Legendary & romantic tales of Indian history

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Title: Legendary & romantic tales of Indian history
Author: Caunter, Hobart
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Legendary & romantic tales of Indian history" ***
INDIAN HISTORY ***

[Illustration:

_Frontispiece._ Page 363.

JEHANGIRE GOING TO VISIT MHER-UL-NISSA.]

_THE “PRIZE LIBRARY.”_

LEGENDARY & ROMANTIC

TALES OF

INDIAN HISTORY.

THE REV. HOBART CAUNTER, B.D.

[Illustration]

LONDON:

FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.

AND NEW YORK.

PREFACE.

This Volume of Legendary and Romantic Tales of Indian History was one
of a series of historical tales founded on the histories of England,
France, Spain, Italy, and India, which obtained great popularity when
first published.

The copyright of them having passed to the present Publishers, they
have been induced to reproduce them in a compact form--complete in a
single volume--in the belief that by so doing they will be adding to
the literary pleasure of another generation.

PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION.

The success of the several series of “Romantic Tales of History”
already published has induced the publishers of these works to extend
them in order to embrace a portion of history generally considered
extremely exuberant in romantic features. The present series will be
confined to the Mahomedan conquests in India, in the records of which
are to be found numerous events of signal and stirring interest,
which, while they develope the character of a distant people in a
remote age, serve also to confirm many fine axioms of moral truth by
exhibiting how, under all the variations of clime and fluctuations of
circumstance, the great result of human actions is everywhere the same.

This being a portion of history with which the general reader is less
familiar than with that embraced in the preceding series of this work,
the choice has been made under the impression that it may lead to a
more extended reading of those annals which contain some of the most
interesting facts to be found in the records of ages.

But while I feel that the subject is an important one, I have not been
insensible to the difficulties with which it is encompassed, and in
proportion to the success of those volumes already before the public
has my consciousness of these difficulties been raised, for, feeling
that I have had greater impediments to success to overcome, I cannot
but be less sanguine in the expectation that I have realized what has
been so well done by my predecessors in a similar field.

Romantic as are many of the events which the Mahomedan annals supply,
they are nevertheless all of one tone and colouring. They want the
delightful blendings and tintings of social circumstances. Their
princes were despots, their nobles warriors, their governments
tyrannies, and their people slaves. The lives of their most eminent
men, who were distinguished chiefly for their deeds in arms, present
little else than a series of battles. Their principal amusement was the
chase, in which similar perils to those presented in war were courted
for the stern glory which followed desperate achievements.

If, therefore, in the following tales the variety should appear
less than in those found in the volumes of the same work which have
preceded these, the cause, and consequently the excuse, must lie in the
materials. Besides this, those beautiful features of domestic life so
frequently witnessed in our western world have little or no existence
in the land to which the present volumes are devoted. Women confined
in harems, and not admitted to the tender and endearing enjoyments of
family intercourse, degraded below the dignity of their nature and
of their reason, treated as secondary beings, as mere instruments of
pleasure, and as created for no better purpose than to perpetuate the
human race, are no longer objects either for the rich colouring of
romance or the graver delineations of moral narrative.

Great variety of character is not to be found among those isolated
beings who are so well calculated to cast a glory upon the human
pilgrimage,--not that variety of character does not exist, but it
is not developed. All the pictures of life, therefore, among such a
community will necessarily possess a certain sameness inseparable from
their very nature. I have, however, endeavoured to vary the materials
as much as was consistent with the régime of the history, though I
sometimes found them very intractable. I can scarcely hope that I have
succeeded in a labour of no common difficulty, but trust, nevertheless,
that this last series of “Romantic Tales of History” may not be found
undeserving of public patronage.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

THE TRAVELLER’S DREAM 3

THE IDOL OF SOMNAT 23

THE ROYAL MERCHANT 71

THE ABYSSINIAN SLAVE 100

THE RAJPOOT MARRIAGE 125

THE MAHOMEDAN NIMROD 167

THE RIVAL BROTHERS 203

THE SIEGE OF GUALIOR 240

THE PARIAH 266

THE DEFENCE OF CHITTORE 304

THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD 335

THE PRINCE AND THE FAKEER 393

THE OMRAH’S DAUGHTER 424

THE REVOLT OF THE FAKEERS 456

THE MAHRATTA CHIEF 474

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 351. (A.D. 962.)--Aluptugeen, governor of Khorassan, broke out
into open rebellion and marched to Ghizny, which he subdued, and there
established an independent power. Munsoor, King of Bokhara, hearing of
this defection, conferred the government of Khorassan upon Abool-Hussun
Mahomed, son of Ibrahim Sunjur Toorkoman, and thrice sent armies to
attack Aluptugeen, which were on both occasions defeated. Aluptugeen
retained his independence fifteen years, during which his general
Subooktugeen frequently defeated the Indians.

Heg. 365. (975.)--Aluptugeen died, and was succeeded by his son Aboo
Isaac, who survived his accession but two years.

Heg. 367. (977.)--Subooktugeen was unanimously proclaimed king
of Ghizny by the nobles and chiefs. He had married the daughter
of Aluptugeen, and became as celebrated for his justice in the
administration of his government as for the extraordinary popularity he
acquired among his subjects of all conditions. During the first year
of his accession, Subooktugeen conquered the province of Candahar.
Resolving on a war with India, he marched in that direction, and having
taken certain forts, caused mosques to be built, and then returned with
considerable spoil to Ghizny.

Jeipal, a powerful prince of India, of the Brahmin caste, raised a
numerous body of troops to oppose the Mahomedans, and brought together
a great number of elephants, with a design to attack them in their own
country; but the King of Ghizny, sending an army to oppose the Indian
chief, the hostile forces came in sight of each other on the confines
of Lumghan. Here some smart skirmishing ensued, and Mahmood, the son
of Subooktugeen, afterwards celebrated as the conqueror of India,
though then but a boy, gave proofs of that valour and conduct which so
eminently distinguished his future life.

Jeipal’s troops having suffered from a dreadful storm of hail which
killed the cattle of the army and several thousand soldiers, their
general made proposals for peace, which, contrary to the advice of
Mahmood, were accepted by the King of Ghizny.

Jeipal, on reaching his capital, refused to fulfil the conditions,
and Subooktugeen again marched his forces towards Lahore. The Indian
general advanced to meet and give him battle. The Hindoos were
everywhere defeated, and pursued with prodigious slaughter to the
banks of the Neelab. By this victory the conqueror acquired immense
wealth, and a considerable accession of territory, causing himself to
be acknowledged king over the conquered country, and appointing one of
his officers with ten thousand horse to the government of Pishawur.

About this time died Munsoor, King of Bokhara; he was succeeded by his
son Nooh, against whom a formidable rebellion was raised by a chief
named Faik. Nooh having formed an alliance with the King of Ghizny,
the rebel was attacked and defeated by the latter, for which signal
service the sovereign of Bokhara conferred upon Subooktugeen the title
of Nasir-ood-Deen, Hero of the Faith; and upon his son Mahmood that of
Syf-ood-Dowla, Sword of the State.

The rebel Faik having again collected his forces, attacked Mahmood
unexpectedly and defeated him, taking his baggage. The father hearing
of his son’s disaster, marched to his relief, routed the insurgents a
second time, and thus completely quashed the rebellion.

Heg. 387. (997.)--Subooktugeen fell into a lingering disorder. Being at
this time at Bulkh, he determined to try change of air, and accordingly
commenced a journey to Ghizny. He had travelled only a few miles when
he was obliged to stop at Toormooz, a town not far from Bulkh, where he
expired, his remains being carried to Ghizny for interment.

The Traveller’s Dream.

CHAPTER I.

In the forests of Candahar, a solitary traveller was pursuing his way.
Overcome by the heat of noon he sat down on the margin of a small
stream that gurgled through the thick underwood, allowing his horse to
crop the fresh herbage upon its banks. The scene around him was gloomy
but imposing. So thick was the growth of the jungle that the sun’s rays
could not penetrate, except here and there, where patches had been
cleared by the charcoal-burners or for purposes of fuel; and these were
comparatively few. Some of the trees were of a growth so stupendous as
to impart a character of sublimity to the whole aspect of the forest.
Many of them reached the prodigious height of a hundred and thirty
feet, presenting a straight branchless stem, which rose like a colossal
pillar from the ground to the altitude of twenty yards without a single
branch or even a sprout upon its surface. Under the vast leafy canopy
which spread out above it, the wild elephant frequently reposed, and
seemed, by comparison with the stately growth beside which it rested,
but as some ordinary animal.

It is far from the haunts of men, amid the deep recesses of the
forest, or on the summit of the distant mountain, that nature is seen
to develop the noblest features of her beauty. The stillness that
reigns around, the solemn repose of the scene, not broken in upon by
human associations, nor interrupted by the voice of human intercourse,
enhance the impression of grandeur produced by the sight of objects
which cannot fail to elevate the soul to pious adoration of the great
and illimitable God of the universe.

The stranger was impressed by the somewhat painful novelty of his
situation, and solemn thoughts were awakened in his heart. He sat
calmly gazing upon the brook as it bubbled before him, when his
attention was suddenly roused by a crashing of the bushes, immediately
accompanied by a loud roar, and in another moment his horse was
prostrated by the paw of a huge lion. The traveller started from his
seat, drew his sword, and coming behind the ferocious visitor, cut the
sinews of its hind leg, and before the animal could turn, repeated
the stroke on the other, and thus completely disabled it. The savage
instantly relinquished its prey, but so tremendous had been the
stroke of its paw and the succeeding laceration so extensive, that
the poor horse rolled upon the streamlet’s bank in the agonies of
death. The lion roared with appalling fury--its eyes glared--its mane
bristled--but it was unable to resent the injury it had received. It
dragged itself forward upon its fore-legs with a vain endeavour to
retaliate. Its vanquisher approached fearlessly, struck it across the
skull with his sword, and, repeating the stroke, laid it dead at his
feet.

The loss of his steed was an untoward event, and as he would now have
to make his way through the forest on foot,--as, moreover, the sun had
long passed its meridian, he determined to pursue his journey without
further delay.

Strapping to his shoulders a kind of wallet which had been fastened to
his saddle, he commenced threading the thicket. His journey was long
and arduous, but on emerging into an open space, he saw a doe grazing
with her fawn. The latter had just been born, and the traveller coming
suddenly upon them, secured the little one, while the affrighted dam
fled in terror. Pleased with his capture, he bound the fawn’s legs, and
placing it under his arm, proceeded on his way.

He now quitted the cleared space, and plunged again into the jungle,
satisfied at having procured something to relieve his hunger, should
he be obliged to pass the night in the forest. When he had at length
reached a convenient spot where he might prepare a meal, he placed
the fawn beside the trunk of a blasted tree, and having kindled a
fire by the friction of two dry pieces of wood, he was about to
sacrifice the little animal, but perceiving the mother at a short
distance gazing upon him with an expression of the deepest distress,
he paused. The tears rolled down her cheeks--her head was raised, and
her eyes intently fixed upon the stranger’s countenance. They next
turned upon her innocent offspring that lay bound at the root of the
tree, unconscious of its danger, but still yearning for its parent.
She gradually advanced within a few yards of the spot on which the
traveller stood. He retired several paces; the anxious dam immediately
sprang towards its young, lay down by it, and caressed it with an
intelligible joy. On the traveller’s approach she quitted her fawn with
a bound of terror, but still retreated only a few yards, manifesting
the strongest symptoms of maternal suffering.

It was an affecting sight--an irresistible appeal to human sympathy.
The heart of the stranger was moved to pity, his bosom heaved with
generous emotion, and under the impulse of a fervid and holy exultation
he released the fawn from his captivity. The tender creature instantly
ran to its mother, which, with a cry of joy, passed forward towards
the thicket; but before she was secluded from the sight of him who had
delivered her young from death, she turned round as if with a look of
grateful acknowledgment, and plunged with her delicate offspring into
the close cover of the forest.

This was an act to gladden the heart of a good man. Life is the blessed
boon of Heaven, and the greatest of its gifts: to the mere animal,
the loss of it is the loss of all; and yet how wantonly does man
trifle with the life of animals, to which it is an object of such high
enjoyment; for dumb creatures, having no apprehension of pain, possess
the highest sense of mere corporeal fruition, so long as they are not
actually suffering.

The release of the fawn had softened the stranger’s sympathies and
impressed his feelings. Taking from his wallet a small quantity of
rice, which had been already boiled, he made a homely but grateful
meal, and determined to pass that night on the spot, endeared to him
by the consciousness, which it kept alive, of having performed a
benevolent action.

It was a heavenly night. The light of a clear moon peeped through the
trees, and seemed to dance in ten thousand phosphoric coruscations, as
the slender branches, agitated by a gentle evening breeze, diverted
its course for the moment, or trembled in its gentle beams. The
forest gloom contrasted solemnly with the silvery light of the deep
azure expanse above, and the general repose of nature, at that still
hour when man retires to rest from the stir and bustle of day, added
an additional tone of solemnity to the scene. The beast of prey was
abroad, and, as it prowled, its occasional roar was a sort of diapason
to nature’s imposing harmony.

The traveller having collected some dried leaves strewed them under
the broad foliage of a tree, the branches of which formed a thick
canopy within six feet of the ground, and casting himself upon this
easy woodland couch, courted that slumber which his fatigue had
rendered welcome. His reflections were peaceful. He reverted to the
occurrences of the day, and though the loss of his steed was a subject
of uneasy recollection, yet it was more than countervailed by the
happy remembrance of that little episode in the brief chronicle of his
life, which he never afterwards reverted to without satisfaction--the
restoration of the fawn to its bereaved dam.

He lay for some time pursuing the quiet tenour of his contemplations,
occasionally lapsing into a state of half-consciousness and
then reverting, by a sudden impulse of the mind, to perfect,
self-possession. At length, overcome by the active process of his
thoughts and fatigue of body, he fell into a profound sleep, in which
some of the most striking events of the past day were presented to his
imagination, combined with new associations, and invested with new hues
and a more varied colouring. He dreamed that he was visited by the
Prophet, who approached him in shining garments, from which a glory
was emitted so dazzling that he could not gaze upon it, and said--“The
generosity which you have this day shown to a distressed animal has
been appreciated by that God who is the God of dumb as well as of
rational creatures, and the kingdom of Ghizny is assigned to you in
this world as your reward. Let not your power, however, undermine your
virtue, but continue through life to exercise that benevolence towards
man which you have done this day towards the brute.” Having uttered
these words, the celestial messenger disappeared, and the stranger
awoke.

The moon was still bright in the heavens, but he could not again close
his eyes in sleep. The vision was too strongly impressed upon his
waking senses to allow them to yield to the gentle solicitations of
slumber. He arose, and watched the clear “pale planet,” through the
trees, as it slowly marched towards the horizon to make way for the
brighter dawn.

The dews fell heavily, and a thin silvery mist began to rise and invest
every object with an ashy tint, as the moon gradually faded in its
far descent behind the distant hills. The grey dawn at length broke
slowly over the plain, but was not perceptible to the traveller’s eye
until the valleys were flooded with the young dewy light. The mist had
thickened. The leaves of the trees dripped with their liquid burthen,
and every spot that was not protected by a mantle of thick foliage,
presented a bloom of moisture from the atmosphere, that seemed tinted
with hues from fairy-land. Each blade of grass curved under its watery
load, bending its delicate neck as if proud to bear the pure deposit of
the skies. Everything was clothed in the same soft drapery, which was
shaken off by the morning breeze, when each object resumed its natural
variety of hue, and harmonious conformity of light and shadow.

The traveller gathered together the leaves on which he had slept,
kindled them, and taking a small cocoanut hookah from his wallet,
smoked his chillam; then, making a scanty meal from the cold rice,
refreshed himself with a draught of the dews which he had allowed to
drip during the night into a plantain leaf doubled up in the form of a
cup.

Although his repast was a spare one, it was taken with a pure relish,
and having once more strapped his few articles of baggage upon his
shoulders, he prepared to resume his journey; but first turning
his face towards the holy city, he offered up his devotions with
pious fervour, and supplicated the protection of Heaven through his
wanderings.

As he pursued his solitary way through paths to which he was a perfect
stranger, he could not help recalling the vision which had haunted
his sleep. It had come so vividly before him that he more than half
persuaded himself it must have been intended to be a direct revelation
from Heaven, and yet, that a man without a name, without a home, a
stranger in the land, should become the monarch of a powerful empire,
seemed one of those impossibilities only to be dreamed of, but never
realised.

To his calmer reflections, the night-vision appeared nothing more
than the lively operation of a fancy excited by sleep, and which
had been rendered the more keenly alive to impressions from certain
peculiar coincidences of events that had deeply interested him, and
from those reflex images presented in slumber in consequence of the
strong feelings which those coincidences had awakened within him.
Nevertheless, in spite of the apparent unreasonableness of the thing
promised, the utter improbability of such an event taking place, and
the force of his arguments upon the folly of harbouring such a thought,
he could not expel from his mind the singular revelation of that night.

CHAPTER II.

The traveller now pursued his way through the intricacies of the
jungle, with much difficulty and equal patience. He had not long
quitted the spot of his last night’s repose, when, entering a small
glade where the wood had been cleared, he perceived a group of eight
men, seated round the glowing embers of a fire, some smoking, and
others apparently devouring the last of their morning’s meal. Knowing
that retreat would be of no avail to secure him from their hostile
intentions, if they were enemies, he boldly approached, and inquired
his way to the nearest hamlet. One of the men rose, and meeting him,
said with a significant laugh,

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind ending your journey here?”

“Indeed but I should. If you can direct me on my way, well; if not, I
have no time for parleying.”

“Good! but travellers that pass through these woods are in the habit of
paying for safe-conduct.”

“I require no guide, and therefore must decline the tribute.”

“Hark’ye! Do you think your single arm a match for eight pair? Be
advised, and lower your tone. We live here by our good wits, levying
contributions when the opportunity invites, and living on what the
forest provides, when such opportunities fail us. We must have what you
carry upon your shoulders, your money, and your provender, if you have
any. When we make our demands, remember we take no denial.”

“Then I am in the presence of robbers?”

“Ay! and what then?”

“This, that I shall not submit to your exactions, though you had a
hundred, instead of seven, to back you!”

The robber laughed; and, turning to his comrades, said, “Here’s a
fellow that wont be plucked without fluttering; we must try blows to
bring down the game, if he chooses to be deaf to persuasion. Come,”
said he, turning to the traveller, “get rid of that unsightly hump upon
your shoulders, and show how straight a man you are when you stand
upright, without an incumbrance.”

“Life,” replied the traveller, “is only to be valued at its worth;
and I am ready to relinquish mine, if it be Allah’s will, in defence
of my property. ’Tis no great matter for a man to die, who has known
little else than crosses in this world, and has nothing better to look
forward to. Take heed then, though you be robbers, and such are seldom
merciful, how you impede the progress of a desperate man.”

Saying this, he retreated towards a tree, against which he placed
himself, and drawing his sword, declared his determination to resist to
the death.

The robbers paused, surprised at the determination to oppose himself
against such palpable odds; but, in order to prove how the hero had
miscalculated his chances, one of the men discharged an arrow, and
transfixed his sword-arm, pinning it to the tree. The traveller
immediately snapped off the shaft, and raised his arm to strike,
but it fell powerless beside him. He was instantly overpowered and
disarmed; but upon examining the contents of his load, great was the
disappointment of the bandits. They scattered its contents upon the
ground, deriding the stranger’s risk of his life for property so
valueless.

“Well,” said the robber who had already spoken, “as he keeps no purse,
we must make one out of him. His limbs are of the right mould, and your
purchasers of slaves will give something for a sturdy labourer. We’ll
bid you good-bye when we can provide you a master who knows how to
pay for being furnished with a brawny pair of shoulders, that he may
lay his own load upon, without carrying them under his own head. Come
along; you shall rest quietly till that awkward puncture in your arm is
healed, and then you shall be shown the way to the next hamlet.”

The stranger’s arms were bound with his turban, and he was forced to
proceed between two of the bandits. They entered the thicket, and
after a walk of about five minutes, stood before several rude huts,
formed in one of the closest recesses of the forest. These hovels were
constructed from various growths of the jungle, a small square spot
having been cleared in front, where the outlaws smoked, cooked their
curries, and held their councils. Each hut accommodated a family, for
all the men were married.

As there was no spare dwelling for the stranger, one was immediately
constructed by a couple of the robbers, and completed in about two
hours. It consisted of a few slight bamboos, driven into the ground
at intervals of a foot, under the foilage of a low tree, which formed
the roof. These bamboos were crossed with smaller canes, and the
interstices filled with broad leaves and dried grass: the turf being
cleared from within, the habitation was complete.

On the third day after his capture, the traveller was commanded to
prepare for a change of condition. His wound was doing well, but the
arm continued useless. His hands had not been released from the bandage
by which they were confined when he was made captive. He was brought
out into the area before the huts.

“Now,” said the principal bandit, addressing him, “what say you to a
change of life, in the mode at least? We are robbers; our business
requires quick heads and stout hearts. You are a brave son of a good
mother: what say you to a union of interests with those who, as you
see, know how to live, and when provisions get scarce, are not over
nice in appropriating them without purchase?”

“I fear,” replied the prisoner, “that I have too quick a conscience for
a robber. You had better not trust me: I should betray you.”

“We’ll run the risk; a brave man never can discredit his courage, and
to skulk in the track of treachery is the choice only of cowards. We’ll
trust you.”

“You would act then with a fool’s discretion; for brave men should be
honourable, and ’tis an honourable act to proclaim rogues, who are the
bane of society:--not to proclaim them would be an act of treachery
against honest men.”

“In truth, I did not take thee for an honest man, though I did for a
brave one; but I suspect thee to be neither, and only fit to rub a
horse’s crupper, and perform the slave’s drudgery. So be it, thou shalt
soon know thy vocation.”

“These bonds are thy security,” said the traveller, raising his hands,
which were still tied with the turban. “Cowards are always brave, when
they are beyond the reach of danger. Does it become thy manhood to
insult a maimed and unarmed man?”

This appeal, though it galled the pride, roused the better spirit of
the robber, and he said:--“Well! our notions of valour may be like
our notions of honesty; therefore, let both be a divided question;
but, since you decline joining your fortune with ours, you must settle
our demand for home and nourishment, and as you seem to have no gold
of your own, we must turn you into a disposable commodity, and get
something for our trouble and care of you.”

The stranger now proceeded with his captors, and, after a march of some
hours, they reached a village bordering upon the forest. It consisted
of a few miserable huts, and its inhabitants were of the lowest
class. Shortly after their arrival, a merchant made his appearance,
who purchased the prisoner from the robbers; and he was left with a
stranger in the new and unenviable character of a slave. This was
anything but a realization of his dream; it however satisfied him, if
he harboured a different conviction before, that dreams are the mere
fantastic creations of an excited brain, and he felt ashamed of having
allowed so flimsy an illusion to obtain one moment’s influence over his
mind.

There was nothing to be gained by despondency, and he resolved to
submit to his destiny, with a secret trust in God, and a determination
to direct the tenour of his life according to the pure suggestions
of a rigid and inflexible conscience. So soon as he had become the
merchant’s property, the latter examined his wound, and, having
carefully dressed it, as carefully felt his chest and limbs, in order
to form some idea of the texture of his muscles. This preliminary
settled, he expressed himself well satisfied with his purchase. The
merchant was a little shrivelled man, with a light brown complexion,
exhibiting a dull ochreous tinge, as if in him the whole biliary
structure were placed in his head. He had a thin straggling beard,
so scattered over the corrugated surface of his sharp-pointed chin,
as to give him the appearance of a senile hag, rather than that of
a venerable slave-dealer. He was accompanied by several athletic
attendants, who amply made up in bone and sinew for the deficiency of
their master in both particulars.

Having asked his new slave a few questions respecting his former habits
of life, and thus ascertained that he had been accustomed to those
hardy exploits likely to have inured his body to endurance, calculating
that he should make a handsome profit by his bargain, the thrifty
chafferer ordered him to be carefully attended to. After a day’s rest
at the village, the merchant directed his route towards Khorassan,
whither they arrived, after a laborious journey. The slave was lodged
at the house of his purchaser, who fed him well, and used him with
sufficient kindness, in order to bring him into the best possible
condition for sale. He took care to have it rumoured that he had a
stout handsome fellow to dispose of, such as could not be matched in
all Persia; in consequence, many persons, willing to purchase, came to
see the marvel; but, finding that the description was not exactly borne
out by the reality, and the sum demanded being more than they could
afford, or were willing to pay, they declined entering upon a bargain.

The merchant began to grow impatient; and, as he was daily incurring
an expense without profit, he thought it would be better to abate
something of his demand and conclude an immediate sale, than to throw
away more money upon the doubtful chance of obtaining a better price.
An expedient, however, struck him. Conceiving that bondage could be
desirable to no man, it occurred to him that the object of his anxiety
and late disappointment might have the means of purchasing his own
freedom. When this bright conclusion came across his mind, delighted
with the excessive novelty of the thought, he argued that a man ought
to pay more for his own liberty than another for the privilege of
withholding it from him, because it was a far greater benefit to the
one than to the other; and he consequently determined to raise his
demand in proportion. With a portentous smile quivering upon his
features, he approached the object of his anticipated gain, and said--

“Would you not be glad to enjoy your freedom?”

“You may as well ask a starving man if he loves rice.”

“Are you willing to pay for it?”

“How?”

“In money.”

“No. I am not disposed to buy what is the blessed boon of Heaven, and
of this you have no more right to deprive me than I have to cut your
throat, which you well deserve, for being the encourager of knaves and
the supporter of brigands.”

The old man’s countenance collapsed like a death’s head, and, without
uttering a word, he tottered from the presence of his incensed captive,
as if stung by a scorpion.

From this time he treated his prisoner with much more rigour than he
had hitherto done, and at length came to the resolution of putting a
collar round his neck, and forcing him to perform offices of drudgery
for a daily compensation. It however fortunately happened that
Aluptugeen, Governor of Khorassan, hearing a favourable account of the
slave, desired to see him. He accordingly made his appearance, and was
immediately purchased by the governor, to the no small gratification of
the slave-merchant.

CHAPTER III.

The purchase being completed, the slave was removed to the Governor’s
palace. Here he was placed among the household servants; but
Aluptugeen, soon perceiving in him the promise of better things, had
him about his person, and he shortly became an obvious favourite with
his master. This flattering impression continued to increase, and he
was at last advanced to a post of some distinction in the state. Seeing
in his slave such superior endowments, Aluptugeen one day inquired of
him concerning his birth. The slave replied:--

“My history is brief. Though in bondage, I have done nothing to
disgrace my parentage. I was born free, though in poverty; I am
lineally descended from Yezdijerd, the last of the Persian monarchs,
who, as you no doubt well know, when flying from his enemies, during
the Caliphate of Othman, was murdered at a water-mill near the town of
Murv. His family, being left in Toorkistan, formed connexions among the
people, and his descendants have become Toorks. I am now a Toork.

“I was brought into the world amid poverty and destitution; but the
very wants to which my youth was subjected forced me to exert the
energies with which the Omnipotent had endowed me, and I became at an
early age skilled in the sports of the field, of a hardy frame and
daring temperament, with the determination of seeking and securing my
own fortune. My father, a man of information and letters, in spite of
the pressure of penury, did not neglect to instil into my mind the
obligations of virtue, and store it with the seeds of wisdom; I may
therefore be said to have been better educated than many who figure in
the courts of princes.

“From my earliest days, I had entertained a presentiment that the poor
Toorkoman’s son was born for something better than to pass his life
in indigence and obscurity. Under this impression, false as it has
hitherto proved, I quitted my father’s house in my nineteenth year, and
was on my way to join the armies of Ghizny, when I fell into the hands
of robbers, and have in consequence become the slave of a most generous
master.”

Aluptugeen was pleased with the history of his dependent, whom he soon
raised to still higher honours under his government. The favourite did
not disgrace his freedom, but rose rapidly into favour, until at length
was conferred upon him the distinguished title of Ameer-ool-Omrah,
chief of the nobles. He became now the first man in Khorassan, and was
finally placed at the head of Aluptugeen’s armies. He brought them to
a state of the highest order and discipline, led them on to conquest,
and was the idol of the troops. The enemies of his master were awed
into submission by the superior genius of his general, and peace and
prosperity prevailed throughout the empire. His rise to distinction was
as signal as it was rapid, and he could not help frequently reverting
to his dream in the forest, which appeared gradually advancing towards
its accomplishment. His father lived not to see the exaltation of his
son, but that son had his mother conveyed to Khorassan, where she
enjoyed the happiness of seeing him hailed by the public voice as a
great and good man.

What a singular change had come over the destiny of the stranger within
the lapse of a few years! The bondsman, who had bent the knee to his
superiors, was now bowed to as a great and glorious being. He was
the favourite of the Governor of Khorassan; he directed his master’s
councils, commanded his armies, and was the oracle of his cabinet. He
was constantly with the Governor, and nothing of moment was undertaken
without his advice. He was now the happiest of the happy. Beloved by
his ruler, the idol of all subjected to his control, the terror of
those neighbouring potentates who were hostile to the government of his
kind patron--he had scarcely a wish to gratify, and he felt that the
clouds which had hung upon the dawn of his career had rendered the
succeeding brightness only more vivid and joyous.

Aluptugeen had a beautiful daughter, whose affections were courted
by the most powerful nobles of Khorassan; but she continued deaf to
their advances. She was a woman of rare endowments, and therefore an
object naturally coveted by such a thought themselves in a condition
to woo her. She was not to be won. Many, with whom her father would
have gladly sought an alliance, were rejected, and the beautiful Zahira
remained unwedded. Her coldness was the universal topic of expressed
surprise; still she listened not to the voice of the wooer. She was
her father’s only child; and he felt naturally anxious, through her,
to perpetuate his race: the disappointment therefore saddened him. But
there appeared no remedy, as he did not choose to interfere with the
antipathies or predilections of a beloved daughter.

As the Ameer-ool-Omrah resided in her father’s palace, Zahira had
continual opportunities of seeing him. They frequently met--they
frequently conversed--and such meetings and such conversations begat
mutual good-will. The quondam slave soon perceived that he was not
despised; his admiration for the daughter of his patron grew at length
into a warmer feeling, and he became conscious that he loved her. He
was aware of the splendid offers that had been made to her, which she
had refused. He knew the extreme fastidiousness of her approbation, yet
was he disposed to think, or at least to hope, that she might be won to
return the ardour which glowed in his bosom towards her.

It was impossible they should frequently meet, without that optical
revelation which is invariably made where two hearts throb in unison;
and when he was satisfied, by the eloquent exchange of a certain
tenderness not to be mistaken, which the eye so legibly communicates
when it is really and evidently felt, that his passion for the lovely
daughter of Aluptugeen was returned in full force, he no longer
hesitated to declare his passion, which declaration was received with
an approbation that excited him to a perfect delirium of joy.

“Lady,” said the Ameer-ool-Omrah, in avowing his passion, “though once
a slave, I am lineally descended from a long race of kings; your purity
of blood will not therefore be tainted by an alliance with one who,
from the lowest degradation of bondage has attained to the highest
condition of freedom.”

“Noble,” replied the lovely Zahira, “in the choice we make of
those who are to guide our destinies, we should look rather to the
moral qualities of the man we select, than to those adventitious
circumstances which may either make him a sovereign or a beggar. To
choose a wealthy man is easy; to choose a man of birth and distinction
in the courts of princes is not more difficult. I have had the choice
of both; but to select a virtuous man, is one of the few auspicious
occurrences of our lives.”

“Lady, I pretend to no virtue, beyond those of the nobles who compose
the brilliant assemblage of your father’s court. There is, that I know
of, but one main difference between us; they have inherited rank and
opulence--it came to them without effort; mine, though descended from a
line of kings, has been obtained with the point of my sword.”

“I am content to share with you,” said Zahira earnestly, “the happiness
or misery of a united lot, provided my father withhold not his consent;
for I have no will, whatever wish I may entertain, apart from his. Duty
to a parent is only exceeded in intensity of obligation by duty to a
husband, and she who would fail to perform the one, would not be very
likely to perform the other.”

“I will immediately seek the Governor, and make known to him our mutual
desires. He esteems me highly, as I have reason to believe; but how far
his pride may struggle against his friendship, is a circumstance to be
ascertained.”

On that very day, the Ameer-ool-Omrah sought an audience with
Aluptugeen, and declared his passion for the daughter of that prince.
The Governor expressed no surprise, but said, “You know Zahira is my
only child--a sweet blossom, that now for sixteen summers has blown
round my heart with a purity and a fragrance that has rendered life to
me a scene of enviable enjoyment. It is my duty, therefore, no less
than my wish, to render that girl happy. She has already been solicited
in marriage by four different princes, who possess each an extensive
dominion and wide political influence; but she has rejected them.
Several nobles of my court have made advances to her with like success.
In such a solemn matter I shall neither bias nor direct her. You must,
therefore, win her consent before you can obtain mine.”

“I have avowed my passion, and your daughter has condescended to accept
my vows. She waits but your decision. If you are averse to our union,
my doom is sealed; if you approve of it, my happiness is secured.”

“If you have her consent I shall not withhold mine, and may the
blessing of that great and good Being under whose sanction marriages
are ratified, attend your union! She has at least fixed her heart upon
a worthy man, and I am satisfied.”

The marriage was almost immediately solemnized with great pomp and
splendour; and though some of the rejected nobles looked with envy upon
the happy bridegroom, it was nevertheless an event that diffused joy
throughout the whole district of Khorassan. Shortly after this union,
on the death of Abdool Mullik Samany, who reigned over Transoxania, the
nobles sent a deputation to consult Aluptugeen regarding a successor.
The dynasty of Samany was very powerful. Its power extended over
Khwaruzm Marvur-ool-Nehr, Jourjan, Khorassan, Seewustan, and Ghizny.
The Kings held their court at Bokhara. When the deputation arrived
from Bokhara, Aluptugeen hesitated not to express his opposition to
the accession of Prince Munsoor on the plea of his being too young,
recommending that his uncle should for the present assume the reins of
government.

Before this answer reached the capital, a party had placed Munsoor
upon the throne; consequently, when the young King sent a summons for
Aluptugeen to show himself at court, the latter, apprehensive that
mischief was intended, made excuses, and did not appear. In the year of
the Hegira, 351, and 962 of our era, Aluptugeen raised the standard of
rebellion and marched to Ghizny, which was subdued by the bravery and
conduct of his son-in-law, and there established an independent power.

Munsoor, hearing of this defection, conferred the government of
Khorassan on a noble of his own court, and sent armies to attack
Aluptugeen, which were successively defeated by the husband of
his daughter. This raised the latter still higher in the love and
confidence of the troops. His arms were everywhere victorious. The
power of Munsoor was abridged, and he began to tremble for the security
of his kingdom.

During fifteen years, Aluptugeen retained his independence. He was
frequently engaged in war with the Indians, in which his troops were
invariably successful. He lived to a good old age, and died A.H. 365,
A.D. 975, regretted by his subjects. He was succeeded by his son
Aboo-Isaac, who immediately upon his accession proceeded to Bokhara,
accompanied by his brother-in-law the Ameer-ool-Omrah. Aboo-Isaac
was well received by Munsoor, who granted him a formal commission as
governor of Ghizny. His general was likewise appointed by the King as
his brother-in-law’s deputy and provisional successor.

Aboo-Isaac survived this event but a short period, when the husband
of Zahira was unanimously acknowledged King of Ghizny by the chiefs
and nobles. Thus was the dream fulfilled--the quondam slave became
a powerful sovereign, and was no less a man than the celebrated
Subooktugeen, father of the still more celebrated Mahmood Ghiznevy, who
may be termed the first Mahomedan conqueror of India.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 387 (A.D. 997).--On the death of Subooktugeen, his second son
Ismaeel, who had prevailed on his father in the latter’s last moments
to appoint him his successor, ascended the throne of Ghizny. Mahmood,
though an illegitimate son, disputed his brother’s right of succession;
and a battle ensuing between their respective armies, Mahmood
prevailed. Ismaeel was immediately confined in a fort in Joorjan; where
he remained until his death, and his victorious brother ascended the
throne.

Heg. 390 (1000).--Mahmood defeated Khuluf, governor of Seestan. He also
marched into India and made himself master of several provinces.

Heg. 391 (1001).--The king of Ghizny obtained a victory over the army
of Jeipal, who, together with fifteen sons and near relations, was
taken prisoner, five thousand of his troops being slain on the field
of battle. Among the spoils were sixteen necklaces inlaid with jewels,
one of which, belonging to Jeipal, was valued at a hundred and eighty
thousand dinars, the dinar being about the value of nine shillings
sterling. Jeipal, having resigned his crown to his son, in compliance
with the customs of his race, ordered a funeral pile to be prepared,
and setting fire to it with his own hands, perished in the flames.

Heg. 392 (1003).--Mahmood again marched into Seestan and brought
Khuluf, the governor, prisoner to Ghizny.

Heg. 395 (1004).--Rajah Beejy Ray, governor of Bhateea, having
refused to pay tribute to Anundpal, the son of Jeipal, on whom he was
dependent, Mahmood took Bhateea by assault; two hundred and eighty
elephants, numerous slaves and other valuable spoils were obtained in
the town, which the conqueror annexed, with all its dependencies, to
his own dominions.

Heg. 396 (1005).--Elik Khan, king of Kashgar, and father-in-law of
Mahmood, invaded the latter’s territory. Mahmood was returning from the
siege of Moultan when the news reached him. He immediately hastened
to meet the invader, and a desperate battle was fought near Bulkh, in
which the king of Kashgar was entirely defeated. This year the king of
Ghizny likewise defeated Sewukpal, who had thrown off his allegiance,
and made him prisoner. The rebel was compelled to pay four hundred
thousand dirhems, about eight thousand three hundred pounds sterling.

Heg. 399 (1008).--Mahmood made himself master the fort of Bheem.
There, on account of its vast strength, the Hindoos had deposited the
treasure consecrated to their idols, so that the booty obtained by
the conqueror was prodigious; the specie alone, independent of plate,
bullion, and jewels, is said to have amounted to upwards of three
hundred and thirteen thousand pounds sterling.

Heg. 401 (1010).--Mahmood defeated the prince of Ghoor, and annexed his
country to the dominions of Ghizny.

Heg. 402 (1011).--Mahmood reduced Tahnesur, a holy city of the Hindoos,
about thirty miles west of Delhi, which he plundered, broke the idols,
and sent the principal idol Jugsoma, to Ghizny, to be trodden under
foot. A ruby is said to have been found in one of the temples weighing
four hundred and fifty miskals; a size altogether incredible.

Heg. 404 (1013).--The fort of Nindoona, situated in the mountains of
Bulnat, was reduced by the king of Ghizny.

Heg. 406 (1014).--Abool Abass Mamoor, king of Khwaruzm, obtained
Mahmood’s sister in marriage.

Heg. 407 (1015).--Abool Abass Mansoor fell by the hands of
conspirators, but his death was revenged by his brother-in-law, who put
the murderer to death.

Heg. 409 (1017).--The king of Ghizny took the fort of Mutra, in
which he found immense treasures. He next invested the fort of Rajah
Chundpal, which surrendered almost immediately. Having likewise
defeated Chundur Ray, he returned to Ghizny loaded with spoil, with
which he built a magnificent mosque, known by the name of the Celestial
Bride. In its neighbourhood the king founded a university, which was
supplied with a vast collection of curious books in various languages.
It contained also a museum of natural curiosities. For the support of
this establishment he appropriated a large sum of money, besides a
sufficient fund for the maintenance of students and proper persons to
instruct them in the arts and sciences.

Heg. 410 (1019).--The king of Ghizny caused an account of his exploits
to be written and sent to the Caliph, who ordered it to be read to the
people of Bagdad, making a great festival upon the occasion, expressive
of his joy at the propagation of the faith of Islam.

Heg. 412(1021).--Mahmood defeated Nunda Ray, who had slain his ally the
Rajah of Canowj, securing considerable treasure, besides four hundred
and eighty elephants. His general also reduced Nardein, in which was
a famous temple containing a stone with curious inscriptions, and,
according to the Hindoo traditions, forty thousand years old.

Heg. 415 (1024).--Mahmood marched to Somnat, which he finally took, and
destroyed the celebrated Idol, in the belly of which was discovered a
quantity of diamonds, rubies, and pearls of immense value. Among the
spoils of the temple was a chain of gold weighing two hundred mauns, or
about four hundred pounds weight. It hung from the top of the building
by a ring and supported a great bell, which called the people to
worship.

Heg. 417 (1026).--Mahmood returned to Ghizny after an absence of two
years and six months. This year he marched against the Juts, destroyed
four thousand, and according to some eight thousand, boats. Few of the
Juts escaped destruction: those who did, fell into the hands of the
conqueror.

Heg. 418 (1027).--Mahmood died at Ghizny in the sixty-third year of his
age. He reigned thirty-five years, and was buried by torch-light with
great pomp and solemnity in the Kesr Firozy at Ghizny. This celebrated
monarch was in person about the middle size, but well made, and
strongly marked with the small-pox. His son Mahomed succeeded to the
throne.

The Idol of Somnat.

CHAPTER I.

Shortly after the sun had risen, a beautiful Hindoo was washing her
graceful limbs in the crisp waters of the sea, which gently curled
over a smooth pebbly beach, a short distance from the fortifications
of Somnat. This town was situated on the neck of a peninsula washed on
three sides by the ocean, and fortified with great strength. There was
only one approach to it. It was reported that the Ghiznivites, under
Mahmood their sovereign, were on their march towards the town in large
force, at which the infatuated Hindoos affected to rejoice, proclaiming
in the frantic wildness of their enthusiasm, that their great idol,
to whom all things upon earth were obedient, had drawn thither the
Mahomedans to blast them in a moment and to avenge the destruction of
the various gods of India. Upon this vain-glorious boast they appeared
to rely.

The town was crowded with inhabitants who seemed determined to
resist to the last gasp of life the threatened assault of their
foes. Nevertheless, they trusted more to the imagined supremacy of
their idol, than to their own efforts of resistance. Though the
fortifications were strong for the period, when cannon were not
employed in sieges, and even the battering-ram was but seldom resorted
to, yet, being only of mud, they were not impregnable to the assaults
of a brave and resolute foe. They were defended, moreover, by a host of
fanatics, thousands of pilgrims, and crazy visionaries who crowded to
worship the celebrated idols contained within their walls, forming the
uncertain instruments of defence, against which the hardy and resolute
troops of Ghizny, inured to warfare and accustomed to conquest, had to
contend.

The inhabitants of Somnat were confident in their numbers, and this
being increased by their expectation of divine interposition through
the influence of their stone divinity, they hailed with derision
the approach of their foes, observed their festivals with increased
acclamations, as if the menaced hostility promised rather to be scenes
of pastime than of devastation.

The threatened siege did not in the slightest degree interrupt the
daily observances of the Hindoos. The women went to the sea-shore to
bathe as usual, perfectly unapprehensive of danger from the advancing
army of Mahmood.

The beach on one side of the town was very retired, and, beyond the
battlements landward, flanked by a thick wood. Hither the women
repaired to perform their matutinal ablutions, and being considered
a spot sacred to this purpose, it was seldom or never intruded upon,
except on chance occasions by the stranger.

Here, as I have already said, according to her invariable practice,
about the period of sunrise, a beautiful young Hindoo mother was
performing those lustrations imposed by her religion, and which, apart
from any spiritual consideration, are indispensable in a tropical
region. The beach sloped gradually into the sea, in which she stood up
to the shoulders, her long black hair streaming like a silken fringe
upon the rippling waters. Her eyes were frequently bent downward, as
if in reverential abstraction, after which she would raise them to the
clear blue sky, rich with the pure tints of heaven, and brightened by
the fresh genial radiance of the morning sun. She was only dawning into
womanhood though a mother, her age not being yet sixteen. Her child
was lying on the beach wrapped in a small coverlet, and basking in the
young sunlight. The babe was but a few weeks old, and the youthful
mother felt for it all the yearning of a parent for her first child.
She looked at it occasionally from the place where she stood, draining
the water from her streaming tresses, and cleaning them with a care
that showed a consciousness of their beauty, and her eye glistened with
a parent’s pride as she gazed upon the earliest fruit of her wedded
love.

The infant was laid upon the dry soft sand, a few yards above where the
water reached at high tide. Several other women were at this moment
bathing at some short distance from the young mother, who now quitted
the water, having first carefully arrayed her hair, and in a short
time was wrapped in that loose becoming drapery which sets off to such
advantage the slender, but round and graceful forms of the Hindoo
women. Her bust was enclosed in a vest of bright crimson silk, fitted
closely to the shape, and covering the arm midway from the shoulder
to the elbow. A long piece of fine muslin encircled her head, falling
over her neck and shoulders behind, and passing the lower parts of the
body in a variety of elegant undulating folds peculiar to the taste of
oriental beauties. Standing a few yards from her babe, she arranged
her dress with a neatness and precision which sufficiently indicated a
consciousness of the becoming. She had just completed this necessary
arrangement of her toilet, and was about to turn towards her tender
offspring to proceed homeward, when a wolf darted from the neighbouring
thicket, seized the unconscious infant, and was retiring with all
speed towards the wood. The distracted mother gazed for an instant in
speechless agony, but quickly recovering herself, she sprang after the
beast with the swiftness of an antelope, screaming the while with an
energy that made the forest re-echo her cries.

The wolf was encumbered by the weight of its burden, and the cloth
in which it was wrapped trailing upon the ground, as the animal ran,
greatly impeded its progress. Her companions gazed after the anxious
mother, as she followed wildly in pursuit of her infant; without making
the slightest effort to assist her. They stood with open mouths, but
neither a sigh of sympathy escaped their bosoms, nor did even an
aspiration for the bereavement of the young mother rise to their lips.

The wolf had nearly reached the thicket with its prey, and the wretched
parent was about to yield herself up to the wild impulse of despair,
when a horseman emerged from a path in the wood, and seeing the
distress of a young and beautiful woman, the cause of which became
instantly evident, he urged his steed forward, and reaching the wolf
before it had time to enter the jungle, struck it on the back with his
sword. The blow was given from so sinewy an arm as almost to sever the
brute in twain. It immediately dropped its prey, writhed for a few
moments, and died. The eager mother threw herself frantically on the
body of her first-born, and began to bewail its untimely fate with
piercing shrieks of loud and bitter agony. Supposing that it was dead,
she clasped it to her bosom and called upon her idol to restore the joy
of her life; but the stone divinity, dumb and insensible as the earth
on which she had prostrated herself, heard not her lamentable cry. The
huge image of Somnat, adored by millions of enthusiasts, and enriched
by the perpetual offerings of wealthy devotees, standing within the
walls of a gorgeous temple, which might have vied with the proudest
palaces of Egypt’s kings in the brightest days of their renown, heard
not the tender supplications of one of its devoted adorers, but stood
in its grim majesty inaccessible to the appeal which might have melted
any stone that had not been employed to fashion a divinity.

The child, feeling the pantings of its mother’s bosom, uttered a
cry that in a moment subdued the mental anguish of its parent. Her
lamentations ceased--she gazed upon it--unfastened the cloth in which
it had been tied--examined it with an expression of excited anxiety,
and finding that it was uninjured, gave a scream of joy, and clasped it
with fervency to her breast.

The wolf had seized only the wrapper in which the infant had been
secured, so that when released from the monster’s jaws, the babe was
without a scratch. The youthful mother was wild with transport. She
fixed her beaming eyes upon her preserver with a look between amazement
and exultation, but without uttering a word.

By this time the stranger, beneath whose sword the wolf had died,
stood near, apparently enjoying the rapture of the young Hindoo.
For a few moments, he left her to the feelings in which her ardent
heart was evidently revelling, forbearing to interrupt an enjoyment
second only to the fruition of paradise. He beheld her beauty with
fervent admiration, a beauty seldom paralleled, and heightened by
the tender excitement under which she was at that moment labouring.
Having recovered from the shock of agony produced by the apprehension
of her child’s peril, her thoughts were now sufficiently collected to
acknowledge her obligations to its deliverer. She again turned upon
him her large dark liquid eyes with an expression of melting gratitude
which could not be mistaken.

The stranger approached. She shrank from him, in spite of the
obligation which he had placed her under, because he was of another
creed. The tie of his jumma or tunic proclaimed him a Mahomedan, and
she almost shuddered as he came near and bent over her. She could not
smother her deeply-rooted prejudices against the enemies of her race,
and the blasphemers of her gods.

“I am happy,” said the stranger, “in having been the instrument of
preserving your infant from the ravening wolf. Though our creeds
differ they ought at least to concur in the natural law of reciprocal
benefaction. I rejoice to have saved the child of one who has been
taught to look upon me, and those who profess a similar faith, as
fit to hold intercourse only with the scum and off-scouring of human
society, and trust that while such an act offers an appeal to your
gratitude, it will convey a lesson of wisdom. I would that you should
not only look upon me as the saviour of your babe, but put me on the
footing in social dignity with those of your own belief in matters
concerning the life which is to succeed the present, and think not that
all virtue expires when not fostered by the warm atmosphere of Hindoo
superstition.”

“Stranger,” replied the mother, looking tenderly upon her child, now
drawing from her the maternal nutriment, “I cannot gaze upon this
dear object without being sensible that, apart from all prejudices
raised by those conventional laws which different creeds impose, I am
your debtor for the greatest enjoyment which this world can realise.
You have restored the infant to its longing mother, and whatever the
restraint by which I may be repelled from welcoming the saviour of my
child with those outward expressions of acknowledgment which I might
be permitted to show to a member of my own faith, believe me I shall
never forget that the greatest debt of my life is due to one who is
considered the enemy of my country’s gods, but whom I have found to be
the most signal and magnanimous of friends.”

“Perhaps the enthusiasm of your gratitude will subside when you know to
whom you have been indebted for the salvation of your offspring.”

“No!--such knowledge cannot alter the fact of my obligation. I may
indeed regret the spiritual and social bar which lies between us, but I
never can forget the act which has restored to me a life that I value
far more dearly than my own. But may I ask to whom I am indebted for
such a signal act of magnanimity?”

“To Mahmood of Ghizny, the most inveterate foe of your race, who
despises your gods, and is at this moment preparing to hurl your
gigantic divinity, installed in yonder gorgeous temple, from its proud
pedestal, and make its worshippers ashamed of having so long prostrated
themselves before a block of stone.”

The lovely Hindoo shrank from her interlocutor when he declared himself
to be the greatest enemy of her nation’s gods. She trembled for the
moment, but her high sense of moral obligation bore down the weak
fences of prejudice, and she assured him that the preserver of her
child could never merge in the enemy of her race.

“Prepare,” said Mahmood, “to behold me shortly enter those walls in
triumph; but be assured of your own safety, and you may yet live to
know that the sovereign of Ghizny never professed a kindness which he
did not rigidly perform.”

CHAPTER II.

The Hindoo mother, having made her acknowledgments to the deliverer
of her child, entered the walls of Somnat, and sought her home. She
related the adventure of the morning to her husband, at this time lying
ill of fever. He was a man of high caste, and entertained all the
prejudices of his national superstitions in an eminent degree. This
tendency was aggravated to a morbid excess by his present illness. The
relation greatly distressed him. The idea that his infant had been
snatched from death by a worshipper of gods which his nation did not
recognise, agitated him to a paroxysm of excitement. He raved, and
cursed the chances that had exposed his offspring to such pollution. He
would rather the wolf had devoured it, than that it should have owed
its preservation to the arm of a Mussulman, and he the greatest enemy
of the Hindoos and their religion.

The Hindoo father was a young man of about thirty, handsome and
amiable, but a rigid observer of the national superstitions. He was
affectionate to his wife, in a degree seldom equalled by Hindoo
husbands, and she returned his tenderness with a pure and ardent
attachment. In spite, however, of his fondness, like all husbands
of his tribe he was not only a master but a tyrant. The wife was
subservient to an extent that rendered her domestic life a slavery; but
being impressed with a conviction that such subserviency was the proper
sphere, because it was the destined lot of woman, she submitted without
a murmur. Still she was relatively happy; for, by comparison with the
generality of Hindoo wives, her social comforts were considerable. She
felt conscious of possessing her husband’s attachment; and, though his
general conduct towards her was authoritative, it was seldom harsh. Had
it been otherwise than authoritative, she would have despised him as
descending from the dignity of his manhood, and foregoing the especial
immunities of his privileged sex.

Upon the present occasion, harassed by suffering of body and anxiety of
mind, the sick man treated his young and lovely consort with a severity
which he had never before exercised.

“The vengeance of Siva will be directed against this house for the
folly of a woman. The god of Somnat has seen the pollution offered to
the offspring of one of his worshippers. Take heed that the fiery gleam
of his eye does not blast thee, when thou next offerest thy oblations
at his holy shrine.” The youthful mother raised her head; the long
lashes that fringed her soft but intensely bright eyes were moistened
with the dew of sadness. It gathered gradually, until the weight of
the liquid gem was too great a burden for the trembling lashes to
support, and then trickled slowly down her clear brown cheek. She
uttered not a word, but clasped her babe with greater fervour to her
bosom. The husband saw her emotion, and was moved; nevertheless, he
bade her quit the apartment and leave him to his repose, which, alas!
came not, for the excitement had only aggravated his malady. He was
scorched with fever; and, in the course of that night, his peril was
imminent. The tender partner of his home and of his love did not quit
his side for a moment. She saw his danger; and the gloomy thought of
her own death came with the chill of a night-blast upon her soul. The
awful customs of her tribe forbade that she should outlive him; and
the horrible manner in which her death would be consummated seemed to
freeze the very fountain of life as she thought upon it. To be cut off
by the appalling process of cremation, ere the sweet fragrant blossom
of existence had fairly opened into womanhood, was a sad and bitter
thought. Still, the sufferings of the man she loved recalled her from
these sad reflections, and she gazed upon him with an interest in
which, for the moment, all her prospective sufferings were absorbed.
He spoke not, but the thought of that contamination, which he supposed
to have passed upon his child by the contact of one of another creed,
evidently remained the paramount impression on his mind; for when the
mother presented him her infant for a paternal caress, he turned from
it with a shudder, and refused to allow it to be brought into his
presence.

Hour after hour the tender consort watched by his side, submitting
without a murmur, or even a look of dissatisfaction, to the petulance
induced by his disease. She watched him as he lay upon his
rug--anticipated his wishes--soothed his sufferings--prepared whatever
he took with her own hand--but all her attentions seemed likely to be
bestowed in vain. The full, rapidly throbbing pulse; the burning brow,
the dry palm, and the brown furred tongue, upon which the cool liquid
was evaporated the moment it came in contact with it, all proclaimed
the jeopardy in which the invalid lay.

The native physician by whom he was attended ordered him decoctions,
prepared from some lenitive herbs; these had not the slightest effect
upon his disorder. When this arrived at a certain height, and the
medical visitor saw that all material remedies were useless, he
impressed upon the wife the necessity of immediately repairing to
the temple of Somnat, and supplicating the divine intercession of
its idol, promising her that her husband’s health would certainly be
re-established, if she could only prevail upon the stone divinity to
listen to her supplications.

“All that art can do,” said he, “I have done to restore this unhappy
man, who must soon yield up his spirit to be the inhabitant of another
body, unless the deity of our temple raise him up at the intercession
of a pious heart. Go, and may your prayer be heard!”

This was no very encouraging expectation. The unhappy young creature
now felt assured that her husband could not live, unless restored by
superhuman means. The creed in which she had been reared taught her to
trust in the efficacy of such means, and to believe that they would be
accorded to a pious solicitation; she was therefore determined to offer
her supplications in the temple, in the hope of averting her husband’s
death, which, in fact, would involve her own. At this moment a Brahmin,
and one of the officiating priests of the sanctuary, entered the sick
man’s apartment. He was a sanctified man, with a gross, misshapen
body, gross from indolence and indulgence, and bearing about him the
unequivocal marks of the coarse bloated Sybarite. His shorn scalp
bore not indeed the frost of age, but the deep corrugations by which
the forehead was crossed showed, in characters too legible to need
interpretation, that time had already prepared the furrows for the
seeds of death. The old man’s countenance was haggard, though placid;
but it was placid rather from insensibility, than from the access of
elevated feeling. The eye was sunk beneath a projecting brow, that
hid much of its expression, and its faded lustre spoke not that mute
language of passion which his heart frequently prompted, but which the
eye was too lustreless to betray. His legs were shrunk to the bones,
and seemed scarcely able to bear the burthen of obesity which laziness
and indulgence had imposed upon them. He hobbled to the couch of the
dying man, looked at him for a moment, doubled his legs under him as
he seated himself upon the floor, desired the cocoa-nut hookah to be
brought, and, having inhaled the sedative luxury for a few moments,
said, with an air of the utmost unconcern, “Thy soul is about to assume
a new body; what are thy hopes?”

The invalid said faintly--“I have not lived an unholy life, and
therefore hope that I shall be advanced one step towards absorption[1]
into Bhrim, when my spirit throws off the vile crust by which it has
been encumbered here.”

“Then you are prepared for the change--you are tired of this world?”

“No,” said the dying man with energy, “I would fain live, because there
is a dark uncertainty in the future that clogs my spirit and weighs it
down. It is an awful thing to die, and I would if possible escape death
until age should no longer encourage a desire of life.”

“Dost thou think old men wish to die?”

“If their lives have been virtuous, why should they desire to live,
when their capabilities of earthly enjoyments are past?”

“Because to them there is the same uncertainty in the future as to
thee. In life there is positive enjoyment to the last; with the end of
life what guarantee have we for the joys of a future existence?--they
may be visionary.”

“But the blessed Vedas teach us otherwise?”

“Ay, the blessed Vedas! they cannot be gainsaid; they are the voice
of the divinity: Krishna speaketh through them, but then they are the
sealed oracles, which only we of the sanctuary can expound; and they
promise that reliance upon the ministers of our temple will be rewarded
in the metempsychosis. There is still hope of thy release from this
perilous malady. Let thy wife visit the temple, and bow before the
image--the deity of our race, and thou shalt have thy health return to
thee.”

He continued smoking for a few moments, during which not a voice
interrupted the silence. Having swallowed a large pill of opium, he
rose, and taking the invalid’s wife on one side, said to her, in a low,
husky whisper--“The hand of death is upon thy husband; nothing short of
divine interposition can save him. If he dies, you know that his widow
must accompany him to the swerga.”

“I am prepared for the sacrifice. Fear not that I shall degrade my
lineage by shrinking from performing that solemn obligation which the
most perfect of all religions imposes upon the bereaved widow. It is
her blessed privilege; I shall not forego it.”

“But would you not willingly evade the consummation of so dreadful a
sacrifice?”

“No; I would, under no consideration, evade the performance of an
obligation as sacred as it is awful, and obligatory in proportion as it
is sacred.”

“Nay, these are not your real sentiments; you need use no disguise
with me. I can save you from the necessity of dying upon the pile,
if you’ll make it worth a priest’s while to risk the peace of his
own soul in that strange land of darkness or of light--who shall say
which?--whither thy husband is rapidly hastening!”

“Save me! Why would you save me from a sacrifice which I deem an
immunity from mortal cares? In this life, a woman’s condition is one
of endurance, of slavery, of pain; I would be glad to enter upon an
existence where each and all are unknown.”

“You speak indeed like a feeble woman. Do you not know that, if your
body is consumed with your husband’s on the funeral pile, your soul
will follow his to whatever destiny it may be appointed? This is a sad
hazard, for he dies in the prime of manhood, when the blood is warm and
the senses are all full of the glowing warmth of young and vigorous
life. He has had no time to expiate, by penance the miscarriages of
youthful years. The mellowing hand of age has not yet taught him
experience, nor the penalties of indulgence wisdom. Thou art too lovely
to follow him to a future doom that befits thee not.”

By this time the opium was beginning to act upon the aged debauchee,
and his eyes emitted the fire, and his limbs the elasticity of
youth--so potential is that debasing drug. The lovely Hindoo was
shocked; but it was dangerous to offend a Brahmin. Advancing, he laid
his shrivelled hand upon her shoulder, and said--“Daughter, come to
the temple this night, and bring thy offerings to the idol; be assured
thou shalt not want an intercessor. Think no more of burning. When thy
husband dies, thou mayst yet be happy. The multitude must think that
the sacrifice is performed, but trust to me, and feeble as this arm may
seem, it will prove an arm of might in thy protection--it shall snatch
thee from the flames.”

“Leave me,” said the unhappy wife; “one who knows her duty, and how
to perform it, needs no adviser but her conscience. I shall endeavour
to propitiate the divinity, by presenting my oblations before the
presiding deity of our holy temple, and there lay my hopes.”

“This evening we shall meet,” said the Brahmin, as he retired with an
alacrity peculiar alike to robust youth and opium.

The faithful, though unhappy wife, crept softly to her husband’s side,
and gazed upon him with a glance of anxious inquiry, but spoke not,
fearing to disturb him. Overcome by his exertion of talking with the
Brahmin, he had fallen into a deep but disturbed sleep.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The belief of the Hindoos generally is that, after a course of
progressive changes, through each of which the soul advances to a
higher state of purification, it is finally absorbed into the Deity,
which is, as they conceive, the perfect consummation of bliss.

CHAPTER III.

The sun went down in glory, and smiled upon its own land when it
withdrew behind the ocean, as if unwilling longer to look upon the
griefs with which the world that had so lately glowed with its pure
vivid light was encumbered. Evening suddenly flung her shadows over
the city of Somnat, but the stars sparkled in the purple concave of
heaven like children of joy, imparting a beautiful relief to the grave
solemnity of night.

At rather a late hour the melancholy wife quitted the side of her
husband, whose malady had not abated, and repaired to the magnificent
temple of Somnat, at that time the most celebrated in Hindostan. It
stood upon an elevated part of the town, and covered a vast space
of ground. It was a ponderous edifice, exhibiting that elaborate
detail of ornament combined with massive grandeur peculiar to the
early Hindoo temples. Within, it consisted of one vast aisle several
hundred feet long, the roof supported on either side by magnificent
columns, ornamented even to superfluity with sculpture, each column
detailing an episode from the Mahabarat. Every pillar was cut from a
single block of granite, elaborated with an accuracy of touch, and a
justness of proportion, not exceeded by any monuments of ancient art,
save those of Greece. The light was admitted through a vast dome in
the centre, beneath which the huge idol stood like a Colossus, casting
one unvarying expression of grim insensibility upon its prostrate
but humble adorers. The figure was of stone, clumsily wrought into a
monstrous form. The head was ornamented with gems of prodigious value,
similar gems being likewise fixed in every pillar of the temple. Its
eyes were formed of two rubies of such transcendent lustre as to
inspire the worshippers with a holy awe when they prostrated themselves
before this hideous image.

There were no lights used in the temple at night except one pendent
lamp, the light of which being reflected from the jewels in the idol’s
head, and from those fixed in the various columns that adorned the
sacred edifice, spotted the whole area with a dazzling gleam which
appeared the effect of superhuman agency.[2]

The most costly offerings were daily made to this factitious divinity,
but the depository of its immense wealth was a secret, as the Brahmins
pretended, known only to the deity to whom it had been dedicated.
On two sides of the temple were various apartments occupied by the
functionaries of the sanctuary, which no persons were permitted
to enter, save those to whose habitation they had been especially
appropriated. Strange and mysterious events were said frequently to
take place within those secret and forbidden retreats, supposed to be
hallowed by the holy lives of their spiritual occupants.

The Brahmin who had recently visited the invalid had an apartment near
the shrine, and was one of the officiating priests in this fane of
superstition, where, under the mask of religion, the most revolting
abominations were nightly practised. Like the Eleusinian mysteries,
they were hidden from the public eye, as only fit to be witnessed by
those whom it would seem to have been thought that vice had sanctified.

With a resolved but throbbing heart the beautiful Hindoo wife entered
within the black narrow portal of this gorgeous but gloomy structure.
The lower part of the edifice was involved in a shadowy light which
imparted a cavernous solemnity to this house of a most unholy worship.
The huge idol rose amid the distance surrounded by a blaze of light
that filled the dome in which the colossal image stood, but did not
extend far enough to pierce the distant gloom.

As she stalked forward with a measured pace, the monstrous figures
surrounding the columns seemed to glare upon her from their granite
pedestals like so many petrified ogres. Her heart throbbed with
emotion. The object of her visit at this dark hour of night rose to
her memory with an impetuous impulse, whilst the associations of the
gloom of the grave, and that of the consecrated edifice which she had
now entered for the purpose of propitiating a deaf and dumb idol for
the benefit of a departing soul, and to arrest the summons of death,
sent a chill through the whole mass of her blood which seemed to reach
and congeal the very fountain of life. When she reached the dome there
was not a person but herself that she could perceive in the sanctuary.
The light of the solitary lamp hanging from the centre of the dome was
reflected from thousands of brilliant gems which cast a radiance around
the figure of intense and dazzling brilliancy. She prostrated herself
before the image, and poured the full tide of her heart’s emotions in a
prayer for the restoration of her husband.

A general belief prevailed among the Hindoos of that part of the
country that souls after death were summoned before the Idol of Somnat,
which transported them into other bodies according to their merits in
this life, where he became a sort of Hindoo Rhadamanthus, resembling
that infernal justiciary, however, in nothing less than in the rigid
impartiality of his justice. It was also declared by the Brahmins
belonging to this celebrated temple, that the ebb and flow of the tides
represented the reverence paid by the ocean to this shrine.

Having paid her devotions, the supplicant approached the base of the
idol, and laid a handful of gold upon it; for her husband was wealthy,
and the god of Somnat never heard a vow that was not accompanied by an
offering. She prayed that her husband might be spared to her; or, if
the slender thread of his destiny was already spun, that his soul might
be transferred into a nobler body, and be thus advanced one step nearer
to that final and beatific state of absorption so anxiously desired by
all faithful Hindoos. As she concluded, there was a strange unearthly
sound heard from within the image; the eyes seemed to glow with more
intense brightness, and when she rose from her posture of prostration,
to her surprise the aged Brahmin who had lately visited her husband
stood before her. She looked upon him, however, without apprehension,
feeling herself in the presence of an omnipotent agent, and not
entertaining a thought, in the innocence of her pure heart, that the
altar of deity could be polluted by the most licentious impurities.

“The divinity is propitiated,” said the sanctified impostor. “Your
prayers have been heard, and you are favoured with the especial notice
of one, in whose term of life the Maha Yug[3] is no more than a single
instant, by comparison with this earth’s duration. Prepare to meet the
god at midnight.”

“You mock me. Does the deity condescend to become incarnate, and reveal
himself in a mortal body to his worshippers?”

“Yes: where it is his will to favour those whose homage he approves,
he reveals himself to them in the likeness of his creatures, generally
assuming the form of some devout priest, whose ministrations he
especially approves, and thus signifies his approval. You will see
him this night, under the similitude of a favourite Brahmin. He has
determined to grant your supplications.”

She was astonished at this communication. The reverence in which she
had been accustomed to hold the character of the priesthood--the wild
solemnity of the scene around her--the dazzling light that seemed
supernaturally to float over the ponderous image--the excitement
under which she laboured, from her anxiety for her husband’s welfare
and the issue of her appeal--the promise that her supplications had
been favourably heard--all tended to throw her into such a tumult
of agitation, that she became bewildered; and, under the impulse of
superstitious enthusiasm, consented to meet the god at midnight.

Guileless as the mother dove, she did not dream that danger could
accrue from her meeting a spiritual being who merely condescended
to assume the garb of mortal flesh, in order to render himself
intelligible to mortal faculties; and as, according to the impure creed
in which she had been reared, gods had occasionally united themselves
to mortals in an alliance of love, her heart’s purity was not shocked
at the idea which the Brahmin broadly hinted, of the divinity of Somnat
favouring her by such especial predilection. She was aware also that
her husband, as well as herself, would look upon it as a signal mark of
distinction, and feel himself honoured at his wife’s exaltation by so
eminent a token of divine preference.

The wily Brahmin, however, knew his victim too well to suppose that,
notwithstanding her visionary impressions, she would fall an easy prey;
and it was only whilst he could keep up the delusion under which she
then laboured, that he would find her a submissive votary at the shrine
of the most odious superstition which has ever degraded the sacred
name of religion. In order to maintain the excitement by which she was
at that moment actuated, and strengthen the impressions to which she
was expected to become a prey, some of those abominable mummeries were
performed, so commonly practised at the altars of Hindoo gods. A number
of dancing girls were introduced, who went through various obscene
antics before the idol, in which several Brahmins joined, with all the
apparent enthusiasm of an absorbing devotion.

The beautiful Hindoo looked on without a blush, under the persuasion
that these were sacred ministrations peculiar to the divinity of
Somnat, and she came to the conclusion that such were the pleasures in
which that divinity delighted to revel. After these orgies had been
gone through, and the temple of religion made a scene of revolting
indecency, the lamp was suddenly extinguished, and the immense edifice
involved in profound darkness. The young wife was confounded. She
heard the laughter of those who, like the Greek bacchantes, had been
performing the grossest scenes in the very presence of their deity,
and shouts of joy seemed to issue from a thousand throats. She stood
mute, between astonishment and apprehension. Her awe had given way
to momentary terror. She was preparing to retreat toward the portal
through which she had entered, when a soft but repulsive voice caught
her ear:

“Come to the embrace of the god; he awaits thee; ’tis midnight, and he
is impatient to meet thee.”

Her heart palpitated; she was struck with a sudden suspicion. The voice
was evidently disguised, but, to her quick ear, could not be mistaken:
it was that of the Brahmin. Her brain flashed with instant conviction,
as if the deity had lighted up her soul with a positive revelation.
The impulse was irresistible. The illusions of superstition vanished,
and she felt herself in the meshes of the betrayer. She gasped for
breath; she spoke not; she groped for a resting-place, and her arm fell
upon the pedestal of the idol.

“Come,” said the voice, in a gentle whisper; “why this delay? The god
is impatient, and he is not used to be slighted: where he honours, he
expects obedience. Come!”

“Avaunt! deceiver,” she cried. “You have marked me for your victim. I
am betrayed. Why should the divinity of Somnat assume the form of an
aged and deformed Brahmin, when he might clothe himself in the fairest
garb of mortal flesh? My dream is past. I am your dupe. Away, and
leave me. Never will I submit to pollution by one who makes religion a
pander to his odious passions. A light has broken upon me. The deity
has indeed heard my supplication, and saved me from the machinations
of one who will swell the ranks of the Asuras, amid the darkness of
Lóhángáráká.”[4]

The Brahmin, finding himself foiled, quitted his expected victim in a
fury of disappointment.

She stood alone, leaning on the image, rapt in a trance of painful
abstraction. Suddenly she felt the idol totter; a noise was heard from
within, like the hissing of ten thousand serpents, immediately after
which fire issued from the nose and mouth of the image, and fell in
thick showers around. The whole temple was illuminated, and the door
instantly became visible to the worshipper. She darted forward in spite
of every impediment, and at length succeeded in gaining the entrance.
She felt the pure breath of heaven upon her burning brow, and rejoiced
in her escape. Reaching her home at length, in a tumult of hope and
anxiety, she found that her husband had gone to that land where “there
is time no longer.”

FOOTNOTES:

[2] This is stated in the Zein-ool-Maasir.

[3] The Maha Yug, or great Divine Age, is the longest of the Hindoo
astronomical periods, containing a cycle of four million three hundred
and twenty thousand years.

[4] The last of the thrice seven hells of the Hindoos. Lóhángáráká
signifies hot iron coals.

CHAPTER IV.

Immediate communication was made to the relations of the defunct,
that the deity of Somnat had heard the prayers of his relict, and he
that was transported to a higher region, to be subjected to a change
in the course of his transmigration that would bring him nearer to
the final bliss of absorption into the universal Bhrim. The various
connexions of the deceased were all summoned, and the neighbourhood
immediately resounded with cries of lamentation, and those frantic
ululations invariably heard at Hindoo funerals. The women stood
screaming over the body with dishevelled hair, beating their breasts
and rolling themselves upon the floor like so many wild beasts, whilst
the disconsolate widow sat apart, abstracted by the thoughts of her
own approaching sacrifice. She moved not; her eye was fixed on the
ground, but the fountains of her grief were dry. Not a tear came to her
relief--not a sigh escaped her bosom. The one awful image of death, in
its most appalling form, absorbed her whole mind.

The Brahmin, before spoken of, appeared to officiate upon this
melancholy occasion. He whispered in the widow’s ear words of
consolation and hope, but she heard him not. He talked of her rescue
from the fiery death about to be prepared for her; she disregarded him,
and turned from the aged sensualist with an expression of disgust. His
eyes gleamed in their hollow sockets with a deep leaden glare, and
the blood rushed a moment to his flaccid cheek. He turned from his
anticipated victim to proceed with the obsequies. When everything had
been provided, the spiritual functionary, having previously bathed,
took a narrow slip of a certain herb, and binding it round one of the
fingers of the deceased, sprinkled upon the floor a quantity of lustral
water, obtained from the sacred river,[5] a libation to the gods, whom
he invoked with numerous prostrations, and a variety of wild gestures.
The people assembled joined in a prayer for the future repose of their
relative’s soul.

When this part of the ceremony had been performed, in the strictest
manner prescribed by their formularies, fire was brought from the
temple, where it had been purposely kindled, and certain herbs,
consecrated to this solemn purpose, were disposed near the body in
four different places. Some relatives of the deceased cast into the
fire a quantity of dried cow-dung pulverized. During this portion of
the preparatory rites, the officiating Brahmin was occupied in prayer,
but paused in the midst of his orison, to perform an essential part of
the funeral solemnities. A cow, adorned with flowers, was introduced
at this auspicious juncture, and presented to the minister to prevent
the defunct from being unhappy in his mutation, which the venerable
hierophant promised, without any reservation, that he should not be, in
consequence of the Brahmin’s prayers. Several offerings of a different
kind, but no less valuable, were made to this disinterested priest
before the obsequies were completed.

The ceremony of the Prayatchitam, or expiation of sins, was next
performed. It consisted of prayers, after which the soul of the
deceased was evoked, and certain astrological calculations made
respecting the constellation under which he expired.

The body was now washed. On the forehead was marked the sigh of the
caste, with a compost of ochre, fine clay, and oil; it was then arrayed
in the funeral robe, and a piece of areka-nut forced into its mouth.
A small fillet of linen was next torn into strips over the face; with
those strips the two thumbs were tied, and the corpse being rubbed with
a piece of sandal-wood, which emits a very strong and fragrant odour,
was laid upon a palankeen covered with red cloth, the Hindoo pall, and
ornamented with flowers.

A large aperture was now made in the wall of the house, which had no
second story, and through this the body was conveyed in a sitting
posture to the pile, the aperture being closed up the moment the corpse
had been carried through.

When the procession had reached the gate of the court fronting the
house, it was preceded by two men nearly naked, bearing each a long
trumpet, the mournful sound of which, as dissonant as it was loud,
blended with the noise of tomtoms, finger-drums, cymbals, and various
other noisy instruments, produced a din sufficient to scare the living
into the condition of the dead. To this portentous clamour the numerous
relatives of the deceased united their wild wailings, more like the
baying of dogs than the lamentations of rational beings. Some cried,
others screamed and tore their hair, whilst several sang the praises of
the defunct in a hoarse monotonous chant. The dress of these energetic
mourners consisted simply of a single piece of cloth wrapped round
their bodies, hanging from the head to the knees.

When the procession reached its destination, the palankeen was placed
upon the ground, four furrows were traced towards the four cardinal
points and oblations of gengeli and rice were offered to those aerial
spirits supposed to inhabit the mansions of the dead, in order to
propitiate their goodwill.

The nose of the defunct was now pinched, to ascertain if there remained
any signs of life; for the Hindoos suppose that the dead may be
resuscitated, though no such fact is recorded by their fabricators of
marvels. Water was next poured upon the head of the corpse, and the
noise of tomtoms and trumpets was redoubled, to awaken the dead man
should he happen to be in a trance. It being at length ascertained
that the spirit had quitted, and not returned to the insensate clay,
the body was again placed on the palankeen and carried close to the
spot intended for the funeral pile, the immediate vicinity having been
first purified with Gangetic water, and cleared of every particle of
dirt supposed to convey defilement. This portion of the ceremony was
accompanied with numerous prayers and prostrations.

All these forms having been scrupulously observed, the corpse was
placed upon a stone always erected near the Chodelet, which is the
place appointed for cremation of the deceased. This stone represents
Aritchandren, a virtuous king, who, becoming slave to the chief of the
Pariahs, was employed by his master to take care of the Chodelet,
and receive the taxes to be paid on burning the dead. After various
fantastic mummeries and vociferous supplications, some pieces of copper
money were buried before Aritchandren, together with a small bit of
new cloth and a handful of rice, by way of a burial fee. One of the
Pariahs, whose office it was to look after the fire, then approached
the stone, and informed Aritchandren,[6] that, having received the
regular tribute, he must permit the body to pass. The palankeen was now
sent back, the hair and nails of the defunct were carefully cut, and
the funeral pile was prepared. Branches of the sandal tree were made
use of for this purpose, it being imagined by all pious Hindoos that
this tree has more virtue than any other, save the mango, in promoting
the happiness of the deceased, both being trees consecrated to their
gods. Branches of the ficus religiosa and of the banian tree are
occasionally used, but only by those who cannot afford to purchase the
more costly wood of the rarer trees.

The pile being at length prepared, the corpse was placed upon it. The
nearest relation performed this melancholy office, and prepared the
last repast for the dead. In order that the departed might go into the
other world with sufficient food for his journey, butter, rice, and
curds were put into the hands, mouth, and ears of the corpse.

Thus ended this part of the ceremony.[7] It was a long and tiresome
process, but nothing could divert those engaged in it from performing
the minutest thing prescribed in their formulary. On the morning of
the Hindoo’s death, alarm had been spread through the town of the
approach of Mahmood’s army, which report was shortly after confirmed by
his investing the fort with thirty thousand men. This did not in the
slightest degree interrupt the obsequies. Not a creature present seemed
to bestow a thought upon the danger of being threatened by a large
besieging army, headed by a great prince and a successful warrior.
They relied upon the protection of their idol, which they imagined
could blast the enemy with the lightning of its wrath, and rescue them
from the threatened peril. They heard the din of battle while engaged
in performing the funeral rites, but it diverted them not from their
solemn purpose. The name of Mahmood the victorious was shouted without
the walls, and re-echoed within them with a general acclamation of
defiance. Thousands of unarmed fanatics crowded the ramparts, confident
of divine interposition, and loaded the air with curses upon the
followers of a new faith.

During the performance of the funeral rites, the beautiful widow had
remained apart, absorbed in the solemn intensity of her own thoughts.
The death of a husband whom she tenderly loved shook her heart with
a severe pang, and the thought of the awful sacrifice which his
death imposed upon her dilated her bosom with a deep and palpable
terror; still she resolved to die. With her the high sense of duty
was paramount over every selfish consideration, and she braced her
resolution to undergo one of the most fearful sacrifices which the
madness of bigotry has imposed upon the credulity of devout but
imbecile minds.

The body of her husband was already upon the fatal pyre, and all things
were ready for her to consummate that act of devotion, which, as she
had been taught to believe, should secure her an eternal communion with
her consort in paradise. The Brahmin approached her to announce that
she was waited for. He advanced towards her alone, and bade her be of
good cheer.

“Thou shalt not perish,” he cried; “trust to me and I will save thee,
to reap the harvest of joy in an earthly paradise, before you ascend to
one of brighter promise indeed, but of more remote certainty.”

“What mean you? My doom is fixed. I must join my husband upon the
funeral pile, that our souls may ascend together to that sphere which
his spirit is destined to enter.”

“But would you not rather evade this fiery death?”

“Why should I? Is it not imposed upon us by a wise and immutable
will?--how then can I evade it?”

“Would you rather live?”

“Not if it be my duty to die.”

“You are not bound to perish unless you desire it. The deity will
absolve you from the obligation upon certain conditions.”

“What are they?”

“That you will reward with your love his vicegerent here, whose
ministration he has approved, and to whom he has imparted superhuman
power, as the reward of a life of faithful homage. I will bear you to a
retreat where no sorrow shall visit you, and where every moment of your
life shall be gilded with a blessing.”

“Mocker!--this is no time for delusion: bear me to the pyre, and you
shall see how a Hindoo widow can die.”

“But why would you court death, when happiness is within your grasp!”

“Because death with a beloved husband were a blessed boon compared with
life with an aged and sensual Brahmin. Priest, I despise thee:--lead me
to the pyre.”

The Brahmin was silent. He folded his arms, and fixed upon her a look
of deep and implacable malice.

“I fear thee not,” she cried, rising; “conduct me to my doom; the gods
will applaud what their priest may scorn; but I reverence the one and
despise the other.” She beckoned to her women, who approached, and
declared to them that she was ready to ascend the pyre, upon which
her husband’s body had been already some time laid. The ministering
priest did not utter a word, and made ready to commence the initiatory
ceremonies.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] The Ganges.

[6] The Greek Charon and this Hindoo toll-taker would appear to be
identical; but the Greeks have been indebted to Hindoo superstition
for many other notions, the parallels of which are too strong to be
mistaken.

[7] See Sonnerat, vol. ii., on Hindoo funerals.

CHAPTER V.

The unhappy widow now prepared herself to perform the dreadful
sacrifice which was to free her from the cares of this world and
exalt her to the Swerga bowers, or Hindoo paradise. She was stationed
before the door of the house of mourning in a kind of rostrum, which
was profusely and extravagantly ornamented; tomtoms, trumpets, and
cymbals continuing their deafening clangour as before. She placed a
small piece of areka-nut between her almost motionless lips and softly
aspirated the name of Somnat’s idol. She next adorned her head, neck,
and arms with all her jewels, arraying herself in sumptuous apparel,
as if about to appear at the marriage ceremony, instead of a funeral
solemnity.

The array of her person being concluded, she proceeded toward the place
of sacrifice, accompanied by numerous friends, to the sound of those
instruments which had already preceded the procession of her husband’s
body. Several Brahmins, including the hierophant, walked by her side
encouraging her with assurances that she was going to enjoy eternal
felicity in regions where there is no misery known, and where she
would become the sita[8] of some god who would espouse her as a reward
for her constancy and virtue. They further promised her that her name
should be celebrated throughout the earth, and sung in all their future
sacrifices. This proves a strong stimulus to some women, who go to the
pile voluntarily, and with an enthusiasm truly astonishing; for there
is no legal obligation to perform the suttee.

A cup was now handed to the unhappy victim of the most barbarous
superstition that has ever stained the black annals of fanaticism. She
drank of it without the slightest emotion. In a few minutes the effects
of this draught were visible. Her eyes glistened; she erected her frame
to the full height of her stature, and looked around her with a flushed
cheek and stern severity of purpose which sufficiently showed that the
fever of enthusiasm was beginning to circulate rapidly through her
veins. As the aged Brahmin approached her, she looked at him with a
glance of defiant scorn, and pointing to the pile on which the corpse
of her husband had been laid, said, with a raised brow and flashing
eye--

“Dost thou think I would escape that fiery passage to everlasting
repose? Thou wouldst withhold me from my glory. My soul shall ascend
on wings of flame to the abodes of those who never die. I see the
beckoning spirit in yonder cloud waiting to bear mine to its eternal
home. Thou wouldst tear me from my bliss. Away, away!”

She immediately grew calm and began to prepare for the sacrifice with
a truly sublime solemnity. Her relations came to her, with an alacrity
that showed how gratified they felt at the oblation she was about to
offer. The place was surrounded by an immense concourse, upon whom the
victim occasionally cast a glance of pity mixed with triumph at the
approaching consummation of her destiny. The music, if such it might be
termed, had ceased while the preliminaries of the sacrifice were taking
place, and an intense and awful silence reigned among the assembled
multitude.

The beautiful widow now advanced to the foot of the pyre, prepared to
consume that exquisite frame in the early freshness of its blossoming
youth. The Brahmins crowded round her, endeavouring to sustain her
fortitude to endure the coming trial by songs in which they artfully
introduced the most fulsome eulogies of her heroism. This appeared to
elevate her courage amid the awful array of death. It was now announced
to her that the fatal moment had arrived when the flames were to
embrace one of the most perfect bodies that Nature had ever moulded.
She did not quail at the summons. Her eye dilated, her nostrils
expanded, her lips parted, and her whole countenance was lighted up
with a sublime energy of expression that recorded, with the mute but
soul-stirring voice of an oracle, the deep and solemn purpose which
engrossed her soul. She stood a few moments as if in prayer. Her babe
was brought and placed within the arms of a once yearning mother. The
feelings of nature revived. She spoke not, but pressed it tenderly
to her bosom. Tears streamed down her cheeks in a flood, still not a
feature quivered. The palpitations of her heart were perceptible under
the slight muslin drapery that covered her bosom. It heaved beneath the
suppressed throes of her emotion, but the countenance betrayed not the
internal struggle. Her tears gradually ceased to flow. Her eye cleared
and resumed its former expression of solemn determination, and she
waved her hand as a signal that she was ready.

Two Brahmins now advanced with lighted torches. Having fervently
kissed her infant, she placed it in the arms of an attendant, and
it was instantly removed from her sight. At this moment her nearest
relations approached; to these she bade a tender adieu. Having
distributed her jewels among them, she embraced them severally, when
they retired and left her alone with the ministers of death.

Not a breath stirred among the multitude as she prepared to ascend the
pile. Hundreds stood agape with awe at witnessing the solemn spectacle.
Having performed certain preliminary rites, a signal was given by the
chief Brahmin, when she raised her dark but bloodless brow towards
heaven, sprang upon the pile, embraced her husband’s corpse, and in a
few moments was enveloped in flames and smoke, which hid her from the
sight of those who had assembled to behold this dreadful sacrifice.

No sooner was the fire kindled than the notes of innumerable
instruments were heard, shouts and acclamations rent the air, in
order to prevent the sufferer’s screams of agony being heard. Ghee
was poured upon the burning pyre to accelerate the horrible process
of destruction, and the flames raged with such fury that in a short
time not a vestige remained but the ashes of the dead. The crowd then
quietly dispersed, rejoicing at having witnessed so acceptable a
holocaust.

While this dreadful act of superstition was performing, the town of
Somnat was in a state of siege; still the turbid stream of fanaticism
was not diverted from its course. When the Mahomedans invested Somnat,
the citizens had flocked from all parts and crowded the ramparts to
repel the enemy; but so soon as they saw their formidable array, the
discipline of their troops, and the fearless manner in which they
rushed to the assault, the astonished Hindoos, alarmed for their own
safety, thronged to the temple by hundreds, prostrating themselves
before their favourite idol, and supplicating deliverance from their
foes. Many, drowned in tears, vowed to perform sundry dreadful penances
in case the Mahomedans were repelled from their walls; but the idol
returned no answer to their petitions.

Mahmood, perceiving the ramparts almost deserted, ordered his troops
to advance to the walls and apply the scaling-ladders, which was
instantly done; and they commenced to mount the ramparts, shouting
aloud “Allah Akbar!” God is great! Those Hindoos who remained upon the
battlements, offered a spirited resistance. With the wild energy of
despair they rushed upon the Mahomedan soldiers as they ascended, and
threw them headlong from the ladders. Hearing the noise of the assault,
and the enemy’s war-cry, those citizens who had quitted the walls in
order to propitiate their divinity by prayer, returned to the ramparts
in vast numbers, and opposed themselves to the besiegers. These latter,
no longer able to retain their footing, wearied with their exertions,
and dispirited by such unexpected opposition, fell back on all sides,
and were at length obliged to retire.

Next morning the action was renewed with no better success, for as fast
as the besiegers scaled the walls they were cast down backward by the
besieged, who now gaining confidence from the advantage obtained on the
preceding day, resolved to defend their city to the last. They imagined
that the divinity who presided over Somnat had heard their prayers,
and would not permit their foes to triumph over them; and under this
impression they fought with a resolution that bore down all opposition.
They poured into the temple after the repulse of their enemies with
offerings to their idol, which were of course accepted, to their great
joy and that of the divinity’s ministers, who undertook to dispose of
those offerings in a manner worthy of the liberality of the devotees
who presented them.

Mahmood was perplexed beyond measure at the disastrous issue of the
siege. He saw his army daily diminishing in an undertaking upon which
he had set his heart. He determined however to accomplish his object,
or perish before the walls of Somnat.

For some days he made no attempt against the town, but remained quiet,
in order to restore the confidence of his troops, which had been
greatly shaken by the unsuccessful issue of the late assault.

Their success against the beseigers had greatly elated the citizens,
and they began to despise the foe which they had so much dreaded. In
order to show his contempt for the Mahomedans, a devotee let himself
down by a rope from the rampart, and advancing towards the enemy’s
camp, stood before the king’s tent, braving Mahmood with his late
failure, and prophesying that every Mahomedan would be blasted by the
breath of Somnat’s idol before the rising of another sun. He was at
first looked upon as a madman, but some of Mahmood’s soldiers being at
length incensed at his audacity, seized him, and brought him before
their sovereign. Upon being asked why he had quitted the town, he
replied he came to warn them that they would be all swept from the face
of the earth by the vengeance of a god who would not spare them for
their attempt to profane his holy shrine.

“I come to defy you,--to show how impotent you are to impose injury
upon anyone claiming especial protection of the divinity worshipped
by all pious Hindoos. You are all under the ban of our idol. You are
doomed to destruction. I go to prepare the scourge that shall sweep you
from the face of this globe.”

“You will never return,” said Mahmood, “to accomplish your contemplated
plan of retribution; but I will show yonder fanatics how little
reliance is to be placed upon the god of an idolator. What say you to
hanging in the sight of your city’s battlements?”

“You dare not provoke the vengeance of an enemy which has already
convinced you of its might. I despise your threats--I fear not
hanging--death has no terrors for me--violence towards one whose
penances have purified his spirit for a higher gradation of existence
in another life, will only bring the curse of retribution upon
you, while to me it secures blessings which you will never have an
opportunity of enjoying.”

“Soldiers,” said Mahmood to some of his military attendants, “hang that
madman upon the nearest tree.”

The Hindoo smiled as he heard the order given.

“My death will be avenged,” said he, “though you send me to Paradise.
You may deprive me of life, but you cannot withhold from me the power
of defying and scorning the race of Islam.”

At a signal from their sovereign, several soldiers seized the fanatic,
and hung him upon a tree within sight of the ramparts. The man died
uttering expressions of triumph at his martyrdom. He was seen from the
walls by his countrymen, who imprecated curses upon the heads of his
murderers. The body was cut down as soon as life was extinguished, the
head severed from the trunk, and flung over the battlements of Somnat.
The citizens bore it to their temple in triumph.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Bride.

CHAPTER VI.

When the Hindoo widow ascended the pile, the straw by which it was
surrounded was immediately ignited, and having been previously wetted
in a slight degree, a smoke was raised which enveloped the whole
fabric, and completely concealed the victim from view. She was wrapped
in a holy trance, and it was some moments therefore before she became
sensible that the fire had not reached her. To her surprise she felt
herself gradually sinking amid a gloom so cavernous that the first
idea which flashed upon her mind was that death had done its work
upon her body, and that she was descending into those regions of
everlasting darkness where the wicked expiate their crimes in this
world by unmitigated and eternal penalties. She, however, perceived
that the dead body of her husband was still beside her, and this
restored her to consciousness. In a few moments the descent of the
platform was arrested; she was suddenly seized and lifted from it; the
frame instantly rising with the corpse, which was consumed without the
horrible sacrifice of a living body.

The widow was confounded at her situation. The effects of that
stimulating potion which she had taken to sustain her through the awful
rite about to be consummated, had subsided, and she trembled at the
apprehended terrors in store for her. She was encompassed by a gloom
so profound that she could not distinguish a single object. She heard
not a sound, save a breathing almost close to her ear, which satisfied
her of the juxtaposition of some living being. She did not stir, but
endeavoured to collect her scattered thoughts. Her natural energy of
character overcame the more violent impulse of alarm, and in a calm,
collected tone, she said, “Why am I thus torn from the embrace of
my dead husband, with whom I was about to proceed to the bowers of
Paradise?”

No answer was returned to her inquiry. She heard only the shouts of the
multitude above, who were exulting at her imagined immolation, with
the frantic transports of demons loosed from their eternal prisons, to
wander awhile in the freedom of crime beyond the confines of their own
dreary habitations.

After some time, hearing no sound near her, not even of a respiration,
save her own, she began to grope around. The intensity of the darkness
had somewhat subsided, and her eye had become sufficiently familiar
with it to be enabled to obtain a dim perception of objects. She
proceeded cautiously forward until her progress was arrested by a
wall. Following the course of the masonry she perceived that she was
in a small circular chamber, from which there was a passage through
a low, narrow portal. The floor of the apartment consisted of earth,
covered with dried cow-dung, which was perceptible to her as she trod
the chamber with naked feet, having cast off her sandals before she
ascended the funeral pile. She had already strung her mind to the
necessary climax of determination which had enabled her to brave death
in its most horrid form, and was consequently not terrified at the idea
of dying under circumstances less appalling.

She was on the floor, her mind filled with images of death, when
suddenly a light was seen approaching through the dark passage opposite
to which she happened to be lying, and a bright figure, enveloped in
light, appeared to enter the portal. Every part of the figure was
illumined; and yet the light did not appear to radiate from it, for
all around was darkness. It was about the size of a man, and exactly
resembled the huge idol of Somnat. The widow started to her feet as the
singular object approached. It advanced to the centre of the apartment,
and remained stationary.

The phosphorescent figure, instead of illuminating the apartment,
seemed to attract to itself every particle of light, rendering the
gloom around it so intense that nothing else was visible. It glared
upon the astonished widow from eyes fixed in their sockets, like
diamonds riveted into the living rock, with a lustre so unearthly
that she was obliged to seek relief in the darkness from a sight of
the hideous phantom. She drooped her head and remained in a state of
agonizing suspense as to the issue of this terrifying visitation. She
began to question her vitality. And yet the strong perception of her
senses--the tangible evidence of life in her own movements--the hearing
of her own breath--the feeling of her heart’s pulsation--all convinced
her that she was alive. Could this be a visit from the idol as promised
by the Brahmin? She would judge by the issue. And yet could the deity
have rescued her from the performance of an oblation universally held
by all devout Hindoos to be so welcome to him? Can he abrogate his own
laws. The thing appeared impossible. By whom then had she been rescued
from death?

In spite of the natural tendency of her mind to superstition, a secret
misgiving occasionally invaded it that she was about to become the dupe
of some spiritual juggle. The overtures of the Brahmin recurred to her
mind, and the anxiety he had expressed to save her from performing
the suttee. She began to dread that she was in his power; and yet the
strange supernatural shape at this moment before her seemed strong
evidence that she was in the presence of something unearthly.

Several female figures, all of the same lustrous description, as
if radiant with their own inherent glories, next appeared to enter
the vault, and surround the representative of Somnat’s Idol. They
prostrated themselves before it, and then such an exhibition of
indecency was represented as caused the widow to turn with a feeling of
sickening disgust towards the wall in order to exclude from her sight
the revolting objects. The blood mantled to her very temples: it was
now manifest to her reason that she could not be in the presence of her
god, but that she had been made a dupe of the basest artifices. She had
no difficulty in suspecting the author of her present imprisonment.

Whilst these thoughts were passing rapidly through her mind, her ear
caught a voice which, though feigned to imitate something superhuman,
she instantly recognised as that of the Brahmin, towards whom she
entertained sentiments of unqualified disgust.

“The deity of Somnat visits thee with his especial predilection. Thou
most favoured of thy sex, hail the coming of the god with joy, and
receive him to thy embrace.” A hand was laid upon her arm; she shrank
from the touch as if it had been the contact of a torpedo.

“Man of infamy,” she said calmly, “I am not to be deceived either by
your wiles or by your sorceries. Scenes to which you would invite me
but ill become the purity of heaven, where they alone abide who are
free from carnal defilements. When the ministers of religion convert
her sacred temple into a place of revelry and unchaste joys, the words
of spiritual blessing can no longer proceed from such polluted lips. A
light seems to have broken upon my soul, and to have imparted to it a
new sense of perception. I know not how, or why the revelation has come
upon me, but I feel that I have been a dupe--that your religion is a
scandal--that by you the deity is vilified, his altars defiled, and his
temple desecrated--that I am betrayed, and that you are a villain.”

No answer was returned. She heard footsteps slowly retreating, and
fancied she could distinguish the dim outline of a figure through the
gloom. The silence and mysterious conduct of her persecutor surprised
her. She feared to quit the cell, knowing not whither the passage might
lead, and determined to perish in her present solitary prison rather
than consent to anything which her heart did not sanction.

Beginning to feel drowsy from the effects of the draught which she
had taken before ascending the pile, and fearful lest, if she allowed
herself to be overcome by sleep, some base advantage might be taken
of her, she paced the vault rapidly in order to dissipate the effects
of the narcotic, the influence of which had not entirely subsided. In
a short time some one again entered the apartment, and the same voice
informed her that a curry had been prepared, and a jar of Gangetic
water provided for her neither of which she felt any inclination to
touch. It occurred to her that the food might contain some treacherous
drug; she therefore determined not to taste it.

Her heart now reverted to her infant with all a mother’s longing. When
she thought of its being in the hands of comparative strangers, who
could not feel towards it a parent’s tenderness, her anxiety became
vehement. It was her only tie upon earth, and the big tear filled her
eye as she reflected that she had probably beheld it for the last time.
Having at length walked off the effects of the potion, the excitement
of her mind dispelled all desire to sleep, and she seated herself upon
the floor of her gloomy apartment, determined to wait with patience the
issue of her odious captivity.

She was not long allowed to enjoy the solitary quiet of her own
thoughts. This was soon interrupted by a strange sound like the roaring
of flames within a narrow flue, and shortly after the vault was filled
with a pale dusky light which gave a horrible aspect to everything
around. It illumined the chamber, which she now perceived was a small
circular cavern, with a domed roof, in the centre of which was a square
aperture that passed upward beyond the reach of the eye, emitting
no light, and through this it was clear that she had been lowered
immediately after she ascended the pyre.

The sudden glare which had succeeded to the intense darkness, produced
such an oppression upon the sight that she was obliged to close her
eyes for several moments. When she opened them, a scene was presented
to her view, which, though it excited her terrors, could not subdue
her constancy. The chamber appeared filled with shapes of the most
horrible description; these approached her, and standing by her side,
seemed to deride her with demoniacal ferocity. She heard no sound, but
the objects presented to her view were appalling. She saw women in
every conceivable state of mutilation, writhing under the infliction of
demons, who grinned with ferocious delight at the agonized contortions
of their victims. Creatures of monstrous form and lineament with
hideous countenances rushed towards her, threatening torments too
horrible to describe.

One figure, representing a sort of hippogriff, armed with a weapon of
torture, from which branched a great number of barbs, was seen standing
over a prostrate female, into whose bare bosom he continually thrust
the instrument, while she appeared to be convulsed with agony beneath
the frightful infliction. Upon the head of this monster was a square
tablet of Palmyra leaf, on which was traced in fiery characters, “Such
is the doom of those who despise the favours of Somnat’s god.”

The sight of this object recalled the widow’s terrors. The conviction
instantly came that she beheld a mere juggle, and her alarm at once
subsided. What she saw might be the effect of sorcery, but it was
clear to her that the farce was got up in order to terrify her into a
participation of guilt, at which her pure soul revolted. The voice of
the odious Brahmin recurred to her recollection, and the illusion at
once vanished.

She determined to perish rather than become the willing dupe of a
being, the thought of whom inspired her with ineffable abhorrence.
Gazing calmly at the mummery, which after a while subsided, she
was again left in darkness and to the welcome solitude of her own
reflections. It was indeed a relief, for the continual excitement to
which she had been exposed rendered quiet a luxury, even amid the
impenetrable gloom of a dungeon.

CHAPTER VII.

Although Mahmood had been so severely foiled in his attempts upon
the city of Somnat, still he resolved not to abandon the enterprise.
Their success in repelling the besiegers had elevated the courage
of the Hindoos to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. They persuaded
themselves that the power of their idol had been exerted in favour of
his worshippers, and that their enemies would perish to a man. Several
fanatics singly quitted the fort, to cast defiance in the enemy’s
teeth, and brave death, which the Mahomedan sovereign inflicted upon
them, with undaunted resolution worthy of a better cause. They appeared
to glory in their martyrdom, as scarcely an hour had passed, since the
first repulse of the besiegers, in which these executions had not taken
place in sight of the ramparts.

The Hindoos, confiding in their numbers, and in the protection of their
idol, determined upon a sally, which, with the blind fury of zealots,
they made about noon, under the glare of an intensely ardent sun,
reflected with augmented ardour from the high battlements of their
city upon the adjacent plain, on which the Moslems were encamped. On a
sudden the gates were opened, and out poured a multitude of ill-armed
and undisciplined troops bent upon slaughter. They rushed forward,
shouting like maniacs, but were embarrassed by their numbers. They did
not appear to have calculated upon the regular and steady discipline
of their enemies, who had been inured to warfare, and accustomed to
conquer, under the conduct of their warlike monarch, but expected to
overwhelm them by the mere force of numbers, backed by the potent aid
of their stone god.

Mahmood drew up his troops behind the tents, which broke the furious
onset of his foes, and enabled him to attack them in separate bodies.
The first rush of the Hindoos was checked by the steady valour of the
besiegers, who scattered destruction among their ranks, and in a short
time the plain was strewed with the dying and the dead. The Hindoos did
not continue the struggle; they were quickly repulsed. A rout followed,
which ended in a tumultuous flight. They were pursued to their very
walls by the Moslems, but the gates were closed, both against the
pursued and their pursuers.

The idolaters from the ramparts beheld the rout of their troops with
dismay. They pressed again into the temple, prostrated themselves
before their idol, made piaculary offerings, and supplicated his aid
to chastise the murderers of his true worshippers. The deity was deaf
to their entreaties. Shouts of the victors and cries of the vanquished
were wafted by the gentle breeze to the sanctuary, but its stony idol
was unmoved. They repaired again to the ramparts, expecting that the
Ghiznivites, flushed with success, would storm the city. The frantic
Hindoos, however, were determined to defend their walls to the death.
They saw the enemy rushing forward; they heard their shouts of triumph;
the scaling ladders were already applied, when unexpected succour
was seen advancing along the distant plain. It was an army of their
countrymen, marching to the relief of Somnat. Arriving before the
Ghiznian camp, they presented themselves in order of battle. Mahmood,
determined to frustrate this attempt to reinforce the garrison,
recalled his troops from the pursuit, and, having left a portion of
his army to keep the garrison in check, advanced with the remainder
towards the Hindoo forces. These were fresh, having performed but a
short and leisurely march, while the Mahomedans were fatigued with
their late exertions, and flushed with the excitement of victory, which
rendered them too confiding and careless. They, moreover, entertained a
contemptible idea of their enemies, and thus gave them an advantage, of
which the latter did not fail to avail themselves.

The Hindoo army was composed of troops very different from those
fanatics who had hitherto defended the walls of Somnat, being chiefly
formed of regularly-trained soldiers, who had frequently been opposed
to the Moslem arms. Mahmood, heading his victorious Ghiznivites,
pressed forward to the attack with an impetuosity that caused the
enemy to recoil, but quickly rallying, they maintained their ground
with a resolution that astonished the Mahomedans, and rendered the
victory doubtful. The battle raged with great fury, yet neither party
gave way. For a long time the balance of advantage did not appear to
vibrate in favour of either. The idolaters, looking upon the struggle
from the battlements of their city, cheered their countrymen with loud
acclamations, at the same time invoking their idol to cast the foes of
their country and of their religion into the sea. Women were seen upon
the walls, holding up their infants to infuse new energy into those
troops which had marched to raise the siege of their beloved city.

Among the Hindoo forces were some Rajpoots, who fought with a
desperation which nothing could resist; and if the whole army had
been composed of these, it would more than probably have turned the
scale of victory against the Moslems. They were, however, cut off to
a man. The Hindoos at length began to waver, but fresh troops coming
to their assistance, the struggle was still maintained on both sides
with desperate determination. The shouts from the battlements seemed to
inspire the Indian army with unwonted resolution, while it depressed
the energies of their enemies. At length, however, by a vigorous
onset, the Mahomedans caused the foe to vibrate. Mahmood, seeing his
advantage, ordered his troops to advance and complete the rout, when
his ardour was checked by the arrival of new enemies. Two Indian
princes joined their countrymen, with considerable reinforcements, and
the battle raged with renewed fury.

The Mahomedans began now to waver in their turn. The Hindoos being
inspired with fresh courage advanced to the charge with an impetuosity
which caused the Ghiznivites to recoil; Mahmood, at this moment
perceiving his troops about to retreat, leaped from his horse, and
prostrating himself raised his eyes to heaven, and in an attitude of
the humblest supplication implored the divine aid. Then mounting his
horse, he took his principal general by the hand, by way of encouraging
him and the troops under his command, and advanced on the enemy. The
solemnity of his manner and of the act which he had just performed
filled the soldiers with holy fervour. They expected that the prayer
of their sovereign, so piously offered, would be heard, and gazed upon
him with the enthusiasm of men determined to conquer or perish. As he
advanced he cheered them with such energy that, ashamed to abandon
their king, with whom they had so often fought and bled, and who had
always led them on to conquest, they with one accord gave a loud shout
and rushed forward. In this charge, made with an impetuosity which
nothing could resist, the Moslems broke through the enemy’s line, and
fighting with that confidence which this advantage inspired, soon
left five thousand of their foes dead upon the field. The rout became
general, and the vanquished Hindoos fled on all sides.

The garrison of Somnat beholding the defeat of their companions gave
themselves up to despair, abandoned the defence of the city, and
issuing from the gate to the number of several thousand embarked in
boats, intending to proceed to the island of Serindip, the modern
Ceylon. This attempt, however, was frustrated by the vigilance of the
king, who having secured several boats left in a neighbouring creek,
manned them with rowers, together with a detachment of his best troops,
and pursued the fugitives, on which occasion he took some and sank
others of their flotilla, so that very few escaped.

Having now placed guards round the walls, and at the gates, Mahmood
entered Somnat, accompanied by his sons, a few of his nobles and
principal attendants. He found the city entirely deserted by the
troops, but there remained within the walls an almost infinite number
of pilgrims and devotees, who were in the daily habit of offering their
devotions before the celebrated idol. Many of the inhabitants were
persons of great wealth, upon whom the Mahomedan king did not hesitate
to levy such contributions as the conquerors of earlier times never
failed to impose upon the rich who happened to be among the vanquished.

Mahmood had not forgotten the beautiful Hindoo widow whose infant he
had rescued from the wolf; and one of his first objects upon entering
the city was to ascertain the place of her abode. He soon learned that
she had followed her husband to that unknown land which can only be
reached through the dark valley of the shadow of death. He was deeply
affected. Her beauty had excited his admiration. The scene in which he
had become with her so principal an actor had left a deep impression on
his mind, and a tear rose to his eye as he heard the sad tidings of her
death. He demanded to see the child. It was brought before him. He took
it in his arms, in spite of the horror with which its rigid guardians
looked upon the profane act. The infant smiled in his face, as if it
recognised the obligation which it was under to him. It put its little
hand upon his cheek. He was moved. The stern but generous warrior felt
his heart swell. Giving it to an attendant--

“This shall be the child of my adoption,” he said. “It is indebted to
me for its life, and I shall take upon me the direction of its future
destiny.”

The relatives were amazed. They expostulated; they imprecated the
vengeance of their god upon the unsanctified mortal who should dare
turn from his faith the son of a Hindoo. Mahmood smiled at their
objurgations, and dismissed them, but retained the infant.

He commanded to be brought before him the Brahmins who had urged
the widow to commit herself to the flames, and had been present at
the odious sacrifice. All answered the summons except the chief who
officiated upon that melancholy occasion. He was nowhere to be found.
The conqueror sternly inquired why they had induced the widow to
consummate such an act of infernal superstition.

“Because,” said the elder among them, “it was our duty to secure
her soul a place in Paradise, rather than suffer it to be doomed to
everlasting penalties, by failing to perform that solemn oblation which
the god of the Hindoos requires of all pious widows.”

“Thou shalt follow her to Paradise, then,” said Mahmood, with a bitter
smile, and he ordered the speaker to be instantly cast over the
battlements. The rest were allowed to retire, with a caution never
again to exercise any rite of their religion that should involve a
human life.

The Hindoo child was sent into the king’s harem and placed under the
charge of a nurse. Meanwhile the sovereign issued orders that the chief
Brahmin who had officiated at the late suttee should be sought after,
being determined to make a severe example of him, and then proceeded to
the temple.

Having entered the gorgeous edifice, he approached the huge image and
struck it with his mace by way of contempt; then ordered two pieces
to be broken off and sent to Ghizny, that one might be thrown at the
threshold of the public mosque, and the other at the principal entrance
of his own palace. This was accordingly done.

CHAPTER VIII.

The circumstances related in the last chapter took place during the
occurrence of those which happened to the Hindoo widow, from the
period of her husband’s death. She still remained in the vault. After
the exhibition of infernal agents had taken place, she was left a
short time to the more agreeable solitude of her own reflections,
but this was finally interrupted by her old tormentor. She heard his
slow and stealthy tread; she could just perceive the dim outline of
his figure, as he entered the vault, and it was now rendered the more
distinguishable by being covered with a plain wrapper of ashy-white
linen. He advanced under the cover of darkness, still flattering
himself that he should not be recognised. The widow was at this moment
seated on the ground. Groping his way, the aged debauchee put his hand
against her face, and having thus ascertained his propinquity, he said
in the same counterfeit tone of voice which he had hitherto assumed--

“Is the condescension of the god of Somnat still slighted by the
refractory widow? Know that he has power to annihilate thee,
or--what is far worse--to doom thee, through all the changes of thy
metempsychosis, to ineffable sufferings, which nothing can remit or
modify: but he has likewise the power to exalt thee to a participation
with himself to endless beatitude, in which thy obedience to his
desires will inevitably terminate!”

“Blasphemer!” she exclaimed, in a tone of calm but intense bitterness,
“I know thee; thou art no god, but one of the vilest ministers of evil.
Thou profanest the sanctuary of him thou servest with impure and unholy
rites, such as no deity can approve. The spiritual nature of the great
Being whom we adore, and whose image stands within the walls of that
hallowed pile, which thou hast so basely polluted, cannot defile itself
by any corporeal taint. The vices which gods condemn cannot be approved
by them, and what they disapprove their pure and essential natures
cannot practise.”

“You are uttering blasphemies,” replied the Brahmin, now assuming his
natural voice, perceiving he was discovered. “The gods delight to
reward their pious ministers, and the divinity which you have all your
life served, and to whom I have ministered during the longest period of
mine, has yielded thee to the embraces of one who adores thee.”

“If this be true, why hast thou assumed the character of that divinity,
and in the pretended identity of his august person, presumed to address
me with thy unholy love? Why have I been tormented with thy odious
juggles or sorceries? Why am I confined in this cavernous prison?
Is it under the sanction of that Being who is the perfection and
concentration of all good--the hater and antagonist of all evil?”

“But what you call evil is good, and encouraged by the divinity. The
enjoyment of holy men is desired by the Deity, because it is not evil.
It is essentially good; it is the reward of faithful services and
arduous labours; it leads to happiness. How then can it be evil? What
you call my sorceries were representations, caused by the idol which
you have despised, of what those may expect who presume to provoke his
wrath. Know, too, that the god of Somnat has visited you, and in me
you now behold him. He has assumed the form of his minister whom he
honours, to bestow eternal dignities upon a woman he adores.”

He threw his arms round her. She rose and flung him from her with a
force that cast him upon his back.

“Wretch!” she cried, with the dignity of subdued emotion, “think not
to lead me blindfold into guilt, by assuming the character of a Being
who is unable to endure the stains of thy pollution. Quit me, I command
thee, and leave me here to die; for know that I would rather perish by
the slow process of starvation than submit to the moral defilements
with which you would encrust my soul.”

The old man rose with difficulty, muttering curses, and hobbled from
the vault. Unappalled by the prospect of the vilest persecution, or,
with perhaps more probability, of a horrible death, the lovely Hindoo
calmly resigned herself to her destiny, resolved to perish, under
whatever aspect death might approach her, rather than become the
victim of her odious persecutor. Her mind was agitated by a tumult
of conflicting thoughts. She had been made sensible of having lived
hitherto under the delusions of a false faith. Her conclusions upon the
nature and quality of Deity became vague and undefined, and she knew
not on what to repose her trust. Still her soul was impressed with the
one vast idea of omnipotent agency, and she felt that she was under
both its dominion and its power. The purity of her own conscience gave
her confidence that she should not be deserted.

She had not been long balancing the issues of life and death, when
two female devotees, in the habit of attending upon the idol, and
familiarized with scenes of the grossest vice, entered the vault, one
of them bearing a lamp. They were dressed in the meretricious attire
peculiar to their vocation, and employed all their arts of persuasion
to induce the youthful widow to dismiss her absurd prejudices, as
they termed her virtuous resistance, and submit to the will of their
god, who, they assured her, was a tender and indulgent divinity. She
repelled their arguments with lofty scorn. Finding that persuasion was
lost upon her, one of them said--

“Well, use your own pleasure; but since you refuse the offers of your
spiritual guardian, you must no longer pollute with your presence the
secret sanctuary, where he condescends to visit those whom he honours
with his preference. Follow us.”

“Whither would you lead me?”

“You will shortly know.”

“I shall not stir from this spot in such company.”

The women set up a loud laugh, and one of them, approaching the widow,
said with a gesticulation of vulgar ferocity, “Follow us quietly, or,
by the chackra[9] of Vishnoo, you will be dragged like a refractory
beast. Think a moment before you determine to resist.”

The widow replied not, but by a movement of her hand signified her
consent to follow. One of the women went before with the light, and
the other behind. They passed through a long narrow passage, vaulted
overhead, and evidently underground. There was no outlet on either
side. It was terminated by a straight staircase, so narrow that only
one person could ascend at a time. Upon reaching the top, there was a
small square landing-place, with two doors at opposite sides.

“Here you will enter,” said the foremost woman, pointing to one of the
doors.

“Whither does it lead?”

“Into the bosom of the idol. There you will meet the god, there you
will be advanced to endless honours, there one who adores you awaits
your coming.”

“I am not to be deluded by these profane pretensions. Here let our
conference end. Open, if I am to enter, and let me know at once the
worst that is to befall me.”

A small silver bell was now rung by one of the women, when the door
slid sideways through a groove and presented a narrow portal. The widow
entered fearlessly and the door instantly closed behind her. She was
at the bottom of a short flight of stone steps, at the top of which
appeared a brilliant light. She ascended with desperate resolution,
determined to ascertain at once the full extent of the mischief to
which she was to become a victim. On gaining the top of the stairs,
she entered a circular chamber, about six feet in diameter. The
floor was covered with a beautiful Persian rug, and the light was so
intense as for the moment to be extremely painful. It was reflected
from an invisible source by means of reflectors composed of gems. The
walls of the apartment were decorated with jewels of immense size and
brilliancy, and gems were likewise strewed in heaps upon the floor.
The treasure displayed was prodigious. It appeared like a scene of
enchantment. The wealth of a universe seemed to be concentred in that
one spot.

The widow had not long gazed upon the vast wealth before her, when a
small door which she had not hitherto perceived, slowly opened and the
old Brahmin entered. There was an expression of triumphant malignity
in his deep dull eye. He closed the door carefully behind him. “Now,”
said he, approaching his victim, “for the consummation at once of
my pleasure and of my vengeance. Here resistance will be vain. My
ministers are at hand. Those women who conducted you from the vault are
within call, therefore be advised. Consent to be the bride of Somnat’s
idol, in the bosom of which you now stand, and the wealth which you
behold is at your disposal; refuse, and the idol’s curse will follow
you through the world to the place of everlasting retribution.”

“You know not a woman’s resolution,” replied the young widow firmly; “I
will never consent to the degradation you propose. Do your worst.”

“Be it so, then,” cried the Brahmin, and seizing a staff, he was about
to strike a gong that hung from an iron bar which crossed the chamber
about six feet from the floor, when a strange noise was heard without,
and the image vibrated to its very foundation. The Brahmin trembled,
and sank upon his knees. The beautiful Hindoo gazed on him in silence
and without emotion. The noise increased, the walls of the chamber
oscillated. With the calm confidence of speedy deliverance she looked
forward to the result. Her companion was still upon his knees overcome
by the stupefaction of terror.

Voices were now distinctly heard, and one smote on the widow’s ear
like familiar music. It was Mahmood’s. He had entered the temple of
Somnat just as the lovely widow had ascended into the hollow bosom of
the image. Having seen his orders executed upon the colossal frame, a
crowd of Brahmins, perceiving their god in jeopardy, rushed forward
and besought the king’s attendants to intercede with their sovereign
to spare it, offering Mahmood a large sum of money, to be instantly
paid down, if he would desist from further mutilation. His officers
endeavoured to persuade the king to accept the money, urging that as
the destruction of one idol would not put an end to idolatry, it could
not serve the cause of true religion entirely to destroy the image; but
that the sum offered might be distributed among the faithful, which
would be a meritorious act.

The monarch acknowledged there might be much truth in what they said,
but, nevertheless, declared that he would not consent to a measure
which would place him before posterity as Mahmood the “Idol-seller;”
whereas it was the height of his ambition to be known as Mahmood “The
Destroyer of Idols.”

Having finally delivered his determination, he ordered his troops to
proceed with the work of destruction. The gigantic image tottered
beneath their strokes. It was at length split; the next blow laid open
its hollow body, and to the surprise of the king and his officers
its immense wealth was exposed to view; but their astonishment was
infinitely increased when upon enlarging the opening, the Hindoo widow
appeared standing in the centre of the cavity with the aged Brahmin
kneeling beside her. The king instantly recognized her. She rushed
towards him and exclaiming, “My deliverer!” fell into his arms.

“You have saved me,” she cried hysterically, “from pollution and from
death. Yonder is my persecutor. In another hour I should have been what
I shudder to contemplate.”

The Brahmin was dragged from his den of infamy. He shrank from the
gaze of the scornful Mahomedan. His own companions slank out of the
temple and left him to his fate. He was instantly hanged from one of
the pillars of the sanctuary which he had so frequently profaned.
The beautiful widow became Mahmood’s favourite queen, which event
immediately followed upon her unexpected deliverance from the “Idol of
Somnat.”

FOOTNOTES:

[9] A sort of missile discus, with which the divinity Vishnoo is always
represented armed.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 421 (A.D. 1030).--A conspiracy was formed in favour of Prince
Musaood, the king’s brother. Mahomed was surrounded in his tent by the
conspirators and his person seized. The refractory nobles immediately
joined Musaood and swore allegiance to him. Mahomed was deprived of
sight and cast into prison.

Heg. 422 (1031).--The king raised Altoon Tash, one of his own domestic
sweepers, to the viceroyship of Rye in Persia.

Heg. 423 (1032).--Khwaja Ahmud, the vizier, died.

Heg. 424 (1033).--This year was remarkable for a great drought and
famine in many parts of the world. The famine was succeeded by a
pestilence, which, in less than a month, swept away forty thousand
persons from Ispahan alone. In Hindostan whole countries were
depopulated.

Heg. 425 (1034).--The Ghiznivite general Boghtudy was defeated by the
Suljooks.

Heg. 427 (1036).--A new palace was finished at Ghizny. In it was a
golden throne, studded with jewels, erected in a magnificent hall:
over the throne was suspended by a golden chain a crown of gold,
weighing seventy mauns or a hundred and thirty-five pounds, and
emitting lustre from numerous precious stones. This formed a canopy
for the king when he sat in state to give public audience.

Heg. 431 (1040).--Musaood, being defeated by the Suljooks, and
deserted by his generals, his subjects restored his brother Mohamed,
whom he had blinded, to the throne.

Heg. 433 (1042).--Musaood was assassinated in the fort of Kurry.
Modood, his son, marched against his uncle, and defeating him, put him
and all his sons to death. About this time the Toorkomans of Toghrul
Beg made an incursion into the Ghiznivite territories by the way of
Boost, against whom Modood sent an army which gave them a signal
defeat.

Heg. 438 (1046).--Toghrul Beg began to entertain treasonable designs
against his sovereign, but upon his treachery being discovered, his
adherents deserted him, and he was obliged to fly from the king’s
dominions.

Heg. 440 (1048).--Modood conferred the royal dress, drums and robes
upon his two eldest sons, Mahmood and Munsoor.

Heg. 441 (1049).--Modood died, having reigned upwards of nine years.
He was succeeded by his brother Abool Hussun Ally, who married the
late king’s widow; but was deposed two years after by Sultan Abool
Rusheed, according to the most authentic accounts, a son of the
Emperor Mahmood. He was assassinated a year after his accession by
Toghrul Hajib, and Furokhzad, a son of Musaood, raised to the throne.

Heg. 450 (1058).--The king became afflicted with dysentery and died,
after a reign of six years.

Heg. 450 (1058).--Furokhzad was succeeded by his brother Ibrahim, who
sent an army into India and conquered many provinces in that country
which had not yet been visited by the Mussulman arms. It was during
this reign that Eiz-ood-Deen returned from India, where his father
had been an exile, married a princess of the house of Ghizny, and was
restored to the principality of Ghoor.

Heg. 472 (1079).--Ibrahim took the town of Dera by assault.

Heg. 492 (1098).--Sultan Ibrahim died and was succeeded by his son
Musaood, who after a reign of sixteen years, without domestic troubles
or foreign wars, died in the latter end of the year of the Hegira 508.

Heg. 508 (1118).--Arslan, son of the late king, ascended the throne
of Ghizny, and imprisoned all his brothers except one, who avoided by
flight a similar fate. This latter prince having collected an army,
defeated his brother, and ascended the throne. Arslan, after a short
reign of three years, suffered a violent death.

Heg. 511 (1121).--Sultan Beiram became king of Ghizny.

Heg. 512 (1122).--Beiram having defeated and taken prisoner Mahomed
Bhyleem, governor of Lahore, who had rebelled against his government,
pardoned him, on his swearing allegiance, and returned to Ghizny.
Mahomed Bhyleem again rebelled, was defeated and slain. Beiram having
executed Kootb-ood-Deen Mahomed Ghoory Afghan, to whom he had given
his daughter in marriage, was attacked and defeated by Alla-ood-Deen,
brother of the murdered prince, and obliged to fly from his dominions.

Heg. 547 (1152).--Sultan Beiram died after a reign of thirty-five
years. He was succeeded by his son Khoosrow, who reigned seven years
and died at Lahore, and was succeeded by his son Khoosrow Mullik.

Heg. 576 (1180).--The kingdom of Ghizny was invaded by Shahab-ood-Deen
Mahomed Ghoory, son of Eiz-ood-Deen. He finally evacuated the kingdom,
carrying with him Mullik Shah, the king’s son, a child only four years
old, as a hostage.

Heg. 580 (1184).--Mahomed Ghoory made an attempt upon Lahore, whither
the Emperor had removed his court, but being foiled, subjected the
country to devastation by fire and sword.

Heg. 582 (1186).--The prince of Ghoor again returned to Lahore with a
large army and took the city. The Emperor, seeing no means of escape,
threw himself upon the mercy of his enemy. Mahomed Ghoory demanded
instant possession of Lahore. The gates of the city were accordingly
thrown open to receive him, and the empire passed from the house of
Ghizny to that of Ghoor. Sultan Khoosrow Mullik reigned twenty-eight
years.

The Royal Merchant.

CHAPTER I.

“Boy,” said Sam to his son Eiz-ood-Deen, “I’m sadly tired of this
banishment. One’s own country, after all, is the only paradise upon
earth, and to be exiled from it is a sad penalty to a patriotic heart.”

“But,” replied the son, “you entered this land of strangers under
poverty and bereavement; you have here raised yourself to distinction
and wealth; your adopted country has been more favourable to you
than your fatherland; why, therefore, should you seek to quit these
hospitable shores for those from which you were once spurned a beggar
and an outcast?”

“Because the yearnings of nature are too strong to be resisted.
Besides, there I am known to belong to the blood of her kings; here I
am looked upon as a mere trafficker in merchandise, upon which, indeed,
I have grown rich, but in a manner that ill becomes the offspring of
royalty.”

“I have been too long accustomed to consider this as my native land to
desire to seek another home; but the desires of the son ought to yield
to those of the father: I am, therefore, content to quit it whenever
you may deem it fitting.”

The merchant Sam was, in truth, son of the king of Ghoor, a mountainous
region, which finally became tributary to Ghizny, and had been obliged
to fly from his country on the death of his father, who, while
attacking a fort, was killed by an arrow, which entered his eye.
The son fled into India, and finally settled at Surat, a city or
considerable commercial importance, about twelve coss from the sea.
Being of an enterprising turn of mind, he assumed the business of a
merchant, and, in the course of a few years of successful traffic,
became a man of great wealth.

Although he found few Mahomedans at Surat, there were a number of old
Parsee families, who had fixed their abode in a certain quarter of the
city. With these he freely associated, as they were not so backward in
holding social intercourse with strangers as the native inhabitants,
among whom the exclusive prejudices of caste were maintained generally
with extreme rigour. The Parsees being a mercantile people, the
royal merchant found that they very much advanced the success of his
ventures, and with them, therefore, he dwelt upon terms of mutual
good-fellowship. Having, however, reaped the full harvest of his
industry, he was anxious to return to that exaltation in his native
land which he had forfeited by his flight, especially now that he
possessed the means of maintaining a dignity which his ambition
rendered him eager to enjoy. His son, though he yielded to the wishes
of his father, had other views. When he had left his native mountains,
he was too young to retain any endearing impressions of home or of
country; he, therefore, felt no desire to quit a spot which was
endeared to him by other ties than those of a long residence.

Eiz-ood-Deen was in the habit of visiting the family of a Parsee who
had an only daughter, a beautiful girl in her thirteenth year. She
was the pride of her father, and he watched over her with a vigilance
only equalled by his fondness, being anxious to keep her from the view
of suitors, as he had betrothed her to the son of a wealthy Parsee
merchant in Bombay, to whom she was shortly to be married. It happened
that she felt an invincible repugnance to the young man to whom she
was betrothed, but had never dared to express this repugnance to her
father, knowing the extreme severity of his resentments when his
purposes were crossed, and being well assured that even his parental
affection would give way before the fierceness of his anger, if she
should dare to rebel against his authority.

She had frequently observed Eiz ood-Deen, when he called upon her
parent, through the venetians of her window that overlooked the
street, but which she had never ventured to raise. She was much struck
with the easy elegance of his person, and the lively intelligence of
his countenance, which had a sprightliness and characteristic amenity
of expression far more attractive than mere exclusive beauty. He was
in his nineteenth year, vigorous and well formed, and altogether
an interesting rather than a handsome person. She could not help
contrasting him with the object of her father’s choice, who was a short
fat youth, with an ungainly countenance, and pitted with the small-pox.

The sight of the Mahomedan rendered her more than ever averse to the
Parsee, and she soon became silent and desponding. Her father perceived
the change, but could not draw from her the cause of her depression. He
never, for a moment, imagined that it could arise from any antipathy to
the object of his choice for her, because he was firmly persuaded that
she had no choice in the matter, his fiat being the rule of her will.
He was uneasy, however, at the change, as his affection for her was
surpassed only by his desire to see her the wife of a wealthy husband,
which she would have in the son of his friend, the Bombay merchant.

Eiz-ood-Deen had heard much of the beauty of the Parsee’s daughter, but
had been in the habit of visiting at his house for the best part of a
year without having once seen her. She, however, had indulged herself,
by seeing him enter and quit the house almost daily for several months,
and the first favourable impression which his person made upon her in
no degree subsided; so far from it, that she felt for the first time
the two extreme passions of love and hate glowing in her bosom at the
same moment--love towards the Mahomedan, and hatred towards the Parsee.
She frequently pondered upon the misery of her lot, in being doomed to
wed a man whom she loathed, and debarred, by the difference of creeds,
from marrying one with whom she fancied she could realize her fairest
dreams of happiness. She became at length so excited by anxiety, that
she determined to brave all hazards, and, in defiance of her father’s
anger, reveal her passion to the object of her love. It was some time
before a safe opportunity occurred.

One morning her parent was suddenly called from home, and, to her
joy, Eiz-ood-Deen appeared in the court. She raised the venetians as
he approached the door, and exposing her young glowing countenance,
upon which the blush mantled like the opening tint of the vernal
rose, told him her father was not within. He stopped a moment to gaze
upon her, but overcome with the novelty of the act she had committed,
she withdrew her head, and dropped the venetian frame. The Mahomedan
was riveted to the spot. He was so overcome by astonishment at the
unexpected sight of so much beauty, that he had not the presence
of mind to utter a word. At length the sudden impulse of surprise
subsided, and he recovered his self-possession. As her apartment faced
the court which was seen from the street, he knew it would expose the
lovely girl to the worst suspicions if he remained under the window; he
therefore entered the house, as if ignorant that the Parsee was from
home. He here encountered an old woman who, as he soon ascertained,
was an attendant upon the young mistress of the mansion. She was a
low-caste Hindoo, and, knowing the sordidness of the class to which she
belonged, he had no difficulty in bribing her to bring him into the
presence of her young mistress. They met on that very morning. Vows of
perpetual love were interchanged, and the beautiful girl agreed to fly
with him to his native country, in order to avoid a union against which
her heart revolted.

Interviews were from this time almost daily contrived between the
lovers by the old woman who watched for them, who would have hazarded
her soul for gold; it was this only that kept her faithful, but her
fidelity was known by those who purchased it to be held by so slippery
a tenure that they were both anxious to be beyond the influence of
treachery.

“My father,” said Eiz-ood-Deen one evening, “when are we to quit this
land of the stranger?”

“Why, my son, I thought thou didst not seem inclined to quit it;
therefore, on thy account, I dismissed it from my thoughts.”

“Nay, my sire, a parent’s wish is law to a dutiful son, and I trust you
have never found me so wanting in filial obligation as to oppose, even
by a thought, the desire of one to whom I owe not only my being, but
the blessings of a happy life.”

“Well, my son, I have long been prepared to visit the land of my
fathers, and, if you concur, we’ll take ship at the full of the present
moon, when we shall enjoy the blessing of heaven’s light by night as
well as by day.”

Everything was immediately prepared for their departure, and
Eiz-ood-Deen congratulated himself that the lovely Parsee would be the
happy companion of his voyage. That night his thoughts were so full
of joy that he could not sleep. He lay pondering upon the bliss which
appeared to be in store for him. He was the only child of a parent, no
less indulgent than wealthy, and beloved by a beautiful girl, with whom
he anticipated that he should pass a life of unmixed enjoyment: but
alas! how seldom are the soberest expectations realized! Disappointment
almost invariably follows the glowing dreams of enthusiasm.

The next day he repaired to the Parsee’s house; the door was closed
upon him. He saw no one but a menial, who told him that his master was
desirous he should never more project his shadow over his threshold.

“What is the meaning of all this?” inquired Eiz-ood-Deen, with a
beating heart and quivering lip.

“Think a moment,” replied the man, “and you will be at no loss to
guess.”

This was an unexpected shock. He sickened as he thought upon the
melancholy consequences that might arise to the object of his fondest
affections, and quitted the house with a sad presentiment of mischief.
It was clear they had been betrayed. The old woman no doubt, in the
hope of reaping a richer harvest, had revealed their visits to the
inexorable parent, and the consequences of his anger would no doubt be
extreme.

During the whole of that day he could obtain no tidings of the Parsee’s
daughter. Many dark hints were thrown out by some of his tribe, whom
Eiz-ood-Deen knew, which led him to apprehend some fearful consequence,
but he could ascertain nothing positive. He returned to his father’s
house. The worthy merchant was surprised to see the gloom with which
his son’s countenance was overcast, and inquired the cause; but an
evasive reply silenced his questions, though it did not hush his
suspicions.

The following morning Eiz-ood-Deen was walking beyond the suburbs
of Surat, and bent his steps towards the cemetery of the Parsees. It
was a circular inclosure, protected by a wall about four feet high.
Within was a deep vault, covered by an iron grating, upon the top of
which the bodies of the dead were placed, and there left to corrupt,
the bones finally falling into the receptacle below, whence they were
removed at certain periods, and cast into the sea. Reaching the wall,
he sat on it, in order to rest himself or to give free scope to the
sadness of his thoughts in the immediate vicinity of so solemn a spot.
Looking towards the grating, he saw a body which had been that morning
placed upon it. Urged by an irresistible impulse, he leaped into the
inclosure, and approaching the vault, was horror-struck at beholding
the disfigured corpse of the Parsee’s daughter.

CHAPTER II.

Eiz-ood-Deen returned to his father’s house stunned with the shock
he had received at the Parsee cemetery. It struck his mind with the
fiery quickness and impetuosity of the thunderbolt that the fond girl
had been murdered--murdered because she loved him--murdered for his
sake. This was a dreadful reflexion. There was no interfering with the
domestic habits of the Guebres. They were governed by their own laws,
with which the native authorities at Surat presumed not to interfere;
he had, therefore, no means of instituting an inquiry into the death of
his beloved. He was the most wretched of men. The blast of desolation
had swept over his heart, and he looked upon himself as a seared
and blighted thing, which the sun of joy could no longer warm into
blossoming life. He was now as anxious to depart from Surat, as he had
once been to remain.

The only thing that pained him at quitting the scene of his misery was
the thought of leaving unrevenged the death of that tender girl whom
he had so fondly loved. But how was he to prove that she had been sent
out of the world by violence? Besides, had he not been guilty of an act
of deep moral obliquity in carrying on a clandestine intercourse with
the daughter of a different tribe, corrupting her father’s servants,
and meditating her final abduction? He felt upon what tottering ground
he trod, and therefore soon abandoned all thoughts of revenge. His
father could not account for his agitation; attributing it, however,
to those capricious sallies of youth which are frequently the mere
sudden eruptions of passion arising from trifling disappointment, he
did not take the trouble to inquire very minutely into the cause, but
occupied himself about preparing for his voyage. As the transfer of
property to any great distance was impracticable, he turned a large
portion of his wealth into jewels, which were less difficult to be
disposed of, could be easily secreted, and occupied little room. These
preparations engaged him for some days, during the whole of which
period Eiz-ood-Deen was a prey to the severest grief. He scarcely
uttered a word. His father now imagined that his sorrow arose simply
from the circumstance of his being about to quit a spot endeared to him
by the strong and linking associations of youth, but felt no doubt that
when the first ebullitions after departure should subside, new scenes
and new objects would soon absorb his attention, and win him from his
partialities to the scenes of his boyhood.

Having made the necessary preparations, the old man purchased a vessel,
which he manned with Hindoo sailors, for the best of all possible
reasons, because no other were to be had. The vessel was a large clumsy
boat, carrying about sixty tons, with no deck, save a kind of poop,
under which there was one small cabin. She was manned by fifteen native
seaman. Everything being put on board, the merchant Sam, with his son
Eiz-ood-Deen, set sail from Surat with a favourable breeze. The old
man’s heart bounded as he quitted those shores which had been the place
of his exile for years, and although he had filled his coffers with
money in this strange land, his predilection for that of his birth
had never been once stifled; it was still glowing. He was anxious to
lay his bones among those of his forefathers, and he tried to rouse
the spirits of his son to the same level of gratification with his
own; but the image of death was too vividly impressed upon the mind
of Eiz-ood-Deen to be so readily effaced. He could not banish it. It
seemed as if a fiery hand had seared it upon his brain with an impress
so deep and glowing that the finger of death only could obliterate the
tracing. His heart sickened when he reverted to the repelling reality.

“Nay, my son,” said the glad father, “you seem as if you grieved at
a parent’s joy. Why this gloom? Is there no other country upon the
globe’s wide surface which can yield us as glad a home as that which we
have quitted. Why do you repine? What have you relinquished? Were we
not living among communities which despised our religion, and held us
unfit to be admitted to the privileges of social intercourse? Were we
not rather tolerated than welcomed by those idolators whom our religion
has taught us to despise?”

“Then why, my father, have you made their country your home for so many
years? They admitted the exile among them, and surely those people
are not to be despised who received him whom his own countrymen had
abandoned. But you mistake the cause of my sorrow. I grieve not at
quitting the land of my father’s exile; on the contrary, I rejoice at
it: but there are griefs which weigh heavy on my heart, and never shall
I remember the city which we have quitted but with a pang that must
lacerate my bosom.”

The merchant was astonished. Absorbed in the pursuits of trade, he
had allowed his son to have so much his own way, that he knew little
or nothing of his pursuits, and had been altogether ignorant of his
acquaintance with the beautiful Parsee; he was, therefore, not a little
surprised when Eiz-ood-Deen related to him his attachment towards the
Guebre’s daughter and the lamentable issue of it.

“Alas! my boy,” said the old man, “there is little doubt but your
suspicions respecting the end of that poor girl are correct. The
strictness of the Guebres in maintaining the purity of their women is
so severe that even the slightest suspicion subjects them to certain
death. The power of inflicting summary punishment upon offenders of
this kind is in the hands of the parent, and pardon seldom passes from
the domestic tribunal for those sins to which death is awarded. The
poisoned bowl has sent that innocent victim to the land of shadows,
where our spirits shall everlastingly wail or rejoice.”

The son concurred in the probability of this having been the fact,
as he recollected the swollen and blackened state of the corpse. The
conversation becoming painful, he relapsed into his former mood of
silent abstraction.

It happened that among the property which the merchant had put on
board the vessel was a large royal tiger, so fierce that it was placed
in an iron cage, secured at the stern. The merchant had purchased it
some short time before he quitted Surat, intending to present it to
the King of Ghizny, who, as he had ascertained, possessed an extensive
menagerie, and was particularly fond of collecting wild beasts. The
tiger had been caught in a trap, and never, therefore, having been
tamed, was excessively ferocious.

They had been but a few days on their voyage, when the weather began to
assume a threatening aspect. The sun was overcast, and the heat became
almost suffocating. Not a breath of air stirred. The water had a gentle
swell, and was as smooth as a mirror; but there was a dull greenish
tint on the surface, which looked like a skin in the human body
tinged with the morbid hue of disease. Not a ripple agitated the lazy
mass, which undulated with a slow sluggish movement as if its natural
principle of motion were impeded. The vessel laboured through the
glassy but ponderous waters with a lumbering uneasy roll, that rendered
it difficult to maintain an easy position either within or without the
cabin.

The haze thickened and lay upon the sea, which it shrouded with a thin
vapoury veil, through which, when the clouds rolled from before his
orb, the sun occasionally glared with a fiery and portentous glow. The
Hindoo sailors were silent and looked grave, seating themselves by the
ribs of the vessel and looking into the sky with a foreboding gloom
that did not much tend to cheer the heart of the venerable merchant.
They appeared, however, to take no precautions against the approach of
a hurricane.

The boat had been under easy sail the whole day, and she was now left
almost to take her own course. The navigators began to chew opium and
to lie listlessly upon their rugs, as if anxious to put themselves in
a state of enviable oblivion as fast as possible. The man at the helm
fastened it in a certain position, and followed the example of his
companions. Soon after noon the wind freshened; the sun more frequently
looked from behind his curtain of dusky vapours, scattering through the
mist a red ochreous glow upon the sluggish waters. Clouds, deepening
in intensity as they gathered, rose rapidly from the horizon, and
overspread the heavens with their rolling masses, which seemed to hang
over the sea like a pall.

The sun at length went down in darkness. Some of the clouds upon the
horizon, as he sank behind them, were tinged with a dull fiery tint,
resembling the hue of hot iron immediately after the first red heat
has subsided. The wind was now blowing a gale, and the wrack flew over
the heavens as if the winged messengers of the skies were hurrying to
collect the elements for the work of devastation. The vessel was old
and leaky; her seams opened to the assaulting billows, which had now
cast off their sluggishness, and hissed and foamed around her with a
fierce activity of motion that darkened the countenances of the native
seamen, and appalled the two passengers. The merchant looked upon the
troubled heavens, and his heart sickened. The fearful presentiment
of death passed over his excited mind with the fierce rush of the
whirlwind. He dropped upon his knees: his prayer was incoherent; it
was broken by the frightful images presented to his mind. The son
was less agitated. His late sorrows had softened the terrors of the
scene, and the memory of that hapless girl who had died--and perhaps a
death of agony--for his sake, who now appeared about to follow her to
the last home of the blessed, subdued his alarms. He soon grew calm.
In proportion as the peril increased, he braced his mind to meet the
coming shock, but the poor old merchant was fearfully excited. He had
looked forward still to years of enjoyment in his native land, to which
he was attached by a link as strong as human sympathy could forge. He
continued to pray, but his aspirations seemed not to rise beyond his
lips: they were stifled in the terrors which gave them their first
impulse, but crushed them in the soul as they struggled to get free.

With the darkness the hurricane rose to a climax. The booming waves,
gleaming with that pale phosphorescent light which seems to make the
gloom of a tempestuous night only more hideous, broke over the vessel’s
bow, heaving into her undecked hull a body of sparkling water that
threatened every moment to swamp her. Still she rushed onward through
the foaming ocean, leaping over the billows with a sort of convulsive
energy that shook every timber in her frame, and opened her seams to
the assailing element. The tiger roared, dashing from one side to
the other of his cage, which he threatened every instant to shake in
pieces. His howlings were continued with scarcely any intermission, and
added another feature of terror to the storm.

The Hindoo sailors were perfectly passive. The vast quantities of opium
they had swallowed stupefied them so completely that they appeared
utterly unconscious of the surrounding peril. The vessel was allowed to
take her own course, and she was urged towards the shore. The rudder
was torn from her stern, and she lay like a huge log upon the convulsed
bosom of the ocean. Not a hope of escape remained. She was nearly
filled and on her beam ends. She rocked and heaved under the lashings
of the storm, like a creature in the throes of death. Her sails were
rent, and fluttered in the gale in thin strips, clattering amid the
roar of the tempest to the answering groans of the masts, that bent and
quivered like the tall thin stalk of the young bamboo.

Midnight passed, but the storm did not abate. The air was loaded with
pitchy masses of rolling vapour, which hung so low that the vessel’s
masts almost seemed to pierce them as she rose upon the circling crests
of the billows; they spread like a pall over the Heavens. There was no
light but what arose from the sea, and the intense darkness rendered
the aspect of the tempest still more terrific. During the whole night
it continued without intermission. The dawn revealed a wide expanse
of waters agitated into frightful commotion; the wind howling through
the air with a vehemence that seemed at once to shake the earth and
convulse the sea; the Heavens overspread with an interminable tract
of deep blue vapour which the eye could not penetrate. The vessel now
began to reel and stagger under the weight of water which she had
frequently shipped from the heavy seas that had dashed over her. She
laboured with difficulty through the rolling surges.

It was evident that she could not wear out the storm. Every moment
she rose less buoyantly. Her rudder gone, she was tossed at the mercy
of the billows. The merchant wrung his hands in agony; tears streamed
down his cheeks, and his eyes were fixed upon the convulsed ocean with
an expression of horror. Eiz-ood-Deen, on the contrary, gazed with a
sullen calmness on the terrifying scene. He spoke not; he put up no
prayer to Heaven; no silent aspiration rose from his heart to his lips,
but he looked with a stern apathy at the death which he every moment
expected.

A sudden reel of the vessel now brought her up against a wave which
dashed with a terrific shock over her bow, that made her whole frame
vibrate. The shock was so great that it forced up the lid of the
tiger’s cage, and left the terrified animal to its freedom. Alarmed at
the tremendous concussion, it leaped from its prison, and, bounding
forward, seated itself upon the roof of the cabin; but the vessel
taking a sudden lurch, and at the same moment another huge billow
dashing over its bows, with a loud roar of terror the affrighted beast
sprang into the deep. The crisis had now come. Another wave struck the
vessel on her quarter, a lengthened crash followed, her seams divided,
and, after one heavy roll, she went down with a hiss and a gurgle, as
the yawning vortex opened before her, that mingled fearfully with the
shrieks of her despairing crew while they were drawn into the abyss
which closed over them, the clamorous elements singing their requiem as
they sank into one common grave.

A spar had separated from the vessel as she went down, and floated free
upon the waters. The merchant and his son had both leaped into the
sea, and after a few desperate struggles each grasped the spar, but
the old man’s exhaustion prevented him from holding it securely. The
water bore him from his hold, and the agonized son saw him struggle in
vain to reach it. Quitting the spar, he swam towards his father. The
merchant threw out his arms with desperate energy to keep himself above
the surface, but every wave covered him. He shrieked, the water filled
his mouth; again he shrieked, again the fierce waters stopped his cry,
another and another struggle--there was a stifled moan. At length his
arms fell, his senses faded, he became still.

At this moment the son reached him, but too late. He had begun to
sink. There was no object on the surface. The spar rolled again near
Eiz-ood-Deen, and he grasped it with the clutch of desperation. He was
nearly exhausted, but with an instinctive desire of life, which they
only can apprehend who have beheld death before them in an array of
horror, he lashed himself to the spar with his turban, hoping that,
should the storm abate, he might be rescued from his peril by some
vessel, or cast on shore; for though the density of the mist prevented
the eye seeing objects beyond a few yards, yet he felt satisfied that
he could not be far from the coast. Perilous as his situation was, hope
did not desert him; and he who had looked at the approach of death with
indifference while there appeared a reasonable chance of escape, now
shunned it with a fierce instinct of preservation, when its triumph
seemed almost reduced to a certainty. He had not been long lashed to
the spar when, through the uproar of the tempest, he heard a strange
noise behind him, and turning his head, to his consternation beheld the
tiger making its way towards him through the raging waters. It snorted
and panted with its exertions; still it raised its noble head amid the
waves, rising above them with a buoyancy beautiful to behold, in spite
of the painful apprehensions with which it was accompanied. In a few
moments the tiger reached the spar, and placed its fore paws upon it,
close by the side of the merchant’s son. It offered him no violence,
but, looking wildly in his face, seemed to eye him with an expression
of sympathy, as if acknowledging a fellowship of suffering. Emboldened
by the forbearance of the noble animal, Eiz-ood-Deen laid his hand
gently upon its head. The tiger depressed its ears, gave a loud kind of
purr, and crept closer to the side of its companion.

Though frequently covered by the billows, Eiz-ood-Deen had lashed
himself to the spar too securely to be shaken off, and the strong claws
of the tiger kept it from a similar contingency. After being tossed
about for upwards of three hours, at the imminent peril of his life,
the merchant’s son and his feline associate were dashed on shore near
the mouth of the Indus.

CHAPTER III.

Eiz-ood-Deen was so exhausted on being cast upon the strand, that when
he had disengaged himself from the spar and crawled up the beach beyond
the reach of the surf, he fell into a profound sleep. When he awoke,
the tempest had almost entirely subsided; and to his astonishment he
found the tiger at his side with one of its paws upon his breast and
looking steadfastly in his face. The recollection that they had been
companions in peril, and the favourable manner in which the ferocious
creature had received his caress upon the spar amidst the turbulence of
the excited ocean, abated his apprehensions of the animal’s hostility,
which seemed to have forsaken its natural instincts, and he laid his
hand fearlessly upon its head. The tiger instantly purred, rolled upon
its back, and exhibited marked symptoms of delight, rubbing its broad
forehead against Eiz-ood-Deen’s face, and spreading out its capacious
tongue as if to show him the tenderness of a tiger’s caress. This was
an exceedingly welcome indication of good fellowship to the merchant’s
son; nevertheless he could not help fearing that when hunger should
remind the voracious beast of the necessity of appeasing its natural
longing, it might take a fancy to him for its first meal.

He was so bruised by the spar to which he had been attached when cast
upon the beach, and moreover his strength was so reduced by his long
and arduous struggles, that he could not proceed in search of some
friendly habitation; he therefore bent his way towards the nearest
jungle, to which the tiger leisurely followed, being determined there
to pass the night and seek out an asylum the following day. As evening
advanced, he crept into a thicket, and heaping some dry jungle-grass
under a tree, threw himself upon it. The tiger quitted him; and he
concluded that having found a congenial retreat, it had gone in search
of a supper, which he hoped would prevent him from being distinguished
by so flattering a preference as he had apprehended.

He had now time to reflect upon his bereaved condition. All his fathers
property had been put on board the vessel, and all had therefore gone
to the bottom, save a few jewels which the wary merchant had caused
him to secrete about his person for the sake of security, in case the
crew should turn pilferers and practically illustrate the doctrine of
appropriation. The old man had stowed his most valuable gems within
the folds of his own turban, which went to the bottom with him; so
that of all his immense wealth a trifling wreck only was preserved by
the son, who was now a comparative beggar in a strange country, with
the habits of which he was not familiar, and towards the inhabitants
of which he felt no sympathy. His future prospects were none of the
brightest. Although he had escaped death under its most fearful aspect,
he possessed nothing in his own estimation to render life desirable.
He had been cut off from all that was dear to him in the world, and
there remained nothing to enhance the world to him. He thought upon his
parent’s lamentable end, and wept. The dreadful fate of the Parsee girl
rushed like the simoon blast across his heart and wrung it with intense
agony. He wondered why he had not courted death amid the howling
storm, and could scarcely account for his having used such endeavours
to preserve a worthless and miserable existence: but he felt that he
was called upon to struggle through the difficulties by which he was
beset; and the pride of resistance at length rousing his spirit, he
resolved to rise superior to his destiny, and exert all his energies to
lift himself from the depression into which a course of concurrent but
hostile circumstances had plunged him.

He arose as soon as the broad light had made its way through the thick
growth of the forest, when to his surprise he found the tiger again at
his side. Its jowls were streaked with blood; and, from the roundness
which its flanks exhibited, it was evident to him that it had not gone
without its evening meal. It fawned before him with a fondness that
won his interest for the noble beast, which wagged its tail, advanced
into the thicket, then stopped and looked back, as if inviting him
to follow. There was an earnestness in the animal’s motions which
determined the merchant’s son to see whither it would lead him.
Perceiving him prepared to follow, the tiger bounded forward with a
suppressed roar. After passing through a portion of the forest where
the growth was unusually thick, his dumb guide suddenly stopped, and
Eiz-ood-Deen advancing perceived the tiger standing over the mangled
body of a buffalo recently slain. A portion of it had been eaten--the
whole of the intestines: but the most fleshy parts remained entire.
Eiz-ood-Deen drew a sharp double-bladed dagger, which he always carried
in his cummerbund; and cutting off a slice from one of the haunches,
returned to the spot where he had passed the night. Having kindled a
fire, he broiled the meat; and climbing a cocoa-nut tree that grew near
the beach at the edge of the jungle, he gathered several nuts, which
afforded him a refreshing beverage, and was thus considerably refreshed
by his morning’s repast. The tiger lay at his feet and slept. Instead
of feeling any terror in the presence of this powerful and ferocious
creature, he was animated by a confidence that tended much to quiet the
morbid anxieties of his mind. He felt a security against aggression,
which gave a stimulus to his determination to grapple manfully with
circumstances; and he began to think that he was still born to be a
distinguished man.

As soon as he felt his body sufficiently recruited to proceed,
Eiz-ood-Deen commenced his journey towards Ghizny. He had a long and
dreary way before him, but was supported by the consciousness that,
having been preserved from the tempest and from the natural ferocity of
the tiger, he was destined to sustain a character in the world. There
was an excitement imparted to his thoughts by the singular peculiarity
of his condition, and the shadows of despondency began to dissipate
before the active energies of his mind. A new field of speculation
appeared to be suddenly open before him; and when the loss of those who
were dear to him, and of his father’s treasure, passed like shadows
over his brain, they were repelled as by a sunbeam by some elevating
impulse of thought, and he pursued his way through the forest with a
comparatively unburthened heart. The tiger continued to follow him,
as if loth to relinquish the companionship of one who had been its
associate in peril, and towards whom its natural instincts of ferocity
seemed to subside into those milder ones which belong to the gentlest
of the dumb creation. It frolicked before his path, and fawned at his
feet when he rested, exhibiting the strongest symptoms of delight
when he patted its sleek broad back, purring under the pressure of
his hand, relaxing its large bright eyes into an expression of gentle
satisfaction, protruding its huge tongue, and passing it over its
formidable jaws, at once showing its power and its docility.

It was a strange thing to see a creature of such prodigious physical
energies, and with a disposition to exercise them whenever opportunity
might present itself, throwing off the habits of its nature, and, as
if by some supernatural transformation, exhibiting the very opposite
qualities to those which are innate with all its race. The circumstance
appeared to the merchant’s son a happy omen of his own future success,
and in the strength of this expectation he proceeded on his way. As he
was walking leisurely through a beaten path in the forest, he heard
something strike a tree just before him, and raising his eyes perceived
that an arrow was sticking into the bark. He turned his head, but there
was no person visible, and he paused in some uneasiness. Whence the
arrow had proceeded, or from whom, were alike a mystery. That he had
been the object of the archer’s aim he could not for a moment imagine,
as the shaft had struck in the trunk of the tree at least three feet
above his head, and he knew too well the dexterity of Indian bowmen,
whether warriors or robbers, to suppose that so false an aim could
have been taken by anyone accustomed to the use of this weapon. He was
perplexed; he knew not what to think. At length he saw the eyes of the
tiger fixed as if upon some object in the thicket. Drooping its ears
and gently undulating its tail, it dropped a moment on its belly, then
bounded forward, and was in an instant lost in the thick undergrowth
which nearly covered the whole face of the jungle.

After a few moments a cry of agony was heard, which was answered by a
stifled roar not to be mistaken. Eiz-ood-Deen rushed forward in the
direction of the sound. He heard a low mumbling as he neared the spot,
and making his way into a patch of small wood and jungle-grass, he
there saw the tiger standing over a man’s body, which was dreadfully
lacerated. Its paw was on the breast, into which the claws were fixed,
the bone being in several places perfectly bare. The skull was crushed
nearly flat, and the ferocious animal stood growling over its victim
as Eiz-ood-Deen approached. A strung bow was lying by the side of the
corpse, from which it was natural to conclude that this was the body of
the man who had discharged the arrow into the tree.

The tiger began voraciously to devour its prey; and when Eiz-ood-Deen
approached, and placed his hand upon it, the creature gave a quick
short growl, raised its paw suddenly, and struck him down. He was
stunned a moment with the force of the shock, but, rising instantly, he
retreated a few yards, and found to his extreme gratification, that the
tiger’s claws had not been protruded when it struck, as there was no
wound.

The merchant’s son made no further attempt to interrupt the creature’s
meal, which it was proceeding to despatch with characteristic voracity,
when, on a sudden, several arrows were fixed in its body. Raising its
head, it tore the shafts from its flanks; then with glaring eyes and
erected fur, darted forward in the direction whence the arrows had been
discharged. Its career was almost immediately arrested. It staggered
and fell dead. As it advanced, there had been a second discharge of
arrows, three of which entered its brain.

Eiz-ood-Deen saw with regret the noble creature lying prostrate in
death, remembering the peril they had shared in the late tempest, and
the tiger’s consequent gentleness towards himself. While he was gazing
at the body of the prostrate beast, several men advanced from the
thicket and surrounded him. “Who are you,” said one of them, “that the
brindled savages of the forest seem thus to respect?”

“A poor traveller on his way to Ghizny, which he hopes, through your
kind succour and direction, to reach.”

“But how comes it that yonder grim brute, which so unceremoniously
banqueted upon our companion, who lies yonder with his eyes to the
broad heavens, whither his spirit will never enter, did not make a meal
of thee? He seems to prefer flesh that has been forest-fed to the tough
and dry product of the town.”

“My history with reference to that beast is a strange one. We were
hurled into the sea from the same ship, and clung to the same spar for
preservation. The creature was near me in peril, and when we were cast
on shore together, fawned before me instead of exercising upon me the
savage propensities of its nature. Animal instincts are as inexplicable
as they are wonderful.”

“A likely story, in truth! but whether true or false, our companion has
been killed and you must supply his place. A tall sinewy fellow of your
growth and bulk is sure to make an apt as well as a comely robber.”

“I am afraid you will find me but an awkward practitioner in a
profession which I so little understand.”

“Ay, I suppose you are what those fools who affect to be good and
wise among us, call an honest man--whose whole life is only one broad
varnished lie. Honesty is a mere term for a purpose. Where are there
greater rogues than they who would be teachers of their fellows, and
under the veil of religion commit the vilest abominations, and dub them
with the name of honesty? We’ll soon teach you a different lesson. We
pretend not to be honest, for thieving is our craft, and we glory in
making the pampered pay for our civility when they happen to cross
our path. You’ll quickly learn to get rid of your qualms, for with us
hunger is a frequent visitor, and you’ve no notion how eloquently it
persuades men to become rogues. But you must go with us, whatever may
be your antipathies.”

There was clearly no use in contending with a set of desperadoes, who
had evidently made up their minds to have their own way; the merchant’s
son, therefore, followed them, without attempting the slightest
expostulation.

The robbers conducted him into a deep recess of the jungle, where there
was the ruin of what appeared to be an ancient temple. It was low, not
more than a few feet above the common level of the forest, and was
entered by a narrow portal which led into, several small dark chambers,
inhabited by the bandits, of whom there were upwards of thirty.

Eiz-ood-Deen was refractory, and did not choose to enrol himself among
this marauding company. They treated him with considerable harshness;
he nevertheless continued firm in his resolution to remain their
captive, rather than unite with them in their practices of plunder.

It happened that the robbers had received intelligence of a party of
troops being on their way, with supplies, towards the camp of Sultan
Ibrahim, sovereign of Ghizny, who had invaded India with a numerous
army. As their route lay through a part of the jungle, the robbers
determined to attack the detachment in a narrow pass, where they
would be unable to act effectively, and plunder the waggons. This was
accordingly attempted, and with some success. They partially robbed one
of the waggons, and bore off an officer who defended it. In the evening
they brought their prisoner to their forest dwelling. Dissatisfied
with the issue of their expedition, they determined to attack the
waggons again on the following day; and in order to effect this with
greater security, they put to their captive certain questions, which he
refused to answer. Every temptation was offered to induce him to make
disclosures, but he declined giving the slightest communication; this
so incensed the robbers that they shot him to death with arrows. They
were not, however, suffered long to triumph in their cruelty. On that
night their haunt was assailed by the troops which they had so recently
attacked, and the greatest part of the band were made prisoners.

CHAPTER IV.

Eiz-ood-Deen was made prisoner with the rest or the robbers, who were
severally put in irons, and finally marched to Ghizny, where they were
cast into separate dungeons. The merchant’s son now looked upon his
doom as sealed. Taken up as a robber and murderer, he saw little chance
of escape, and began to look forward with dreadful apprehensions to
undergoing an ignominous death. How was he to prove his innocence when
he had been taken in the very den of those criminals who had committed
the murder, and was declared by them to be one of their party? He could
bring forward no proof of his innocence to countervail such strong
presumptive evidence of his guilt. His mere declaration would scarcely
be listened to, it being well known that the guilty almost invariably
declare themselves innocent. He paced his prison with a restless and
impatient step. It seemed as if the doom of destiny were upon him.
Since the death of that guiltless girl, whom he had hoped to make his
wife, he had known nothing but misfortune. The conviction smote upon
his heart that he had been saved from destruction, when the hurricane
stirred the elements into frightful combination, and threatened every
moment to engulf him amid the raging billows, only to meet a more
dreadful doom upon land. He now regretted that he had not perished amid
the turbulent waters which bore his father to the abode of spirits, or
that the tiger had not struck him dead when it raised its paw against
him in the jungle. What was to be done? There was no evading the doom
which awaited him. He must die a degraded criminal, his body would be
thrown to the vultures and to the jackals. It was a fearful thought! To
have his bones whiten in the sun, and his flesh furnish a banquet for
beasts of prey!

The robbers were severally tried, all found guilty, and executed.
Their heads were placed upon the walls of Ghizny. His trial came last.
The day preceding he endeavoured to prepare himself for the fate from
which he concluded there could be no escape; but he could not brace
his spirit to that pitch of resolution which defies the terrors of
death, and renders the condemned man capable of going through the
awful details of a public execution, not only without dread, but with
perfect tranquillity of spirit. Every one of the robbers--for he had
been taken from his dungeon to witness their execution--had met death
with that sullen resolution peculiar to fatalists, for such were they;
but Eiz-ood-Deen, entertaining a different faith, felt that he was not
likely to meet it with equal resolution. The night which preceded his
trial was one of dreadful mental excitation. He had no rest; the fever
of anxiety was on his brow, and the phantoms of terror flitted round
him as he courted a transient oblivion of his woes.

The morning dawned upon his disturbed slumbers, and the dim light which
reached his dungeon through a narrow aperture in the wall roused him
from the damp earth upon which he had cast himself for the last time.
He arose feverish and unrefreshed. His hands were cold as the stones
by which he was surrounded, but his temples were painfully hot, and
throbbed almost audibly. He tried to summon resolution to appear before
the court with composure, but nature mastered all his energies, and he
gave way at length to a violent burst of emotion. The remarkable manner
of his escape from destruction during the storm and its accompanying
circumstances had endeared life to him, and he felt unconquerably loth
to relinquish it, although at one time he had really persuaded himself
that death would be a boon.

The summons at length came, and he prepared to follow the messenger
into the presence of a fallible judge, who, he was persuaded, would
pronounce upon him, though innocent, the dreaded penalty of the law.
He entered the court with a tottering step, a drooping eye, and a
bloodless cheek. The trial was summary, and the sentence speedily
passed. He was adjudged to have his head struck from his body and
placed upon the city walls, the trunk to be cast to the vultures. The
execution was ordered instantly to take place, and, as little sympathy
is shown for criminals in countries where despotism renders public
executions occurrences of mere daily routine, Eiz-ood-Deen was bound
without the slightest compassion being shown by those who had heard
his trial and condemnation. His turban was rudely stripped from his
head, and while the heartless official was binding it round his brow
to cover his eyes, in order that he might not witness the descending
stroke of death, he raised a piteous lamentation, calling upon the
Deity to attest that he was innocent, and accompanying his cries
with such strong appeals to the humanity of his judge, that even the
executioner was at length moved, and paused for a moment in his work of
preparation.

The prisoner was desired to state what he had to urge in his defence,
and say how it happened that he had been found associated with robbers
who had committed a murder upon one of the subjects of Sultan Ibrahim.
Eiz-ood-Deen commenced his defence by stating the principal events of
his life, which he did in a manner so simple and circumstantial, that
the magistrate, who had condemned him unheard, at length believing
him innocent, suspended his execution, and immediately petitioned the
sovereign in his favour.

On being brought before the Sultan, the merchant’s son acquitted
himself with such modesty and eloquence that he was pardoned, and taken
into the sovereign’s service. This was, in truth, an unexpected issue
to the dilemma in which he had so unwittingly fallen, and his prospects
thus suddenly brightening, he felt more than ever impressed with the
idea that he had been spared for a better destiny. He rose rapidly
in the royal favour, and was finally advanced to one of the highest
offices in the state.

One day as he was following the chase with several of the nobles, a
boar charged the horse of a prince of the royal house of Ghizny, and
having inflicted a frightful wound in its flank, the wounded beast
fell, and the foot of its rider being under its body, he could not
extricate himself. The enraged boar dashed towards him, and in a
few seconds more would have placed him in the same condition as his
horse, when Eiz-ood-Deen spurred forward, met the hog in its impetuous
career, received it upon his spear, which entered the heart of the
furious animal, and it fell dead beside its intended victim. The victor
immediately dismounted, and going to the prince’s rescue, released him
from his jeopardy. This little incident naturally produced an intimacy,
and Eiz-ood-Deen soon became a welcome visitor at the prince’s palace.

The latter had three daughters, one of whom was reputed to be a girl
of great beauty and accomplishments; nor did she belie the character
which report had given her. Her father was justly proud of her. She
was already betrothed to one of the wealthiest nobles in the Sultan
Ibrahim’s dominions. It had been an arrangement of interest, not of
affection, and one in which the princess had acquiesced rather in
obedience to the wishes of her father, whom she tenderly loved, than
to the suggestions of her own choice. When she met the preserver
of her parent’s life immediately after the event just related, the
natural impulses of her heart drew from her expressions of gratitude
so ardent and earnest, that Eiz-ood-Deen was deeply moved at the
eloquent declaration of her feelings. He listened to her with
breathless delight. There was no resisting the earnestness which was
so much enhanced by the corresponding influence of her beauty. But
she was betrothed, and therefore to admire her was dangerous--to love
her criminal; and yet to see her, under such a provocative both to
admiration and love, and not give way to those strong tendencies of our
nature roused into vigorous action, when that pure passion is awakened
by which alone the fruits of our earthly paradise are matured, was all
but morally impossible. The merchant’s son, now raised to the dignity
of a noble, and whose ambition therefore led him to think that he might
aspire to the highest alliance, could not behold the beauty of this
high-born maiden with insensibility. He soon felt that his heart had
received an impression which had completely effaced the scar left upon
it by the sad disappointment of a former love; yet he dared not avow it.

The two elder sisters were neither handsome nor agreeable, and had
passed that period of rich and vivid freshness which imparts to the
beauty of woman its best charm. They were rapidly advancing to the
staid season of existence when the buoyancy of youth begins to decline,
and you are continually reminded that its beautiful bright star has
culminated. It happened that they had been both struck with the fine
person of Eiz-ood-Deen, and manifested their partiality in a manner too
obvious to be longer equivocal. The object of their mutual affection
treated their advances with provoking disregard; but they, imagining
that he was withheld by their rank from declaring his passion, each
resolved in secret to take the earliest opportunity of letting him
know that he was beloved by a princess of the house of Ghizny.
Before, however, they could put their determination into practice,
Eiz-ood-Deen had declared his admiration for the younger sister, who
had answered his declaration by avowing a reciprocal attachment. This
almost immediately came to the ears of the two elder sisters, who were
outrageous at the discovery of his entertaining what they deemed so
degrading a preference.

This discovery, however, did not abate the passion of these two tender
maidens, and each resolved personally to declare her sentiments to the
object of her affections. One evening, Eiz-ood-Deen received a message,
through one of the attendants of the palace, from the youngest of the
three princesses, as was represented, to meet her in the palace gardens
an hour after sunset, as she had some special communication to make.
Delighted at the idea of encountering the object towards whom his heart
bounded with unceasing emotion, he repaired to the place appointed,
expecting to see one whose presence was rapture. He entered the gardens
and sprang towards a female already there awaiting his arrival, when
to his surprise and mortification he stood before the eldest daughter
of the prince whom he had rescued from death. The interview, however,
was short. She began by declaring her passion; but he soon silenced
her unwelcome avowal by telling her that his heart was fixed upon
her youngest sister. Having made this declaration, he quitted the
garden, and the princess sought her apartment, burning with rage and
disappointment.

Both the elder princesses meditated revenge; and in order to effect
this, they took an opportunity of rousing the jealousy of the Omrah
to whom their younger sister had been betrothed, by telling him that
his affianced bride had bestowed her affections upon Eiz-ood-Deen, at
the same time rousing his hostility by the vilest insinuations. The
fiercest passions of the noble were roused, and he determined to take
speedy and signal revenge. Shortly after this disclosure, while they
were enjoying the pleasures of the chase, the jealous lover resolved to
avail himself of the opportunity to destroy his rival, at a moment when
he was separated from the hunters. Eiz-ood-Deen had paused, to give his
steed breath after a severe run. On one side of him was a precipice,
and on the other the jungle from which the quarry had been roused. The
enraged noble, armed with a strong spear, urged his steed forward; but
the animal springing at the goad of its rider’s spur, suddenly turned
to the right, and bounded towards the precipice. There was no arresting
its career. It reached the brink--snorted, reared, and plunged into the
abyss. Both rider and horse were killed upon the spot.

The two elder daughters of the prince were grievously vexed at this
mischance; and their jealousy of the younger sister was carried at
length to such a height that Eiz-ood-Deen determined to declare himself
without further delay. The object of his attachment had received and
approved of his addresses; nothing therefore remained but to obtain
the father’s consent. The suit of the merchant’s son, who had been
raised by the Sultan to an appointment of high dignity in his court,
was backed by his royal master. Knowing that he was of the blood royal,
Ibrahim urged that the princess should be united to him. Eiz-ood-Deen
was consequently married to this beautiful scion of the house of
Ghizny, and shortly after put in possession of the principality of
Ghoor, over which his ancestors had reigned until the flight of his
father into India. By the princess of Ghizny Eiz-ood-Deen had seven
sons. These, when the father died, separated into two divisions. They
were, by way of distinction, called the seven stars. One of these
divisions gave its origin to the dynasty of kings at Bamyan, called
also Tokharistan and Mohatila; and the other to the Ghoory dynasty at
Ghizny. Of the latter race was Kootb-ood-Deen Mahomed, called King
of the Mountains. He married the daughter of Sultan Beiram, king
of Ghizny, and having founded the city of Feroozkooh, made it his
capital. In the vicinity of this place, having enclosed with a wall a
spot of ground about two parasangs[10] in circumference as a hunting
park, he assumed all the dignities of a sovereign. At length he was
induced to attack Ghizny. Sultan Beiram, obtaining intimation of
his intentions, contrived to get him into his power, and eventually
poisoned him. This was the origin of the feuds between the houses of
Ghoor and Ghizny.[11]

FOOTNOTES:

[10] The parasang varies from three to four miles.

[11] See Brigg’s Translation of Ferishta, vol. i. p. 167.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 582 (A.D. 1186).--The empire of Ghizny having passed from its
native sovereign to the house of Ghoor, Gheias-ood-Deen became
sovereign of all the Mahomedan conquests in India. His brother,
Mahomed Ghoory, whom he had appointed general-in-chief of his armies,
having settled the provinces of Lahore, retired to Ghizny.

Heg. 587 (1191).--Mahomed Ghoory marched into Hindostan and took the
town of Bitunda, but was obliged to retreat to Ghizny, having been
defeated by the combined armies under the command of Pithow-Ray,
Rajah of Ajmeer and Chawund Ray, Rajah of Delhi. In a second battle,
however, Mahomed completely routed the combined armies. Proceeding
in person to Ajmeer, he took possession of it, put a thousand of the
inhabitants, who opposed him, to the sword, and reserved the rest for
slaves. Having returned to Ghizny, Mullik Kootb-ood-Deen Eibuk, took
the fort of Merut and the city of Delhi from the family of Chawund
Ray; and it is from this circumstance that the empire of Delhi has
been said to be founded by a slave.

Heg. 589 (1193).--The general-in-chief marched to Benares, broke
down the idols of above a thousand temples, which lie purified and
consecrated to the worship of the true God. He then returned to his
brothers dominions.

Heg. 592 (1195).--Mahomed Ghoory returned to Hindostan, took Byana;
and the strong fort of Gwalior fell into the hands of Buha-ood-Deen
Toghrul, after a long siege. The king of Ghizny dying, Mahomed Ghoory
succeeded to the throne without opposition. Having attempted the
conquest of Khwaruzm, he was surrounded by the enemy, who advanced
to the relief of its sovereign. Almost the whole of his army being
destroyed, Mahomed cut his way through the enemy and arrived in safety
at the fort of Andkhoo, a short distance from the field of battle.
Here he was besieged; but upon engaging to pay a large ransom and to
abandon the place, he was suffered to return to his own dominions. His
entrance into Ghizny was opposed by Yeldooz, a slave; this opposition
obliged him to continue his route to Mooltan, where he was opposed
by Zeeruk, a powerful chief, who had rebelled against him. Being
joined by many of his friends and some Indian allies, he quelled the
insurrection and returned to his capital. This year the Ghoorkas were
converted to the faith of Islam.

Heg. 602 (1206).--A band of twenty Ghoorkas conspired against the
king’s life. Mahomed Ghoory being encamped at a small village on the
banks of the Indus, the assassins entered his tent and he fell under
their hands pierced with twenty-two wounds. The treasure which this
prince left behind him was incredible; he is said to have possessed
in diamonds alone four hundred pounds’ weight. He was succeeded by his
general Kootb-ood-Deen Eibuk, who was crowned king of Ghizny.

Heg. 603 (1206).--After his accession, the new king abandoned
himself to all kinds of sensual pleasures; in consequence of which
the citizens of Ghizny rebelled against him, and he was obliged
to retire to Lahore. Becoming sensible of his folly he repented,
and thenceforward governed his kingdom with remarkable justice,
temperance, and morality.

Heg. 607 (1210).--Kootb-ood-Deen was killed by a fall from his horse,
in a match at Chowgan,[12] and was succeeded by his son Aram, who the
same year was deposed by Shums-ood-Deen Altmish, his brother-in-law.

Heg. 612 (1215).--Altmish defeated Taj-ood-Deen on the plains of
Narain.

Heg. 622 (1225).--Shums-ood-Deen united under his dominions the
provinces on the Indus, having routed the forces of Nasir-ood-Deen, by
whom they were possessed, and who was drowned in attempting to cross
the river.

Heg. 624 (1227).--Altmish reduced the fort of Runtunbhore.

Heg. 626 (1229).--The king’s eldest son, whom he had made prince of
Bengal, dying, the father conferred the title upon his younger son,
whom he invested with the government of that province.

Heg. 629 (1231).--Altmish reduced the strong fort of Gwalior, which
surrendered after a year’s siege. He also took the city of Oojein, in
which he destroyed a magnificent temple, dedicated to Mahakaly, formed
upon the same plan with that of Somnat. This temple is said to have
occupied three hundred years in building.

Heg. 633 (1236).--Shums-ood-Deen Altmish falling sick on the road to
Mooltan, was obliged to return to Delhi, where he died the same year
and was succeeded by his son Rookn-ood-Deen Feroze, who dissipated the
public money, and excited by his excesses the general disgust of his
subjects.

Heg. 634 (1236).--Ruzeea Begum, the king’s sister, advanced with an
army against Delhi, which she entered in triumph, deposed her brother,
who died in confinement, and ascended the throne.

Heg. 637 (1239).--The queen excited the indignation her nobles by
raising to the post of Ameer-ool-Omrah a favourite slave named Yakoot.
She married Mullik Altoonia of the Toorkey tribe of Chelgany, governor
of Bituhnda, in consequence of which her subjects revolted. Altoonia
raised an army and marched against them,--a battle ensued, in which
the queen and Altoonia were slain.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] The game of Chowgan, like our football, consists in two opposite
parties endeavouring to propel a ball beyond certain bounds. The
parties in this game, however, are on horseback, and the players use
bats, like our rackets, to strike the ball.--_See Briggs translation of
Ferishta_, vol. i. p. 199.

The Abyssinian Slave.

CHAPTER I.

In consequence of the licentiousness and cruelty of Rookn-ood-Deen
Feroze, King of Delhi, he was deposed, and his sister Ruzeea Begum
raised to the throne. On her elevation great rejoicings prevailed
throughout her dominions; and she gave splendid entertainments
and public shows for several days, in order to impress the people
with an idea of her munificence. She was a woman of masculine
understanding, great energy of character, and much was expected from
the administration of a sovereign, of whom her royal father had said,
not long before his death, when asked by his officers why he appointed
his daughter regent of the kingdom during his temporary absence, in
preference to his sons,--“My sons give themselves up to wine and every
other excess; I think, therefore, the government too weighty for their
shoulders; but my daughter Ruzeea Begum, though a woman, has a man’s
head and heart, and is better than twenty such sons.”

The last day of the public rejoicings on the Sultana’s accession to the
throne of Delhi was distinguished by wild-beast fights and gymnastic
sports, in which the most celebrated competitors in her dominions
exhibited their skill.

During the games, a wild buffalo, which had been kept without food
for two days, in order to render it more savage, was driven into the
arena, and a large leopard, suffering under similar abstinence, opposed
to it. The conflict was short but decisive. The leopard sprang upon
its adversary, which received it upon its horns, flung it into the
air with fatal force, and then finished the work of destruction by
goring it until it was dead, without receiving a wound beyond a few
superficial scratches. The animal, proud of its victory, pawed the
ground in triumph, and roared as if challenging another competitor.
It galloped round the enclosure, raising the sand with its hoofs,
scattering it in the air, and plunging with all the fury of frantic
excitement.

The Queen sat in the balcony of a building erected for the purpose of
enabling her to witness the sports without risk. She was surrounded by
her women, who appeared to take no common pleasure in the sanguinary
pastime. Among them was the daughter of an Omrah, an extremely pretty
girl, to whom her mistress was much attached, and who, by way of
distinction, sat at her feet on the present occasion. She waved her
handkerchief with all the energy of girlish delight as the victorious
buffalo was careering round the area, when a champion appeared before
the spectators, causing a hush of breathless suspense as he advanced
towards the enraged animal, and declared aloud his determination to
encounter it. He was a man singularly handsome, with the frame of a
Hercules cast in the perfect mould of graceful proportion. He was tall,
but robust; broad, but compactly formed; every muscle, for he was
naked from his waist upward and from the knees downward, swelling from
the surface of his body with an undulation of symmetry that appeared
the very perfection of manly beauty. The calm but intense gleam of
his eye, which did not for a moment relax, was a legible record, not
to be misinterpreted, of his steady drift of purpose and indomitable
resolution. His lips were gently compressed, his head was slightly
inclined upon the right shoulder, his step was deliberate but firm, and
his whole bearing such as could not be mistaken for anything but that
of a man of the highest physical endowments. He was armed with a short
broad sabre, which he grasped in his right hand, and a heavy-bladed
dagger was stuck in his belt.

The buffalo roared as its adversary advanced, pawed the ground, bent
its head, and rushed furiously towards the stranger, who leaping on one
side with great agility, the infuriated beast continued its career
for several yards. It however soon returned to the charge, and with
a celerity which required all the wary caution and cool activity, so
eminently possessed by the champion, to avoid. It was again foiled, but
it became only the more enraged, and pursued its enemy with such vigour
that he had great difficulty to evade the intended mischief. At length,
seeing that the danger was heightening as the animal was in full career
towards him, he sprang out of its path, and striking forward with his
sword, broke off one of its horns close to the head. The wounded beast
bellowed with agony, and turned suddenly round upon its adversary,
who, evading a contact with the same dexterity as before, struck his
dumb antagonist so powerful a blow upon the neck as nearly severed the
head, and the buffalo rolled at his feet in the pangs of death. He then
coolly bowed to the Sultana, and retired.

“Who is that?” she inquired of an officer who had the direction of the
sports.

“An Abyssinian slave, most potent Queen, celebrated alike for the
beauty of his person and his prodigious strength of body.”

“His name?”

“Yakoot.”

“To whom does he belong?”

“To the mighty Sultana, whose empire is as extensive as the spiritual
dominion of the Prophet.”

“Let him be summoned before me at the conclusion of the sports.”

“What a charming man!” said Bameea, the Queen’s favourite, one of the
ladies of her mistress’s court; “and a slave too! Those limbs of his
were never formed for manacles, nor that back for a scourge: what think
you?”

“That fine limbs and a handsome frame are only outward tokens of
beauty, and may conceal more deformity than the greatest monster
exhibits to a mere superficial scrutiny. Fruits of the richest colour
contain the deadliest poison; and they tell us of some, exquisite to
the eye, that yield only ashes.”

“Ah! you are one of those cautious beauties, Zophra, that will take
nothing upon trust. You would look into a diamond to see what it is
made of; but I am content with its brilliancy, and seek not to know
whether it is a mineral or vegetable, or a houri’s tear. Look at that
man again, and say if he is not beautiful in his bondage--if he is a
fit object for slavery.”

The Abyssinian had again come forward to exhibit his strength and skill
in another encounter of quite a different character from the first.
He was now about to wrestle with a gigantic man, dull in aspect and
ungainly in his motions, though of colossal dimensions and prodigious
muscularity of limb. They stood before each other, and immediately
commenced the struggle. The larger competitor seized his adversary
by the shoulder with such a vigorous grasp as left the impression of
every finger. The Abyssinian soon, however, disengaged himself, and
laying hold of his opponent by the waistband of his trousers, threw
him forward with astounding force upon his face. The fallen champion
rose actively to his feet, and with a flushed countenance again placed
his hand upon the shoulder of his opponent, and, striking him at the
same moment just below the knee, cast him to the earth; but as he fell
upon his side the victory was not obtained, it being necessary that the
vanquished man should be thrown upon his back.

The slave rose deliberately, with a faint smile upon his lip, but a
defiant expression in his eye, that told, more intelligibly than words
could utter, a resolution to show what he could do under the apparent
disadvantages of superior strength and stature. He advanced slowly
towards his huge competitor, stood before him in an erect position, his
left arm extended and his right close to his breast, watching with the
eye of a lynx an opportunity for making his favourite movement. The
colossal champion walked round him, every now and then striking his
hands upon his own body, producing a sharp, loud smack, and adopting
various evolutions to distract the attention of him to whom he was
opposed. At length, with the swiftness of thought, the Abyssinian
darted upon his adversary and hit him with his open hand upon the
throat, at the same instant striking his feet from under him with a
force which nothing could resist. The man fell upon his back with so
terrific a shock, that he was borne senseless from the enclosure. The
victor, with modest gravity, again made his obeisance to the Sultana
and retired.

The lovely Bameea was perfectly delighted with the slave Yakoot, and
began to feel more than a woman’s curiosity to know something of his
history. She was anxious to persuade herself that he could not be an
ordinary person; and although Abyssinians were at the best little
better than barbarians, yet was it certain that there were always
exceptions to every general rule, and Bameea felt quite satisfied
that Yakoot was one of those exceptions. Besides, she had remarked
the countenance of her royal mistress as the latter regarded the
two last encounters, and she observed an expression of satisfaction
which confirmed her in the conclusion she had come to in the slave’s
favour; for she could not a moment entertain the thought that Sultana
Ruzeea Begum would condescend, even by the faintest expression of her
illustrious features, to indicate a favourable impression of any man
who was not worthy to be admired by all the ladies of her court.

The concluding feat of the day was a conflict with wooden swords
between the Abyssinian slave and an Indian, a Catti Rajpoot, who had
been taken prisoner in a late invasion of some of the provinces of
Hindostan. The Catti, as all his race are, was considered pre-eminently
skilled in the use of the sword. The wooden weapons with which the
combatants stood armed were made of a heavy wood and were long and
broad.

The onset was commenced by the Catti, who displayed a skill and
activity which at first somewhat confounded the slave, the latter
doing as much as he could in parrying the strokes of his adversary
without attempting to make a return. The vigour, however, of the Catti,
gradually abated; and finding that his blows were so successfully
parried, and that he was wasting his energies to no purpose, he began
to be more wary. The Abyssinian now occasionally became the assaulter,
but his efforts to hit the Rajpoot were foiled with equal skill.

Each of the champions had received slight blows, and appeared to be
so equally matched, that it was difficult to decide which had the
advantage. The Catti at length grew impatient and lost his caution.
His attack was more impetuous and reckless. In proportion as he became
heated the slave was cool; and taking advantage of his opponent’s
precipitation, just as the latter had raised his arm to strike, Yakoot
hit him suddenly above the elbow with such force that the bone of his
arm instantly snapped, the fractured member dropped powerless by his
side, and the wooden sword fell from his relaxed grasp.

This concluded the sports. The Rajpoot walked from the arena in
sullen disappointment, whilst the victor was borne in triumph upon
the shoulders of four men in a car, decorated with flowers. The Queen
quitted the balcony, and the gentle Bameea thought more ardently than
ever that the slave was in every respect a marvellous man.

CHAPTER II.

Early the next morning Yakoot was at work in the palace garden, which
was watered by a thousand fountains, and seemed to be the abode of all
the beautiful genii which preside over the operations of vegetation.
Flowers of all hues and fragrance decked the slopes and parterres;
shrubs of every description to which horticulturists have attached
value for their beauties or rare qualities, were here displayed in
lavish profusion; trees of every kind, celebrated for their fruits or
for some singular intrinsical production, were bountifully scattered
over this earthly paradise. Fish sported in the marble fountains which
terminated the walks; birds of various feather and accomplishment
warbled their gentle notes of love from the embowering foliage; doves
cooed from the arbours, and rabbits grazed upon small enclosed plats
especially dedicated to their enjoyments, but beyond which they could
not trespass, in consequence of a wire wall which debarred them from
passing the circles appropriated to them.

Amidst this scene of earthly beauty Yakoot was sad. He remembered with
emotions of stern regret the savannas and forests of his native home,
where the wild beast prowled and the hand of man was frequently lifted
against his fellow with the deadliest purpose. He eyed with solemn
composure the gorgeous blending of nature and art, by which he was at
this moment surrounded; but it conveyed no gratification to his heart.
His predilections were of a different temperament. He sought delight in
the rugged and the severe, and therefore laboured with a smile of cold
contempt amid the luxuries brought from almost every quarter of the
world by the munificence of eastern regality. He had heard the applause
of men, won by his prowess in the sports of the preceding day, but they
moved him not. The approbation of the Sultana, which had been conveyed
to him with a mandate that he was to appear before her on the following
morrow, administered no joy; but amid the gloom of his condition, a
light broke in upon his soul when he remembered the smile dancing upon
the full pulpy lip of the beautiful Bameea as she applauded his feats
of prowess in the arena. He had gazed upon her with an earnestness
which called the blood into her cheek; and for the first moment during
his captivity, which had only been one of a few short weeks, he felt
his bosom glow towards an object with that mysterious sympathy which
binds the heart, although in a silken fetter, yet with a security more
lasting than links of iron. There was no accounting for the sudden
impulse that almost instantly seemed to overmaster the rugged severity
of his nature, and draw his kindly affections forth in bland and
assauging emotions. But who was he that entertained thoughts of so pure
and holy an intercourse as that which Heaven sanctions, when hearts are
united and wishes harmonize? Was he not a slave? Could the high-born
and refined look upon a bondman but with feelings of repugnance? And
yet, while his lips muttered these querulous doubts, there was an
antagonist presentiment within which repudiated them.

He was at one end of the garden, his eye wandering over the fairy scene
around him, when it caught the shadow of a female figure advancing
along one of the walks. His breast throbbed: the shadow so truly
represented the outline of a form which of all others he desired to
behold, that he could not be mistaken. He kept his eyes fixed upon the
spot that was in a moment to reveal an object upon which it would be
rapture to gaze; and, ere he could finish the expiration which mingled
surprise and delight had suspended, the interesting Bameea stood before
him. He bent his head as she approached, and touching the ground with
his fingers, placed them upon his brows.

“Ha! Yakoot,” said the timid girl, returning his salutation, “I bring
you joyful intelligence. You will not long have to toil in these
gardens under the scorching sun to rear flowers and trim shrubs. The
prowess which you exhibited yesterday has won the admiration of your
royal mistress, and she has declared her intention of having you
numbered among her household.”

“I desire not, lady, so near a contact with sovereigns. Slaves are
foils to those poor worms of might, and I seek not to illustrate one of
the extremes of high and low.”

“But you will find her an indulgent mistress, if you do your duty.”

“That is, if I do not thwart her royal will. The tawny lion will purr
under your touch if you cram his ravenous maw, and leave him the fierce
liberty of his instincts. Sovereigns are never kind, lady, either from
humanity or compassion, but merely to gratify their own selfishness; I
therefore despise royal favours, and would rather labour in this garden
under the fierce glow of a meridian sun, with such an object near me,
to inspirit the dull hours of toil, as my eyes are now permitted to
gaze upon, than be the fantastic puppet of a queen’s bounty.”

“Well, but you will be summoned shortly before the presence,” said
Bameea, reddening; “and--and--I trust you will throw no impediments in
the way of being near the Sultana, because----”

“Why that pause?”

“Oh! because----”

“Nay, my decision will depend upon your answer, lady.”

“Because, I think you would be pleasant company sometimes, when our
royal mistress lacks amusement, and our wits are dull, and cannot
furnish it. Believe me, you’ll find agreeable companions.” Saying
this, she tripped lightly off, as if she feared something from his
reply that she would rather avoid hearing. The Abyssinian watched her
receding figure as she glided down the path, until she was lost amidst
its sinuosities, the walk being bounded on either side by tall shrubs.

Yakoot mused upon the past event. Bameea had not been sent to summon
him. Why then did she come to apprise him of the Sultana’s intention.
No such intimation was necessary. It was evidently given at the
suggestion of her own wishes. The slave was a man of ready penetration,
and with instinctive sagacity peculiar to eastern nations in all
matters concerning a reciprocation of the senses, he began to think
that he was not an object of indifference to the interesting girl who
had just quitted him. This was a sunlight to the darkness that had
lately clouded his soul, and the fountain of life seemed again to gush
fresh and sparkling within him, as if animated with new energy. Slavery
might be a boon instead of a bane, and his soul was comforted.

Not long after Bameea’s departure, Yakoot was summoned to attend the
Sultana. He instantly followed the messengers, and passed into the
royal presence. Ruzeea Begum was seated upon a fine cashmere shawl
spread over a thick rug woven from the same wool, and worked in the
richest devices. Behind her stood Bameea, waving over her mistress’s
head a beautiful bird of Paradise. Beside the latter was a gold
ewer containing perfumes which produced around her an atmosphere of
delicious fragrance. Her hookha, sparkling with gems, stood on her
left hand, the highly decorated tube resting on a brocaded cushion.
Her slippers, formed of the finest Bagdat tissue, worked in gold and
embroidered with pearls, were placed beyond the rug upon a costly
japan tray. A small circular mirror of burnished steel in a silver
frame, and having a handle of the same metal, lay upon her lap. This
she occasionally raised in order that she might ascertain if the henna
had been properly applied to her eyelids, or if the various cosmetics
employed in her toilet had produced their proper effects.

The Sultana’s dress consisted of fine white muslin worked in gold,
disposed round her body in loose flowing drapery, and covering
trousers of the palest sky-blue silk, fastened at the ankles by bands
of woven gold. On her head she wore a plain turban, loosely twisted
round her high broad forehead, and composed of white cashmere. When the
Abyssinian entered, she beckoned him to approach, without raising her
eyes from the mirror upon which she had at that moment fixed them. He
advanced with manly reverence, but not in the smallest degree awed by
the presence of the sovereign, whose voice was a fiat, and her will an
ordinance.

Ruzeea Begum was a woman of commanding person, handsome but repelling,
and exhibiting in her countenance the somewhat stern and decisive tone
of her mind.

“Slave,” said the sovereign, still keeping her eye upon the mirror,
“you have won the approbation of your royal mistress, who intends to
advance you to the dignity of an appointment in her household.”

The slave was silent.

“Do you prefer the drudgery of bondage to the lighter labours of
attendance upon your Queen?”

“I am a bondsman, at the will of a mistress which must be to me a law;
I have therefore no choice; wherever I may be placed I shall know how
to do my duty.”

“Does the approbation of your sovereign give you no satisfaction?”

“Much, because it assures me that I deserve it, for the approbation of
sovereigns is seldom bestowed unless it be fairly won.”

“To show you that mine has been won, from this moment you are free; and
may your future conduct show that I have not disgraced my confidence!”

“My conduct will never be influenced by obligations, however nobly
conferred. I have a conscience upon which is recorded, in characters
stamped by the hand of Heaven, my rule of life--that I shall obey.”

Bameea hung down her head. She feared that this bold bearing might
rouse the excitable temper of the haughty Queen; but Ruzeea Begum did
not appear in the slightest degree disturbed, and answered with unusual
mildness:

“I shall calculate upon an honest servant; for surely he upon whom a
queen has conferred her favour cannot fail to be faithful. Your feats
of yesterday satisfied me that you are one among the few upon whom
princes may lean for security in the hour of peril. Such men are rare,
and should be cherished when they come before us. I have no more to
say. You are free, and will shortly receive your appointment from the
minister. See that you do not belie my judgment.”

Yakoot retired; apartments were prepared for him in the palace; and for
some days he continued about the sovereign’s person, receiving from her
very distinguished marks of favour.

Rumours soon began to spread of the Sultana’s criminal partiality for
the Abyssinian slave. Some of the nobles expressed their disgust, and
others retired from court. Within a month after he had obtained his
freedom, Yakoot was advanced to the dignity of master of the horse.
In consequence of this exaltation several of the nobles rebelled; the
favourite was sent against them with a well-appointed army, and soon
reduced them to obedience. The Queen’s partialities were now becoming
offensive to the Abyssinian. There was no mistaking her wishes;
nevertheless, he treated his royal mistress with a frigid respect,
which, though it mortified her deeply, only increased her determination
to render him the slave of her passion; but his heart had a different
bias. He had already declared his love to Bameea, who returned his
affection, and they exchanged vows of mutual fidelity. Of this the
Sultana knew nothing; but, resolved to win the heart of the Abyssinian,
she raised him to the dignity of Ameer-ool-Omrah, the highest station
in the state next to princes of the blood royal.

CHAPTER III.

The Sultana was not long in discovering the mutual attachment which
subsisted between the Ameer-ool-Omrah and Bameea.

Her anger knew no bounds. She summoned the Abyssinian. He appeared
before the presence of his sovereign, not without some suspicion of
what was about to take place. Bameea stood behind the Queen. She saw
by the scowl upon the royal brow that no good was intended towards
the object of her love. The eye of Ruzeea Begum was restless, and
her fingers trembled as she dipped them into the ewer of perfume
that stood beside her. Her full expressive mouth was closed with a
compression that indicated suppressed emotion, and the full undulating
lip occasionally quivered. Her head was raised haughtily as the
Ameer-ool-Omrah entered, and she fixed upon him her large penetrating
eye with so searching a scrutiny that it seemed as if it would
have reached the very core of his heart. He met her gaze with calm
reverence; and having made his obeisance, stood before her with the
unbending dignity of a man who has secured the approbation of his own
conscience. For several moments the Sultana did not speak, and in
her presence no one of course ventured to break the silence. Bameea
trembled as she perceived the rising agitation of her sovereign, which
was evidently increased by the unperturbed demeanour of the person whom
she had summoned. Ruzeea Begum at length finding the ebullition rising
to her throat, by a sudden effort suppressed it, and passing her hand
gently across her brow, as if to dispel the cloud which for a moment
overshadowed it, she said, in a tolerably calm tone,

“Yakoot”--but her voice slightly trembled, and she eagerly swallowed a
copious draught of sherbet.

“Yakoot,”--she had now regained her self-possession--“say, what does
that man deserve who, having been raised by his sovereign from the
lowest to the highest station, slights that sovereign’s favour?”

“Death, if he slight a favour which it becomes his sovereign to grant
and him to receive; the praise of all good men, if he slight a favour
that would degrade his sovereign, and dishonour him.”

“You have treated your Queen with the basest ingratitude.”

“I have done my duty, and if that is not consistent with the station to
which a criminal partiality has advanced me, I am ready again to become
the slave of the Sultana, instead of her Ameer-ool-Omrah. I courted not
the distinction, and will never maintain it at the price of my virtue.”

The eye of Ruzeea Begum flashed fire.

“Slave!” she cried, “thy virtue is but the mask of hypocrisy. There
is the cause of all thy disloyalty;” and she pointed with a quivering
lip towards Bameea,--“there is the rebel who has seduced thee from
thy allegiance; but there shall come a day of retribution--a day of
vengeance--and remember that the revenge of monarchs is not the sudden
irruption of the whirlwind, but the wide-spreading devastation of the
hurricane.”

Bameea shrieked as she heard this fearful denouncement, and buried her
brows in her small delicate hands.

“Bear her from my sight,” said the angry Queen: “henceforward I
dispense with her services. But you,” turning to the Abyssinian,
who stood before her in the same attitude of unruffled
self-possession--“you may look for punishment when you least expect
it. You have many enemies, and yet fancy yourself secure in the
supremacy of your own valour; nevertheless, though you possessed the
bravery of our holy prophet, and were endowed with a supernatural power
of locomotion, there is no spot upon earth or in heaven where the
vengeance of an insulted queen would not reach you.”

“Hear me, before I quit your presence for the last time,” said Yakoot,
solemnly. “I am threatened with your vengeance; it is right I should
tell you that I shall do my best to anticipate and to repel it,
whenever and wherever it may appear. From this moment I revoke my vows
of fealty to the daughter of Shums-ood-Deen. When monarchs become
tyrants, from that instant they cease to be accredited sovereigns,
and lose all right to the allegiance of good men. Had I forfeited my
claim to your respect by an act dishonourable to my name or title, I
were content to suffer the heaviest penalty which human laws award to
human offences; but, as my integrity has remained untarnished in your
service, I feel that you have now heaped upon me a wrong of which I am
not deserving, and from this moment I quit your presence as a foe.”

The Sultana was silent; she dared not speak lest the current of her
rage should burst forth into a torrent, and the Abyssinian retired from
her presence with an unruffled brow.

That night he was passing towards his home, without a guard and
unarmed. The street was dark and narrow. Towards the end there was a
ruin used for the purposes of stalling cattle, where all the homeless
and vagrant of the city congregated. He passed the ruin, but saw not a
human soul, nor heard a sound. Musing upon the unpleasant occurrences
of the morning, he walked leisurely onward. His heart was stirred to a
quicker pulsation as he reflected upon what his beloved Bameea might
undergo from the criminal jealousy of her royal mistress. On passing
a house supported by a projecting buttress, the drapery of his loose
dress caught in a fractured stone, and his progress was thus for the
instant impeded. As he stopped, he fancied he heard the stealthy sound
of footsteps, and, turning round, soon perceived three figures at
a short distance cautiously approaching. They paused when they saw
that he no longer advanced. The recollection of the Sultana’s threat
immediately struck upon his memory like a flash of light. There was
something so sinister in the movements of the three men that determined
him to be upon his guard. He placed his back against the wall, having
his left side protected by the projecting buttress. The men advanced,
and upon reaching the place where the Ameer-ool-Omrah was stationed,
sprang upon him simultaneously, and attempted to pierce him with their
daggers. With a sweep of his muscular arm he levelled two of them to
the earth, and raising his foot, impelled it with such quickness and
force against the body of the third that he fell senseless. One of the
assailants who had been struck down was almost instantly on his legs,
and rushed forward with his dagger raised to strike; but, stumbling
over his prostrate companion, the Abyssinian caught him in his arms,
lifted him like a cushion in the air, and dashing him on the ground,
left him there stunned. Releasing the weapon from the grasp of his
fallen foe, he approached the other man who had been first prostrated
by the sweep of his arm; buried in his heart the instrument with which
he had just armed himself; and taking their turbans from the heads
of the other two assassins, bound their hands and feet together, and
in this painful situation left them to the charities of the casual
passenger.

Next morning, the report of a man having been murdered spread through
the city, and the two individuals, who were found tied by the wrists
and ankles, having been examined, feared to fix the charge upon their
intended victim, lest it should lead to a discovery of their criminal
assault; but, whilst they were under examination, to their astonishment
the Abyssinian appeared before their judge, and detailed all the
circumstances of the attack made upon him by the prisoners, and how he
baffled them in their murderous design. They were immediately led forth
to execution, lest they should betray who had employed them. Suspicion
fixed upon the Sultana; but, as she did not interpose her authority
to rescue the assassins from death, the suspicions of the many were
silenced, though they were still harboured by the few, as it is too
common a practice for tyrants to abandon their instruments when failure
has laid them open to the chance of discovery.

The Queen affected great concern at what had occurred, and sent a
messenger to Yakoot to congratulate him upon his escape from the
murderous assault of his foes. He received her deputy with cold
formality, but did not even return a message. She was outrageous at
her condescension, being so openly slighted by a slave, as she still
called the man whom her own voice had declared free, and whom she had
raised to the dignity of Ameer-ool-Omrah. The smothered flame did not
immediately burst forth, but, while it smouldered, gathered strength
for a fiercer conflagration.

Yakoot, however, took no measures of precaution, although it was
evident that the elements of mischief were at work and rising into
active combination. He resolved to counteract the perfidious designs
of the Queen. The spirit of disaffection against her government had
already begun to show itself. Her brother Beiram had won the affections
of the troops, indignant at being under the dominion of a woman, and
disgusted at the impure life which the sovereign was reputed to lead.
Many of the nobles, too, were strongly disaffected against her; at the
head of these was Mullik Altoonia, of the Toorky tribe of Chelgany,
governor of Bituhnda, and tributary to the Queen. Yakoot, disgusted at
Ruzeea Begum’s rancour towards him, fomented the disaffection of that
powerful noble by pointing out the flagrant enormities of the Sultana’s
government; and, as a measure of precaution, secretly joined the
councils of the rebels. The hostility of Ruzeea Begum knew no bounds,
and she determined that he should expiate with his life the crime of
having slighted her favour.

A few days after the late attack upon the Ameer-ool-Omrah, he was
hunting the wild boar in a forest not far from the city. Many nobles
of the Queen’s court were likewise enjoying this animating sport. A
vast concourse of people had assembled, as in Eastern countries they
always do upon similar occasions. Carried by the ardour of the chase
beyond his companions, Yakoot passed a cover, from which a huge boar
darted, directing its course across the plain. The Abyssinian instantly
dashed his heels into the flanks of his steed, and it bounded off after
the game; but scarcely had it cleared the thicket, when an arrow,
discharged by an unseen hand, struck its rider in the fleshy part of
the upper arm, and remained crossed in the wound. Snapping the shaft,
and drawing out the reed, he continued his career, and, in spite of his
wound, succeeded in slaying the boar.

It was too evident now that his life was aimed at by secret enemies;
and, without expressing his suspicions, but affecting to look upon
the murderous attempt of the morning as a mere accident, he resolved
immediately to quit the city and retire to Bituhnda. The Sultana’s
government was becoming more and more odious every day, and it was
clear to him that she had employed assassins in two several instances
to take away secretly the life which she dared not openly attack. On
that night he quitted the capital, and joined Mullik Altoonia, with
several of the disaffected nobles. The moment Ruzeea Begum heard of
their flight, she placed herself at the head of a considerable army,
and, meeting the rebels half-way between Delhi and Bituhnda, a battle
ensued, in which the royal forces were defeated by the conduct of
Yakoot, who commanded the disaffected, and the Queen was made prisoner.
She was sent to the fort of Bituhnda to Mullik Altoonia, who, being
seduced by her beauty and affected distress, shortly after married her.
Upon this, the Abyssinian retired in disgust to Delhi, and engaged in
the service of Prince Beiram, who had been elevated to the throne.

CHAPTER IV.

In consequence of the marriage of Ruzeea Begum with Mullik Altoonia,
her brother Beiram, who had been elevated to the empire of Delhi, was
securely seated upon the musnud. The disgust excited by the conduct of
their queen had weaned from her the hearts of those among her subjects
who had hitherto maintained her cause, and she had become an object of
universal odium. Bold and enterprising, however, she determined not to
submit patiently to the loss of a throne, and assembling an army under
the command of her husband, prepared to vindicate her rights. Beiram,
meanwhile, collected forces to oppose the threatened invasion, and
placed them under the command of the quondam Abyssinian slave, whose
injuries were likely to urge him to employ his best energies to foil
the efforts of a resolute and accomplished foe.

The recollection of the fierce determination with which Ruzeea Begum
had sought his life, was incentive sufficiently strong to urge the
general to devote his talents and energies to a cause which impelled
him by a double motive-retribution, and a desire to rid the people
among whom he had been naturalized from the dominion of a tyrant. A
still stronger motive remained behind. Upon his return to the capital,
Yakoot discovered that the late favourite had been removed from
the palace, and knowing the Sultana’s implacable passions, he had
everything to fear for Bameea’s safety. He had been able to ascertain
nothing satisfactory respecting her, and his apprehensions were roused
in proportion to the suspense which he was forced to endure. It was a
sad thing to be divided from the object of his affections through the
criminal passions of a woman whose power enabled her to be cruel, and
whose malice urged her to exercise that power.

Although the Sultana was at a distance from Delhi, it soon became
evident that neither had her vengeance slumbered, nor was she without
tools to execute her will. The secret assassin once more attempted the
life of the detested Abyssinian, who again frustrated the sanguinary
intention. Finding that she was still so active in putting measures
into operation for his destruction, he determined to march without a
moment’s delay, and by a decisive battle settle the question of her
enmity for ever.

The evening before he marched, Yakoot retired to rest at an early
hour. He had not been long upon his couch, when placing his hand
beside his head, it came in contact with something cold and slippery.
Starting from the bed, he saw a large venomous snake which had raised
itself and spread out its hood, and was in act to strike when he
retreated beyond the reach of mischief. Upon examining the apartment,
he discovered two of these monsters concealed under the palampore.
Taking them by the tails, he summoned his attendants, who were all
ignorant how the reptiles could have invaded the sanctuary of their
master’s apartment. It was however recollected that a snake-charmer had
been employed to get rid of those noxious reptiles on the preceding
day. He was immediately summoned, but denied all knowledge of the
intruders; however, upon the torture being applied, the confession
was extorted from him, and he was immediately punished by being flung
over the battlements of the city; after which the forces under the
Ameer-ool-Omrah marched from the capital.

When Ruzeea Begum quitted Delhi on her journey towards Bituhnda, she
took with her the unhappy Bameea, whom she treated with extreme
rigour upon discovering the attachment which existed between her and
the Abyssinian. She had confined her a prisoner in an apartment of
the palace, and allowed her only the most homely food, debarring her
even from the indulgence of an attendant, and exposing her to every
mortification which her inveterate malice could suggest.

On the day after Yakoot’s last audience with the Sultana, Bameea was
summoned to the royal presence; and all the attendants being commanded
to withdraw, the former said, “Woman, when menials interpose between
sovereigns and their pleasures, it is the habit of princes to prevent
them from countervailing their wishes either by imprisonment or death.
Thou art too poor a thing to die; but nevertheless, when we forbear to
tread upon the worm, we take care to remove it from our path. How didst
thou become acquainted with the Abyssinian slave?”

“We met in the garden of the palace. The same brilliant achievement in
the arena which won the Queen’s admiration, won also mine. We met, our
vows were interchanged, and he has remained faithful to his love.”

“And despised his sovereign for a toy which she could crush with the
blast of her nostrils. Now, hear me--I love that foreigner. Never would
he have been raised from the debasing condition of a slave to the
dignity of Ameer-ool-Omrah, if he had not made a deep impression upon
his mistress’s heart. Monarchs do not advance menials to the highest
office in the state, unless they entertain towards them more than a
common feeling of approbation. His queen was entitled to his gratitude
when she stripped from him the badge of slavery and raised him to a
level with the nobles of her court. His ingratitude has been as signal
as her favours: but he shall live to experience that a sovereign’s
hatred can debase him as greatly as her love has raised him. You,
who have been the cause of the mortification of your royal mistress,
can expect no further favour at her hands, and you may congratulate
yourself with the loss of liberty, when your offence might have been
visited with the loss of life. We shall meet again. Go!”

The Sultana struck her hands together, and several attendants entered,
who were ordered to conduct the trembling Bameea to prison. She entered
it with a painful apprehension of what the jealousy of the Begum might
prompt her to put in operation against the Abyssinian, towards whom it
was evident that the gall of her malice was overflowing.

When Ruzeea Begum quitted Delhi, she took with her the unhappy Bameea,
who, on their arrival at Bituhnda, was subjected to a still more rigid
captivity than before. The poor girl’s situation was deplorable. She
was now apprehensive of never again beholding the object of her heart’s
affection, and began to yield to the saddest apprehensions. The hatred
of her royal mistress was of too fierce a nature ever to give way to
compunction, and she saw nothing but misery before her. Her days were
long intervals of bitterness, and her nights seasons of disturbed and
unrefreshing sleep. She grew thin, and wasted to a shadow;--hope was
banished from her bosom;--she looked forward to death as a release
from miseries which now seemed to crush her with the weight of a
mountain;--she felt that death would be a relief, but this was a mercy
which suited not the purpose of her tyrant, who took delight in seeing
her victim suffer.

Bameea thought of escape, but this appeared impracticable. As an almost
forlorn hope, she tried the integrity of an occasional attendant,
who was admitted to clean her apartment. The woman seemed to listen
willingly to the tempting promises of reward made by the captive, if
she would facilitate her flight. A bribe was placed upon her “itching
palm.” She clutched the gold with a miser’s eagerness; the doors of
Bameea’s prison were opened, but she was discovered before she had
quitted the palace, and borne back again to her captivity. She had been
betrayed. The bribe had been received, and the prisoner denounced. Her
confinement was now more than ever rigid. She was removed to a small
apartment in which there was no outlet save the door, and this was so
massive as to stifle all expectations of escape.

The poor girl now abandoned herself to the strong impulse of despair.
To her surprise she was visited by the Begum, who upbraided her with
having attempted to corrupt the woman admitted to her apartment. “There
is no guilt,” said Bameea, with earnestness, “in using any means to
escape the inflictions of tyranny. All things are lawful to evade
the oppression of those who make their passions the medium of their
actions. Your cruelty has rendered my life a bane, and I am prepared to
relinquish it whenever your malice shall suggest the sacrifice.”

The Sultana smiled bitterly. “I would not take your life; that would
not satisfy my vengeance. If you were dead, you could no longer suffer
the punishment which my ill-requited affections--and of these you are
the cause--demand as a just expiation. I intend to punish the wretch
who has injured me through you, and he shall yet live to curse the day
that he treated with indifference the affections of Ruzeea Begum.”

“But why should you longer feel his disregard when you have now one to
whom those affections are sacred, and to whom you have relinquished the
sole right to possess them?”

“Political alliances have little to do with the warm emotions of the
heart. It is enough that I loved the slave who has despised me, and
he shall feel my vengeance. But you may obtain your liberty upon one
condition. Relinquish the affections of the Abyssinian by entering into
a conjugal alliance with a noble whom I have selected for you, and who
entertains towards you a warm attachment. Consent to become his wife,
and the doors of your prison shall be instantly unbarred.”

“Never!” cried the agitated girl with energy. “You may keep me
lingering through a life of wretchedness within a dungeon, but you
cannot rob me of my soul’s freedom. My love will only expire with
my death, and I will never purchase my liberty at the sacrifice you
demand.”

The Sultana’s eyes flashed fire, and she quitted her victim without
uttering a word; but there was a volume in her glance. That very
evening Bameea’s food was changed. A curry was placed before her which
had been prepared, as it appeared, with more than usual care. She eyed
it apprehensively. Suspicions of the darkest description instantly
took possession of her mind. She could not forget the Begum’s glance
of fury as she quitted her prison: the curry, therefore, remained
untouched; for though death would have been a welcome visitant, yet
she resolved to avoid any but that which nature brings, so long as the
choice was left her. A small quantity of the homely food upon which she
had been accustomed to feed since her captivity remained, and upon this
she relieved the demands of nature.

That night was passed in sleepless agony. She looked forward to the
dawn with a presentiment of terror. Phantoms passed before her mind
which almost convulsed her frame to madness. She arose and looked at
the refection which she suspected to be poisoned: she laid her hands
upon the dish, and had all but resolved to brave the penalty of tasting
it, when her better feelings prevailed, her excitement subsided, and
she sank into a state of transient insensibility. It was short. She
was roused by a stranger. He brought her tidings of great joy. On the
afternoon of the preceding day, a battle had been fought betwixt the
forces of Mullik Altoonia, headed by himself and his consort, and those
of the Sultan Beiram, commanded by Yakoot. The former had been routed,
and the Sultana and her husband slain. The shouts of victory soon
reached the ears of Bameea, and these were shortly followed by a sight
of her lover.

The happy pair were immediately after united; the Abyssinian was
confirmed by Beiram in his office of Ameer-ool-Omrah--the nation
prospered under his sage councils, and the loves of Yakoot and Bameea
became the subject of many an Eastern legend.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 637 (A.D. 1240).--Moiz-ood-Deen Beiram ascended the throne of
Delhi, but was deposed by his vizier and cast into prison, where he
almost immediately suffered death, after a reign of two years, one
month, and fifteen days.

Heg. 639 (1241).--Alla-ood-Deen Musaood, son of Rookn-ood-Deen Feroze,
was raised to the musnud, which, after a reign of four years, one
month, and a day, he was obliged to relinquish. His excesses and
cruelties having disgusted his ministers and friends, he was cast into
prison, where he passed the rest of his life.

Heg. 644 (1247).--Nasir-ood-Deen Mahmood, the youngest son of
Shums-ood-Deen Altmish, succeeded the late king, who had been deposed
by his nobles. This was a prosperous reign of twenty years and
upwards, the king dying a natural death. He was succeeded by his
brother-in-law and vizier, Gheias-ood-Deen Bulbun.

Heg. 685 (1286).--The king’s son Mahomed, a prince of great promise,
was sent against the Moguls who had invaded Moultan. Having defeated
them in a pitched battle, and being too eager in the pursuit of them,
as they fled before his victorious arms, he was beset by a party which
lay in ambush, and slain. The old king, now in his eightieth year,
never recovered this shock, which threw him into a melancholy, and
he died shortly after in the twenty-second year of his reign. His
grandson Keikobad, immediately ascended the throne without opposition.

Heg. 687 (1288).--The king, having excited the disgust of his
subjects, was cut off by assassins as he lay sick at Kelookery. The
ruffians found him lying on his bed in a dying state, deserted by his
attendants. Having beat out his brains with bludgeons, they rolled him
up in the bedclothes, and flung him out of the window into the river.
Julal-ood-Deen Feroze Khiljy, one of his ministers, who had been the
cause of the late king’s assassination, ascended the musnud, and was
cut off by the treachery of his own nephew, Alla-ood-Deen, after a
reign of seven years and some months.

Heg. 696 (1297).--Alla-ood-Deen Khiljy was raised to the musnud after
some opposition. His first care was to secure the favour of the
troops; and after having defeated the queen-dowager, and the Prince
Kudder Chan, he ascended the throne in the ruby palace.

Heg. 697 (1297).--Kowla Devy, wife of the Prince of Guzerat, fell
into the hands of the king’s brother. She was a woman of remarkable
wit, beauty, and accomplishments, by which Alla-ood-Deen was so much
captivated, that he took her into his harem. This year was rendered
memorable by the death of Zuffur Chan, the greatest general of his
time. His bravery became so proverbial among the Moguls, who had so
frequently felt the force of his arm, that when their horses started
it was usual among them to ask if they saw the ghost of Zuffur Chan.
His death was a severe loss to Alla-ood-Deen, who, however, feared
him, and therefore expressed no regret at his death.

Heg. 699 (1299).--Rookn Khan, Alla-ood-Deen’s nephew and
brother-in-law, having aspired to the throne, attempted to assassinate
the king while he was enjoying the pleasures of the chase.
Alla-ood-Deen was pierced by two arrows, and he lay on the ground
insensible. The Prince Rookn Chan drew his sword, and ran to cut off
the king’s head; but being told that he was quite dead, he deemed it
unnecessary to sever the head from the body. Proceeding immediately to
the camp, he was proclaimed king; but Alla-ood-Deen, recovering his
senses, appeared in his capital, was welcomed by the citizens, and the
usurper immediately deposed and executed.

Heg. 703 (1303).--After a siege of six months, Chittore was reduced,
and the rajah made prisoner. The government was conferred upon the
king’s eldest son, the Prince Khizr Chan, after whom it was called
Khizrabad. At the same time Alla-ood-Deen bestowed regal dignities
upon the prince, who was publicly proclaimed successor to the throne.

Heg. 704 (1304).--Ray Ruttun Sein, Rajah of Chittore, escaped from
Delhi. Alla-ood-Deen, having received an extravagant account of one of
the rajah’s daughters, agreed to grant the father his release, upon
condition of his giving up this daughter for the king’s harem. The
rajah, tired of a very rigorous captivity, reluctantly consented to
this odious proposal; but when his family heard of it they concerted
measures for poisoning the princess, in order to save the reputation
of their house. But the rajah’s daughter adopted a stratagen, by which
she obtained her father’s release, and preserved her own honour.
Having selected a number of faithful adherents, she concealed them
in litters, used by women only when they travel in the East, and
proceeded to Delhi with her ordinary retinue. Arriving at night, by
the king’s especial permission the litters were allowed to be carried
into the prison, supposing they contained the female attendants of
the princess. No sooner, however, were they within the walls, than
the armed men, leaping from the litters, put the king’s guard to the
sword, and carried off the rajah.

Heg. 706 (1306).--Dewul Devy, daughter of the beautiful Kowla Devy,
fell into the hands of one of the king’s generals, and was brought
to Delhi. In a few days after her arrival, the beauty of Dewul
Devy inflamed the heart of the Prince Khizr Chan, to whom she was
eventually given in marriage.

Heg. 709 (1309).--Mullik Kafoor defeated the allied rajahs, who had
combined to make him raise the siege of Wurungole, which he carried
by assault after a vigorous siege of several months, and returned with
his army and immense treasure to Delhi. On his approach to the city,
the king himself came out to receive him near the Budaoon gate, where
the conqueror laid all the spoils at his royal master’s feet.

Heg. 710 (1310).--Mullik Kafoor defeated and took prisoner Bilal Dew,
Rajah of the Carnatic.

Heg. 711 (1311).--This year was rendered memorable by the massacre of
the newly-converted Mahomedan Moguls. Fifteen thousand lay dead in the
streets of Delhi in one day, and all their wives and children were
enslaved.

Heg. 712 (1312).--The Rajah of Dewgur was inhumanly put to death by
Mullik Kafoor, with the consent of Alla-ood-Deen.

Heg. 716 (1316).--Alla-ood-Deen died, after a reign of twenty years
and some months, not without suspicion of having been poisoned by
Mullik Kafoor, who aimed at getting the reins of government into his
own hands.

The Rajpoot Marriage.

CHAPTER I.

The beautiful Jaya was on her way to join the relatives of her father,
who had lately been made prisoner by the sovereign of Delhi. She was
in a close hackery, accompanied by a numerous guard and several female
attendants, being the daughter of Ray Ruttun Sein, Rajah of Chittore.
The captivity of her father rendered her silent and thoughtful. The
tear stood in her eye, and filled the cavity in which it had gathered,
but fell not over the fringed boundary that confined it. She was a
Rajpoot, and would not for the world have allowed the gush of sorrow
to stream over her cheek in the sight of her women. It was repelled
therefore at the source, but her heart was big with grief, and struck
with a dull heavy throb against the walls of its beautiful prison.

Jaya was a young Rajpootni now only in her fifteenth year; but, though
so young, she had attained the perfect maturity of womanhood. Her form
was slight, her every muscle had its due and exquisite proportion,
and the whole compact was harmonized to the perfect roundness and
undulations of beauty. Her limbs were small, but exquisitely moulded;
and whenever she spoke, every member appeared to exhibit a sympathetic
energy, which made the gazer admire with how many modes of expression,
both silent and vocal, nature had gifted this rare Hindoo. Her eyes
were of the deepest black, but so soft amid their radiance, that it
seemed as if they had looked upon the things of paradise, and borrowed
the celestial blandness which everywhere reigns in that region of
supernal repose. Her skin had the rich blooming brown of the ripe
hazel-nut, and under it the sanguine streams circulated with a healthy
freedom, that carried life in its free young impulses through ten
thousand channels, over every part of her exquisite frame. The mouth
appeared as if it had been kissed by the lips of a cherub, and had
stolen its gentle delicate bloom, over which her breath came like
an exhalation. She was beautiful and tender as the mother dove, yet
inheriting all the firmness of her race, which could both endure and
act when the energies requisite for endurance and action were demanded.

All with whom she came in contact loved her for her gentleness as
much as they admired her for her beauty, and she was the idol of her
father’s heart. Her mother died in giving her birth, and he reared
her with a care proportioned to the fondness which she inspired. She
had been for some time affianced to a youth of her own tribe, son of
the Rajah of Moultan; between him and Jaya there existed a strong and
abiding affection. Her prospects had been all blighted, for the moment
at least, by the captivity of her father, who had been removed by
the conqueror to Delhi. Under the impressions which her reflections
upon these unhappy events caused, she was silent and absorbed. Two
of her women rode in the hackery with her, but they did not presume
to interrupt the sacred silence of her sorrow, which she could not
conceal, though she forebore to express it. It was deep and bitter.

As the cavalcade proceeded, a violent storm came on, and there was
no village or hamlet near. The covering of the hackery was very
slight, and therefore afforded but an imperfect protection against
such a mischance. The rain began to fall heavily, and the distant
lightning to gleam, followed by the low muttering thunder which rapidly
approached. A ponderous mass of vapour, of a dull slate colour, rolled
heavily onward, and very soon excluded the sun, producing a gloom
as deep as twilight, and investing every object with the same dusky
tint. The rain at length fell in torrents, and the cloud above poured
from its dark womb a stream of fire, which burst through the shower,
and was reflected by the large falling drops in ten thousand vivid
scintillations. At every flash the whole region round was flooded with
a blaze of ghastly light.

By this time the tremendous crashings of the thunder were awful in the
extreme; and these blending with the loud hissing of the rain, produced
a din which, though it was the music of the spheres, proved anything
but “a concord of sweet sounds” to the ears of our travellers.

The beautiful Jaya heeded not the storm; but her women crowded more
closely towards their mistress, hid their heads in their hands, and
gave expression to fearful lamentations. The tempest heeded not their
terrors, but raged with redoubled fury. The frail covering of the
vehicle in which they rode was soon soaked through, and the rain was
beginning to drip upon the heads of those within. Palampores were
spread over it, which seemed for a time to keep out the intruding
water; but they soon became saturated, and the rain at length forced
its way so copiously into the hackery, that it was found expedient to
stop and seek shelter somewhere from its pitiless fury.

It fortunately happened that not far from the spot, at the foot of
a small hill, there was a cavern known to one of the escort, who
conducted the party thither with some reluctance, as the place was
reported to be infested by noxious reptiles of all kinds, and the
resort of wild beasts and desperate bands of robbers. The party however
taking courage from their numbers, proceeded to the cavern, thinking
that any change of situation must be for the better, as the conflict of
elements was still maintained with unabated fury.

The entrance to the cave was lofty and rugged, the sides having been
broken away, and the angles splintered, as if great manual violence had
been employed to disfigure what the severe labour of man had originally
executed with no little attention to nicety of proportion and
simplicity of effect. Dilapidated as it was, the portal was not devoid
of beauty; but without staying to enjoy the pleasure of admiration, the
whole party passed anxiously into the cavern. Fires were immediately
kindled, and many noxious reptiles and large bats ejected, before the
place was considered safe, even as a temporary refuge from the storm,
which continued to rage with undiminished violence.

Towards evening the rain ceased, but it was then considered by the
travellers too late to renew their journey, and Jaya was content to
pass the night within the gloomy cave where she and her attendants had
found sanctuary. The hackery was wheeled in, the bullocks unyoked, and
the lovely Rajpootni entered the vehicle, round which the drapery was
closely drawn, where she resigned herself to repose, her attendants
lying upon rugs round a large fire which had been kindled in the centre
of the cavern. The apartment was of considerable magnitude, hollowed
out of the mountain, exhibiting a square area of about sixty feet on
all sides, and five yards high. No light was admitted but through
the door. The original purpose of the excavation was mere matter of
conjecture, but it had evidently not been lately the resort of human
beings. The ceiling was crowded with large bats, measuring nearly four
feet from the extremities of the wings, having heads like small foxes,
and bodies larger than rats. They clung to the roof of the chamber;
but, scared by the flames which had been kindled underneath, frequently
dropped into them, scattering the fire in every direction in their
fierce struggles to escape, to the great peril of the travellers. When
seized, they bit the venturous hand to the bone, and thus greatly
disturbed the repose of the Rajpootni’s followers. These creatures,
however, were not the most formidable disturbers of their rest.

Before they had composed themselves to sleep, a stranger entered the
cave, and looking round him for a moment, suddenly made his retreat.
He was a Mahomedan. His appearance gave considerable uneasiness to the
Hindoos. They began to fear the proximity of a foe, and were neither in
sufficient force nor properly armed to repel aggression from a superior
or even from an equal number. Jaya was not aware of what had passed,
but it was remarked that the stranger’s attention had been particularly
directed towards the hackery. The King of Delhi’s troops were known to
be in the neighbouring province, which he had lately subdued, and a
surprise was seriously apprehended.

A man was sent forth as a scout, to bring word if strangers were
approaching the cavern, in order that the Hindoo travellers might have
timely notice, and thus secure their retreat. The man had not been
absent above a few minutes when he ran breathlessly back with the
alarming intelligence that a detachment of Mahomedan troops was within
a hundred yards of the cave. The information was instantly given to
the unhappy Rajpootni, who calmly ordered the oxen to be yoked to the
vehicle into which she had retired for the night, and declared her
intention of immediately resuming her journey. “Mahomedans are men,”
she said, “and will not molest a woman. Let us proceed; they no doubt
seek a place of refuge after the storm. We will resign this chamber to
their convenience, since the Hindoos and the despisers of their gods
cannot lie down together on the same floor.”

“But they are troops of the enemy, lady,” said the leader of the
escort, “and will probably force us to make our beds beneath the same
shelter with the profaners of our altars.”

“We are under the protection of One,” said Jaya solemnly, “to whom
mortal might is as the spider’s web against the fierce rush of the
tempest. If they use violence, let us trust to Pollear, the Hindoo
traveller’s god, who will interpose on our behalf, and baffle their
wicked designs towards those who seek his protection and pay him
homage.”

The lovely Hindoo had yet to learn that there was just as much divinity
in her venerated Pollear, as there was truth in the factitious oracles
of the prophet of Mecca, venerated by her enemies: but with a calm
affiance in the protection of a very unsightly stone image, daubed with
red ochre, and often stuck up by the road-side to court the homage of
half-crazy devotees, she awaited the entrance of the expected enemy.
She was not kept long in suspense; for scarcely had she closed her lips
after expressing her confidence in the protection of one of the ugliest
gods of her tribe, than a numerous detachment of Alla-ood-Deen’s troops
entered the cavern.

The officer who commanded ordered them to halt just within the
entrance, seeing that the place was occupied. The fire had been
nearly extinguished the moment the approach of an enemy was announced,
so that there was only a very imperfect light emitted by the rapidly
expiring embers of the fire which had been kindled in the centre of
the cave. The officer stepped forward, and raking the still glowing
ashes together, excited them into a gentle flame with his breath, lit a
torch, and looking inquisitively round the gloomy chamber, said to the
chief of Jaya’s escort, “Whom have we here?” pointing to the hackery in
which the lovely Hindoo still sat, secluded from the profane gaze of
her Mahomedan foe.

The Hindoo was silent.

“Tell me,” said the Mussulman, “whom you have here, or I shall tear
down these trappings and take the liberty of looking. Are you willing
to say what is your companion?”

“A woman.”

“I guessed as much, for men don’t go cooped up behind cotton or silk
walls. You are so communicative that I shall trouble you with no more
questions, but judge for myself.”

Saying this, he laid his hands rudely upon the curtains of the hackery,
and attempted to draw them aside, when the Hindoo, angry at this
violation of a woman’s sanctuary, seized him by the arm, and attempted
to drag him from the spot. The enraged Mussulman instantly drew a short
sword and cut him down. Jaya, hearing the stroke and the groan which
succeeded it, sprang from her place of refuge, and stood before her
enemy in the peerless eminence of her beauty.

“I am Jaya,” she cried, “the daughter of Ray Ruttun Sein, Rajah of
Chittore, whom your sovereign holds in bondage.” The astonished
Mahomedan dropped his sword.

CHAPTER II.

The Mahomedan officer had been quite struck with amazement at the
sight of the beautiful Rajpootni, and he bent the knee with gallant
homage. He was, however, delighted to find that the very object whom
his sovereign was desirous of obtaining had fallen into his hands. The
charms of Jaya had been heard of at Delhi, and the king was anxious to
behold the celebrated daughter of his prisoner, but she had hitherto
eluded his emissaries. Her having now so opportunely crossed the
path of one of his officers, was a subject of congratulation to the
latter, as he had reason to expect that he should not only receive
his sovereign’s approbation, but be advanced to some more lucrative
post than that which he now enjoyed. These reflections passed rapidly
through his mind, as he gazed upon the transcendent beauty of his
captive.

“Lady,” he said, “this is a fortunate meeting. We have been looking for
you daily. Your presence at Delhi will be welcome to the king, and no
doubt to your father, who will be restored to liberty so soon as you
are placed in the harem of our munificent sovereign.”

“I am affianced,” said Jaya, with mild dignity, “to one of my own
tribe, and if your monarch have the befitting attributes of a king,
he will never violate the generous feelings of the man. I have been
taught to look with horror on the creed which you profess, and confess
to you that I never could ally myself, by a sacred union of the heart,
with one who is an enemy, not only to my country, but to that country’s
gods. Why then should Alla-ood-Deen seek an alliance with one who
cannot respect him? Be you generous, and permit me to proceed on my
way.”

“A man’s duty is paramount over his inclinations. I have no discretion,
lady. If I were to permit you to depart, I should be a traitor to my
king, an enemy to you, and unjust to myself. These are weighty motives
why I should not listen to your request.”

“A man’s first duty, is justice. You can have no right to deprive a
free woman of her liberty. The laws of tyrants are not binding upon
honest natures, and where it is a sin to obey, it must be a virtue to
refuse obedience.”

“We will discuss this question further on the morrow,” said the
Mussulman, with sinister courtesy. “Meanwhile you must make up your
mind to pass the night in good, if disagreeable company.”

“Then I am to consider myself your prisoner?”

“As you will, lady.”

The Rajpootni entered her hackery without farther urging her departure;
and the Mahomedan having ordered his men to kindle a fire, and take up
their station for the night apart from the Hindoos, prepared for his
repose, taking the previous precaution of placing four sentinels at the
door-way of the cavern. The Hindoo whom he had cut down, was tended by
his countrymen, who bound up his wound, which, though severe, was not
mortal; and the two parties, contrary to their respective prejudices,
lay down upon the same floor in undisturbed slumber together.

The unhappy Jaya was the only one among them whose eyelids sleep did
not visit. She had now a melancholy prospect before her. She should
probably see her father indeed, but under what circumstances?--he in
captivity, and she in the harem of a Mahomedan prince! The thought was
agony. Not only the prejudices in which she had been reared taught her
gentle soul to revolt from an alliance with a man by whom the idols
which she had been instructed to adore were considered mere senseless
wood and stone; but she had a tenderer motive for shrinking from a
union which would render her life a burden, and her thoughts a torture.
She could not bear to think that fine link of association should be
snapped which had combined two hearts in the willing fetters of a most
holy love, and the dews of terror moistened her clear brow as she
thought upon the probable issue of this melancholy day. She could not
rest. The night stole on sullenly and slow, and when the first grey
tint of morning pierced through the darkness in which the cavern was
wrapped, Jaya was still awake. She looked under the curtains of her
prison-house, and saw all around her sunk into profound repose, save
the stern sentinels at the portal who kept reluctant watch and stalked
to and fro like the ghosts of departed warriors.

The light now advanced rapidly, and before the apartment was filled
with the bright dewy hues of day, the soldiers of the enemy were awake,
and seated upon the floor, passing the luxurious tube to each other,
and inhaling the narcotic fumes of that weed which has now become
an enjoyment in every country in the world. Having kindled a fire,
they began to prepare their morning repast, which consisted chiefly
of curries; while that of the Hindoos, who were by this time busy
with their early meal, was composed simply of boiled rice, mixed with
a few split peas, the whole saturated with ghee, which is a butter,
called clarified, but commonly so rancid as to smell almost as bad as
train-oil. The Hindoos ate their rice in silence, looking on with the
utmost apathy at what was passing around them, and seeming not to feel
the slightest interest in the fate of their companion who had been cut
down the preceding evening, and lay among them, suffering grievously
from the torment of his wound. This apathy was the subject of jest
among the Mahomedans, who devoured their messes with a greediness
worthy of the old Roman gluttons, and chatted upon the subject of their
last night’s adventure with merry and facetious vivacity.

The Hindoos heard their jokes without the movement of a single muscle;
but no doubt the thought passed in their minds, that, should the
harvest of revenge come, they would not fail to reap it with a delight
as characteristic as their apathy.

While these necessary preliminaries to their journey were in progress,
Jaya was not disturbed. She refused to taste of the rice and kabobs
which had been prepared for her, but merely took a few inspirations
through the richly-studded mouth-piece of her hookha, and awaited in
silent resignation the will of her captor. She had made up her mind,
with that high spirit of resolve peculiar to her tribe, to perish
rather than become the wife of a man of an opposite creed to her own.
Death, however, was a final resource, and she determined to see the
issue of events, hoping that some auspicious diversion of their current
might restore her to her friends and to happiness.

The order was given to march. The bullocks were immediately harnessed
to the hackery, and the party quitted the cavern. The Hindoos marched
in couples, having been previously disarmed, a Mahomedan being
placed on either side of every couple as a guard. The Rajpootni’s
vehicle was so strongly guarded as to remove all chance of escape.
Before it marched a detachment of six men armed, and behind it a
similar number. The bullocks, uneasy at the clattering of arms and
the unusual restraint imposed upon them,--for the Hindoo driver had
been replaced by a Mussulman, who applied the lash with considerable
severity,--became restive, and at length refused altogether to proceed.
The more they were urged by the application of the whip, the more they
kicked and plunged, and they were at length obliged to be unyoked and
led forward. In this dilemma the leader of the Mahomedans approached
the hackery, and without removing the curtains addressed himself to his
beautiful captive and said--

“Lady, there remains no alternative but walking until the oxen have
recovered their good humour, and will consent to bear the loveliest
burthen in Hindoostan. They will be of better courtesy, no doubt,
by-and-by, when you can resume the conveniency of the carriage. Rough
roads, I know, are not very congenial to delicate feet; but war,
lady, is a sad leveller of distinctions, and there is such a thing as
necessity for the Brahmin as well as for the Pariah. You must dismount
for awhile.”

“Perhaps,” said Jaya composedly, “you are not aware that we Rajpoots
never hesitate at dying when urged to do that against which our hearts
recoil and our principles revolt. I am willing to bear the shocks of
destiny so long as they do not urge me beyond the boundary line of my
own conscience; but no earthly power shall force me to an act which
that conscience forbids. I am a woman, it is true, and a weak one;
but know that the weakest Rajpoot that ever breathed would not shrink
from death to escape degradation. I tell you now solemnly, in the
ears of Him who knows all secrets, that should you force me from the
vehicle, you shall not bear me alive from this spot. I have the means
of destruction which you know not of,[13] and will employ them the
instant you attempt to force me to an act that, to me, would be an act
of pollution.”

The Mussulman was too well aware of the fierce determination of her
race, when urged to desperation, not to fear that she would do as
she had threatened if compulsion were used to enforce obedience; he
therefore replied with mild civility,

“But, lady, we have no alternative, save of tarrying here, or of
walking forward for a short distance, until the bullocks shall have
been rendered tractable.”

“Then I embrace the first alternative; here shall I remain until you
are in a condition to proceed. Do as you will, my resolution is taken,
and you may as well attempt to give rotation to those stars which
are fixed in the everlasting firmament, as strive to divert me from
my unalterable purpose. You have heard my resolve, and I now claim
from your courtesy no further parley. I would be left to the best
consolations I can derive from my own thoughts.”

The Mahomedan, seeing that it would not be a wise stroke of policy to
push matters to extremity, gave orders that the bullocks should be
again yoked to the hackery, hoping, as they had been released from
the harness for some time, that they would proceed quietly. He was,
however, disappointed. The moment the refractory animals were urged
forward, they showed their determination not to proceed, and commenced
snorting and kicking with great fury. No coaxing could induce them to
advance, and the application of the whip only seemed to exasperate
their obstinacy. They were sleek and well fed, having been accustomed
to gentle treatment; the rough driving, therefore, of the stranger by
no means suited their wayward tempers. The man, becoming angry at this
determined opposition of the rebellious cattle, began to whip them
with great severity, under the notion of illustrating practically the
dominancy of man over the brute; but in this instance his illustration
was the reverse of beneficial, for it recoiled upon himself, to his
extreme annoyance and mortification. The more ardently he applied the
whip, the more vehemently the oxen plunged; and their violence at
length became so great that they overturned the hackery, from which the
mortified Jaya and her two women were precipitated with considerable
force. The calm but indignant Rajpootni instantly rose, dropped a
veil over her mantling face, and, reproaching the officer with having
purposely ejected her from the vehicle, expressed her determination not
to advance another step with the Mahomedans.

“If I proceed it shall be with my own followers only; and if you use
compulsion, I will defy your power by instantly releasing myself from
your tyranny.”

“Nay, this is making a mock at contingencies with a vengeance. If I
could control yonder refractory cattle, I should have the greatest
satisfaction in doing so; but since they choose to have their own way,
you must blame them that you will be obliged to walk--not me. We must
proceed, lady; we have already delayed too long.”

Anticipating the Rajpootni’s purpose, who was in the act of raising her
hand to her mouth, the Mahomedan officer suddenly grasped her by the
wrists, and, having secured her arms, said somewhat sternly--

“You force me to this. I have one immediate purpose to fulfil, which
is to bear you safely to Delhi, and that I must do in spite of your
opposition. You have despised my courtesy; you must now, therefore,
consent to march in bonds. When the oxen cease to be refractory, you
shall again be restored to the comforts of your hackery; in the mean
time you must walk.”

The indignant girl did not utter a word. Her dark eye gleamed with
a brightness that expressed unusual excitement, but she did not
condescend to expostulate. She marched hurriedly forward, guarded on
either side by a soldier, her women following guarded in a similar
manner.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Poison, of so subtle a nature as to produce almost instant death,
has been frequently concealed in rings, or other trinkets, in order
that it might be resorted to upon any sudden emergency.

CHAPTER III.

Just as the party with their lovely captive had turned from a narrow
path into an extensive plain, they perceived a large body of horsemen
in full career towards them. The Mahomedan instantly halted his men,
and forming a hollow square, in the centre of which he placed his
prisoners, calmly waited the onset. It soon became evident that
the strangers were a squadron of Rajpoot cavalry. They swept across
the plain like a tempest, headed by a youthful warrior, who rode a
beautiful white Arab, every vein of which might be traced through its
skin as it pawed the ground, when its rider halted to array his troop
for the onset of death. When his order of battle was made, he sent a
trooper to summon the Mahomedans to surrender themselves prisoners
or abide the issue of an encounter in which they must look for
extermination at the point of the sword. This summons was received by
the adverse party with shouts of defiance, and the onslaught commenced
with terrible energy on the part of the assailants, who were received
with great firmness by their foes.

The Rajpoots were more numerous than the Mahomedans, and by their
headlong valour and the desperate impetuosity of their charge, they
broke through the enemy’s line, reached the centre of the square, and
scattered instant confusion through their ranks. The conflict was short
but decisive. The Mahomedan commander was slain by the Rajpoot leader
in a struggle hand to hand, the latter being mounted. This produced
instant consternation among the enemy. The moment they saw that their
chief had fallen they wavered, and the rout became general.

Brief as the conflict was, it had been extremely sanguinary; for the
Rajpoots being mounted, soon overtook those who fled and instantly slew
them. The Mussulman detachment was cut to pieces, and thus a signal
vengeance was taken by the Hindoos upon the scoffers of their gods.

Jaya had stood in the midst of the carnage gazing with an anxious eye
upon the scene of death; and although in the leader of her rescuers
she traced the well-known features of one who was as dear to her as
the first-born to its yearning mother, she uttered not a cry, but
calculated the probable issue of the contest with a throbbing heart,
whilst her outward demeanour appeared perfectly undisturbed by any
inward emotion. Jeipal leaped from his horse, which he left to its own
freedom, and sprang towards his beloved.

“My sita,” he cried, “you are recovered. What anxious moments have I
endured since I heard of your sudden departure! I instantly followed
with these soldiers to protect your flight. This morning I heard that a
party of the enemy were close upon your track: but you are restored, my
sita; and I shall now, with these brave companions, bear you company to
Jesselmere.”

“Jeipal,” cried the delighted Jaya, “your presence has been my
salvation. I may now bless the insolence of yonder chief, who has
gone to undergo the everlasting doom of the wicked;--it has saved me
from an awful separation. I attempted my own life to save myself from
dishonour, but his violence frustrated the one, and your presence has
prevented the other.”

The Hindoo prisoners being now set at liberty repaired to a grove of
trees, under which they squatted themselves, chewed their betel-nut
and chunam, smoked, and flung little balls of rice down their throats
until filled almost to the uvula; then rising with the greatest
apathy, as if nothing had happened to interrupt their composure,
snapped their joints, adjusted their turbans, and declared themselves
ready to proceed. The bullocks were once more yoked to the hackery,
and, being driven by one with whose voice they were familiar and
accustomed to obey, they went leisurely forward without the slightest
reluctance. Jeipal rode beside the vehicle, the curtains of which, in
accordance with Eastern usage, were still kept down; but the lovers
found no difficulty in carrying on their conversation through them. The
Rajpootni had now less time to think of the sorrows arising from her
father’s captivity, her mind being occupied by one to whom she ever
lent a willing ear; her countenance therefore recovered its brightness
and her voice its vivacity.

There were no more interruptions to their journey, and they reached
Jesselmere without any further adventures. Jeipal having delivered
his affianced bride to the charge of her relations, to her surprise,
declared his determination to proceed to Delhi.

“To Delhi!” said Jaya, her countenance rather expressing alarm than
pleasure: “why should you repair to the enemy’s capital?”

“Is not your father a prisoner there, and do you not desire his
release?”

“Yes, truly; but how can your single arm avail to break through the
bars of his prison, surrounded as he is by guards, who are as vigilant
as they are cruel?”

“Circumstances may arise which we cannot foresee, to render my single
power available in effecting an object interesting to me, in proportion
as its accomplishment is desired by you. Think that I am upon a mission
of love, and be happy. You will at least hear of something before the
horns of the young moon unite into a circle.”

“You go on an enterprise of danger.”

“And are not such enterprises dear to the soul of a Rajpoot? I should
be unworthy of your love, if I hesitated to venture my life to secure
your parent’s liberty.”

“There are perils which the brave may shun, because it is prudent to
avoid them.”

“But when a man listens to the suggestions of prudence before the
appeals of duty, his bravery is as questionable as his virtue.”

“Go, Jeipal, I would not withhold thee from such deeds as constitute
man’s nobility. Bear my love with thee.”

“That will be a talisman which shall protect me in the hour of peril.
Love is the root of all virtue; the love of good alone makes man happy.
When this principle is dead within his bosom, he at once becomes a
monster.” After the lapse of a few days Jeipal quitted Jesselmere for
Delhi.

When Alla-ood-Deen was informed of the Rajpootni’s rescue from the
detachment of his troops which had made her captive, his rage knew
no bounds, and he resolved to carry a war of extermination into the
fertile provinces of Rajpootana. His anger, however, at length cooled,
when he considered that, having the father a prisoner in Delhi, he
might still get the daughter into his power. He had heard so much of
her beauty, that he determined to possess her, at whatever cost; and
this determination had induced him greatly to abate the rigours of her
parent’s imprisonment. He was treated with considerable lenity, and
permitted such indulgences as were seldom known to be granted to the
prisoners of despotic princes.

Shortly after the rescue of the Chittore Rajah’s daughter, as already
detailed, the king ordered Ray Ruttun Sein, who had now been some
weeks in confinement, to be brought before him. The Rajpoot entered
the imperial presence with a lofty deportment, and stood before the
Mahomedan sovereign, awaiting the royal communication.

“Rajah,” said Alla-ood-Deen, mildly, “you would no doubt desire to
obtain your liberty?”

“Every man,” replied the Rajah, “being born free, looks upon captivity
as the withholding of nature’s highest immunity. The fortune of war has
made me your prisoner, but generosity is the brightest jewel in the
king’s sceptre.”

“The generosity of princes is only bestowed when merited. It is no
longer a virtue when unworthily dispensed: generosity therefore without
discretion is an evil.”

“Sophistry, prince, is at all times a lame argument. Virtues never can
become vices, employ them how we may. The mask is not the face, neither
is the pretence to virtue anything more than just what the mask is to
the countenance. I am too hackneyed in the world’s juggles to become
the ready dupe of fair words which only cover evil thoughts.”

“Rajah, this is all beside the purpose for which you were summoned
before the sovereign of Delhi. Are you willing to obtain your freedom?”

“I am.”

“At what price?”

“At any that will not commit the honour of a Rajpoot.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Well!”

“I would make her the partner of my throne.”

“Proceed.”

“Summon her to this city, and you shall be no longer a prisoner.”

“If this is the generosity of princes, such can be no longer a virtue;
it must therefore be a virtue to despise it. To be the pander of kings
is no honour; but for a father to bring pollution upon his child is the
most flagrant enormity.”

“Then you refuse the offer of liberty?”

“Upon any other terms than those which a clean conscience may accept.”

“Enough! Guards, bear him back to his prison. A less luxurious regimen
than has been allowed him may give different colourings to vice and
virtue, when surveyed through the medium of his future reflections.
Away with him!”

The Rajah was conducted back to the strong apartment in which he had
been confined since his captivity, but on the following day he was
removed to one of the dungeons of the state prison.

His confinement now became extremely distressing. Every indulgence
hitherto accorded to him was withdrawn, and he was subjected to the
extremest rigours of privation. The soul of a Rajpoot generally scorns
to shrink from endurance, however severe. With him a contempt of death,
of danger, and of suffering, is the noblest exercise of human virtue;
but Rajah Ray Ruttun Sein possessed not these characteristics of his
race in an eminent degree. He was fond to excess of those luxuries
which his condition in life gave him the privilege and imparted to
him the means of enjoying. He was an Eastern epicurean, and therefore
the privations which he was now doomed to endure were to him a source
of extreme distress. Everything that was not subsidiary to his love
of indulgence had no firm resting-place in his heart. He had a high
veneration for honour in the abstract, but he had a still higher for
those animal enjoyments in which he especially delighted to indulge.
He loved his own daughter well, but he loved his own pleasures better.
He possessed the haughty independent spirit of his caste, but lacked
their qualities of determined endurance and rigid self-restriction. He
was brave when the impulse of the moment roused his energies; but as
soon as the impulse subsided, the strength of his passions overcame
him, and he sank into the imbecility of the mere sensualist. His
bearing had been bold and determined before the king, whose prisoner
he had become; but no sooner was he cast amid the dungeon’s gloom,
than the strong bias of his nature prevailed, and he became irresolute,
querulous, and despairing.

Every day he felt the rigours of confinement more and more irksome, and
at length thought that he had been imprudent in so resolutely opposing
the king’s will. He began to persuade himself that a dutiful daughter
should make any sacrifice for the advantage of her parent, and under
this impression proceeded to argue that she ought, if called upon,
to sacrifice her honour to his comfort. Besides, to be the object of
a sovereign’s affection was not a thing to be regarded lightly. The
political influence of Alla-ood-Deen might, by such an alliance with
him as that monarch proposed, place the petty Rajah of Chittore at
the head of the princes of his country. Such an alliance might be the
stepping-stone to distinctions that should raise his family to the
highest elevation of temporal distinction. After indulging in similar
reasonings at different times, he finally made up his mind that he
had been too rash in so peremptorily rejecting the proposal of the
Mahomedan sovereign, and determined to let him know, at the earliest
opportunity, the change which had passed over his thoughts like a
pestilential exhalation, and that he was disposed to concur in the
king’s wishes. Having come to this determination, he lay down upon his
rug and slept.

CHAPTER IV.

Jeipal reached Delhi not long after Alla-ood-Deen’s proposal to the
father of the beautiful Jaya, and his first object was to see the
captive Rajah; but this was a matter of no little difficulty, as
Jeipal was obliged to assume the disguise of a Jew, in order to disarm
suspicion. He soon ascertained that Ray Ruttun Sein had been removed to
a less commodious prison, in consequence of having given offence to the
sovereign; but what that offence was did not appear to be known.

Having formed his plans, he obtained an interview with the keeper of
the Rajah’s prison, and represented to him that he was anxious to be
introduced to Ray Ruttun Sein, who had some jewels which he was anxious
to dispose of, and which the fictitious Jew declared himself ready to
purchase. In order to induce the keeper of the prison to accede to his
proposal, the counterfeit Israelite offered to give him ten per cent,
upon the value of the purchase, which he said would probably exceed a
lac of rupees. The rapacious functionary agreed to admit the pretended
dealer to the Rajah’s prison, provided the door were not closed during
the transaction. This was finally acceded to; it was therefore arranged
between the prison official and Jeipal, that the former should remain
in sight, though not within hearing, while the latter agreed upon the
terms of sale with the captive prince.

Early the following morning after this arrangement had been made,
Jeipal was admitted into Ray Ruttun Sein’s cell. It was a small square
apartment, extremely low and ill-ventilated, having no aperture but
the doorway, which was secured by strong bars crossing the entrance
on either side of the wall, about four inches apart. These bars were
inserted into iron sockets, so constructed that the bolts could only be
removed from the outside when entrance or egress was to be obtained.

As Jeipal reached the Rajah, the latter cried suddenly, “Are you from
the King?”

“Gently! Jeipal stands before you.”

“Jeipal! how came you hither?”

“We have but a short time for parley. I have obtained admission in
the disguise of a Jew, and under pretence of purchasing your jewels.
My object in coming hither is to apprise you of my being near, and to
ascertain the cause of the king’s severity.”

“He made me an offer of liberty if I would give him my daughter to
grace his harem, but I rejected his proposal, perhaps too haughtily,
and you behold the issue.”

“We must be revenged”

“How?”

“I came not here to be an idle spectator of the Mahomedan’s tyranny.
You may yet be free. His death would put an end to your captivity.”

“But how can your single arm accomplish this, when he is surrounded by
guards, and you are alone and unbefriended in this great city?”

“An arrow may reach a man’s heart, although surrounded by ten thousand
guards.”

“Well I care not what you do, so long as you obtain my freedom. To me
the means are indifferent. If all other means fail, the tyrant must
have my daughter.”

“Never!”

At this moment the keeper of the prison perceiving Jeipal’s energy,
and suspecting that something more than mere bargaining was passing
between the captive and his visitor, came forward and reminded the
latter that it was time to close their conference. Jeipal retired, but
his soul was stung at what he had heard. The thought of his beloved
Jaya being delivered up to a Mahomedan prince in order to become an
inmate of his harem, almost maddened him. He rushed from the prison to
the astonishment of the bewildered keeper, who now began, too late, to
think that he had been imposed upon. Finding however that his prisoner
was secure, he resolved to be more vigilant in future, and thus the
chances of the Rajah’s escape were considerably diminished. The Jew
never again appeared before his dupe.

Jeipal saw that it was high time to adopt some measures to frustrate
the king’s determination of obtaining possession of Ray Ruttun Sein’s
daughter. It was evident that her father, already disgusted with
his confinement, was prepared to yield to the sovereign’s commands,
and this the lover was resolved if possible to frustrate. He would
willingly have sacrificed his own life to save her from pollution; for
he considered that even by becoming the wife of a Mahomedan sovereign,
he would receive a moral stain which nothing but the death of the
polluted and the polluter could wash out.

The young Rajpoot lived apart from the bustle of the town, looking
silently but vigilantly at passing events, and watching any
opportunity that seemed to promise success to the purpose which now
engrossed his thoughts. The loss of Jaya would be worse than death;
and he resolved, at all hazards, to make an effort to prevent the
accruing of so melancholy an event. He had left her with the relatives
of her father at Jesselmere, and promised, when he quitted her, that
he would shortly return and make her the beloved partner of his future
life. The idea that the fulfilment of his promise might be frustrated
by the pusillanimous impatience of her father under the privations of
captivity, was wormwood to the young Rajpoot’s haughty spirit; and the
thought of securing the lovely girl from the passions of Alla-ood-Deen,
was never a moment from his mind. Even in his slumber, images to which
this painful thought gave an impalpable but veritable form crowded upon
his excited brain, and he had not a moment’s repose. The opportunity
which he had been so long seeking, at length came.

It was announced that the King, accompanied by all the nobles of his
court, would on the following week, proceed on a hunting excursion to
a forest within about eleven coss, or twenty-two English miles, of the
capital. This was an announcement which made Jeipal’s heart leap within
him. His plan was instantly formed. Hope danced before him like a young
fair cherub from the skies, and he hailed the phantom as the harbinger
of his future bliss.

Upon the day mentioned in the royal proclamation, Delhi poured forth
her multitudes to join their sovereign in the chase. A long line of
elephants followed the King, and thousands of horsemen brought up the
rear. The sight was one to excite enthusiasm in the breast of the most
indifferent. The living sea flowed forward, undulating like the ocean
when the breeze slumbers upon its bosom and it only gently swells with
its own buoyancy, as if proud of its burden, rising to meet it with a
gush of quiet transport. However joyous the scene, there was one sad
heart at least among the delighted concourse; but he mingled with the
merry throng, and the plant of bitterness which grew at that moment
within his bosom was imperceptible beyond the secret sanctuary in which
it was enshrined.

The chase began, and continued for three days, during which period
hundreds of animals of all kinds were destroyed, from the fierce
royal tiger to the timid hare. The King enjoyed the sport during the
whole three days on horseback. Towards the close of the third, in
his eagerness of pursuit after a leopard, he was separated from his
nobles, and spurred his panting steed after the beautiful beast for
some time alone. The animal at length escaped; and Alla-ood-Deen, being
fatigued with his exertions, quitted his horse, and, fastening it to a
tree, ascended a spot of rising ground which gave him a command of the
surrounding plain. Here he seated himself alone, gazing at the distant
sportsmen who were enjoying the pleasures of the chase below. The scene
was animating, and his entire attention was absorbed by the various
objects presented to his view.

Whilst the King was thus engaged, an arrow entered his body from
behind; and this was followed by another, so rapidly discharged, that
he fell forward upon his face before he could discover from what
quarter the treachery proceeded. He lay for some time insensible,
and, when he recovered, found that his wounds had been stanched by
some Pariahs, who had their miserable abode in the jungle, and who
discovered him insensible and weltering in his blood. With their
assistance he crawled to one of the huts of these wretched outcasts,
where he remained several days, until his wounds were sufficiently
healed to enable him to move. He was afraid to make the Pariahs
acquainted with his rank, lest the assassins who had aimed at his life
should be still near the spot, and his wretched benefactors be induced
to betray him. His horse having been removed, he could not stir until
his wounds were in a state to enable him to walk.

When it was found that the King did not return to the capital, the
citizens made lamentation for him as for one dead, and had already
raised to the throne his nephew Rookn Chan. The customary prayers were
read from the Koran; the Khootba was formally pronounced in the name
of the Rookn Chan, and the public criers were ordered to proclaim
his accession. The Prince, now descending from the throne, proceeded
towards the harem; but the chief eunuch with his guard stopped
him at the door, protesting that until he showed him the head of
Alla-ood-Deen, the Prince should not enter while he had life to oppose
him.

Meanwhile Alla-ood-Deen, having quitted the abode of the hospitable
Pariahs, walked to a neighbouring hamlet, where he procured a horse,
and mounting it with great difficulty, raised a white canopy over his
head, which he had caused to be made at the village. Declaring that he
was the King, whose life had been attempted during the late sports, he
was joined by straggling parties as he advanced, until his followers
amounted to five hundred men. The army being encamped without the walls
of Delhi, the King ascended an eminence where he could be seen by the
whole force. Attracted by the white canopy, the soldiers immediately
crowded by thousands to his person. Rookn Chan, now supposed to have
been privy to the attack made upon his uncle’s life, was almost
immediately deserted. In this dilemma he mounted his horse, and fled
towards Afghanpoor. Alla-ood-Deen proceeded to the royal pavilion, and,
ascending the throne, gave public audience, sending at the same time a
body of horse in pursuit of his nephew. This party shortly came up with
him, severed his head from his body, and laid it at the King’s feet.

When Alla-ood-Deen was perfectly recovered, he sent for the Rajah
of Chittore, and again proposed to restore him to liberty upon the
conditions which he had before offered.

“Your daughter,” said he, “cannot be dishonoured by the affections of
the most powerful monarch of the East.”

“Our faith forbids such a union.”

“But if I am not actuated by the difference of creeds, why should you?
Can you think I revere religion less because I refuse to be bound by
the manacles forged by superstition? One only alternative remains to
you; within sixty days, if your daughter be not delivered up to me,
you shall suffer by a public execution. Comply with my wishes, and you
shall not merely be restored to your government, but be advanced to the
highest dignities in my kingdom.”

“What will those dignities avail me if I am despised by my nation?”

“Cast off the trammels, then, which priestcraft has woven to enthral
you, and become a convert to the faith of Islam, and you will find that
those dignities will avail you much. What say you?”

“That I will never relinquish my faith; but as my daughter is secondary
in my estimation to that faith, I consent that she shall be yours upon
condition that I receive my liberty. I shall immediately summon her to
your capital. She will not refuse to obey the mandate of her father.
Within forty days she shall be delivered to your protection. It is a
parent’s severest sacrifice.”

He was conducted to his prison to prepare the parental summons.
Meanwhile Jeipal had quitted Delhi and arrived at Jesselmere.

CHAPTER V.

When Jeipal reached Jesselmere, he confided to Jaya the secret of
having attacked the king’s life. He immediately quitted Delhi, after
having shot Alla-ood-Deen, whom he concluded was dead. He had entirely
escaped suspicion, and was congratulating Jaya and himself upon the
fortunate issue of his enterprise, when a summons came from Ray Ruttun
Sein, desiring his daughter immediately to proceed to Delhi, to become
the wife of its sovereign. This was a severe shock to the hopes of the
lovers; but Jeipal determined that his plighted bride should never
enter the walls of Delhi for such a purpose, and they both agreed to
embrace the sad alternative of dying by their own hands rather than
obey the parental command. Jaya’s relatives were greatly alarmed lest
pollution should fall upon their house, and they proposed that the
young Rajpootni should offer herself up as a victim in one of their
temples, in order to escape the miseries with which she was threatened.

“Nay,” said the beautiful girl, “it is time enough to die when no other
means of escape remain; but why should I leave those who are so dear
to me, so long as I am enabled to continue with them,--and why should
I seek death as a release from misery yet at a distance, while the
means of enjoyment are so near? I promise you I will perish rather than
submit to pollution; nevertheless, I will live so long as my beloved
Jeipal can be by to protect me with a husband’s arm, and to cheer me
with a husband’s blessing.”

It was agreed that their marriage should instantly take place. This
was assented to by the relatives, among whom was Jaya’s mother; but
they determined to poison both bride and bridegroom at the wedding
feast, in order to prevent the possibility of the pollution which
they apprehended, as they felt confident the marriage of the parties
would not prevent the King of Delhi from still demanding the lovely
Rajpootni. Preparations were accordingly made for the wedding.

On the day appointed, Brahmins poured in from all parts of the country,
to the number of six thousand. These were maintained during the whole
period of the marriage ceremonies, which lasted a week, at the expense
of the young votaries of Pollear.[14] Each Brahmin received a pagne,
which is a kind of dress bestowed upon these occasions.

Upon the day when the marriage was solemnized, the bride and bridegroom
sat beside each other in an apartment of Jaya’s mother’s house. Before
them were placed several earthen pots full of water, ranged in a
circle. Among these were two large jars, disposed on either side of the
young couple. In the middle of the circle formed by the water-pots,
there was a raised platform of wood. The two large jars were covered
with capitals of earth in the form of a column, to be removed
immediately after the marriage ceremony. The apartment was lighted by a
number of lamps, representing Agni, the god of fire, which cast a dull
lurid light upon the various objects around.

The preliminary arrangements being made, the officiating Brahmin prayed
that Vishnu and Lakshmi would descend into the two large vessels upon
which the earth had been piled, and that they would force the Devatas,
or inferior deities, to occupy the smaller pots, which had been ranged
in a circle. The Homan or sacrifice was then made. A fire was lit
upon the earth with those peculiar woods used at sacrifices, of which
there are twelve kinds. While the flame was kindling, the hierophant,
commenced reciting certain prayers in a dialect understood by none but
the priesthood, and frequently not even by them. Whilst reciting these
unintelligible supplications, he continued to keep up the sacrificial
fire of the Homan, by pouring butter upon it, and supplying it with
fuel. So soon as the prayers were ended, he approached one of Jaya’s
uncles, who, being nearest of kin, represented her father, upon this
solemn occasion, placed him by the bride, and instructed him in several
little particulars required to complete the ceremony.

After having received the necessary instructions, the paternal
representative put upon his niece’s palm a number of plantains,
together with a small coin of gold. He next placed the right hand of
the bride within that of the bridegroom. The mother now advanced, and
having poured water upon their hands, the young couple were finally
united. The Brahmin then took the tali, or marriage symbol--equivalent
to the ring in Christian marriages--presented it first to the gods,
then to the bride and bridegroom, and finally to the guests, all of
whom put their hands upon it. This being concluded, the tali was given
to the husband, who tied it round the bride’s neck; which completed the
ceremony.

After the marriage rite had been solemnized, the matrimonial
benediction was bestowed as follows: The husband swore before the
fire, the officiating Brahmin being present, that he would take care
of his wife so long as he lived. He then took her by the little finger
of the right hand, and in this way they walked three times round the
platform raised within the circle of jars. Near this was placed a flat
stone, used for pounding ingredients with which the curries were to be
prepared for the marriage feast. When they came near this stone, the
bridegroom passed one of his wife’s feet over it, as a token of the new
obligation into which she had entered, of subserviency to her husband.
The platform having been encompassed three times, large basins of rice
were brought and laid before the newly-married pair. The officiating
Brahmin then took a small quantity of turmeric, and mixing it with the
rice, repeated several prayers during the process. Now filling both
his hands with rice from a large platter, he flung it first over the
husband’s shoulders, and next over those of the wife. All the company
present immediately rose, and then the same ceremony was repeated.
This, among Hindoos, is the universal matrimonial benediction.

About three hours after noon, the marriage feast was provided for an
immense number of guests, who had assembled from all quarters upon
this joyous occasion. Every luxury which the most fruitful of climates
afforded was produced. The relatives of Jaya, however, amid this scene
of general festivity seemed grave and dissatisfied. Not a countenance
but theirs was saddened. Jeipal was at length blest. His wishes were
consummated, and he felt no longer any apprehension of being torn
from the partner of his earthly joys, now that she had become legally
and morally his. The thought of her father’s captivity was the only
interruption of his and the bride’s happiness, but he still resolved
to leave nothing unattempted to restore Ray Ruttun Sein to his family.
“Something must be devised,” said he to the anxious Jaya, “to rescue
your parent from that odious thraldom to which he is likely to fall a
victim if not speedily released, and, whatever the hazard, it has now
become my duty to risk my life in securing his freedom.”

A short time before the parties assembled to partake of the
marriage-feast, Jaya had gone into a small apartment to deck her
beautiful brows with some gems, in order that she might appear with the
greatest possible lustre before her guests. This room led into a larger
chamber, being separated only by a thin plaster partition. She had not
been long occupied in arranging her jewels, when her uncle and his wife
entered the outer apartment, and cautiously closing the door, Jaya
overheard the following conversation:

“Where is the newly-wedded?” inquired the uncle.

“In the veranda with her happy Jeipal.”

“Are you certain?”

“A very short time has elapsed since I saw them together, and they were
too happy to separate.”

“What think you of this marriage?”

“It is an ominous union. She must not live. The Mahomedan will never
relinquish his desire to obtain her while she is alive, and our house
shall not be degraded whilst we have the means of obviating it.”

“Then both must perish, for Jeipal would visit the destroyer of his
bride with terrible retribution.”

“Ay, he’s a true Rajpoot; death with him is as commonplace a matter as
eating his curry--’tis no great sacrifice for such a man to die.”

“But how is their death to be accomplished?”

“Thus. I will prepare two dishes for them especially, which shall be
placed before each at the feast. I know what is most grateful to both,
and will take care that they shall be provided with a mess which will
secure us from future apprehension. In order to escape all chance of
suspicion, I propose that the same dish precisely shall be placed
before you, only yours will contain no poison. Elated as they now are
they will not apprehend danger, and thus we are secure.”

Jaya was so agitated at what she heard, that she could scarcely support
herself, and fearing lest the base plotters against her life should
enter her apartment, she got under a small charpoy[15] which stood in
a corner, having first thrown upon it a palampore, that hung down over
the side, and thus effectually concealed her. It was a fortunate thing
that she took this precaution; for her uncle, in order to be sure that
his conversation with his wife had not been overheard, looked into
the room, but seeing nobody, and not suspecting that any one could be
hidden under the charpoy, he quitted the apartment with his partner in
iniquity, both being perfectly satisfied that their murderous plan was
a secret which could transpire only in its consummation.

When all was clear, Jaya crept from her place of concealment, and
stealing warily out of the chamber, joined her anxious husband, to whom
she related what she had just overheard. His indignation was raised
to such a pitch at discovering the horrible purpose of his wife’s
relatives, that he was about to denounce them, and inflict upon them
summary chastisement. He was, however, withheld by his more cautious
bride, who besought him to take no notice of what had passed, but make
the guilt of her uncle and his equally cruel partner recoil upon their
own heads. She had some difficulty in appeasing him; at length the
appeal of a beautiful woman, and that beautiful woman his virgin bride,
subdued his ire, and he listened to her proposal of obviating the
menaced destruction, which was as follows:--

She suggested that he should take the opportunity, when the guests were
engaged before the feast commenced, of exchanging the dish prepared
for him, placing it before her uncle, and taking his. “I,” continued
Jaya, “will not taste mine, and thus the poisoned mess will be eaten
by the husband of her who prepared it. In case of his death she will
be obliged to follow him to the funeral pile; thus shall we be fully
revenged.”

Jeipal embraced his sita, and consented with ready satisfaction to her
mode of punishing the atrocious designs of her relatives: they fancying
their secret secure, and confident of the success of their scheme,
mingled smilingly among the guests, and affected extreme kindness
towards the young wedded pair, who received their caresses with
repugnant formality at the hazard of raising their suspicion. Those
entertainments which were precursors of the feast being introduced,
tomtoms, viols, serindas, vinas, and various other instruments, struck
up their singular melody, and “ravished the ears” of those who loved
such music as would be little grateful to the fastidious refinement
of European taste. Nautch girls were first ushered in; they performed
their graceful evolutions, tinkled their tiny silver ankle-bells, and
did their best for the amusement of the company. Jugglers with their
snakes likewise appeared, showing their mastery over those venomous
creatures, which they grasped by the neck, tied round their throats,
even while their jaws were armed with those instruments of death with
which nature had provided them. Their feats of legerdemain were next
exhibited, to the general satisfaction of all present; but that which
most excited the amazement of the company was the following:--The
jugglers “produced a man, whom they divided limb from limb, actually
severing his head from his body. They scattered these mutilated members
along the ground, and in this state they lay for some time. They then
extended a sheet of curtain over the spot, and one of the men putting
himself under the sheet, in a few minutes came from below, followed by
the individual supposed to have been cut into joints, in perfect health
and condition, and one might safely swear that he had never received
any wound or injury whatever.

“They next caused two tents to be set up at the distance of a bow-shot
the one from the other, the doors or entrances being placed exactly
opposite. They raised the tent walls all round, and desired that
it might be particularly observed they were empty. Then fixing the
tent walls in the ground, two men entered, one into each tent. Thus
prepared, they said they would undertake to bring out of the tents any
animal the company chose to mention, whether bird or beast, and set
them in conflict with each other, Jeipal, with a smile of incredulity,
required them to exhibit a battle between two ostriches. In a few
minutes two ostriches of the largest size issued, one from either
tent, and attacked each other with such fury that the blood was seen
streaming from their heads. They were at the same time so equally
matched, that neither could get the better of the other, and they were
therefore separated by the men, and conveyed within the tents. Jaya’s
uncle then called for the Neilahgâo, and immediately were seen to issue
from their tents two of these untameable animals, equally large, fat,
and fierce, which likewise commenced a furious combat, seizing each
other by the neck, and alternately forcing one another backwards and
forwards for the space of nearly two guhrries of time, after which
they were also separated and withdrawn into the tents. In short, they
continued to produce from either tent whatever animal the company chose
to name, and before their eyes set them to fight in the manner above
described.”[16]

When the jugglers had withdrawn, the guests commenced the more
substantial enjoyments of the table. Jeipal and Jaya marked where
their respective dishes were placed, towards which they were finally
conducted by a sort of master of the ceremonies. During the first
bustle, Jeipal contrived to remove his own dish, and substitute that of
Jaya’s uncle before the latter had taken his station. The confusion was
so great, caused by the various movements of such a number of persons,
that the change of dishes was a matter of no great difficulty.

Jeipal began to eat of the mess before him in order to give
encouragement to his wife’s relation, who was placed by his side.
The latter unsuspiciously ate of the poisoned food, and in a very
short time had consumed the whole contents of the fatal dish. Jeipal,
meanwhile, was not backward, but followed the example of Jaya’s uncle,
and soon saw the bottom of his platter. Jaya had not tasted hers, which
being remarked by her aunt, the latter pressed her with extreme urgency
to eat, but her solicitations being firmly resisted, she expressed
great anger. “Is it thus you serve your guests, to refuse partaking of
your own wedding banquet, as if you were not willing that they should
enjoy it, or begrudged what has been provided?”

“I don’t like the appearance of this dish,” said Jaya calmly; “it has
an unnatural smell, too. In short, I shall not taste it.”

“It was prepared on purpose for you, and of those very ingredients of
which you have always expressed yourself so fond.”

“I know it has been prepared for me, and therefore decline it;
but to show you how little selfish I am in partaking of anything
especially prepared for me, I resign it to you with the greatest
cheerfulness--pray eat it, and I shall be much better satisfied than
taking the indulgence myself.”

The woman shrank back with a consciousness that she had been detected.
In a short time the poison began to operate upon her husband. His
cheeks became blanched, his lips closed with a convulsive compression,
his whole body stiffened, and he fell upon the floor. The poison was
of so potent a nature, that within a few minutes he was a corpse.
Considerable confusion prevailed; the body was removed; but such is the
characteristic apathy of the Hindoo, that the banquet was concluded
without further interruption. No inquiry was made as to the cause of
the man’s death. It was looked upon as a sudden visitation for some
secret crime. No pity was expressed for the sufferer, but for one it
was an event to be deeply deplored. The wife had the awful prospect of
expiring amid the flames upon the body of her deceased husband.

The guests separated, and this wretched woman was left to the dreadful
companionship of her own fierce repinings. On the morrow her husband
was to be consumed upon the pile amid the flames of which she would be
doomed to expire. It was a fearful thought. She was not prepared to
die, and the very idea of death was at once a dread and an agony.

The day of sacrifice dawned. The noisy tomtoms and harsh brazen
trumpets warned her of the solemn obligation which she was called upon
to fulfil. The shouts of thousands of mad enthusiasts rent the air; but
she was reluctant to answer their acclamations by exhibiting herself as
a willing oblation. The Brahmins, perceiving her fears, administered
opium in such quantities that she soon became stupefied; still, nothing
could remove her extreme horror of death.

The opium at length took such an effect upon her, that she scarcely
knew what she did, and was finally induced to accompany the Brahmins
to the pile. The sight of it renewed her terrors. After a while the
effects of the opiate had somewhat subsided, and when within the area
in which the fatal pyre had been reared, she positively refused to
ascend it; but it was now too late--she had gone too far to retract.
The Brahmins surrounded her--the tomtoms began their din, the trumpets
their clamour, and she was forced upon the fatal platform. Fire was
instantly applied. She raised herself amid the flames, but was forced
back by the officiating Brahmins with long bamboos. Her hair streamed
upon the breeze--her arms were a moment raised with the violent action
of agony--her eyes almost started from their sockets--but the flames
rose higher and fiercer. Being struck in the temple with a bamboo, she
fell backward into the devouring element, and was no more seen.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] The Hindoo Hymen.

[15] A bed-frame.

[16] See the Autobiographical Memoirs of the Emperor Jehangire,
translated by Major David Price. From this singular memoir I have
extracted the two passages marked with inverted commas, merely altering
the names and a word or two, in order to make them harmonize with the
narrative.

CHAPTER VI.

The only thing that now remained to complete the happiness of Jaya
was her father’s liberty. It happened about this time that Ray Ruttun
Sein was taken alarmingly ill. Fearing that his former summons might
not be attended to, and more than ever anxious to obtain his freedom,
he sent to his daughter to entreat her to visit him that he might see
her before he died. Alla-ood-Deen had promised the Rajah, that the
moment the beautiful Jaya appeared within the walls of his capital her
father should be restored to liberty. The latter evidently preferred
his own personal ease to his daughter’s honour; nevertheless she
determined to accede to his wishes, but at the same time resolved that
her presence in Delhi should be the means of her parent’s escape. In
reply to his communication she wrote, that she should shortly appear at
the Mahomedan capital, in obedience to his and the King’s wishes, and
when she had made the necessary preparations for her journey she would
let him know the day on which he might look for her arrival. She had
devised a plan for her father’s escape, which, with the concurrence of
her husband, she prepared to put into practice without further delay.
Alla-ood-Deen was beyond measure elated when he heard that the lovely
Jaya had at length consented to become the pride and glory of his
harem. He immediately ordered the rigours of her father’s captivity to
be abated. He was removed to a commodious apartment where everything
he required was provided, and his disorder began gradually to subside.
The King went to visit him in person, but Ray Ruttun Sein could not
meet cordially the man who had treated him with such wanton indignity,
and forced him to an act against which his conscience rebelled.

“Rajah,” said the King, “you have at length consented to make me happy.
When the possession of your daughter is secured to me, you have only to
name the price of her dowry, and it shall be paid into your hands. You
may look to be raised to the highest office under my government.”

“I had rather be supreme in my own little principality than second even
under so great a sovereign as he who sits on the throne of Delhi. All I
desire is my freedom, and I only regret the nature of the ransom which
your tyranny forces me to pay.”

“Alliances with Kings are cheaply purchased upon any terms; and why
should you grieve at your daughter becoming the wife of a powerful
monarch?”

“Because she has already a protector, and consequently can never
occupy a place in your harem but as a degraded wife. However, I have
commanded her presence here, and daily expect her; but you may prepare
to encounter the vengeance of an injured husband; and I need not tell
you that a Rajpoot foregoes his revenge but with his death.”

“I laugh at the vain efforts of a puny youth, who will have brought
what you call his wrongs upon himself. He married your daughter when he
knew that I had made overtures to possess her.”

“She had been pledged to him from infancy.”

“But the will of kings sets aside such idle pledges; they, therefore,
should not have been fulfilled.”

“Our destinies are not dependent upon the will of kings. It has been
hers to marry Jeipal, and all the powers of your extensive regality
cannot sunder the mystical link which unites them. You may separate
them from each other, but that conjunction of soul in which they are
mutually joined is beyond your control--you cannot annul it.”

“But I will tear them asunder in spite of it; and let me tell you that
while I live no power I possess shall be spared to secure the one great
object of my wishes, which is the possession of your daughter Jaya.”

“That I have promised you, and the word of a Rajpoot is a sacred bond,
forfeited only with life.”

Alla-ood-Deen quitted his presence with some lurking apprehensions
that it was the Rajpoot’s intention still to evade his demands; he was
therefore daily urgent to know the day which his daughter had fixed for
her appearance at his capital. A week elapsed, but no communication
had been made by the wife of Jeipal, and her father began to suspect
that she had no intention of fulfilling her promise. On the following
morning, however, he received a written communication from her, in
which she stated that on the tenth day following she should be at
Delhi; at the same time detailing to him a plan which she had devised,
in concurrence with her husband, in order to effect his escape. He was
delighted with the scheme, and prepared to advance its accomplishment
to the best of his power. The idea of escape from the odious thraldom
to which he had been subjected, gave such an impulse to his spirit
that he soon shook off the lethargy of disease, and within a week was
perfectly restored to his usual state of health.

The king, delighted at the near prospect of possessing the lovely Jaya,
commanded that her entrance into Delhi should be distinguished by the
strongest tokens of his affection. A guard was ordered to receive her
at the gate, and pay her military honours as she passed through. She
had requested her father to obtain the king’s passport for herself
and retinue to proceed by slow marches towards the capital without
interruption. Alla-ood-Deen had immediately granted her request, and
given orders at all the towns and villages that she and her attendants
should be exonerated from the ordinary scrutiny to which all travellers
were subjected.

Ray Ruttun Sein waited with impatience for the day when he should
welcome his daughter’s arrival at the Mahomedan capital. Alla-ood-Deen
was no less impatient to behold the woman to whom report had ascribed
such singular personal endowments. His harem was fitted up for her
reception with extraordinary splendour; and he lavished his treasure
with a profuse liberality in preparing to welcome this Hindoo beauty in
a manner worthy of his princely munificence.

On the morning named by Jaya for her entrance into Delhi, a numerous
cavalcade was seen approaching the city gate. It consisted of a
number of litters, in which women are accustomed to travel in Eastern
countries, covered with cloth draperies that entirely concealed from
view those within. The litters were accompanied by about a hundred
unarmed followers on foot. Each litter was borne on the shoulders of
four men, and they severally passed through the gate, that which headed
the cavalcade being honoured with a military salute from the guard.
As had been previously agreed, they were borne towards the prison in
which Ray Ruttun Sein was confined. This was a large house surrounded
by a court and enclosed by a high wall. Into this court the litters
were carried, and, when all were set down, the gates were closed and
fastened on the outside.

There was a strong guard within the court. No sooner were the litters
deposited, that the curtains of the principal one were drawn aside,
and Jaya stepped out. Giving a signal, an armed warrior started from
every litter; then, putting arms into the hands of their bearers, they
attacked the guard, whom in a few minutes they slew to a man. Jeipal,
who headed the party, now rushed into the building, cutting down all
who opposed his progress until he reached the apartment of Ray Ruttun
Sein, the locality of which had been previously indicated to him by the
Rajah, in reply to his daughter’s last communication. Ray Ruttun Sein
was already prepared for the rescue. Hearing the noise caused by his
son-in-law’s approach, he opened the door of his chamber, and met him
at the threshold. Jaya followed close behind, and springing into her
father’s arms embraced him passionately.

“Come,” said Jeipal, “we have not a moment to lose. The alarm will be
given, and a detachment sent to reinforce the guard outside the gate.
Horses await us at a village a coss from the city. We must fly for our
lives, for the pursuit will no doubt be hot.”

“We have done our best, my father,” said Jaya: “if we should be pursued
and overtaken, we have the Rajpoot’s courage and can die. I wear a
dagger which will remove us both beyond the reach of pursuit, should we
be likely to fall into the enemy’s hands. Let us begone.”

They moved hastily from the house into the court-yard. The sentinels
who stood outside the prison wall, hearing the bustle within, had
unbarred the portal to ascertain the cause. Jeipal and his followers
immediately despatched them, and made good their exit. Getting again
into their litters, they proceeded to the city gate, which they passed
through without the slightest suspicion. The work of slaughter had been
so speedily executed that no alarm was raised, the house in which it
had taken place being a solitary building in the outskirts of the city.

As soon as they reached the village where their horses were waiting
for them, they instantly mounted, and were off with the speed of the
wind. Their flight was soon discovered, but not before they were some
miles on their way. When Alla-ood-Deen was informed how he had been
outwitted, his rage knew no bounds. He raved like a madman, bit his
own flesh with fury, and swore an oath of deep and implacable revenge.
His violence brought on a disorder which threw him on a sick bed. He
raved perpetually, and such was the intensity of his excitement that
he became perfectly frantic. He ordered several citizens to be put to
death whom he chose to suspect, without the slightest ground, had been
privy to the escape of the fugitives. There were no bounds to his rage,
and his violence increased to such a degree that he was obliged to be
tied down to his bed.

Meanwhile the Rajah and his followers pursued their flight, and halted
only for a few minutes until they fancied themselves beyond the reach
of pursuit. They had ridden forty coss by noon the following day. Their
horses being somewhat lamed by the severity of their journey, they were
obliged to rest for the day; but fancying there was no longer anything
to apprehend from pursuit, they fairly congratulated themselves upon
their escape.

The village at which they halted was situated on the slope of a hill;
and in order to guard against an enemy, Jeipal commanded his little
band of twenty armed followers to keep alternate watch, half of them
only sleeping at a time, in case of surprise.

There was a bright moonlight. About two hours before midnight one of
Jeipal’s scouts apprised him of the approach of pursuers;--he had
calculated their number at about eighty men. These would no doubt be
followed by speedy reinforcements. There was no time for hesitation.
Jeipal placed six of his followers in ambush at the base of the hill,
with orders to keep the enemy in check, while Jaya and her father
pursued their flight with all speed. They again mounted their horses,
somewhat recruited by their day’s rest and good feeding, and were off
towards Chittore with the swiftness of thought. Jeipal, having seen
them safe on their journey, descended the hill with the rest of his
little band, commanding them to follow within reach of a signal. As he
arrived at the ambuscade where his six men, armed with bows and arrows,
were concealed, he perceived the enemy in full career across the plain.
The moon was in mid heaven, pouring her soft and tender light upon the
advancing squadron. As it neared the bottom of the mountain, Jeipal
discharged an arrow and shot the leader dead. Another and another
followed; and before the party could imagine that they were assailed by
a secret foe, ten of them were either killed or disabled. This checked
their career; they halted, and retreated a couple of hundred yards
beyond the ambush.

After a short pause they advanced at full gallop, and reached the base
of the hill in a few minutes, with the loss of another ten men, killed
or desperately wounded. Jeipal now gave the signal, and was joined by
the rest of his followers, who, rushing down the steep, sent their
arrows among the Mahomedans at the moment they were dismounting from
their horses. They were thrown into confusion at this fatal discharge,
and, before they had recovered from their consternation, were attacked
sword in hand by the furious Rajpoots. The slaughter was terrible.
Encumbered by their horses they could not act in unison, and their
leader being killed, they were dispirited. In a few minutes half of
them were slain; and the rest, remounting their steeds, galloped back
across the plain, where they were soon joined by a second party from
Delhi, which came to a halt beyond bowshot from the mountain.

Jeipal in this short but fierce conflict, had lost only four followers.
He had received a severe sabre-cut upon the forehead, round which he
bound his turban tightly to stanch the blood, and mounting his horse,
he and his faithful Rajpoots followed the fugitives. He overtook them
early on the following day. They had now ten hours’ start of their
pursuers, who had halted during the night on the plain.

The Rajah, with his daughter, her husband, and their companions,
eventually reached the hilly country, where they for the present
determined to remain concealed until the heat of pursuit should
subside. Shortly after, they heard of the death of Alla-ood-Deen, who
never recovered from the attack consequent upon Ray Ruttun Sein’s
flight. His death restored Jeipal and his lovely bride to their
security: the Rajah returned to Chittore, where he was welcomed with
rejoicings, and the rest of his life was passed among his children and
grand-children in freedom and in joy.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 716 (A.D. 1316).--On the death of Alla-ood-Deen, his youngest son,
Oomar Chan, was raised to the throne by Mullik Kafoor. This prince was
deposed and imprisoned after a reign of three months and some days.

Heg. 717 (1317).--Moobarik Khiljy ascended the throne on the seventh
Mohurrum.

Heg. 721 (1321).--The king was cut off by a conspiracy, and Mullik
Khoosrow, the chief conspirator, raised to the throne; but he was put
to death after a reign of only five months by Gheias-ood-Deen Toghluk;
and with his death terminated the second Tartar dynasty of the kings of
Delhi.

Heg. 721 (1321).--Gheias-ood-Deen Toghluk was the first of the third
Tartar dynasty of the kings of Delhi. When he ascended the throne he
regulated the affairs of the government in a manner so satisfactory as
to obtain general esteem. He declared his eldest son heir-apparent,
with the title of Aluf Chan, and conferred upon him the ensign of
royalty.

Heg. 722 (1322).--This year the new citadel at Delhi was completed, to
which the king gave the name of Toghlukabad.

Heg. 724 (1323).--The king, after having appointed his son, Aluf
Chan, governor of Delhi, marched in person towards Bengal to stop the
oppressions committed by the Rajahs of Luknowty and Soonargam. On his
return towards his capital the king was met at Afghanpoor by his son
and the nobles of his court, who advanced to congratulate him upon his
safe return. Here Aluf Chan had erected, in the short space of three
days, a temporary wooden building for his fathers reception. When the
entertainment was over, the king ordered his equipage to proceed.
Everybody hastened out and stood ready to accompany him, when the roof
of the building suddenly fell, and the king and five of his attendants
were crushed to death beneath the ruins.

Heg. 725 (1325).--Aluf Chan ascended the throne by the title of Mahomed
Toghluk. He was the most eloquent and accomplished prince of his time;
and his letters, both in Arabic and Persian, display so much elegance,
good taste, and good sense, that the most able secretaries of later
times study them with admiration.

Heg. 727 (1327).--The king caused a copper coin to be struck, issued
it at an imaginary value, and, by a royal decree, caused it to pass
current throughout Hindostan. This was the cause of great distress,
the bankers and merchants alone benefiting at the expense of the
sovereign and his people.

Heg. 738 (1337).--Mahomed Toghluk conceived the idea of conquering
China, and sent an army of one hundred thousand horse into Nepaul and
the countries on either side of the Himalaya mountains. The expedition
utterly failed, nearly the whole army having perished in those
mountainous regions.

Heg. 741 (1340).--The king obtained possession of the strong fort
of Kondhana, the modern Singur, near Poma, which he starved into a
surrender. He removed his family to Dowlutabad, which he resolved to
make his capital, leaving the noble metropolis of Delhi a resort for
bats and a dwelling-place for the beasts of the desert.

Heg. 742 (1341).--Mahomed Toghluk laid heavy contributions upon
Dowlutabad and the neighbouring provinces, which caused an
insurrection; but his numerous and well-appointed army soon reduced the
insurgents to their former state of slavery. This year the king nearly
fell a victim to a pestilence which broke out in his camp with such
violence that it swept off a great part of his army. Having lost one of
his teeth, he ordered it to be buried with much ceremony at Beer, and
caused a magnificent tomb to be raised over it, which still remains a
monument of his vanity and folly.

Heg. 743 (1342).--Mullik Heidur, chief of the Ghoorkas, slew Tartar
Chan, the viceroy of Lahore.

Heg. 744 (1344).--The confederate Hindoos seized the country occupied
by the Mahomedans in the Deccan and expelled them, so that within a few
months Mahomed had no possessions in that quarter except Dowlutabad.

Heg. 747 (1346).--The king promoted several persons in the meanest
stations to the rank of nobles, which occasioned the hereditary Omrahs
to revolt; but their leader Azeez, upon the king’s troops advancing
to attack him, becoming panic-stricken, fell from his horse, was made
prisoner, and suffered a cruel death. His forces were totally routed.

Heg. 748 (1347).--Dowlutabad fell into the hands of the insurgents, who
put the king’s officers to death and divided the public treasure.

Heg. 752 (1351).--Mahomed Toghluk, having eaten to excess of fish,
was seized with fever of which he died, after a tyrannical reign of
twenty-seven years, and was succeeded by his cousin Feroze Toghluk.

Heg. 755 (1354).--The king built the city of Ferozabad, adjoining that
of Delhi, and on the following year dug a canal forty-eight coss in
length. He likewise constructed another canal between the hills of
Mundvy and Surmore, from the Jumna, into which he conducted seven minor
streams, which all uniting ran in one channel through Hansy, and from
thence to Raiseen, where he built a strong fort, which he called Hissar
Feroza.

Heg. 762 (1360).--The king sent the celebrated image of Nowshaba to
Mecca, to be thrown upon the road, that it might be trodden under foot
by the pilgrims.

Heg. 776 (1375).--The celebrated Mujahid Shah ascended the throne of
the Deccan. In his fourteenth year, in a struggle with his father’s
spice-bearer, Moobarik, a man of great strength, he threw him and broke
his neck.

Heg. 779 (1378).--He was assassinated after a reign of not quite three
years. Hajy Mahomed Kandahary states that he received his death-wound
from the son of Moobarik the spice-bearer.

Heg. 781 (1379).--Kurgoo, the Zemindar of Kutehr, invited to his house
Syud Mahomed, governor of Budaoon, together with his two brothers,
and basely murdered them. Enraged at this treachery, Feroze Toghluk
instantly marched and took severe vengeance on the associates and
kindred of the Zemindar, putting them to the sword, and levelling
their houses with the ground. The murderer made his escape to the
mountains of Camaoon, and was protected by the Rajahs of those parts.
Feroze ordered a detachment of his army against them, and nearly twenty
thousand of those mountaineers were made prisoners and condemned to
slavery; but Kurgoo contrived to elude the vigilance of the king’s
general.

Heg. 790 (1388).--Feroze Toghluk died, after having reached the almost
patriarchal age of ninety years.

The Mahomedan Nimrod.

CHAPTER I.

Mujahid, the son of Mahomed Shah, sovereign of the Deccan, was
remarkable for his courage and amazing strength of body. He was tall
of stature, prodigiously muscular, yet, in dignity of demeanour and
general majesty of aspect, surpassed all the princes of his race. In
valour and fortitude he stood without a rival. Such was his strength
of constitution, that he was affected by change neither of climate
nor of atmosphere: whether the season were wet or dry, hot or cold,
healthy or sickly, it was alike to him. He spoke the Toorky language
fluently, which he acquired from his favourite companions, who were
for the most part either Toorks or Persians. He was fond of archery
from his infancy, and all his conversation tended to military subjects.
His whole soul was absorbed by deeds of arms, or of hazard in some
shape. When a boy, he was the terror of his youthful associates.
Whoever offended him was sure to feel the weight of his resentment,
and such was his known determination, that they were afraid to unite
against him, lest his single arm should prove sufficient to break
their confederacy and punish them all; for he was repelled by no sense
of danger from resenting injury. Still he was a beneficent youth,
and beloved by them generally. There was nothing he would not do for
them, so long as they did not wantonly thwart his projects, which were
sometimes of a nature to be discouraged; but even when he engaged in
any mischievous adventure, it was more from exuberance of animal
spirits, and that love of enterprise which he could not suppress, than
from depravity of heart.

One day calling his companions together, he proposed that they should
go and hunt the tiger in some distant forest, where that animal was
reported to abound. But a difficulty arose: many of them had no
horses, and it was necessary that they should be supplied in order to
accomplish the wishes of their young prince. What was to be done?

“We must go,” said he, “at any rate, and you shall be supplied with
necessaries.”

“But how,” asked one, “are we to get them without money?”

“While there is a rupee in my father’s treasury, as I live you shall
not go without horses. We will hunt the tiger at all hazards.”

None of his comrades could imagine how Mujahid intended to introduce
himself into his father’s treasury, which was protected by a strong
door, secured by three huge bolts. These appeared much more than
sufficient to baffle the efforts of a youth of fourteen, for that was
precisely the age of Mujahid at this period. But he laughed at the
idea of impediments to any enterprise dear to his heart; and, calling
together the youths by whom he was generally attended, he desired they
would accompany him to the treasury. It was guarded by a sentinel; but
the prince, pretending to send him upon a message of some importance,
promised to take his place until he should return.

No sooner had the soldier quitted his post, than Mujahid, rushing
against the door which contained his father’s treasure, shook it from
the hinges, and opened a way to the means of procuring horses for his
contemplated excursion. Taking several bags of gold, he divided the
money among his youthful followers. They immediately repaired to a
mart, and supplied themselves with steeds, and other necessaries for
the chase.

When the sentinel returned he found his post abandoned, and that he had
been duped by the young prince. Knowing the penalty of having quitted
his charge, he immediately left the spot and fled beyond the reach
of danger. The treasurer, discovering the door broken down, and no
sentinel on the spot was amazed; but he had no difficulty in tracing
the act to the king’s son. The habits of Mujahid were too well known
for suspicion to be diverted from him; and, when taxed by the treasurer
with the theft, he did not deny it.

The sovereign, enraged at the vicious propensity of his son, sent his
spice-bearer, Moobarik, to summon the prince before him. Upon entering
his father’s presence, perceiving by the king’s manner that he had
been made acquainted with the robbery of his treasury, Mujahid, when
asked if he knew why he had been summoned, remained silent. “What could
induce you,” said the sovereign, “to commit such a trespass against the
laws, and such an act of violence against the authority of your father?
What do you deserve?”

Mujahid still continued silent, feeling justification impossible.

“Boy,” said the father, sternly, “it is necessary that such a violation
of the common laws of honesty as you have so wantonly committed should
be punished with due severity, in order that my people may see I do not
palliate or overlook the delinquencies of my son. What expectations
can you hope to excite of your honour and justice when raised to this
throne, of which you are the rightful heir, if you indulge thus in
the vulgarest of all vulgar crimes? Such tendencies are unbecoming a
prince, and must be subdued.”

The king now ordered Mujahid to be stripped, and taking a whip,
scourged him severely with his own hand until the shoulders of the
youthful offender were covered with blood. The prince was then ordered
to be imprisoned in the palace.

This galled him much more severely than the stripes he had received;
they were only the infliction of a moment; but the restraints of
imprisonment were vexatious to his haughty spirit. He was mortified,
too, that his projected expedition had been frustrated, attributing his
punishment to the officiousness of Moobarik, against whom from this
time he harboured a deep and implacable enmity.

His mother visited him in his confinement, and he complained to her
with great bitterness of Moobarik.

“Nay, my son,” said the queen, “the servant was not in fault; he only
did his duty. He did not acquaint your father with your act of youthful
indiscretion, it was the treasurer.”

“But if the spice-bearer had informed me that the affair at the
treasury had been discovered, I could have evaded my father’s wrath,
made you my intercessor, and thus have escaped the visitation of his
anger.”

“That will subside, my son. I can still be your intercessor.”

“But the punishment has been inflicted,--my back still bears the marks
of stripes; and, though these may be effaced from my skin, they will
never be obliterated from my memory. Those are wrongs, mother, which
can neither be forgotten nor forgiven.”

“Would you harbour a spirit of revenge against your father?”

“No; but against the man who has caused that father to visit me with
bodily chastisement my hatred will be inextinguishable.”

“Nay, this is the working of unsubdued passion,--the feeling will
abate. Your cool judgment may convince you that Moobarik has not been
in fault, and you will be pacified.”

Mujahid made no reply; but the lowering of his brow sufficiently
indicated the deep-settled hostility that had already stirred the
slumbering passions of his soul,--the fiercest and least tractable.

At the mother’s intercession, after a week’s confinement, the prince
was set at liberty; and, at her especial request, he forebore to
exhibit any marks of enmity against the spice-bearer; but he wore a
mask upon his countenance that disguised the rage working at his heart.
He summoned his youthful playfellows around him, and seemed occupied by
the amusements common to his age; but, with the eye of a lynx, he only
watched for an opportunity to signalize his revenge upon the man who
had aroused his hatred. This he sought to accomplish without involving
himself in an act of legal criminality. The son of Moobarik was one of
his comrades, and to him he showed marks of unusual attention, in order
to blind him to the one dark purpose with which his own young heart was
teeming.

It happened that a discussion took place one day among the boys with
whom the prince associated, upon the respective merits of different
wrestlers who had distinguished themselves in the arena upon occasions
when public sports had been exhibited before the king. In the course
of the conversation the son of Moobarik mentioned his father to be so
strong and skilful in the manly exercise of wrestling, that he had
several times thrown some celebrated players.

“Ay,” said Mujahid; “I should like to have a trial of skill with that
sturdy father of yours. Do you think he would fear to encounter the
strength of a boy of fourteen?”

“Nay,” said Musaood Chan, with a good-natured laugh, “the king’s
spice-bearer could have no objection, I should fancy, in proving his
strength to the king’s son.”

“It will be an unequal game--youth against manhood; yet I think I could
make the spice-bearer turn his eyes to the sun without measuring my own
length beside him.”

This freak of the prince excited the merriment of his juvenile friends;
they expected to see their daring companion somewhat roughly handled
in the grasp of Moobarik, who was generally reported a person of great
strength; having been raised by the sovereign to his present dignity on
account of his feats in arms.

Mujahid threw himself in the spice-bearer’s way, and after offering a
courteous greeting, said, with a jocular air,

“Your son tells me you have so sinewy an arm that few champions in the
wrestling-ground would be able to stand against you, if you were to
condescend to encounter them in a trial of strength and skill.”

“My son says indeed true. I have on more than one occasion thrown the
strongest men in the king’s army, and my arm has yet lost none of its
vigour.”

“Are you willing to put it to the test?”

“I can find no worthy rival among my equals, and I should scarcely
degrade my nobility by entering the arena against the hirelings of the
king’s pleasures.”

“You need not fear to find a competitor of your own rank; for I am
willing to try my powers and skill against yours, if you do not doubt
your chances of victory.”

“I can have no objection to a friendly contest with my master’s son;
but he must not be vexed if he should happen to be some what roughly
handled, for wrestling is no lady’s game.”

“I am prepared for what may ensue. Though but a boy, you must remember
that I broke open the door of my father’s treasury; you will not,
therefore, have a mere boy’s strength to try.”

On the following day it was agreed that the prince and the spice-bearer
should wrestle before the king. The preliminaries were settled, the
spectators assembled, and the competitors entered the hall of the
palace, which was strewed with sand in order to break the force of
their falls. Both the champions appeared naked to the waist. The tall,
muscular frame of Moobarik contrasted singularly with the round smooth
limbs of his youthful adversary, who was exceedingly robust, and the
size of his sinews hidden under a round surface of healthy flesh. At
the first onset, Moobarik grasped his antagonist by the shoulders,
raised him in the air, and was about to cast him on the floor, when
the prince adroitly passed his leg behind the spice-bearer’s knee, and
threw him on his back in an instant, falling upon him with considerable
force. The spectators were astonished; but there being a dispute as to
the fairness of the fall, both parties consented to another struggle.
This was not much longer than the last. After a little shifting to make
good his intended grasp, Mujahid seized his opponent suddenly by the
waistband of his short trousers, and, raising him in his arms, flung
him on the ground with such force that he lay senseless. He had pitched
upon his head; and, upon examination it was found that his neck was
broken.

CHAPTER II.

The death of Moobarik afforded a subject of conversation for several
weeks at the court of Mujahid’s father. It was a matter of extreme
surprise that a mere boy should have so easily foiled a man of
such great strength, and have so rapidly and fatally concluded the
contest. He was from this time looked upon as a prodigy. Musaood Chan,
however, from that moment entertained an implacable hatred against the
destroyer of his father. He dared not openly manifest his hostility;
nevertheless, it burned within him with a smothered, indeed, but
still with an unextinguishable, flame. He heard the general applause
bestowed upon the courage and prowess of the prince with silent yet
fierce repugnance, which he was obliged to mask under the exterior of a
suavity that seemed like self-mockery.

Mujahid treated him with kindness and with confidence; and being of
an open unsuspicious temper he did not for a moment harbour a thought
of Musaood’s sinister feelings towards him; as the former neither
expressed anger, nor evinced the slightest symptom of resentment at his
father’s death.

As Mujahid advanced towards manhood, he became the terror of the
neighbouring potentates. He commanded his father’s armies, and
invariably led them to conquest. The son of Moobarik witnessed his
success with envy, and the fires of vengeance still smouldered in his
bosom. He had a beautiful sister, whose detestation of the prince
was no less ardent than his own; she could not wipe from her memory
the cause of her father’s death; but she, as well as her brother,
dissembled her resentment, and received Mujahid courteously when they
happened to meet.

The prince had conceived a passion for her, which he shortly avowed,
and she encouraged. Hoping that it would forward the opportunity of
revenge so ardently desired by her brother and herself, she pretended a
reciprocal attachment, and listened to his unholy declarations of love,
at first without any expressions of shame, and finally, with apparent
pleasure. His passions were roused; but under various pretences,
the artful siren delayed gratifying those passions which her seeming
acquiescence had provoked.

Musaood was pleased at seeing his intended victim gradually drawing
towards the toil which he was preparing for him. The prince never for a
moment imagined that the children of Moobarik attached to him the guilt
of having purposely destroyed their father. Taking it for granted that
they looked upon his death as a mere accident, he did not conceive that
there could be cause for the slightest hostility towards him, and the
daughter’s apparent affection confirmed this impression. His love for
the sister caused him to repose the greatest confidence in the brother.
The latter became privy to all the prince’s designs, encouraging
Mujahid’s favourable feelings towards him by affecting a fervent zeal
for his welfare.

Mujahid’s love for the wily daughter of his father’s late
spice-bearer at length knew no bounds, and she was obliged to adopt
all the resources of her woman’s art to keep him from proceeding
to extremities. She tantalized him with promises, which she evaded
fulfilling by the most ingenious artifices. It was found at length
necessary to withdraw him for a while from the object of his passion,
in order to rescue her from a dilemma which was daily becoming more
difficult to elude.

Musaood, therefore, proposed a few days’ excursion into the woods to
enjoy the pleasures of the chase, of which he knew the prince to be so
fond that even his love of woman yielded to his love of killing lions
and tigers. It might, too, chance that in the forest an opportunity
would arise so long and so ardently sought. The prince accordingly
repaired to the jungles, accompanied by his young friends, and for
several days with his single arm destroyed many of its fiercest
inhabitants.

One morning he was informed that an enormous elephant was in the
neighbourhood. The huge beast was said to have committed dreadful
ravages, and to have killed so great a number of people who had
ventured near its place of usual resort, that travellers had
discontinued passing by that road for fear of encountering the savage
animal. Nothing could be more gratifying to Mujahid than the idea of
encountering an enemy which every one else shunned; and without loss of
time he proceeded to the spot where the elephant was reported to have
taken up its abode. It turned out to be a solitary male which had been
expelled from the herd; and when this happens, it always renders these
animals extremely savage.

Mujahid found the colossal beast in a part of the wood where the growth
was more than usually scanty, tearing down with eager voracity the
tender branches of the young trees which were growing around him. At
the sight of intruders it stopped, raised its trunk, gave a shrill cry,
and approached them at a rapid pace. The prince deliberately placed
an arrow on the string of his bow, pulled it to the head, and sent it
on its way with the force of a shot from an arquebuse. The steel head
struck the elephant on the breast, and the whole shaft was buried in
the animal’s body; the very feather being dyed with its blood. The
gigantic creature dropped instantly dead.

All were amazed at the force with which the arrow had been sped.
Mujahid ordered the elephant to be opened, that he might see the
direction which his arrow had taken. This was accordingly done, and
it was found that the shaft had passed directly through the animal’s
heart. The murmurs of astonishment rose into a great burst of
acclamation; but in proportion to the triumph of the King’s son the
envy of Musaood increased.

Among the persons present upon the occasion was a Tartar. This man was
deeply in love with the late spice-bearer’s daughter, who returned his
affection; he therefore felt that hatred towards the King’s son which
ardent lovers generally entertain towards their rivals. The hot blood
of this Tartar was roused at the thought of the object of his pure and
fervent attachment being pursued with sentiments of unholy love; and
he was prepared to execute any desperate act by which he might rid the
world of a wicked prince, and himself of a dangerous rival. Musaood was
well aware of his feelings, and likewise of reckless fierceness of his
character; and, thinking that now was a favourable time to attack the
prince’s life when he was reposing in full security upon the fidelity
of his friends, he persuaded Tuglook Beg to attempt the assassination
of Mujahid during the chase on the day after the latter had destroyed
the elephant.

During the morning the sport had been great; and Mujahid, stopping upon
the bank of a small rivulet, quitted his horse in order to bathe his
temples in the cool refreshing waters. He gave the reins into the hands
of an Afghan, named Mahmood, who held them while his master alighted.
At this moment the Tartar approached unperceived through the hollows
and broken ground along the banks of the stream, and was in the act of
charging the prince at full speed. The cry of some of his attendants
exciting Mujahid’s attention, he raised his head, and observed Tuglook
Beg advancing towards him at a gallop, evidently with the design of
cutting him down, his sword being bared and raised as in the act to
strike. The prince immediately seized the reins of his horse, and
making a sign to Mahmood Afghan to interpose himself betwixt his master
and the assassin, sprang into his saddle. The faithful armour-bearer
advanced to meet Tuglook Beg; but his steed rearing, owing to the
inequality of the ground, it fell, and gave the adversary a momentary
advantage. It was a critical moment; the Tartar came on with the speed
of a whirlwind; but Mujahid, being now prepared to encounter him upon
equal terms, spurred his horse forward. Tuglook Beg, however, made a
stroke at the prince, before the latter had time to put himself fully
upon his guard; the blow fell upon his turban, which, being folded very
thick and hard, in order to protect his head from the ardent rays of
the sun, the sword did not penetrate, though it struck the turban from
his brow, and left it exposed to the chance of a more successful blow.
Mujahid, however, having recovered his position, rose in his saddle,
and bringing his heavy cimeter upon the Tartar’s shoulder, clove him to
the chine, and he instantly fell dead from his horse. Having replaced
the faithful Mahmood Afghan upon his charger, the prince joined his
friends amid shouts and acclamations, in which Musaood Chan was the
foremost to join.

The fate of Tuglook Beg only embittered the hatred of his friend
towards his destroyer, and strengthened his determination of vengeance.
His sister received the news of her lover’s fate with that tearless
grief which bespeaks intense suffering, or the counteraction of a
purpose stronger than the sorrow to which it becomes subservient.

Fortunately at this time the prince was called to oppose Krishin
Ray, Rajah of Bejanuggur, who laid claim to some forts belonging to
Mujahid’s father, which saved the object of his passion from coming
to an open rupture with him, ere she and her brother found means to
revenge their parent’s death by accomplishing the destruction of him
who had been the cause of it.

As the prince advanced, Krishin Ray retreated before him. Afraid to
meet so formidable a foe in the field, but hoping to cut him off by
stratagem, the Rajah fled from place to place, and was pursued by
Mujahid for weeks without coming to an engagement. At length the good
fortune of the latter prevailed. The health of Krishin Ray and his
family became affected by the pestilential air of the woods, and they
were warned by their physicians to quit them. But the Rajah, hoping
that his enemy, unaccustomed to the deleterious atmosphere, would fall
an easy prey, resolved to continue where he was, until he saw his
expectations realized upon the foe. Mujahid’s constitution, however,
was proof against the pestilential air by which his enemy thought he
would be destroyed; and Krishin Ray was himself the first to suffer;
several of his family died, and he became himself so ill that he
was obliged to retreat by secret paths towards Bejanuggur. Mujahid
despatched an army in pursuit of him, while he laid waste the country.
Having broken down many temples of the idolaters, and destroyed
numerous idols, he returned flushed with victory to his father’s
capital.

It now appeared to Musaood and his sister that their hated enemy was
destined to triumph in all his undertakings, and that they were doomed
to suffer the utmost severity of disappointment.

It was nevertheless their policy still to dissemble; and the artful
siren received her detested lover with gracious smiles of welcome that
were like oil poured upon the flame of his passions, which hitherto had
been only tantalized, and now raged with redoubled fury.

CHAPTER III.

In order to avoid the importunities of Mujahid, the sister of Musaood
was obliged to feign illness, that she might not give him umbrage by
opposition. The chase was again her brother’s resource to withdraw his
royal friend’s thoughts from the indulgence of more criminal passions.

In a mountain some few miles from the capital was a cave, reported
to be the haunt of wild beasts. This information had been privately
conveyed to Musaood, and he determined to take advantage of the
prince’s ignorance of this fact to accomplish the long-cherished
purpose of his soul. Mujahid made no objection to another expedition
into the forests in search of the lion and tiger, since that was a
pastime perfectly congenial with his adventurous spirit. With him
excitement was a vital principle. The announcement of peril was music
to his ear. He was accompanied by his favourite, Mahmood Afghan, who
always attended him in his excursions, whether of war or of pleasure.
He went as usual armed with his bow, a well-filled quiver, and his
cimeter, which had been tried in many a rough encounter with foes, in
whose blood it had been frequently steeped.

Musaood had lost nothing of the prince’s confidence: so admirably did
he mask his feelings, that not a creature save his sister knew, and
no one suspected his deadly hostility to the son of Mahomed Shah.
Nothing could exceed his apparent zeal in seeking to administer to the
enjoyments of the prince, who was a perfect slave to his pleasures; and
Mujahid acknowledged the professed fidelity of the late spice-bearer’s
son with especial marks of favour.

Upon approaching the forest where the pleasures of the chase were to
be enjoyed, the skies began to lower, and to threaten one of those
violent elemental conflicts occasionally witnessed within the tropics,
and of which even the Alpine storms in Europe can afford but a faint
conception. It soon became too evident that a hurricane was to be
expected, and the only thing which now occupied the thoughts of the
party was where they should find shelter.

The prince was at this time separated from his followers, being
accompanied only by Mahmood, Musaood, and a menial attendant. This
had been purposely contrived by his foe, to whom, however, not the
slightest suspicion of any sinister design attached.

The sun soon became veiled by a succession of coppery clouds which
rapidly overspread the sky, opening at intervals in different places,
and emitting momentary flashes of lightning. The rain quickly began to
fall upon the broad smooth leaves of the trees; the birds flew to the
foliage, and chirped dolefully. Snakes and lizards crawled from beneath
the bushes, where they had been basking in the genial sunshine, and
crept into the tufts of high grass with which the jungle abounded. A
gloom passed over the earth, like the sudden setting in of night, and
the distant howlings of the forest community gave a strong feature of
dreariness to the scene.

The storm was every moment increasing, and the party were by this time
anxious to obtain a shelter. They had advanced considerably up the
hill. Musaood had taken care to be informed of the exact locality of
the cavern, to which he led the way, the prince and his companions
following. The ascent was rather steep, and, from there being no
regular pathway, not easy to climb. Their anxiety to escape from the
pelting of the storm enabled them to overcome all impediments.

They had fastened their horses under trees in a small glen at the
hill’s base, as the ascent was too steep to render the attempt on
horseback practicable. After about a quarter of an hour’s toil they
reached a natural recess in the mountain, within which was the entrance
to a cave, no doubt the same that had been described to Musaood. The
opening was low, and so narrow that not more than one person could
squeeze in at a time. It was about four feet high, and scarcely more
than two wide. Within the darkness was so intense, that the eye
could not penetrate to the extremity. Scarcely was the party safely
sheltered, when the hurricane poured down with prodigious fury. The
rain fell in a confluent stream, forming little cataracts, which
gushed over the slope of the hill between the rocks, adding to the
rush and roar of the tempest. The entire horizon appeared every moment
illumined, and the lightning streamed like a fiery deluge upon the
earth. There was the least imaginable pause between the flashes. A
large tree in front of the cavern was struck, the trunk severed from
the root, as if cleft with an axe by an omnipotent arm, and it fell
with an awful crash down the side of the mountain. The thunder rolled
with scarcely an interval between the peals, and occasionally burst
with such deafening crashes, that the ear could not endure the sound
without a positive sensation of pain. Snakes and other reptiles were
washed from their coverts, and crawled for shelter into the cavern, as
if awed by the fierce convulsion of the elements. They exhibited no
signs of reluctance at the propinquity of human beings, of whom they
have an instinctive fear, but appeared as if they had laid aside their
natural instincts under the terrors by which they were assailed. The
savage cobra closed its hood and slunk into a corner of the cavern, as
if glad to hide itself from the terrors of the storm. After a while,
the lightning flashed less continuously; there were longer intervals
between the peals of thunder; it became gradually more remote, and at
length the sun glimmered through the clouds, which, rapidly dissipating
before its beams, left a beautiful expanse of clear blue sky above the
hill.

The gloom of the cavern had now considerably abated, though nothing was
distinctly perceptible at the extremity.

As soon as the deafening noise of the tempest had subsided, a singular
sound was heard at the end of the cave, like the loud purring of a
cat. Mahmood and the attendant groping their way towards it, shortly
returned with something in their arms, which when exposed to the
light, proved to be the cubs of a lioness. The ferocious parents were
evidently abroad, but this discovery was not at all calculated to beget
an assurance of safety.

“We had better,” said the attendant, “immediately quit our retreat,
or we shall be visited by the parents of these young savages before
we have time to escape. They will, no doubt, return now the storm has
abated, and we may look for their presence every moment.”

“Well!” said the prince, “you don’t fear to encounter a lion? This will
be somewhat reversing the sport; instead of seeking the game, it will
seek us; but, upon second thoughts, it will not do to let them come
upon us before we are prepared; we shall be cramped in this cave; we
must have room to ply our arms. If the lions make good their entrance
before we have secured our retreat, we shall stand but a sorry chance
for our lives.”

“Suppose,” said Musaood, “I go and climb yonder tree, which commands
a view of the entire side of the hill. Should anything approach I can
give you a signal; you will have plenty of time to mount the rock just
beyond where we now stand, and from that elevation, with the prince’s
unerring aim, the lions will prove but contemptible foes.”

“Nay,” said Mahmood Afghan, “I like not this mode of getting hedged by
dangers; let us quit the cavern at once, and encounter our enemies in
an open field, if they come upon us. I need not tell you that these
animals are always the more furious when disturbed near the lair in
which they have deposited their cubs.”

“That’s just what I should desire,” said Mujahid; “the more furious the
quarry the greater the sport. You say, however, well, Mahmood; let us
go and meet these tawny strangers.”

During the raging of the tempest the prince and Mahmood had flung down
their bows and quivers upon the floor of the cave; when the attendant
took them up in obedience to the command of his master it was found
that the cubs had been amusing themselves with the arrows, and had
snapped every reed except two. This was a mortifying discovery. It was
now held advisable that the party should not seek an encounter with the
lions, as they were no longer in a condition to face them, but make the
best of their way down the hill, obtain a fresh supply of arrows, and
return on the following day.

By this time Musaood had quitted the cavern, and climbed a lofty tree
not far off, as he had proposed. The prince, with his armour-bearer
Mahmood, and the menial attendant, were about to quit their place of
refuge, when a huge lion appeared advancing stealthily towards its den,
which they had occupied in its absence.

“Hah!” said Mujahid, “we have no chance now, I see, but to struggle at
a disadvantage. The foe has taken us by surprise, and we must use the
best means of defence which such an emergency has left us. He shall
have a warning, however, that we are not to be intruded upon with
impunity.”

The prince placed an arrow on the string of his bow, and discharged it
as the lion advanced. It struck him in the shoulder, the steel head
fixing in the bone. The wounded beast gave a savage howl, tore the
shaft from its body, and bounded forward with a roar that made the
mountains ring.

Meanwhile the party had rolled a huge fragment of rock, which lay
within the cave, before the entrance, and thus excluded the ferocious
visitor. Reaching the opening, the lion paused a moment, repeated its
roar, and sprang against the stone. This vibrated with the animal’s
weight. It repeated its spring, but the prince placing his back against
the piece of rock, managed by his immense strength to prevent the
lion from forcing an entrance. The savage creature put its paws upon
the stone, and thrust its nose into the aperture left between the top
of the fragment and that of the entrance. Sensible that enemies had
invaded the sanctuary of its home, its howls were terrific, its eyes
glared with portentous rage, and it repeatedly rushed against the
opposing barrier, in order to force a passage to its offspring. All its
attempts, however, were foiled.

“Mahmood,” said the prince, as the enraged beast was standing with its
paws upon the stone, licking its rapacious jaws, now covered with foam,
“take thy bow, and discharge the arrow which remains into the lion’s
eye. You are so close that you may make sure of your aim, and if well
taken the steel will enter its brain, and give us a safe delivery.”

Mahmood took the bow; his hand trembled with anxiety, not with fear. He
was visible to the lion, which glared upon him with an expression of
terrific fury. Its eye was open to the utmost extension. Mahmood placed
the barb of his arrow within a few inches from the rolling orb, and
hurriedly drew the string. At the instant it escaped from his finger
the lion raised its head, and received the shaft through its tongue.
Maddened by the pain, it bounded a moment from the opposing rock, and
rolled upon its back, snapping the reed with its teeth, and returning
with renewed fury to its former position. The foam now dropping from
its mouth was dyed with blood. It protruded the lacerated tongue, from
which the gore copiously dripped, part of the reed still sticking in
the wound.

CHAPTER IV.

The situation of the prince, his friend, and attendant, was becoming
every moment more critical. The lion seemed determined to remain
stationary at the entrance of the cave, and to admit it was certain
death. Mujahid, however, resolved to remove the stone from the cavern’s
mouth and take the chance of a conflict with the ferocious beast. He
and Mahmood had their swords; one of them therefore might escape,
though, from the darkness and lowness of their place of refuge, the
chances were doubtful.

Musaood had at first secured his safety in the tree, from which
he descended while the foe was eagerly engaged with those who had
so unwittingly intruded into its den, and succeeded in making his
escape. Having reached the bottom of the hill, he mounted his horse
and galloped off in search of the prince’s followers, hoping that the
slayer of his father would now meet with deserved retribution.

As Mujahid was about to remove the fragment of rock from the cave’s
mouth, Mahmood proposed that they should try to strangle the lion with
a strong silken cord with which he had come provided; a sort of lasso,
which he was very skilful in throwing, and with which he was in the
habit of securing smaller game.

“No,” said the prince, “that were an ignoble and cowardly mode of
destroying the regal beast; I have a kindred feeling which repels me
from such a dog-like method of killing a lion. Besides, the thing is
impracticable, you will never be able to get it over the creature’s
head.”

“I will try, however,” said Mahmood, “since I have no kindred feeling
about the matter, and would as soon strangle a lion as a cat.”

Mujahid, in spite of his prejudices against casting a stigma upon
regality by attempting to inflict a degrading death upon the “monarch
of the woods,” yielded at length to the expostulations of his
armour-bearer, who attempted to cast the noose of the lasso over the
lion’s head. The aperture above the stone was so small that he had not
room to fix it; and while he was making the attempt, with a fearful
growl the enraged animal seized the rope between its teeth, sprang
from the opening, drew it from Mahmood’s grasp, and left him without a
resource in his peril.

“Well,” said the prince, “there is now no alternative between trying
which will be the longest starving, ourselves or our brindled guard, or
allowing it to enter and boldly trying our strength against it. We are
three to one, and that is fearful odds.”

“But the darkness and disadvantage of this low cave reduces our chances
and increases those of the enemy.”

“We must then bring him to battle on the outside of his den.”

“Alas! before we can squeeze ourselves through this narrow entrance,
the savage will have made good its spring, and the first stroke of its
paw is certain death.”

The attendant now proposed as a last resource that they should
strangle the cubs and throw them out to the lion. This was indeed a
desperate experiment, but Mujahid consented that it should be tried.
The attendant accordingly unwound the turban from his forehead and
twisted it tightly in the form of a rope. The cubs were found asleep
in a corner of the cave; but though so young, their strength was such
as to render the process of strangulation a thing of some difficulty.
A noose was made in the centre of the twisted turban, and being passed
over the cub’s head, was pulled at either end by Mahmood Afghan and the
attendant, the prince meanwhile applying his vast strength to keep the
lion from displacing the stone from the entrance.

Both the cubs being at length strangled, were forced through the
aperture, and flung before the enraged parent. The moment it saw its
offspring, the lion quitted the stone, stood over the cubs, and begun
to purr, licking their heads for a few moments with the greatest
tenderness. After a while, seeing they did not move, it turned them
over gently with its paw, erected its ears, and looked at them intently
for an instant; and then, as of a sudden becoming conscious that they
were dead, erected its head, raised its nose in the air, and howled
with a piteous expression of agony. The wounded tongue hung over its
jaws, still suffused with gore, and tears filled the eyes of the
noble beast as it again bent down its head to gaze upon the work of
destruction.

Its emotion soon subsided, and was succeeded by the most frightful
rage. It dashed against the barrier with increasing fury, and its
roarings were continued without intermission. It now required the
whole strength of the prince and his two companions to keep the stone
from giving way under the furious assaults of the lion. After a while,
as if exhausted with its energies, it retreated a few feet from the
aperture, lay down upon its belly beside the dead cubs, raised its head
towards the skies, as if invoking a silent curse upon the destroyers of
its offspring, and sent its voice among the surrounding echoes, which
multiplied it into one fearful and prolonged evocation of blended fury
and distress. In a short time it started to its feet, waved its tail,
and looking forward, ceased its horrible roar. Upon turning his eyes
toward the spot, the prince perceived another lion advancing at a rapid
trot in the direction of the cavern.

“This,” cried Mahmood, “is no doubt the mother of the cubs, and we
have, if possible, more to dread from her fury than from that of the
male savage. We have now no chance of our lives but by continuing where
we are until the lions shall retire. They will probably drag the cubs
away after the first burst of grief for the loss of their young shall
have subsided.”

“I like not this imprisonment,” said the prince, “and shall only
forbear forcing a retreat a short time longer. I am determined to try
my chance of escape while my strength remains unabated.”

Mahmood, however, prevailed upon his impatient and daring master to
await the issue of the second beast’s approach, before he rashly
determined upon an encounter, which it was now apprehended must
infallibly terminate in the death of each of them.

The lioness advanced eagerly, with her ears erected; and having
reached her cubs, she turned them over for a moment with her paw, and,
instantly perceiving they were dead, rushed towards a tree that grew
near, sprang upon the trunk, and, stripping off the bark, began to tear
it in pieces with the greatest violence. She now united her roars with
those of her consort; then fixing her eyes upon the den in which she
had deposited her young, bounded with foaming jaws towards the opening.
Infuriated by opposition, she darted to and fro before the cave,
springing at the trees, fixing her claws in the bark, and stripping
their trunks bare to the root. Again she assaulted the stone which
prevented entrance into her lair.

While she was exhibiting these paroxysms of exasperation, the male,
probably exhausted by its previous exertions, lay down beside the
cubs, placed its two fore-paws upon their bodies, and resting its head
upon the ground between them, kept up a low and continuous moan. The
lioness, at length fatigued with her unavailing efforts to retaliate
upon the destroyers of her young, walked deliberately up to the lion,
and after again turning over the bodies of her cubs, she seized one
of them in her mouth, and plunged with it into the thicket. The lion
took up the body of the other in the same way, and immediately followed
her. After a while the party in the cavern heard their roarings in the
distance, and began now to think seriously of making good their retreat.

“Our danger,” said the attendant, “is by no means at an end. Those
animals are never-failing in their instincts; they know that the
destroyers of their offspring are in this cave, and they will not quit
the neighbourhood until they have had their revenge. Their vigilance is
not to be evaded.”

“But,” said Mahmood, “did you not hear their roarings in the distance?”

“Nevertheless they will return immediately upon their steps. I have
seen much of the habits of these ferocious creatures. They have
disposed of the bodies of their dead cubs under some shrub or tuft of
grass, and covered them with dried leaves; they are now on the watch
for us; it is utterly impossible we should escape.”

“They shall feel the sharpness of this sword’s point, however, if they
do come upon us,” said the prince, rising, and stretching his cramped
limbs. “Our chance will be greater beneath the fair light of the sky,
with plenty of fighting room, than cooped up in this dismal den, where
we can’t distinguish a lion from a shadow.”

“It is clear,” said Mahmood, “there is no safety for us here; we have,
consequently, only a choice of evils, and it will therefore be the
greater prudence to choose the least. The lions are now out of sight,
and in spite of their cunning, we may be fortunate enough to baffle it.”

“Then we had better descend the mountain,” said the attendant, “in the
opposite direction to that taken by our watchful enemies, else we must
give up every chance of evading them.”

“But there is no practicable path,” said the prince; “and ever if there
were, our chances are much the same, whatever road we take, provided
what thou sayest of the vigilance of these creatures be true.”

The stone was now rolled from the cave’s mouth, and the prince pushed
his body through the narrow opening, followed by his armour-bearer and
the attendant. No enemies were visible, and their roarings had by this
time ceased to echo among the hills. Approaching the tree into which
Musaood had climbed upon the first apprehension of danger, Mujahid
looked up, and called upon his friend to descend; but perceiving that
he was not among the branches, the prince said with a smile.

“Musaood has tried the speed of his heels. If the lions should have
crossed his path and wreaked their vengeance upon him, they will
probably be satisfied; but if he has escaped, there is at least an
equal chance for us. Grasp your swords and follow me.”

“I have no doubt,” said Mahmood, “he has made good his retreat; I saw
him descend the tree while the first lion was engaged in assaulting the
rocky fragment which we had laid across the entrance of the cavern.
He’s a wary youth that Musaood: I know of no one who likes so little to
get into danger, or who knows so well how to extricate himself out of
it.”

“That is not the lion’s instinct,” said the prince, smiling.

“Nay, but it is part of the wise man’s discretion.”

“Then, Mahmood, thy master is a fool; for he never was yet remarkable
for his prudence in getting out of a scrape.”

“But valour,” replied Mahmood, with a respectful salaam, “is not an
attribute of wisdom; that, therefore, would be prudent in the brave
man, which would be folly in the wise.”

“Then we bold fools, Mahmood, may be justified in cutting the
throats of lions for the preservation of our own lives; while your
sages, in conformity with their characters of wise men, would, as a
matter of course, bow their heads under the lion’s paw, and die like
philosophers.”

Mahmood smiled, made another salaam, and remained silent, as if
assenting to the truth of his master’s observation.

The party proceeded slowly onward, on account of the narrowness and
ruggedness of the path, which would not admit of two going abreast. In
a short time, however, they had overcome the most difficult part of the
descent without interruption from their dreaded foes. They were already
congratulating themselves with having escaped, when a cry from the
attendant, who was a few yards behind his master and Mahmood, caused
the two latter to stop and turn. The cause of that cry of alarm was
soon explained. The two lions were seen making their way down the side
of the mountain at a very rapid rate, their ears depressed, the hair
on their tails erected, and exhibiting other signs of fury not to be
mistaken. It was impossible to avoid them as the path was still narrow
and rugged.

The prince, drawing his cimeter, placed himself in front of his two
companions, and undauntedly awaited the threatened onset. The male lion
was several paces in advance of the lioness, and, bounding forward,
stopped suddenly within about thirty feet of its intended victim, and
crouching a moment crawled a few yards upon its belly, then rising with
a quick motion sprang with the rapidity of lightning towards Mujahid.
He had been prepared for this; and when he saw the body of the angry
beast propelled towards him, as if urged by that Almighty force which
wings the thunderbolt, he leaped actively on one side, raised his
weapon, and urging it with all his force as the foe descended, struck
it in the mouth with the full impulse of an arm that, by a similar
stroke, had frequently severed the head of a buffalo. The sword crashed
through the jaws, forced its way into the throat, opening so hideous a
wound that the lion fell forward, writhed a few moments, and died.

The lioness, which had crouched several paces behind while her consort
was making its spring, seeing the issue of the contest, leaped forward
with a roar, and coming up to the prince before he had recovered his
guard, placed its paws upon his breast, and attempted to gripe him by
the throat. Mujahid grasped the savage by the windpipe, and keeping it
at arm’s length, prevented it from effecting its purpose; but it still
kept its claws fixed in his breast, which it lacerated in a frightful
manner, and at length seizing one of his hands crushed it dreadfully.
Still he managed to keep its head from his body.

Mahmood, seeing the peril of his master, struck the ferocious beast
with all his might upon the back with his sword, which was very keen
and heavy. This assault induced the lioness to relinquish her hold
and turn upon Mahmood; but her spine had been so injured from the
stroke of the cimeter, that she was unable to spring. A second blow
from Mahmood’s ponderous weapon upon the skull, instantly seconded by
another from that of the attendant, soon brought her to the ground,
when she was easily dispatched, though not before she had left
terrible marks of her fury upon the prince’s body, who, reeking with
his blood, stood gazing at his vanquished foes. The effusion was great,
and the lacerations so extensive as to exhibit a fearful aspect of
fatality.

Mahmood, being well skilled in the virtues of herbs, gathered some from
the hill-side, and bruising them formed a styptic which he applied to
the wound, and arrested the hæmorrhage. The prince declared himself
able to proceed, the application of the herbs having somewhat subdued
the irritation of his wounds. He was obliged to bare his body to the
waist; and in order to prevent the sun from incommoding him, Mahmood
and the attendant skinned one of the lions, and fixing the hide upon
four bamboos, formed a sort of canopy under which Mujahid managed to
creep down the remainder of the descent.

When they reached the bottom of the hill, they found their horses
securely tied to the trees, as they had left them. Mujahid felt himself
unable to proceed: the attendant, therefore, rode off in pursuit of
some of the followers, whom he happily found at no great distance
pursuing the pleasures of the chase. Among these was Musaood, who had
refrained from mentioning the state of peril in which he had left his
companions on the hill. Upon hearing that the prince had been wounded
in the breast by his tawny foe, he concluded that the consummation of
his revenge was nigh. A calm smile passed over his features; but he
warily suppressed the feelings which rose with the warmth of a kindly
emotion in his bosom, and elated his heart. Affecting to commiserate
the condition of Mujahid, he proceeded, accompanied by several of
his followers, to the spot where the prince lay in a state of great
suffering stretched upon the lion’s skin; but, smiling as Musaood
approached, he said--

“You had a better instinct than I, Musaood. Had I taken to the tree I
might have escaped these scratches, which will keep me from the chase
for some weeks, and, what is worse, from thy sister; but the cause of
so long an absence will furnish my excuse.”

“There’s no pleasure, prince, without its pain, and in your sufferings
all your friends participate.”

“Then they are great fools. It is enough that one should suffer in
a matter of this kind, and you ought all to rejoice that you have
had the good luck to escape. These are the little contingencies of
lion-hunting, but I shall not be the worse for it when my scratches are
healed.”

A litter was now made, in which the prince was laid, and carried slowly
towards his fathers capital. The faithful Mahmood walked by his side,
anticipating all his wants, and attending upon him with affectionate
earnestness. In spite of the styptic, his wounds bled so copiously that
when he reached the end of his journey he was in a state of extreme
exhaustion. For some weeks he was in considerable danger, which spread
a general gloom through the city, but, after a severe struggle, his
constitution triumphed, and he at length completely recovered.

CHAPTER V.

When Mujahid had recovered from his wounds he renewed his addresses
to the sister of Musaood, who, finding that she could no longer delay
the gratification of the prince’s desires without a direct breach of
promise, determined to bring the thing to an immediate issue. She had
for some time encouraged his proposals of dishonourable love; she had
done this for a sinister purpose, and was still loth to give up the
hope of seeing the slayer of her father meet with that retribution in
this world which she thought he deserved. She cared not how her own
reputation was endangered so long as she could see the man punished by
whom she had been deprived of a parent she tenderly loved. She did not
forget, too, that his hand was stained with the blood of her lover, and
although this was done in self-defence, it nevertheless did not abate
in her judgment the odiousness of the deed.

Toghluk Beg had been long attached to her, and it was this attachment
which urged him to risk his life against the valour and personal
strength of a man notorious through his father’s kingdom for the
invincible force of his arm. The daughter of Moobarik could not
forgive the double injury which she had received at the hands of the
king’s son, and in order the more securely to effect the purpose so
long entertained by herself and her brother she finally came to the
resolution of admitting Mujahid to the enjoyment which he sought,
indifferent to consequences, save the accomplishment of her revenge.

When next she saw her brother, “Musaood,” she said, “the enemy seems
to have a charmed life; no sword can reach him, and he is even proof
against the claws of the lion.”

“My sister, his time will come yet.”

“So you have said for years, and yet he is abroad in his might, and the
world appears to fall prostrate before him. How is this colossus to be
upheaved?”

“By constant dripping water will wear down the mountain to a level with
the valley.”

“But we cannot wait so slow a process, brother. Can you suggest no
means of a speedier vengeance?”

“He loves you, my sister.”

“Well, that won’t kill him.”

“No; but you return his love with hatred, and that may.”

“Hatred is of itself passive.”

“Still it may instigate the hand to urge the dagger home.”

“Then I must yield to his passions, an act against which my soul
recoils.”

“His death were worth any sacrifice. Had I a thousand reputations I
would relinquish them all to see him dead before me.”

“You sanction, then, my infamy?”

“It will be neutralised by the event. If it bring retribution upon the
head of our father’s destroyer it will be a filial oblation, and do you
everlasting honour.”

“The sacrifice shall be made, and may the desired issue be speedy! It
is, however, a hard thing to dissemble in the presence of an object
whom the heart loathes; how shall I endure the caresses of such a man?”

“As sick men take bitters, for the cure they bring. It will heal thy
hatred, sister, by removing the cause of it, and will not that be your
sufficient reward?”

“It is like making one pass to paradise through a path of fire.”

“Remember that when the paradise is gained you have all joy and no more
suffering.”

“What part do you intend to play in this sanguinary drama?”

“Do you but make the opportunity, and I am ready to drive the dagger
home to his heart. I must, however, do it where even the winds cannot
murmur an alarm.”

“Agreed; I will sacrifice my fair fame to the retribution we owe to a
fathers spirit.”

Thus was the foul conspiracy against the prince’s life hatched by the
brother and sister. They brought over to their purposes two disaffected
nobles, who entertained an inveterate animosity against Mujahid because
he had punished their cowardice with disgrace during his expedition
against Krishin Ray.

The prince, unsuspicious of treachery, visited the siren who had won
his affections with a full conviction that his passion was returned
with equal warmth. He provided for her a splendid mansion and a
numerous retinue, devoting most of his time to the society of his
enchantress. She feigned affection so artfully that he imagined himself
the idol of her heart; but Mahmood, who suspected her sincerity, though
he had no suspicion of her treachery, frequently told him that he
was deceived. This rather begot a coldness in the prince towards his
faithful armour-bearer; the latter, however, did not abate an atom of
his attachment towards his master, whom he looked upon as the dupe of
an artful woman, and whose interests he watched with a vigilance which
fully showed that they were no less dear to him than his own.

“Fair one!” said Mujahid one day, “am I deceived in thinking that you
love me?”

“Why this question?”

“Nay, that is no answer.”

“But surely I am justified in seeking to know why my affection is
suspected. Tell me candidly, have I ever given you just cause to
suspect it?”

“No.”

“Then you wrong me by your suspicions. Some enemy has attempted to
poison your mind, and it is but fitting I should know who that enemy
is.”

“You can have no enemy, my sweet flower, except the blights; and they
will not pass over thee yet.”

“Sooner than you may dream of, if I am to be doubted by one for whom
I have sacrificed so much. Remember that the flower is prostrated by
the sun when his scorching rays fall on it, as well as by the tempest;
so love may be as completely subverted by suspicion as by the fiercest
hatred: it cannot exist but in an atmosphere of mutual confidence.”

Convinced by her specious manner that he was beloved, whatever
suspicions might have previously existed soon passed from his mind.

About this time his father dying, he succeeded to the sovereignty of
the Deccan. His accession was solemnized with great rejoicings; but
the secret conspiracy against his life was not quelled, only retarded,
by this event. He lavished immense sums of money upon the favourite
who was secretly plotting his destruction, nor would he listen to a
suspicion breathed against the fervency of her attachment, of which
the faithful armour-bearer still ventured occasionally to express his
doubts.

Musaood’s duplicity was now redoubled. His apparent zeal for the
interests of the king blinded all but Mahmood, whose distrust became
excited in proportion as the apparent earnestness of the other for his
master’s welfare was displayed. It happened that he one day overheard
part of a conversation which passed between the brother and sister,
that confirmed his suspicions of intended mischief; and he resolved
to acquaint the king, in defiance of the royal interdiction not to
introduce the subject again in his presence.

Appearing one morning before the sovereign, he said, “A good subject
must not fear to incur the displeasure of a kind master, where danger
is likely to accrue to the one, which the other, by a timely warning,
may avert.”

“What means this, Mahmood? Annoy me not with any of your silly
suspicions; you know I have forbidden you to speak of them in my
presence.”

“I know it; but my love for a good king and generous master will not
allow me to be silent when I have reason to apprehend that danger is
near him.”

“What grounds have you for so supposing?”

“Musaood and his sister are frequently closeted, and I overheard the
former say to the latter, but a few days ago, ‘Our revenge has been
long baffled, but the consummation draws near.’”

“Why should you apply this to me, when I have secured the affection of
the one and the fidelity of the other?”

“Professedly you have, but kings are not always the best skilled in
reading human hearts; they too frequently mistake the mask for the
countenance.”

The king smiled. “Mahmood,” said he, “how long have you been a
decipherer of the unwritten records of human character? Do you not
think that you may chance to be mistaken as well as other men?”

“Beyond question: but no one can deny the policy of being upon
one’s guard, even in a state of the greatest apparent security. The
profoundest calms are frequently the precursors of violent tempests;
and what is seen in the natural may likewise occur in the moral world.”

“But would you have me live in a state of perpetual suspicion, with
that void in my heart arising from the absence of confidence, which is
one of the most grievous penalties of our existence?”

“No; but I would not have you too rashly trust, and, indeed, never
until you have well weighed the characters whom you admit to your
friendship.”

“And have I not done so? Have you not won my confidence? and have I
ever found reason to regret having bestowed it upon you?”

Mahmood was rather staggered; he felt the truth of the observation;
but still determined not to allow the king to remain blind to his
insecurity, without striving to put him upon his guard, he said, “Men
must be judged by their actions.”

“Precisely so; and Musaood has never given me cause to suspect his
fidelity.”

“What has he ever done to render him an object of trust?”

“Nothing, at all events, that should render him an object of suspicion.”

“My sovereign, I do not suspect upon slight grounds; I have seen
frequent and secret meetings; I have heard ambiguous words uttered,
and am willing to risk my head upon the truth of what I assert, that
your royal safety is not secure from secret machinations. Having put my
royal master upon his guard, my duty is performed.”

Mujahid Shah, though he had the strongest reliance on the integrity
of his armour-bearer, and a sincere esteem for him, yet looked upon
his suspicions as chimerical, and took no measures to counteract any
plots that might at that moment be ripening against his life. His
passion for the sister of Musaood was unabated, and he treated her with
distinguished regard.

He one day declared to her his intention of passing the night in the
house she occupied, at which she expressed herself extremely flattered,
and immediately communicated the information to Musaood.

“My brother,” said she, “the king sleeps here to-night, and the
opportunity so long sought after may be now embraced.”

“What do you propose?”

“That Mujahid should die this night by your dagger.”

“If you will show me that his death can be safely accomplished, I am
ready to become the instrument.”

“Go and seek your two confederates, and introduce them into the house;
I will let you into the king’s chamber at midnight;--the work is then
easy.”

“But does not his armour-bearer always sleep in an adjoining apartment?”

“Yes: he, however, will be easily disposed of. I will prepare his
evening meal: he shall be deaf to the cries of his master when they
come.”

“Could you not contrive to remove his arms?”

“What will signify arms to a man who has not the power of using them?
Do you quail, Musaood? Don’t be shamed by a woman! Such an opportunity
does not occur every day. Embrace it, or let it pass, as you please:
upon your choice depends whether we ever again meet as brother and
sister. You need not be told that kindred foes are the most deadly.”

This peremptory insinuation immediately decided Musaood. It was
arranged that he should repair to the house, with his two confederates,
so soon as night closed in.

In the evening Mahmood’s curry had been prepared for him; but labouring
under an excited state of mind, and having a presentiment of evil which
he could not repress, he did not taste it. Flinging himself upon his
couch, he lay feverish and restless.

About two hours after he had retired to rest, hearing a noise in the
adjoining room, he rose and listened. He could distinguish voices in a
whisper, but not a word reached his ear. There was sufficient light to
discern the dim outlines of three persons at the entrance to the royal
chamber. He was not kept long in suspense, for after the lapse of a few
moments a female figure opened the door, and the three men entered.
Mahmood, drawing his sword, instantly followed. Upon reaching the door
of his master’s room, he saw Musaood and his two companions armed with
daggers. The king was lying asleep upon his couch, and the treacherous
confederate of the assassins standing, with a lamp in her hand, near
his head.

Without an instant’s pause Mahmood cried, in a loud voice, “Rise,
Mujahid Shah! you are beset by murderers!” at the same time cutting
down one of the assassins. The sovereign, awakened by the noise,
started from his bed, just as Musaood was about to plunge a dagger
into his body. The blow had already descended, but Mujahid caught it
upon his arm, receiving a severe wound. He instantly laid hold of the
assassin by the wrist, wrenched the dagger from his feeble grasp, and
buried it in his heart.

The third confederate, seeing the fate of his two companions, rushed
from the chamber. Mahmood, seized his lasso, which was at hand,
pursued the criminal, and casting the cord round his legs as he quitted
the house, tripped him up, and brought him to the ground. He was
immediately secured, and conducted before the king.

“At whose instigation did you attempt the life of your sovereign?”

“My own!” answered the noble firmly.

“What was your object?”

“To get rid of a tyrant!”

“Was that woman your accomplice?” asked Mujahid Shah, pointing to the
siren who had placed his life in jeopardy.

“No; she is innocent.”

The wretched woman, who had stood pale and abashed before the royal
presence, immediately recovered her composure, and affected to repel
the suspicion with indignation.

The accomplice of her brother did not betray her. He would reveal
nothing, but made up his mind to die with that sullen resolution
so frequently witnessed at public executions. The king, summoning
two attendants, ordered them to take the traitor into an adjoining
apartment and strangle him. This was accordingly done, and his body
thrown from the window. By the time Mujahid Shah quitted the house in
the morning, nothing but a skeleton was seen upon the spot where the
strangled corpse had been cast the preceding night.

The sovereign having so narrowly escaped, was reminded by the faithful
Mahmood of the policy of withdrawing himself from the woman who
had obtained so entire an ascendancy over his heart; but such was
his infatuation that he could not believe her guilty. She had been
pronounced innocent by the confederate of her brother; and so complete
was her empire over him, that he would not allow himself to suppose her
implicated in the conspiracy against him. She affected to curse her
brother’s memory, not only for the murderous act of lifting his arm
against his sovereign’s life, but likewise for involving her in the
suspicion of having been an accomplice in so wicked a design.

“Make your mind easy,” said the king, in reply to her asseverations
of innocence; “my confidence in your affection is not to be shaken.
A woman does not hate out of mere wantonness the man to whom she has
relinquished all that is most prized by her sex. Great sacrifices are
only made for those we love, and for me you have made the greatest.”

“I fear I have an enemy in your armour-bearer,” said the artful siren;
“and cannot but feel apprehensive that he will eventually tear me from
your heart; this fear is a perpetual sting in my bosom. I have never
given him any cause of offence; and yet he continually pours the poison
of prejudice into the king’s ear.”

Mujahid Shah was silent. He could not but feel the force of this
observation, and it struck him that Mahmood’s prejudice was altogether
unjustifiable. In spite of his late gallantry in defending his master’s
life, the king was angered at the hostility which his armour-bearer
evidently entertained against the object of the royal affections, and
he treated him with unusual coldness, sometimes even with asperity.

Within a few months after the late attack upon the life of Mujahid
Shah, Musaood’s sister had completely steeped his heart in the
infatuation of dotage. He felt perfectly secure of her affection; and
finding that all suspicion had subsided, she determined to perpetrate
with her own hand the deed of blood which her late brother had failed
to accomplish.

One night, when she retired to rest with the sovereign, concealing a
dagger under the bedclothes, she awaited with tremulous impatience
to see her victim lulled in slumber. His senses gradually faded into
unconsciousness, and he slept heavily. She drew the weapon slowly from
its concealment. Her hand trembled. She cautiously bared the king’s
chest, and, compressing her lips, plunged into his heart the instrument
of death. Mujahid started from his sleep; he saw the night-dress of
his murderess stained with blood, and her hand still upon the dagger.
Feeling his senses fast failing, he grasped her by the throat, held
her a few moments in his death-grip, flung her with his last effort of
expiring strength upon the floor, strangled, and fell dead beside her.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 790 (A.D. 1388).--Feroze Toghluk was succeeded on the throne of
Delhi by his grandson, Gheias-ood-Deen Toghluk, who was murdered,
after a reign of only five months and a few days.

Heg. 791 (1389).--The late king’s murderers raised to the throne Aboo
Bukr, another grandson of Feroze Toghluk; he was deposed after a reign
of eighteen months, and succeeded by his uncle, Nasir-ood-Deen Mahomed
Toghluk.

Heg. 793 (1390).--Mahomed, after having silenced all opposition,
entered Delhi in the month Rumzan, and ascending the throne, assumed
the title of Nasir-ood-Deen Mahomed.

Heg. 794 (1391).--The Vizier Islam Chan was condemned to death for a
projected revolt, on the evidence of his own nephew Hajoo, a Hindoo,
who swore falsely against him, in consequence, as it is supposed, of
his uncle having embraced the faith of Islam.

Heg. 795. (1392).--The king was taken ill of a fever, at Mahomedabad,
and became delirious for some days.

Heg. 797 (1394).--Mahomed, having suffered a relapse of the fever,
died, after a short reign of six years, and was succeeded by his son
Humayoon, who took the name of Secunder, but was suddenly cut off,
forty-five days after his accession to the throne, when Mahmood, a
younger son of Nasir-ood-Deen Mahomed, succeeded him.

Heg. 799 (1396).--Gheias-ood-Deen ascended his fathers throne in the
Deccan, and, having given offence to one of the household slaves, was
dethroned by him, and confined in the fort of Sagur.

Heg. 800 (1397).--Shums-ood-Deen, brother to the deposed king, was
raised to the throne, but was dethroned after a reign of five months
and several days; the slave being put to death by Gheias-ood-Deen,
whom he had deposed and blinded.

Heg. 801 (1398).--Ameer Timoor, commonly called Tamerlane, arrived on
the banks of the Indus, took the town of Bhutnere, ravaged the whole
country, and having, in different encounters with the idolaters, made
nearly a hundred thousand prisoners, ordered them all to be massacred.
The conqueror made himself master of Delhi, where he caused himself
to be proclaimed Emperor, and the usual titles to be read in his
name in all the mosques. The fine mosque, built by Feroze Toghluk,
on the stones of which he had inscribed the history of his reign,
was so much admired by Timoor, that he carried the same architects
and masons from Delhi to Sarmakand to build one there upon a similar
plan. Having given up the city to a general pillage, and committed
a dreadful massacre of the inhabitants, the conqueror commenced his
retreat to his own country. After a while, those who had quitted the
city returned to their homes, and Delhi in a short time assumed its
former appearance of populousness and splendour.

Heg. 811 (1408).--Mahmood Toghluk returned to Delhi.

Heg. 814 (1412).--The king, indulging too eagerly in the diversion
of hunting, caught a fever, of which he died. With him fell the
kingdom of Delhi from the race of Toorks, the adopted slaves of the
Emperor Shahab-ood-Deen Ghoory, who were of the second dynasty of the
Mahomedan princes of India. The disastrous and inglorious reign of
Mahmood Toghluk continued, from first to last, twenty years and two
months.

Heg. 815 (1412).--Dowlut Chan Lody, an Afghan by birth, was raised
to the throne by general consent of the nobles, after the death of
Mahomed Toghluk; but was deposed and put to death by Khizr Chan, after
a nominal reign of one year and three months.

Heg. 817 (1414).--Khizr Chan ascended the throne of Delhi, and was
the first of the fourth dynasty of her kings. In the first year of
his government, he sent Mullik Tohfa with an army towards Kuttehr,
which place he reduced. Nursing Ray was driven to the mountains, but
upon paying a ransom, his territories were restored to him. This year
a band of Toorks, the adherents of Beiram Chan, assassinated Mullik
Ladho, governor of Surhind, and took possession of his country.

Heg. 821 (1418).--A conspiracy was formed against the king’s life; but
having detected the conspiracy, Khizr Chan commanded the household
troops to fall upon them and put them to death.

Heg. 824 (1421).--The king died in the city of Delhi, and, as a token
of respect for his memory, the citizens wore black for three days.[17]
The nobles having assembled, elevated Moobarik, the son of Khizr Chan,
to the vacant throne.

Heg. 825 (1422).--The king, having marched to Lahore, ordered the
ruined palaces and fortifications to be repaired, and returned to
Delhi.

Heg. 826 (1422).--The king deposed Mullik Secundur from the vizierat,
and raised Suvuur-ool-Moolk to that office.

Heg. 830 (1426). Moobarik laid siege to Byana for sixteen days, but,
on the desertion of part of the garrison, Mahomed Chan, the governor,
surrendered at discretion, and with a rope about his neck was led into
the royal presence.

Heg. 832 (1428).--The king marched to Mewat, and entirely subdued that
country, compelling the inhabitants to pay him tribute.

Heg. 833 (1430).--Ameer Sheikh Ally having made himself master of
Toolumba in Moultan, plundered the place, and put to death all the men
able to bear arms. He likewise burned the town, and carried the wives
and children of the inhabitants into captivity.

Heg. 835 (1432).--The king deprived his vizier of the government of
Lahore.

Heg. 839 (1435).--Moobarik ordered a city to be founded upon the banks
of the Jusuna, which he called Moobarikabad, and made an excursion
towards Surhind, in order to take the diversion of the chase. On the
way he received advices that Surhind was taken, and the head of the
rebel Folad was presented to him, after which he returned to the new
city.

According to custom, on the ninth of the month, Rujub Moobarik went
to worship in a mosque lately built in the new city, with only a few
attendants, and was put to death by a band of Hindoos clothed in
armour, who entered the sacred edifice while the king was performing
his devotions. The vizier immediately raised to the throne Mahomed,
one of the grandsons of Khizr Chan. One Ranoo, a slave of the vizier,
being nominated collector of the revenues of Bayana, endeavouring to
obtain possession of the fort, was opposed and slain by Yusoof Chan
Lodi.

Heg. 840 (1436).--The vizier, aided by several conspirators, broke
into the royal apartments with drawn swords, in order to put the king
to death. The latter, however, having intimation of their design,
placed a guard in readiness to counteract it, which, on a certain
signal, rushed out upon the conspirators, who fled. The vizier was
killed as he was passing the door, and the other conspirators, being
afterwards taken, were publicly executed.

Heg. 849 (1445).--The king’s power decaying rapidly, the Zemindars
of Bayana placed themselves under the government of Sultan Mahmood
Khiljy, of Malwa, and Syud Mahomed falling sick, he died a natural
death, leaving behind him the character of a weak and dissolute
prince. He reigned twelve years, and was succeeded by his son
Alla-ood-Deen.

Heg. 854 (1450).--Alla-ood-Deen, having adopted Bheilole Lody as
his son, formally abdicated the throne in his favour, on condition
of being permitted to reside without molestation at Budaoon.
Alla-ood-Deen dwelt at Budaoon until his death, which happened
A.H. 883, A.D. 1478, his reign at Delhi being seven years, and his
retirement at Budaoon nearly twenty-eight.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] The Mahomedans as well as Christians wear black for mourning.

The Rival Brothers.

CHAPTER I.

Gheias-ood-Deen, a young and handsome youth in his eighteenth year,
was attended by a slave who was scattering perfume round the spot upon
which his master sat. This youth had just ascended the throne of his
father, late king of the Deccan, and gave promise of being a popular
sovereign. In conformity with the practice of his predecessor, he
behaved very graciously to all the members of his court, remembering
the zealous supporters of his family, and distinguishing them with
especial marks of favour. He raised several of his most deserving
nobles to places of distinction, and rewarded his late father’s
faithful domestics with offices of trust. This greatly excited the
jealousy of Lallcheen, principal Toorky slave of the household, who not
only aspired to obtain his freedom, but to be advanced to some post
of honour. He was now in the presence of his young sovereign, towards
whom he had frequently evinced his dissatisfaction by certain marks
which, though they apparently expressed nothing, were nevertheless
sufficiently intelligible.

“Lallcheen,” said the young king, “why do you appear thus dissatisfied?
My conduct, since my accession to the throne of my father, seems to
have diffused general content, and why should you be an exception?”

“Slaves have no great cause for satisfaction under any condition of
bondage; but when faithful servants are not rewarded, they have just
grounds for complaint.”

“They can have none whatever, so long as the master is not unjust.
Slaves cannot expect to be treated like princes.”

“But they can expect to be treated like men who have minds to
appreciate, and hearts to feel the difference between justice and
tyranny.”

“But I think it an act of injustice to place a slave upon a level with
a free man. By the condition of his destiny, the fetters of slavery
have been cast upon him, and he must wear them. I do not approve of
elevating bondmen to posts of honour.”

“Has the sovereign forgotten that the queen-mother was originally one
of that degraded class which the king thinks it unjust to dignify?”

“No woman is degraded by her condition, because she is the mere
instrument in the Deity’s hands for perpetuating the human race. The
son derives neither rank nor degradation from the mother;--it therefore
matters not whether she be a slave or a princess.”

“The king reasons like a profound casuist,” said Lallcheen, with an
ill-disguised sneer; “and I feel how utterly impossible it is for a
slave to beat down the lofty fences of royal logic.”

“You do not, however, seem very heartily convinced by it; but of this I
would have you in future assured--that it will be one of the principles
of my government not to place my bondmen upon a level with free men.”

Lallcheen had been a favourite with the late king, whose memory his
son held in great reverence; he therefore bore with the liberty of the
servitor who during the last reign had received a sort of licence to
express his thoughts without reserve, being a person of considerable
intelligence and of an active inquisitive mind.

Lallcheen was exceedingly mortified at the sentiments expressed by the
young king. They were scored upon his mind with literal fidelity, and
he secretly meditated revenge, though he did not show it openly. He
had sprung from a race of bold haughty barbarians, who held freedom
to be the pole-star in the firmament of human glory; and the friction
from the fetters of bondage seemed to rub against the very core of his
heart. He panted for liberty as a drowning man does for the air which
the waters exclude from his lips; and the disappointment with which
the sovereign’s definitive resolution was charged came over his spirit
with a crushing burden that for a moment seemed to weigh it down to the
lowest level of degradation. His fierce passions, however, which had
long slumbered under the assuasive kindness of his late master, rose
to his relief, casting off the burden from his soul as with an arm of
might and lifting it where it could soar unincumbered from the trammels
of its griefs, devise new motives of action, and nerve itself to high
and important resolves.

The slave had a daughter, the fame of whose beauty had reached the
ears of Gheias-ood-Deen. She was as celebrated for her wit as for her
personal attractions, and her skill in music was so perfect that she
eclipsed all the regular professors of the capital. There was not an
accomplishment of which she was not mistress. Her celebrity had already
gained her many admirers, and the king expressed a desire to see her.

Lallcheen was not sorry at the opportunity which this circumstance
might afford him of mortifying the sovereign, or of punishing him more
effectually, and therefore determined to throw the lovely Agha in his
master’s way in the palace gardens, to which the slave had free access.

The king was one morning walking in the gardens with his brother
Shums-ood-Deen, a remarkably beautiful boy in his sixteenth year.

“Who is that yonder, brother,” asked the latter, “by the marble tank?”

“I know not; but, by the gait and figure, something to admire.”

“She retires: I fear we shall lose the opportunity of ascertaining who
she may be, for handsome strangers are not wont to visit the private
gardens of the palace.”

“Go quickly and bid her stop;--say the king desires a word with her.”

Shums-ood-Deen bounded forward, and overtook the stranger as she was
retiring behind an arbour through a path which led to a back entrance
into the gardens.

“Stay, damsel,” said the prince; “the king desires a word with you.”

The stranger turned, and exhibited to the wondering eyes of the royal
youth features and a form of such extraordinary beauty that he gazed
in speechless admiration. Agha, for it was she, stood before him with
a demeanour of undisturbed modesty without uttering a word, awaiting
the sovereign’s approach. Gheias-ood-Deen was no less amazed than his
brother with the houri form upon which his eyes, as he approached,
instantly became riveted.

“Do I,” said he, “behold the marvel of my capital, to whom report has
ascribed such unrivalled perfections?”

“The king beholds the daughter of his slave,” said Agha, with her eye
fixed somewhat proudly on the youthful monarch.

“He is henceforward free for the daughter’s sake,” said the sovereign,
approaching and offering to take her hand.

She retired, and said gravely, “I am an intruder here; may I be
permitted to withdraw? It shall be my care not to intrude again upon
the king’s privacy.”

“Such intrusions are blessings for which the proudest monarchs of the
earth would barter their sceptres. Talk not of intruding, Queen of the
Graces!--not only these gardens are henceforth free to thee, but every
part of the palace. The sunshine of thy smile will produce a harvest of
delight wherever it glows.”

“The daughter of a slave is but an abject thing at best; but the king’s
mockery tends to remind her how complete is her abjection.”

Saying this, she withdrew, leaving the two brothers in a state of
blended admiration and amazement. Shums-ood-Deen, in the ardour
of youthful enthusiasm, had he a throne to offer, felt that he
would willingly make her the partner of it on the instant; but
Gheias-ood-Deen was influenced by a less sanctified passion. He thought
that the offspring of a slave could not for a moment object to be the
concubine of a king; nor did he imagine that the slightest impediment
would be raised to the proposal, which he contemplated the instant he
saw the exquisite beauty of Lallcheen’s daughter.

“What think you, brother, of this girl?” asked Gheias-ood-Deen.

“That until now I had no idea of the beautiful inhabitants of Paradise.
I feel my soul elated! Oh! with such a creature I could enjoy more than
happiness in this lower world! Had I a throne, she should be my queen.”

“Silly boy!” said the brother, pettishly; “the daughters of slaves do
not become thrones.”

“But, brother, the daughter of a slave is at this moment the mother of
a king.”

“A bad precedent is not to be followed; therefore no more of this.
You must discourage your raptures for the child of Lallcheen; she
must become part of my household. I love her, but as monarchs love
menials--for their pleasures, and my purpose must not be crossed,
Shums-ood-Deen.”

This was said with a deliberate emphasis of tone that implied a threat,
if obedience did not follow the injunction. It greatly mortified the
prince. He was silent, but nevertheless resolved to contravene the
designs of his brother, whose impure intentions towards Agha were to
him like a profanation of the sanctuary. His youthful enthusiasm was on
fire, and he determined, if possible, to counteract the king’s purposes
by immediately making honourable love to the slave’s daughter; for he
could not associate the idea of degradation with anything so perfect.
It seemed to him as if the finger of Allah were especially to be traced
in that fair work of his creation, and that therefore she ought to be
elevated to the highest earthly dignities, instead of being allowed
to wither in an atmosphere of social degradation. He lost no time in
seeking Lallcheen, whom he found a ready listener to his sallies of
enthusiastic admiration for the beautiful girl who had that morning
captivated his youthful heart. The slave’s hostility towards his master
made him attend with greater readiness to the proposals of the prince,
who at once declared his readiness to marry the lovely Agha.

“But, prince,” said Lallcheen, “what will the king say to such a
connexion as you propose? He thinks that bondmen ought to live in
their fetters; he will never, therefore, sanction your alliance with
slaves.”

“I am free,” said Shums-ood-Deen, “to marry whom I will; he has no
right to control me in that which essentially regards my domestic
happiness. I have resolved to choose for myself, and only await your
consent to make me happy.”

“Prince, it will not appear flattery to say that I honour your liberal
sentiments--that is a matter of course. If you can secure my child’s
consent, you have mine upon one condition, that I obtain my freedom;
for it would ill become the dignity of Shums-ood-Deen to be the
son-in-law of a slave.”

“This I promise. Your freedom is a boon which the king will scarcely
fail to grant to a brother’s supplication. Your daughter would be
cheaply purchased at the price of an empire.”

The wily father saw that the greatest advantage was to be drawn from
the boyish enthusiasm of Shums-ood-Deen; and his hopes of casting back
upon the king the odium which he had made to fall so heavily upon
his bond-servant, rose rapidly to their meridian as he listened to
the declarations of attachment towards his daughter from the lips of
his master’s brother. He sought his child, and prepared her for the
visit of Shums-ood-Deen, at the same time relating to her his earnest
professions of honourable attachment. She received the communication
with undisguised pleasure, for she had beheld the prince with more than
common satisfaction. His youthful beauty, untainted by the habitual
exercise of gross passion, had made a favourable impression upon her;
and she felt gratified by the undisguised expression of delight which
passed over his glowing countenance the moment he beheld her.

“Now, my child,” said the father, “you have made a flattering conquest.
It is no common thing to find a prince entertaining honourable
intentions towards those looked upon by the world as excluded from all
society but the lowest: appreciate this as it deserves.”

“I shall, my father; but withal, flattering as such approbation is, it
may prove the mere effervescence of passion in a youthful bosom, that
will pass away with the occasion. At all events, be assured I shall
never give my consent to a union with any man upon whom I have not
first bestowed my heart.”

With this understanding Lallcheen prepared to introduce the prince, who
had declared his intention of visiting her father’s house that evening.

The lovers met in Agha’s apartments, and were mutually charmed with
each other.

CHAPTER II.

Although a slave, Lallcheen was possessed of considerable wealth, and
his house would not have disgraced the dignity of a nobleman. On the
day Gheias-ood-Deen had seen his slave’s daughter, he summoned the
father to his presence.

“I have been considering thy services, Lallcheen, and shall reward
them; from this moment thou art a free man.”

“I accept the royal boon with a bondman’s gratitude. But I marvel at
this sudden change in the king’s sentiments.”

“Thou hast a daughter.”

“True.”

“For her sake, I recall my resolution of the morning, and give thee
freedom; but thou must pay the price.”

“Name it; I am wealthy.”

“I only demand a single jewel.”

“If I possess it, the sovereign has only to signify his wish. What
jewel does the king demand?”

“Thy daughter.”

“Ha! thy slave must feel the honour deeply; but will not the monarch of
the Deccan be dishonoured by wedding a slave’s daughter?”

“Ay, in truth, he would, Lallcheen, if he were weak enough to wed a
slave’s daughter; but of that he dreams not. If I give thee liberty,
the lovely Agha must be mine upon my own terms.”

“King, I am your bondman, but not your pander. I despise liberty upon
the terms you offer it. My child would scorn an impure alliance even
with a mightier monarch than Gheias-ood-Deen. She has suitors of proud
lineage, who woo her with honourable love.”

“Then my offer is refused? ’Tis well! the power that governs an
empire is not to be slighted with impunity. You will repent this rash
decision,--retire.”

Lallcheen did retire more than ever incensed against his royal
master. He was stung deeply at the insult offered to his child, in
the supposition that she would barter her purity for her father’s
freedom. He felt himself, moreover, grievously wronged by his royal
master harbouring the thought that he could be base enough to sell his
daughter’s honour at any price. It was an injury neither to be forgiven
nor forgotten. He quitted the royal presence with a throbbing heart
and burning brow;--the blood had receded from his cheek and lips when
he entered the apartment of his child. He found her singing an air in
a voice that would have enchanted the nightingales of Cashmere, or
drawn a tear of sympathy from the eye of a Peri. It was a strain of
exquisite tenderness: the parent’s emotions were calmed at the sound of
her celestial voice; but the blood returned not to those channels from
which the silent struggles of passion had banished it.

“My father,” said Agha, as he entered; “why so pale?”

“I have been disturbed, my child, by the king.”

“How?”

“He would give me freedom.”

“Well, would not that be a blessed deliverance?”

“At the price of my child’s honour?”

Agha’s cheeks flushed,--they were overspread with an intense crimson.
The blood seemed to ebb rapidly from her heart, which fluttered for
a moment; but the reflux almost instantly came and poured in upon it
a tide of womanly indignation. She continued silent, but the base
proposals of one brother imparted by contrast in her thoughts a
beautiful colouring to the honourable intentions of the other; and she
was already half prepared to love Shums-ood-Deen, and detest his royal
relative.

“Well, Agha, what answer shall I return to the master who honours his
servant by loving that servant’s daughter?”

“Does my father require that I should frame an answer? Could not his
own heart suggest it? My answer would be precisely such as I should
return to a snake, were it to ask if I would permit it to sting me.”

“I have anticipated your feelings, my child, and given the sovereign
no hopes. He threatens violence; his evil purposes, therefore, must be
counteracted by artifice. You must feign acquiescence with his wishes.
Having once hushed him into security, I will invite him to a banquet,
under the promise of resigning you to his possession, and he shall then
see that impunity is not the indefeasible right of kings.”

In obedience to this determination, Lallcheen affected to concur with
his master’s views; but prevailed upon him on some plausible pretence
to delay enforcing his claim to Agha for a few weeks, promising
implicit obedience to his wishes at the end of a specified period.

Meanwhile Shums-ood-Deen had been daily admitted to the presence of
Agha, upon whose young heart his generous affection had made a deep
impression. She could not help contrasting his disinterested and
honourable attachment with the selfish and debasing passion of his
brother; and in proportion as her respect for the one declined, her
love of the other increased. The father was gratified at witnessing
this growing fondness; it roused his parental ambition: he was proud
of his daughter, and longed to see her elevated to that distinction
which he considered her born to adorn. Shums-ood-Deen was heir apparent
to the throne of the Deccan. He might reign, and the beautiful Agha
become a queen. These thoughts roused her father’s soul and stirred
his passions to fiercer hostility against his royal master, who, as
he considered, had so deeply injured him. Though the king was popular
among his nobles, yet by some he was much disliked, and those who were
hostile to the claims of the elder brother would willingly encourage
the elevation of the younger.

Lallcheen took every opportunity which offered of making himself
acquainted with the feelings of the nobles. Those who had not been
raised to posts of honour and emolument in the state, were dissatisfied
and ripe for a change of government; but were kept in awe by the large
majority of the well-affected. The sovereign fancying himself secure in
the affection of his subjects, took no care to subdue the murmurings
of such as he considered unworthy of the royal patronage; he had,
therefore, a greater number of enemies than he was aware of.

Lallcheen’s plot rapidly advanced towards maturity, and he at length
invited the king to an entertainment, promising that he would resign
his daughter to him. Gheias-ood-Deen received the invitation with a
thrill of passionate satisfaction. Agha not being privy to her father’s
treachery, he had taken care on that day to remove her from the house
on some plausible pretence, in order that she might not interfere with
the execution of his scheme. It had been already arranged that she and
the king’s brother should be married at the beginning of the ensuing
year.

With Gheias-ood-Deen were also invited his chief Omrahs, who were all
much attached to his person. At an early hour the royal party arrived,
and were welcomed by the slave with extravagant marks of loyalty.
The nobles, astonished at the splendour of the entertainment, freely
expressed their surprise that a bondman should possess so much wealth.

“Wealth,” said Lallcheen, “will not purchase freedom, if it does not
please the monarch to grant it.”

“What can compensate for the sacrifice of honest services?” said
Gheias-ood-Deen, with a condescending smile; “I value them more,
Lallcheen, than your gold.”

“But not more than my daughter, king,” said the slave, significantly.

“No, no; all things have their price. I set your ransom high; you will,
therefore, value your freedom according to the price paid for it.”

The guests placed themselves at the banquet. Every luxury which the
country produced was there in generous profusion. The rarest wines
sparkled in golden chalices, and freemen waited upon the guests of the
slave. The wine went round, and the king anticipating the joy of being
presented to the beautiful Agha, drank liberally of the enlivening
beverage. He began to be exhilarated.

Nautch girls were introduced to heighten the pleasures of the
entertainment: they swam through the mazes of the dance with a light,
floating motion, tinkling the silver bells which hung from their
delicately small wrists and ankles, waving their arms with a graceful
undulation that gave exquisite elegance to the curving motions of their
bodies; every now and then throwing their long veils over their faces,
and peeping through them with eyes that might have kindled a ray of
admiration even under the tub of Diogenes.

The guests began to express their delight by loud acclamations, and
it had already become evident that the sovereign was considerably
elated by the wine he had taken. Lallcheen had been cautious in keeping
himself perfectly calm. He drank but sparingly, and was therefore in a
condition to take the best advantage of the state of his guests. When
he considered the favourable moment had arrived for the consummation of
his vengeance, he commanded the nautch girls to retire, and then in a
whisper requested the king would order his nobles to withdraw, that his
obedient host might introduce his daughter.

Gheias-ood-Deen, elated at the thought of beholding the beautiful
creature who had so inflamed his passions, commanded his Omrahs to
quit the room, as he desired to have some private conversation with
the host. Excited by wine, and unsuspicious of evil consequences, they
obeyed with ready alacrity, singing as they reeled from the apartment,
and laughing stupidly at the fatuity of their own thoughts. When the
guests had retired, the traitor led his sovereign respectfully to an
ottoman, seated him, and began to arrest his attention by extravagant
encomiums upon the beauty of his daughter. Gheias-ood-Deen listened
with evident delight, and at length expressed himself impatient to be
introduced to the idol of his love. Lallcheen perceiving that he was
raised to the proper pitch, told him he would instantly go and bring
the peerless Agha to his royal master and guest. Quitting the room, he
shortly returned, armed with a naked dagger.

“Where is your daughter?” asked the king.

“Here,” replied the slave, raising the dagger, and advancing towards
his sovereign with the gleaming instrument of death in his hand.

Gheias-ood-Deen, though much intoxicated, staggered towards the
traitor, and attempted to wrest the weapon from his grasp; but being
unable to walk steadily, he fell, and rolled down a flight of steps. A
eunuch was in the room, who, seizing the king by his hair, threw him
upon his back, and pierced out his eyes with the point of a crease.

Lallcheen, perceiving that he had now gone too far to retreat, removed
the wounded monarch to another apartment, and immediately despatched a
messenger to the nobles who had that night been his guests, desiring
in the king’s name that they would immediately return. The message was
delivered to each noble separately, so that one by one they reached
the slave’s residence. As the first who arrived entered the chamber
where he had so lately partaken of Lallcheen’s hospitality, he was
put to death by two eunuchs, who flung a noose over his head and
strangled him. Thus the whole of them were destroyed to the number of
twenty-four, and their bodies cast forth a prey to jackals.

On the morrow, when Agha returned to her home, she was shocked beyond
expression at the sanguinary revenge which her father had taken. Her
heart was chilled: she felt that she never could again look upon her
parent with respect, and the fond yearnings of her bosom grew cold.
She reproached him with his cruelty, but he silenced her with a stern
rebuke. The disaffected Omrahs thronged to his house, prepared to
assist him in his future views with respect to the government. The
daring act of blinding the king and slaying his nobles, had produced
a general panic. The people looked on in silent amazement; when
Lallcheen, thinking it was high time to act definitively, placed
Shums-ood-Deen, the deposed king’s brother, upon the throne, and sent
the latter in confinement to the fortress of Sagur.

CHAPTER III.

The conduct of Lallcheen excited great indignation: but the king had
so lately given way to intemperance and the indulgence of his grosser
passions, that those hopes entertained of him at his accession to
the throne had subsided. He had raised many enemies by his excesses.
The traitor, moreover, was supported by the queen-mother, of whom
her younger son, Shums-ood-Deen, had ever been the favourite. He was
extremely popular, too, among many of the Omrahs; for he was a generous
youth, possessing many virtues, and no flagrant vices.

The moment his brother was deposed, Lallcheen, assisted by the
influence of the queen-mother, placed Shums-ood-Deen upon the musnud.
The young monarch was now eager to make Agha his queen; but she,
shocked at what had passed, could not be prevailed upon, for the
moment, to consent. She would not see her father, and to the king’s
urgent entreaties to make him happy, she replied:--

“Alas! the auspices under which you reign are evil. I fear that
prosperity can never track the steps of a prince whose path to the
throne has been stained with blood.”

“My noble Agha, we must bow to the crisis that has suddenly come upon
us. I mourn the event which has elevated me to the highest of human
dignities as much as you can do, and detest the agents who have placed
me upon the musnud, with hands dyed in my brother’s blood. But as he
has been disabled, it was necessary that a sovereign should be found;
and I am the next of kin. You know it to be against the canons of our
constitution that a blind prince should reign. Were I to refuse to hold
the sceptre, I should be looked upon with suspicion, and my life would
be in perpetual peril.”

“Prince, I shrink from becoming the wife of a man who has obtained his
dignities by violence. I acquit you of all participation in the crime
which has so suddenly made you a monarch, but will never consent to
share your sullied honours. I foresee only misery from my parent’s
ambition. Though the deposed king would have heaped upon me the
heaviest wrongs which can weigh down the spirit of a virtuous woman,
still I would have left him to the punishment which invariably awaits
the wicked, administered by a higher arbiter of human dereliction than
man.”

“Agha!” cried the Prince, passionately, “have I deserved to forfeit
your love?”

“Not my love, Prince; but my consent to be your bride. You must now
form higher views; there is an insuperable bar between us.”

“Nay, had we been united while I was only heir-apparent to the throne
to which I have been just elevated, I might have soon come to that
inheritance to which your father’s violence has prematurely raised me.”

“But then you would have ascended the musnud with honour; now, you have
ascended it with disgrace.”

“I am ready to relinquish all honours for you, Agha.”

“That may not be; you have pushed the stone from the precipice, and, in
spite of all mortal endeavours, it will roll to the bottom. Farewell,
and may your reign be happy.”

One day, a singular-looking devotee was seen to cast himself upon the
ground without the walls of the capital, and to pronounce, in a tone
of solemn vaticination, woe to the kingdom of the Deccan. In proof of
his inspiration, the fanatic declared himself ready to fast forty days
on the very spot where he then lay. He was old and withered to a mere
skeleton; his age was said to exceed a hundred years; for the oldest
inhabitants remembered him but as a very aged man. His hair still
hung over his shoulders so copiously as to cover them like a mantle;
but it was so impregnated with filth that its colour was not to be
ascertained. He had no beard, save a few straggling hairs scattered
over his chin like stunted bushes upon the desert rock. His ears were
so long that they nearly reached his shoulders, which rose towards them
with physical sympathy, as if to relieve the head from their weight.
His gums were toothless, and so blackened by opium and the smoke of
tobacco, that as his lips parted--and when they did, they seemed to
shrink from a renewed contact, and to seek severally protection from
the nose and chin--the whole mouth presented a feature of sickening
deformity. Every rib in the old man’s body was as traceable as the
lines which mark the latitude and longitude upon a chart. The very
sinews had wasted into thin, rigid cords, without either flexibility or
tension.

The approach of this sainted object to the city was a circumstance
of much uneasiness to those who had acted so conspicuous a part in
the recent change of government. The veneration in which he was held
made them fear the effect of his crazy predictions upon the excited
multitude.

Lallcheen hoped the old man would confirm his declarations by a fast
of forty days; flattering himself that, by exposing to the people the
delusions by which the object of their veneration evidently juggled
them, he should be able to show that the fanatic was a worthless
impostor. A tent was consequently ordered to be pitched over the
prostrate devotee, and a number of men appointed to watch him day and
night, in order to see that no human nourishment passed his lips. Two
persons were constantly by his side.

Lallcheen visited him. As the traitor appeared before him, the seer
raised his head; his eye instantly kindled as if with a divine
afflatus, and he said, waving his arm solemnly:

“The blood of the murdered shall give life to the avenger! When slaves
rebel, and grasp the thunderbolt of power, they eventually hurl it
against their own heads. The web of fate is spun by different threads,
but the woof of thine is black. Prepare, Lallcheen, for the explosion
which thy own ambitious hand has kindled. The match is already at the
train; thou wilt soon hear and feel the desolating concussion! Woe to
the destroyer!”

The slave trembled, in spite of his conviction that the saint was
crazed. He dreaded the influence of his wild sallies of prophecy. Day
after day passed, and neither food nor water was seen to pass the
diviner’s lips. The guards were astonished, and beheld him with sacred
awe. They vowed they never slept: they were constantly changed, but
precisely the same result followed--the inspired man was seen to taste
nothing. He sat upon the cold ground, without a rag to cover him,
in an apparent state of devout abstraction, never uttering a word;
except now and then, when he poured out terrible denunciations of wrath
against those who had blinded the late king and murdered his nobles.

Fifteen days of the term of fasting had already expired, and no change
appeared in the prophet. His eyes occasionally sparkled with fierce
brightness, though he said nothing, and the watchers began to grow
uneasy in his company. They feared a proximity to something unearthly;
and in proportion as they were impressed with this superstitious
feeling, in their eyes their sacred charge grew more deformed and
hideous. They placed themselves at the very extremity of the tent, and
were so awed by his ghoul-like appearance, that they were obliged,
for relief, to turn their faces to the broad sky, and remit their
vigils until they had recovered their self-possession. They took it
for granted, however, that he could not, like some less disgusting
reptiles, feed upon the dust, and therefore hesitated not to report, at
the end of their term of watching, that the saint had taken nothing but
a chameleon diet, and yet was as lively as that celebrated lizard after
a six months’ fattening upon good wholesome air.

The people’s astonishment was daily increased by the report of those
persons appointed to watch the devotee. They already began to talk of
dedicating a temple to him, and paying him divine honours.

On the twentieth morning of his voluntary abstinence, the venerable
probationer desired that some of the authorities might be summoned
to attest his having undergone half of his prescribed mortification,
and to witness his performance of a holy rite. Lallcheen accordingly
visited the seer.

“Behold!” said the man, “I have subsisted twenty days without earthly
food, sustained by a heavenly nutriment, which the eye does not see,
but the body is sensible of. This night the Prophet has visited me,
and here is the sign of his coming;” saying this he held between his
bony fingers a white pebble about the size of a plum. “Within this,” he
continued, “is the revelation which I shall make known to you at the
termination of my penance.”

Having once more exhibited the pebble, he jerked it from his fingers
into his mouth, and swallowed it in an instant.

“For twenty days I need no further nourishment. A stone is neither meat
nor drink, yet will it invigorate this withered body to tell you things
to come. Leave me.”

He could not be prevailed upon to make any further communication; but
relapsed into silence. The slave was abashed before the presence of
a man whom he despised, and who, he felt satisfied was an impostor;
nevertheless, he dared not commit an act of violence against one
generally held to be in direct communication with Heaven. In spite of
his incredulity, he could not conceive how the pretended diviner had
evaded the scrutiny of his guards. He had used every precaution to
detect the imposture, without success. Day after day passed on, but the
same report was every morning received that the saint had not tasted
food. Multitudes flocked round the tent to behold this extraordinary
man. Persons who were diseased approached to touch him, imagining
that their distempers would be removed by the sacred contact. He
pronounced blessings upon the poor, which won him the homage of the
needy crowd who thronged to receive his benedictions. The marvel of his
supernatural fast rapidly spread over the country, and people came from
every part of the vicinity to behold him.

The term of his abstinence at length expired: no one had seen him taste
a morsel of food or a drop of water for forty days. On the morning
of the forty-first day he rose, and, quitting his tent, was greeted
with profound reverence by thousands who had assembled to behold
him. Money was thrown at his feet, which he picked up and scattered
among the religious mendicants who had come far and near to offer him
their homage. He now partook of a small quantity of milk, and then
turning his face towards the holy city, repeated a certain prayer.
Having poured dust upon his head, he crossed his arms upon his breast,
and invoked audibly the name of the Prophet; then came the solemn
objurgation:

“Woe to the man of blood! he shall fall by the hand of him from whose
eyes he has shut out the sunbeam! The sceptre shall drop from the grasp
of his minion, who shall find that happiness is not the inheritance of
kings. But the innocent shall not be confounded with the guilty: the
slave shall be requited as becomes a regicide! The voice of our holy
Prophet has spoken, and it shall come to pass!”

He dropped his arms and hobbled slowly through the crowd, who made way
before him, following him with acclamations. Lallcheen was disappointed
at not having been able to detect the juggle of this patriarchal
deceiver. How he had managed to elude the scrutiny of the watchers was
a fact which baffled his comprehension; and he was fearful that the
credulity of the multitude as to the fakeer’s direct communication with
Heaven might lead to dangerous consequences. No doubt was entertained
of the man’s prophetic endowments and supernatural sustentation.
That he had fasted forty days and forty nights was a fact which few
questioned; and the general expectation was that some fearful calamity
was about to befall the king and his ministers. Groups of idle
gossippers were seen at the corners of the streets, communicating their
suspicions and whispering their fears.

CHAPTER IV.

When Shums-ood-Deen was placed upon the musnud, intimidated by the
fate of his unhappy brother, he was afraid to oppose the man who had
raised him to the throne; he had therefore little more than the name of
king. All the substantive power was in the hands of his late father’s
slave, who assumed the title of Mullik Naib, an office equivalent to
regent; and the nobility who had escaped the sword, seeing no safety
but in submission, bowed to his authority. The queen-mother, having
been originally a slave, paid the utmost deference to the traitor who
had blinded her elder son, in order that she might obviate any mischief
against the younger, whom she advised to submit to the wiser counsels
of his minister, observing that he was indebted to him for his crown,
and that the man who had so easily deposed one brother might with equal
facility depose the other. “Besides,” she said, “you owe him a debt
of gratitude, and, depend upon it, he will expect it to be paid. You
will find, my son, many malicious insinuations breathed into your ear
against your benefactor--but let me conjure you to give them no heed,
for the king who requites benefits with injury can have no security for
his throne.”

“Alas! mother,” said the young monarch, “I have been exalted only
to misery; I find the throne a seat of thorns instead of roses. My
elevation has been the means of separating me for ever from the object
of my soul’s idolatry, and I am become a wretch whom the veriest
outcast might pity.”

“Nay, this is mere delusion: higher objects will engross your attention
now. Alliances will be sought with you by princes; seek not, then, the
attachment of slaves.”

“Did you not recommend gratitude towards my benefactor?”

“True, I did; but this may be shown without marrying his daughter.”

“To marry her is the one dear wish of my heart; not in order to signify
my gratitude to the man who has placed me upon the pinnacle of human
greatness, but to signalise my love for one who is at once an honour to
her sex and to her country.”

“These are youthful raptures, my son, which the cares of royalty will
soon stifle.”

“Never! the impress upon my heart is too deep to wear out: it will
never be effaced but by the worm.”

The queen-mother could not succeed in persuading her son to relinquish
all thoughts of the lovely Agha, which she was anxious to do, in order
that he might form an alliance that would secure him upon the throne,
and render him independent of a man who might turn all his influence
against him, should he be impelled by caprice or interest to serve some
other object of his ambition.

Shums-ood-Deen’s mother treated Lallcheen with great cordiality, and
he, in return, behaved to her with much respect, sending her valuable
presents, and using every method to secure her confidence; but this
conduct on both sides was mere temporising, as no real cordiality
subsisted between them.

It was now Lallcheen’s grand aim to see his daughter united to the
young king, and it mortified him extremely to find that the only
impediment was her own scruples. His soul was stung at the chance
of losing that reward which he had waded through blood to obtain.
Disappointed ambition exasperated him against what he called the
rebellion of his child, and he determined to compel her to embrace
the dignity which he had steeped his soul in guilt to secure for her.
Knowing the Readiness of Shums-ood-Deen to make her his queen, he was
the more enraged that any impediments should arise from her who was the
party that would be especially benefited by such a union; and he sought
her with a determination to enforce obedience to an authority which he
had never hitherto exercised in vain.

“Agha”, said he, sternly, “can it be possible that you refuse to become
the wife of a man whom you have confessed you love, and who is ready to
make you the partner of his throne?”

“It is true, my father; I never could sit upon a throne the ascent
to which is stained with the blood of its legitimate inheritor. The
present king shares in the crime of his brother’s deposers so long as
he partakes of the fruit of their guilt.”

“Girl, this is not the language of a child towards her parent; you know
the first wish of my heart is that you should share his dignities with
the son of my late master. If the man whom I propose you should wed
were odious to you there might be some reason in your opposition, but
as this is not the case, I expect you immediately to become the wife of
Shums-ood-Deen.”

“That will not be while he sits upon a blood-stained throne. You are my
father, and I know your power. My life is at your disposal, but not my
will; you may take the one, but you shall never coerce the other!”

“No, Agha, I will not take your life, however you may rebel; but
your liberty is likewise at my disposal, and depend upon it, that if
you persist in a stubborn opposition to my wishes, you shall suffer
penalties under captivity which you little dream of.”

“I have well weighed the consequences of resistance, and am prepared to
pay the penalty. I feel that the man who would not hesitate to dethrone
his king would have little scruple about imprisoning his daughter. But,
to put you at once out of suspense as to my determination, I tell you,
firmly and solemnly, that I never will comply with your wishes. Take me
to the prison you have prepared for me!”

Lallcheen did not reply, but quitted her with a blanched cheek. He was
deeply vexed at this unexpected bar to his ambition from his own child.
The fruits of crime were already ripening, but he perceived that they
had only a flavour of bitterness. He remembered the predictions of the
devotee, and the sun of his glory grew dim--a shadow passed over it,
but the disc again grew light, and he hoped that it would be no more
obscured.

Difficulties now began to thicken around him. Feroze Chan and Ahmud
Chan, uncles to the deposed king, had promised their brother-in-law,
Mahmood Shah, father of Gheias-ood-Deen, when he was on his death-bed,
that they would be faithful and loyal to his son; they accordingly
served him with submission and fidelity. Being from the capital at
the time their royal relative was deposed by Lallcheen, they escaped
the unhappy fate of the nobles who were assassinated. Finding,
however, that the king had been dispossessed and blinded, their wives
instigated their husbands to avenge the indignity to which their nephew
had been subjected. Feroze and Ahmud Chan readily listened to these
natural appeals in favour of their injured relative, but the traitor,
discovering their intentions through his emissaries, complained to
Shums-ood-Deen, and, accusing those nobles of treason, demanded their
instant execution. Hoping to excite the young sovereign’s fears, he
represented to him that their object evidently was the restoration of
Gheias-ood-Deen, which would involve the death of the reigning monarch,
as, the moment the deposed king was restored, he would naturally wreak
his vengeance upon all who had been instrumental in hurling him from
his throne, among whom the man raised to that throne would be one of
the first to suffer.

Shums-ood-Deen being emboldened by the known influence and bravery of
his uncles, resisted these importunities of the slave, whose imperious
exercise of authority already began to be exceedingly vexatious. Seeing
that the opposition was likely to become serious, Lallcheen sought the
queen-mother, and artfully representing to her the perils by which
her son was beset, obtained her promise to co-operate with him in
counteracting the confederacy forming against the government of her
younger son.

“If,” said he, “we do not get rid of these Omrahs, the worst
consequences are to be apprehended. Their connexion with the
blood-royal gives them an influence which must endanger the safety of
your son; and you being suspected of having participated in the late
revolution, will be certainly singled out as one of the first victims.
If they are not to be overcome by open force, the concealed dagger is a
sure and speedy remedy against threatened hostility.”

These arguments rousing the queen’s fears, she hastened to her son,
threw herself at his feet, and implored him to provide for his own
and his mother’s safety by ordering the instant seizure of the two
refractory nobles before they should be aware that their hostile
designs had been made known.

Shums-ood-Deen, overcome by the earnest entreaties of his mother, was
reluctantly induced to consent to the apprehension of the husbands of
his aunts. They, however, having obtained intelligence of his design,
quitted Koolburga, and shut themselves up in the fortress of Sagur,
where they were for the present secure from the machinations of their
enemy.

An officer of the name of Suddoo, formerly a servant of the royal
family, commanded in Sagur. He was rich and powerful, and received the
princes with the greatest hospitality, doing everything in his power to
evince his attachment to them. He was entirely in the interests of the
deposed monarch, and felt the strongest antipathy towards the traitor
who had mutilated him and assassinated his nobles. He had been elevated
by Gheias-ood-Deen to his present dignity as a reward for long and
faithful services, and his gratitude did not sleep. Towards Lallcheen
he always entertained a secret enmity, suspecting the integrity of
his purposes, and believing him to be nothing better than a hollow
hypocrite.

The fortress under Suddoo’s command was one of great strength, and in
it for the present the princes felt themselves perfectly secure. Here
they were determined to remain until they could assemble a sufficient
body of forces to oppose the treacherous slave.

In pursuance of this determination, they addressed letters to
Shums-ood-Deen and the principal nobility, declaring that they were
making preparations to chastise the man who had committed such an act
of outrage upon his sovereign, at the same time declaring that they
had no intention of disturbing the existing government. They stated
that, as near relatives of the deposed monarch, they conceived it
their duty to use every effort to inflict justice upon him by whom he
had been so irreparably injured, and called upon the nobility and the
reigning sovereign to assist them in punishing so grievous an offender.
If this were done they promised entire submission to Shums-ood-Deen’s
government, and concluded by a solemn asseveration that nothing should
deter them from bringing retribution upon the head of Lallcheen.

The king was not disposed to look unfavourably at this communication.
The trammels which his benefactor, as the sanguinary slave always
called himself, had cast upon him, cramped his youthful and ardent
spirit. Nothing but his affection for the daughter made him hesitate
upon sacrificing the father. This caused him at first to waver; he
thought upon her beauty, her accomplishments, and his passion began
to blaze. How would she endure to see her father given up to certain
death by the man who professed to love her as his own soul? Would she
not spurn him, would she not shrink with loathing from the destroyer
of her parent? He reflected upon that parent’s baseness, his ambition,
his tyranny; but his love for Agha bore down all opposition arising
from the contemplation of her father’s worthlessness, and he finally
determined to protect the man whom by every principle of equity he was
bound to sacrifice.

Lallcheen meanwhile was not insensible to what was going on. He was
now more than ever anxious that his daughter should be united to
the reigning monarch, as he imagined it would tend to confirm his
own influence in the state, and put an end at once to those hostile
measures which the family of Gheias-ood-Deen were taking to vindicate
the wrongs of their royal relative: it would moreover enable him
to command the whole energies of Shums-ood-Deen’s kingdom, civil,
political and military, which he would have the power of employing
to counteract the hostile intentions of his foes. He felt himself,
nevertheless, in a state of great embarrassment, and began to entertain
such designs as are generally the resort of desperate men. Although
conscious of his unpopularity, he had nevertheless secured the favour
of the troops by paying up their arrears, and allowing them some
privileges which they had never hitherto enjoyed. All the disaffected
Omrahs too, of whom there were not a few, tendered him their services,
and declared that they would maintain his cause to the last drop of
their blood. He, however, was fully aware how little confidence is
to be placed either upon the professions or promises of unprincipled
men. His own heart was a faithful interpreter of what such promises
and professions amounted to, and he therefore felt anything but in a
state of security. This rendered him desperate. The opposition of his
daughter had so exasperated him against her that he had treated her
with a severity which, instead of subduing her resolution, had only the
more firmly determined her to thwart his wishes with an indomitable
resolution, which he did not imagine she possessed. To all his promises
of tenderness towards her, if she would only relax from her stubborn
opposition, she replied by a calm look of defiance, that moved him more
than once to acts of violence. She shrank not from the arm that struck
her to the earth, but rose without a murmur of complaint, and smiled
upon the impotent malice that would stifle her conscience under the
claims of parental authority.

The situation of the slave was now becoming critical. He sought
the queen-mother, and represented to her the danger to which she
must necessarily be exposed, should the avengers of her elder son’s
deposition succeed in gaining possession of the capital. She had never
been popular with the Omrahs, and therefore began to fear that her fate
would be involved in that of Lallcheen, as it was generally believed
that she had been more than privy to the late massacre of the nobles
at the slave’s house. Imagining her safety inseparable from his, she
hastened to her son, and demanded his protection for Lallcheen. “It
is evident,” she said, “that the pretended avengers of your brother’s
wrongs seek but the gratification of their own ambition, either in
your death or degradation. Our common interests require that we should
oppose them.”

“Are our means sufficient?”

“You have the confidence of the army and of the chief Omrahs, and the
enemy can only hope to seduce under their banners the disaffected,
who are as likely to become traitors to their present masters as they
were to their former. We have no alternative but a resolute and fierce
resistance; let me entreat you, therefore, to return an unqualified
defiance to those haughty rebels, who seek to subvert your government.”

Shums-ood-Deen being thus prevailed upon by his mother to act with
instant decision, returned an answer to Feroze and Ahmud Chan which
served only to inflame those princes without bettering his own cause.
They, with the assistance of Suddoo, having collected three thousand
horse and foot, proceeded towards the capital, calculating with
much confidence that other troops would join them on their march.
Disappointed, however, in this expectation, they halted for some time
on the banks of the river Beema, without receiving any reinforcements.
All the chiefs withheld their aid, as if they considered the good
cause desperate. This, nevertheless, did not deter the princes from
proceeding with their present means to put into immediate execution
their design of vindicating the wrongs of a much-injured sovereign. It
was accordingly agreed that they should advance without further delay,
with the regal canopy carried over the head of Feroze Chan. Upon this
occasion his brother Ahmud was raised to the rank of Ameer-ool-Omrah,
Suddoo to that of Meer Nobut, and Meer Feiz Oolla Anjoo to that of
Vakeel or minister.

On the arrival of the princes within four coss of the city, Lallcheen
marched out to meet them, accompanied by the young king. He had
distributed great sums of money among the officers and troops, which
had secured their present fidelity. Knowing that the means of his
enemies were insufficient to purchase the treachery of his army,
he advanced against them with great confidence. His own numerical
superiority caused him to look upon victory as certain; and when he
considered the raw, undisciplined state of the hostile forces, his
confidence grew into arrogance, which eventually did fatal mischief to
his cause.

Notwithstanding the disadvantages under which the princes laboured,
they did not decline an engagement. They trusted to their good
intentions, and the general enthusiasm of their troops. A severe battle
was consequently fought in the vicinity of the town of Merkole; and the
brothers being defeated, after an obstinate resistance, fled with their
adherents to the fort of Sagur.

The victors were beyond measure elated at the successful issue of this
first battle. The power of Lallcheen increased his presumption and that
of the queen-mother, which at length rose to such a height that many
officers of the court privately offered their services to the defeated
princes, whom they advised to lose no time in procuring pardon from
Shums-ood-Deen, by offers of immediately returning to their allegiance,
and repairing to the capital without loss of time, in order to concert
future plans for punishing the traitor and re-establishing the lawful
supremacy.

Lallcheen was too much engrossed by the views of his ambition, which
rose with his success, to observe that a silent but secret disaffection
was working among the nobles and some of the most influential officers
of the army. Confidence rendered him haughty, and where he was in the
habit of conciliating he began to command.

CHAPTER V.

The disgust which the pampered minion daily excited by his arrogance
rendered him shortly so unpopular, that the brothers Feroze and
Ahmud Chan resolved to embrace the advice of those Omrahs who had
promised to favour their cause. Relying upon their assurances, in the
sincerity of which they were confirmed by the growing unpopularity
of Lallcheen, they sent Meir Feiz Oolla Anjoo, Syud Kumal-ood-Deen,
and other persons of distinction, to the slave and the queen-mother,
representing that fear only had occasioned their rebellion, of which
they now sincerely repented, and promising that, if the sovereign would
send them written assurances of pardon, they would repair to court.
The traitor, imagining that if they were once in the capital he should
have the means of disposing of them at pleasure, was elated by these
overtures; and repairing forthwith to the king, persuaded him to listen
favourably to their supplications. Accordingly letters, containing
flattering assurances of forgiveness, were immediately despatched to
the refractory princes.

Since her last positive refusal to espouse the king, Agha had never
been once permitted to leave her apartment; but having found means
to corrupt the two women to whose custody she was consigned, she
quitted her father’s house unobserved, and left the city in a covered
litter. Knowing that Feroze and Ahmud Chan were at the Fort of Sagur,
she determined to proceed thither, and cast herself upon their
protection. They received her with the greatest respect. Her story
deeply interested them. Her generous forbearance in refusing to marry
the reigning sovereign because his ascent to the musnud had been
stained with blood exalted her highly in their estimation, and in their
overtures to the king they stipulated in her favour for oblivion of
the past and assurances of future kind treatment. The father, though
exasperated at her escape, thought that the wisest policy would be to
dissemble his anger, hoping yet to overcome her repugnance, and to
see her queen of the Deccan. She, however, refused to return to the
capital unless she were guaranteed the protection of some influential
person who could shield her from her father’s violence. It was
ultimately agreed that she should dwell with the queen, who offered her
an asylum in her palace.

She had some difficulty in concurring with any arrangement that should
put her again in the power of him who, though her natural protector,
had treated her with savage severity. She feared that under the queen’s
roof she should not be secure from the oppression of that father
towards whom she felt the natural instincts of affection giving way to
those harsher feelings which tyranny, even though exercised under the
questionable plea of paternal authority, can never fail to excite.

The brothers received Shums-ood-Deen’s assurances of pardon with some
misgivings, although these were couched in the strongest terms of
affectionate welcome. They knew the treacherous heart of the man by
whose sinister counsels the sovereign was swayed, and their minds were
in a state of vibration between pacification and resistance. The day
after the royal communication arrived, the two brothers were sitting
upon a terrace consulting whether they should venture to the capital.

“I have no confidence in the king’s promises,” said Ahmud Chan,
“because he is under the control of those to whom treachery is too
familiar not to be resorted to, should their interests suggest such
a course. The moment we are within the walls of the capital we shall
be in the slave’s power, and we have reason to know how little mercy
he has for those who wear his fetters. Slaves are proverbially and
practically the worst of tyrants.”

“But,” said Feroze, “we have our security in the dissatisfaction of the
nobles, who already look upon him with an eye of jealousy. They can ill
bear to see a menial, not only raised above their heads, but affecting
to rule them. The troops have been won by his gold, but as his coffers
get low their zeal will cool, and the moment the reaction comes he will
be in jeopardy.”

“But meanwhile we shall be in danger. It is a nice question to decide
whether we should throw ourselves upon the sovereign’s forgiveness or
continue in arms, for there is danger in both.”

“The least danger will be the best choice; and I think we shall incur
less risk in repairing to the capital than in keeping up our hostility
with such insufficient means.”

“But we have promised protection to the slave’s daughter against her
father’s violence.”

“That is guaranteed by the king.”

“The promises of monarchs are hollow. They are too often made for
convenience, and broken at pleasure.”

While the brothers were debating whether they should disband their
troops and accept Shums-ood-Deen’s offers of pardon, or remain his
declared enemies, a Cashmerian madman passed by. His dress was covered
with red paint. A chowry was stuck in his turban, and round his legs
were bound wisps of grass. In his hand he flourished a long thin
bamboo, at the head of which was fixed an orange. Approaching the
princes, he said, “I am come from the Prophet with happy tidings,
Feroze Chan. He has deputed me to conduct you to Koolburga, and place
you upon the musnud, and I shall do his bidding. You may smile, Feroze
Chan, but this will not be the first time a fool has set up a king.”

Regarding this as a happy omen, and remembering the prediction of the
saint who had fasted forty days, the brothers, accompanied by Agha,
proceeded immediately to Koolburga, where they were warmly welcomed by
the young monarch. Lallcheen received them with a studied civility;
from the first moment they met he and the princes were visibly guarded
in their conduct, and the slave, with all his subtlety, was unable to
win the confidence of either brother.

No sooner had Feroze and Ahmud Chan entered the capital, than they
endeavoured to render themselves popular with the citizens, who,
it was sufficiently evident, were by no means contented under the
existing government. In order to satisfy the capacity of the troops,
Lallcheen had been reduced to the necessity of drawing largely upon the
people’s pockets, and as his exactions were grievous, their dislike
of him was bitter in proportion. The troops, too, finding that his
bounty had subsided, relaxed in their fidelity, and murmurs began to
be everywhere heard. The slave was roused to a sense of his danger;
but seeing he possessed the confidence of the monarch and his mother,
he fancied that by sheltering himself behind their influence he should
escape any mischief which might be threatened by the dissatisfied
citizens. His daughter, according to the king’s stipulation with
the princes, had remained in the queen’s house, so that she had not
been molested by her father, who, in compliance with the royal wish,
had forborne to see her. Thinking such forbearance would satisfy
the brothers, he was disposed rigidly to adhere to the terms of his
contract with them, when they consented to throw themselves upon the
sovereign’s mercy, and restore the beautiful Agha to the protection of
her friends.

About a fortnight after the arrival of Feroze and Ahmud Chan the king
had a public audience. Feroze entered the durbar, accompanied by twelve
silehdars devoted to his interest. These silehdars answered to our
knights, and followed the courts of their monarchs mounted on their
own horses, and in their train rode one or more attendants. Feroze
had previously stationed three hundred faithful followers without the
audience-chamber. Not the slightest suspicion was awakened either
in the breast of the king or his minister. Shortly after Feroze had
arrived, his brother Ahmud entered the court, as had been previously
concerted. Upon his arrival the princes told Lallcheen that some of
their relatives were come from their estates in order to pay their
respect to the sovereign, and requested that orders might therefore be
given to the porters to admit whomsoever he should send for.

The minister, entertaining no idea of mischief, gave the order without
hesitation, affecting great urbanity, as if willing to conciliate those
whom he feared, and who, if not propitiated by at least an appearance
of courtesy, might eventually prove dangerous enemies.

Shums-ood-Deen, meanwhile, being occupied with the ceremony of
receiving his nobles, paid no attention to the number of strangers who
accompanied his relatives. The court on this day was very numerously
attended, and the shades of disaffection were seen on many a brow
which bent before the throne with the usual expression of homage.

At a signal from Feroze Chan, who took care to occupy Lallcheen’s
attention by exciting an animated discussion, his brother retired from
the audience-chamber under pretence of introducing his relations. In a
short time he returned, but, upon attempting to pass the guards with
twelve followers, he was stopped, the soldiers refusing to allow him to
proceed unless he could give a satisfactory account of himself, and of
those by whom he was attended.

The moment was critical, and the danger imminent, but Ahmud resolved
to put all to the hazard. Imagining that the plot was discovered, he
commanded the guards to stand back, but they instantly interposed
themselves between him and the door. Ordering his followers to draw
their swords, and unsheathing his own at the same moment, he buried
it in the body of the foremost man who had opposed his entrance. His
companions, following so resolute an example, attacked the guards with
such spirit that they were soon overpowered, and many slain. Ahmud
rushed into the durbar with his sword drawn and his dress spotted with
blood.

The utmost confusion prevailed. A few of the minister’s creatures
assembled round him, and endeavoured to protect their patron; but
all the rest of the assembly fled: they were suffered to escape, as
their flight only rendered the capture of the traitor more sure.
Pale and trembling, the latter stood in the midst of his attendants
imploring mercy; but when he found that it would be denied, he summoned
his energies for a last struggle. His followers behaved with great
gallantry, and while they were fighting in his defence, a body of
soldiers stationed in the courts of the palace rushing in, saved the
king and his minister from immediate destruction.

The three hundred adherents of Feroze Chan, hearing the din of battle,
quitted their station, and repairing to the spot, attacked and put to
flight the royal guards, together with the dependents of Lallcheen, and
in a short time the palace was in possession of the two princes. They
were soon joined by many disaffected nobles; and when the issue was
known to the citizens, acclamations were everywhere heard, and threats
of extermination against the tyrant. It was now clear that Feroze and
Ahmud Chan were masters of the capital. When the tumult had subsided,
the king and Lallcheen were nowhere to be found; but after a diligent
search, being discovered in a subterraneous chamber, they were dragged
before the conquerors.

“Traitor!” said Feroze Chan to the now humbled slave, “what punishment
do you deserve for your enormities?”

“Such a punishment as a generous conqueror would inflict.”

“You have pronounced your own doom.”

“Generous souls requite evil with good.”

“But there are degrees of guilt which to pardon would be unjust; and
where mercy is unjustly bestowed it is a crime. Your punishment shall
rest with him who has received the greatest injury at your hands.”

Feroze Chan having put chains upon the king and Lallcheen, confined
them in the apartment where they had sought shelter, while he,
accompanied by the nobility, repaired to the hall of audience and
ascended the throne amid the acclamations of his followers; thus
fulfilling the prediction of the Cashmerian madman. He assumed the
title of Feroze Shah Roze Afzoon, and, by way of confirming his title,
placed upon his thigh the sword of Alla-ood-Deen Hussun Gungoo. Having
established his authority without the slightest opposition, he sent for
Gheias-ood-Deen from the fort of Sagur. When the unhappy ex-king was
brought into the presence of Feroze Chan, the latter said--

“Gheias-ood-Deen, I regret that the laws do not permit a blinded
sovereign to reign, or I should have had more joy in placing the
sceptre in your hands than in my own. What is there that you would
desire to render your life happy?”

“My requests are two--first, that I may be allowed to inflict
punishment with my own hands upon the man who blinded me, and next to
perform a pilgrimage to Mecca that expiation may be offered for my
sins. There I should wish to pass the remainder of my life, which I
purpose devoting to God.”

“Your wishes are granted,” said Feroze, “and I shall order the
treasurer to remit you annually the sum of five thousand golden
ashruffies[18] for your maintenance, as becomes a prince.”

Lallcheen was now brought in chains before his late victim. When he saw
Gheias-ood-Deen standing with a drawn sword in the midst of the hall of
audience, a clammy moisture oozed from every pore of his body, and he
felt as if the dews of death had gathered upon his brow. Being brought
close to Gheias-ood-Deen, the latter said, “Who stands before me?”

Lallcheen was silent.

“Let me hear thy voice, slave. What punishment does the man deserve who
deposes a monarch and murders his nobles?”

The slave was still silent.

“Traitor, I am blind! it was through thee that these eyes were closed
in everlasting darkness. The penalty of crime is now demanded. Art thou
prepared to perish?”

There was no answer. The ex-king placed his hand upon Lallcheen’s
shoulder, and raising his sword, brought it with the full force of an
arm of vengeance upon the head of the criminal, who fell dead at the
avenger’s feet.

On the following day Agha solicited an audience of the new monarch.

“King,” she said, “I need not tell you that mercy is the brightest
jewel in the regal sceptre. It is the axiom of every country where
sovereigns reign and people are obedient.”

“On whose account, lovely girl, do you seek to propitiate the royal
clemency?”

“On that of the deposed monarch, Shums-ood-Deen. I know him to have
been innocent of any participation in the late transactions which have
cast such ignominy upon the memory of one whom I would willingly have
remembered as a good man. Shums-ood-Deen sought not to reign. Had he
rejected the throne, his only alternative was to die. We were plighted
to each other. I refused to wed him as a king, when I did not consider
his elevation just; but I am prepared to link my destiny with his now
the bar is removed which disunited us.”

“Your wish, lady, shall be fulfilled. He will be released for your
sake, with the government of Dowlatabad as a reward for his temperance
upon the throne. You shall be the messenger of these tidings.”

Agha fell at the king’s feet; he raised and dismissed her, with
kind assurances of future favour. She sought the apartment in which
Shums-ood-Deen was confined. He was seated on the ground at the
extremity fronting the door, and remarked not her entrance. His hand
was upon his brow. He seemed to press it, as if it ached from the
severe infliction of his own thoughts. The sigh came heavily from his
bosom, and he occasionally muttered indistinct sounds, which were
evidently the groanings of a lacerated spirit. He did not raise his
head as Agha advanced, but appeared unconscious of her presence.

“Shums-ood-Deen!” she said, in a tone of the gentlest tenderness. He
started from the ground in a moment.

“Alla Akbur!” he cried, bowing his head; “It is Agha! Is this a visit
of reconciliation before I die?”

“I come to release you from your chains. You have imagined that I did
not love you. It was a mistake: I loved the man, but as I could not
respect the king, I determined not to be the partner of an elevation
which my conscience could not justify. Your pardon has been pronounced
by the reigning monarch: I have his authority for announcing to you
that you will be henceforward governor of Dowlatabad; and, if you still
think the slave’s daughter worthy of your choice, she is now prepared
to fulfil her pledge.”

He threw his arms round her. They repaired to the royal presence, where
Shums-ood-Deen’s pardon was confirmed, and a proclamation to that
effect immediately issued. He swore allegiance to Feroze Shah Bahmuny
with much more joy than he had received the sceptre. The details of
love and marriage are too ordinary events of life for the pages of
history; it therefore only remains for the narrator of these adventures
to say, that the beautiful Agha and the youthful Shums-ood-Deen were
married forthwith, and repaired to Dowlatabad to a peaceful and happy
home.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] The ashruffy varied from thirty to forty shillings.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 854 (A.D. 1450).--Bheilole Lody Afghan was the first prince of the
fifth dynasty of the kings of Delhi. He succeeded Alla-ood-Deen, who
resigned the kingdom to him, and retired to Budaoon, where he died.

Heg. 856 (1452).--The king having defeated several insurgent sheiks,
the power of Bheilole Lody was firmly established.

Heg. 883 (1478).--Syud Alla-ood-Deen, who had abdicated the throne of
Delhi, dying at Budaoon, Hoossein Shah Shurky proceeded thither, and
after performing the funeral ceremonies, seized that district from
the children of Alla-ood-Deen. From thence marching to Sumbhul, he
imprisoned Moobarik Chan, governor of that province, and proceeding
towards Delhi, crossed the river Jumna, near the Cutcha ghaut. Bheilole
Lody was at Surhind when he received intelligence of this invasion,
and returning with expedition to his capital, several slight actions
ensued; but Hoossein Shah Shurky was finally defeated in a general
engagement at Canouge, when his regalia, equipage, and the chief lady
of his harem, Beeby Khonza, fell into the victors hands. After this
decisive victory, Bheilole retreated to his capital.

Heg. 894 (1488).--The king being now old, and infirmities increasing
daily upon him, he divided his dominions among his sons, and died at
Badowly, in the district of Sukeet, after a prosperous reign of thirty
years, eight months, and seven days. He was succeeded by Secunder Chan,
son of Zeina, the daughter of a goldsmith, introduced into the royal
harem on account of her beauty.

Heg. 897 (1491).--The fort of Agra fell to the king’s arms after a
short but stubborn siege.

Heg. 900 (1494).--The king met Hoossein Shah Shurky in the field, and
defeated him at a place about eighteen coss or thirty-six miles from
Benares. The vanquished chief fled to Patna, and his army was nearly
exterminated.

Heg. 904 (1498).--A conspiracy was formed against the life of Secunder
Lody, which being detected, the conspirators, who were powerful Omrahs,
were despatched upon different services, and cut off in detail.

Heg. 905 (1499).--Syud Chan Lody, Tartar Chan Firmully, and Mahomed
Shah Lody, being suspected of disaffection, were banished to Guzerat.

Heg. 915 (1509).--The king being encamped at Dholpore, he ordered
Suliman Chan to march to the aid of Hoossein Chan, of Hunwuntga
Suliman Chan having excused himself by saying that he preferred being
about the king’s person, the latter became incensed, and forthwith
dismissed him from his service, directing him to quit his camp by
daybreak the following morning, at the same time conferring on him the
revenue of Birun for his future maintenance.

Heg. 923 (1517).--Secunder being taken ill, died of quinsy, and was
succeeded by his son Ibrahim. A conspiracy was formed by the Lody
chiefs to raise his younger brother to the throne.

Heg. 923 (1518).--The king prepared to defeat the aims of the
conspirators, whom he finally quelled, and giving full latitude to his
vengeance, put many of the Omrahs to death.

Heg. 925 (1519).--Babur made his first campaign in India. On this
occasion he marched his army as far as the Indus, to where it is called
the Neelab: he overran with his troops all the countries in his route,
and crossing the river, advanced to Berah in Punjab. In this province
he levied contributions upon the inhabitants, instead of allowing his
troops to plunder. From Berah he sent to Ibrahim, acquainting him that
as the Punjab had been frequently in possession of the house of Timour,
it was fit he should relinquish his pretension to it, and thus prevent
the war from being carried further into India.

Heg. 926 (1520).--Babur made his third irruption into India, attacking
the Afghans on his route.

Heg. 928 (1522).--Chandahar and the country of Gurmseer fell into
Babur’s hands.

Heg. 930 (1524).--Babur entered Lahore in triumph, having defeated the
troops of Ibrahim Lody, and set fire to the Bazaar, a superstitious
practice common among the Moguls. Babur remained only four days in
Lahore, when he proceeded against Depalpore. The garrison having forced
him to risk an assault, he put the whole to the sword.

Heg. 932 (1525).--Babur marched for the first time towards Hindostan,
being joined by his son Hamayoon from Budukhshan, and Khwaja Kullan
from Ghizny. This year, Babur, with an army of only twelve thousand men
defeated Ibrahim Lody, who brought into the field a hundred thousand
horse and a hundred elephants. This victory secured the empire of India
to the House of Timour. Ibrahim Lody was found among the slain. This
year the fort of Gualior was besieged by a numerous army of Hindoos.
Tartar Chan, the governor, being reduced to great distress, applied to
Babur, who marched to his relief, and obliged the enemy to raise the
siege.

Heg. 933 (1525).--The mother of the late king of Delhi, Ibrahim Lody,
formed a design to poison Babur, and seduced the taster of the royal
kitchen to put some poison into a dish of hare soup. Babur, after
tasting a few spoonsful, nauseated the soup, and immediately vomited,
which saved his life. The plot was discovered, the taster put to death,
Ibrahim Lody’s mother cast into prison, and her wealth confiscated.

Heg 933 (1526).--The king defeated an army collected by several
confederated chieftains, in order to place a son of the late Ibrahim
Lody upon the throne of Delhi.

Heg. 935 (1528).--Babur commenced a tour through his new kingdom. He
first took the route to Gualior, and viewed there the fortifications,
the stone elephant, and the celebrated palace of Rajah Man Singh.
He then visited the gardens of Raheem Dad, and having admired some
extremely fine scarlet oleander flowers, ordered a few of the plants to
be conveyed to Agra. During his stay at Gualior he went in state to the
great Mosque, built by the Emperor Altmish, for whose soul he ordered
prayers to be read, and returned by another route to Agra.

Heg. 936 (1530).--In the month Rujab of this year, the king fell sick,
and his disorder gaining ground, he sent for his son Prince Humayoon,
and appointed him his successor.

Heg. 937 (1530).--On Monday the fifth of Jumad-ool-Awul, Babur Padshah
died. According to his will his body was transported to Cabul, and
interred in a sepulchre at that city. He died at the age of fifty,
having reigned thirty-eight years.

The Siege of Gualior.

CHAPTER I.

The fort of Gualior was in a state of siege. Tartar Chan was at this
time governor of it; but being beleagured by the Rajah of that country,
to whose family it had formerly belonged, and not in a condition to
resist the numerous forces of the Hindoo, Tartar Chan solicited Babur’s
aid. The detachment of troops sent by the Mogul monarch defeated the
Rajah, and obliged him to raise the siege. The governor being now
released from his enemies, and repenting of his promise of submission,
delayed, under plausible but frivolous pretences, to put the Moguls
in possession of the fortress. Their general, therefore, retreated in
disgust, with a threat of soon coming in larger force to compel this
fulfilment of the conditions upon which his services had been expressly
rendered.

The Moguls had no sooner retired than the Rajah returned with his
forces and invested Gualior. Tartar Chan was again in a dilemma, but
feared making another application to the Mogul Emperor, whom he had
lately requited with such signal ingratitude.

Within the fort was one Sheik Mahomed Ghows, a very learned man, who
had a great number of students under him, and was looked upon as an
oracle throughout the province. He was consulted in all cases of
emergency, being thought to possess the gift of inspiration. In his
difficulty, Tartar Chan repaired to the sage, and asked him what was to
be done under the present unpromising aspect of his affairs.

“We have not provisions,” said he, “for more than a few weeks; and the
garrison is already so much reduced that a sally cannot be prudently
attempted. What is to be done?”

“You have but a choice of evils; you must propitiate the Mogul.”

“But how?”

“Deliver the fortress into his hands.”

“Then I may as well capitulate to the enemy.”

“No; from the Hindoos you may look for extermination, from the
worshippers of the Prophet you may hope to retain your government in
fealty to the Emperor.”

“No vassal is secure under the domination of despotism.”

“What security have you within these walls, surrounded by an implacable
enemy whom you acknowledge you are in no condition longer to resist,
and who are prepared to exercise against you the severities which
conquerors seldom fail to inflict upon the vanquished, whom they happen
to hate? You have asked my advice under your present difficulties;--I
give it. Make your peace with the Mogul Emperor, perform the conditions
upon which he lately granted you assistance against the foe, by giving
him possession of this fortress, only stipulating to retain the command
of it as his vassal.”

Though Tartar Chan did not much relish the advice of the sage,
he nevertheless saw that he had no choice between complying and
capitulating to the Hindoos. He therefore despatched a messenger, who
succeeded in passing through the enemy’s lines as a fakeer--for those
visionaries pass everywhere unmolested--entreating the Emperor Babur to
advance once more to his assistance, and offering him full security for
the performance of the conditions upon which he solicited his aid.

About five weeks after the consultation just described, the garrison
was reduced to extreme distress. Their provisions were diminished to
such an incompetent supply that every person was put upon a stated
allowance of four ounces of rice per day. Disease was already beginning
the work of destruction, and there appeared no chance of escaping
the horrors of famine except by a speedy capitulation. The cries of
lamentation were everywhere heard, but no relief came. The prospect
of the besieged was anything but cheering; with starvation on the one
hand, and an odious captivity on the other, they had only a choice
of miseries, unless aid should be obtained before the expiration of
another week.

Tartar Chan did his best to soften the privations of the garrison; but
as he could not fabricate grain, he could do little towards hushing the
doleful cries of suffering which everywhere met his ears. The besiegers
were so vigilant that they cut off all supplies, and were determined to
starve their enemies into a surrender.

One evening four horsemen were seen by the Rajah’s scouts, advancing
towards Gualior. They were Moguls, and appeared to be sturdy warriors,
being well-armed and well mounted. They entered a thicket.

“Baba Shirzad,” said the chief, “do you ride towards the fort at
your best speed, and endeavour to ascertain the strength of the
besieging force. We will await your return here, and act according to
circumstances. I like an achievement: the greater danger, the more
glory.”

“I go,” said the Mogul; “but to my thinking you are poking your nose
into a wasp’s nest, and you know how severely those insects sting.”

“But we must pluck out their sting, Baba, and then they’ll only be able
to buzz.”

“But in plucking out the sting we may chance to get a puncture.”

“Ha! so much the better; ’twill be a spur to renown; so strike your
heels into the flanks of your good Arab, and away.”

Baba Shirzad did as he was commanded, and was lost in a few seconds
amid the gloom of the forest.

“Mir Shah,” said the chief to another of his companions, “we must
prepare for blows. These idolators are grown savage at their late
defeats and fight desperately. We must relieve the garrison in spite
of Tartan Chan’s late subterfuges. He’ll be a cunning governor if he
outwits his betters a second time.”

“Had we not better get into the plain?” asked Mir Shah. “I don’t like
these strange thickets; they are too favourable for surprises, and my
topographical knowledge of this quarter is not considerable. Let us go
where we can see our horses’s ears, for here we can exercise only one
sense, and that the least important of the five.”

“Nay, do you mean to make four pass for a unit? You can exercise all
your senses in the dark, save the faculty of seeing, and, my word for
it, blindness is not always an evil. But let us get into the plain if
you will, and there await the return of Baba Shirzad.”

The Moguls had not long emerged from the wood, when, overcome by the
fatigue of their journey, they began to nod on their saddles. They
were, however, suddenly roused by a clattering of hoofs, as of a horse
at full speed, and presently Baba Shirzad appeared coming towards them
at a hard gallop.

“Fly!” said he; “we are pursued by a large detachment of the enemy;
they are close at my heels, and we have not a moment for deliberation.”

“Nay,” said the chief, “the Mogul is not accustomed to fly we must
stand our ground at all risks.”

“But the enemy are at least a hundred and fifty men.”

“The more the better; throw them into confusion and they’ll cut one
another’s throats. ’Tis no easy matter to distinguish friends from
foes in the dark, and after a death or two they’ll magnify two brace
of warriors into a host. Stand by me like brave men, and I’ll show you
some sport worth witnessing.”

By this time a considerable detachment of the enemy had advanced to
within a hundred yards of the spot where the four horsemen stood. The
Moguls had separated, each taking up his position with his back towards
the wood, and shouting simultaneously, in order to lead the enemy to
suppose they formed a small squadron. The Hindoos reined up their
horses, and immediately winged a flight of arrows, calling upon their
foes to surrender; this was answered by a discharge of four shafts,
which, being directed with better aim, and against a large mass, did
some execution.

The Hindoo chief was mounted upon a white charger, which was a guide to
the Moguls in what direction to shoot their arrows. The four horsemen
now uniting galloped towards the enemy, and when within ten yards of
them, discharged their barbed reeds, turned and retreated. This they
repeated several times, until the enemy, galled by these attacks,
spurred forward in pursuit. The Moguls again separated, and plunged
into the neighbouring thicket. The Hindoos being thus disunited rode
onward in disorder, and frequently mistook one another for foes. Arrows
were occasionally shot from the wood, and not knowing whence the
mischief came, their confusion increased. In several instances they
rode each other down, the enemy meanwhile occasionally shouting to
delude them, and then instantly galloping to another position.

This strange fight was continued for some time, until a number of the
idolators being slain, their leader ordered those who were near him to
halt, and after a while, with some difficulty he mustered the rest of
his detachment, nineteen of whom were killed or missing. The night was
too dark to allow of pursuing the Moguls with any reasonable chance of
securing them; the Hindoos therefore retraced their way slowly back to
their camp to prepare their comrades against surprise.

“Well,” said the Mogul leader, as the enemy slowly retired, “I told you
we should multiply. Night is the best season in the world to enable the
few to outdo the many. They’ll have a rare tale to tell when they get
to their tents. They have left a few of their companions behind them,
whom they’ll find cold enough and not over fragrant in the morning.
But it will not do for four to stand against a hundred by daylight, we
must therefore retire towards the advancing forces. Within a week these
worshippers of dumb divinities shall quit yonder fortress or fight for
it; and though the dogs are brave enough, yet they have no great skill
at warfaring.”

“But what say you,” asked Dost Nasir, “to their Rajpoots--fellows that
fight under a saffron robe till their throats are cut, not indeed so
much to their own satisfaction as to that of their slayers?”

“Why, I say of their Rajpoots, that they are brave just as a woman is
when spirit has turned her brain. She’ll then rave and sputter in spite
of stripes; but when her fit of valour subsides, her spirit becomes as
puny as a lizard’s. I never knew a really brave man wantonly throw away
his life. Excite a coward beyond the boundary-line of his fears, and he
foams and snaps like a mad dog; but fury is not valour.”

“It may be,” replied Dost Nasir; “but a Rajpoot’s fury is a nasty thing
to come in contact with. And the rascals are so ready in the use of
their cimetars that they chop off heads as dexterously as your cooks
decollate ortolans for a dainty feeder. I never knew a fight tame where
those yellow-robed warriors appeared among the enemy’s ranks.”

“Well, if there be any among those adorers of chiselled stones now
before yonder town, you shall have an opportunity of seeing that such
drunken valour will not prevent our forces from obliging them to slink
back to their homes, or making a dunghill beneath the walls of Gualior
with the flesh of idol-worshippers.”

While this conversation was going on, the four Moguls were getting into
the heart of the jungle, in order to obviate the pursuit which they
apprehended the enemy would commence on the morrow. Having deviated
considerably from the regular travelling route, and being unacquainted
with the locality, they got into a pathless forest. This was a dilemma
from which they must use their wits to be delivered, and with this
prudent resolution they cast themselves upon the protection of Him to
whom the path of the wilderness is as familiar as that of the populous
country.

CHAPTER II.

When the Moguls had got into the heart of the forest, beyond the
probable reach of pursuit, they halted, picketed their horses in a
small grassy glen, and casting themselves beneath the shelter of a
leafy tree, threw their saddle-cloths over their shoulders, and soon
sank into profound repose. In the morning they rose and pursued their
way. The chief was a broad-shouldered man, above the middle height,
exceedingly muscular, with a handsome good-humoured countenance,
somewhat roughened by constant exposure to various changes of
atmosphere. His limbs were so sinewy, that it appeared as if ropes were
twisted round his bones, and covered with a skin as firm and flexible
as was requisite to compact such bones and muscles. He had a large
laughing eye, but so brilliant that, when the round animated features
subsided from their wonted joyousness into sudden gravity, it seemed
as if its quick intense scrutiny could reach the very depths of the
soul. His mouth was small, and the lips generally a little protruded,
giving an arch expression to his features, that made the beholder
think they were ever the home of good-humour. His head was somewhat
diminutive, or rather it appeared so in consequence of the prodigious
size of his neck, which was perfectly Atlantean. It was bare to his
shoulders, and showed a capacity of strength almost superhuman. He
mounted his horse with a bound as light as that of the grasshopper; and
his steed, a noble Persian charger, was evidently proud of its burthen.
His companions were fine men, but utterly insignificant by the side of
their chief.

As they proceeded, the ground became swampy and anything but agreeable
for travelling. They at length reached the banks of a considerable
stream, upon which a number of fowlers were exercising the various
artifices of their craft. It was an unusual, and therefore an
interesting sight to the strangers. The country abounded with
water-fowl which were very fat, and there was a good vent for them in
the neighbouring villages and at a town some distance down the stream.
A large kind of heron congregated here in immense flocks; but the
choice bird was the khawasil, a fowl in great request, because it was
extremely rare. The Moguls were interested by the manner of catching
these birds, which was as follows:--“The fowler spun a thin sliding
springe, about an arrow’s flight long, and to the one end of this cord
fixed a double-pointed arrow, while on the other end of it he fastened
a cross handle of horn. He then took a stick of the thickness of the
wrist, and a span in length, and commencing at the arrow, wound up
the cord until it was all wound on; after which he made fast the horn
handle, and pulled out the stick of the thickness of the wrist, on
which the cord had been wound, the cord remaining wound up and hollow.
Taking a firm hold of the horn handle, he threw the dart, having the
cord attached to it, at any fowl that came near. If it fell on the neck
or wings of the bird, it immediately twisted round it and brought it
down.”

“All the people on the Baran catch birds in this manner, but it is
extremely difficult and unpleasant, as it must be practised on dark and
rainy nights; for on such nights, for fear of the ravenous animals and
beasts of prey, they fly about constantly all night long, never resting
till the morning; and at such times they fly low. In dark nights they
keep flying over the running water, as it appears bright and white;
and it is at such times, when from fear they fly up and down above the
streams all night long, that the fowlers cast their cords.”[19] The
chief of the Moguls, struck with the ingenious mode of taking these
birds, attempted to cast the snare; but with all his skill in the use
of weapons of war, at which he was singularly expert, he could not
manage to secure a single bird.

A little further down the river, a singular mode of taking fish excited
the travellers’ attention. “In a place where the water fell from a
height, the fishermen had dug out pits about the size of a house, and
laying them with stones in the form of the lower part of a cooking
furnace, they had heaped on stones above the pits, leaving only one
passage for the water to descend; they had piled up the stones in
such a manner that, except by this single passage, there was no other
for the fish either to come or go. The water of the stream finding
its way through these stones, this contrivance answered the purpose
of a fishpool. In winter, whenever fish were required, they opened
one of these pits and took out forty or fifty fish at a time. In some
convenient place of the pit, an opening was formed, and excepting
at that outlet, all the sides of it were secured with rice straw,
over which stones were piled up. At the opening was fastened a kind
of wicker-work like a net; the two extremities being contracted were
brought near each other. In the middle of this first wicker-net was
fixed another piece of wicker net-work, in such a way that the mouth
of this last might correspond with that of the other, but its whole
length be only about half of that of the one first mentioned. The mouth
of this inner net-work was made very narrow. Whatever entered, passed
of necessity into the larger wicker-net, the lower part of which was
so constructed that no fish could escape back. The lower part of the
mouth of the inner wicker-net was so formed, that when fish had once
entered the upper part, they were forced to proceed one by one down to
the lower part of its mouth. The sharpened sticks forming the lower
part of the mouth were brought close together: whatever passed this
mouth came into the larger wicker-net, the lower passage of which was
strongly secured, so that the fish could not escape; for if it happened
to turn and attempt to swim back, it could not get up in consequence
of the sharpened prongs that formed the lower mouth of the small inner
wicker-net. Every time the fishermen bring their nets, they fasten them
on the water-course of the fishpool, and then take off the covering of
the fishpool, leaving all its sides secured by the rice straw. Whatever
they can lay hold of in the hollow pit they seize, while every fish
that attempts to escape by the only issue left, necessarily comes into
the wicker-net that has been mentioned, and is taken there.”[20]

The Mogul chief entered familiarly into conversation with the
fishermen, who, being from among the lowest caste of Hindoos, had no
great scruple at entering into conversation with Mahomedans.

“Have you plenty of game in these jungles?” asked the Mogul.

“Enough of that, but it is no easy matter to come at it; for there are
numbers of animals to share it, which don’t hesitate at laying their
armed paws upon intruders.”

“But a man ought at any time to be a match for a brute.”

“Your brutes, master, are rough subjects to deal with. ’Tis well enough
when you can snare and knock their brains out without hazard, but, to
my mind, ’tis a madman’s venture to stand against a wild beast, when,
if you are killed, ’tis an ignoble death, and if you come off best,
you get but a sorry reputation for your valour; for valour without
discretion is a ragged sort of virtue, and we fishermen pride ourselves
upon showing more of the latter than of the former; if one hadn’t more
discretion than valour, fishing would be but a beggarly craft, and as
it is we can’t manage to get rich.”

“What animals most prevail in these woods?”

“Why there’s a tolerable sprinkling of tigers, and hogs in abundance;
but the greatest nuisance in these parts is a rhinoceros that often
comes upon the banks of the river, and does us terrible damage. I wish
some bold champion would make a feast of him for the vultures, and he
would render us a very laudable service.”

“But do you never make any effort to destroy such a clumsy enemy? Man
ought not to allow a beast to get the better of him. Reason should be a
more successful weapon than simple animal strength, and he who fails to
use his own with advantage against mere instinctive ferocity, is hardly
a gradation above the brute.”

“This is all very well when you are out of sight of tigers and those
clawed or horned foes, which make no more of dieting upon a horse or
knocking down a buffalo, than I should do of setting my heel upon the
head of a little fish; but it is quite a different thing when these
inhabitants of the woods walk out of some thicket, and bid you an
unexpected good morrow. It is a maxim with us fishermen to keep as much
as possible out of the way of all surly quadrupeds; we leave the glory
of vanquishing them to wiser heads and abler bodies. We seek no victory
over the tenants of the forest, but are satisfied with a conquest over
the more gentle occupants of the water.”

“Can you say where the rhinoceros you spoke of was last seen?”

“He is said to be generally found near a dell not far from the entrance
of the jungle.”

“There are two gold mohurs, if you will come and point out the spot.”
Saying this, the Mogul flung down two golden pieces at the fisherman’s
feet.

“I am ready,” said the man, “even to risk my life for such a boon
as this; it is more than a month’s fishing would produce; I am your
servant for as long a time as you may need my services to-day;
to-morrow I must be again my own master, unless the forest savage
should impale me alive, or trample me to death for my good-will in
showing you his haunt.”

The horsemen proceeded towards the cover, accompanied by the Hindoo,
who trotted along by the side of their chief’s charger. He was a small
but amazingly active man, something past the middle age, and a shrewd,
wary person. As they passed through a piece of ground in which the
grass was up to their horses’ haunches, a hog started from a thick
tuft, and scampered over the field with the speed of a stag. Baba
Shirzad, who happened to be nearest, strung his bow in a moment, and
winging an arrow at the poor beast, buried the shaft in its body. The
hog rolled over upon its back, and died after a few violent struggles.

“A good hit, Baba,” cried the chief; “that arrow was pulled home, and
although lodged under a pig’s hide, does no discredit to a soldier’s
aim. I long to try my reed at a mark, or my arm against a foe. Let your
shafts fly as truly against yonder besiegers when we next meet them,
and they will have good cause to repent that they ever pitched their
tents before Gualior.”

“I shall try my best,” said Baba Shirzad, with a smile, that showed he
was not a little flattered at the observation of his comrade, who was
known never to praise upon slight grounds: “I would fain draw blood
from something better worth an arrow’s point than a filthy swine.”

“Nay, a chine is no bad thing in the jungle, where even berries are
sometimes scarce, and when the appetite is at a climax; for though
the Koran inhibits pork, yet hunger is a most religious apology for
violating the interdiction. The Prophet never intended that a starving
man should lick his thumbs for a meal, when hog’s flesh was to be had
at the expense of a barbed reed. The hog is fat; come, Baba, take a
slice or two from its haunches that we may break a too long fast.”

Baba Shirzad dismounted; a few fine steaks were cut from the boar’s
body with the broad blade of his creese, a fire was kindled, and a dish
of keibobs speedily prepared. Having despatched this summary meal, in
which their guide declined participating, they remounted their steeds,
and proceeding towards the thicket, prepared to attack the rhinoceros
should he cross their path.

Upon gaining the skirts of a very close cover, a buffalo was seen
bounding over the plain with amazing speed, its head almost between its
knees, and its tail in the air, exhibiting tokens of furious animosity.

As the creature approached, the earth flew from its heels like
fragments after an explosion. It snorted--its eyes glared, it plunged,
and on reaching the horsemen, made a rush towards the foremost with its
head nearly bent to the ground, and its back curved like a crescent.
The Mogul chief moved his steed actively on one side, and the maddened
buffalo passed him in the impetuosity of its career with the speed of
a dart. He immediately wheeled round, so did the buffalo, and repeated
its charge. The Mogul, raising himself in his stirrups, lifted his
heavy Damascus cimetar, turned his horse again as the animal charged,
and stooping suddenly, brought upon the horns of the furious beast his
ponderous weapon, which cut sheer through them, and was deeply buried
in its neck. The buffalo rolled dead upon the plain. The head was
nearly severed from its body. The fisherman looked on with amazement.

“In truth, master,” said he, “I think the hide of a rhinoceros would
hardly stand against such a stroke. Yours must be a rare arm for hewing
down foes. I’d rather be your friend than your enemy. If you could
contrive to give the mailed forester such a thump upon a spot where
your sword might enter, I wouldn’t give a fish’s eye for its life.”

“I shall see what is to be done if you can only show me the game.
There’s more in the will than in the stroke. A coward, had he the
strength of your war god, and were armed with Vishnoo’s chackra, would
not be able to slay a cat that raised its paw against him.”

“But what could the valour of Hanuman[21] avail with a puny arm? The
mere will can never accomplish the deed. Courage should be cased in a
strong frame, with firm bones and tough sinews, else ’tis like putting
gems in tinsel--a precious commodity in a worthless outside.”

The carcase of the buffalo was now left to welter on the plain, a
feast for crows and vultures, and finally for pismires, which picked
its bones as bare as a scraped radish long before sunset. The horsemen
proceeded with all despatch into the thicket, where they hoped to
meet with the sullen tyrant of the wood, to whose fierce strength
the elephant has often yielded up its life in a clumsy but desperate
conflict.

The growth of the forest, a short distance beyond the skirts, was very
thin, having been cleared in some spots, and in others enclosing small
savannas formed by the marshy nature of the soil, which was low and
in places excessively swampy. They at length gradually ascended into
drier ground, where the growth of the underwood was thicker, and the
fisherman almost immediately pointed out the spot where the rhinoceros
was said to be frequently seen.

“Upon turning yonder angle,” said he, “you will enter a small defile,
flanked on one side by a rocky barrier, and on the other by a grove of
lofty trees. I shall take leave to wish you a happy deliverance should
you come upon the brute, which is, to my thinking, likely to afford you
grave pastime.”

The horsemen rode forward, and on turning the angle pointed out
by the fisherman, the rhinoceros appeared, feeding at the further
extremity of the glen. Upon seeing the intruders he raised his head,
bent back his ears, and stamped his foot violently against the ground,
as if peremptorily prohibiting their advance. Their bows were already
strung, and fixing each an arrow in the string, they discharged them
simultaneously at the huge beast. Three of the shafts fell blunted from
his side as if they had struck against a wall of granite, rebounding to
a distance of several yards; but the arrow of the chief, directed with
a more vigorous arm and a surer aim, struck the sturdy animal near the
right ear and remained fixed.

Infuriated by the pain, the rhinoceros bounded forward with surprising
agility, receiving another discharge from the horsemen, only one of
which told, striking nearly in the same spot, and augmenting the
creature’s fury. Mir Shah happened to be nearest, and before he could
turn his horse, the exasperated enemy struck it with its horn in the
side, raised it in the air and flung it over its head. In his rapid
transit, Mir Shah luckily caught the branch of a tree which hung over
the spot, and disengaging his legs from the stirrups, escaped the fate
of his favourite charger, which lay dead upon the ground with a hideous
gash opened into its body.

The rhinoceros did not pause, but rushed towards the next horse; the
terrified creature turned and made off with all speed, in spite of the
efforts of its rider to restrain it. The steed of Baba Shirzad followed
its example, and both dashed through the jungle, quickly unseating
their riders, who were swept from their saddles by branches of trees
which spread across the narrow and imperfect pathway. The Mogul leader,
meanwhile, had dismounted from his charger, and casting the reins upon
its neck, the animal dashed in terror through the jungle.

The bold warrior, now left alone in the defile, shot two arrows in
quick succession at the fierce beast, which was in full pursuit of
his comrades. This unlooked for assault caused it to turn and advance
to the attack of its dismounted antagonist. The Mogul placed himself
behind the trunk of a large tree, and the rhinoceros approaching in
full career, in the wantonness of its rage struck its horn into the
trunk with such force that it remained fixed there for several seconds.
The moment was critical. Its eye was gleaming with rage. The Mogul
drew the feather of an arrow to his shoulder, and sent the shaft with
prodigious strength into the socket of that glaring orb. It passed with
irresistible force into the brain of the ponderous brute, which fell
dead with a stifled grunt upon the earth. Having joined his companions,
who were a good deal bruised, but not seriously injured by their falls,
they soon recovered their horses, skinned the dead enemy, and continued
merrily on their way.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] See Memoirs of Zehir-ed-Din, Mahommed Babur, Emperor of Hindostan,
written by himself in the Jaghatai Turki, and translated partly by the
late John Leyden, M.D., partly by William Erskine, Esq., pp. 153-4.

[20] Babur’s Memoirs, p. 155.

[21] Hanuman was a huge ape, but a distinguished general in the wars of
the Ramayana.

CHAPTER III.

Tartar Chan was anxiously expecting a reply to his messenger from
the Mogul Emperor. Famine was already raging within the walls of
Gualior, and there was yet no prospect of relief. The lamentations
of the sufferers were every moment becoming louder and more fearful.
The Governor was taxed as the cause of all their misery in not having
given up the fort to the Mogul general as originally stipulated. From
reprehensions they proceeded to threats, and at length Tartar Chan
began to fear for his personal safety. In his perplexity he sought
Sheikh Mahomed, to ask his advice under circumstances of unusual
difficulty.

“We had better die starving,” said the sage, “than capitulate to
enemies who will visit us with an equally painful death. If we tamely
submit to their yoke, we shall perish in ignominy; but if we die free
within these walls, we shall at least expire with honour.”

“But disease and famine are raging in different quarters, and the
enraged populace threaten my life.”

“I will go and appease them. There has been scarcely yet time
for an answer to your embassy. I will persuade them to wait with
patience another day or two, within which interval I have no doubt
an answer will be returned. If favourable, we can have no cause
for apprehension; if adverse, it will be then time enough to adopt
desperate measures.”

Sheikh Mahomed went into the bazaar and harangued the inhabitants.
He was revered by them as a prophet, and they listened to his voice
as to a revelation from Heaven. They yielded to his entreaties, they
hushed their cries, and consented to abide the issue of their governors
message to the Mogul potentate.

That very night the watchword was heard at the gate; the messenger
was admitted, and with him a party bearing a supply of provisions.
They had evaded the enemy’s picket by a secret path unknown to the
Hindoos. Twelve camels loaded with rice entered the fort amid the
shouts of the starving garrison, and the welcome information came that
an army was on its way to relieve them, and might be expected within
twenty-four hours. This intelligence so gladdened the hearts of the
despairing inhabitants, that instead of the wailings of despair, shouts
of rejoicing were heard from every part of the fortress. The enemy
knew not how to account for this sudden change. They had been made
acquainted with the sufferings of the besieged, and were every moment
expecting that the latter would capitulate without proposing terms,
which the Hindoo general had determined to refuse. The conclusion
they came to was, that it was a feint to throw them off their guard;
but they treated with contempt the idea of a few starving soldiers
attempting anything against a numerous army, provided with everything
necessary, and commanded by a leader of reputation. They derided
therefore the rejoicings of the besieged, and slumbered that night in
perfect security.

On that very night, however, at the suggestion of Sheikh Mahomed,
Tartar Chan determined upon making a sortie at the head of a chosen
body of his bravest soldiers, now elated to the highest pitch of
enthusiasm at so near a prospect of relief. Their enemies never for
an instant imagined that such a measure would be resorted to, knowing
how greatly the garrison was reduced by famine, and supposing,
therefore, that the soldiers could not be in a condition to hazard a
personal encounter with a vigorous and numerous body of troops. The
night was dark, the wind gusty, which was rather favourable for such
an enterprise as Tartar Chan contemplated, since the approach of his
detachment to the hostile camp would be less likely to be detected
before they should reach their destination. An hour past midnight was
the period fixed, when it was imagined the Hindoo army would be the
least apprehensive of an attack from a weakened and starving garrison.

The soldiers selected for the enterprise were assembled shortly after
midnight, quitted the gates in silence, and marched stealthily towards
the camp. As they approached they were hailed by the sentinel, who
was instantly shot dead with an arrow. Proceeding noiselessly onward,
the hail of a second sentinel was answered in a similar manner. No
alarm was yet given. They were within a hundred yards of the enemy’s
lines, when their approach was observed, and a shout raised. The
Hindoo soldiers, starting from their sleep, issued from their tents,
many of them unarmed, and others with only a dagger or a short sabre.
The besieged rushed forward to the tents of the besiegers, creating a
dreadful panic. They had divided into small bodies, and were known to
each other by a long white floating streamer which each wore attached
to the left side of his turban, and which there was sufficient light to
distinguish.

The Hindoos soon assembled in such numbers that they incommoded each
other, and thus the greatest confusion prevailed. They could not
perceive their foes, who made a dreadful slaughter among them during
the panic by which they were overcome. Seeing not whence the stroke
of death came, they frequently mistook one another for enemies, and
inflicted mutual destruction. The groans of the dying mingled with
the shouts of the assailants in every part of the camp. The carnage
was appalling. Several elephants, picketed within the lines, were let
loose by the garrison, who pricked them with their spears until they
became infuriated, and plunged among the tents, adding to the general
consternation. Hundreds of persons were trodden to death by these
affrighted creatures, which rushed onward with an impetuosity that
nothing could resist. Morning dawned before the work of carnage had
ceased, when Tartar Chan and his bold followers, satisfied at their
success, returned to the fortress with the loss of only fifteen men.

On the following day shouts of triumph were heard from the walls of
Gualior. A great number of oxen and sheep had been driven into the
fort during the struggle of the preceding night, and a large quantity
of rice secured. The inhabitants were now as much elated as they had
before been depressed. The prospect of speedy relief from the Mogul
army, and the present unlooked-for supply of provisions, stilled their
murmurs; and the governor’s success in his late enterprise reconciled
them to his former breach of faith with a generous ally. Those houses
in which famine had already begun to deposit her prey, were cleared
of their dead, fumigated, and the enlivening hopes produced by such
a sudden reverse of fortune, so neutralised the effects of disease,
that many who were sick arose from their beds and were restored to
comparative health within a few hours.

Tartar Chan already began to repent that he had sought the assistance
of the Moguls. Seeing how easily he had made an impression upon the
hostile forces, he was disposed to think that by judicious night
attacks he might with his own forces oblige them to raise the siege;
but he did not calculate the difference between an enemy prepared
and an enemy off their guard. Another such an enterprise must have
failed. Tartar Chan, though a brave, was a vain and stubborn man,
full of ambition and without integrity. He could not bear to think
of giving up the fortress to his allies, and holding it in fealty
under a prince who was not in the habit of allowing his vassals or
feudatories the privilege of independence. He had been relieved from
present embarrassment, and his pretensions rose in proportion. It was
a hard thing to relinquish authority which he had struggled so hard to
maintain, or at least to have it abridged by the influence of greater.

There was one difficulty: he knew it to be the prevailing feeling of
the garrison, that in case the enemy were obliged to raise the siege
by the Mogul army, the fortress should be put into the immediate
possession of their general. Babur’s government was popular, and he was
dreaded by all the neighbouring potentates. His renown as a warrior
filled the nations with awe. His alliance was a blessing--his hostility
a bane. The governor of Gwalior sought Sheikh Mahomed, as usual, in his
difficulties.

“Well, Sheikh,” said he, “I think we have been rash in so hastily
soliciting aid when we might have accomplished with our own arms what
we seek for from those of our allies.”

“Then why have you not done it? You grow presumptuous from temporary
good fortune; but, rely upon it, if you do not take heed, the success
of a moment will act as a spark upon gunpowder, and produce an
explosion that shall spread ruin around you. An act of bad faith can
find no excuse; it seldom remains unpunished sooner or later. Take my
word for it, that without speedy aid from the Moguls you must fall
under the domination of Hindoos, who towards Mahomedans, are the worst
of tyrants.”

“But what is life worth if we are obliged to give up all that renders
it desirable! I must relinquish my government, and I would rather die
than do that.”

“You should have come to this conclusion before you despatched a
messenger for assistance in your extremity. You are bound by solemn
engagements, and it is too late to retract. Besides, your personal
advantages should weigh but as a feather against the general interest.
The lives of those you govern are dear to them, so are their liberties;
and you can have no moral right to put these in jeopardy; for as sure
as to-morrow’s sun shall rise, if you attempt to break your faith a
second time with those who are coming to your relief, your ruin will
be the consequence, and you will perhaps involve many innocent persons
in your own destruction. I have spoken boldly. You know that I am not
one to fix my opinions rashly; when once fixed, therefore, they are not
readily diverted. Act the part of a just man, as you did last night
that of a brave one, and you may look confidently for your reward; but,
I repeat it, a second breach of faith will terminate in your doom.”

The governor was exceedingly mortified at the result of this interview.
Sheikh Mahomed was too much respected by the garrison to render it
safe to treat him with indignity; Tartar Chan therefore quitted his
presence with angry feelings which he did not think it prudent to
express. He resolved, however, not to be guided by the counsel of the
sage, notwithstanding the celebrity he had obtained for his gift of
foreknowledge. No man, he argued, is infallible, and the Sheikh may
happen to be wrong for once; at least the governor was determined
to think so, and to act upon this rash assumption, in spite of
consequences.

Having sounded several of his officers, he found two or three among
them who readily concurred in his views, though the majority were
decidedly opposed to them. Making therefore his determination known
but to those on whose fidelity he thought he could rely, he awaited
patiently the advance of the Mogul forces, whom he determined to render
subservient to his purposes and then dismiss without reward. He had
an idea that he could obviate any future molestation from the Hindoo
arms by calling in the aid of some of his Afghan neighbours, who render
their assistance with much humbler expectations than the Moguls.
Under these impressions, and actuated by these sinister resolutions,
he assembled his soldiers, and gave his orders how they were to act
in concert with the Moguls, so soon as the latter should come to the
relief of Gualior. He commanded a body of his bravest men to issue
from the gate of the town, and, while the enemy were engaged with his
allies, secure all the provisions they could find in the hostile camp.
He gave the command of this detachment to a spirited officer, upon whom
he could rely, and looked forward with confidence to success.

Sheikh Mahomed was not blind to what was passing in the governor’s
mind; he knew his craft and resolved to counteract it. Affecting
perfect confidence in Tartar Chan’s integrity, the latter was thrown
off his guard, and his intentions made sufficiently evident to the sage
to justify the plan he intended to pursue. Two days after the late
nocturnal encounter with the enemy, the Mogul forces arrived to the
relief of Gualior.

There was an evident bustle in the Hindoo camp. The advancing army was
led by the chief who had so lately distinguished himself in the jungle
by killing a rhinoceros. This feat of prowess had reached the ears of
the idolators, and they were prepared for a desperate conflict. Their
forces outnumbered those of their enemies by several thousands, but
they were greatly inferior in discipline; they had, however, among them
a body of Rajpoots, which gave them confidence, as those troops have
always been distinguished by their headlong and indomitable valour. The
shouts of exultation from the town and fort were heard with feelings of
deep vexation within the hostile lines; but there was no time for the
encouragement of petty feelings with so formidable an enemy at their
backs.

The Moguls pitched their camp almost in sight of the Hindoo army, and
immediately advanced to the attack. Baba Shirzad, Mir Shah, and Dost
Nasir, had severally commands under their brave chief, who took post in
the centre.

Shortly after daybreak, the Mahomedans advanced in order of battle.
The Hindoos were drawn out to receive them, their line extending to
a great length, curving in the form of a crescent, as if to enclose
their foes, whom they greatly outnumbered. The Rajpoots were placed in
the centre, which was strengthened by the leader of the idolators with
his best troops. The battle commenced with terrible impetuosity on the
part of the Moguls, their charge being received by the foe with great
steadiness. The Rajpoots bore the brunt of the shock, and the line did
not waver. The Mogul leader fought with an energy that astonished his
foes. He killed no less than six Rajpoots, to whom he had been opposed
hand to hand. Still no sensible impression was made upon the Hindoo
line.

The troops under command of Dost Nasir had been thrown into confusion
by the severe charge of the enemy’s horse, a large and well appointed
body. At this moment the horns of the crescent were seen gradually
closing to encompass the Mahomedan army. Their leader, perceiving
that the crisis had arrived, dashed his turban from his brow, and
shaking his thick black locks over his shoulders, called aloud upon
the Prophet, and with the cry of Allah Akbur, charged the centre of
the enemy’s line with irresistible impetuosity. The shock immediately
arrested the advance of the wings. The line wavered, the Rajpoots
could not stand against the impetuosity of the charge--they gave
way--instant confusion followed. At this moment a body of Tartar Chan’s
troops issued from the town, and attacking the foe in their rear,
completed the rout; they fled on all sides, and abandoned their camp to
the victors. The battle had been short but decisive. Immense quantities
of provisions were found in the Hindoo camp, which were removed to
the town and fort amid the acclamations of the inhabitants and of the
garrison.

Tartar Chan immediately sent a messenger to acknowledge the timely
assistance of the Moguls, but said not a word of putting Gualior into
their possession.

The morning after the Hindoo general had raised the siege, the Mogul
chief sent to Tartar Chan to demand a fulfilment of the conditions upon
which he had repaired to the relief of Gualior. For a day or two, he
was amused with frivolous excuses, and then a peremptory refusal was
given to resign the town and fort into his possession.

Meanwhile Sheikh Mahomed, disgusted at the governor’s baseness, sent
a private messenger to the Mogul general to say, that if he would
trust himself singly within the fort, he would engage to find means of
introducing his troops, and of shortly putting the town and fortress
of Gualior into his hands. The Mogul accordingly affected to receive
the refusal of Tartar Chan in a friendly manner, leading him to suppose
that he was prepared to relinquish his claim; but represented to him
that, as the enemy might muster in stronger force and return, it was
desirable he should be allowed to bring his troops under the protection
of the fortress. He further requested as an especial favour, that
he might be permitted to visit the learned Sheikh Mahomed, of whose
reputation he had heard so much, in order that he might tender him the
homage of his admiration. Both these requests were acceded to without
scruple; the governor having no suspicion that mischief could accrue
from admitting a single warrior within the fort, so well guarded by the
vigilance of a brave and active garrison.

During the Mogul’s visit to the sage, who had provided a liberal
entertainment, to which several officers of the garrison were invited,
he sent word to the governor from time to time, requesting permission
for such and such officers to be admitted also, until at length Tartar
Chan desired the commander of the guard to use his own discretion in
admitting whom he chose, conceiving himself secure in his fidelity.
That officer, being a disciple of the philosopher and privy to the
plot, availed himself of this order to permit anybody the Mogul wished
to pass in, till at length a considerable body of resolute warriors
were within the wall before the entertainment was ended.[22] The fort
thus fell easily into possession of the Moguls without bloodshed. The
governor was summoned before their general.

“Traitor,” said the latter, “know that you stand in the presence of
Babur Padshah, Emperor of the Moguls. Follow me to the ramparts!”

Having reached the battlements, accompanied by several of his own
officers, the Emperor said, “What does your faithlessness deserve?”

“The pity of a conqueror,” replied Tartar Chan.

“Princes have a solemn duty to perform in ridding the world of
those who deserve not to live. Your doom is sealed.” Saying which,
Babur seized the trembling governor by the cummerbund, raised him
from the ground as if he had been an infant, and flung him over the
battlements.[23]

FOOTNOTES:

[22] See Brigg’s Ferishta, vol. ii. p. 52.

[23] Babur’s strength is said to have been prodigious; as a proof of
which it is related, that “he used to leap from one pinnacle to another
of the pinnated ramparts used in the East, in his double-soled boots,
and that he even frequently took a man under each arm and went leaping
along the rampart from one of the pointed pinnacles to another.”--_See
Memoirs of Babur_, p. 430.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 937 (1531).--Humayoon succeeded, on the death of his father, to
the throne of Delhi.

Heg. 938 (1532).--He defeated the Afghans at Juanpore.

Heg. 940 (1533).--Humayoon caused a citadel to be built at Delhi, on
the banks of the Jumna, to which he gave the name of Deen Puna, the
asylum of the faithful, after which he marched towards Sarungpoor, in
Malwa.

Heg. 941 (1534)--Banadur Shah threw himself into Mando, which was
invested by the Moguls, who, after a few days, escaladed the walls,
and, though the garrison consisted of several thousand men, it fell
into their hands. The King also made himself master of the citadel
of Champanerc. Having caused a number of steel spikes to be made,
while the garrison was withdrawn from a part of the fortress deemed
inaccessible, he caused the steel spikes to be fixed in the scarp of
the rock, by which means himself and thirty-nine officers ascended.
The whole garrison was put to the sword, but the governor, who had
bravely defended the place, obtained honourable terms. The wealth found
here was so great, that Humayoon gave to his officers and soldiers as
much gold, silver, and jewels as could be heaped upon their respective
shields, proportioning the value to their rank and merit.

Heg. 943 (1536).--The King laid siege to the fort of Chunar, which held
out for six months, but was eventually taken by a device of Roomy Chan.
He erected stages of a certain height, placed upon rafts, which, being
built at some distance above the fort, were launched and floated down
without resistance. The walls being low, they were easily surmounted,
and the place was thus secured.

Heg. 946 (1539).--Humayoon being surprised by Sheer Chan on the banks
of the Ganges, was obliged to make his escape across the river. On this
occasion, it is said that eight thousand Moguls, exclusive of Hindoos,
were drowned, among whom was the Prince Mahomed Zuman Mirza. The King
owed his life to one Nizam, a water-carrier, who with great difficulty
swam beside him across the river, and was among the few who survived
the slaughter of that eventful day.

Heg. 947 (1540).--Humayoon was attacked by Sheer Chan, and sustained
another signal defeat. The King was obliged to fly, and, after enduring
unheard-of miseries, reached Amurkote with a few attendants only.

Heg. 949 (1542).--The Queen Banoo Begum gave birth to Prince Akbar.
Humayoon, finally took refuge in the capital of Seestan, where he was
hospitably received by the governor on the part of Shah Tamasp, King of
Persia. Upon Humayoon’s flight, Sheer Shah Soor ascended the throne.

Heg. 950 (1543).--Sheer Shah laid siege to the fort of Raisein.
The siege was protracted for many months, but, upon the governor
capitulating, the garrison were permitted to march out with their arms
and property.

Heg. 951 (1544).--The King marched against the fort of Chittore, which
surrendered by capitulation. He then marched towards Kalunjur, one of
the strongest forts in Hindostan. During the siege, a shell, thrown
against the fort, burst in a battery, close by the King, and igniting
a powder magazine which had not been properly secured, Sheer Shah, and
a number of gunners, were blown up, together with several chiefs, who
were carried to their tents as dead. The King, though he breathed with
great pain, gave orders for the attack to be continued, and, in the
evening, news being brought to him that the place had been reduced by
his troops, he cried out, “Thanks to the Almighty God!” and expired. He
was succeeded by his younger son, Julal Chan, who assumed the title of
Islam Shah, corrupted to Sulim Shah.

Heg. 953 (1546).--Sulim Shah narrowly escaped death from a daring
attempt of Syced Chan.

Heg. 955 (1548).--The King slew an assassin who attempted his life in
the mountain of Mankote.

Heg. 957 (1550)--Khowas Chan, a chief justly renowned for his great
abilities in war, having revolted, was assassinated by Taj Chan, in
order to recommend himself to the King.

Heg. 960 (1553).--Sulim Shah died after a reign of nine years. He was
succeeded by his brother-in-law, who put the Prince Feroze to death,
and usurped the throne.

Heg. 961 (1553).--Mahomed Shah was attacked by a young noble in the
audience chamber, and narrowly escaped with his life. The daring youth
who had assaulted him was cut to pieces by the guards.

Heg. 962 (1554).--The fortunes of Mahomed Shah began to decline. Khizr
Chan, son of Mahomed Shah Poorby, of Bengal, in order to revenge the
death of his father, slain in the battle of Kalpy, raised an army,
and assuming the title of Bahadur Shah, wrested by force a great part
of the eastern provinces out of the hands of Mahomed Shah, whom he
eventually defeated and slew. Secunder Shah Soor was elected king.
He was this year defeated with great slaughter by Humayoon, who had
returned to his dominions with a numerous and well-appointed army. This
victory decided the fate of the empire, and the kingdom of Delhi fell
for ever from the hands of the Afghans. Humayoon re-entered Delhi in
triumph, and became a second time King of Hindostan.

Heg. 963 (1556).--Shah Abool Maaly, on account of disputes with the
generals of his army in the Panjab, had given time to Secunder Soor to
rally his forces. The King accordingly permitted his son Akbar, under
the direction of Beiram Chan, to go against him. One evening as the
King was walking on the library terrace at Delhi, in consequence of his
staff slipping along the marble pavement, he fell headlong, and was
taken up insensible. He was laid upon a bed, and although he recovered
his speech, he died four days after, about sunset. He was buried in
the new city on the banks of the river, and a splendid monument was
erected some years after by his son Akbar. Humayoon died at the age of
fifty-one, after a reign of twenty-five years, both in Cabul and India.
He was a prince of great intrepidity, possessing the virtues of charity
and munificence in an eminent degree.

The Pariah.

CHAPTER I.

One morning a poor Pariah was seated at the door of his miserable
hovel in a solitary spot not far from the bank of a river. He was in
a state of the saddest destitution. Famine had ravaged the district.
Thousands of his countrymen had died around him, and he expected every
moment a similar doom. His wife was lying with a baby at her breast in
a corner of the hut, unable to rise from exhaustion. Food indeed was
to be purchased at the neighbouring town, but he had no money, and no
one in the bazaar would sell food to a Pariah. He made up his mind to
die. For days he tasted nothing but the roots of a few shrubs which
grew sparingly upon the river’s bank. The whole of that morning he had
followed a drove of oxen, and collected their dung in order to obtain
the few grains of gram[24] which it might chance to contain. Having
washed the ordure, after a hard morning’s labour he obtained about a
handful of grain, which he boiled and gave to his wife. He had himself
fasted since the previous day. His wife was a young creature, not yet
fifteen, though the mother of three children. He loved her with a
fondness as ardent as it was merited, and this fondness was now greatly
enhanced by the sad circumstances to which they and their children were
likely to become victims.

The unhappy husband gazed upon the waters of the river as they flowed
solemnly onward, his mind absorbed in his own intense distress. “What
is there,” he thought, “in this world to render life desirable? Is
it not one continued scene of privation to the despised Pariah? Is he
not an outcast from every human community but that degraded race of
which he is a member? May he not be struck dead if he but cross the
path of a Brahmin? If the hand of tyranny is raised to strike, dare he
lift up his to ward off the stroke? If his shadow pass over the ground
upon which the feet of holy men are treading, is it not pronounced
accursed, and he doomed to expiate the fearful penalty of having cast
pollution upon the very earth which now denies him sustenance? And yet
death is a terrible event. What becomes of the Pariah when the vultures
have secured his body, and his bones are reduced to dust? He has no
prospect beyond the grave, which shuts him out from all future hope. He
has therefore no motive for preserving life, and yet he has a natural
dread of losing it. The certainty, however sad, is preferable to the
terrible uncertainty that may issue in something worse. The elements of
happiness may be found in this world with all its miseries. If I could
provide for those around me I should still be comparatively a happy
man; I have a wife whom I love, children dear to my heart; could I but
give them food, with all this bereavement, I would no longer deplore
the condition of a poor Pariah.”

These and similar thoughts passed through the mind of the starving
Hindoo as he sat before the door of his hovel, gazing with a
vacant expression upon the river. It was here of great breadth and
considerable depth. He was at length aroused from his mental absorption
by seeing on the other side a horseman riding at full speed towards the
bank. He observed the man’s impetuous career, every moment expecting
to see him halt; but no--the stranger urged his steed madly onward
and plunged into the river. The current, though not turbulent, was
rapid, and he was borne down the stream. His horse encumbered with its
load--for besides the rider, it had a large pack upon its back--soon
began to sink under its burthen. The rider perceiving his peril quitted
the saddle and began to swim towards the shore; but he was heavily
clad, and the current proved too strong for him.

The horse, released from its encumbrance, rose gallantly above the
waters, and succeeded in reaching the bank. The man was soon in
extreme danger; he could scarcely keep his head above the surface;
his struggles were desperate, but it was evident they could not last
much longer. His stomach was already filled with water--his eyes were
becoming dim--his senses fading fast; he gasped, turned upon his back,
and drifted with the stream.

The Pariah, seeing the stranger’s peril, started from the ground, and,
weak as he was, ran to the bank opposite to the spot where the swimmer
was struggling, and, plunging into the river, with much difficulty
succeeded in bringing him to land. The stranger lay for some time
insensible; but by rubbing and rolling him upon the ground, the Pariah
finally restored him to consciousness. He looked at his benefactor and
pronounced a blessing upon him.

“How is it,” he cried, “that a Mahomedan beholds in his preserver one
of a race who consider personal contact with any one not of their own
caste a carnal defilement?”

“Pariahs do not think thus. You have been preserved by one whose touch
would be pollution to a Hindoo, but which I rejoice to find has been
the salvation of a Mahomedan. It is at least some consolation to know
that there do exist human creatures who can look upon the outcast
without shuddering.”

“I see in you the saviour of my life, and that is to me paramount over
all the poor considerations of rank. Civil distinctions, when they
destroy social obligations, are a bane; I am willing, if he will permit
me, to share the hut of the Pariah.”

“Stranger, you can only have a starving man’s welcome. I am fast going
to a better or a worse destiny--a worse I am taught to believe, for
death secures no favourable change to the contemned outcast. In yonder
hut is my wife with three children dying. Would I could offer you a
better asylum.”

“Perhaps my salvation may involve yours. I hope to bring you relief.
My horse has reached the shore in safety, and it bears a supply of
provisions. Come, let us to your home.”

The eyes of his preserver glistened, he touched the ground with his
fingers, placed them against his emaciated forehead, and, murmuring a
blessing upon the stranger, led the way to his miserable hovel.

Upon entering, the first thing that struck the stranger was the wife
of his deliverer stretched upon the ground apparently in the agonies
of death; by her side lay two children of the several ages of two and
three years, and at her breast was a third attempting to draw that
nutriment which the bosom no longer supplied. A tear started into the
eye of the husband and father as he saw his guest’s cheek wet with the
ready tribute of sympathy.

The horse having reached the bank, had with the common instinct of its
nature gone to the Pariah’s hut, where it was standing when its master
entered. Having taken off the pack, the provisions were produced,
which consisted of cold meats, rice, and a few condiments, with some
bottles of Persian wine. The rice was spread out in the sun and
carefully dried; meanwhile a small quantity of wine was poured down
the throats of the youthful mother and her children, after which they
were sparingly fed by the anxious husband, who likewise assuaged the
pangs of his own hunger. He and his family rapidly revived after this
seasonable administration of relief.

Some hours after the stranger’s rescue from the river, several horsemen
appeared on the other side; but seeing that the stream was not fordable
and too wide to cross with safety they retired. That very night the
Pariah’s guest complained of restlessness. His sleep was disturbed, his
throat parched, his pulse unequal and his skin dry. He lay upon some
withered grass in the corner of his preserver’s hovel, covered with
a shawl which he usually wore round his waist. By the morning he was
in a high fever; it augmented rapidly. For several days it increased
until he was in a state of delirium; in proportion as he grew worse the
starving family got better.

Among the things in the pack, belonging to the stranger, was a small
bag containing six thousand rupees in gold. When the provisions were
exhausted the Pariah took from this store what was necessary to obtain
the requisite nourishment for his family and his guest; this he
procured from the neighbouring town, but did not appropriate a rupee
beyond what their domestic exigencies demanded. He attended his guest
with a tenderness and attention inspired by his natural kindness of
heart and the obligations which he felt under to him for the salvation
of his family from starvation. His wife united her attention to his:
they feared for their benefactor’s life. They watched by him night and
day. His constitution at length overcame the fever, and he rapidly
recovered. When his senses returned, he blessed his preservers for
their attention. The Pariah placed his bag of money before him and
accounted for every piece that had been bestowed. The invalid was
several weeks under the humble roof of his preserver before he could
proceed on his way.

During his recovery, he had a full opportunity of witnessing the
character of his hosts. Both had recovered their natural health. The
wife was a small delicate creature, gentle, pretty, with a light
graceful figure, and an extremely placid countenance. The man was young
and vigorous, short but well knit, and exhibiting a frame capable of
great endurance. Their eldest child was a girl scarcely three years
old, and beautiful as a cherub. Nothing could exceed the perfect
symmetry of its little limbs, and both parents seemed to look with
pride upon the budding beauty of their offspring.

“My worthy host,” said the stranger one day to the Pariah, who was
seated beside him smoking a small portion of tobacco rolled up in a
plantain leaf, “I must shortly leave you. This humble dwelling has been
my security, as no one would think of seeking the fugitive in the hovel
of a Pariah. You have ministered to me during sickness with a kindness
which I never can either forget or repay.”

“Nay, our attentions have been more than repaid by preservation from
a terrible death, and had not that been the case they would have been
sufficiently requited in your high appreciation of them.”

“You know not whom you have harboured.”

“Nor do I seek to know: it is enough for me that I have saved the life
of a fellow-creature. To me it is quite a matter of indifference who
or what you may be; you have proved my benefactor and I shall never
forget that I am indebted to you, not only for my own life, but for
those lives which are far dearer to me than my own.”

“To-morrow I must quit you. It may perhaps be some consolation to you
to know that you saved the life of the Emperor Humayoon. I have been
driven from my throne by a rebel, and I must cast myself under the
protection of some foreign power until I can regain it.”

The Pariah and his wife prostrated themselves before the Mogul the
moment he had proclaimed his regality.

“Rise,” said the Emperor, “and receive my benediction: take this ring
and this gold, and may it in future keep you from the privations to
which you have hitherto been exposed.”

Saying this, he took from his finger a ring bearing a large ruby of
considerable value, and put it into the hand of his host, together
with a bag containing two thousand rupees in gold. This was a fortune
to a needy family, a provision for life, which they acknowledged with
tears of grateful joy. Being now sufficiently recovered to proceed on
his journey, the following morning the Humayoon mounted his horse, and
quitted the Pariah’s dwelling with prophetic sadness.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Gram is a sort of small bean, eaten by cattle in India.

CHAPTER II.

From this moment the Pariah’s family prospered. With the Emperor’s
benefaction, he purchased a large quantity of cattle, which he fed with
grass from the jungles. By selling these he soon increased his two
thousand rupees, and in a few years, by a course of active industry,
became a wealthy man. His daughter Yhahil realised, as she grew up,
the promise of her babyhood. Her beauty was the theme of every tongue,
yet no one sought alliance with the Pariah, and she remained unwedded,
which to every Hindoo woman is the sum of human misery. All the members
of her own tribe were poor destitute objects, from a union with whom
her soul sickened, and she in vain directed her thoughts to becoming
the bride of a man of caste. She considered her case deplorable, and
began to pine in secret at her unhappy lot.

Her father was grieved to observe her sadness, but could not alleviate
it. He perceived that the web of life was a tangled tissue, which never
could be perfectly unravelled. The very fortune which had elevated
him above his compeers, had already put forth the buds of misery that
seemed but too likely to blossom and ripen into fruit. It began to be
clear to him that a man may be as wretched under the bright sun of
prosperity, which may scorch and wither his peace, as under the cloud
of bereavement, where oft amid the darkness a faint light glimmers
that imparts a momentary joy, the more exquisite in proportion to the
briefness of its duration. He had become wealthy, but his riches,
elevating him above the society of his fellow outcasts, rendered
him comparatively a solitary man. They had placed a bar betwixt his
child and that blessed boon which is the inheritance of all God’s
creatures,--the union of hearts in a bond of reciprocal affection.
She was excluded from the greatest of immunities to the Hindoo, the
privilege of perpetuating her race, unless by an alliance which her
proud but sensitive heart could not stoop to embrace.

Many a Pariah had sighed in vain to win the affections of the beautiful
Yhahil, but she could not yield to solicitations coming from beings
who were but too commonly little above the brute in understanding and
familiar with habits which outraged humanity. Hers was no unnatural
pride, but she saw in the members of her own tribe much to pity, and
nothing to love. Fortune had raised her above them, and she could not
stoop to an alliance with those who often fed upon the garbage cast to
beasts of prey, and had no better home than the perilous retirement of
the jungle, where, in common with creatures of rapine and of blood,
they shared a precarious abode.

Though the Pariah could bestow upon his daughter a dowry that would
have rendered her an eligible object of alliance had she been blessed
with the proud distinction of caste, no one out of her own tribe
proposed for one of the loveliest specimens of nature’s craft that
could be exhibited to the admiration of man:--the gentle girl was
doomed to pine in utter hopelessness.

A young Pariah had sighed in vain for the love of the beautiful Yhahil.
He had sought her notice by every attention, but her averted eye and
compressed lip showed that he had no place in the affections he sought
to win. He was a well-looking youth, with an elevation of mind and a
natural refinement of character much above the generality of his race;
still he was not beloved. He, nevertheless, laboured with unwearying
assiduity to thaw the frost that seemed to have incrusted the heart
of her for whom he would have gladly died, had such a sacrifice been
demanded of him. Whenever she quitted her home he was sure to be in
the way with some humble offering of attachment, which she invariably
refused with gentleness, though in a manner that showed her sincerity.

“Yhahil,” he one day said, “why am I despised?”

“You are not despised, Goutama; not to love a man is not to despise
him, and you know that our affections are not in our own keeping.”

“But why can you not love me? You cannot desire to live unmarried; and
where will you find a husband, if you do not wed a Pariah?”

“It is true, indeed, that I would be married; but I must find a
husband whom I can love, otherwise I shall submit to the curse of
maidenhood,--for I never could attach myself to a man who had not
obtained an entire ascendancy over my heart.”

“But where do you think of seeking for such a man, if you reject the
whole race to which you and your family belong?”

“If I find not a man of caste, I tell you honestly I shall never marry.”

“Alas! Yhahil, you would spurn from you one who venerates the earth you
tread upon, for a phantom which you can never possess. Would you marry
a Brahmin only because he is a Brahmin?”

“Not without he had won my affections; but, in truth, the degradation
attached to the Pariah excludes him from those affections.”

“Would you refuse to wed a Pariah if you loved him?”

“Certainly not, if I loved him, but I never could love him. You,
Goutama, would have secured my affection, if it had been possible that
it should fix upon one of your tribe, but it is not; I feel my blood
curdle at the very name. My repugnance is invincible. We are outcasts,
and I would live united by that social bond which would make me a
member of a respected community.”

“Alas! you are preparing a load of misery for yourself, as well as
for one who would gladly endure it, provided he could bear it in
conjunction with you. I see nothing but a gloomy prospect before us
both. Will you afford me no hope?”

“It were hypocrisy in me to encourage hope, as I never can become your
bride; fate has placed an impassable bar betwixt us.”

“Nay, not fate, Yhahil, but woman’s pride.”

“As you will. The bar is nevertheless fixed, and there is no removing
it. Seek, Goutama, some worthier object, and leave me to my destiny.”

Yhahil’s parents were unhappy at not seeing their daughter married.
She was in her fourteenth year, and still a maiden. She was their
only girl, and tenderly beloved by both. The father would have gladly
seen her united to a man who could have borne her into society which
she could not be considered to contaminate; but, rather than she
should not be married at all, he would willingly have consented to
her becoming the wife of a Pariah. Among Hindoo women celibacy is the
greatest stigma they can undergo; nevertheless the beautiful Yhahil was
determined to bear the stigma, since she was precluded from becoming
the wife of a husband who could lift up his head among his fellows
without exhibiting the brand of pollution upon it.

Goutama, who had aspired to her affections, was an amiable youth,
but poor in circumstances, and necessitated to labour in the most
degrading vocations, in order to satisfy the demands of nature. His
general employment was that of scavenger in a neighbouring village,
to collect cow-dung to plaster the floors of the poorer and lower
caste of Hindoos, to prepare bodies for the funeral pile, and similar
degrading avocations. The lovely girl whose heart he sought to win was
repelled from him by the very necessities of his condition, and though
she acknowledged him amiable, and occasionally admitted him to her
presence, she could not look upon him without a sickening revulsion
of heart. She felt ashamed of her feelings, but was unable to control
them, and her coldness frequently wrung tears of deep distress from the
rejected suitor.

Her mother pitied him, and would gladly have consented to her
daughter’s union with him, had she not perceived the girl’s untractable
repugnance. Observing this, she could not forbear offering some gentle
expostulations.

“Yhahil,” said she, one day, “why, my child, do you look so coldly upon
poor Goutama? He loves you: is not that enough to endear a man to a
woman’s heart?”

“No, my mother. We cannot prepare the channel for the current of our
own feelings; they will take what course they list. We may control
them, nay, we may master, but cannot change them; they are independent
of our will. I cannot love Goutama, and will never wed a Pariah. In
this world if there be little happiness, there is, at least, a choice
of miseries, and mine shall be those arising from unwedded life, rather
than from a union which could never render me happy.”

“But why should you seek to elevate yourself above the condition to
which you were born?”

“Because it is one of acknowledged disgrace. No mortal was ever
born degraded, and the stigmas imposed by conventional prejudices I
am unwilling to sanction by perpetuating them. I would emerge from
the atmosphere of social degradation by which I have been for years
surrounded. I feel within me the elements of that nobility which is
indigenous in every living soul, the nobility of mind, and have a
strong presentiment that I shall elevate myself above the present
abasement to which destiny seems to have consigned me.”

“Daughter, these are dangerous sentiments to encourage; they will plant
thorns in your bosom which you will find it difficult to pluck out.”

“If the thorns are there, the roses will grow upon them, and I am
content.”

“But is it not better to have the humblest flower blossom within your
heart, than to find nothing but the bitter root growing there, which
puts forth neither flower nor fruit?”

“Those joys, my mother, are the sweetest which have sparkled from a cup
impregnated with the bitters of affliction. Enjoyment is enhanced by
suffering, and I trust I am only passing through the ordeal of the one,
to bring me into the enviable inheritance of the other.”

The mother forbore to urge a measure to which she saw her child so
decidedly opposed, but her disappointment was severe. She feared that
her daughter would never perpetuate her race, and that she was destined
to be the parent of a degraded offspring--degraded even among the
outcasts of the Hindoo population. The father was no less unhappy, but
he did not interfere with the prejudices of a beloved child. In truth,
he felt the force of these prejudices, and forbore to divert them. He
was a wealthy man, and there was no moral reason why she should not
pursue the bent of her own conscience, when it did not lead her into
practical dereliction. Yhahil was thus left uncontrolled to follow the
impulses of her own feelings.

One morning she was bathing in the river with a female attendant. While
standing in the water, draining it from her long flowing hair, a scream
from the woman beside her directed her attention to an object which
paralysed her with horror. A large alligator was rushing towards her
with the velocity of a sunbeam. She shrieked and closed her eyes; in
a moment a plunge near her caused her to look up, and she beheld the
unhappy Goutama in the creature’s jaws. “I have saved thee, Yhahil,”
he cried faintly, and the monster immediately plunged with its victim
beneath the deep dull waters. The surface was slightly tinged with
blood; a few bubbles rose, which were the only indications of what was
passing below.

The lovely Pariah made the best of her way to the bank, upon which she
fainted. Her woman had witnessed the magnanimity of Goutama. Happening
to pass at the moment of the alligator’s approach towards its intended
victim, he had marked her peril, and, plunging into the stream,
preserved her life at the expense of his own.

Yhahil returned to her home in tears. She thought that such a man
should have been reserved for better things. She felt she could have
loved him had he not been a Pariah, and his melancholy death cast over
her spirit a gloom which did not readily subside. The intensity of his
passion, proved by the sacrifice of his life, awoke in her bosom the
tenderest sympathies. Still there was no disguising from her heart that
she could not have married him, even had he escaped destruction, while
that moral blight was upon him which rendered him an object of public
scorn, and of silent, though undeserved, reproach.

Time sped on, but there was no change. The desolation of sorrow had
passed over the outcast’s dwelling. His wealth was no blessing. He
bowed to his idols in vain; they heard not his supplications, and his
prayer returned to his own bosom. He still pursued his occupation, and
money was daily added to his stores, but this did not render him happy.
His daughter, the child of his tenderest attachment, was alone in the
world, and with all his gold he could not purchase for her the boon she
sought.

The death of poor Goutama, whom he respected for his worth, had cast
a cloud over his peace. But for his noble sacrifice, the father would
have been doomed to mourn the loss of a daughter, of whose virtues he
was proud, and of her beauty vain. He presented the family of Goutama
with a compensation sufficient to secure them from want for many a
year, but this did not restore the son to the bosom of an anxious
parent.

One night as Yhahil flung herself upon her couch, she laid her head
upon a large snake which was curled upon her pillow. Feeling the
cold lubricous surface she suddenly raised herself, when the reptile
rose, and, extending its hideous crest, wound itself gently round her
neck. She was riveted to the spot; every muscle in her body became
rigid, all vital action appeared suspended as she felt the venomous
reptile spanning her neck within its horrible coil. She did not move;
her breath was arrested, and her eyes fixed in mute horror, when the
snake, gliding down her shoulder, passed round her arm, slid upon the
palampore, and made its escape. She was uninjured. It was some time
before she recovered her self-possession. Her women were summoned, and
the apartment examined, but there was no snake seen.

She lay and mused upon the circumstance. Not being free from the
superstition prevalent among her race, the circumstance affected her
deeply. Her escape was one of those incidental chances of good fortune
which occur once in an age. She had lately twice escaped death in its
most terrible form. The gods of her country had surely heard her and
her fathers prayers, and reserved the degraded Pariah for some future
destiny. Her pulse rose with the excitement of her feelings. She could
not sleep, but visions, almost palpable to the senses, passed before
her. Although awake, she seemed to behold objects with all the accuracy
and definite precision of sensible perception.

Towards morning she slept. Her dreams embodied the objects of her
waking thoughts. She fancied herself surrounded by the pageantries of
a court, and that thousands of her fellow-creatures bowed the knee
before her. She was no longer an outcast--no longer a disgraced mortal,
but a distinguished and adored woman. She awoke from the excitement
caused by her dream, rose from her unquiet couch, and went forth to
hail the rising sun, which marched up to heaven in its splendour as if
in mockery of human woe. She looked upon the glorious orb, her heart
dilated, and she became a silent worshipper of its glory.

CHAPTER III.

About a coss from the Pariah’s dwelling lived a jiggerkhar or
liver-eater, who was looked upon as a pythoness throughout the
neighbourhood, having the power of foretelling future events.

“One of this class,” says Abul Fazil,[25] “can steal away the liver
of another by looks and incantations. Other accounts say, that by
looking at a person he deprives him of his senses, and then steals from
him something resembling the seed of a pomegranate, which he hides
in the calf of his leg. The jiggerkhar throws on the fire the grain,
which thereupon spreads to the size of a dish, and he distributes it
amongst his fellows to be eaten, which ceremony concludes the life of
the fascinated person. A jiggerkhar is able to communicate his art to
another, which he does by teaching him the incantations, and making
him eat a bit of the liver-cake. If any one cut open the calf of the
magician’s leg, extract the grain, and give it to the afflicted person
to eat, he immediately recovers. These jiggerkhars are mostly women.
It is said, moreover, that they can bring intelligence from a great
distance in a short space of time, and, if they are thrown into a river
with a stone tied to them, they neverless will not sink. In order to
deprive any one of this wicked power, they brand his temples and every
joint in his body, cram his eyes with salt, suspend him for forty days
in a subterraneous cavern, and repeat over him certain incantations.
In this state he is called Datchereh. Although, after having undergone
this discipline, he is not able to destroy the liver of any one, yet he
retains the power of being able to discover another jiggerkhar, and is
used for detecting those disturbers of mankind. They can also cure many
diseases, by administering a potion, or by repeating an incantation.
Many other marvellous stories are told of these people.”

Yhahil had heard many things related of the extraordinary woman already
mentioned, though she had never seen her. Impelled by an unconquerable
impulse, she determined to visit her. The woman was reputed to possess
a singular faculty in tracing human destinies, and was said to have
foretold events which had taken place after a considerable interval
of time. It was likewise reported, that some of her practices were
of a less innocent character. The death of more than one person had
been attributed to her, and yet she was held in such awe that no one
dared to molest her. When a violent hurricane ravaged the land, it
was declared to be of her producing. When famine spread devastation
over the country, it was attributed to the jiggerkhar, and not a
serious casualty happened, but the blame was attached to her. She was,
therefore, shunned and dreaded by the whole country around.

One day about noon Yhahil sought the abode of this prophetess. It was
a deep cavern, near the base of a hill. No human habitation was near.
Situated on the north side, the beams of the sun were excluded from it.
At the entrance were scattered several large fragments of rock, as if
casually flung there by some violent convulsion of nature. Not a shrub
or particle of verdure was visible within at least fifty yards of the
cavern. Lizards crawled about the stones, and snakes were occasionally
seen to glide for a moment from their rocky retreats, and retire at the
sound of human footsteps. The whole place had an aspect of desolation,
perfectly concurring with the life and character of the unnatural
being who inhabited the cave. For years the place had been trodden by
no foot save her own. Yhahil, with a trembling step, approached the
den of the prophetic hag. The old woman was seated on a fragment of
rock which lay just in front of her dreary dwelling. On her lap was a
Pariah dog, blind with age and disfigured with mange. As the lovely
girl approached, the squalid brute raised its head, and commenced a
shrill continuous howl, and, when it had finished, began licking its
mistress’s face with disgusting familiarity. Having finished this
canine caress, it resumed its howl in a still louder key.

Yhahil undauntedly approached, but, on a nearer scrutiny, was for
an instant repelled at the sight of the object whom she had come to
consult upon the events of the future. Never was anything akin to
humanity so perfectly hideous. She might have been taken for any age
above a hundred years. She seemed almost to have lived from eternity.
Her whole aspect was so essentially old, that every mark which in
age so frequently conveys an association with youth was entirely
obliterated. She appeared the withered consort of old Time, with whom
one might have imagined she had travelled through all the cycles of
duration. Every feature of her face was frightful. Her hair, matted
and grizzled, fell upon her shrivelled shoulders in long thin wisps,
like the dull wiry grass which occasionally hangs from the crest
of the sun-scorched rock. Her forehead appeared as if it had been
crimped. The wrinkles were so near together, that a needle’s point
could scarcely have been inserted between them. The skin clung so
close to her cheek-bones as to develop the grim anatomy of her visage
with a minuteness almost appalling. Nose she had none, but the slight
indication of it which remained showed that such a member had once a
“local habitation” upon her now revolting countenance. Her eyes were so
deeply sunk into her head, and the lids approximated so closely, that
the dim lurid orbs were scarcely discernible.

When Yhahil reached the spot where the jiggerkhar was sitting, she
flung a gold mohur[26] into her lap, saying, “I seek a boon, mother.”

“Thou shalt have it, maiden,” said the hag; “thou knowest how to
solicit a boon. Silence Parvati,” she said to the dog, which was
again beginning to howl, “canst thou not distinguish the voice of a
friend--peace, churl! What wouldst thou?”

“I would know of the future, mother, into which thy dim eye can
pierce with the clearness of a star. I stand upon this world as upon
a pinnacle in the midst of a blasted wilderness, whence I can behold
nothing but sterility beneath, and vague unfathomable distance above.”

“Those who would know of the future, child, must buy the knowledge at a
heavier cost than a meal of rice.”

Yhahil threw another gold mohur in the sybil’s lap.

“You are a liberal probationer, and deserve a good reckoning in this
life, and a happy change in the better. Follow me, and you shall know
more.” Saying this she entered the cavern, and the dog limped after
her. The entrance was so narrow as to admit only one person at a time.
Yhahil followed the old woman undauntedly, but when she stood within
the cave her heart sickened. It was so dark that, three yards beyond
the entrance, all was involved in impenetrable gloom. The pythoness was
no longer visible, but her hoarse cracked voice was audible through the
intense darkness of the cell, the rugged sides of which reverberated it
with so terrible an echo, that the terrified girl started, sickened,
and would have fallen; but drawing a deep sigh she brushed the
gathering dews from her forehead, and in another moment had braced her
mind to the necessary pitch of high resolve that defied all future
suggestions of terror.

“Now tell me,” cried the crone, “what you especially seek to know.”

“I am a Pariah, mother.”

“That I need not be told, nor how the Pariah became rich. The eye that
looks beyond the confines of this world can be no stranger to what
passes within them.”

“Can you read my thoughts?”

“Ay;--thou wouldst marry a man of caste, but that may not be; yet shalt
thou wed.”

“Never, I would sooner perish than wed a Pariah.”

“That thou wilt not do, and yet marry. Brahma never brought so comely
a creature into this world to discredit his creation. Thou wilt be
a propagator of beautiful sons and daughters; but I must look more
closely to the lines of thy face through the darkness that now
surrounds thee, before I can obtain a true sign of thy destiny. I must
read the stars too, and that can only be done at night. Come to-morrow
by this time, and thou shalt hear more; but let thy sleep be gentle:
there is already a fair augury for thee. Parvati, conduct the Pariah to
the light.” The dog immediately trotted from the dark extremity of the
cavern, and, placing itself just without the entrance, gave a single
short bark.

“You are summoned; to-morrow you will hear a more copious record. The
volume of futurity is not read in a moment; its page is filled with
characters which require the sage’s expounding. Come to-morrow, and do
not forget your gold. If you would learn the secrets hid in the bosom
of time, you must pay the price.”

Yhahil was disgusted at the impatient covetousness of the jiggerkhar,
but her anxiety had become so predominant that she determined to
purchase the promised prediction at whatever cost. She hastened to her
home under a new but agreeable excitement. Like all her race, though
naturally of a strong mind, she was superstitious. Superstition, in
fact, was inseparable from the dogmas of that idolatrous creed in the
belief of which she had been reared. Her two singular escapes from
death had impressed her mind with a solemn assurance that she was
fore-doomed to something uncommon. The impression haunted her, and she
was impatient for the morrow, to hear her anxious longings confirmed by
the oracle of the pythoness. Her father remarked the unusual vivacity
of her manner, and was pleased, as it encouraged a hope that the root
of her prejudice was losing its hold in her heart. The mother was no
less overjoyed, and the outcast’s home was for that evening a scene of
joy.

By noon the following day Yhahil was again at the jiggerkhar’s
dwelling. The crone was seated as before with the mangy dog upon her
lap, and, as the anxious girl approached, extended her hand, exposing
her withered palm. Yhahil placed a mohur upon it, but the long fingers
did not close over the gold. The coin remained unclutched, yet the hand
continued extended. The hag’s countenance darkened, and her eye emitted
a fierce lurid glare. Another mohur was placed upon the former. The
fingers immediately compressed the two pieces of pure mintage, the old
woman’s countenance relaxed into a subdued expression of gratified
avarice, the dog again licked her face, as if it participated in her
satisfaction, and, rising, she said, “Follow me.”

Yhahil entered the cave as she had done the preceding day, and remained
some minutes without hearing a sound. At length the old woman’s voice
was heard through the gloom as before.

“The volume of futurity is still clasped. In the broad skies it is
written that I shall read further, and that you shall know further, but
not now; come to-morrow at this time, and you will ascertain what you
seek to be informed.” The disappointed girl retired from the cavern,
deeply mortified; but there was something too terrible in the aspect of
the jiggerkhar to render expostulation prudent. She therefore departed
without uttering a word.

For several days the same mummery was repeated and the same pretences
urged; the same fee was received at every visit. At length the crone,
perceiving that the patience of her victim was gradually waning,
promised her with an asseveration of blasphemous solemnity, that on the
morrow her doom should be read upon paying a double fee.

Yhahil had now proceeded too far to retreat, and on the following day
she appeared once more at the jiggerkhar’s den. The prophetess was
seated as usual before the entrance, and received her visitor with a
smile, as the latter dropped ten gold mohurs into her filthy hand. She
now took from her pocket a snake, and shaking it by the throat with
her finger and thumb, made it hiss violently; then muttering a few
words she entered the cave, and desired the anxious Pariah to follow.
This the latter did without emotion, having so frequently obeyed
the injunction, without witnessing any terrifying result. In fact,
her anxiety had now reached to such a painful climax, that she felt
reckless of all consequences, and stood with unshrinking firmness in
the presence of one possessing, as she imagined, the awful power of
divination.

She had not remained long within the cavern when she heard the snake
hiss; the dog uttered a heavy moan, a sudden flash was seen to break
through the gloom, and a stream of blue light rose from the floor: the
whole space was illuminated. The old woman stood behind the flame,
which shone full upon her unearthly form, throwing over it a pale grey,
quivering radiance, which added tenfold to the natural hideousness of
her aspect. The snake was coiled round her neck; a guana[27] crawled at
her feet, where the dog lay with its head erect, looking into her face.
Yhahil blanched not, though every drop of her blood appeared to recede
with a sudden gush upon her heart.

“The word of divination comes,” said the sybil. “Your destiny has been
perused, and it will be as fruitful as you have been liberal. You will
not live a maiden, and you will die ennobled. Go to the Mogul capital,
and look for the consummation of a blessed lot, or remain where you
are, and perish an outcast. Go,--your doom has been read.”

The light now gradually faded, and the place was involved in intense
darkness. Yhahil quitted the cavern. Absurd and evident as the juggle
had been, she was fully impressed with a notion that she had heard the
voice of an oracle. Her bosom swelled with joyous anticipations. She
seemed to tread on the clouds as she sought her home. For days her
spirits were so buoyant that her parents became uneasy: the excitement,
however, at length subsided, and she appeared to have become rationally
happy. This was an event of real gladness to the delighted father, a
feeling also in which the mother fully participated.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] See Ayeen Ackberry.

[26] The gold mohur is worth about five and thirty shillings. It passes
in India for twenty rupees.

CHAPTER IV.

“My father,” said Yhahil, one day, “I have a great desire to visit the
Mogul capital.”

“Why, my child?”

“Because the Mahomedans have no more antipathy towards Pariahs than
they have towards the castes; and among them our wealth would gain us
respect, though our social degradation did not.”

“Well, I see no objection to the change. As you know, I once saved
the Emperors life, and his liberality upon that occasion was the
source of all my present wealth. For a while he was a wanderer in
foreign countries; but he has since resumed his throne, and governs
his subjects with equity. He might chance to remember and acknowledge
the outcast, though princes have not the credit of awakening unwelcome
recognitions. We will go: any change will be for the better, and at
Delhi the facilities of traffic are great.--We will go.”

The wife, who was obedient to her husband in all things, made no
objection, and the Pariah family were soon settled in the Mogul
capital. In a populous city, where beauty is sought after and
admiration easily won, the personal attractions of Yhahil could not
long remain a secret. The beautiful Pariah was continually spoken of,
and at length the reputation of her attractions reached beyond the
immediate neighbourhood in which her parent had taken up his abode. She
seldom quitted the house that there was not a buzz of admiration; and
as it was not the custom of her tribe, as of women of caste, to appear
seldom abroad, and then always with the face covered, she was seen
every day, and the fame of her beauty spread rapidly over the city.

Passing one morning through the bazaar, which was greatly crowded, she
was struck down by the pole of a palenkeen. The person within having
been immediately made acquainted with the accident from the cries of
the crowd, ordered his bearers to stop, and proceeded to the sufferer’s
assistance. Commanding her to be put into his palenkeen, and having
ascertained where she lived, she was carried home, he walking by her
side.

The father, surprised at witnessing so unusual a cavalcade approaching
his door, rushed out with instinctive apprehension of mischief. Upon
seeing his daughter, he began to make heavy lamentations, until he
heard her assurances that she had only been stunned; and quitting the
palankeen she speedily removed his alarm. The stranger was invited
to partake of some refreshment, which invitation he did not decline.
He was evidently a Mahomedan of rank; and the Pariah was flattered
at seeing a man, to whom the multitude bowed in homage, seated at
his board, from which all but outcasts had been hitherto excluded.
The guest at length retired, after having signified that he should
occasionally repeat his visit, which was anxiously pressed by the
parents, and seconded by their daughter, not without that silent
eloquence of the eyes, which speaks with a sweeter emphasis than the
tongue can impart to words.

It was soon ascertained that the gallant Mahomedan was the son of
Beiram Chan, prime minister of Humayoon. This adventure naturally led
to an intimacy; and young Beiram could not behold the beauty of the
Pariah’s daughter without feeling his heart moved. He was young and
handsome, full of generous impulses, though too apt to be driven by
those impulses beyond the strict line of prudence. He was an object
of admiration among the chief ladies of the Emperor’s court, yet he
had not fixed his affections, though they had several times wavered
between two or three Mahomedan beauties. The lovely Yhahil at once
decided him. He had seen nothing among his own countrywomen to approach
her transcendant loveliness; his resolution therefore was soon fixed
to give them all up, and cleave to the charming stranger. This,
however, occurred to his sober reflections as likely to involve him
in considerable perplexity. It would never do for the son of a Mogul
noble to ally himself with the daughter of an outcast, except by those
temporary ties which may be ruptured at will; and, even upon any terms,
it would not, he knew, receive the approbation of his family. He did
not for a moment imagine that Yhahil would refuse the sort of alliance
which he meant to propose to her, feeling conscious that he was not
indifferent to her, and knowing, as she must do, the impassable barrier
to a conjugal union between them. Their eyes had exchanged those
glances which are the precursors of a declaration on the one hand, and
of acceptance on the other; still he hesitated to avow himself, being
unwilling hastily to rouse the indignation of his parent.

Yhahil’s father and mother had observed the reciprocations of
attachment which had been mutually manifested by their daughter and the
Mogul minister’s son, and knowing the stern severity of virtue which
governed all the actions of their beloved child they looked forward to
her ratifying the conquest, which she had evidently made, by becoming
the wife of a Mahomedan noble.

“My girl,” said her father, as he one day embraced her with anxious
tenderness, “I still hope to see my home blessed through you. You have,
I trust, won a good man’s love.”

“Of whom do you speak?” asked the daughter, with a fluttering heart.

“The minister’s son.”

“He has never avowed his passion.”

“But it needs not the tongue’s avowal to confirm the evidence of a
silent yet more credible expression that he loves thee. You will hear
him declare himself before the horns of the next young moon meet. Tell
me, Yhahil, do you love him?”

“I do, father.”

“Would you wed him?”

“I never could love the man I would not wed, nor wed whom I could not
love.”

“I am satisfied.”

The parents from this time looked anxiously for the Mahomedan’s
declaration, but it came not, and they began to be impatient, though it
was more than ever evident that he loved their child.

The minister’s son paid his visits daily at the Pariah’s house, and his
attachment to the daughter increased with their acquaintance. He found
that she possessed an understanding, though not highly cultivated, yet
of a rare order. The degradation in which she had been held in being
of no caste, had deprived her of the means of raising her mind to the
elevation of which it was capable; she had nevertheless not neglected
it. All the means within her reach she had employed, and her natural
quickness of perception had given her advantages possessed by few. She
had not been allowed to attend the village school in consequence of the
disgrace attached to her social station; but she had availed herself of
the assistance of a learned Mussulman who dwelt at some short distance
from her father’s abode, and he had given her an insight into the
history and literature of her country, and what he could not teach, her
own readiness of apprehension supplied.

At this period education was cultivated by the Hindoos in every
village, by a national edict; knowledge was universally inculcated,
and it was then as rare to find a poor villager who could not read
as it is now to find one who can. In fact, the whole social system
seems to have undergone a complete revolution. During those ages
when Europe was enveloped in intellectual darkness that exposed her
to the contempt of the very countries which are now drawing from the
stores of her wisdom and science a harvest which bids fair to ripen
into universal civilisation, Hindostan was distinguished by a race of
philosophers, who, but for the conquest to which that country has been
subjected, and the degrading dominion under which its vast population
has so long groaned, would probably have raised it to an elevation in
intellectual and social dignity, not inferior to ancient Greece at the
brightest period of her glory. “Education has always, from the earliest
period of their history, been an object of public care and public
interest to the Hindoo government on the peninsula of India. Every
well-regulated village under those governments had a public school and
public schoolmaster. The system of instruction in them was that which,
in consequence of its efficiency, simplicity, and cheapness, was a few
years ago introduced from Madras into England, and from England into
the rest of Europe. Every Hindoo parent looked upon the education of
his child as a solemn duty which he owed to his god and to his country,
and placed him under the schoolmaster of his village as soon as he
had attained his fifth year. The ceremony of introducing him for the
first time to the schoolmaster and his scholars was publicly recorded,
and was attended with all the solemnity of a religious observance;
a prayer being publicly offered up on the occasion to the figure of
Genesa, the Hindoo God of Wisdom, which was at the head of every Hindoo
school, imploring him to aid the child in his endeavours to learn and
become wise.”[28]

Yhahil had imbibed, as deeply as the son of Beiram, the impressions of
love.

“Yhahil,” said the Mahomedan one day, when they were seated in a
veranda that overlooked a garden at the back of the house, “do you
think you could be happy to quit your parents?”

“No; I see no circumstance that should render it necessary for me to
quit them.”

“Surely you are not serious?”

“In truth I am. Why should I leave them under any temporal change that
you can imagine?”

“Suppose you should be married?”

“They could still be with me.”

“But your husband might not like them.”

“Then he could not like me. They who love truly feel kindly towards
those who are dear to the objects of their love. If not, their hearts
are hollow.”

“But there are other unions which would render it impossible for your
parents to live with you.”

“What may those unions be? I know of none.”

“Suppose you were living with the objection of your affection in an
alliance of fervent attachment without being bound by the compulsory
obligations of marriage.”

“I could never be in such a position, therefore your argument is of no
weight.”

“Is there no man, Yhahil, with whom you would consent to pass your
life, free from those civil restraints which so frequently chill the
warm glow of hearts, and render wedlock a condition of dull monotonous
dissatisfaction?”

“That may be, but with all its evils, these, when weighed against the
good, are lightest in the balance, and I would rather be a Pariah’s
wife than an Omrah’s harlot.”

“I thought you had determined never to wed a Pariah--your father has
told me as much.”

“And he told you truly--it will therefore follow that I am determined
never to become the harlot of an Omrah.”

“Yhahil,” said the minister’s son, “I need scarcely say that I love
you; but you will hardly imagine with what fervour, and let me ask you
to state candidly if that love is reciprocated?”

“Omrah, I am a girl unhackneyed in the ways of the world, and know
little of the artifices of life. I am not aware, therefore, that any
motive can exist why I should not readily confess to you that my heart
has received a strong impression from your delicate attentions to me;
but let me assure you at once, for I have a disquieting suspicion,
that, the moment they cease to be delicate, my respect for you will
likewise cease, and a woman’s love without her respect is a jewel in so
bad a setting as only to disgrace the wearer.”

“Yhahil, you cannot imagine that I can fail to respect one who has
so entirely engrossed my affections. I love you with an earnestness
which death only can subdue; but you know there are certain social
impediments----” he hesitated. The blood mantled to the beautiful
Pariah’s brow.

“Proceed,” she said, “why do you hesitate? Let me hear what you
propose: there should be no disguise after the mutual confessions which
have passed between us.”

“I am sure, Yhahil, you cannot be unreasonable. Where there is a
sincere interchange of attachment there should be no suspicion. I need
not point out to one of your superior mind that the mere circumstance
of your being a Pariah precludes the possibility of my making you my
wife. If I did so I should be despised by my countrymen, and you would
be an object of scorn among their wives and daughters. I would not for
an empire expose you to the chance of such indignity. Nevertheless,
there is no social bar to a union of hearts apart from those civil ties
by which it is recognised by the world. We may still be united, we
may still be dear to each other, and reciprocate affections which no
time shall subdue, no contingencies stifle. My proposal is, that you be
mine in spite of the civil impediments which interpose between us and a
conjugal alliance.”

Yhahil had listened in silence; every drop of blood had receded from
her face, and left her lips as pale as ashes. They quivered with
indignant emotion, but she answered with deliberate and solemn calmness,

“Omrah, you may be privileged by your rank to insult a Pariah, but your
dignity as a man ought to have withheld you from insulting a woman.
What has there been in my conduct, since our acquaintance, to lead you
to imagine that I could violate the purity of my womanhood in favour of
a man who evidently does not know how to appreciate a woman’s virtue?
Though considered an outcast by my countrymen, I am, nevertheless, not
destitute. I have a home in which there is no deficiency of comfort,
and the means of this world’s enjoyments are abundantly within my
reach. Why then should you imagine that I am prepared to sacrifice
my honour to the base passions of a Mahomedan noble? I despise your
love--I reject your alliance; from this moment we are strangers to each
other.”

She waited not her lover’s reply, but retired from the veranda.

Her parents were surprised at observing the change which had passed
over the beautiful countenance of their daughter. She appeared
dejected: the bright smile had ceased to play upon her sunny face,
and her cheek was pale. The minister’s son paid his usual visit, but
Yhahil refused to see him. She disclosed to her father the cause of her
coldness; he approved of her resolution, and the handsome Mahomedan was
forbidden the house. He frequently attempted to obtain admission, but
was always refused. He sent billets,--they were returned unopened. The
force of his passion rose in proportion as it met with resistance, and
he resolved to see the object who had excited within his bosom such
intense emotion. He appealed to the father, but found him inexorable;
the mother was a cipher, and refused to interfere. He became impetuous;
this only provoked a more determined opposition. Yhahil would not see
him, and interdicted his messengers from being admitted to her presence.

The disappointed lover ceased not to encourage his passion, though it
was no longer requited. He became more than ever anxious to possess
the object of his attachment upon any terms, even at the hazard of
incurring the general odium of his countrymen.

Yhahil used frequently to walk in the suburbs of the town, accompanied
by a single female attendant. The restraints imposed generally upon
Hindoo women had no influence upon her. She appeared abroad daily
without reluctance. She had not seen the minister’s son since her
rejection of him, though her wanderings were never restricted. The
mortification occasioned by his proposal had bowed her proud spirit,
and she was determined to treat him with repelling scorn, should he
ever cross her path. For the present she was spared this exercise of
her indignation.

One morning she went out as usual, but did not return at her accustomed
hour. After a while her parents became uneasy. Evening drew on and
neither their daughter nor her attendant appeared. Night advanced,
and her place at the family meal was unoccupied. Their distress
was excessive. The next day passed, and she did not return. A dark
suspicion crossed the parents’ mind that she had fallen into the
Mahomedan’s hands, and that he had forcibly removed her from her home.

“There is but one way of frustrating the evil designs of that man,”
said the father to his sorrowing consort. “I will throw myself upon
the Emperor’s justice, and beseech him to enforce the restoration of
my child. He is a mild and merciful prince, whose clemency is only
excelled by his justice. He will remember that I once saved his life,
and force the son of his minister to restore my daughter.”

“Alas!” said the mother, “princes are apt to think too lightly of the
moral delinquencies of their nobles to imagine there is much enormity
in taking away the daughter of an outcast.”

“I have better hopes of the man who has been taught in the school of
adversity the difficult lesson of virtue. Cast from his throne to
wander for several years among strangers, he has personally known what
it is to suffer privation. Since his restoration to sovereignty he has
exercised the best virtues of a king. Why then should I distrust the
equity of a man whom I have known by experience to be generous, and
whom all acknowledge to be just.”

“But how will you obtain an audience?”

“I will cast myself at his feet at the next durbar, and implore the
royal interference to obtain the restoration of my child. It is
not much to ask from one who, though he has cancelled one bond of
obligation, may still do a supernumerary kindness to the man who risked
a valueless life to save that which has been a blessing to his people.”

The unhappy father determined to throw himself upon the kindness of the
Mogul monarch on the very next day of audience, and, having come to
this resolution, his hopes, of again beholding his daughter immediately
began to revive.

FOOTNOTES:

[27] A huge lizard, frequently upwards of three feet long.

[28] Extract of a letter of Sir Alexander Johnston to Mr. C. Grant,
upon the Hindoo national education.

CHAPTER V.

On the next day of public audience the bereaved parent repaired to the
Dewan Aum, or Hall of Public Audience. When he entered he was dazzled
by the extraordinary splendour of the scene. The musnud upon which the
Emperor sat was so costly a work as to be one of the marvels of the
age. It was in the form of a peacock with the tail outspread, entirely
composed of diamonds and other precious stones. It was valued at seven
crore of rupees.[29] The apartment was built entirely of white marble,
and richly ornamented with representations of various flowers. Over
the arches which supported the roof was the following inscription in
Persian characters, beautifully inlaid with silver on a ground of
dark, but brilliantly polished marble--“If there be a heaven upon
earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.” The letters were admirably
formed, and distinctly legible from the floor. In this hall, beside
the throne, was an immense block of crystal, upon which the Emperor
used to sit when he held private audience with his ministers. It was
sufficiently broad to have formed a table. The apartment was lighted by
a dome, the largest in the palace, richly inlaid with gold.

When the Pariah entered, the hall was nearly filled. As he attempted to
approach the royal presence, he was stopped by one of the guards.

“Whom do you seek here?” asked the soldier.

“Your sovereign.”

“He does not hold conference with strangers, especially upon days of
state ceremony.”

“Your king is reported wise, and not only wise, but just. I come to
offer an appeal to his royal justice; and you do both him and me wrong
by defrauding him of the opportunity of exercising his justice, and me
of receiving that benefit from it which, if report do not belie him, he
would be delighted to confer.”

“Are you not a Pariah?”

“What then? Are the natural rights of man less my nature’s privilege
than another’s? Mahomedans do not despise Pariahs, and your sovereign
least of any.”

“You cannot have audience here.”

“Why?”

“Because this place is appropriated to the ceremonies and business of
state. You must send a petition.”

“Nay, soldier, I must see your king: withhold me at your peril!”

“Advance but a single step further, and I shall cut you down.”

“My blood, then, be upon your head.”

The Pariah stepped forward; the soldier did his best to put his threat
into execution, but his intended victim had sprung beyond the reach of
the stroke.

“Justice!” he cried, in a loud shrill voice, that rang through the
hall; “justice from the Emperor of the Moguls.”

“Who is it that demands justice?” asked Humayoon, with mild dignity;
“let him approach.”

The stranger immediately advanced, and prostrated himself before the
King.

“Rise!” said the Emperor, “and state your cause of grievance, if you
have any.”

The petitioner rose, and was instantly recognised by the sovereign.

“Vuluvir!” he cried--“do I behold him to whom I am indebted above all
men in my dominions?”

The Emperor descended from the musnud, raised the Pariah and embraced
him, to the surprise of his court.

“Nobles,” said he, “to this outcast from his own community I owe my
life. When pursued by the emissaries of him who had usurped my throne,
I cast myself into a river and was nearly drowned. This generous
benefactor, although then grievously prostrated by famine, plunged
into the stream, and, as I was sinking, dragged me to the bank. In his
dwelling I found an asylum. He watched by my lowly couch while the
paroxysms of fever were upon me, moistened my parched lips, wiped from
my forehead the dews of agony, and restored me to life. My debt to him
is such as my empire could not repay.”

“Nay, mighty King,” cried Vuluvir, while the big tear rolled slowly
down his cheek, “that deed of common charity was abundantly requited.
The two thousand rupees with which your gracious liberality honoured
me, were the foundation of my present affluence. Upon them I have
erected a fortune which might place me in that respect upon a level
with nobility; but I am still a miserable man.”

“State your cause of grievance,” said the Emperor, leading him to the
block of crystal, upon which he desired him to be seated. Humayoon
having taken his place upon the musnud, Vuluvir said, touching the
floor with his fingers and putting them to his forehead--

“Sovereign of the Moguls, I have a daughter, the child whom you once
fondled in your royal arms, and who has since often expressed her pride
in having received those caresses. That daughter I may say, without a
parent’s vanity, is a creature endowed with the highest perfections of
woman. She is the joy of my heart, and her loss would be a bane which
I feel I could not survive. She has been stolen from me.”

“I remember thy daughter well, Vuluvir; she promised to be all thou
sayest. But who has robbed thee of her?--say, and to the farthest
limits of my dominions he shall be sought and visited with the
chastisement he deserves.”

“I attribute her abduction to the son of your minister.”

“Son of Beiram, stand forth,” said the Emperor, solemnly; “what have
you to answer to this charge?”

The young Omrah was silent.

“What construction am I to put upon your silence?” asked Humayoon,
sternly.

“I plead guilty to the charge: I am at the Emperor’s mercy.”

“Vuluvir,” said Humayoon, turning to his former host, “your wrong shall
be redressed, and your daughter restored.”

The offender was immediately committed to the custody of an officer;
and that very night Yhahil was delivered to the arms of her anxious
parents.

The next day, Vuluvir was summoned to the imperial presence. “My
friend,” said the sovereign, “I know that the religion you profess is
one from which you derive little consolation, and to which none of
your tribe are bound by very strong attachments. It is my intention
to ennoble you, provided you consent to become one of the faithful;
and in your conversion I shall look for that of your family.” After a
conference of some length, the Pariah embraced the Emperor’s proposal;
and the next day was raised to the rank of Omrah, with a sum from
the treasury sufficient to support that dignity. His wife and Yhahil
became, likewise, converts to the new faith. The idea of being now
naturalised among a people who welcomed her and her parents as their
common kindred, poured a flood of joy upon Yhahil’s heart. She felt no
longer degraded, and began to soften in her indignation towards the man
who forced her from her home. He had, however, committed no violence.
She had been carried to a house engaged for the purpose of securing
her; but, when there, the noble only pressed his suit without offering
the slightest offence to her purity. She repelled his advances with
unqualified indignation; he treated her, nevertheless, with uniform
respect. The recollection of this disarmed her anger, and she besought
her father to solicit his release.

“My daughter,” said he, embracing her, “you have always found me ready
to meet every wish of your heart, but in the present instance I have
secret misgivings which deter me from compliance. To come at once to
the point, I fear the violence of that young noble.”

Yhahil smiled.--“His violence, my father, was not shown when I was in
his power, and I can forgive his rashness in his forbearance.”

“But, surely, the man who would forcibly tear a daughter from her
parent’s roof is to be feared.”

“I do believe--nay I am sure, that he loves me; and though he sought to
win me to a dishonourable intercourse while I was a Pariah, I think he
might no longer hesitate to wed me as an Omrah’s daughter. I love him,
father. He must be liberated for my sake. If we should ever meet in
future, it will be as honourable lovers, or as strangers, but I must no
longer be the cause of his captivity.”

“I will seek the Emperor and make known your wishes, but----”

“My father, listen to me: my mortal destiny has been traced. Before I
quitted our dwelling in the land of my birth, I sought the abode of
the jiggerkhar. Her revelations have been marvellously fulfilled--the
consummation only remains. She promised me wedded happiness, and I feel
I shall enjoy it.”

“Enough, my child, your desire shall be instantly accomplished;” and
the converted outcast was admitted without delay to the presence of
Humayoon.

“Well, Mahomed Chan,”--the name which had been bestowed upon the
newly-made Omrah,--asked the Monarch, “what seek you?”

“The release of your minister’s son. It is at my child’s solicitation
that I venture to ask this favour.”

“He shall never have his liberty until he makes your daughter full
reparation for the insult he has offered her. It is necessary that the
noble should suffer punishment for his violations of the law, else with
what justice can we punish the humbler delinquent?”

“My daughter has forgiven him: he offered her no personal disrespect,
save in forcing her from her home.”

“One of the greatest infractions of public decorum,” cried the
sovereign, hastily; “and a most reprehensible trespass upon the
sanctity of private life. His liberty shall be conditional. He has
violated the obligations of honour as well as the laws of his country;
he must therefore pay the penalty.”

Humayoon ordered the offender to be brought before him, and, after
upbraiding him with having committed a scandalous offence, asked him if
he was ready to repair the wrong he had done to the lovely Yhahil.

“If marrying her will be considered a sufficient reparation of the
injury I have unadvisedly inflicted, I am prepared to offer that
reparation on the instant.”

“I know not,” said Mahomed Chan, “that my child may be willing to
accept the man who has offered her so serious an insult; but if you
will accompany me to my home you can urge your suit.”

“Upon condition that he becomes the husband of her whom he has so
grossly offended I grant him his liberty,” said the Emperor; “otherwise
his captivity will be for life.”

The father returned to his home with the minister’s son, whom he
presented to Yhahil. She received him with withering coldness. He flung
himself at her feet.

“I acknowledge my fault,” he cried, passionately. “I have wronged
you--grievously wronged the object of my soul’s adoration, and come to
repair the wrong I have done by making her the partner of my life. I
feel she would ennoble a diadem. Will you become mine?”

“Can you think I have reason to trust you?”

“Yes--you know that passion impelled me to act as I did; love was at
the bottom of it, and if you have a woman’s heart you will forgive me.”

Yhahil smiled; the young Omrah rose and clasped her to his bosom.--“You
are mine for ever; this day shall consummate our union. I shall receive
my freedom from the sovereign only to cast over my heart the golden
fetters of bliss.”

Yhahil yielded to his embrace; there was joy in the late house of
mourning. On that very day the lovers were married. The Mogul Emperor
honoured their union with his presence, and ratified it with his
blessing. The jiggerkhar’s prophecy was accomplished, and never was
there a happier union than that formed between the Pariah’s daughter
and the Minister’s son.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] About seven millions sterling.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 964 (A.D. 1556).--The young King Akbar fought a desperate battle
at Paniput against Hamoo, vizier of Mahomed Shah Adily, who now claimed
the throne. During the action, fifteen hundred elephants fell into
the hands of Akbar, who, marching from Paniput, reached Delhi without
opposition. Mankote was delivered up to the King after a siege of six
months.

Heg. 965 (1558).--A reconciliation took place between Akbar and Beiram
Chan, which was cemented by the latter marrying Sulima Sultana Begum,
niece of the late Humayoon, which took place with consent of the King,
who was present at the nuptials. Shortly afterwards the breach was
renewed between the King and the Regent.

Heg. 966 (1558).--Beiram Chan assembled troops, in order to establish
himself in the Punjab. Upon Akbar despatching a messenger to him,
Beiram sent the ensigns of state, his elephants, banners and drums to
the King, and declared his intention of proceeding to Mecca.

Heg. 967 (1559).--Beiram Chan having proceeded as far as Bhickanere,
repented of his resolution to relinquish public life, returned to
Nagoor, and began to levy troops. The King sent against him Moolla Peer
Mahomed, who had lately returned from exile, to which he had been sent
by the regent.

Heg. 968 (1560).--The ex-minister being reduced to the greatest
distress, resolved to throw himself upon the King’s mercy. Akbar
accepted his submission. On entering the court, Beiram hung his turban
round his neck, and advancing rapidly, threw himself at the foot of the
throne. Akbar, stretching out his hand, desired him to rise, and placed
him in his former station at the head of his nobles.

Heg. 969 (1561).--One day, while hunting in the vicinity of Nurwar, a
royal tiger crossed the road. The King urged his horse forward, and
with a single sabre-stroke stretched it dead upon the plain. The nobles
present, in the excess of their joy, ran to kiss the royal stirrup, and
offered thanks to God for his preservation.

Heg. 970 (1562).--Sulim Shah having taken a number of Ghoorkas
prisoners in war, ordered a prison at Gualior, wherein they were
confined, to be blown up with gunpowder. Upon this occasion Kumal
Ghoorka had the good fortune to escape, being only thrown to some
distance, without receiving any considerable injury.

Heg. 971 (1563).--Akbar returning from Nurwar towards his capital, fell
in with a herd of wild elephants. He ordered his cavalry to surround
and drive them into a kedda, or fold, which was effected with some
difficulty. One of the male elephants, finding itself confined, broke
through the palisades. Three trained elephants were despatched to
secure it, and, before it was overpowered, it afforded the King much
sport.

Heg. 972 (1564).--Akbar quelled a formidable conspiracy of Usbeck
chiefs.

Heg. 973 (1566).--Juanpoor was captured by Akbar’s armies.

Heg. 974 (1566).--The Usbeck chiefs again rebelled, and were subdued.

Heg. 975 (1567).--This year was distinguished by the siege of Chittore,
in which were eight thousand Rajpoots, with an ample supply of
provisions. The King having invested the fort, employed five thousand
workmen of different descriptions to conduct the siege. The approaches
were made by sabat, a description of defence peculiar to India. The
besiegers are protected by stuffed gabions, covered with leather,
behind which they continue their approaches until they arrive near
the walls of the place to be attacked. The governor appearing on the
walls was shot with a matchlock by the King. The Rajpoots immediately
performed the Johur, putting their wives and children to death. The
fort was stormed by the Moguls, who obtained possession of it without
further resistance.

Heg. 976 (1568).--Akbar obtained possession of Runtunbhore.

Heg. 977 (1569).--The favourite sultana gave birth to Prince Selim, who
afterwards reigned under the name of Jehangire.

Heg. 978 (1570).--Prince Morad was born.

Heg. 980 (1572).--Akbar defeated Ibrahim Hoossein Mirza, and laid siege
to Surat, which surrendered, and the King returned to Agra.

Heg. 983 (1575).--The Afghans were defeated by the King’s troops, and
their general was taken prisoner. He was put to death by the Mogul
leader, and his son, who had been severely wounded in the action, died
a few days after. The Mogul general took possession of all Bengal, and
sent the elephants and other spoils to the King.

Heg. 984 (1576).--Akbar went this year to Ajmere, and employed Shahbaz
Chan Kumbo against Koombulmere, a strong fortress, in possession of the
Rana of Oodipore, which was eventually taken.

Heg. 986 (1578).--Died Hoossein Koolly Chan Toorkoman, governor of
Bengal.

Heg. 987 (1579).--A great fire happened in the Furash Khana, at
Futtepore, which consumed many tents, lined with velvet and brocade of
great value.

Heg. 989 (1581).--The King’s brother, Mahomed Hukeen Mirza, invested
Lahore.

Heg. 991 (1583).--The King was taken dangerously ill, and the people
became apprehensive of his death; but he recovered, and bestowed large
sums in charity.

Heg. 992 (1584).--Mirza Khan was defeated by Akbar’s troops in a
sanguinary battle.

Heg. 993 (1585).--Prince Selim, who afterwards ascended the throne
under the title of Jehangire, married the daughter of Rajah Bhugwandas.

Heg. 995 (1586-7).--This year the daughter of Ray Singh was likewise
married to Prince Selim.

Heg. 997 (1589).--Died the learned Azd-ood-Dowla Shirazz, who had
lately come from Guzerat.

Heg. 998 (1589).--Mirza Azeez Koka was appointed governor of Guzerat.

Heg. 1004 (1596).--The Prince Morad Mirza and Mirza Chan laid siege to
Ahmednugger, but finally entered into negotiations with the besieged,
by which it was stipulated that they should still retain possession,
but that Akbar should have the province of Berar.

Heg. 1011 (1602).--The celebrated Abul Fazel was attacked by banditti
on his way from the Deccan to the capital, and murdered.

Heg. 1014 (1605).--Akbar died after a prosperous and glorious reign of
fifty-one years and some months. He was certainly the greatest of the
Mogul monarchs.

The Defence of Chittore.

CHAPTER I.

The Governor of Chittore was upon the ramparts observing the progress
of the enemy, who were making their approaches behind wicker frames
filled with earth and covered with leather. The town was plentifully
supplied with provisions; the garrison consisted of eight thousand
Rajpoots, and it was determined to resist whilst a stone remained in
the battlements. The siege had already continued six weeks, directed by
Akbar in person, but no material effect had been produced. The besieged
fought with that determined spirit peculiar to the Rajpoot character.
The fortifications were of great strength, and although the garrison
had made several desperate sallies, their loss had hitherto been
insignificant.

Akbar was vexed at being detained so long before the place, as he was
in the habit of carrying much more promptly the towns which he invested
with his armies. He, however, knew the strength of the garrison, was
well acquainted with the characters of the men who composed it, and had
therefore made up his mind that Chittore would not be an easy conquest.

While the governor was standing on the ramparts, he was joined by
his wife, a handsome woman, under thirty, although the mother of two
marriageable daughters.

“Jugmul,” she said, whilst a glance of fire shot from her dilated eye,
“will these scoffers of our gods prevail?”

“I know not--their king is brave.”

“Is there a living soul within these walls of whom you cannot say as
much?”

“I trust not; but he is likewise a successful general, and success is
not the issue of chance, but of talent.”

“Have we not encountered both before now?”

“Yes; but the latter has its degrees, and the interval between great
and little is extreme.”

“Then you despair of driving these Moslems from before our walls.”

“You know that a Rajpoot never despairs. Nevertheless, of this I am
certain, that nothing but a desperate resistance and an extensive
destruction of the enemy will cause him to relinquish his present
purpose.”

“Jugmul, he knows not that there are women within this fortress who
fear not to encounter his men in a struggle of death. Let him beware
how he provokes such a collision.”

“You miscalculate the energies of the wives and daughters of Chittore,
if you measure them by your own.”

“Should the extremity arrive, it will be seen whether I have misjudged
my countrywomen. Meanwhile, Jugmul, I claim to be a partner in your
toils, and to share the glory as well as the labour of your resistance
to this Moslem sovereign. It is but just that the wife should partake
of her husband’s honours, of which I trust you are about to reap a full
harvest.”

At this time, Chittore was invested by an army of thirty thousand men,
commanded by Akbar in person, acknowledged the greatest leader of his
age; yet this did not dispirit the governor’s wife, who was evidently
more sanguine than her husband in the valour and resources of the
garrison. Her eldest daughter, a lovely girl of sixteen, was engaged to
a young Rajpoot chief, who when the siege commenced had thrown himself
into Chittore with a few resolute followers.

Peirup Singh had not only the qualities of daring valour and
indomitable resolution in common with his race, but was moreover young,
handsome, and intelligent. He was ardently attached to the beautiful
Kherla Nuny, though she had not yet experienced the glow of fervent
affection. The young Rajpoot had been the choice of her parents, not of
herself; her feelings, therefore, towards him, when brought to a sum,
would have formed a total amounting to little more than indifference.
She felt no objection to the choice of her parents, for she had no
reason on the score of his general qualities; but she did not love him.

Peirup Singh was anxious that their nuptials should immediately
take place, notwithstanding the siege, which had already been going
on several weeks; and from the strength of the garrison, and the
resolution of the foe, there was every reason to apprehend that it
would not be terminated for some months to come. He therefore sought
the Rajpootni to propose an immediate fulfilment of his wishes.

“Kherla,” said he, “youth is the beautiful season of life; but in
proportion as it is beautiful it is fleeting. The hours of enjoyment
are sparely meted out to us, it were therefore unwise to cast any away.
I rejoice in the possession of your love, but would be made happy in
the possession of you.”

“Peirup Singh,” replied the noble girl, “you have been promised that
possession, and shall have it when the season comes; but I could
not wed amid the dangers which surround us. When your valour has
contributed to drive the enemy from our walls, I will give myself up to
your future good guidance.”

“But why delay my happiness? Think you I shall fight less effectually
as your husband than as your lover?”

“I know not; but I would be the spouse of a brave man. You have
the reputation of being such, yet I have had no proof of it. Ample
opportunity is now afforded you of showing that your reputation does
not fall below your merit.”

“Ha! must I prove my claim to your love, Kherla? This is rather a
mortifying exaction.”

“Not to a brave man, who is always proud to ratify by deeds of arms the
reputation to which he lays claim.”

“But I promise you, the moment you are mine I will give you those
proofs you require that your husband is unable to dishonour the name of
Rajpoot.”

“Nay, Peirup Singh, the siege is still going on. I cannot comply with
your wishes until the Moslem tyrant is either slain or driven from the
neighbourhood of our homes. If you were to steep your sabre in his
heart’s blood, my consent to an immediate union would be won. It may be
worth your thinking of, Peirup Singh.”

In Akbar’s army was a Rajpoot, who having quitted Chittore in
disgust, had enrolled himself among the Mogul troops. The cause of
his abandoning his countrymen was this:--Having become attached to
the younger daughter of the governor, who encouraged his addresses,
her parents had refused their consent, not considering him eligible
in point of rank for such an alliance. The girl, in consequence,
implicitly obeying the directions of her parents, rejected him. His
mortification was extreme.

All the passions of these fierce warriors are proportionably strong,
and his disappointed feelings immediately urged him to an act of
treachery. He went over to the enemy, and made those communications
which greatly facilitated the progress of the siege. Akbar well knew
how to profit by the information received, but did not trust the man
beyond the line of wary policy. The Rajpoot was allowed to see nothing
by which he could betray the Emperor’s designs to his countrymen, yet
he was apparently treated with confidence and kindness. He, however,
soon perceived that he was suspected. This discovery raised his
indignation, and he immediately embraced the hollow maxim, suggested by
his passions, that the man suspected of being a traitor is justified
in becoming one. He was a fierce hot-blooded desperado, who sacrificed
everything to the gratification of his feelings. Thinking that he
might by a second act of treachery win the consent of Jugmul to wed
his daughter, and thus gratify at once his love and his revenge, he
determined to seek the governor of Chittore and propose, as the price
of his consent, to slay the Mogul monarch.

The first difficulty was to obtain admission into the fort. Aware that
on one side, where the wall was so high as almost to preclude the
possibility of scaling it, the sentries posted were fewer and less
vigilant, he resolved alone to attempt to climb the wall in this spot.
One dark night, having provided himself with several spikes about nine
inches long, he proceeded cautiously to the rampart. He had quitted the
camp unknown to any one, having passed the sentries by daylight without
suspicion, upon some natural pretence. When he reached the base of the
rampart, which was here at least eighty feet high, he began to try his
spikes upon the masonry. The stones were laid one on the other without
cement, so that the interstices between them were sufficiently spacious
to admit, with a little management, the introduction of his spikes.
Fixing the first about a yard from the ground he stood on it, and
placing another a foot above it he again raised himself, and pursuing
this plan with cool perseverance, in spite of the great peril, he at
length reached the summit of the battlement.

Whilst he was thus ascending, with the patient earnestness of a man who
has a personal feeling to gratify, the sentinel above was fortunately
whiling away the hours by chanting one of his native songs, which
prevented him from hearing any sound made during this perilous ascent.

Previously to attempting the wall, the Rajpoot had cast off his dress,
so that, the night being dark, the deep hue of his skin was not likely
to be perceived by any eye that might look over the parapet. The white
tunic of the soldier upon the ramparts, on the contrary, rendered him
visible to a considerable distance through the darkness. When the
Rajpoot reached the summit, he sprang over the parapet as the sentinel
was leisurely walking from him. Having fairly gained the ramparts, he
went deliberately up to the soldier, and, addressing him as if he were
one of the garrison, had no difficulty in accounting for his appearance
without exciting suspicion. Seeing that he was one of his own caste,
the unsuspecting Hindoo entertained no doubt of his belonging to the
troops under the command of Jugmul, and consequently allowed him to
proceed without further interruption. The Rajpoot threw himself under
the portico of a temple, and slept soundly until morning. At an early
hour he appeared before the governor.

“You are, no doubt, surprised,” said he, “to behold me again within
these walls. You have considered me a traitor, but I shall be able to
prove to you that you have been deceived, and to show that I may be the
means of saving this town from the cruelty of a vindictive foe.”

“The man who, under the emotions of anger, seeks an enemy’s camp,” said
Jugmul, “is to be suspected.”

“But you cannot be ignorant that by seeking the enemy’s camp, I may
have obtained that information which will enable you to foil his
approaches, and save the lives and properties of those under your
government.”

“Show me that you have done so before you expect that I should believe
you are not a traitor.”

“I have now sought you to make a proposal for the benefit of all within
this fortress.”

“Declare it.”

“Upon certain conditions I undertake to kill the Moslem Sovereign.”

“What are they?”

“That you will give me your daughter in marriage.”

“Had I twenty daughters I should not think it too great a reward for so
signal a service. Destroy the tyrant who has led his troops before our
walls, and I pledge myself to give you my daughter with an ample dowry.”

“I promise, at least, to attempt his death, and nothing but my own will
secure his safety.”

“I need not tell you that you are believed to have deserted to the
enemy from an impulse of revenge towards me. When once an impression of
this kind is excited in the breasts of brave and honourable men, it is
no easy thing to remove it. If you can accomplish what you propose you
will be immediately restored to the good opinion which, so far as now
appears, you have justly forfeited.”

The Rajpoot was sufficiently satisfied with his reception, but, when he
desired to see the object of his attachment, her father replied:--

“No. You are still under the imputation of treachery; that imputation
must be removed before you can have any intercourse with my daughter.”

“Do you suspect my integrity?”

“I have no warranty for your honesty, and therefore till you show that
your absence from the city was not dishonourable to you, I can look
upon you in no other light than that of a traitor.”

“Treat me as a traitor then, and order me to be flung from yonder
battlements.”

“No! you have undertaken to prove your zeal for the welfare of your
country, and I should be loth to deprive you of the opportunity.”

“Will you believe me faithful if I make a vacancy in the Mogul
sovereignty before the waning of another moon?”

“The destruction of the Moslem king will restore you to my confidence,
and to that of your countrymen.”

The Rajpoot returned to Akbar’s camp. His absence had been noticed. He
was summoned before the Monarch. When he entered the presence, Akbar
eyed him with keen and significant scrutiny, but the man did not blanch.

“Soldier,” said the Emperor, “you were absent last night from the camp.
What was the object of your absence?”

“The king’s interest.”

“The king’s interest is not to be promoted by a breach of discipline.”

“I obtained admission into the fort, and have done the base work of a
spy for the benefit of my country’s enemy.”

The Emperor was silent for a moment, but his eye fixed with an intense
expression of inquiry upon the traitor. “What did you learn?” he at
length inquired.

“That a sally will be made by some of the choicest troops of the
garrison, on the second morrow from the present. The governor is
determined to suffer extermination rather than capitulate, and has
employed a secret assassin to take the Sovereign’s life.”

“Know you where he lurks?”

“In the Moslem camp.”

Akbar was not to be deceived by this flimsy artifice. He had too acute
a perception of human motives to be persuaded that a man would thus
gratuitously hazard his life for the interests of one to whom he was
nationally an enemy, but he disguised his suspicions, and ordered the
soldier to take his bow, in the use of which he was reported to be
singularly expert, and accompany him before the enemy’s walls. The
Emperor was attended by only a few followers; a syce[30] led a horse
behind his royal master.

When they were within bow-shot of the ramparts seeing a group of the
foe so near, the besieged crowded to the battlements, expecting that it
was the preliminary of an assault. The governor was visible above the
rest by his elevated stature.

“Now,” said Akbar to the Rajpoot, “prove to me the truth of what you
have lately represented by sending an arrow into the brain of yonder
chief.”

The Rajpoot affected to comply, and advanced gradually towards the
syce, who was leading the Emperor’s charger, and now stood nearly on a
line with the royal group, a few yards to the left. The Rajpoot having
placed himself beside this man, fixed an arrow in the string of his
bow, and directed it towards the rampart. While the eyes of Akbar and
his attendants were gazing upon the object towards which they expected
every moment to see the arrow winged, the soldier, suddenly turning,
discharged his shaft direct at the Sovereign. It pierced his shoulder
and fixed in the bone. The Hindoo instantly flung down his bow, drew
his dagger, and stabbing to the heart the attendant who was holding his
royal master’s horse, vaulted upon its back, plunged his heels in its
sides, and darted towards the city with the velocity of a thunderbolt.

The nobles stood amazed. Akbar’s eye glanced fire, but he was silent,
and walked back to the camp, where the arrow was with some difficulty
extracted. He was unable to quit his tent for some days; but within a
fortnight the wound was healed.

Meanwhile, the Rajpoot, after he had discharged the arrow, rode to the
city gate, and was immediately admitted. What he had done was reported
to the governor, who immediately granted him an interview.

“I now come to claim my bride--my arrow has pierced the Moslem king.”

“Is he slain?”

“It is impossible he should survive.”

“It will be time to fulfil the conditions of a promise when it is
proved that the contract has been completed according to the terms
stipulated.”

It was soon known in the besieged city that Akbar was recovering from
his wound.

The Rajpoot was again summoned before the governor.

“You have failed,” said Jugmul, “to perform your undertaking.” The
man’s brow contracted. “My pledge is, therefore, cancelled; and I now
determine that you shall pay the penalty of a double treachery. Though
a traitor to your country, had you been the successful instrument of
its vengeance, however base the motives, your life should have been
spared, and my child have become a sacrifice: as it is you are not
worthy of confidence, and therefore deserve to die.”

He was immediately conducted to the Mahomedan camp, under a guard, with
a letter from the governor to the Emperor, stating, that he gave up the
traitor to be dealt with as the Mahomedan sovereign should deem proper.
Akbar sent back the guard with a courteous message, and ordering one of
the state elephants to be brought before him, commanded the traitor to
stand forth. The man advanced with an undaunted countenance, expressing
an utter contempt of death. He crossed his arms over his breast, and
directed towards the Monarch a look of defiance. At a signal from the
royal hand, the elephant was urged forward by the mahout, and, upon
reaching the criminal, it felled him to the earth with his trunk,
placed its huge foot upon his body, and instantly trod him to death.

FOOTNOTES:

[30] An Indian groom.

CHAPTER II.

The siege now proceeded with vigour. The Emperor gave orders that
approaches should be made by a sabut, a description of defence for
the besiegers peculiar to India. They were conducted in the following
manner:--the zigzags, commenced at gun-shot distance from the fort,
consisted of a double wall, and by means of blinds or stuffed gabions,
covered with leather, the besiegers continued their approaches till
they arrived near the walls of the place to be attacked. The miners
then proceeded to sink their shafts, and carry on their galleries
under ground, for the construction of the mines; in which, having
placed the powder and blown up the works, the storming party rushed
from the sabut, or superficial galleries, to assault the place.[31] On
the present occasion, two sabuts or superficial galleries having been
constructed, two mines were carried, under bastions, at different spots.

Akbar being determined to obtain possession of the place, at whatever
cost, daily inspected the working of the mines, which were prepared
with great expedition. Several sallies were made by the besieged,
which, though well directed and vigorously maintained, were invariably
repulsed by the steady discipline of the Mogul troops.

Encouraged by the presence of their sovereign, the miners worked with
incredible diligence, and the soldiers displayed a valour against
the frequent sorties of the besieged, which completely repelled the
headlong valour of the Rajpoots. Akbar marked with his especial
notice, not only every officer, but likewise every common soldier who
distinguished himself; and thus, besides securing the affection of his
army, excited deeds of individual heroism and of united valour, as
gratifying to him as they were astonishing to the foe.

Meanwhile, within the fort, considerable confusion prevailed at the
progress which the Mahomedans were making in their approaches, and at
the unsuccessful issue of the sallies of the besieged. The governor’s
wife was daily on the ramparts encouraging the men. An attempt by the
foe to scale the walls had been repelled with determined resolution by
the garrison, during which the heroic matron had, with her own hands,
hurled several Moslems from the battlements as they reached the summit.
Anxious to reap that glory considered the exclusive inheritance of the
other sex, she determined upon an act as desperate as it was uncommon.

“Jugmul,” said she, “I will visit the enemy’s camp, and try if a
woman’s arm cannot reach his heart.”

“Go,” said her husband, “if you think that you have a reasonable chance
of ridding us of the foe. But what is your plan?”

“Merely to be conducted to the Mahomedan’s tent; then trust to this arm
and a woman’s resolution for the issue.”

The resolute Rajpootni arrayed herself in her most becoming attire, and
about dusk sought the hostile camp. She was still a handsome woman.
Being stopped by the guard, she represented herself to be a minstrel,
desirous of exhibiting the superiority of her art before the Mogul
Emperor. She was alone, and there did not appear much risk in admitting
a woman unaccompanied within the Mahomedan lines. It was announced
to Akbar that a Hindoo musician was anxious to play before him. The
Monarch who, after the harassing fatigues of the day, was fond of
seeking relaxation from the anxieties which his present undertaking
naturally accumulated upon him, commanded her to be admitted. As
she entered the royal presence, Akbar was extremely struck with her
natural dignity of deportment, and the commanding expression of her
countenance. He instantly saw that she was not a common minstrel, and,
at once suspecting treachery, gave orders that no one, on whatever
pretence, either man or woman, should be admitted into the camp.

“Well, gentle dame,” said the Sovereign, “what are your wishes?”

“I have heard that the Mogul Monarch is a munificent benefactor to
those who have the good fortune to succeed in administering to his
pleasures. I would attempt to do as much, being held to have great
skill upon my native vina.”

“A graceful instrument,” said the Emperor. “Approach and try your
skill, which, if it be at all equal to your beauty, cannot fail to
delight.”

She approached him; and Akbar having placed her on his right hand, bade
her play; at the same time watching her with so keen a survey, that
the Rajpootni began to fear she was detected. With an unruffled brow,
however, she commenced tuning her vina, which is the Hindoo lute, and
played an air with considerable skill. The sovereign was gratified. She
played several airs with great taste and feeling. The enthusiasm of the
performer was at length communicated to the Emperor; and in the excess
of his gratification, he was thrown off his guard. Seizing a favourable
moment, when his eyes were withdrawn from her, she drew a very small
taper dagger; but before she could plunge it into the body of her
intended victim, he had seized her wrist, and forced the instrument
from her grasp.

“A very happy close to thy minstrelsy,” said Akbar, with a severe smile.

“I have failed,” said the heroic woman, undauntedly, “and am prepared
for the issue. Give your orders, king, I am prepared to die. I did not
make this attempt without weighing the penalty. I care not for the
mode: you will see that I can defy your tortures; and, to give you some
idea of the spirit of that foe which you seek to overcome, take the
solemn assurance of a doomed woman, that there is not a living soul
behind yonder battlements that would not brave death in any shape to be
avenged upon the despisers of their gods.”

Akbar made no reply, but, ordering her to be placed under a strong
guard in a vacant tent, on the following morning sent her with an
escort to the gate of Chittore, telling her, as she quitted his camp,
that the Emperor of the Moguls warred not with women. The haughty
Rajpootni was deeply moved at her failure and the Mogul’s magnanimity.
It, however, did not alter her determination to accomplish his death,
though at the expense of her own life. She felt no longer surprised
that his troops were invincible, and himself so renowned; and her hopes
of forcing him to raise the siege began, from this moment, to decline.
She discovered in Akbar the virtues of bravery, and a contempt of death
to a degree that would have done honour to a Rajpoot; and besides
those virtues, which he possessed common to all brave men, she could
not but perceive that he was endowed with some peculiarly his own. She
expressed her fears to Jugmul, that under such a leader the enemy must
eventually prevail. “But we can die,” she said, with energy, “fighting
on our ramparts; and their success, whenever it comes, will be recorded
in characters of blood.”

“Wife!” said the governor, “we have no reason to despair yet. The
garrison is still strong and resolute; we have provisions for at least
five months’ consumption, and long before that period it must be
decided whether the Moslems or Hindoos are to be masters of Chittore.”

“He, Jugmul, who could spare the life of one who attempted his, and
give her safe conduct to her friends, is no ordinary man. We have more
to dread from Akbar’s magnanimity, than either from the number or
bravery of his followers, though he is acknowledged to command the best
disciplined armies in the East. What immortal glory would radiate from
my brow if this arm had not failed to rid the world of so distinguished
a foe.”

“You are eloquent in his praises.”

“Because he deserves all the good I can say of him, and all the hatred
I can feel towards him. Jugmul, I could barter my own life, and that of
all those of whose lives mine has been the source, to send that man to
the Assuras.”

The next morning the governor and his wife were on the ramparts
inspecting the defences; for, from the enemy’s movements, they
hourly expected an assault, against which every provision was made
which prudent foresight could suggest. Whilst Jugmul was surveying
the progress of new works that he had ordered to be raised behind
some low bastions where he considered the fortifications weak, a
sudden explosion was heard from before the walls, which dismayed the
besiegers. The shock was so great that all standing upon the ramparts
were thrown upon their faces. A considerable part of the lowest wall
had fallen, and opened a practicable breach. A second explosion
followed, still more terrible, and added to the ruin, opening another
breach not less formidable. It was soon evident that the enemy had
sprung two mines, and the besieged expected that the destruction of
their ramparts was about to be followed by a general assault. They
crowded the breach, to defend their city with a wall of human bodies.
The enemy, however, did not storm the town, as was expected. The cause
of this, although for a moment matter of anxious conjecture, was
soon ascertained. Two thousand of Akbar’s choicest troops, prepared
to storm, had advanced when the first mine exploded, under the
supposition that both mines had been sprung at the same moment. The
party immediately divided into two equal bodies, in order to enter both
breaches at once. One of the mines only had ignited, and, when the
party reached the other, they were scattered as with the shock of an
earthquake. The ground opened beneath their feet; numbers were blown
into the air; others had their limbs torn from the quivering trunks,
and a scene of consternation prevailed, altogether indescribable.
Fifteen Mogul officers and above four hundred men were killed.

This unforeseen disaster damped the energies of the storming parties.
They paused until the confusion subsided, thus giving their enemies
time to prepare for defence. They then advanced boldly--but not with
elated hearts--to the breaches. They were received with unshrinking
valour by the besieged. Every attempt to make good an entrance was
withstood by men determined to die in defence of their walls. The
Mahomedans were repulsed. They returned to the camp greatly dispirited,
not covered with shame indeed, but without the glory of success. Akbar,
conscious that the cause of failure was to be sought in the accident
which had occurred previously to the assault being made, visited the
men in person, encouraging them under their disheartening defeat,
raised their sinking spirits, and animated them for fresh encounters.

The spirits of the besieged were so elated by their success and the
destruction of the enemy, that they began with extraordinary energy
to repair the breaches, which by the next morning they had filled up
with a thick wall of mud. This was a secure defence, for the moisture
of the material rendered the surface so slippery, that the difficulty
of scaling such an impediment was so great as to render the attempt
impracticable. This did not dismay the besiegers, who prepared to
renew their attempts upon the town with increased activity. Akbar’s
was not a mind to be overcome by difficulties; it became more elevated
in proportion as impediments multiplied. He gave his orders with that
calm earnestness of resolution which showed he would be satisfied
with nothing short of complete success. His men evinced the greatest
alacrity in their obedience to the orders of their officers, and soon
recovered from the effects of their late mischance. The Hindoos were no
less assiduous in providing against all possible contingencies; and, in
the course of a few days, the works of Chittore were nearly as secure
as before the opening of the breaches by the mines.

A few nights after the accident from the explosion of the mine, the
Emperor, who had given orders that other works should be constructed,
was in the batteries directing the workmen. While there, he observed
the governor of Chittore superintending, by torchlight, the repairs of
the walls, which were now nearly completed. Seizing a matchlock from
one of the attendants, he directed it with so true an aim as to lodge
a ball in Jugmul’s forehead. It was easy to perceive that the greatest
confusion prevailed upon the ramparts of the besieged city. Persons
were seen hurrying to and fro, and the walls were soon crowded with
troops and citizens. Akbar, from this moment, saw that the game was in
his own hands. The death of their governor he knew would render the
garrison despairing and reckless; he consequently prepared for some of
those dreadful eruptions so common among Rajpoot soldiers when driven
to extremity.

Day had scarcely dawned, when his camp was attacked with a fury which
nothing but the better discipline of his soldiers, and great numerical
superiority, could have repelled. The Rajpoots, headed by their late
governor’s widow, fought with a desperation which, for the moment,
bore down all opposition. The widow urged her horse with heedless fury
towards Akbar’s tent. An Omrah placing himself before her to oppose
her further progress, she buried a short spear in his body, and,
continuing her career, reached the royal pavilion. Here she was opposed
by the guards, the foremost of whom struck her in the face with his
sword; but having speared him, she flung herself from the back of her
charger, and, rushing into the tent, sprang towards the couch,--it was
empty. With some difficulty she was secured, but not until she had
wounded several of the guard, and received a second severe wound in the
neck, from which the blood flowed so copiously that she was obliged
to relinquish the contest, becoming faint and unable to continue her
exertions. By this time her followers had been nearly all cut off, and
few returned to the city to bear the lamentable tale of discomfiture.

Akbar entered his tent, and saw the noble woman who had made such a
brave effort to avenge her husband’s death fainting upon the ground,
reeking with her own blood and that of her foes. He instantly ordered
her wound to be dressed, and that she should be carefully attended
during the night. He was charmed with her heroism, he reverenced her
distress, and determined to offer very advantageous terms on the morrow
if the garrison would capitulate. The obstinacy of the besieged had won
his admiration, and he was heard to say to a confidential officer that
with such troops he would undertake to conquer the world.

Next morning the captive widow rose from her couch, and demanded to see
the Emperor. She was immediately brought before him.

“Sovereign of the Moguls,” she said, undauntedly, “I have thrice sought
your life. I have freely braved your vengeance. I am prepared for the
infliction which I have provoked, and my failure deserves. What death
am I to die?”

“Allah forbid, lady, that I should punish any one for trying to take
away the life of a foe in honourable warfare. It is but natural that
you should seek to accomplish the death of him who has destroyed
your husband, not from feelings of enmity, for I admired his bravery
and esteemed his patriotism, but as a melancholy means to a glorious
end. His death is one of those sad contingencies inseparable from a
state of active hostility. I have now to propose to you terms for the
capitulation of Chittore.”

“If I have influence to decide upon a proposal that involves the
dishonour of my countrymen, I will bid them resist till there shall no
longer remain among them an arm to strike.”

“But, lady, the terms I intend to offer will be alike honourable to you
and the inhabitants of yonder fortress.”

“No terms from the sovereign of the Moguls can be honourable to those
whom he has so irreparably wronged. I will listen to no accommodation
short of disbanding your army, and leaving the city of Chittore to
enjoy that peace which you have wantonly interrupted. I am now in
your power. I seek not to stay your vengeance. Wreak it upon me, with
the flush and glow of a tyrant’s satisfaction. I will brave you with
my last gasp of life. I will defy you with my expiring breath; but
never could I listen to terms from the man who has profaned the sacred
sanctuary of the Hindoos, and cast down upon the threshold of their
temples the representatives of their gods.”

“Lady, I would show the difference between the magnanimity of the
Mahomedan and the Hindoo. You have thrice sought my life with an
asperity of passion, sanctioned only by what you consider the sacred
obligations of revenge. You have refused to listen to terms of
honourable accommodation. You have expressed towards me the deadliest
animosity. You are in my power, and I could in a moment prevent all
further exercise of your hatred; but I forbear. You are free. I have
commanded an escort to be ready once more to bear you to the gates of
your native city.”

The Rajpootni turned her head; a tear for an instant glazed her eye,
but the warm glow of pride dried it in its crystal formation, and
it ceased to flow. She uttered not a word, but silently quitted the
tent, making a haughty salaam to the Emperor as she passed, mounted
a litter which had been prepared to convey her, and in a short time
was once more within the gates of Chittore. Her heart now swelled with
thoughts of desperation and of death. She acknowledged the magnanimous
forbearance of her enemy, and accepted life only to perform a last
and awful duty among her family and her countrymen. Her soul dilated
with the solemn purpose which she was about to fulfil--the crisis had
arrived.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] See Brigg’s translation of Ferishta, vol. ii., page 230.

CHAPTER III.

The inhabitants of Chittore now gave themselves up to despair. Their
governor was dead, a great number of the garrison had been slain in the
late sally, and no hope of rescue appeared. The effect was dreadful.
The fear of falling into the enemy’s hands drove many to deeds of
desperation only heard of among those whose minds have been obfuscated
by the gloom of that superstition of which idolatry is the monstrous
parent. Whole families destroyed themselves, dying in each other’s
arms, and with their expiring breaths cursing those who had induced
them to embrace such a dreadful alternative. There was scarcely a
house that was not filled with the dying and the dead. The groans of
death within mingled with the clamours of war without, and the great
conqueror of nature was about to reap a full harvest of triumph.

Day after day passed, and these scenes were repeated. Corpses lay in
the streets, and “there was none to bury them;” so that the steams
of pestilence began to rise and load the air with the elements of
destruction. For two or three days the heroic widow of Jugmul, who now
directed the defence of Chittore, was confined to her couch; but the
moment she was able to rise, she quitted her house and repaired to the
ramparts. The despair of the citizens had reached her ears; she heard
it in moody silence, but calmly gave her orders, and, summoning her
chief officers, among whom was Peirup Singh, she said--

“The enemy are invincible, and we have nothing now but to prepare for
our final change. I need not tell you how the Rajpoot comports himself
at this hour of extremity.”

“Nay, why this despair?” asked Peirup Singh. “We are not yet
vanquished. The garrison is still numerous, our soldiers are brave, and
our enemies enfeebled by the late conflict.”

“They are mighty in their strength; we are only mighty in our
weakness--they to vanquish, but we to perish. I need not bid you
prepare, because I know none of our blood can be backward to meet death
as becomes the brave.”

Peirup Singh, though a courageous man, was by no means prepared for
such an issue as the Rajpootni’s widow seemed to contemplate. He loved
her daughter, and, with the prospect of enjoyment before him, did not
precisely see the necessity of that desperate alternative to which
the late governor’s relict alluded. Even should they be obliged to
capitulate, the magnanimity of Akbar was too well known to warrant
the supposition that he would treat the vanquished with tyranny; the
Rajpoot therefore thought that a capitulation in time to so generous an
enemy would be their safest policy.

When he expressed these sentiments to her, who directed the movements
of the besieged, she said, with an indignant glance at the proposer of
so degrading an act of pusillanimity--

“What! does the suitor of my daughter make a proposal so unworthy of
his race? It is enough; henceforward you are a stranger to my home.”

She turned from him, and would not hear his reply. Having given her
orders in case an assault should be made by the foe, she visited the
houses of those whom despair had urged to fatal extremities. The sad
sight only nerved her heart to fiercer resolution. She looked upon
the dead without a sigh. She conversed with the dying as if they were
about to be hushed in a joyous sleep, and there was neither regret
nor anguish in their expiring groans. The dead bodies scattered about
the streets, and exhaling the elements of death, moved her not to an
emotion. Her soul was passion-cased--it was absorbed by one intense
feeling. Upon entering her home she was met by her elder daughter.

“Kherla,” she said calmly, “death has been doing much unsightly work
among us. The conquerors will not find their garland of victory a
beautiful wreath. The foul steams of decaying mortality will hang upon
and blight it. My child, we must go to another change. Are you prepared
to quit a base world for a brighter? Agni[32] must be our guide to
the mutation which awaits us when these poor bodies shall have become
ashes.”

“My mother, I am ready to perform the conditions of my destiny. I
desire not to exist longer than I can live in the freedom to which
I was born; and, rather than become the captive of the Moslem, I am
willing to encounter the flames which shall give me a release from
those bonds the foe are preparing to cast upon us.”

The mother embraced her child. The younger girl had overheard this
conversation, and her heart palpitated. She had hitherto found life
an acceptable and sweet possession. She, therefore, felt no desire to
embrace the faggot, and have her spirit dismissed from her body on
wings of flame. She was full of youth and health, highly susceptible of
enjoyment, with a fine flow of animal spirits; and to her, therefore,
death was at once a terror and an evil. She was summoned into the
presence of her parent, who said with a calm but stern voice,

“Girl, you must prepare for your last hour. The summons of Yama has
reached us, and we have no choice. When he calls, obedience is our
duty, and the performance of our duty cannot but be a blessing. We must
perish, my child.”

The poor girl shuddered but did not utter a word, knowing how ill the
stern temper of her only surviving parent could brook resistance.
She bent acquiescently, but the tear started into her eye as she
turned from the bold mother to conceal her emotions. Having dismissed
her children, the heroic matron began to prepare her mind for the
approaching sacrifice.

The rite of the Johur was now determined on. The whole garrison,
amounting to five thousand, three having already perished, were
assembled. The governor’s widow told them that the last effort was
to be made. Nothing remained between subjugation and death. They
heard her without a murmur, but with that profound silence which, in
a multitude, betokens an inviolable unity of purpose, and began to
assume the saffron robe. They were soon prepared to sally from the
gate. Peirup Singh was among them. He looked defiance but spoke not.
Their swords gleamed in the sun. The stern Rajpootni gazed with a
glancing eye of pride, as she beheld the brave band going forth to the
sacrifice, knowing that their swords would be steeped in the blood of
their foes. She waved her hand when all were ready; the gates were
thrown open and they marched forth to the fatal conflict. Their shouts
were deafening as they pushed forward like a living deluge. The Moguls
knew what they had to expect from the desperate valour of these devoted
soldiers. The onset was terrific. Death followed everywhere in the
track of those unshrinking assaulters. There was no quarter accepted.
The moment a Rajpoot was taken prisoner he fell upon his own sword.
The carnage among the Mahomedans was dreadful. They fell by hundreds
before the swords of those infuriated men who had devoted themselves to
destruction. The Hindoos fought against an enemy more than five times
their number with a determination that spread consternation through the
Mahomedan ranks. Even Akbar was amazed. He appeared in person in the
thickest of that awful struggle, and was twice wounded by a Rajpoot
sabre: but his armour protected his life, and the half naked bodies of
his foes exposed them to the invincible force of his sword.

For several hours the sanguinary strife continued, until almost every
Rajpoot was slain. Upwards of two thousand Mahomedans were left dead
upon the field, and full twice that number wounded. The brave Hindoos
had raised a memorable trophy round their bodies never to be forgotten.
Akbar visited the field of carnage. He was astonished at the impetuous
and unflinching valour displayed by the foe. He dropped a tear as
his eye glanced over the field covered with slain. He had obtained a
dearly bought victory. It was evident that had the enemy met him upon
equal terms, with them would have remained the honours of triumph. The
sacrifice had indeed been great, but the victory was complete. As soon
as the wasted energies of his troops should be recruited he determined
to make an assault upon the town if the terms which he was disposed to
offer were rejected.

Among the few Rajpoots who had survived the carnage of that sanguinary
day was Peirup Singh. He sought the lovely Kherla Nuny, hoping that she
would fly with him from peril to happiness, but it was evident he knew
her not.

“Kherla,” said he, “all is lost. We have done everything that brave men
could do, and Chittore is at the foe’s mercy. Let us fly, my bride,
while the means of escape remain to us. I can take you to a place of
safety.”

“Who are you?” calmly asked the noble girl.

“Is it possible you can ask such a question of Peirup Singh, your
accepted bridegroom, who is prepared to convey you from this scene of
carnage to a home where happiness awaits you?”

“Peirup Singh, the bridegroom of Kherla Nuny, would not dishonour his
kindred. The daughter of Jugmul can never unite herself with one who,
after having assumed the saffron robe, has run from the foe and hid his
recreant head behind stone walls. Dost thou fear to die, Peirup Singh?”

“No; but I deem life a gift not to be rashly thrown away when it may
be appreciated and enjoyed. If good can be purchased by the sacrifice
it is our duty to yield it up, otherwise such a sacrifice becomes a
foolish and culpable suicide.”

“Is not the avoidance of disgrace a good? Is escape from death, with
the brand of infamy upon a man’s brow, no evil? He who would hesitate
between life and disgrace, has a petty soul; but he that would accept
the one with the polluted inheritance of the other is the worst of
recreants. We never can be united, Peirup Singh.”

The rejected Rajpoot was deeply mortified--she would not listen to
his expostulations; but quitting his presence, turned upon him a look
of withering scorn. He was confounded. Between shame and passion he
stood aghast. He remained for some time irresolute, when on a sudden
the apartment was filled with a thick curling smoke. He rushed into
a court towards a passage whence the stifling vapour proceeded. The
awful truth at once burst upon his sight. The funereal fire had been
kindled in a large subterranean chamber, in which all the members of
the family, except the late governors widow and her younger daughter,
had assembled, to the number of a hundred and forty-seven. Peirup Singh
looked into the opening, and beheld the beautiful Kherla waving a torch
with which she had just ignited the combustibles strewed over the
apartment. In a few moments the smoke shut out all from his sight, and
the crackling flames prevented his ear from catching the groans of the
dying. The forked fires rose to the skies with a horrid hissing, as if
of demons triumphing in the frightful consummation of death. Both the
sight and the sound were horrible. There was no rescuing the infatuated
girl from that destruction upon which she had voluntarily rushed. She
had already become the virgin bride of death. Young and numerous were
the bridesmaids of that fiery marriage. Peirup Singh quitted the scene
of horror with a deeply smitten heart.

FOOTNOTES:

[32] The God of Fire.

CHAPTER IV.

Akbar sent a Vakeel, offering to the besieged most liberal terms, which
were indignantly rejected.

“Tell your king,” was the reply, “that we accept no terms from him who
seeks to dispossess us of our homes. We deem that capitulation is a
word only admitted into the vocabulary of cowards.”

The Vakeel returned, and Akbar determined to storm the town. On that
very day two mines were sprung, which made a breach in the walls in two
several places as before. The heroine who now commanded Chittore was
undismayed at what she saw. The whole garrison had been cut off except
about two hundred men. Multitudes of citizens had destroyed themselves
and their families to escape falling into the conqueror’s hands. She,
however, summoned as many of the inhabitants as were in a condition to
make a final effort, determined to offer resistance to the enemy so
long as there remained a man within the fortress able and willing to
fight.

The moment the breaches were formed the heroic widow ordered new works
to be raised, and thus a slight defence was opposed to the foe in an
incredibly short space of time. High wooden frames, filled with mud,
had been previously prepared, and were instantly placed in the openings
of the rampart. Upon the battlements stood a small but determined band,
with large vessels containing a boiling liquid of the consistence of
pitch, ready to pour it upon the besiegers’ heads as they attempted
to scale the shattered walls. A number of females armed with missiles
likewise crowded the ramparts, determined to take their part in the
close of this desperate game. All the principal women within the
fortress had already suffered themselves to be sacrificed by their
husbands, sons, or brothers; those that remained were only a few who
had escaped the general massacre to die in the breaches of their native
city.

While the inhabitants were working at the breaches Peirup Singh came
before the mother of his beloved. She moved from him with a glance of
scorn.

“Nay,” said he, “turn not from a despairing man. I come here to redeem
that honour which you consider I have forfeited. The master-passion
within me is now quelled, and I yield to the sadder circumstances of my
destiny.”

“The man,” said the Rajpootni, “who prefers life to glory deserves not
to die the warrior’s death. There are enough on these battlements to
leave a record for the dark page of history of the desperate defence of
Chittore. You may go and propitiate the conqueror, and live with the
galling iron of bondage entering into your recreant soul. We seek no
aid from Peirup Singh.”

The Rajpoot bit his lip, but stirred not. The hurried glance of his
eye, which darted like a sunbeam towards the advancing hosts, expressed
the fierce resolve which swelled his heart at this moment of advancing
peril. It was the glance of a bayed tiger. He drew his sword and
walked with a deliberate but firm step to the least protected part of
the breach.

The enemy advanced at a quick trot, and poured forward like a sudden
irruption of the sea. When the foremost reached the trench the shock
was terrific. They were forced back by the besieged with a resolution
which nothing could withstand. The scalding preparation was poured
upon their heads. This new mode of resistance confounded them. They
drew back from the rampart, and renewed their attack only to meet
with a similar reception. Time after time they were repulsed, but the
besiegers being greatly exposed in the breaches, suffered extremely
from the enemy’s matchlocks. Peirup Singh fought with the fury of a
gored lion. He was twice severely wounded, but did not retire from the
station he had chosen. Evening put an end to the struggle, and the
Mahomedans were obliged to retreat.

Their temporary success elated the besieged, still it was evident that
they could not maintain a successful opposition for another day. Their
numbers had been much diminished by the enemy’s well-directed fire,
and the temporary defences were considerably weakened by continual
assaults. Nevertheless, it was determined that resistance should be
offered so long as there was a man to stand in the trench.

Next morning the attack was renewed. Many of the Mahomedans were hurled
headlong from the walls in attempting to scale them, but were succeeded
by fresh troops equally resolute; and at length, in spite of the
exertions of the despairing Hindoos, they obtained a footing, and the
trench was carried. Peirup Singh, having killed several of the foe, was
shot through the brain with a matchlock, and fell dead into the ditch.
The heroic Rajpootni widow, who, though dangerously wounded, still
stood upon the battlements encouraging the brave defenders of Chittore,
rushed forward to meet death in the trench, but the enemy generously
dropped their swords as she advanced, and attempted to take her alive.
Perceiving the intention, she instantly retreated towards the town,
followed by a party of Akbar’s soldiers. Though still reeking with her
blood, she gained her home before them, and, having entered, securely
fastened the door. Summoning her only remaining daughter, she cried--

“My child, the moment is come when we must consummate our triumph. We
shall not fall alive into the hands of the foe.”

She seized a torch which had been kept ready lighted to meet such a
melancholy contingency. The daughter had not the mother’s heroism--she
shrieked as she advanced towards the pile, and would have retreated,
but her resolute parent, with the last collected effort of strength,
dragged her onward. “There is no alternative but death, my child,” she
said, calmly. She reached the pyre, took the trembling girl in her
arms, ascended the fatal platform, applied the torch, and in a few
moments both mother and daughter were wrapped in the embrace of death.
The soldiers entered, having burst open the door, and found their prey
had escaped them. They gazed upon the flaming pile, upon which oil had
been poured to excite it to quicker combustion. They were deprived
of their victim. The flames were singing a fearful requiem over her
ashes. It was a horrible sight to witness the combined consummation of
superstition and despair.

The fortress was soon filled with the victorious Mahomedans. Those
Hindoos who had not adopted the desperate resource of self-immolation,
and had survived the carnage, thronged to the temples, the entrances
of which they barricaded, determined to die in their sanctuaries
rather than yield to the upholders of a different faith. Akbar himself
entered the town, and ordered the temples to be forced. They who had
sought sanctuary thither perished without a murmur. They attempted no
resistance, but suffered themselves to be slaughtered like animals
for the sacrifice. Several thousands thus became martyrs to their
prejudices, and died with a smile of defiance upon their lips, without
raising a hand in self-defence. The Emperor, however, did not evince
that bigoted zeal which has so much disgraced the religion of every
country in which it has been actively displayed, but spared the
venerable monuments of an ancient, though besotted, superstition.
His taste admired the structures, whilst his soul contemned the
profane rites which they had been reared to consecrate, and though
he destroyed the monstrous idols of the heathens, he allowed their
temples to stand, many of them noble monuments of Hindoo talent and
architectural skill.

When the fortress was fully in possession of Akbar he gazed with
astonishment upon the prodigal sacrifice of human life which had
occurred in almost every house. The Johur had taken place, and many
thousand females of all ages signalised the detestation of their
foes by submitting to a voluntary death. Multitudes of either sex
surrendered their lives, some by the sword, others on the flaming pile.
Blood flowed in torrents. The steams of death rose to the fair heavens,
which looked down calmly and beautifully, but through which glanced an
omnipotent eye upon the violence, the follies, and the delinquencies of
men.

So great had been the destruction that little treasure was found by
the conquerors within the fortress. They who perished by a voluntary
decease had taken care previously to consume or destroy everything
of value which they possessed. Even the treasures of the temples had
been disposed of, so that the conquerors entered a depopulated town,
rendered a scene of utter desolation, a fit abode only for the reptile
and beast of prey.

That portion of the garrison which had last sallied from the gates to
die fighting for their country and its shrines perished in a cause
which they imagined would end in their transportation to higher scenes
of enjoyment in new states of being. They first purified themselves
with water, offered adoration to the Divinity, made benefactions to the
poor, placed a branch of the toolsi in their casques, and the saligram
round their necks, emblems of death and the grave; and having cased
themselves in armour, and put on the saffron robe, they bound the mor,
a funeral coronet, round their heads, embraced each other for the last
time, and rushed forth to perish in the fierce conflict of arms.

As the king walked through the now desolate streets he was deeply
affected. Disfigured bodies, black and putrid, and exhaling the
horrible odours of decay, lay before him in all their revolting
deformity. The corpses of those who fell by their own hands had been
just put under the surface of the ground, and were seen protruding
through the earth from their superficial graves, filling the air with
the seeds of pestilence. Women and children were still among the dead
and dying, at the last extremity, imploring piteously for a cup of
water to slake the raging thirst that was consuming them, and adding
intolerable torment to their expiring agonies.

All the corpses were ordered to be collected together and consumed upon
one vast pile, and fires were kept burning for days to purify the air
and cleanse the polluted town.

Such were the frightful circumstances under which the Mogul emperor
became master of Chittore. It is, in truth, melancholy to contemplate
the horrors which frequently follow on the heels of human ambition.
It seems to look upon the sanguinary devastations of war as a sort of
legalised licence to destruction, and they therefore fail to excite
our sympathies; but if we consider what an awful amount of human
beings have been cut off by the sword, or by those scourges so often
the frightful handmaids of war, pestilence and famine, we should be
startled at the prodigious total. Animals destroy each other singly,
and in obedience to an irresistible instinct to support their own
lives, which, to them, is the greatest boon of heaven, because they
have no prospects beyond, but the rational portion of God’s creatures
destroy each other by large masses and in mighty sums merely to
substantiate the sordid calculations of interest, to appease their base
passions, or to realize the aims of a bloated ambition.

Akbar having done all in his power to alleviate the miseries of the few
surviving native inhabitants of Chittore, commanded the walls to be
repaired, appointed Asuf Chan Hirvy governor of the fortress, leaving
with him a numerous garrison, and returned with the rest of his army to
his capital.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

1603 A.D.--In the year of the Hegira 1014, Prince Selim ascended the
imperial throne of the Moguls immediately upon the death of his father
Akbar, who expired at Agra, amid the general lamentations of his
subjects, who loved him as their father, admired him as their leader,
and feared him as their prince.

Heg. 1015 (1604).--A conspiracy was formed in favour of Chusero,
Jehangire’s eldest son. When it was discovered, the prince appeared
in arms and broke out into open rebellion. He marched to Delhi,
ravaged the country, and laid the suburbs under contribution. Many
houses were burned, many persons perished, and thousands were utterly
ruined. Jehangire, hearing of these outrages, immediately commanded his
captain-general to put the army in motion and pursue his rebellious
son. Suspecting that officer’s loyalty, however, he recalled him just
as the latter was about to quit the city gates, and gave command of
the imperial forces to Ferid Bochari, paymaster-general of the army,
who pursued the rebel to Lahore, where he was entirely routed. As the
person of Chusero was known to the troops generally, they did not
attempt his life, and he was permitted to escape. He was, however, soon
after taken prisoner, which put an end to the rebellion. In the same
year a peace was concluded with Persia.

Heg. 1018 (1609).--Shere Afkun, a Turkoman noble, slew the Suba of
Bengal, and was immediately killed by the latter’s troops.

Heg. 1019 (1610).--Jehangire married the beautiful widow of Shere Afkun
Noor Mahil.

Heg. 1020 (1611).--The Afghans, a fierce and untractable people,
inhabiting the mountains beyond the Indus, rebelled, and entering
Cabul with a considerable army, committed the most cruel excesses. The
rebellion was suppressed by Nadili Meidani, who pursued the Afghans to
their native mountains, putting a great part of their ill-disciplined
troops to the sword. The close of this year was distinguished by two
formidable insurrections, one in Bengal, the other in Behar; the
former was put an end to by Sujait Chan, who for this signal service
was advanced by his imperial master to the title of Rustum Zimân,
which signifies the Hercules of the age. The insurrection in Behar
was quashed in consequence of the rebel Cuttub, who assumed to be the
Prince Chusero, being killed by a brickbat.

Heg. 1022 (1613).--Prince Purvez was despatched with an army
against Amar Sinka, Rana or Prince of Odipoor, in the Deccan, who
had attacked and defeated the imperial troops. He was unsuccessful.
Jehangire recalled him and sent Mohabet Chan to replace him. The army,
however, being reduced by disease, and in a state of insubordination,
Mohabet was not in a condition to oppose the Rana. Prince Churrum,
the emperor’s third son, was consequently sent with fresh troops to
supersede Mohabet. He entered by the mountains, engaged the enemy, and
obliged him to sue for peace.

Heg. 1023 (1614).--Chan Azim and Man Singh, the two principal
supporters of Chusero’s rebellion, died. They were both distinguished
under the reign of Akbar, who advanced them to high offices in the
state.

Heg. 1024 (1615).--Sir Thomas Roe, the English ambassador to the court
of Agra, arrived at Boorampoor, where he was courteously received by
Sultan Purvez, governor of that province. He was subsequently received
by the Emperor at Ajmere with the greatest affability and kindness.
Disturbances in Guzzarat and Cabul quelled.

Heg. 1025 (1616).--Sultan Churrum’s name was changed to Shah Jehan,
or King of the World. The princes of the Deccan having rebelled, Shah
Jehan forced them to sue for peace, for which eminent service he rose
into high favour with the Emperor.

Heg. 1027 (1618).--The Vizier Actemad-ul-Dowla, father-in-law of the
Emperor, died. Aurungzebe born. His mother was the Sultana Kudsia,
daughter of Asiph Jah. The name Aurungzebe signifies the Ornament of
the Throne.

Heg. 1029 (1620).--Shah Jehan marched a second time into the Deccan,
and reduced to subjection the princes, who had again rebelled. His
eldest brother, Chusero, was delivered into his hands.

Heg. 1030 (1621).--Chusero was assassinated under the walls of Azere by
command of Shah Jehan.

Heg. 1031 (1622).-Shah Jehan assumed the Imperial purple, attacked
the fort at Agra, but was repulsed by Asiph Jah, the new Vizier, and
brother of the Sultana Noor Jehan.

Heg. 1032 (1623).--Jehangire prepared to march against his rebellious
son, who endeavoured to justify his rebellion. An action ensued in
which Shah Jehan was entirely defeated. Sultan Purvez arrived in the
camp, and under the tuition of Mohabet received command of the imperial
forces. He defeated the royal insurgent upon the banks of the Nerbuddah.

Heg. 1033 (1624).--Shah Jehan entered Bengal, defeated the Suba, took
possession of that province and likewise of Behar. Prince Purvez
advanced with the imperial army and again defeated his rebellious
brother, who fled towards the Deccan, was joined by the Rajah of
Ambere, and besieged Boorampoor, but was repulsed.

Heg. 1034 (1625).--Shah Jehan was pardoned by the Emperor. Candahar,
a fortified town of Afghanistan, was taken by the Persians under the
command of Shah Abbas their King, who appeared before it in person.
The Usbeck Tartars invaded the province of Ghizni, but after an
obstinate resistance of nine months were driven out of the empire.

Heg. 1035 (1626).--Mohabet was accused of treason, and summoned before
the Emperor. He obeyed, was grossly insulted, surprised Jehangire in
his tent, made him prisoner, and carried him off to his own camp. The
Vizier attempted a rescue, but was defeated with great slaughter.
Mohabet resigned his power, was obliged to fly, and declared himself in
favour of Shah Jehan.

Heg. 1036 (1627).--Jehangire died. Dawir Buxsh, grandson of the late
Emperor, was raised to the throne, deposed, and murdered. Shah Jehan
arrived at Agra, and was proclaimed Emperor.

Heg. 1037 (1628).--Shah Jehan ascended the throne of the Moguls.

The Light of the World

CHAPTER I.

The morning dawned upon two travellers in the midst of a blighted
wilderness. As the sun threw its level rays over the horizon, they
flooded a plain where no boundary could be traced but the sky, and from
which the dominion of vegetation was almost wholly withdrawn; there
being nothing to relieve the dull, uniform sterility of the scene but
occasionally the trunks of a few stunted trees, which appeared to stand
there only as so many legible records of the utter barrenness of the
spot. These sad wayfarers rose from beneath the scanty shades of one of
those skeletons of the wilderness to pursue a journey with a deplorable
prospect before them. They were far advanced upon a wide inhospitable
desert, where no welcome serai was to be seen, and where the passenger
was seldom met. The refreshing well was nowhere found in these dreary
and unfruitful solitudes.

The travellers were a Tartar and his wife, who, in consequence of a
marriage not approved of by their respective families, had fled from
their country to seek that home in another which was denied to them
in their own. The man was handsome, of noble carriage, possessing
all the generous qualities of his race; bold, active, enterprising,
with great capability of endurance, and withal of a mild and placable
spirit. The woman was young, beautiful, but extremely delicate; and
to crown her husband’s misery and her own, she was about to become
a mother. When they arose on this sad morning, they consumed the
last of their provisions. They had only a small quantity of water
in a leathern bottle, which the Tartar made his fainting wife drink
before they proceeded on their way. What a deplorable condition! To
linger was certain death, and to advance seemed only a dallying with
hope--there appeared no chances of relief. They had several days’
journey to perform, without being provided with any sustenance for so
long and arduous a travel; and the chances of meeting with passengers
were so remote as to render their perishing in the wilderness almost a
certainty.

The Tartar’s wife was mounted upon a small lean horse, which for the
last several days had been so sparingly fed that it could scarcely
proceed. The wretched woman was unconscious of the extent of her
danger. She knew not that the whole of their provisions were exhausted,
save one small rice cake which the tender husband had reserved for her
use. He kept from her the awful fact of their utter destitution, lest
in her precarious condition it should bring on premature labour where
no assistance could be obtained, and she would thus probably perish.
In spite of the misery of his situation, he still entertained the
hope that he should obtain relief; and trusting in the mercy of Him
who guides the wanderer as well in the wilderness as in the populous
country, he pursued his journey though with a heavy and foreboding
heart. As the sun rose, the heat became intolerable. There was no
shelter from its scorching rays. The anxious Tartar held an umbrella
over the head of his wife as he walked painfully along by the side of
her lean ambling pony; but after a while his arm became so cramped that
it was with difficulty he could bear the weight of the chatta. This,
though not great, was the more sensibly felt from the elevated position
in which he was obliged to keep his arms. He was, however, marvellously
sustained by the excitement of his anxiety for the dear object near
him, who bore with unrepining endurance privations which in her state
were especially deplorable. They travelled through a long and toilsome
day. The rice cake was consumed long before they halted for the night.

There being no shelter near, the husband fixed the handle of his
umbrella into the ground, and throwing over it a thin palampore,[33]
formed a kind of rude tent, under which his wife might repose without
immediate exposure to the unwholesome night air. She was exhausted with
fatigue; her tongue was parched with thirst, and the rapid increase
of circulation too plainly told that fever was fast coming on. To
attempt to depict the husband’s agony were a vain endeavour. Without
food--without water--his wife actually in the pains of labour--with
no hope of relief--in the midst of a vast wilderness, which even the
wild beasts shunned as a solitude where only death and desolation
reigned--he had no thought but that both must lie down and die. The
sufferings of his hapless companion were appalling, yet she bore
them without a murmur. The severity of her pangs aggravated that
thirst by which she had been so long and so grievously oppressed. He
had but one alternative, and did not hesitate to adopt it in such a
trying emergency. His wife’s agonies were every moment increasing. He
quitted the insecure canopy which he had erected for her temporary
accommodation, seized his dagger, ran to the pony, and, in a paroxysm
of tumultuous anxiety to save the life of the object dearest to him
upon earth, plunged it desperately into the animal’s throat. Having
caught the blood in a wooden trencher, he bore it to the tent.

During his short absence, his wife had become a mother. The cry of the
poor babe raised within him, at this moment, emotions of parental joy;
but these were in an instant stifled by the consciousness of those
awful perils by which he was surrounded. He put the bowl to the lips of
the suffering mother; she took a small quantity, and was in a slight
degree refreshed. He now kindled a fire upon the wide blasted desert,
and broiled some flesh of the animal which he had just slaughtered. It
was tough and rank. The juices, however, of this unpalatable repast
subdued in a degree the yearnings of hunger and the dreadful pangs of
thirst.

On the morrow, when the sun again cast its vivid light upon the vast
level of the wilderness, this wretched pair arose to pursue their
journey. The Tartar dreaded the increased difficulties which he should
have now to overcome. His companion was so weak that she could scarcely
stand; yet she was obliged to carry her infant, as he was loaded with
their baggage and other necessaries, that had hitherto been confined to
the back of the pony. They had scarcely commenced the prosecution of
their melancholy journey, when they were cheered with the prospect of
relief. Not more than half a coss[34] distance before them, a beautiful
lake seemed to smile in the morning sun, and to invite the suffering
travellers to bathe their limbs in its limpid waters. The margin was
dotted with groups of trees, displaying a luxuriant foliage, which was
reflected in the still mirror below, and promised a grateful shade to
the travel-worn passenger. Oxen appeared to be grazing on its margin,
and every now and then, in the luxury of the most exquisite enjoyment,
to hide themselves under the pellucid surface of its calm waters.
Beyond, a gorgeous city reared its battlements amid the solemn silence
of the desert, over which it seemed to cast the glow of its splendour,
and to speak with a mute but eloquent voice of cheering to the heart
of the forlorn wanderer, of which they alone can appreciate the magic
force who have braved the perils of the wilderness, and seen death
stand before them face to face amid its vast and inhospitable solitudes.

The Tartar and his wife, overjoyed at the sight, made the best of their
way towards the lake and the city, in which the stir of busy life
seemed to prevail; for they saw, as they imagined, multitudes of their
fellow beings issue from its gates and spread over the adjoining plain.
The scene, to the excited imagination of the travellers, was animated
beyond description. The sight of human habitations, and of human beings
who could afford them succour; of water in which they might assuage
the pangs of the most painful of bodily privations; of houses in which
they might find shelter after their perilous journey--all gave such a
stimulus to their exertions, that even the weak and suffering mother,
with the assistance of her husband’s arm, was able to go onward with
tolerable firmness.

When they had proceeded for some time, the lake and the city still
appeared before them, but no nearer. It seemed to them as if they had
been moving their limbs without advancing a single step. They still,
however pressed forward under the delusive expectation of reaching the
fair goal of their hopes; but after a while the lake began suddenly to
disappear, the city was by degrees shrouded in mist, which dispersed
in the course of a few minutes, and, to their consternation, they
saw nothing save the wide arid expanse of the desert before them.
The unhappy woman sank upon the earth in a paroxysm of mental agony.
The miserable man was now perfectly overwhelmed with despair. He
feared that his wife was dying. She could no longer carry the infant;
there was, consequently, but one alternative. The struggle of nature
was a severe one, but no choice remained between death and parental
inhumanity. The desire of life prevailed; and it was determined, after
an agonizing conflict, that the infant must be sacrificed. The mother’s
tears were dried up on her burning cheeks, and the father’s pangs were
lost in the anxieties of the husband. The appeals of nature were only
stifled by louder appeals in both their bosoms; and, however fierce
the repugnance, it was to be resisted and overcome. The death of their
babe was the least of two evils; they therefore submitted to the stern
severity of their condition.

It was agreed by the half-distracted parents, that the newborn pledge
of their affections should be abandoned. The mother having kissed it
fervently, consigned it to the arms of her husband, who, having taken
it to a spot where the stunted stock of a tree protruded from the
scorching sand, placed it under the scanty shade of this bare emblem
of sterility; and, having covered it with leaves, left it to the mercy
of that God who can protect the babe in the desert as well as the
sovereign on his throne. On rejoining his wife, the Tartar found her
so weak that he feared she would be unable to proceed. Though released
from the burden of her infant, her prostration of strength was so
extreme, from the united effects of mental and bodily suffering, that
she could scarcely rise from the earth. The pangs of thirst were again
becoming horrible; still, after a severe struggle, she rose, and the
wretched pair pursued their journey in silence and in agony.

They had not proceeded far before the invincible yearnings of nature
prevailed over mere physical torment, and the bereaved mother called in
a voice of piteous anguish for her child. She could no longer endure
the pains of separation. The idea of having voluntarily consented to
become the instrument of its death, was a horror which increased with
every step, and she sank exhausted upon the sand. The sun, now rising
towards its meridian, poured upon her the fiery effulgence of its
beams. The husband’s heart was subdued by her sufferings. Dashing a
tear from his cheek, he undertook to return and restore their infant to
the arms of its distracted mother. Fixing the handle of his umbrella
again in the ground and throwing the palampore over it, he placed his
wife under that frail covering, and immediately retraced his steps.
With a sad heart he reached the spot where he had lately deposited the
infant; but what was his consternation at beholding the leaves removed,
and a black snake coiled round it, with its hideous mouth opposed to
that of his child! In a frenzy of desperation he rushed forward; but
instantly arrested by the instinct of paternal fear, he stood before
the objects at once of his tenderest interest and of his terror, as
if he had been suddenly converted into stone. The previous motion,
however, had evidently alarmed the monster; for it gradually uncoiled
itself from its victim without committing the slightest injury, and
retired into the hollow trunk which marked this memorable spot. The
father snatched up his child, and bore it in ecstacy to its mother;
but she was extended under the palampore in the last struggle of
expiring nature. Her feeble spirit had been overborne by her lengthened
sufferings of mind and body, and she now lay at the point of death. She
raised her eyes languidly, received the babe with a faint smile upon
her bosom, and tenderly kissed it. The effort overcame her, and she
fainted. After a short time she rallied--but it was only to die. The
husband hung over her with mute but intense tenderness, cursing in his
heart with a bitterness which that very tenderness aggravated, those
relatives who had caused the death of all he valued upon earth, and
rendered him the most desolate of men.

“Aiass,” said the dying woman, “dig me a grave in the wilderness;
don’t leave this poor body to the beasts of prey. We shall be restored
to each other. There is a paradise beyond this world where all the
good meet and are blessed: we shall be among them. I die happy in the
possession of your love, and in the consciousness of never having
forfeited my claim to it.”

The Tartar could not speak. He pressed the wife of his bosom to that
heart which she had so fondly engrossed, and scalding tears of agony
overflowed his cheeks. He threw his arms tenderly round her, his heart
throbbing audibly, and buried his bursting temples in the hot sand
beside her. She spoke not--she stirred not; he raised his head to kiss
her fading lips--her eye was rayless--those lips were slightly parted,
but fixed; a faint smile was on her cheek, yet no breath came. She was
dead!

FOOTNOTES:

[33] A counterpane.

[34] The coss is about two miles.

CHAPTER II.

Aiass raised himself from the earth, cast his eye with a look of
reproach towards heaven, and gave way to a burst of sorrow; then
bringing the strong energies of his mind to resistance, the ebullition
shortly subsided, and he bowed to the stroke with the fortitude of a
man who looks upon endurance as his province, and upon calamity as his
lot. During the whole of this melancholy day he did not quit the body.
His wife’s dying request was in his ears and in his memory--“Dig me a
grave in the wilderness,” and he resolved to comply with it. He passed
twelve lingering hours in a broiling sun, occasionally casting himself
under the palampore beside the corpse, close to which his infant slept
unconscious of its loss. His thirst became at length so excessive that
his throat and tongue swelled, and he began to apprehend suffocation.
His face was blistered and sore, his eyes inflamed, from the combined
effects of weeping, and the glare of an ardent sun upon the white sand
of the desert. Towards evening he was so overcome by his sufferings
that he laid him down to die. The infant cried for nutriment, but
he had none to give it. Taking the linen from his body, which was
saturated with perspiration, he put it to the babe’s mouth: this kept
it alive.

The tongue of Aiass had by this time enlarged to such an immense size
that he could not move it. The inflammation was so great that he was
unable to close his lips. Expecting death every moment, he pressed
still closer to his bosom the innocent pledge of conjugal affection,
when he was unexpectedly relieved by the cracking of his swollen
tongue. A copious discharge of blood followed, which passed into his
stomach, and somewhat assuaged the fever that burned within him. He was
so much relieved by this effort of nature, that he almost immediately
sank into a short but refreshing slumber.

The sun had gone down in brightness; and when he awoke, the stars were
looking upon him from their thrones of light, and the whole heavens
smiling above him in their beauty. The intense, calm azure of the sky
seemed an emblem of the repose that dwells there. A gentle breeze
had broken the oppressive stagnation of the air, and fanned his hot,
blistered features as with an angel’s wing. His energies revived.
Though the thirst by which he was still parched affected him greatly,
still it was in some degree mitigated by that balmy breath of heaven,
which he felt now for the first time since he had entered upon the
desert. He commenced his melancholy task of digging a grave to enclose
the remains of an object who had been dearer to him than his own life.
He took his crease--a short dagger with a wide double-edged blade,--and
began to remove the sand. It was an arduous and sorrowful labour. After
an earnest application of mind and body for two hours, he succeeded in
sinking a hole four feet deep. Into this he tenderly lowered the body
of his departed wife, filled up the pit, and throwing himself upon
it, lay there until morning. There was a discharge of blood from his
tongue once or twice during the night, which more than probably saved
his life.

Towards dawn he fell into a deep and death-like sleep. He was at
length awaked by feeling himself severely shaken. Upon looking up, he
perceived himself to be surrounded by strangers. They were travellers
on their way to Lahore. They gave him food and water; the infant was
fed with goat’s milk by means of a sponge. His strength being now
somewhat recruited, he joined the travellers, and advanced with them by
easy stages to their destination.

Lahore was the field in which the Tartar’s talents soon displayed
themselves. Aiass was no ordinary man. He attracted the notice of the
Emperor Akbar, who had a singular faculty in discriminating merit, and
from that moment rose to distinction. Akbar perceived his value, and
made it available to promote the interests of his empire. The Tartar
advanced by a regular but rapid progression until he became high
treasurer of the state. He was a chief political organ of one of the
wisest sovereigns which history celebrates, and held in great respect
by the whole nation. The Emperor reposed implicit confidence in him: it
was well deserved, and ended only with his life.

The daughter of Aiass, who had been so providentially preserved in
the desert, as she grew up, excelled in personal attractions all the
loveliest women of the East, and was therefore honoured with the
designation of Mher-ul-Nissa: the Sun of Women. The extraordinary event
which had distinguished her birth seemed but as the prognostic of
future distinction. The child of the desert grew to be the perfection
of woman. The greatest care was taken to make her mistress of every
accomplishment which could impart additional fascination to the natural
graces of her sex. In vivacity, wit, spirit, and all those elegant
attainments in which women especially excel, she was unrivalled by few
and surpassed by none.

Of her it might have been almost said, without any assumption of the
licence of poetry--

“The force of Nature could no further go.”

In masculine vigour of understanding she stood alone and unapproached.
Her beauty was the theme of universal praise. Suitors from all quarters
sought her hand; but it was not easily won. Shere Afkun, a Turkoman
noble of distinction, at length presented himself; and to him she
was betrothed. The Mogul historians speak of Shere Afkun as the most
eminent person of his age, and much esteemed by the Emperor, who
never failed to bestow his favour upon brave men. The Turkoman was of
lofty stature, and no less remarkable for the beauty of his form and
features than for the rare qualities of his mind. He was universally
acknowledged to be every way worthy of the beautiful Mher-ul-Nissa, by
whose preference he felt equally flattered and delighted.

CHAPTER III.

Soon after she had been betrothed to Shere Afkun, the lovely Tartar was
seen by Prince Selim, afterwards well known as the Emperor Jehangire,
who became so desperately enamoured of her, that imagining there could
be no obstacle to her union with a prince of the blood, he applied to
his father Akbar, for his consent to espouse the beautiful daughter of
the high treasurer, Chaja Aiass.

The Emperor sternly refused his consent; at the same time upbraiding
his son with seeking to degrade himself by a mean alliance. Prince
Selim was abashed; and, to his mortification, the accomplished Tartar
shortly after became the wife of Shere Afkun.

Selim was from that moment the implacable foe of his successful rival.
He could not bear to hear the hated name mentioned in his presence,
and, with cowardly vindictiveness, determined upon his destruction. He
kept these feelings a secret from his father, who esteemed the Turkoman
too highly to approve of the prince’s hostility towards him, and had,
moreover, expressed his satisfaction at the latter’s marriage with
Mher-ul-Nissa. Selim, however, secretly fomented jealousies among the
Omrahs against the popular as well as imperial favourite. These were
easily excited; for there will never be found wanting persons ready to
traduce those to whom they are conscious of being inferior in moral
excellence; and especially in courts where ambition is the ruling
passion, nothing can be less difficult than to provoke the envy of
men whose sole aim is aggrandisement, and who are therefore naturally
disposed to think ill of any who happen to contravene those aims, or
to cross the path of their ambition. The prince, therefore, had little
difficulty in accomplishing his purpose. He secretly disseminated
calumnies to the injury of Shere Afkun, who in disgust retired from
court into Bengal, where he obtained from the governor the vicegerency
of Burdwan, a considerable district in that province.

Here he lived undisturbed until the death of Akbar, which caused the
sincere regret of the whole nation, who in mourning the decease of
their Emperor deplored the loss of a great and a good man. When Prince
Selim became sovereign, his passion for the daughter of Aiass revived
in full force. The restraint being removed under which the smothered
flame had been so long and so painfully suppressed, it burst forth with
increased fierceness. He was now absolute; and being determined to
possess the object of his disappointed love, he made advances towards
a reconciliation with Shere Afkun; but the brave Turkoman for a time
resisted all his importunities, perceiving their object, and resolving
to part neither with his wife nor with his honour, as he could not
resign the one without relinquishing the other. His strength was
prodigious, and his bravery equal to his strength; his integrity was
unimpeached, his reputation high, and he was alike feared and respected
by all classes. Upon every occasion where danger was imminent, he was
foremost to encounter it; while his desperate valour was the theme of
many a romance and of many a song. His bodily vigour was so great,
that he had slain a lion single handed; from which circumstance he
obtained the cognomen of Shere Afkun, or the Lion-slayer, his original
name being Asta Jillo. He was, however, no less esteemed for his
virtues than for his bravery; and Mher-ul-Nissa fully appreciated
his rare endowments. She was proud of his reputation. To her the
Emperor’s feelings were no secret; but she avoided his presence, in
obedience to the wishes of her husband, who was not altogether without
his suspicions that the hostility which the new sovereign manifested
towards him was solely on her account. He continued, therefore, in the
province of Bengal, without visiting the imperial capital.

Not long, however, after Jehangire had ascended the throne of the
Moguls, Shere Afkun was invited to court, whither, after repeated
solicitations, he repaired, trusting to his own high reputation for
security against any tyrannical exercise of the sovereign power. Upon
his arrival he was much caressed by the Emperor, in order to lull
suspicion. Open and generous himself, he suspected no treachery in
others. He left his wife at Burdwan, not willing to expose her to the
chance of attention from the sovereign, that might keep alive former
predilections, and renew his royal rival’s criminal hostility.

The young Emperor’s court was splendid in the extreme. He was fond
of state; but hunting being his passion, a day was appointed for the
chase. All the chief nobles of the empire attended, hoping to have
an opportunity of exhibiting before their royal master their skill
and prowess in a pursuit at all times extremely dangerous in eastern
countries. A vast train, swelling to the number of an army, issued from
the gates of Lahore. The cavalcade was prodigious. Upwards of five
hundred elephants, upon which rode the Emperor and his court, led the
van towards a jungle where the quarry was expected to be roused. The
howdah of the royal elephant was covered by a silken canopy, and its
whole caparison profusely ornamented with precious metals. Thousands
of spears glittered in the sun, the rays of which were reflected in
streams of glowing light from those various arms borne by this motley
cavalcade. The neighing of steeds was mingled with the busy hum of men
who thronged to the scene of exciting enjoyment.

Shere Afkun accompanied the court on horseback, armed only with the
sword with which he had slain a lion--having by that act immortalised
his name in the annals of his country. His royal master showed him a
very marked respect, occasionally consulting him respecting the chase;
thus aggravating the jealousy of the nobles, already sufficiently
fierce against him. He received the Emperor’s courtesies with a cold
but modest respect, not entirely forgetting former unkindness, though
without suspicion of future injury.

The royal party at length entered the jungle, where the forest haunts
of the lion and tiger were shortly explored. The hunters soon enclosed
a mighty beast of the latter species, of which Jehangire being
apprized, immediately proceeded to the spot. He began to entertain a
hope that the period so long desired was arrived when he should have an
opportunity of exposing the life of his former rival in an encounter
from which the latter would have little chance of escaping. Seeing the
tiger at a short distance, surrounded by hunters, lashing the ground
with its tail and giving other tokens of savage hostility, the despot
demanded of those around him, who would venture to attack the ferocious
beast?

All stood silent and confounded. They had not expected such a proposal:
nor did they appear to entertain any wish to expose their lives in a
conflict in which more danger than glory would be reaped.

As none of them advanced, and the Emperor began to knit his brows
and show symptoms of displeasure, Shere Afkun already entertained a
hope that the enterprise would devolve upon him; but, to his extreme
mortification, three Omrahs stepped forward and offered to encounter
the forest tyrant. Jehangire cast upon the bold Turkoman a glance of
such unequivocal expression that his pride kindled, and he longed to
show how little backward he was to engage the brindled foe; but as
three nobles had first challenged the encounter, he could not set aside
their prior claim to a distinction which they insisted upon striving
for.

Upon receiving the approbation of their royal master, they severally
prepared for the encounter, dismounting from their elephants, and
arming themselves with sword, spear, and shield. Shere Afkun, fearing
that he was likely to be rivalled, and that his fame would be tarnished
by inferior men undertaking a conflict which by his silence he might be
supposed to have declined, advanced, and presenting himself before the
sovereign, said firmly: “To attack an unarmed creature with weapons is
neither fair nor manly; it is taking an advantage of an animal which
cannot plead against such injustice but by a fierce retaliation. Such
is not in accordance with the character of the truly brave. All manual
contests should be undertaken upon equal terms. The Deity has given
limbs and sinews to man as well as to tigers, and has imparted reason
to the former in order to countervail the deficiency of strength. Let
the nobles of your imperial majesty then lay aside their arms and
attack the enemy with those only with which the Deity has provided
them. If they shrink from such an encounter, I am prepared to undertake
it.”

Jehangire rewarded the speaker with a smile of gracious approbation;
but his Omrahs, one and all, declined such a perilous contest,
insisting upon the madness of the enterprise. To the Emperor’s infinite
surprise and delight, the bold Turkoman instantly cast aside his sword
and shield, and prepared to engage the tiger unarmed.

The circle of hunters, which had surrounded the forest tyrant, opened
to admit the champion. The ferocious beast with which he was to engage
lay at the root of a tree, snarling hideously as its enemy approached,
erecting the fur upon its tail and back, passing its tongue every now
and then over the terrific fangs with which its jaws were armed, but
seeming ill disposed to commence the contest. Shere Afkun was stripped
to his trousers, and his fine muscular frame, a model for an Indian
Apollo, exhibited its noble proportions as he advanced cautiously but
firmly towards his foe. The tiger lay upon its belly without attempting
to stir, nevertheless giving evident tokens of a determination to
retaliate if attacked. The ponderous paws projected from beneath its
chest; and upon these it occasionally rested its head, until roused
by the approach of its adversary. Every eye was fixed upon the scene;
every heart throbbed with the strongest emotion of anxiety. The
sovereign alone sat upon his elephant, apparently calm and undisturbed;
but the deep flush upon his cheek showed that he took no ordinary
interest in the approaching encounter. He did not utter a word as he
saw the man whom he considered doomed to inevitable destruction march
resolutely up to the prostrate tiger and strike it in the ribs with
his foot. The animal, now excited to ferocious resistance, instantly
sprang upon its legs, but crept backward with its face to the enemy and
its belly to the ground. Shere Afkun advanced as it retreated, keeping
his eyes fixed upon those of the enraged beast. At length the latter
suddenly turned, and bounded forward; but was stopped by the spears
of the hunters, who still encircled it at a distance, all armed to
prevent its escape. Finding its purpose foiled, it again turned, and
being beyond the influence of the Turkoman’s eye, prepared to make its
perilous spring.

Shere Afkun now retreated in his turn, and, pausing near a tree,
awaited the approach of his enemy. It instantly bounded onward,
sweeping its tail above the ground with an uncertain motion, but
without uttering a sound. The brave champion, who from experience was
well acquainted with the habits of those animals which are the terror
of the jungles and their immediate neighbourhood, well knew that the
creature was about to spring. Placing his right foot forward, and
planting his left firmly against the projecting root of the tree, he
calmly awaited the menaced peril. The tiger crouched, and uttered
a short sharp growl, projected its body forward with a celerity
and force which nothing could have resisted; but the wary Turkoman
leaped aside as the living projectile was about to fall upon him, and
turning quickly, seized his baffled foe by the tail; then swinging it
round with a strength and dexterity that astonished every beholder,
brought its head in such violent contact with the tree, that for
several seconds it was completely stunned. After a while, however,
it recovered, but lay still and panting, not at all relishing, as it
seemed, a renewal of the conflict. As the victory was not yet decided,
Shere Afkun again approached the prostrate beast in order to rouse it
to resistance. He kicked it several times, but it only growled, lashed
its tail, showed its fangs--remaining perfectly passive under these
acts of aggression.

The hero, tired of this indecisive mode of warfare, seized it again
by the tail, and, swinging it round as he had already done, brought
its head once more in stunning contact with the tree. The blow, though
severe, did not produce the same effect as before; for the enraged
animal, suddenly rising to the full height of its stature, turned on
its aggressor with a savage roar, and seized him by the fleshy part of
the thigh behind. As his trousers were loose the tiger was somewhat
deceived, and therefore, fortunately, did not take so large a mouthful
as it no doubt would have done had the limb been entirely naked. Shere
Afkun instantly grasped it by the windpipe, and, squeezing it with
all his might, soon obliged the creature to quit its hold; but with a
violent twist it freed itself from the strong grip of its adversary,
and instantly renewed the encounter.

The struggle now became indeed terrific, and the anxiety of the
spectators increased in proportion. Jehangire could no longer control
the feeling by which he was overborne. His parted lips, between which
the tongue protruded with a quivering nervousness of motion, his
eyelids so raised as to discover the entire orb of his eager, restless
eyes, the tremulous aspect of his whole frame,--showed the extent of
his interest in the issue of this unnatural strife.

By this time the tiger had again rallied, and having raised itself upon
its hind-legs, struck both its fore-paws upon the Turkoman’s breast,
tearing the flesh from the bone. Shere Afkun fell under the weight of
this deadly assault; but, still undismayed, after a desperate effort he
contrived to roll over upon his panting foe, now nearly exhausted from
its exertions and by the severe blows it had received, and, forcing
his hand between its extended jaws, griped it so firmly by the root of
the tongue, that in a few seconds it lay strangled beneath his grasp.
He then rose streaming with blood, pointed to his dead enemy, made a
salaam to the Emperor, and quitted the field grievously lacerated.

The Emperor was astounded at the issue. The champion was borne home
in a palankeen, and for several weeks his life was despaired of. To
the surprise of Jehangire, Shere Afkun eventually recovered, though he
carried the marks of the tiger’s claws to his grave. The royal rival
was nevertheless determined not to forego his purpose of destroying
this remarkable man, though he feared to do it openly. Meanwhile the
hero went abroad, everywhere unattended, utterly unsuspicious of a
design against his life. He was not conscious of having offended a
human creature, and therefore did not suppose that any man living could
desire his death. He lived in retirement; but whenever he appeared
at court, which he occasionally did, he was always treated by the
sovereign with marked respect and great apparent cordiality. This,
however, was only to mask the most sanguinary intentions, which were no
secret to many of the nobles, who, in common with their master, desired
the destruction of a brave man because he was a hated rival.

Private orders had been given to the driver of a large elephant to
waylay the Turkoman and tread him to death. The opportunity did not
immediately occur, as the victim went abroad at uncertain periods; and
though his movements were watched, it was found a difficult matter
to come upon him at a favourable moment. One day, however, as he was
returning from the public baths through a narrow street, observing
an elephant approaching, he ordered his palankeen-bearers to turn
aside and permit it to pass. As the huge animal came near, he at once
perceived that there was no room for it to pass without crushing the
palankeen, and thus endangering the lives of himself and attendants.

The elephant still came onward. Shere Afkun called to the mahoot to
stop, but his order was disregarded. The phlegmatic Hindoo, sitting
upon its neck apparently in a state of half consciousness, took no heed
of the peril of the party before him. The Omrah, seeing that it was
impossible to avoid the approaching danger except by making a timely
retreat, ordered his bearers to turn and carry him back to the baths;
but they, terrified at the evident hazard to which they were exposed,
threw down the palankeen and fled, leaving their master to settle the
question of priority of right to a passage on the Emperor’s highway.
The hero, undismayed by the formidable aspect of the jeopardy by which
he was menaced, sprang instantly from the ground, drew his sword,
and, before the elephant could accomplish its fatal purpose, severed
its trunk close to the root. The gigantic animal immediately dropped
and expired. The mahoot leaped from its neck as it was in the act of
falling, and escaped.

Shere Afkun, suspecting that in urging the elephant upon him the fellow
had been actuated by that personal feeling which so generally exists
between Hindoo and Mahomedan, forebore to pursue him, thinking the mean
passions of a hireling too contemptible to rouse his indignation; he
therefore allowed the offender to escape unmolested, and coolly wiping
the blade of his sword, returned it to the scabbard.

Jehangire witnessed the whole scene. He had placed himself at a small
lattice that overlooked the street. He was perfectly amazed, but
disappointment and vexation banished from his bosom the better feelings
of nature. Shere Afkun waited upon him and communicated what had
passed: the Emperor extolled his bravery with warmth, and thus escaped
his suspicion.

CHAPTER IV.

Repeated disappointment only served the more to exasperate the
sovereign’s jealousy. It raged like a furnace within him; for to
exercise a due control over their actions is not the general character
of despots. His peace of mind was perpetually disturbed by the
fierceness of his emotions, and he became more than ever bent upon the
death of his successful rival in the affections of Mher-ul-Nissa.

Shere Afkun was not permitted to remain long unmolested. Kuttub, Suba
or governor of Bengal, knowing his master’s wishes, and in order to
ensure his future favour, hired forty ruffians to assassinate the
dreaded Omrah. So confident was the latter in his own strength and
valour, that he took no precaution to protect himself against secret or
open enemies. He lived in a solitary house in which he retained only an
aged porter, all his other servants occupying apartments at a distance.
Relying upon his own courage and the vigour of his arm, he had no
apprehension either of the secret assassin or the open foe.

This was a tempting opportunity. The murderers were engaged, and had
been promised such a reward as should urge them to the most desperate
exertions in order to ensure the consummation of their employees
wishes. They entered the apartment while their victim was asleep. A
lamp hung from the ceiling and threw its dim light upon him as he
reclined in profound slumber. There was no mistaking the hero, as he
lay with his noble head upon his arm, his expansive forehead turned
towards the light, every line blended into one smooth unbroken surface
denoting the perfect placidity of repose. Over his muscular frame
was lightly thrown a thin coverlid, which did not entirely conceal
its beautiful proportions, exhibited in the indistinct but traceable
outline of the figure beneath. He slept profoundly. The murderers
approached the bed and raised their daggers to strike; when one of
them, touched with remorse at the idea of such an unmanly assault upon
a man who had so signalised his courage and virtues, cried out, under
an impulse of awakened conscience, “Hold! are we men? What! forty to
one, and afraid to encounter him awake?”

This timely interposition of the assassin’s remorse saved the life
of his intended victim; for the Turkoman, aroused by the manly
expostulation, started from his bed, seized his sword, and retiring
backwards before the assassins had all entered, reached the corner
of the apartment, where he prepared to defend himself to the last
extremity. As he retreated, he had drawn the couch before him, thus
preventing the immediate contact of his enemies, who endeavoured in
vain to reach him; and as they were only armed with daggers, he cut
down several of them without receiving a single wound. Urged on,
however, by the great amount of the reward offered, the murderers still
pressed upon him, and succeeded at length in dragging the couch from
his grasp, though not before he had caused several others to pay for
their temerity with their lives. He was at length exposed to the full
operation of their brutal fury. Ten of his enemies already lay dead
upon the floor, showing fatal evidence of the strength and celerity of
his arm; there, however, remained thirty to vanquish; and, placing his
back against the wall, the hero prepared for the unequal and deadly
struggle.

Seeing him now entirely exposed to their assault, the ruffians rushed
simultaneously forward, in the hope of being able to despatch him at
once with their daggers; but they so encumbered each other by suddenly
crowding upon their victim in their anxiety to prevent his escape,
that they could not strike. He meanwhile, taking advantage of the
confusion, laid several of them dead at his feet: nevertheless they
pressed forward, and the same result followed. Shifting his ground,
but still managing to keep his back against the wall, he defeated all
their attempts; and such was his fearful precision in employing his
sword, that not a man came within its sweep without receiving practical
experience of the strength with which it was wielded. Besides those
already slain, many others of the assailants fell desperately wounded.
At length the rest, fearing the extermination of their whole band,
betook themselves to flight, and left him without a wound.

The man who had warned Shere Afkun of his danger stood fixed in mute
astonishment at the prowess of him whom he had received a commission
to murder. He had been so paralysed, that he could neither join in the
attack, nor defend his victim from the sanguinary assault which the
latter had so heroically defeated. He had no time for meditation. The
charge had been so sudden, and the defence so marvellous, that his mind
remained in a state of stagnation, and was restored to its proper tone
only upon seeing the extraordinary issue. Perceiving himself to be
alone with the man whom he had undertaken to destroy for a base bribe,
his heart sank within him--he felt that he deserved to die; but his
intended victim advanced, and kindly taking his hand, welcomed him as
his deliverer. Having ascertained from the man’s unreluctant confession
by whom the assassins had been hired, the hero dismissed him with a
liberal benefaction.

This remarkable exploit was repeated from mouth to mouth with a
thousand exaggerations; so that wherever Shere Afkun appeared, he was
followed and pointed at as a man of superhuman powers. Songs and
romances were written to extol his prowess and magnanimity. He was
cheered by the populace wherever he approached. Mothers held up their
babes to behold this extraordinary warrior, blessing him as he passed,
and praying that their sons might emulate his virtues. He was flattered
by these universal suffrages in his favour; nevertheless, in order to
avoid a recurrence of perils similar to those from which he had so
recently escaped, he retired to Burdwan.

Meanwhile the Emperor, burning with secret rage at hearing the valour
of his rival the theme of every tongue, gave orders to his creature,
the Suba of Bengal, to seek a more favourable opportunity than he had
before availed himself of, to destroy this detested Omrah: for such was
his astonishing strength and dexterity, that the Suba dared not attack
him openly.

Being now at a distance from court, the bold Turkoman thought himself
beyond the influence of his sovereign’s jealousy, and, with the natural
frankness of his character, immediately cast aside all suspicion of
mischief. The Suba coming with a great retinue to Burdwan, about sixty
miles from the modern capital of Bengal, with a pretence of making
a tour of the territory placed under his political superintendence,
communicated to his officers the secret of his mission. They heard him
with silent pleasure; for most of the nobles being jealous of a rival’s
popularity, with a mean and dastardly spirit joined readily in the
scheme for his destruction.

Unsuspicious of any hostile intention towards him, the devoted Omrah
went out to meet the Suba as he-was entering the town, and the latter
affected to treat him with great cordiality. He rode by the governor’s
elephant, familiarly conversing with the nobles who formed his suite,
and frequently receiving a gracious smile of approbation from the
Emperor’s vicegerent. He was completely thrown off his guard by this
apparently courteous bearing; and abandoning himself to the generous
warmth of his nature, invited the Omrahs to his abode, resolving to
entertain them with a munificence equal to the liberality of his
disposition; a determination which he knew his wife, the beautiful
Mher-ul-Nissa, would not be backward in fulfilling. Full of these
hospitable resolutions, he pressed forward with a gaiety which showed
the utter absence of suspicion.

In the progress of the cavalcade, a pikeman, pretending that Shere
Afkun was in the way, rudely struck his horse. In a moment the latter’s
suspicions were roused; his countenance darkened, and he cast around
him a look of fiery indignation. Without an instant’s delay he drew
his sword and clove the offender to the earth. Knowing that no soldier
would have thus acted without orders, the insulted noble immediately
saw that his life was aimed at, and directly spurring his horse
towards the elephant of the treacherous Suba, he tore down the howdah,
seized the cowardly Kuttub by the throat, and buried his sword in the
traitor’s body before any of his guards could rescue him; then turning
upon the Omrahs, five were almost instantly sacrificed to his just
revenge.

Reeking with their blood, the avenger stood before the host, sternly
braving the retribution which he saw them preparing to inflict,
and hailing them with a loud defiance. He expected no quarter, and
therefore determined not to yield without a struggle. His mind was
braced to the extreme tension of desperate energy, and he resolved that
the coveted prize of his death should be dearly won. Those who were
within the immediate reach of his arm he slew without distinction, and
such was the fatal celerity of his motions that the enemy fled before
him in dismay. He did not pursue, but challenged the unequal strife.
Like a grim lion, he stood defiant before them, spotted with the gore
of the slain, and prepared for fresh slaughter, but there was not a foe
daring enough to approach him.

Terrified at his prowess, the soldiers began to discharge their arrows
and matchlocks at him from a distance. His horse, struck by a ball in
the forehead, fell dead under him. Springing upon his feet, he slew
several of the enemy who had ventured to rush forward in the hope
of despatching him while encumbered with the housings of his fallen
charger. They fled at the sight of their slain comrades, and left their
unvanquished destroyer to the aim of his distant foes, who fired upon
him without intermission. Covered with wounds and bleeding at every
pore, the still undaunted lion-slayer called upon the Suba’s officers
to advance and meet him in single combat, but they one and all declined
the encounter. They saw that certain death to each of them must be the
issue of such a contest. It was evident, moreover, that their victim
could not escape the aim of so many enemies.

At length, seeing his end approaching, the brave Turkoman, like a
devout Mahomedan, turned his face towards Mecca, threw some dust upon
his head by way of ablution, there being no water near, and standing
up, calm and undismayed, before the armed files of his murderers,
received at one discharge six balls in his body, and expired without a
groan.

Thus perished one of the greatest heroes whose exploits have had a
conspicuous place in the histories of nations.

The beautiful widow was immediately transported to Delhi, but Jehangire
refused to see her, whether from remorse or policy is uncertain. He
ordered her to be confined in one of the worst apartments of the harem.
This was exceedingly galling to her sensitive and haughty spirit.

The harem of an eastern prince is at once the penetralia of the
political and social sanctuary, whence emanate all the cabals and
conspiracies so rife in the cabinets of Moslem potentates; it may,
therefore, be as well to give a brief description of a Mahomedan
sovereign’s domestic establishment.

In the harem are educated the Mogul princes and the principal youth
among the nobles destined for posts of responsibility in the empire.
It is generally separated from the palace, but so nearly contiguous as
to be of ready access. None are admitted within its apartments except
the Emperor and those immediately attached to its several offices,
the duties of which are performed by women. It is generally enclosed
by lofty walls, and surrounded by spacious gardens, laid out with all
the splendour of eastern magnificence, where every luxury is obtained
which the appetite may demand or money can procure. Those inmates who
form the matrimonial confederacy of the Mogul potentate are among the
most beautiful girls which the empire can furnish. They are taught
embroidery, music, and dancing by certain old women hired to instruct
them in every blandishment that may captivate the senses and stimulate
the passions. These lovely captives are never permitted to appear
abroad except when the Emperor travels, and then they are conveyed in
litters closed by curtains, or in boats with small cabins, admitting
the light and air only through narrow Venetian blinds.

The apartments of the harem are very splendid, always, however, of
course in proportion to the wealth of the prince. The favourite object
of his affections exhibits the dignity and enjoys the privilege of a
queen, though of a queen in captivity. While her beauty lasts she is
frequently regarded with a feeling almost amounting to idolatry, but
when that beauty passes away the warmth of love subsides, her person
no longer charms, her voice ceases to impart delight, her faded cheeks
and sharpened tones become disagreeable memorials of the past. Neither
her song nor her lute is now heard with pleasure, for in the beautiful
imagery of the Persian poet, “When the roses wither and the bower loses
its sweetness, you have no longer the tale of the nightingale.”

The favourite, however, while she continues her ascendancy over the
heart of her lord, is treated with sovereign respect throughout the
harem. She smokes her golden-tubed hookha, the mouthpiece studded
with gems; and enjoys the fresh morning breeze under a veranda that
overlooks the gardens of the palace, attended by her damsels, only
second to herself in attraction of person and splendour of attire.

“Her smiling countenance resplendent shines
With youth and loveliness; her lips disclose
Teeth white as jasmine blossoms; silky curls
Luxuriant shade her cheeks; and every limb,
Of slightest texture, moves with natural grace,
lake moonbeams gliding through the yielding air.”[35]

Here she reclines in oblivious repose upon a rich embroidered carpet
from the most celebrated looms of Persia. Through an atmosphere of the
richest incense she breathes the choicest perfumes of Arabia the happy,
and has everything around her that can administer to sensual delight;
still she is generally an unhappy being. She dwells in the midst of
splendid misery and ungratifying profusion, while all within herself
is desolation and hopelessness. Her sympathies are either warped or
stifled; her heart is blighted and her mind degraded. She cannot join
in the enthusiasm of the inimitable Hafiz[36]: “The breath of the
western gale will soon shed musk around; the old world will again be
young,” but languishes, as the seasons return, in the most debasing
captivity, and feels that the western gale breathes not upon her either
the freshness of freedom or of joy.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] Uttara Rama Cheritra, a Hindoo drama, translated by Horace Hayman
Wilson, Esq., from the original Sanscrit.

CHAPTER V.

The daughter of the Tartar Aiass was a woman of haughty spirit, and
could ill brook the indifference with which she was treated by her
former admirer. It preyed deeply upon her mind. She was not ignorant of
the Emperor’s hostility towards her late husband, though unconscious
that it had been the cause of his death. She severely felt her
bereavement; and the change from perfect freedom to captivity--from the
affection of a generous husband to the indifference of a capricious
master, deeply mortified her. Meanwhile, however, she was not idle: the
resources of her mind were no less fertile than extraordinary.

Being very expert at working tapestry and all kinds of embroidery,
and in painting silks with the richest devices, she applied herself
with great assiduity to those employments. By intense application,
she acquired an expertness which enabled her to transcend the works of
the best manufacturers in the empire. In a short time the exquisite
productions of her taste and skill became the talk of the capital, and
she immediately became a person of importance, apart from her being the
widow of the renowned Shere Afkun. The ladies of the Omrahs of Delhi
and Agra would wear nothing upon grand occasions but what came from the
hands of the lovely Mher-ul-Nissa; she was consequently soon pronounced
the oracle of fashion and of taste.

While she affected an extreme simplicity in her own dress, she attired
her attendants in the richest tissues and brocades, making those
who had attractive persons the vehicle of setting off to advantage
the works of her own industry. She thus amassed a considerable sum
of money, and became more celebrated in her obscurity than she had
hitherto been as the wife of the most distinguished hero of his age.
Her milder glories had been hitherto eclipsed by the predominancy of
his.

Notwithstanding the success of her exertions in the occupation to
which she had devoted herself, the daughter of Aiass the Tartar was
still an unhappy woman. She loathed her captivity: she felt the moral
degradation to which she was subjected, and that the influence which
she imagined herself born to exercise was extinguished by an untoward
destiny. She had always entertained a secret conviction that the
strange events of her birth portended a mortal distinction of singular
splendour; it therefore mortified her to find that she continued to
live celebrated only as a fabricator of brocades and tissues. Her
spirits drooped: she grew peevish and irritable. Her occupation became
a toil, and she talked of relinquishing it, when one day she was
apprised that there was an old woman in the harem who pretended to
look into the future and read the destinies of mankind. Mher-ul-Nissa
immediately sent for the prophetess. The crone appeared before her,
bending beneath the weight of years. Upon seeing the widow of the late
Shere Afkun, she lifted her skinny arms, clasped her bony fingers
together, and muttered a few incoherent words which had more the
seeming of madness than of prophecy: there was, however, more sanity
than madness in the mummery--it was a sort of label to her draught of
foreknowledge.

“Well, mother,” inquired Mher-ul-Nissa mildly, “what do those strange
words portend? I would know something of my destiny, if it is in thy
power to read it: if not, take this, and leave a blessing behind thee;
for an aged woman’s curse is a dreadful thing to hang over any one’s
head.” Saying this, she placed a gold mohur upon the beldam’s right
palm, who giving a chuckle of delight, mumbled forth her vaticination
with a distorted grin of satisfaction. “You were born in a desert to
die upon a throne. She who as a babe was embraced by a reptile, as a
woman will be embraced by a king. The infant that was brought into
the world amidst famine will go out of it amidst plenty. The star, so
puny at thy birth, will expand into a sun. I am not deceived;--believe
me, and leave here a proof of your faith.” She extended her hand, and
having received another golden recompense, retired.

Mher-ul-Nissa was willing to believe the prophecy of the sibyl.
There was something in it, in spite of its vague generalities, that
harmonized closely with those silent presentiments which she had for
some time past permitted herself to cherish. She was ambitious, and
a thirst after distinction was her ruling passion. Her mind was too
strongly fortified against superstition to render her the dupe of a
juggler’s predictions; nevertheless, the mere promise of aggrandisement
was agreeable to her ear, and she therefore lent a willing attention
to what her reason despised, not caring to pay for the indulgence a
thousand times above its value. She cherished the promise of worldly
exaltation, not because she believed the hag who made it had a further
insight into futurity than her neighbours, but only because the theme
was grateful to her sensitive ambition; and there moreover existed
a strong presentiment within her, that she should rise from the
grovelling condition to which she was now reduced, and be exalted in
proportion to her present degradation.

Actuated by this feeling, she did everything in her power to give
currency to her reputation. She well knew that her taste was the
theme of general approbation, and the marvellous power of her beauty
began to be talked of beyond the precincts of the harem. An Omrah
of distinction, holding a high office in the state, offered her his
hand, and it was soon noised abroad that she was about to become his
wife. She secretly encouraged this report, though she had given him no
pledge, hoping that it would come to higher ears and procure her an
interview with the Emperor.

This state of things could not last long; and when pressed by the
impatient noble for a definitive answer to his offer of marriage,
to his astonishment and that of all who were acquainted with the
circumstance, she declined it. Mortified at his repulse, he determined
to obtain by force what was denied to his entreaty, and took an
opportunity of violating the sanctity of the harem by appearing before
her. She was alone in her apartment when the disappointed lover
entered. He commenced by upbraiding her with her caprice, which she
bore with dignified patience, until, irritated by her calmness, the
Omrah seized her arm and roused her indignation by the most offensive
menaces. He being a powerful man, she was as an infant in his grasp;
nevertheless, with the impulse of roused passion, she suddenly burst
from his embrace, rushed into an inner chamber, and, seizing a crease,
commanded the intruder to retire. Maddened by disappointment, he sprang
forward to repeat the violence which he had already offered: she
instantly raised her arm and buried the dagger in his body. He fell
reeking in his blood. He was borne from the apartment insensible; and a
confinement of three months to his bed, under the daily peril of death,
taught him a lesson never to pass from memory but with his life. Other
suitors sought the hand of the Tartar’s daughter, but all with like
success.

The accomplishments of this singular woman were soon carried to the
ears of the Emperor, who had probably by this time forgotten the
ascendency which she once held over his heart; or perhaps it was that
the mortification of her having been the wife of another rendered him
sullen in his determination not to see her. He resolved, however, now
to visit her, in order to have ocular proof whether the voice of
public report were a truth or an exaggeration. One evening therefore
he proceeded in state to her apartment. At the sight of her unrivalled
beauty, all his former passion revived in an instant. She was reclining
on a sofa in an undress robe of plain white muslin, which exhibited her
faultless shape to the best advantage, and became her better than the
richest brocades of Bagdat, or the finest embroideries of Cashmere.
As soon as the Emperor entered, the siren rose with an agitation that
served only to heighten her charms, and fixed her eyes upon the ground
with well-dissembled confusion. Jehangire stood mute with amazement,
and rapture took immediate possession of his soul: he felt, if he did
not utter, the sentiment of an eminent poet of his own religion:--

“Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight,
And bid these arms thy neck infold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy lover more delight
Then all Bocara’s vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Sarmacand.”

He was dazzled by the perfection of her form, the dignity of her mien,
and the transcendent loveliness of her features. Advancing to where she
stood with downcast eyes and suffused cheeks, blushing in the dazzling
plenitude of her beauty, he took her hand and said: “Sun of women, the
Emperor of a great and mighty nation throws himself at thy feet as an
act of just homage to thy beauty. Wilt thou be the Sultana of Jehangire
the predominant?”

“A subject has no voice,” replied the enchantress; “and a woman
especially can have no will but that of her sovereign: it is his
privilege to command--her heritage is to obey.”

Jehangire again took her hand, declared his resolution to make her his
Empress, and immediately a proclamation was issued for the celebration
of the royal nuptials with the lovely relict of the late Shere Afkun.

A general festival was observed throughout the empire. Those rich
embroideries which had lately been the admiration of the ladies of
Delhi no longer issued from the harem. The humble embroidress cast
aside the distaff for the crown, and in the issue proved to be one of
the most extraordinary women which the pen of history has celebrated.
She became the principal director of the complex machine of government.
The name of Mher-ul-Nissa was exchanged for that of Noor Mahil, “The
Light of the Harem.”

From this moment she was acknowledged as the favourite wife of the
Emperor of the Moguls. In the climax of her exaltation her name was
again changed to Noor Jehan, or, “The Light of the World.” As a
distinguishing mark of her pre-eminence in the sovereign’s affections,
she was allowed to assume the title of Shahe, or Empress. Her family
was held next in rank to the princes of the blood, and advanced to
places of the highest trust. Its members were admitted to privileges
which had never before been enjoyed by subjects under the Mogul
domination. The current coin of the realm was stamped with her name,
as well as with that of the sovereign! She converted the harem into
a court, where the mysteries of state policy were discussed with a
freedom and a power seldom known under despotic governments.

It was from the harem that those celebrated decrees were
fulminated--for though they passed in the Emperor’s name, it is
credibly attested that they emanated from his Sultana--which rendered
the reign of Jehangire one of the most politically prosperous in the
annals of Mahomedan history. Her influence exceeded that of any other
person in the empire, not even excepting the sovereign; and perhaps,
under the rigid scrupulosity of Mogul policy with regard to women
sharing in the administration of the state, there never has been an
instance of one of the sex attaining an ascendency so paramount, and
such perfect political control over the destinies of so many subject
principalities as the renowned Noor Jehan.

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Hafiz was a lyric poet, called, by way of pre-eminent distinction,
the Anacreon of Persia.

CHAPTER VI.

A few years after the elevation of this extraordinary woman, Churrum,
the third son of Jehangire, who afterwards ascended the imperial
throne under the assumed designation of Shah Jehan, began to interrupt
the harmony of the state. He had been sent with a powerful army into
the Deccan to quell a formidable confederacy against the reigning
authority, and having succeeded in reducing the insurgents to
obedience, began to show his ambitious designs upon the crown. Under
the most plausible pretences, and while in command of the army with
which he had just quelled a dangerous insurrection, he persuaded the
Emperor to put into his hands Chusero, Jehangire’s eldest son, and
consequently heir to the throne, who had been imprisoned for rebellion.
It soon became evident why he had been so urgent to obtain the person
of his rebellious brother. Chusero was the grand obstacle between him
and the crown. The traitor Churrum now shortly threw off the mask, and
publicly declared his designs. His success in the Deccan had endeared
him to the troops; his courage had gained their confidence, and his
liberality secured their affections. Confiding in his imagined power,
he disregarded the mandates of his father, continued in arms, and
commanding his unhappy brother to be murdered under the walls of Azere,
immediately assumed the imperial titles.

The Sultana had long suspected the intentions of Churrum. In spite of
the veil which he had thrown over his base designs, they did not escape
her penetration. Ambition was the dominant feeling in the bosom of this
crafty prince. The Empress, seeing the evils likely to accrue from this
fierce passion if suffered to operate unchecked, determined to take
precautions to contravene his measures. Before the death of Chusero she
saw that the unnatural brother, into whose power he had fallen, had a
design upon the throne. Every action of his public life had shown a
secret but undeviating perseverance in the pursuit of dominion, not to
be mistaken. His cunning she felt might be overreached, but his talents
were formidable. He was not only a crafty intriguer, but a brave and
successful general. He had become the idol of the army; and with such a
mighty engine to power, she dreaded the final success of his schemes.
She declared her suspicions to the Emperor, who was at first unwilling
to entertain them; but the wife had such an influence over the mind of
her royal husband, that he always listened with great confidence to
her suggestions. She assured him that Churrum must be watched, advised
his recall, and that the army should be placed under a less dangerous
command. She insisted upon speedy and decisive measures, in order to
obviate danger to the state. To the Emperor’s doubts of Churrum’s
ambitious intentions she answered:

“A man does not seek the instruments of authority but to employ them.
When princes lay themselves out for popularity they intend to make the
mob their tools, and the citizens their stepping-stones to dominion.
He who has once deceived is never to be trusted; and I can too well
discover that, under the smiles of allegiance which so frequently play
upon the features of Prince Churrum in his father’s presence, hypocrisy
lurks like the serpent in a bed of flowers.”

After a while Jehangire was convinced by the arguments of the Sultana
of his son’s evil designs, which an account of Chusero’s death soon
confirmed. He was enraged at such a sanguinary act of ambition, and
determined to punish the fratricide. In order to obviate the stigma
which he knew would be attached to the crime of murdering a brother,
the crafty prince affected such extreme grief, that he was believed by
many to be innocent of so atrocious an offence. Jehangire, however, or
rather his Empress, was not to be deceived by this barefaced hypocrisy:
the former wrote him a letter, accusing him of the crime; at the same
time ordering the body of his murdered son to be disinterred; it was
brought to the capital, and buried with the honours due to his rank.

Although Prince Churrum was married to a niece of Noor Jehan the
hostility between him and the Empress had risen to such a height
that it was perfectly implacable. The rebellious prince well knew
that he owed the indignation of his parent to her influence; he
therefore resolved to lose no time in endeavouring to get her into his
power. Seeing no probability of a reconciliation with his father, he
determined to continue in his rebellion.

At the suggestion of his consort, Jehangire prepared to reduce his son
to obedience; but his troops being at a distance, he could not bring
an army into the field. At this critical juncture, a courier arrived
from Mohabet Chan, the imperial general, stating that he was advancing,
with all the forces of the Punjab, to join the royal army. Shortly
after, the troops of Jehangire engaged the rebels and entirely defeated
them. The refractory prince was so overcome by this unexpected reverse
of fortune, that he meditated suicide. The paroxysm, however, passed,
and he fled to the mountains of Mewat, where he found for the moment a
secure refuge from the anger of his father and the hostility of Noor
Jehan. Misfortune followed him: his party was defeated in Guzerat.
Still the royal rebel was so formidable, that it was resolved to take
him alive, as the only means of extinguishing the flames of civil war,
always disastrous to the victors as well as to the vanquished. Mohabet
Chan was therefore despatched, at the head of a large detachment of
Rajpoots, a race of soldiers proverbially brave, to capture the royal
insurgent. Churrum, in consequence, quitted his retreat, determined
to face the danger and try the chance of another battle. Crossing the
river Nerbudda, in the province of Malwa, he threw up works to defend
the ford. Of the large and well-appointed army which had followed him
into the Deccan there remained only a small dispirited remnant, and
desertions were daily thinning his lines. He had no reliance upon the
soldiers, dejected from successive defeats, and murmuring for their
arrears of pay, which he was unable to provide. He lost his energy,
became incautious and irresolute, and allowed himself to be surprised
by the imperial general, who routed his disheartened forces with great
slaughter, and forced him again to seek refuge in the hills. He soon,
however, passed through Golconda, and took the route to Bengal.

His escape was a source of severe mortification to the Sultana, who
foresaw that the repose of the state was not likely to be secured
until he should either be taken or destroyed. She was besides anxious
that the succession should be fixed upon Shariar, the fourth son
of Jehangire, who had married the daughter whom she had borne to
Shere Afkun. By her representations, no doubt in the main just, the
Emperor’s enmity towards his son was kept alive; of which the latter
being aware, saw that it would not be prudent to trust himself within
the walls of his father’s capital. He had more than once thought of
throwing himself upon the paternal clemency; but his knowledge of the
Sultana’s vindictive spirit, and the consciousness of his own manifold
derelictions, kept him from running the risk of captivity for life, if
not of undergoing extreme punishment.

His affairs, however, now began to assume a more favourable aspect.
Having invested the fort of Tellia Gurri, in Bengal, with a new army
which he had raised in that province, after an obstinate defence
by the garrison, he succeeded in carrying the place by storm. This
unexpected success animated him to new exertions. He now overran the
whole district, which shortly submitted to his arms. He reduced Dacca,
a considerable city, and once the capital of Bengal, in which he found
an immense treasure in gold and silver, besides jewels and warlike
stores. The Suba was deposed, and a new governor raised, who ruled in
the name of Shah Jehan, by which title Prince Churrum finally ascended
the imperial throne.

No sooner had he settled the government of Bengal, than he turned his
thoughts to the neighbouring province of Bahar. The governor fled at
his approach; but the wealthy zemindars crowded to his camp to offer
him their allegiance. He accepted their submission, together with
the rich presents which they brought to ratify the mutual compact of
protection and affiance, and to confirm their sincerity. But the most
important occurrence, and which greatly tended to strengthen him in
his new conquests, was the unexpected submission of Mubarick, governor
of the fort of Rhotas, who came to his camp, presented him the keys,
and made a vow of perpetual fealty. This fortress was considered
unimpregnable. It had never been taken by force, and was therefore
looked upon by the rebellious prince as a place of security for his
family. Here he immediately removed them; and being now relieved from
immediate anxiety on their account, he was better prepared to encounter
the dangers of the field, and to brave the vicissitudes of fortune.

This uninterrupted current of success inflamed the pride of the royal
rebel, and he fancied himself in a condition to contend for the
imperial sceptre with that army which had already twice so signally
defeated him. Mohabet Chan had again taken the field, and marched as
far as Benares, on the banks of the Ganges, to chastise the insurgents,
who mustered upwards of forty thousand horse,--a force scarcely
inferior to the imperialists in number,--and were drawn up on the bank
of a small stream.

The battle was desperate, but decisive. The rebels were routed after a
prodigious slaughter. The conduct of Prince Churrum on this occasion
was marked by reckless bravery. Plunging into the thickest of the fight
with five hundred horse, who had resolved to devote themselves to death
with their leader, he maintained a sanguinary struggle against immense
odds, and would, no doubt, have fallen a victim to his despair, had not
some of his officers seized the reins of his charger, and forced him
from the battle to a place of security. He fled to the fort of Rhotas,
where he had left his family. The plunder of his camp, which contained
the spoils of Dacca, saved him from immediate pursuit.

Leaving his family in the fortress, where he imagined they would be
secure, the wretched prince collected the scattered remains of his
army, and threw himself into Patna, which he determined to defend, but
thought it prudent to evacuate the city at the approach of his enemies.
He fled through Bengal towards the Deccan. The provinces which he had
so lately conquered fell again under the legitimate authority. When
Mohabet had settled the government of these districts, he marched
after the royal fugitive.

Though his fortunes were reduced to so low an ebb, the prince did not
despond. His mind was active, and these severe reverses only seemed to
animate him to new enterprises. He attached to his desperate fortunes
the Rajah of Ambere, who entertained some cause of enmity towards
Jehangire. Strengthened by the forces of this new ally, he reduced the
city of Boorhampoor; when the imperial army arriving, forced him to
raise the siege and take shelter in the mountains of Ballagat. In his
retreat he made an attempt upon a strong fortress on the frontiers of
Kandeish, where he was repulsed with considerable loss.

This completed his ruin. His nobles no longer followed him; and the
troops, under the sanction of their example, deserted his standard.
A thousand horse only remained. “His spirits sank within him; his
misfortunes oppressed him, his guilt and folly were always present to
his mind. Sickness was added to his other miseries. He was hunted like
a wild beast from place to place; all mankind were his enemies--he was
their foe. Where he thought he could not overcome, he fled; he spread
devastation through places where he could prevail. He was, however,
tired of rapine. Worn down by contention and hostility, he wrote
letters of compunction to his father: he enlarged on his own guilt,--he
even added, if possible, to his own wretchedness and misfortune.
Jehangire was often full of affection--he was always weak: and he was
shocked at the miserable condition of a son whom he had once loved; his
tears fell upon the part of that son’s letter which mentioned guilt,
and his crimes vanished from memory.

“In the midst of this returning softness, Jehangire was not altogether
void of policy. He wrote to his son, that if he would give orders to
the governors of Rhotas, of Azere, and other places which were still
held out in his name, to deliver up their forts, and send his three
sons, Dara, Aurungzebe, and Murad, to court, he would be forgiven for
his past crimes. Churrum embraced the offer with joy; he delivered up
the forts and sent his children to Agra. He, however, found various
pretences for not appearing in person at court. He alleged that he
was ashamed to see a father whom he had so much injured; but he was
actually afraid of the machinations of the Sultana. He made excursions,
under a pretence of pleasure, through all parts of the empire, attended
by five hundred horse. He was sometimes heard of at Ajmere, sometimes
at Tatta on the Indus, and again in the Deccan.”[37] Such was the
termination of this formidable rebellion, the suppression of which
Jehangire entirely owed to the vigilance and foresight of his Empress,
Noor Jehan. This remarkable woman was ever conspicuous amid the great
stir of the times; and in every action of her life she displayed that
predominancy of mind which had distinguished her even before her
exaltation to the imperial sceptre, which she may be said to have
wielded,--for though it appeared in the hand of her husband, she gave
strength to the grasp by which he held it, and imparted stability to
his throne.

CHAPTER VII.

Among the extraordinary occurrences of Noor Jehan’s life, perhaps
there is none that more forcibly developes her character than her
bearing towards Mohabet Chan, after the signal services which he had
rendered the state by suppressing the rebellion of Prince Churrum.
The eminent abilities displayed by Mohabet during his command of the
imperial armies had won for him the confidence of his master and of the
Empress; and this confidence was increased by his suppression of the
most formidable rebellion which disturbed the reign of Jehangire. His
family was raised to offices of trust in the state, and the Emperor
treated him with a distinction that excited the envy of the nobles. But
the gratitude of princes has ever been a questionable virtue; their
suspicions are readily excited, and there are never wanting engines to
set those suspicions at work.

The Sultana soon became apprehensive of Mohabet’s influence with the
Emperor; and therefore, to abridge it, put in operation the active
energies of her mind. Jehangire was naturally a credulous man, and the
rebellion of his son had rendered him suspicious. The virtues of his
general ought to have placed him above the petty surmises suggested by
envy; but his abilities had raised him enemies at court, and his master
wanted firmness to repel the insinuations levelled against the man who
had been the main prop of his throne. Mohabet soon perceived a change
in his sovereign’s feelings; but, conscious of his own integrity, he
was at no pains to remove the prejudices excited against him. He was
conscious that he owed much of the growing coldness evident in the
Emperor’s manner towards him to the misrepresentations of Noor Jehan;
and thence grew a strong and mutual antipathy, which had nearly proved
the means of transferring the empire from the house of Timur to another
dynasty.

The immediate cause of that open rupture which ensued, and had nearly
cost Jehangire his crown, was an accusation made to the Sultana by a
noble that Mohabet had sanctioned his son’s death, which the father
expressed himself determined to avenge. He further stated that the
general entertained a design of raising his sovereign’s second son to
the throne. This was reported to the Emperor; it immediately excited
his fears, and he listened with weak credulity to a charge of treason
against his general. Blinded by his terrors, he forgot the services
which that great and good man had rendered to the state, and weakly
listened to the voice of his slanderers.

Mohabet, who was at this time in Bengal, received his master’s
imperative orders to repair immediately to the capital. As he did not
instantly obey, he received a second summons, still more peremptory,
accompanied with such manifestations of displeasure, that he could
no longer mistake the danger of his situation. Although surprised at
this total change of good feeling towards him, yet having really done
nothing justly to excite his sovereign’s displeasure, he resolved to
obey the mandate at all hazards, but to take every necessary precaution
against his enemies, whether secret or open. When, however, he
reflected upon the unworthy requital he had received for his services,
indignation and disgust overbore his first resolution, and he came to
the determination of retiring to a castle of which he had some time
before been appointed governor; but, to his astonishment, he found
that an order had been received at the fortress to deliver it up to a
person whom the Sultana had appointed to take immediate possession.
This unjustifiable act of tyranny convinced him of what some of his
friends at court had already apprised him, that his life was in danger
from the secret machinations of his foes; he determined therefore not
to put himself in their power before he had at least made some effort
to ascertain the extent of his peril.

He wrote to the Emperor, expressing surprise at his hostility towards
an unoffending subject, and declaring that, though he had the greatest
confidence in the honour of his sovereign, he had none in that of his
evil counsellors. The only reply which he received to this temperate
expostulation was an order, still more peremptory than those already
sent, to appear at court without further delay. To refuse was to rebel;
he therefore addressed another letter to his imperial master. In it he
said, “I will serve my sovereign with my life against his enemies; but
I will not expose it to the malice of his friends. Assure me of safety,
and I will clear myself in your presence.”

This letter was construed by the Sultana, who directed all the
Emperor’s measures, into an indignity. Jehangire was angry, and
despatched a messenger, summoning Mohabet, in very reproachful terms,
to appear before him. The general prepared to obey; but took the
precaution of going with an escort of five thousand Rajpoots in the
imperial pay, who had long served under him, and were devoted to their
commander. With this guard of faithful soldiers he proceeded towards
Lahore, where the sovereign at that time held his court.

When the Empress heard that Mohabet was advancing with so numerous an
escort, she became alarmed. She feared that such a formidable force
might either terrify the Emperor into a reconciliation, or place his
crown in jeopardy. Either way there was cause for apprehension. She
persuaded him, therefore, not to admit the refractory general into the
camp, for at this time the imperial retinue was on its way from Lahore
to Cabul. When he arrived near the royal encampment, a messenger was
despatched to inform him that he would not be allowed to enter the
presence of his sovereign until he had accounted for the revenues of
Bengal, and the plunder taken at the battle of Benares. Provoked at
such a demand, the general despatched his son-in-law to complain of
the indignity; but no sooner had the young man entered the Emperor’s
presence, than he was stripped, bastinadoed, covered with a ragged
robe, placed upon a lean tattoo[38] with his face towards the tail,
and thus sent back to his father-in-law amid the jeers of the whole
army. This was an insult not to be forgiven. Mohabet was grieved at the
Emperor’s weakness, but attributed the scandal of the late scene to
the Sultana, to whose intrigues he imputed her royal husband’s violent
hostility. He saw that to put himself in her power was at once to
relinquish his liberty, if not his life; and he accordingly formed his
resolution. It was no less decisive than bold. He resolved immediately
to surprise the sovereign and carry him off.

The imperial army lay encamped on the banks of a river, across which
was a bridge. On the morning after the maltreatment of Mohabet’s
messenger, they proceeded on their march. Not being in an enemy’s
country, no precautions were used against surprise, as no danger was
apprehended. The army commenced its march early in the morning; and
Jehangire, being in no haste to move, continued in his tent, intending
to follow at his convenience. When the imperial troops had crossed the
bridge, Mohabet advancing with his Rajpoots, set it on fire, and thus
cut off the sovereign’s retreat. He then rushed forward to the royal
tent. His face was pale, but his whole aspect severe and resolute:
there was no mistaking the purpose which was legibly written in every
feature. He was followed by his brave Rajpoots. Resistance was vain.
The guards and nobles were instantly disarmed.

Jehangire had retired to the bath, whither Mohabet followed him. The
guards attempted to oppose the latter’s entrance; but putting his hand
upon his sword, and pointing to his numerous followers, no further
opposition was made, and the bold general entered the bathing-tent. The
Omrahs present, seeing the folly of resistance, relinquished their arms
and became silent spectators of the scene. Mohabet passed them with a
stern countenance, which brought to their memories the outrage of the
preceding day, but did not utter a word.

Meanwhile information of what had happened was carried to the inner
tent, where the Emperor was, by some of the female attendants. He
seized his sword, but was soon brought to a sense of his defenceless
position. Perceiving that all his guards and nobles were disarmed,
and that Mohabet was accompanied by a band of resolute followers
prepared to obey his commands to the very letter, he approached the
general, whom his conscience now told him he had treated with signal
ingratitude, and said, “What does this mean, Mohabet Chan?” Mohabet,
touching the ground, and then his forehead, thus replied:

“Forced by the machinations of my enemies, who plot against my life, I
throw myself under the protection of my sovereign.”

“You are safe,” answered the Emperor; “but what would these who stand
armed behind you?”

“They demand full security,” rejoined Mohabet, “for me and my family;
and without it they will not retire.”

“I understand you,” said Jehangire: “name your terms, and they shall be
granted. But you do me an injustice, Mohabet: I did not plot against
your life; I knew your services, though I was offended at your seeming
disobedience of my commands. Be assured of my protection; I shall
forget the conduct which necessity has imposed upon you.”

Mohabet did not reply, but, ordering a horse, requested the Emperor
to mount. They then rode forward, surrounded by Rajpoots. When they
had proceeded beyond the skirts of the camp, the imperial captive
was respectfully requested to place himself upon an elephant, in
order to avoid accident in any confusion that might ensue from his
departure. He readily complied with the general’s request, seeing that
opposition would be fruitless, and ascended the elephant, upon which
three Rajpoots immediately placed themselves as guards. Some of the
nobles, seeing the captivity of their sovereign, advanced to oppose
his progress, and were instantly cut down by the followers of Mohabet.
There was no further interruption offered, and Jehangire was taken
to Mohabet’s tent. Here the latter explained himself to his royal
prisoner, assuring him that he had no design either against his life or
his power. “But,” he continued, sternly, “I am determined to be secure
from treachery.”

Mohabet was greatly disappointed that he had not been able to secure
the Sultana. During the confusion caused by the entrance of his
numerous followers into the imperial tent, she had contrived to escape,
and passing the stream upon her elephant, had joined the army, to whom
she communicated the disaster of her husband’s captivity.

Mohabet not considering himself secure while the Sultana was at large,
determined to leave nothing unattempted to get her into his power.
He had now publicly shown his hostility; the banner of rebellion was
raised, and no alternative remained but to pursue his purpose with the
same resolute boldness with which he had begun it. He was conscious of
the resources of his own genius. He was the idol of the troops which
he commanded; and though aware of the consummate abilities of the
Sultana--who in fact directed the movements of the imperial army--and
of her brother the Vizier, still he knew they were not popular with
the troops, and that, moreover, a great number of the Omrahs were
dissatisfied with the influence exercised by her and her family.

Mohabet having returned with the Emperor to his former camp on
the banks of the river, found that Sujait Chan, an Omrah of high
reputation, had just arrived to join the imperial army. Finding
the camp deserted, and the Emperor a prisoner in the hands of his
rebellious general, Sujait upbraided the latter with treachery in
the presence of his Rajpoots. The general, at once enraged and
alarmed, ordered his troops to fall upon the haughty noble, whom they
immediately slew, together with his whole retinue. This decisive stroke
of severity at once terrified the other nobles, who had been watching
for an opportunity of rescuing their sovereign, and they fled across
the river, carrying to the imperial army the melancholy intelligence of
Sujait’s death.

This information produced a general gloom. The captivity of the Emperor
excited the indignation of the Sultana, and of Asiph the Vizier. Noor
Jehan summoned the nobles who had just joined the army; and upbraided
them with their cowardice in not hazarding their lives in defence of
their royal master. A council was promptly summoned, and a consultation
held as to the best method to be pursued for rescuing the sovereign
out of his enemy’s hands. There was no time to be lost: the moment
was critical; delay only diminished the chances of success, as it
strengthened the power of the rebel, who was universally popular. It
was determined to recross the river with the dawn, and attack Mohabet.
Jehangire, whom they had contrived to apprise of this intention, began
to fear for his life. He instantly sent a messenger to the Vizier to
desist; but that minister not considering himself bound to comply with
the commands of a captive monarch, determined to persevere in his
intention.

FOOTNOTES:

[37] Vide Dow, ad loc.

[38] A native pony.

CHAPTER VIII.

At daybreak the Vizier retraced his steps with the army. Upon reaching
the bridge, finding that it had been burned down, he instantly came to
the determination of fording the river; but the water was very deep,
and in this attempt many were drowned. The banks on the opposite side
were so steep, that those who gained them had to contend with an enemy
under great disadvantage. The enemy, too, were vigilant and active, and
cut them off as fast as they quitted the water. Nothing could withstand
the headlong valour of the Rajpoots. Not a man escaped; the moment he
gained the bank, he was slain in attempting to ascend it. The imperial
army, however, was numerous, and the rear pressing upon the front, many
at length made good their footing; but it was to encounter foes whose
principle of warfare was to vanquish or to die. The action continued
for several hours, and the slaughter of the imperial forces was
prodigious. The Vizier did all in his power to encourage the troops, to
no purpose--they were dispirited; but still, trusting to their numbers,
they continued the struggle under the greatest disadvantages.

Noor Jehan witnessed the whole scene from the river-bank, and her
alarm was excessive at beholding the slaughter of the royal forces.
Her resolute spirit was roused, and her determination instantly taken.
Mounted upon an elephant,--on which was likewise her daughter, a
beautiful maiden, in the prime and freshness of youth--armed with a bow
and arrows, she plunged fearlessly into the stream. The Empress was
followed by several nobles, who, ashamed at beholding the resolution of
a woman, followed her into the river, and made for the further side.
Urging her elephant to the middle of the channel, she waved a scarf to
encourage the Vizier’s troops. Undaunted at the carnage before her,
she stood in the howdah, and discharged her arrows with fatal aim at
the foe. Three Mahoots were successively killed; yet she maintained
her position, and having exhausted her quiver, demanded another to be
brought. Her elephant was three times wounded, and her situation became
extremely dangerous from the violent plunges of the animal under the
excitement of suffering. Still she continued to discharge her arrows
with fearless determination. Her daughter was at length wounded in the
arm, which only stimulated the heroic mother to greater exertions. She
urged her elephant forward to the bank, soon exhausted another quiver
of arrows, and called for a fresh supply. The sight of her heroism gave
an impulse to the wavering courage of her brother’s troops, and many
effected their landing.

The battle now became sanguinary in the extreme; but the imperialists
gained no ground. In spite of the Sultana’s presence, they could not
overcome the determined resistance of the Rajpoots; nevertheless, they
fought with a bravery worthy of better success. Noor Jehan, having
urged her elephant close to the bank, a Rajpoot gave it a severe wound
with his sword, just at the root of the trunk. With a shrill cry the
huge animal fell; but whilst it was in the act of falling, the Sultana
had placed an arrow in the string of her bow, and fixed it in the
brain of her foe, who rolled dead upon the plain. When the elephant
fell, both mother and daughter were thrown into the stream, and, as
the current was rapid, their lives were in jeopardy; but the Empress,
seizing her bow with her teeth, swam towards some Omrahs, who were
crossing to second her heroic exertions. Her daughter was delivered
from peril by the enemy and made prisoner. Meanwhile, the mother
breasted the current, and with difficulty reached an elephant, upon
which a noble was seated, who rescued her from the river. Whilst she
was in the water, a ball from a matchlock struck her in the side; but
it passed round by the rib, and thus did not enter her body.

Undismayed by the danger she had just escaped, the Empress continued to
discharge her arrows at the enemy, doing considerable execution with
her single arm. Mohabet was the chief object of her aim; but he was
too far from the bank to enable her to accomplish her fatal purpose.
Her danger was becoming every moment more imminent; she nevertheless
urged her elephant forward, reckless of personal consequences. She
had already exhausted three quivers of arrows, when a fourth was
brought to her. At the first discharge she struck a soldier in the
body, who instantly tore out the shaft from his flesh, and with a
fierce resolution of revenge leaped into the stream. He held his sword
above the water with one hand, and dashed with the other towards the
Sultana’s elephant. Already was his arm raised to strike; but before he
could accomplish his purpose, another arrow from the heroine’s bow was
buried in his breast, and he sank beneath the whirling eddies.

A number of Rajpoots now rushed into the river to seize the Sultana.
They soon surrounded her; but she plied her bow so vigorously, that
several of them were wounded. They were, however, about to make good
their capture--the glory of the Moguls was in jeopardy. A Rajpoot had
ascended the back of her elephant, and commenced a fierce struggle
with the Omrah who accompanied his mistress. At this moment, the huge
animal having received a severe wound behind, sprang suddenly forward,
making its way through the soldiers by whom it had been surrounded,
and scrambled up the bank. It was immediately despatched. As it fell,
Noor Jehan leaped from the howdah, and with a voice of stern command
summoned some of the imperial troops, who were engaged in a desperate
conflict with the enemy, to her rescue. They obeyed a voice which
they had long been taught to consider as that of their sovereign. She
was soon surrounded by friends and foes. Seizing a sword, she fought
with a heroism that astonished even the Rajpoots, with whom valour
is a heritage. A deep sabre-cut in the shoulder seemed only to add
a stimulus to her resolution. The man who had inflicted the wound
received from her arm a signal retribution: she dashed her sword into
his skull, and he was instantly prostrated among the dead.

The battle now raged with prodigious fury; but the imperialists were
fast giving way. At length the Sultana was left fighting with unabated
energy, supported by only a few soldiers. The moment was critical.
Two Rajpoots advanced to seize her; she saw there was not an instant
to be lost, and rushing to the river’s bank, turned her head upon her
foes with a haughty expression of defiance, and leaped undauntedly
into the torrent. The two soldiers followed, resolved to make her
their prisoner or die in the attempt. In spite of her wound, with a
resolution which nothing could subdue, she bore up against the rapid
current; but, notwithstanding all her exertions, was carried by its
force down the stream. As the soldiers were more encumbered, the body
of each being protected by a thick quilted tunic, the royal fugitive
gained considerably upon them. That portion of the imperial army which
had not yet crossed the river, watched her with intense anxiety. She
rose buoyantly above the waters, and after great exertions, landed
upon the opposite bank. Her pursuers were by this time close upon her.
Determined not to be made a prisoner, she prepared for a desperate
resistance.

One of the Rajpoots being before the other, first gained the shore.
The bank was steep: just as he reached the brink, his foot slipped,
and he partially fell, but clung to the roots of some wild shrubs that
protruded from the earth. The opportunity was not to be lost: Noor
Jehan drew a dagger from her girdle, and as the soldier was struggling
to regain his footing, struck him with all her force upon the
temple--his body being protected by the quilted tunic, his face was the
only part that she could successfully strike. The blow was dealt with
fatal aim; it divided the temporal artery, and the man fell back into
the water, deluged in his blood. His companion, who had been carried
farther down the stream, gained the bank during this fatal struggle.
Overcome by the extraordinary heroism of the Sultana, he approached
her with a profound salaam, and said, “Lady, your heroic bearing
deserves a better meed than captivity. You are now within my power;
but, astonished at the matchless valour you have displayed, I cannot
persuade myself to make you prisoner. Promise me a safe conduct back
to the army to which I belong, and you are free; refuse me, and I will
plunge immediately with you into the stream, where we will both perish
together.”

“Soldier,” replied the Sultana with composed dignity, “I accept your
terms. I promise you a safe conduct to your friends. Your behaviour is
noble, and claims my esteem: what boon can I offer you?”

“A Rajpoot never accepts a boon from a foe. Besides, I have no claim
upon your generosity. I do not spare you because you are Empress of the
Moguls, but because I admire the valour which you have exhibited as
a woman. With women it is a rare quality, and deserves its reward. I
should have felt the same towards a Pariah who had displayed as much.”

Noor Jehan was received by her friends with shouts of joy; and the
soldier who accompanied her was conducted to a ford some distance up
the river, where he passed over to the army of Mohabet.

Seeing their Empress safe, two Omrahs, with their followers, crossed
the stream and joined the imperialists, who were now giving way on all
sides. Encouraged by this fresh accession of force, the retreating
party again rallied, and the contest was maintained with renewed
vigour. The Rajpoots were in their turn repulsed. They retreated
towards the tent in which the Emperor was confined. Several arrows and
balls piercing through the canvas and exposing Jehangire’s life to
great danger, he was covered with a shield by an officer of the guard.
Meanwhile, Mohabet rallied his troops behind the tents and turned them
upon the flank of the imperialists, who, dispirited by this fresh
assault, gave way, and a general rout followed. Mohabet, after a hard
contest, remained master of the field, which was literally covered with
the slain.

The Vizier, seeing that all was lost, fled from the scene of carnage,
and reaching the castle of New Rhotas, shut himself up there with five
hundred men. The castle was strong, but offered a retreat of very
equivocal security against an army flushed with recent conquest, and
commanded by the greatest general of his time. Noor Jehan escaped to
Lahore; yet her safety was anything but certain, being without troops,
and all the bravest Omrahs of the imperial army either slain or in
captivity. Nevertheless she bore her reverse with that indomitable
resolution so natural to her lofty and energetic spirit.

Mohabet despatched a messenger to the Vizier with assurances of safety;
but the latter declined putting himself in the power of a successful
rebel; upon which the incensed general sent his son with a strong
detachment to invest the fort of Rhotas. He almost immediately joined
this officer with his whole army, and after a feeble resistance the
Vizier surrendered at discretion. He was, however, treated with great
urbanity and kindness by the conqueror, which not only conciliated his
good opinion, but won his friendship.

Meanwhile the Emperor forwarded a letter to his royal consort, begging
her to join him, speaking in high terms of the respectful treatment he
received from Mohabet, and giving her assurances of a kind reception;
urging her at the same time to forget past causes of animosity, and lay
aside all thoughts of further hostilities, that the empire might not be
involved in the horrors of a civil war. He besought her to follow him
to Cabul, whither he was then proceeding; declaring that there was no
restraint put upon his actions, but that he was allowed to direct his
march wherever he thought proper.

Noor Jehan, seeing at a glance the desperate condition of things,
determined to comply at once with the Emperor’s commands, being
satisfied that there was more danger in resistance. She therefore came
to the resolution of choosing the least of two evils, and, setting out
from Lahore, joined her captive husband on his march towards Cabul.
Mohabet sent a strong detachment to meet and pay her the honours due
to her rank; but she was not to be deceived by so flimsy an artifice.
It was evident to her that she was surrounded by her future guards;
nevertheless she affected to receive the ostensible compliment, and met
the Emperor with a cheerful countenance.

She was immediately subjected to a rigorous confinement. Her tent
was surrounded by troops, and she was not permitted to stir abroad.
Mohabet accused her of treason against the state, and insisted that so
dangerous a criminal should be instantly put to death. “You who are
Emperor of the Moguls,” said he to Jehangire, “and whom we look upon as
something more than human, ought to follow the example of God, who has
no respect for persons.”

CHAPTER IX.

Mohabet, feeling that his future safety depended upon the death of Noor
Jehan, had sent a soldier to despatch her. The minister of destruction
entered her tent after midnight, when she was plunged in profound
repose. Her beautiful limbs were stretched upon a Persian carpet,
the rich colours of which glowed in the light of a lamp that burned
upon a silver frame near her bed. Her fine features were relaxed into
that placid expression which sleep casts over the countenance when no
disquieting dreams disturb and excite it into muscular activity. The
slow and measured breath came from her lovely bosom like incense from
a sacred censer. Her right arm, naked to the shoulder, and on which
the scar of the wound she had lately received appeared still red and
tender, was thrown across her bosom, showing an exquisite roundness of
surface and delicacy of outline that fixed the attention of the rugged
soldier, who hesitated to remove so beautiful a barrier to that bosom
which his dagger was commissioned to reach. He stood over his victim in
mute astonishment. He was entranced by her beauty. The recollection of
her undaunted heroism disarmed his purpose, and he dropped the weapon
of death. Noor Jehan was roused by the noise;--she started from her
slumber. Seeing a man in the tent, she sprang from her couch, and,
eyeing him with calm disdain, said,

“I apprehend your purpose; you are a murderer;--Noor Jehan is not
unprepared to die even by the assassin’s dagger. Strike!” she said
sternly, and bared her bosom.

The man was overcome; he prostrated himself before her, pointed to the
fallen weapon, and besought her to forgive the evil purpose with which
he had entered her tent:

“I am but an humble instrument of another’s will.”

“Go,” replied the Sultana with dignity, “and tell your employer that
your mistress and his knows how to meet death when it comes, but claims
from him the justice awarded to the meanest criminal. The secret dagger
is the instrument of tyranny, not of justice. I am in his power; but
let him exercise that power as becomes a brave and a good man.”

Mohabet was not surprised, though greatly mortified, when he found that
his purpose had been thus defeated. He therefore sought the Emperor,
and insisted that he should immediately sign a warrant for the death
of his Sultana. Jehangire knew too well the justice of the demand,
the wrongs which she had heaped upon the man who made it, and his own
incapability of resistance, to disobey. Not having seen the Empress for
some time, he had in a degree forgotten the influence of her charms;
and prepared, though with reluctance, to comply with the sanguinary
requisition. When the awful announcement was made to the Sultana, she
did not exhibit the slightest emotion. “Imprisoned sovereigns,” she
said, “lose their right of life with their freedom; but permit me once
more to see the Emperor, and to bathe with my tears the hand that
has fixed the seal to the warrant of my death.” She was well aware
of the influence she still possessed over the uxorious Emperor; and,
her request being complied with, she attired herself in a plain white
dress, with the simplest drapery, which showed her still lovely figure
to the greatest advantage, and was thus brought before Jehangire in the
presence of Mohabet. There was an expression of subdued sorrow upon her
countenance, which seemed only to enhance the lustre of her beauty. She
advanced with a stately step, but did not utter a word; and, bending
before her royal husband, took his hand and pressed it to her bosom
with a silent but solemn appeal. Jehangire was deeply moved. He burst
into tears, and raising the object of his long and ardent attachment,
turned to Mohabet, and said in a tone of tremulous earnestness, “Will
you not spare this woman?” Mohabet, subdued by the scene, and feeling
for his sovereign’s distress, replied,

“The Emperor of the Moguls should never ask in vain.”

Waving his hand to the guards, they instantly retired, and the Sultana
was restored to liberty. She, however, never forgot the wrong, and
determined to avenge it. She manifested no signs of hostility, but
always met the general with a cheerful countenance and a courteous air,
by which she completely lulled his suspicions. Secure in the general
estimation of the troops, and especially of his faithful Rajpoots, he
felt no fears for his own personal safety; and having completely won
the good opinion of Jehangire by his late act of generous forbearance
towards Noor Jehan, he had little apprehension from the intrigues of
the latter, however she might choose to employ them. He, however, knew
not the person of whom he judged so lightly. Her aims were not to
be defeated but by the loss of liberty. She never lost sight of her
purpose save in its accomplishment. Nothing could reconcile her to the
degradation which she had been lately made to endure. Her daughter
indeed had been restored to her; but she likewise had been deprived of
freedom, and treated with the indignity of a prisoner. The wound of the
latter, which was slight, had soon healed; yet the mother felt that she
had received a double wrong in the captivity of herself and child. She
employed her time in devising schemes of vengeance; but for six months
she plotted so secretly, that not the least suspicion was excited in
the mind of Mohabet. Jehangire treated him with the open confidence
of friendship, and the Sultana appeared to meet him at all times with
amicable cordiality. This, however, was only the treacherous calm which
often heralds a tempest.

One morning, when the general, accompanied by a considerable retinue,
went to pay his customary respects to the Emperor, he was attacked at
the same moment from both ends of a narrow street. He was fired at from
the windows of several houses. Great confusion ensued; but Mohabet’s
followers being well armed, he put himself at their head and cut his
way through the assailants. His escape was a miracle; the whole of his
retinue were either wounded or slain, yet he was unhurt. The plot had
been so well concerted, that not a single creature was prepared for
it but those persons to whom it had been communicated. The spirit of
disaffection soon spread. The guards who surrounded the Emperor were
attacked by the citizens; and all, to the number of five hundred, put
to the sword. The whole city of Cabul was in an uproar; and had not
Mohabet fled to his camp, which was pitched without the walls, he would
have fallen a sacrifice to their fury. Enraged at their perfidy, he
prepared to take a speedy and ample revenge. The Sultana, perceiving
the failure of her scheme, was aware that she was in a situation of
extreme peril. The citizens, terrified at the preparations which the
incensed general was making to punish their perfidy, sent some of the
principal inhabitants to him, supplicating his forbearance; declaring
that the tumult originated with the rabble, and offering to give up the
ringleaders to his just indignation. Although Mohabet suspected that
Noor Jehan had been the principal instrument of the attack upon his
life and the massacre of his guards, he dissembled his resentment, and
accepted the offers of submission, but made a vow never again to enter
Cabul. Having punished the ringleaders, he quitted the neighbourhood on
the following morning, taking the Emperor with him.

On their way to Lahore, Mohabet suddenly resolved to resign his
power, and to place Jehangire again at liberty. The resolution was
as inexplicable as it was sudden and unexpected. He had no wish for
empire. Having punished his enemies and vindicated his own wrongs, he
exacted from Jehangire oblivion of the past; then disbanding his army,
and retaining only a small retinue, he left his sovereign to his entire
freedom. Noor Jehan, not in the least moved by this act of generosity
on the part of a man whom her own intrigues had forced into rebellion,
resolved now to seize the opportunity of consummating her revenge.
She could not forget the indignities she had endured at the hand of
Mohabet; that he had once attempted her life, obliged the Emperor to
sign her death-warrant, and held her in odious captivity. She demanded
that her royal consort should immediately order his execution.

“A man,” said she, “so daring as to seize the person of his sovereign
is a dangerous subject. The lustre of royalty must be diminished in the
eyes of the people, while he who has dragged his prince from the throne
is permitted to kneel before it with feigned allegiance.”

Jehangire, remembering the provocations which Mohabet had received,
and his temperate use of power, was shocked at the Sultana’s
vindictiveness, and commanded her, in a severe tone, to be silent.

Although she made no reply, she did not relinquish her design. Shortly
afterwards, an attempt being made upon the general’s life, he found
it necessary to quit the camp secretly. The emissaries of the Empress
were sent to capture him, but he effected his escape. He who had
so lately had a victorious army at his command was now a fugitive,
without a follower, and obliged to fly for his life. He had left all
his wealth behind him, which was seized by the implacable Noor Jehan;
and she issued a proclamation through all the provinces of the empire,
denouncing him as a rebel, commanded him to be seized, and set a price
upon his head. This violence on the part of the Sultana was disapproved
both by the Emperor and the Vizier, the latter of whom did not forget
the courtesy shown to him by the fugitive after the defeat of the
imperial army, when he was made prisoner by that very man who was now
pursued with such hostility by a vindictive enemy who owed to him her
life and liberty.

Asiph, Noor Jehan’s brother, was not insensible to the merit of
Mohabet. He knew him to be the best general of his time, an ardent
lover of his country, and that he had been forced into rebellion by
acts of repeated and unjustifiable aggression. He felt assured that
such was not a man to be cast off from the state without doing it an
injury that could never be repaired. Besides, he feared the lengths
to which the Sultana’s ambition might carry her, and considered it
was high time it should be checked. Although Mohabet was a wanderer
and a refugee under the denouncement of death, he bore up against his
reverses with the same magnanimity which had actuated him when at the
summit of his power.

The Vizier having found means to assure him of his friendship, Mohabet
mounted his horse and rode four hundred miles without a single
follower, to meet and confer with that high functionary; trusting to
his bare and secret promise of protection. The minister was at that
time encamped in the road between Lahore and Delhi. Mohabet entered
the camp in a mean habit, late in the evening. Placing himself in the
passage which led from the apartments of the Vizier to the harem, and
telling the eunuch that he wished to see that minister, the fugitive
was immediately led into the latter’s presence. When Asiph saw the
wretched condition of Mohabet, he fell upon his neck and wept. Retiring
with him to a secret apartment, the general declared his determination,
notwithstanding the low ebb of his fortunes, to raise Shah Jehan to
the imperial throne. Asiph was overjoyed at this declaration, as that
prince was allied to him by the double tie of friendship and family
connexion.

The result of this conference was a general declaration, in favour of
Jehangire’s third son, who had already twice rebelled; but the Emperor
dying a few months after, the state was freed from the probable effects
of a civil war, and Prince Churrum ascended the imperial throne, under
the title of Shah Jehan. From that moment the Sultana retired from the
world, devoting the rest of her days to study, and the quiet enjoyments
of domestic life. As her power ceased with the death of Jehangire,
her haughty spirit could not brook the public mortification of seeing
herself holding a secondary rank in the empire. She never henceforward
spoke upon state affairs, or allowed the subject to be mentioned in
her presence. The singular beauty of her person continued almost to
the last moment of her life; nor was the structure of her mind less
remarkable. She was a woman of transcendent abilities; she rendered
herself absolute in a government in which women were held to be both
incapable and unworthy of holding the slightest share. It was not
merely by the permissive weakness of Jehangire that she acquired such a
political dominancy in the state; but by the pre-eminent superiority of
her own mental endowments, and the indomitable energy of her character,
before which the inferior mind and spirit of her royal husband shrank
into comparative insignificance. She had as well the resolution to
achieve as the intellects to project, and kept a mighty nation in awe
by the extreme vigour of her administration. Though her passions were
violent, her chastity was never impeached, and she lived an eminent
pattern conjugal fidelity. To her, the world are indebted for that
delicious perfume so well-known by the name of atar of roses, which she
discovered during her retirement from public life. She died in the city
of Lahore eighteen years after the death of Jehangire.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

A.D. 1628.--In the year of the Hegira 1037, Shah Jehan ascended the
Imperial throne of the Moguls. The Rajah of Bundelcund was taken
prisoner by Mohabet, who was shortly afterwards removed from the head
of the army. The Usbeck Tartars made a successful irruption into the
imperial dominions, laid siege to the fort of Bamia in the mountains of
Cabul, and made themselves masters of it.

Heg. 1038 (1629).--Chan Jehan Lody escaped from Agra. Having opposed
the accession of the reigning Emperor, he had been publicly disgraced.
He was pursued and overtaken; but his retreat was secured by the
gallantry of his son, Azmut, who engaged the imperial army, and thus
enabled his father to get beyond the reach of his enemies. The noble
Azmut, however, fell a sacrifice to his filial intrepidity; he was
slain gallantly fighting against a host of foes. Lody having effected
his escape, found an asylum at the court of the Nizam at Dowlatabad.
This year died Shah Abbas, Sovereign of Persia.

Heg. 1040 (1631).--Shah Jehan sent a large army into the Deccan to
oppose Chan Lody, who had induced the princes of that extensive
district to take up arms against the house of Timur. For a while Lody
was successful against the imperial general, Eradit, whom he prevented
from penetrating into Golconda, by throwing himself into the passes of
the mountains before his march, and thus repelling his advance. He was
finally obliged to retreat; and being attacked by Lody, was defeated
with great slaughter. Six Omrahs of the imperial army were slain. After
this defeat, Eradit was superseded, and the Vizier appointed to command
the army. This struck the confederates with dismay, and they abandoned
their brave friend. The Nizam proposed terms; and Lody, being at length
left without support, was pursued by a detachment of the Vizier’s
forces, and slain, with thirty followers only, who had resolved to
participate in his fallen fortunes. During this year Shah Jehan’s
favourite Sultana died in childbed. She was the daughter of Asiph Jah,
the Vizier, and niece of the celebrated Noor Jehan. The magnificent
Taje Mahal was raised at Agra as a tribute of respect for her memory.

Heg. 1044 (1633).--Prince Dara, the Emperor’s eldest son, married the
daughter of his uncle Purvez. About the same time, Suja, the second
son, espoused the daughter of Rustum Suffavi, of the royal line of
Persia.

Heg. 1044 (1634).--Mohabet died. He was the greatest general of his
time.

Heg 1045 (1635).--A new throne of solid gold was erected at Agra.
It was seven years in finishing, and the value of the jewels alone
amounted to twelve hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling. Among
the ornaments was a parrot, the size of life, cut out of a single
emerald.

Heg. 1046 (1636).--The Emperor again sent an army into the Deccan,
reduced the refractory Rajahs to obedience, and concluded a peace with
Persia.

Heg. 1049 (1639).--The capital of Bengal was destroyed by fire.

Heg. 1051 (1641).--Asiph Jah, the Vizier, died, in the seventy-second
year of his age.

Heg. 1052 (1642).--Shah Jehan removed his court from Lahore to Agra,
and completed the Taje Mahal, a splendid mausoleum, raised at vast
expense, to the memory of his favourite Sultana, Mumtaza Zemani, niece
to Noor Jehan.

Heg. 1053 (1643).--The Usbeck Tartars, who had made incursions into the
Emperor’s territories, were defeated by Ali Murdan, governor of Cabul.

Heg. 1054 (1644).--Aurungzebe was removed from the government of the
Deccan.

Heg. 1055 (1645).--The Sultana, Noor Jehan, died at Lahore.

Heg. 1056 (1646).--By an imperial edict Prince Morad was banished to
the mountains of Peshâwir.

Heg. 1057 (1647).--Aurungzebe defeated the Usbecks, and took their camp.

Heg. 1058 (1648).--The repairs of Delhi were finished, and the Emperor
mounted the throne of his ancestors in this city, which afterwards
became the capital of the Mogul empire.

Heg. 1059 (1649).--Aurungzebe defeated the Persians, who had become
masters of Candahar.

Heg. 1062 (1652).--Dara was appointed successor to the empire, under
the title of Shah Belind Akbal--the Emperor of exalted fortune.

Heg. 1066 (1656).--Mahommed, the son of Aurungzebe, took Hyderabad, and
defeated the King of Golconda.

Heg. 1067 (1657).--Shah Jehan was seized with a paralysis, and his life
despaired of; the management of public affairs consequently fell into
the hands of Dara.

Heg. 1068 (1658).--Aurungzebe, secretly aspiring to the throne, induced
his brother Morad to join him, and defeated the imperial army, under
the command of Dara, who retired to Delhi. Having raised fresh forces,
they were corrupted by the wily conqueror. The confederate princes
appeared before the capital with the combined army. Aurungzebe sent
a message to his father, who commissioned his daughter, Jehanara, to
visit him: she was deceived by his duplicity, and incautiously betrayed
to him the resources of her brother Dara. He intercepted his father’s
letter to that prince; and shortly after Mahommed, Aurangzebe’s son,
seized within the citadel at Agra, Shah Jehan, who offered him the
crown of the Moguls as the price of his release. It was declined by
Mahommed. Morad having discovered the duplicity of Aurungzebe, in
attempting to defeat it was seized by his crafty brother, and sent
prisoner to Agra. The ambitious conqueror advanced to Delhi, and
mounted the imperial throne. Dara fled to Lahore.

The Prince and the Fakeer.

CHAPTER I.

On the crest of a lofty hill in the province of Delhi, towards
the north, was a fortress of impregnable strength, which had been
frequently converted by the Mogul emperors into a state prison. The
hill was inaccessible on all sides, presenting, to a height of two
hundred and thirty feet from the base, sheer walls of rocks, upon the
scarped summit of which a light parapet surrounded one of the most
extraordinary fortresses ever constructed by the art of man. Within the
parapet it consisted of a shaft, sixty feet deep, sunk into the living
stone. At the bottom of this shaft, chambers of considerable dimensions
had been hollowed out, lighted by narrow loopholes, perforated through
the mountain to the light, of which they admitted just sufficient to
render “darkness visible,” and cast a sepulchral gloom through the
apartments of this cavernous retreat.

The entrance of this stronghold was a circular aperture at the top of
the rock, like the mouth of a well, four feet in diameter; through
which the garrison, captives, provisions, and all things in short
necessary to be deposited below, were lowered by means of a rope
attached to a windlass.

In one of the chambers of this mountain fortress a prisoner was
confined whose youth and accomplishments appeared to deserve a better
fate. He was in the beautiful dawning of his manhood, when the blood
bounds from the heart with a pulse of joy, and flows back again with an
untroubled current. He had just passed his nineteenth year. The breeze
of the mountain had fanned his cheek, and spread over it the glow of
pure but delicate health. The down upon his upper lip had strengthened
into a sleek dark curl. His limbs were rounded to their full
proportions; and his whole form was one of a symmetry better adapted
for the rich woofs from the looms of Cashmere than for the helmet or
cuirass. The languid expression of his dark, restless eye, showed that
he was unhappy. The only furniture in his prison was a rug upon which
he slept, a hookah, a lamp, and a few utensils employed at his meals.

Notwithstanding the severity of his captivity, the prisoner kept up a
sort of state in his solitary cell: he treated those attendants who had
been appointed to wait upon him with a dignity which commanded respect,
and at the same time with an amenity which won obedience. His dress,
though of ordinary materials, except that portion of it which covered
his brows, was disposed with a taste which at once bespoke refinement
of mind and a consciousness of personal elevation. His turban, composed
of a fine, thin white muslin, worked in gold, was folded round his head
with a care that evidently showed an attention to what was becoming;
its numerous convolutions being precisely defined, and managed with
almost geometrical precision. A common Cashmere shawl, loosely twisted,
encircled his waist, the ends hanging on one side with that peculiar
air of elegance which Orientals, whether Mussulman or Hindoo, know so
well how to exhibit.

The prisoner had just thrown himself upon his rug to take his rest
for the night, when an unusual stir upon the ramparts above roused
him. He rose to listen. A parley was evidently going on with some one
beneath the fortress. He repaired to a small ante-chamber, in which
was a loophole that looked into a deep glen, whence the mountain rose
within the bosom of which the place of his painful captivity had been
hollowed. The night was calm: not a breeze stirred the thick foliage
of the valley. The heavens were starred and radiant, though the moon’s
lamp was not yet hung out upon the battlements of heaven. The faint
beams of the stars, though they scattered the radiance of their glories
over the whole azure surface of the skies, did not penetrate the
depths of the ravine formed by the mountain, down the sides of which
the prisoner strained his eye from one of the narrow apertures that
admitted light and air into his prison. The whole valley was immersed
in that equivocal gloom, the more perceptible from contrast with the
sparkling heaven, that seemed to smile in its beauty at the dull and
torpid earth.

The captive, placing his ear against the artificial fissure in the
rock, heard the following dialogue:

“I am the Prophet’s messenger,” said a voice below. “I have a
commission to the prisoner: refuse me admittance, and the curse of
God’s vicegerent be upon you!”

“If the Prophet’s curse is breathed from the lips of one of his holy
messengers, say who that messenger is.”

“The fakeer of the valley, over whose reverend head ninety-six years
have rolled; whose fasts and penances have gained him one of the high
stations in Paradise, to which he will be exalted when the angel of
death shall waft him from the shores of time to that unknown land where
the harvest of eternal joys shall be reaped.”

“I know that voice, and shall heed the injunctions of so holy a man;
but you must ascend alone: and I have no choice but to obey the orders
imposed upon me, which are, to examine the person of every one admitted
into this fortress. If it were the Prophet himself, I should be obliged
to subject him to the scrutiny.”

“Examine me as you will, but let me see your prisoner. I come a
messenger to him from God’s Prophet, and must perform my mission.
Obedience is man’s heritage; resist the divine will at your peril.
Lower the rope, that I may ascend.”

The prisoner was amazed at this announcement of a visitor--an
accredited minister of the Prophet too; but, upon reflection, he
thought it might be the friendly interposition of some one who wished
to break his bonds, and release him from a captivity as odious as it
was undeserved.

The reverence formerly entertained for some of the fakeers was
sufficient to prevent any surprise at the readiness with which the
soldier upon guard consented to admit him into the fortress. The
man who demanded admittance was well known to all the country as
a troglodyte saint, inhabiting a cavern hollowed out of the earth
in the valley immediately beneath the fortress, and whose severe
mortifications had elevated him to such a degree of sanctity as to
render his intercession with the Divinity a sure pledge of pardon. He
was held to have immediate communion with Heaven; no one, therefore,
ventured to gainsay anything insisted upon by this holy man. He always
bore about him the sacred filth of his long penance; and the very
odours from his body, which was foul with the unwashed incrustations
of years, were supposed to be redolent of that paradise where, as he
maintained, a place was reserved for him at the right hand of Allah’s
inspired minister.

Shortly after the dialogue just mentioned, the door of our captive’s
chamber was unclosed, and the fakeer stood before him, accompanied by
one of the garrison. The holy man was quite naked, so that nothing
could be concealed about him. Although the skin hung loose upon his
long narrow countenance, like shrivelled parchment drawn over the
bones of a skeleton, nevertheless there gleamed from underneath his
sharp projecting brows a pair of eyes which appeared as if they had
concentrated the rays of the midday sun, lancing them at intervals from
orbs that seemed to glare with the intense lustre of those potential
fires which light the throne of Eblis. He was perfectly straight; but
his head had sunk upon the shoulders, where it seemed to rest, giving
to the upper part of his figure an aspect of hideous deformity. His
arms were long, fleshless, and so stiff that he could not bring the
joints even to a curve. He was a living skeleton.

The prisoner gazed upon him in silence, but did not utter a word. The
fakeer stood still for a moment; then opening wide his gaunt, bony
jaws, which displayed a black toothless chasm, and giving a sudden
jerk of the head, a ring dropped from his mouth upon the floor. He now
shook from his long bushy hair a single blossom of the rhododendron,
and a small bit of panel, upon which was rudely scratched the form of
a dove escaping from the talons of a hawk. They both fell beside the
ring. Pointing emphatically to the three several objects he quitted
the cell, and immediately gave the signal to be drawn up. The soldier
who had accompanied him remained behind, gathered up the things which
the holy visitor had cast upon the floor, showed them severally to the
prisoner, though he held them at a distance, and asked him what was the
communication intended to be conveyed?

“I am not read in the lore of sages,” replied the youth; “neither do
I understand the mysteries of vaticination. You would probably make a
better interpreter.”

“I fear this will only increase the rigours of your confinement, unless
you can explain why the holy man of the valley has made you this
strange visit.”

“In truth, I know not. I never saw him until this night; and how should
I be able to expound what you, who are familiar with the stranger,
cannot comprehend?”

“He would not have visited you without a motive.”

“But I may be unacquainted with that motive.”

“He is not a man to act without calculating results.”

“Nevertheless his calculations may prove erroneous.”

“Then you do not understand the nature of his communication?”

“I do not.”

“These symbols will be shown to those who are quick at expounding
riddles. Yet it is scarcely to be conceived that so worthy a minister
of the Prophet should have addressed his symbols to one who cannot read
their meaning.”

“He is but a man, and all men are alike prone to error.”

“True;--you may soon look for confinement in a deeper and darker
chamber.”

When the soldier quitted the prisoner’s cell, the latter began to
muse upon the communication intended to be conveyed by his unexpected
visitor. He knew the fakeer to be a man eminent for his piety
throughout the country, and therefore held in the greatest reverence.
He was supposed to have supernatural communication with members of
another world, and, consequently, was as much feared as reverenced;
which accounts for the respect and forbearance shown to him by the
garrison of the mountain-fortress during his mysterious visit to their
prisoner.

After the fakeer’s departure, the unhappy captive began to reflect
upon the signification of those symbols which had been dropped upon
the floor before him. It was evident they were intended to convey some
information, which it was expected his wit would be quick enough to
comprehend. Although he had obtained but an imperfect glance at the
ring which the soldier who had accompanied the stranger held in his
own hand and at a distance, yet he fancied it was familiar to him. He
had, however, only a vague and indefinite recollection of it; still it
occurred to him that it was not the first time he had seen the golden
trinket. Upon considering the matter further, it struck him that the
ring must be a pledge sent from some one interested in his welfare: it
implied confidence in the messenger, and a religious man could only be
a messenger of peace.

The more he thought, the more satisfied he felt that he had received a
message which warranted the expectation of liberty. The rhododendron
was a flower which grew upon the far mountains, where the genius of
Liberty abides; it was therefore an emblem of that freedom which
his heart panted to secure. In this symbol, then, he recognised the
suggestion that his liberty might be obtained: but how? The third
symbol was a sufficient corollary to the two first problems: a dove
flying from a hawk told him, in terms sufficiently clear, that he must
attempt his escape. It was by no means evident how this was to be
accomplished; and the difficulties which presented themselves, as he
calculated the probable chance of success, staggered his resolution,
and almost crushed his hopes. It occurred to him, notwithstanding,
that means would be supplied. That the fakeer had visited him for some
especial purpose there could be no doubt; and he resolved to await the
issue, satisfied it would not end where it had begun.

CHAPTER II.

Next morning the prisoner was confined to the ante room, and told that
on the following day his cell would be changed for one deeper in the
heart of the mountain. He knew that the lower he descended, the more
cheerless would be his habitation. About sunset an arrow was shot
through the loophole of his cell, to the shaft of which was attached
a strip of the palmyra leaf: upon this was scratched with a stylus
the following words: “Unfasten the twisted thread at the head of this
arrow; break off the steel barb, attach it to the end of the thread,
and lower it into the valley as soon as darkness shall render it
invisible to your guards.”

Soon after the sun had sunk behind the ocean, with a palpitating heart
the captive obeyed this injunction, and drew up a strong silken rope,
about the size of his fore-finger; attached to which was another strip
of palmyra leaf, with the following direction: “Conceal this, and take
the first seasonable opportunity to lower yourself from the rock.
Despair not--you have friends; be vigilant and cautious--but despise
difficulties.” On that night the sky became overcast, and the heat
oppressive to such a degree that the air of the prisoners cell was
scarcely respirable. There was no star visible throughout the whole
expanse of the heavens. The sun had set behind vast masses of clouds,
the skirts of which caught his rays, and reflected them in infinitely
varied tints upon the summits of the hills. They were of an intensely
opaque purple, but fringed with a fiery glow, as if the trains were
already fired that communicated with the magazines concealed within
their dark bosoms, and about to be ignited to a fearful explosion. The
aspect of the skies had been lowering throughout the day. As evening
advanced, the gloom had increased; and as the sun was withdrawing
his light, which faded from the deepening volumes that hung around
his disc, he seemed to glare ominously. He bade this world a sullen
good-night, as he descended behind the grey waters to enlighten other
spheres, and leave this to its repose; but the elements were too busy
to allow that repose to be universal.

The hurricane roared over the sleepers’ heads, and roused them from
their dreams to witness the strife of nature in one of her sublimest
conflicts. Long before midnight the tempest howled fearfully above the
fortress. The sentinels upon the walls were drenched, and the clouds
projected their fires, as if commencing the final conflagration. This
was supposed to be the work of the fakeer, who had quitted the fort,
muttering menaces of mischief. The storm was appalling. The soldiers
shrank from the conflux of excited elements, and sought shelter within
the shaft from their pitiless fury. The thunder burst with an explosion
that appeared to convulse the whole expanse above. A peal shook the
fortress to its foundation. The entire mountain seemed to stagger as if
reeling over the chasm of an earthquake: a flash of lightning followed;
the bolt struck the rock, and split it almost to the base. The thunder
again rolled above, and the immediate silence which succeeded was like
the intense silence of death.

The mischief had taken place upon that side of the mountain inhabited
by the prisoner. He started from his couch; and so sudden was the
effect produced by the thunderbolt, that, upon reaching the loophole,
he perceived a huge mass had been struck down by the electric fire,
and the side of the mountain so shattered, that by pushing against
the fractured body, a large portion of rock which formed the wall of
his cell gave way, and rolled with a hideous crash into the valley
beneath. The cries of the monkeys inhabiting the trees succeeded to
the dull booming sound of the falling rock, and mingled strangely with
the furious collision of the elements above. The prisoner stood still
awhile, amazed at the awful violence of the tempest, when the soldier
who had attended the fakeer again abruptly entered his cell. He started
at seeing the opening made by the lightning, and cautiously closed the
door behind him.

“You must change your apartment this night; there is too much of
heaven’s light here for a state captive.”

“I cannot well exchange for a worse,” said the youth calmly: “conduct
me whither you please; I am resigned to my destiny. Paradise hereafter
is for the wretched here, but not for those who make them wretched.”

“God is merciful!” ejaculated the soldier; “we are his instruments; he
ratifies the punishment of those we doom to trial, and will reward his
own instruments who perform their duty conscientiously. I have sworn
allegiance to the Emperor, and if he were to command me to cut your
throat, I should not only be justified in my obedience, but should
receive the divine sanction for doing my duty.”

“This is the casuistry of tyrants; and with such a plea for murder,
who can wonder that so many souls are freed from the incumbrance of
mortal flesh amid the dark and secret recesses of the dungeon, where no
eye can behold the horrible deed, but His to whose vision there is no
limit, and to whose knowledge there is no boundary.”

“You say well, but you are too clever to be free. In these perilous
times, princes who have wise heads upon their shoulders may be
dangerous subjects; therefore, ’tis the policy of courts to keep them
from plotting. The hand of Heaven has been here to-night,” said he,
approaching the loophole, and surveying the opening which had been left
by the thunderbolt: “the whole side of the mountain seems to have been
splintered,” he continued, running his hand along the side of the cell
where the mischief appeared. “We must try what stone and mortar can do
in the morning. But the leap is too high to apprehend escape.”

By this time he had placed himself within the rift made by the
lightning. His head was projected forward, and his eyes strained
to pierce into the gloomy ravine beneath. This was too tempting an
opportunity to be lost. The captive sprang forward, thrust his hands
suddenly against the soldier’s shoulders, who with a scream of agony
bounded from the edge of the opening, and fell like a plummet into
the hideous gloom below. His body dashed through the branches; the
chattering of the monkeys was heard for a few moments, and then all was
still.

Happily for him who had thus opportunely got rid of a foe, the storm
continued so violent that none of the garrison heard the cry uttered
by the man as he was propelled from the rock, nor the crash which
followed; and as he did not return to his comrades, it was naturally
enough surmised by them that he was keeping watch over the prisoner, of
whom suspicions of an unfavourable nature had been entertained since
the visit of the fakeer.

About two hours after midnight the storm abated. The clouds rolled from
the heavens, and left its blue plains studded with stars, which cast a
dun dingy light upon the objects around. The air was fresh and balmy.
A gentle breeze stirred the foliage, from which it tenderly shook
the spray gathered there by the recent tempest. The breath of heaven
fanned the prisoner’s cheek, and he felt as if it was kissed by the
airs of paradise. He looked through the chasm which the lightning had
formed in the mountain’s side upon the far-spreading sky, and his heart
leaped with an effervescent and holy joy. The aspirations of freedom
went up from his bosom on the wings of gratitude. He saw the means of
escape before him, and the flush of hope radiated upon his brow like
the moon’s light upon a calm solitary lake, in which its beauty is
enshrined as flowers in amber. His thoughts were now free as the breeze
which played upon his temples, and seemed as if imbued with the spirit
of life. How the soul was tossed within him! but it was in a tumult of
the most exquisite fruition.

He took the cord from a nook in which he had secreted it from the
prying gaze of intruders. It was slight, but strong; and the hope
of freedom subdued his fears of trusting to so slender a security.
The difficulties of descending by so thin a rope were not easy to be
overcome. The height from the ground on the side of the hill was at
least ninety feet; and it would be all but impossible to slide from
such an elevation by a rope scarcely more than the third of an inch in
diameter, and which, being of silk, was so slippery that a firm hold of
it could not be secured.

About twenty feet below the rift grew a thick bush from a fissure in
the rock. The prisoner having secured his cord to a large iron ring in
the door which closed upon his prison, fastened the silver mouthpiece
of his hookah between the twistings, so that it crossed at right
angles, and thus gave him a resting-place for his foot. Having made
all secure, he slid down, tore the bush from the cleft, and with great
difficulty regained his prison. He now continued to place, at intervals
of about ten feet, small lengths of the stem and branches of the shrub,
as he had already done the mouthpiece of his hookah, thus forming a
kind of ladder.

Having prepared his frail instrument, he commenced his descent. He
had passed the rope over a projecting crag above, in order to keep it
clear from the face of the precipice. When he had descended midway, one
of the steps broke, and he was left for a few moments clinging with
desperate tenacity to the cord. He could not sustain himself--it flew
through his hand; but his progress was fortunately arrested by the next
step, which happened to be stronger, and sustained his footing. The
shock, however, of his rapid descent gave increased momentum to the
rope, which began to turn round with considerable velocity; and this
was increased by every effort made to still it.

The prisoner was becoming dizzy with the fearful whirl. He was afraid
to move, expecting every moment that he should be obliged to relinquish
his hold, and commit himself to the abyss beneath; when happily the
cord slipped from the projecting buttress above, and dashed him with
considerable violence against the stony face of the mountain. Though
severely bruised, he managed to retain his hold of the silken ladder,
now no longer agitated; and after pausing a moment to recover his
self-possession, he continued to lower himself until his progress was
arrested by the branches of a large tree. Upon these he rested, and
determined to remain till dawn.

As soon as the first beam of day slanted over the valley in which the
escaped prisoner had taken refuge, he perceived that he was in the
heart of a thickly-wooded glen, surrounded by a family of monkeys,
which began to announce their dissatisfaction at his unwelcome
intrusion by the most discordant chattering. Fearing that their din
might give warning of his escape to the garrison above, he descended
the tree with all possible despatch; when his joy was only equalled
by his astonishment at beholding before him the unsightly form of the
fakeer.

“Welcome to liberty! God is merciful! Your enemies shall be scattered,
and the captive prince enthroned! Retire with me to my dwelling, and
you shall know further.”

Saying this, the holy man led the way, followed by the grandson of
Jehangire: for he who had just escaped from captivity was no less a
personage than Dawir Buxsh, son of Sultan Chusero, and heir to the
imperial throne. Beneath the root of a large forest tree, a hole had
been dug to the depth of seven feet, which led into a small cavern
scarcely two yards square. The mode of entrance and egress was by means
of the notched trunk of a small tree, that served as a ladder.

Before he entered the subterranean retreat of his venerable companion,
the young prince, aided by the old man, twisted round a tree the cord
by which he had escaped from the fortress, and with a stick tightened
it until it gave way above, just where it had been chafed by the
rough ledge over which it had been thrown to prevent contact with the
mountain side. Having taken this precaution, he entered the sacred
dwelling of the fakeer.

CHAPTER III.

“Welcome,” said the venerable man, “to the abode of the free! You
interpreted the symbols as I had anticipated, and your liberty is
secured. The Emperor is dead, and the Vizier seeks to place you upon
the throne as legitimate heir of the empire. You must repair instantly
to the capital, and the crown will be placed upon your head.”

“May not this be a device,” asked the prince musingly, “to seduce me
into the power of new enemies? Is not Shah Jehan in arms? What forces
can I oppose to so powerful a rival?”

“The kingdom is divided. Your uncle Sheriar, at the Sultana’s
instigation, claims the succession, and is prepared to substantiate
his claims by force of arms; but the Vizier is determined to place
the sceptre in your grasp; and backed by the imperial army under the
conduct of such a leader, no one can be in a condition to dispute your
lawful inheritance with any chance of success. Your father’s rebellion
is forgotten, and the people shout your name with enthusiasm.”

“But how,” inquired the prince, with a keen glance at the venerable
minister of the Prophet,--“how have all these facts reached this lone
retreat?”

“My son,” replied the old man solemnly, “this lone retreat is
celebrated from one extremity of Hindostan to the other, and princes
visit the cavern of the fakeer. I am consulted by the wisest
legislators, as well as by the ignorant vagrant whose only abode is the
forest jungle, and his bed the dry turf. I am respected, but I am also
feared. My friendship has been won in your behalf: do not despise it,
for my enmity can reach you even upon the throne, though surrounded by
armies and directed by the wisest counsellors.”

“Well, father, it is certain that I cannot be in a worse position than
I was, confined in the dark bowels of yonder mountain. Liberty is a
cheap purchase almost at any price. Your good-will assures me I can
scarcely fail of success, supported by the alliance and directed by the
counsels of so holy a man. But suppose the garrison should seek me in
this retreat; am I secure from their search?”

“They have too much respect for the old man of the valley to desecrate
the sanctuary which he has rendered sacred by an occupation of more
than fifty years. But even should they be so bold as to forget what is
due to the character of one whose life has been devoted to God, their
efforts to recapture you will not avail:--there is succour at hand.”

“Who is advancing to my rescue?”

“One, my son, little accustomed to mount the war-horse: but when the
heart once rouses the spirit to action, the meek dove becomes an eagle
in all things--save in a thirst for blood.”

By this time the sound of voices was heard in various directions round
the fakeer’s abode. The wood grew so thickly in the valley, that in
many parts it was impossible to penetrate; and the fakeer’s retreat
was in the most inaccessible part of the jungle. There was, however, a
narrow path leading to it from the plain, which happened to be known to
one of the garrison, who undertook to conduct his comrades to the spot.
Not anticipating any interruption in their search after the fugitive, a
very small party had undertaken the pursuit.

The prince was alarmed as the voices approached, but his venerable
companion endeavoured to assure him.

“Young man,” said he, “this is not a moment for idle fears. Remember
that the success of human endeavour is permitted only where it answers
the wise ends of Him who is the source of all wisdom. I have heard that
you once escaped the tiger’s deadly spring: but know, that He who could
pluck thee from the jaws of the tiger can likewise rescue thee from the
arm of man. Bear this, moreover, in mind, that the prince who has no
confidence in God cannot be fit to reign; for no man can rule an empire
wisely except God be with him.”

The party in search of the prince had now surrounded the cavern in
which he lay concealed.

“Father,” said one of the soldiers, who seemed to be their leader,
“our prisoner has escaped, and we must seek for him in your burrow.
He would, no doubt, prefer being buried alive here, with such holy
company, to occupying a more spacious abode higher up the hill, without
any merrier companions than his own thoughts.”

“Soldier!” said the fakeer, rising from his underground dwelling, and
standing before the party with an aspect of stern indignation, “search
where you list: profane the sanctuary of the Prophet’s vicegerent by
your unhallowed intrusion, and be the consequences upon your own head.”

“My head for the consequences!” said the man, and leaped down into the
subterraneous abode of sanctity.

At this moment the fakeer stepped behind a tree--struck rapidly upon a
gong three blows, which resounded through the valley The soldier now
hailed his companions from below, announcing to them that he had found
their prisoner. The party consisted of ten men, nine of whom had by
this time surrounded the entrance of the cavern to assist their comrade
in securing the captive: they had, however, no sooner done this, than
each man fell to the earth transfixed with an arrow. A party of twenty
Bheels, rushing from their ambush, instantly despatched and stripped
the wounded soldiers.

“Now,” said the fakeer, addressing the prince, who had ascended
from his place of sanctuary, “you see how little cause there was
for distrust. Those who have been instrumental to your escape had
calculated the probabilities of a recapture too nicely not to provide
against such a contingency. You must follow your rescuers, who will
conduct you to a place of security.”

“But shall I not leave you in jeopardy? Will it not be surmised that
you have been privy to my escape, and will not my enemies wreak their
vengeance upon you?”

“Should they do their worst, they can only cut off the ragged remnant
of an existence now well nigh spun to its last thread. Let them do
what they list--I fear them not. I have fulfilled the purposes of my
vocation, and am ready to enter upon the consummation of my destiny.
Still, while I live, the benefits of my experience are at your command.”

The prince now quitted the spot with the old man’s blessing, and
followed the Bheels into the thickest of the jungle. These half-savage
mountaineers threaded the thicket with surprising facility, clearing
the way before their royal charge, and treating him with a rude
courtesy which showed that they were less barbarians by nature than by
circumstance. They were almost entirely naked, having only a narrow
strip of cloth round the loins, and another round the head, meant to
represent a turban, or rather a skull-cap. They were armed with bows
and arrows of the rudest construction, but which they used with a skill
perfectly amazing. During their progress through the forest, several
of them took occasion to display their dexterity before the royal
stranger. A partridge rose from some long grass in an open vista in
the wood, and, while on the wing, was transfixed with an arrow by one
of the Bheels. A pigeon was killed in a similar manner. A hare fell a
victim to the dexterity of a third archer.

After travelling about six hours, they reached a rude village, nearly
on the summit of a hill, in the gorge of a deep glen. The prince was
here shown into the best habitation the village afforded; which was a
small hovel thatched with dried plantain-leaves, the walls consisting
of thin bamboos interlaced with jungle-grass, the floor of mud being
overlaid with a compost of cow-dung and straw. A coarse rug was
spread in one corner, and this constituted the whole furniture of the
apartment.

The soldier who had sprung into the fakeer’s cave, and thus escaped
the arrows of the Bheels, they took prisoner, and made him accompany
them to the village. On their arrival, a consultation being held, they
determined to put him to death. He was accordingly hung with his own
turban upon the branch of a tree; and while struggling in the agonies
of strangulation, six arrows were discharged at him. His body was
afterwards cut down, stripped, and thrown into a well.

Dismal as the hovel was into which the prince was obliged to creep,
the consciousness of freedom imparted to it an air of comfort which he
had never yet enjoyed so sensibly even in his father’s palace. Before
evening closed in, a bustle was heard in the village, which was almost
immediately followed by a palankeen and two hackeries,[39] accompanied
by about twenty attendants. Such a circumstance having probably never
before occurred in a village of poor Bheels, excited a considerable
sensation among the inhabitants; some of whom, however, were evidently
so little overcome by surprise, as to render it more than probable
that the arrival had not been altogether unexpected. The prince could
not help feeling surprise when the fact was announced to him; and on
quitting the hut, in which he had flung himself upon the rug, in
order to snatch a brief repose after the fatigues of his journey,
his astonishment was only surpassed by his delight at meeting in the
stranger, whose arrival had just been announced to him, the daughter of
Sultan Shariar, who, immediately upon the death of Jehangire, had set
up his claim to the imperial throne.

An attachment had long subsisted between the daughter of Shariar and
the heir of Chusero, his eldest brother, who had been murdered by Shah
Jehan, third son of the deceased monarch Jehangire. This attachment was
originally encouraged by the parents; but Sultan Shariar had lately
withheld his approbation upon the most futile pleas, his motives
becoming sufficiently evident upon the death of his father, the late
Emperor, whom he sought to succeed as sovereign of the Moguls. Prince
Dawir Buxsh, son of Chusero, and consequently the lawful successor
of his grandfather, had been imprisoned through the intrigues of
his uncle, Shariar, who had persuaded the credulous Emperor that
the young prince was engaged in a conspiracy against his life. When
Jehangire died, Shariar immediately resolved to assert his title to the
sovereignty of the Mogul empire. His daughter, whose affection for her
cousin had not abated, in spite of her parent’s hostility, effected
the escape of Dawir Buxsh, through the intervention of the fakeer, who
hired a body of Bheels, whom he placed in ambush near his underground
dwelling, and accomplished the prince’s retreat, as has been already
described. The princess had for some days taken up her abode in the
neighbourhood, and had been apprised about noon of the success of those
measures she had employed for the prince’s release. Upon receiving this
information, she immediately set out for the village, where she arrived
about the close of day.

The prince was overjoyed at so unexpected a meeting; he could scarcely
control the excess of his rapture. Blessings seemed so to accumulate
upon him, that he already began to fancy he had swallowed the last
bitter in the draught of life, which had been sweetened by a medicament
that had either expelled or spiritualized the minutest dross, and that
there now remained nothing but a residuum of joy. He recollected the
rebukes of the holy man to whom he was so signally indebted for his
release from an odious bondage, and readily persuaded himself that
there was something prophetic in his solemn homily.

“Welcome,” said he, “sweet lady,” as he handed the princess from her
palankeen: “this is, indeed, an unexpected but welcome meeting. To what
am I indebted for so signal a gratification?”

“To a woman’s affection, prince, which, like the lightning of Heaven,
overcomes all obstacles; and, though it sometimes blasts that on which
it falls, is nevertheless a light and a glory: love throws a beam of
gladness over the dark lines of human destiny, as lightning gilds the
storm.”

“The comparison is somewhat ominous. I would rather feel the warm glow
of a woman’s love than the bright shaft which flies before the thunder.
It has a deadly gleam, when one knows that death may be in its flash.
The fires of true love harm not. But welcome, lady, to the retreat of a
poor fugitive, whose only abode is the wretched hovel of the mountain
robber.”

“You will make but a short sojourn here among these rude though
friendly mountaineers. To-morrow you may expect to meet friends ready
to place you upon that throne which you were born to honour. I have had
a hard struggle between filial love and the obligations of a plighted
affection, but the latter have prevailed. As your affianced bride, I
quitted my father’s roof to join you, when I saw he would deprive you
of your lawful inheritance. The Vizier has armed in your cause, and the
imperial army under his command is now encamped in the neighbourhood
of Lahore, where he is expecting you to join him, having been apprised
of the measures to be adopted for your escape. My father’s army is on
its march towards the capital, and when the adverse forces meet, the
struggle will no doubt be desperate.”

The prince resigned his hut to the princess, who ordered in her
palankeen, within which she determined to pass the night. Meanwhile,
Dawir Buxsh was conducted to another hut, much less clean and
commodious than that he had quitted, as a Bheel family had vacated
it in order to accommodate him. The attendants of the princess were
dispersed about the village, most of them spreading their rugs under
trees, satisfied with that sort of accommodation which, though no
hardship in eastern climes, would be considered among the severest
in countries where excess of refinement has almost given a new
interpretation to privation.

FOOTNOTES:

[39] A hackery is a covered carriage, drawn by bullocks.

CHAPTER IV.

The royal fugitive now thought that he was beyond the reach of pursuit,
and, in a state of enviable tranquillity, threw himself upon a rug in
a corner of his hovel. He was too happy to sleep, and lay thinking
upon the splendid prospects opening before him, and which appeared on
the eve of consummation. The first man in the empire had armed in his
cause; the whole imperial army appeared favourable to his pretentions,
and few or none of the principal Omrahs, so far as he could ascertain,
had declared against him. He was secure in the affections of the most
beautiful princess of her age. Being young, in high health, and in the
vigour of early manhood, he foresaw nothing but enjoyment.

As he lay pondering the happiness which his full and joyous heart
flattered itself was in store for him, he seemed to be carried
into a new but delightful world, where the visionary was not to be
distinguished from the true, but where there was nothing of the one or
the other to arrest that full tide of fruition which was flowing in
upon him. His very body appeared to be lifted above this gross earth,
and though it was reclined upon a coarse rug, within the small dirty
sty of a Bheel, it was at that moment alive to sensations of thrilling
delight. The soul was too buoyant to be tied down to the material
pleasures of this gross world, but soared with the imagination into a
new field of bliss, where, though it was entranced in a delusive dream
of the moment, this was nevertheless one of those exquisite fictions
which have all the glow and vividness of the most distinct reality.
These happy visions at length gave way to a profound sleep; his senses
were steeped in an unconsciousness so absolute that no perceptible
image passed over the fine speculum of the brain, which the heavy
breath of slumber had rendered too dull for reflection. In the midst
of his stubborn repose he was roused by sounds that portended evil.
He listened; the clash of arms was distinguishable, and presently
blended with the shouts of conflict. Morning had not yet dawned,
but the stars were bright above, and there was sufficient light to
distinguish objects not very remote. The prince was staggered, he knew
not what to think. It occurred to him that part of the garrison, from
whose custody he had escaped, must have traced him to his retreat, and
were in the act of attempting a rescue. Impelled by his apprehension
for the princess, he rushed towards the hut which she occupied, but
to his consternation found it deserted. None of her attendants were
at hand. The shouts of battle still sounded in his ears; he bounded
forward, but was almost immediately surrounded. Being unarmed, he could
offer no resistance. How suddenly was the beautiful fabric raised by
the enthusiastic ardour of hope subverted! His hands were instantly
secured, and he was ordered to proceed between two soldiers, two
preceding and two following.

Light streaks of grey were beginning to dapple the horizon. The prince
was now made acquainted with the nature of the late conflict, which he
already partly suspected. Sultan Shariar, having been apprized, just
before the princess quitted her home, that she had projected a plan
for the delivery of Dawir Buxsh, had ordered a strong party of troops
to follow in her track, suspecting that she was about to proceed to
the place where his competitor for the throne of the Moguls would lie
concealed, if he should succeed in effecting his escape. The princess,
the better to cover her design, quitted her home under pretence of
making a pilgrimage to an ancient mosque raised by one of the early
Mahomedan conquerers. Her intention was no secret to her father, who
ordered her to be followed at a convenient distance, and brought
back when she should have reached the place of her destination, with
the Prince Dawir Buxsh, if he should be discovered there. This order
had been executed with such success that both the princess and her
affianced husband fell into the hands of the detachment from Shariar’s
army, as has been already detailed.

As the dawn advanced the troops were galled by arrows from the Bheels,
who lay in ambush in the various thickets of the jungle. Not an enemy
was to be seen, and yet the frequent wounds received by the Sultan’s
soldiers as they descended the hill told with a forcible eloquence
how deadly were the foes by whom they were surrounded. In order to
keep their body as compact as possible, that it might present less
surface to the arrows of the foe, they marched in close column of
six deep, dividing in the centre, where the princess was borne in
her palankeen, and the prince, guarded by six soldiers, brought up
the rear. The column was dreadfully galled as it proceeded. Several
soldiers fell dead from the arrows of their secret foes. There was no
evading the peril, and no possibility of reaching the bowmen, who were
so intimately acquainted with every intricacy of the jungle that the
moment they were pursued they disappeared among the thickets, where it
was impossible to follow them.

The prince was vigilantly guarded; but in passing through a dark hollow
of the wood, the two soldiers on either side of him received at the
same moment an arrow in their temples, and expired on the spot, the
four others being likewise wounded, though not mortally. A party of
Bheels darted from the covert in an instant and seized the captive,
but were impeded by the brave resistance of the four wounded soldiers,
until a party of the main body came up and put those bold mountaineers
to flight. In the struggle, their royal prisoner received a severe
sabre-cut on the back part of his arm, which was bound up tightly
with his turban to prevent the effusion of blood. Happily for Sultan
Shariar’s troops, their march through the jungle was not a long one, or
they would have been more than probably cut off to a man.

Upon gaining the bottom of the hill, the detachment entered a naked
plain, in which, after a short march, they halted near a village,
under a tope or grove of mango trees. Such however was the severe
execution done among them in their progress through the forest, that
upon numbering their force, they discovered that fifteen out of a
hundred had been killed, and thirty-two wounded, nine of whom they were
obliged to leave behind them at the village, to the care of the native
surgeons. The prince’s arm was here examined, but the hurt, though
severe, was found to be only a flesh wound; which being dressed, the
detachment proceeded on its march after taking a slight repast, and
halted a second time at another village, about two hours before noon.
Here the prince began to suffer considerable pain from his wound. He
became feverish and depressed. He requested to be allowed an interview
with the princess, which was refused. The reaction of disappointment
soon increased his feverish symptoms to an alarming extent. He was now
as despondent as he had been previously exhilarated, and saw nothing
in the future but gigantic miseries, or the shadows of departed joys.
His heart sickened; he gave way to unmanly sorrow. His ardent spirit,
which had been elevated to the highest pinnacle of hope, sank at once
into the very lowest depths of despair. He felt as if the stroke of
death would be a blessing. His fever increased to such a degree that
he was unable to proceed, for he had hitherto been forced to march
like a common soldier. In consequence of his illness a rude litter was
provided, upon which he was placed, a coarse cloth being thrown over
it, to exclude the scorching rays of the sun, and he thus proceeded,
borne upon the shoulders of six men. No entreaties could induce the
officer commanding the detachment to allow him to hold a moment’s
conversation with Shariar’s daughter, who was guarded with a vigilance
that defied evasion. She was, however, treated with the greatest
respect, and every attention paid to her comfort; while her cousin, on
the contrary, had not only been treated with marked disrespect, but
subjected to many painful indignities. Of this his companion in sorrow
was ignorant. Still, although every wish she expressed consistent with
her security was immediately granted, yet her earnest solicitations to
see the prince were refused. She therefore proceeded in silence and in
sadness under this bitterest privation of her captivity.

The illness of Dawir Buxsh was studiously kept from her knowledge, nor
until they reached their destination was the circumstance of his having
been wounded made known to her.

Upon their arrival at Shariar’s camp, the prince was consigned to a
tent which was rigidly guarded; and the father having upbraided his
daughter with treachery, gave her into the custody of some of the
female attendants of the harem, who took her to a tent in the rear
of the encampment, likewise surrounded by a numerous and vigilant
guard. Her ordinary attendants were withdrawn; the men distributed in
different divisions of the army, and the women sent to other services.

The royal prisoner was kept in rigid confinement; and though his
fever became high and threatened to be fatal, not even a servant was
permitted to wait upon him. He was deeply galled at this indignity;
but the guards derided his expostulations, and he was left to struggle
against his malady as he best might. The strength of his constitution
prevailed. On the third day the violence of his fever abated, and his
wound began rapidly to heal.

Shariar, hearing that the Vizier was advancing towards him with the
imperial army, which, though less in number than his own, was composed
of choicer troops, was afraid of proceeding to extremities against his
prisoner, lest it should weaken his own cause by casting upon him the
slur of having murdered a nephew and lawful heir to the throne. He was
nevertheless in hopes that harsh treatment might aggravate the fever
which the prince’s wound had induced, and thus, by removing out of his
way a dangerous competitor, leave the road to empire comparatively
clear before him.

The Vizier had now advanced within two coss of Shariar’s army, which
was encamped on the opposite side of a narrow but deep stream, that
divided the hostile forces. Shariar had taken up a strong position on
the slope of a hill, flanked on one side by the stream, and on the
other by a thick jungle. The Vizier crossed this stream during the
night, at a ford about two miles below the enemy’s encampment, and
appeared next morning drawn up in battle array upon the plain. His army
was formed into three divisions; the right wing being commanded by
Mohabet Chan, the second by an Omrah, who had distinguished himself in
the Deccan, under Shah Jehan, and the centre by the Vizier in person.
As the army of Shariar was in too strong a position to render an attack
prudent on the part of the imperialists, the Vizier, suspecting that
the enemy, confiding in superior numbers, would rush down upon him from
the height which they occupied, warily awaited the expected onset.
He was not deceived in this conjecture. Shariar, conceiving that the
impetuosity of a charge from the elevation of his position would give
him considerable advantage, commanded a vigorous onset to be made
against the enemy’s centre, where the Vizier commanded. The shock was
so great that the imperialists recoiled; but Mohabet Chan immediately
brought up his men, who, attacking the Sultan’s troops with great
energy upon the left flank, soon checked the momentary advantage which
they had obtained, and the battle raged for some time with a pretty
near equality of success.

The raw forces of Shariar were several times repulsed by the
well-disciplined valour of the imperial soldiers; but fresh troops
rushed to the charge as their comrades gave way, and the balance
of victory hung for some time doubtful. The Vizier’s elephant was
killed under him, but he leaped from the howdah, and fought on foot
with a spirit which infused new courage into his army, and baffled
the repeated assaults of the enemy. Whilst the right wing, under the
command of Mohabet, and the centre, at the head of which the Vizier
still fought in person, were maintaining a desperate conflict against
superior numbers, with slow but manifest advantage, the left wing was
repulsed, and obliged to retreat before the impetuous charge of its
foes, headed by their princes. At this critical moment, Dawir Buxsh,
who had managed during the confusion of the battle to escape from his
guards, was seen in full career towards the contending armies. He had
mounted a charger which had galloped from the battle on the death
of its rider. Reaching the left wing of the imperial army as it was
retreating before its victors, he shouted to the soldiers to support
their sovereign. The enemy paused for an instant in their career of
pursuit, unable to comprehend the arrival of a foe from their own camp.
During that pause the imperialists rallied. Dawir Buxsh placed himself
at their head, charged and drove back the insurgents, who, becoming
dispirited by so unexpected a check, faltered, retreated, and their
retreat was soon converted into a total rout. The centre and right
wing, commanded by the Vizier and Mohabet Chan, had already obtained so
decided an advantage over the main body of the army to which they were
opposed, that the rout of the enemy’s right wing almost immediately
decided the fortune of the day. The army of Shariar was totally
defeated, and he fell into the hands of the Vizier. The slaughter was
dreadful, the victory decisive.

CHAPTER V.

Prince Dawir Buxsh was received with loud acclamation by the troops.
His late exploit gave them hopes of an emperor that would lead them on
to conquest. He was borne in triumph to the imperial camp, and next
day the army proceeded to Agra. Sultan Shariar’s daughter had fallen
into the victor’s hands. The youthful sovereign desired that she might
be brought into his presence; she accordingly appeared before him,
her bosom agitated by conflicting emotions. She was at once elated by
joy at her lover’s release, and depressed by sorrow at her father’s
captivity. Her beauty was heightened by the singular variety of feeling
which her countenance expressed. She fell at the prince’s feet: he
affectionately raised her, and said, with earnest but tender passion,

“Let not my preserver kneel to one who is indebted to her for his
liberty--perhaps his life; for the dungeon soon puts an end to earthly
captivities. The star of our destinies has risen--may it ascend in
glory to its meridian! As soon as I am placed upon the musnud, our
marriage shall be solemnized, and we will enjoy the consummation of our
happiness, which adverse chances have so long delayed.”

“But my father!” exclaimed the princess with a suffused eye and
quivering lip.

“He will, for the present, remain a prisoner. He has sought to usurp
the crown. The sovereign of the Moguls must perform his duty to his
people as well as to himself.”

This was said with a tone of grave determination, which strikingly
contrasted with the warm glow of tenderness that had preceded it. There
was an expression of almost stern resolution in the calm but brilliant
gleam of the speaker’s eye. The princess burst into tears.

“Be composed, lady,” said the prince, resuming his former tenderness,
“and confide in my justice, which I trust will never neutralize my
clemency. Your father has erred; and if he may not be forgiven, for
your sake his life is sacred.”

The daughter gave an hysteric sob, threw herself upon the prince’s
neck, and yielded to an irrepressible burst of emotion. She was
relieved by the promise: a smile dilated her brow; her dark full
eye expanded with a strong impulse of gratitude; and a single tear
trickled slowly down her cheek, upon which a delicate smile quivered,
like sunshine following the shower. The attendants were moved at
the scene; the prince was subdued, still his determination relative
to the prisoner, which had not yet transpired, remained unaltered.
His attachment towards his daughter was strong and fervent, but he
could not forget that he had been grossly wronged. The indignities
so wantonly heaped upon him during his march to Shariar’s camp, when
suffering from the pain of his wound, did not pass from his mind, and
it is not the character of despotic princes to suffer injury to escape
retribution.

The princess retired from the royal tent with a joyous satisfaction
arising from the assurance that her father’s life should be spared. She
could not for a moment suppose that the man by whom she was evidently
beloved, would allow himself long to entertain feelings of hostility
towards her parent, however great the provocation. But she knew not
the heart of him upon whose clemency she relied. Revenge is the most
difficult passion of our nature to subdue; and its indulgence, among
absolute princes, is one of the greatest evils of despotism.

Dawir Buxsh proceeded to Agra, accompanied by the Vizier and Mohabet
Chan, and was hailed as their Emperor by the universal acclamation
of the citizens. He was immediately seated upon the musnud, and a
proclamation issued for the celebration of the royal nuptials with the
daughter of Sultan Shariar.

On the following day the prisoner was summoned into the presence of
his imperial nephew. He appeared with an emaciated countenance and a
dejected mien. He had been long suffering from a dreadful malady, which
had almost reduced him to a shadow. His daughter was present when her
parent entered, and seeing his bitter dejection, she threw herself upon
his bosom in a paroxysm of filial grief. She was gently removed by the
attendants.

“What does the man deserve,” asked Dawir Buxsh sternly, turning towards
the disconsolate prisoner, “who has rebelled against his lawful
sovereign, cast him into prison, treated him with indignity, and
exposed his life to jeopardy?”

Shariar was silent.

“Silence is the most eloquent confession of guilt,” continued the
Emperor; “dost thou not deserve that death, which, had your ambitious
arms succeeded, you had no doubt in reserve for me?”

“I am in your power,” replied Shariar firmly; “you can exercise that
power as your discretion may prompt. I may be your victim, but nothing
shall force me to disclose my intentions. I acted as I felt justified
in acting; it has ended in failure, and I am prepared to pay the
penalty.”

The indignation of the young Emperor was kindled, and he said fiercely,
“Hoary traitors must not escape punishment, however nearly allied to
the throne. I have promised to spare your life,” said he, “but the
light of heaven shall never more beam upon those eyes.”

Saying this he rose, and gave the signal to a soldier, who advanced
and seized the unhappy Shariar. His daughter, with a wild scream of
agony, threw herself between the ruffian and his victim; but she was
instantly torn from the embraces of her parent, who stood with patient
resignation, awaiting the execution of his dreadful sentence. The
soldier advanced, and plunged the point of his crease into both eyes
of the unfortunate Sultan. With the blood trickling down his cheeks,
mingled with tears, he implored to be once more permitted to embrace
his child. She rushed into his arms.

“Tyrant!” said she, addressing the young Emperor, “this heart shall
never be united with that of one whose hand is stained with my parent’s
blood. I have no longer anything to render this world desirable, and
quit it imprecating the malediction of a dying woman upon thy head!”

Saying this, she seized a crease which was stuck in the girdle of one
of the guards, drew it suddenly before he was aware of her purpose,
and plunging it into her bosom, fell dead at the soldier’s feet. The
prince was staggered at the dreadful but unexpected issue of his own
severity. He had never for a moment contemplated such a consummation.
His attachment to the princess had been ardent, but he could not forget
the wrongs received at the hands of her father.

From this moment a cloud of gloom hung upon his brow. He saw no one;
and his seclusion gave umbrage to his subjects, who began to murmur
at the want of enterprise in their new Sovereign. Rumours were daily
spreading of Shah Jehan’s approach to avenge the indignity offered
to his brother Shariar, and the death of that prince’s daughter; but
the Emperor disregarded these rumours, fancying himself secure in the
affections of his people, and in the support of the Vizier and Mohabet
Chan.

Shortly after the decease of his affianced bride, the venerable fakeer
stood before Dawir Buxsh, and with undaunted severity upbraided him
with his cruel rigour towards his uncle.

“Your throne totters,” he said solemnly; “the sceptre which a tyrant
sways is ever held in a feeble grasp, and by a precarious tenure.
Justice can never sanction cruelty; and you should have remembered that
you were indebted for liberty, most probably for life, to the daughter
of that prince whom you have so wantonly mutilated. The blood of that
daughter will cry from the earth against you. Heaven has its punishment
for guilty sovereigns, and your doom has gone forth.”

The youthful monarch was subdued by the solemn earnestness of the holy
man, and quailed before him.

“Father,” he said, “I have but visited a rebel with merited
retribution. His cruelties towards me have been repaid with cruelty,
which the laws of justice sanction.”

“But which,” fervently exclaimed the fakeer, “the laws of religion
forbid. The justice of tyrants is not the justice of the great and good
God, who so tempers it with mercy that repentance converts it into a
blessing both to the receiver and the giver. Justice becomes a bane
where mercy is defied and scorned. Retribution is an attribute which
belongs alone to Omnipotence; man knows not how to exercise it. You
have attempted to grasp the thunder; beware that it does not recoil
upon your own head with that terrible energy which leaves behind the
fearful impress of destruction.”

Bold as was the rebuke of this venerable man, and even insolent as was
his intrusion and bearing, yet such was his character for sanctity,
and so universal the awe in which he was held, that no one attempted
to resent the indignity offered to their sovereign, and the fakeer
quitted the imperial presence with a smile of calm defiance, as he
tottered out of the palace. The Emperor called to mind his visit while
he was a captive, and remembered that to him he was chiefly indebted
for the success of the princess’s plan for his escape, which had been
eventually crowned with such complete success; he therefore permitted
him to pass from the palace without molestation. The old man’s words,
however, had sunk deep into the heart of Dawir Buxsh, and harrowed him
to the quick. There was a fearful import in them which troubled him
sorely; they sounded like the dark presage of doom.

The rumours of his uncle Shah Jehan’s approach daily strengthened,
and he already began to fancy that he saw his own speedy downfall.
Those nobles who were more immediately about his person, whispered
doubts of the Vizier’s sincerity, and these doubts were but too soon
confirmed. The report of Shah Jehan’s march towards the capital was
shortly verified. He reached Lahore at the head of a numerous army,
and encamped a few miles from the city. The young Emperor had taken no
measures to interrupt his passage, relying upon the fidelity of the
Vizier and Mohabet Chan, both of whom, as he found out, too late, had
favoured his uncle’s designs upon the throne. He received a summons,
which was communicated by the Vizier, to resign the sceptre into older
and abler hands. When the unhappy sovereign upbraided his minister with
treachery, the latter did not hesitate to confess that he had simply
favoured his accession, in order to give time for Shah Jehan to collect
an army and put himself in a condition to dispute his rights. “The
Moguls,” continued the Vizier, “do not like to be governed either by
boys or by women, both of whom ought to yield to the natural supremacy
of men.”

This was not the time to dispute a doctrine subversive of all
legitimate rights, with one who had the power to illustrate it in his
own hands. Dawir Buxsh, without a moment’s hesitation, seeing that
opposition would be mere fatuity, consented to relinquish the imperial
sceptre provided his life were spared, and a competent maintenance
assured to him. No answer was returned to these stipulations, but on
the following day the deposed Emperor was confined to one of the lower
apartments of the Seraglio, and Shah Jehan proclaimed Emperor, with
almost universal consent; such is human tergiversation! The people have
no lasting affection for sovereigns. The favourite of to-day is an
object of hatred to-morrow--

Within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Death keeps his court.

Dawir Buxsh, who had been lately raised to a throne amid popular
acclamation, was now hurled from his elevation, and more an object of
pity than the meanest among those whom he had so lately governed. His
cruelty to the unhappy Shariar too late filled him with remorse. The
death of that Sultan’s daughter tortured his memory with a thousand
bitter pangs. He saw that his fate was determined on, and the lingering
desire of life made him look forward to death with horror.

On the morning after his uncle’s accession to the throne of the Moguls,
two eunuchs entered the prison of Dawir Buxsh; he immediately knew
that he was to die, and throwing himself upon his knees, was strangled
whilst in the act of putting up a prayer to Heaven. The aspiration was
cut short by the bow-string, and Multan Shariar and his daughter were
both fully avenged.

The Omrah’s Daughter

CHAPTER I.

Lody Chan was seated in the veranda of his palace, smoking his hookah,
and enjoying the luxury of repose which that exquisite instrument is
so admirably calculated to induce. Behind him stood a tall attendant
dressed in a tunic of green cloth, his waist encircled by a red
cummerbund, his head surmounted with a bright yellow turban, undulating
a yak’s tail over his master, to prevent mosquitos from sounding in his
ears their little note of warning, or fixing their fine taper antennæ
into those rich conduits through which the currents of life meander in
ten thousand winding avenues to and from the heart. Beside this man
stood another attendant, somewhat differently clad as to colour, but
precisely similar in costume, waving a punka beside the Chan, in order
to break the stagnation of the hot air of noon, in a shade where the
thermometer would stand at ninety-eight degrees.

Lody was seated upon a carpet from the valued looms of Persia; beside
him stood a goblet of Shiraz wine, and at his right hand a matchlock,
its stock richly inlaid with gold. From the eaves of the veranda fell
a silk awning, which was lowered when the sun slanted its level rays
above the horizon in its early rising, or flooded the plain with its
departing glories, ere it sank behind the broad ocean. This awning
was brocaded with the precious metals from the celebrated bazaars
of Ispahan, unrivalled throughout the East for the richness of its
tissues. The walls were panelled with polished steel, which multiplied
the reflection of every object near, and seemed to give an almost
interminable space to the balconies by which the palace was surrounded.
Arms, burnished with a care that showed how highly they were prized,
hung from the pilasters which supported the projecting roof of the
veranda, and various emblems of war were distributed around, with a
profusion and an attention to effect, which sufficiently evinced how
familiar the lord of this palace was with that bane of peace upon earth
of which it has been too truly said, and but too little heeded, that

War’s a game
Which, were their subjects wise, kings would not play at.

Everything around the palace of Chan Lody attested his predilection for
this most desperate game of chance that man can engage in. He was one
of the greatest warriors of his day. Being a descendant of the imperial
family of Lody, he felt anxious to maintain the dignity of his house;
but though glory was the fierce aim of his ambition, he never tarnished
it by an act of dishonour. He was indeed an ambitious prince, but a
generous soldier and a virtuous man.

Whilst he sat drawing through the golden mouthpiece of his beautifully
embossed hookah the exhalations of a richly aromatic chillam, a
stranger was announced desiring to have an interview with the Chan.

“Admit him,” said Lody to the attendant, who instantly withdrew, and
shortly returned, ushering in the stranger.

The latter appeared to be a youth of noble deportment and gallant
bearing. He was evidently in the dawn of manhood, but had all its best
attributes legibly recorded on his clear open brow and small decided
features. Lody’s eye relaxed into a faint yet bright smile as he bent
it upon the noble stranger, whose salutation he returned with much
courtesy.

“Chan Lody,” said the youth, “you are aware that the Emperor Jehangire
is in paradise; a usurper, aided by the influence of the Sultana, is
upon the throne: the Sultan, Shah Jehan, now lawful sovereign of the
Moguls, is on his march to vindicate his rights and seize the imperial
sceptre: his route lies through your territories, through which he
demands your permission to pass, and a safe conduct. What answer shall
I return, Chan Lody?”

Lody’s brow became suddenly overcast; and he said bitterly, “Princes
who solicit favours should know how to bestow them.”

“Is this the answer I am to return to the Sultan?”

“No; when you have refreshed yourself with food and rest, I will give
you my answer at length.”

“Is it hostile or peaceable?”

“You will know when you receive it.”

“Chan Lody, I accept not the hospitality of an enemy. If you deny what
I come to solicit, I quit your presence with a full and unqualified
defiance; if you grant it, I will eat your salt with joy, and the
Prophet’s blessing will requite you for the boon.”

“Young man, your defiance or your blessing is to me alike indifferent.
I have no desire that you should either eat my salt or make my palace a
place of rest. Bear my answer to your master. I grant no safe conduct
to rebels. A rebellious son cannot be a just prince. I would rather see
the enemy at my gates, than Shah Jehan Emperor of the Moguls.”

“A time may come when Chan Lody will be glad to forget that he has
dared to insult his sovereign.”

Saying this, the youthful messenger turned upon his heel and was about
to depart, but the Chan ordered him to be detained; then, by way of
adding contempt to his refusal, the indignant Omrah commanded the dress
of a menial to be brought, and filling a small bag with rupees, he
charged the sultan’s envoy to deliver them, together with an old lean
horse, to his master.

The young man departed; and meeting a shepherd at some short distance
from Burhampoor, gave him the dress, the rupees, and the horse, bidding
him deliver them to Chan Lody with this message:--that Prince Morad,
son of the Emperor Shah Jehan, returned the gift designed for his
royal parent, as the giver might one day need a beggar’s boon, since
adversity was generally the lot of insolent nobles and disaffected
subjects.

The shepherd, not considering himself bound by the laws of honour,
and not being harassed by delicate scruples, appropriated the dress,
rupees, and horse to his own purposes. What to one man was an offence,
was to another a blessing.

Morad, galled by the indignity which had been so wantonly offered to
him, proceeded towards his father’s encampment. On emerging from a
thick forest upon an extensive plain, he saw a party at some distance
advancing in the direction of the jungle. As they approached nearer, he
perceived a palankeen accompanied by a numerous train of attendants.
Before they had reached the path which led into the forest, a wild
elephant started from the thicket, and rushed with a short shrill cry
towards the approaching cavalcade. Terrified at the sight of such a
huge foe, the attendants dispersed; and the bearers laying down the
palankeen, fled in different directions. The elephant advanced with
an aspect of deadly hostility towards the palankeen, which, as Morad
perceived, from the curtains being closely drawn round it, contained a
female; and, from the number of her attendants, it was evident that she
was a female of rank. Unappalled by the danger, he darted forward; and
being nearer the palankeen than the elephant, came up with the animal
before it could reach its victim. Striking it with his sword just above
the knee joint of the right leg behind, he at once disabled it, and
diverted its attention from the object of attack. The huge creature
immediately uttered a scream of agony, and turned upon Morad but unable
to use the wounded limb, its movements were slow and embarrassed:
Morad, therefore, had no difficulty in evading its assault by actively
running behind it, and seizing his opportunity, he inflicted another
wound on the other hind leg, which rendered the elephant unable to
do mischief. It rolled upon the earth: and Morad calling upon his
attendants to approach, took a matchlock, and placing the muzzle to the
ear of the huge beast, sent a bullet into its brain. The animal uttered
a short loud roar, and died.

Meanwhile the lady had quitted her palankeen, and stood before her
youthful deliverer in the beaming lustre of her beauty. Her countenance
was calm and unruffled, and her dark eye was fixed upon the dead
elephant with an expression of resolute satisfaction that showed how
little she had been disturbed by the past danger. She made a graceful
salaam of acknowledgment; and, beckoning with an air of haughty
command to her attendants, thanked her deliverer with a somewhat lofty
courtesy, and, inviting him to return to her father’s palace, entered
her palankeen. Morad, who had been struck with her beauty, learned in
a few words that she was the daughter of Chan Lody. Notwithstanding
the late discourtesies which had passed between them, and the insult
offered to his parent, he determined to escort the lovely girl to her
father’s dwelling. He had been charmed with the beautiful countenance
and magnanimous bearing of the Chan’s daughter, and now felt really
anxious that a better understanding should exist between her parent and
his own. He therefore returned with her to Burhampoor. On reaching Chan
Lody’s palace, the lady wished Morad to enter, in order that he might
receive her father’s acknowledgments for the signal service he had
rendered his child.

“Lady,” said the prince, “I am the son of Shah Jehan, to whom your
father refuses a passage through his dominions. I cannot again enter
the presence of one who has denied my parent and his sovereign so poor
a boon.”

“Life, prince, is a valueless possession, unless we hold it on those
terms which make it worth the prizing; and, believe me, I would rather
mine were forfeited than be indebted for its preservation to a scion
of Chan Lody’s foe. You, however, have conferred the obligation nobly,
at the risk of your own; my courtesy, therefore, is the least I can
offer you. Enter, and I will take upon me to secure for you my father’s
hospitality, who could not but be happy to entertain his daughter’s
deliverer.”

“I should be sorry to test the hospitality of a man whose heart would
be at variance with his urbanity. For what I have done, the approbation
of my own conscience is a sufficient reward; and your courtesy has
cancelled whatever obligation you may have considered yourself under to
me. But perhaps you will do me the favour to tell Chan Lody that he is
indebted for his daughter’s life to the son of Shah Jehan.”

The lovely Jahanira a moment bent her piercing eye upon Morad, and
said, in a tone of proud dignity, “Our acquaintance then will end
here, since you refuse the hospitality which has been at least
courteously offered; but I am your debtor, and shall, I trust, live to
cancel my debt. Farewell!”

She entered the palace, and Morad retraced his steps. As he pursued his
journey towards his father’s tents, he could not help reflecting on the
sublime beauty of Chan Lody’s daughter. She was evidently a woman of
a lofty and indomitable spirit. Her parent’s dauntless soul beamed in
her full black eyes, and her small budding mouth, the lips of which met
each other with a firm compression that seemed to mock the tenderness
of a more gentle contact, showed there was a high resolve within her
which nothing short of death could subdue. Morad was young and ardent.
His whole soul quivered like a sunbeam at the bare thought of an
enterprise that should cast a halo of glory around it and his bosom
glowed with germane sympathy, where he beheld any symptom of feeling
congenial with his own. The stern refusal of Chan Lody had roused his
indignation; the proud spirit of his daughter had won him to a gentler
mood, and her beauty ratified what her lofty bearing had expressed.

When he entered his father’s presence, he reported the Omrah’s refusal,
but withheld the indignities with which it had been accompanied. Shah
Jehan was mortified and indignant at this issue of his embassy to the
haughty noble of Burhampoor; and, breaking up his camp, he proceeded to
the capital by another route.

CHAPTER II.

Within a few weeks after the events related in the preceding chapter,
Chan Lody was apprised of Shah Jehan’s accession to the imperial
throne. He was too powerful an Omrah not to be conciliated; the
Emperor, therefore, despatched his son Morad with a message to
invite Lody to visit the capital, promising him oblivion of all past
indignities, with assurances of future favour. The Chan, trusting to
the dignity of his own character, and his influence among the nobles,
who honoured him as a man of lofty courage and impregnable integrity,
consented at once to repair to Agra with his family, considering that
his presence at the seat of government might be of some advantage to
the state, as he was determined to watch with jealous scrutiny the
motions of the reigning sovereign, to whose accession he had always
been vehemently hostile. He, however, received Morad with courteous
hospitality, as the saviour of his daughter’s life; and the young
prince, remembering the impression which the lovely Jahanira had made
upon him, offered himself to the father as her suitor. This was an
alliance not at all coveted by Chan Lody, who, though he was by no
means wanting in ambition, bore nevertheless too great an antipathy to
the reigning Emperor to be desirous of a family connexion with him.

“My daughter,” said he to Morad, “is the person most concerned in this
matter. You must consult her. She knows my wishes and her own. Whatever
her choice may be, I shall not obstruct it. When you have gained her
consent, I shall not withhold mine.”

Morad obtained an interview, and made his proposals. Jahanira paused,
and surveyed him with a calm countenance, yet every feature radiant
with that mind of which they were all most eloquent interpreters. After
an earnest, but still respectful, scrutiny, she replied, “Prince,
you are of noble birth, and therefore an alliance with you could not
dishonour me; you are of a manly and agreeable person; you have the
reputation of being brave, generous, just, and, in short, of possessing
all the best qualities that belong to great and good men; personally,
therefore, I cannot object to you as the disposer of my future life.
Moreover, you have saved that life; gratitude, consequently, would
induce me to accede to any honourable proposal which you could make me:
but my father and yours bear a deep enmity against each other, and this
is an impassable bar to such an alliance as you seek between the house
of Timour and that of Lody.”

Morad was mortified at this rejection, and returned to Agra with
the poison of disappointment rankling in his bosom. He kept the
matter secret from his royal parent, who, he knew, would have felt
the greatest indignation at his having made such a proposal to the
daughter of a man who had treated him with offensive indignity.

Shortly after this, Chan Lody arrived with his family at Agra, and took
up his abode in a large house surrounded by strong and lofty walls,
not far from the palace. A few days after his arrival, he appeared at
court, attended by his two sons. He was received by the Emperor with
constrained courtesy, which satisfied him that the royal forgiveness
so solemnly pledged to him was hollow and unsound. He was obliged to
perform certain ceremonies which he considered not consistent with his
rank and influence in the state; but seeing the impolicy of resistance
at that moment, he patiently submitted to the indignity, though he
clearly perceived that it was meant as a tacit retaliation. His son
Azmut, a fine spirited youth of sixteen, followed his father into the
hall of audience. The usher Perist, keeping him prostrate before the
sovereign longer than the customary ceremony required, Azmut started up
from the ground, sprang upon his feet, and was about to turn his back
upon the royal presence when Perist struck him smartly upon the head
with his rod, and ordered him in a peremptory tone, again to prostrate
himself. The boy’s spirit was kindled; with sparkling eyes and flushed
cheeks he drew his sword, and made a stroke at the usher’s head, which
would have proved fatal, had not his weapon been struck down by some of
the guards, who, on state occasions, were always in attendance in the
courts of Mogul potentates.

Lody, suspecting that his life was aimed at, drew his dagger; and his
two sons, placing themselves on either side of their father, with
their weapons bared, produced a scene of general consternation. Many
of the Omrahs unsheathed their swords, but the known valour of Chan
Lody kept them in awe. The Emperor leaped from his throne, and ordered
the refractory noble to be seized, together with his sons. One of the
mace-bearers, who happened to be near Azmut, laid hold of him, but the
youth instantly buried a crease in his throat. The confusion increased.
Two Omrahs fell beneath the arm of Chan Lody, who, rushing from the
presence, followed by his sons, sought refuge in his own house, and
ordered the gates to be instantly closed. He was proclaimed a rebel,
and orders issued for his immediate apprehension; but the house to
which he had repaired was so strongly fortified, that the fulfilment of
the royal mandate was anything but an easy matter.

The Emperor’s rage was now at its height; all his former hostility
revived in full force, and he determined that the refractory Omrah
should pay the extreme penalty of his rashness. He commanded Morad to
besiege him in his castle. The latter, though he had scarcely recovered
from the mortification to which he had been subjected by the beautiful
but haughty daughter of the refractory noble, nevertheless undertook
the command with some reluctance, respecting the virtues of the man
whom, though he certainly did not love, he nevertheless could not
despise.

The house was invested; and the rebel, as Chan Lody was pronounced
to be, summoned to surrender. He returned an answer of defiance. In
reply to Morad’s summons, he appeared with his sons and daughter upon
the walls, and said, pointing to the latter, “You shall receive our
answer from the lips of a woman, but that woman the daughter of Chan
Lody.”--“Prince Morad,” said Jahanira, advancing to the very edge of
the wall, “the brave never succumb to tyranny. Life is really only
enjoyed by the free; and tyrants grant not liberty when they can
exercise their power upon those who do not acknowledge it. We are
resolved never to yield, Prince Morad; and even if your legions should
overwhelm us, I need not remind you that the brave have a certain
refuge in death.”

The siege was pursued by Morad with such vigour for several days,
that it was evident the besieged must shortly capitulate. Lody was
embarrassed. He saw that there remained only one course--to cut his way
through the enemy, and escape to Malwa. Desperate as the attempt was,
he resolved to make it on the following morning. His sons and daughter
determined to accompany him in his perilous flight. He communicated his
intention to his women and the various members of his family, most of
whom, he said, he must leave to the imperial mercy. Tears and groans
followed the communication, but there was no alternative betwixt death
and captivity. He endeavoured to persuade his women that they, at
least, would be treated with clemency. They answered with him renewed
tears. He turned from them in an agony of grief; but his determination
was taken, and, retiring to his apartment, he gave vent to the overflow
of his feelings. Calling his three sons, he arranged with them the time
for the desperate sally which was to be made on the following morning.
His daughter, whom he loved as a son, and perfectly adored for the
elevated heroism of her character, was present at this arrangement, and
they finally separated for the night.

Lody could not sleep, and quitted his chamber to break the gloomy train
of his thoughts. He passed into a large court, which was flanked by
the women’s apartments. The night was dark, the sky overcast, and the
whole aspect of nature seemed to suit the gloomy habit of his soul.
The dew fell heavily, but it cooled his fevered brow. As he passed by
the apartments of his women, he heard groans as of persons in agony.
He stopped to listen--they were repeated; there could be no mistaking
the sound. His heart throbbed audibly. He entered--listened--all
was still; every light had been extinguished. He passed through the
different chambers, but there was no sound. He called upon several, who
were wont to answer his summons with a ready alacrity; there was no
reply. What could be the cause? Horrible, but indefinite, suspicions
crowded upon his mind. He at length entered into an inner apartment,
and, stumbling over some obstacle, fell upon his face. He arose, and,
in a small ante-chamber, perceived a light glimmering faintly behind
a curtain. Upon removing the drapery, he perceived the dead body of a
female favourite. He raised the lamp from the floor, and saw that his
hands and dress were stained with blood. Returning to the chamber in
which he had fallen, a sad revelation of the mystery of the groans and
succeeding silence was made horribly manifest. The floor was covered
with gore, which still feebly welled from the bosoms of several women,
in whom life was yet scarcely extinct. Every member of his harem was
dead, or in the last pangs of dissolution. They had considered suicide
as the preferable alternative to falling into the power of those who
were enemies to Chan Lody.

The sight was overpowering. The sacrifice had been noble, but it poured
a tide of agony through the bosom of him for whom it was so unanimously
made. The mothers of his children lay dead among the lifeless forms
before him. He looked upon them, and, after the first terrible burst of
grief had subsided, he uttered a vow of deep and implacable revenge.
Summoning his children, they joined in his vow. Jahanira embraced her
mother’s corpse, and supplicated vengeance upon the heads of those who
had forced her to self-immolation.

Tears rolled over Lody’s cheeks, but he dashed them off, and called
upon his children to assist him in performing the obsequies of the
dead. His eye dilated with an expression of energetic resolution as he
raised the bodies from their gory beds, wrapped them in clean linen,
and, assisted by his sons, carried them into a garden beyond the court,
where, having hastily dug a large hole, they buried them in one common
grave. There was no prayer uttered--no ritual form observed--but
the fervent aspiration of earnest and sorrowful hearts went up as a
memorial to God.

As they quitted the garden, the young dawn began to glimmer in the
east. Lody summoned his followers; though few, they were determined. It
was a desperate cast, but the late scene had given an impulse to the
spirits of each and all. The danger of the enterprise vanished before
the daring which impelled him, and those who were so dear to him, to
brave the peril, and either secure their escape or perish.

On a sudden, the gates were thrown open. Lody rushed out, followed by
his three sons and his daughter, who spurred their horses towards the
city walls. The imperial troops were struck with awe at the daring of
this small but determined band. They swept onward like the whirlwind;
all who opposed them were cut down. The light was still so imperfect,
that the imperial troops, being suddenly roused by this unexpected
assault, were confused, and fell before the swords of Lody and his
followers, who finally succeeded in cutting their way through their
foes, and escaping by the city gates.

CHAPTER III.

The conflict between the followers of Chan Lody and the imperial troops
had been short but desperate. Many of the latter, taken by surprise,
were slain, whilst scarcely one of the assailants lost his life.
Jahanira, upon a small roan Arab, rode immediately behind her father,
through the thickest of the enemy. She dyed her virgin sword in blood.
Just as she had reached the gate, Morad intercepted her passage.

“You have no further chance of escape,” he cried, attempting to seized
the reins of her steed; but she, striking her heels into the animal’s
side, caused it to rear, and thus prevented Morad’s intention.

By this time the whole of her party had escaped, and she alone remained
within the walls. A soldier now grasping the reins of her horse, she
instantly severed his arm at the wrist with a single stroke of her
keen Damascus sabre. The man, exasperated, urged a comrade to cut her
down. The latter sprang forward, but she met him as he advanced, and
buried her weapon in his throat. Morad commanded that the troops should
retire, and urged his charger towards Jahanira.

“Lady, you are our prisoner.”

“Never!” cried Jahanira, drawing a dagger. “I will not survive
captivity. Open yonder gates, and allow me to follow my father, or I
will leave you only my body for the gratification of your revenge. You
shall never take me alive!”

“Nay, this intemperance ill befits a daughter of the illustrious house
of Lody. None but cowards die to escape the shocks of destiny.”

“And none but cowards submit to the caprices of tyrants. You once
preserved my life; but if you intend to inthral the life you saved,
all obligation is cancelled between us, and I now dare you to mortal
combat; for, woman as I am, you shall find me no contemptible
competitor.”

She spurred her Arab towards Morad and made a stroke at his head; but
he suddenly reined back his horse and avoided the blow, which fell
upon the animal’s neck. It plunged violently, and the prince had great
difficulty in evading the fierce onset of his beautiful antagonist, who
at length wounded him in the arm; and seeing several horsemen approach
to the aid of their general, she urged her little roan charger towards
the gate. Morad, charmed with her heroism, ordered it to be opened;
when, bounding through the portal with the swiftness of an arrow, she
soon joined her father and brothers about four leagues from the city.

The Emperor having been roused by the sudden shouts of the fugitive and
his followers, as they made their unexpected eruption from the castle,
started from his bed, and seizing a sword, sent messengers to ascertain
the cause; apprehending an insurrection of the citizens in favour of
Chan Lody, who was extremely popular among them. On ascertaining that
the Omrah had escaped, he despatched a large body of troops, headed
by Perist, the usher, who was accompanied by several other nobles of
distinction, and ordered to bring back the fugitives to the city either
dead or alive.

Perist, eager to punish Azmut for the attack made upon him by that
young warrior in the Emperor’s presence, readily undertook the command,
and promised that before the waning of another moon the heads of his
master’s enemies should either be blackening on the walls of Agra, or
their bodies bound in chains within the state prisons. This empty boast
satisfied Shah Jehan, who well knew the usher’s hostility to the family
of Lody, which he would have been willing to exterminate, even at the
sacrifice of his own life.

Perist was a Calmuc Tartar, of amazing power of body, and no less
intrepidity of spirit, who had raised himself to distinction in the
imperial army by his gigantic strength and desperate valour. He had
risen from a low station in the army to one of high distinction in the
state, and this had emboldened him to seek an alliance that should
perpetuate his name. The lovely Jahanira had long been the theme of
public panegyric, and the reputation of her beauty, together with
her illustrious descent, made him desire to become united with this
distinguished maiden.

Without having seen the object of his ambitious aspiring, but relying
upon the reports of her high qualities, he sent his proposals, which
were rejected with scorn. This roused the malignity of the Tartar. To
be contemned by a woman was an injury never to be forgotten; and he
meditated a distant but signal revenge. He expected that his treatment
of the fiery young Azmut would rouse the indignation of his family,
and most probably excite them to acts of violence. It had happened
precisely as he had foreseen, and he now gladly seized the opportunity
of following up to its issue the plan of retribution which he had so
warily laid. He was not a man to let his resolution lie in abeyance
until chance concurred to elicit the desired result; but he had that
energy of malice which tries every hazard, however desperate, to
realize the consummation of its most atrocious purposes.

Lody had well weighed the chances of pursuit; and knowing the fierce
hostility with which the usher regarded him, had calculated the
probability of being followed by his ancient foe. He urged forward his
little band for fifteen leagues without halting, and was then stopped
by a river. It was broad and rapid, and so swollen by recent rains,
that to cross it seemed utterly impracticable. It flowed onward in
a wide turbid stream, broken every now and then into small whirling
eddies by the rapidity of its progress, and thus became so agitated,
that there appeared no chance of stemming its tumultuous current. There
was not a boat to be seen; all had been carried down the stream by the
impetuosity of the torrent: and a wooden bridge was swept away by the
extraordinary pressure of its augmented waters, which in several places
overflowed their banks and inundated the country, except upon the
higher grounds, to a distance of several miles.

This was a melancholy impediment. Here was a check which bid fair to
frustrate their escape, but there was no choice; and with a foreboding
heart Chan Lody and his faithful adherents encamped for the night upon
the banks of the river. He threw himself upon a rug to snatch a short
repose after the bodily fatigue and mental excitement of the last
twenty-four hours. His reflections were sad and harassing. The scene
of the past night recurred to his mind with sickening vividness, and
painful recollections swept over it with the might and suddenness of
the whirlwind. The perilous situation in which he stood, perplexed and
agitated him. He had but a few followers to oppose to the large body
of troops which he was certain would be sent against him. The swollen
state of the river forbad the possibility of flight, and the small
number of his adherents banished every chance of successful resistance.
For himself he entertained no apprehensions; but when he thought of his
children, an involuntary pang, which he could not repress, shook his
frame.

In proportion, however, as his reflections magnified the dangers by
which he was surrounded, his spirit rose, and finally settled into a
determination of resistance which nothing could disturb. Prepared to
meet the worst emergencies of the morrow, he at length sank into a
profound slumber, which was increased by that reaction of repose after
excitement, which invariably follows the tension of mind produced by
extreme mental disturbance.

He awoke with the dawn: and upon quitting his tent was informed
that the imperial troops were in full march towards him. He
immediately summoned his sons and daughter; and representing the
utter impossibility of escape, asked them if they would wish to throw
themselves upon the enemy’s clemency?--that for himself he was resolved
to die in arms. Hussein, the eldest son, swore he would follow his
father’s fortune, and perish rather than fall into the hands of a
conqueror. Azmut made the same solemn vow.

“And you, my child,” said Chan Lody, addressing his daughter, “what
reason is there that you should not live to form an alliance, which
might perpetuate the race of Lody, with a man, perhaps, that would
vindicate thy father’s wrong?”

“Because,” replied the noble girl, throwing herself upon her parent’s
bosom, “I am from a stock that has ever preferred death to captivity.
There is no sex in soul; and I feel mine to be as capable of those
deeds which will excite unborn ages to noble emulation as they who
exclusively claim the privilege of performing them. I am resolved to
perish with the enemy’s blood upon my sword, and will dye this dagger
with my own rather than accept the clemency of tyrants.”

The father embraced her: and having summoned his small but resolute
band, declared to them his determination of dying in arms rather than
yield to the approaching foe. This resolution was hailed with a cheer,
and the troops prepared for action. There was a pass between two hills
in their rear which opened into a narrow plain. Of this pass Chan Lody
took possession, and he had scarcely disposed his order of battle, when
the van of the imperialists appeared advancing along a rising valley.
His position was a very strong one, being accessible only in front;
the river, which so effectually cut off his retreat, as effectually
covering his rear.

The imperial army amounted to upwards of eight thousand men; Chan
Lody’s did not exceed as many hundreds. The enemy advanced leisurely
onward, and halted within about two furlongs from the pass where the
fugitives were so advantageously posted. A message was immediately
despatched to Chan Lody, summoning him to surrender. He returned
a reply of haughty defiance, and the Emperor’s troops advanced to
the charge. They were so warmly received that, after a short but
vigorous struggle, they were obliged to fall back. Though considerably
dispirited by this repulse, relying upon their numbers, they again
advanced to the charge with like success.

These attacks were several times repeated with a similar result, until
evening terminated the conflict, when the imperialists retired within
their camp on the slope of a neighbouring hill. They had suffered
severely; upwards of twelve hundred men having been slain, and nearly
double that number wounded. Chan Lody’s band had likewise suffered
severely. Not more than a hundred and fifty remained unhurt. Three
hundred were killed, and many more desperately wounded; so that he
had nothing more consolatory to look forward to than their utter
extermination, as soon as the sanguinary conflict should be renewed.

It was a gloomy prospect. A council was held among the survivors, who
unanimously declared their resolution to fight to the last extremity;
but Hussein and Azmut both proposed that their father should attempt
the river, and they would secure his retreat.

“My father,” said Hussein, “you may still live to avenge your wrongs.
Besides, you have been severely wounded in the action of to-day, and
your death will therefore be rather a suicide than a sacrifice, if
you expose yourself merely to court destruction. You cannot, in your
present state, endure the exertion of another conflict. Try the river;
your steed is stout, and may bear you to the shore in safety; we will
cover your retreat.”

“The danger is equal,” replied Lody; “but it is more honourable to die
on the field than in the river.”

Still they urged his retreat. “But can I fly and leave my children? No!
I will perish on this field. I will never leave my brave sons to meet
an honourable death and live to become a mere man of sorrows.”

It was at length agreed, after considerable difficulty, that Chan Lody
and one of his sons and daughter should try the river, and the other
remain behind to keep the enemy in check until the fugitives had gained
the opposite shore.

When this was determined, they separated for the night. With early dawn
the brothers were at their posts. As the light was gradually stretching
over the distant plain in a broad grey stream, a dispute arose between
them which should attack the enemy. Whilst, however, the generous
altercation was going on, Perist, who had struck Azmut in the Emperor’s
presence, appeared at the head of the imperialists.

“It is decided,” said Azmut; “there is my enemy,--especially and
personally mine. Hussein, you would not interfere with your brother’s
privilege to redress his own wrongs. Fly with my father, and leave me
to my revenge.”

Saying this, he spurred his horse forward; and his father, joined by
Hussein, plunged into the river.

CHAPTER IV.

Chan Lody and his son Hussein had great difficulty in stemming the
rapid current. Their horses were carried a considerable distance down
the stream, and almost exhausted before they reached the opposite bank;
fortunately, the channel was so full that the water was on a level
with the land. When they had made good their transit, they shouted to
apprise the generous Azmut of their safety, whom, however, they did not
see; for he was engaged in that perilous onset of destruction to which
he had so heroically devoted himself.

The father’s distress was great when he perceived that Jahanira had not
followed them. He concluded that, fearing to encounter the peril of
crossing the river, she had resolved to throw herself upon the clemency
of the conquerors; for the defeat of her brother and his small band was
certain. Such a resolution, however, was so contrary to her nature that
he rejected the supposition almost as soon as he had formed it, and
came to the final conclusion that she had determined to share the fate
of Azmut. The anxious father hoped, that, should they hear his shouts
of safety, they would immediately fly from the unequal contest, and
attempt the passage of the river, as he and his elder son had done with
unexpected success.

He was not far from right in his judgment concerning Jahanira; she had
remained with Azmut, resolved either to perish or escape with them. No
sooner had Chan Lody and Hussein plunged into the stream than Azmut
spurred towards the imperialists, who were advancing slowly towards the
pass. Seeing him approach, Perist ordered his army to halt, determined
to have the satisfaction of slaying him with his own arm. Jahanira had
armed herself with a bow and arrows. Following her brother, she paused
when she saw his foe singly advance to meet him. The hardy Calmuc,
confiding in his own strength, awaited with a smile of anticipated
triumph the coming onset of his impatient enemy.

Azmut was rejoiced to see the halt of the imperial army, as it would
render secure the retreat of his father and brother, provided the
current of the river did not prove too strong for them. Being upon
a light active horse, he passed the usher at speed, and striking at
him in full career, inflicted a deep gash on his knee. The Tartar
turned, and Azmut wheeling at the same moment, their horses met with
a tremendous shock, and the light charger of the latter rolled upon
the plain. Its rider was upon his feet in an instant. Perist spurred
towards him, but he parried a furious stroke, at the same time
springing actively on one side, as his huge adversary attempted to ride
him down. His danger, however, was imminent, and the moment critical.
Jahanira beheld the peril of her beloved brother. She placed an arrow
upon the string of her bow. The Tartar had again advanced upon Azmut,
and as he raised his heavy sabre to bury it in the body of his youthful
opponent, a shaft, sped with unerring aim, entered his temple, and he
dropped dead at his horse’s feet.

Azmut saw from whence the succour came, waved his arm in token of
acknowledgment, and retreated towards the pass; but being on foot, he
was overtaken by a party of the enemy’s cavalry before he could reach
his followers. The latter, however, rushed forward to his rescue, and
for some time a desperate struggle ensued; it was short and decisive.
Overwhelmed by numbers, the fugitives were cut off to a man. Azmut slew
two Omrahs with his own hands, but was transfixed by a lance as he was
in the act of bringing his sword upon the crest of a third. An arrow
from the bow of his heroic sister entered the bosom of his destroyer,
and she had the satisfaction of witnessing his death-pang while she
beheld that of her brother.

Seeing that all was lost, and hearing her father’s shouts, she spurred
her horse towards the river, discharging several arrows in her
flight at the pursuing squadron: the enemy expected that the water
would arrest her flight, and therefore slackened their speed as they
approached; but to their amazement she dashed fearlessly in, and pushed
bravely for the opposite shore, upon which stood her father and only
surviving brother.

The enemy halted upon the bank in amazement, not daring to attempt the
passage. The turbid waters rolled rapidly on, foaming and hissing in
their way, as they were occasionally interrupted in their course by
the partial sinuosities of the channel. Her horse was slight, but full
of fire, and pawed the turbulent stream with an impatient but resolute
spirit. The undaunted girl was frequently sucked down by the eddies,
but she maintained her seat and rose above them with an intrepidity
that amazed while it mortified her hostile spectators. Vexed that she
should have eluded them, several archers discharged their arrows at her
as she was struggling amidst the perilous element. One shaft hit her on
the turban; this being saturated, repelled it; but such was the force
with which the arrow had been urged, that the turban was struck from
her head, exposing it to the cowardly aim of her incensed foes.

By this time she had passed the middle of the channel where the current
was strongest, and thus somewhat abated the chances of perishing amidst
the troubled waters. Her enemies still continuing to discharge their
arrows, as if in derision of their impotent malice, she raised herself
in her stirrup, threw back her long raven hair which streamed around
her like a fine sable fringe, and waved her arm, bidding them a mute
defiance. Her father and brother cheered her from the shore, but her
safety was still doubtful. Her horse was fast sinking. Its nose was
scarcely perceptible above the agitated surface of the stream. There
was but one resource--she flung herself from its back, and the noble
animal almost immediately sank.

She was yet a considerable distance from the bank, and the current was
still strong. She breasted it, however, with fearless energy, straining
every nerve to reach the shore. The foe had ceased to impel their
arrows, as she was by this time beyond the reach of anything like a
certain aim. She flung her sandals from her feet as they embarrassed
her movements, and in spite of the fierce rush of the stream, she rose
above it and gradually advanced towards the bank. It was evident that
she would not be able much longer to continue her exertions, and her
anxious parent was beginning to entertain his doubts of her eventual
escape, when she caught the branch of a tree which was just underneath
the surface, and sustained herself until she had recovered her breath.
Just below, the bank had given way and formed a sort of frith, in which
she finally landed, and was welcomed by her father with a transport of
emotion.

When she had sufficiently recovered, Chan Lody could no longer subdue
his anxiety to know the fate of his brave son. “And Azmut,” he said,
“has become a sacrifice to his father’s safety, for I see him not.”

“Yes,” said Jahanira, solemnly, “he has met a soldier’s doom. He is
gone to the inheritance of the brave.”

“God is just; he did not perish unrevenged.”

“No, the man who offered him an indignity in the imperial presence has
paid the penalty of his daring. I slew him, father.”

“My child!” the parent fell upon his daughter’s neck and wept.

“Azmut died with his sword in his hand, reeking with the slaughter of
his enemies. His was a noble death,--how much better than an inglorious
life!”

Of Chan Lody’s followers, three only survived,--the whole had been
slain, except five who had plunged into the river a short time before
Jahanira. Two had perished in attempting the passage, and three had
succeeded in gaining the shore. With this wretched remnant of his
little army, he proceeded towards Malwa, halting for the night at a
small village about ten leagues from the river. His misfortunes had
been severe, but they rather tended to render him resolute than to
subdue his unbending spirit. His march into this province was speedy,
but sorrowful. The loss of Azmut was a bitter grief. He was the pride
of his father’s house;--a mere child in years, he had shown the wisdom
of the sage, and the skill in arms of an accomplished warrior. Chan
Lody lived but to avenge his early and premature fate, and the idea of
vengeance was a solace to his lacerated spirit.

When he reached Malwa, to the government of which he had been appointed
by Shah Jehan, he began to levy troops, and soon found himself at the
head of a small but well-disciplined force. His name was formidable
throughout the empire, and the late events had obtained for him an
almost universal sympathy. He was not, however, permitted to remain
long unmolested. Within three weeks after he had crossed the river
to avoid the imperial army, the waters had subsided, and his enemies
having recruited their forces, advanced to Malwa. He met them in the
field, but was defeated, and obliged to retire to the mountains, where
he maintained a successful defence, until the monsoon obliged the enemy
to retire. Lody had harassed them by frequent surprises, by cutting off
their supplies, and by reducing them to such straits that they were
finally obliged to leave him in undisturbed possession of the province
which the Emperor had placed under his government. They were glad at
length to escape the difficulties which he raised around them.

The Emperor was extremely perplexed at Chan Lody’s escape. He knew the
abilities of that Omrah, and the estimation in which his principles and
talents were almost universally held. So long as he lived, the Mogul
throne was a contingency. Nothing but the death of Chan Lody could
give security to the reign of Shah Jehan. With these impressions, the
Emperor determined to destroy that noble, as a maxim of state policy;
and therefore, so soon as the monsoon had passed, he despatched a
numerous army to drive him from his stronghold in the mountains, and
bring him to Agra, alive or dead.

The imperial general was a noble of distinguished reputation, and
commanded a numerous and well-appointed army. He encamped within a
day’s march from the mountains to which Chan Lody had retired for
security. Conscious of his numerical superiority, he affected to
despise his enemy. On the evening after he had encamped, a nautch-girl
entered his presence, soliciting permission to dance before him. Struck
with her singular beauty, she was allowed to exhibit her professional
skill in his presence after the evening meal. He did not long enjoy the
exhibition of her evolutions. He was taken ill shortly after having
swallowed a copious draught of sherbert, and before the morning was
a corpse. His mysterious death provoking inquiry, it was immediately
ascertained that he had been poisoned. The sudden disappearance of
the nautch-girl excited suspicion. She was nowhere to be found. The
death of the imperial general soon reached Lody’s ears, and all the
mysterious circumstances attending it. “I can explain the mystery,”
said the Omrah’s daughter; “I entered the hostile camp in disguise, and
poison has removed a foe whose place will not be easily supplied.”

The death of their general rendered the imperial army inactive for some
time, and gave an opportunity to Lody to escape into the Deccan, where
he had powerful friends.

CHAPTER V.

Shah Jehan was alarmed at the successful resistance which Chan Lody
had made against his armies; but, being determined to crush him, he
despatched for this purpose an exterminating force under Eradit,
a commander of reputation. The talents of the imperial general,
however, could not for a moment stand in competition with those of his
adversary. In his flight from Malwa, with a few brave adherents, who
continued attached to his fortunes, Lody foiled all the attempts of
the Mogul troops, which pursued him to the number of twelve thousand.
He harassed them by night attacks--cut off their supplies--fortified
himself in the passes of the hills--until the enemy, wearied by long
and difficult marches, roads almost impracticable, and constant
watching to escape the assaults of a vigilant enemy, at length gave up
the pursuit, and allowed the rebel, as they styled him, to continue his
journey unmolested; after which he passed into Golconda, and presented
himself before the Nizam at Dowlatabad.

The Nizam granted him protection, which was a source of extreme
mortification to the Emperor, who, knowing the abilities of Lody, was
fearful that he might offer a successful resistance to the imperial
arms with the resources which his powerful ally would place at his
disposal. He saw that there was no time to be lost, as delay would only
enable his foe to unite the jarring interests of the Deccan princes,
who were all avowed enemies to the house of Timour. He determined,
therefore, to follow Eradit in person, with a numerous reinforcement.
The Emperor’s arrival in the Deccan had a sinister influence upon
the cause of the magnanimous Lody. The refractory princes knew their
sovereign’s abilities, and dreaded his power. As they saw a storm
impending, each fearing that it might fall upon himself, withdrew his
aid from him to whom they had promised assistance, and all returned to
their allegiance.

Shah Jehan, enraged with the Nizam for having received his enemy,
determined to humble that haughty prince. He therefore despatched three
armies against Dowlatabad: one under Eradit, amounting to twenty-five
thousand men, and two others, of the same strength, under the separate
commands of Raja Gop Singh and Shaista Chan.

For some time, through the talents of Chan Lody, the Nizam’s troops
baffled every attempt against his capital. According to his former
policy, Lody had secured the passes of the mountains, and upon one
occasion, rushing down upon Eradit, at the head of twelve thousand men,
he defeated him with great slaughter, and obliged him to retire out of
the province. This so exasperated Shah Jehan, that he suspended Eradit
from the command, and put the army under that of his Vizier, whose
reputation as a general considerably damped the ardour of the Nizam’s
forces. Lody still retained possession of the passes, from which every
effort hitherto made to dislodge him had proved ineffectual.

Prince Morad accompanied the Vizier. His love for the heroic daughter
of the refractory Omrah had not abated. Her beauty had at first forged
a fetter round his heart, and her heroism riveted the chain.

One night, after a day of severe skirmishing with the enemy, Jahanira,
who always followed her father to the field, had quitted her tent to
breathe the fresh air of heaven. The night dews fell upon her burning
brow and cooled her brain, which ached with the concurring excitement
of bodily exertion and mental anxiety.

She saw that the arm of destiny was raised to smite. She wept. Her
father’s wrongs were not yet half avenged. That very day the Nizam had
withdrawn his forces, and abandoned his brave ally, with whom there
remained only a few hundred followers, to contend with an army of
above eighty thousand men. The Nizam had submitted to the Vizier, and
Lody was left without a single friend. Jahanira perceiving that his
determination to die in arms was shortly to be realised, resolved to go
with him to the peace of a less distracted world.

Absorbed in the intensity of these reflections, she had wandered beyond
the boundary of the camp. The night was still and balmy; fresh dews
descended from the hills, and moistened her blanched cheek, which was
fanned by the passing breeze. The distant cries of jackals interrupted
at intervals the repose of this solemn scene; and the lulling gush
of a stream, which flowed through a neighbouring ravine, suited the
melancholy temper of her spirit at this hour of darkness and of
silence. She strolled onward thoughtfully. Raising her eyes to the side
of a hill, where a narrow path diverged from the main road, she saw
a figure emerge from a clump of trees, and stand in complete relief
against the sky. She drew her dagger, and, approaching cautiously,
cried, “Who’s there?” at the same moment springing forward, and
standing with her drawn crease within a few yards of the intruder.

“Jahanira!” exclaimed a voice, which she instantly recognised to be
that of Morad.

“Why this intrusion, prince? Are you come a spy upon our path? Can the
foe so fear to approach the bayed lion, that he is obliged to resort to
stratagem? Locusts, prince, will desolate a country by the mere force
of numbers: your armies may likewise overwhelm Chan Lody, but you will
not subdue him.”

“I come not as a spy, lady,” replied Morad earnestly, “but to renew my
vows of eternal attachment to the noblest woman in the universe. If the
lovely Jahanira will accept an alliance with the family of Timour, and
become the wife of Morad, her father may be restored to his honours and
influence in the state. All that is past will be forgotten.”

“Nay, prince, what is past can never be forgotten. The death of Azmut,
and the degradation of my parent, are scored with a fiery brand upon
my heart, and cannot be erased. I have seen my brother slain--I have
seen my father wronged. In this world, but one object remains to me
and mine--revenge! We are a doomed family, Prince Morad; we shall
perish together. There is no alternative between that and yielding our
allegiance to a tyrant. The latter we shall never do; the former must
be our destiny. We are prepared; but they who die desperately, with
weapons in their hands, are to be dreaded. Let the oppressor tremble.”

“Jahanira! why should this be? I come to offer you freedom--to raise
you to a dignity which you were born to adorn.”

“Freedom! Prince Morad? I have been free--I am free--I will be
free--and there is no dignity higher than being the daughter of Chan
Lody. Retire! this secret communication neither befits you to make,
nor me to encourage. Why skulk under the cover of night to an enemy’s
tents? Leave me, or I shall be compelled to treat you as a foe.”

“I came under the cover of night to avoid suspicion of treachery in the
imperial camp. I have incurred some hazard, lady, in coming hither to
declare myself, to release you and your family from certain death, and
to offer you the heart of an Emperor’s son.”

“Which I reject, prince; for however I might respect the son of a
tyrant, I never could wed him. My resolve is immutable. To-morrow, in
the battle, remember that the daughter of Chan Lody has dared to reject
the son of Shah Jehan!”

Morad was in the act of speaking, when she turned from him, waved her
hand with an air of haughty courtesy, and ascended the hill towards her
tent. Upon reaching it, she threw herself on her couch, agitated by a
tumult of conflicting feelings. Prince Morad’s affection for her was
not to be thought of without emotion; she had rejected him--even with
bitterness, yet he had twice saved her life; but every other feeling
was merged in her filial obligations.

“He is the son of my parent’s worst foe,” she said mentally; “I am
therefore bound to withhold all feelings towards him but those of
enmity.”

Morad was deeply mortified at the issue of his adventure. He had run
the risk of incurring a base suspicion from his own party, and of
being seized as a spy by the enemy, only to meet a cold and bitter
repulse. He could not, however, withhold his admiration from the woman
whose affections he sought to win, though she had met his advances
with uniform haughtiness. He saw that hers was, in truth, as she had
characterized it, a doomed family, and it grieved him that he could not
rescue them from destruction.

Chan Lody’s followers were reduced to a mere troop; and, however strong
his position, it was evident that he must eventually yield to such an
immense majority of numbers. Morad dreaded the approaching onslaught.
By daybreak the pass was to be stormed by the imperial army, and there
could be no doubt of the issue. He would have laid down his life to
rescue Jahanira from the impending doom, but this could not be.

Day dawned: the pass was attacked, and the imperialists were repulsed
with great slaughter. Jahanira appeared among the combatants, fighting
with a hero’s energy. The pass was again attacked; repulse followed
as before, with immense loss on the side of the assailants. Lody’s
small band, however, was diminished by every fresh attack, and he was
at length obliged to abandon the pass, with only a few followers.
Descending into the plain on the other side of the mountain, he
resolved there to await the coming of the foe, and fulfil his
resolution of dying in arms. He was not allowed long to pause after he
had quitted the hills. The imperial troops appeared in sight, and he
prepared himself for the sacrifice.

Summoning his brave adherents, now amounting only to thirty-two, in
which number was included his son Hussein and his daughter Jahanira, he
addressed them with much earnestness, suggesting that they would seek
their own safety in flight, and leave him to die alone by the hand of
an implacable enemy. When he had concluded his pathetic address, there
was a general murmur of sorrow. Not a man would stir. All expressed
their determination to die in arms with their beloved leader. “Then be
it so,” said Lody; “our enemies shall still find that a few valiant men
are formidable even to the last, and their destruction a dear-bought
triumph.”

The imperialists advanced in a large body towards the devoted band, who
suffered them to approach within a hundred paces, when they discharged
their matchlocks, which, being directed with deadly aim, did signal
execution. The moment after the discharge, veiled for a moment by the
smoke, Jahanira spurred her horse towards the advancing host. As she
rode, she fixed an arrow in the string of her bow, and discharged it
at the officer who led the detachment. It struck upon a small conical
buckler with which he was armed, and the reed quivered as the head
of the shaft pierced the tough buffalo hide that covered it. At this
moment a ball from a matchlock entered the heroine’s breast. She fell
from her horse. The blood trickled from the wound. Morad rushed forward
to raise her. She opened her languid eyes as he lifted her to his knee,
fixed them on him with a look of stern despair, heaved a deep-felt
sigh, and fell upon his shoulder--dead.

Chan Lody saw what passed. He gave the word to advance. His followers
spurred their horses onward, and in a few moments came in contact with
their foes. The onset was short but desperate. Hussein was struck to
the earth by a stroke from Morad’s sword, who felt no tender mercy for
the brother of her whom he would have saved at the sacrifice of his own
life. Her death had roused the fiercer energies of his spirit. Hussein
fell beneath his arm.

The valour of Chan Lody’s followers astonished their enemies. They
scattered death and dismay around them. Chan Lody slew no less than six
officers with his own hand. He was at length disabled by a sabre-cut
on the shoulder; he dropped his sword, and was instantly surrounded
and slain. He died with his eyes fixed upon the broad heavens--a smile
was on his lips--the left arm grasped a dagger. His adherents fought
to the last man--not one survived; but the victors purchased a dear
victory--the death of Chan Lody was signally avenged.

HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Heg. 1068 (A. D. 1658).--Aurungzebe ascended the imperial throne of the
Moguls. He was alarmed by the approach of his nephew, Soliman Sheko,
who was finally deserted by his army, and obliged to take refuge in
Serinagur. Soliman despatched a messenger to his father Dara, with the
news of his ill-fortune. Dara, distressed at his son’s misfortunes and
his own, retreated from the banks of the Suttulege, on which he was
encamped, and shortly after retired to Lahore, whence he was obliged
to fly before the imperial army. Several of his nobles, perceiving his
desperate circumstances, submitted to Aurungzebe. The Vizier, Meer
Jumla, having arrived at court, Aurungzebe marched to Moultan; but
finding his presence necessary in the capital, immediately returned to
prepare against the invasion of his brother Suja.

Heg. 1069 (1659).--Suja approached with a considerable army, but was
met near Allahabad by the Emperor. In consequence of the treachery of
Jesswint Singh, Suja was defeated with great slaughter; and taking
flight, was pursued by the Emperor’s son Mahomed, who followed him to
Patna, whither he had fled in disguise. Upon the news of Suja’s defeat,
Dara retired to Bicker beyond the Indus. Having changed his course to
Tatta, he crossed the desert, and after reaching Guzarat, gained over
the governor to his interests. He here contrived to raise an army,
and marched towards Agra; but was deceived by Jesswint Singh, who had
promised to join him with a numerous body of forces, but treacherously
deserted Dara, and joined Aurungzebe. Dara fortified himself in Ajmere.
Hither the Emperor marched and offered him battle, and deceived his
unfortunate brother by a stratagem; after which he routed his army,
and reduced him to the most pitiable distress. Dara fled to the desert
accompanied by his wife, who died under circumstances of dreadful
privation on the march. The unhappy prince in his extremity sought
the protection of Jihon Chan, an Omrah of great power, whose life
had been twice saved during the sovereignty of Shah Jehan through
the influence of Dara; Jihon delivered him into the hands of the
conqueror; he was paraded with every mark of ignominy through Delhi,
confined in a neighbouring village, and eventually put to death by
order of Aurungzebe. Suja took the field after the death of his brother
Dara, and was joined by the Emperor’s son, Mahomed, who had conceived
a passion for one of his daughters. Suja was finally defeated by
the Vizier Jumla, and the prince Mahomed detached from him by the
artifices of his father, who ordered the unfortunate Suja to be seized
and imprisoned.

Heg. 1070 (1660).--Suja was obliged to take refuge in Arracan, where he
was murdered, and his family reduced to the greatest extremity.

Heg. 1071 (1661).--Soliman, the son of Dara, was seized through the
artifices of Aurungzebe, and sent to Delhi. He was imprisoned in the
fortress of Gualior, and, like his unfortunate father, shortly after
murdered. During this year a dreadful famine raged throughout the
empire.

Heg. 1072 (1662).--The imperial general, Shaista Chan, took one of
Sevajee’s hill-forts by flying a kite which concealed a blind match
over the fort just at the moment the garrison were taking powder from
the magazine. The kite was allowed to drop upon the powder, which was
kindled by the match, and an explosion took place; the greater part of
the fort was thrown down, and nearly the whole garrison buried in the
ruins.

Heg. 1073 (1663).--An attempt was made by the Marajah to assassinate
Shaista Chan, who escaped with the loss of three fingers; but his son
was slain.

Heg. 1074 (1664).--Aurungzebe fell sick, and his son Shah Allum
began to intrigue for the throne; but his efforts were foiled by the
Emperor’s unexpected recovery. Shah Allum was appointed to a command in
the Deccan, in order to remove him from the capital.

Heg. 1075 (1665).--A dangerous insurrection broke out in Guzarat, and
was quelled with difficulty. This year was distinguished by the death
of Jumla, who had been appointed to the government of Bengal. Jumla
was a man of great talent, having risen from a very low station to the
highest offices in the state. He was much esteemed by Aurungzebe for
his abilities, but still more dreaded than esteemed. During this year
also there was an insurrection of Fakeers, who, under the influence
of a very wealthy old woman, committed dreadful ravages, and marched
to the number of twenty thousand towards the capital. Their march
was marked by the most horrible cruelties. They totally defeated the
imperial troops commanded by the collector of the revenue. At length
the Emperor subdued them with their own weapons: employing the juggles
of pretended enchantment, the insurrection was quelled, but not until
almost every one of the enthusiasts had been slain.

Heg. 1076 (1666).--This year was remarkable for the death of Shah
Jehan, and the capture of Sevajee, chief of the Mahrattas, who from
the seventeenth year of his age had been pursuing a career of success
almost unparalleled in the history of potentates. From commanding a
small band of mountain robbers, he had raised himself to be the leader
of a formidable army, with which he awed the surrounding provinces.
He was at length taken prisoner by the imperial general, and confined
at Delhi, whence he contrived to escape disguised in the dress of
a man who had been admitted into his apartment with a basket of
flowers. After enduring unparalleled hardships, he reached his native
mountains, where he was crowned sovereign of the Mahrattas, who from
that period gradually increased in political importance, till they
became the most numerous and influential of the native powers in India.
They produced several distinguished warriors, among whom the names
of Scindia and Holcar will be remembered so long as history has its
records, and man the capacity to peruse them.

The Revolt of the Fakeers.

CHAPTER I.

About noon, under the scorching beams of a tropical sun, a young
Mussulman was on his way towards the Mewat hills, accompanied by a
party of fakeers. His hands were bound behind him with his turban, and
he had nothing on his head but a silk skull-cap to resist the intense
rays which shot from the cloudless heavens in an uninterrupted stream
of glowing light. His black hair, which was long and bushy, fell over
his shoulders and temples; thus supplying a natural protection against
the influence of the solar fires, which were almost insupportable. He
was urged onward by his companions at a rate which the excessive heat
rendered extremely distressing, though to them it appeared mere matter
of pastime. Accustomed as they were to undergo the severest bodily
inflictions, what to him was positive torture was to them a relaxation
from it.

Every one of his companions was perfectly naked, and each bore the
marks of having submitted to the torturing process of some dreadful
penance. Their limbs were sunken and fleshless, the skin shrivelled and
discoloured by the severity of those torments to which their bodies
had been exposed. Their nails protruded and curved into a point over
the fingers and toes, like the claws of a beast of prey. Their hair,
matted with the filthy accumulations of years, hung over the backs of
these Mahomedan Nazarites, like the locks from a Medusa’s head, and was
frequently so thick as to shroud them in a capillary veil, revolting
to more than one sense, and agreeable to none. They were armed with
huge clubs, the heads of which were charged with iron. These they used
with considerable dexterity, being in the habit of employing them in
the jungles for the purpose of destroying small game, upon which they
frequently feasted with a gluttonous zest that would have shamed even
the Roman Apicius.

“Ay,” said one, eyeing their prisoner with a look of Satanic triumph,
“naked men know how to fight. Devotion is their shield, which all the
outcasts from Paradise shall never be able to pierce.”

“I am in your power,” replied the captive; “but beware how you
exercise your momentary ascendancy. Your foul revolt will not escape
its due punishment: in spite of your devotion you will suffer the
penalty--torture me for a false prophet else. Success has turned your
brains. The war waged by enthusiasm is like a sudden burst of the
tempest, which crushes the oak in its impetuous sweep, but quickly
passes away; the surrounding plain springs out into renewed luxuriance
and beauty, and thus smiles at the impotence of the hurricane.”

“Hold, blasphemer!” cried a huge gaunt devotee, the bones of whose
joints were heard to clatter as he wielded his fleshless arms with the
most extravagant gesticulations; “bend the knee to those holy men who
have defeated the sons of darkness, and are about to place upon the
throne of the Moguls a queen who shall close the dynasty of Timour,
and fill the world with the children of the faithful,--for you are all
aliens from the true stock.”

The prisoner turned from this filthy saint with an expression of
disgust, and allowed him to rail at the Emperor and all his faithful
subjects till he foamed like a gored bull with the frantic energy of
his vociferations.

They now entered upon a scene of desolation not to be witnessed
without deep emotion, which naturally follows wherever the melancholy
consciousness arises that a vast addition has been made to the sum
of human misery. For leagues, as they proceeded onward, nothing was
to be seen but deserted villages; the whole country having been laid
waste, and bearing the appearance of “a land not inhabited.” The
jungles had been fired; and for miles the ashes left by the devouring
element, and the charred trunks of trees, which had for centuries
lifted their sturdy limbs amid the feebler growth of the forest, showed
how terrific had been the conflagration. Not a shrub, not a blade of
grass, not a single trace of vegetation, was anywhere visible; and as
the stranger cast his eyes over the scene of devastation, he could not
help expressing his indignation against the perpetrators of such wanton
outrage.

“Ay,” said one of the enthusiasts; “we take care not to provide forage
for enemies; they who visit the stronghold of the fakeers, must make
up their minds to take a hungry journey. If ever you live to see your
friends, you will have strange news to tell them, believe me. When
holy men seize the sword, and fight in carnal battles, no mortal arm
can resist them. We have taught your sovereign what it is to oppose
Heaven’s vicegerents. He is already tottering on his throne. You shall
see and know more anon.”

The ogre-like being who spoke had taken so much opium during the
journey thus far, as to have reached that pitch of excitement to which,
when a fakeer arrives, he can submit to bodily tortures altogether
incredible. His eyes glared with the glassy radiance of incipient
madness. Though the heat was intolerable, and the earth steamed with
the intensity of the sun’s rays, like exhalations from a caldron, he
leaped about, and threw himself into a thousand contortions, until his
body was covered with a tawny scum from the severity of his exercise.
After he had fatigued himself by these violent antics, he took a
number of large needles, and having passed them through the flesh in
several parts of his body, threaded them with silks of various colours,
and then strutted before the party with the pride and bearing of one
conscious of having performed an act for which he should receive the
homage of his companions, who treated him with a reverence evidently
very flattering to the spiritual vanity of this mad visionary.
Having at length relieved himself from the needles, he drew the
silken strings through the wounds, and then attaching to each a small
pointed instrument, exceedingly sharp, turned himself round until the
rotation became so violent that the outline of his figure was scarcely
distinguishable. When he ceased, his body was covered with gashes and
reeking with blood.

After six hours of continued travelling, with scarcely a pause, the
party arrived at the foot of a small hill, which had evidently been
spared from the devastation that exhibited so sad a prospect in the
surrounding country. The prisoner, though overcome by the excessive
fatigue of so arduous a journey, was not allowed to pause, but
compelled to proceed up the ascent. About midway a considerable ruin
was disclosed, upon which the last rays of the sun slanted, as it
was sinking behind the low hills that skirted the distant plain. The
entrance was lofty, and encumbered with fragments of pillars, which
time or violence had thrown down. Within was an extensive area; on
every side of it were gigantic sculptures, representing the history of
some Hindoo superstition, which had been greatly mutilated by the zeal
of pious Mahomedans. This building was a dilapidated choultry, and had
been converted into the vestibule of the abode of an old crone, bending
beneath the weight of years, and mistress of inexhaustible treasures.

In this hall, Bistamia, which was the hag’s name, was engaged in
preparing the evening meal for her beggarly dependants--a thing she
invariably did with her own hands. During the culinary process she
appeared to mutter certain incantations over the smoking viands, which
consisted of the most revolting ingredients.

When the stranger was brought before her, she eyed him with that
haggard, feeble scowl peculiar to wicked old age, in which is exhibited
the will, but not the power, of the demon. Her deformed and decrepit
body was bare to the waist, and presented a loathsome image of living
mortality.

What an antidote to the vanity of youth and the pride of beauty! Her
white locks streamed over her brown, withered shoulders, exhibiting
one of those repelling contrasts which the eye cannot gaze upon without
instinctively closing. Her skin hung from her like the dewlap of a
sacred bull, but flaccid and bloodless, as if the principle of life
were withdrawn from it. The nails of her fingers had grown into claws,
and seemed as if they could distil poison, like those of the Egyptian
lizard.[40]

“Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red,”

and her whole appearance seemed to speak “variety of wretchedness.” She
approached the stranger, eyed him with a look of intense malice, and
said--

“Who are you, son of a dog? How came you within these walls?”

“I am,” replied the stranger, “an officer of the imperial army, who,
upon the issue of an unsuccessful encounter with your insurgent
fanatics, have fallen into their hands. How I came within these walls,
they will best explain to you.”

“Hah! an enemy! You shall soon learn how we treat enemies when they
profane our sanctuary. Would you save your life!”

“I have no desire to die.”

“Ay, the burden of every coward’s song. Fall down, then, at our feet,
and hail us Queen of the Moguls.”

“The Moguls were never ruled by women.”

“Say you so? We shall see. Bind him to yonder statue.”

Her order was speedily executed, and the hag began to prepare the
last dish of the evening’s refection. This was a medley, fit only
for the stomachs of ghoules or devils. It happened to be a certain
day of the moon, and on this day the same mixture was always placed
before her retainers. The first thing she ordered to be brought, when
about to make her infernal stew, was the trunk of a human body, which
had been conveyed for this very purpose from the scene of slaughter.
She deliberately cut large pieces from the fleshy parts; these she
divided into small squares, with slow, calculating precision, and
then placed them severally in a human skull that stood beside her.
Having covered them with a layer of herbs that had been gathered under
certain influences of the moon, she took from a covered basket a hooded
snake, from the jaws of which the poisonous fangs had been previously
extracted, and placed it alive in the skull. To this she added the
legs of a frog, the tail of a lizard, the head of a bat, and the claws
of an owl. Having placed the skull, with its contents, in a capacious
earthen vessel, in which there was a sufficient quantity of water to
complete the dressing, she put it upon the fire, and watched it with
eager anxiety, muttering to herself a sort of mystical chant during the
entire period of the cooking. The smoke ascended in volumes from the
flame over which this disgusting mess was hanging, and soon filled the
whole chamber with a thick and suffocating cloud.

The mode of hanging the earthenware vessel over the blaze was as
remarkable as any part of the singular process. Two fakeers stood on
either side of the fire, an iron bar resting upon the shoulders of
each, from which the mysterious stew was suspended above the flame.

When sufficiently dressed, the skull was taken from the earthenware
receptacle; its contents were put upon square pieces of plantain leaf,
and the portions placed before each fakeer present, who devoured them
with a greediness that made the prisoner’s heart leap up to his throat.

The idea of those wretched enthusiasts was, that this abominable meal
would have the surprising effect not only of rendering them fearless in
the day of battle, but of inspiring their enemies with such terror that
they would not dare to approach them; that, moreover, it would cause
them to become invisible when engaged with their foes, who would thus
fall an easy prey to persons so supernaturally endowed.

A portion of a mess which had been previously prepared was offered to
the prisoner; but he rejected it with disgust, and partook only of
some plain boiled rice, which somewhat refreshed him after so long and
toilsome a journey.

When they had concluded their evening’s repast, Bistamia retired from
the scene of this extraordinary carousal, and the fakeers, flinging
themselves upon the bare ground, without the slightest covering, were
soon hushed in profound repose. The opium, in which they had indulged
to excess, rendered their sleep so heavy that it seemed like the deep
slumber of death. The flames, by which the chamber had been illumined,
subsided by degrees, and the gloom of silence and darkness gradually
succeeded.

FOOTNOTES:

[40] The Gecco.

CHAPTER II.

The Mogul was left chained to one of the statues on the side-wall, when
the fakeers betook themselves to their night’s repose: the chain by
which he was fastened only enabled him to seat himself upon the floor.
He could not lay his body at full length, and was therefore obliged
to lean his back against the figure to which he was attached. In that
position he tried for some time to sleep, but without effect; feverish
and distracting thoughts obtruded. His reflections were of the most
melancholy character. He was surrounded by a body of enthusiasts, into
whose power he had fallen, and who would very probably doom him to
some cruel death, by way of celebrating the orgies of their sanguinary
superstition. Fanatics are the worst of tyrants; who, alas! too often
do the work of the devil, whilst they fancy themselves working in the
service of their God. In proportion as the infatuation takes possession
of their minds, they become cruel towards all such as they imagine
seceders from the worship of that deity of whom they claim to be
vicegerents, and see no virtue but in those who, like themselves, have
been inoculated with the rabies of spiritual enthusiasm. In every age
of the world, in every country, and among all communities, that sort of
enthusiasm which claims exclusive spiritual endowment, and pretends to
supernatural communications, is the greatest bane against which pure
Religion has ever had to contend. It invests her in a factitious garb
that conceals while it arrays her. False zeal has driven more from the
true fold than have fallen victims to the slaughter of war, the inroads
of pestilence, or the devastations of famine. No one is driven into the
paths of peace, or scourged into the embrace of virtue. All men are won
to good by its own sweet suggestions, by gentle implorations, by the
light and fragrant blessings which it offers to those who properly seek
to possess them; not by those terrible denunciations which scare the
timid, offend the proud, and provoke the contempt of the reckless.

The prisoner was pursuing these reflections with a melancholy sense of
his present condition. He gazed round the apartment to see if he might
encourage any hopes of escape. The embers yet glowing upon the stone
floor, threw a sickly light around, which only rendered the remote
gloom of the chamber still more murky. The fakeers, who were stretched
at length near the smouldering fire, looked like so many semi-monsters
under the power of enchantment. Their hard breathing, the only symptom
of life which they exhibited, sufficiently indicated the intensity
of their slumber, that seemed to have been rendered more profound by
the horrible meal of which they had partaken just before they gave
themselves up to the enjoyments of “nature’s sweet restorer.”

The prisoner, closing his eyes, tried to conjure up images before the
speculum of his mind more agreeable than those realities upon which it
was an agony to gaze;--finally overcome by bodily fatigue and mental
exhaustion, he fell into an unquiet sleep.

His slumber was at length disturbed by the pressure of a gentle grasp
upon his arm. He opened his eyes and perceived that there was an object
standing between him and the light, which had already begun to dispel
the gloom of the capacious apartment in which he lay. Unable to guess
what such a visit could portend, he remained motionless, though not
entirely without some painful apprehensions of mischief. After an
interval of a few moments, the hand was removed from his arm and placed
upon his brow. The tender pressure, the smoothness of the palm, the
feminine texture and delicate movement of the fingers, convinced him
in an instant that it was the hand of woman, but not of her whom he had
looked upon the previous evening with a loathing so absolute that his
very blood curdled, and whose fingers would have rather pressed upon
his forehead like the hard-pointed talons of a harpy, than with the
soft and thrilling impress of an angel’s touch.

That touch made every nerve thrill with emotion. The stranger leaned
over him as if to hear from his breathing whether he slept profoundly
or not. Her breath was as the air of Paradise. He could not be
mistaken. There was an inexplicable but infallible sympathy which
assured him,--with that mysterious power of conviction communicated how
we know not, but still more powerful than any arising from positive
testimony,--that the being before him was something far above the
ordinary level of human nature. He listened instinctively to catch the
music of her voice; his breath was for the moment suspended lest the
least sound from her lips should escape his ear. He was in a waking
trance, the more delicious from its succeeding to reflections which had
so painfully harassed him.

“Stranger!” at length said a soft voice in a tone that seemed to come
from the throat of a Peri.

“Who is it that calls me?” asked the prisoner, in a scarcely audible
whisper.

“One who has compassion upon your condition, and would give you the
means of freedom if you are disposed to embrace them.”

“Shall we not be overheard by those holy sleepers who are lying round
yonder embers?”

“No; they are lapped in too profound a slumber to be easily roused.”

“To whom do I address myself?”

“To the granddaughter of Bistamia, who would escape with you the most
odious of all slaveries. You will, no doubt, be surprised that I speak
thus freely to a stranger, but mine is a desperate position, and I
seek its alleviation under any circumstances. To-morrow, when the
fakeers shall have quitted these walls, which they will do to engage
the Emperor’s troops, I may see you again. I have sought you now to
apprise you that a friend is at hand, bent upon your release. To-morrow
we meet--farewell!” And her aërial figure glided through the gloom,
without leaving the faintest echo of her footsteps, like a bright
mist in a summer eve over the surface of a calm lake, upon which the
mountains have projected their gigantic shadows.

Shortly after the morning had cast its fresh light into the gloomy hall
the fakeers awoke, and rising from their hard bed, each with a sudden
motion of the different limbs, caused the joints to snap with a sound
like the cracking of nuts in rapid succession; after which they seated
themselves, crossed their legs, and began to smoke, passing the tube
from mouth to mouth, every one inhaling the luxurious narcotic from the
same instrument. After a while Bistamia entered.

“Come,” said she, “’tis time you were on your way. The Emperor’s troops
were encamped last night beyond the country over which we have passed
with the scourge of our power. They will be on their march by this
time. You must all fight, and wrap the souls of your foes in the black
veil of terror. Who undergoes the penance this morning?”

Without uttering a word, one of the fakeers who had accompanied the
Mogul on the day of his capture, and rendered himself conspicuous by
passing needles through his flesh, rose from his recumbent position,
and, with an expression of callous indifference, advanced towards the
spot where the flame had brightly blazed on the preceding evening.
Rubbing two smooth pieces of a black-grained wood rapidly together, he
kindled a tuft of dry grass on which some brushwood had been placed,
and upon this several dry logs. A strong fire was soon burning, into
which the devotee placed a long cylindrical rod of iron. In the course
of a few moments it became red hot. When in this state he placed
the point of the rod against his cheek, and deliberately pressed it
until it had passed through his tongue, and was visible on the other
side. It was then bent down on either cheek, towards the shoulder,
forming three sides of a square, to prevent the possibility of its
being withdrawn. The stern composure of his countenance did not relax
a single instant during the revolting infliction. His companions
looked upon him with fatuitous admiration, making him the most solemn
obeisance after the odious penance had been concluded.

The man next deliberately opened the wounds which he had made on the
previous day, and passed different coloured strings through them. Thus
adorned, he declared himself ready to go forth in his own invincible
might, and crush the enemies of his venerable patron. Bistamia placed
a golden boon within his half-closed hand, upon which he grinned as
well as his locked jaws would permit, and was about to quit the place
accompanied by his companions, when the hag said with a savage laugh:
“On your return you shall enjoy a rare pastime with yonder son of
a scurvy dog: I will reserve him for your merriment. A little easy
blood-spilling without labour will be a relaxation, after the fatigue
of making carrion in the gross. Go and prosper--slay and spare not!”
They made their salaam, departed, and the prisoner was once more left
to his own solitary reflections.

About noon, his visitor of the night approached him. As she advanced,
the lightness of her step, and the buoyant elasticity of every motion
of her frame, proclaimed the beauty which he had already anticipated.
In a few moments, a lovely girl, in the very birth and freshness of
womanhood, stood before him. She was young and beautiful as the morning
stars when they sang together at the birth of creation. Her breath
seemed impregnated with spicy perfume wafted on gentlest airs from the
shores of Arabia the Happy. It invested her in an atmosphere of its own.

Her eyes were dark--of the deepest hue, but brilliant as gems, and soft
as the soul of which they were eloquent interpreters. Her hair was
raised in a cone on the top of her head, and confined by a long silver
pin, giving increased altitude to her majestic figure, and exposing the
whole of her finely-arched forehead to the rapturous gaze of the Mogul.

“I would not have escaped this captivity for worlds!” he cried, as she
stood beside him in the plenitude of her almost unearthly beauty.

“Stranger,” she replied, “have you the courage to bear me from the
house of bondage, if I free you from your chains?”

“Try me; and if I fail to realise your wishes, cast me back again to
my prison, and gall my limbs with the fetters from which I should no
longer deserve to be free.”

She bent over him, and released his hands from the manacles that
confined them, and he stood before her disencumbered of his bonds.

“Listen,” cried the beautiful girl, “while I unfold to you the
miserable position in which I stand. My grandmother has given me as a
concubine to the fakeer who this morning underwent the penance which
you witnessed. On his return from the battle he will claim me. I need
scarcely tell you that I entertain towards him a disgust so intrinsical
and unconquerable, that I am determined to die by my own hands rather
than become the instrument of that man’s pleasures. Upon you my hopes
are fixed to release me from this horrible alternative. To-night, when
the fakeers shall be hushed in sleep after their debauch, in which they
are sure to indulge, we may fly from these detested walls. Meanwhile,
you must resume your chains. You will now have the power of casting
them off when you please. At midnight I will again visit you, prepared
to fly with you from the most odious persecution to that freedom which
I shall rely upon your honour for securing to me.”

The sound of footsteps induced her to depart; and Bistamia entered,
followed by several fakeers, who announced another defeat of the
imperial troops by the naked army of an old woman.

“’Tis well,” she cried; “to-morrow I shall place myself at the head of
my brave followers for a final victory, and the imperial sceptre shall
shortly be swayed by a wiser head than ever surmounted the shoulders of
an Emperor.”

In the course of that evening, the abode of Bistamia was filled with
her victorious enthusiasts, who encouraged her absurd pretensions to
the Mogul throne.

CHAPTER III.

At midnight the granddaughter of Bistamia entered the dreary vestibule,
and approaching the prisoner, he immediately released himself from his
bonds. Several fakeers were sleeping in a distant part of the chamber,
and among them the fanatic who had passed the red-hot iron through his
cheek. The captive had scarcely cast aside his chains, when the fakeer
started to his feet, and rushed forward like a demon. His appearance
was beyond description hideous. The wound in his tongue, in which the
iron rod was still fixed, prevented him from articulating; thus his
efforts to speak were followed by unintelligible sounds, so discordant,
that they seemed to come from the throat of some monstrous wild beast
yet unknown to man. His eyes flashed with the lurid glow of a live
coal, dimmed by the cold air, and the fires of which are fast fading.
Some half-consumed logs still burnt upon the floor, where they had
been kindled to prepare the evening’s meal as before, and afforded
sufficient light to show the ferocious aspect of this truculent
visionary. He seized the trembling girl in his arms, for this was the
monster to whose embraces she was to be devoted by her grandmother,
and was about to bear her off, when the Mogul raised his chain, and,
hitting him with all his force upon the temple, struck him to the
earth. The wretched man gave a horrible howl as he fell; this was
accompanied with a smothered groan, and all was still. The floor was
almost instantly covered with his blood. The temporal artery had been
divided with the force of the blow, and he lay dead before his intended
victims.

The other fakeers had by this time advanced and seized the prisoner,
who prostrated two of the fanatics with his chain before they could
succeed in binding him. Bistamia was summoned. When she saw her
favourite dead, she shrieked like a maniac, and staggering towards her
granddaughter, laid her skinny fingers upon the latter’s shoulders, and
looking into her eyes as if she would work a demon’s spell upon her,
cursed her with a loud and bitter imprecation.

“Thou shalt die before to-morrow’s sun goes to his rest, and thy
accomplice with thee. The expiring groans of both shall swell the song
of to-morrow’s triumph. Chain them to yonder wall.”

This order was instantly obeyed; they were each chained to a figure
in recesses of the wall, about twelve feet apart. They could just see
each other. A guard of fakeers was placed over them. They were not
allowed to converse. Those ferocious bigots took delight in dwelling
upon the horrible tortures to which the Mogul was to be exposed, by way
of signalising their contemplated victory on the morrow. They felt a
savage joy in exciting their prisoner’s terrors; and the tears of the
beautiful girl, who had become the companion of his captivity, only
excited their stony hearts to fresh insults.

Next morning, just as Bistamia was prepared to quit the vestibule for
the purpose of heading her army of fanatics, a messenger entered,
informing her that the Emperor had employed magical incantations, in
order to secure her defeat.

She was startled at this intelligence: Aurungzebe’s known sanctity led
her to fear that a spiritual warfare pursued by him would be likely to
turn the tide of success against her.

“What are the methods of the enemy’s sorcery?” asked the hag.

“He has delivered to each soldier in his army a small billet, written
with his own hand, and, as it is supposed, with his own blood,
containing magical incantations. He has moreover ordered similar
billets to be carried upon the point of a spear before each squadron,
which the soldiers are persuaded will counteract the enchantments of
their enemies; so that they are advancing with a degree of enthusiasm
which I fear will be irresistible.”

Bistamia was perplexed, for she had sagacity enough to perceive that
the same credulity which had induced Aurungzebe’s troops to believe
in the witchcraft of an old woman, would give them at least equal
confidence in the pretended charm of their Emperor.

“Well, should they drive us to the foot of this mountain, the
stronghold behind will defy them: a few resolute spirits may defend the
hill from a host; and success has given courage to the army of the
fakeers. They will protect their potentate to the last drop of their
blood.”

“But where is our leader?”

“Dead.”

“A bad omen of success!”

“Will not the presence of Bistamia inspirit the naked armies of
Paradise, for thither they are on their way through a pilgrimage of
warfare, to crush the outcasts? We shall teach them yet a terrible
lesson. Come--to the field, and mind”--turning to the fakeers who had
charge of the captives--“you look with a vigilant eye upon those doomed
offenders who shall expiate their crimes with their blood. This night
their death-pangs shall record our triumph.”

Dashing her long pale locks from her withered forehead, she seized a
dagger and staggered from the spot.

She had some reason for the confidence she expressed in the strength of
the place selected for her abode. The hill was steep, and accessible
only by a single path. By rolling down huge stones upon the heads of
a besieging force, a few resolute men might defend the ascent against
multitudes. This had been already done with fatal success. Beyond the
vestibule, in which the two prisoners were confined, was an extensive
range of apartments, hollowed out of the living rock. The entrance was
from the ruin, through a long passage only fifteen inches wide and
thirty feet in length, cut through the solid stone, and protected by a
sort of massive iron portcullis, which was let down about the centre,
and raised or lowered by means of heavy chains. The dimensions of the
excavations beyond were prodigious; there being cavern after cavern,
in which were deposited immense treasures of various descriptions, but
how realised has remained a mystery, though considered to have been the
produce of sorcery.

The neighbourhood of this spot was shunned as an enchanted region; and
the desolation spread by the inexorable Bistamia around her dwelling,
only tended to increase the superstitious horror with which she was
universally regarded.

The Mogul’s situation was now far more distressing than it had been
since his captivity among the fakeers. He could not behold his lovely
companion suffering on his account without the keenest emotions. But
for him she would be at that moment free; and yet the bitterness of
these reflections was, in some measure, qualified by the knowledge
that her liberty was worse than bondage, exposed as she had been to
the loathsome advances of a man whom she could not look upon without
abhorrence, and to whose detestable passions her innocence might have
been eventually sacrificed. He felt, therefore, some consolation, amid
the harassing thoughts which poured like a turbid flood upon his mind.
He was forbidden to hold any conversation with his fellow-captive;
so that, although they could see each other’s misery, they were not
allowed the sad consolation of reciprocating their thoughts. The moment
he made an effort of this kind, one of his naked guards stood before
him, and drowned his voice with horrible imprecations.

Four of these wretches were left as a guard over him and the partner
of his captivity. They indulged in that loose freedom of conversation
peculiar to the lowest and most depraved natures. Seated upon the bare
stones of the apartment they smoked and chewed bhang[41] until they
were nearly stupified. One of them then brought a leathern bottle
full of arrack, from a hole underneath one of the pillars; and this
strong spirit they continued to drink until they were all in a state
of disgusting intoxication. They then danced before their prisoners,
raving like maniacs, and flourishing their clubs over their heads with
terrifying violence. Fatigued at length with these exertions, they
threw themselves prostrate, and were soon in a swinish sleep.

The dead body of the fakeer still lay where it had fallen when the soul
quitted its deformed tabernacle for a brighter or a darker destiny.
The odours which exhaled from it were becoming extremely offensive;
and the prospect of soon breathing an atmosphere teeming with the
foul particles of corruption, was anything but a promising subject of
contemplation to the wretched captives.

The thoughts of escape now took entire possession of the Mogul’s mind.
His guards were powerless, and he began to try the strength of his
chains. He was fastened to the leg of a gigantic figure which stood in
a niche, and which, therefore, the darkness of the place had hitherto
prevented him from examining. It happened that the sun, being at this
moment opposite to a small aperture in the roof of the building, poured
a narrow but strong stream of light upon the figure. On examining
minutely the limb to which he was fastened, the prisoner observed a
large crack in the stone, just above the ankle; this opened in the
slightest degree when he pulled the chain. He felt confident that, by
a great effort, he could break off the stone limb; though even then he
would only free himself in a degree, for his wrists were bound together
by a handcuff, to which the chain was attached that fastened him to
the statue. The discovery, however, gave him some hope of eventually
being able to take advantage of it; and his mind became considerably
calmed. He dreaded Bistamia’s return, remembering her horrible menaces,
and having good reason to believe that she would not fail to put them
into execution, if something did not intervene to cross her sanguinary
purpose.

The fakeers still slept. Except their loud breathings, nothing was
heard to disturb the gloomy silence that reigned around. It was already
long past noon, and no tidings had been received of the hostile armies.
At length distant shouts came suddenly upon the ear. They sounded
like the acclamations of triumph, mingled with those frantic yells
peculiar to the fakeers when under a state of violent excitement. The
sounds gradually approached, and it soon became evident that victory
had favoured the Moguls. The clash of arms was now heard, cries of the
pursuing and pursued were distinctly perceptible, and at length rose to
a tumult.

In a few moments, Bistamia entered the vestibule, spotted with gore.
The whole upper part of her bronzed fleshless body was uncovered. Her
appearance was positively hideous. There was a deep gash in her neck,
whence the blood bubbled. She staggered towards her granddaughter--a
dagger glimmered in her bony fingers. She raised it over the head of
the trembling girl, who sat mute and motionless under her harpy clutch,
blanched with terror. The old crone gave a gasp; a guttural chuckle
followed, and her arm fell; she fixed her teeth, whilst her eyes glared
on those of her victim.

The Mogul, in a paroxysm of alarm for the safety of one who had put
her life in jeopardy for him, threw his whole weight on the chain
which attached him to the statue. The cracked limb gave way. He rushed
towards the hag, raised his chained hands to strike, but perceived that
she was motionless. Her arm had not force to impel the dagger which had
fallen from her feeble grasp, and the wretched creature lay dead on the
bosom of her grandchild.

A party of Moguls entered. The drunken fakeers were instantly put
to death, and the two captives released. The apartments beyond the
vestibule were searched, and vast hoards of wealth discovered, which
were seized, and ultimately deposited in the imperial treasury. The
lovely Zulima was received with flattering courtesy by the Emperor,
and shortly after became the wife of her late companion in chains, who
proved to be the son of Shaista, one of Aurungzebe’s favourite generals.

FOOTNOTES:

[41] An intoxicating leaf.

The Mahratta Chief.

CHAPTER I.

A cavalcade was on its way to Madura through one of those deep gorges
with which the Western Ghauts abound. Evening had already set in, and
thickened by the dense shadows of the mountains which intercept the
sun’s rays as he verges towards the horizon, the darkness was intense.
The evening hour had been chosen by the travellers for the renewal of
their journey, in order to escape the scorching heat of the sun, which
in the daytime, when reflected from the bare sides of the hills, is
so great as to be scarcely endurable. The night was lovely. The glen
through which the party were passing was a profound hollow; above the
mountains rose on either side, sloping upwards from the base, and thus
presenting the form of a funnel. The sky, seen from this pitchy glen,
appeared of uncommon brilliancy, and was so thickly studded with stars,
that the light seemed to percolate through the entire expanse: but it
reached not the bosom of the ravine through which the travellers were
passing, being repelled by the ponderous shadows of the surrounding
hills.

In the midst of the cavalcade was a palankeen of costly construction,
borne upon the shoulders of four sturdy Hindoos. Round it hung a rich
silk drapery which entirely enclosed and concealed the person within.
Whining a dull monotonous chant, the hamauls[42] proceeded at a slow
but steady pace, on account of the inequalities of the ground. A guard
of a hundred and fifty soldiers followed close behind them. The murmurs
of their voices as they chatted to beguile the tediousness of their
journey was multiplied by the slumbering echoes of the hills, which
were awakened at their approach, and appeared to mock them with their
own hilarity.

They came at length to a gloomy pass between two huge masses of
rock that seemed to have been cast there by some mighty convulsion
of the earth. Here the strait was so exceedingly narrow that there
was scarcely room to force the palankeen through. Two men could not
go abreast. When the hamauls were just about to emerge from this
mountain gorge, they found their progress opposed by a troop of armed
men. Cowardly at all times, and rendered doubly so by their confined
position, they would have cast down their burthen and fled; but as this
was impossible from the nature of the passage, they fell upon their
knees with the palankeen still resting on their shoulders, and implored
mercy of the armed strangers.

Little ceremony was used in reply to their supplications. The palankeen
was lifted from their shoulders and taken possession of, together with
its burthen, and the bearers were ordered to make the best of their
way back through the passage, upon pain of summary chastisement. This
was no easy matter to accomplish, as the troops followed so closely
behind that several were already in the gorge. With some difficulty the
passage was at length cleared; but when the guards learned what had
taken place, they pushed forward to recover their charge, and in a few
moments the strait was again filled. The foremost man, however, was
thrust through the body with a lance the moment he reached the end of
the strait.

“Advance another step,” said a voice, in a tone that showed it had
been practised in command, “and you die. We are in force sufficient to
slaughter you like so many wild conies coming out of a burrow. Remain
patiently where you are for a few minutes, and your march shall be no
further impeded.”

“Where is the palankeen?” demanded the guard.

“Where it and its gentle occupant will be well attended to. We know
our prize. She must lack refreshment amid the rugged passes of these
hills, and we are prepared to afford her a specimen of our hospitality.”

“To whom will she be indebted for this compulsive courtesy?”

“To Sevagee, the Mahratta. The Princess Rochinara will be safe in his
custody. Tell the Emperor, on your return, that his daughter is with
those whom he contemptuously calls ‘The Robbers of the Hills:’ but
Sevajee may live to dispute with him the throne of Delhi; he therefore
need not deem an alliance with the Chief of the Mahrattas a disgrace.”

By this time the party who had attacked the palankeen had dispersed,
leaving only their leader, and a few followers. These, when sufficient
time had been given to secure their captive, suddenly plunged into the
recesses of the mountains, with most of which they were familiar, and
left the troops of Aurungzebe to pursue their march, with nothing to
protect but their own lives. They emerged from the glen, and in their
rage at losing their sovereign’s daughter, who had been committed to
their custody, they sacrificed the hamauls on the spot, determined to
represent to the Emperor that the treacherous Hindoos had purposely
led them into the pass, in order to betray them into the power of
Sevajee. They knew Aurungzebe to be an inexorable man, and feared the
consequences of making known to him the loss of his daughter, whilst
under their protection. He made no allowance either for accident or
contingencies. Whenever anything happened contrary to his expectations,
the presumed instruments of failure were generally punished, and too
frequently with the loss of life. Like all tyrants, he was without
pity; and his sympathies might really be said never to be excited,
save where they received their impulse from something either directly
bearing upon, or collaterally allied to, his own interests.

The soldiers dreaded an interview with their sovereign, who was at
that time encamped near Madura, where he daily expected his daughter
to join him. She had left the Deccan for that purpose, and was passing
the Ghauts, when she was captured by the daring Mahratta, as already
related.

The princess was borne from her guards, and carried for some hours
through the intricate windings of the hills, until at length the
bearers stopped before a small mountain fortress. It was still dark,
but having emerged from the lower regions of this elevated range, the
gloom had considerably diminished, and near objects were sufficiently
visible to render the progress of travelling tolerably certain.
The princess was desired to alight from her palankeen, and being
respectfully placed in a sort of basket, ingeniously woven from the
husk of the cocoa-nut, was drawn up into the fortress, the entrance
of which was through a low portal, terminating a narrow landing-place
upon the naked side of the hill. Through this, after traversing a short
passage, there was an ascent by steps into the fort, which was not
extensive, containing a garrison of only sixty men.

The Princess Rochinara was ushered into a small but airy chamber; and
two of her women, who had been taken with her, were allowed to attend
upon their captive mistress. The princess was at this time only in her
seventeenth year, of an agreeable rather than handsome person, finely
formed, showy, of a healthy, vigorous constitution, and sprightly
countenance. She was a great favourite of her father, and therefore not
under much apprehension from her present captivity, knowing that he
would immediately make an effort to rescue her from bondage, and the
warlike efforts of Aurungzebe had seldom failed of being crowned with
success. She knew not into whose power she had fallen, but imagined
that a band of mountain robbers had captured her, and intended to
retain her, merely for the sake of a liberal ransom, which she was
satisfied her parent would never pay, but release her at the point of
the sword.

For a day or two she saw no one but her attendants, and, having
been accustomed to the seclusion of the harem, she did not find her
solitude at all insupportable. One of her women, who was an adept
at story-telling, and had made herself acquainted with many of the
singular legends of Hindoo history, entertained her mistress by
relating some of those monstrous fictions which abound in those two
poetical depositories of the marvellous, the Mahabarat and Ramayana.
Thus the time was agreeably beguiled, until the princess became, at
length, impatient to know something about her captivity, and into whose
hands she had fallen. No information was to be obtained upon this
interesting question. A pretty female slave daily brought the gentle
captive her food, consisting of the most delicate viands and delicious
fruits, but did not utter a word in reply to her questions, which only
imparted a keener edge to her anxiety.

On the fourth morning after Rochinara had become an occupant of the
mountain fortress, an unusual bustle announced an arrival; but nothing
could be drawn from the slave when she paid her usual periodical visit;
her lips appeared hermetically sealed, for not even the offer of a
liberal bribe could tempt her to unclose them. Patience, therefore,
was the only alternative left; and in all cases of captivity it is a
cardinal virtue. The princess, however, was becoming restless;--she
rejected her food--she grew petulant, and no longer listened with
any relish to the tales of her favourite woman. Her eyes were often
suffused with tears; but during a rather strong burst of emotion,
occasioned more from the idea of being neglected than of being a
captive, the door of her prison was opened, and to her surprise, not
unmingled with pleasure, her captor stood before her. He was a short,
compactly built man, apparently under thirty years of age. His face was
round and “full-orbed,” but every feature small and highly expressive.
His eye was intensely brilliant, and seemed to possess a concentration
of power that could pierce through anything opposed to its gaze. Its
expression was somewhat severe--restless, quick, and scrutinising;
but that of every other feature was bland even to playfulness. The
forehead was both high and broad, and as smooth as the surface of a
mirror. There was no hair on his face, except rather a strong moustache
on the upper lip, which was in perfect harmony with the true Oriental
cast of his countenance. His neck, bare to the shoulder, was rather
short, and as thick as that of a Thessalian bull; whilst his ample
expanse of chest denoted that strength and hardihood with which he
was particularly endowed. His legs were uncovered to the knee, and
modelled with a neatness and upon such an exact scale of proportion as
to combine masculine beauty with that physical vigour to which true
symmetry is invariably allied.

The stranger stood with his arms folded before the princess, after
having made her a courteous salaam. She gazed upon him at first only
without displeasure; but it was evident, by the gradual brightening
of her countenance, that a more minute scrutiny produced something
the very opposite of dissatisfaction. She waited several moments for
the visitor to address her; but he remained silent, keeping his eyes
steadily fixed upon the interesting Rochinara, as if awaiting her
commands. An arch smile danced in his eye, and an occasional undulation
of the upper lip showed that he was not about to play the ruffian.

“To whom,” said the princess at length, in a gentle voice, “am I
indebted for the constrained hospitality to which I am forced to
submit?”

“To Servajee, Chief of the Mahrattas.”

“But why is the daughter of the Emperor Aurungzebe arrested in her
journey, and forced to become an occupant of this fortress?”

“Because, lady, the Mahratta chief desires to be upon a better footing
with the Emperor of the Moguls, and would make the daughter a medium of
alliance with the father.”

“The Princess Rochinara could never stoop to so low a degradation as to
become the wife of a mountain robber.”

“You mistake lady; I am a sovereign in these mountain solitudes, and
all monarchs are equal in moral rights. The name of Sevajee will
be heard of among the heads of nations: for who so renowned as the
founders of kingdoms? You are in my power; but I shall not use that
power to win you to my purpose. I am content to woo; and assure
yourself, that no woman who can look upon the sun would be degraded by
becoming the wife of the Mahratta chief. Whatever you desire, express
it, and your command in all things, save quitting this fortress, will
be obeyed. We shall be better acquainted; and when you know me, you
may think me something nobler than a robber. We shall meet daily.
Farewell!”

Making a low obeisance, with a calm smile he quitted the apartment.

FOOTNOTES:

[42] Palankeen bearers.

CHAPTER II.

The rise of the Mahratta power in India was one of those sudden and
surprising revolutions which, amid the troubled currents of political
events, have been so frequently seen to spring from the reaction
of despotism. The Mogul empire, under the able though absolute
direction of Aurungzebe, extended over nearly the whole of India.
The most fertile and populous provinces of Hindostan were subjected
to the dominion of a tyrant, who, nevertheless, governed wisely,
though he ruled despotically. The extensive plains of the Deccan and
of Hindostan proper, which are protected by that elevated chain of
mountains called the Ghauts, forming a natural and almost impregnable
barrier against irregular and undisciplined troops, were inhabited by
a hardy and active race. They felt the galling yoke of a conqueror;
they were encouraged to resistance by their distance from the capital
of their despot, and by the natural barriers which, under judicious
management and an enterprising leader, were considered an almost
certain protection against the inroads of an invading army. Besides
this, the Mahomedan nations had been involved in such constant wars,
and the successions of that mighty state were so continually disputed,
and so bloodily contested, that ample opportunities were afforded to
a leader of daring and comprehensive mind to assemble the disunited
members of a vast and dislocated empire, at a distance from the seat of
government, and establish them into an independent community, upon the
wreck of that power by which they had been subdued. Such a leader was
Sevajee, the founder of the Mahratta dynasty, which finally became the
most flourishing in Hindostan. This hero was born in 1627, at Poonah,
then a village, but afterwards the capital of the Mahratta state.
He was of noble descent, and great pains seem to have been taken in
training him early to deeds of arms. He despised letters, but devoting
himself to military exercises, soon commenced that career of enterprise
which distinguished him above all the heroes of his day. Before he was
eighteen, he had collected together a band of the inhabitants of his
native glens, and commenced the daring but inglorious profession of
a robber. By degrees he became a terror to the neighbouring princes,
in whose territories his depredations were committed. From heading a
few profligate adventurers, he rose to be the leader of a small but
formidable army. Fortresses and cities submitted to his arms, and he
found himself at length master of a considerable extent of territory,
with an army of fifty thousand foot and seven thousand horse.

Such prodigious and rapid accession of power alarmed the jealousy of
Aurungzebe, who was by this time securely seated upon the throne of the
Moguls, and seemed resolved to extend his conquests to the farthest
possible limits. He therefore sent a large body of troops under an
experienced leader to crush the rising influence of the Mahrattas; but
the wary conduct of Sevajee, who was prolific in dacoit[43] stratagems,
baffled the military skill and defeated the enterprises of the Mogul.

It was to reduce the growing power of this extraordinary man, that the
Emperor had marched in person, and was encamped in the neighbourhood
of Madura, in order to subdue some refractory Polygars who had
disturbed the peace of that district, when his daughter was made
captive by Sevajee on her way from the Deccan. So difficult were the
various passes of the Ghauts for a regular army to traverse, and so
impenetrable the jungles, that the bold Mahratta defied the hostile
preparations of Aurungzebe, whose detachments he continually defeated,
pouring down upon them like a deluge from the hills, committing
prodigious ravages and retreating beyond the reach of pursuit to his
mountain-holds.

The fortress to which the Princess Rochinara had been conveyed was
situated in one of the most impracticable recesses of the Ghauts. The
only approach to it was by a path so narrow that two persons could
not proceed abreast, and in many places hollowed out of the living
rock. It was reached by a gradual ascent of three miles, the road at
various places overhung by vast ledges projecting from the precipice by
which it was skirted. There a few resolute men might defend themselves
against a host. Besides, this part of the country was so thinly
populated, and so seldom visited on account of the asperities which it
presented to the traveller, that it remained a sort of terra incognita.
Sevajee’s retreats, and among the rest the fortress already mentioned,
were known to few or none save his own followers; so that he felt in
perfect security against the irruptions of invaders.

The captivity of the princess became daily less and less irksome; all
her wishes were complied with, and she finally entertained no further
desire to quit a prison where in fact she enjoyed more liberty than in
her father’s harem. She had been much struck with the frank countenance
of the Mahratta, who used daily to visit her, until at length his
visits were looked forward to not only with pleasure, but anxiety.

The princess was young, Sevajee was handsome, and, what is always
attractive in the eyes of an Eastern beauty, brave. She quickly
felt her heart subdued; the merits of the Mahratta could not escape
her woman’s scrutiny, quickened as this soon was by certain tender
predilections.

She now frequently challenged the opinions of her women upon Sevajee’s
merits, to which they appeared as keenly alive as their mistress, and
it was finally no secret throughout the garrison that their chief had
obtained a conquest over the affections of the Princess Rochinara.

The royal captive had attracted the admiration of one of Sevajee’s
officers, in whose bravery and conduct his chief had great confidence.
One day when Sevajee was abroad, this officer ventured to declare
himself to the interesting captive. He was rejected with indignation.
His passions were roused, and he treated the princess with unmanly
violence. She was saved from his brutality by the interference of one
of the garrison, who, upon Sevajee’s return, informed him of what had
happened. The Mahratta made no reply, but repairing to the princess’s
apartment, learnt from her the precise particulars. Summoning the
garrison before him, he thus addressed the offender:--

“You have violated the sanctity of a warrior’s home. Arms are placed in
our hands to protect, not insult the weak. You must expiate the wrong
you have committed. I stand forward as the champion of an insulted
woman. You are brave, and know how to defend yourself. There is space
within these ramparts to try your prowess against mine. Arm yourself,
and let this matter be instantly decided.”

Sevajee took his sword, and the combatants repaired to the summit of
the rock. His adversary was much taller and bigger than himself, but
far less active and firmly set. He was, however, a hardy, desperate
fellow, who had proved his valour in many a rough encounter. He smiled
as he stood before his chief, as if the contest were to him a pastime.
Both were armed with a short sabre, a shield, and a broad-bladed dagger
stuck in their girdles. The shield was small, reaching from the wrist
to the elbow of the left hand, rising to a cone, and terminated by a
sharp brass boss. It was covered with an untanned hide.

Sevajee commenced the strife by darting upon the offender with the
quickness of an eagle’s spring, dashing his shield against that of
his opponent, and wounding him with considerable severity on the hip.
The man, however, coolly forced backward his indignant chief, and
recovering his own guard, advanced upon him with a calm, sullen smile,
and struck at his head with a force that would have reached through the
skull to the chine, had not the interposing shield caught the blow, and
frustrated the intended mischief: it however struck the boss from the
buckler, and shattered the frame so completely that Sevajee was obliged
to cast it from him, and expose himself unprotected to the attack of
his formidable foe. Trusting, however, to his activity, he parried the
blows of his adversary, and baffled his advances by springing on one
side; the other, exhausted from fatigue and loss of blood, dropped his
sword; Sevajee instantly raised his and struck him to the earth. His
arm was nearly severed, just below the shoulder, and in this sad state,
reeking with gore, he was lowered from the fortress, either to die or
make his escape.

This feat of gallantry, in vindication of an insult offered to the
daughter of Aurungzebe, completely decided her affections. She accepted
the Mahratta’s proposals, and from this time felt a greater pride in
being the wife of a petty sovereign than the daughter of a mighty
emperor.

Sevajee now daily increased in power and influence among the sovereigns
of the principalities by which he was surrounded. He was enabled to
muster an army of fifteen thousand men, and had become the terror of
the neighbouring potentates. He was, to all intents and purposes,
sovereign of the Mahrattas, and had made the daughter of Aurungzebe
his queen, with her own consent, before she had been in his power two
months. His followers were a hardy race, selected from all tribes for
their daring exploits, or feats of personal strength.

A common cooley or porter of the mountains had been admitted into his
army, and finally raised to a place of trust; the first, in consequence
of a singular act of daring, and the last by an uniform adherence
to the interests of his master. As the act was singular which first
brought this man under the notice of the Mahratta chief, it may be
worth recording.

Sevajee was one day passing through a mountain jungle, when a
leopard appeared making its way stealthily through the bushes, as if
threatening hostility. The cooley was descending the hill at this
moment, and seeing the leopard, volunteered to attack it, with a weapon
as singular as it was formidable. Opening a small leathern wallet, he
took from it an iron instrument, which fitted the hand, covering the
fingers like a gauntlet. Beyond the tips of the fingers, it extended
to the length of at least three inches, curving like claws, tapered
to a point as sharp as the tip of a dagger, being brought to an edge
under the curve, nearly as keen as that of a razor. The man fixed it
on his hand,[44] and entered the jungle. The leopard seemed uneasy
at his approach, waved its tail, rested its head upon the earth, yet
made no attempt to spring. The cooley did not give his enemy time to
commence an attack, but advancing boldly, struck it on the right eye,
and drawing the instrument across its head, blinded it in a moment.
The wounded beast started up, and yelled in agony; when the man
deliberately plunged the weapon under its belly, opened a prodigious
gash, and the animal’s entrails protruded through the wound. It rushed
forward, and came with such stunning contact against a tree, that
it instantly fell, turned upon its back, and not being able to see
its aggressor, another stroke from the instrument despatched it: the
victor returned to Sevajee without a scratch. This won the Mahratta’s
admiration; the cooley was immediately enrolled in Sevajee’s army, and
from henceforth became a distinguished man.

It was of similar daring spirits that the followers of this formidable
chieftain were composed; and when they became numerous, they roused
the apprehension of Aurungzebe, who was determined to crush a rising
power that threatened to shake the Mogul throne. When made acquainted
with his daughter’s captivity, he resolved that her deliverance should
involve the death of his foe.

FOOTNOTES:

[43] Dacoit gangs are organised bands of robbers.

[44] A similar instrument is frequently used by the fakeers when they
are passing through the jungles, and with like success.

CHAPTER III.

The Mahratta, who had been wounded by Sevajee, on being lowered from
the fortress, lay some time upon the ground exhausted from loss of
blood. As evening advanced, he crawled into a thicket, and threw
himself at the root of a tree surrounded with high coarse grass, upon
which he slept until the morning. He tore his turban into strips as
well as he was able, stanched the blood that flowed copiously from his
wounds, and bound them up. By the next morning his limbs were so stiff
that he could scarcely move; he was parched with a painful thirst; his
head was confused, and objects floated before his sight in ten thousand
fantastic configurations. A thin spring welled from a chasm in the
hill; and being acquainted with the locality, thither he dragged his
enfeebled body, and bathed his temple in the limpid waters. He drank
copiously of the pure element, and was somewhat refreshed. Still,
unable to use much exertion, he cast himself again at the root of the
tree and slept.

Thus passed the day. The second night came, and he was still there,
helpless as a babe. He thought that here his death-bed was made, and
resigned himself with sullen courage to his fate. The cries of the
jackal disturbed his slumbers, and continually reminded him that he
was at the mercy of the prowling beast of the forest. The bright
moon looked from her glorious temple of serene and delicate blue,
illuminating the boundless expanse through which she marched to her
zenith with the majesty and beauty of a thing of heaven, and poured
the gentle stream of her light upon the wounded Mahratta, who slept
in spite of bodily prostration and of mental suffering. The morning
broke upon him bright and cloudless. He was relieved, and his limbs
less stiff; for it is astonishing how rapidly the natives of eastern
countries recover from the most desperate wounds, owing to their habits
of excessive temperance. He quitted the jungle, and proceeded leisurely
down the mountain. His progress was slow and difficult; and he was
frequently obliged to seek the cool recesses of the forest in order to
recruit his exhausted frame.

After a toilsome march of two days he reached the bottom of the Ghauts.
He knew that a detachment of Aurungzebe’s army lay encamped in the
plains. It was commanded by a general of reputation, and amounted to
fifteen thousand men, prepared to attack Sevajee in his stronghold;
but the difficulty was how to reach this through the numerous mountain
ravines among which it was concealed and protected.

The wounded man crawled into the camp and desired to be conducted to
the general’s tent. “I can lead you to the abode of Sevajee,” he
cried. This was sufficient to remove all reluctance from the minds
of the soldiers, who at first showed a disinclination to conduct the
stranger to their general. They suspected him to be a spy; but the
possibility of his being a traitor gave him a better claim to their
courtesy, and they brought him to the tent of the Omrah, under whose
command they acted.

“What is your motive, soldier,” inquired the general, “for entering an
enemy’s camp.”

“Behold these wounds!” said the man. “They were inflicted by the tyrant
who now holds sway over the Mahrattas. That is my sufficient answer why
I appear in the Mogul camp.”

“Personal enmities are but a poor recommendation to confidence. He who
would betray a friend would be little likely to serve a foe.”

“Where a person has his revenge to gratify, you have the strongest
guarantee for confidence. Apart from all motives that raise man in the
scale of moral dignity, that wrong which stimulates to vengeance will
render him true to those who promote his deadly purposes; for vengeance
is like the raging thirst of fever, never to be slaked till the cause
is removed. Until mine is appeased, you may trust me; after that I make
no pledges. Do you accept my services?”

“What do you undertake to perform?”

“For a sum of ten thousand rupees, to be paid after the terms of
the contract have been fulfilled, I undertake to conduct you to the
fortress in these mountains where Sevajee usually resides, and to put
you in possession of it. I have a brother among the troops who compose
the garrison. He will, I know, promote any scheme that shall bring
retribution upon him by whom I have been so grievously wronged. Send a
body of fifteen hundred men, when I am sufficiently recovered to march
with them, and my life for the issue.”

This plan was concurred in, the man taken to a tent, and his wounds
dressed. In three weeks he was in a condition to proceed against the
stronghold of the Mahratta chief. Fifteen hundred men were selected for
the enterprise; and these were followed at a short distance by another
strong detachment, unknown to the Mahratta guide in case of treachery.

For two days they threaded the mazes of the hills by paths almost
impracticable, and halted in the evening of the second day in a wood
about three miles from the fortress. The Mahratta, quitting the camp,
proceeded up the hill alone, and making a certain signal, well known
to the garrison was drawn up the rock. The soldiers were surprised at
beholding their old comrade, who had been so recently expelled, and
whom they all considered to have furnished a feast for vultures or
jackals. He desired to be conducted before their chief, to whom he
expressed the deepest contrition for what had passed, and begged to be
again admitted among that community from which he had been expelled.
Sevajee, deceived by the soldier’s apparent contrition, and knowing
him to be a man of great daring and skill in conducting a perilous
enterprise, consented to his re-admission among his hardy band of
mountain warriors.

Before quitting his new allies, the traitor had arranged that, should
he gain admission into the fort, he would, in conjunction with his
brother, admit them during the midnight watch: that if the thing turned
out not to be practicable on that night, they must retire into the
thickets, and there await the desired opportunity.

An hour before midnight a body of four hundred men wound slowly up
the hill by the dim light of the stars, and concealed themselves in a
hollow about two hundred yards from the fort. This hollow was covered
with a thick growth of jungle grass and underwood, which effectually
concealed them from observation. The Mahratta had contrived that his
brother should be upon guard at midnight at that part of the ramparts
where admission was obtained into the fort.

The matter had been so secretly arranged, that nearly a hundred of
the Moguls were drawn up into the fortress before any alarm was
given. A soldier hurried to Sevajee’s apartment, and roused him with
the unexpected cry of--“We are surprised! the Moguls have obtained
possession of our mountain citadel.” The Mahratta chief grasped his
sword, and hurried to that part of the ramparts where the two brothers
were in the act of drawing up the enemy. As there was but an uncertain
light, his approach was not observed. With the quickness of thought he
severed the cord just as a Mogul soldier had been drawn to the landing
place. He did not stay to hear the crash of the succeeding fall, but
cutting down the traitor who had admitted the foe, made a speedy
retreat to collect the slumbering garrison. He was shortly surrounded
by his faithful followers, who all flew to the ramparts.

The Moguls had already destroyed several of the Mahrattas who were
taken by surprise, and in the suddenness of their alarm had started
unarmed from their beds. Sevajee fought like a lion. The darkness gave
him a great advantage over the enemy, who were perfectly ignorant of
the localities, though their guide, the treacherous Mahratta, had
given them what information the hurry and confusion of the scene
permitted. Sevajee sought him out amid the fierce struggle of attack
and resistance. They perceived each other in the imperfect light; the
rebel would have retired, but the indignant chief arrested his purpose,
and compelled him to turn in self-defence. Knowing Sevajee’s skill at
his weapon, the Mahratta sprang upon and closed with him, hoping to
despatch him with his own dagger; but this purpose was foiled by his
active foe, who drew it suddenly from his cumberbund, and flung it
over the battlements. The struggle was now desperate. They tugged and
strained with the fury of gored bulls. They glared in each other’s
faces, inhaling the hot breath as it came quick and gasping from their
parched throats, and steaming at every pore with the might of their
exertions. At length Sevajee, dashing his head in the face of his
foe, obliged him partially to relax his hold, and at the same moment
springing backward, entirely disengaged himself; and while the other
was half stunned, he suddenly rushed forward, forced his head between
the traitor’s legs, raised him upon his neck, and with irresistible
force flung him over the battlements.

Sevajee again seized his sword; but perceiving that the Moguls were
masters of the fortress, he flew to the princess:--“You are in the
enemy’s power--you will be taken to your friends, and have therefore
nothing to fear--with me, captivity is the harbinger of death.”

“Fly,” said Rochinara eagerly; “if there is yet a chance of escape,
seize it, and leave me to make my peace with the victors.”

There was no time for parley. Sevajee proceeded to a part of the
rampart which abutted upon a face of the hill, where the precipice was
here and there feathered with shrubs, that grew from the interstices
of the rock, and its surface broken into inequalities by projecting
ledges, which would not have afforded footing for a goat. At the bottom
rolled a deep stream, that gurgled through a straitened channel,
and foamed between large masses which had fallen into it from the
superincumbent mountain.

The moment was critical. Sevajee commenced this perilous descent. His
danger was imminent. The small projections to which he was obliged to
trust his footing frequently gave way under the pressure of his step,
and he several times despaired of making his escape. About midway the
shrub which he had grasped proved too weak to support his weight, and
he slipped several yards down the precipice. His course was luckily
arrested by a thick bush, something like a huge tuft of birch, which at
once broke his fall and arrested his progress.

He was now within forty feet of the water. Here, to the edge of the
rivulet, the hill was less precipitous; and having paused a few moments
to rest himself, he determined to slide down the rest of the precipice
into the stream, which would break the force of his fall, though it
would expose him to the chance of being drowned. Tearing up part of
the bush, he placed it under him, in order to prevent himself from
being wounded by the rocky projections of the hill. It was a desperate
hazard; but he at length let himself slip from the ledge. Sustaining
some severe bruises, he was precipitated with considerable violence
into the rivulet, which fortunately happened at this spot to be deep,
and its channel tolerably free from masses of rock. After a short
struggle he gained the opposite bank, and was soon beyond the reach of
pursuit.

Meanwhile the princess was taken from the fortress, and borne by easy
marches to Delhi, whither her father had retired, leaving his generals
to complete the conquest of the Deccan and the subjection of the
Mahrattas.

Aurungzebe was greatly exasperated when he discovered that she was
about to become a mother. She had ever been his favourite child, and
he calculated upon marrying her to some powerful prince, who would
strengthen his political influence. She was confined to the harem, and
he refused to see her. As soon as her babe was born, it was taken from
her, and put under the care of a nurse, no one knew where. It being
a boy, the Emperor was determined that it should be brought up in
ignorance of its birth. The mother was wretched at being separated from
her infant. The Mahratta chief had ever treated her with tenderness
and respect, and she was far less happy amid the splendours of the
imperial palace than in the rude citadel of the mountain warrior. She
implored to be allowed to see her child; but her parent was inexorable,
and the bereaved mother poured out her silent sorrows amid the
monotonous seclusion of the harem, where she found neither sympathy nor
consolation.

CHAPTER IV.

Sevajee soon summoned his warriors into the field, and, at the head
of ten thousand men, invested the fortress of which the Moguls had
possessed themselves. In the course of a few weeks he starved them
into a surrender. From this time he so rapidly extended his conquests
that he was looked upon as a formidable potentate even by the haughty
Aurungzebe. He sacked the neighbouring cities, and so enriched himself
with the plunder, that he was finally enabled to appear in the field at
the head of a very formidable army. His personal prowess and conduct
as a leader were the theme of universal praise. Though he could neither
read nor write, yet so exact and tenacious was his memory, that the
smallest disbursements of his government were never forgotten, and no
one could dare attempt to deceive him, even in the minutest matters of
financial computation, without certainty of detection. He knew the name
of almost every man in his army.

Some time after his escape from the fortress, he was surprised by the
imperial general with only a few hundred followers. In this dilemma the
Mahratta chief intimated to the Mogul general that he should be very
willing to submit to his master’s clemency, but was afraid to trust
his own person to the mercy of a man who felt such deadly hostility
towards him. He consequently proposed a meeting between himself and the
imperial general at a distance from their respective armies, and that
each party should repair to the spot accompanied by only one attendant.
Not doubting that this proposal would be acceded to, the wily Mahratta
put a suit of strong chain armour under his cotton robe, and a steel
cap under his turban. Then arming himself with a dagger, he proceeded
to the place of meeting.

According to his military code of morals, treachery towards an enemy
was, under any circumstances, justifiable: he therefore determined
to employ it upon the present occasion at all hazards. Distributing
his men in ambuscades near the spot, he soon had the satisfaction
of seeing the Mogul draw near with an escort of eight hundred men,
whom he left at some distance, and advanced with a single follower to
the appointed place of meeting. Sevajee appeared apparently unarmed,
expressing great apprehension and affecting alarm at the presence of
his enemy. At length, coming up with hesitating steps, according to
the Oriental custom, he embraced his foe, at the same moment drawing
his dagger and plunging it into his body. The Mogul, feeling himself
wounded, instantly drew his sword and struck Sevajee on the head, which
was protected by the steel cap; the blow therefore fell harmless, and
the wounded general sank under the repeated stabs of his treacherous
assailant. His attendant, rushing to his master’s assistance, was
likewise slain.

The blast of a horn roused the Mahrattas from their ambuscade, and
falling upon the Moguls thus taken by surprise, they slew a great
number, and the rest, panic-stricken, fell back upon the main body,
carrying the melancholy intelligence of their leader’s death. Meanwhile
the Mahrattas escaped among the intricacies of the mountains, and the
Moguls were forced to retreat. Sevajee next marched with his victorious
troops to Singurh, one of his strongest fortresses, which had been
wrested from him by the Moguls. Like all hill-forts, it was built upon
the summit of a lofty rock that rose to the height of ninety feet
from a deep glen. It was considered inaccessible on all sides. At the
back, where the precipice declined gradually inward from the summit,
the ramparts were not so strong, as any attempt on that side appeared
utterly impracticable. On the ridge just outside the parapet that
beetled over the base of the rock, grew several trees, the roots of
which were partly bared, and projected from the naked face of the hill,
in which they were fixed with a tenacity peculiar to those mountain
trees that vegetate amid the most scanty supplies of earth, and insert
their tough fibres between the fissures of rock composing the face of
the precipice.

The daring Mahratta was determined upon regaining possession of this
stronghold, and having fixed upon the point of attack, prepared his
followers for the desperate enterprise. These consisted of a thousand
Mawabees, mountain marauders, who followed the fortunes of their
leader, seduced by the hope of plunder and the love of adventure.
Choosing a dark night, he resolved to enter the fort on the least
practicable side, where he knew such an attempt would never be
suspected. Having procured a long cord as thick as a man’s thumb, he
caused it to be knotted at intervals of about two feet. When this was
prepared, he placed it upon his shoulder and proceeded alone to the
fortress through an unfrequented part of the mountain, ordering his men
to follow in small parties, and unite in a thicket a few hundred yards
from the base of the rock.

Arriving at the desired spot, Sevajee took a leaden ball, and attaching
it securely to a slight cord, threw the former, with a precision which
only long practice in similar feats could have produced, over the
projecting root of one of the trees that grew beneath the battlements.
This done, he drew the rope with which he had come provided gradually
up, and contrived, by means of the small cord, to pass a hook, fixed
to the end of the knotted rope, over the root. The hook, upon being
pressed by means of a spring, clasped the object upon which it rested
with a perfectly secure hold.

Everything being now ready, the Mahratta summoned his band. There
were no sentinels placed upon that side of the rampart, on account of
the supposed impracticability of an ascent. The night happened to be
extremely dark, which favoured the purpose of the assailants. Sevajee
mounted first. With the agility of a cat he clambered up the rope and
quickly gained the ramparts. The next that followed, being a heavy man,
and not over active, paused about twenty feet from the ground, alarmed
at the motion of the rope, which swayed with such a rapid and violent
oscillation that he was unable to proceed; and after hanging a few
moments by his hands, his feet having slipped from the knot on which
they rested, he quitted his hold and fell to the ground.

He had nearly disconcerted the whole enterprise. There was an awful
pause. None of the Mawabees attempted to mount. Sevajee began to grow
impatient. Shaking the rope, and finding there was no weight upon it,
he slid down to ascertain the cause. This was soon explained, but no
one would venture to ascend. The Mahratta, unappalled by the general
refusal, approached the man who had fallen, and instantly ordered him
to mount. He refused, and Sevajee, without a moment’s hesitation,
plunged his creese into the rebel’s heart. He now gave the same order
to a second. Terrified at the fate of his companion, the Mawabee
grasped the rope, and Sevajee followed close after, to prevent him from
quitting his hold. With much difficulty they reached the top, when the
undaunted Mahratta descended and forced another of his followers to go
before him. This he repeated until more than a dozen men had gained the
parapet. Taking courage from the success of their companions, the rest
attempted the ascent one after another, until the whole were safely
raised to the battlement.

Sevajee was the first to leap over the wall. A sentinel, alarmed at
the noise, hastily approached; the Mahratta chief seized him by the
cumberbund and the trousers, and swinging him over the parapet, cast
him into the empty void beneath. He uttered a shrill shriek as he fell,
which seemed to rise to the very heavens, like a sudden peal from the
grave, so quick and piercing as to vibrate to the brain with a painful
intensity. In a few moments the whole garrison were in arms, and the
struggle commenced. They had, however, the double disadvantage of
contending against superior numbers and the shock of sudden surprise;
nevertheless, they resisted with the fury of madmen. They demanded no
quarter, and none was given.

The whole garrison was cut off to a man, and the morning dawned upon
a scene of carnage never to be forgotten. Not a single Mogul survived
to tell the melancholy story of defeat, and the Mahratta chief took
possession of Singurh amid the shouts of a sanguinary triumph. The
bodies of the slain were flung over the battlements to be devoured by
birds and beasts of prey, their bones to whiten in the mountain wilds,
under the scorching beams of a tropical sun, far from the home of their
fathers, of their wives and little ones, and where the solemn rites of
sepulture were denied to their remains.

By degrees, Sevajee obliged the imperial troops to evacuate the
mountains; and after a while they were recalled to Delhi by Aurungzebe,
who was exceedingly mortified at being thus perpetually baffled by a
mountain chieftain, whose principle of government was a mere system
of predatory warfare, in which he extended his political influence
and his territory by any measure, however inconsonant to the general
practices of military conduct. Sevajee now began to be conscious of his
power, and determined therefore to seek more advantageous conquests.
His career was attempted to be checked by Shaista Chan, an omrah
high in the confidence of Aurungzebe. This general advanced with a
formidable army against the Mahratta, and carried on his operations for
some time with great success. Sevajee was unable to meet the Moguls in
the field, and therefore had recourse to that mode of predatory and
irruptive warfare which had hitherto been attended with such success.
The Mogul, however, somewhat altered his tactics in order to contravene
those of his enemy, and with such advantage that he reduced Sevajee to
considerable embarrassment. Finding that the imperial troops were daily
obtaining a stronger footing in his dominions, having taken several of
his forts, the Mahratta determined to have recourse to one of those
bold and daring exploits for which his whole military career has been
so celebrated, and which had invariably been attended with signal
success.

Shaista Chan, having made himself master of Poonah, the capital of
Sevajee’s dominions, situated upon the banks of a considerable river,
on the level country, about fifty miles from the Ghauts, occupied the
palace of the Mahratta chief. The town was at this time little better
than a village, surrounded by a low mud wall, and easily accessible
from every quarter. Shaista, not imagining that the bold adventurer,
who was only secure among the hills, would venture to attack him in
the open country, was rather remiss in placing guards round the town
to anticipate any sudden assault. Taking advantage of this remissness,
Sevajee selected a small band of resolute soldiers, advanced towards
Poonah, and concealed himself in the neighbourhood. Having heard that a
Mogul chief, jealous of Shaista Chan’s influence with the Emperor, had
secretly expressed strong sentiments of disaffection, he found means to
tamper with him, and seduced him at length to favour his enterprise.

The residence of the imperial general was a large loose building
composed entirely of mud. Having been admitted into the town about
midnight, and the guards previously removed through the management
of the treacherous Omrah, Sevajee and his followers, armed with
pickaxes, attacked the frail wall, and soon forced an entrance into
the cook-room. Raising a shout of exultation they rushed into the
interior of the house, brandishing their naked swords. At the head of
them appeared their chief, encouraging them to the work of slaughter.
Shaista, hearing the clamour, started from his bed; but not having time
to arm himself, was obliged to make his escape through a window. In
effecting this, however, he was severely wounded by the Mahratta chief,
who severed one of the fingers from his right hand, and likewise slew
his son. The Mogul general, overcome by this disaster, and dreading the
further jealousy of his own officers, solicited his recall. He shortly
after quitted the Deccan, and the army being placed under an inactive
commander, all military operations against the Mahrattas were for a
time suspended, and Sevajee soon recovered what he had lately lost.

CHAPTER V.

Aurungzebe, exasperated beyond all bounds at being thus perpetually
foiled by a petty chieftain, determined at once to stop the further
progress of his arms. He therefore sent against him Mirza Rajah, a
gallant Rajpoot, accustomed to make war in a mountainous country.
Sevajee at length found himself opposed to a man whom he was unable to
resist. As the Mogul army more than five times outnumbered his own,
he was obliged to retreat to his mountain fastnesses, whither he was
pursued by the victorious Mirza. All his fortresses shortly fell into
the enemy’s hands, and he was driven to extremity. At length, the fort
in which he had placed all his treasure was invested.

It resisted for many weeks; but one morning, when the magazine was open
to supply the garrison with powder, a paper kite, to which a blind
match had been previously attached, was raised over the battlements
and dropped into the combustible repository. A tremendous explosion
succeeded, and the fortress became an easy capture. Finding that he
had no chance of being able to recover it, he resigned himself to his
destiny, and upon receiving a solemn pledge from Mirza Rajah that he
should meet at Delhi with a safe and honourable reception, he disbanded
his army, and delivered himself up to the victorious Rajpoot.

On his arrival at Delhi, the Mahratta chief was ordered into the
Emperor’s presence, and commanded by the usher to make the usual
prostration; but he refused to obey, and casting towards Aurungzebe a
look of indignant scorn, expressed contempt for his person.

“I am now in your power,” he said haughtily; “but your victory over me
has been to you a disgrace, and to me a triumph. You have subdued me
by mere numerical force. For years, with a few hardy followers, I have
baffled your hosts. You have at length taken captive the object of your
dread: but princes should not forget their pledges. When I delivered
myself into the hands of your general, I was assured of honourable
treatment. Am I then to be degraded by being commanded to prostrate
myself before a man, even though he be Emperor of the Moguls? We are
both sovereigns, and be assured that the Mahratta chieftain will never
pay that adoration to man which is due alone to God.”

Aurungzebe did not condescend to reply. He was deeply incensed, and
turning to the usher, ordered that the refractory prisoner should be
taken from his presence. In spite, however, of this rude bearing, the
Emperor was much struck with the unbending boldness of the mountain
warrior. He could not but feel respect for the man who had for years
defeated his armies, and raised himself to sovereignty from being chief
of a mere band of robbers. The exploits of Sevajee had reached as far
as Delhi, and public curiosity was excited to see this remarkable man.
His bearing in the imperial presence astonished all who heard him, nor
were they less surprised at the forbearance of Aurungzebe, who was not
generally backward in administering summary justice where occasion
seemed to demand it.

It happened that, while the Mahratta chief was before the Emperor, the
principal ladies of his harem saw what passed from behind a curtain.
Among these was the Princess Rochinara, to whom the memory of Sevajee
was still dear, though the lapse of years had somewhat weakened her
former impressions. She had never been allowed to see her child, nor
would her father ever give her the least information respecting him.
This was a bitter penalty for having degraded herself in the eyes of
the haughty representative of the house of Timour, by an alliance with
a petty chieftain, whom that proud potentate looked upon in no other
light than that of a mere marauder. The princess had often sighed for
the freedom she had enjoyed during her short abode in the mountains
which overlooked the coast of Malabar.

When Sevajee appeared before the Emperor, all Rochinara’s former
partialities revived. She was struck with his lofty deportment of
fearless independence. The toils and military enterprises of years had
not abated the fire of his eye, or the beauty of his person. He was
still the man to win alike a lady’s love and the warrior’s admiration.
When the princess perceived the silent indignation of her father, as
he ordered the noble Mahratta to be removed from his presence, she
trembled for the safety of a man whom she felt to be still dear to
her. His boldness, and the reputation of his exploits, had won the
admiration of many Omrahs of the Emperor’s court, and they interceded
with their indignant master in behalf of the captive. Aurungzebe, not
withstanding their intercession, expressed his determination to confine
Sevajee for life, recalling to mind with a bitterness which years
had failed to mitigate, the disgrace he had heaped upon the house of
Timour, by espousing, without her parent’s consent, a princess of that
illustrious race.

Hearing that her father was inexorable, Rochinara sought his presence,
and falling at his feet, pleaded for the liberty of his prisoner, and
endeavoured to extenuate his conduct at the late interview.

“Though I despise pomp,” said the Emperor, in a tone of severe
solemnity, “I will ever insist upon receiving those honours which the
refractory presume to refuse. Power depends as much upon the empty
pageantries and ceremonies of state as upon abilities and strength of
mind. The former, in fact, are the most successful instruments of
the latter. When the rebel, whom I have condescended to admit into
my presence, knows how to honour the sovereign of the Moguls, he may
expect his indulgence.”

“Allow him, my father, another interview, but abate somewhat of the
rigour of court form. In his native mountains he has not learned to
be courtly, but nature has taught him to be magnanimous; and let not
Aurungzebe, though mighty, yield to him in this, or in any other
quality which the brave respect.”

“Well, then, to please a daughter whom I love, I will indulge
the haughty mountaineer with a remission of some portion of that
state-ceremony which it is customary to offer in the imperial presence,
and of that external homage which conquered princes owe to the Emperor
of the Moguls.”

A message was sent by Rochinara in the warmth of her zeal to the keeper
of Sevajee’s prison; and the Mahratta, without being consulted upon
the measure, was introduced into the Dewan Aum, or hall of public
audience. The corrugated brow and compressed lip, apparent to all
present, as he entered, proclaimed in terms sufficiently intelligible
his determination not to succumb to a superior.

When he had reached the centre of the hall, the usher advanced and
commanded him to make the customary obeisance at the foot of the throne.

“I was born a prince,” said Sevajee, “and am incapable of acting the
part of a bondsman. Chains cannot enslave the soul of the free.”

“But the vanquished,” replied Aurungzebe, “lose all their rights
with their fortune. The chance of war has made the Mahratta chief my
servant, and I am resolved to relinquish nothing of what the sword has
given.”

“The chance of war has indeed placed me in your power; but not as your
servant. I received the pledge of your general that I should be treated
as a prince, not as a slave. I have yet to learn if the sovereign of a
great empire can descend to the low and pitiable degradation of a lie.”

“The law of the conqueror is his will--of the vanquished, obedience.”

Sevajee turned his back upon the throne: Aurungzebe, losing his usual
equanimity, started from his seat: his lip quivered, his cheek became
blanched, his hand was laid upon his dagger, and he was about to issue
some terrible order against Sevajee, when that prince turning towards
him said, with an undaunted tone--

“Emperor of the Moguls, restore to me your daughter, whom you have torn
from the protection of a husband, and I will honour you as a father:
give me back my child, which you have withheld from the longings of
a parent, and I will venerate you as a benefactor: restore me to
my subjects, and I, as a tributary prince, will acknowledge your
supremacy: but be assured that no reverse of fortune can deprive me of
my dignity of mind, which nothing shall extinguish but death.”

The Emperor’s wrath appeared to subside at this request, which he
affected to treat as absurd. Pretending to look upon Sevajee as a
madman, he ordered him from his presence and gave him in charge to the
director-general of the imperial camp, who had orders to subject him
to a rigorous confinement. He was in consequence imprisoned in that
officer’s house, and guarded with a vigilance that seemed to defy all
chance of escape.

Months flew by, and Sevajee became extremely uneasy under his
captivity, which was however relieved by occasional communications from
the princess; she having contrived to convey information to him from
time to time by means of a person who was permitted to enter his prison
with flowers. This man was well known to the director-general, who
had the highest confidence in him; but the gold of Rochinara and the
promises of remuneration made by the Mahratta, corrupted the integrity
of the vendor of flowers, and he finally became instrumental to one
of the most extraordinary escapes which the pen of history records.
For weeks he had been in the habit of visiting the prisoner at stated
periods, under the plea of selling him flowers, of which the latter
affected to be extremely fond. Not the slightest suspicion was awakened.

One morning the usual attendant entered Sevajee’s prison with his
first meal, but to his astonishment found that the captive had
escaped. Upon the floor lay a man apparently in deep slumber. He was
upon his face, quite naked. An alarm was instantly raised, and the
director-general hastened to the prison. The naked man turned out to
be the flower-seller, whose sleep was so profound that he awoke with
the greatest difficulty. Upon opening his eyes he appeared amazed at
seeing himself naked, and no less so at being surrounded by inquisitive
persons who questioned him concerning the prisoner’s flight. He
protested his utter ignorance of the matter, but observed that he had
been evidently robbed of his clothes, though by whom he could not tell,
unless the Mahratta had taken them the better to effect his purpose.
He affected to be astonished at having been found in such a state of
unpremeditated oblivion; but, as if struck by some sudden recollection,
he stated that Sevajee had induced him to drink a glass of sherbet,
shortly after he entered his room, which he could now have no doubt
had been drugged with opium, as he had swallowed it but a short time
when he was overcome by a drowsiness which he could not control, and
had evidently sunk down senseless from the powerful effects of the
opiate. His story was sufficiently plausible; and, fortunately for
him, under the sanction of his supposed integrity, was believed; the
man thus eluded suspicion. An alarm was immediately raised, and a
search made after the fugitive, but he was nowhere to be found. When
the Emperor was informed that Sevajee had quitted his prison he was
greatly exasperated, and ordered several bodies of men to be despatched
in search of him; but his vexation was destined to receive a still
greater aggravation, for shortly after the news had reached him of the
Mahratta’s escape, he discovered that his favourite daughter had become
the partner of his flight.

CHAPTER VI.

Sevajee had found no difficulty in leaving his prison unsuspected,
disguised as the flower vendor, being about the same height, and
loosely clad, according to the fashion of Eastern countries. As had
been preconcerted between him and the princess, he repaired to the
harem with his flowers, and the man whom he personated being known to
the attendants, who were prevented from approaching his representative
too nearly by some natural pretence, which women in the East are seldom
at a loss to find in order to secure the success of any favourite
scheme, Sevajee obtained admittance without incurring suspicion. It
was now arranged that he should instantly hasten to a certain jungle,
where he was to await the arrival of Rochinara, who, under pretence
of devotion, would quit the city immediately, and join him at the
appointed spot.

This plan was successfully executed. The empire being at this period
in a state of general peace, no rigid scrutiny was observed towards
persons passing to and from the city as in more turbulent times.
On leaving the gates, Rochinara gave orders to be carried towards
a particular mosque; but no sooner had she got beyond the reach of
observation, than she stepped out of her palankeen, commanded the
bearers to wait for her at a certain spot, and declared her intention
of proceeding with one favourite attendant to the sacred edifice. The
men retired, and the princess quitting the high road, diverged from the
mosque, and hastened towards the jungle.

Though utterly unaccustomed to such exercise, Rochinara and her woman
made their way through a rough and unfrequented track to the place of
appointment, being directed by the few casual passengers whom they
happened to meet. They wisely confined their questions upon this point
to pariahs, several of whom were passing on their way towards the
same spot: these persons having so little intercourse with any but
individuals of their own tribe, there was the less chance of detection
from their communicating with the citizens, or with those who would, no
doubt, be sent in pursuit of the fugitives.

After a tedious journey of full two hours, the princess and her
attendant joined Sevajee in the jungle. He had now cast off his
disguise and resumed his own attire.

“We must travel alone through this forest,” said he, “and when we reach
its borders towards the south, I will provide a hackery for you and
your companion, and we shall proceed with better chance of security;
but we must avoid the public roads until we reach the coast. What think
you, lady, of this?--’tis an arduous undertaking for tender limbs and
gentle spirits.”

“The daughter of Aurungzebe, Sevajee, will know how to meet
difficulties. The energies of woman are not known until they are tried,
and none of the race of Timour ever shrank from danger.”

“Let us proceed then; our course lies amid perils, but they are already
half overcome in the resolution to brave them.”

They proceeded warily on their way, apprehensive that every sound might
be the forerunner of discovery. The jungle was thick, but broken into
frequent vistas, where they occasionally reposed from the fatigues of
their journey, which were rendered more harassing from the circumstance
of the travellers being frequently obliged to make themselves a path,
by putting aside with their hands the thick growth of underwood that
impeded their progress.

Towards evening they halted in a small glen, which was entered by a
defile formed by the proximity of two small hills. It was a sequestered
spot in the heart of the forest. The jackal was already beginning
to raise his dismal cry, and the occasional crackling of the bushes
announced that they were not the only sojourners in the jungle. The
travellers kindled a fire in order to keep off the beasts of prey, and
Sevajee having fixed a bamboo in the ground, untwisted from his waist
several folds of a close kind of calico, threw it over the pole, and
thus formed a rude tent, under which he strewed some dried grass as a
bed for the princess and her attendant.

The only access to this glen was through the defile already mentioned.
The Mahratta therefore placed himself upon the road which immediately
led to it in order to keep watch, lest any person sent by Aurungzebe in
pursuit of the fugitives should happen to take that track. The dense
growth of the forest rendered it so dark that no object was to be
discerned beyond the distance of a few paces; but Sevajee, having been
much accustomed to thread the jungles by night in his own native hills,
had acquired a quickness of perception peculiar to himself in detecting
the movements of approaching objects. For some time he trod the path of
this forest solitude without any interruption; but at length the sound
of distant footsteps caught his ear. He immediately advanced, and soon
ascertained that a party of the Emperor’s guard were approaching. It
consisted of ten men. One of the soldiers preceded the rest, bearing a
large torch. The Mahratta retreated quickly to the tent, extinguished
the fire which had been kindled to scare the beasts of prey, and having
roused the princess and her attendant, led them into a thicket on one
side of the glen, where he desired they would remain until he should
return.

“I go,” said he, “to baffle our pursuers, who are now close upon our
track. Should I fail, I am determined never to fall into their hands
alive. For you there is mercy, for me none. Should I perish, return to
your father, and he will still succour you.”

“Never! I wear a dagger, Sevajee, and the same hour that concludes your
existence, shall likewise conclude mine. I shall not submit to another
separation.”

“The act I contemplate is desperate. If I succeed we are safe; if I
fail, we are lost.”

Having tenderly embraced Rochinara, he quitted her, and hurried to the
defile. By this time the Moguls were within a hundred yards of the
gorge. The Mahratta grasped a creese in either hand, and placed himself
behind a short but thick shrub which grew on one side of the entrance
to the defile. As soon as the man who carried the torch reached the
place of his concealment, Sevajee stabbed him to the heart, seized
the torch, and pressing his foot upon the flame, extinguished it, at
the same moment plunging his second dagger into the breast of the
officer who led the party. This was the work but of a few moments. The
confusion was indescribable. Sevajee, whose eye had been accustomed to
the darkness, was able to see his foes, though they could not perceive
him. He stabbed four of them in succession, they being unable to
perceive from whence the stroke of death came. His enemies knew not
where to strike. Six already lay upon the earth weltering in their
blood. Two others shortly shared the same fate;--another followed,
and one only remained to be sent to a similar account. Upon him the
Mahratta sprang in his eagerness to complete the work of carnage,
seized the sword with which his foe was armed, and wrested it from him;
but with the exertion his creese fell, and he could not recover it.

They were now both unarmed, and the struggle was desperate. The Mogul
was a tall, powerful man, but no match for the Mahratta in activity and
prompt vigour. He fell under the assault of his active adversary, yet
still retained him in his grasp. Sevajee seized his prostrate enemy by
the throat, and pressing him firmly upon the windpipe, endeavoured to
strangle him; but the sudden agony imparted an impulsive energy to the
Mogul, who, doubling his legs under Sevajee’s body, suddenly raised
him, and cast him to a distance of several feet upon his back.

It happened that in turning to regain his feet, the Mahratta
accidentally placed his hand upon his enemy’s sword, which had fallen
to the ground during their struggle. He lost not a moment, but buried
it in the Mogul’s body before he could raise himself from his recumbent
position. Thus, aided by the darkness, Sevajee destroyed ten men
without receiving a wound.

Having paused a moment to breathe, after his exertions, he rejoined
the princess, whom he found anxiously awaiting his return. They
passed the whole night in the thicket, exposed to the ravages of
wild beasts, which, however, happily did not molest them, and on the
following morning they pursued their dreary journey, encompassed by
perils, which the princess bore with a heroism worthy the daughter
of Aurungzebe. Having procured a couple of miserable tattoos,[45] at
a village on the borders of the jungle, the travellers proceeded by
easy stages, and without suspicion, to Muttra, thence to Benares and
Jaggernaut. From the latter place they went round by Hydrabad, and at
length found themselves among the native hills of the Mahratta chief,
where his fierce but gallant followers soon rallied round him.

About the time of his daughter’s flight the Emperor was taken ill,
and for many weeks his life was despaired of. This circumstance
considerably abated the eagerness of pursuit after the fugitives, as
the attention of every one was directed to the danger of the sovereign.
A gloom prevailed through the empire; for the wise policy adopted by
Aurungzebe, in spite of his hollowness and hypocrisy, had rendered him
the most popular monarch that ever sat upon the Mogul throne. With all
his moral blemishes, his public character stood very high, and the
general prosperity which his wise administration diffused, added to the
rigid piety which seemed the mainspring of all his acts, rendered him
an object of all but idolatry with a large portion of those who lived
in ease and affluence under his wise supremacy. He at length recovered,
to the universal joy of his subjects, and seemed to have forgotten his
daughter’s flight.

A youth now appeared at court, in whom the Emperor took great interest,
but whose birth and parentage were a mystery. No one could tell to
whom he belonged, or whence he came, and yet the Emperor treated him
with marks of distinguished favour. He was a remarkably handsome young
man, had just entered his seventeenth year, and was eminently expert
in every military exercise. In all hunting excursions, honoured by the
sovereign’s presence, he was the foremost to court peril, and always
successful in pursuing the dangerous adventures of the chase. He soon
excited the attention of the Omrahs by his daring, and the singular
skill which he displayed in feats of arms. Who he could be, was a
frequent inquiry; but on this question the profoundest political sages
appeared just as ignorant as the most unlettered menials.

The young man gradually won the good opinion of all. His courtesy and
amenity of manners were no less conspicuous than the more chivalric
features of his character. Aurungzebe was gratified at the general
approbation awarded to his favourite, and lost no opportunity of
strengthening the flattering impression. In several incursions of the
rebellious Usbecks, this youth had distinguished himself, and the
Emperor looked forward to his becoming one of the most conspicuous
leaders of his time. He was not only remarkable for his superiority
in military exercises, but his talents in the cabinet were likewise
highly promising, and though he was an object of jealousy to some of
the nobles, who were mortified at seeing a stranger and a mere youth so
flattered by their sovereign, yet with the majority he was a great and
deserved favourite.

FOOTNOTES:

[45] Native ponies.

CHAPTER VII.

Sevajee, on his return, finding that there was no enemy to oppose him,
soon regained the territory which he had lost during his captivity. All
the mountain forts again fell into his hands, and he found himself in
a better condition than ever to frustrate the supremacy of the Mogul
Emperor in Southern India. In a few months this enterprising warrior
was at the head of an army of fifty thousand soldiers, all daring
men, accustomed to the privations and fatigues of mountain warfare,
and possessing that activity, hardihood, and bodily energy peculiar
to mountaineers. Calculating his power, Sevajee determined upon some
exploit that should signalize his return from what he considered a
humiliating bondage. Assembling a body of fifteen thousand choice
troops, he marched towards Surat, during the rains, when an assault
from enemies was the least expected.

One morning a Banian entered that city, offering various stuffs for
sale. Being a facetious man--as, indeed, most of those itinerant
traders are--and having a quantity of choice brocades, he readily found
admittance into the houses of the opulent citizens. Surat at this time
was surrounded only by a slight mud wall, a very insufficient defence
against the attacks of a daring enemy; but, secure in their immense
wealth and commercial importance, the citizens never seem to have
thought upon a hostile attack from any quarter, and it being now the
period of the monsoon, they slumbered in perfect security. The Banian
visited all parts of Surat with his pack, meeting everywhere with a
flattering reception, and especially in the houses of the wealthy
merchants. For three days he continued in the city. When he had sold
all his merchandise, he departed with the general goodwill of the
citizens.

In order to mislead the inhabitants of Surat, Sevajee had divided his
forces into two bodies, with which he encamped before two important
places, as if about to besiege them. Suddenly he ordered the troops to
withdraw from those places, leaving only small parties who had received
his instructions to keep up a continued clamour, and have lights
burning during the night, in order to give the appearance of a large
army encamped on the spot. These devices were completely successful
in lulling the suspicions of the citizens of Surat. The streets were
thronged by day with thrifty traders, the bazaars with busy chafferers,
who by night reposed in unapprehensive safety. In the midst of their
slumbers, however, they were roused by the din of arms. Starting from
their beds, they were stunned with the shrieks of women and the cries
of men. The confusion was indescribable. An enemy was within the walls,
but amid the darkness it was impossible to distinguish friends from
foes. The clash of arms was everywhere heard, mingled with the groans
of the dying and the shrieks of the despairing. Terror magnified the
danger. The enemy appeared an overwhelming host, sweeping through the
streets like a torrent, and spreading death around like a blast of the
simoom. There was little or no resistance. A long and indolent security
seemed to have unnerved every arm, and the bad cause triumphed.

Day dawned, and presented a spectacle of general devastation. The
Mahrattas had become masters of Surat. The Banian who had received the
hospitality of its citizens was recognised in the Mahratta chief, who
now reclaimed without an equivalent the merchandise which he had so
lately sold. The mercy of the conqueror was propitiated by submission
to the pillage which he directed to be made. He permitted no bloodshed
after the surrender, but practically showed, however, that he fully
understood the law of appropriation. All the rich merchants and factors
were obliged to exhibit their stores, and redeem them at a valuation.
For three days the work of plunder continued, but no personal violence
was offered to any of the inhabitants. When Sevajee had satisfied his
appetite for pillage, and that of his troops, he retired from the city
of Surat, with booty supposed to have exceeded in value one million
sterling.

Aurungzebe was exceedingly mortified when he heard of this daring
violation of the laws of honourable warfare; looking upon it as an
act of mere predatory aggression, at once unbecoming a soldier and
a prince. He now took the same resolution which he had already so
frequently acted upon, but with little eventual success, of sending
an army against Sevajee that should extinguish his power for ever.
Accordingly he ordered a hundred thousand men under command of an
experienced and active general to proceed to the Deccan. The young
favourite already mentioned was made second in command, and marched
with the high and proud hope of distinguishing himself in the field
against the most formidable enemy of his sovereign. His birth was a
general mystery, but such were his popular virtues, that although
Aurungzebe had raised him to a post of distinction about his own
person, still this advancement had excited little jealousy among the
nobles, who generally admitted him to be deserving of such honour.

When the Mogul army reached the Deccan, they found Sevajee at the
head of a numerous force. By adopting his usual system of mountain
strategy, harassing his enemy by sudden surprises, cutting off their
supplies, falling upon straggling parties, and keeping up continued
alarms in their camp, the indefatigable Mahratta soon thinned their
ranks, and reduced them to considerable distress. He carefully avoided
meeting his enemies in the open field, conscious not only of his own
numerical inferiority, but of the superior discipline of the Moguls.
By no strategem could they withdraw him from his mountain fastnesses.
The troops at length became dispirited, and clamoured either to be led
at once against the mountaineers, or return to the imperial city, as
they were wasting their energies in difficult marches and skirmishes,
without coming into fair contact with a foe.

In order to still these murmurings, the youthful officer, who had been
appointed second in command, offered to lead a detachment of twenty
thousand troops among the hills, and engage the enemy upon his own
ground. This proposal was acceded to by the general in chief. The young
commander repaired with his detachment to the mountains. Sevajee,
as usual, avoided a conflict until he could avail himself of some
advantage of position.

One morning the Mogul camp was suddenly attacked, but the young general
forming his squadrons behind their tents, soon repulsed the assailants,
and pursuing them into the gorges of the mountains, slew many, and took
several prisoners. In the heat of pursuit he was separated from his
troops. Turning into a narrow valley, he received an arrow discharged
by some hidden archer, through the fleshy part of his left arm. Heated
by the ardour of pursuit, and pained by the wound, he spurred forward,
forgetting that he was alone. Suddenly his horse was shot under him:
he fell--but almost instantly springing upon his feet, looked round
and perceived that he was not followed by a single Mogul. Just as he
was preparing to retrace his steps, he saw an armed Mahratta advancing
towards him. Calmly awaiting his approach, and perceiving that he
was no common enemy, the Mogul cried--“Do I see the leader of the
Mahrattas?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because of all others he is the man I would meet hand to hand.”

“Then you may enjoy your wish, for Sevajee stands before you.”

There was no further parley; the two leaders encountered with mutual
animosity. The struggle was fierce but short. The Mogul, being
embarrassed by the wound in his arm, and somewhat enfeebled by
consequent loss of blood, was unable to bring his best energies to the
encounter. Sevajee was superior both in strength and activity, and
very soon struck his adversary to the earth by a severe sabre-stroke
on the head. The Mogul, being stunned, was quite at the mercy of his
foe; but that foe was as generous as he was brave. Struck with the
youth and beauty of his enemy, Sevajee supported the youth’s head,
and opening his vest to expedite the recall of his senses, saw to his
astonishment the distinct mark of a spear-head upon the right breast.
Raising a clear shrill cry, in a few moments he was surrounded by his
followers, whom he ordered to lift the wounded officer and bear him to
one of his mountain fortresses in the neighbourhood. The blow which he
had received on the head was so severe as to render him insensible: the
sabre, had, nevertheless, inflicted no wound. The numerous folds of his
turban had repelled it.

Upon recovering his consciousness, the young Mogul perceived that he
was in the hands of his enemy. The wound in his arm had been dressed
and carefully bandaged, and in the course of that evening he became an
inmate of one of Sevajee’s strongholds. On the following day he was
brought into the presence of Rochinara, who greeted him with a courtesy
which seemed to throw a gleam of sunshine upon his captivity.

Sevajee approaching him with a bland air besought him to bare his
bosom. He immediately exposed it to the view of the princess, who,
gazing at him for a moment in speechless astonishment, rushed forward,
threw herself upon his neck and covered it with her tears. “My child,”
at length she cried--“my long lost son, you are come here to freedom
and to joy: in your vanquisher behold a parent,--in me behold a mother.
That mark upon your breast, stamped there before the light of heaven
had beamed upon the embryo babe, is too strong and unerring a signature
by God’s hand to be mistaken.”

The youth’s astonishment was extreme, but there were certain passages
in his life with which he alone was familiar, that to his mind
perfectly ratified what he now heard, and elucidated what to his mind
had ever been wrapped in painful secrecy. Sevajee embraced his son,
who told him that a mystery had always hung over his birth, which
he had in vain endeavoured to unravel. He had been brought up at a
solitary village, in a family with whom, though treated with kindness,
he was not happy. He had been instructed by a learned Mussulman in the
literature of his country, and his natural predilection for all manly
exercises naturally led him to become an adept in the use of arms. He
was treated with evident deference by the persons who had the charge
of his infancy, which always induced him to suspect that his birth was
above their condition. At the age of fifteen being summoned to the
court of Aurungzebe, he was immediately distinguished by his sovereign,
and shortly raised to a post of responsibility.

The meeting between the long-lost son and his parents was one of
tender and reciprocal congratulation. Sambajee, by which name he was
henceforward known, was too much rejoiced at having been restored to
his parents to feel any desire of returning to the imperial court.

As soon as his wound was sufficiently healed to enable him to venture
out, he rejoined the Mogul army. As he was extremely beloved by the
troops, among whom was a large body of Rajpoots, he had no difficulty
in persuading those more especially under his own command, to revolt
from the Emperor and join the forces of Sevajee. To the surprise and
consternation of the Mogul general, in one night nearly one half of
his army went over to the Mahrattas, and left him no longer in a
condition to face those formidable enemies of the state. Breaking up
his encampment, therefore, he returned to Delhi with the news of his
ill success, occasioned by the revolt of the troops and their union
with the foe. Aurungzebe could not repress his indignation at these
tidings. He now saw that the strength of his enemy was increased to
such a degree as to render him a dangerous rival!--that the harmony
of his family was disturbed, and his favourite, on whom he had
lavished honours and whom he had intended to advance to still higher
distinctions, had turned traitor.

Sevajee now became the most powerful prince of Southern India. He
could muster an army of fifty thousand foot and a hundred thousand
horse. Dreaded by the neighbouring potentates, and having raised
the reputation of his arms by foiling the legions of Aurungzebe, he
determined to satisfy his pride and dazzle his followers by a formal
coronation, modelled upon that of the Mogul, in which the weighing
against gold and other pompous ceremonies were not omitted. Gifts to an
immense value, bestowed upon Brahmins; gave lustre to this as well as
to other high political festivals.

From this time the prosperity of Sevajee continued without abatement
until his death, which happened in the year 1680, at the age of fifty,
and he was succeeded by his son Sambajee. The Princess Rochinara did
not long survive him.

THE END.

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52 =Englefield Grange.= Ditto.

62 =Little Women and Little= WIVES. By LOUISA ALCOTT.

64 =Leyton Auberry’s Daughters.= By H. P. PAULL.

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66 =Without and Within.=

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114 =Nobody.= Ditto.

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123 =Jan Vedder’s Wife.= By Mrs. A. E. BARR.

125 =Beulah.=

126 =At the Mercy of Tiberius.=

128 =The Gayworthys.= By Mrs. WHITNEY.

129 =Naomi=. By Mrs. WEBB.

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14 =From Jest to Earnest.= By Rev. E. P. ROE.

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31 AUNT AILIE. By C. D. BELL.

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115 =Mariamne.= NATHANIEL OGLE.

116 =A Titled Maiden.= By C. A. MASON.

117 =My Lady Nell.= By EMILY WEAVER.

118 =In Safe Hands.= By M. H. HOWELL.

124 =John Ward, Preacher.= By MARGARET DELAND.

127 =Faith Gartney’s Girlhood.= By Mrs. WHITNEY.

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to quicken the mind of the musical reader and thence to stimulate
him to a more extended study of the history and science of musical
form.”--_Manchester Guardian._

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation errors have been corrected.

Page 63: “connot practise” changed to “cannot practise”

Page 368: The sentence containing “...rtant occurrence, and” is missing
the beginning in the original. The likely missing text, “But the most
impo”, has been supplied by consulting an alternate version.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Legendary & romantic tales of Indian history" ***

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