garment she wore, with its broad crimson and gold border--upon the jewelled bracelets on her arms--and the large pearls about her neck. The end of her saree, heavy with gold thread, had fallen a little aside as she seated herself, and her soft throat, and a little of the crimson silk bodice below, could be seen--enough to show that if the face were calm, the bosom was heaving rapidly, and under the influence of no common emotion. No one dared to speak to her, or interrupt her thoughts or prayers, whatever they might be; and when she seated herself before the shrine in this manner, the priests and attendants knew she expected a "revelation," and had to wait, even though it might be for many hours, for the issue.
When it came, it was with various effect. At times calm, with glistening eyes and throbbing bosom, her hands clenched convulsively, she would speak strange words, which were heard with a mysterious reverence, and recorded by an attendant priest; at others, the result was wild delirium, when they were obliged to hold her, and when the excitement was followed by exhaustion, which remained for days.[14] Now, however, she sat calmly, her eyes cast down, but raised occasionally with an imploring look to the image, seldom altering her position, and seemingly unconscious of the time which passed.
Long she sat there; the shadows of the mountains lengthened, till only their peaks shone like fire, and then suddenly died out. The moon rose, and the little court was white under her silver beams, and still the lady sat and moved not. The chill night breeze at that elevation had caused an involuntary shiver to pass over her, which her favourite attendant thought was the precursor of the usual affection, but nothing followed; and seeing it was caused by cold, had, apparently unobserved, cast over her a large red shawl, which fell in soft folds round her person. It was far in the night when she arose from that strange vigil; and, dreamily passing her hands over her face and neck as if to arouse herself, sighed, and advancing to the threshold of the shrine, joined her hands together, and bowing reverently before the image, saluted it, and silently turned away.
"Not to-night, Bheemee," she said to a woman who approached her bearing her sandals, and laid them down at the entrance to the temple,--"not to-night. The Mother bids me go; she is sad, and will come another time. Hark! what is what?" and she paused to listen.
A hoarse roar, a cry as though of a wail of thousands of voices, came from all sides at once, floating up the precipices, echoed from the rocks, and reverberating from mountain to mountain. It seemed to those present, who were already filled with superstitious expectation, as if spirits cried out, being invisible, and that some unearthly commotion was in progress around them. In the pure mountain air, still as it was, these sounds seemed to float about them mysteriously, now dying away, and now returning more faintly than before, till they ceased, or only a confused perception of them remained. The fierce shout or wail, however, occurred but once; what followed was more diffuse and undecided.
"Something has moved the people more than ordinarily, lady," said a priest who advanced from the outer court. "The assembly can be seen from the bastion yonder, and I have been watching it while you were within; if you would look, follow me."
She drew the shawl more closely around her, and went with him through the court to the bastion, which, situated on the edge of an angle of the precipice, commanded a view of the town and valley below. The moon shone clear and bright, else she had looked into a black void; but the air was soft and white, of a tint like opal, as the moon's rays caught the thin vapours now rising. Some thousands of feet below, was a bright spot in a dell, filled with torches, which sent up a dull smoke, while they diffused a bright light on all around. There were many thousands of people there, mostly men, and there was a glitter as of weapons among them, as the masses still heaved and swayed under the influence of some strange excitement. She could make out no particular forms, but she knew that her son sat in the pavilion at the end, and about that there was no movement. As she looked, the shout they had first heard arose more clearly than before--"Hur, Hur, Mahadeo! Dônguras-lavilé Déva!"[15]
"O Mother," she cried, stretching out her arms to the sky, and then to the dell below, "enough! thou hast heard the prayer of thy daughter: thou wast there with him, not with me. Now I understand, and it is enough. Come, Bheemee, it is cold," she said, after a pause, and in her usual cheerful voice, "thou shouldst have been yonder in the Kutha, girl, and all of you. Well, the next, to-morrow night, will be a better one, and you shall all go, for I will go myself with the Maharaja; come now, they will not return till daylight;" and descending the steps of the bastion, she followed her servants, who preceded her, to the private apartments.
Below, Sivaji had been busy since before sunset. He had descended the mountain on foot, attended by his body-guard, and a large company of the garrison of the fort--a gay procession, as, accompanied by the pipers and horn-blowers of the fortress, it had wound down the rugged pathway in the full glare of the evening sun; and, amidst the shouts of thousands, and a confused and hideous clangour, caused by the independent performances of all the pipers and drummers of the clans assembled--the screaming, quivering notes of the long village horns, the clash of cymbals, and the deep tones of some of the large brass trumpets belonging to the temple, which had been brought down from the fort,--Sivaji passed on round the village to the spot which had been cleared for the Kutha.
It was a glen from which all wood had long been cleared away, and short crisp grass had grown up in its place, which, moistened by the perpetual drainage of the mountain, was always close and verdant. Near enough to the village to serve as a grazing ground for its cattle, the herbage was kept short by them; and the passage round and round its sides of beasts of all kinds, goats and sheep, cows, bullocks, and buffaloes, had worn them into paths which formed, as it were, a series of steps, rising gradually to the edge of the forest above.
In the midst was a bright green sward, soft and close, and of some extent, and at all times of the year the resort of the village youth for athletic exercises--wrestling, leaping, archery, shooting with the matchlock, or, most favoured of all perhaps, the sword-playing for which the Mahratta soldiery were almost celebrated. A projecting mound, which might have been artificial, and was possibly the partly completed embankment of some intended reservoir, stretched nearly across its mouth, and while its grassy surface afforded seats to many of the spectators, it shut out the valley beyond, from all observers.
At the upper end of the dell, which in shape was a long oval, and slightly raised above the level sward, was the Rajah's seat, a platform of sods and earth, covered with dry grass, and then with carpets from the fort, upon which the Guddee, or seat of state, was placed. Directly the Rajah had retired from the morning ceremony, the cushions had been taken down the mountain and placed on this dais, which afforded room also for many personal friends and priests who attended the ceremony with him.
In the centre of the sward, but near the upper end, was the place for the players. The smoothest portion of turf had been selected, and around it wattled screens were built, made of leafy branches, for entrance and exit, and also to allow of changes of dress, rest during intervals of performance, and the like. The stage, if it might be called one, was bounded by wild plantain trees cut off at the root, and set in the ground so that the broad leaves continued fresh and green; and above these were twined branches of teak with their large rough foliage, bamboos, and other slender trees readily felled and transported, while long masses of flowery creepers had been cut from the forest, and hung from poles at each side above the players' heads in graceful festoons. Inside all this foliage, were huge cressets of iron filled with cotton-seed soaked in oil, and all round the area below, and especially round the Rajah's seat, similar torches had been arranged, which would be lighted as the ceremony began, and illuminate the whole.
Before the stage, there was a small altar of earth, on which brightly polished brass vessels for pouring libations were set out, and above them, upon a silver pedestal, a small silver image of the goddess had been placed for worship.
Early in the afternoon, people had begun to assemble there, and after the Rajah's arrival in the town, a new procession was formed to accompany him to the place. Thousands had rushed on before it; along the valley, over the shoulders of the mountain, and as best they could, so as to secure good places for the sight; and by the time the head of the procession crossed the little brook which bubbled out beneath the mound, and ran leaping and tinkling down the valley, and had entered the glen,--the whole of its sides and the mound had grown into a dense mass of human beings closely packed together. There were comparatively few women; those who sat there were for the most part the Rajah's Mawullees and Hetkurees, armed as if for battle, ready, if needed, to march thence on any enterprise, however distant or desperate.
A clear space had been left for the advancing procession. In front the Rajah's pipers, playing some of the wild mountain melodies, which echoed among the woods and crags above, broken now and then by blasts of horns and trumpets, and the deep monotonous beat of many large tambourine drums, the bearers of which were marshalled by the chief drummer of the fort, who, with his instrument decked with flowers and silken streamers, strutted or leaped in front of all, beating a wild march. Then followed Brahmuns, bare-headed and naked to the waist, carrying bright copper vessels of sacred water, flowers and incense, with holy fire from the temple on the mountain, chanting hymns at intervals. After them, the players and reciters, male and female, in fantastic dresses, wearing gilt tiaras to resemble the costumes seen in carvings of ancient temples, among whom were the jesters or clowns, who bandied bold and free remarks with the crowd, and provoked many a hearty laugh and sharp retort. After these the Rajah's own guard, some with sword and buckler only, others bearing matchlocks with long bright barrels, who marched in rows with somewhat of military organization; then the servants; and last of all Sivaji himself. Slowly the procession passed up the centre; then the leading portions of it dividing on each hand, the Rajah, advancing, mounted the small platform. Ere he seated himself he saluted the assembly, turning to each side of it with his hand raised to his head, and all rose to welcome him with clapping of hands and shouts which made the wooded glen and the precipices above, ring with the joyous sound. Then all subsided into their seats, and the preliminary sacrifices and offerings began.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] A series of very curious and most interesting papers on this subject, by the late Xavier Murphy, Esq., were published some years ago in the "Dublin University Magazine."--M. T.
[15] "O Mahadeo! the fire has lit the hills!"--the Mahratta invocation to battle which is used also as the heading to all threatening notices.
Chapter LXXIII
We need not describe them. After the sacrifice of several sheep before the altar, to propitiate the goddess in the form of worship peculiar to lower castes, the Brahmuns continued the rest of the ceremonies. Here were the same recitations of religious books, the Shastras and Poorans; the same processions sweeping round the altar with offerings, and hymns chanted by the priests at stated periods; the same invocations of the deity to be present, as we have already seen in the temple at Tooljapoor; and as they proceeded, shadows lengthened, the sun disappeared behind the mountains, and gloom fell rapidly on the glen and its people.
Very soon, however, it was lighted up; men bearing huge copper vessels of oil on their shoulders, went round the area pouring cans full upon the cotton-seed in the iron cressets, and then lighting them, and a blaze arose from each which illuminated a large space around. Gradually the whole were lit; and the effect was as strange as beautiful.
Tier upon tier of closely-wedged human beings, whose white dresses and gay turbans and scarves appeared even brighter by night than by day, arose on all sides, those nearest the light being clearly seen, while the others, rising gradually to the top, were less and less distinct, till they seemed to blend with the fringe of wood above, and disappear in the gloom. Below, about the place of performance, and around the Rajah's seat, the illumination was brightest; and the thick smoke of incense rising from the altar hung over all like a canopy, diffusing its fragrance to the farthest edges of the assembly. Above, the grim mountain precipices hung threateningly over all, fringed at the top by walls and towers, hardly perceptible in the distance, except where they projected against the sky; and on which, and on the woods, as the night advanced, the bright light of the moon fell with a silvery lustre which our northern climate does not know.
To act a Hindu play is by no means so simple a matter as to act an English one. It frequently lasts several days. On this present occasion it would occupy three nights. There was the introduction, the middle, and the catastrophe. There would be pleasant witty interludes of broad farce between the scenes, acted by the clowns in various characters; satires upon Brahmuns, and priests generally, being a favourite subject: upon landlords and tenants: upon servants and masters: upon lovers--merchants--in short, upon all social topics. There would be political satires also; and the Rajah would see himself represented according to the popular belief, whatever it might be, flatteringly or the contrary, and would take the joke good-humouredly.
So the entertainment proceeded. We, who sit for an hour or two with a languid indifference, or real approbation, as it may be, of theatrical representation here, can hardly appreciate the intense absorption of a Mahratta audience at one of their religious plays, where gods and demigods, represented by clever players and singers, engage in earthly struggles of love or war, and evince human sympathies and passions. So hour after hour passed, and Rajah and people alike sat and listened and watched; now to a grand scene from the Mahabarut or Ramayun; now to a merry farce, or description by the "chorus" of what was to come next; now to a plaintive mountain ballad introduced into the general performance.
It was near midnight, perhaps, when a single horseman suddenly turned the corner of the mound, and, entering the area unperceived, where it was not crowded, rode slowly up the centre. His noble horse seemed jaded and weary, for it moved languidly, yet, when it saw the lights and people, raised its head and gave a shrill and prolonged neigh. Its flanks were smoking, and its coat a mass of foam, proving that it had been ridden hard and fast.
The rider's face was tied up, as is customary with Mahratta horsemen; but as he advanced he unwound the scarf about it, and the stern features and flashing eyes of Tannajee Maloosray appeared to all. For an instant he was not recognized, and his advance, indeed, had hardly been noticed at the upper end of the assembly; but some one who saw him cried "Tannajee!" and the name spread from mouth to mouth, rising into a roar of welcome among the people, as the rider struggled on through the crowd which now pressed about him. Dismounting near the altar, Tannajee gave his horse to a servant; and as Sivaji and all about him rose to meet him, he ascended to the royal seat, and was embraced by his prince in a loving greeting. He had been long absent, and was expected; but his sudden arrival alone, and at that time of night, boded strange tidings; and while his arms were yet around his friend, Sivaji anxiously asked what news he had brought.
"Of sorrow, yet of joy, my prince," replied Maloosray, disengaging himself. "I heard the news at Jutt, and I made a vow which only that altar can clear me of, that I would not sit or rest till I had told it to you and to the people.--Rise, all of ye!" he shouted to the assembly in that voice which, clear and sonorous, they had often heard above the wildest din of battle, "and listen to my words!"
They rose to a man instantly, and with a rustling sound: after which, there was perfect silence. Every face of those thousands was turned towards the speaker. Every form, from the highest tiers to the lowest, bent forward in eager expectation of what should follow.
"Listen," he continued, "O beloved prince and people: we have fallen upon evil days, for the goddess, our Mother, has been insulted, and her temple at Tooljapoor desecrated. Yes," he continued, lifting up his hand to stay the cry which was about to break out, "Afzool Khan has cast down the image of Toolja Máta, plundered the temple of its wealth, slain the Brahmuns, and sprinkled the blood of sacred cows over the shrine; and now the altar there, and the Mother, are my witness that I have told this grief to ye truly!"
Then burst forth that strange wild cry which the lady mother had heard above in the fort. Some wept, others shrieked and beat their mouths, or cast their turbans on the ground. Individual cries, no matter whether of grief or revenge, were blended into one common roar from those thousands, which ascended to the sky, and, reverberating from side to side of the glen, went out through the woods,--up the mountain-sides and precipices of the fort,--softened by distance,--yet uniting to produce that unearthly yell or wail which had arrested her as she left the shrine, and caused the watching priests to shudder.
Apparently, the people waited to hear from their prince a confirmation of the news, or intimation of what was to be done; for, at a motion of his hand, they were once more silent, and listening with rapt attention.
"I thought the Holy Mother was in sorrow," he said, "for she has hidden her face from me these many days, and my mother too sought her, but in vain. And now we know the reason. O friends! O people! shall it be so? Shall the Mother's temples be desolate? Not while Sivaji Bhóslay lives, and ye live! Better we died in honour than lived to be pointed at as cowards, while she is unrevenged! Listen," he continued, using the same gestures as Tannajee to keep the people quiet, as he took up the sword lying at his feet. "This, ye all know, is named after the Mother; see!" and he drew it slowly from the scabbard, "she hath a bright and lovely face, but it must be dimmed in Moslem blood: let her drink it freely! So I swear, and so ye will answer to my cry--Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!"
As he spoke he flung the scabbard passionately on the ground, and waved the glittering blade high in the air. Already was men's blood fiercely stirred by his words, and the Rajah's action rendered them almost uncontrollable. Not one of all that assembly who wore a sword was there, that did not draw and wave it as his chieftain had done; and the light flashing from polished weapons, and the frantic shouts of the old war-cry, as men swayed to and fro, still more excited the rude soldiery--"Hur, Hur, Mahadeo! Dônguras-lavilé Déva!"
No wonder that the sound had gone up the lofty mountain, and was the more clearly heard as the Ranee, looking from the tower above, saw far below the heaving masses in the glen, and caught the bright glitter of their weapons.
But there was silence at last. It seemed as if the men expected to be led there and then against their hereditary foes. That, however, was not to be yet. During the clamour, Maloosray had told his chieftain that Afzool Khan's army was on its march, and that means must be taken to oppose it. So the Rajah once again spoke out in those clear ringing tones which were heard by all.
"Not now, my people," he cried--"not now. If we have sworn to revenge the Mother, she will wait her time, and herself deliver this arrogant Moslem into our hands. Then, O my friends, shall she drink infidel blood, and be satisfied to the full. So fear not: if this news is terrible, it is yet good; so let us rejoice that we have the more cause to be united in avenging it. And now sit down once more; and play on, O players! Who shall say that Sivaji Bhóslay and his people were scared from their Kutha by Afzool Khan?"
"That means, my friends," cried Pundree, one of the clowns, after turning a preliminary somersault in the air, then resting his hands on his knees, and wagging his head with mock gravity, "that the master intends to kill the old Khan himself, and that the Mother will eat him. Now, as I am going to eat the sheep that have been killed there, just to save her the trouble, she will be very hungry--very hungry indeed; and if her belly is not filled by Afzool Khan, ye are to kill all his people and satisfy it. Else beware!--No one likes to be hungry, good folks; and I, for one, am always ill-tempered and beat my wife when there is no dinner, or it is badly cooked. I dare say the Mother is much the same, and if she be so, nothing goes right in the world; so see that ye strike hard, my sons, and get plenty of food for her when the master bids ye. Do ye hear? Do ye understand? As for the cooking of it, ye may leave that to the devil; and remember that I, Pundrinath, the son of Boodhenâth, have told ye all this, and will bear witness against ye and Tannajee Maloosray if ye do it not; and so--beware, beware!"
And then, amidst the laughter caused by the quaint speech and actions of the privileged jester, the play proceeded, while Sivaji heard from his friend Maloosray the tale of the Wuzeer's death, the Kótwal's execution, and the sack of Tooljapoor.
It was more than ever evident to Sivaji, that to attempt to oppose Afzool Khan in the field with the men about him, would be madness; but he might be drawn on, by specious promises of submission, into wilds where his cavalry and artillery would be useless, and in those jungles the men then present would be ample against ten thousand Mahomedan infantry.
Then it was determined to send those agents to Afzool Khan's camp with whose arrival there we are already acquainted.
Chapter LXXIV
But the arrival of an Envoy from the Mahomedan General was an event of no small importance to the Rajah Sivaji. In order to further the plan he had conceived, and partly executed, in the despatch of envoys to the Mahomedan camp--it was his object to disarm all suspicion; and while assuming an appearance of insignificance and weakness which should impress upon the mind of a new-comer his insufficiency to make any resistance, the Rajah was making arrangements which, as Maloosray and other friends knew, boded action of no ordinary kind. When the time came, he would act, he said, as the goddess directed. His mother had been silent for many days, and almost constantly sat in the temple before the altar; and it was certain there would be some special revelation. She had spread the end of her garment[16] before the Mother, and she had never done so, they said, in vain; but she was silent, and so they waited.
Afzool Khan's Envoy had been received with the utmost distinction. When within a few miles of the fort he had been met by a deputation of Brahmuns and inferior military officers, and delayed only long enough to have the necessary astrological calculations made as to a propitious moment for entrance into the town. There, a house was assigned to him: servants of the Rajah appointed to attend on him: and his escort was supplied with forage and food in abundance. Nothing was wanting to give assurance of simple but earnest hospitality.
The day after, an audience of the Rajah was fixed upon. The Envoy was desired to choose his own time; and the astrologer in his suite, with that of the Rajah, having ascertained a lucky conjunction of planets, the Envoy was carried up the mountain-side in a palankeen to the fort-gate, where sheep were sacrificed before him, cannon fired from the ramparts, and the fort pipers, drummers, and horn-blowers, performed a rude and very noisy welcome. Then the men on guard at the gate, with others of the garrison of the fort, formed a street, which reached as far as the Rajah's pavilion; and the palankeen being carried along this, amidst the firing of matchlocks and shouting of the title of the King of Beejapoor by the royal bard and herald in his suite, the Envoy was set down before the same rude pavilion which we have before described, where the Rajah Sivaji awaited him.
To all appearance an insignificant little man, dark, youthful in appearance, with only one ornament in his turban, dressed in the plainest clothes, and without even the gold embroidered cushion on which he had been seated on the day of the Kutha. Punto Gopináth wondered much when he remembered the exaggerated accounts of the Prince which were sung in ballads, told by bards and reciters, and were believed by the people. Was this the saviour who was to come? Was this the man who was to rescue the Hindu faith from obloquy, if not from destruction:--protect Brahmuns, foster learning, endow and enrich temples? Above all, was this the man who was to defy the forces of Beejapoor, the fierce Abyssinians, the fiery Dekhanies--the noble park of artillery? There were no troops, no means of offence visible. True, the fort itself was strong, but the garrison was small, and unworthy of consideration in comparison with the thousands who were even now nigh at hand.
These thoughts hurried rapidly through the Envoy's mind as he passed up the street of men, and the Rajah's authorities and higher order of servants, who stood on each side of this approach to the hall itself. Puntojee Gopináth was a big man in every sense of the word. His body was large and corpulent, and he stooped much. His head was wrapped in a white cashmere shawl, which increased its naturally disproportionate size. His features were massive but flaccid, and his cheeks shook, while his head wagged from side to side as he walked. His eyes were large, but red and watery; and the protruding under-lip, full, and set in deep lines at the corners, gave him an air of pompous self-sufficiency.
With all this, the Brahmun was a shrewd, astute person. He was vain, and usually confident. Now, however, as he saluted the Rajah, he felt the eyes which scanned him from head to foot had already taken a measure of him, which might be favourable or otherwise. Perhaps it was flattering, perhaps mortifying; he could not say which. They were in any case different eyes to those of his own rulers and officers, who were Mahomedans. Their eyes took things for granted, and he was accustomed to placid acquiescence, or perhaps to occasional fierce bursts of passion, which never affected him. These eyes, on the contrary, were restless and inquisitive, leaving an impression that they had seen and understood hidden thoughts, and would bring them out, lurk where they might.
Perhaps, for the first time in his public life, the Brahmun was disconcerted; but it was no time to show this; and recovering himself, he offered the prescribed salutation, and sinking into the seat pointed out to him, which was beside, but rather in front of the Rajah, with a loud exclamation of Rámchunder! which was his habit--he settled himself on his heels after the most approved courtly fashion, placed his hands gravely upon his knees, twisted up his moustaches, and felt his habitual confidence return.
We need not, perhaps, follow the conference. The Envoy, as instructed, at first took a high tone as to outrages and treason on the part of the Rajah, and of the clemency and wisdom of the sovereign he represented. There should have been no attempts at insurrection, because the cause was hopeless by force, and the royal ear was ever open to suppliants for justice, if timely submission were made.
The Rajah did not reply personally, but this pitiless scrutiny of the Envoy continued without interruption, and the address was answered by Krishnajee Bhaskur, one of his own Brahmun officers, eloquently and yet respectfully:--What had been done? No redress had been given for injury, for extortion, and local oppression. In despair, some retaliation had been made. It was the mountain custom, even by village against village; and did not affect higher relations, which would only become the more firmly consolidated when the cause of quarrel was past. "But," he added, in conclusion, "the details are private matters, and will be discussed better in privacy, and through Afzool Khan alone, does the Rajah wish to have them arranged. What have we here to oppose him? We have no concealments, no means of defence against such a force as his?"
"Indeed, no," said Sivaji, smiling. "An army of elephants has been sent to crush ants' nests, as the proverb hath it; and if the noble Khan will remain, and take charge of the country now under me, I will resign it to him cheerfully, and become his servant. Wilt thou say this to him?"
"Indeed, my prince," returned the Brahmun, putting up his joined hands, "we who were in Beejapoor well know how much Afzool Khan helped your father, when he was confined, in the old Sultan's time; and how much the rigour of his imprisonment was softened by the Khan's kindness. Ah! he is a humane and generous man, and has no personal enmity against you, my lord."
"We will at least put it to the proof," returned the Rajah good-humouredly. "You are witness that you have seen no preparations for defence or resistance, and the sooner he comes the better. We cannot hurry him and the force, but we will at least make preparations for a peaceful entertainment; and if the Khan will accept of our rude mountain hospitality instead of the Jehâd we hear he has been preaching against us, it will be a happy thing for all."
"A happy thing indeed!" said Bulwunt Rao, who, in the suite of the Envoy, had as yet sat silently, and had not been recognized; "and when public affairs are settled, private justice may be done to suppliants like me, who, only for state quarrels, dare not have entered this fort."
"Who art thou, friend?" asked Sivaji; "a suitor to me, and from Beejapoor?--a Mahratta among Moslems? Who art thou?"
"I may not mention my name here, my lord," said Bulwunt Rao, rising, and again saluting the Rajah reverently; "but I can tell it in private. One whom injustice and evil fate have led where he is, and who, only for them, would have been serving you."
"How can I serve thee?" asked the Rajah sharply; "I am not usually hard of access; therefore come to me when thou wilt, and I will hear thee."
"I will come," returned Bulwunt Rao, looking round to all, "and put thee, Sivaji Bhóslay, to the proof. Men vaunt the Rajah's justice," he continued--"he will find much to do for me;" and he sat down again.
An awkward pause ensued in the assembly, which no one seemed inclined to break: and the person who officiated as master of the ceremonies, having observed a signal from the Rajah, brought in flowers, with pân leaves, and distributed them in order of precedence to the Envoy and all his suite. Bulwunt Rao, however, would take nothing.
"If justice is done me," he said, rising again, "my share of flowers will come with it, and will be hung about my neck in honour; if not, they will hang here,"--and he touched his sword-hilt--"better."
"This savours of a threat, sir," said Sivaji, with flashing eyes.
"The meanest will turn against oppression," returned Bulwunt; "and Sivaji Bhóslay has just pleaded this in extenuation of his own acts. I, too, make the same reply, my prince; and when you know my history, you will confess I am no traitor to Mahrattas."
"All are dismissed," said the Rajah, rising; "see that these gentlemen are safely escorted below;" and amidst the confusion which occurred in many persons rising, and as the Durbar broke up, he whispered to the Brahmun who had been spokesman, and who was one of his most confidential servants, "See that the Khan's Envoy be separately accommodated. I must visit him privately to-night, and thou must be with me, Krishnajee; I will come to thee at the first watch."
FOOTNOTE:
[16] Pulloo fusarné--the most earnest and humble supplication that a Mahratta woman can make.
Chapter LXXV
The Rajah passed into the inner chamber, and found his mother sitting at the window alone, looking over the road which ascended to the fort-gate. He prostrated himself before her, as was his wont, and, sitting down opposite to her in silence, fell apparently into deep thought. She did not interrupt him; but as the trumpet sounded, and a salute of cannon was fired from the ramparts, and the Envoy's procession passed out, and wound down the pass--she saw him following the palankeen with his eyes, while his lips moved gently, as though he spoke to himself. As it disappeared behind a shoulder of the mountain, he turned to her and smiled.
"Mother," he said, "you saw the Khan's Envoy. I expected some stupid, wrong-headed, supercilious Mussulman, but behold he has sent a Brahmun, and with him a Mahratta, whom we should know, but no one recognizes him. I think the Mother will give both to me, yet you said one only."
"My vision was but of one," she replied, "and it will be enough. Who is the Mahratta?"
"They said his name was Bulwunt Rao, mother, but he did not mention his surname, and no one knew it," returned the Rajah.
"It must be Bulwunt Rao Bhóslay, Tannajee's cousin," replied the lady. "I know of no other Mahratta of good family in Beejapoor. He is a relative of our own."
"Ah!" exclaimed her son, "yes, it must be he; and I have promised him justice, mother; but what of Tannajee?"
"It cannot be, son," she said; "that is a blood feud, and blood only will quench it. Tannajee did but revenge a murder, and you cannot quarrel with him. Let it be; no good will come of it."
"Nevertheless I will try, mother; and if the Brahmun----"
"Fear not," she returned. "If he be a true Brahmun, the goddess hath given him to thee. I will go to her. It is my hour for watching, and I will pray her to guide thee."
Sivaji sat as before, looking out over the rugged mountain-side and the pass, now glowing in the rich tints of an afternoon sun. If he could only get Afzool Khan into his power, and hold him sure as a hostage, he might make his own terms. Would the Brahmun aid him in this? A word from him and the matter was secure. If he could only be persuaded to write, a swift messenger might be sent to the camp, with one of his own officers to guide on the army. Once the troops entered the defiles they were at his mercy. There was no escape--the whole must surrender or be slain; but he well knew the old Afghan would not agree to dishonour, and to separate him from his force was therefore his chief anxiety. As yet the temptation within him had assumed no more definite form; and in respect to the final result, his mother, strange to say, was altogether silent; but she had again taken up the position she had assumed before the shrine for many days past, and his belief in her inspiration was not to be shaken.
Late that night, muffled in a coarse blanket, and accompanied only by the Brahmun before mentioned, and a few attendants, the Rajah descended from the fort by a steep and rugged pathway, which led from a postern directly to the town, and, leaving the men at the gate, they passed rapidly on to the house where the Envoy had been located. It belonged to the Josee or astrologer of the town, in whose science the Rajah had much faith; and, as was usual with him on all occasions of great enterprise, the aspects of the planets had been consulted, and declared to be favourable at the hour at which they had purposely timed their arrival. The Josee met them at the door. "The Pundit is sitting within," he said, "reading, and there is no one with him. I have prepared the writing materials, too, as directed, and they will be brought if you call."
"Wait, then, in the outer court, friends," said the Rajah to his attendants. "This must be done between us alone. Not even thou, Krishnajee, must know what passes between us."
Punto Gopináth was sitting in the inner verandah of the second court of the house, as the Josee had said, reading. He looked up as the old man entered and said, "There is one here from the Rajah, who would speak with you."
"Admit him," was the reply; and Sivaji could see as he entered, that the Brahmun drew towards him a short, heavy dagger-sword, and placed it so that the hilt lay close to his right hand. "Be seated, friend," said the Envoy, "and tell thy business. What doth Sivaji Bhóslay desire of me?"
The Rajah's face was tied up with a handkerchief, which partly concealed his mouth and changed the tone of his voice, and he had passed his hand, covered with white wood-ashes, across his nose, eyes, and forehead, as he entered, which altered the expression of his eyes very considerably. It was evident that he was not recognized.
"Sivaji Bhóslay desires the prosperity and advancement of Brahmuns," replied the Rajah, "and to enrich them is his sole care. He worships them; and would fain have them as powerful as in the days of the ancients, and in this desire thou canst assist."
"I assist! How, friend? I, a Brahmun, am a receiver, not a giver,--and am only a servant to the unclean," he added with a sigh.
"It need not be so, Pundit. The fame of thy learning hath preceded thee, and the Maharaja desires thy friendship and welfare. I am sent to tell thee this."
"What can I do?" said the Envoy restlessly. "What would he have me do? and who art thou to speak thus to me?"
"No matter who I am--I am authorized to speak," replied Sivaji. "Look, here is his ring as my authority. 'Is he a Brahmun,' the Rajah said, 'and come with Moslem followers to sit in my Durbar? Alas, alas! that such should be, that the pure and holy should serve the unclean. This is indeed the age of iron, and of debasement.'"
The Brahmun writhed in his seat. "There are many besides me," he said, "who serve the people of Islam."
"Who serve the destroyers of Toolja Máta, the defilers of her temple, the slayers of Brahmuns, and of sacred kine everywhere! O, shame--shame!" cried the Rajah eagerly.
"I was not at the shrine when the affray took place," said the Brahmun apologetically. "I could not help it."
"Has then a Brahmun's holiness become so debased that he says only, I could not help it?" returned the Rajah. "Is it pleasing to the Mother, think you, that her people should fawn on those whose hands are red in the blood of her votaries?"
"I would fling my service at the feet of Afzool Khan, and even of the Sultan himself, could I but serve with Hindus as I desire to serve," exclaimed the Brahmun.
"The opportunity might be found, friend," answered the Rajah, "if it were truly desired; but proof of fidelity would be required,--would it be given? What is the Maharaja's desire? Dost thou know it?"
"I guess it," said the Brahmun, "for I am not easily deceived by appearances, and I understood his looks to-day, if I mistake not. Could I only speak with him? Canst thou take me to him?"
"I can tell thy message to him," replied the Rajah, "and will deliver it faithfully. He chose me, else I had not dared to come."
The Envoy appeared to hesitate for a moment. "Impossible," he said--"impossible that I could tell another, what Sivaji himself should alone hear; it could not be."
"Dost thou know me, friend?" returned the Rajah, as he untied the handkerchief which concealed his face, and with it wiped the white ashes from his eyes and forehead--"dost thou know me? It is thus that I salute a holy Brahmun;" and he rose and made a lowly reverence, touching the feet of the Envoy respectfully.
The man strove to return it, but was prevented. "It cannot be," continued Sivaji; "here thou art a Brahmun, and I a Sudra. Let it be as I wish. It is for thee to receive the honour, not I."
"What would you have me do, Maharaja?" replied the Envoy, now trembling much. "I have done evil in helping the unclean, and would now expiate it if possible."
"I have had many things in my mind, Pundit," replied the Rajah, "and the Mother sends perplexing thoughts; but one thing is clear to me--she must be avenged."
The man echoed the words--"She must be avenged."
"Yes," continued the Rajah, "day and night, by old and young, rich and poor, man or woman, there is but one cry going up from Maharástra--'Avenge the Mother!' and yet before that force we are powerless."
"Where are the Mawullees? where are the Hetkurees we have heard of, and the gallant Tannajee?" cried the Brahmun excitedly. "What art thou doing, Sivaji Bhóslay? Men say of thee that thy mother holds thee back, else 'the fire should be on the hills.'"
"Good!" returned Sivaji, smiling; "it is as I thought, and there is yet a Brahmun who is true. What dost thou advise?"
"Hark!" said Gopináth, "come nearer. If I bring Afzool Khan and his men within the defiles, will it content thee? If I do this, what wilt thou do for me?"
"I have prepared for that already,--a Jahgeer, a high office, secular or among the priesthood, as thou wilt,--double thy present pay, whatever it be,--an ensign of rank, and--my friendship. Look, Pundit," cried the Rajah, springing closer to him, and drawing a small bright knife from his breast, "it were easy to slay thee,--for my knee is on thy weapon,--and so prevent my proposal being known: but it is not needed. Fear not," he added, for the drops of sweat were standing on the Brahmun's brow, under the terror he felt--"fear not! only be true, and Sivaji Bhóslay will not fail thee. When he has a kingdom thou shalt share its honour."
"Give me time to write," said the man, trembling under conviction of his own treachery and the excess of temptation to which he was exposed; "I will give the letter to-morrow."
"Impossible, Pundit," replied the Rajah: "the messengers are ready without, and they will bear what must be written to the Khan."
"Who will take the letter?"
"The Brahmun who spoke for me this morning; he and some horsemen are now ready."
"But to the Khan himself there must be no harm done," said the Pundit. "To him and his son I owe many kindnesses: for the rest, as thou wilt. Keep the family as hostages."
"As guests yonder," replied the Rajah; "he will be safe, he and his. Shall I send for writing materials? Krishnajee! Sit there," he continued, as his attendant entered; "see that what is written is plain."
And the Envoy wrote in the Persian character, in which he was a proficient, and which the other secretary understood:--
"I have seen the Rajah, his fort, and his people, and there is nothing to apprehend. They are all beneath notice: but in order to settle everything perfectly, and to inspire terror, my lord should advance with all the force, according to the plan devised here, which the bearer, one of the Rajah's secretaries, will explain personally, and which would be tedious to write. In a strictly private interview, which will be arranged, the Rajah Sivaji will throw himself at the feet of the Envoy of the king of kings, and receive the pardon which he desires. More would be beyond respect."
"It is enough," said Sivaji, when this writing was explained to him--"it will have the desired effect. Take this letter, Krishnajee, and set out for camp at once."
"Stay," added the Envoy, "let him accompany my messenger,--the Mahratta officer who spoke so boldly to-day. It were better he went, and he will not refuse duty. Enter that room and close the door, my lord, while I send for him;" and he called to an attendant to summon Bulwunt Rao.
It was not long ere he came in, flushed somewhat, as it seemed, with drink. "Who is this?" he said.
"The Maharaja's Secretary, who will accompany thee to camp. Go at once, if thou art fit, Bulwunt Rao; it is needful that Afzool Khan receive this as soon as may be."
"I am ready, Maharaj, to ride up Pertâbgurh," he replied; "and he?"
"I attend you," said the Secretary; "come, we must leave this when the moon rises;" and they went out together.
"Enough," said the Rajah, emerging from his concealment. "Generations hereafter will record how Punto Gopináth served his prince. Fear not--it will be well with thee and thine hereafter."
Chapter LXXVI
The letter despatched by the Rajah Sivaji, as we have recorded, was received in a few days by the Khan, and its tenor was not doubted. There was nothing in it which could in any degree disturb the Khan's complacency, or awaken suspicion. If he chafed at the idea of a bloodless campaign, and his friend the Peer, in the ardour of his bigotry, sighed at what now promised to be a tame conclusion to an exciting commencement,--Fazil, on the other hand, and with him the commander of the Mahratta contingent in camp, and others who had more sympathy with the people of the country than their elders, rejoiced that it was to be so; and that a valuable ally and confederate was to be secured to the dynasty which they served, by means which appeared at once just, merciful, and binding upon both.
The new Envoy who brought the letter, pleased the Khan and the Peer extremely. In the first place, he spoke the Dekhan court language fluently, and was a fair Persian scholar. He was known to the Khan as having served in a subordinate department when he himself held the administration of Wye, and he gratefully acknowledged--as he reminded the Khan of--former benefits. The first envoys could not communicate with the Khan except through interpreters. True, his son was usually present, or occasionally the holy priest himself, who might be induced to assist; but the Khan would have better liked to manage these Mahratta envoys himself, and now there was the desired opportunity. Day after day, as the army advanced without check, by easy but continuous stages, the new agent was in close attendance, and very frequently, with the others, was summoned to private conferences. Fazil, too, had his share in them, and to every outward appearance no room existed for suspicion of any kind.
They had now entered the Rajah's own jurisdiction, and were treated more as honoured guests than as an invading army. Supplies were provided at every stage, forage was abundant, difficult places in the roads were found cleared for the artillery, and the people met them with goodwill and courtesy, which was as pleasant as unexpected. Any idea of resistance was out of the question. The usual village guards, or here and there a few horsemen in attendance on a local functionary, were all that was seen of the Rajah's forces; and the Khan was amused and gratified with the Envoy's descriptions of how--to attract attention to his affairs--his master had caused the belief to gain ground that he was possessed of an army of vast power.
In short, all the obstructions and dangers which had appeared so great at a distance had passed away; and as the Khan led his troops more and more deeply into the mountainous district, he could not but feel that if they had been opposed in those rugged defiles, the struggle would have been difficult as well as desperate. The enemy would have had a stronger country to retreat upon, and one more easily defended, while, in proportion, the advance to him would have been beset with peril which could hardly be estimated.
Very frequently Fazil asked particulars of the fort of Pertâbgurh from Bulwunt Rao, who described it clearly enough,--an ordinary hill fort, with a garrison strong for local purposes, but, after all, only such as Mahratta chiefs and gentry kept about them; strong in their own position, but helpless for offence. Where, then, were the armies which Sivaji was said to possess? Bulwunt Rao, in reply, pointed to the village people, all soldiers, he said, from their youth, and accustomed to arms: but among them there was no symptom of excitement, nor could Bulwunt Rao, suspecting nothing himself, discover any cause for alarm: and so they proceeded.
Meanwhile, the programme of a meeting had been arranged by the agents between the Khan and Sivaji. Both parties had mooted points of etiquette, which could hardly be overcome. The Rajah, as a prince, could not visit the Khan first, nor could Afzool Khan, as the representative of royalty, visit the Rajah; but they could both meet, and the barrier of ceremony once broken, it mattered little what followed. No troops were to be present. Attended each by a single armed follower, the place of meeting was fixed on a level spot at some little distance up the mountain of Pertâbgurh, where the Rajah, the Envoy said, had already prepared a pavilion, which would be fitted up for the occasion. If the Khan pleased, he might bring a thousand of his best horse--more, if convenient--to witness the ceremony from below; but only one attendant besides the palankeen-bearers could advance to the conference. Nothing was to be written, and the agent already at the fort would attend the Khan on the one hand, while another of the Rajah's, if possible or needful, would accompany him from above. No objection appeared, and none was made, to these arrangements.
So the army reached its final stage near the village of Jowly, a few miles distant from the fort; and the last preparations were made that night by both parties. The morning would see the Khan set out early accompanied by fifteen hundred chosen horse--some Abyssinian, some Dekhani, others his own retainers,--all picked men; while the remainder of the army should rest from its labour and exertion, which, on account of the rough mountain roads, had been exceedingly great for the last three days.
At Jowly, too, the camp was more than ordinarily pleasant. A plain of some extent, and which for the most part was under cultivation, afforded ample room for all the force. The grassy slopes of the mountains, by which the plain was surrounded, furnished abundant supplies of forage; a brawling stream ran under the hills on one side, and the Rajah's usual supplies of food of all kinds were abundant at moderate prices in a bazar which, consisting of rough sheds and small tents, was located near the village on the other.
Let us see how the night was passed by both parties.
The Khan's tents had been pitched on an even sward which bordered the rivulet, and several fine trees were included in the area enclosed by the canvas walls. Under the shade of these, Zyna and Fazil had sat most part of the day. A few carpets and pillows had been spread there, and the cool fresh mountain air, the brawling murmur of the brook, and the grand and beautiful scenery by which they were surrounded, so different to the bare monotonous undulations of the Dekhan, were in themselves more exciting than it was possible for them to have imagined from any previous description. But the loss of Tara's society was pressing heavily upon both. All they heard daily was, that she was well and among her people, who were taking care of her. She would remain with them at Wye; and as the army returned, she should see Lurlee Khánum and Zyna once more, and take leave of them, for she could not be permitted to sojourn with Mahomedans. This the Envoy had told the Khan and Fazil the day before.
It was a dreary prospect for Fazil, and apparently a hopeless one. Should he ever see that sweet face more? ever hear the music of the gentle voice, at once so timid and yet so reliant? There was no hope that the Brahmuns among whom she had fallen would now give her up voluntarily. It was impossible to think it. Did they know what he had asked and she had half-promised?--would her life be safe even if they did? Hardly so, indeed; or, if safe, would be spared at the price of the disfigurement which awaited her, according to the strict rules of her faith. What they had arranged among themselves, therefore, could not be openly prosecuted; and, in defiance of his father's cautions, and the apparently smooth progress of public affairs, no effort to demand her, or to recover her by force, could be made as yet.
"Let us settle everything with this Mahratta first, and as we return by Wye, we will have the girl, or know why," the stout old Khan used to say; for he had grown to love Tara very dearly, and missed her presence, though in a different manner, as much as any of them. "Fear not, Fazil, the Kafirs shall not possess her."
So Zyna and Fazil had sat most part of the day, revolving over and over again how best Tara might be assisted or rescued, while blaming themselves a thousand times for that neglect of special precautions for her safety which had resulted in her abduction.
"If only Moro Trimmul could be found, and brought once more to account," Fazil said, grinding his teeth, "it would go hard with him;" but he was not to be heard of. The Envoys in camp declared he had at once proceeded to Pertâbgurh to clear himself to the Rajah Sivaji and the lady mother, of whom, in particular, he was an especial favourite; but he was not now even there: he had been sent to a distance; where or why it was not known; and it was impossible to trace him. Bulwunt Rao, Lukshmun, and the lad Ashruf, had all been employed in turn as spies, but had failed to discover him--he was not to be heard of.
It was now late, and the lady Lurlee came and joined them before the evening prayer. She had been busy after her own fashion, and as the priest and some others were to dine with the Khan, had prepared several of her most scientific dishes. She had no doubt as to the issue of the morrow's interview. In the first place, who could resist her husband? and were not the planets unusually favourable? She and the priest had compared notes from behind the screen in the tent; and though he laughed at the curious jargon she had collected on the subject, yet, a steadfast believer in astrology himself, had explained to her how peculiarly fortunate the conjunction was to be at the hour cast for the meeting, and she had fully believed it. If Tara had been there, all would have been perfectly happy; but, as Lurlee said, the planets told her it was only, after all, a matter of a few days' delay; and, indeed, perhaps, after to-morrow she might be demanded.
Fazil, however, in spite of these assurances, was not easy; and after he left the tents for the evening prayer, had taken counsel with Lukshmun who, in regard to Tara, had taken the place of Bulwunt Rao, to whom Fazil dare not intrust his secret. The day she had disappeared, and Fazil's misery was apparent, the hunchback had divined the cause; and a few inquiries in his capacity of spy had confirmed his suspicions.
"I know but of one thing to do, master," he said, as the young man confided to him his dread of violence to the girl--"send me back to Wye, where she is; give me but ever so small a note, and I will deliver it into her own hand; and if I can bring her away, trust to me to do so. I can traverse these forests and mountains by night; I can hide her away or disguise her; and if she be true to thee, she will come. Give me the boy Ashruf, and a little money, and let us go, even now. He is without; call him."
"Ashruf," cried the young Khan to the lad, who was standing near the tent door, and who entered at once; "wilt thou go with Lukshmun?"
"My lord," replied the lad, "he and I have arranged this already. They do not know us here, and he has been teaching me a Mahratta ballad which she knows, and we can sing it in Wye to-morrow. If he had not spoken I should have told you of our plan. My lord, we will bring her away silently, and no one shall be the wiser. Yes, I will go into the fire for my lord, if he will but prove me."
"And Bulwunt Rao?" said Fazil.
"He is in the clouds," replied Lukshmun, "in the hope of getting back the family estate; wind has got into his head, and he is beside himself. To my mind, the Rajah would be far better pleased to have him put out of the way than to favour his pretensions; but Bulwunt says he has been promised 'justice;' and so," added Lukshmun, with a hideous grimace, "he will have his own way, and what is to be is to be; only write the note, master, quick, and let us go; he won't help us."
"Alas!" replied Fazil, "I can only write Persian; but she knows my signature, for she used to see me write it. Stay, however," he continued, unfastening a thin gold ring from his wrist, "she will remember this better, and understand it: take it with ye, and may God speed ye. Go at once! Bring her, if possible, or mark where she is, and we will go, Inshalla! and fetch her."
The priest was chanting the Azân, and Fazil passed out into the usual place of prayer, which was numerously attended. After its close, the Peer, his father, and all who were to stay to dinner, assembled for the repast, which was served immediately. There was no forward movement of tents that night; and the guests sat till a late hour discussing the probable events of the morrow, and the possibility of an early countermarch, at least as far as Wye, where the open country was preferable to their present confined situation among the mountains.
Chapter LXXVII
Was there equal confidence in the fort? We must now go there, and listen to the midnight consultation, which may be prolonged till daylight; and yet men on the eve of some desperate enterprise for which they have prepared themselves, need more rest, and often sleep more calmly, than at any other period of their existence.
It was the same chamber that we have formerly seen; but the window of the oriel is shut, for the night wind at that height is cold and bleak, and thick, quilted curtains, which have been let fall before it and the doorway, exclude all air. Sivaji, Maloosray, and Palkur are sitting together, but are silent, for the Rajah's mind is troubled.
"If I only knew what she would have me do," he said at length, looking up. "Hast thou prepared all, Tannajee?"
"Master," he replied, "everything is ready. By midnight, or a little later, Moro Trimmul and the rest of the veterans will be in the woods near Jowly, around the camp. Every position has been marked out, and will be silently taken up. Nothing can escape out of that plain, and they will await the signal of the five guns from hence. The Brahmun swears," he continued, after a pause, "that he will take the pretty sister of the young Khan, in revenge for his seduction of the Tooljapoor Moorlee."
"He dare not," said Sivaji quickly. "I have heard that girl was an honoured guest in Afzool Khan's family; the Brahmuns say she was. No, he dare not touch her; and I have warned him not to do so."
Maloosray shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps," he said; "God knows! but Moro says otherwise. Let it pass; it is not our business; but he will be none the less active to get the whole family into his power."
"And you, Nettajee?" said the Rajah, turning to him.
"There are five thousand of my best Mawullees sleeping in the thickets east of the fort-gate. They will close in behind the Beejapoor people as they pass, and when we hear the horn, I think, master, few will escape--yes," he continued, fixing his large black eyes on the Rajah, and slightly twisting his moustaches, "few will escape."
"O, the blind confidence of these Beejapoor swine!" cried the Rajah, laughing, as he lifted up his hands. "They have neither eyes nor ears, else they had guessed we are not as we seem. But the goddess Mother has blinded and deafened them, and it is as my mother said it would be."
"Where is she?" asked Maloosray; "she should bless us ere we go forth."
"She is in the temple, and uneasy. As the time comes on, they think she will have a visitation," he replied. "Ah! here is some one to tell us. What news, Bheemee?"
"The lady mother is uneasy, Maharaj, and rocking herself to and fro. It is coming on her, and ye should be near to listen."
"Come, friends, let us go," said the Rajah; "on this revelation depends my course to-morrow."
It was but a few steps, and the place is already familiar to us. The low porch and dark vestibule, the small shrine within, from whence a strong light is shining into the gloom, resting sharply upon the figure of the Ranee as she sat before it, not quietly now, as when we saw her once before, but with her shoulders and bosom heaving rapidly, her eyes shut, or if opened for a moment flashing with excitement, her lips trembling and already speckled with foam; and that peculiar sharp, rocking motion of her body, which always preceded the final attack.
The men stood by reverently. No one dared to speak. The attendant Brahmun offered flowers from time to time, and kept up a low chant or incantation, while occasionally he threw grains of coloured rice upon the altar.
Suddenly the lady stretched forth her arms and shrieked wildly. Maloosray would have rushed forward, but Sivaji held him back. "Wait," he said in a low tone, "no one dares to interrupt her; wouldst thou go to death between her and the Mother? She will come--listen."
There was first a low muttering in which nothing could be distinguished; but words at last followed, to them terrible and awful, as, believing in the dread presence of the goddess, the lady poured them forth with gasps.
"O, I thirst! My children were slain--and no one has avenged them. Blood! blood! I thirst. I will drink it! The blood of the cruel--of the cow-slayers! All, all--the old and the young; the old woman and the maiden; the nurse and the child at her breast; all--all--all!" she continued, her voice rising to a scream. "They who love me, kill for me; for I thirst,--for I thirst now, as I did for the blood of the demons," and the voice again sank to a low whisper which was not audible.
These words had come from her by spasms, as it were; painfully, and with much apparent suffering. She shrieked repeatedly as she uttered them, and clutched at the air with a strange convulsive movement of both hands: sometimes as if apparently drawing to her, or again fiercely repelling an object before her. At last she stretched forth her hands and her body, as if following what she saw, and looking vacantly into the space before her with a terrified expression of countenance, the hands fell listlessly on her lap, and her features relaxed into a weary expression, as of one who had endured acute pain. Then she sighed deeply, opened her eyes, looked around, and spoke. "Bheemee, I thirst," she said gently,--"bring me water."
Sivaji alone had remained with his mother and the Brahmun of the temple, who, as she spoke them, recorded the disconnected sentences. The Rajah's companions, fearless before an enemy, were cowards before the dread presence in which they believed.
"Ah, thou art here, son," she said, turning to him. "Did I speak? Surely the Mother was with me," and she sighed deeply, again drawing her hand wearily across her eyes.
"Come and rest, mother," he replied, raising her up and supporting her tenderly. "Come, thou art weary."
"Weary indeed, my son," she said,--"there is no rest for me till all is finished. Come, and I will tell thee everything;" and he followed her into her own apartments, where she lay down. The attendant brought water, and she drank a deep draught.
"What did I say, son?" she continued. "But no matter. It is all blood before me--carnage and victory! Blood!" she cried excitedly, grasping his arm and looking intently into his face. "Art thou ready? ready for victory!--ready to cry 'Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja Máta!'"
"Ready, mother--yes. There is no failing anywhere. The men are at their posts, and the signals have been decided upon. No one will escape us now."
"No one will escape," she echoed,--"no one must escape--no--not one--not even he."
"Ah, mother," cried Sivaji, "not so; surely with pledged honour, soldier to a soldier, and a solemn invitation, it could not be."
"It must be, son," she said gloomily, "else the sacrifice is incomplete and of no avail. Wilt thou risk that for thine own sake--for my sake--for the sake of our faith? I see it all," cried the lady excitedly, "passing before me--a triumph of glory over those defilers of the temples of the gods; thy rapid rise to power; the legions of the hateful Mahomedans trampled in the dust by greater legions of thine own. 'Jey Sivaji Rajah!' shall be cried from Dehli to Raméshwur.[17] Wilt thou now turn back? wilt thou be forsworn to her--to the Mother who is our life? Wilt thou be as vacillating as thy father? Beware! thou art more committed to her than he--and does she spare backsliders?"
"He is but one to be spared, mother, and that because of my promise," he pleaded.
"I tell thee it cannot be, my son. She will have him--the slayer of the priests--the murderer of hundreds of the people about her shrine. And that priest of his who, as all say, led the slaughter, cast down her image, and trampled on it! O son, canst thou hesitate? art thou--so firm and true always--now grown weak? have I borne one in travail who is degenerate? Choose then, now--victory and future blessing, or the result which thou knowest, and we all know, if we fail her--the death which must ensue. Both are before thee; choose, boy; I can say no more!" and she turned away her face to the wall.
But she had conquered, for there was no defying her will,--always the mainspring of the Rajah's actions--and, backed by those seemingly divine revelations in which he devoutly believed, he did not resist her.
"Mother," he said, rising and prostrating himself before her, "I know--I feel that the goddess is speaking from thy mouth still. I hear and obey. Bless me, O my mother, and my hand will be strong; put thy hands on my head, and the Mother will guide the blow surely."
"I do bless thee, Sivaji Bhóslay," she returned, placing her hands on his head, "in the name of her who directs us, and with her power I endue thee. Go and fear not, but do her bidding--thou shalt not fail."
He rose. "I will but speak with Maloosray and dismiss them," he said, "and return. Make up a bed for me here, for I would sleep near thee, mother, to-night."
"Get thee to thy post, Nettajee," he said to Palkur, as he met them without; "there is no fear now; victory is with us--she hath said it. Let the men sleep and be ready."
"And what will you do with him--the Khan?" asked Maloosray.
"You will see to-morrow," said Sivaji excitedly. "You will be with me, and will share the danger. This was reserved for you, O well-tried friend!"
"Enough," said Maloosray to Palkur; "let us go, for the master needs rest;" and, saluting him, they departed.
Sivaji returned to his mother. A low bed had been prepared in the room, and she was sitting by it. He took off his upper garment and turban, and, having performed his ablutions, lay down, and she patted him gently, as she used to do when he was a child. He would have spoken, but she would not listen, and he urged her to sleep herself, but she would not leave him; and when the dim light of day broke gently into the chamber, he woke, and found she had not stirred from his side. "Arise," she said, "it is time. Food is prepared for thee. Eat, and go forth to victory!"
He obeyed her; bathed, worshipped earnestly in the temple, and ate heartily. Then he returned to her, and, in the simple words of the old Mahratta Chronicle, "laid his head at his mother's feet, and besought a blessing. He then arose, put on a steel cap, and chain armour, which was concealed under a thickly-quilted cotton gown; and, taking a crooked dagger which he hid under his sleeve, and the 'tiger's claws'[18] in his right hand, he girded his loins, and went out."
FOOTNOTES:
[17] The celebrated Hindu temple in the southern point of India.
[18] A treacherous and deadly weapon, in the shape of tiger's claws, which, fitted on the fingers, shuts into the hand.
Chapter LXXVIII
The morning broke, calm and beautiful. Long before the highest peaks of the mountains blushed under the rosy light which preceded the sunrise, the Khan and Fazil, with Zyna, had risen and performed their morning prayer. The deep booming sound of the kettle-drums woke the echoes around, and reverberated from side to side of the valley, retiring to recesses among the glens, and murmuring softly as it died away among the distant peaks and precipices. As yet, the valley was partially filled with mists, which clung to its wooded sides; but as the sun rose, a slight wind sprang up with it, which, breaking through these mists, drove them up the mountain, and displayed the scenery in all its fresh morning beauty, as though a curtain had been suddenly drawn from before it.
Behind them were the stupendous mountains of the Maha-bul-eshwur range; before, at a short distance, and divided from them by a chain of smaller hills, rose up the precipices of Pertâbgurh, glittering in the morning light, and crowned by the walls and bastions of the fortress.
Long before daylight the lady Lurlee had risen, and, careful for her husband, had, in conjunction with Kurreema, cooked his favourite dish of kichéri and kabobs. "It was a light breakfast," she said, "and would agree with them better than a heavier repast, and dinner would be ready when they returned." So Afzool Khan, his son, and the priest, ate their early meal, not only in joyful anticipation of a speedy return, but of accomplishing what would result in honour to all concerned.
They remembered afterwards, that as an attendant brought before the Khan the usual mail shirt he wore, and the mail-cap, with its bright steel chains, over which his turban was usually tied when fully accoutred, he laughingly declined both. "They will be very hot and uncomfortable," he said, "and we are not going to fight. No, give me a muslin dress," which he put on. A few words about ordinary household matters to Lurlee, a few cheering sentences to Zyna, as he passed from the inner and private enclosure of the tent, and he went out among the men.
Fazil followed, fully armed and accoutred for riding. There had been a good-humoured strife between Fazil and the priest the night before, as to who should be the one armed follower to accompany his father, and he had chosen the priest. "Fazil was too young yet," he said, "to enter into grave political discussions with wily Mahrattas, and would be better with the escort." So the soldier-priest, like the Khan, discarding the steel cap, gauntlets, and quilted armour in which he usually accoutred himself--appeared, like Afzool Khan, in the plain muslin dress of his order; and having tied up his waist with a shawl, and thrown another over his shoulders, stuck a light court sword into his waist-band, which he pressed down on his hips with a jaunty air, and called merrily to Fazil, to see how peacefully he was attired.
The escort awaited them in the camp, and the spirited horses of fifteen hundred gallant cavaliers were neighing and tossing their heads as Afzool Khan, Fazil, and the priest rode up. "Forward!" cried the Khan cheerily; and as the kettle-drums beat a march, the several officers saluted their commander, and, wheeling up their men, led them by the road pointed out by the Brahmuns and guides in the direction of Pertâbgurh.
At that time, single men, who looked like shepherds tending sheep, and who were standing on crests of the hills, or crouching so as not to be seen, passed a signal that the Khan and his party had set out. It was still early, and the time when, of all others perhaps, armies such as the Khan's, were most defenceless. Many, roused for a while by the assembly and departure of the escort, had gone to sleep again; others, sitting over embers of fires, were smoking, preparing to cook their morning repast, or were attending to their horses, or in the bazar purchasing the materials for their day's meal. The camp was watched from the woods around by thousands of armed men, who, silently and utterly unobserved, crept over the crests of the hills, and lay down in the thick brushwood which fringed the plain.
As the Khan's retinue neared the fort, parties of armed men, apparently stationed by the roadside to salute him as he passed, closed up in rear of the escort; and others, moving parallel to them in the thickets, joined with them unseen. Quickly, too, men with axes felled large trees, which were thrown down so as to cross the road, and interlaced their branches so as to be utterly impassable for horsemen; and all these preparations went on in both places silently, methodically, and with a grim surety of success, imparting a confidence which all who remembered it afterwards attributed to the direction of the goddess whom they worshipped. As it was said then, as it is still said, and sung in many a ballad, "not a man's hand failed, not a foot stumbled."
At the gate of the fort the Khan dismounted from his horse, and entered his palankeen. Before he did so, however, he embraced his son, and bid him be careful of the men, and that no one entered the town or gave offence. He could see, looking up, the thatched pavilion on the little level shoulder of the mountain, and pointed to it cheerfully. "It is not far to go, Huzrut," he said to the Peer, "I may as well walk with these good friends," and he pointed to the Brahmuns who attended him. But Fazil would not allow it, nor the Peer either. "You must go in state," they said, "as the representative of the King ought to do," and he then took his seat in the litter.
"Khóda Hafiz--may God protect you, father!" said Fazil, as he bent his head into the palankeen, when the bearers took it up; "come back happily, and do not delay!"
"Inshalla!" said the Khan smilingly, "fear not, I will not delay, and thou canst watch me up yonder." So he went on, the priest's hand leaning upon the edge of the litter as he walked by its side.
On through the town, from the terraced houses of which, crowds of women looked down on the little procession, and men, mostly unarmed, or unremarkable in any case, saluted them, or regarded them with clownish curiosity. No one could see that the court of every house behind, was filled with armed men thirsting for blood, and awaiting the signal to attack.
The Khan's agent, Puntojee Gopináth, being a fat man, had left word at the gate which defended the entrance of the road to the fort, that he had preceded the Khan, and would await him at the pavilion. He had seen no one since the night before, and he knew only that the Khan would come to meet the Rajah. That was all he had stipulated for, and his part was performed. He believed that Sivaji would seize Afzool Khan, and hold him a hostage for the fulfilment of all his demands; and the line of argument in his own mind was, that if the Khan resisted, and was hurt in the fray which might ensue, it was no concern of his. But he did not know the Rajah's intention, nor did the Rajah's two Brahmuns who had ascended with him; and they all three now sat down together upon the knoll, waiting the coming of Afzool Khan from below, and the Rajah from above.
As the agreement had specified, except one each, there were to be no armed men: no other people were present but one, who seemed to be a labourer, who was tying up a rough mat to the side of the pavilion to keep out the wind and sun. Gopináth looked from time to time up the mountain-road, and again down to the town, speculating upon the cause of delay in the Rajah's coming; and the others told him he would not leave the fort till the Khan had arrived below, and showed him a figure standing upon the edge of the large bastion which overhung the precipice above, relieved sharply against the clear sky, which was fronting towards the quarter by which the Khan's retinue should come, and apparently giving signals to others behind him.
"Your master is coming," said the Secretary, "they see him from above;" and, almost as he spoke, the bright glinting of steel caps and lance-heads, with a confused mass of horsemen, appeared on the road to the fort, among the trees, and they sat and watched them come on. Then the force halted in the open space before the outer gate, where the Khan's little procession formed, and entered the town. After that, the houses and the trees of the mountain-side concealed them. How beautiful was the scene!
The wind had died away, and the sun shone with a blaze of heat unknown elsewhere, striking down among those moist narrow valleys with a power which would have been painful, but for the cool refreshing air by which it was tempered. The distant mountains glowed under the effect of the trembling exhalations, which, rising now unseen, tempered the colours of the distance to that tender blue and grey which melts into the tint of the sky. The rugged precipices above were softened in effect; and the heavy masses of foliage, festoons of creepers, and the dense woods, rich in colour, combined to enhance the wonderful beauty of the spot. There was perfect silence, except the occasional monotonous drumming notes of woodpeckers in the glens, and the shrill chirrup of tree-crickets which occasionally broke out and was again silent.
In a few minutes, the shouts of the Khan's palankeen-bearers were heard below, and the litter suddenly emerged from a turn in the road, being pushed on by the combined efforts of the men. The Brahmun's heart bounded when he saw the figure of the priest beside the litter, holding to it, and pressing up the ascent vigorously. "Will he escape?" he said mentally; "the Mother forbid it,--let her take him!" A few more steps, and the palankeen was at the knoll; it was set down, and the Khan's shoes being placed for him by a bearer, he put his feet into them and got out, speaking to the priest, who was panting with his exertion.
"Is he not here, Puntojee?" cried the Khan to the Brahmun, who saluted him respectfully.
"No, my lord, not yet. Ah! look," he continued, as he turned towards the pass, "there are two men on the path, and that one, the smallest, is he."
The men coming down appeared to hesitate, and waved their hands, as if warning off some one.
"It is the bearers," said one of Sivaji's Secretaries. "The Rajah is timid, and fears the crowd he sees."
The Khan laughed. "Good," he said to the men. "Go away; sit down yonder in the shade. You will be called when I want you;" and as they got up and retired, the two men advanced slowly and cautiously down the pathway.
Afzool Khan went forward a few paces as Sivaji and Maloosray came up. "You are welcome, Rajah Sahib. Embrace me," he said to Sivaji. "Let there be no doubt between us;" and he stretched forth his arms in the usual manner.
Sivaji stooped to the embrace; and as the Khan's arms were laid upon his shoulders, and he was thus unprotected, struck the sharp deadly tiger's-claw dagger deeply into his bowels, seconding the blow with one from the other dagger which he had concealed in his left hand.
Afzool Khan reeled and staggered under the deadly wounds. "Dog of a Kafir!" he cried, pressing one hand to the wound, while he drew the sword he wore with the other, and endeavoured to attack the Rajah. Alas! what use now were those feeble blows against concealed armour? Faint and sick, the Khan reeled hither and thither, striking vainly against the Rajah, who, with the terrible sword now in his hand, and crying the national shout of "Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!" rained blow upon blow on his defenceless enemy. It was an unequal strife, soon finished. Falling heavily, Afzool Khan died almost as he reached the earth.
Meanwhile, Maloosray had attacked the priest with all his force and skill, but the Peer was a good swordsman, and for a short time held his ground. Neither spoke, except in muttered curses, as blows were struck; but Tannajee Maloosray had no equal in his weapon, and as he cried to the Rajah, who was advancing to his aid, to keep back--the priest, distracted by the assault of another enemy, received his death-blow, and sank to the ground.
"Jey Kalee!" shouted both. "Now, blow loud and shrill, Gunnoo, for thy life," continued the Rajah, "and thou shalt have a collar of gold."
The man who had appeared to be a labourer, seized his horn, which had been concealed in the grass, and blew a long note, with a shrill quivering flourish at the close, which resounded through the air, and echoed among the mountains; and thrice repeated the signal.
Then a great puff of smoke, followed by a report which thundered through the valley, burst from the bastion above. Those who were looking from the fort, and the Rajah himself, who ran to the edge of the knoll, saw the wreaths of fire which burst from the thickets about the plain where the Mahomedan cavalry stood, and a sharp irregular crash of matchlock shots came up from below, and continued. Hundreds died at every volley, and there were writhing, struggling masses of horses and men on the plain--loose horses careering about; and some men still mounted, strove to pierce the barriers which had been made on every side, crowded on each other, and, falling fast, became inextricable. Soon, too, the Mawullees, under Nettajee Palkur, emerged sword in hand from their ambush, and attacked those who survived. Some escaped; but of the fifteen hundred men who had ridden there in their pride that morning, few lived to tell the tale.
* * * * *
Moro Trimmul had taken up his position over night on a hill overlooking the main camp of Afzool Khan's army. A few boughs placed together formed a cover and screen on a high knoll, which commanded a view of the camp beneath, and of the summit of the fort whence his signal was to come. He sat there watching, and observed the force below, careless, without a guard, without weapons--the men sitting idly, wandering about, or cooking, as it might be. Every moment seemed interminable; and the eyes of those who looked with him were strained towards the fort.
"One," he cried at last, as the first puff of bright smoke burst from the bastion--"two--three--four--five! Enough. It is complete, my friends. Now, cry 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' and upon them. Spare no one! Come, friends, let us sack the Khan's tents first, where I have some work of my own to do."
"Beware," said an elderly officer, who stood near him--"beware, Moro Pundit, of the master, if thou disobey him in this. He will suffer no insult to the women."
"Tooh!" cried Moro Trimmul, spitting contemptuously, "I am a Brahmun, and he dare not interfere with me. Come!"
Ten thousand throats were crying the battle-cry of the Hetkurees, as they burst from the thickets upon the bewildered army. Why follow them? In a few hours there was a smell of blood ascending to the sky, and vultures--scenting it from their resting-places on the precipices of the mountains, and from their soaring stations in the clouds--were fast descending upon the plain in hideous flocks.
Shortly after the Khan had left--he could scarcely have reached the fort--two figures, a man and a boy, ran rapidly across the camp at their utmost speed towards the Khan's tents--they were the hunchback and Ashruf. When Fazil had dismissed them, the night before, they had taken the road to Wye; and immediately beyond the confines of the camp, where the road ascended a rocky pass, had been seized by the Mahratta pickets posted there. In vain they urged they were but Dekhan ballad-singers; they were not released. "Ye shall sing for us to-morrow," they said, "when we have made the sacrifice, the ballads of the goddess at Tooljapoor;" and, bound together, they lay by the tree where the party of men was stationed. There they heard all, but were helpless.
"Ah, masters," said Lukshmun, as daylight broke, "unbind us; we are stiff with the cold; we will not run away; and I will sing you the morning hymn of the goddess, as the Brahmuns sing it at Tooljapoor. See, my arms are swelled, and the boy's too."
"Loose him, brother," said one of the men, "we shall soon now have the signal. Wait you here," he added, as Lukshmun finished the chant, "and we will fill your pouches with Beejapoor rupees when we come back."
"Alas!" said the hunchback, with a rueful face, "this little brother came from Wye last night, to say my elder brother, Rama, was dead. Good sirs, let me go and bury him," and he began to sob bitterly.
"Let them go, Nowla," said another of the men; "they will be only in our way; we can't stop to guard them."
"My blessings on ye, gentlemen! Only let us go now, and we will come to you and sing congratulations when you have won the victory," said Lukshmun humbly.
"Go," said the men, "but do not return to camp, else we will slay you if we see you there."
"They will die, or worse," said the hunchback, whispering to Ashruf, "for Moro Trimmul is the leader here. Come, let us save the Khan's wife and the lady Zyna," and they turned into the jungle in the direction of the camp.
The boy was bold and quick-witted. As they ran on, "I can get into the zenana," he said, "under the tent wall, and perhaps we can make them change clothes, and fly--but if they stay?"
"I will get the ponies ready," replied the other, and they ran the faster over the plain, unperceived.
They reached the tents, and the boy entered as he said. Who would believe them? Zyna heard the tale with sickening dread, and Lurlee, assured by the others, at first disbelieved him, and threatened him with stripes. The women-servants crowded around, and some began to shriek, and were with difficulty pacified; others mocked him and turned away. Still the boy urged: and the hunchback, desperate, and dreading the delay, now found his way into the enclosure, and prostrated himself before them.
"I know the country," he said: "fly! take what jewels you can carry, and come. God be with them, lady!" he continued, as Zyna and Lurlee cried aloud for their husband and brother--"God be with them! they are mounted and will escape, and we may yet meet; but stay not here, else ye will die, or be dishonoured, and the Khan will kill me."
Then another voice was heard without, shouting. It was Shêre Khan, who had been left in charge of the private camp. "Go!" he cried, "I see men moving in the woods, and there is confusion and treachery." And others said the same. Then, too, they heard the five guns of the fort, and there broke from the mountains around a hoarse roar of voices, "Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!"
This decided them. A hurried change of clothes, some coarse garments thrown over them, and the ponies being led within the enclosure, the ladies were lifted on them and carried out. O, to see the stupid misery of those women! Hitherto secluded, they could understand nothing; they had no power to resist; and why they should be taken out among men, when the shouts and screams of the camp were growing wilder every moment, they could not understand. So they wrung their hands in speechless terror.
"Come with the ladies, Shêre Khan," cried Lukshmun; "come, save thyself, old man!"
"No," he replied sadly; "my time is come, and the sherbet of death will be sweet. Go thou, and all of ye who can," he added to those who had gathered with the women. "Quick! quick! else it will be too late."
The shouts of "Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!" were already mingling on the confines of the camp with the battle-cries of the Moslems, who had rallied in small parties, and the flood of attack was there stayed for a little: this saved the fugitives. Close by the enclosure of tent walls ran the rivulet, and its banks were high and covered with brushwood on the sides, which concealed the party. Lukshmun, with a true freebooter's instinct, led Zyna's pony down the bank, accompanied by some of the terrified women-servants, and Lurlee followed. So they proceeded at a rapid pace down the stream, meeting no one, and concealed from view.
They heard the hideous din of shouts, screams, and shots increase behind them, but it gradually softened with distance, and in a little time Lukshmun turned up the sandy bed of a tributary brook, on the sides of which the jungle was thicker, while the bed was narrower and more tortuous; and, bidding every one tread only in the shallow stream which flowed in the midst, in order to afford no traces of footsteps, he hurried on, still leading Zyna's pony by the bridle. "Fear not, lady," he said confidently,--"the worst is past, and God will be merciful; fear not."
In the camp there was but a short resistance. On the one hand, the desperate valour of the mountain soldiery, the certainty of plunder, revenge for Tooljapoor, and the example of Moro Trimmul and other leaders; and on the other, the helpless, disorganized, bewildered mass before them, rendered the assault irresistible. The first attacking bodies were succeeded by mass upon mass of fresh assailants from all quarters, and these successive tides of men surged resistlessly across the camp, overwhelming all.
When Moro Trimmul and his party reached the Khan's tents, they found no one. The tracks of the ponies, where they had descended the bank, were, however, visible, and were taken up by his followers, who dashed forward like bloodhounds on a scent. "Away after them, Kakrey!" cried the Brahmun to a subordinate officer. "Thou art a better tracker than I. Bring them to me,--then," he added to himself, "Fazil Khan, we will see who wins the game,--you or I."
Chapter LXXIX
The ambassador's family, with whom Tara had received protection, had arrived at Pertâbgurh the day before the events related in the last chapter. At Wye some traces of her mother's family, the Durpeys, had been found, but they were now residing at or near Poona: it would require several days to communicate with them; and a much longer period for them, or any one of them, to come for Tara and take her away. Meanwhile, therefore, there was no resource but to stay where she was, and to endure, what was daily becoming more and more insupportable.
Personally, Govind Rao, the Envoy, was kind to her, and continually renewed his offers of assistance and protection; but from his sister, the widow Pudma Bye, Tara had to endure insult and ill-usage, from which the Envoy's wife was unable to save her. Few, indeed, in the house, chose to risk the bitterness of Pudma's tongue, or the virulence of her spite. Her brother even feared her, and avoided her as much as possible.
So she employed herself in ascetic penances and religious exercises, fasted long and often, and mortified herself in various ingenious ways, with a view to establishing a character for sanctity which should make her famous. As might be supposed, she, the general distributor of the family alms, had many friends among the priestly Brahmuns, who attended the house and partook of her brother's charity; and it was an object with many, by flattering her vanity, to make those alms as large as possible, and to induce her to undertake ceremonies which could not be performed without priestly aid, and, necessarily, money.
The chief of these priests was one Wittul Shastree, an elderly man of grave aspect, but with a hard expression of countenance, which might proceed from austerity or avarice, or both combined. He was the agent or commissary of the prince superior of the Brahmuns of the province, and held authority sufficient for the disposal of cases of heretical error, misconduct as to caste affairs, and other matters of religious discipline. On grave occasions of ceremony he directed these proceedings, and, in virtue of his office, was in proportion feared by all who might by any possibility come under his influence or power.
Tara's presence in the family could not be kept a secret. The fact of a widow existing there who wore silken garments and jewels, and who had not her head shaved, was an infringement of caste discipline which required prompt investigation; and as the Envoy arrived at the fort, the Shastree betook himself to Pudma Bye, as well to receive the donations which were his due since she had been absent, as to make inquiry.
The Envoy himself was absent at the Rajah's Kuchéri. Amba Bye was busy arranging her house after her long absence, and Tara was assisting her with an alacrity and intelligence which at once surprised and gratified her. On her own part, the worthy good-natured dame was not slow in evincing warm affection: which had arisen out of the helpless condition of Tara on the one hand, and the loving confidence which she had displayed on the first evening of their companionship.
Ah! it was a cruel struggle for the poor girl. Perhaps we, who belong to another creed and faith, can hardly estimate it. And yet the springs and motives of human action have parallels so close everywhere, that we can at least follow the events which had to be endured, alike without aid, and without sympathy.
Poor Tara! could she deny herself the secret contemplation of the noble youth who, she knew, was her lover? Could she forget the sweet companionship of Zyna, the rough but loving caresses of the Khan's wife, and the hearty greeting of the Khan himself? Alas, no! it was impossible, and yet all these were in direct antagonism with her own creed, with the people of her own faith. What had she been taught to believe, but that Brahmuns were the gods of the earth--divine emanations, incapable of sin, and only resting here for a while in expiation of the errors of former births, till they were absorbed again into divinity, as a drop of rain-water in the sea, or as the sparks falling back into the fire!
She herself was a Brahmun of the highest rank and caste: the very idea of a Mussulman should have been abhorrent and repellant to her. Was it so? Alas, no! She, an orphan as she believed herself, had felt her sorrow soothed, and her honour powerfully protected: she had been received into loving communion with a noble family: she could not help contrasting their soft polished manners with the rude homely speech and rough demeanour of those with whom she now was--far ruder among those mountains, than even among the people of her own town.
Again, and far above all, that portion of the old old story which she had heard and believed, when she knew herself to be beloved, would not be forgotten. It lay at her heart, rankling sometimes and chafing, because so impossible--and again was remembered in a sweet confidence which, though more impossible, was yet inexpressibly soothing. "He will remember me--he now thinks of me," she would say to herself in the lonely night, when ofttimes a bitter cry was rung from her, which no one knew of; "and he would take me away if he could--ah yes! he would have done it--if he could."
From the first moment antipathy was conceived against Tara by Pudma Bye, that virtuous lady had continued to brood over it with increasing dislike to her. She had tried to excite in her brother abhorrence for Tara's condition; and, failing that, in Amba Bye, with whom she had as little success. Both believed Tara to be a priestess of the goddess whom they feared. The Envoy had tested her knowledge of sacred books, which was nearly equal to his own, for he did not pretend, he said, to be a scholar; and in several disputations with other Brahmuns who, attracted by the news of Tara's learning, had come to hear her read and recite what she knew, she had acquitted herself with favourable impressions upon all. But the woman's hatred of the girl's beauty, and her ascetic austerity, which would have made Tara like herself, could not be controlled; and, under the influence of the Shastree, was likely to have full scope.
But Wittul Shastree could not restrain himself; and, unable to get speech of the master and mistress of the house, Pudma Bye was resorted to--a willing communicator of all that she herself thought, all that she had said and argued, and all that she had heard of Tara's sojourn with the impure Mussulmans. As for herself, she did not, she said, believe Tara's story of Moro Trimmul's outrage; she, on the contrary, believed what he said, that it was a meritorious attempt to withdraw her from a scandalous position--scandalous alike to herself and to the faith.
The Shastree's mind was at once made up as to his course. There had been several offensive stories current in regard to young widows lately, and not without reason: and they had escaped his punishment. This at least was sure--the Envoy dare not deny, and could not evade his power; and if Tara appealed to the Rajah himself, it would be on a point of caste discipline with which he--Rajah though he was--would not dare to interfere.
"Let us hear her first," he said to the lady, as, having listened to Pudma Bye's account of Tara, he sat in the outer verandah of the house the morning after their arrival, while Tara was within; "wilt thou call her, daughter? we should not judge unheard."
Poor Tara's heart failed her sadly when Pudma called her. She clung to Amba Bye instinctively, trembling as she saw the priest sitting without, and protested against meeting him. "He is a stranger to me; what have I to do with him?" she said. "Let me go away. I am not his to be questioned, but the Mother's at Tooljapoor."
"Go," whispered Amba Bye to her; "he is all-powerful here,--over the Rajah, over my husband, over all. Go, tell him the truth. I will not leave thee. Go, Tara."
"Wilt thou now screen her, sister?" cried Pudma Bye, in a shrill voice, and stretching out her bare skinny arms to Tara. "Is her shame to be our shame--we that have no spot or stain upon us? If thou art bewitched, I, that perform the nine penances daily, should not be exposed to this! Come, girl! it is pollution to touch thee--nevertheless, come, else I will drag thee to him."
"Go!" cried Amba, frightened at the other's voice of threat and scorn combined, of which she had had long and sad experience in the house. "I dare not keep thee now,--she is terrible. Go, Tara, and answer what they ask thee. Say the truth and the Mother will hear thee. O, that my lord were here! O, that he were here!" and she sat down, sobbing and wringing her hands helplessly.
"Come," cried Pudma, as, seizing Tara by the arm, she pulled her forward. "Art thou a child, to be ashamed,--thou that art a Moorlee?"
Tara's limbs trembled so that she could hardly move.
"Ah, Mother," she prayed silently, "I am not false to thee yet; let me not be tried more than I can bear. I will go, even to death, but not to shame. O Mother, not to shame! Let me go, lady," she continued to Pudma Bye, "I will follow thee."
She did so, and, bending down submissively before the priest, stood up with her hands joined in an attitude of supplication. For a moment the stern man's features relaxed into an expression almost of kindness, certainly of extreme interest. The youth of the girl, her gentle grace, the sad but beautiful expression of her face--above all, its purity of expression--sent conviction to his heart that there was no room for calumny, none even for suspicion.
Pudma saw the hesitation, and, herself resolute, resumed rapidly and passionately--
"Is that a figure to be a widow and a priestess--that thing with a golden zone, and necklaces and ear-rings, and a silken garment like a harlot? Is that a widow who daily combs her hair, braids it, puts sweet flowers and oils into it, decking it for a lover? O Shastree, is that what a virtuous widow should be? Is that a condition of penance and austere privation whereby to inherit life eternal?"
The Shastree's features changed rapidly. "It cannot be," he said; "such adornment and beauty is not of a virtuous woman. Now I believe thee, sister, and thy brother must be spoken to. He cannot keep a thing so offensive in his house, and be among us."
"Hear me, my lord," said Tara, appealing to him piteously. "I am pure--I have done no evil--I am an orphan and a Moorlee, but not as others; such as I am, the holy Bhartee Swâmi, whom I have served hitherto, hath made me. Write to him if you will----"
"What is this?" said Govind Rao, who entered at the moment, interrupting her; "what art thou asking of her, friend? Let her alone; she is my care."
"Look," returned the other, rising, "if thou art satisfied to have one like that remaining in thy house, the Swâmi must know of it, and there will be a fine, and shame will come to thee among the council. If she be a widow, let her be treated as widows should be. If----"
"If I am a Moorlee of the goddess, as ye call me," said Tara, interposing, "I am already shameless in your eyes, and no widow: let me go. No Moorlee is asked what she does, or what she wears. The Mother will not have those near her who are disfigured, and I cannot break the vow I have made to her; she would destroy me."
Panting and excited, flushed with the desperation of her speech, Tara stood erect, with her eyes flashing, her glowing beauty exciting the involuntary admiration of the men, and the virulent hatred of the woman who sat with them.
"See, brother!" cried Pudma Bye, "look at the witch--look at her glowing eyes. It was by these shameless eyes that she won men's hearts at Tooljapoor. Beware! beware of yourselves, lest ye too fall! Ah!" she continued with a scream, "put her away--kill her; but let her not go--Brahmun as she is--to the cow-slayers!"
"Peace," said her brother; "why this spite, Pudma? what hath she done to thee? Peace, and begone to the inner rooms. Begone!" he cried in a louder tone, and stamping his foot, "begone! Dost thou not hear?"
"I hear," she replied doggedly; "but I will not go, unless the Shastree bid me. Choose now between us: send me out of thy house to thy shame, and keep her, to thy worse shame; or send her away. There can be no compromise between good and evil, shame and dishonour."
"She speaks truly, friend," said the Shastree mildly. "It must be done. How do we know she is a priestess?"
Tara had not entirely lost the presence of mind which she naturally possessed, though she found it failing rapidly. "Put me to the proof," she said quickly,--"the proof. If there be a temple of the Mother's here, let me sit in it before her a night and a day--haply she may come to her child, as she did at Tooljapoor. Ye can watch me too, there. If she come not--then she hath abandoned me, and ye can kill me if ye please, sirs; better ye did so, for I am indeed friendless."
"Not so," cried the widow; "thou hast friends, Tara, many and powerful--myself the greatest of all; but--not as thou art. Choose!"
"I have chosen, lady," said the girl sadly. "Take me to the temple now--even now,--and leave me there. A vessel of water is enough, and a woman to watch me at night, if ye will not watch yourselves. I have already eaten, and want no food. I would go to the Mother."
"It is some device, brother," said Pudma suspiciously; "some device to fly, to escape, or----"
He smiled and shook his head. "It requires a braver heart than a girl's to face the mountain-paths alone at night among the bears and the panthers, sister, and nought but a bird could escape down the precipices. Why these unjust suspicions? Art thou ready, Tara? If so, follow me, and thou too, Shastree; we will settle this matter at once. There is no one now in the Rajah's temple. He has already paid his devotions, and is preparing to meet the Khan. Come, the ordinary priests are there, and there is no fear of her. Come, Tara, fear not. If thou art true, the Mother will defend thee. Dost thou trust her, girl?"
"Take me to her," she replied. "I have no refuge but with her. I am ready." Then she turned to embrace Amba Bye, who now entered sobbing, and fell upon her neck.
"I will come to thee by-and-by," she whispered. "It is but a step, and I will watch with thee at night. I have a vow to pay to the Mother. Go with my husband."
We know the place already. It was where Sivaji's mother had sat. A few words to the attendant priest by Govind Rao and the Shastree, explained the ordeal to which Tara had voluntarily subjected herself, and she was permitted to approach the shrine and make her obeisance and offerings. They watched her, and saw that she did her office as one used to the duty; and when it was finished, she went before the shrine, sat down, and began to chant the morning hymn of the goddess in low and sweet tones, rocking herself to and fro.
"There can be no doubt of this, Shastree," said Govind Rao,--"she is what she tells us."
"She may be," he replied, "but till the goddess comes into her and speaks by her mouth, she may not be fully believed. Let us leave her," and they went.
Tara grew absorbed in her devotion: she noticed no one. By-and-by a gun was fired from a tower near her, and four others followed. Then a pause ensued, and the priest fed the lamps with fresh oil, tinkled the bell on the shrine, and poured libations to the image, renewing these ceremonies with much earnestness. Tara scarcely noticed them, for though it was broad noonday without, it was dusk within the closed vestibule. By-and-by a girl, bearing a tray of lighted lamps, and garlands of flowers, entered, but so that her face could not be seen, and, delivering some to the priest, began a ceremony herself, which was strangely familiar; and as Tara turned her head for an instant, she saw that it was Gunga, and that she herself was recognized.
Gunga clapped her hands with joy. "At last," she cried excitedly, "at last! See, I am worshipping for the victory which he has gained by this time. Hush! thou wilt see Zyna here presently. Moro will bring her captive; then there will be three with him--I, and thou, and she. Ha, ha, ha! a merry three, girl. Dost thou hear, O Tara?" But some strange chill had struck at Tara's heart, and, sinking down on the floor, for a time she was insensible.
Chapter LXXX
Gunga's appearance is easily explained. On his arrival at Pertâbgurh Moro Trimmul had been sent to bring up some of the Rajah's Hetkurees from the Concan, the tract below the mountains next the sea, and he had besought the post of honour in the ensuing attack upon the Mussulman camp, which had been granted to him.
In this he had two motives: the one, personal distinction, and the desire of retaliation for Tooljapoor, which was shared commonly with all Brahmuns; and, secondly, and probably most urgent, the desire of revenge upon Fazil Khan, and, if possible, the capture of his sister and family. That either Afzool Khan or his son would survive the fight, he did not think possible, or if they escaped death, and were captured, that they would be spared.
Of the Rajah's intentions in regard to the Khan, he had no idea; and when Maloosray and Palkur were with their prince on the night preceding the Khan's visit to the fort, Moro Trimmul was in company with his own men, placing them in positions in the woods, ready to obey the signal which had been communicated to him. Gunga, therefore, had been sent on to the fort under charge of his servants, and directed not only to have the house swept and prepared, but, as the guns were fired from the fort, to offer sacrifice for him in the temple, and await his coming.
"Dost thou know her?" asked the Brahmun priest of Gunga, when he heard her speak to Tara, and observed the effect of her address.
"Know her?--Yes, Maharaj," returned Gunga, "she is a Moorlee of the temple at Tooljapoor, and I am another,--that's why I know her."
"It is curious," said the man, musing. "There, raise her up till my wife comes; we have had charge of her given to us, and she is to watch here to see if the Mother comes to her to prove herself what she says she is. Did she ever prophesy?"
"The Mother came to her once," replied Gunga, "when she was made a Moorlee; but I never saw her come afterwards. If she would be a true priestess, she perhaps would come; but she is only half a one at heart, and that's why trouble follows her."
"What trouble?" asked the priest.
"O, her father and mother are dead, killed in the fight at Tooljapoor, and she is here, among strangers, with no one to help her; is not that trouble enough, Maharaj?" replied the girl. "And she is so beautiful, too; they say she is a witch, and steals men's hearts, and throws them away; but I don't know that she is--she is only beautiful--look at her."
"Ah, that's the worst I have heard yet," said the man, musing.
"Yes, but she is pure, quite pure, sir," returned Gunga earnestly, "not like me and the rest of us; and we envied her, and I hated her; but I don't hate her now, and when she wakes I will tell her so. Tara, Tara! wake! She is not dead, sir, is she?" continued the girl dreamily, pushing away Tara's hair from her face, and looking into her eyes: "she does not answer me. O, speak to her!"
"No, she is alive," replied the Brahmun, feeling her hand and forehead. "Wait, I will bring some water."
"Would she were dead--dead ere he came," Gunga muttered to herself. "He will not spare her now--ah me! not now: and in the heat and confusion of victory, who will care for her? All those she loved last, too, are dead--all gone--and that fair boy with the rest! Ah me, better she died! Tara, drink! here is water!"
A woman came with a brass vessel full, and helped Gunga to raise her up, while she poured some into her mouth, and sprinkled her face gently. They saw Tara heave a great sigh; and presently, as the woman fanned her with the end of her garment, she awoke and looked dreamily around her--first to the woman, then to Gunga, against whom she was reclining. Her first impulse was to rise, but in the attempt she sank down again, and buried her face in her hands.
"Why art thou here?" she cried piteously. "O Gunga, go? leave me." She did not yet comprehend what had been said of victory, for she made no allusion to it.
"No, Tara, not now," said the girl--"not now. I will tell thee why. Go," she continued to the woman. "You are kind. Go now. I have that to say to my sister which no one must hear. Go! We are priestesses, and will serve the Mother in our own fashion. But if I need shelter for her, wilt thou give it?"
"Ah," replied the dame, "we are poor people, and can do little; but the Máhá Ranee is kind and just--I will speak to her."
"True," replied Gunga absently; "if needs be, I will come to thee again--now, go. Tara!" she continued, stretching out her hands to her imploringly when the woman had gone out--"O Tara, look up! look up, and see if I be like what I was;--cast me not away now, for we are both in the like misery! O Mother!" she cried to the image on the altar, "bid her speak to me, ere it be too late;--bid her trust to me, and save herself! Tara, behold I kiss your feet; trust me now, as I swear on them not to fail you. No, no, never, never more--never more, except in death. See what I do!"
She arose, went to the shrine, and prostrated herself before it on her face, so that her hands embraced the feet of the image. "O, kill me, Mother--O, kill me, Mother!" Tara heard her cry, in a passionate burst of weeping; "kill me, if thou wilt, for touching thee, who am not worthy; but hear me, and help me to save Tara. She is thy child. O, let me save her for thee. I will,--I will, if thou wilt bid her trust me, for I am not lying now. I am true to thee and to her!"
The words were almost inarticulate, and gasped or sobbed, rather than spoken. They fell strangely on Tara's ears as Gunga still moaned rather than spoke. "Mother--O Mother, I am true, I am not lying; bid her trust me! bid her trust me!"
It was impossible to resist them. Tara rose and went across the vestibule to her. "Gunga," she said, "get up, I am here: what wouldst thou of me?"
The girl arose, put away the dishevelled hair from her face, and again bowed before Tara, embracing her knees. She was not repulsed this time. The priest had watched the scene wonderingly--he could not understand it. Tara was standing beside the door of the shrine, the light from within streaming out upon her. Her slight figure was drawn up to its full height, and her beautiful features were calm--almost sublime in their expression. Lying at her feet, and clasping them, was the other girl, still moaning in apparent agony.
"She hath done some terrible crime," thought the Brahmun, "and the other will intercede for her."
"O Tara--O Tara," cried Gunga piteously, "I dare not look up to thee now; all my shame is rushing back into my heart; my words and my touch are alike pollution to thee! O Tara, I dare not ask forgiveness--I who have wronged thee so foully. Speak, for time passes quickly, and they will be here--wilt thou trust me now? O Mother, Mother! what can I do? what can I say to make her trust me--to make her forgive me?"
"Look up, Gunga," said Tara, sitting down, and gently parting the hair on the girl's forehead, "what hast thou done? It was he, not thou; see, I forgive thee freely."
"O yes, it was he, not I," she cried,--"I resisted, and he used to beat me. Yes, he beat me cruelly only yesterday, when he left me, and then it came into my heart to save thee! Yes, the Mother told me--I know it now--to come here, and I have found thee. Listen!" she continued, rising, and looking hurriedly about her. "There is no one near--all are gone. Come! come! we are not seen;--come at once,--do not delay: we can escape during the confusion. Hark! they are fighting below--come! I tell thee the tigers and the bears on the mountain, are better for me and thee than they. Dost thou not hear?"
"It is the men firing for the Khan's arrival," said Tara gently; "there is no fighting. Who should fight?"
"Ah no," cried Gunga, "they are attacked,--the Khan is already killed. I heard it as I came in--they are all dead or dying. O Tara, I tell thee that no one will escape,--no, not one. Hark! the din increases, and thou art here: alas! alas! O Mother! tell it to her," she exclaimed, with passionate gesticulation, to the senseless image before them--"tell it to her--she will not believe me--Tara, dost thou not hear?"
Just then, an eddy, perhaps, of the mountain-wind, brought up to them from the deep valley below, a hoarse, confused din of shouts, shots, and conflict. It could not be mistaken. Tara had heard it once at Tooljapoor, but this was far more tremendous.
"Come!" again shrieked Gunga, seizing her arm, and dragging her away--"come! It is our last chance for life--do not throw it away. We can get out and hide among the bushes; and I will never leave thee, Tara, never."
But she spoke to one now wellnigh bereft of sense. The Khan killed, the rest attacked, and the fierce turmoil of the fight coming up stronger and stronger, till the fretted roof of the temple seemed filled with the sound, overpowered Tara; for at last, the hideous truth seemed to flash upon her, as she sat down and buried her face in her lap in an attitude of mute despair; but Gunga would not let her rest.
"Ah, I am believed now," she cried wildly: "listen! Moro Trimmul, with thousands upon thousands, has attacked the camp, and he swore to me to bring the Khan's wife and daughter hither. O Tara! will he spare them? He swore he would not, and he beat me when I pleaded for them. Look! here are bruises on me. I tell thee he will not spare them or you. Come!"
"I will die here,--I will not go from the Mother, Gunga," replied Tara. "I am her child now--only hers: let her do with me as she wills, I will not go. Save thyself, care not for me," and she arose and prostrated herself before the shrine. "O Mother," she cried piteously, "I will not leave thee again. Death or life, what matters it to me? let it be as thou wilt. I have promised not to leave thee, and I am here waiting." Then rising, she seated herself as she was used to do before the shrine, and spoke no more.
"I can at least die with thee, Tara; I will not leave thee," said Gunga. "Whatever comes, let it come to us both; I am as ready to die as thou art--I will not go."
They sat there long. The sun declined, and the evening was drawing in. Once only Gunga had gone out to see whether she could gain any intelligence, and had returned saying the doors of the temple enclosure were shut. The Brahmun priest had disappeared like the rest, but there were shouts as if of victory which rung through the building in bursts, evidently growing nearer. Tara seemed not to hear them. It might be that utter despair possessed her, or, as Gunga hoped, that some manifestation of the goddess was about to take place. She scarcely moved now, but when the shouts grew louder she shuddered, and drew the end of her garment more closely around her as if she were cold.
It was thus that the Máhá Ranee, Sivaji's mother, found her and Gunga as she entered with her attendants for the evening prayer and worship, and to give thanks for the victory.
As the lady had approached the temple, the attendant priest told her of Tara, and why she had been left there by the Shastree and Govind Rao, and the tale had excited her curiosity, if not her compassion.
"She is sitting there before the Mother," he said, "and does not speak. Perhaps she will answer you, lady, but it seems as though a fit were coming on her. I will tell her at least that you have come," and, stepping forward, he advanced to Tara and whispered in her ear.
The Máhá Ranee followed, and paused as she entered the vestibule. The light shone full upon Tara, and her expression of deep misery could not be mistaken. Long afterwards, the first sight of that pale, wan, despairing face recurred to the lady with pain, and she never forgot the look of hopeless grief which Tara had first turned upon her.
"There is no inspiration in that face," said the lady to the priest,--"none. It seems to me the Mother hath forsaken her. Of what is she accused?"
"She was taken from the Mussulman chief, we hear," said the Brahmun, "and was to have become a Mussulmani. They say, too, she is a sorceress, and does evil with her eyes; but Govind Rao placed her here, and knows about her."
"I fear her not," cried the Ranee, with flashing eyes. "Who is she, that she dare sit in my presence? Put her out! Away with thee, wench!" she continued to Tara, "get thee hence! If thou art forsworn, begone! The Mother hath drunk blood to-day, and will not spare thee! Take her away, Bheemee--she is an offence to us."
"Get up, girl," said Bheemee roughly, as she advanced, followed by several other women--"get up; dost thou not hear? else we will cast thee out."
Gunga came forward boldly. "Do not touch or hurt her," she said: "I fear she is not now in her right mind. If I may take her, I will look after her. Get up, Tara," she whispered in her ear: "come, we will go and hide ourselves. Come, for thy life, come!" and she tried to lift her up and drag her away.
But Tara could not rise; her limbs seemed paralysed by grief or terror, and she did not evidently understand what had occurred. Not noticing the Máhá Ranee, she disengaged herself from Gunga, and once more stretched out her arms to the shrine before her, and cried in piteous tones which affected many around her to tears, "O Mother, I will not leave thee: do with me as thou wilt, even to death!" and so lay moaning.
"Send for Govind Rao and Wittul Shastree, lady," said the old Brahmun priest, who was sobbing and wiping his eyes: "they know of her, and you will hear about her from them."
"Good," replied the Ranee, already softened, "let them be brought instantly,--they are without. We will await their coming."
Some little time elapsed, and others assembled. No one knew what was going to happen. After a while Tara seemed to regain sense and to remember why she was there, for she sat up, and they saw her lips moving as if in prayer. As the trumpets sounded the setting of the first watch at sunset, and the great kettle-drums and pipes played the evening music in the Nobut Khana above the gate, the Brahmun priests entered with the usual offerings, and began to chant one of the evening hymns of praise, as they moved round the shrine in time with the faint clash of the silver cymbals, which one of them carried. Then, timidly and faintly at first, but increasing in power as she sang, Tara joined the chant. It was an emotion which she could not restrain, and which not even the sense of desolation and dull misery which had overwhelmed her, could repress. She was unconscious of the effect it produced upon those who listened to her, as her full rich voice rose above the hoarse and unmusical chant of the priests; but as it gradually ceased, and the sound died away in the recesses of the temple, it affected many of those who heard it to tears, and was never forgotten.
"No wonder," said the Ranee, who had listened to the hymn with emotion which she hardly chose to acknowledge,--"no wonder they say she is a sorceress. See, she has no fear--no perception of what is to happen, or who are around her. That is not natural; it is magic, and may not be looked upon."
"Lady," said Wittul Shastree, who, with Govind Rao and the other Brahmuns, now approached her, "we attend you; what are your commands?"
"We doubt the girl yonder, and they tell us she is dangerous, and a sorceress; we would have her removed ere we render sacrifice for victory," she replied; "but the priests tell us she is there by your order. Is it so?"
"By her own will," said the Shastree; "not our orders. We would have made her over to the council for chastisement and discipline, because, as a priestess of Kalee, she hath been residing among the Moslems; but she claimed ordeal and sanctuary with the goddess, and we sent her here. Has any vision appeared to her?" he asked of the attendant priest.
"None," replied the man. "They have been talking together, she and the girl beside her, who wanted her to get up and go away; but she has not stirred since the five guns were fired, and she was told of the victory."
"I will ask her again what she wishes, lady," said Govind Rao, "but better than I, Moro Trimmul should do it, who, we hear, has married his sister to her father. He, too, is without with the Rajah; they have just come up into the fort."
"Let him be called," replied the lady, "and keep out other strangers. Be ye all seated, sirs," she continued to the Brahmuns who had accompanied the Shastree, "while this inquiry lasts."
Chapter LXXXI
The inner part of the vestibule was not large,--a square room, supported upon massive stone pillars at the corners, with a slightly raised dais all round; and as the Brahmuns entered and took their seats, Tara could not avoid noticing them, and appeared more conscious of surrounding occurrences than before. Thinking she would rise, Gunga approached to assist her, but Tara motioned her away. "My time is not yet come," she said; "I will not go;" and again she drew her garment about her, and resumed her silent position.
But not for long. There was a sudden movement among those without, and a way was cleared for one who came in rapidly.
"Who wants me here?" cried a strong manly voice, apparently hoarse from shouting. "A girl! what girl? Let me pass."
As he strode in through the men who were sitting behind, Tara turned her head, and suddenly beheld her enemy.
She rose at once, excited and defiant, so noble in her manner, so expressive in her abhorrence, that Moro Trimmul shrank back a step, abashed.
"Begone!" she cried, stamping her foot. "There is the Mother; not a second time shalt thou take me from her. My fathers," she cried, appealing to all around, "he would twice have dishonoured me, and I have been saved. Now I am under your protection, O, give me not to him! Take me to the mother of the Rajah; she will protect me."
"She is here," said the Shastree, stepping forward; "and thy fate shall be decided before her. Fear not, daughter."
"Friends," said Moro Trimmul, looking round, "have care for my honour! Twice have I rescued her from shame. Once when she was escaping from Tooljapoor; once in separating her from those who have been slain. Give her to me, for her shame to be hidden away for ever."
"I will not go; I will not go!" cried Tara, entering the door of the shrine, and clasping the feet of the image. "Kill me if ye will, here,--I am ready; but I will not go with him."
"I claim them both, sirs," cried Moro Trimmul passionately; "her, and her sister Moorlee yonder. Beware, all of ye, how ye interfere with the family honour of a respectable man. I will brook it from no one, not even from Sivaji Bhóslay himself! Have I won a victory to-day at the Mother's command, and am I to be disgraced and humbled before her, by a deranged girl and doting priests, ere it is closed? Come forth, Tara!" he called, in a hoarse voice--"come forth, else I will tear thee thence. Away with her," he cried to two of his attendants, who had seized Gunga, and were holding her fast--"away with her to my house, and bind her there; I will bring the other. Now, friends, beware who stays me, for, by the gods, he dies, be he who he may!" and he drew his sword, and was advancing, when the Shastree stepped before him.
"Madman," he cried, stretching forth his hands; "forbear! put up thy weapon,--no one here dreads it. We are Brahmuns, as thou art! Fear not," he continued to Tara, who had stood up also by the altar, and was trembling violently, but not with terror. "Fear not; thou art under the protection of the council, and he dare not interfere with thee."
"Fool and dotard," exclaimed Moro Trimmul under his breath, and from between his clenched teeth, "I will settle with thee for this, one day yet. As ye will, sirs," he continued bitterly, looking round and panting as he dropped his sword's point. "My honour is in the hands of a priest's council at last, not in my own keeping, and I am helpless; but hasten what ye have to do, for I will not leave ye till ye have decided in regard to her. Look at her--harlot and witch, sorceress and devil--who hath already destroyed men's souls,--will ye believe the Mother protects such as she is?"
"Let it be so," said the Shastree. "Tara, art thou willing to abide the night, as the issue of the ordeal suggested by thyself, to wait her coming? If so, we will stay here with thee."
"Mother," she said in a low voice, turning to the altar, and joining her hands in supplication before the image--"Mother, if I am thy child, tell me what to say to them; or, if thou wilt, let me be another sacrifice to thee, and it will be well. Mother,--O Toolja Máta! dost thou hear?--Tara is ready before thee--ready to come!"
Low as the words were spoken, they were heard by all; and remembering the events of the day, and believing in the power of the goddess, it was expected the girl would fall and die where she was, on the solemn invocation; but it was not so. For a few moments she stood gazing intently at the image, without altering her position of supplication; then she smiled, her hands dropped, and she turned at once and faced the assembly. Not even in her first office as priestess had her beauty been more glorious--the expression of her features more sublime.
"O priests and elders," she said calmly and simply, in her sweet musical voice, "hear my last words: I am an orphan and a widow, I have no one left on earth to protect me,--not one. To be in danger of that man's evil designs, is to die, hourly. Did he succeed as he has tried, it would be to live in shame; now I can die in purity. The Mother calls me; she will not come to me, though I have asked her. She is far from me, yet she beckons to me; look, there!" and she stretched forth her hand to the roof--"she calls me, and I come, pure, and purified by fire. Now listen, all ye Brahmuns; I am true and pure, and I am sutee henceforth. When ye will, and where ye will, I am sutee; and on his head be curses, and the vengeance of Kalee, who forbids it. Let me die in the fire, and I am happy! What she puts into my mouth, I say to you truly. Let no one forbid it."
No one spoke, no one answered. The people before her rose as one man. Many trembled, some wept, and women screamed aloud; but Tara stood there unmoved, her bosom heaving rapidly, and the glowing beauty and rapture of her face unchanged.
"Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja Máta!" exclaimed the Shastree; "let it be as she says, brothers. Henceforth she is sutee, and we accept the sacrifice, for the Mother hath said it by her lips. Ah, the ordeal is fulfilled indeed, and to the honour of her votary! Fear not," he said, "daughter: by this act is thy husband delivered from hell; and all thou hast suffered in this life is sanctified unto thee. Bring flowers, bring garlands," he cried to the people; "crown her here at the altar, and let her be worshipped."
"Tara, Tara!" cried a husky voice close to her, entreatingly; "Tara, what hast thou done? Art thou mad? O girl, why hast thou doomed thyself? Come, there is yet time: come with me!"
"Begone!" cried the girl, interrupting him; "I spurn thee, Moro Trimmul, before all these elders: false and cruel as thou art, I am at last beyond thy reach!"
"Come away, Moro," said Maloosray roughly, who had just entered, and dragged him backwards with one hand, while he seized his sword and wrested it from him with the other; "art thou a child? dost thou fight with priests and women? Come with me; the Rajah calls thee." The Brahmun struggled to be free, but Tannajee's powerful arms were about him, in which he was borne away, helpless to resist.
Not in her first admission to the office she had held, not in the holiest of ceremonies at which she had before assisted, was greater honour ever done to Tara than now. Bedecked with garlands, with incense burnt before her, the priests present formed themselves into a procession, and, chanting hymns of praise, led her round and round the shrine. The temple court and its precincts were now filled with people, who took up the shouts of victory--"Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja Máta!" and as she passed onwards, throwing handfuls of flowers among them, all who could reach her, touched her garments reverently, or prostrated themselves before her, with frantic cries for blessings. And so they led her on.
How many sweet memories crowded into Tara's mind now, and urged her on. There was no fear, no irresolution--father, mother, Zyna, Fazil--all dead, as she thought, and a fierce and ruthless enemy persecuting her to the last. All she could think on was, that she was free, that no one could harm her now. Had they then led her to death, she would have gone, singing the hymns triumphantly.
* * * * *
Late that night Moro Trimmul returned to his place of residence. Long before, when Sivaji's power was in its infancy, and the young men had taken possession of the mountain-built fort, and led their bands forth to plunder and destroy the Mahomedan villages around, Moro Trimmul had fitted up a hollow bastion on one of the angles of the precipice--in which the builder had left a small room and anteroom--as his place of shelter. The inside was rudely plastered with clay; and a sleeping-place, also of clay, had been raised from the floor, on which was placed a mattress and pillow. In the face of the bastion a small oriel window had been built, which had a balcony projecting from the wall, large enough for two people to sit in. Seated there, you looked down a dizzy depth upon the forest below; but on all sides the precipices, the woods, and their deep glens, and the varied mountains beyond, formed a combination of glorious beauty, which there, above all other places in the mountain fortress, was most deeply felt.
Thither had Gunga been taken by the Brahmun's servants on the morning of the battle. He had charged them to have the place swept and newly plastered with clay, and Gunga, with having it done as he wished. On its completion, she had gone into the temple to worship for him in the exercise of her vocation, as the signal was to be given, which they all told her of. She knew of his design. He had charged her to watch Tara, and, if she saw her, to give him information of her actions. He had told her that he should bring Fazil's sister to the fort, for he felt sure she could not escape him. Herself, Zyna, and Tara should be confronted at last. How long should the latter elude him? For the Khan, Gunga cared nothing; for Zyna and Fazil as little--they were Mussulmans, and must perish,--but for Tara!
Ah yes, strange indeed, perhaps, yet not unnatural, had been the revulsion. The jealousy which had urged Gunga to hate the girl, and assist in plots for her ruin, had strangely altered to love. Twice had Moro Trimmul been foiled; twice he had fallen savagely upon her, and beaten her cruelly. We know when he did when Tara was last rescued, and how Gunga, relenting, had not then abandoned him. But it had not ended there. The fierce rage of disappointment had broken out again and again, and he had vented it upon her brutally. She had borne this patiently at the time; but she had now sworn to herself, in the temple of the goddess at Wye, not only to lend herself no more to Moro Trimmul's design, but had formed the resolution to assist Tara to escape--to carry her off by mountain paths; and she knew that if they could once enter the forest near the fort, they were safe.
Day by day, as these thoughts passed through Gunga's mind, the love for Tara grew stronger, till it became an absorbing passion. Would she but trust her--would she but believe her--they might yet again see their beloved Tooljapoor, and she would work out her forgiveness by devotion. It was not too late, she thought: but....
We have already told how she met her in the temple: but it is impossible to describe her despair at her failure to induce Tara to escape, or when the man she dreaded, bid his servants seize and bind her. If she could have remained with Tara--only near her....
Alas! it was too late now. She had scarcely been carried, shrieking, from the temple, by the servants of Moro Trimmul, when another man followed, and said Tara had become a Sutee, and was to be burnt next day beside the tank in the fort. Then Gunga felt the heroism of the girl's resolution. At least Moro Trimmul could not injure her; she would soon be beyond reach of his persecution. It was well--yes, it was well. She could at least see her die; and then?...
The desire of death sat hard at her heart. At first she shuddered at it; but once it had entered, it abode there and grew stronger. If Moro Trimmul cast her off now, it would be but to be haunted by the memory of the girl she had wronged so cruelly, and the love for whom, and the despair of whose forgiveness, had pursued her night and day--night and day: but it seemed to have reached her at last. "Yes, she touched me kindly," she said to herself; "she parted the hair from my face as a sister would have done: ere she spoke to me she forgave me: and I will see her die, decked in flowers, as a holy and pure sacrifice. I will worship her as she goes to death, and then I will follow her. O Tara, there, not here, I may be forgiven before the Mother."
Moro Trimmul's servants had taken Gunga, and literally obeyed the orders they had received; bound her with one of her own garments, lest she should do herself or them injury, and laid her gently upon the couch in the inner room. How long she had lain there she had no idea; but, as the time passed, it only confirmed her resolution. She would die, no matter how. There was nothing definite in her mind, but that she would die: a dull despair blunting every faculty--a reality of determination before which her very senses seemed to refuse office.
She heard Moro Trimmul ask without where she was, and the servant answered that she was within, lying on the couch. A small lamp had been lighted and placed in a niche; and as he entered and stood over her, she feigned sleep. She felt him unfasten the bandage round her arms, and then he dragged her roughly to her feet.
"Devil!" he cried, "this is thy doing, and she is gone. Lost! O Tara, how beautiful thou wast in living death!" he continued, apostrophizing her, "speaking thy own death-sentence--as I listened, I could have died for thee."
"Thou art a coward, Moro Trimmul," cried the girl, scornfully and desperately; "thou darest neither die thyself, nor kill me. Thou die with Tara? she would spit at thee, as I do."
He struck her brutally to the ground with his clenched hand. "Lie there, witch! devil!" he cried. "Thou hast been the cause of all this; alone, I could have done it. Thou and she are one now, else why didst thou not decoy her here? Did I not tell thee to do so? Speak!" and he pushed her with his foot as she lay.
She arose. "Moro Trimmul," she said calmly, but with desperation in her voice, "may the Mother forgive me what I have done with thee against Tara; that is all I pray now. Between me and thee all is ended, long since. Let me go. I will serve thee no longer, I spit at thee and defy thee; and in the Rajah's court, before every image of Kalee in the Dekhan, if I live, I will sing thy shame and her honour. Let me go out!"
She saw him set his teeth, as his eyes flashed with a wicked glare, draw a knife from his waist-band, and spring at her. The glitter of that knife was the last thing, perhaps, of which she was conscious, except that she seized the hand that held it, instinctively, and then came a struggle for life. But only a brief one. A weak girl, before a powerful man, could not endure long,--sickened, too, as she was by his previous blow. Back--back, he forced her to the window, which was open; on the little balcony without, they swayed to and fro fearfully for a moment; but he wrenched his hand free by a desperate effort, and, striking her one heavy blow with the knife, where he knew not,--as the body dropped heavily in his arms, he pushed it forth into the dark air. He did not hear it fall, though he listened; but in the morning, the vultures, which lived on pinnacles of the precipices, were seen descending in hundreds to their hideous feast below.
Chapter LXXXII
Fazil Khan had followed the progress of his father up the mountain-side with intense interest. The little pavilion on the knoll, the group of Brahmuns already there, and the open and nearly level spot which had been selected as the place of meeting, were distinctly visible from where he stood with Bulwunt Rao, and a few other of his trusty associates and retainers. Around, the horsemen--now mostly dismounted--were dispersed in picturesque groups, talking together or lying lazily upon the soft sward holding their horses' bridles, and shading their eyes from the sun.
In the town through which his father had gone, there appeared no stir. A few men were lounging about the gate, and upon the bastion near it, and thus were looking out upon the Moslem horsemen apparently in idle curiosity. The gate was open, and the townspeople, and women with jars of water on their heads, were passing to and fro unconcernedly as usual. There was nothing to excite suspicion or apprehension, except in the mode of reception of his father, and the strange, unusual proposition, that the first interview should be on the mountain-side, and alone; but Bulwunt Rao had explained this characteristically, and with a fair show of reason, and Fazil, though uneasy, was obliged to be content: there was no remedy now.
So the Khan's progress in his palankeen had been watched with intense anxiety as he ascended the rugged pathway. At times the bearers could be seen, and the priest holding the side of the litter to help himself along: again the thick foliage, and turns in the road, hid them from view. At length Fazil saw the Brahmuns on the knoll rise and advance a few steps, and the palankeen emerge upon the open space, where it was set down; and his father got out, adjusted his turban and shawl, and stood with the rest. Then the bearers and the priest moved a little aside; and as the two men from above appeared, his father advanced to meet them, and embraced one.
It was but for a moment, and the fatal result was at once apparent. With a cry of horror, which aroused many around him who had not been watching the proceedings above, Fazil saw his father reel and fall, rise again, as his sword flashed in the air, and with the Peer maintain the unequal combat we have already described. No sound reached those below; they could only see the flashing of the weapons in the sun, and the struggle of the combatants. Involuntarily, Fazil urged on his horse. Alas! of what avail now? Others had been watching as well as he; and the blast of the horn, which rose shrill and quivering as the Khan fell, was answered by volleys of matchlock shots from the woods around. The gates of the town were shut, and the walls and bastions manned as thickly as men could stand on then, whose fire on the horsemen below was hot and deadly.
The effect of the surprise upon the helpless cavaliers need not be detailed. Panic-stricken, and hemmed in on every side, they rode hither and thither, vainly seeking places of egress through the woods, or by the way they came, and were shot down in scores either where they stood, or as they gathered in groups and charged hither and thither in the vain attempt to reach a foe. Among these, Fazil Khan, with Bulwunt Rao and some others, had kept together; and, in the emergency, Bulwunt's clear perception, not only of the danger, but the best means of extrication from it, saved his young master. On the first perception of his father's fate, Fazil had seen that it was impossible to give help. The town and its walls stood between him and the ascent to the fort, and were utterly impassable. His next idea, in his grief and desperation, was to die with his men as martyrs to the faith; and he was about to dismount, and take his chance on foot, when Bulwunt stopped him.
"No, Meah," he cried, "not while there is hope. They who will be helpless indeed without you, will need you yonder in camp. If it must be, I will die with you, but not now. Follow me, and we will soon join them."
Well was it for Fazil Khan that in his retainer he possessed equally, a devoted friend and one who had known the country as a youth. In his recent visit to the fort, Bulwunt Rao had explored some of his old haunts. One pathway, lying near that by which they had come, was hardly visible from the plain, but if it could be gained, it opened out afterwards into a long glade, which joined the main-road below. It might be guarded, and they could but fight their way through it or fall. Certainly it was better than the way they had come, before which, from the deadly fire maintained there, the horsemen had already fallen in a heap.
"Look," continued Bulwunt Rao, pointing to the entrance to the main-road, "there is no hope there. They have been at their old trick of felling trees across it, and no horse can pass. The Abyssinians have fallen in a heap, and if we try, we shall but follow them. We need not be martyrs yet, Meah," he laughed cheerfully. "Now, set your teeth, my sons," he continued to the men around, "and follow me. We may not all get through; but, Bismilla! come, and let God take whom he pleases."
There might have been fifty men; and others, as many more perhaps,--as they saw these ride together in a desperate race in one direction,--joined them. Bulwunt Rao and Fazil were leading; and as they approached what seemed a portion of impervious wood, Fazil's heart failed him for a moment. "You are wrong, Bulwunt Rao," he cried. "We cannot get through this--let us turn."
"Madman!" exclaimed the other, seizing the bridle of his horse. "By your mother and sister, I swear I am right! Follow me, my children," he shouted, looking back, while he again urged his horse to its utmost speed; "we are near now."
He was right. A portion of the jungle jutted out beyond the rest, and made a slight shoulder, as it were, behind which was the path. As they turned round the corner, they saw a body of foot-soldiers drawn up across it; but ere these could raise their matchlocks to fire, the impetuous horsemen were among them, trampling some down, and hewing fiercely at others with their long Spanish swords.[19] The attack was irresistible, and, the first line of men forced, they encountered no others. Straggling shots were fired at them from the sides of the mountain, but without effect; and after riding nearly a mile down the glade at the same speed, the pathway turned into the main-road, and they heard the din of the fight die away behind them. Of the fifteen hundred gallant cavaliers who had ridden that morning from the camp at Jowly, they were the only survivors.
While Nettajee Palkur was finishing his bloody work on those who remained after Fazil Khan's escape, by closing up the pathway, and attacking from all sides at once, such of the horsemen as remained in the field,--Moro Trimmul was busy with his part of the general slaughter; and as the fugitives rode on, the din of the fight behind growing fainter as they proceeded, they were met by that of the greater work in front,--more furious, and more terrible.
Yet they pressed on, until, reaching a rising-ground which overlooked the field, they could see it all in its hideous reality. The Mahrattas had seized the Beejapoor guns, and that point of defence no longer remained to the Mahomedans. Thousands of the enemy's footmen, in compact masses, were charging disordered groups of men huddled together, who made a vain resistance. Great numbers of horses were careering madly about, but, for the most part, the troop-horses were still at their pickets, and were now protected by the Mahrattas. It was evident that the surprise had been as complete and irretrievable as at the fort.
Casting his eyes round this field, in sickening apprehension--indeed, in almost hopeless despair--the young Khan looked towards the tents where he had left his sister and Lurlee. The tents were standing, but the outer enclosure walls were thrown down, and a crowd of followers and soldiers were apparently struggling together in the plunder of what they contained. The place was apart from the field itself, and Fazil pointed to it; he could not speak.
The men with him had had no time for thought. From the moment the Khan had died at Pertâbgurh till they drew rein on the eminence over the camp, they had ridden for life. But the worst was now evident; and what they had hoped to find, was gone. The conviction that all their companions,--those whom they had loved in life, were dead, at once fell upon their hearts; and Bulwunt Rao, and many another rough veteran, burst into passionate weeping.
Fazil appeared calm, but it was the calm of desperation and of misery. "Why do you weep, friends?" he said. "They are all dead; why should we live? Death is better than dishonour! Come and see--Bismilla!"--and he turned his horse's head in the direction of the tents.
None thought of the risk. "Bismilla!" shouted the men, as, with teeth hard set for a last struggle in life, they rode a mad race to their old camp. Near it they passed many a familiar face lying upturned to the sun; and, hewing their way through a crowd of plunderers which were upon the area that had been covered by the Khan's tents, Fazil saw that their walls were torn down, and that no one remained; and in the bed of the rivulet which, lying low, screened them from observation, they drew rein. In his misery Fazil would have dismounted, and again sought death on foot, but Bulwunt Rao saw the intention, and prevented it, as he had done before.
"No, no, Meah," he said roughly; "you are our master now; and as the gods have enabled me to save you once to-day, so we will all try again. If they you sought have been taken, they are in honourable safety with the Rajah: if they are dead, there is no help but in submission to God's will."
A shout from several of the men caused Fazil to look round. He saw some persons running towards the party who had emerged from the thick jungle on the other side of the stream. They were grooms who had hidden themselves.
One of them clasped Fazil's knees. "They are safe," he cried; "Meah, they are gone this way with the hunchback and Ashruf, who would not let us follow lest we should be seen. They went down the river; and see! here are their tracks. Come!"
What need to speak more now? The new interest absorbed all other considerations. Several of the grooms were good trackers, and the hoof-marks of the two ponies could not be mistaken. They knew them well.
Late in the afternoon--often bewildered in deep silent forests, often thrown out, often despairing of success, often passing hard rocky ground where Fazil could see no tracks whatever, but where Bulwunt Rao and the trackers held their way with confidence, a small group of people were discovered, from a knoll where the trackers stood for a time uncertain, sitting near a large banian tree, on the bank of a mountain stream.
At a little distance, too, from them, sat a few men armed with matchlocks, who were apparently guarding the rest.
Fazil and the scouts approached, cautiously leading his horse; and the first greeting was a rough one from the guards, who raised their guns to fire; but the next, a frantic cry of welcome from the hunchback and Ashruf, who ran forward and prostrated themselves before him.
"O Meah, they are safe--they are safe!" cried Lukshmun, rising first. "Come and see," he cried, bursting into tears; "and the gods have sent thee."
Hearing his cry, Goolab rushed forward, clasping his knees, and, unable to speak, was sobbing passionately.
Yes, they were safe--Lurlee and Zyna. A rude bower of leafy branches had been hastily made, with a screen of boughs twisted into stakes in front; and so concealed were they by the thick brushwood, apart from the grassy glade, that the little commotion which Fazil's coming had caused, had not been heard by them. Having dismounted, and preceded by old Goolab, who, in her uncontrollable joy, now ran before, screaming the news of his arrival, he entered the enclosure--and the two desolate women, whose utter despair nothing as yet had soothed or alleviated, fell upon his neck and wept aloud.
How long they sat into the night they could not tell. Kakrey, the Mahratta officer who had followed the party by Moro Trimmul's order, had overtaken them; and, touched by the beauty and sorrow of the women, had not molested them. The nearest Mahomedan garrison was Kurrar, a town at some distance; but he had engaged to guide and protect them thither, and the reward promised by Lurlee was at once confirmed, and even enhanced by Fazil. Kakrey had already told them that the Khan's escape was impossible; and they were thus prepared for the sad news which Fazil brought.
Kakrey decidedly objected, however, to Fazil's horsemen, and even to Lukshmun and Ashruf; they were strangers, and would be inevitably suspected. Fazil and his men must take another road, he said; and the ladies must submit to hardships among mountain villages and rough tracks for some days. They had no other chance of escape but in disguise, and alone with him. He had already procured rough food and coarse clothes, and there was little time for rest; ere the morning he must take them away.
Poor Lurlee! All night while Fazil sat there, she had pored over the book of astrological diagrams in a hopeless puzzle of mind. Why should she have been mistaken? Why should her husband have died who had left her so hopeful in the morning? Were they all wrong? was all this, the faith of her life, false?
It seemed so; but one thing was at least certain, that Tara's nature and Fazil's were alike; and she appeared, in spite of her grief, to return to this discovery with a peculiar zest. "I am not wrong," she said, "in this; look!"--but we will spare the detail. She was too much bewildered by far, to understand as yet the loss that had befallen her, nor was she at all convinced that she was a widow. No, the stars could not be wrong; and for all they could say, she only believed the more that the Khan would return. "Who had seen him die?"
Fazil was convinced of Kakrey's good faith. Bulwunt Rao unhesitatingly answered for him. They were neighbours, and had been boys together. Fazil's promises of reward were too profuse to have aught in competition with them. It was hard to persuade Zyna that he must leave her again; but as they were situated, they could not remain together, and must separate. For Fazil would not leave his men, and he determined, with Bulwunt and the hunchback, to hover as long as possible about the vicinity of Wye. He might be joined by other fugitives, he might rescue many of his people, and even make head against the enemy; above all, perhaps he might get news of Tara, and assist her. He should avoid the Mahratta horse, and with a guide like Bulwunt Rao, and one of Kakrey's followers, who volunteered to accompany him, he could either conceal himself or advance as needful.
So, with many tears, and almost despairing, Lurlee and Zyna, dressed as peasant women in the coarsest clothes, left him ere morning dawned. Lurlee was not remarkable; but the fair skin and beautiful features of Zyna were often objects of wondering interest and admiration among the mountain peasantry, as they journeyed on.
* * * * *
Three days afterwards, Fazil and his men, who had been joined by other stragglers on foot and on horseback, were lying during the day in the place of concealment which had been chosen by Kakrey's follower, and approved of by Bulwunt Rao and the hunchback. In the depth of the jungle near Wye, there was a large banian tree, planted by a small temple now deserted, because of some evil repute. The tree had flourished while the temple had decayed, and was large enough, with its offsets, to have sheltered thousands. The outside boughs trailed on the ground, screening everything within, where the bare, gaunt branches, and the naked roots falling from them, rose high into the air, covered above with a thick foliage. A bright rill sparkled past the tree; grass was abundant on the hill-sides, and a liberal price for grain had induced some villagers near, to supply the men's wants for a few days. Every day, the hunchback and the boy Ashruf, disguising themselves as mendicants, had sung ballads in the town of Wye, in order to gain information of passing events.
They were lying concealed in this hiding-place when, in the afternoon of the third day, the hunchback broke in upon Fazil and some others sitting together. "Bid them all go away," he cried excitedly; "I have strange news, Meah, for thee,--for thine ear only."
The men rose and went to a distance. "Can it be of his father?" they said.
No, it was not of him; he was beyond all hope now, and his bloody head festering in the sun above the gate of Pertâbgurh.
"Meah," said the man, in a low voice, "Tara the Moorlee is alive, but they are going to burn her to-morrow; and I saw them taking wood to the river-side to make the pile. They say the goddess came to her at Pertâbgurh, and told her, before the Rajah, to be a Sutee, and he is going to make a great show of her to the people. I waited till I saw her come into Wye in a palankeen, and I would have told her you were here, but I could not get near her for the crowd--they were throwing flowers upon her. The people do not know her name, but I knew her: it is Tara. O Meah, you will not let the Brahmuns do this!"
"By Alla and the Prophet, no!" cried the young man, starting to his feet. "Dost thou know the place?"
"I--I can lead a Duróra on the house," said Lukshmun hesitatingly. "God forgive me, it is not the first I have led, and I observed it all before I left."
"Where is Bulwunt Rao? Call him."
"He is asleep," replied Lukshmun; "I will go and bring him."
"Meah wants you; come," he said to Bulwunt Rao, after waking him; and when he joined Fazil, all was told him; and the three men consulted long and earnestly as to how the girl might be rescued.
"O, were but Rama and a score of Pahar Singh's Ramoosees here," said Lukshmun, "we could go and bring her to you to-night, without waking her; but your Mussulmans would make but a poor hand of that work."
So, after discussing the subject in every way, there seemed no chance of success but in an effort to carry her off from the pile itself. The attempt might succeed or fail; but the men who would undertake it were at least desperate, and to abandon the girl to her fate without endeavouring to rescue her, was not to be thought of. In any case, they must leave their hiding-place on the morrow, or starve. A long march might take them at once beyond the disturbed country; and they were not, in their present mood, likely to falter in their project.
Tara! Her name aroused a thousand sweet memories. The day after the interview with the Rajah, she was to have been demanded as a subject of their King; and, in the Rajah's apparently submissive mood, Fazil had anticipated no refusal. What had happened to place her in the situation in which she was, he could not conjecture; but Bulwunt Rao and Lukshmun understood at once that she was the victim of Brahmun intrigues excited by Moro Trimmul, and rejoiced in the prospect of frustrating his intentions. Finally, the whole project was explained to the men; and in their hearty acquiescence, and in the excitement of a new and desperate action, the young Khan lay down that night, and, for the first time since the slaughter, slept soundly.
FOOTNOTE:
[19] The Portuguese of Goa used to import large quantities of Spanish and Genoa, sword-blades. They were held in high estimation at Beejapoor, and they are still often to be met with in the country. The Rajah Sivaji's famous sword Bhowani, with which he killed Afzool Khan, is a Genoa blade of the first water.
Chapter LXXXIII
Meanwhile, the Shastree, Anunda, and Radha, were pressing on as fast as the nature of their travelling would allow. The Shastree had a palankeen, for he was still weak, and the women rode; but as he gained strength, he was able to ride in turn.
At first their stages were necessarily short, with frequent halts; but as they proceeded, they had increased the daily distance; and the news of the action at Pertâbgurh, which had spread over the country with incredible rapidity, made them more and more anxious to reach Wye, and ascertain Tara's fate. All attempts to trace her on the road were fruitless. The army had passed, but in the confusion attendant upon its progress, individuals could not be traced or distinguished.
At the last stage before Wye they found the village where they rested in much excitement. It was understood that a Sutee would take place in the town the next day; and though it was not known who the person was, the certainty that such a ceremony would occur was beyond question; and it was evident that people from all the country round would attend it.
Anunda had not been at Wye since her youth. Her parents, who had resided there, were long since dead, and she knew, vaguely only, of some distant relatives. The Shastree, however, in his professional expeditions, had frequently visited the town which, from the number of Brahmun families residing there, was then, as it still is, the seat of much learning, and, from its many temples on the bank of the Krishna river, esteemed sacred.
The chief priest of one of those temples, Vishnu Pundit, was an old friend and antagonist in scientific and literary discussions, and Vyas Shastree knew he was sure of a hearty welcome, even if his coming were not formally announced. But considering that his wives might be an inconvenience, he had sent a note on by a messenger, who had engaged to deliver it by daylight at furthest; and as they set out for their last march, it was in hopeful, perhaps joyful anticipation of news of Tara, by which their long suspense would be ended.
Mingling with the parties, therefore, which thronged the roads to the town, and hearing many speculations as to the nature of the Sutee, but nothing definite, the travellers passed on as rapidly as possible; and a fairer scene than the bed of the sacred stream, with its hundreds of bathers in the sparkling waters, the temples on its banks, and the broad flights of steps leading to the river, could hardly be imagined; but there was one object in particular upon which all their interest centred. In the middle of a broad bed of sand near the stream, some men were already piling logs of wood into a square mass, and pouring oil on them; fixing tall poles at the sides, and hanging garlands of flowers and wreaths of leaves to them. The pile was large, and would soon be completed for the sacrifice.
Vyas Shastree rode to the spot, and inquired of the men--they were Brahmun priests--for whom the preparations were being made. They did not know, they said,--it was a state matter. When the Sutee came there to die, she would be seen. Meanwhile she was at Vishnu Pundit's house, and he might go and see her, and worship her, as others were doing.
At Vishnu Pundit's house! The place to which he was going! Certainly, then, he should see the woman, whoever she might be, that was to be burned. "Had her husband died, then, last night?" he asked. If he had, the Pundit's house must be impure, and he must look elsewhere for lodgings.
"No; the Sutee was in pursuance of a vow," they said,--"not an ordinary one, and an effigy would be burned with her."
The Shastree was puzzled, and rode on, musing much at the strangeness of the act, and unable to account for it satisfactorily. Such sacrifices, from such motives, were no doubt meritorious, but they were uncommon.
He was not far distant now from their destination, and, joining Anunda, who, riding a stout ambling pony, was forcing her way through the crowd, followed by the litter in which sat Radha, he bade her come on leisurely, and himself urged his horse forward as quickly as the crowded streets would allow, to his friend's house. Vishnu Pundit himself was standing at the door of the outer court opening into the street, across which some men were tying garlands of green leaves and flowers. Seeing the Shastree advancing, he came to him, and, assisting him to dismount, embraced him warmly.
"I received your note," he said; "but I have had no time to reply to it. I have no room for you, old friend, owing to the Sutee whom the Maharaja has sent to me--that is, not till to-morrow; but meanwhile my neighbour the Josee gives you one of the courts of his house. Take the ladies there," he added to an attendant, "as they arrive. But do you, Vyas Shastree, come with me. I must speak with you alone. Ah, we had mourned you dead--yet how wonderful it is that you are here, and to-day, too! Come, I have much to say to you that is strange--most strange."
The Shastree followed him curiously into an inner court--one like that in his own house at Tooljapoor, where he taught his pupils. Numbers of people were pressing through the outer court, bearing offerings for worship; but in the place they went to, they were alone, and the Pundit closed the door.
"Vyas Shastree," he said, looking at him intently as they sat down, and speaking with irrepressible concern and grief in his voice, "O friend! O dear old friend! I have dark news for thee to-day. Alas! and woe to me that I have to tell it! Hast thou a daughter named Tara?"
"I have come to seek her--followed her thus far--what of her?" replied the Shastree, sickening with apprehension--"what of her?"
"She was a priestess of Toolja Máta at Tooljapoor, was she not?" asked the Pundit.
"She was so, friend, and the Mussulmans carried her off. But they spared her honour! O, say they spared her honour!" he exclaimed piteously, and stretching forth his hands.
"She was an honoured guest with them, friend, and would that----O, how shall I say the rest?" he thought,--"how explain this misery? Alas, what evil fate hath sent him to-day!"
"Thou art keeping something from me," said the Shastree, striving to be calm. "If--if Tara--my daughter----What is it, O friend? we have suffered much suspense, much anxiety:--for her sake have taken this weary journey; and we hoped to have found her here among friends, perhaps with thee. What hast thou to say of her? Did they not give her up, as we heard they would? Have--they----"
"Yes, she is here," returned the Pundit hesitatingly, and turning away his head in a vain attempt to repress his tears. "She--she--is a widow, is she not?" he asked.
Then the truth flashed upon the wretched father with fearful rapidity. That crowd of people; that hideous pile of logs: the preparations and rejoicing were for her death--for Tara's, and after all he was too late to save her! O, if he had only hurried on,--if he had only left home sooner! But thought now had no definite form. It was a confused and conflicting chaos, utterly uncontrollable. "Where have ye put her?" he asked, in a low husky voice, as, with a sickening pressure at his heart, his features assumed the haggard expression of weary age.
"Friend," said the Pundit, passing his arm around him and trying to raise him up, "come and see. Such poor honour as we can do to her on earth while she is with us, we have already done and will continue. Come and see. Arise! If thou art a true Brahmun, hear this, like a god on earth as thou art, and believe it for her eternal glory. How few are chosen for this sacrifice! true jewels only are they--pure gold, to be purified in the fire!"
"In the fire," he echoed dreamily--rising, and supporting himself against a pillar in the room with a hopeless gesture of despair--"in the fire!--I tell thee, Vishnu Pundit," he added presently, "it cannot be: who has wrought this cruelty upon her? Who has done it? Of her own act and will it could not have been; but if the council have dared to--to----"
"She thought you dead--you, her mother, and your new wife," replied the Pundit, interrupting him. "She was suffering hopeless persecution and insult, and in the temple at Pertâbgurh she stood before the Mother's image, and declared herself sutee before the Brahmuns. Could we recall the words? I was present. Had it been my own daughter I had been thankful. O Shastree! it was her glory!"
Vyas Shastree could not reply. "Let me see her and hear it from her own lips," was all he could utter at all intelligibly.
"Certainly, if thou wilt," replied the Pundit; "she is ready to go even now, but the hour is not come. And yet, Vyas Shastree, beware; would it not be better she believed you all dead, and so died happily looking for you, than, seeing you alive, be shaken in her determination? Will not the love of life come out of this, and rise defiant to all convictions? Alas! alas! my friend, it is not for me to come between your love and her mother's and that poor child; but beware! she cannot retract now and live, otherwise than in dishonour and infamy; and hereafter you will cry in agony to the goddess Mother, she had better have died--and will be guilty of sin in having shaken her faith if she live. Did you refuse when she was called before?----"
The Shastree groaned, and his breath came as it were in broken gasps. He was trembling violently. "I--I--must see her," he said. "Let her decide;" and, unable to stand, he again sat down.
"Drink some water, Vyas Shastree; it will refresh you," said the Pundit, bringing a vessel full from the end of the apartment.
"No, no, friend," he replied, putting it away, "I will not eat or drink till this is past, if it is to be. Let us go. I am no less a Brahmun than thyself. If the Mother whom she serves has spoken to her, it is well--she will go to her. My child! O my child!" cried the miserable man in his agony. "O Mother, what hath she done for this to come to her--she, so pure, to need the sacrifice of fire! O Toolja Máta, was it needed? Come, Shastree, I am ready now," he continued, after a pause. "Do not delay."
The Pundit said nothing. He again passed his arm round his friend to support him, and, leading him to a door in the further end of the room, opened it. A small court intervened between the place where they stood and a larger one beyond, the door of which was open, and showed a crowd of people, mostly women, struggling to approach some object beyond. All had garlands of flowers in their hands, and vessels wherewith to pour libations. Suddenly there was a shrill piercing scream; and the crowd swayed to and fro, retreating backwards before some priests who were putting the people out.
"What can have happened?" cried the Pundit, hastening on. "Come quickly."
Vyas Shastree felt instinctively that Anunda had seen Tara, and he rapidly followed his friend. As he entered the next court, he saw at a glance all he yearned for--all that he most dreaded to see.
A bower, as it were, of trelliswork, had been fitted up in the large apartment of the Pundit's house which was raised slightly from the ground, and it was covered with heavy garlands of green leaves and flowers, as though for a bridal. In the narrow doorway of this bower stood a slight female figure, richly dressed in a bright crimson silk dress, striving to put away the arm of a Brahmun priest,--who was preventing her from stepping forth,--and struggling with him. The face was full of horror and misery, and the eyes flashing with excitement and despair. Before her, without, lay an elderly woman senseless on the ground, supported by a girl and several other women who were weeping bitterly. Tara, Anunda, Radha!--how had they met? Alone, he could have met Tara firmly, but with them? Not now, however, did the Shastree's heart fail: no matter what followed, honour or dishonour, he would not leave his child. Darting forward past the Pundit, pushing aside some women, who, screaming senselessly, would not be put out,--Vyas Shastree leaped upon the basement of the room, and, dragging away the Brahmun priest, stood by his child. "Tara, O my life! O my child!" he cried passionately, "come forth, come to us!"
It was the effort of an instant only, for the attendant priests had seized him and drawn him back forcibly, while they held him up. "Thou canst not touch her now without defilement," one said, who knew him. "She is sutee, O Vyas Shastree, and pure from thy touch, even; she is bathed and dressed for the sacrifice."
"Tara, Tara!" gasped the unhappy man, not heeding the words. "Tara, come forth--come; I, thy father, call thee! O my child, do not delay; come, we will go away--far away, to the Mother----"
To the Mother! Perhaps if he had not said this, Tara would have been unable to repress those last fearful yearnings to life which now tore her heart; but the echo fell on her own spirit heavily and irrepressively. To the Mother! Yes, in her great misery, all she could see in her mental agony--what she saw in the temple at Pertâbgurh,--all that she had dwelt upon since,--were the glowing ruby eyes of the Mother far away at Tooljapoor, glittering, as she thought, in glad anticipation of her coming. The same Brahmun priest who was preventing her egress when her mother appeared, had again crossed his arms before the door. As she saw her father advance, Tara staggered back affrighted; it was as though he had risen from the dead; and at his despairing cry the girl could not have restrained herself, had not the echo of his last words fallen on a heart which, though wellnigh dead to life, had rallied for a while to its purest affections;--but only for a while.
"Thou canst not move hence," said the Brahmun priest. "Cry 'Jey Toolja! Jey Kalee!' O Tara! thou wilt not now deny the Mother!--all else is dead to thee."
No, she could not deny her now--she would not. With that strange light in her eyes--that seemingly supernatural force in her actions, which the people thought the emanation of divinity, Tara's spirit was rallied by the priest's words. "Jey Toolja Máta!" she cried, stretching her arms into the air; "I am true, O Mother! I am true; and even these shall not keep me from thee now!"
Strange enthusiasm! stranger fortitude, which, having no terror of a horrible death, has carried on its votaries even to the flames with a constancy and devotion worthy of a nobler fate! In other cases earthly love--the desire to free a beloved object from the pains of suffering for life's errors, and insure final and perfect rest to its immortal spirit--or a gratification of the all-absorbing grief which looks on present death as the only remedy for despairing sorrow--might exist; but here was no such incentive. The spiritual portion of the girl's nature was alone concerned in the question; and that, once excited by position and circumstance, had insured a more perfect observance of her vow than earthly passion.
A strange enthusiasm indeed! Ah yes,--from the period to which we can trace it in a dim legendary superstition of the past, through the two thousand years since the Greek philosopher stood on the banks of Indus and Ganges and recorded it, to the time when it was made to cease under the stern power of a purer creed--how many have died, alike self-devoted, alike calm, alike fearless! Women with ordinary affections, ordinary habits of life, suddenly lifted up into a sublimity of position,--even to death,--by an influence they were unable to repress or control--barbarous and superstitious if you will, but sublime.
Tara had conquered. Her father hung upon her words with an absorbing reverential fear, as the last sound of them died away and was drowned in the shouts of "Jey Toolja Máta!" which burst from the Brahmuns around, and were taken up by the people without, whose frantic efforts to gain entrance were redoubled. He had heard her doom from her own lips, and, believing in the inspiration which prompted them, his head fell on his bosom; then the men, feeling his frame relax, let him go, and he fell prostrate before his child and worshipped her.
They had removed Anunda into an inner room, and her senses had rallied under the care paid to her. As he rose with a despairing gesture, and turned away from his child, the Shastree sought Anunda. "There is no hope," he said, "wife--none. It is her own act, and the Mother takes her. She is doomed, and I saw it in her eyes. It is enough that we have come to see it; she is already gone far beyond us, and we dare not recall her."
He closed the door, and within were Radha, Anunda, and himself. What he said to them--how he consoled them, no one ever knew; but after a while they came forth, bathed and purified themselves, and went and sat silently near their daughter.
Now, they looked at her calm, glorious beauty as she sat within the bower, decked for the sacrifice, with heavy wreaths of jessamine flowers about her head, and rich golden ornaments about her person,--their faith, cruel as it was, bid them rejoice. No more contumely now, no more reproach, no more sin, no more persecution. Her little history was told them by Vishnu Pundit, and believed. Tara was pure, and if the Mother had called her--even through the fire--she must go.
So they sat listening to her, as she recited those passages from the Holy Books which her father loved, relative to humble and yet glorious martyrs like herself,--men and women who had undergone the trial, and were at last free. Sometimes she spoke to them calmly--told them how she wished her ornaments to be disposed of--what charitable donations were to be given in her name--what messages were to be delivered to her friends, and the servants who had tended her; but she never spoke of the past, nor alluded to her parents, as though she had believed them dead. She never mentioned Afzool Khan or his family; she shed no tear, nor did any human weakness appear to mingle with the rapt devotion which it was evident filled her mind, and absorbed every other faculty.
So they sat--the girl within, the father and mother and Radha without, the bower--their eyes blinded by tears, their voices choked with sobs. Tara bid them not to weep; but that emotion could not be denied. No one dared to intrude upon that last terrible severing of earthly ties. And so the priests chanted, and the shadows fell eastwards, and lengthened.
Chapter LXXXIV
After a while, they heard the sound of drums and cymbals, and of the rude Mahratta pipes, advancing up the street, playing a wailing, mournful air, and the musicians stopped at the door of the outer court. The people within fell back, and made a lane of egress, and Tara rose and came forth from the bower. Once she prostrated herself before her father and mother, and those with her saw a shiver--whether of grief, despair, or terror, who could say--pass through her body; but she recovered herself quickly, and as she stood on the upper step of the basement, she asked for flowers, and, throwing handfuls among the crowd, descended the steps into the court.
Then slowly on through the people, who worshipped her as she passed; and out of the court into the street, where an open litter, such a one as she had sat in when they made her a priestess of the temple at Tooljapoor, awaited her. Carried in this, as in a triumphant procession, and with baskets full of flowers before her, she threw them among the crowd. As she proceeded through the streets, shouts from the people around her, and from those on house-tops, trees, and terraces, were redoubled; many women shrieked, and most prayed aloud for the Sutee. The clash of the music increased, and the march played was one of victory; while companies of Brahmuns, bare-headed, joined the procession, singing and chanting the hymns of death. So, on through the town, past the holy temples, and into the river bed, where thousands awaited her, and set up a hoarse shouting as they saw her first. What was the first honour of life as a priestess, to this glory of its death?
She reached the pile, now covered with fluttering pennons, and streamers,--orange, white, and crimson,--and thousands of garlands, which the people had hung or thrown upon it as votive offerings since the morning,--and the litter was set down for her to alight. It was with difficulty the crowd was kept back so as to form a space round the pile which would admit of her passing in procession; but it was cleared at last by the Brahmuns, and the people hung back awestruck and staring at the beauty of the victim.
Tara looked at the pile; but there was that strange ecstasy glowing in her eyes which appeared to have rendered her unconscious of its purport, or of all else about her. Sometimes she cast up her eyes with a strange bright smile, and nodded as if she were saying, as perhaps she did, "I come, I come." Again she looked round her dreamily. The roar of the people's voices, the clash of cymbals, the shrill screams of the pipes and horns, the hoarse braying of trumpets, and the continuous beating of deep-toned drums, were around her, drowning the sound of words, and the bitter sobs and low shrieks of her mother and Radha at her side. Her father's spirit seemed to have risen to the need of the occasion, for he stood near her joining the solemn chant, which blended with, and softened, the rude music.
As she stood, the Brahmuns worshipped her, and poured libations before her and on her feet, touched her forehead with sacred colour, and put fresh garlands over her neck. Then the last procession was formed, in which she would walk round the pile thrice, and ascend it, as her last act of ceremonial observance. Now, and before she had to take off her ornaments, she turned her full gaze on it, and they thought, who were watching her, that she seemed to comprehend its purpose. A huge platform of logs, black with oil and grease that had been poured upon them, strewed with camphor and frankincense, which had been scattered lavishly by the people in their votive offerings, and smeared with red powder. A rude step had been made for Tara to ascend by, and on the summit some bright cloths were laid as a bed, where she might recline, upon which a small effigy of a man, rudely conceived and dressed, had been placed. Her marriage-bed in the spiritual sense of the sacrifice, on which, through fire, she would be united to her husband. The whole was garish, hideous, and cruel. Face to face with death so horrible, so imminent, the girl seemed to shiver and gasp suddenly, and sank down swooning.
Vishnu Pundit, and another old Brahmun, raised her up. "It must not be," they said to each other in a whisper; "she must not fail now, else shame will come upon us."
Moro Trimmul was near her also, and had been one to seize her mechanically as she was falling. To him the scene was like some mocking phantasy, which held him enthralled, while it urged him to action. Since he had murdered Gunga, his evil spirit had known no rest; no sleep had come to him, except in snatches more horrible than the reality of waking. Again and again he had felt the rush of the girl's warm blood upon his hands, and the senseless body falling from his arms into the black void of air, to be no more seen or heard of--and had started up in abject fear. Day or night, it was the same;--the short struggle, the frantic efforts of the girl for life, his own maddened exertions to destroy her, were being acted over and over again. Every moment of his life was full of them; and nothing else, do what he might, go where he would, came instead. He had eaten opium in large quantities, but it only made the reality of this hideous vision more palpable, and exaggerated all its details. He had busied himself deeply in the arrangements consequent upon the victory and the distribution of plunder, but with no effect. Haunted by Gunga's murder on the one hand, by Tara's determination to die as Sutee on the other, the remonstrances of Maloosray and other friends only irritated him the more. They had endeavoured to restrain him from going to Wye to see her burned, but with no result--he had broken from them, and ridden over alone that morning.
Soon after he arrived, he heard that Vyas Shastree and his sister were already there, and he had sought her, and in his former desperate manner, threatened and persuaded in turn. It might be that, having experience of these threats, Radha no longer feared them, or that the position she now occupied was so utterly hopeless as regarded Tara, that even he must see that it was useless to persecute her further. As a last resource, he had proposed to some of his own men, desperate and licentious as himself, to attack the procession, and carry Tara away; but, hardened as they were, the sacrilege of violently abducting a Sutee, was an impossible crime against their faith, and his proposal had been rejected.
He was there, therefore, alone. He had bathed and performed the needful ceremonies with the other Brahmuns, and the thought that he should at least see Tara die, came, for the time, like sweet revenge into his heart, feeding his evil passions and sustaining them. Devils both, Tara and Gunga, witches and sorceresses. What matter if both died horrible deaths? it was the penalty of their crimes; and in such thoughts a momentary consolation was offered by the mocking fiend at his heart, to be whirled away to the chaos of despair, in which Gunga seemed writhing in her blood, and Tara tossing her arms in the agony of the fire.
Thus he had walked with her, almost beside her, from the house, through the streets, to the pile by the river-side. In the litter, surrounded by chanting priests, she was unapproachable; but, sinking to the earth helpless before him, she seemed once more fated to be his prey.
"Tara, Tara," he whispered quickly and sharply in her ear, as, helping her to rise, he passed his arm under her. "Come, O beloved! save thyself, even now--even now. I can do it. Come, O beloved!"
The words and his hot breath on her cheek roused the girl more completely than aught else could have done. She did not speak, but she arose, strong and defiant, and, shaking him off, pushed him away so violently from her, that he staggered and fell backwards.
* * * * *
For some time past, a body of horsemen, with their faces tied up, after the fashion of Mahratta cavaliers, the housings of their horses weather-stained, and their arms rusty and unpolished, had moved about the bed of the river and the bank beyond, and as the procession advanced to the pile, pressed on nearer to the crowd. It might be a hundred men or more; and the leader, who was a Mahratta, spoke cheerfully to the people who addressed him, and told them of his pursuit of the Mussulmans, and the raid they had done into the Beejapoor country, from which they were only now returning in time to see the show before they went home to the fort.
Our old friend Bulwunt Rao had become spokesman and ostensible leader; and the hunchback rode with him, and bandied words with the bystanders freely, but in good humour. With them, too, was Fazil Khan, who joined heartily in the rough jokes which were passing--many, at his own expense of ragged clothes, rusty arms, and gaunt features: and thus the band pressed on to the very skirts of the crowd, as if to see the Sutee, but actually to take up the position necessary for their adventure. During the day they had passed several bodies of Mahratta horse, but had been taken for a similar party, and had as yet been unchallenged; and in the crowd, their bold confident demeanour, and the ready replies given to all questions, with the certainty among the people that every Moslem soldier had perished at Pertâbgurh, or was a prisoner, prevented any suspicion of their real character.
Bulwunt Rao had seen Sutee rites before. They had watched the procession issue from the town, and he knew Tara would alight from the litter when she arrived at the pile. As she did so--as the litter was carried aside, and before the procession around the pile was formed--they had determined to ride in upon the crowd and bear her away. They had no fear of the result; there was not a doubt among them. They knew that every horseman in the town would be present there, unarmed and on foot, and that miles would be passed by them ere pursuit could be made. Their old hiding-place was not known, and beyond was open country; and if a long ride by night, what fear?--the horses were fresh and well fed.
"Be ready, Meah," said Bulwunt Rao, in a low voice. "See, they are clearing a space around the pile for her to walk. Holy Krishna! how beautiful she is! 'Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja Máta!'" he shouted with the crowd. Then turning to the hunchback, he bade him go round the rear of the party and see they all kept together. "As one man, Lukshmun, when they hear our shout, let them follow."
So they advanced nearer and nearer, and the crowd on foot, unable to resist the pressure of the horses, gave way before them. The sword of every man was loosened in its sheath, and a few of the rear men, who had matchlocks with lighted matches slung over their backs, unslung them, and held them on their saddlebows ready for use. If any one had noticed Fazil Khan, they would have seen him smoothing a cushion, as it were, of cloths upon the pommel of his saddle, while he wakened his horse with an occasional touch of his leg, and kept him excited for a sudden rush.
He moved up close to Bulwunt Rao. "If I fall, dear friend, in this," he said, "tell them how it was, and take the men to them. Do not wait for me; let them do with me as they list."
Bulwunt Rao smiled. "Fear not, Meah," he replied. "Ride thou in to her, and trust to us for the rest."
Fazil's teeth were hard set, and his heart throbbed quick; but he was calm and cool. It was no time for chance work, and there must not be any mistake now. He felt his sword was loose in the sheath, and smiled to himself. The men had orders not to strike unarmed people; but if any resisted, there would be some revenge for Pertâbgurh he thought, and, looking round, saw the rough faces of his followers in thick array behind him, holding in their horses as though for a race.
They saw Tara alight. Fazil was not a stone's-throw distant, and perhaps she might see him, but she did not. He was not in her thoughts now; the agony of relinquishing him had passed from her in the despair of life long ago. They saw her suddenly sink down, and Vishnu Pundit and Moro Trimmul stoop to raise her up.
"Bismilla! Futteh-i-nubbee!" cried the young Khan, as, pressing his horse's flanks, the animal bounded forward. "Bismilla, brothers, Ya Alla! Ya Alla!"
"Ya Alla! Ya Alla!" shouted the rest behind, as they too gave their horses the rein, and all dashed forward furiously.
Some men with poles and sticks struck at Fazil, Bulwunt, and Lukshmun, as they came on first, but none there had arms. It was as Tara, watching the effect of her effort against Moro Trimmul, stood apart, with flashing eyes and heaving bosom--belonging for the moment to the world she had abjured--that the hoarse shout of the horsemen fell upon her ear. She looked at them for a moment; she saw people go down before them, trampled, shrieking, under foot, and the weapons flashing in the sunlight. Then two men stopped for an instant--she was between them: both stooped towards her at the same moment, and one threw himself off his horse, and lifted her to the other's saddle.
As it was done, a man sprang at Fazil's horse's bridle, with a frantic execration, caught it, and jerked it violently. The noble beast, urged on--for Fazil saw the danger--partly reared, but was held down by the bridle; else it had fared ill perhaps with the young man--for Tara was not sensible now, and he could only hold her up with difficulty--had not Lukshmun been nigh.
"I never kill Brahmuns," he said through his teeth, "but thou art a devil;" and he struck at Moro Trimmul's bare neck with all his force. As the wretched man sank to the earth under the terrible wound, the hunchback sprang to his horse, clambered upon it like a cat, and flourishing his bloody sword, though he struck no one, rode by Fazil's side onwards, unharmed.
No one opposed them; the action was too sudden and too desperate. The crowd, also, was not so thick towards the river, and gave way before them; and, dashing through the shallow ford, the horses throwing up the bright water in a cloud of sparkling drops, they galloped up the bank, and even then, were beyond pursuit. A few of the matchlock-men, firing their pieces over the heads of the crowd beyond, shook them in defiance, as they turned to ride after their party; and a few shots in return, the balls of which sang shrilly in the air over their heads, were fired after them by people in the throng with harmless effect.
It was long ere the party drew rein, and no one spoke. Tara lay easily, supported on the cushion by Fazil's arms, and he watched anxiously for signs of returning consciousness. It came at last, as he felt her cling to him, and she looked up to his face, as they crossed a small streamlet leisurely, with a pleading look which could not be mistaken.
"Ah, fear not," he said; "fear not, beloved! Thou art safe now; and that hideous pageant is far behind. Didst thou think, Tara, I would leave thee to die that frightful death without an effort?"
The beauteous eyes opened again, and closed softly as the tears welled from them. The rapt glittering expression of religious enthusiasm had passed away, and left the world coming back fast into them, with all its tender interests and love, a thousandfold more powerful than before.
That night, another pile was lighted by the river-side, and a corpse, never removed from the spot where it fell, was burned upon it; but the pile of the Sutee remained, grim and black, and the garlands of flowers had withered in the next day's sun ere it was dismantled.
There were a thousand rumours current in the town for some days as to who could have done so bold a deed, but no one guessed the truth. Had Moro Trimmul lived, he could have told; but he had never spoken after the hunchback's sturdy death-blow. So the people believed that some of the starving Beejapoor cavalry, wandering about, had determined to attack the people collected for the Sutee, and plunder them of what they could; and that the rich ornaments which the Sutee herself had worn attracted their attention, and they had carried her off for them.
Some days afterwards, too, near a spot where the fugitives had rested for a while, the remains of a young woman, so much torn by wild beasts as to be unrecognizable, with some shreds of silken garments about them, were found by the village people. It was clear that a murder had been done, and the circumstances under which Tara had disappeared, rendered it probable that these remains were hers. So they were taken into Wye: and the miserable parents, believing them to be their daughter's, had them burned by the river-side in all honour and respect, and thenceforth believed her dead. They did not leave Wye immediately. The excitement and fatigue had exhausted the Shastree, who required rest; and the ceremonies consequent on Tara's death, and necessary purification, occupied some days; so Vishnu Pundit's persuasions prevailed, and they remained with him.
Chapter LXXXV
Khundojee Kakrey performed his promise faithfully. By secret mountain paths known to few, and through the dense forests of the tract which lies between Pertâbgurh and Kurrar, on the right bank of the Krishna, the Mahratta guided his charge safely, and with as much comfort as the nature of the journey would admit of. The two women maintained their disguise of peasants, and Zyna's ability to speak Mahratta, as well as Lurlee's to speak Canarese, assisted in aiding the deception. By night Kakrey sought shelter of villages where he seemed to be well known, for a decent house was always ready for them to sleep in, the best delicacies of country farmhouses cooked for them: and frequently, not only the matron of the house, but other women of the village, attended to bathe them, and otherwise minister to their comfort.
But for all this, those days were remembered as a time of bitter grief and sore trial; the more difficult for Zyna to endure, because Lurlee could not be brought to believe that her husband was dead, and preserved throughout, a demeanour of hope, if not, indeed, of actual joy. "No one saw him die," she would say, "his body was not buried by them. They dare not say he is dead, and I will hear no more of it. When we are at Kurrar he will return, and we will go home together." Again and again, too, were the astrological diagrams consulted: but the lady was unable to find any error in them, and for the present they were to her far more conclusive than the report she had heard from Fazil, and it was a happy thing for her, perhaps, that the delusion lasted even as far as the town to which they were journeying.
With Zyna, however, there was no delusion. She had at once believed her brother's report. Kakrey, too, had told her that there was no hope of her father's existence. Of Tara's fate he knew nothing. Mourning for him, therefore, and in miserable anxiety about her brother, Zyna had had to endure a twofold trial, which her naturally buoyant disposition and innate piety only, enabled her to sustain. Possibly, too, had she remained in one place it would have been more severe; but the daily movement--in a manner before unexperienced by her--the sense of freedom from restraint in the wild country they traversed, the beautiful and, to her, wonderful mountains, forests, and natural objects of all kinds, which, brought up as she had been in the seclusion of a zenana, she had had no chance of seeing before--served to divert her mind from the terrible reality of her loss, to fill it with hope, and to render the sense of danger they incurred in their escape to be blunted by the excitement of perpetual change.
Of the servants who had escaped with them, and who joined Fazil's party, Goolab alone remained to attend the ladies by permission of their guide. She had been divested of every particle of Mahomedan attire, and, dressed in a coarse Mahratta saree, with a dab of red colour smeared on her forehead, and mounted upon a small ambling bullock, passed readily for a Mahratta farmer's wife. In this ride, the old woman was in her element; now guiding the docile animal she rode, beside Lurlee, now beside Zyna, cheering them on when they were fatigued, and often dismounting and supporting them in places where the ponies hesitated and had to be carefully led. Unless near a mountain village, their guide, Kakrey, seldom approached them; he was generally in advance with some of his men, while others remained behind, guarding the rear. When in motion, the party was made to resemble, as far as possible, the appearance of people journeying upon a pilgrimage, and small orange flags, carried by several of the men, and fastened to the pommels of the women's saddles, assisted and maintained the deception.
It was on the afternoon of the fourth day that, emerging from a rugged pass in the mountains, they saw below them part of the wide plain of the Dekhan, the blue waters of the Krishna river sparkling in the sun, and the town, which they had hitherto only hoped to reach. Great numbers of white tents were pitched upon the plain near the fort, showing the presence of a considerable force, and the royal standard fluttered lazily in the evening breeze from its highest tower. It was a pleasant scene of quiet soft beauty, and seemed a true resting-place for the now weary and almost exhausted travellers. The last march had been a longer one than usual; for some of the way they had passed through village lands, in regard to the people of which Kakrey was not without apprehension; the country was becoming more open, and the danger of detection greater; nevertheless, he had guided them safely and truly, as he had promised.
It had been no easy matter to sustain the lady Lurlee that afternoon. All the confidence she had displayed hitherto, false as it was, seemed to have suddenly deserted her as she drew nigh to her destination; and while they rested during the hottest part of the day, under some cool shade by the side of a rivulet, Zyna saw that the old diagrams were laid aside for once with a heavy sigh, and seemed to afford no comfort. She thought the evident weariness might be the result of a longer and rougher ride than usual, and tried to soothe Lurlee. "Only a few coss more, mother," she said, "and we are safe with our own people: do not fail now, when the end is so near!"
"It matters not--what is the use of it?" replied Lurlee--"who will care for us, now they are gone from us?"
"The Blessed Alla, and the Prophet, and the saints," answered Zyna devoutly, "and there is Fazil too----"
"He could not love me, now that Tara is not with me," returned Lurlee, interrupting Zyna.
"Tara, mother?"
"Yes, his soul will be gone away to her and to his father, Zyna. He is dead," replied Lurlee, sighing. "I know it now. All day long the old man's face has been before me, gashed and bloody, and I think," she said, passing her hand across her eyes, "that I am not deceived now--no, not now."
"We shall know the best or worst soon, mother; but Fazil could not have been deceived," replied Zyna.
"And thou hast not wept, Zyna! O hard heart! Was he nothing to thee? It is the old who cannot weep--the old like me."
Zyna's tears were falling fast, but she checked them. "I would not grieve thee, mother, needlessly," she said; "when Fazil comes, he will tell us all."
"If I could see her, the daughter the good Alla gave me, Zyna--the girl who softened my heart--and give her to him--it would be enough! but they took her away, and she, too, is dead! Once," she continued mysteriously, after a pause, and catching Zyna's arm,--"once since we were out in these wilds, she came to me in a dream, and mocked me. She said she was going to die, and go to her Mother, but she would come to see me first. Ah, she was very beautiful, Zyna, and smiled lovingly upon me in her old way. Now, when she said that, it must have been near morning, when we were asleep in the village where they gave us milk to drink, and about the third watch of the night; but I cannot understand what planet ruled the hour. Ah me! I used once to do so, but the more I look at the tables now, the more I fail."
"Trust in Alla, mother, not in them," replied Zyna.
"I have no trust in them," muttered Lurlee gloomily--"none now in anything; all have failed me, and she most of all. O Tara! why didst thou go? O my child, my child, whom Alla gave me when I had none, and when thy mother died. Alas! why was I mocked, Zyna? why did Alla take him too, who loved me, and leave me here? O daughter, this is unjust oppression, this----"
"Hush, mother! else Alla will hear thee, and be angry, and the saints too; and can any one resist fate? O mother, be patient!" said Zyna soothingly. "Only for their help we had not escaped the slaughter, and worse--dishonour; and yet we are here, and our friends now are not far off."
"Your friends and Fazil's, girl!" she returned tartly. "I have been of small account enough already among ye, and am not likely to improve."
"Do not speak bitter words, mother, I beseech you," cried Zyna entreatingly. "We are your children--indeed we are, and will never leave you. If Fazil lives----"
"Peace!" rejoined the lady, interrupting her, "do not let falsehood come into thy mouth, girl. Enough for me that Tara is not, and thou art."
Zyna could never reply to Lurlee's caustic speeches, least of all under the pressure of their mutual bereavement; and as they sat there they broke forth from time to time from her without tear or sob--old grievances--old jealousies--old allegations of neglect. Matters which Zyna had utterly forgotten, seemed to have rushed back on the lady's memory like a flood. They were hard to endure; and yet not so hard, Zyna thought, as the false confidence, the fearful mockery of truth and reality, which had lasted till then--that disbelief in her father's death for which she could not account.
"Ah, if Tara can only be rescued from them, there may be some natural revulsion yet," thought the girl; and yet what hope of that? She could not deceive herself into a belief that Tara would be given up, or that she could escape from her family; perhaps, on second thoughts, she would not desire it--but if it could be so? And amidst such conflicting thoughts, and the endurance of Lurlee's dogged, desperate state of mind, the afternoon's journey into Kurrar, though the last, was indescribably more miserable than any which had preceded it.
They descended the pass, and were once more on level ground. "Hence to Beejapoor," said Goolab cheerily, as she was leading Lurlee's pony down the last steep descent, "there are no mountains--a child might ride thither without trouble. Keep a good heart, therefore, O my Khánum! trust in Alla, and the Prophet, and the blessed Peer Khaderi, and thou wilt see it. I vow Fatehas to the shrine, and to feed----"
"They are liars like thyself," retorted Lurlee savagely: "peace, for a prating old fool as thou art! Did not the planets tell me Afzool Khan was alive, and now men say he is dead! After that, can I believe? O woman, thou art mad--so keep thy tongue silent!"
Goolab thought her mistress mad--perhaps she was so in some degree. Excitement, grief as yet without vent, and heavy fatigue in a blazing sun to one unaccustomed to exposure, might easily cause temporary delirium, and it was with difficulty that she supported her mistress upon her pony over the ground which intervened from the bottom of the pass to the town. Shiverings had come on, and it was evident that the poor lady might be seriously indisposed.
Several of Kakrey's Mahratta foot-soldiers, who had guarded them, had run on to secure a lodging of some kind, and the travellers were met at the town gate by one who had returned to wait for the approaching party, and he guided them on. Other parties had reached the camp from the fatal field, and more were still coming in daily, so that the arrival of the travellers was unnoticed, and from their disguise their persons and rank were quite unknown. To those who saw them pass, they appeared women of the country who had made a long journey that day, and were utterly wearied; for Lurlee, closely muffled, was supported by Goolab, who walked by her side, with her arm thrown round her waist; and Zyna, even more entirely concealed from observation, leaned forward, supporting herself on her arm, as if hardly able to maintain her place on the saddle. Kakrey and his followers had closed round them so as to protect them from the jostling of the people in the narrow street and crowded bazar of the town, and all cheered the ladies by the assurance that the house secured for the night was a good one, which belonged to a respectable Mahomedan merchant, who had given part of it without hesitation on hearing for whom it was needed. It is doubtful, indeed, whether either of them could have supported their fatigue much longer.[20]
FOOTNOTE:
[20] Khundojee Kakrey's escort of the ladies of Afzool Khan's family to Kurrar became known to Sivaji, and he was tried and beheaded for--as it was esteemed--the act of treason.--Mahratta Chronicle.