Tippoo Sultaun - A tale of the Mysore war

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Title: Tippoo Sultaun - A tale of the Mysore war
Author: Taylor, Meadows
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_.

Errors, when reasonably attributable to the printer, have been
corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for
details. Corrections made to the text are summarized there.

Footnotes, which appeared at the bottom of the page, have been
resequenced numerically for uniqueness and moved to follow the paragraph
within which they are referenced.

_TIPPOO SULTAUN._

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._

-------

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_TARA: A Mahratta Tale._ New and Cheaper Edition, with Frontispiece.
Crown 8vo, cloth, price 6s.

‘We recommend it to all who care to know something of native life in
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LONDON: C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE.

[Illustration:

TIPPOO SULTAUN.
P. 397
]

TIPPOO SULTAUN;

_A TALE OF THE MYSORE WAR._

BY THE LATE

COLONEL MEADOWS TAYLOR.

_SECOND EDITION._

LONDON:

C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE.

1880.

COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

[_The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved._]

WILLIAM NEWNHAM, ESQ.,

MY BEST AND EARLIEST FRIEND IN INDIA,

THIS VOLUME

IS WITH GRATEFUL ESTEEM

DEDICATED.

[Illustration]

_TIPPOO SULTAUN._

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

Towards the close of a day of intense heat, about the middle of the
month of June, 1788, a party consisting of many persons might be seen
straggling over the plain which extends southwards from the Fort of
Adoni, and which almost entirely consists of the black alluvial deposit
familiarly known in India under the name of ‘cotton soil.’

The leader was a man perhaps about fifty years of age; he rode a
powerful Dekhan horse of great spirit, but whose usual fiery comportment
was tamed by the severe exertion he had undergone, from the miry roads
through which he had travelled the greater part of the day. Indeed he
began to show evident symptoms of weariness, and extricated himself from
every succeeding muddy hollow—and they were very frequent—with less
power. His handsome housings too were soiled with dirt; and the figure
of his rider, which merits some description, was splashed from head to
foot.

It has been already stated that he was a man of advanced age. His face,
which was wrapped up, as well as his head, in thick folds of muslin, in
order to protect them from the scorching heat of the sun, showed a dark
complexion much pitted with the smallpox; but his eyes were very large,
and of that intense black which is but rarely seen even among the
natives of India, and which appeared to flash with a sudden light when
any stumble of his gallant horse provoked an impatient jerk of the
bridle, and a volley of curses upon the mud and the road, if such it
could be called. His dress was of cloth-of-gold,—a suit which had been
once magnificent, but which, soiled and tarnished as it was, he had
chosen perhaps to wear as a mark of his rank, and thus to ensure respect
from the people of the country, which might have been denied to money
alone. It was open at the breast, and under the shirt of muslin worn
within the alkhaluk, or upper garment, a broad rough chest could be
seen,—a fair earnest of the power of him we describe.

A handsome shawl was girded around his waist, and his somewhat loose
trousers were thrust into a pair of yellow leather boots, which appeared
to be of Persian workmanship. Over his shoulder was a gold belt which
supported a sword; but this in reality was confined to the waist by the
shawl we have mentioned, and appeared more for ornament than use. A
bright steel axe with a steel handle hung at his saddle-bow on the right
hand; and the butt-end of a pistol, much enriched with chased silver,
peeped forth on the left, among the fringe of the velvet covering of the
soft saddle upon which he rode. A richly ornamented shield was bound to
his back by a soft leather strap passing over his chest; and the shield
itself, which hung low, rested between his back and the cantle of the
saddle, and partly served as a support.

In truth, soiled and bespattered as he was, Abdool Rhyman Khan was a
striking figure in those broad plains, and in his own person appeared a
sufficient protection to those who followed him. But he was not the only
armed person of the party. Six or seven horsemen immediately followed
him,—his own retainers; not mounted so well nor dressed so expensively
as the Khan himself, but still men of gallant bearing; and the party,
could they have kept together, would have presented a very martial and
imposing appearance.

At some distance behind the horsemen was a palankeen, apparently heavily
laden; for the bearers, though there were as many as sixteen, changed
very frequently, and could but ill struggle through the muddy road into
which at every step they sunk deeply; nor did the cheering exclamations
of those who were not under the poles of the palankeen appear to have
much effect in quickening the pace of those who carried it; and it was
very evident that they were nearly exhausted, and not fit to travel much
further.

In the rear of all was a string of five camels, which required the
constant attention of the drivers to prevent their slipping and falling
under their burdens; and with these were a number of persons, some on
foot carrying loads, and a few mounted on ponies, who were the servants
of the Khan, and were urging on the beasts, and those laden with the
cooking utensils, as rapidly as it was possible to proceed in the now
fast-closing darkness. Behind all were two led horses of much beauty,
whose attendant grooms conducted them through the firmest parts of the
road.

‘Alla! Alla!’ cried one of those mounted on a stout pony,—he was in fact
the cook of the Khan,—‘that I, Zoolficar, should ever have been seduced
to leave the noble city of Hyderabad, and to travel this unsainted road
at such a time of year! Ai Moula Ali,’ he continued, invoking his patron
saint, ‘deliver us speedily from this darkness! grant that no rain may
fall upon this already impassable road! I should never survive a night
in this jungle. What say you, Daood Khan—are we ever to reach the
munzil?[1] are we ever to be released from this jehanum, where we are
enduring torment before our time? Speak, O respectable man! thou saidst
thou knew’st the country.’

-----

Footnote 1:

Stage.

-----

‘So I do, O coward! What is the use of filling our ears with these
fretful complaints? Hath not the munificence of the Khan provided thee
with a stout beast, which, with the blessing of the Prophet, will carry
thee quickly to thy journey’s end? Was it not the Khan’s pleasure to
pass Adoni, where we might have rested comfortably for the night? and
are we who eat his salt to grumble at what he does, when we saw that the
Khanum[2] Sahib (may her name be honoured!) was willing to travel on?
Peace, then! for it is hard to attend to thy prating and pick one’s way
among these cursed thorns.’

-----

Footnote 2:

Feminine of Khan; as Begum, feminine of Beg.

-----

‘Well, I am silent,’ replied the other; ‘but my mind misgives me that we
never reach the munzil, and shall be obliged to put up in one of these
wretched villages, where the kafir inhabitants never kill meat; and we
shall have to eat dry bread or perhaps dry rice, which is worse, after
this fatigue.’

‘Ah, thou art no soldier, Zoolfoo,’ cried another fellow who was walking
beside him, ‘or thou wouldst not talk thus. How wouldst thou like to
have nothing for two days, and then perhaps a stale crust or a handful
of cold rice, and be glad to thank the Provider of good for that,—how
wouldst thou?’

‘No more, I pray thee, good Nasur!’ cried the cook, visions of
starvation apparently overpowering him,—‘no more, I beseech thee!
Methinks thy words have already had a bad effect on the lower part of my
stomach, and that it begins to reproach me for a lack of its usual
sustenance. I tell thee, man, I can put to myself no idea of starvation
at all. I was never able to keep the Rumzan (for which I pray to be
pardoned), and am obliged to pay heavily every year for some one to keep
it for me,—may grace abound to him! I pray Alla and the Prophet, that
the Khan may strike off somewhere in search of a roof for the night.’

The Khan had stopped: the increasing darkness, or rather gloom,—for
there was still somewhat of daylight remaining, and the sun had not long
set,—the muttering of thunder, and the more and more vivid flashes of
lightning proceeding from an intensely black and heavy cloud which
occupied the whole of the horizon before him, were enough to cause
anxiety as to his proceeding further or not.

A hard or tolerably firm road would have relieved this, but the track
upon which they journeyed became almost worse as he proceeded; and the
man he had sent on some little distance in advance, to observe the best
passage for the horses, appeared to be guiding his with increased
difficulty.

‘I was an ass, and the son of an ass, to leave Adoni,’ muttered the
Khan; ‘but it is of no use to regret this now:—what had better be done
is the question. My poor Motee,’ he continued, addressing his horse,
‘thou too art worn out, and none of thy old fire left in thee. How, my
son, wouldst thou carry me yet further?’ and he patted his neck.

The noble beast appeared to understand him, for he replied to the caress
by a low whinny, which he followed up by a loud neigh, and looked, as he
neighed, far and wide over the plain.

‘Ay, thou see’st nothing, Motee; true it is, there is no village in
sight: yet surely one cannot be far off, where if they will admit us, we
may get food and shelter. What thinkest thou, Ibrahim,’ he continued,
addressing one of his retainers, ‘are we near any habitation?’

‘Peer O Moorshid,’ replied the man, ‘I know not; I never travelled this
road before, except once many years ago, and then I was with the army;
we did not think much of the road then.’

‘True, friend,’ answered the Khan, ‘but now we have need to think. By
the soul of Mohamed, the cloud beyond us threatens much, and I fear for
the Khanum; she is ill used to such travelling as this; but she is a
soldier’s wife now, and I must teach her to bear rough work.’

‘The Palkee will be with us presently, and I doubt not the bearers well
know the country, Khodawund,’ said another of the horsemen.

‘True, I had not thought of them; perhaps when it arrives, it would be
advisable to stop a little to take breath, and then again set forward.’

A few moments brought the bearers and their burden to where the Khan
stood; and a few hurried questions were put to them by him as to the
distance to the next village, the road, and the accommodation they were
likely to find for so large a party.

‘Huzrut!’ said the Naik of the bearers, ‘you have but little choice; we
did not think the road would have been so bad as this, or we would never
have left the town or allowed you to proceed; but here we are, and we
must help to extricate you from the difficulty into which we have
brought you. To return is impossible; there is no village at which you
could rest, as you know. Before us are two; one not far off, over yonder
rising ground—my lord can even see the trees,—and another beyond that,
about a coss and a half; to which, if the lady can bear the journey, we
will take her, as there is a good bazaar and every accommodation. My
lord will reward us with a sheep if we carry her safely?’

‘Surely, surely,’ said the Khan, ‘ye shall have two; and we will travel
a short stage to-morrow, as ye must be tired. So what say you, my soul?’
he cried to the inmate of the palankeen; ‘you have the choice of a
comfortable supper and a dry lodging, or no supper and perhaps no roof
over your head; you see what it is to follow the fortunes of a soldier.’

‘Let no thought of me trouble you,’ replied a low and sweet voice from
the palankeen; ‘let the bearers and yourself decide, I am content
anywhere.’

‘How say you then, Gopal?’

‘Let us smoke a pipe all round, and we will carry you to the large
village,’ replied the Naik.

‘’Tis well,—do not be long about it; I doubt not we shall be all the
better for a short rest.’

Fire was quickly kindled; every one dismounted from his beast, and all
collected into groups. Tobacco was soon found, the hookas lighted, and
the gurgling sound of half-a-dozen of them arose among the party.

A smoke of tobacco in this manner gives almost new life to a native of
India. The trouble of the journey or the work is for awhile forgotten;
and after a fresh girding up of the loins and invocation of the Prophet
or their patron goddess (as the parties may be Hindoo or Mohamedan), the
undertaking is resumed with fresh spirit. After a short pause, the whole
party was again in motion.

No one had, however, observed the extremely threatening appearance of
the sky. The cloud, which had been still, now began to rise gently;—a
few small clouds were seen as it were to break away from the mass and
scurry along the face of the heavens, apparently close to their heads,
and far below the larger ones which hung heavily above them. These were
followed very quickly by others: the lightning increased in vividness at
every flash; and what was at first confined to the cloud which has been
mentioned, now spread itself gradually all over the heavens!
behind—above—around—became one blaze of light, as it were at a signal
given by a rocket thrown up from behind the cloud before them. In spite
of appearances, however, they hurried on.

‘It will be a wild night,’ observed the Khan, replacing and binding
tighter the muslin about his head and face.

As he spoke he pointed to the horizon, where was seen a dull reddish
cloud. To an unpractised eye it looked like one of the dusky evening
clouds; but on closer and more attentive observation, it was clearly
seen to rise, and at the same time to be extending right and left very
rapidly.

‘I beg to represent,’ said Daood Khan, who had come from behind, ‘that
there is a group of trees yonder not far from the road, and, if my
memory serves me well, there should be an old hut in it; will my lord go
thither?’

‘It is well spoken, Daood,’ said his master, ‘lead on.’

There was no wind—not a breath—but all was quite still; not even a
cricket or grasshopper chirped among the grass: it seemed as though
nature could scarcely breathe, so intense was the closeness.

‘Alla! Alla! I shall choke if there is no wind,’ said the fat cook,
fanning himself with the end of a handkerchief.

‘You will have enough presently,’ said Nasur.

‘Inshalla!’ exclaimed one of the camel drivers, ‘the Toofans[3] of the
Carnatic are celebrated.’

‘Alas!’ sighed the cook, and wished himself anywhere but in the
Carnatic.

At last a low moaning was heard,—a distant sound, as if of rushing
water. The rack above them redoubled its pace, and went fearfully fast:
every instant increased the blackness on each side and behind. They
could no longer see any separate clouds above, but one dense brown black
ropy mass, hurrying onward, impelled by the mighty wind. Soon nothing
was visible but a bright line all round the horizon, except in front,
where the wall of red dust, which proved that the previous rains had not
extended far beyond where they were, every moment grew higher and
higher, and came nearer and nearer.

They increased their speed to gain the trees, which were discernible a
quarter of a mile before them. ‘Once there,’ said the Khan, ‘we can make
some shelter for ourselves with the walls of the tents passed round the
trees.’

-----

Footnote 3:

Storms.

-----

No one replied to him; each was thinking of the storm, and what would
happen when it came. The horses even felt the oppression, and snorted
violently at intervals, as though they wished to throw it off.

At last, a few leaves flew up in the air: and some lapwings, which had
been nestling under the stones by the wayside, rose and made a long
flight to leeward with loud screamings, as though to avoid the wind.

One little whirlwind succeeded to another; small quantities of leaves
and dry grass were everywhere seen flying along near the ground over the
plain. The body of dust approached nearer, and seemed to swallow up
everything in it. They anxiously watched its progress, in the hope that
it would lessen in fury ere it approached them, for they could see the
trees through the gloom against the bright line of the horizon,
apparently at a great distance, disappearing one by one.

Meanwhile the roaring increased; the roar of the wind and that of the
thunder were fearfully mingled together. Amidst this there arose a
shrill scream from the palankeen; the fair inmate had no longer been
able to bear the evident approach of the tempest.

The Khan was at her side in a moment. ‘Cheer thee, my rose!’ he cried;
‘a little further and we shall reach a friendly grove of trees. The road
is harder now, so exert yourselves,’ he continued to the bearers; ‘five
rupees, if you reach the trees ere the wind is upon us!’

The men redoubled their pace, but in vain; they still wanted half the
quarter of the mile when the storm burst. With one fearful flash of
lightning, so as almost to blind them, and to cause the whole to stagger
backward, a blast met them, which if they had withstood they had been
more than men. The palankeen rocked to and fro, tottered under their
failing support, and fell at last heavily to the ground. There was no
mischief done, but it was impossible to proceed further; they must abide
the storm where they stood in the open plain.

And now it came in pitiless earnest. As if the whole power of the winds
of heaven had been collected and poured forth bodily upon one spot, and
that where they stood,—so did it appear to them; while the dust,
increasing in volume every instant, was so choking, that no one dared to
open his mouth to speak a word. The horses and camels instinctively
turned their backs to the wind, and stood motionless; and the men at
last, forcing the camels to sit down, crouched behind them to obtain
some kind of shelter from the raging storm.

Thus they remained for some time; at last a drop of rain fell—another,
and another. They could not see it coming amidst the dust, and it was
upon them ere they were aware of it: they were drenched in an instant.
Now, indeed, began a strife of elements. The thunder roared without
ceasing one moment: there was no thunder for any particular flash—it was
a continued flare, a continued roar. The wind, the rain, and the thunder
made a fearful din, and even the stout heart of the Khan sunk within
him. ‘It cannot last,’ he said;—but it did. The country appeared at last
like a lake shown irregularly by the blue flare of the lightning.

Two hours, or nearly so, did they endure all this: the tempest moderated
at length, and they proceeded. It was now quite dark.

‘Where is Ibrahim?’ asked one suddenly.

‘Ay, where is he?’ said another. Several shouted his name; but there was
no reply.

‘Ibrahim!’ cried the Khan, ‘what of him? He must be gone to the trees;
go, one of ye, and call him if he be there,’

The man diverged from the road, and was soon lost in the darkness; but
in a short time an exclamation of surprise or of terror, they could not
say which, came clearly towards them. The Khan stopped. In another
instant the man had rejoined them.

‘Alla! Alla!’ cried he, gasping for breath, ‘come and see!’

‘See what?’ shouted the Khan.

‘Ibrahim!’ was his only reply, and they followed him rapidly.

They could hardly distinguish what it was that the man pointed out; but
what appeared like a heap at first in the darkness, soon resolved itself
into the form of a man and horse. The Khan dismounted and approached; he
called to him by name, but there was no answer. He felt the body—it was
quite dead; horse and man had fallen beneath the stroke of the
lightning.

‘We can do nothing now,’ said the Khan. ‘Alas! that so good a man, and
one who has so often fought beside me, should have thus fallen! Praise
be to Alla, what an escape we have had!’

‘It was his destiny,’ said another,—‘who could have averted it?’

And they rode on, but slowly, for the road was undistinguishable from
the ground on each side, except where a hedge of thorns had been placed
to fence in some field. Here those who were on foot fared very badly,
for the thorns which had fallen, or had been broken off from branches,
had mixed with the mud, and sorely hurt their naked feet. The rain
continued to pour in torrents; and the incessant flare of the lightning,
which revealed the track every now and then, seemed to sweep the ground
before them, nearly blinding both horse and man: it showed at times for
an instant the struggles both were making in the now deeper mire.

They reached the smaller village at last; there were only three or four
miserable houses, and in the state they were, there was but little
inducement to remain in want of food and shelter till the morning; so
taking with them, much against his inclination, one of the villagers as
a guide whom they could understand, as he was a Mohamedan, and some rags
soaked with oil tied on the end of a stick to serve as a torch, they
once more set forward.

They had now scarcely three miles to travel, but these seemed
interminable. The rude torch could not withstand the deluge of rain
which poured upon it, and after a struggle for life it went out. There
remained only the light of the lightning. The guide, however, was of
use; now threatened, now encouraged by the Khan, he showed where the
firmest footing was to be obtained, and piloted the little cavalcade
through the almost sea of mud and water, in a manner which showed them
that they would have fared but ill without his aid.

At last, O welcome sight! a light was seen to glimmer for awhile amidst
the gloom; it disappeared, twinkled again, appeared to flit at a little
distance, and was seen no more.

‘What was that, Rahdaree?’[4] asked the Khan; ‘one would think it was
some wild spirit’s lamp abroad on this unblessed night.’

‘It is the village, noble sir,’ said the man simply; ‘we have no evil
spirits here.’

‘Ul-humd-ul-illa! we are near our home then; it cannot be far now.’

‘Not a cannon-shot; we have a small river to cross, and then we reach
the village.’

‘A river!’

‘Yes, noble Khan, a small one; there is no water to signify.’

But the Khan’s mind misgave him. ‘It must be full,’ he said to himself,
‘after this rain; how can it be otherwise? Every hollow we have passed
has become a roaring stream; but we shall see. Ya, Moula Ali!’ he
exclaimed aloud, ‘I vow a gift to all the priests of thy shrine, if thou
wilt protect me and mine through this night.’

-----

Footnote 4:

Guide.

-----

They had not gone much further before the dull sound of the river was
heard but too plainly, even above the wind and the thunder, which now
roared only at intervals. One and all were fairly terrified; and that
there should be such an end to their really manful struggles through the
tempest disheartened them: but no one spoke till they arrived at the
brink, where through the gloom could be seen a muddy torrent rushing
along with fearful rapidity.

‘It is not deep,’ said the guide; ‘it is fordable.’

‘Dog of a kafir!’ cried the Khan, ‘thou hast deceived us, to get us away
from thy miserable village. By Alla! thou deservest to be put to death
for this inhospitality.’

‘My life is in your hands, O Khan!’ returned the man; ‘behold, to prove
my words, I will venture in if any one will accompany me; alone it is
useless to attempt it. Will no one go with me?’

But one and all hesitated; the gloom, the uncertainty, and the dread of
death alike prevailed.

‘Cowards!’ exclaimed the Khan, ‘dare ye not do for him whose salt you
eat that which this poor fellow is ready to undertake because I only
reproached him with inhospitality? Cowards and faithless! ye are worse
than women.’

‘I am no woman or coward,’ said Daood Khan doggedly. ‘Come,’ he added to
the guide, ‘as thou art ready to go, give me thy hand and step in, in
the name of the Most Merciful!’

‘Bismilla! Daood, thou hast a stout heart—I will remember thee for this.
Step on in the name of Alla and the twelve Imaums! Halloo when thou art
on the other side.’

They entered the water carefully, holding tightly each other’s hand, and
each planting his foot firmly ere he ventured to withdraw the other. The
torrent was frightfully rapid, and it required all the power of two very
strong men to bear up against it; but at length the shallow water was
gained, and a joyful shout from the other side told to the Khan and his
expectant party that the passage had been made in safety.

‘Now make haste and get a torch, and bring some people with you,’
shouted the Khan; ‘meanwhile we will make preparations for crossing.’

Not much time elapsed before a few persons were seen approaching the
river’s bank from the village, bearing several torches, which in despite
of the wind and the rain, being all fed with oil, blazed brightly, and
cast their light far and wide.

The Khan had been endeavouring to persuade his wife to trust herself to
his horse, instead of to the palankeen, in crossing the river; and after
some representation of its superior safety, he had succeeded. She was
standing by him, closely veiled, when the torches appeared on the other
side.

What she saw, however, of the stream, as revealed fully by the light,
caused an instant change in her resolution: she was terrified by the
waters; and indeed they were very awful to look on, as the muddy,
boiling mass hurried past, appearing, as was the case, to increase in
volume every moment.

‘There is no time to lose,’ shouted the villagers, observing there was
irresolution among the party; ‘the water is rising fast—it will soon be
impassable.’

‘The horse, the horse, my soul!’ cried the Khan in despair; ‘the bearers
will never carry you through that torrent.’

‘I dare not, I should faint in the midst; even now my heart is sick
within me, and my eyes fail me as I look on the waters,’ replied the
lady.

‘Khodawund!’ said the Naik of the bearers, ‘trust her to us; on our
lives, she reaches the other side safely.’

‘Be it so then, Gopal; I trust thee and thy party; only land her safely,
and thou shalt be well rewarded.’

The lady again entered the palankeen; both doors were opened in case of
danger. The stoutest of the bearers were selected, and the Naik put
himself at the head. ‘Jey, Bhowanee!’ cried one and all, and they
entered the raging waters.

‘Shabash! Shabash! Wah-wah! Wah-wah!’ resounded from the villagers, and
from the Khan’s attendants, as the gallant fellows bore up stoutly
against the torrent. Oil was poured upon the torches, and the river
blazed under the light. The Khan was close behind on his gallant horse,
which, snorting and uneasy, was very difficult to guide. There was not a
heart on either bank that did not beat with almost fearful anxiety, for
the water appeared to reach the palankeen, and it required the exertions
of all the men to keep it and those who carried it steady.

‘Kuburdar! kuburdar![5] a little to the right!—now to the left!—well
done! well done!’ were the cries which animated and cheered them; and
the passage was accomplished all but a few yards, when the water
suddenly deepened—the leading bearers sank almost up to their chests.
Trials were made on either side, but the water was deeper than where
they stood; the eddy had scooped out the hollow since Daood had crossed.

-----

Footnote 5:

Take care! take care!

-----

‘Have a care, my sons!’ cried the Naik, whose clear voice was heard far
above the din. ‘Raise the palankeen on your shoulders. Gently! first you
in front—now those behind! Shabash! now let every man look to his
footing, and Jey Kalee!’

They advanced as they shouted the invocation; but careful as they were,
who could see beneath those muddy waters? There was a stone—a large
one—on which the leading bearer placed his foot. It was steady when he
first tried it; but as he withdrew the other, it rolled over beneath his
weight and what he bore: he tottered, stumbled, made a desperate effort
to recover himself, but in vain: he fell headlong into the current.

The palankeen could not be supported, and but one wild piercing shriek
was heard from the wife of the Khan as it plunged into the water.

‘Ya, Alla! Alla!’ cried the Khan in his agony—for he had seen all—‘she
is lost to me for ever!’ And throwing himself from his horse, encumbered
as he was, he would have been drowned, but for one of the bearers, who
supported him to the brink, and, assisted by the rest who immediately
recovered the palankeen, bore him rapidly to the village.

-------

CHAPTER II.

The confusion which ensued is indescribable. The few persons on the bank
of the river rushed hither and thither without any definite object; and
screams from some women, who had followed the men from the village out
of curiosity, rent the air, and added to the wildness of the scene.

On a sudden an exclamation broke from a youth who stood not far off; and
before they could turn to see what had occasioned it, he had darted from
the spot, and precipitated himself into the waters.

Cries of ‘He will be lost! he will be lost!’ flew from mouth to mouth;
and a dozen turbans were unwound and thrown to him from the brink, as he
still struggled with the current, supporting the slight and inanimate
form of her who was supposed to have been swept down the stream at
first.

Without waiting for a moment to answer the numberless queries which were
showered upon him by the spectators, or to ascertain whether the
senseless form he bore had life in it or not, he hastily covered the
features from view; and, declining the assistance of some old crones who
thronged around him, he pressed through them and hurried with the utmost
rapidity to his home.

Those who partly carried and partly supported the Khan himself conducted
him to the chowrie or public apartment for travellers; and seating him
upon such carpets and pillows as could most readily be found, they
proceeded to divest him of his wet garments, arms, and boots, with an
officious zeal, which, in spite of the protestations of his servant
Daood, all persisted in exerting. The Khan suffered all patiently,
apparently with almost unconsciousness, only at times uttering low moans
and interjections, which showed his thoughts to be absorbed in the fate
of her he deemed lost for ever. Gradually, however, the kind attentions
of his servant, whose sobs could not be repressed as he bent over him in
his attempts to remove his inner vest, which the others had hesitated to
touch, recalled his wandering senses; and, staring wildly about him, he
demanded to know where he was. Instantly, however, a fresh recollection
of the scene which had passed flashed into his mind, and all the words
he could find utterance for were an incoherent demand of Daood if the
Khanum had been found.

‘Alas, Peer O Moorshid!’ was the reply, ‘your slave saw nothing; he
assisted my lord here and—’

‘Was she not instantly rescued? What were all of ye doing that she ever
passed from your sight?’ exclaimed the Khan. ‘Holy Alla! give her back
to me or I shall go mad,’ he continued, starting up and rushing from the
spot into the air, followed by his attendant and a few of the others who
lingered about.

Distractedly the Khan hurried to the river-side, and in the misery of
despair began to search for the body of his wife. He ran from place to
place, shouting her name; he looked everywhere for any trace of her
remains, while his faithful attendant in vain besought him to withdraw
from the spot, for that further search was unavailing. His words were
unheeded: all the Khan saw, through the almost inky darkness, was the
faint glimmer of the wild waters hurrying past him; and the only sounds
he heard were their dull and sullen roar, above which arose the shouts
of his servants on the other side, and at intervals a shrill neigh from
one of the horses. Two or three persons only remained about the
river-side, and these seemed unacquainted with what had occurred; all
who had seen it had dispersed when the young man bore off the insensible
girl he had rescued. After some time of fruitless search the Khan
silently relinquished it, and sadly and slowly turned towards the
village.

Meanwhile the young man we have mentioned carried the lady with the
utmost speed he was able to his own home, a respectable house situated
on the other side of the village from where the Khan was: without
ceremony he entered the zenana, still bearing her in his arms, to the
astonishment of an elderly dame, his mother, and several other women,
servants and others who happened to be there, and to whom the news of
the disaster was being brought piecemeal, as first one and then another
hurried in with parts of the story.

‘Holy Prophet! what hast thou brought, Kasim Ali?’ cried his mother;—‘a
woman! By your soul say how is this,—where didst thou get her?—wet,
too!’

‘’Tis the Khan’s wife, and she is dead!’ cried many at once.

‘I care not what she is,’ cried the young man; ‘by the blessing of Alla
I saw her and brought her out of the water; she is still warm, and
perhaps not dead; see what ye can do speedily to recover her. She is as
beautiful as a Peri, and—— but no matter, ye can do nothing while I am
here, so I leave you.’

Whatever Kasim’s thoughts might have been, he had sense enough not to
give them utterance; and, leaving the fair creature to their care, he
again hurried forth, to see whether he could render further assistance
to the unfortunate travellers.

Left among the women of the house, the Khan’s wife became an object of
the deepest interest to these really kind people. Her wet clothes were
removed; cloths were heated and applied to her body; she was rubbed and
kneaded all over; the wet was wrung from her hair; and after awhile they
had the satisfaction of hearing a gentle sigh escape her,—another and
another at intervals.

‘Holy Alla!’ cried one of the women at last, ‘she has opened her eyes.’

The light was apparently too much for them, for she shut them again and
relapsed into stupor; but the respiration continued, and the alarm that
she had died ceased to exist. Gradually, very gradually, she regained
consciousness; and ere many hours had elapsed she was in a deep sleep,
freed from all anxiety regarding her lord, whom on her first recovery
she had presumed was lost.

The Khan and Daood had scarcely again reached the chowrie, when a large
body of men with torches, shouting joyfully, approached it. Daood’s
heart leaped to his mouth. ‘She cannot have been saved!’ he cried, as he
advanced to meet them.

‘Ul-humd-ul-illa!’ cried a dozen voices, ‘she has, and is in the
Patél’s[6] house.’

-----

Footnote 6:

The chief or magistrate of a village.

-----

Without any ceremony they broke in upon the unfortunate Khan, who sat,
or rather lay, absorbed in his grief. Alone, the memory of his wife had
come vividly over him; and when he raised his head, on their intrusion,
his wet cheek very plainly told that his manly sorrow had found vent.

‘Ul-humd-ul-illa!’ cried Daood, panting for breath.

‘Ul-humd-ul-illa!’ echoed Kasim.

‘Do not mock me, I pray you,’ said the Khan sadly, ‘for grief is
devouring my heart, and I am sad even to tears. And yet your faces have
joy in them,—speak! she cannot live! that would be too much to hope.
Speak, and tell truth!’

‘Weep not, noble Khan,’ said Kasim; ‘she lives, by the blessing of
Alla,—she is safe in my own mother’s apartments; and such rude care as
we can give her, or such accommodation as our poor house affords, she
shall have.’

The Khan started to his feet. ‘Thou dost not mock me then, youth? Ya
Alla! I did not deserve this! Who saved her? By the soul of the Prophet,
any recompense in the power of Abdool Rhyman, even to half his wealth,
shall be his who rescued her!’

‘He stands before thee, O Khan!’ cried Daood, who had recovered his
speech; ‘it was that brave fellow who rushed into the water and rescued
her, even while my lord was being carried hither.’

In an instant rank and power were forgotten, and the Khan, impelled by
his emotion, ere Kasim could prevent him, had folded him in a sincere
and grateful embrace. Nay, he would have fallen at his feet, but the
young Kasim, disengaging himself, prevented it and drew back.

‘Not so, protector of the poor!’ he cried; ‘your slave has but done what
any man would do in a like case. Kasim Ali Patél would have disgraced
himself had he turned from that helpless being as she lay in such peril
on the bank.’

The Khan was struck with admiration of the young man, who with excited
looks and proud yet tempered bearing drew himself up as he uttered the
last words; and indeed the young Patél was a noble figure to look on.

He had not attempted to change his clothes since his rescue of the lady,
but had thrown off his upper garment; he was therefore naked to the
waist, and his body was only partially covered by the dark blanket he
had cast over his shoulders. His tall and muscular frame was fully
developed; and the broad chest, long and full arms, and narrow waist,
showed the power which existed to be called into exertion when
opportunity required. Nor was his countenance less worthy of remark.
Although he had hardly attained manhood, yet the down on his upper lip
and chin, which was darkening fast, proved that perhaps twenty years had
passed over him, and added not a little to his manly appearance. His
dark expressive eyes, which glistened proudly as the Khan regarded him,
a high aquiline nose, large nostrils expanding from the excitement he
had been in, exquisitely white and regular teeth, and, added to all, a
fair skin—far fairer than the generality of his countrymen could
boast,—showed that he was perhaps of gentle blood, which indeed his
courteous manner would have inclined most observers to determine.

‘Thou art a noble fellow, youth!’ cried the Khan, ‘and I would again
meet thee as a brother; embrace me therefore, for by the soul of my
father I could love thee as one. But tell me,—you saved her?—how?—and is
she safe in your house?’

A few words explained all: the eddy in its force had cast the lady upon
a bank below, almost immediately after her immersion, and fortunately
with her head above the water. Had she not been terrified by the shock
so as to lose her consciousness, she would have been able to drag
herself upon the dry land, though she could not have got to shore, as
part of the river flowed round the bank on which she had been cast. Thus
she had continued in very imminent danger until rescued; for any wave or
slight rise of the water must have carried her down the stream; and who
in that darkness and confusion would ever again have seen her?

Gradually therefore the Khan was brought to comprehend the whole matter;
and, as it ought, his thankfulness towards the young Kasim increased at
every explanation. It is not to be supposed, however, that he was the
less anxious about her who had been saved; he had been with some
difficulty restrained from at once proceeding to the Patél’s house, and
desisted only when Daood and his companion declared that such a
proceeding would be attended with risk to the lady. She too had been
assured that he was safe, they said; and in this comforting certainty,
overcome by fatigue and excitement, she had fallen asleep.

‘But that is no reason why my lord should not come to my poor abode,’
said Kasim; ‘this open room is ill-suited to so damp a night, and my
lord has been wet.’

‘I need but little pressing,’ he replied, and rose to accompany him.

Arrived at the house, which, though only a large cabin, was yet of
superior extent and comfort of appearance to the rest in the village,
the Khan found that every preparation the inmates had in their power had
been made for him. A carpet was spread, and upon it was laid a
comfortable cotton mattress; this was covered with a clean fine sheet,
and some very luxurious pillows placed against the wall invited him to
repose.

Fatigue rapidly asserted its mastery over even the Khan’s iron frame. He
had been assured by Kasim’s mother that his lady slept sweetly, and, an
ample repast concluded, he attempted for a time to converse with the
young Patél, but without much success.

The young man took in truth but little interest in the replies. The Khan
himself was abstracted; sleep gradually overpowered him, and he sunk
down upon the bedding in total unconsciousness after a short time.

After seeing him covered, so as to prevent the cold and damp coming to
him, the young Patél left him to the care of Daood, and withdrew. His
own bedding was in an inner room of the house, near to the apartments of
the women, and his mother heard him gently pass to it, and joined him
ere he had lain down.

‘My blessings on thee, my brave boy!’ cried the old lady, melting into
tears at the mingled thoughts of what might have been her son’s danger,
and his gallant conduct; ‘my blessing and the blessing of Allah on thee
for this! thou art thy father’s son indeed, and would that he were alive
to have greeted thee as I do!’

‘It is of no use regretting the dead now, mother: what I did I am glad
of,—and yet I could not have done otherwise; though I thought of thee,
mother, when I cast myself into the raging waters: thou wouldst have
mourned if Allah had not rescued me and her. But tell me,’ he continued,
to avert the old lady’s exclamations at the very thought of his death,
‘tell me, by your soul,—say, who is she? she is fair as a Peri, fair as
a Houri of the blessed Paradise; tell me if thou knowest whether she is
his wife, or—or—’

‘His daughter, thou wouldst say, my son.’

‘Ay, why not?’

‘I understand thy thoughts, but they must pass away from thee. She is no
daughter of his. She hath but newly used the missee;[7] she must be his
wife. Hast thou not asked the servants?’

-----

Footnote 7:

A powder which women apply to their teeth only after marriage.

-----

‘I have not, mother; but art thou sure of this?’

‘I am.’

‘Then a bright vision has faded from my eyes,’ said Kasim despondingly:
‘the brightest vision I have yet seen in my young life. It seemed to be
the will of Allah that she should be mine; for she had been lost to the
world and to him, only that I saved her!’

‘Forbid such thoughts,’ said his mother quietly, for she knew the fiery
yet gentle spirit of the young man, and how easily she might offend
where she only intended kindness. ‘She can be nothing to thee, Kasim.’

‘Her fate is with mine, mother: from the moment I was impelled to rescue
her from the waters, I felt that my life was connected with hers. I knew
not, as she lay on the sand-bank, that she was beautiful or young; and I
could not have hesitated, had there been a thousand devils in my path,
or the raging waters of the Toombuddra.’

‘Alas! my son,’ she replied, ‘these are but the fantasies of a young
spirit. It was thy generous nature, believe me, which impelled thee to
rescue her, not thy destiny.’

But the young man only sighed; and after awhile, finding that her words
had but little power to remove the feelings which the events of the
night had excited, she blessed him and retired to her repose.

Left to himself, Kasim in vain tried to court sleep to his eyelids. Do
what he would, think of what he would, lie how he would,—the scene of
the Khan’s advance across the flood,—the waters hurrying by,—the rough
eddies caused by the resistance to it made by the bearers, upon which
the light of the torches rested and flashed,—their excited cries, which
rung in his ears,—their every step which seemed before his eyes,—till
the last, when all fell,—and then that one wild shriek! Again the
despairing shout of the Khan, and the eager assistance rendered to him
when he cast himself into the river,—the hurried search for the body,
and the exertions of the bearers to raise the palankeen in hopes that it
might be in it,—their despair when it was not,—the renewed search, for
some moments unsuccessful,—then the glimpse of her lying on the bank,
and his own efforts,—all were vivid, so vivid that he seemed to enact
over again the part he had performed, and again to bear the lifeless yet
warm and beautiful body to his home with desperate speed.

‘I saw she was beautiful, O how beautiful!’ he said; ‘I felt how
exquisite her form. I saw her youthful countenance,—hardly fifteen can
she be,—and she the bride of that old man! Monstrous! But it is my
destiny: who can overcome that? Prince and noble, the beggar and the
proud, all have their destiny; this will be mine, and I must follow it.
Ya Alla, that it may be a kind one!’

He lay long musing thus: at last there was a noise as though of talking
in his mother’s apartment. He heard a strange voice—it must be the
lady’s: he arose, crept gently to the door of the room, and listened. He
was right: her pure, girl-like and silvery tones came upon his ears like
music; he drank in every word with eagerness,—he hardly breathed, lest
he should lose a sound.

He heard her tell her little history; how she had been sought in
marriage by many, since he to whom she was betrothed in childhood had
died: how her parents had refused her to many, until the Khan, whose
family were neighbours, and who had returned from Mysore a man of wealth
and rank, hearing of her beauty, had sought her in marriage. Then she
related how grandly it had been celebrated; how much money he had spent;
what processions there had been through the noble city of Hyderabad;
what rich clothes and jewels he had given her; and how he was now taking
her with him to his new country, where he was a soldier of rank, and
served the great Tippoo. All this she described very vividly; and with
the lightheartedness and vivacity of girlhood; but at the end of all she
sighed.

‘For all the rank and pomp, she is unhappy,’ thought Kasim.

Then he heard his mother say, ‘But thou sighest, Khanum, and yet hast
all that ever thy most sanguine fancy could have wished for.’

‘Ay, mother,’ was the reply, ‘I sigh sometimes. I have left my home, my
mother, sisters, father, and many friends, and I go whither I know no
one,—no, not one. I have new friends to make, new thoughts to entertain,
new countries to see; and can you wonder that I should sigh for the
past, or indeed for the future?’

‘Alla bless thee!’ said the old lady; and Kasim heard that she had
blessed her, and had taken the evil from her by passing her hands over
her head, and cracking the joints of her fingers against her own
temples.

‘Thou wilt be happy,’ continued his mother; ‘thou art light-hearted for
thine own peace,—thou art very, very beautiful, and thy lord will love
thee: thou wilt have (may Alla grant many to thee!) children, of beauty
like unto thine own; and therefore do not sigh, but think thou hast a
bright destiny, which indeed is evident. Thy lord is young and loves
thee,—that I am assured of, for I have spoken with him.’

‘With him, mother?’

‘Ay, with him; he came a little while ago to the screen to ask after
thee, and spoke tenderly: young, wealthy, and a soldier too, ah! thou
art fortunate, my daughter.’

‘But he is not young, mother,’ she said artlessly. Kasim was sure there
was regret in the tone.

‘Why then, well,’ said the old lady, ‘thou wilt look up to him with
reverence, and as every woman should do to her lord. But enough now;
thou hast eaten, so now sleep again. May Alla give thee sweet rest and a
fortunate waking!’

Kasim heard no more, though he listened. His mother busied herself in
arranging her carpet, and then all was still. He thought for awhile, and
his spirit was not easy within him: he arose, passed through the outer
chamber, where the Khan still slept, and his servants around him, and
opening the door very gently passed on into the open air.

-------

CHAPTER III.

It was now midnight, and the storm had passed away. In the bright
heavens, studded with stars, through which the glorious moon glided,
almost obliterating them by her lustre, there existed no sign of the
tempest by which it had so lately been overcast. The violent wind had
completely lulled, if indeed we except the gentlest breath, which was
hardly enough to stir lazily here and there the leaves of an enormous
Peepul-tree that occupied an open space in front of the Patél’s house,
and which also appeared sleeping in the soft light; while on every wet
leaf the rays of the moon rested, causing them to glisten like silver
against the sky. The tree cast a still shadow beyond, partly underneath
which the servants of the Khan and the bearers of the palankeen all lay
confusedly,—so many inanimate forms, wrapped in their white sheets, and
reposing upon such straw or other material as they had been able to
collect, to protect them from the damp ground.

In the broad light, the camels of the Khan were sitting in a circle
around a heap of fodder, into which every now and then they thrust their
noses, selecting such morsels as they chose from the heap; while the
tiny bell which hung around the neck of each tinkled gently, scarcely
disturbing the stillness which reigned around. Beyond, the moonlight
rested upon the white dome and minarets of the small village mosque,
which appeared above the roofs of the houses; and the Hindoo temple also
caught a share of her beams, revealing its curious pyramidical form at
some distance, among a small grove of acacia trees. Far away in the east
the cloud which had passed over still showed itself,—its top glistening
brightly against the deep blue of the sky: while from it issued frequent
flickerings of lightning, which played about it for an instant and
disappeared; and a low and very distinct muttering of thunder succeeded,
showing that the tempest was still proceeding on its threatening yet
fertilising course. The cloud and the distance all seemed in one, for
the light of the moon did not appear to illuminate much beyond Kasim’s
immediate vicinity.

He stood for a moment, and gazed around, and into the sky at the
glorious orb. She looked so mild, so peaceful, riding in silence; whilst
all around was so mellowed and softened by the blessed light, that, in
spite of his habitual indifference to such scenes—an indifference common
to all his countrymen—he could not help feeling that his heart was
softened too.

The natives of India are perhaps heedless of natural beauties, but if
there be any to which they are not indifferent, it is those of the
glorious moonlights which are seen in the East, so unlike those of any
other country. There, at almost every season, but particularly in the
warmest, it is impossible for nature to supply anything more worthy of
exquisite enjoyment than the moonlight nights; there is something so
soft, so dreamy, in the bright but silvery light, so refreshing, from
the intense glare of the sun during the day,—so inviting to quiet
contemplation, or to the enjoyment of society, with whomsoever it may
chance to be,—that it is no wonder if the majority of Asiatics, both
Mahomedans and Hindoos, should love it beyond the day, or appreciate
more keenly the beauties it reveals. There, too, moonlight in those
seasons has no drawbacks, no dangers; there are no dews to harm, nor
cold to chill; and if there be a time when one can enjoy warmth without
oppression, light without glare, and both in moderation, it is at the
time of full moon in most months of the year in India.

After regarding with some feelings of envy perhaps the sleeping groups,
Kasim sauntered leisurely towards the river’s bank, his limbs
mechanically obeying the action of his thoughts. The stream was still
swollen and muddy, but it had subsided greatly, and the bank upon which
the lady had been thrown was now no longer an island. Kasim walked
there. ‘It was here,’ he said, ‘that she lay: another moment, perhaps,
and she would have been swept away into eternity! I should have felt for
the Khan, but I should have been more at rest in my heart than I am
now.’

Kasim Ali, or Meer Kasim Ali, as he was also called, for he was a Syud,
was the only son of the Patél of——; indeed the only child, for his
sisters had died while they were very young. His father was of an old
and highly respectable family of long descent, which had won renown
under the Mahomedan sovereigns of Bejapoor in their wars with the
infidels of the Carnatic, and had been rewarded for their services by
the hereditary Patélship or chief magistracy, and possession of one or
two villages, with a certain percentage upon the collections of the
district in which they were situated. They had also been presented with
some grants of land to a considerable extent, and the family had been of
importance and wealth far superior to what it was at the period of our
history. The troublous times between the end of the Bejapoor dynasty and
the subsequent struggles of the Mahratta powers, the Nizam, and Hyder
Ali, for the districts in which their possessions lay, had alienated
many of them, and caused them to pass into other and stronger hands.

The family however was still respectable, and held a good rank among
those of the surrounding country. Syud Noor-ud-deen, the father of
Kasim, was much respected, and had at one time served under the banner
of Nizam Ali in his wars against the Mahratta powers, and had been
instrumental in guarding the south-western frontiers of his kingdom
against their incursions.

But his death, which had occurred some years before the time of which we
were speaking, had still more reduced the consequence of the family; and
his widow and only son could not be expected to retain that influence
which had resulted partly from the station and partly from the
unexceptionable conduct of the old Patél.

Still there were many who looked forward to the rapid rise of the young
man, and to the hope that he would in those stirring times speedily
retrieve the fortunes of the house. On the one hand were the Mahrattas,
restless, greedy of conquest; among whom a man who had any address, and
could collect a few horsemen together, was one day an adventurer whom no
one knew,—another, a leader and commander of five hundred horse. On the
other was the Nizam, whose armies, ill-paid and ill-conducted, were
generally worsted in all engagements; but who still struggled on against
his enemies, and in whose service titles were readily to be won,
sometimes, but rarely, accompanied by more substantial benefits. Again,
in the south, the magnificent power of Hyder Ali had sprung out of the
ancient and dilapidated kingdom of Mysore, and bid fair, under his
successor Tippoo, to equal or to surpass the others.

As Kasim Ali grew to manhood, his noble appearance, his great strength,
skill in all martial exercises and accomplishments, his respectable
acquirements as a Persian scholar, and his known bravery,—for he had
distinguished himself greatly in several encounters with the marauders
and thieves of the district,—had caused a good deal of speculation among
the families of the country as to whose side he would espouse of the
three Powers we have mentioned.

Nor was he in any haste to quit his village: naturally of a quiet,
contemplative turn of mind, fond of reading and study, he had gradually
filled his imagination with romantic tales, which, while they assisted
to develop his susceptible temperament, also induced a superstitious
reliance upon destiny, in which he even exceeded the prevailing belief
of his sect.

His mother, who read his feelings, had repeatedly besought him to allow
her to negotiate for the hand of many of the daughters of families of
his own rank in the neighbourhood, and even extended her inquiries to
those of the many partly decayed noble families of Adoni; but no one
that she could hear of, however beautiful by description or high by
birth or lineage, had any charms in the eyes of the young Kasim, who
always declared he chose to remain free and unshackled, to make his
choice wherever his destiny should, as he said, guide him.

It is not wonderful, then, that upon one thus mentally constituted, and
whose imagination waited as it were an exciting cause, the events of the
night should have had effects such as have been noted:—but we have
digressed.

‘Ay,’ thought Kasim, ‘her beauty is wondrous,—even as I saw it here by
the light of the torches, as I wrung the wet from her long silky hair,
and when, lifeless as she appeared, I laid her down by my mother,—it was
very wondrous. What then to see her eyes open—her lips move—to hear her
speak—to see her breathe, to see her move! and what to sit with her,
beneath the light of a moon like this, and to know that she could only
live for and love but one! to lie beside her on some shady terrace—to
hear no sound but her voice—to drink in her words like the waters of the
blessed well of Paradise—to worship her on the very knees of my heart!
This,’ cried the enthusiast, ‘this would be Heaven before its
time,—this, one of the seventy Houris, whom the Prophet (may his name be
honoured!) has promised to the lot of every true believer who doeth his
law. But I have no hope—none! What if the Khan be old, he is yet her
lord, her lawful lord; and shall the son of Noor-ud-deen, that light of
the faith and brave among the brave, shall he disgrace his name by
treachery to him upon whom he hath exercised hospitality? No, by Alla,
no,’ cried the young man aloud, ‘I will not; better that I should perish
than hold such thoughts; but, Alla help me! I am weak indeed.’

And thus arguing with himself, exerting the better principle, which ever
had been strong within him, Kasim returned to the house, entered it as
gently as he had quitted it, and unknown to any one reached his chamber;
there, soothed by his ramble in the calm air and the tone of his later
reflections, he sank at last into slumber.

But his dreams were disturbed, as often follows exciting causes; and
visions, now happy now perplexing, of the fair inmate of his house
flitted across his mind while he slept; they were indefinite shadows
perhaps, but he did not wake so calmly in the morning as he had gone to
rest; and his heart was neither so light, nor his spirit so free of
care, as before. Nevertheless he repeated the morning prayer with
fervour, and commended himself to the blessed Alla, to work out his
destiny as best he pleased.

It was late ere the Khan rose, for fatigue had oppressed him, and he had
slept heavily. It was reported to his anxious inquiries that the lady
had arisen, bathed, and was well; nor could the Khan’s impatience to
behold once more one who was really dear to him be longer delayed. The
apartment where his wife rested was made private, and in a few moments
he was in her presence.

How thankful was he to see her well—nay with hardly a trace of any
suffering upon her! Her eyes were as bright, her smile as sunny and
beautiful, as they had ever been. Her hair, which she had washed in the
bath, and which was not yet dry, hung over her shoulders and back in
luxuriant masses; and if its quantity, and the manner in which it was
disposed accidentally about her face, caused her fair skin to seem paler
than usual, it only heightened the interest her appearance excited.

‘Alla bless thee!’ said the Khan, much moved, as he seated himself by
her,—for she had risen upon his entrance,—‘Alla bless thee! it is more
to Abdool Rhyman to see thee thus, than to have the empire of Hind at
his feet. And thou art well?’

‘Well indeed, my lord,—thanks to him who protected me in the tempest,’
she said, looking up devoutly; ‘and thanks to her who, since I was
brought hither, has not ceased to tend me as a daughter.’

‘Ay, fairest,’ said her lord, ‘what do we not owe to the inmates of this
house, and indeed to all this village? without their aid we had been
lost.’

‘I have an indistinct remembrance of some danger,’ said the lady; ‘I
think I recollect the palankeen entering the waters, and their frightful
appearance, and that I shut my eyes; and I think too,’ she added after a
pause, and passing her hand across her eyes, ‘that it seemed to slip,
and I shrieked; and then I knew nothing of what followed, till I awoke
all wet, and the women were rubbing me and taking my clothes off. And
then I remember waking again, and speaking to the kind lady who had so
watched me; and I think I asked her how I had been brought here; but she
made light of it, would not let me speak much, and so I went to sleep
again, for I was weary. They said too thou wert well;—yet,’ she
continued after a pause, ‘something tells me that all was not right,
that there was danger. But my memory is very confused—very.’

‘No wonder, my pearl, my rose!’ cried the Khan; ‘and how I bless that
good lady for keeping the truth from thee! as thou wert then, the
remembrance of it might have been fatal. And so thou dost not know that
thou wert nearly lost to me for ever,—that I had seen thee plunged
beneath that roaring flood, and little hoped ever to have been greeted
by that sweet smile again?’

‘Alas, no!’ said the lady shuddering; ‘and was I indeed in such peril?
who then saved me?—it was thou surely, my noble lord! and I have been
hitherto unmindful of it,’ she cried, bowing her head to his feet? ‘how
insensible must thou not have thought me!’

‘Not so, beloved, not so,’ was the eager reply of the Khan as he raised
her up; ‘I had not that happiness. I cast myself, it is true, into the
waters after thee when the bearers fell, but it was useless. I should
have been lost, encumbered as I was with my arms, only for the bearers
who saved me. No, even as Alla sends visitations of evil, so does he
most frequently in his wisdom find a path of extrication from them;
there was a youth—a noble fellow, a very Roostum, and by Alla a Mejnoon
in countenance,—who saw the accident. His quick eye saw thy lifeless
form cast up by the boiling water, and he rescued thee at the peril of
his own life,—a valuable one too, fairest, for he is the son of a widow,
the only son, and the head of the family,—in a word the son of her who
has tended thee so gently—’

‘Holy Prophet!’ exclaimed the lady, ‘was I in this peril, and so
rescued? At the peril of his own life too,—and he a widow’s son, thou
saidst? What if he had been lost?’ And she fell to musing silently.

Gradually however (for the Khan did not hazard a reply) her bosom
heaved: a tear welled over one of her eyelids, and fell upon her hand
unnoticed,—another, and another. The Khan let them have their course.
‘They will soothe her better than my words,’ he thought, and thought
truly.

After awhile she spoke again; it was abruptly, and showed her thoughts
had been with her deliverer.

‘Thou wilt reward him, noble Khan,’ she said; ‘mine is but a poor life,
’tis true, but of some worth in thy sight, I know,—and of much in that
of those I have left behind. My mother! it would have been a sore blow
to thee to have heard of thy rose’s death so soon after parting.’

‘Reward him, Ameena!’ cried the Khan, ‘ay, with half my wealth, would he
take it; but he is of proud blood and a long ancestry, though he is but
a Patél, and such an offer would be an insult. Think—thou art
quick-witted, and speak thy thought freely.’

‘He would not take money?’ thou saidst.

‘No, no,—I dare not offer it.’

‘Jewels perhaps, for his mother,—he may have all mine; thou knowest
there are some of value.’

‘He would set no value upon them; to him they are of no use, for he is
not married.’

‘Not married! and so beautiful!’ she said, musing aloud.

‘Nor to his mother,’ continued the Khan, who had not heard her
exclamation,—‘she is an old woman. No, jewels would not do, though they
are better than money.’

‘Horses, arms,—they might gratify him, if he is a soldier.’

‘Ay, that is better, for he is a soldier from head to heel. But of what
use would they be to him without service in which to exercise them? Here
there are no enemies but plunderers now and then; but—I have it now,’ he
continued joyfully after a pause,—‘service! ay, that is his best
reward,—to that I can help him. By the Prophet, I was a fool not to have
thought of this sooner. He will be a rare addition to Tippoo’s Pagha. I
am much mistaken, too, in a few months, if he have an opportunity (and,
by the blessing of the Prophet, it is seldom wanting against either the
English or Hindoo Kafirs), if he do not win himself not only renown, but
a command perhaps like my own. Tippoo Sultaun is no respecter of
persons.’

‘Ay, my noble lord, such an offer would be worthy of thy generosity and
his acceptance,’ was the lady’s reply: ‘and he could easily follow us to
the city.’

‘And why not accompany us? I for one should be glad of his society, for
he is a scholar as well as a soldier, and that is more than I am.
Besides one of my men fell last night, and his place is vacant.’

‘Fell! was drowned?’ she exclaimed.

‘No, my pearl, his hour was come; he fell by the hand of Alla, struck by
lightning.’

‘Ay, it was very fearful,’ she said shuddering, ‘I remember that;—who
fell, didst thou say?’

‘Ibrahim.’

‘Alas! it was he that twice saved thy life.’

‘It was; but this was his destiny, thou knowest: it had been written,
and who could have averted it? What sayest thou, shall I offer the Patél
the place.’

‘Not Ibrahim’s, since thou askest me,’ she said; ‘as he is of gentle
blood, ask him to accompany thee; or say, “Come to Abdool Rhyman at
Seringapatam, the leader of a thousand horse,”—which thou wilt. Say thou
wilt give him service in thine own risala, and hear his determination.’

‘Well spoken, my rose!’ said the blunt soldier; ‘verily I owe him the
price of thy glorious beauty and thy love, both of which were lost to
me, but for him, for ever. So Alla keep thee! I will not disturb thee
again till evening, and advise thee to rest thyself from all thy many
fatigues and alarms—Alla Hafiz!’

‘A very Roostum! a Mejnoon in countenance,’ thought the fair creature,
as, shutting her eyes, she threw herself back against the pillows; ‘a
noble fellow, my lord called him, and a scholar,—how many perfections! A
widow’s son,—very dear to her he must be,—she will not part with him.’

Again there was another train of thought. ‘He must have seen my
face,—holy Prophet! I was not able to conceal that; he carried me too in
his arms, and I was insensible; what if my dress was disordered?’ and
she blushed unconsciously, and drew it instinctively around her. ‘And he
must have seen me too in the broad light when he entered this room: what
could he have thought of me? they say I am beautiful.’ And a look she
unthinkingly cast upon a small mirror, which, set in a ring, she wore
upon her thumb, appeared to confirm the thought, for a gentle smile
passed over her countenance for an instant. ‘What could he have thought
of me?’ she added. But her speculations as to his thoughts by some
unaccountable means to her appeared to disturb her own; and, after much
unsatisfactory reasoning, she fell into a half dose, a dreamy state,
when the scenes of the night before—the storm—the danger—the waters—and
her own rescue, flitted before her fancy; and perhaps it is not strange,
that in them a figure which she believed to be a likeness of the young
Patél occupied a prominent and not a disagreeable situation.

-------

CHAPTER IV.

It was now evening: the gentle breeze which came over the simosa-grove
loaded the air with the rich perfume of the blossoms. Cattle, returning
from the distant pastures, lowed as they approached the village; and a
noisy herd of goats, driven by a few half-naked boys, kept up an
incessant bleating. Far in the west the sun had set in brilliancy; and a
few light and exquisitely tinted clouds floated away towards the rocky
range of the Adoni fortress, whose rugged outlines could be seen sharply
defined against the sky. There were many beauties there, but they only
remained to the living.

The grave of the Khan’s retainer had been filled in, and the long narrow
mound raised on the top: one by one, those who had attended the funeral
turned away and retired; but the Khan and Kasim, anxious to pay the last
marks of respect to the deceased, stayed till all had been smoothed
down, and the place swept. Garlands of flowers were strewn upon the
grave,—they left the dead to its corruption, and returned home.

But among soldiers, especially Asiatics,—whose belief in fatality, while
it leads them to be often reckless of life, yet when a stroke of sorrow
comes teaches them resignation—death makes perhaps but little
impression, unless any one near or dear is stricken down. The Khan and
his host, having partaken of the hearty meal supplied by the Patél, and
most exquisitely cooked by the stout functionary we have before alluded
to, and having each been supplied with that soother of many mortal ills
a good hooka, had already almost forgotten the ceremony they had
assisted in, and were well disposed to become excellent friends, and to
detail to each other passages in their lives, which they would for ever
have remained ignorant of but for the fortuitous circumstances in which
they had been placed.

And it was after a recital of his own deeds, which, however modestly
given, could not fail of having impressed Kasim with a high sense of his
gallant conduct, that the Khan said, ‘My brother, I was an adventurer,
as you might be; young and active, hairbrained perhaps, and ready for
any exciting employment, with only my arms and an indifferent horse, I
entered the service of Hyder Ali. You see me now the commander of a
thousand horse, having won a reputation at the sword’s point second to
none in his gallant army. Why shouldst thou not have the same fate,—thou
who hast personal attractions, greater power, and scholarship to aid
thee—all of infinite value to an adventurer? What sayest thou then, wilt
thou serve him whom I serve,—Tippoo, the lion of war, the upholder of
the Faith? Speak, O Patél, for I love thee, and can help thee in this
matter.’

‘My lord draws a bright picture to dazzle mine understanding,’ he
answered; ‘I have dreamed of such things, of attaining to giddy
eminences even of rank and power; but they are no more, I well know,
than the false visions of youth, the brighter and more alluring as they
are the more deceptive and unattainable.’

‘By my beard, by your salt, I say no!’ cried the Khan; ‘I have said
nothing but what is a matter of every-day occurrence in the army. What
was Hyder’s origin?—lower, infinitely lower than thine own. Thy ancestry
was noble,—his can be traced back a few generations, beginning with a
Punjabee Fakeer, and descending (not much improved i’ faith) to his
father Hyder, whose mother was only the daughter of a cloth-weaver of
Allund, somewhere by Koolburgah. It is destiny, young man, destiny which
will guide thee—which, on thy high and broad forehead, shines as
brightly as if thy future history were already written there in letters
of gold."

‘My lord’s words are enticing, very enticing,’ said the youth, ‘and ever
have I felt that the inactive life I am leading was a shame on me in
these times; but I like not the service of the Nizam, and the Mahrattas
are infidels; I would not shame my faith by consorting with them.’

‘Bravely spoken! hadst thou come to Tippoo Sultaun mounted and armed as
thou shouldst be,—even alone and unbefriended as I did to his father,—he
would have enrolled thee upon handsome pay at once in his own Pagha.[8]
With me, thou wilt have the benefit of a friend; and I swear to thee
upon this my beard, and thy salt,’ cried the Khan generously, ‘I will be
a friend and a brother to thee, even as thou hast been one to me, and
her who is as dear to me as my own life’s blood. I owe this to thee for
her life,—for the risk of thine own, when we were nothing to thee, by
Alla, but as the dust of the earth,—I owe it for thine hospitality; I
desire thee for a companion and a friend; and, above all, my spirit is
vexed to see one like thee hiding here in his village, and marring his
own destiny by sloth and inaction. Dost thou think that service will
come to seek thee, if thou dost not seek it?’

-----

Footnote 8:

Household troops.

-----

The young man felt the spirit-stirring address of the rough but kind
soldier deeply, but he still hesitated: the Khan tried to guess his
thoughts.

‘Dost thou think,’ he said, ‘that I have sweet words at my command
wherewith to entice thee? Ay, that is my mistake, and I have spoken too
freely to one who has never yet known contradiction nor received
advice.’

‘Not so, not so, noble Khan, almost my father!’ cried Kasim; ‘I beseech
thee not to think me thus haughty or impatient. By your beard, I am
not—I thought but of my mother—of the suddenness of this—of my own—’

‘Poverty, perhaps,’ said the Khan; ‘do not be ashamed to own it. Thou
wouldst go to service as a cavalier, as thou art, gallantly armed and
mounted,—is it not so?’

‘It is: I would not serve on foot, nor have I money to buy a horse such
as I would ride into battle.’

‘Right! thou art right, by the Prophet, but let not this trouble thee.
We spoke of thee this morning: we dare not offer thee money—nay, be not
impatient—we dare not offer thee jewels, else both were thine. We could
offer thee honourable service; and, if thou wilt accept it, as my
brother thou art entitled to look to me thine elder, thou knowest, for
such matters as thou needest. With me are two horses, the best of the
Dekhan blood, beside mine own Motee: him thou canst not have: but either
of the others, or both, are thine; and if they do not suit thee, there
are others at the city where thou shalt be free to choose. See, I have
conquered all thy scruples.’

The young man was much affected, and the Khan’s kindness fairly brought
the tears to his eyes. ‘Such service as I can do thee, O generous
being,’ he exclaimed, ‘I vow here under mine own roof and by the head of
my mother,—I will follow thee to the death. Such honourable service as I
would alone have ever accepted is in my power, and I accept it with
gratitude to thee and thine, whom the Prophet shield with his choicest
care!’

‘It were well that your arrangements were quickly concluded, for I
cannot wait beyond to-morrow,’ said the Khan.

‘It will be ample for my slender preparations,’ replied the youth. ‘I
will break this to my mother now.’

‘You do right, Meer Sahib; I honour thee for thy consideration; and I
too will to the Khanum: she will be glad to hear that her deliverer and
her lord are now friends and brothers in service.’

Kasim sought his mother; she was with her guest as he passed the door of
the inner chamber; so he desired a girl who was without to inform his
mother he desired to speak with her in his own apartment.

There was not much to tell her, and yet he knew that it would grieve the
old lady. ‘But I cannot continue thus,’ he thought aloud; ‘the fortunes
of our house have fallen, and the Khan’s words bear conviction with
them. I can retrieve them,—I may perhaps retrieve them, I should rather
say; and, after all, she will rejoice to hear of me, and the fortune and
rank I shall, by the blessing of Alla, speedly win; and then—’ but here
his thoughts became quite inexpressible, even to himself; for there
rushed suddenly before his imagination such a tide of processions,
soldiery elephants, wars, camps, as almost bewildered him; while here
and there a figure mingled with all, which, had he been closely
questioned, he must have admitted was that of the fair Ameena. But his
mother interrupted what we will say he was striving to put from him, by
entering and standing before him.

‘Thou didst send for me, my son,’ she said; ‘what news hast thou to
tell? Was the Khan pleased with the Zeafut?[9] was the meat well cooked?
By the Prophet, he hath a glorious cook; what dishes he sent into the
Khanum, of which we have been partaking! By thine eyes, I have not
tasted such since—since—’

-----

Footnote 9:

Entertainment

-----

But while the old lady was trying to remember when she had last eaten of
such savoury messes as she spoke of, her son gently interrupted her, and
said gravely, as he rose and seated her in his own place, ‘Mother, I
have much to tell thee, so collect thy thoughts and listen.’

She was attentive in a moment, and eagerly looked for what he should
say,—with not a little apprehension perhaps, for there was sadness, nay
even a quivering, perceptible in the tone with which he spoke.

Her grief was uncontrollable at first:—yet he gradually unfolded all his
hopes—his previous determination to enter service when he could with
honour—his desires for an active life—and his great chances of speedy
advancement under the patronage of his friend;—and he laid them before
his mother with a natural eloquence, under which her first sudden shock
of grief fast yielded. Kasim saw his opportunity, and continued,—

‘So much as thou lovest me, mother, wilt thou not have pride when I
write to thee that I command men, that I have fought with the infidel
English, that I have been rewarded, that I am honoured? Wilt thou not
feel, and then say,—“If I had prevented him, there would have been none
of this.” And doth it not behove every believer now to draw his sword in
defence of the faith? Look around:—the English are masters of Bengal and
Oude; they hold Mahamed Ali of the Carnatic and him of Oude in a base
thraldom; they thirst for conquest, and are as brave as they are
cunning;—the Mahrattas have taken Hindostan and the Dekhan, and are
every day making encroachments upon Nizam Ali’s power, which totters
upon an insecure foundation;—and do not the eyes of every true believer
turn to Tippoo, a man who has raised himself to be a monarch? I say,
mother, I believe it to be my destiny to follow his fortunes: I have
long thought so, and have eagerly watched the time when I should be able
to join him. It has come, and dost thou love thy son so little, as to
stand in the way of fame, honour, wealth, everything that is dear to me
as a man, and as thy son?’

The old lady could not reply: but she arose and cast herself upon the
manly breast of her son, and though she sobbed bitterly and long, yet at
last she told him in accents broken by her emotion she was convinced
that he was acting wisely, and that her prayers night and day would be
for his welfare.

And her mind once being reconciled to the thought of parting with him,
she made every preparation with alacrity. Such few garments as were
necessary, and were the best among his not over-abundant stock, were put
aside and looked over; and one or two showy handkerchiefs and scarfs
which she possessed, with deep gold borders to them, were added to his
wardrobe. ‘I shall not want them,’ she said; ‘I am old, and ought not to
think of finery.’

Nor did Kasim neglect his own affairs; having made the communication to
his mother, he at once sought the Kurnum, or accountant of the village,
and disclosed his intentions to that worthy functionary. Though somewhat
surprised at his sudden decision, he did not wonder at its being made;
and, as he was a rich man, he liberally tendered a loan of money to
enable Kasim to live respectably, until such time as he should receive
pay from his new master. He despatched a messenger for his uncle, his
mother’s brother, who arrived at night; and early the next morning he
had concluded every arrangement for the management of his little
property and the care of his mother.

These matters being arranged to his satisfaction, Kasim sought the Khan
with a light heart and sincere pleasure upon his countenance. He found
him busied inspecting his horses, and greeted him heartily.

‘Well,’ asked the Khan, ‘how fared you with the lady your mother after
you left me?’

‘Well, excellently well,’ was the reply; ‘she made some opposition at
first, but was reasonable in the end.’

‘Good! then I have no blame on my head,’ he said laughing; ‘but tell me,
when shalt thou be prepared?’

‘Now, Khan Sahib, even now am I ready; speak the word, and I attend you
at once.’

‘Why then delay, Kasim? Bismilla! let us go at once; the Khanum is well,
and if thy good mother can but give us a plain kicheree[10] we will set
off soon; the day is cloudy and there will be no heat.’

-----

Footnote 10:

Rice and pulse boiled together.

-----

‘I will go bid her prepare it: and when I have put on some travelling
garment better than this, Khan Sahib, and got out my arms, as soon as
thou wilt we may be in our saddles. I am already impatient to see the
road.’

The meal was soon despatched by master and servant—the camels loaded—the
horses saddled. No one saw the farewell Kasim took of his mother; but it
was observed that his cheek was wet when he came out of his house
accoutred and armed,—a noble figure indeed, and one which drew forth an
exclamation of surprise and gratification from the Khan.

-------

CHAPTER V.

And in truth, accoutred as he was, and dressed in better clothes than he
had hitherto worn, Meer Kasim Ali was one on whom the eye of man could
not rest for a moment without admiration, nor that of a woman without
love. He wore a dark purple silk vest, bordered round the throat and
openings at the chest with broad gold lace and handsome gold pointed
buttons; a crimson waistband with a deep gold border was around his
loins, in which were stuck several daggers of various forms and very
beautifully chased silver handles; and on his shoulder was a broad gold
belt or baldric, somewhat tarnished it is true, but still handsome. This
supported a long sword, with a half basket-hilt inlaid with gold and
lined with crimson velvet; the scabbard was of the same, ornamented and
protected at the end by a deep and richly chased ferule. At his back was
a shield much covered with gilding and brass bosses.

‘By Alla and the twelve Imaums!’ cried the Khan, ‘thou art worthy to
look on, and a jewel of price in the eye of an old soldier. But there
are the steeds,—take thy choice; the chesnut is called Yacoot;[11] he is
hot, but a gallant beast, and perfect in his paces. The other I call
Hyder, after him who was my first master; he is steadier perhaps, and
not so active: say which wilt thou have?’

-----

Footnote 11:

Ruby.

-----

‘I think, with your permission, Khan Sahib, I will mount Yacoot;’ and so
saying, he approached him and bounded into the saddle.

‘Alla, what a seat!’ cried the Khan in an ecstasy of admiration, after
Kasim had mounted, and the horse had made several wonderful bounds: ‘he
does not move,—no, not a hair’s-breadth! even I should have been
disturbed by that. Inshalla! he is a good horseman. Enough, Meer Sahib,’
he cried, ‘enough now; Yacoot is a young beast and a fiery devil, but I
think after all he will suit thee better than the other.’

‘I think Yacoot and I shall be very good friends when we know each other
better,’ said Kasim; ‘but see, the Khanum waits, and the bearers are
ready. Put the palankeen close up to the door that it may be more
convenient,’ he added to them.

They obeyed; and in a few moments a figure enveloped from head to foot,
but whose tinkling anklets were delicious music in the ears of Kasim,
emerged from the threshold of the house, and instantly entered the
palankeen. Another followed, and busied herself for a few moments in
arranging the interior of the vehicle. This was Kasim’s mother, whose
heart, almost too full for utterance, had much difficulty in mustering
words sufficient to bid her lovely guest farewell.

‘May Alla keep you!’ said the old lady, blinded by her tears; ‘you are
young, and proud and beautiful, but you will sometimes think perhaps of
the old Patélne. Remember all I have told you of my son; and that as the
Khan is a father to him, so you are his mother:—ye have now the care of
him, not I. May Alla keep thee! for my old eyes can hardly hope to see
thee again;’ and she blessed her.

‘Willingly, mother,’ she replied; ‘all that constant solicitude for his
welfare can effect, I will do; and while I have life I will remember
thee, thy care and kindness. Alla Hafiz! do you too remember Ameena.’

The old lady had no reply to give; she shut the door of the palankeen
with trembling hands—and the bearers, understanding the signal,
advanced, raised it to their shoulders, and bore it rapidly forward

‘Come,’ cried the Khan, who had mounted; ‘delay not, Kasim.’

‘Not a moment—a few last words with my mother, and I follow thee.’

She was standing at the door; he rode up to her and stooped down from
the horse gently. ‘Thy blessing, mother, again,’ he said—‘thy last
blessing on thy son.’

She gave it; and hastily searching for a rupee, she drew a handkerchief
from her bosom, and folding it in it, tied it around his arm. ‘My
blessing, the blessing of the holy Alla and of the Imaum Zamin be upon
thee, my son! May thy footsteps lead thee into happiness—may thy destiny
be great! May I again see my son ere I die, that mine eyes may greet him
as a warrior, and one that has won fame!’

‘I thank thee, mother; but saidst thou aught to her of me?’

‘I told her much of thee and of thy temper from thy youth up: it
appeared to interest her, and she hath promised to befriend thee.’

‘Enough, dear mother! remember my last words—to have the trees I planted
looked to and carefully tended, and the tomb protected. Inshalla! I will
return to see them grown up, and again be reminded of the spot where I
saved her life.’

And so saying, and not trusting himself to speak to many who would have
crowded around him for a last word, the young man turned his horse, and,
striking his heels sharply into its flank, the noble animal bounding
forward bore him away after his future companions, followed by the
blessings and dim and streaming eyes of most who were assembled around
the door of his mother’s home.

The old lady heeded not that her veil had dropped from her face; there
was but one object which occupied her vision of the many that were
before her eyes, and that was the martial figure of her son as it
rapidly disappeared before her. She lost sight of him as he passed the
gate of the village; again she saw him beyond. There was a slight
ascent, up which the party, now united, were rapidly advancing: he
reached them. She saw him exchange greeting with the Khan, as he checked
his bounding steed, fall in by his side, apparently in familiar
converse, and for a short time more the whole were brightly before her,
as a gleam of sunlight shone forth, glancing brightly from their
spear-heads and the bosses on their shields, and upon the gay colours of
their dresses. A bright omen she thought it was of the future. But they
had now attained the summit. Kasim and the Khan disappeared gradually
behind it; then the attendants—the palankeen—the servants—the camels,
one by one were lost to her gaze. Suddenly the place was void; she shook
the blinding stream from her eyes, and looked again—but there was no one
there; her son and his companions had passed away, she thought for ever.
Then only, she perceived that she was unveiled, and hastily retreating
into her now lonely and cheerless abode, for the while gave herself up
to that violent grief which she had been ill able to repress as he left
her.

‘Ay, now thou lookest like a gentleman, as thou art in very truth,’ said
the Khan, after they had ridden some miles. ‘What sayest thou, Meer
Sahib, hast thou been instructed in the use of the arms thou wearest?
Canst thou do thy qusrut[12]—use a mugdoor[13]—play with a sword and
shield? and what sort of a marksman art thou?’

-----

Footnote 12:

Gymnastic exercises.

Footnote 13:

A heavy club.

-----

‘As a marksman, Khan, I have pretty good practice at the deer which roam
our plains and devastate our corn-fields; as to the rest, thou knowest I
am but a village youth.’

‘Modestly spoken, Meer Sahib. Now take Dilawur Ali’s matchlock, and kill
me one of those deer yonder;’ and he pointed to a herd which was quietly
browsing at some distance: ‘we will put it on a camel, and it will be a
supper for us.’

‘I will try, Khan Sahib,’ returned Kasim joyfully and eagerly; ‘only
stay here, and dismount if you will, lest they should see you; and if I
can get within shot, thou shalt have the deer.’

‘Give him thy gun then,’ said the Khan to his retainer; ‘is it properly
charged?’

The palankeen was put down, and all waited the issue with much interest
and anxiety.

The Khan went to the palankeen. ‘Look out, my rose,’ he said; ‘I have
dared the Patél to shoot a deer, and he is gone to do it. Look, see how
he creeps onward, like a cat or a panther.’

The lady looked out. It was very exciting to her to see the motions of
the young man; and, if it may be believed, she actually put up a mental
prayer for his success. ‘Ya Alla, give him a steady hand!’ she said
inwardly, and looked the more.

‘He will be near them soon,’ said the Khan, shading his eyes with his
hands; ‘there is a nulla yonder which will afford him cover; canst thou
see? Mashalla! this is better than shooting one oneself.’

‘They have seen him!’ cried the lady, as one of the deer which had been
lying down got up and gazed warily about. They will be off ere he can
get within shot.’

‘Not so, by your eyes!’ cried the Khan; ‘he has crouched down. See!
raise thyself a little higher; look at him crawling.’

Kasim’s progress was slow, and had he been alone he would have given up
the pursuit; but he knew the Khan was observing him, perhaps Ameena. It
was enough,—he crept stealthily on.

‘He will never get near them,’ said the fat cook. ‘Who is he—a village
Patél—that he should shoot? Ay, now, at my city we have the real
shooting; there, over the plains of Surroo Nuggur, thousands of
antelopes are bounding with no one to molest them, except Nizam Ali, who
goes out with the nobles and shoots a hundred sometimes in a day. I was
once there, and killed—’

‘With thy knife, O Zoolfoo, and roasted it afterwards I suppose,’ said
Nasur: ‘don’t tell us lies; thou knowest thou never hadst a gun in thy
hand since thou wast born.’

‘That is another lie,’ retorted Zoolfoo. ‘By the beard of Moula Ali, if
I was yonder I would have fired long ago: we shall have no venison for
supper I see plainly enough. See how he is crawling on the ground as a
frog would,—can’t he walk upright like a man?’

‘He knows well enough what he is doing, you father of owls,’ was the
reply. ‘Inshalla! we shall all eat venison to-night, and thou wilt have
to cook us kabobs and curries.’

‘Venison and méthee-ke-bajee make a good curry,’ mused the cook; ‘and
kabobs are also good, dried in the sun and seasoned.’

‘Look! he is going to shoot,’ cried the Khan; ‘which will it be? I wager
thee a new dooputta[14] he does not kill.’

-----

Footnote 14:

Scarf.

-----

‘Kubool! I agree,’ said the lady; he will kill by the blessing of
Alla,—I feel sure he will.’

But Kasim’s gun went down.

‘He is too far off yet,’ she said: and he was. He saw a mound at a
little distance from him, and tried to reach it, crawling on as before.

But the deer saw him. He observed their alarm, and lay motionless. They
all got up and looked:—he did not move. The buck trotted forward a few
paces, saw what it was, and ere the young man could get his gun to his
shoulder as he lay, he had turned.

‘I told you so,’ cried the Khan; ‘they are off, and I have won.’

‘There is yet a chance,’ said Ameena anxiously.

‘I said he would not kill,’ said the cook; ‘we shall have no venison.’

They were all wrong. Kasim saw there was no chance unless he rose and
fired; so he rose instantly. The deer regarded him for an instant,
turned as with one motion, and fled bounding away.

‘There is yet a chance,’ cried Ameena again, as she saw the gun pointed.
‘Holy Alla! he has won my wager!’ she added, clapping her hands.

He had, and won it well. As the herd bounded on, he waited till the buck
was clear of the rest. He fired; and springing high into the air it
rolled forward on the ground; and while it yet struggled, Kasim had
drawn his knife across the throat, pronouncing the formula.

‘Shookr Alla!’ cried the cook, ‘it is Hulal[15] at any rate.’

-----

Footnote 15:

Lawful to be eaten.

-----

‘Shabash!’ exclaimed the Khan, ‘he has done it:—he is as good as his
word,—he is a rare marksman. So thou hast won thy wager, Pearee,’[16] he
added. ‘Well, I vow to thee a Benares dooputta: thou shalt have one in
memory of the event.’

-----

Footnote 16:

Beloved.

-----

She would not, however, have forgotten it without.

‘Go, some of ye,’ continued the Khan, ‘and take the lightest laden of
the camels, for the Syud is beckoning to us: bring the game hither
speedily.’

The deer was soon brought, and laid near the palankeen, where the Khan
stood. The bright eye was already glazed and suffused with blood.

‘Ay, now thou canst see it,’ he said to the lady, who, closely veiled,
yet had apertures for her eyes through which she could observe
distinctly. ‘Is it not a noble beast?—fat, too, by the Prophet! It was a
good shot at that distance.’

‘It was partly accident, Khan Sahib,’ replied Kasim.

‘Not so, by your beard, not so, Patél; it was no chance. I should be
very sorry to stand for thee to shoot at even further than it was.’

‘I should be very sorry to shoot at my lord, or any one but an enemy,’
he returned, ‘seeing that I rarely miss my mark whether on foot or on
horseback.’

‘I believe thee,’ returned the Khan; ‘but where is that lazy cook?’ he
cried, after he had mounted.

‘Hazir!’[17] cried Zoolfoo, urging on his pony from behind as fast as he
could, for it shied at everything it saw. ‘Your slave is coming,’ he
shouted, as the Khan grew impatient. And at last, joining his hands
together, he was in his presence.

-----

Footnote 17:

Present.

-----

‘Kya Hookum?’ he asked, ‘what orders has my lord for his slave?’

‘See that there is a good curry this evening; and if thou canst get
méthee, put it in;—dost thou hear?’

‘My lord and the Meer Sahib shall say they have never eaten such,’ said
the functionary joyfully! ‘Inshalla! it will be one fit for the Huzoor
himself.’

He fell back. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘how it would be,—venison and
méthee; yes, I had thought as much: my lord has a good taste.’ And the
idea of méthee and venison comforted him for the rest of the day’s
journey.

And now the party rode on merrily, though not fast. The Khan became more
and more pleased with his new friend every hour that they rode together.
Kasim’s stores of learning were not extensive; but so far as he
possessed knowledge of books he unfolded it to the Khan. He recited
pieces of Hafiz,—passages from the Shah Namah, of which he had read
selections. He repeated tales from the Ikhlak-i-Hindee, from the Bostan,
and ghuzuls[18] from the earlier Oordoo poets; until the Khan, who had
never thought of these accomplishments himself, and who knew none who
possessed them, was fairly astonished.

-----

Footnote 18:

Songs.

-----

But after a few hours’ ride they were near the village they were to rest
at. ‘If thou knowest any one in it,’ said the Khan, ‘we shall be able to
get a good place for the night.’

‘I knew the Patél well, Khan Sahib; he was my father’s friend. I will
gallop on, and secure such a place as may be fitting for you and the
Khanum to rest in.’

When they arrived, they found the Patél with Kasim Ali ready to receive
them at the door of a neat but small mosque which was in the village. A
few tent walls were placed across the open part, to screen them from the
weather and the public gaze,—then carpets spread; and soon some were
resting themselves, while others wandered into the bazaars or were
employed in various offices for the Khan. Particularly the cook, who,
after sending for a village butcher to skin and cut up the deer,
selected some prime parts of the meat, which he proceeded to dress after
the following fashion, and which we cordially recommend to all
uninitiated.

The meat was cut into small pieces, and each piece covered with the
ingredients for seasoning the dish, which had been ground with water to
the consistence of paste. Then some butter and onions were put into a
pan, and the onions fried till they were brown. Into this was placed the
meat, some salt, and sour curds or butter-milk: then it was suffered to
simmer gently, while Zoolfoo every now and then stirred it with great
assiduity. When it was partly done, the vegetables were added; and in a
short time most savoury steams succeeded, saluting the hungry noses of a
few lean and half-starved village dogs; these, attracted by the savour,
prowled about with watering chops in the vicinity of the fireplace, much
cursed by the cook, and frequently pelted with stones as they ventured a
little nearer. Many kites were wheeling and screaming overhead, and a
good many crows sat upon the nearest stones,—upon the wall and other
slight elevations,—apparently, by their constant chattering and
croakings, speculating upon their probable share.

‘May your mothers and sisters be destroyed!’ cried the cook, at length
fairly perplexed between the dogs, the kites, and the crows, each of
which watched the slightest inattention in order to attempt to carry off
anything they could see: ‘may they be destroyed and dishonoured! Ya
Alla!’ he continued in exclamation, as he saw a dog coolly seize hold of
and run away with part of the leg of the deer, ‘Ya Alla! that is Jumal
Khan’s portion;—drop it, you base-born!—drop it, you son of a vile
mother!’ and he flung a stone after the delinquent, which had happily
effect on his hinder portion, and made him limp off on three legs,
howling, and without his booty. ‘Ha! I hit you, did I? that will teach
you to steal!’ and he picked up the meat.

‘But, holy Prophet, I am ruined!’ he again exclaimed. And indeed it was
provoking enough to see several kites in succession making stoops at the
little board upon which he had been cutting up the meat for the kabob;
at every stoop carrying off large pieces, which, holding in their
talons, they fairly ate as they sailed over him, screaming apparently in
exultation.

‘Holy Prophet! that I should have eaten such dirt at the hands of these
animals. Ho! Meer Sahib!’ he continued to Kasim who approached, ‘wilt
thou keep watch here while I cook the dinner? for if thou dost not there
will be none left; one brute had carried off this leg which I have just
rescued, and while I was about that, the kites ate up the kabob.’

The Syud could not help laughing at the worthy functionary’s distress.

‘Well, as there is no one near, Zoolfoo, I will sit here;’ and he seated
himself upon a log of wood not far from him. ‘Now we will see if any of
these sons of unchaste mothers will come near thee: thou deservest this
for what thou art doing for us there, which smelleth well.’

‘It is a dish for a prince, Meer Sahib,’ said the cook, giving the
contents of the pot an affectionate stir. ‘I say it is a dish for the
Huzoor, and such an one as I have often cooked for his zenana.’

‘Then thou wast in the kitchen of Nizam Ali?’

‘Even so, Meer Sahib; there is plenty to eat, but little pay; so I left
the Huzoor to follow the fortunes of the Khan,—may his prosperity
increase!’

‘Ay, he is a noble fellow, Zoolfoo, and a generous one;—see what he hath
done for me already.’

‘Thou didst enough for him,’ said the cook drily. ‘Knowest thou that the
Khanum is a bride, and that she is only fourteen or fifteen, and as
beautiful as the moon at the full?’

‘Is she?’ said Kasim carelessly.

‘Is she!’ retorted the cook; ‘I saw her three months ago, for she was a
neighbour of mine. I have known her for years, but that she does not
know.’

‘Indeed! that is very extraordinary,’ said Kasim absently.

‘Not at all,’ replied the cook; ‘my sister was servant in their house
for some years,—nay, is there still. She told me all about this
marriage; it was very splendid.’

‘Indeed!’ Kasim again.

‘Ay, truly; and the maiden was very loth to be married to one so old.
But she was of age to be married, and her parents did not like to refuse
when such a man as Abdool Rhyman offered for her—Khan they call him, but
he was only the son of a soldier of the Huzoor’s—quite a poor man. They
said—indeed Nasur told me—that he has two other wives at Seringapatam,
but he has no child.’

‘That is very odd,’ said Kasim.

‘Very,’ returned the cook. But their conversation was suddenly
interrupted by one of the men, who approached, and relieved Kasim of his
watch.

-------

CHAPTER VI.

They rested in the town of Bellary the next day; and as there was an
alarm of parties of Mahratta horse being abroad, though they could hear
of no one having suffered from them, the Khan on account of the baggage
he had with him, determined on travelling the eastern road by
Nundidroog; from thence he could reach the city, either by Bangalore, or
the western road, as best suited him. But no enemy appeared, though
several alarms were given by the people.

At one place, however, after some days’ travel, they heard that a party
of horse had passed the day before; and at the stage after, they kept a
watch all night,—with some need in fact, for a marauding party of great
strength were undoubtedly in their vicinity, as was plainly to be seen
by the conflagration of a small village at some coss distant, which
could easily be distinguished from the town wherein they rested for the
night.

‘This looks like danger,’ said the Khan, as from the tower in the middle
of the village he and Kasim looked forth over the wide plain;—‘the
rascals yonder are at their old work. Strange that there are none of our
horse hereabouts to check them, and indeed I marvel that the rogues dare
venture so far into Tippoo’s country.’ ‘If it were day we could see
their number,’ replied Kasim; ‘as it is, we must take heart,—Inshalla!
our destiny is not so bad as to cause us to eat dirt at the hands of
those thieves.’

‘If I were alone, Kasim, I tell thee I would now put myself at the head
of ye all, and we would reconnoitre that village; perhaps it may only
have been a chance fire after all.’

But soon after, one or two persons mounted on ponies arrived, bringing
the news that their village had been attacked in the evening; and that,
after the robbers had taken all they could, they had set fire to several
houses and gone off in a southerly direction—it was supposed towards
Gootee.

‘Our very road!’ said the Khan; ‘but let us not fear: we had better
travel on slowly, for it is probable that they have hastened on, and
long ere this are beyond the pass. In that case there is but little fear
of our overtaking them.’

‘I will stand by you and the Khanum to the death,’ said Kasim, ‘and that
thou well knowest. They said there were not more than fifty fellows, and
I dare say their fears exaggerated them one-half at least. But if I
might suggest anything, I would bring to your consideration the
propriety of hiring a few young fellows from this village; they will be
able to protect the baggage, and at least assist us should there be any
danger.’

‘A good thought, Kasim; see thou to it when the dawn breaks—nay now, if
thou canst find any. I will remain here and watch.’

Kasim descended the tower, and at the foot found some of the very men he
wanted; they were half-naked figures, sitting around the fire they had
kindled; their heavy matchlocks leaned against the wall, and their
waists were girded round with powder-horns, small pouches filled with
balls, and other matters necessary for their use. There were two or
three armed with swords and shields, and the whole group had a wild and
picturesque appearance, as the fire, upon which they had thrown some
straw at the young man’s approach, blazed up, illuminating the foot of
the tower and the house near it, and causing the shadows of the men to
dance about in distorted figures. Two or three were sitting upon their
hams, between whom a coarse hooka went its round, and was every now and
then replenished; whilst the rest stood warming themselves over the
blaze, or lounged about at no great distance.

‘Salaam Aliekoom!’ said Kasim, as he approached them; ‘say which among
you is the chief?’

‘Aliekoom salaam!’ returned one, advancing. ‘I am the Naik of these
worthy men. Say what you want; command us—we are your servants. What see
ye from the tower?’

‘Nothing but the blazing village,’ said Kasim.

‘The fellows have not left a roof-tree standing, they say,’ rejoined the
Naik; ‘but the place was not defended, for the young men were all
absent; and it is supposed the Mahrattas had news of this before they
attacked it—they are arrant cowards.’

‘You have found them so, then?’

‘We have; we have twice beaten them off during the last few days, and
killed one or two of them.’

‘Mashalla! thou art a sharp fellow; what do they call thee?’

‘Nursingha is my name; I am the nephew of the Patél.’

‘Good! Then what sayest thou, Nursingha, to accompanying our party for a
few days, until we are well past the hills, or indeed to Balapoor; thou
shalt have a rupee a-day and thy food, and six of thy men half, if thou
wilt.’

‘What say you, brothers?’ cried Nursingha to the rest; ‘what say you to
the stranger’s offer? They seem men of substance, and they are the
Government servants—we can hardly refuse.’

‘What are we to do?’ asked one.

‘Fight, if there is necessity,’ said Kasim; ‘canst thou do that?’

‘There is not a better shot in the Carnatic that Lingoo yonder,’ said
the Naik.

‘He may shoot well and not fight well,’ returned Kasim.

‘I never feared Moosulman or Mahratta yet!’ said Lingoo.

‘Crowed like a good cock!’ cried Kasim; ‘but thou art on thine own
dunghill.’

‘I have fought with Hyder Ali many a time; and he who has done that may
call himself a soldier,’ retorted Lingoo.

‘Well, so much the better; but say, what will ye do? here are ten or
twelve; half that number is enough to protect the village, especially as
the Mahrattas are gone on; will ye come?’

‘Pay us half our due here first,’ said the man, ‘and we are ready—six of
us. Have I said well, brethren?’

‘Ay, that is it,’ cried several. ‘How know we that the gentlemen would
not take us on, and send us back empty-handed, as the last did?’

‘By Alla, that was shameful!’ cried Kasim; ‘fear not, ye shall have half
your money.’

‘Kasim, O Kasim Ali!’ cried a voice from the top of the tower,
interrupting him,—it was the Khan’s, and he spoke hurriedly,—‘Kasim,
come up quickly!’

‘Holy Prophet, what can it be?’ said Kasim, turning to the tower,
followed by several of the men. They were soon at the summit.

‘What see you yonder?’ asked the Khan, pointing to a light which was
apparently not very far off.

‘It is only a watchfire in the fields of the next village,’ said the
Naik. But as he spoke there broke forth a blaze of brilliant light,
which at once shot up to the heavens, illuminating a few clouds that
were floating gently along, apparently near the earth.

‘That is no watchfire,’ cried Kasim, as it increased in volume every
moment; ‘it is either a house which has accidentally caught fire, or the
Mahrattas are there. Watch, all of ye; if there are horsemen, the light
will soon show them.’

‘There again!’ exclaimed several at once, as a bright flame burst out
from another corner of the village, and was followed by others, in
various directions. ‘It must be the Mahrattas and yet none are seen!’

‘They are among the houses,’ said the Khan; ‘they will not come out till
they are obliged.’

He was right; for while all were watching anxiously the progress of the
flames, which they could see spreading from house to house, there rushed
forth in a tumultuous manner from the opposite side a body of perhaps
twenty horsemen, whose long spears, the points of which every instant
flashed through the gloom, proved them to be the Mahratta party.

‘Base sons of dogs!’ cried the Khan; ‘cowards, and sons of impure
mothers!—to attack defenceless people in that way!—to burn their houses
over their heads at night! Oh for a score of my own risala,—ay, for as
many more as we are now, and those rogues should pay dearly for this!’

‘Who will follow Kasim Ali?’ cried the young man. ‘By the soul of the
Prophet, we are no thieves, and our hearts are strong. I say one of us
is a match for two of those cowards: who will follow me?’

‘I!’—‘and I!’—‘and I!’ cried several; and turned to follow the young
man, who had his foot on the steps ready to descend.

‘Stop, I command you!’ cried the Khan; ‘this is no time to risk
anything: look yonder,—you thought there were but twenty; if there is
one, there are more than fifty.’

They looked again, and beheld a fearful sight. The now blazing village
was upon a gentle slope, hardly a mile from them; the light caused the
gloom of night to appear absolute darkness. In the midst of this there
was one glowing spot, upon which every eye rested in intense anxiety.
Around the ill-fated village was an open space, upon which bright ground
were the dark figures of the Mahratta horsemen in constant motion; while
the black forms of persons on foot—evidently the miserable inhabitants,
in vain striving to escape—became, as they severally appeared, objects
of fearful interest. Now many would rush from among the houses, pursued
by the horsemen; several would disappear in the gloom, and they supposed
had escaped; whilst others but too plainly fell, either by the
spear-thrusts or under the sword-cuts of the horsemen. They could even
see the flash of the sword when the weapon descended; and sometimes a
faint shriek, which was heard at an interval of time after a thrust or
blow had been seen, plainly proved that it had been successful.

‘By Alla, this is hard to bear!’ exclaimed Kasim; ‘to see those poor
creatures butchered in cold blood, and yet have no means of striking a
blow in their defence!’

‘It would be impossible for us to do any good,’ said the Khan; ‘suppose
they were to come on here after they had finished yonder. I see nothing
to prevent them.’

‘Inshalla! Khan, they will come; but what thinkest thou, Nursingha?’

‘They owe us a grudge, and may make the attempt. Nay, it is more than
probable, for they are stronger than ever, and they cannot reckon on
your being here.’

‘We had as well be fully prepared,’ said the Khan; ‘have ye any
jinjalls?’[19]

-----

Footnote 19:

Heavy wall-pieces on swivels.

-----

‘The Patél has two,’ said the man.

‘Run then and bring them here,—also what powder ye can find; bring the
Patél himself too, and alarm the village. Kasim,’ he continued, ‘wait
thou here; there is an apartment in the tower,—thither I will bring the
Khanum, and what valuables we have with us. I do not fear danger, but we
had better be prepared.’

In a short time the Khan returned, conducting his wife; she was veiled
from head to foot, and Kasim heard them distinctly speaking as they were
coming up the stairs.

‘Not there, not there!’ said the lady; ‘alone, and in that dark place, I
should give way to fears; let me ascend, I pray thee,—I am a soldier’s
daughter, and can bear to look on what men and soldiers can do.’

‘No, no, my life, my soul!’ returned the Khan, ‘it is not fit for thee;
if they should fire upon us, there will be danger; besides there are
many men,—thou wouldst not like it; remember too I am near thee, and
once the village is alarmed thou wilt have many companions.’

‘I am not afraid,’ she said; ‘I had rather be with men than women at
such a time.’

‘Well, well, Ameena, rest thou here now at all events; should there be
need thou canst join us hereafter.’

The Khan a moment afterwards was on the top of the tower.

‘Seest thou aught more, Kasim?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,—the village continues to burn, and the men are there; but
either the people have escaped, or they are dead, for none come out
now.’

‘Sound the alarm!’ cried the Khan to some men below, who, bearing a
large tambourine drum and a brass horn, had assembled ready for the
signal. ‘If the horsemen hear it, it will tell them we are on the
alert.’

The deep tone of the drum and the shrill and wild quivering notes of the
horn soon aroused the villagers from their sleep, and numbers were seen
flying to the tower for refuge, believing the Mahrattas were truly upon
the skirts of the village. The Patél was among the rest, accompanied by
his family. He was soon upon the tower, and was roughly saluted by the
Khan.

‘Thou art a worthy man for a Patél!’ cried he; ‘but for me, thy village
might have shared the fate of that one yonder. Look, base-born!
shouldest thou like to see it burning as that is? Why wert thou not here
to watch, O unfortunate?’

‘I—I did not know—’ stammered the Patél.

‘Not know! well at any rate thou knowest now; but as thou art here, do
something for thyself, in Alla’s name. Where is thy gun, thy sword?’

‘I can only use a gun, noble sir; and that perhaps to some purpose. Run,
Paproo,’ he said to a man near him; ‘bring my gun hither. Now we are
awake, the Khan shall see, if there is occasion, that we can fight as
well as sleep.’

‘ had as well go down,’ said Kasim, ‘and prepare the men below: the
women and children can get into the tower; those whom it will not
contain must remain at the foot in these houses. It will be hard if any
harm reaches them there.’

In a short time all was arranged: the women and children, whose cries
had been distracting, were in places of safety, and as quiet as the
neighbourhood of the Mahratta horse, the sudden alarm, and the natural
discordance of their own language (the Canarese) would allow them; and
on the summit of the tower about twenty men, for whom there was ample
room, were posted, all well armed with matchlocks. The two jinjalls were
loaded, a good many men were stationed around the foot of the tower, and
all were ready to give whatever should come a very warm reception.

The fire of the village burned lower and lower, and at last became only
a dull red glow, with occasionally a burst of sparks. While they
speculated upon the route of the horsemen, who had disappeared, a few of
the wretched inhabitants of the village which had been destroyed came
running to the foot of the tower.

‘Defend yourselves! defend yourselves!’ they cried with loud voices;
‘the Mahrattas are upon you—they will be here immediately!’

‘Admit one of them,’ said the Khan; ‘let us question him.’

The man said he had passed the horsemen, who were trying to get across a
small rivulet, the bed of which was deep mud; they had not been able to
find the ford, and were searching for it; but they knew of the village,
were elated with success, and determined to attack it.

‘They shall have something for their trouble then,’ said the Khan; ‘they
know not that Abdool Rhyman Khan is here, and they will buy a lesson:
let them come, in the name of the Most Merciful!’

‘Away, some of ye!’ cried the Patél to those below; ‘watch at the
outskirts! and, hark ye, they will come by the north side,—there is an
old house there, close to the gate,—when they are near, fire the thatch;
as it burns, we shall be able to see and mark them.’

‘I thank thee for that,’ said Kasim; ‘now let all be as silent as
possible. Listen for every sound,—we shall hear their horses’ feet.’

There was not a word spoken. Even the women were still, and the
children; now and then only the wail of an infant would be heard from
below. All looked with straining eyes towards the north side, and the
best marksmen were placed there under the direction of Kasim.

‘Thou art pretty sure of one,’ said the Khan to him; ‘I wish I could
shoot as well as thou.’

‘A steady hand and aim, Khan Sahib;—do not hurry; if not the man, at
least thou canst hit the horse. Inshalla! we shall have some sport.’

‘I had better take one of the jinjalls; the Feringhees (may they be
accursed!) have sorely plagued us often by firing a cannon full of balls
at us; so give me a few, I pray. I will ram them down into the piece,
and it will be less liable to miss than a single bullet.’

‘Mashalla! a wise thought,’ said Kasim, handing him some balls; and a
scattered fire of praises ran from mouth to mouth at the Khan’s
ingenuity: ‘we shall now see whether we are to eat dirt or not.’

They were now all silent for awhile.

‘Hark!’ said Kasim at length; ‘what is that?’

They all listened more attentively; the village dogs—first one, then
all—barked and howled fearfully.

‘They come!’ cried the Khan; ‘I have been too long with bodies of horse
not to know the tramp.’

‘Now every man look to his aim!’ cried Kasim cheerfully; ‘half of ye
only fire. And you below, fire if you see them.’

Almost as he spoke, they saw the light; at first they were uncertain
whether the spies had fired the old house or not—it burned so gently;
but by degrees the flame crept along the outside and round the edges;
then it disappeared under the thatch, and again blazed up a little. The
noise increased, though they could see no one in the gloom, but they
could hear very distinctly.

‘If one of those owls would but pull away a little of the old roof, it
would blaze up,’ said the Patél. ‘By Crishna, look! they have even
guessed my thoughts. Look, noble Khan!’

They saw one of the scouts advance from under the cover of some of the
houses, and pull violently at one of the projecting rude rafters; and
instantly the flame appear beneath.

‘Another pull, good fellow, and thou hast earned five rupees!’ cried the
Khan in an ecstasy, as he held the butt of the wall-piece; ‘another
pull, and we shall have a blaze like day.’

It seemed as if the fellow had heard the Khan’s exclamation, for he
tugged in very desperation; they heard the roof crack; at last it fell
in; and the sudden blaze, illuminating all around vividly, fell on the
wild yet picturesque group which was rapidly advancing over the open
space before the village.

-------

CHAPTER VII.

The Mahratta horsemen did not perceive the snare which had been laid for
them: they concluded that the fire was accidental (and opportune, since
it showed them the way to their plunder), and on they came at a fast
gallop,—fifty perhaps: wild figures they would have been deemed at any
time,—how much more so when, brandishing their long spears, and with
loud shouts, they dashed forward! The light shone broad on their muffled
faces and on the gay red housings of their saddles, and glanced from
their spear-points and other weapons.

‘Hurree Bōl!’ cried the leader to his men, turning round on his saddle,
waving his sword, which all could see was dim with blood.

‘Hurree! Hurree Bōl!’ arose the cry from fifty hoarse voices, which
mingled with the quick trampling of the horses.

‘Now!’ cried the Khan.

‘Wait one instant, for the sake of Alla!—let them come up,’ exclaimed
Kasim.

They were close to the burning hut, when Kasim, whose matchlock had been
steadily aimed, resting upon the parapet, fired. The leader reeled back
in his saddle, waved his sword wildly in the air, and fell.

‘Bismilla-ir-ruhman-ir—!’ shouted the Khan; the rest of the invocation
being lost in the loud report of the cannon. With it were the flashes
and reports of a dozen other matchlocks; and as the smoke cleared away,
they could plainly see four of the men on the ground struggling, and two
or three others apparently badly hit supporting themselves in their
saddles.

‘Give me another gun, another gun!’ cried Kasim; ‘there is no time to
load. Another gun, I say! Will no one hand me one?’ he continued, vainly
endeavouring to load his own quickly.

‘Do you not hear?’ exclaimed a female voice near him; and as he turned
to look, he saw a figure snatch one from a villager, and hand it to him:
as she did so, her veil dropped—it was Ameena!

‘Come on, ye base born!’ cried the Khan, who was pointing the remaining
jinjall at the group, which, staggered by their loss, had halted for a
moment. ‘Come on, ye sons of dogs,—come on ye kafirs and
idol-worshippers,—come and taste of death from the hands of true
believers! Ha! do ye hesitate? then ye shall have it again, by Alla!’
and he fired. ‘Look you, Meer Sahib,’ he cried in exultation; ‘two are
down—another! by the Prophet, well shot!’

‘Here is another gun, Meer Sahib,’ said the same sweet voice; and the
lady handed him one.

‘What, thou here, my pearl! Shabash! thou shouldst have shot too if thou
couldst hit. So, thou wouldst not remain below; no wonder, with those
screaming women: and thou art welcome here too, if thou darest to look
on, and see those murdering villains go down like sparrows. Another, by
Alla! See, the dog fairly rolls over and over! Why do ye not come, O
valiant eaters of dirt? By your souls, come on,—we have more for ye!’

‘They have had enough, I think, Khan,’ said Kasim; ‘they are drawing
off.’

And they were indeed. The plundering band, unprovided with matchlocks,
could make little impression on a village so well defended, and hastily
turned about their horses; those who had remained below were informed of
this by the Patél, who had descended; and, led by him, quickly advanced
to the edge of the village, from whence they could fire without exposing
themselves.

‘Who will strike a blow with Kasim Patél?’ cried the youth, who was not
now to be controlled. ‘Come, who will?—there are the horses saddled
below.’

In vain was it that the Khan held him for an instant, and he heard the
voice of gentle entreaty from the lady: he hurried down the steps,
followed by several of the Khan’s men, and throwing themselves on their
horses they dashed after the fugitives.

They soon cleared the village, and what followed was intensely watched
by the Khan and Ameena.

‘Holy Alla, protect the youth!’ ejaculated the lady.

‘Ameen!’ cried the Khan; ‘look! he is upon them now, and Dilawur-Ali,
Moedeen, and Fazel after him. See—one goes down beneath that cut!’ for
they saw the sword of Kasim flash in the light. ‘He is by another; the
fellow cuts at him. Well parried, by the Prophet! now give it him! A
curse on the darkness,’ he continued after a pause, as, shading his eyes
with his hand, he endeavoured to pierce the thick gloom. ‘Canst thou
see, Ameena?’

‘No, my lord. I lost him as you did—Alla be his shield!’

‘To be sure he is: what could those cowards do against such an arm and
such a heart? I tell thee, girl, we had eaten dirt but for him.’

Ameena sighed; she remembered the excited cries of the young man and his
flashing eyes, as she handed him the gun. ‘He is a brave youth,’ she
said.

A few scattered shots here and there, which were further and further
removed every moment, showed that the marauders were retreating, and
soon the men began to return one by one; in a few minutes they saw Kasim
Ali and his companions approaching quietly, which assured them there was
no more danger, and that the party had retired beyond the limits of safe
pursuit.

‘Come down and meet them, fairest,’ said the Khan; ‘they who have fought
so well for us deserve a warm welcome.’

As Kasim and his companions rode up, they were greeted with hearty
congratulations on their success, and all crowded round him so thickly,
that he had much ado to force his way to where the Khan stood. But he
reached him after some little elbowing and good-humoured remonstrance;
and just at that moment, a torch which had been lighted was raised above
the heads of the crowd; it disclosed his figure, apparently covered with
blood.

‘Holy Alla, he is wounded!’ exclaimed the lady; ‘he will bleed to
death!’ and she moved as though she would have advanced.

‘Tut, tut, foolish one!’ cried the Khan, holding her back; ‘it ought to
be gladness to thee to see the blood of thine enemies and mine. Thou art
not hurt, Kasim?’

‘A trifle, I believe, Khan—a slight wound on my chest from one of the
rascals, which hath bled somewhat and stained my clothes; but he paid
dearly for the blood he drew.’

‘I’ll warrant he did; and as for thy wound, we must see to it. I have
some skill in such matters, and perhaps the Khanum will be able to find
an old sheet or something to tie it up. So sit down here; and do thou,
Ameena, search for some rags. Well, so thou canst give an account of
some of them, Kasim?’

‘Of two, Khan Sahib; one fellow I cut down as we started—he is living, I
think—the other fought better.’

‘And is dead for his pains; well, I do not begrudge thee this cut, it
will do thee no harm. See, here is the Khanum with the rags—never mind
her, this is no time for ceremony with such as thou. Ho! Daood,
Zoolficar, some water here! and do you, Kasim, take off that vest, we
shall soon see what has happened. A trifle, a trifle, after all. Alla be
praised!’ he continued, when the garment was removed, and the broad and
muscular chest of the young man exposed to view; ‘a few days will heal
it up.’

But Ameena thought otherwise; she had heard of wounds, but this was the
first she had seen; and a gash which, though not deep, extended half
across the chest of the young man, was in her eyes a more serious matter
than her lord appeared to think. She felt very faint and sick as she
looked upon it, but rallied on perceiving that Kasim considered it a
trifle, as indeed it was, and readily assisted to bind it up.

She was very near him, and it was exquisite pleasure to feel her gentle
touch upon his shoulder, as she assisted to hold the bandages which the
Khan passed round his chest; he fancied too that once her glance met
his, and he could not help trying to catch it again: he succeeded at
last, through the veil. Her lustrous dark eyes flashed very brightly; he
could not see their expression, but it was certain to him that they had
sought his own, and met them.

‘We want still another handkerchief, or something, to tie over all,’
said the Khan when he had finished; ‘hast thou one, Ameena?’

‘I have—here it is,’ she replied; ungirding one from around her waist.
‘The Meer Sahib is welcome to it.’

‘I owe a thousand obligations,’ returned Kasim; ‘if I were your brother
you could not have done more for me: how unworthy am I to receive such
attention—I who am but your servant!’

‘Do not say so,’ cried both at once; ‘thou art far more than this to
us.’

‘Ah!’ thought Kasim, ‘I am but a moth playing around a lamp, tempted by
bright and dazzling light, and hardly as yet warned. I am a fool to
think on her; but can I ever forget her face as she stood yonder and
cheered me by her presence?—the second time I have seen it, but perhaps
not the last.’ The Khan roused him from his reverie.

‘Lie down,’ he said; ‘there will be the less flow of blood.’

Kasim obeyed readily; for the same fair hands that had helped to bind
his wound had also spread a soft mattress for him, and placed a pillow
for his head. Perhaps the loss of blood had affected him a little, for
in a few moments he felt drowsy and gradually fell asleep; and Ameena
sate watching him at a little distance, for the Khan had gone to see
what had been done with the bodies of those who had fallen.

But, as is often the case after violent excitement, his sleep, though at
first heavy and profound, did not long continue thus. Perhaps too the
wound pained him, for he was restless, and moved impatiently from side
to side.

The Khan was long absent, and Ameena still kept her watch; she might
have withdrawn, yet there was something so exciting and novel to her in
her position—it was a source of such quiet delight to her to watch the
features of him who had saved her life, and now had been wounded in her
defence,—and she was so thickly veiled that he could not see her even
were he awake—that she remained.

Rapidly her mind brought before her the events of the last few days. Her
own young life in the world had hardly begun, and yet more dangers had
been present to her than she had ever pictured to herself, rife as her
imagination had been upon the subject when she left her home. She had
been already rescued from death, now perhaps from violence; and he who
had been the sole instrument of her protection in the one case, and who
had fought under her own eyes in the second, lay before her. She had
hardly heard him speak, yet she thought she could remember every word he
had spoken; and then came vividly to her remembrance the glance, the
earnest hurried glance, which told her would have dwelt longer had it
dared. And as she remembered this, her heart fluttered under sensations
very new and almost painful to her; she could not define them,—but
involuntarily she drew nearer to the sleeping youth and watched the
more.

She saw his brow contracted as if with pain; and, as he every now and
then stirred and the light fell on his features, she could observe his
lips move as though he spoke, but she could not catch a word. For a few
minutes it was thus, but at last he spoke interruptedly; it was of war,
of the fight he had lately been engaged in; and she could distinguish a
few words, defiance to the marauders, encouragement to the men around.
Then there was another pause, and he slept peacefully, even as a child.
‘May he rest safely, O Alla!’ she said.

But again he dreamed; sounds escaped him,—low mutterings which were
undistinguishable; she bent her ear even closer;—she could not hear
aught for awhile that she understood, but at length there was one
word which made her very soul bound within her, and caused in the
moment a feeling of choking and oppression in her throat almost
unbearable,—‘Ameena!’ it was repeated twice distinctly, yet very
softly.

‘Holy Alla! he knows my name!’ she said mentally; ‘he thinks of me—I am
present to his sleeping fancies amidst war and turmoil which still
pursue him. How could he have heard my name?’

But the voice of the Khan was heard at some little distance, and
interrupted her chain of questions. ‘He must not find me here,’ she
thought, rising hastily, and gently stealing from the spot into the
place which had been screened off for her occupation. Indeed for the
last few moments hidden thoughts had suddenly sprung forth, and she
could hardly await unconcernedly, beside the sleeping youth, him who now
sought her.

The Khan passed Kasim. ‘He sleeps well,’ he said to Daood, who was with
him; ‘hath any one watched by him?’

‘No one, Khodawund: the men were all with my lord.’

‘That was ill; one of ye should have remained; where is that idle cook?
he hath no need of rest; let him sit up here, if he can keep his eyes
open; and do ye all take what sleep ye can, for we shall start,
Inshalla! ere noon to-morrow.’

‘You are to remain with Kasim Sahib,’ said Daood to the cook, rousing
him, ‘and not to stir till morning breaks, or he awakes—dost thou hear?’

‘I do, good Daood; but methinks thou mightest sit with me too, seeing
that it is near morning. By thy beard, I do not like being alone.’

‘O coward! thou art not alone; see, thou hast the hero of the night
lying beside thee—one who has slain some men since he last ate; whereas
thou hast not even slain a fowl. I tell thee there is no danger: yonder
is my bedding—I shall not be far off if thou wantest me.’

Soon all was silent around, even the village dogs had ceased to bark;
the clamour of women and of crying frightened children had subsided;
and, except the watchfires in several parts, which threw up their strong
red glare against the sky, around which most of the villagers were
assembled in groups, nothing indicated that any conflict or alarm had
taken place. Scattered about, the Khan’s attendants and servants lay
wrapped in their sheets in deep sleep. The horses even, apparently
secure of rest, had lain down, and all was still, except one of the
horses which had been captured, which every now and then sent up a
shrill neigh that sounded far and near in the stillness of the night.
But above, on the tower, the Patél and several of his best men still
kept watch.

Kasim slept still restlessly, and often sighed and muttered in his
sleep. ‘His thoughts are with the battle,’ thought Zoolficar; ‘they say
it was a brave sight to see the Mahrattas go down one by one before his
aim: he shot them as he would deer in the jungle—may their mothers be
polluted! Alla! Alla! guide us safely now; this is the third alarm we
have had in this accursed country—but hark! What was that he
said?—Ameena! again Ameena!—the Khanum—why should he dream of her? Poor
youth, he would have been a fitter mate for her than that man of camps
and battles. But it may not be of her he dreams—perhaps he has some one
he loves of the same name. Ay, it is very likely; so dream on, Meer
Sahib, may thy slumbers be lighter!’

But they were not; after little more than an hour’s restless slumber, he
awoke, and found the worthy functionary by his side.

‘How! thou here, Zoolfoo! art thou not sleepy?’

‘It was my lord’s order that I should watch you, noble sir, and I only
obey it. Methinks you have rested but indifferently, for your sleep has
been disturbed, and you have been speaking.’

‘Ah well, I have but few secrets,’ he said gaily, ‘so I fear not for the
words; and in truth this cut is rather painful, and too tightly
bandaged. See if thou canst find a barber, Zoolfoo; I will have these
straps undone.’

‘If my lord will trust me,’ replied Zoolfoo, ‘I will ease his pain. Ere
I was a cook I was a barber; and Hyderabad is not an indifferent place
to learn how to dress wounds. Mashalla! our young men are rare hands at
street brawls.’

‘Well, do thy best—at this hour it will be hard to find any one.’

Zoolfoo was as good as his word. In a short time the bandages were
arranged more easily, as the bleeding had stopped in a great measure,
and Kasim found himself refreshed by the change. A hooka too was not to
be despised, and this Zoolfoo soon brought from among his stores.

Gradually Kasim lead him to talk of his city, of his home, of his
family; he earnestly wished to know more particulars of the Khanum, of
her early life, and her ill-assorted marriage. Zoolfoo mentioned his
sister.

‘Ay, her who thou saidst was servant in the Khanum’s family.’

‘The same: she was the Khanum’s nurse for awhile, and she is very fond
of her.’

‘Why did she not bring her then?’

‘She wished to come, but the Khan said she would be a trouble on the
road, and he left her behind; but—’

‘Perhaps the Khanum did not wish it?’

‘Not wish it? Sir, she was grieved to part with her, for she had tended
her from her birth, and loved her as her own daughter.’

‘Then you have often heard of her?’

‘I have, a thousand times. My sister was her own attendant, and never
quitted her till the hour of her departure.’

‘Know you then how she came to marry the Khan? You said once before that
he was of no family.’

‘I will tell you,’ said the cook. ‘Her father is a Munsubdar,[20] of
Nizam Ali’s court nominally he has good pay, and one or two villages to
support his rank; but he was expensive in his youth, for he was a gay
man, and perhaps not over scrupulous. Gradually the difficulties of the
Government caused all the salaries of the officers to fall into arrears.
Then came with that a train of distresses; the elephant was sold, some
jewels pledged,—then some horses went, and their servants were
discharged. There were heavy mortgages made upon the villages, and other
difficulties occurred; the interest accumulated, and the creditors grew
very clamorous; some more jewels were sold, and they were quieted for
awhile; but lately they were in distress, I heard,—indeed my sister told
me her pay and that of other servants had been reduced, and that the
family denied themselves many luxuries to which they had been
accustomed. This daughter, Ameena, was marriageable, and her great
beauty was known; they had many offers for her, but they looked high;
they thought the Huzoor[21] himself might ask for her, and that the
fortunes of the house might rise; and while this was going on, the Khan
Sahib, who had his emissaries abroad to look out for a beautiful wife,
heard of her. He offered himself immediately; his low birth was not
thought of, for he had great wealth and bestowed it liberally, and
finally the marriage took place with much pomp. The poor child was
dazzled; and you see her here, Meer Sahib, exposed to all the
vicissitudes of travelling in unsettled times,—one day drowned,—another,
attacked by those villainous Mahrattas,—whom your worship has freed us
of,—when, rose as she is, she never ought to have left the zenankhana of
a youthful and valiant lord.’

-----

Footnote 20:

A nobleman who holds an office in a native court.

Footnote 21:

Prince.

-----

Kasim sighed involuntarily. ‘It was a base thing,’ he said, ‘to sell one
so fair and young.’

‘It was, Meer Sahib,—you have rightly called it a sale; for the Khan had
to pay off a heavy mortgage upon two of the villages, which has restored
the family to affluence: however the thing is done now, and there is no
helping it. I pity the poor Khanum, however, for she has to face two old
wives, who will not thank the Khan for bringing one so young and
beautiful to his house.’

‘You should keep a watch over her yourself, Zoolfoo.’

‘I will, so may Alla give me power!’ he said earnestly; ‘she does not
know me as yet, but I will soon contrive to let her know, and thus I may
be able to serve her at a pinch.’

‘And, remember, I am ever ready to aid you,’ said the young man; ‘I have
saved her life once, and, by the blessing of Alla, no harm shall come to
so fair a creature while I have power to help her.’

Just then the morning, which had been long in breaking, showed pretty
plainly; and Kasim arose, and performing his ablutions, cried with a
loud voice the Azan, or call to prayers. This too aroused the Khan, and
joined by several others, they repeated, as indeed was their wont, their
prayers together.

‘I am as stout as ever, Khan Sahib, I thank you,’ answered Kasim in
reply to the many inquiries of the former; ‘the wound pained me a
trifle, and your good Zoolficar, who is very expert, loosened the
bandages for me; since then it has been quite easy. But how say
you—march or halt, which shall it be?’

‘Let us take counsel of the Patél, he seems a decent fellow,’ returned
the Khan, ‘and abide by his advice,—he knows the country.’

He was summoned, and the result of the consultation was advice to them
to depart immediately. ‘I am disinterested, noble sirs,’ he said; ‘for
if otherwise, my own fears would prompt me to make you stay by me; but
after your conduct last night I put myself and my village out of
consideration.’

‘And the men, Meer Sahib?’

‘I had half engaged them yesterday, when the alarm was given; how say
you, Patél, can we have them?’

‘Surely, surely! half of those I have shall accompany you; for I fear no
further molestation.’

They were summoned, and at once expressed their readiness to go; after
this, the preparations were soon completed, a hasty meal of kicheree[22]
was cooked and eaten, and, girding up their loins carefully—seeing that
their arms were properly loaded—making every preparation for defence, if
necessary,—the party assembled to start.

-----

Footnote 22:

Rice and pulse boiled together.

-----

Nine of the Mahrattas had fallen in the attack; of these, two lived,
desperately wounded; five horses had been secured, two had been killed,
and the remainder had been carried off by the horsemen.

The horses the Khan appropriated to his own use, and generously gave
what plunder was found upon them and on the bodies to be divided among
the sufferers of the village they had seen burned, directing the Patél
to account for the sum. He had in vain attempted to press it upon Kasim.

Now, therefore, our travellers are once more upon the wide plains,
moving warily and close together: altogether they are twelve good
horsemen, and, with the six or seven villagers, armed with long
matchlocks, and the grooms mounted on the ponies which the servants had
ridden, present a very formidable appearance; while the dry gravelly
road allows them to push forward at a good pace without interruption.

The road from Bellary to the Mysore country appears flat, but in reality
is not so; the land rises in long and gentle undulations some thousand
feet in the course of about one hundred miles,—that is, from the town of
Bellary to where it enters a rugged pass between some mountains, one
side of which is formed by the rough and stony back of the fort of
Pencondah. As the traveller advances from Bellary, he sees these
undulations, each of many miles perhaps in length; and when arrived at
the top of one, expecting to descend, he finds another spread out before
him, perhaps of equal length, the summit of which he must reach in like
manner. The difference this causes in the climate is most remarkable; a
few days’ travel produces an entire revolution; and from the steaming
heat of the Carnatic, at Bellary and above it, the traveller as he
proceeds southward breathes a purer, cooler, and more genial atmosphere.

The heat which had existed where we began our narrative, and which
rendered travelling irksome, had now given place to coolness, which even
at near midday made them glad to wrap shawls or other warm garments
around them; and thus, while it invigorated man and beast, enabled them
to push on rapidly without fatigue.

They had travelled for two days without alarm, and were within an easy
distance of the entrance of the pass, when, on arriving at the top of
one of the summits we have mentioned, they saw with some alarm a body of
horse before them, scattered, and apparently on the same track as
themselves.

‘It is the Mahrattas!’ cried the Khan.

‘True,’ said Kasim; ‘but I fear them not now—we are too strong; see, the
rogues turn!’

‘They do,’ said the Khan; ‘but never fear, let us spread out a little on
each side; they think us some small party, whom they can plunder with
impunity.’ The little manœuvre was done, and had an instant effect. The
Mahratta horsemen, who were coming down about a mile distant at the
gallop, suddenly halted, held a hurried consultation for awhile, and
then struck off to the right, down a road which lead to the westward,
and, having gone a good distance, quite out of shot, again halted.

‘They are wary fellows,’ said Kasim, ‘and have profited by our former
lesson; but as we pass them we will fire a shot or two: that will teach
them their distance, or I am mistaken.’

It was done, and had the desired effect; the horsemen moved further
away, though they travelled in a parallel line. Shots were, however,
discharged from time to time; and the whole party, including the lady,
were amused at their consternation, as they scattered at every
discharge.

Gradually, as they neared the pass, the Mahrattas dropped behind; and
after they had entered the rocky valley, the first turn shut them from
their view altogether.

‘Now we are properly on our own ground,’ said the Khan, ‘and soon we
shall see one of the frontier posts; there we shall be secure from all
alarms, and from thence to the city there is no fear.’

As he said, after a short travel further, they approached a strong
village, well garrisoned; and here, after their many perils and escapes,
they rested safely for three days ere they pursued their journey; indeed
Kasim’s wound needed rest.

The information the Khan gave was acted upon, and a party of horse
scoured the country in every direction, but without success; the
marauders had made their escape, and were no more seen.

-------

CHAPTER VIII.

Leaving for the present the Khan and his companions to pursue their way
to Seringapatam, we claim the usual privilege of writers to transport
our readers where, and as suddenly, as we please, and

‘To take up our wings and be off to the west.’

To the perfect understanding of the events connected with this veritable
history, therefore, we feel ourselves obliged to retrograde a few years,
and to leave the glowing climate of the East for a while, to breathe in
idea the colder yet more congenial air of England.

It was on the evening, then, of a wet and sleety day of December 1785,
that a large and merry family group sat around a cheerful fire in the
comfortable drawing-room of the rectory of Alston, in ——shire. It
consisted of the rector, his lady, and two sons, one of whom, Edward,
had returned from college for the vacation, and who was a youth of
perhaps eighteen years of age; his brother Charles was somewhat
younger, of that awkward period of life, between school and college,
which is not often productive of much gratification to the possessor,
and which all desire to see changed,—fond mothers, perhaps, again to
childhood,—fathers, to manhood,—and sisters, to anything more
agreeable and ornamental than the awkwardness and _mauvaise honte_
peculiarly attendant upon that epoch in life.

There were three girls, one between Edward and Charles, and another some
years younger; a third, as yet a child. Anywhere, any individual of the
family would have been very remarkable for good looks; but here, when
all were assembled together, they were a sight round that cheerful
blazing fire which caused the eye of the mother to glisten with
something like a tear of pleasure as she looked around the circle, and
the heart of the father to swell with proud satisfaction.

Mr. Compton, the rector, the second son of a baronet of the county, had
early been destined to the Church. In addition to a very handsome
private fortune bequeathed to him by his father, the rich living of
Alston had been secured to him while he was at college, and he had
succeeded to it as soon as he was of age to be ordained. He had married
early in life the sister of an old friend and college chum, also a
baronet of a neighbouring county, and the union had proved one of
continued happiness. With an ample fortune, gentle and refined tastes
and pursuits,—an excellent musician, a tolerable painter, a good
classic, and with literary abilities above an ordinary standard,—Mr.
Compton had resources within himself which ensured him a placid and
equable enjoyment of life. A sincere and pious man, his ministry was a
blessing to his numerous parishioners; and his society, where so much
intelligence and accomplishment prevailed, was eagerly sought for by all
the families of the county neighbourhood.

With no remarkable strength of character, Mrs. Compton was yet an
admirable woman; she was possessed of but few accomplishments, but then
those were not the days when youth was crammed with knowledge; she had,
however, a fair share for a lady of that period. Perhaps her talent for
music had partly attracted the notice, and helped, with her amiable
disposition and great personal charms, to win the admiration, and
eventually to secure the affections of her husband. In her career as a
mother she had been kind and loving, even beyond a mother’s usual
fondness; and if at times her excess of affection had overpowered the
sense of her duty in checking the foibles of her children, yet she had
so gentle and admirable a monitor at her side, one whose advice and
example she esteemed the most precious blessings vouchsafed to her, that
she had been enabled not only to bring up her children in perfect
obedience to her, and in strict moral and religious principles, but in
that complete harmony of intercourse among themselves, the result of
judicious training and pure example.

In truth so completely united a family, though perhaps not of rare
occurrence, is not so often to be seen as might be desirable to society;
and the young Comptons were noted through the neighbourhood for their
extreme good-breeding, and for the devoted affection they bore one
another.

Happy indeed as we know the family to have been,—as it must needs have
been from its constitution,—it had suffered already one stroke of
sorrow, which, mingling as it ever will in all the affairs of life, and
with those who apparently are farthest removed from its influence, had
come in a shape and at a time but little expected by any.

Their eldest son, Herbert, was a high-spirited yet fine-tempered youth.
He was destined by his father for the Church, in the offices of which he
himself felt such satisfaction, that no employment or pursuit in life,
he thought, could equal the gratification afforded by them. Herbert,
however, had from the first shown an unconquerable repugnance to the
sacred calling. It had been proposed to him on his leaving school,
preparatory to his entering on his college course; and though he had
gone through one or two terms at Oxford with credit, yet he continued to
implore his father so strongly not to persist in destining him to this
profession that at last Mr. Compton yielded, and the plan was abandoned.

Nor was Mrs. Compton surprised to hear a declaration made with much fear
and hesitation, that a military life of all others was that in which he
felt assured he should succeed best, as it was most consonant to his
high spirit and daring character.

Much entreaty was used—kind, gentle, loving entreaty—by both his
parents, especially his mother, to whom it was an agonising thought that
her first-born, her boy of whom she was so proud, should embrace a
profession which would expose him to other than the ordinary dangers of
life. All was however of no avail; and at the age of eighteen, or
thereabouts, his father, whose family influence was great, was enabled
to purchase for him a commission in a regiment of the line.

There was at that time no immediate cause to suppose that the regiment
would be called out on active service; and as that to which he had been
appointed was after a short time quartered in their own neighbourhood,
they had the gratification of seeing Herbert happy, fond of his corps
and his duties, beloved by his brother officers, and studying all the
details of science connected with his new profession; and indeed his
noble appearance in his uniform, and his now gay cheerful disposition—so
different from what his deportment had been while in uncertainty about
himself and his future career—in a great degree reconciled his parents
to the change in their plans for his life.

Promotion, if the means were at hand, was no difficult matter to obtain
in those days; and Mr. Compton, by the advice of a relative, a general
officer who had assisted him in obtaining the commission in the first
instance, had purchased Herbert on as far as a company, and was waiting
for a favourable opportunity for exchanging him into a cavalry regiment.
But while the negotiations for purchase were proceeding, sudden orders
arrived for the regiment to proceed on foreign service,—to India in
fact, where the increased possessions of the East India Company required
additional protection.

This news was a thunderbolt to the family, coming as it did so
unexpectedly. It might have been foreseen and thought of; but it had
not, for Herbert was with them, and that was enough; and any idea of his
leaving them, if distantly contemplated, had never been allowed to dwell
in their hearts. It was in vain that Mrs. Compton besought Herbert, in
the agony of her maternal affection, to resign, to exchange, to ask for
leave of absence, to carry into effect the negotiations which had been
pending.

The young man loved his mother with an intensity of affection, but he
saw also to yield to its dictates in this instance would be to forfeit
his honour and the obligations of his duty. Mr. Compton forbore to urge
him at all; his fine feelings at once told him that the young man was
right; and though it was a sore trial to part with one so dear, to
relinquish him to the chances of hard service in so distant and then
unknown a land, yet he did not murmur; and in many a secret prayer in
his closet, and daily in his family worship, commended him, as a
father’s affection only can prompt prayer for a child, to the protection
of that merciful Providence which had as yet bestowed on him and his
unnumbered blessings.

But there was yet another on whom this unlooked-for blow fell even more
heavily than on those we had mentioned. Amy Hayward, the only daughter
of a gentleman of fortune, whose estate joined the fields and extensive
lawns and grounds which formed the glebe of the rectory, had from the
earliest times she could remember been the companion and playmate of all
the Comptons. Her two brothers had shared the intimacy with her, and
whenever the boys were at their respective homes, there was a daily
intercourse kept up between them,—daily meetings, rambles in Beechwood
Park, fishing in the brawling trout-stream which ran through it, nutting
in its noble woods, and a thousand other joyous amusements peculiar to a
happy country childhood.

We say country childhood, for we feel that there is the widest
difference between that and a childhood spent in a town. With the former
there is a store of remembrances of gentle pleasures, of those natural
delights which are so inseparable to boyhood or girlhood,—when the first
gushes of the deep-seated springs of feeling are expanded among the
beauties of natural scenes, in themselves peaceful, and speaking quiet
to the heart, ever too prone to excitement when full vent is given to
joyous spirits;—where every occupation is fraught with delights, which,
if the faintest remembrance remains in after life, are treasured up as
the purest perhaps of all the pleasurable impressions the heart has ever
known.

How different is the town boy! he is a man before his time; and in that
one word how much meaning is there! How much less innocence—how many
cares! his amusements lack the ease of hilarity and freedom; he sees the
dull monotonous streets teeming with spectacles of vice or misery,—the
endless form of busy man ever before him, instead of bright skies, the
green recesses of the woods, the fresh balmy air, the thousand exquisite
creations of nature, ever appealing to his best sympathies. A city can
teach him little that can remain to benefit his understanding, or
invigorate its keenest and most delicious enjoyment, a complete
appreciation of nature in all her forms; but, on the contrary, it may
induce a callousness, which too often grows upon him in after life, and
causes those simple pleasures to be despised or unnoticed, in which,
after all, perhaps, are contained the germs of the purest enjoyment.

Amy was a few years younger than Herbert; beautiful as a child, that
beauty had grown up with her, and appeared to increase. But her features
were not regular, nor could she properly be called handsome; and yet if
large, lustrous, loving eyes, a fair and bright complexion, and long and
light brown curling hair, with a small figure, in which roundness,
activity, and extreme grace were combined, can be called beauty, she
possessed it eminently. Her face too, which was ever varying in
expression and lighted up with intelligence, was a fair index to her
mind,—full of affection and keen perception of beauty. If Herbert had
not the latter quality so enthusiastically as she had, he at least had
sufficient with cultivation to make him a tolerable draughtsman; and
Beechwood Park contained so many natural charms, that, as they grew up,
there was scarcely a point of blue and distant landscape, rocky brawling
stream, or quiet glade, which they had not sketched in company.

We have said they had been inseparable from childhood—ay, from the
earliest times; though the young Comptons and Haywards joined in all
their pastimes, yet Herbert had ever a quiet stroll with Amy. Her
garden, her greenhouse, her rabbits, her fowls, her gold and silver
fish—all were of as much interest to him for her sake as to herself. And
so it had continued: childish cares and pastimes had given place to more
matured amusements and pursuits, and the intercourse of the elders of
the families continued to be so harmonious, that no interruption had
ever occurred to their constant society.

If Herbert or Amy had been questioned on the subject, they could hardly
have said that as yet they loved; but it would be unnatural to suppose
that, knowing and appreciating each other as they did, they should not
have loved, and that ardently. The fire had been kindled long ago, and
slumbered only for a passing breath of excitement to fan it into a
bright and enduring flame.

It was, then, on the day which followed a night of intense anguish to
all—that on which no longer any opposition had been made to Herbert’s
departure, and they were beginning to bear to talk of it with some
calmness, that Mr. Compton said to his lady, as they sat after
breakfast, ‘You had better write this sad news to the Haywards, my love;
they have always felt such an interest in Herbert’s welfare, that they
ought to hear this from ourselves, before it is carried there by the
servants, and perhaps broken abruptly to them.’

‘I will be the bearer of the news myself,’ said Herbert, starting up;
‘no one ought to tell it but me; and it would distress you, dear mother,
to write it; besides, I promised to go over to Amy, either yesterday or
to-day, to sketch with her, as she wants to see the new style I have
learned.’

‘Thank you, my kind darling,’ she replied; ‘you have indeed saved me the
necessity of inflicting a pang on them, and one on myself too. And you
must screw up your courage to the sticking-place when you mention it to
Amy,’ she added almost gaily, with some emphasis on the name; ‘poor
child, she will grieve to hear it indeed!’

‘Yes, she will be sorry, very sorry, I know,’ said Herbert; ‘but it
can’t be helped now, and I must put as good a face as I can upon the
matter to them all. I will be as gay as I can,’ he said, taking up his
hat and opening the door, ‘and will not be long away.’

Poor fellow! the last words were tremulous enough for a gay captain to
utter, and his mother and father thought so too.

‘It will be unexpected to them,’ he said after a painful pause.

‘Very indeed, dearest,’ was the only reply she could make, for her tears
were flowing silently and fast.

-------

CHAPTER IX.

For the convenience of the families, a gravel walk had been made through
the rectory fields to the little river which divided them from the park.
Across this Mr. Hayward had thrown a very elegant rustic bridge, the
joint design of Amy and Herbert, to replace a rude yet picturesque one
formed of planks with siderails, which had existed previously.

Over this, Herbert rapidly passed onwards into the park; and avoiding
the walk, which had been carried by a considerable detour through some
beautiful glades, struck at once across the sward, in a direct line for
the house.

At any other time, the extreme beauty of the day, and of the park under
its influence, would not have failed to attract the attention of the
young man, and to have caused him to stop more than once to admire for
the hundredth time some noble avenues of beech and oak—some
picturesquely-grouped herd of deer or flock of sheep, or some exquisite
effect of light and shade as the soft floating clouds transiently caused
it. He would perhaps have sauntered gently; but now he hurried on, wrapt
in his own reflections, and they were not of the most agreeable or
intelligible kind. The flocks of sheep as he passed, fled startled at
his quick approach, while the deer raised themselves from their
recumbent postures and gazed wonderingly at him, whom they almost knew.

‘By Heaven!’ he exclaimed, as he reached the hall-door and rang for
admittance, ‘I hardly know what I am come about, or what to say. But it
must be done,—so I will let things take their chance. I can invent no
plan of proceeding which will spare them pain or myself either.
No,—better leave it to the force of circumstances.’

‘Is any one at home, Edward?’ he said to the footman who answered the
bell.

‘Yes, sir, Master and Miss Amy are in the study.’

‘Thank you;’ and he passed on with a beating heart.

‘Well, noble captain, what news?’ ‘Ah, I am so glad you are come,
Herbert, I want you _so_ much,’ were the greetings of the father and
daughter, in their hearty, unformal, and affectionate manner. ‘Mamma
tried to persuade me to go out with her to pay a visit to the
Somervilles,’ continued Amy, ‘but I would not, for I felt somehow or
other that you would come, and, as I said, I want you. You have been
such a truant of late, that I was really beginning to be half angry with
you. So ponder well on the escape you have made of my wrath by this
opportune appearance.’

Herbert said something about his duties, only half intelligible to
himself.

‘Yes,’ continued the light-hearted girl, ‘those duties are horrid
things; ever since you have been a soldier, we have seen nothing of you
at all, and I am very much disposed to be very angry with your colonel
and all your regiment for not giving you perpetual leave of absence. I
declare I have no companion now, for you know the boys are both at
college. He is very naughty not to come oftener,—is he not, papa?’

‘Perhaps Herbert is right, my love, in not humouring so giddy a girl as
yourself. But here he is now, so make the most of him, for there may be
another week or fortnight of duty which he has come to tell you of.’

How near he had guessed the truth,—unconsciously—only so far short of
its sad reality!

Herbert winced. ‘I am sure if I had but known that I was wanted, I would
have come,’ he said hesitatingly; ‘but the truth is, I have been
occupied both at home and at the barracks for the last few days by some
business which I could not leave.’

‘Well, your being here proves that to be all over, and so you are not to
think of going away to-day,’ said Amy. ‘I want you to help me with a
drawing I am doing for Lady Somerville; and as she is a great
connoisseur, it must be as good as our united heads and fingers can make
it; and before we sit down to that, I wish you to run down to the river
with me, and sketch a group of rocks, hazel-bushes, and reeds, which I
want for the foreground of my picture. Now, no excuses, Herbert, though
you look as if you were going to begin some,—I will not hear them. Wait
here with papa, till I put on my bonnet and get my sketch-book.

‘Now, don’t let him go, I pray you, papa,’ she continued, looking back
from the door she had just opened, ‘for I shall not be five minutes
away.’

‘You hear your doom, Herbert,’ said Mr. Hayward gaily; ‘so come, sit
down, tell me all about your regiment, and how this exchange of yours
prospers. A dashing young fellow like you ought to be in the cavalry,
and I hope to hear of your soon exchanging the scarlet for the blue.’

‘That is all off, I am sorry to say, sir,’ replied Herbert.

‘Off! what do you mean? Surely your father told me that he had lodged
the money for the exchange, and that the matter had only to pass through
the forms of the War Office.’

‘So he had; but an event has happened which has put an end to all our
hopes upon the subject.’

‘What, is the man dead?’

‘No, sir, he is well enough, but—’ and Herbert hesitated.

‘But what, Herbert? If there is anything that I can do,—you know there
can be no ceremony between us.’

‘No, no, sir, I well know that; and—’

‘Why what is the matter with the boy?’ cried Mr. Hayward, observing that
Herbert seemed to be struggling with some strong emotion; ‘has anything
happened?’

‘You may as well know it at once,’ replied Herbert, mastering his
feelings. ‘I am come on purpose to tell it to you, lest you should hear
it in some out-of-the-way manner. My regiment is ordered abroad, and I
am to go, of course.’

‘Well, I am glad to hear it,’ said Mr. Hayward; ‘you will have a
pleasant continental frolic, and see something of the world;—and sorry
too, since we shall lose you for a time.’

‘But our destination is not the continent, but India,’ said Herbert
sadly.

‘Good God! you don’t mean that,’ exclaimed Mr. Hayward, rising. ‘Pardon
me, my dear boy, that I should have spoken lightly on a subject which is
so distressing. India! that indeed is a sad word: can nothing be done to
prevent this? cannot you exchange? cannot—’

‘I would not if I were able, dear sir,’ said Herbert. ‘I feel this to be
my duty; I could not in any honour leave the regiment at such a time,
without a suspicion of the basest motives being attached to my
character.’

‘Tut, tut, Herbert! the thing is done every day, so let not that
distress or prevent you.’

Herbert shook his head.

‘I say it is, I could tell you a dozen instances.’

‘Perhaps you might, where the only enemy was the climate; but our
possessions in the East are menaced, and the service will be active. I
learned this when the news came to the regiment; and as none of the
officers have attempted an exchange, except one or two whose characters
are not high, I feel that I cannot.’

‘And you are right, Herbert,’ said Mr. Hayward, after a pause, ‘you are
right. God help your parents! your poor mother—this will be a sad blow
to her!’ and he paused, as a tear glistened in his eyes.

‘It was at first, certainly, sir; but they are already more composed,
and are beginning to bear to talk of it.’

‘And how soon are you to go? The Government will give you some time,
surely, for preparation.’

‘Very little, I am sorry to say. We march for Dover on Monday, and sail,
we hear, in ten days or a fortnight.’

‘Monday! Bless me, and to-day is Thursday; this is the worse news of
all. Poor Amy, what will she say?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Herbert, ‘I want your advice, whether to mention it to
her myself or not. I cannot refuse to accompany her now; indeed, you saw
she would take no denial. I will do exactly as you please.’

‘Why, it is an unpleasant matter to any of us to think or speak of, and
I really do not know what to say. But as you are the person concerned,
and can give her every information yourself,’ continued Mr. Hayward,
after a pause, ‘perhaps you had better talk it over with her. Break it
as gently as you can, however, for it would be useless to deny to you
that she will be very sorry to hear it.’

‘Come, Herbert!’ cried Amy, opening the door; ‘I have been longer away
than I thought. Come, here are books and paper, and my stool for you to
carry; so make haste.’

‘You will be discreet with her, Herbert,’ said Mr. Hayward gently,
giving his hand.

Herbert could only press it in acknowledgment. In a moment afterwards
they were gone.

Mr. Hayward turned to the window involuntarily, to watch them as they
descended the gentle slope of the lawn. There was a vague thought in his
mind that they had better not have gone; but as he could find no reason
for the idea, he dismissed it. He was a benevolent, simple-hearted man;
he had had neither the necessity nor the inclination to study character,
and could not at once estimate the effect such a communication as his
daughter was about to receive would have upon her; nor did it at once
strike him that the long and intimate association she had held with
Herbert could have produced any tenderer feeling than she had ever
expressed or appeared to entertain. Her mother, had she been there,
might have judged differently; but, as Mr. Hayward soliloquised, as
their retreating figures were lost to his view behind a low shrubbery,
‘Matters must take their own course now; it is too late to recall them.’

Onwards they went; leaving the broad walk which led by the side of the
lawn and shrubberies, they at once struck across the park, down one of
the noble glades of beech-trees from whence the place took its name. The
day was bright and warm—one of those blessed days of June, when all
nature seems to put forward her choicest productions for the
gratification and admiration of man—when cowslip and daisy, buttercup
and wild anemone, with a thousand other flowers of lowly pretensions yet
of exquisite beauty, have opened their bright blossoms to the sunlight,
and are wooing it in silent thankfulness.

The verdant carpet beneath them was full of these, glowing in their
freshest bloom; the sheep and lambs, dotted here and there upon every
slope, lazily cropped the short, soft herbage; and the tinkling of their
bells and the faint bleating of the lambs, now distant, now near,
mingled with the hum of the many bees which busily drew their loads of
sweets, roaming from flower to flower. Butterflies of many hues, their
gorgeous wings glaring in the bright light, fluttered swiftly along,
coquetting as it were with the flowers, and enjoying in their full
vigour the sunny brightness of their short lives.

There was no wind, and yet a freshness in the air which tempered the
heat of the sun; the beech-trees, with their shining leaves, appeared
sleeping in the sunlight, and as if resting, during the short period
there might be allowed them, from their almost ceaseless waving. Far
around them the park stretched away into broad glades, some ended by
woods, others presenting peeps of blue and dim distance; while through
all there was a vapour floating, sufficient only to take off the
harshness from every outline, whether of tree or distance, and to blend
the whole harmoniously into that soft dreamy appearance, so exquisite
and so soothing to behold.

‘How lovely the park is to-day, Herbert!’ said Amy, ‘is it not? Every
step we take seems to present a new picture which ought to be drawn.
Look now at that group of sheep and deer almost intermixed; the deer
have chosen the fern which is partly under that magnificent beech, the
sheep are all among them, and their young lambs enjoying their merry
gambols; the light is falling in that beautiful chequered manner which I
strive in vain to represent; and yet how great are the masses, how
perfect the unstudied composition, how exquisite the colour! The
brightest and warmest green, spangled with flowers, is before us; this
is broken by the shadows: beyond the tree there is a delicious grey,
melting imperceptibly into the most tender blue. Is it not a picture
now, Herbert?’

‘A lovely one indeed, Amy; a study worthy of Berghem or Cuyp. What
exquisite perceptions of nature must they have had! their pictures, and
those of many of the same class, how simple! and yet painted with the
most consummate art and nicest finish. Scarcely a flower escapes them,
yet there is not one too many represented, nor one in any way
interfering with the harmony of their colouring. I often long for such
power; for we only can appreciate their skill and genius, by our own
awkward attempts to imitate them. Indeed, when I look on the works of
any of these great masters, my own appear so contemptible in my eyes,
that I am tempted to forswear the gentle craft altogether.’

‘Indeed, you are to do no such thing, Herbert, but help me to sketch,
and to blunder on through many a drawing yet, I have no idea of being
put out of conceit of my own performances, for which I have a high
respect, I assure you. But come, if we stay loitering by every old
beech-tree and group of sheep or deer, I shall get no sketch done in
time for you to copy on my drawing, and shall be obliged perhaps to
listen to some terrible excuses of duty or business. So come, we have
yet a good way to walk.’

Beguiling the way, little more than a quarter of a mile, by gentle
converse upon familiar, yet to them interesting subjects, they reached
the busy, murmuring river,—now stealing quietly under a bank,—now chafed
in its passage over a few stones,—here eddying past a rock and covered
with white foam,—there widening out into a little pool, partly natural,
partly artificial, the glassy surface of which was broken into circles
by the rapid rising of the trout, which eagerly leaped after the flies
that sported upon it.

There was a small pathway beside the stream which had been the work of
all the boys some years ago; in some places it wound through thickets of
alder and hazel, which met above it, forming a green alcove impervious
to the sun; again, under some mossy bank or wide-spreading ash, where a
rustic seat had been erected. Further as it advanced, it led round a
projecting bank to a little open bay surrounded by rocks, one of which
jutted out boldly into the stream that brawled noisily past it; and the
open space, once a level spot of greensward, had been laid out
irregularly in a little garden, which now bloomed with many sweet and
beautiful flowers, of kinds despised perhaps nowadays, but not the less
lovely for all that. Tall hollyhocks there were, and roses; and
honeysuckles had been trained up against the rocks, with jessamine,
clematis, and other creepers, which poured forth their fragrance on the
air.

Many a time had the little circles of Beechwood and Alston united here,
and many a joyous pic-nic and dance had occupied hours which could never
be forgotten by any.

It was a lovely spot indeed; the rocky bank around the little circle
was, as we have said, covered with creepers; festoons of ivy hung from
above, and over all nodded some ash or other forest-trees, mingled with
underwood and fern. On the opposite side of the river, worn away by the
water which had run past it for countless years, the bank was high and
steep, covered with ivy and drooping fern; all sorts of little peering
wild flowers lurked among its recesses, with mosses whose colours
glistened like emerald and gold; above it grew two or three noble ashes
and beeches, whose feathery foliage descended in minute and graceful
sprays down to the bank, and waved with every breath of wind.

A tiny summer-house, or hermitage as they had called it, made of
pine-logs and thatched with heath, stood in the corner formed by the
projection round which they were passing; and thither they directed
their steps, for it commanded a view of the whole of the little
amphitheatre, the rock, the river, and the bank beyond. Though there was
a kind of garden, yet there was nothing artificial in its appearance;
the few flowers looked almost like the spontaneous growth of the spot,
and did not interfere with the perfectly wild yet beautiful character of
the scene, which otherwise was as nature in one of her bountiful moods
had fashioned and left it,—a nook wherein man might worship her the more
devoutly. The whole glowed under the bright beams of the noonday sun,
and there was not a breath of wind to disturb the complete serenity and
dreamy effect of the place.

‘Now sit down here, Herbert,’ said Amy, ‘and begin yonder by that ivy.
You are to draw me all the jutting rock, the water eddying round it, the
reeds here by the brink, and give me a bit of distance beyond; and I do
not think,’ she added with enthusiasm, ‘that the world could show a
lovelier spot to-day than our little hermitage. I only wish I could
grasp it all, and put it upon my paper as I see it: do not you often
feel so?’

‘Indeed I do, Amy, and am vexed at my own clumsy attempts to imitate
nature; but I will do my best for you to-day. I may not soon again have
such an opportunity’.

‘You mean there will not be such another delicious day, Herbert; but I
do not despair now of the weather.’

Herbert was silent; he had thought his remark might have led to the
subject he did not know how to break. He looked at his companion, and he
felt how hard it would be to leave one so beautiful, nay, so loved as
she was. He had never spoken to her of love; but now the hour approached
when he was to leave her, and there were feelings within him struggling
for expression which he could ill restrain; his thoughts oppressed him,
and though he continued to sketch he was silent.

‘You are very dull and absent to-day, Herbert,’ she said at length, as
she continued looking over his shoulder; ‘but you are drawing that
foliage and the old rock very nicely, so I must not scold you;’ and
again she continued to converse. She tried many topics, she spoke
eloquently and feelingly of her boundless love of nature, she told him
what she had been reading, asked him a thousand questions about his
duties, his regiment, his companions,—all of which he answered
mechanically; for his heart was too busy for him to heed the replies his
tongue gave.

‘Upon my word, I do not know what to make of you to-day, Herbert,’ she
cried, laughing, as he had given some absurd reply to one of her
questions or sallies which was not in any way relative to it. ‘You draw
most meritoriously, and better than ever I saw you before, but my words
fall on heedless ears; for I am sure you have neither heard nor
understood a word of what I have been saying this hour past. Now make
haste,—a few touches will finish that, and you can add figures
afterwards if you like. I am sure you are unwell. If you are so, I
insist on your giving up the drawing.’

‘I shall never again have such an opportunity, dear Amy,’ he said; ‘not
at least for a long time, so I had better do all I can now.’ There was
much sadness in his tone.

‘What do you mean by that? this is the second time I have heard you say
it,’ she replied anxiously; ‘you surely cannot be going to leave us
again; the regiment has only been here two months, and—tell me, I
beseech you, Herbert,’ she continued as he looked up from the drawing,
and distress was very visible upon his countenance; ‘tell me what you
have to say. Why do you look so sad?’

‘Because, dear Amy, I have news which will pain you,—that is, I think it
will,—for we have ever been so linked together: you have guessed the
truth,—I am indeed to leave,—and that so soon that my own brain is
confused by the sudden orders we have received.’

She turned as pale as death, and her lips quivered; all the misery and
danger she had ever heard of foreign service rushed at once
overwhelmingly into her thoughts. She tried to speak, but could not.

‘It must be told sooner or later,’ he thought, laying down the sketch
and drawing towards her; he continued, though with much difficulty in
preserving his composure,—

‘The regiment is ordered upon service, Amy, and after many thoughts I
find I have no alternative but to accompany it. We march for Dover in a
few days; the transports, we hear, will meet us there; and after we have
embarked, the convoy fleet for India will join us at Portsmouth or
Plymouth.’

‘For India!’ were the only words the poor girl could utter, as she sunk
helpless and fainting upon the seat.

-------

CHAPTER X.

‘Amy, dear Amy!’ cried the young man, agonised by her bitter sobs, which
ceased not, though he had raised her up, and supporting her
hardly-sensible form strove to console her, but in vain. ‘Amy, speak to
me! one word, only one word, and you will be better: call me by my
name—anything—only do not look so utterly wretched, nor sob so bitterly.
God knows I have enough to bear in leaving you so suddenly, but this
misery is worst of all. Dear Amy, look up! say that you will try to
conquer this, and I shall have the less to reproach myself with for
having told you of so much.’ But she spoke not; she could not utter one
word for the choking sensation in her throat. She passed her hand over
it often, tried in vain to swallow, and gasped in the attempt.

‘Good God, you are ill!’ exclaimed Herbert hurriedly; ‘what can be done?
what can I get? My own Amy!—dearest, dearest!—do not look so.’ But his
entreaties were of no avail against her overpowering grief; she had
struggled with the hysterical feeling till she could no longer oppose
it, and yielded to its influence.

Distracted, Herbert knew not what to do. Aid there was none nearer than
the house, and he could not leave her—he dared not. He raised her
gently, and bore her like a child to the river’s brink. He unloosed her
bonnet, and sprinkled water on her face; it revived her; and after some
time and difficulty he succeeded in making her drink a little from his
closed hands.

She recovered gradually, but lay sobbing still bitterly upon the grass,
weakened and exhausted by the violence of her emotions. Herbert
continued to hang over her in the greatest anxiety, and to implore her
to speak in the tenderest epithets. He had not discovered how dear she
was to him till he had heard his fate; and he had tried to argue himself
out of the belief, but without avail. His high sense of honour then came
to his aid, and he thought that it would be wrong to declare such
feelings to her when he might never return; and fervently as he loved
her, he could have spared her the bitterness of that lingering hope
which is so akin to despair.

But in those moments he had forgotten all; thoughts of the past and for
the future, all centred in intense affection for the helpless being
before him, whose artless mind had not attempted any disguise of her
devoted love for her companion of so many years.

At last she recovered sufficiently to raise herself up; and this, the
first sign of consciousness she had given, was rapture to Herbert. He
bent down to her, and attempted to lift her to her feet. She was passive
in his hands, even as a weak child; and partly supporting, partly
carrying her, he led her to the hermitage. There he seated her on the
rustic bench, and kneeling down beside her, while one arm was passed
round her,—for she could not have sat alone without support,—he poured
forth with the impetuosity and tenderness of his disposition his vows of
love, and his entreaties for some token that he had not angered her by
his abruptness.

‘But one word, my Amy! but one word, dearest!—one word, that in those
far distant lands I may feed on it in my heart, while your beautiful
face is present to my imagination. Dearest, we have loved each other
with more than children’s love from infancy; we have never expressed it,
but now the trial has come, and you will not be the one to deny yours at
such a time. O Amy, speak to me one word to assure me that I may call
you mine for ever!’

Much more he said, and more passionately, but her hand was not withdrawn
from his, nor did she remove herself from him. A tear at last forced its
way from her closed eyelids, for she dared not to open them. Soon others
followed; they fell hot and fast upon his hand for a little while; and
at length, as she strove to speak, but could not, she was no longer able
to control her emotion, and she fell upon his neck and wept aloud.

The young man strained her to his heart, and as he wiped the
fast-falling tears from her eyes, he poured such consolation as he could
find words to utter into her perturbed heart. She did not question his
love,—she had no doubt of that; but there was one all-engrossing
thought—his absence—beneath which even her light and joyous spirit
quailed; and while it caused her to shiver in very apprehension of
perils which her thoughts could not define, she clung the closer to him,
and strove to shut out the evils with which her mental visions were
overcast.

The trying test of coming absence, of dangers to be braved, hardships to
be endured, had at once broken down all barriers of formality, and
opened to them the state of each other’s affections in that perfect
confidence, that pure reliance,—the gentle growth of years, it is
true,—but which had at once expanded without a check, and would endure
for ever.

Who can tell the exquisite pleasure of such a first embrace? Pure love,
such as theirs, had little of the dross of passion in it. The knowledge
that years must elapse ere they could meet again, the silent dread that
it might never be, put a thought of possession far from them; and in the
perfect purity and ecstasy of feeling of those moments,—in the
indulgence of thoughts, new, yet so inexpressibly sweet to them,—it is
no wonder in that sequestered and lovely spot, that hours should have
passed, and time should have been unheeded; nor was it until the
lengthened shadows warned them of the decline of the day, that they
could speak of parting, or of the object of their visit.

The sketch had lain on the ground unheeded. Amy took it up. ‘It will be
to me the silent witness of what has this day happened,’ she said, ‘and
the dearest treasure I possess, Herbert, when you are gone from me. Now
one little favour I beg, that you will sketch in ourselves,—me, as I lay
fainting on the bank yonder, and you as you bent over me; for I think it
was there and then I first heard you say you loved me, Herbert. To me it
will be a comfort and a solace till you return, and then we will come
here together, and you shall see that not a shrub or flower has been
altered. Four years you said, dearest! they will soon pass, and I
confess I have hope beyond what I thought I should ever have possessed.
Four years! methinks in anticipation they are already gone, and we sit
here,—you a bronzed soldier with a thousand tales for me to hear, and I
will sit at your feet and listen, your unchanged and unchangeable Amy.’

Herbert regarded her with intense admiration, for her sadness had passed
away; and though tears trembled in her bright eyes with every word she
spoke, there was a joyous tone in her voice and in her expression; and
his spirit caught that hope from hers which, under other circumstances,
would have been denied him.

‘Willingly, most willingly, dearest,’ he said, taking the drawing from
her; and in a few moments he had sketched in the figures;—she, raising
herself up, had recovered consciousness, and he, bending anxiously over
her, had implored her to speak to him. There was such force and
tenderness in the attitudes that it told the simple story at a glance.

‘It is too plain, Herbert,’ she said half reproachfully; ‘I shall not
dare to show any one your boldest and by far most beautiful sketch; nay,
you are even making a likeness of me, which is too bad; but I need not
fear, for no one shall ever see it but myself. My last look shall be of
it at night, and with that my last thought shall be with you. Now that
is enough; I will not have another touch, lest you spoil it; give it me,
let me carry it home, and miser-like lock it up from every one but
myself.’

‘You may have it if you will, dearest, but I must beg it for to-night at
least. I will make a small sketch from it, and will bring it over early
to-morrow.’

‘It is only upon your promise not to keep it longer than to-morrow
morning that you may have it, Herbert. I am nearly inclined to make you
stay at Beechwood to copy it, lest anything should befall it; but I am
not selfish enough to detain you from those who love you as dearly as I
do.’

Slowly they retraced their steps through every bowery path and open
glade; the blossoms of the lime and horse-chestnut filled the air with
luscious sweetness, and their broad shadows were flung wide over the
richly-coloured sward. They wandered on, hardly heeding the luxuriant
beauty of the landscape, with their arms twined round each other, while
they spoke in those gentle, murmuring tones, which, though low, were yet
distinct, and of which every word was striven to be remembered for years
afterwards.

‘My father must know all,’ said Amy, as they approached the house; ‘we
have nothing to fear from him, and therefore nothing to conceal; but I
dare not speak, Herbert, so—’

‘I do not flinch from the trial, dearest,’ was his reply. ‘If you can
bear it, I would rather you were present, but—’

‘No, no, no! I could not bear it, Herbert,’ replied the blushing girl;
‘and I had better not be present, I know, for we should both lose
courage. No, you must tell all to papa; and leave me to my own solitude
for a while, for indeed I require it. And now here we are at home; I
need not say—for you know papa as well as I do—conceal nothing, for we
have nothing to conceal.’

She ran lightly on through the hall, and up the broad staircase. Herbert
followed her beautiful figure till he could see it no longer; then
listened till he heard the door of her chamber close after her. ‘She has
gone to pray for herself and me,’ he thought, and thought truly. The
study-door was before him; his heart beat very fast, and his hand almost
trembled as he placed it upon the handle; but his resolution was made in
an instant, and he passed in.

Mr. Hayward laid down the book he had been reading, and took the
spectacles from his nose as Herbert entered. ‘You are a pretty pair of
truants,’ he said cheerfully; ‘an hour or two indeed! why ’tis just six
o’clock! and where is Amy?’

‘She is gone to her room, sir, for a short time; she said she would not
be long absent.’

‘And what have you been about? Come, let me see. You know I am a great
admirer of your spirited sketches, Herbert; so hand me your day’s work,
which ought to be an elaborate affair, considering the time you have
been about it.’ And he replaced his spectacles.

Herbert blushed crimson; he felt his face glowing painfully; he had
forgotten the roll of paper, which he had kept in his hand, and he could
not deny that it was the sketch Mr. Hayward wished to see. He hesitated
a little, grew somewhat indecisive in his speech: and, as the old
gentlemen was beginning to suspect the truth, Herbert had told all, and
stood before him glowing with manly emotion and proud feelings of
rectitude. There was nothing to conceal, Amy had said, so he concealed
nothing. He told him how he had intended not to have spoken to her; but
how, overcome by the anguish of seeing her so prostrated by grief, he
had revealed to her all his feelings, even at the risk of her
displeasure. ‘Amy loves me, sir,’ he continued proudly; ‘nor does she
seek to deny it. We have too long shared each other’s thoughts for any
reserve to exist between us; and to you we fearlessly commit ourselves,
in frank confession of our fault, if we have committed any.’

Mr. Hayward only mused for a moment; he loved Herbert too well, and had
known him too long, to hesitate. ‘May God bless you both, my dear boy!’
he cried, rising from his chair, and extending his arms to embrace the
young man. ‘May God bless you! If there had not been this dreadful
absence to contemplate, I should have counted this one of the happiest
moments of my life; as it is, I am thankful that Amy is loved by such an
one as you, Herbert; but where is she? I can remain no longer without
seeing you together.’ He rang the bell.

‘Tell Miss Hayward that I want her here as soon as possible,’ said the
old gentleman to the servant.

A few minutes only elapsed, during which neither spoke. At last her
light footstep was heard on the stairs; descending slowly it passed over
the hall so lightly that even Herbert’s ear could hardly detect it; he
fancied it hesitated at the door, and he flew to open it; and the smile
of joy, of triumph, which met her hurried glance, served in some measure
to assure her; her father stood with open arms, and lips quivering with
emotion. ‘God bless you! God bless you!’ was all he could utter, as she
rushed into them, and sobbing, hid her burning face in his bosom; nor
did she venture to withdraw it for long, nor he to disturb her; the gush
of joy which welled from his heart, as he strained her to it, was too
pure to relinquish easily.

‘If I have been wrong, dear father, forgive me!’ was all she was able to
utter, after a silence of some moments.

‘Nay, I have nothing to forgive, my sweet pet,’ he said: ‘I had looked
for this happiness only as a consummation of my dearest wishes, and it
is now as unexpected as grateful. But I will keep you no longer,
Herbert,’ he said to him, ‘nor must Amy either, for there are others who
have stronger claims upon you than we have, and I dare not detain you
from them. I wish however, and Amy will second the wish I know, that you
would come over to-morrow as early as you can, and give us a quiet day
and evening together; it will be as much a source of gratification to
you to dwell on when you are away, as it will be to us; so say, will you
come?’

At any time the invitation would have been welcome, but now the
imploring looks of the fair girl were arguments which could not be
resisted.

‘I will be with you as early as I can,’ Herbert replied, ‘as soon as I
can complete a task I have here, and I will not leave you till night; so
for the present farewell, and I beg you to procure me the forgiveness,
and I will add the blessing, of her whom I hope to call a second
mother.’

‘You need have no doubts,’ said Mr. Hayward; ‘you have nothing to
apprehend, but, on the contrary, I can assure you that this subject will
be one of great delight to her; so once more, God bless you!’

Amy followed him to the hall-door, apparently to shut it after him, but
she passed out with him, after a moment’s coquetting with the handle.
‘You will not fail, dear Herbert? I could not bear disappointment now,’
she said to him, her eyes filling and sparkling like violets with
dew-drops hanging in them.

‘Nor for worlds would I give you one moment’s pain, dearest; fear not, I
shall be with you soon after noon to-morrow. Good-bye, and God bless
you!’

Perhaps it was that they had approached very nigh each other as they
spoke, and he could not resist the tempting opportunity, or perhaps,—but
it is of no use to speculate,—certain it is that he drew her to him
gently, and imprinted one fervent kiss on her lips. She did not chide
him, but felt the more cheerful afterwards that she had received it.

Herbert hurried home, and instantly sought his parents; he told them
all, nor concealed from them one thought by which he had been actuated,
nor one struggle against his love which he had failed to overcome. They
were both much affected, for indeed it was a solemn thing to contemplate
the plighting of their son’s faith with Amy, on the eve of such a
separation. Yet they were gratified; and in their prayers that night,
and ever afterwards, they commended the beloved pair to the guardianship
and protection of Him whom they worshipped in spirit and in truth.

-------

CHAPTER XI.

The morrow came—a bright and joyous day, on which the spirit of beauty
and of love revelled in every natural creation, and was abroad over the
whole earth,—a day of dreamy, voluptuous repose, when one feels only
fitted to hold silent converse with nature in intense admiration of the
glorious perfection of her works.

The sun was almost overpoweringly bright, and the world abroad rejoiced
in his beams. Man everywhere should have rejoiced too; yet there were
some hearts which his effulgence could not illumine, which his cheering
influence could not enliven. The breakfast-table at the rectory was a
silent one, where heretofore all had been joyous and cheerful; for it
was useless to struggle against the grief which pervaded the whole
family. Mr. Compton and Herbert strove the most manfully and with best
success to cheer the rest and themselves, but Mrs. Compton dared not
look at any one; and she sat silently, with quivering lips, and eyes
filled with tears, of which she was unconscious, except as those drops,
starting from the pure fountain of a mother’s love, ran down upon her
cheek, and were hastily brushed away. Her eyes were now fixed upon
vacancy, and again wandered to her son, and were withdrawn only when it
became agony to repress the emotion she felt.

Who can fathom the depth of a mother’s love for such a son, one on whom
she had doated, even to weakness, from his birth? We dare not attempt to
depict it, nor can it be expressed; but it has been felt by millions,
and will continue to be so while the tenderest and holiest feelings of
love are continued as blessings to us.

Herbert fulfilled his appointment faithfully; ere he had passed the
little bridge many paces, the maiden met him, for she had long sat and
watched for him; and they strolled on, away through the most sequestered
glades of the park, resting at whiles on hillocks of thyme and mossy
banks, which courted occupation as they wandered by. Time flew lightly,
and in that perfect bliss which can be only known once,—so pure are the
sensations, that the heart does not hope to feel them again; and which,
if once enjoyed, remain indelibly impressed upon it for ever.

They wandered on; they had no thought for anything around them, no eyes
to behold beauties, except in the luxury of their own thoughts. Their
minds were like stringed instruments in perfect unison,—each touch by
the one was responded to by the other with harmony. They spoke of the
future with confidence, with that pure hope only known to the young who
have never felt the agony of hope deferred. There was no cloud now over
their bright future. Four years! to look back on it was nothing; they
could remember the occurrences of four years ago as though they were
yesterday, and those to come they thought would pass as fast.

He spoke to her of the gorgeous East, of the temples, the palaces, the
almost fairy-land he was to see, and they pictured to themselves a land
so bright and fair that they longed to roam over it in company. He
promised her letters,—not cold formal ones written at a sitting, but
daily records of his thoughts, and minute descriptions of the varied
scenes he should pass through. He promised sketches too, by every
opportunity, of everything about him,—of his tent, his room, even of his
table where he should sit and hold conversations with her in writing, as
well as of the scenery and magnificent remains of the country.

And in this exquisite converse all care for the time had passed away
from them; for though the feeling of parting did often float through
their minds, yet it would have been hard had it been allowed to damp the
buoyancy of two such naturally cheerful hearts as theirs; and they
entered the drawing-room of Beechwood together, glowing with such
pleasure, and with such joyous expressions upon their faces, that Mrs.
Hayward, who had been long waiting for them, and had expected a far
different scene, was affected with joy instead of sorrow; and though the
result was much the same, yet her equanimity was soon restored, and the
hearty blessing and greeting she gave the pair, as they advanced to
receive it, gratified her benevolent and loving heart.

Herbert stayed with them till the night was far spent; there was perfect
confidence and perfect love among the party; and if these are seldom
vouchsafed together in life’s pilgrimage, they make the period of that
intercourse so marked in its purity of character that it is the better
appreciated and the longer remembered.

But sadness came at length,—the dreaded day of departure drew nigh;—the
Sabbath, Herbert’s last day with his parents, was held sacred by both
families; and as they now had a common interest in him who was about to
leave, they passed it together at the rectory. There is little pleasure
in dwelling upon a scene so sad,—in depicting the sorrow of those who
were assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Hayward did the utmost their kind hearts
could suggest to comfort their friends, and in some measure succeeded;
but the time passed heavily, the conversation, however it was directed,
only tended to the same point,—but that was too painful a one to be
discussed freely, and was only alluded to with difficulty. Mrs. Compton
tried in vain to sit out the evening in the drawing-room, and at length
was obliged to retire to her own chamber, where she was followed and
tended by her friend and Amy with true affection.

Poor Amy! she had a hard part to bear. To conceal her own miserable
feelings, in order that she might not be an additional weight upon the
already oppressed spirits of others, was a task she was barely equal to;
yet she strove well to master her grief, and to all appearance hers was
the only light heart of the party. Herbert had promised to accompany her
home through the park, so that she would be spared the misery of bidding
him farewell before others, even though they might be her own parents,
and this also consoled her.

In their evening worship, Mr. Compton took occasion to allude to
Herbert’s departure; his prayer was beautiful and simple, and in fervent
supplication he earnestly commended him to the Almighty’s care and
protection. The bitter sobs of Mrs. Compton could throughout be heard
above his own tremulous voice, but he persevered manfully, and all of
that assembly arose more calm and more reconciled to what was now
inevitable.

Mr. Hayward’s carriage was soon afterwards at the door; it was announced
in the drawing-room, and he and Mrs. Hayward arose to depart. They were
both deeply affected; as may well be imagined Herbert was so too, and
spoke with difficulty; but they blessed him, and gave him their fervent
wishes for success, and a safe return within the time he had appointed,
as warmly as if he had been one of their own children.

‘I have only one last favour to beg, dear Mrs. Hayward,’ he said, as he
handed her into the carriage, ‘that you will allow Amy to walk home
under my escort; I shall feel very thankful, if you will consent.’

‘I will not refuse you, Herbert,’ she said: ‘be gentle to her, for she
loves you very deeply; never disappoint her in writing, for I am well
convinced your letters will be her life while you are away. I will
endeavour to make every allowance for the delay which needs must occur
in the transmission of letters from such a distance; but still you must
be punctual and regular. Remember, these are my last and only commands
upon you; take Amy with you now, but do not keep her out late, for the
dews are heavy and may hurt you both. Now God bless you!’

‘My letters shall be my best answers to your commands,’ said Herbert;
‘believe me, I shall not miss a single opportunity of sending many to
you all, for you will never be absent from my thoughts. The time will
soon pass, and I hope and trust we shall all again be reunited in this
dear spot—till then good-bye! good-bye!’

‘Mrs. Hayward says I may escort Amy home through the park, sir,’ said
Herbert to Mr. Hayward, who was following; ‘we shall hardly lose our way
in this beautiful moonlight, and I hope you have no objection?’

‘Not if you promise you will not be late, Herbert; but I leave her to
your own discretion; I have not the heart to part you to-night; so
farewell, my brave boy! I trust we shall see you back soon a colonel at
least. You will not forget to write punctually, as well for our sake as
for Amy’s.’

‘I have already promised Mrs. Hayward that,’ said Herbert, ‘and most
faithfully will I fulfil it.’

‘Then I will say no more, but again farewell, and God bless you!’

He wrung Herbert’s hand warmly, and with cordial sincerity, and stepping
into the carriage, it drove rapidly away.

‘Now, dearest,’ said Herbert, ‘at least we can have a few moments which
we can call our own—moments to be the food of years; when every word,
however trivial, that one has uttered, will be to the other the most
precious in the stock of our hearts remembrances. Come, let us stroll
gently on.’

She took his arm, and they wandered onwards towards the park. The moon
was nigh the full, and her bright orb shed a mellow light on all around.
A few fleecy clouds floated near her in the deep blue heaven, but not
enough to dim her lustre, and her beams illuminated while they softened
every object in the well-known pathway.

The perfect silence which reigned around them, only broken at intervals
by the faint tinkling of the sheep bells here and there, or the feeble
bleat of a lamb, was soothing to them; and the wide glades of the park,
seen dimly in the distance, appeared to melt away into air, more like
the momentary visions of dreams than the realities they had been
accustomed to for years. They had much to say to each other; for they
were young, ardent, confiding—loving with the intenseness of a first and
sincere attachment, the gentle growth of years; yet theirs was not the
language of passion, but those sobered, chastened, and now sorrowful
feelings, which were the result at once of their long attachment and
their dread of parting; and they lingered on, nor knew how swiftly time
was flying, and that their sad farewell must be spoken at last. They
walked up to the house several times, and thought to leave each other;
but always some new word was spoken, some train of thought aroused,
which carried them away again, forgetful of their promises not to delay.

Nor could Amy’s buoyant heart support her to the last as it had done
through the day,—indeed through the last few days; bitter were her sobs
as she clung to the manly form of him she loved,—bitter and more
violent, as the clock of the out-offices struck an hour—she did not,
could not count it,—which seemed to be a last warning to her to leave
him; she almost longed to do so, and yet had not the power; nor could
Herbert bring himself to utter the wish for her to go.

They stood before the hall-door, irresolute, as the clock struck; and
gently, in as soothing words as he could frame his thoughts to
utterance, he reminded her of his promise to her mother and of her
strict injunctions. ‘It was only from my promise that we have enjoyed
these exquisite moments,’ he said, ‘and I would not vex her, Amy.’ But
still they lingered; she was helpless as a child, her tears fell very
fast, and convulsive sobs shook her sadly. Herbert supported her with
one arm, while he wiped away her tears, and kissed the beautiful face
which, upturned to his, had lost its cheerful expression, and now wore
one of such mental anguish as had never before visited it, that he
almost reproached himself for having caused it. It required all his
self-possession to restrain a violent outbreak of passionate emotion;
for his heart was full even to bursting, and could he have shed tears,
he thought it would have relieved him, but they were denied him. They
could speak but little; all he could utter were words of consolation,
which, repeated again and again almost unintelligibly, fell on heedless
ears, for the misery of her mind repelled them. But it could not last;
sooner or later he must leave her, and he felt that every moment was
causing her additional pain, while no immediate alleviation could
follow.

He drew her gently towards the door; she understood his meaning, and
acquiesced, by making no resistance; they ascended the steps together;
the door had been left unfastened on purpose to receive her, and he felt
this delicate mark of kindness in her parents deeply; it seemed even to
comfort Amy that she should be able to reach her chamber unobserved.

‘Go and pray for me, as you pray for yourself, dearest! it will soothe
you more than my words or feeble consolations,’ he said, as opening the
door he led her within it; ‘soon I will join my prayers to yours, and
ascending together to Him who is alone able to grant them, they will
bring us that peace which indeed passes understanding. Go! may He who
looks down from yonder bright and glorious heaven upon us, bless you for
ever, my angel, and keep you in safety!’

He could not add more, nor did she dare to reply, though some indistinct
murmurs escaped her; he clasped her to his heart in one ardent embrace;
kissed her forehead—her eyes—her lips in passionate fervour; and then
disengaging her from him,—for she did not, could not oppose it,—he led
her softly within the hall; and not daring to hazard a second glance
upon her, he gently closed the door, and with an almost bursting heart
rushed from the house.

He did not go far thus. Nature, who will not be denied vent for such
bitter feelings as his were, and which had been so long and so ill
repressed, demanded relief; and overcome by emotion, his temples
throbbing as though they would burst, with a choking sensation in his
throat, which caused him to breathe with difficulty, he threw himself
upon a rustic seat by the side of the walk. For awhile the agony he
suffered was almost insupportable, but afterwards a passionate burst of
tears, which he could not check or repress, came to his relief. He
leaned his head upon his hand and sobbed bitterly for many minutes; but
he arose at last, in some degree soothed by the effort nature had made
to relieve the sorrow which had well-nigh overpowered him.

Herbert left his home the next morning amidst the unrestrained and
bitter grief of all. All his mother’s previous resolutions failed her;
for a while she refused to be comforted; dread, that he was going from
her for ever, oppressed her with a weight which she could not throw off
by the most strenuous mental exertions. Mr. Compton strove to console
her, and Herbert was as cheerful as he could be under the circumstances.
But it was all of no use; deep affection would find its vent, and no
wonder, when all had been so knit together in the ties of love as that
family.

But after breakfast, which they had vainly tried to eat, and the viands
which had been provided remained untasted upon the table, the carriage
was announced. To each of his brothers and his younger sisters Herbert
bade a tender farewell, promising them all sorts of presents and
drawings from eastern climates; but who shall paint his last moments
with his dear and honoured mother? It would be profanation of such
feelings to attempt their delineation—they can be felt only, never
described. Mute with sorrow, Mrs. Compton could not speak to him, as he
folded her in a last embrace; and as he tore himself away from her, and
hurried to the carriage, she tottered to the window, and supporting
herself by the side panel, with eyes dim with weeping and now almost
blinded by her tears, she watched him as long as sight of him was spared
her. She saw him throw himself into the carriage—his father attending
him to it—the door shut—the orders given to proceed; but ere the
postilion could urge his horses forward, she had sunk senseless upon the
ground.

The regiment marched that day towards Dover, where his father joined
Herbert in a few days. Here they were detained only as long as was
sufficient to provide the requisite necessaries to the regiment for a
hot climate, and the duties of furnishing these to his men kept Herbert
continually employed. He had some idea at one time of returning home,
even for a day or two, but the remembrance of the pangs which both his
mother and Amy had suffered was too fresh in his mind to allow of his
indulging in so selfish and indeed a useless gratification. He had his
father with him, whose presence was not only a solace, but who
prevented, as much as was in his power, Herbert’s giving way to the
grief which at times he could not repress, and which endured in despite
of him.

At length the day arrived for the embarkation, and a gallant but painful
sight it was to see so many brave fellows leaving their native land,
their homes, their parents, children, and other perhaps dearer
ties—prepared to shed their blood in their country’s cause—to brave the
perils of an unknown land and dangerous climate for her sake. Yet, as
the regiment moved towards the pier from the barracks in open column,
headed by their band, playing the most lively marches, to which the firm
and measured tread of the men formed a noble accompaniment, there could
not be seen a sorrowful face among the whole; for their colours were
unfurled, and floated proudly to the breeze; and as each man’s eye
rested upon those emblems of their national honour which he had sworn to
guard, it glistened with that undefinable sensation of glowing pride
which soldiers only know, and feel most deeply on an occasion like this.

The regiment was attended by all the other officers of the garrison, and
the inhabitants of the town, and was loudly cheered as they passed
along. The boats waited beside the pier: each division was marched in an
orderly manner into its respective boats, and at a signal given the oars
were dipped at once, and the whole mimic fleet stretched at their utmost
speed towards the ships, which lay at some distance from the shore.

Three hearty English cheers followed them, led regularly by an officer
of distinction, who stood upon a capstan for the purpose; while the band
of his corps, which was stationed upon the pier, played the slow march
of the departing regiment with admirable expression. The three cheers
were as heartily returned from the boats, and the gallant corps sped
quickly on to their vessels.

Mr. Compton accompanied his son on board, and stayed as long as it was
possible. The anchors of the fleet were a-peak, their topsails loosed,
when they arrived on board; and when the men were somewhat settled, and
order restored, the signal was made for sailing; soon the anchors were
at the cat-heads, the topsails sheeted home, and the vast fabrics began
their march over the deep, to be continued through storm or calm to the
end. But as sail after sail was set, the vessels began to move the
faster, until it was no longer possible to retain the boat which was
towing astern, in which he was to return; he was aware that every
indulgence had been shown him in having been allowed to remain so long,
and he could make no opposition to its being ordered alongside.

‘May He who alone is able to protect you, Herbert,’ he said, as he wrung
his hand, ‘keep you in health! You go, I am well aware, to many dangers,
but I leave you in confident hope that we may meet again; and my most
fervent supplications shall ever be for you. Be careful of yourself; you
are strong, active, temperate,—blessings which you cannot prize too
highly. And now embrace me, my dear boy—I dare speak no more.’

He left the deck: Herbert watched him down the side safely into the
boat; the rope was cast off, and in another instant it was dancing in
the wake of the vessel astern; the boatmen set their sail, and soon the
tiny bark was dancing merrily along over the waters. Herbert gazed till
it became a speck, and then disappeared; but Mr. Compton saw the tall
vessels, which had spread every sail to court a gentle and favourable
wind, longer, and he watched the last faint glitter of their white
canvas with straining eyes and an aching heart, till he could see them
no longer upon the blue horizon.

* * * * *

We must now return to a point in our narrative from which we have very
widely digressed, in order to put our readers in possession of what we
have detailed of the history of Herbert Compton; and we will return to
the happy party which was assembled round the cheerful fire at Alston
Rectory.

Besides the family, Amy was there; and, since the events we have
detailed, she was often at Alston for days together: she was bright and
joyous as ever, indeed much improved in personal appearance. Little more
than a year had elapsed since Herbert had left them, but the letters he
had written had been so regularly received, that the miserable
apprehensions which all had indulged on his departure were completely
dispelled; they knew that he was happy, and enjoyed excellent health,
that he had formed pleasant friendships, and liked the country, which he
described with eloquence. Still, as he had gone on service soon after
his arrival, they were anxious, and looked eagerly for news.

‘Come, let us have a glee, girls,’ said Mr. Compton, after a game of
forfeits had been played with all its pleasant, noisy fun, which seems
now to have abandoned us; ‘come, we must have some music. Get you to the
harpsichord, Amy, and I will help out my own bass with my violoncello.’

‘What shall we sing, sir?’ answered Amy, gaily, going at once to the
instrument; ‘here are all kinds,—comic, lively, and grave. Ah! I have
hit at once upon Herbert’s favourite,—“When winds breathe soft.”’

‘Very good; you could not have anything better; and we all know that
your heart will be in your song;—but, let us see.’

The parts were soon arranged; Amy led the glee, the delicious harmony of
which appeared to float in the air above their heads, so perfectly was
it sung by voices, excellent in themselves, and attuned by constant
practice. Others followed; for as they had begun with glees, so they
agreed to continue.

At last, after a pause, Mr. Compton, patting her cheek, said,—‘Well, you
have sung so well, Amy, that I think I shall have a letter for my pet
to-night.’

‘A letter!—for me? Ah, sir, from whom? not from Herbert?’

‘Indeed I hope so, my darling,’ added Mrs. Compton; ‘you know we were
disappointed by the last packet, and Mr. Compton heard yesterday from
his London agent, saying that a Bombay vessel had arrived with letters,
and that he would forward ours the next day.’

‘I am so happy! dear, dear Mrs. Compton,’ cried the joyful girl,
throwing her arms around her, and kissing her; ‘I feel so very happy!
And when will the letters come?’

‘I expect the boy every moment with the bag,’ she replied; ‘he should
have been here before this; but perhaps the post is late at —— to-day,
on account of the weather.’

‘Then we shall have a delightful evening, indeed,’ said Amy; ‘shall we
not, boys and girls? Herbert’s letters to all of you shall be read
first, and then I will read just such scraps of mine as I please. You
know how I love to tyrannise over you, and tempt you with a great deal
that you must not see.’

‘Well, here is the bag!’ cried Edward, taking it from the servant, who
just then entered. ‘Now we shall see!’ and he opened it. ‘What! only
one?—that is a disappointment! It is for you, father.’

‘Ah, from my agents I see; perhaps the letters have not been delivered;
but we shall hear all about it.’ They crowded round him, but poor Amy’s
heart sunk within her; she almost sickened lest there should be no news
of Herbert.

‘Dear Sir,’ read Mr. Compton, ‘we are sorry to inform you that there
were no letters for you or for Miss Hayward, per _Ocean_ from Bombay,
and we are sorry to add that the general news is not so favourable as we
could wish—’

‘Look to Amy! look to Amy!’ cried Mrs. Compton, suddenly and anxiously.

It was indeed necessary,—for she had fainted. It was long ere she
recovered; she had naturally a powerful mind, but it had been suddenly,
perhaps unadvisedly, excited; and when such disappointment ensued, she
had not been able to bear up against it, the more so as this was the
second she had experienced within a short time, and there was no doubt
from the previous public information, that severe fighting had been
apprehended, in which Herbert’s regiment must take a part.

In vain was it that Mr. and Mrs. Hayward tried to console her,—they had
felt the disappointment as keenly as Amy; for the time, therefore, all
were sad, and the evening which had begun so cheerfully, was concluded
in painful and almost silent apprehension; nor did the accounts which
appeared in the newspapers some days afterwards convey to them any
alleviation of their fears.

-------

CHAPTER XII.

It is now necessary to revisit Abdool Rhyman Khan and his party, whom we
left at a small village in the pass leading behind Pencondah, and in
their company to travel awhile through those districts which lay between
them and the city whither they were bound.

There were no dangers now in their path, no attacks from the Mahrattas
to be apprehended, nor was there the irksome heat which oppressed and
wearied them before. A few showers had already fallen, the earth had put
on its verdant covering, and travelling was now a pleasure more than a
fatigue. The Khan had intended proceeding by easy stages, but the news
he had heard of rumours of fresh wars, of the personal activity of
Tippoo among the army, which was always the forerunner of some campaign,
made him more than usually solicitous to press forward.

So on the fifth day they were at Balapoor; and leaving the lady to the
care of the servants to rest for awhile, the Khan, accompanied by Kasim,
rode forward to the town and fort of Nundidgroog, where he knew some of
his own men were stationed.

‘Do you see that pile of rocks yonder?’ said the Khan to Kasim, as they
rode along.

‘I do; why do you ask?’

‘Because,’ he replied, ‘that is a place well worth seeing, and one which
was a rare favourite of Hyder Ali’s—may his memory be honoured!’

‘Why? Had he a summer-house there?’

‘Yes, there is a sort of a house there, to be sure,’ returned the Khan
laughing; ‘but not one of pleasure, I should think. Many a poor wretch
has been in it, who would have given the wealth of the world, had he
possessed it, to have got out again.’

‘It is a prison then?’

‘It is, and one from which but few return alive.’

‘How so? You do not mean to say that they are murdered?’

‘I mean to tell you plainly, that you had better not get into it; few of
our people have ever been sent there, for it is reserved for the kafir
English—may their tribe be accursed!—and a few of them are now and then
thrown from the top, to terrify the rest into submission to the
Sultaun’s will, and to become a feast for the kites and crows. Look! I
suppose some of them have been cast over lately, for there are vultures
wheeling in the air overhead, and making stoops as if they would
alight.’

Kasim shuddered; he thought it a base death for any one to die, to be
thrown from thence—to reach the bottom haply alive!—and to be left to
struggle there maimed and helpless—to linger till death came,
accelerated perhaps by the jackals or vultures.

‘Have you ever seen this, Khan?’ asked Kasim.

‘Never, but I know those who have: the office of executioner is no
enviable one to a soldier; and he who has this post, though as arrant a
coward as can well be in the field, yet can stand by and see brave men
hurled over these rocks; for, to do them justice, the English are brave
as lions and their courage cannot be quelled: we learned that at
Perambaukum, to our cost.’

‘Ay, I have heard of that. Report states it to have been a good battle.’

‘Mashalla! you may say so; and, blessed be Alla! the arms of the true
believers were victorious over the infidels; yet they fought well, and,
though a handful of men, defied our utmost attacks and continued
charges.’

‘Then you were there, Ali Khan?’

‘Yes. I was then in the Pagha—the Royal Guard; and I was desired by
Hyder (peace be on his name!) to protect Tippoo Sahib, who led the
charges. He fought like a tiger as he is, and many of the infidels
tasted of death at his hand; but one of them, as we charged and
overthrew their last square, made a thrust with his bayonet at the young
prince, which—praise to Mahomed!—I parried; and in return, caused him to
taste of death. The young man never forgot that deed, and some others I
was fortunate enough to perform before him, and I am what I am.’

‘Then, like those of his rank, he does not forget benefits?’

‘Never; he is faithful to those he loves, but a bitter foe to those who
provoke him. Above all, the English are his detestation; he sees their
restless love of intrigue and power; he knows how they have sown
dissensions in Bengal, and wrested many fair provinces from the sway of
the true believers; he fears their abilities and knowledge of the arts
of war; and though he has some French in his service, yet he can see
plainly enough that they have not the powers of the others either to
contrive or to execute. Above all, he fears the prophecy about him by a
holy man whom he consulted, which no doubt you have heard.’

‘No, indeed, I have not.’

‘Not heard that? Ajaib! it is very strange; but how could you, after
all. Know then, that as he sat one day in one of the innermost
apartments of the palace in the garden of the Deria Doulut—where no one
could by any possibility have access to him, and where he was engaged in
study—there was heard a voice conversing with him, and his was gradually
raised till it became furious, as, Inshalla! it often does to the terror
of his enemies.’

‘Taajoob!’ exclaimed Kasim, ‘who was it?’

‘Willa alum! (God knows),’ replied the Khan. ‘But listen: it is said the
Mushaek[23]—for so he appeared to be—cried to him with a loud voice, and
bade him beware of the English Feringhees, for they were plotting
against him; and that though the day was far distant, yet danger
threatened him from them which could not be avoided. Then some say that
the being (may Alla forgive me if he hears it!) upbraided the Sultaun
with many errors of faith, and with being given to idolatry in private,
and with doing magic, to the hurt of his own soul; and it was this which
made him so angry.’

-----

Footnote 23:

Holy man.

-----

‘And who was it after all?’

‘Alla knows!’ said the Khan mysteriously; ‘Alla knows! Some people say
it was a Fakeer named Shah Yoonoos, who had wandered in unknown to
anybody, and had reached the Sultaun’s chamber; but others say it was
one of the spirits of the air (over whom it is known he has power) who
had taken that form to visit him by day. But Alla only knows the truth,
after all. Certain it is, however, that he does perform rites which I,
as a humble and pious Mahomedan, would object to.’

‘Did no one try to seize the intruder?’

‘Many, so it is said; but he passed forth from among them all, and has
not been seen since.’

‘Most extraordinary, certainly! I marvel not now, Khan, that he should
be so suspicious of the English. I for one long to have a blow with
them, and to see how they fight.’

‘Inshalla! the opportunity will not be long wanting; you will have it
ere you have been long with us. But among our people here we shall learn
something, for they have always the quickest information from the
capital.’

Shortly afterwards they rode into the outer court of the Temple of
Nundi, at the town under the fort of Nundidroog, and the scene which
presented itself to the eyes of Kasim was as novel as it was
interesting.

The court was a large square, contained in a sort of piazza formed by a
colonnade of huge square blocks of granite placed in three rows, about
twelve feet asunder, each piece probably sixteen feet in height; across
these at the top, to form a roof, were transverse pieces of equal
length. The spaces between the pillars thus placed, formed excellent
stalls for horses, and the enormous area was thus converted into one
huge stable,—where of old the Brahmin priests had wandered, dispensing
charitable aid to the wretched, or instructing those who thirsted for
knowledge.

In the centre were a few gay tents, and many camels were sitting and
standing around them; several elephants too were busied with huge piles
of leafy branches before them, selecting the tenderest morsels, and
brushing away flies with others. Around were groups of men,—some lying
under a rude screen, formed of three spears tied together, with a cloth
thrown over them; others lounging and swaggering about, gaily dressed,
and armed to the teeth; many were gathered into knots, and, either
sitting upon spread carpets or standing together, were occupied in
smoking, or listening to some itinerant musicians or storytellers. In
various parts were little booths, where coarse confectionery was sold;
and many a portly-bellied group of money-changers, with their keen and
shrewd eyes, were sitting on the ground, naked to the waist, with heaps
of courees and pice[24] spread before them. There were women selling
fruit out of baskets and sacks, others hawking about sour curds; with a
thousand other busy, bustling occupations going on with vigour, for
which the presence of the cavalry found full employment.

-----

Footnote 24:

Copper coin.

-----

Before them, and above the piazzas, appeared the richly ornamented and
curious high pyramidical roofs of the temples, and their massive and
decorated gateway; and above all frowned the bare rock of the fort,—a
naked mass of about eight hundred feet perpendicular, arising from a
rugged and woody slope of an equal height. The walls around the summit,
which were built upon the very giddy verge, were bristling with cannon,
and the numbers of men about showed that it possessed many defenders.

All these objects, assisted by the bright colours of the costumes, the
caparisons of the horses, camels, and elephants, some of which were
already equipped for travel, formed a picture which, glowing under the
slanting beams of an afternoon sun, caused the young man’s heart to
bound with delight as they entered the large square and rode onwards
among the motley crowd.

‘What think you of my fine fellows, Kasim?’ said the Khan, as they
passed various groups of stout, soldier-like men. ‘Inshalla! they are
worth looking at.’

‘Ul-humd-ul-illa! they most truly are,’ replied the young man, who was,
to say the truth, somewhat bewildered by the excitement of the scene.
‘And do you really command all these, O Khan?’

‘Most of them, I daresay, are my youths, Kasim; but I have no doubt some
of the garrison of the fort are here also, and it would be difficult to
distinguish them. But these are not all; Mashalla! and praise to the
Sultaun’s bounty, we have as many more at least—nay, three times as
many—at the city. But there is surely more activity than usual going on,
and this looks marvellously like the preparations for a march; so let us
press on to the tent yonder, for there shall we find Hubeeb Oolla Khan,
or Shekh Jaffur Sahib, my Jemadars, who will answer my queries. I marvel
none of my rogues have yet found me out.’

‘Why, they can hardly see your face, Khan,’ said Kasim; ‘and I daresay
they little expect you to drop, as it were, from the clouds thus
suddenly among them.’

‘Perhaps not; but here we are at the tent: dismount, and let us enter
together.’

As he spoke, the Khan alighted, and unfolding the muslin scarf which had
been tied about his face, he was instantly recognised by a number of the
men who were lounging about in front of it, and who now crowded round
him with congratulations.

‘The Khan Sahib is come!’ shouted several to their companions.

‘My lord’s footsteps are welcome!’ cried those who were nearest.
‘Inshalla! victory waits upon them.’

‘It is a fortunate hour that has brought him,’ cried another, who
pressed forward, and bowed before him. ‘What are my lord’s wishes? let
him order his slave Dilawur Ali to perform them.’

‘Ha! art thou there, friend?’ said the Khan. ‘Well, since thou wishest
for employment, go on, and tell the Jemadar Sahib that I am here. Which
of the officers is with you?’

‘Jaffur Sahib, Khodawund! he will have rare news for my lord;’ and he
departed.

‘This looks like a march,’ said the Khan to another: ‘say, is it so?’

‘It is, protector of the poor! but we know but little of the true cause
as yet, though many rumours are afloat; the most prevalent is—’

But here he was interrupted by the Jemadar himself, who had hurried from
his tent, and now advanced towards them. The two leaders embraced
cordially.

‘Ul-humd-ul-illa! you are welcome, Khan Sahib,’ said Jaffur; ‘but do not
remain here: come, I pray you, to your servant’s tent, and rest after
your journey.’

He went in, and was soon seated upon the soft cushions of the Jemadar’s
musnud. Kasim followed, but, uncertain how to act, he continued
standing, until he was desired by the Khan to be seated near him. This,
together with the Khan’s marked attention to the young man, appeared
rather to disconcert the Jemadar, who regarded the new comer with some
suspicion, and Kasim could not help imagining with some dislike. I shall
have an enemy in this man, thought Kasim for an instant; but again, he
reflected that he had nothing to fear, and soon ceased to regard the
furtive looks of the Jemadar, which were cast upon him from time to
time, as the Khan appealed to him in support of his opinions or remarks
during the conversation, which naturally turned upon the movements of
the corps of cavalry he commanded.

It was true that the corps was about to move: all the outposts, except a
few of those immediately upon the Mahratta frontier, had been called in,
and had joined within the past day or two; and the morrow had been fixed
for the departure of the whole from Nundidroog towards the capital. For
the reason of this many rumours were in circulation: the Jemadar said
that a sudden rupture with the English was one; that there was only to
be a muster of the cavalry was another; and after that was finished the
Sultaun intended to go a-hunting into the forest bordering upon Coorg.
But there was a third, which had been confirmed by news that day
received from the city, that some very angry messages had passed between
the Rajah of Travancore and the Sultaun, and that both had ordered
musters of their forces. This the Jemadar thought the most likely of
all, as he knew there had been negotiations pending between the Sultaun
and the Rajah relative to some forts which had been taken possession of
in a manner that did not appear warrantable by the latter.

For the present, the Khan and Kasim were the guests of the Jemadar; and
having partaken of refreshment, they set out to procure a resting place
for the night, or one where they should be able to have their tents
pitched.

As they went forth, many were the hearty greetings which saluted the
Khan; every veteran especially, whose bronzed and furrowed face showed
that the scorching heats of summer had for many a year passed over him
in constant and active employment; and many a man, whose deeply-scarred
face or breast gave a sure proof of often tried courage, met him with
that hearty familiarity, and yet scrupulous deference, which, while it
yielded nothing to the man, yet showed submission to authority and high
respect for rank. All were unanimous in rejoicing that the Khan had
returned, in such terms as, while it gratified Kasim to think he had
become the friend and companion of one so honoured and beloved, caused
him also to suspect that the Jemadar Jaffur Sahib was not much liked
among them.

Nor indeed was he. Sprung from the lowest rank of the people, he
possessed ferocity of character, which had early attracted the notice of
the Sultaun, and he had risen rapidly to the station he held. He had
also been a ready instrument in his hand to effect any cruelty he
willed; and if war was to be carried into any district where
Mahomedanism had not advanced, and forcible conversions of the
inhabitants were to be made, or if any of the unoffending people were to
be hung because they would not become converts, Jaffur Sahib was
generally selected, as well from his address as a soldier, as from his
unscrupulous character, from among the others of the same stamp who
abounded about the person of the Sultaun. He was born at Arcot, and
inherited all the narrow prejudice and extreme bigotry peculiar to his
townsmen, and hated all English with a malignity, in which perhaps he
was only excelled through all that host by the Sultaun himself.

The presence of Kasim, in such intimate association with his commander,
immediately became a source of vexation to him; and as suddenly as he
had seen him, he had conceived a violent aversion to him. He saw
generous courage, honesty, and faithfulness written upon the brow of the
young man; and as none of these found any place in his own heart, so did
he at once dislike the fancied possessor of them; for he knew the Khan’s
generous nature, and how easily all the authority he had by incessant
intrigues possessed himself of, might be reduced in a moment by one who,
after becoming acquainted with the details of the service, could not
fail of observing that many abuses existed under his fostering care. The
Khan had not mentioned Kasim to him, nor could he divine in what
capacity he attended upon his person, and he burned with curiosity to
discover. When the Khan was gone, therefore, he addressed himself to his
chief Sontaburdar, or bearer of a silver club, whose name was Madar
Sahib, a man who had followed his fortunes, and often shared whatever
spoil was wrung from the unfortunate whom they could get into their
power. There was something too in his retainer’s face which seemed to
expect the question; and at the slight turn of his master towards him,
who had been musing ‘with the finger of deliberation placed between the
teeth of vexation,’ he folded his hands and bent himself to listen. They
were alone, for every one else had followed the Khan when he went out.

‘The curses of the Shietan upon the old fool,’ he said; ‘could not he
have kept away for a day longer? I tell thee, Madar, this appearance of
his is not only a thousand rupees out of my pocket, but the loss to me
of all the honour, credit, and influence which a short campaign would
have given. I say a curse on him.’

‘Ameen!’ said his servant; ‘my lord’s star is unfortunate to-day; but,
Inshalla! it will brighten.’

‘And then that smooth-faced boy that he has brought with him,’ he
continued, not heeding the other’s remark, ‘I’ll warrant, his prime
favourite. Knowest thou aught of him?’

‘Nothing, Khodawund; but I can inquire.’

‘Do so,—see what hath brought them together. Perhaps he is the brother
of this new wife he has married—the old dotard! if so, we may soon
expect to get our leave to depart, Madar, for the old Khan will use his
utmost influence to secure a good place near himself for his pet.’

‘Alla forbid! my lord has no cause to think so as yet; but I go, and
will soon bring the information.’

While this colloquy was going on, the Khan and Kasim had gone forward to
seek for a place of temporary refuge; and after examining many parts of
the broken cloisters, all of which afforded but indifferent shelter,
Dilawur Ali, who had been looking about, suddenly returned.

‘I have found a place, O Khan,’ he cried; ‘come and see; it is clean,
and if we had any kanats,[25] we could make it comfortable enough for a
night’s lodging.’

-----

Footnote 25:

Tent-walls.

-----

They followed him onwards to the end of the large square; and entering
through a small doorway, found themselves in a square court, in the
centre of which was a cistern of water, which could be approached by
easy steps for the convenience of bathers. There was a deep cloister all
round, supported upon carved pillars of wood, which afforded ample
accommodation for the Khan’s party. It was the upper part of the
outside, however, which attracted their attention and admiration; and
indeed the exquisite design and ornaments of the screen would merit a
description at our hands, if anything so intricate could be described so
as to give any idea of the building, but it consisted of a regular
number of highly ornamented niches in the most florid Hindoo style, each
niche containing some many-armed image of Hindoo veneration, male or
female, in grotesque attitudes. The whole was of pure white stucco, and
contrasted brightly with the dark green of some noble tamarind-trees
which nodded over it, their light feathery sprays mingling with the
innumerable angles and pinnacles of the architecture. Above these rose
the tall summits of the temples, and again the naked grey mass of the
huge granite rock frowned over all, appearing to overhang the scene.

‘Ay, this will do right well,’ cried the Khan; ‘we have not been in such
comfortable quarters for many days. The camels will soon be here, and
then a place can be screened off and made private. Often as I have been
at the fort, I never discovered this quiet spot before: truly the kafir
who built it had wisdom; and for once (may the Prophet pardon me!) I
honour one of the accursed race. What sayest thou, Kasim?’

‘I doubt not that forgiveness will be easily granted for an offence so
slight, Khan Sahib. I confess that I for one have many friends among the
unbelievers; and, though I hate their idolatry, yet I cannot help loving
their gentle dispositions, and admiring their genius, which after all is
the gift of Alla to them as much as to us.’

‘You must not give vent to such opinions as those, Kasim,’ replied the
Khan; ‘must he, Dilawur Ali? for at the city there is nought breathed
but destruction of the infidels of all denominations; and if thou
wouldst not make enemies, thou must chime in with the prevailing humour,
or keep thy thoughts to thyself.’

‘Good advice, noble Khan,’ said Dilawur Ali; ‘there are quick ears
enough to hear, and ready tongues enough to convey to the Sultaun (may
his prosperity increase!) whatever malice or spite may dictate to bad
hearts; and we need not go very far from this place to find many. Thou
must pardon this freedom of speech,’ he continued to the young man; ‘but
I am an old soldier, and the Khan Sahib can tell you that I have fought
beside him, and I have often known a young man ruined by indiscretions
of which he was not aware.’

‘I thank you much for your speech,’ said Kasim, ‘and desire your
friendship. Inshalla! we shall know each other well ere long.’

‘Inshalla!’ replied the other; ‘when the Khan Sahib is settled here for
the night safely, if you will come to my tent, I will give you such
information regarding this our service,—for I presume you have joined
it,—as may be of use to you hereafter.’

‘Ay, go to him, Kasim,’ said the Khan; ‘Dilawur Ali is a Syud, a worthy
man, and religious too,—in all respects fit for thy company. From him
thou wilt learn many things which I could not tell thee, and which will
not be lost upon thee.’

As they spoke, the palankeen of the Khan was seen approaching,—the
bearers with some difficulty threading their way through the crowd.
Kasim ran to meet it, and conduct it to the spot where the Khan was; and
for the first time for many days, nay since the attack upon the village,
he caught a glimpse of the fair inmate; for the doors were slightly open
as it approached; and though, as a good Mussulman ought to do, he would
have turned away his head from any other, yet he could not resist the
opportunity of looking through the crevice; and he thought that, if
perchance her eye should rest on his, a moment’s glance would satisfy
him, and would assure him that he was not forgotten.

The bearers were about to make a wrong turn as they came up, and Kasim
called loudly to them. Ameena heard his voice; and the temptation to
steal a passing glance at him (who we must own had been more in her
thoughts than her lord might have liked could he have seen them) caused
her to withdraw from her face the end of her garment with which she had
covered it for an instant, that she might see the better; she would not
have done so perhaps, could she have guessed that he was looking for
her. But as it happened, some obstruction in the way of the bearers
obliged them to stop so close to him, that the palankeen brushed his
person, and they could have spoken, so near were they. Their eyes met
once more; his in admiration which he could not conceal, hers in
confusion which impelled her instantly to cover her face, but not before
she had seen that the scarf she had given him to bind up his wound still
occupied a prominent place upon his breast. ‘He has not thrown it away,’
she said to herself. She little knew how he valued it.

Her palankeen was carried on through the door into the place we have
described. The others had departed, and she was alone with her lord,
who, bidding her his usual hearty and kind welcome, opened the doors
wide, and displayed to her the view which had surprised and delighted
the others previously; and she broke out into a burst of girlish
admiration at a sight she so little expected when her palankeen entered
the gloomy doorway.

-------

CHAPTER XIII.

Madar waited for a while, until he saw that the Khan’s servants had
arrived; when, taking his silver stick of office with him, he sought
their little separate encampment, which, busy as it had seemed
elsewhere, was now swallowed up in the mass that occupied the space
around them. He lurked about the busy and tired men for some time, not
hazarding a remark to any one, lest he should meet with a sharp repulse,
which indeed was to be expected; seeing that after a long march, men who
must provide and cook their dinners, have much more to do than to hold
conversations with prying inquirers.

At last, seeing Daood, the Khan’s attendant, busy preparing his master’s
hooka, he advanced towards him, and seated himself upon his hams close
to him.

‘Salaam Aliekoom, brother!’ said he.

‘Salaam!’ was the only reply Daood chose to give.

‘Mashalla! the Khan has returned in good health.’

‘Shookr Khoda! he has.’

‘Inshalla! he will long continue so.’

‘Inshalla!’

‘And so he has married a young wife! Well, the Khan is a powerful man,—a
youth, yet.’

‘Inshalla, brother!’ and Daood continued his employment most
assiduously, humming a popular tune.

‘The brother of the Khanum is a fine-looking youth—may his prosperity
increase!’

Daood looked at the speaker with no amicable eyes. ‘Who, in the name of
the Sheitan, art thou, O unlucky man? How darest thou, even in thy
speech, to allude to the Khanum, and what mean these questions? Go! stay
not here, or it may be that some of our folks may lay a stick over thee;
and haply myself, if thou stayest much longer. Go, I tell thee; or thou
mayst chance to eat dirt.’

Madar saw plainly enough there was little to be gained by conversation
with Daood, so he left him; and after a while tried a groom who was busy
with one of the Khan’s horses.

With him he was more successful, and soon he learned the history of the
young man and the events which had occurred during their march from
Hyderabad. Stored with these, he was preparing to depart, when he was
roughly accosted by Kasim and Dilawur Ali, who had observed him in
conversation with the groom; for Dilawur Ali well knew the character of
the man to be of the worst kind, and that the inquiries he was making
were to gratify the curiosity of his master, or perhaps to serve worse
purposes.

Dilawur Ali was an officer who commanded a Duffa or division of the
corps, and a man of some authority; so he cared little, now that his
commander had arrived, either for the man or his master. For he was
secure in the Khan’s favour, and well knew that the Jemadar dared not
complain to him, even should his servant receive ill usage, or at any
rate hard words. So he cried out lustily, ‘Ho! Madar Sahib, what seekest
thou among the newly-arrived servants of the Khan? By the soul of the
Prophet, thine appearance is like a bird of ill-omen,—like the first
vulture to a dying sheep. What has he been asking of thee?’ he said to
the groom; ‘speak, and fear not.’

‘May I be your sacrifice,’ replied the man; ‘he did but ask about the
Patél Sahib yonder,’ for so Kasim continued to be called among them.

‘And what wouldst thou know about me, O base-born!’ cried Kasim; ‘what
am I to thee or to thy master?’

‘Nothing, nothing, noble sir; only my master (may his prosperity
increase!) bid me ask, in order that he might know something of one
whose appearance is so like that of a youth brave in war; and he saw too
that your worship had been wounded, and naturally wished to know whether
the Khan Sahib (may his name be exalted!) had been in any danger on the
way down, which may Alla avert!’

‘Thy words are smooth for once,’ said Dilawur Ali, ‘and well calculated
to disarm suspicion; but I know thee well, Madar Sahib, and thy master
too, and I warn thee of both, Kasim. In the present case there may be no
harm meant, and perhaps it is unjust to accuse or to suspect thee; but
thou hadst as well take the hint, for, Inshalla! we are neither fathers
of owls or of jackasses, and can see and hear as far as other people:
dost thou understand?’

‘I will tell thee more plainly, Madar Sahib,’ said the young
Patél,—whose blood was fired by the thought that any one should be so
soon prying into his affairs in the camp,—‘that if ever I catch thee
about this encampment of ours, or tampering with any of my lord the
Khan’s servants, I will break every bone in thy skin: dost thou hear?’

‘My lord!’ began the fellow.

‘Nay, no more,’ continued Kasim, ‘or I may be tempted to give way to
wrath; begone, in the name of the devils on whose errand thou camest. I
like thee not, by Alla! thy face is like an executioner’s,—a fellow who
would give a brave man a cup of poison, or stab him from behind with a
knife, and boast he had done some valiant deed.’

Some others who were standing by caught the words of the young man, and
laughed loudly at the truth he had so unwittingly told; and their
taunts, added to the previous ones he had been obliged to hear, caused
Madar to slink off as fast as possible, followed by the jeers and abuse
of those who had joined in the laugh against him.

‘He is off like a maimed cur!’ cried one. ‘You have eaten dirt!’ cried
another. ‘Alla give thee a good digestion of it, and appetite for more
the next time thou comest!’

‘Let us seize him and cut off his beard and mustachios! such an impotent
coward and prying rascal is not worthy to wear the emblems of
manhood—let him be shaven like an eunuch!’ cried a masculine virago, the
wife of a camel-driver, setting her arms a-kimbo, who thought it a fair
opportunity to join in. ‘Return, O Madar Sahib, that I may spit on thy
beard!’

Madar did not apparently choose to accept this polite invitation, for he
thought it possible that the first threat might be attempted, and the
shout of laughter which followed the latter part of the speech caused
him to quicken his pace considerably; and only once looking behind him,
to throw a glance of hate towards those by whom he had been menaced, he
pursued his way, and was soon lost in the crowd.

‘There goes a spiteful heart,’ said Kasim; ‘didst thou see the look he
cast behind him?’

‘Ay, brother,’ replied Dilawur Ali; ‘thou hast said truly, he has a
spiteful heart, and I could tell thee many a tale of his iniquity; but I
am half sorry that we did not speak him fair.’

‘I am not: I would rather have an open enemy than one under the garb of
civility or friendship.’

‘The scoundrel will tell all he has heard, and as much more as he can
invent, to the Jemadar yonder.’

‘And what of that?’ said Kasim; ‘what have I to fear?’

‘This is no place to speak of him,’ said his friend; ‘come to my tent, I
will tell thee much of him.’

And truly the account the worthy Syud gave of the Jemadar was not
calculated in any way to allay fear, if any had existed in Kasim’s
heart: for it was one of deceit, of villainy often successful, of
constant intrigue, and of cruel revenge; but the young man’s fearless
spirit only made light of these, which might have disquieted a more
experienced person; and he asked gaily,

‘But what makest thee think that he bears me any enmity? we have as yet
hardly seen each other.’

‘I know it from his vile face, Kasim. While the Khan often spoke to thee
kindly in his presence, his eyes wandered to thee with a bad expression,
and they no sooner left thee than he and that Sontaburdar of his
exchanged furtive glances. I was watching them, for I saw at once he
would be jealous of thee.’

‘He may do his worst,’ said Kasim, ‘I care not.’ But in spite of this
expression, his heart was not quite so free of care about what had
happened as it had been before he had heard Dilawur Ali’s stories.

Madar returned, burning with spiteful and revengeful feelings, and with
much excitement visible in his countenance, he rushed into his master’s
presence and flung his turban on the ground, while he gnashed his teeth
in rage.

‘What news hast thou, Madar? What has been done to thee? speak, good
man. What has happened?’

‘Judge if I have not cause to be revenged, Khodawund: I am less than a
dog; and may my grave be unblessed if I do not avenge the insults I have
suffered both for myself and you, O my lord!’

‘Why, what has happened?’

‘I tell you, you have been reviled by that son of perdition Dilawur Ali,
and the boy whom that old fool the Khan has brought with him. Hear,
Jemadar Sahib, what they said; they said they would—Inshalla!’ and Madar
twisted up his mustachios fiercely as he spoke, ‘defile your beard, and
throw dirt on it; they called you a coward and less than man. They said
they did not value you a broken couree; and they threatened to beat me,
to break every bone in my skin; and set up a vile woman, one without
shame, with an uncovered face, to abuse me in vile terms, to call me an
eunuch, and to threaten to shave my beard and mustachios; and this
before a thousand others, loochas and shodas[26] like themselves. But I
will be revenged. Ya Alla! ya Hoosein! ya Hyder!’ he cried, as he took
up his turban which he had thrown down in his passion, and began to tie
it awry upon his head. ‘I will be revenged!’

-----

Footnote 26:

Dissolute vagabonds.

-----

‘They said this?—Ah, Kumbukht!’—cried the Jemadar, who had heard out his
servant’s tale with some difficulty,—‘they said it,—and thou hadst ears
to hear it? Alla! Alla! am I a sheep or a cow to bear this?—I who am,
Inshalla! a tiger, an eater of men’s hearts,—before whom men’s livers
turn to water,—that I should be obliged to devour such abomination! What
ho! Furashes! any one without there! go, bring Dilawur Ali, Duffadar,
and— But no,’ he said mentally, checking the torrent of passion; ‘it
cannot be so. I have no authority now to punish, and they would defy me;
the Khan would take fire in a moment if he heard I had been inquiring
into the station of this proud youth,—whom, Inshalla! I will yet
humble.’

‘Go,’ he continued to the servants, who had suddenly entered the tent;
‘when I want you I will call again; at present I would be alone with
Madar.’

‘And so thou heardest all this abuse of me, and ate dirt thyself, and
had not the heart to say a word or strike a blow in return! I could spit
on thee, coward!’

‘May I be your sacrifice, Khodawund, I was helpless; what could I have
done in that crowd? had I only returned a word, the woman whom they set
up would have poured filthy abuse on me.’

‘They shall rue the day that they uttered the words thou hast repeated:
Madar, they shall wish their tongues had never said them, and that their
hearts had eaten them, ere they had birth: Ul-humd-ul-illa! I have yet
power, and can crush that butterfly, whose gay bearing is only for a
season,—but not yet—not yet.’

‘And who is this proud fool?’ he continued after a pause to Madar, who
had been drinking in every word of his master’s soliloquy with greedy
ears, and rejoicing in the hope of speedy revenge. ‘Who saidst thou he
is?’

‘A Patél, noble sir,—a miserable Patél of a village, Alla knows where,—a
man whose mother, Inshalla! is vile.’

‘I care not for his mother,—who is he? and how comes he with the Khan?
Tell me, or I will beat thee with my shoe!’

‘My lord,—Khodawund!—be not angry, but listen: he is the Patél of a
village where the Khan and his young wife were nearly drowned; he saved
the lady, and he fought afterwards against some Mahrattas when they
attacked the village where the Khan was resting for the night, and was
wounded in his defence.’

‘And this is all, Madar?’

‘It is, protector of the poor! it is all; they say the Patél is a
Roostum—a hero—a man who killed fourteen Mahrattas with his own hand,
who—’

‘Bah!’ cried Jaffur impatiently, ‘and thou art a fool to believe them;’
and he fell to musing. ‘He must have seen her face,’ he said at length
aloud.

‘He must,’ echoed his attendant; ‘they say he carried her in his arms
from the river.’

‘Khoob! and what said they of her beauty?’

‘That she is as fair as the full moon in the night of Shub-i-Barāt.’

‘Khoob! and he has seen her again, I doubt not, since then.’

‘Willa alum!’ said Madar, raising his thumbs to his ears.

‘How should your slave know? but it is likely,—people cannot conceal
their faces when they are travelling.’

‘No, nor, Inshalla! wish to do so! but we shall see,—take care that you
mention not abroad what occurred this evening,—they will forget it.’

‘But my lord will not!’

‘I never forget an insult till I have had its exchange, and that thou
well knowest, Madar. Begone! make it known without that I may now be
visited. We will consider of this matter.’

But we must return to the Khan, whose active furashes had encircled
several of the pillars of the cloisters with high tent walls, swept out
the inclosures thus made, spread the carpets, and converted what was
before open arches and naked walls and floors into a comfortable
apartment, perfectly secure from observation. Ameena took possession of
it, and was soon joined by her lord, who, in truth, was in nowise sorry
after the fatigues of the day to enjoy first a good dinner, and
afterwards the luxury of a soft cotton mattress, and to have his limbs
gently kneaded by the tiny hands of his fair wife, while she amused him
with a fairy tale, or one of those stories of intrigue and love which
are so common among the Easterns.

The cool air of the Mysore country had apparently invigorated her, and
the languor which the heat and the fatigue of constant travelling had
caused in the Carnatic had entirely disappeared, and given place to her
usual lively and joyous expression. She had thrown a deep
orange-coloured shawl, with a very richly-worked border, around her, to
protect her from the night breeze that blew chilly over the tent walls,
which did not reach to the roof of the building they were in, and it
fell in heavy folds around her, appearing to make her light figure
almost more slender from the contrast. She was inexpressively lovely, as
she now bent playfully over the Khan, employed in her novel vocation,
and again desisting, began afresh some other story wherewith to beguile
the time till the hour of repose arrived.

‘Alla bless thee, Ameena!’ said the Khan, after one of her lively
sallies, when her face had brightened, and her eyes sparkled at some
point of her tale,—‘Alla bless thee! thou art truly lovely to-night: the
Prophet (may his name be honoured!) could have seen no brighter Houris
in Paradise (when the will of Alla called him there) than thou art.’ ‘I
am my lord’s slave,’ said the lady, ‘and to please him is my sole
endeavour day and night. Happy is my heart when it tells me I have
succeeded—how much more when I am honoured with such a remark from thine
own lips, O my lord! And as to my beauty’—and here she threw a glance
into the little mirror she wore upon her thumb,—‘my lord surely flatters
me; he must have seen far fairer faces than mine.’

‘Never, never, by the Prophet!’ cried the Khan, with energy; ‘never, I
swear by thine own eyes, never. I have but one regret, Ameena, and that
cannot be mended or altered now.’

Ameena’s heart suddenly failed her, for Kasim came to her remembrance,
and she thought for an instant that he might suspect.

‘Regret! what dost thou regret?’ she asked hesitatingly. ‘Anything that
thy poor slave hath done? anything—’

‘Nothing, fairest, on thy part; it was for myself.’

Her heart was suddenly relieved of a load. ‘For thyself?’ she said
gaily; ‘what dost thou regret, Khan Sahib?’

‘That I am not twenty years younger, for thy sake, Ameena,’ he said with
much feeling. ‘Methinks now, to see these grey hairs and this grey
beard,’ and he touched them as he spoke, ‘so near thy soft and waving
tresses, I seem more like a father to thee than a husband: and yet thou
art mine, Ameena. I would thou wert older, fair one!’

‘And if I were, I should not be so fair,’ she said artlessly.

‘I care not, so that we had grown old together; at least I should have
seen thy beauty, and the remembrance of it would have been with me.’

Ameena sighed; her thoughts wandered to Kasim’s noble figure and
youthful yet expressive countenance; in spite of herself and almost
unconsciously she drew her hand across her eyes, as if to shut something
ideal from her sight.

The Khan heard her sigh; he would rather not have heard it, though his
own remark he knew had provoked it. ‘I have said the truth, Ameena, and
thou wouldst rather I were a younger man,’ he said, looking at her
intently. ‘But what matter? these idle words do but pain thee. It is our
destiny, sweet one, and we must work it out together.’

‘Ay, it is our destiny,’ she said.

‘The will of Alla!’ continued the Khan, looking up devoutly, ‘which hath
joined two beings together so unsuited in age, but not in temper I
think, Ameena. Thou art not as others, wilful and perverse—heavy
burdens—hard to carry—and from which there is no deliverance; but a
sweet and lovely flower, which a monarch might wear in his heart and be
proud of. So thou truly art to Rhyman Khan, and ever wilt be, even
though enemies should come between us.’

‘Enemies! my lord,’ she said with surprise in her tone; ‘I never had an
enemy, even in my own home: and I am here with thee in a strange land,
where I know no one who could be mine enemy!’

‘May Alla put them far from thee, fairest!’ he replied affectionately;
‘and yet sometimes I fear that thou mayst have to encounter enmity.’

‘I have heard it said by my honoured father, Khan, that as the blessed
Prophet had many enemies, and as the martyrs Hassan and Hoosein came to
their sad deaths by them, it is the lot of all to have some one
inimical; but he meant men, whose occupations and cares call them into
the world,—not women, like me, who, knowing no one but my servants,
cannot make enemies of them if I am kind.’

‘But I mean those who would be jealous of thy beauty, and seek thus to
injure thee,—from these I alone fear,’ replied her husband.

‘I fear not, Khan,’ she said, simply and confidently, ‘neither for thee
nor myself. I cannot think that thou couldst ever give thy Ameena cause
for jealousy, or any one else cause of jealousy of her. Alla help me! I
should die if such could be—’

‘Nay, there thou shalt be safe,’ he said, interrupting her; ‘for never,
never shalt thou have cause to say of Rhyman Khan that he was false to
thee. I am a soldier, and one whose honour has known neither stain nor
spot; and yet—’

He had stopped suddenly and appeared to think; and, while he thought,
suddenly an idea flashed into her mind,—could she have already a rival?
She could not bear it to rest there for an instant, ere she threw it off
in words.

‘Speak, O Khan!’ she cried; ‘thou hast none but me who claims thy love?
thou hast not belied thyself to one who has here none to protect her?—no
father—no mother—none but thee! Oh, my lord!—_thou_ canst not have
deceived the child who trusted thee and never asked of thee aught?’ She
was very excited.

‘I have not deceived thee, Ameena; but I have not told thee all my
history,—I have not told thee as yet what sooner or later thou must
know. I have not told thee how that for years I pined for the love of
woman, such pure child-like love as thine, and found nought after a
short intercourse but bitter words and a constant seeking after wealth
which I had not to bestow,—how I have had to bear constant upbraiding
from those out of whose families I chose them, because I would not spend
my substance upon wasteful parents,—upon sons whose very existence was a
disgrace to them. Hadst thou known this, Ameena, thou wouldst not marvel
that I sought one like thee in a distant land,—one who, removed from
every tie, and with no one to sow dissension between us, should learn to
love and trust Rhyman Khan as, Inshalla! he ought to be loved and
trusted.’

She knew not how to reply; on the one hand the concealment of other ties
which the Khan had kept secret so long and now revealed so unexpectedly,
and the undefined dread of the hate of rivals, smote her to the very
heart; on the other, her attention was powerfully arrested by the bold
truthfulness of his disclosure; she was affected by the picture of
desolation he had drawn of his own state, and his disappointments, and
she was soothed to think that all he had sought for years was centred in
her. She was silent,—she could not speak under such conflicting
thoughts.

‘Thou hast not told me all,’ she said at length; ‘thou hast not said how
many—’ she could not finish the sentence.

‘There are two, dearest Ameena,—two, on each of whom I fixed hopes which
have been broken in many ways. I have never had a child to bless me; and
where love should have been, and mildness like thine to compensate for
such a disappointment, rancour has come and ill-temper, and with them
despair to me,—hopelessness of that quiet peace which my mind seeks when
war and its perils and excitements are past. When disappointment came
with the first, I thought a second might perchance be more to me than
she had been: alas! I soon was undeceived, and bitterly too, Ameena.
But, after all, who can say there are no flowers to be pulled in the
rugged pathways of their lives? Had this not happened, I should never
have known thee, my rose,—never have seen that look of pity which thy
beauteous eyes wear now! It is from these I fear thou wilt have to bear
some jealousies, some enmity; and canst thou brave somewhat for the love
of Rhyman Khan? Continue to be to me as thou art now, and my wealth, my
power, nay my life-blood itself, are thine, as freely as thou carest to
use them. Now thou knowest all, and a heavy weight is gone from my
heart, which had long abode there. Speak,—art thou content?’

‘I would I had known this earlier,’ she said sadly, after a while; ‘but
as it is, I am thankful to hear it even now. My lord knows well that I
am but a child, and no match for the intrigues of those who are more
versed in the world’s wisdom. I feel that it has saddened and sobered
me; and where I had hoped in my bright fancy to roam as I listed in the
garden of thy love, unchecked and unheeded by any one but thyself, I
must cover myself with the veil of discretion and deliberation, and take
heed to my steps lest I fall into the snares which jealousy will not
fail to place for me.’

‘Alla forbid!’ cried the Khan fervently; ‘thou hast no cause to fear
them.’

‘I know not,’ she replied; ‘but I can scarcely hope that there may be
friendship between me and those whom you describe; there may be a show
for a while, but the end will be bitterness.’

And the poor girl wept; for she had suddenly been disturbed upon her
height of security, or at all events of unmolested occupation, and even
in a few minutes she could not help expecting some rude collision which
would perhaps cast her down headlong. And her own peaceful home—its
freedom from care, its loving affection, its harmless pleasures—rose so
vividly to her mind, that she could not help for the time regretting
bitterly that she had left it, to endure such a prospect as appeared to
open before her. Nor did the Khan disturb, except by a caress or a
well-timed word of cheerful hope, the thoughts which he knew must be
passing in her heart, but to which he could not respond in a manner to
make her forget them on the instant; they must have their vent, he
thought, and thought wisely. She lay down and wept, till sleep gradually
asserted its mastery over her wearied form and rudely-excited thoughts.

‘She shall never come to harm, so help me Alla and his holy prophet!’
said the Khan mentally, as he bent over her and gently drew some
covering upon her without disturbing her; ‘she shall never know harm or
evil, as long as the arm or power of Rhyman Khan can shield her! She
still sobs,’ he said, as every now and then a sob broke softly from her,
like to that from a child who has cried itself to sleep, and her bosom
heaved under the oppression. ‘I would to Alla I had not caused her this
pain! and yet it was inevitable. Their jealousy and malice will be great
I know, and their power is great, but, Inshalla! there will be no fear
of their machinations, and I will soon teach her to despise them; they
too will cease to use them when they see them of no avail and unheeded.’

-------

CHAPTER XIV.

The day after, the Khan’s Risala halted at Bangalore, from whence it was
ordered to escort some treasure, military stores, and many English
prisoners to the capital.

The Khan having now taken the command, he was enabled to employ Kasim in
many useful offices, both as a scribe and in the execution of his
orders; and he was delighted to find in him one whom he could trust, and
whose advice was often of use in matters that perplexed his own
uninventive mind. And although he held no situation as yet in the
Government service, nor was enrolled in the regiment, yet he gradually
became looked up to, even during the few days he had been with it, by
the subordinate officers, who naturally wished to curry favour with one
so much in association with their chief; accordingly Kasim was courted
by almost all—feasted and made much of. Some, indeed, regarded him with
jealousy, at the head of whom was the person we have already named,
Jaffur Sahib; and as their opinions became known to one another, they
gradually formed a party, which, though its numbers were small, made up
for that deficiency in bitter dislike.

The most prominent of these, besides Jaffur Sahib himself, was
Naser-oo-deen, the chief accountant and secretary of the regiment,—one
of those corrupt and wily scoundrels so often to be found in the persons
of those who have been educated in the daily observance of schemes and
fraud: for his father had filled a high situation as moonshee or
secretary near the person of Hyder Ali; and it is impossible for any one
to fill a similar place in any native court, without having daily
opportunities of improvement in the arts of intrigue, falsehood, and
corruption. He was also a constant associate of Jaffur Sahib; and in
many a plan for cheating the Government by false musters of men, and
extra charges for grain and forage, they had been nearly
associated,—indeed, had divided the spoil between them.

Naser-oo-deen had also been the agent for the supply of forage and other
necessaries to a large number of the Khan’s horses which were in the
Risala; and as he seldom looked after these accounts himself, there had
been a very handsome profit to be gained from them by the subordinates.
It was probable that upon the first ground, therefore—that is, so far as
the regiment was concerned—Kasim and the Moonshee would never have come
in contact with each other; but they were not long in doing so when the
private interests of the Khan were in question.

For want of occupation Kasim had solicited some employment from the
Khan, who had desired him to look after his own horses, and to examine
the accounts the Moonshee should furnish of their expenditure; and for
this office Kasim was well fitted, not only from his knowledge of
writing, but from his experience as a Patél of the prices of grain and
forage. The accounts had used to be daily submitted to the Khan, and
during his absence they had accumulated to a large amount. Occupied in
other duties and affairs, the Khan could not afford time to hear them
read, and gave them over for examination to his young friend, who, in
the careful scrutiny he made of them, and his readiness in comprehending
their intricate nature, convinced the Moonshee that he had to deal with
a person of no ordinary exactitude and ability.

Kasim, in his inspection of the documents, had much occasion to suspect
that the rates and quantities charged were far greater than the truth;
but he did not dare at first to make any accusation against a man of the
Moonshee’s apparent probity and respectability. He had seen enough,
however, to put him on his guard for the future, and there was soon
ample reason to confirm his suspicions that all was not as fair as the
accounts showed. While they were at Bangalore he made a daily memorandum
of the prices of grain in the several bazaars, and inquiries also of the
men who rode the Khan’s horses in the regiment, and of the grooms also,
as to the quantities used; and on comparing them with the memorandums
furnished to him by the Moonshee, the deceit was too flagrant to pass
unnoticed. Accordingly he sought that worthy, and, without any
accusation, ventured to point out some inaccuracies, as he supposed they
must be, in the accounts, as compared with the market rates. These the
Moonshee tried to support with all the effrontery he was able to muster
for some time; but Kasim was steady, and in the end triumphed. It was,
however, an offence which rankled deeply in the Moonshee’s mind, and in
an evening converse with his friend the Jemadar, he alluded to the
matter in no very amiable humour.

‘Things have come to a pretty pass since the Khan has brought that boy
with him!’ said he indignantly to the Jemadar when they were alone.

‘How? has he interfered with you, as he appears to wish to do with
everyone else?’

‘To be sure he has—it seems he can read; and the old fool, without
thinking about it, gave him all my accounts of the Pagha to look over,
instead of signing and passing them at once.’

‘And he discovered—’

‘No, nothing in them, Alla be praised! so that there is a good round sum
to divide between us; but he evidently suspected the rates of grain,
which, believe me, Jemadar, you put too high.’

‘Not a whit, not a whit, since we have got the money.’

‘But I say it was, for it led the young prying fellow to ask the prices
of grain in the bazaars, and of forage too; and, as it seems he is a
Patél, he knows more about the matter than we do ourselves; so, when I
gave him the accounts to-day, he showed me a memorandum of every day’s
nerrikh,[27] and began comparing it as simply as possible with the
account and showing the difference. By the Prophet! I could have struck
him for his pretence of ingenuousness, and his seeming unconsciousness
that he was detecting me. I tried to bully him, Jemadar Sahib, and said
I had eaten the Khan’s salt longer than he had, and was not to be
suspected by a boy; but it would not do; he told me not to be angry,
that he might be mistaken, and that he would show the accounts to the
Khan if I liked; but this you know would not have answered my purpose,
for the old fellow would have fired up in a moment.’

-----

Footnote 27:

Rate of prices.

-----

‘And what did you do? you surely did not alter them?’

‘Why, what else could I do, Jemadar? I at last pretended to see the
mistake and make fresh accounts.’

‘In other words, O cowardly fool! you ate dirt; you allowed him to
obtain a mastery over you which you will never regain. You call yourself
a Moonshee!—a man of letters! Shame on you, I say, to allow yourself to
be dictated to by a boy! Had I a beard like yours, I would cut it off
for very shame.’

‘But, Jemadar—’ he interposed.

‘I tell thee I can hear nothing; I know this will not end here—the
fellow’s prying should have been stopped at once; and his suspicions
will never rest, believe me, till he has found out the whole; and at any
rate we shall lose money.’

‘We shall, certainly.’

‘How much?’

‘Two hundred rupees, I dare say.’

‘Alla! Alla! so much! and the worst is that our trade is stopped.’

‘I fear so; how can it be otherwise, as he observes the rates?’

‘Could you get him to take the accounts himself, Moonshee Sahib, we
might find him out ourselves overcharging in a few days, and so they
would fall back to us, and he would be ruined.’

‘Alla knows!’ sighed the Moonshee; ‘at any rate it is worth trying; I
will see to it. I am only afraid your turn will come next.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Naser, the thought is not to be borne. What! lose
my monthly gains, without which this service is nothing to me!—Inshalla!
no. If there is a Kasim Ali Patél, there is at least a Shekh Jaffur
Jemadar. I tell thee, man, I was not born to eat dirt at his hands, but
he at mine; and if I cannot see into the depths of futurity like the
Sultaun (may his name be honoured!), yet I can see far enough to behold
this boy’s disgrace at my hands. Dost thou hear—at my hands? thou
shouldst know by this time that I rarely fail of my purpose.’

‘May Alla grant it!’ said the Moonshee piously.

‘I tell thee,’ he continued, ‘I hated him from the first, because I
found he would stand between me and the Khan. He abused me in hearing of
all the camp; those words have gone forth among the men, and as I look
in their faces I fancy that the remembrance of them comes into their
heart, and that they exult over me. I tell thee this is not to be borne,
and I will have an exchange for it, or I will see why; dost thou
understand?’

‘I do.’

‘And thou must aid me.’

‘Surely—with my pen, with my advice, my—’

‘Bah! thy advice—who asked for it? who wants that of a fool who could
not defend his own papers? when I have occasion for thee in this matter
I will tell thee, and see that thou doest it; and—’

‘My lord is not angry with his poor servant?’ said the Moonshee
cringingly.

‘I have good cause to be so, but must eat my vexation for the present.
Go! you have your dismissal.’ He mused for a while after the Moonshee
had left him, and then called to Madar, who waited without.

‘Have you discovered anything more about the Khan’s wife, Madar?’ he
asked.

‘Nothing, my lord, except that she is very beautiful.’

‘That you said before: nothing between her and the Patél?’

‘Nothing, except that he had seen her.’

‘That too you told me: does he see her now?’

‘Willa Alum!’[28] was the reply.

-----

Footnote 28:

God knows.

-----

‘It would be as well for us if he did.’

‘Shall your slave try to effect it?’

‘I have been thinking of it, Madar; you might contrive something. I tell
thee I hate that boy more and more; it is only this moment that I have
heard from Naser-oo-deen Moonshee that his accounts have been suspected
by him.’

‘Does the Khan know of it?’

‘No, not as yet; but there is no security for us, and there is no saying
what may happen, for this boy holds a sword over us.’

‘I understand,—my lord will trust me; and depend on it that, sooner or
later, I find a way of helping him to revenge these insults.’

It was thus to screen their own iniquity, of which they were conscious,
that these schemes were being undertaken against the peace of two
individuals who had never harmed any of the plotters; and in the course
of our history we shall follow them to their conclusions.

The consciousness of his own evil practices and corruption, as regarded
the public service, made the Jemadar jealous of any one who should usurp
the place he had held with the Khan; not because the Khan liked him, but
because, being indolent by nature, and unacquainted with the details of
the private economy of his Risalas, the Khan was glad enough to find
that any one would undertake that for him, which he could not bring his
mind to take any interest in, or indeed to understand. And if Kasim had
succeeded in detecting the Moonshee, what might not _he_ have to fear,
whose peculations were even of a more daring nature, and, extended to
the men, the horses, and the establishment of the corps! The Jemadar
brooded over these thoughts incessantly; and his avaricious and miserly
spirit could as ill brook the idea of pecuniary loss, as his proud and
revengeful heart the prospect of disgrace, and the insult he had been
told by his emissary that he had already received.

After a few days’ halt at Bangalore, for the purpose of preparing
carriages for the removal of the English prisoners to the capital, and
the collection of some of the revenue of the district, which was also to
be escorted thither, the morning arrived on which they were to set out,
and each corps was drawn up in front of the Mysore gate of the fortress;
while the Khan, attended by Kasim and some others, rode into it in order
to receive the prisoners, and the Khan his last orders from the
Governor.

While he was employed in his audience, Kasim rode hither and thither,
observing with delight the impregnable strength of the fortress,—the
cannon, the arms and appearance of the disciplined garrison, and the few
French soldiers and officers who were lounging about. He had never
before seen a European; and their appearance, their tight-fighting and
ungraceful dress, inspired him with no very exalted idea of their
prowess.

‘Can these be the men,’ he thought, ‘to whom the Sultaun trusts, instead
of to the brave hearts and sturdy arms of the men of Islam? but so I am
told, and I am to see more at the capital. Well, it is strange that they
should have the talents for such contrivances in war, as never enter
into our hearts: our only defence is a strong arm and a good sword and
shield; and if we had not to fight against the English kafirs, we should
not require these French, who after all are only infidels too. But here
come the prisoners, I suppose,’ he added, as a few soldiers, horse and
foot, with drawn swords, advanced from behind an adjacent wall; ‘the
brave kafirs, as all call them, and hate them because they are so brave;
I confess I do not, and only because they are the Sultaun’s enemies, and
infidels into the bargain.’

His curiosity was raised to the highest pitch to see these unhappy men,
who, in defiance of the treaty of 1784, were kept in the fortresses of
the country without a hope of deliverance, and cut off from any chance
of communication with their countrymen on the coast. Among the few with
whom Kasim had associated, ‘the English’ were the continued subject of
conversation; their religion, their manners, and their persons were
ridiculed and held up to scorn by all, but their bravery none could
deny; and that man held himself far exalted above his fellows who had
entered into personal combat with or slain one of them. Many were the
tales then in circulation,—some exaggerations of reality, others stern
scenes of hard fighting,—which even figurative language failed to exalt
above their due estimation.

In company with the Khan, with Dilawur Ali and with others, Kasim had
heard many of these relations; and indeed, whenever he listened in the
camp, either to itinerant story-tellers, or to those gathered around a
watchfire, the English were alike the theme of execration for their
religion and their falsehood, or on rare occasions praised for their
devoted bravery. No wonder then was it that he watched for their coming
with very eager anxiety: figuring to himself what they might be, he
thought to have seen them a martial-looking people, and that in their
persons he should realise his own ideas of what a warrior ought to
be,—tall and finely formed, haughty in appearance, with an eye of fire
and an arm of iron.

One by one the prisoners came before him, and some of them heavily
chained, others free; but all men on whose faces the rigour of captivity
had set its seal. Melancholy and pale, many of them wasted by sickness,
and by mental and bodily sufferings, they were shadows of what they had
been; their clothes hung in rags about them, and, though not dirty, they
were of a colour which proved that they themselves had washed them from
time to time; a few of them had worn-out uniform coats upon them, whose
stained and discoloured appearance fitted well with the wretched
condition of their wearers. Their step was slow and weak, and those who
wore fetters with difficulty moved at all; none of them spoke, but many
of them gazed around upon the walls, and looked up into the bright
heavens, and smiled, as though they were glad that motion and air were
once more allowed to refresh their cramped and emaciated limbs and weary
spirits.

In spite of his previous determination to hate them with the same spirit
as that of his companions, Kasim felt he could not; there would, in
spite of his efforts to repress it, arise a feeling of pity, that men
whom he doubted not were as brave as the race was represented to be,
should exhibit so sorrowful an appearance,—one which told a forcible
tale of unalleviated misery. Following those on foot were several in
small doolies, whose emaciated and ghastly looks told of their sickness
and unfitness for removal.

He had expected a feeling of triumph to arise in his heart as he should
behold the infidel English captives; but there was something so touching
in the appearance of the melancholy procession, that he felt none; he
could much rather have wept as he looked on it, than joined in any
expression of ill-will towards the prisoners.

As they advanced, a few boys who were near hooted the captives, and
abused them in obscene language. This they did not appear to deign to
notice; at last one boy, more bold than the rest, took up a stone, and
accompanying it with a savage oath, flung it against the prisoner
nearest to him, and, having struck him, was greeted with a loud shout of
joy by his companions.

Almost ere he was aware of his own intention, and impelled by the wanton
insult upon one so helpless, Kasim violently urged his horse across the
open space up to the boy—who, having been successful in his first fling,
had picked up another stone with a similar intention—and struck him
severely several times with the whip he had in his hand. Screaming with
pain, the boy ran off to a distance; and his associates, terrified at
the punishment their companion had received, dispersed at once.

Kasim could not resist speaking to the prisoner on whose behalf he had
acted; and riding up to him, he hoped, not knowing whether he should be
understood, that he was not hurt, adding, that he had punished the young
miscreant who had thrown the stone.

The voice was one of kindness, and it was long since one like it had
sounded in the young Englishman’s ears.

‘I am not hurt,’ he said, in good Hindostanee; ‘and if I had been, an
act of kindness such as yours would have amply repaid me for receiving
it. Gallant soldier! you, it would seem, have not been taught as your
countrymen to hate the English. Do not, however, speak to me: an act of
courtesy to one of us may chance to bring disgrace upon you, and I would
not have you receive that return for your kindness. May God protect
you!’

They passed on, and Kasim remained in the same spot, gazing after him;
his tall figure and proud air, his pale but handsome face and
deeply-expressive blue eyes,—such as Kasim had never seen before,—his
fluent speech and manly tone,—above all, his last words, ‘May God
protect you!’ affected him powerfully.

‘God protect you!’ he repeated; ‘he believes then in Alla; how can he be
an infidel? He said, “Alla Hafiz!” and he spoke like a Mussulman; why
should he be hated? I will see him again. By Alla! such a man is worth
knowing, and I may be able to befriend him; surely he is a man of rank.’

But here his surmises were put an end to by Dilawur Ali, who, riding up
to him, bade him accompany him, for the Khan was ready to proceed.

‘Then you saw the kafirs,—may their end be perdition!’ said the rough
soldier.

‘I did, brother,’ returned Kasim; ‘miserable enough they look, and as if
they could hardly move; how are they to travel?’

‘There are covered carts for some, Meer Sahib, for they cannot bear the
sun,—doolies for others who are weak; and one or two, who are officers I
hear, are to be allowed an elephant,—but we shall see.’ And they rode
rapidly through the gate of the fort.

‘I thought he was an officer,’ exclaimed Kasim; ‘I thought he was more
than one of the lower rank;’ as the Englishman with whom he had spoken
was desired to mount an elephant which bore a handsome umbara.[29]

-----

Footnote 29:

A kind of howdah.

-----

‘Why? what know you of him?’

‘Nothing; but I spoke a few words to him, and it struck me he was a man
of breeding and rank.’

‘You had better beware, Kasim,’ said his companion; ‘acts may be
misinterpreted, and men like you never want enemies to assist others in
thinking ill of them.’

‘Thank you for your advice,’ said Kasim; ‘but I have done or said
nothing that I am ashamed of.’ Kasim afterwards mentioned what he had
done to the Khan, who could not help praising the young soldier’s
action.

‘By the Prophet, well done!’ he cried, as Kasim related the incident; ‘I
am glad the young Haram-zada was soundly whipped; he will know how to
throw stones another time. I have fought against the Feringhees, and
hate them; and yet, in such a case, I think I should have acted as thou
didst, Kasim. Hast thou spoken to the Feringhee since?’

‘No: Dilawur Ali seemed to think I had done wrong even in addressing him
at all; but I should like much to speak with him; they say he is a
Sirdar of rank.’

‘I hear he has accepted the Sultaun’s offer of pardon, and that he will
serve in the army; so at least the Governor of the fort hoped; but we
shall see. I doubt it, for the Feringhees are very obstinate, and Tippoo
has gained over none as yet by fair means.’

‘Then there are some in the army?’

‘A few only who have been honoured with the rite of Islam; but they are
of the lowest grade, and he does not trust them. Go you then, when we
have pitched the camp, and ask this Feringhee whether he will serve with
us under the banner of the lion of the Faith.’

-------

CHAPTER XV.

Kasim hardly need be desired to do this; he longed to have some amicable
conversation with one who had already excited such interest in his
heart, and, as soon as possible after his few duties were discharged, he
went to the tents which had been pitched for the English, and sought out
his acquaintance. They met with pleasure; on Kasim’s part, with the
result of the interest he had felt,—on the other’s with joy that among
so many enemies there was one from whom he had received kindness, and
who now again sought him.

‘I little thought to have seen you again,’ said the officer (for so in
truth he was), ‘and this visit is a proof to me that we are not
enemies.’

‘No, certainly,’ said Kasim; ‘I have no enmity towards you.’

‘Perhaps then you can inform me and my poor comrades why we are being
removed to the capital; to us it is inexplicable.’

‘You are to enter the service of the Sultaun, we hear,’ replied Kasim;
and from the flush of indignation which rose in the other’s pallid face,
he could see how that idea was spurned by him.

‘Never!’ he cried, ‘never! and the Sultaun knows this full well; months,
nay years ago, he offered the alternative between this and death, and we
spurned it with contempt. He will try us again, and receive the same
answer; and then, perhaps, he may relieve us by death from this
imprisonment, which is worse.’

‘Then it has been severe?’

‘What! are you in the Sultaun’s service, and know not of our condition?’

‘I am not in his service,’ said Kasim; ‘chance threw me into the society
of the officer with whom I travel to the city. I may enter it there,
which my friend wishes me to do, if it can be effected advantageously.’

‘Do not enter it, I beseech you,’ cried the Englishman with sudden
enthusiasm; ‘with so tender and gallant a heart, thou couldst not serve
one who is a tiger in nature, one whose glory it is to be savage and
merciless as his namesake. Rather fly from hence; bear these letters
from me to Madras,—they will ensure thee reward—service—anything thou
choosest to ask; take them, and the blessing of Heaven go with thee!
thou wilt have succoured the unfortunate, and given news of their
existence to many who have long ago mourned us as dead.’

‘Feringhee!’ said Kasim earnestly, ‘thy gallant bearing has won my
regard, and my friendly feeling will ever be towards thee; but I abhor
thy race, and long for the time when I shall strike a blow against them
in fair and open field. I enter the service of the Sultaun at the city,
whither we go; and this is answer enough to thy request; ask me not,
therefore, to do what I should be ashamed of a week hence. I will speak
to my commander about thy letters, and doubt not that they will be
forwarded.’

‘The only gleam of hope which has broken on me for years has again faded
from my sight,’ said the young officer with deep melancholy. ‘I well
know that no letters will be forwarded from me. If thy master, or he who
will be so, has denied my existence, and broken his solemn treaties in
my detention, and that of the other poor fellows who are with me,
thinkest thou he will allow me to write word that I am here?’

‘And is it so?’ said Kasim; ‘I believe thee; thine enemies even say that
the English never lie. If it be possible to forward thy letters, I will
do it, and ask thee far them; and now farewell! If Kasim Ali Patél can
ever help thee, ask for him when thou art in trouble or danger; if he is
near thee, he will do his utmost in thy behalf;’ so saying Kasim left
him, and returned to the Khan.

‘I thought it would be as thou hast related,’ said he to Kasim, as the
latter detailed the conversation; ‘such a man is neither to be bribed
nor threatened. Even their bitterest enemies must say of these
unbelievers that they are faithful to death. May Alla help him! for I
fear the Sultaun’s displeasure at this, his last rejection of rank and
service, may be fatal to him and to the rest; men’s determinations,
however, do not hold out always with the fear of death before their
eyes—but we shall see. Whatever is written in his destiny he must
accomplish.’

‘Ameen!’ said Kasim: ‘I pray it may be favourable, for I honour him
though he is a kafir.’

On the fifth day afterwards they approached the city. Kasim, with
delight that his journey was ended, and that he should enter on his
service without delay; the Khan, with mingled feelings of joy at
returning to his master and his old companions in arms, and of vexation
at the thoughts of his two wives, and the reception Ameena was sure to
meet with from them. This, in truth, was a source of the most lively
uneasiness to him, for he could not but see that, say what he would to
comfort her, the spirit of Ameena had considerably drooped since the
night at Nundidroog, when he told her of their existence. Still he hoped
the best; and he said to himself, ‘If they cannot agree, I shall only
have to get a separate house, and live away from them.’

‘Behold the city!’ cried many an one of those who led the force, as, on
reaching the brow of a slight eminence, the broad valley of the river
Cavery burst upon them; in the centre of which, though still some miles
distant, appeared Seringapatam, amidst groves of trees, and surrounded
by richly-cultivated lands, watered by the river. Not much of the fort,
or the buildings within it, could be seen; but the tall minarets of a
large mosque, two enormous Hindoo pagodas and some other smaller ones,
and the white-terraced roofs of the palaces, appeared above the trees;
and as they approached nearer, the walls and defences of the fort could
be distinguished from the ground upon which it was built.

Passing several redoubts which commanded the road, they reached the
river, and fording its uneven and rocky channel with some difficulty,
they continued on towards the fort itself, whose long lines of rampart,
high walls, bastions, and cavaliers, from which cannon peeped in every
direction, filled Kasim with astonishment and delight.

As they rode onwards through the bazaar of the outer town, they saw at
the end of the street a cavalcade approaching, evidently that of a
person of rank. A number of spearmen preceded it, running very fast, and
shouting the titles of a person who was advancing at a canter, followed
by a brilliant group, clad in gorgeous apparel, cloth-of-gold, and the
finest muslins, and many in chain-armour, which glittered brightly in
the sun.

Ere Kasim could ask who it was, the cortége was near the head of his
corps, which drew off to one side to allow it to pass. As the company
advanced, the Khan dashed his heels into the flanks of his charger, and
flew to meet it: Kasim saw him halt suddenly, and present the hilt of
his sword to one who, from his appearance and the humility of the Khan’s
attitude, he felt assured could be no other than the Sultaun.

Just then one of those bulls which the belief of the Hindoos teaches
them are incarnations of divinity, and which roam at large in every
bazaar, happened to cross the road lazily before the royal party. The
attendant spearmen strove to drive it on; but not accustomed to being
interfered with so rudely, it resisted their shouts and blows with the
butt-end of their spears, and menaced them with its horns. There ensued
some little noise, and Kasim, who was watching the Sultaun, saw him
observe it.

‘A spear, a spear!’ he heard him cry; and as one of the attendants
handed him one, he exclaimed to his suite, ‘Now, friends, for a hunt’!
Yonder fellow menaces us, by the Prophet! Who will strike a blow for
Islam, and help me to destroy this pet of the idolaters?—may their
mothers be defiled! Follow me!’ And so saying, he urged his noble horse
onwards.

The bull seeing himself pursued, turned for an instant with the
intention of flight, but it was too late; as it turned the spear of the
Sultaun was buried in its side, and it staggered on, the blood pouring
in torrents from the gaping wound, while it bellowed with pain. One or
two of the attendants followed his example; and the Sultaun continued to
plunge his weapon into the unresisting animal as fast as he could draw
it out, until at last it fell, groaning heavily, having only run a few
yards.

‘Shabash, shabash! (Well done, well done!) who could have done that but
the Sultaun? Inshalla! he is the victorious—he is the slayer of man and
beast!—he is the brave in war, and the skilful in hunting!’ cried all
the attendants and courtiers. But there were many others near, who
vented their hate in silent yet bitter curses—Brahmins, to whom the
slaughter of the sacred animal was impiety not to be surpassed.

‘Ha!’ cried the Sultaun, looking upon the group, one of whom had disgust
plainly marked upon his countenance; ‘ha! thou dost not like this. By
the soul of Mahomed we will make thee like it! Seize me that fellow,
Furashes!’ he cried fiercely, ‘and smear his face with the bull’s blood;
that will teach him to look with an evil eye on his monarch’s
amusements.’

The order was obeyed literally; and, ere the man knew what was said, he
was seized by a number of the powerful attendants; his face was smeared
with the warm blood, and some of it forced into his mouth.

‘Enough!’ cried the Sultaun, leaning back in his saddle as he watched
the scene, and laughing immoderately, pointed to the really ludicrous
but disgusting appearance of the Brahmin, who, covered with blood and
dirt, was vainly striving to sputter forth the abomination which had
been forced into his mouth, and to wipe the blood from his face.
‘Enough! bring him before us. Now make a lane in front, and give me a
spear. Away with thee!’ he cried to the Brahmin, ‘I will give thee a
fair start; but if I overtake thee before yonder turning, thou art a
dead man, by Alla!’

The man turned at once, and fled with the utmost speed that terror could
lend him; the Sultaun waited a while, then shouted his favourite cry of
‘Alla yar!’ and, followed by his attendants, darted at full speed after
the fugitive. The Brahmin, however, escaped down the narrow turning, and
the brilliant party rode on, laughing heartily at their amusement.

Kasim watched all he saw with disgust; for, though a Mohamedan, and a
sincere one, he had never heard of a sacred bull being destroyed; and
there was something so wanton and cruel in the act of its destruction,
that it involuntarily brought to his memory the words of the young
Englishman, and his character of the Sultaun. But he had not time for
much reflection, for the corps was once more in motion, and he became
absorbed in admiration and wonder at all he saw—the extent and wealth of
the bazaars—the crowds of people—the numbers of soldiers of gallant
bearing—the elephants moving to and fro—and beyond all the fort, the
interior of which he now longed to see; but the Khan turned off to the
left, having passed the town, and after riding a short distance they
entered the camp without the walls, and halted within its precincts.

Leaving Kasim with his tents, which had arrived, and were being pitched
for the accommodation of Ameena, the Khan, accompanied only by his
servant Daood, rode into the fort, to his own house, in order to break
the news of his marriage to his wives, and to prepare them for their new
associate. ‘There is sure to be a storm,’ he said, ‘and it may as well
burst upon me at once.’

Alighting therefore at the door, where he was welcomed affectionately by
his servants, the news quickly spread through the house that the Khan
was come. He only delayed while he washed his feet and face, to cleanse
them from the dust of the road" as well as to refresh himself a little
ere he passed on into the zenana.

The two ladies, who had expected his arrival, and who had employed a
person abroad to inform them of it, were sitting on a musnud smoking at
one end of the room, with their backs to the door. As he entered, the
gurgling of their hookas became doubly loud; a few slave girls were
standing about the apartment, who made low salaams as he approached
them; but the ladies neither rose nor took the slightest notice of him.

The Khan was surprised at seeing them together, as when he had left them
they were bitter enemies, and he stopped suddenly in his approach. It
was evident at once to him that they had heard of his marriage, and made
common cause against him; he was justly enraged at this, and at the want
of respect, nay insult, with which they now received him.

‘Kummoo-bee! Hoormut-bee!’ he cried; ‘women! do ye not see me? Where is
your respect? How dare ye sit as I approach? Am I a man, or am I less
than a dog, that ye take no more notice of me than if I were a stone?
Speak, ye ill conditioned!’

‘Ill-conditioned!’ cried Kummoo-bee, who, though the youngest wife, was
the worst-tempered, and who led the reply; ‘ill-conditioned! Alla, Alla!
a man who has no shame—a man who is perjured—a man who is less than a
man—a poor, pitiful, unblest coward! Yes,’ she exclaimed, her voice
rising with her passion as she proceeded, ‘a namurd! a fellow who has
not the spirit of a flea, to dare to come into the presence of women
who, Inshalla! are daughters of men of family! to dare to approach us,
and tell us that he has come, and brought with him a vile woman—an
unchaste—’

‘Hold!’ cried the Khan, roused to fury as the words fell on his ear,
advancing and seizing a slipper which was on the ground; ‘dare to say
that again, and I will beat thee!’

‘Yes, beat us, beat us!’ cried both breathlessly at once; ‘beat us, and
our cup of shame will be full. Beat us, and you will do a valiant deed,
and one that your new mistress will approve of,’ cried Hoormut.

‘Alla, Alla! an old man, one with white hairs, to bring a new mistress
to his wives’ house! Shame, shame!’ vociferated Kummoo.

‘I tell thee, woman, she is my wife!’ roared the Khan. ‘Ye will receive
her as such this evening; and cool your tempers in the meanwhile, or by
Alla and the apostle, I swear that I will send ye both to your
relations, and they may keep ye or not, as they please, for I will not;
so bethink ye what ye do; this is my house, and, Inshalla! I will be its
master;’ and so saying, and not waiting to hear any reply, he left the
apartment.

-------

CHAPTER XVI.

It was early in the fifth month after Herbert Compton had seen the
shores of his native land grow dim in his aching sight, that the bold
western coast of the peninsula of India met the earnest and watchful
gaze of all who were assembled upon the deck of the noble vessel which
bore them over the blue and sparkling sea.

All that day, before a fresh and lively breeze, the ship had careered
onwards to her haven, dashing from her bows the white and hissing foam,
which spread itself around her, and mingled in her wake; while, startled
from their gambols in the deep, many a shoal of sprightly flying-fish,
rising from under the very bows, would take a long flight to leeward,
and disappear within the limpid breast of their mother ocean.

Above, the sky was blue, and without a cloud to dim its brightness; and
that pureness gave to the sea an intensity of colour which is unknown
save where those cloudless skies exist. The fresh wind had curled the
sea into graceful waves, which threw their white crests upwards to the
sky as they broke, in seeming playfulness, or rejoicing in their
gladness. Away through the glassy depths darted the gaudy dolphin and
merry porpesse, now chasing each other with many an eager bound, now in
a shoal together leaping far above the crystal billows, or appearing to
reach the summits of the lucid waves, and, as they broke, sinking down
to rest for an instant among their sparkling foam, only to renew the
sport in endless variety upon others.

Scattered around them was the fleet, some vessels near, others far
distant; some nearly buried under the load of canvas which was stretched
to court the wind—others, under a less quantity, gracefully surmounting
every wave, and at times showing their brightly coppered sides amongst
the white foam in which they were encircled. They were like living
beings, urging their way over the bright ocean; for at that distance no
human form could be distinctly descried upon their decks, and their
rapid progress seemed to be an act of their own gigantic power.

‘Land! land on the lee bow!’ was the joyful cry heard towards noon from
the main-topgallant cross-trees. ‘Land!’ was re-echoed by all on deck,
and each turned to congratulate his fellow-voyagers upon the happy news.
Even as they looked, a wreath of white smoke burst from the side of the
leading frigate, and mingled with the blue wave; while, with the report
which followed, the joyful and long-looked-for signal of land flew to
the mast-head, and was repeated by the fleet far and near.

Now every gaze was turned from the deck, and men looked with straining
eyes to pierce the haze of the horizon, as if the land lay still above
it; and soon there appeared a darker blue outline of rugged form
visible; for a while, to an unpractised eye, it was only that of a mist
or distant cloud; but it became gradually firmer and more decided, and
ere an hour had elapsed, there was no doubt that it was the land of
their destination—the land in which many were to die—many to suffer
privation and hardship, in war, in captivity, in weary sickness—from
which few were destined to return, except with ruined health, bronzed
features, and altered tempers from those which in youth and ardent hope
they now bore with them.

Few, however, had thoughts of the future; the day was bright and joyful,
and, as they neared the shore, it appeared to smile a welcome upon them.
The naked precipices of the Ghats reared themselves out of the dark and
endless forests which the brilliant sun and soft warm atmosphere
softened with tender tints; and as many a one longed to roam far away
among those recesses, little thought they how there lurked the demon of
deadly fever, who would have smitten them with death had they ventured
to intrude upon his solitary domain—solitary, except to the wild
elephant, the bison, the bear, and the serpent, which roamed unmolested
everywhere, and shared it with him.

As they neared the coast, many a white sail of picturesque form could be
seen gliding along it; others, issuing from little harbours and creeks,
whose shores were clothed with groves of tall palm-trees, which all had
heard of, but none as yet had seen. As the fleet was descried from the
shore, little boats shot out, spreading their wide sails, and as they
neared the ships, became objects of intense interest. They would now
first see a native of that noble land—a Hindoo, one who worshipped
idols, whose faith and manners had been undisturbed for ages; while in
the West had spread new faiths, new systems, where everything was daily
advancing in civilisation. Fearlessly did the tiny boat advance upon the
ship, giving a signal for a rope; and as it was thrown, one of its
dark-skinned crew leaped into the chains, and was on deck in a
instant—an object of wonder and admiration to those who for the first
time beheld him. Tall and finely formed, his figure was a model of
symmetry, his eyes large and lustrous, his features regular and amiable
in expression, his body naked, except a white cloth around his loins,
and a small cap upon his head, quilted in curious patterns.

He had brought fish, he said, to those who, from having made a few
voyages, had picked up some few words of his native tongue; and had a
few plantains, some eggs and butter, vegetables of the country, and sour
curds—all delicious luxuries to those who had long been confined to the
usual shipboard fare with dry biscuit. Soon his stock was disposed of,
and descending the side, the rope was cast off, and once more his little
barque danced over the sparkling waves towards the shore.

They were yet far from Bombay; and as evening approached, the signal-gun
and requisite flags warned the fleet to take in sail and stand out to
some distance from the shore.

The sun went down in glory. As he descended, a few light clouds formed
about him, and the wind dropped to a gentle whispering breeze, but just
enough to fill the sails, and the fleet glided onwards in quietness.

As the sun sank, the heavens became one mass of gold, almost too
brilliant to look upon! and the clouds, tinged with reddish tints, could
only be distinguished by the dazzling colours of their edges. At last it
disappeared into a sea of waving, restless, molten gold; and as the
waters gradually and lingeringly gave up their brightness, and the beams
of light faded from the sails of the ships, the heavens became a mass of
most gorgeous colours—crimson, and gold, and purple, fading into dim
greenish yellows and tender violet tints on each side; which, as the
mind strove to remember them for ever, and the eye to fix them there,
but appeared for a while, then faded away, and were no more seen.

Gradually but swiftly night clothed all objects in gloom, and the
horizon and sky appeared to blend into one; except in the west, where,
so long as light remained, its restless and ever-varying form showed
against the last lingering light of day. For a while all watched the
beauty of the heavens, spangled with brightly-gleaming stars, and fanned
by a gentle and cool wind, which, blowing from the shore, brought with
it, they fancied, perfumes of flowers such as those with which they
could imagine nature in her profusion had decked the land of which they
had had a transient, yet exquisite glimpse. Then, one by one, they
dropped the cheerful converse into which they had fallen in groups, and,
as the night advanced, sank into gentle slumbers, rocked by the easy
motion of their vessel,—to dream of the glories which the coming morrow
pictured to their excited imaginations; or of a home, humble perhaps,
but endeared by a thousand remembrances of love, of parental affection,
of wandering in cool and shady places, beside streams whose murmurings
sounded gently in their ears.

Herbert’s were thus. A feverish vision of palaces amidst gardens, where
the graceful palm-tree and acacia waved over fountains which played
unceasingly, and threw up a soft and almost noiseless spray into the
air, and where he wandered amidst forms clad in such oriental garbs as
his fancy supplied, gorgeous and dazzling with gold and gems—gradually
faded from him, and was succeeded by one of peaceful delight.

He seemed to wander once more with Amy, amidst the green and mossy
glades of Beechwood: again the well-known path beside the stream was
threaded,—his arm was around her, and the familiar converse they had
held sounded in his ears,—reply and question, even as they had uttered
them together. He had drawn her closer and closer to him as they
proceeded, and, as he strained her to his heart in one long and ardent
embrace, he thought the murmur of the stream was louder, and he
awoke:—it was only the ceaseless splash of the waters against the
vessel’s side, which came audibly to him through his open port-hole, and
which at once dispelled the illusion.

But he composed himself again, to endeavour to recall the fleeting
vision, to hear again the words of ideal converse, to hold in thrilling
embrace the loved form which only then had been present with him. Vain
and futile effort! and strange power of dreams, which enables us often
to hold communings with those beloved—though thousands of miles
intervene. How strongly does the mind in such moments supply the
thoughts and words of two, amid scenes sometimes familiar, more often
ideal, and yet palpable in sleep, but dissipated by waking fancy, and
often leaving no traces of their existence upon the memory but a
confused phantasy, which imagination strives to embody in vain!

Herbert lay restless for a while, and failing of his purpose, he roused
himself, looked out over the waters which glistened faintly under the
rays of a waning moon; and feeling the air to be fresh, as though it
were near the dawn, he arose, dressed himself, and went on deck, in
order to watch for the first break of morning over the land they were
approaching.

The scattered ships had approached each other during the night, and
stood on under easy sail; dreamy they looked,—even as giant spectres
walking over the deep. There were some from whose white sails the moon’s
faint light was reflected, and which glistened under her beams. Others,
dark and deeply in shadow, showing no token of the busy life which
existed within, or the watchful care which guided them onwards.

Gradually a faint gleam shot up into the eastern sky, a paler colour
than the deep blue which had previously existed; it increased, and the
lustre of the stars was dimmed. Soon, as all gazed to welcome it, a
blush of pink succeeded; and as the day sprang into existence, the
frigate’s signal-gun boomed over the quiet sea. The joyous day grew into
being rapidly; hues of golden, of crimson, flashed upwards, and spread
themselves over the sky, revealing by degrees the long and broken line
of mountains, which, in parts obscured by the mists floating upon them,
and again clear and sharp against the brilliant sky, continued as far as
the eye could reach from north to south. Light mists covered the coast
and the foot of the mountains, and concealed both from their longing
gaze; but as the sun arose in dazzling brilliancy, and the red blush of
his morning beams rested upon the ships, the sea, the mountain peaks and
naked precipices, the clouds seemed gradually to rise from their
slumber, until, broken by his power, they floated upwards slowly, as if
nature were purposely lifting her veil from the scene and revealing her
beauties by degrees.

They were soon at the entrance of the harbour of Bombay. The islands
which guard it rose like fairy creations from the breast of the ocean,
wooded and smiling under the light of the sun. Away to the right were
the noble range of Ghats,—their peaked and broken summits presenting
forms strange to eyes used only to the green and swelling eminences of
verdant England; the grounds below them were covered with everlasting
forests, and the shore lined by groves of palms, from among which peeped
many a white temple with conical roof, or mosque with slender minarets.
Before them stretched out the magnificent harbour, studded with bold and
lofty islands, among which the mysterious Elephanta and gloomy Carinjah
reared their giant forms and wooded sides, bounded by the town and fort
of Bombay, which arose from the water’s edge, and whose white and
terraced houses and noble fortifications gleamed brightly in the
sunlight.

Many a tall ship lay there, resting from her travel over the deep, and
craft of every description shot here and there over the waters. An Arab
dhow, with her high and pointed stern, the pavilion upon it gaily
painted—her decks crowded with men clad in the loose robes and heavy
turbans of Arabia, and her huge square sail set to catch the
breeze—sailed near them. Many gaily-painted Pattamars, with their lateen
sails as white as snow, mingled with the fleet; while others of smaller
size could be seen stretching across the harbour from the Mahratta
continent, bearing their daily supplies of market produce for the
populous town.

It was a scene of novel yet exquisite beauty; and, lighted up by the
powerful beams of an eastern sun, could not fail of making a lasting
impression upon those who, after their weary voyage, saw their eastern
home burst upon them in such splendour; nor was there one of all the
numerous host contained in those vessels who could look upon it without
feelings of mingled emotion.

From the General who commanded,—who, remembering the brilliant career
which others had run, hoped in the coming wars to win fame and
wealth,—to the lowest private, whose imagination revelled in fancied
scenes of excitement far removed from his ordinary dull routine of duty,
or of dissipation, which the cold climate of England could not
afford,—all were excited far beyond their usual wont; and exclamations
of surprise, of wonder, or of gratification, as things new or beautiful
or strange passed under their observation, arose from the various groups
upon the deck.

Herbert Compton had left England without contracting a particular
friendship for any of his brother officers; his close connection and
constant intercourse with his own family, and latterly his attachment,
had prevented this; but he had not the less observed a cheerful and
friendly intercourse with all. He was pained, however, to see how,
during the voyage, and the constant and unrestricted intercourse of
which the space of a vessel was naturally productive, many of them
showed tempers and dispositions which debarred him from joining in such
intimate association as their absence from home and residence in a
foreign land ought to have engendered.

He was grieved to see, also, how some gave themselves up to
intemperance, as if to drown in wine the memory of things they should
have held most dear;—how others betook themselves to cards or dice, to
pass away the monotonous hours of their long voyage; how these and other
vices had already changed many whom he had at first been inclined to
esteem sincerely, and forced him to contract gradually the association
which he fain would have had intimate and general.

But there were nevertheless two with whom, though his intercourse had
been slight at first, yet it had steadily progressed, and who returned
his advances towards a sincere and unreserved friendship with
corresponding warmth. One, Philip Dalton, was his equal in rank, and
slightly his senior in age, and in the regiment. The other, Charles
Balfour, his ensign, a youth even younger than himself, a fair and
sprightly fellow, whose joyous spirit nothing could daunt, and over whom
care had not as yet flung even a shadow of her sobering mantle.

Dalton was grave and religious, it might be even tinctured with
superstition, at least with a belief in destiny; and while his spirit
recoiled at once from those thoughtless or vicious companions by whom he
was surrounded, whom he shunned the more as he perceived the
uncontrolled licence they were prepared to give to their passions upon
landing, and whose only conversation consisted in the prospects of
indulgence which were opening upon them,—he soon grew into intimate
association with Herbert, as well from a similarity of tastes and
disgust of the others’ wild revelry, as from seeing at once that he
possessed a deep religious feeling, and gave expression to his sincere
thoughts upon the subject, when it was openly ridiculed or sneered at
among the others.

The three were standing in a group by themselves, and Herbert’s busy and
skilful pencil was rapidly sketching outlines of the mountains and views
of the harbour as they successively presented themselves, with the new
and curious forms of the boats and vessels around them.

‘I envy you that talent, Herbert,’ said Dalton; ‘how valuable it would
be to me, who feel that I shall so lack occupation that the time will
often hang heavy on my hands; and how gratifying to those we love to
send them even scraps of scenes in which we live and move!’

‘Nay, Philip, you have never tried to use your pencil; I would have
given you fifty lessons while we have been on board, but you have never
expressed the wish. Here is Charles, who is already a tolerable
proficient, and who sketches with most meritorious perseverance.’

‘It is well for him, Herbert; it will help to keep him from vicious and
corrupt society, and on his return to our dear England, you will both
have the pleasure of comparing your graphic notes, and talking over
these beautiful scenes together. But with me it is different: I feel
even now that yonder glorious land will be my grave, that the name of
Philip Dalton will live only for a while, and that some fatal shot or
deadly fever will free me from this earthly existence.’

‘Nonsense, Philip!’ cried both at once; ‘why should you be so gloomy
amidst so bright and joyous a scene? As for me,’ continued Balfour, ‘I
intend to defy bullet-shots and jungle-fevers, to become a major or a
colonel at least, to serve my time out here, and then go home and marry
some one. I don’t intend to get bilious or brown or ugly, but to keep my
own tolerable looks for ten years at all events. That bright land is an
earnest to me of success; and as it now smiles upon us a hearty welcome,
so do I feel my spirits rise within me proportionately. Why should I
forbid them?’

‘Ay, why should you, Charles?’ said Dalton; ‘I would that mine were as
light as yours, but they are not so, nor ever have been; and I am
thankful too for this, for I have been led to think more deeply of
serious matters than I otherwise should have done, and thus in some
degree to prepare for the change which must soon come to me. Your career
will, I hope, be very different, and I trust that your own bright hopes
will be fulfilled; but remember, that though the sky and land are bright
and fair, fairer than our England, yet death strikes many more of our
race here than there, and that we have to encounter dangers in the
field—active and brave enemies—so that we had need to be prepared
whenever the blow comes, either by a shot upon the battle-field, or by
the slower but equally fatal disease. Is it not so, Herbert?’

‘It is, Philip; and yet I would not allow, were I you, such dismal
phantasies and thoughts to possess me. Surely, when God has thrown
around us such beauties as these, our hearts should bid us rejoice, and
enjoy them as they are sent, and we ought not to think gloomily upon the
future, which may lead us insensibly into discontent and repining. Let
us only continue this our unreserved and sincere friendship, whatever
may be our position, and I feel confident that we possess in it the
elements of much happiness, perhaps of mutual assistance in many
difficulties.’

‘With all my heart and soul I promise it, Herbert,’ cried Dalton, and he
was followed with equal enthusiasm by Balfour. ‘There will arise many
adverse parties in the regiment, I foresee, but we need know none;
singly, we might be obliged to belong to one or other—united, we may be
thought singular, but we are safe, and I for one am ready to brave all
obloquy on this score in your society.’

‘Then we are agreed, Philip,’ said Herbert; ‘if it be possible we will
live together; it will take some time perhaps to arrange this, but if it
can be done, are you willing?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘And you, Charles?’

‘Certainly; there is nothing I should like better than to be near you
both always, for I feel that my wild spirits might lead me to do things
in company with many of the rest, who are very pleasant fellows, that I
should feel ashamed of afterwards.’

‘This is, then, a happy termination to our voyage,’ said Herbert; ‘one
unlooked for at its commencement, one which already is a comfort to me;
for I am assured that, whether we are safe in barracks, or in the danger
of service, in action or in sickness, we shall be much to one another,
and that we shall have always some one near us on whom we can rely in
any strait.’

‘I confess that many of my gloomy thoughts have passed away already,’
said Philip; ‘but let us for the present keep our own counsel, lest we
be denounced as a party even before we go on shore. There, your sketch
will do, Herbert; it is capital! And now put up your book, for I suspect
we are not far from our anchorage, as the frigates are shortening sail;
at any rate, you should look about you.’

They had sailed gradually on under the light morning breeze, which was
fast falling, and hardly served to carry them to their resting-place;
but still they moved, and thus the enjoyment they felt at the novelty of
the scene around them was insensibly prolonged. The fleet had now all
drawn together, and many greetings were exchanged between friends on
board different vessels, who had been unavoidably separated during the
voyage. The ships one by one shortened sail, and as they watched with
anxiety the movements of the leading frigate, they heard at last the
splash of her anchor as it plunged from her bows; simultaneously a
wreath of smoke burst from her sides, and the first gun of her cheering
salute awoke the echoes of the islands and shores of the harbour; ere it
was finished her sails were furled, and she lay peacefully upon the
smooth water, ‘a thing of life,’ seemingly enjoying rest after her long
and ceaseless travel. Her consort followed her example—then the ships of
the fleet in rotation; and the fort and vessels in the harbour saluted
in return, a joyful earnest of a hearty welcome.

Many a telescope was directed to the crowds of people who lined the
shores, the piers, and the fortifications, and many were the
speculations upon their varied appearance and costumes. All, at that
distance, appeared bright and clean and cheerful, and the inmates of the
vessels longed fervently to set foot upon the land once more. As they
anchored, each ship became surrounded by boats; and the shrill cries of
vendors of fruit, vegetables, fresh bread, with eggs and other
refreshments, resounded on all sides,—a din which almost bewildered
them.

Their turn came to be visited by the staff-officers from shore; their
men were paraded, and each company, headed by its officer, was
inspected. They were shocked by the appearance of their
inspectors—sallow and pale—as if disease of the worst kind possessed
them; they seemed more like men who had just arisen from their
death-beds, than any in active performance of very onerous and fatiguing
duties.

‘To this must we come, you see, Charles,’ said Philip Dalton, as the
staff-officer, having inspected his company and complimented him upon
its appearance, passed on to another; ‘pale faces, death-like looks,
seem to be the lot of all here who attain to blue coats, cocked hats and
plumes. It was but just now that you said you _would_ preserve yours, in
spite of all climate; you see the result of time and hot weather better
than I can tell you.’

‘I cannot bear to think of it,’ said Charles; ‘but surely all cannot be
so, Philip? However, we shall see when we get ashore. When are we to
land?’

‘This evening, I believe; they are preparing our barracks for us; till
then we must admire at a distance.’

‘More than we shall on shore, I daresay,’ said his companion, and so
indeed it proved.

The landing in the close warm evening,—the march through the Fort over
the dusty roads,—the aspect of the narrow streets and oddly fashioned
houses,—the heat, the flies, the smells of various kinds, some not the
most fragrant,—particularly that of fish under the process of
drying,—the discomfort of their first night on shore, passed in beds but
ill adapted to defy the attacks of their bitter foes the musquitoes,
completely dispelled all the romance which they had hoped would be
attendant on a landing in the gorgeous East, but which they discovered,
with no small chagrin, existed only in their imaginations. All their
beautiful gardens and gilded palaces, their luxurious couches and airy
fountains, had passed away, and given place to the bare and dull reality
of a barrack-room; not half so comfortable, they thought, as their old
quarters in England, to which many of their thoughts wandered painfully.

-------

CHAPTER XVII.

Gradually, however, all became more and more indifferent to these
discomforts, and the few days which passed in the barracks, previous to
their second embarkation, were as fully occupied as soldiers’ time
usually is when preparations for service, and that too of an active and
spirit-stirring kind, are undertaken.

The close of the year 1782 had brought with it an event of the most
important magnitude to the British interests in India. When Madras was
in a state of famine, its treasury exhausted, and its means even of
defence at the lowest ebb, Hyder Ali, the most formidable and untiring
foe the English had ever known, constantly victorious over the
ill-commanded armies of the southern Presidency, and holding a position
which, in case of a successful blow early in the next campaign, would
render him master of the field, died at Chittoor.

The relief which this event gave to the minds of the public
functionaries in the south was great; and a blow upon the army which had
obeyed Hyder, might have been struck with advantage in the absence of
any leader on whom it could have relied: that opportunity, however, was
allowed to pass. Tippoo, the enterprising son of the deceased chief, was
enabled to join it; and he assumed the command, and inheritance of his
father’s dominions, without opposition—nay, amidst the rejoicings of his
future subjects. He had been employed in directing a successful
opposition to the British invasion of his dominions from the westward,
which had made much progress; and he had nearly succeeded in his object,
when the news of his father’s death was secretly conveyed to him. In
order now to establish his authority, it was absolutely necessary that
he should cross the peninsula, and proceed at once to Chittoor, where
his father had died, and where the army lay. This absence from his
command, which was longer protracted than the invaders had calculated
upon, gave them renewed courage, and the war against the Mysore
dominions was prosecuted by the Bombay force with a vigour and success
which had long been strangers to the operations of the English.

During the time which Tippoo necessarily consumed in consolidating his
authority in the eastern part of his dominions, and providing for the
invasion there menaced by the force of the Madras Presidency, the Bombay
army, which had been driven by him into the fort of Paniané, had
received reinforcements, and in return was enabled to beat back its
assailants, and to advance with some success once more into the enemy’s
country, though from a more northern position, whither it had proceeded
by sea. Before, however, any expedition of magnitude, or that promised a
permanent occupation of the country, could be undertaken from Merjee
(now the position of the Bombay force) it was necessary that it should
be reinforced largely—in fact reconstituted; and the opportune arrival
of the large body of European troops, to which Herbert Compton and his
companions belonged, enabled the Government to effect this in an
efficient manner.

There were two ways also in which the dominions of Mysore could be
assaulted; the one through the natural road, or gap, eastward from the
town of Calicut, in the midst of which was situated the strong fort of
Palghatcherry, and which led immediately into the rich provinces of
Coimbatoor and Barah Mahal, bordering on the English possessions to the
eastward; and another, by any one of the passes which led upwards from
the level country between the Ghats and the sea, into the kingdom of
Mysore. The southern route had been often attempted; but from the
difficulty of the road, the dense jungles, and the facility with which
the invading forces could be met by the Mysore armies, attacks had never
more than partially succeeded. It was hoped that, when once the army
reached the table-land above the mountains, it would not only hold a
superior and commanding position for further operations towards the
capital, in case of previous success, but it would possess the
incalculable advantage of a cool and salubrious climate, of so much
importance to the health—nay, existence—of the European troops.

Accordingly, when it was known at Bombay that the force had been enabled
to escape from the fort of Paniané, where, as we have mentioned, it had
been beleagured by Tippoo in person—that it had sailed—re-landed at
Merjee, and was in condition to resume operations—it was determined that
the whole of the disposable force, including the newly-arrived troops,
should be sent to join it, and that operations should be commenced
without delay.

Already prepared for active service, Herbert’s regiment was one of the
first which sailed again from the island: its complete equipment, and
the health and spirit of the officers and men, led the Government to
place every dependence on its exertions in the coming arduous contest.
It was followed on the same day by others; and three or four days of
delightful sailing down the beautiful coast brought the armament to its
desired haven, and the troops landed amidst the cheers and hearty
welcome of their future brethren in arms.

A very few days served to make preparations for the campaign: bullocks
and stores had already been collected, with a few elephants to assist
the guns in their ascent of the passes; and, after the plans for the
campaign had been determined by the leaders—Mathews, Macleod,
Humberstone, and Shaw—the army moved from its camp toward its
destination.

There was necessarily much of romance in the early campaigns in India:
the country was unknown, and imagination peopled it with warlike races
far different from the peaceable inhabitants of the coasts—men in whom
the pride of possession, of high rank, of wealth, of fierce bigotry and
hatred of the Christians, uniting, made them no less the objects of
curiosity, than worthy enemies of the gallant bands which sought them in
war. Those who were new to the country, and who, in the close atmosphere
and thick jungles of the coast, saw little to realise their dreams of
eastern beauty, looked to the wall of mountains spread out before them,
with the utmost ardour of impatience to surmount them. Beyond them, they
should see the splendour of Asiatic pomp, the palaces, the gardens, the
luxuries of which they had heard; beyond them, they should meet the foes
they sought in the fair field; there, there was not only honour to be
won, but riches—wealth unbounded, the sack of towns, the spoil of
treasuries, which, if they might believe the reports diligently
circulated throughout the army, only waited their coming to fall into
their possession; above all, they burned to revenge the defeat and
destruction of Bailie’s detachment in the west, which was vaunted of by
their enemies, and to retrieve the dishonour with which that defeat had
tarnished the hitherto unsullied reputation of the British.

The spies brought them word that the passes were ill-defended, that the
rich city of Bednore, with its surrounding territory, was unprotected,
that its governor, an officer of Tippoo’s, and a forcibly-converted
Hindoo, sought earnestly an opportunity to revenge his own dishonour, in
surrendering this the key of his master’s dominions into the hands of
his enemies. It is no wonder then, that, urged on by cupidity, and
inflamed by an ardent zeal to carry the instructions he had received
into effect, the commander, Mathews, looked to the realisation of his
hopes with a certainty which shut out the necessity of securing himself
against reverses, and hurried blindly on to what at first looked so
brightly, but which soon clouded over, and led to the miserable fate of
many.

It was a subject of painful anxiety to Herbert and his companions, so
long as the destination of their regiment was unknown; for the army had
to separate—part of it to reduce the forts and hold the country below
the passes (a service which none of them liked in anticipation), and the
other to press on through the open country to Bednore, the present
object of their most ardent hopes. The strong fort of Honoor, however,
which lay not far from their place of rendezvous, could not be passed;
and to try the temper of the troops, and to strike terror into the
country, it was assaulted and carried by storm, with the spirit of men
whom no common danger could appal, and who, in this their first
enterprise, showed that they had only to be led with determination in
order to perform prodigies of valour. Nor was there any check given to
their rapacity; the place was plundered, and thus their appetites were
whetted both with blood and spoil for their ensuing service.

Now, indeed, shone out the true spirit of many an one whom Herbert and
his companions had even respected hitherto; and they saw rapacity and
lust possessing them, to the extinction of every moral feeling; while
unbridled revelry, habitual disregard of temperance, and indulgence in
excesses, hurried many to the grave whom even the bullet and the sword
spared. They were thankful to be thus knit in those bonds of friendship
which the conduct of their associates only drew the closer. They lived
in the same tents, marched together, fought together, and found that
many of their duties were lighter, and their marches and watches the
shorter, for the companionship they had made for themselves.

The commander, Mathews, a man of deep religious feeling, quite amounting
to superstition, had early remarked the appearance of Philip Dalton; his
high bearing, his steady conduct, the grave expression of his face,
impressed him with a sense of his assimilation to himself in thought;
and the excellent appearance of his men, and his attention to their
comforts, with a high estimate of him as a soldier. Nor did Herbert
escape his observation, nor the evident friendship which existed between
them. On inquiry he found that both bore the highest character, though
their habits of exclusiveness and hauteur were sneered at; yet,
perceiving the cause, they rose the higher in his opinion on that
account. For some time he weighed between the two; but gradually leaning
to the side of Dalton, he at last determined to offer to him the post of
aide-de-camp and secretary, which he accepted; and this, though
productive of temporary separations between the friends, still gave them
ample opportunities of association.

A few days after the storm and capture of Honoor, in which Herbert’s
regiment had borne a conspicuous part, and he, as commander of the light
company, had been noticed by the general in orders, the army reached the
foot of the pass, above which the fort of Hussainghurry reared its head,
and from which it took its name. Of the defences of the pass all were in
fact ignorant, but the native spies had represented them as weak and
easily to be surmounted, and they were implicitly believed. A few
straggling parties of the enemy had been met with during the day, and
driven up the pass, without any prisoners having been made from whom an
idea of the opposition to be encountered could be gained or extorted.
The way, however, lay before them; the army was in the highest spirits;
and, though the only road discernible was a rugged path, almost
perpendicular, up the side of the immense mountain, yet to them there
was nought to be dreaded—the morrow would see them on the head of the
ascent, breathing a purer air, with the broad plains of India before
them, to march whither they listed.

It was night ere the army was safely encamped at the foot of the pass;
the regiments had taken up their ground in the order they were to
ascend, and Herbert’s company was in the van; upon it would rest, if not
the fate of the day, at least the brunt of the ascent. Philip Dalton
sought him after his duties were over, the final orders had been given,
and the various officers had been warned for the performance of their
several parts in the coming struggle.

‘I am afraid you will have hot work to-morrow, Herbert,’ he said, as he
entered his little tent, where sat his friend writing very earnestly. ‘I
tried all I could to get the regiment another place, or at least to have
the force march right in front, but it could not be done. Somehow or
other the general had more than ordinary confidence in the light company
of the —th, and was pleased to express a very flattering opinion of my
friend; so—’

‘Make no apologies, dear Philip; all is as it should be—as I wish it; I
would not have it otherwise for the world. My gallant fellows are ready
for the fray, and you know they are not easily daunted; besides, what is
there to be afraid of? The people we have seen as yet have fled before
us, panic-stricken, ever since the affair of Honoor, and I for one
anticipate nothing but a pleasant walk up the mountain, or a scramble
rather, for the road does not look over smooth.’

‘There will be hot work, nevertheless, Herbert; we have the best
information as to the defences of the pass; they are insignificant, it
is true, but every rock is a defence, and a shelter from whence the
steady fire of these fellows may be fatal; and we hear of a scarped wall
or something of the kind at the top, which we cannot very clearly make
out. Would that I understood the language of the country, and could make
inquiries myself; it appears to me that those who pretend to know it
make but a lamentable hand of it, and guess at half they ought to know.’

‘It matters not, Philip—there is the road; we are to get to the top if
we can. I presume no other orders will be necessary.’

‘None.’

‘Then trust me for the rest. I have a little memorandum here, which I
was writing, and which, if you will wait with me for a while, I will
finish. It is only in case anything happens, you know,’ he added gaily,
‘there are a few things I would wish to be done.’

‘I will not disturb you, so write on; I too had a similar errand,—ours
is but an interchange of commissions.’

‘There, my few words are soon finished,’ said Herbert; ‘these are
addressed to you, Philip, but they are to be opened in case only of
accident. Here are a few letters that I have written in my desk, which,
with all my sketches, you must send home for me, or take with you if you
go; for the rest, this will tell you fully all I wish to have done.’

‘It is safe with me, Herbert, if I am safe myself, of which I have small
hope.’

‘Ah, so you said at Honoor; yet who exposed himself more, or fought
better, nay hand to hand with some of the natives, than yourself? I
shall use your own word destiny, and argue against you.’

‘Nevertheless, I am more impressed than ever with the certainty that I
stand before you for the last time, Herbert. I shall not seek danger,
however; indeed, my post near the general precludes my doing so of my
own accord; but in case of accident, here are my few memorandums; put
them in your desk, where they can remain safely.’

‘And so now, having deposited our mutual last commands with each other,
let us not think on the morrow, Philip, but as one in which we may win
honour. If God wills it, we may meet when all is over, and we are
quietly encamped upon the top, and fight all our battles over again. I
am glad, at all events, that I shall have Charles Balfour with me.’

‘Ah! how is that?’

‘Why, the picquets are ordered to join the advance guard, which is my
company; he commands them to-day, and is yonder bivouacking under a
tree, I believe; I was going to him when you came. Poor boy, I believe
he is alone; will you come?’

‘With all my heart.’

They took their way through the busy camp, where numerous watch-fires
were gleaming, and groups of native soldiery gathered round them,
warming themselves from the cold night air and dew which was fast
falling. The spot on which the army rested was an open space at the very
foot of the pass, surrounded by dense jungle, and mountains whose bulk
appeared magnified by the dusk. Although the stars shone brightly, the
fires which blazed around caused everything to appear dark, except in
their immediate vicinity, where the light fell on many a swarthy group,
among whom the rude hooka went its busy round, as they sat and discussed
the chances of plunder on the morrow, or the events of the past day.
Everywhere arose the busy hum of men, the careless laugh, the shout for
a friend or comrade, many a profane oath and jest, and often the burden
of a song to which a rude chorus was sung by others. The large mess-tent
of the regiment, with its doors wide open, displayed by the glare within
a group of choice spirits, who, over the bottle they could not forsake,
fought their battles over again, coolly discussed the chances of
promotion, and openly boasted of the plunder they had acquired, and
their thirst for more. Herbert and his friend could almost guess from
the gesticulations the nature of the conversation, and could see that
the men who held those orgies were drowning in wine the cares and
thoughts which the events of the coming day might otherwise press on
them. They turned away to where the watchful sentinels, placed double,
native and European, paced upon their narrow walk, and where, around the
embers of fires which had been lighted, the picquets lay wrapped in
their coats, taking the rest which should fit them for the morrow’s
arduous strife.

‘Who comes there?’ challenged the nearest sentry, one of his own
company.

‘A friend—Captain Compton; do you know where Mr. Balfour is?’

‘Yonder, sir; the officer of the native regiment is with him; they are
sitting under the tree near yon fire.’

Thither they proceeded—it was but a few steps off.

‘Ah! this is kind of you, Herbert and Philip, to come to cheer my watch;
not that it is lonely, for Mr. Wheeler here, who shares it with me, has
a store of coffee and other matters very agreeable to discuss; but it
was kind of you to come to me. Now be seated, camp fashion, upon the
ground, and let us talk over the affairs of to-morrow; we are likely, it
appears, to have some work.’

‘How do you know? have you any late news?’ asked Philip.

‘Mr. Wheeler can tell you better than I; but a short time ago the sentry
yonder challenged in the direction of the pass, and, no answer being
returned, I took a corporal’s guard and made a little expedition, which
was in some degree successful; for we caught two fellows who looked
marvellously like spies, but who, on being interrogated by my friend
here, swore lustily they were deserters, who had come to give
information. From them we learned that at least twenty thousand of
Tippoo’s valiant troops were prepared to make this a second Thermopylæ,
that we should have to storm entrenchments, and perform prodigies of
valour, and that we might possibly get near the top; but as to
surmounting it, that was out of the question: was it not so, Mr.
Wheeler?’

‘It was as you have said: these fellows were very likely put forward to
give this news, in order that we might be deterred from our attack, and
thereby give them time to throw up some breastworks or stockades, at
which they are expert enough. I fancy, however, the intelligence will
have but little effect upon the general.’

‘What have you done with the prisoners? Sent them to headquarters, of
course, Philip? I thought you must have seen them ere this.’

‘No, indeed, I have not; but it is time I should. I may be wanted, too,
and I must bid you farewell. If I can, I will be with you early; if not,
and we are spared, we shall meet to-morrow on the summit. So once more,
God bless you both!’

‘God bless you! God bless you!’ both repeated sincerely and
affectionately, as they wrung his hand. It might be they should never
meet again; but they were young, and soldiers, among whom such thoughts
are seldom expressed, though they are often felt.

Herbert as yet had formed no acquaintance with the officers of the
native army. Taught by the tone prevalent among those of his own at that
period, to consider them of a lower grade, he was both surprised and
gratified to find Mr. Wheeler a man of very general information. In
particular he found him to be excellent authority on many matters
connected with the usages and customs of the native troops, which to
Herbert’s military eye had appeared quite out of rule; and the sensible
explanations he gave of these and many other circumstances, not only
amused Herbert and his companion during their watch, but threw much
light on the objects and chances of success in their undertaking.

‘Then you think the general has considered the end without the means to
accomplish what he has in view?’ said Herbert, questioning him upon a
remark he hazarded.

‘I do; I think too (and the thought is not original, but one of high
authority that I could mention, only it is discreet not to do so) that
the Government is wrong in the precipitancy with which they have urged
this on, and are injuring it daily. Our force is not sufficient to keep
any country against Tippoo’s whole army, which, whatever others may say
of it, is in a very respectable state of discipline; and if we succeed
in reaching Bednore, we shall hardly get out of it with whole bones.
Have we men to occupy the passes, to take forts, to secure the country,
and to fight Tippoo besides?’

‘We have little force enough certainly,’ said Herbert; ‘but then most
are Europeans.’

‘Ay, but they are difficult to support, and helpless if not supported.
It is the fashion for you gentlemen of the royal army to cry down our
poor fellows, who after all fight well and do all the drudgery. We may
never meet again, Captain Herbert, but you will remember the words of a
poor Sub of native infantry, who, because he knows more of the native
character than your general, and more of the country, is very much
disposed to prophesy a disastrous end to what is just now very
brilliant.’

‘I hope you are wrong; nevertheless, what is chalked out for us we must
do; we ought to have no opinions but those of our superiors.’

‘Ah, well! that is the acmé of discipline to which I fear we shall never
attain,’ said the lieutenant, laughing. ‘I, for one, am willing to play
my part in what is before us; for I am too inured by this time to hard
blows and desultory fighting to care much for the passage of a ghat,
where, after all, the resistance to be apprehended may only be from a
few fellows behind a wall with rusty matchlocks.’

‘You are right, Mr. Wheeler,’ said young Balfour; ‘I want to see my good
fellows show the army the way to get up a hill; you, Herbert, will
answer for their doing the thing in style.’

‘I can, Charles; but remember you are not to be rash. As your superior
officer, I shall beg of you to use discretion with your valour. Do I not
advise well, Mr. Wheeler?’

‘You do indeed, sir; I wish many higher than you in rank could think as
calmly while they act as bravely. But here comes the field-officer of
the night; we must be on the alert, Mr. Balfour. Good night, Captain
Compton! we may renew this acquaintance.’

‘I shall be delighted to do so whenever you please; you know where to
find me, in the lines of the —th; I am seldom absent. And now, dear
Charles, tell me before you go if I can do anything for you, in case of
accident to-morrow? Dalton and I have exchanged little memorandums,
which I felt to be necessary, as we are to bear the brunt of the
business.’

‘Ah, there is really no danger, Herbert: you see Mr. Wheeler says there
is none; besides—’

‘Do not say so, Charles; wherever bullets are flying, there is danger. I
do not mean—God forbid I should think of any danger to you—but it is our
duty to consider such matters, that we may be able to meet them calmly.’

‘You are right, you are right, dear Herbert; I am glad you have spoken
to me, for I dared not have mentioned it to you or Dalton. But in case I
am—in case, you know, of any accident—you will write home about me,
Herbert. You will find the direction pasted inside my desk—to
my—my—mother—’

Poor boy! the sudden thought of her, linked with that of his own
possible death, was too much for a heart overflowing with affection for
his only parent. He struggled for a while with his feelings, and then,
able to control them no longer, burst into tears.

Herbert did not check them. It was but for a moment, however; he quickly
rallied. ‘This is a weakness which I little thought to have displayed,
Herbert; but just then my thoughts were too much for me. Will you do
what I asked?’

‘That will I, most cheerfully, if I live, Charles.’

‘And just tell them,’ he continued gaily, ‘what sort of a fellow I have
been. It will be a comfort for them to know perhaps that—but enough!—you
know all. Wheeler has got his men ready, and yonder are the rounds: so
good night! to-morrow we spend for a time, at all events, in company. I
am glad you spoke to me—I feel all the lighter for it already.’

‘Good night, Charles! get some rest if you can after the rounds are
past, you will need it; and all appears safe and quiet now around us.’

Herbert slowly returned towards his tent, picking his way amidst the
prostrate forms of the native followers, which everywhere covered the
ground, wrapped in deep sleep. All was now still, except the spot he had
left, where the usual words of the guards challenging the rounds arose
shrill and clear upon the night air; and the ‘Pass Grand Round—all is
well!’ gave a sense of security, which, in the midst of a watchful
enemy’s country, was doubly acceptable. Once he thought, as he listened,
that the challenge was answered from the pass by the shrill and
quivering blast of the brass horn of the country; and he looked, lest
there should be any stir discernible. But all was still; the giant form
of the mountain apparently slept in the calm night air; a few mists were
wreathing themselves about its summit, which was sharply defined against
the deep blue sky glistening with stars; and here and there the bright
twinkle of a distant watch-fire far above him showed that the enemy kept
their watch too as carefully as their assailants.

The camp was quite hushed; here and there the sharp bark of a dog arose,
but was as instantly silenced; or the screams and howlings of a pack of
jackals, as they prowled about the outskirts of the camp in search of
offal, awoke the echoes of the mountains. The drowsy tinklings of the
cattle-bells, with their varied tones, and the shrill chirrupings of
innumerable grasshoppers, were sounds which never ceased: but they were
peaceful, and invited that repose which all needed and were enjoying.

-------

CHAPTER XVIII.

Long ere the morning’s dawn had broken, the bugle’s cheerful note had
sounded the reveillé; from the headquarter tents the first blast arose,
and its prolonged echoes rang through the mountains—now retiring far
away among the dense woods—now returning and swelling upon the ear more
near and more distinct than it had been at first. One by one the
regiments took it up, and were followed by their drums and fifes, making
the solitudes, which hitherto had known only the growl of the bear, the
shrieking howl of the hyæna, or the bellow of the wild bison, resound
with the inspiring and martial sounds.

Soon all were prepared; the regiments fell into the various places
allotted to them; the light artillery, to which were harnessed the
strongest and most active bullocks—each piece having an elephant behind
to urge it over the roughest or most inaccessible places—brought up the
rear. Each man was as lightly equipped as possible, that he might not be
distressed by climbing; and, as a last order, might be heard the words
‘Fix bayonets, with cartridge prime and load!’ pass from regiment to
regiment, succeeded by the rattling of the muskets and jingling sound of
ramrods, as each sent home the ball which he firmly hoped might in its
discharge bear with it the life of one of his enemies.

Herbert and his young friend Balfour had long been ready, and waiting
for the signal to advance at the head of the column; their men were
impatient, and their blood was chilled with the long detention which the
preparation of so large a body necessarily occasioned. They were
standing around a fire which one of the men had kindled with some dry
leaves and sticks gathered from the adjacent thickets. All about them
was obscure; for the thick vapour which had wreathed itself about the
mountain-tops early in the night, had now descended, and occupied the
whole of the narrow valleys in dense volumes, so that nothing could be
seen beyond their immediate vicinity; they could only hear the
bugle-sounds, as they arose one by one, and the measured tramp of many
feet as the corps moved to take up their various positions.

‘This is very tiresome, Herbert,’ said Balfour; ‘I wish we were off. I
think we could do much under cover of this darkness; we might surprise
the fellows above, and be at the top before they knew what we were
about.’

‘I rather think we shall wait for daylight; but what is your opinion,
Mr. Wheeler?’ he said to the young man who had just joined them.

‘I think with you. The general most likely has heard that this fog will
rise with the daylight, and screen us half way up, perhaps better than
the night; but here is Captain Dalton, who looks as if he had orders for
the advanced guard.’

‘Where is your captain?’ they heard him ask of one of the sergeants; ‘I
have orders for him.’

‘Yonder, sir,’ replied the man, whose concluding words were unheeded in
the cry of ‘Here, here, by the fire!’ which arose from the trio around
it.

‘Well, Philip, are we to move on? I suppose there will be no signal?’
asked Herbert, as Dalton rode up.

‘Not yet, not yet; we are to wait till daylight,’ returned the other;
‘the fellows who came in last night have offered to lead up two
detachments, so that the whole force can advance and the columns support
each other.’

‘That is well, so far; but we are still to have the main path, I hope.’

‘Oh yes, and the native company will lead the other—yours perhaps, Mr.
Wheeler.’

‘Yes, mine; and I am glad to hear it. Now, Captain Compton, we have a
fair chance; natives against Englishmen in fair emulation.’

‘Ah, here are the fellows! Will you take charge of one, Herbert? and
you, Mr. Wheeler, of the other? If either of you find they have led you
wrong, you are at liberty to shoot them upon the spot. Will you explain
that fully to them, if you please?—though indeed they ought to know it
pretty well already. And now good-bye, boys, and good success to ye all!
the —th never yet yielded, and you have the post of honour to-day—so
remember!’

These few words were received with a hearty shout by the sections
around, and Dalton departed to deliver the other commands with which he
was charged.

The short time which elapsed before the signal for advance, was passed
by Herbert and his companions in examination of the men who were to lead
them.

With very different feelings had these men sought the English camp. The
one a Nair, a Hindoo of high birth, forcibly converted to the religion
of Mahomedanism, burned for an opportunity of revenge. The other, a
Mahomedan—a fellow in whose heart grew and flourished every base
passion, more particularly that of gain, which had led him to proffer
his services to the English commander for gold.

They had both been promised reward, which, while the one indignantly
scorned, the other bargained for with the rapacity of his nature; the
one was willing to hazard his life for his revenge, the other for the
gold which had been promised. How different was to be the fate of the
two!

Now in the presence of the two young English leaders, both were
confronted and examined. The young Nair, a fellow of high and haughty
bearing, ill brooked the searching and suspicious questions of the
English officer; but he gave, nevertheless, clear and distinct
information about the road, free from every taint of suspicion.

‘What is to be thy reward?’ asked Wheeler at last.

‘My revenge for the insult upon my faith. I was a Nair once, yet am now
a vile Mussulman. I need say no more, and it concerns thee not.’

‘Thou art haughty enough, methinks,’ returned his questioner.

‘As thyself,’ was his only reply.

‘By Jove, he is a fine fellow!’ said Herbert, who guessed at the
conversation; ‘let me have him with me.’

‘As you will. Now let us see what account the other can give of himself.
What is to be thy reward, good fellow?’

‘I was promised two hundred rupees for this service. My lord will surely
see his slave gets the money?’

‘That depends upon thy conduct: if thou art false, I swear to thee I
will shoot thee like a dog. I like not thy face.’

‘Your slave’s life is in your hands—may I be your sacrifice this
moment—I will lead you safely; ask him yonder whether I will or no.’

‘I cannot answer for him,’ said the Nair haughtily; ‘he guides you for
gain: give me the post of danger. I know he is a coward at heart; let
him take the back way, he will show it for fear of his life: I will
fight for my revenge.’

‘So be it then, Captain Compton; as yours is the main column, take you
the best man. I leave you my orderly, who speaks enough English to
interpret a little between you and your guide. And now to our posts, for
the day dawns, I suspect.’

‘How?’

‘Did you not feel a breath of wind? That tells us that the new day has
awakened; you will soon hear the bugle.’

Nor did they wait long. The long-expected sound arose from the centre of
the force; it was answered by the others in front and rear; and the
column, like a huge snake, began its steep and tortuous ascent in
perfect silence.

Herbert had received orders not to hurry, and with some difficulty
restrained the ardour of his men, and the impatience of his young
friend, who, with himself, was with the leading section of the advance.
Long they climbed up the narrow and rugged pass, which, though a rough
one, possessed the form of a road, and as yet no obstacle had been met
with. The mist still hung upon the mountain; but the gentle wind which
had arisen was swaying it to and fro, causing it to wheel in eddies
about them; and the now increasing light showed them the track, and gave
them glimpses of the deep and precipitous ravines, upon the very edges
of which they were proceeding,—giddy depths, into which the eye strove
to penetrate, but filled with the whirling mists which, though in
motion, had not yet arisen.

For nearly an hour did they proceed thus slowly, in order that the rear
corps might fully support them; and they could hear the steps of the
column on their right marching parallel with themselves at no great
distance among the forest trees. At length the head of the column
approached a rock, which formed an acute angle with the road. Motioning
with his hand for them to advance slowly, the young Nair drew his sword
and ran lightly on. They saw him crouch down and disappear.

‘He will betray us!’ cried Balfour; ‘on—after him!’ And he would have
obeyed the impulse of his ardour but for his captain.

‘Be still an instant, I will answer for his fidelity,’ exclaimed
Herbert. He had hardly spoken, ere the young man was seen again, waving
his sword.

‘Now, my lads, follow me!’ cried Herbert, dashing forward. ‘Promotion to
the first who enters the defences!’

Ere the enemy could hear the cheer which followed these words, their
assailants were upon them. Turning the angle, they beheld a wall of
strong masonry, with loop-holes for musketry, one side of which was
built against a precipitous rock—the other open. One or two matchlocks
were discharged ineffectually from the rampart, but this was no check to
them: hurrying on, they crowded through the side opening, where they
were met by a few determined fellows, who opposed them for an instant.
Vain endeavour! The deadly bayonet was doing its work; and a few slight
sword-cuts only served to inflame those who received them to more deadly
revenge. The Nair fought nobly. Cheered on by the soldiers, who took
delight in his prowess, he threw himself headlong upon several of the
defenders of the place in succession; and, though he too was slightly
wounded, yet his deeply-planted sword-cuts told the strength of arm
which inflicted them, and the deep hate and revenge which urged him on.

Now, indeed, ensued a scene of excitement and spirited exertion
difficult to describe. The few musket-shots which had been fired, proved
to those in the rear that the work had begun in earnest, and every one
now strove to be the first to mingle in it. The column pressed on,
disregarding order and formation, which indeed was little necessary, but
which was preserved by the officers as far as possible. The gallant
Macleod was soon with the leading sections, animating the men by his
gestures and his cheers. They needed not this, however, for Herbert was
there, and young Balfour, who emulated his example; and all hurried
after the fugitives, from ascent to ascent, with various effect. Now one
of their number would fall by a shot—now one of the Europeans, as the
retreating enemy turned and fired. Now a wreath of smoke would burst
from among the bushes and crags above them, and the bullets would sing
harmlessly over their heads, or rattle among the stones around
them:—again this would be answered by the steady fire of a section,
which was given ere the men rushed forward with the more sure and deadly
bayonet.

Herbert and his men, guided by the Nair, still fought on in the front,
toiling up many a steep ascent: one by one the works which guarded them
were carried; and though in many cases obstinately disputed for a few
moments, yet eventually abandoned—their defenders, panic-stricken,
hurried after the horde of fugitives which now pressed up the pass
before them.

At length a steeper acclivity appeared in view, the sides of which were
lined with a more numerous body of men than had hitherto been seen; and
the sun, which now broke over the mountain’s brow for the first time,
glanced from their steel spears and bright musket-barrels.

‘Let us take breath for a moment,’ cried Macleod, ‘and do all of ye
load; there will be tough work yonder—the last, if I mistake not, of
this affair. The enemy has mustered his strength, and awaits our coming:
we are within shot, yet they do not fire. You have behaved nobly,
Captain Herbert, and your guide is a gallant fellow. Mr. Balfour too
seems to have had his share, as appears by his sword. But come, we are
enough together now, and the rest are pressing on us. Follow me,
gentlemen, for the honour of Scotland!’

Waving his sword above his head, which flashed brightly in the sunlight,
he dashed on, followed by the Nair and the others, upon whom the
momentary rest had had a good effect. Their aim was more deadly, their
footsteps firmer and more rapid.

Urged on by his impetuosity, the gallant Colonel did not heed the
motions of the Nair, who, fatigued by his exertions, vainly strove to
keep pace with the commander. He hurried on, followed by nearly the
whole of Herbert’s company and the young Balfour, up the broad ascent
which invited their progress, but which it was apparent, from the
position of the defenders, would be hotly contested. It was in vain that
the Nair stormed, nay raved, in his own tongue: who heeded him? or if
they did, who understood him?

‘There is no road, there is no road there!’ he cried. ‘Ah fools, ye will
be lost if ye persevere! Follow me! I will lead ye—I know the way!’

Fortunately at that moment Herbert happened to cast his eyes behind him.
He had missed the young Nair with the advance, and had thought he was
killed: he now saw his gesticulations, and that the orderly was beside
him. A sudden thought flashed upon him that there was no road, from the
confidence with which the attacking party was about to be received; and
hurrying back to them, he eagerly demanded the cause of his cries.

‘No road there!’ ‘no road!’ ‘he know the road!’ ‘he show the road!’ was
the answer he got through the orderly. But to turn any portion of his
men, who heard nothing and saw nothing but the fierce contest which had
begun only a few paces above them, was a matter of no small difficulty:
a steady sergeant or two of a different regiment and some of his own men
at last saw his intentions; and, with their aid, he found himself at the
head of a small body, which was being increased every instant.

The Nair surveyed them half doubtfully. ‘They will be enough!’ he said
in his own tongue, and dashed down a narrow path which led from the main
road.

Following this in breathless haste for a few moments, and in fearful
anxiety lest he should be betrayed, Herbert called to the men to keep
together; and as they began again to ascend, he saw the nature of the
Nair’s movement. The wall which was being attacked by the main body, was
built on one side up to a steep precipice, the edge of a fearful chasm;
on the other to a large and high rock of great extent, which flanked the
wall and defied assault from the front, but could evidently be turned by
the path by which they were now proceeding. How his heart bounded with
joy therefore, when, after a few moments of hard climbing, he found
himself, with a greater number of men than he had expected, on the top
of the rock within the enemy’s position!

Pausing for an instant to take breath, he saw the desperate but
unavailing struggle which was going on below him, in the vain attempts
being made by the troops to scale the wall. What could they do against a
high wall, with a precipitous rock on either hand, and a murderous fire
in front? many had fallen, and others fell as he looked on. He could
bear it no longer; he had scarcely fifty men with him,—in the redoubt
were hundreds. ‘Give them one steady volley, boys!’ he cried to his men.
‘Wait for the word—Fire!—Now on them with the steel!’

Secure in their position, the enemy little expected this discharge, by
which some dozen of their number fell; and as they cast a hurried glance
up to the rock, it was plain by their great consternation how admirably
had the surprise been effected. Numbers in an instant threw away their
arms and betook themselves to flight, while others, irresolute,
hesitated. The British below soon saw their comrades above, and saluted
them with a hearty cheer, while they redoubled their efforts to get over
the wall; in this there was a sally-port; and, as the small party dashed
down into the enclosure amidst the confusion and hand-to-hand conflict
which ensued, one of them contrived to open it. Eagerly the assailants
rushed in, and few of those who remained asked or received quarter.

Herbert’s eye was fascinated, however, by the Nair, his guide, who from
the first descent from the rock had singled out one of the defenders of
the redoubt, evidently a man of some rank. He saw him rush upon him
waving his reddened sword;—he saw the other defend himself gallantly
against the attack;—even the soldiers paused to see the issue of the
contest. The Nair was not fresh, but he was reckless, and pressed his
opponent so hard that he retired, though slowly, along the rampart.
Their shields showed where many a desperate cut was caught, and both
were bleeding from slight wounds. By degrees they approached the
platform of the precipice, beyond which was only a blue depth, an abyss
which made the brain giddy to look on. Ere they were aware of it, the
combatants, urging their utmost fury, and apparently not heeding their
situation, approached the edge, exchanging cuts with redoubled violence;
and now one, now the other, reeled under the blows.

On a sudden Herbert saw—and as he saw it he sprang forward, with many
others, to prevent the consequences they feared—the chief, who had his
back to the edge, turn round and look at his position. The next instant
his sword and shield were thrown away, he had drawn a dagger from his
girdle and rushed upon the Nair his adversary. A desperate struggle
ensued; they saw the fatal use made of the knife; but still the Nair,
dropping his sword, struggled fiercely on. As they approached the edge
the suspense became fearful, for no one dared venture near the
combatants; in another instant they tottered on the brink, still
struggling;—another—and a portion of the earth gave way under their
feet, and they fell! They saw for an instant a hand grasp a twig which
projected,—that disappeared, and they were gone for ever! Herbert and
many others rushed to the spot, and, shading their eyes, looked over the
precipice; they saw them descending, bounding from every jutting
pinnacle of rock, till their aching sight could follow them no longer.

‘It was a deadly hate which must have prompted that man’s exertions this
day,’ said a voice beside him, as Herbert turned away sickened from the
spot—it was Philip Dalton.

‘May that Being into whose presence he has gone be merciful to him!’
said Herbert, ‘for he has fought well and bravely to-day, and guided us
faithfully; without his aid, who could have discovered the narrow path
by which I was enabled to turn this position?’

‘You, Herbert? I thought it must be you, when I heard how it had been
done. I envy you, while I admire your courage; you have saved the army;
we should have lost many men at that wall but for your well-timed
diversion.’

‘Then you saw it?’

‘I did; I was with the General, down there, when the welcome red coats
appeared on the rock yonder; he hailed your appearance like that of an
angel deliverer, and exclaimed that Heaven had sent you.’

‘Not Heaven, Philip, but the poor fellow who lies in yonder chasm. I
would to Heaven he had lived!’

‘Do not think of him, Herbert, but as one who has fought nobly and died
bravely—an honourable end at any time; but have you seen Charles
Balfour?’

‘He was with me, surely,’ said Herbert; ‘but no, now that I remember, I
think he went on with the Colonel and the rest. Good God! he must have
been in all that hot work: you saw nothing of him as you passed the
sally-port?’

‘No, but let us go and look; the bugles are sounding a halt, and you
have done enough to-day; so trouble yourself no further; we have gained
the ascent, and the enemy is flying in all directions.’

As they spoke, they passed through the sally-port into the open space
beyond, where many a poor fellow lay writhing in his death-agony, vainly
crying for water, which was not immediately to be found. Many men of
Herbert’s own company, faces familiar to him from long companionship,
lay now blue and cold in death, their glazed and open eyes turned
upwards to the bright sun, which to them shone no longer. His favourite
sergeant in particular attracted his notice, who was vainly endeavouring
to raise himself up to breathe, on account of the blood which nearly
choked him.

‘I am sorry to see this, Sadler,’ said Herbert kindly, as he seated him
upright.

‘Do not think of me, sir,’ said the poor fellow; ‘Mr. Balfour is badly
hurt. I was with him till I received the shot, but they have taken him
yonder behind the rock.’

‘Then I must leave you, and will send some one to you;’ and Herbert and
Dalton hurried on.

Behind the rock, almost on the brink of the precipice, and below the
wall, there was a shady place, formed by the rock itself and by the
spreading branches of a Peepul-tree which rustled gently over it. This
served for a kind of hospital; and the surgeons of the force, as one by
one they came up, lent their aid to dress the wounds of such as offered
themselves.

There, supported by two men of his company, and reclining upon the
ground with such props as could be hastily arranged around him, lay
Charles Balfour—his fair and handsome features disfigured by a gaping
wound in his cheek, and wearing the ghastly colour and pinched
expression which is ever attendant upon mortal gun-shot wounds. Both saw
at once that there was no hope; but he was still alive, and, as he heard
footsteps approaching, his dim and already glazed eye turned to meet the
sound, and a faint smile passed over his countenance, evidently of
recognition of his companions. They knelt down by him gently, and each
took the hand he offered.

‘I thought,’—he said with much difficulty and very faintly,—‘I thought I
should have died without seeing you; and I am thankful, so thankful that
you have come! Now, I go in peace. A few moments more, and I shall see
you and this bright earth and sky no more. You will write, Herbert,
to—to—’ He could not say—mother.

‘I will, I will do all you say, dear Charles; now do not speak—it hurts
you.’

‘No, it does not pain me; but I am dying, Herbert, and all is fast
becoming dim and cold. It is pleasant to talk to you while life lasts.
You will tell her that I died fighting like a man—that no one passed me
in the struggle, not even yourself.’

Herbert could not answer, but he pressed his hand warmly.

‘Thank you, thank you. Now pray for me!—both of you; I will pray too
myself.’

Reverently they removed their caps from their brows, and, as they knelt
by him, offered up in fervency prayers, unstudied perhaps and even
incoherent, but gushing fresh from the purest springs of their hearts,
and with the wide and glorious scene which was spread out before them
for their temple. As they still prayed in silence, each felt a tremulous
shiver of the hand they held in theirs; they looked upon the sufferer: a
slight convulsion passed across his face—it was not repeated—he was
dead!

Both were brave soldiers; both had borne honourable parts in that day’s
fight; yet now, as their eyes met, overcome by their emotions, both
wept. Herbert passionately; for his mind had been worked up to a pitch
of excitement which, when it found vent at all, was not to be repressed.
But after awhile he arose, and found Dalton looking out over the
magnificent prospect; the tears were glistening in his eyes it was true,
but there was an expression of hope upon his manly features, which
showed that he thought Charles’s change had been for the better.

They stood almost upon the verge of the precipice; far, far below them
was a giddy depth, the sides of which were clothed with wood, and were
blue from extreme distance. Mountains of every strange and varied form,
whose naked tops displayed bright hues of colour, rose in their
precipices out of eternal forests, and formed combinations of beautiful
forms not to be expressed by words—now gracefully sweeping down into
endless successions of valleys, now presenting a bold and rugged
outline, or a flat top with perpendicular sides of two or three thousand
feet, which descended into some gloomy depth, where a streamlet might be
seen chafing in its headlong course, though its roar was not even heard.
There were many scathed and shattered peaks, the remains of former
convulsions, which, rearing themselves above, and surrounded by mist,
looked like a craggy island in a sea; and again beyond, the vapours had
arisen in parts and floated gracefully along upon the mountain side,
disclosing glimpses of blue and indistinct distance to which the mind
could hardly penetrate—a sea of mountains of all forms, of all hues,
blended together in one majestic whole, and glowing under the fervent
light of the brilliant sun; and they looked forth over this with heart
softened from the pride of conquest, more fitted to behold it, to drink
in its exquisite beauty, from the scene they had just witnessed, than if
in the exultation of victory they had gazed upon it from the rock above.

‘Methinks it would take from the bitterness of death,’ said Herbert, ‘to
part from life amidst such scenery, which of itself creates an
involuntary wish to rise above the earth, to behold and commune with the
Author and Creator of it; and if the taste of this, which we are
permitted here, be so exquisite, what will be the fulness of reality?
Poor Charles! his fate was early and unlooked for; yet with his pure
spirit, in the hour of conquest, and here, without pain too, we may well
think there was bitterness in his death.’

‘There is never bitterness in death, if we look at it steadily, Herbert,
and consider it as a change to an existence far more glorious. Charles
has passed away from us,—the first of our little company, in this
strange and gorgeous land,—perhaps not the last; but come, we may be
wanted.’

And saying this, they turned from the spot, giving a few necessary
orders for the care of the body of their friend; and with some cheering
words to the poor wounded fellows, who were brought in every moment,
they passed on to the other duties which required their presence.

-------

CHAPTER XIX.

On the summit of the Hussainghurry pass, if the traveller turns aside
from the beaten track into the thin brushwood to the left and near the
edge of the mountain, from whence he will behold an indescribably
sublime prospect, there are a few ruined tombs. They are those of the
officers and men who fell in the assault, and who lie near the scene of
their triumph,—sad yet honourable memorials of the event which even now
is sung and described by the bards of the country in rude but expressive
language.

Beyond these again is another, beneath a shady Neem-tree, which is in
better preservation, and, by the hut near it, has evidently been taken
under the care of an old Fakeer. He will always supply the thirsty
traveller with a cup of cool water after his weary ascent, and though he
could originally have had no interest in the tomb, has yet inherited the
occupation of the spot from others before him, whom either death swept
from the face of the earth, or, having rested there for awhile, have
wandered into other and far-distant lands.

That tomb is Charles Balfour’s; and whether it is that more than
ordinary interest existed at the period in the fate of him who lies
there,—whether any tradition of his youth and virtues descended with
time—from its being apart from the others, or from the shade the tree
afforded—that it has been selected from the rest, and held in
sanctity,—we know not; yet so it is. Annually, a few flowers and a
lighted lamp are offered up upon it, and often a love-sick maiden, or a
mother beseeching health for her child or a propitious return to her
absent husband, brings a lamp and a garland with her, and in a few
simple prayers beseeches the spirit of him who rests there to aid her
requests.

Certain it is they could not pray to the spirit of a purer being; and if
the act itself be questionable, at least we cannot refuse, to the
emotion which prompts it, our mental tribute of sincere sympathy.

Herbert and Dalton selected the spot themselves; and in the evening,
after they had completed the few necessary preparations for the funeral,
as the red glow of the declining sun was lingering upon the
mountain-peaks, gilding the naked precipices till they shone like fire,
and the huge mountains were flinging their purple shadows over the deep
valleys and chasms, making their depths even more profound and
gloomy,—the slow and sad funereal train which bore Charles Balfour to
his grave issued from the camp, followed by most of the officers in the
force and the men of his regiment; for the youngest officer in it had
been a favourite with all, and his daring bravery on that day had caused
a double regret for his early fate.

What more affecting sight exists than a soldier’s funeral? the cap and
sword, and belt and gloves upon the coffin, speak to the heart more than
studied eulogy or the pomp of nodding plumes and silent mutes; the head
which proudly bore the one, the arm which wielded the other, are stiff
and cold. Earth has claimed her own; and it goes to its last narrow
resting-place, not in the triumphal procession of hearses and lines of
carriages, but with the solemn wail of the music for the dead, and with
slow and measured tramp, so full of contrast to the vigorous and
decisive step of military movement.

The mournful procession passed onward till it reached the grave; the
funeral party which preceded the coffin performed its simple movement in
silence; and as the lane was formed, and the men bowed their heads upon
the butts of their muskets, many a big tear could be seen coursing down
the cheeks of those who had fought beside him who had passed from among
them for ever!

Soon all was finished: the rattle of musketry resounded in the still
evening through the mountains; it died gradually away; again and again
it was repeated; and the last honours being paid to their departed
brother, all separated, and returned in groups to the camp, soon to
forget, even amidst other excitements than those of action or constant
service, the solemnity of the scene they had been engaged in.

Philip and Herbert remained however till the grave was filled in and
stones and thorns were piled upon it; and by this time evening had far
advanced, and spread her dusky mantle over the sublime scenery. All
beyond the pass gradually became a dark void, wherein nothing was
discernible save here and there a dim twinkling light, which showed
where a shepherd kept his watch, or a few wood-cutters cooked their
evening meal after the labours of the day. They could not remain long;
the chill breeze which arose as night advanced, though it was pleasant
to their relaxed frames, warned them to retire to the shelter of their
tent; and if their evening there was spent sadly, at least they had the
satisfaction of thinking that all the honours of a soldier’s death had
been shown to their young friend, and that he lay in a grave which would
be unmolested for ever.

It is far from our intention to follow _seriatim_ the operations of this
campaign, which are already matters of history, except as they are
necessary to the explanation of the positions into which the fate of
Herbert Compton led him. It has been already stated that the rich town
of Bednore, the capital of the province in which the army now was, had
been from the first the object of the present campaign; accordingly
Mathews, the day after the assault of the pass, pressed onwards with his
whole force to Hyderghur, a strong fort on the way to Bednore. This
place quickly yielded; and the governor, having been offered terms by
the English commander, agreed to them, and delivered over the whole of
the districts dependent upon the fortress. The fortress of Anantpoor
soon followed, and the country was quickly occupied by small
detachments, and the inhabitants yielded apparently quiet possession to
their conquerors. Bednore was next approached; and as the minarets and
white-terraced houses appeared to the view of the army, and it was known
that its governor had deserted his post, all were clamorous to be led at
once against it, both because it was to be their resting-place, after
their fatiguing service, and was described to be full of treasure, which
would become their lawful spoil.

The possession of it was the more urgent, because only six rounds of
ammunition remained to each man in the whole army; with this miserable
provision, no operation of any magnitude could be undertaken; there was
no prospect of immediate supplies from Bombay; the communication from
the coast was very irregular, but Bednore was before them; and, reckless
almost of consequences, it was attacked and carried by escalade, with
all the ardour of desperate men. The reduction of the forts of the
country followed, and, in a mistaken idea, perhaps, all were occupied
with small detachments; thus the army was rendered inefficient, and, in
a great measure, the execution of these services gave notoriously such
profit to the officers engaged in them, on account of the plunder they
obtained, that they were with difficulty recalled. The dreams all had
entertained of riches appeared to be realised, the spirit of rapacity
pervaded all ranks, and each man was anxious to secure what he could of
the golden harvest.

During the month of February, these and other operations below the
passes took place; and when the army, or such part of it as could be
assembled at Bednore, was collected, it was the general expectation that
the immense booty would be divided, and, at all events, that the army
would receive its pay, which to most of the troops was considerably in
arrear. Herbert, however, had been prevented, by a wound received at the
storm of Anantpoor, from taking any part with his regiment in the
operations we have alluded to; he had received a severe sword-cut upon
his right arm, which, though it did not confine him to his bed, yet
rendered it impossible for him to accompany the regiment; and after the
possession of Bednore, he remained there with the other sick and
wounded. Dalton, on the contrary, continued to be most actively
employed, and in all the affairs of the campaign bore a conspicuous
part.

His constant association with the General gave him opportunities of
observing his character narrowly. While he admired the courage and the
perseverance with which he laboured to carry out to the letter the
instructions of the Government, he could not but see that his blind
reliance upon fate, his neglect of the most ordinary means of gaining
intelligence, and of providing stores and supplies for his army,—while
he denied them the power of purchasing for themselves by withholding
their pay, which he had ample means to discharge,—would sooner or later
be the causes of ruin to the expedition, which, so long as it was not
menaced by the armies of Mysore, held efficient possession of the
territory it had gained.

Nor was it to be doubted that Tippoo, with the whole resources of his
kingdom at his perfect command, would make a decisive attempt for the
recovery of this, his favourite and most fertile province. Dalton had
repeatedly urged these considerations upon his commander with the utmost
earnestness, but without effect, and the events which followed their
return to Bednore were of a character to excite his most lively
apprehensions.

No sooner had the chief commanders of the army re-assembled at Bednore,
from their various expeditions, than a division of the plunder, or at
any rate an issue of pay, was insisted upon by them, and by some of the
officers; for the sum which had been collected was notoriously very
large. The whole amount of the lately-collected revenue of the district
had been seized in the Bednore treasury; and this, with the property and
jewels, the plunder of the various forts, might have been considered
available in part to the public service. With an obstinacy, however,
peculiar to his character, Mathews refused any distribution; the small
advances doled out to the officers and the men were dissipated as fast
as given, and were totally inadequate to their wants; and a general
spirit of discontent, little short of absolute mutiny, arose throughout
the army.

After many scenes of violent recrimination, of mutual threats, of
forcible suspension from the functions of their office between the
General and his subordinates, the latter declared to him in the presence
of Dalton and others of his staff, that they felt themselves perfectly
justified, for the safety of the army and the furtherance of the public
interests, to proceed at once to Bombay, and in person to expose his
conduct.

Having come to this determination, Mathews made no attempt to shake it.
Convinced, though mistakenly, that he was acting for the public good, he
formally granted them the permission they would otherwise have taken,
and requested Captain Dalton would hold himself in readiness to proceed
with the three commanders, as the bearer of his despatches, which
contained his reasons for acting as he had done, his requests for
further aid, and instructions as to his ultimate proceedings.

This was a somewhat sudden blow to Dalton, who would have far preferred
remaining with the General, to whom he felt a strong attachment, which
was increased by the difficulties and dangers by which he saw him
encompassed; and for a while he endeavoured to make a change in his
determination.

There were others, he said, of the staff much more fit to execute the
orders than himself; men who were acquainted with the authorities at the
Presidency, and with the language of the country, so necessary in a
rapid journey to and from the coast. But the General continued
inflexible; his confidence in the manly and independent character of
Dalton was not to be shaken, and Philip himself soon saw that it was
useless to press him upon the point.

Once he suggested that his friend Herbert should fulfil the mission, and
the mention of his name thus casually led to a request on the part of
the General that he would undertake Captain Dalton’s duties during his
absence. This was satisfactory to both of them, to Philip particularly,
for he felt assured in the talent and excellent military knowledge of
Herbert, which he was daily increasing by study, that the General would
have advice upon which he could depend.

‘Then, Philip, you will be back within a month?’ said Herbert, as they
sat together the evening before his departure.

‘I think so. Macleod and Humberstone are very friendly to me, though we
go upon opposite errands, for which I would to God no necessity existed;
and they are determined to get back as soon as possible; indeed, you
know it is absolutely necessary, for things cannot go on much longer in
this state.’

‘No, indeed. I regret sincerely that matters are thus; what in the world
can make the old man so obstinate?’

‘I know not; it is in vain that I have represented the absolute
necessity for a distribution of money, or for a prize-committee, in
order that the army may know something of what was secured here and
elsewhere. It is in vain; the old man is absorbed in the contemplation
of this wealth; it occupies his thoughts incessantly; and, though it is
not his, yet I verily believe he cannot make up his mind to part with
it, merely because it is wealth.’

‘It is most strange; one of those curious anomalies in human conduct
which we often see without being able to give any satisfactory reason
for it. I hope, however, the Government will decide the matter, and soon
send you back to us, Philip.’

‘Indeed, I hope so too. I very much suspect the General will be
superseded, for in truth he is little fitted to command; but you will be
able to judge of this yourself in a day or two.’

‘Well, I shall see; at any rate he shall have my opinion upon the state
of the fortifications, which I have often mentioned to you.’

‘And I to him; but he relies so implicitly upon his fate, and is so sure
of aid, which seems to me like a hope in a miraculous intervention in
his favour, that I ceased to urge it.’

‘There is no use in our speaking more now upon this vexatious subject,
Philip, and I pray you to execute my commissions in Bombay. Here are a
few letters for England, and some drawings among them; one for Charles’s
poor mother, and a sketch of the place where he fell, and his last
resting-place, which please despatch for me. Perhaps you can get them
into the Government packets; if so, they will be safer than in the
ship’s letter-bags. Here too is a packet of drawings of all our late
scenes and skirmishes, till my wound prevented my sketching any more,
which you may have an opportunity of sending by a private hand; and if
not, any of the captains will take it for me, I have no doubt.’

‘I will arrange all for you safely, Herbert. I have written some letters
myself, and they can all go together. I doubt not I shall be able to get
one of the secretaries to forward them, and your drawings besides, which
are not very large. Anything more?’

‘Nothing, except these trifling purchases.’

‘Certainly, I will bring the contents of the list without fail. So now
good-bye, and God bless you till we meet again! which I hope will not be
further distant than three weeks or a month. Take care of the old
commander; and if you can persuade him into parting with some money, and
into vigilance and exertion, you will not only be cleverer than I am,
but will deserve the thanks of all parties.’

‘I will try at all events. So good-bye! Don’t forget my letters,
whatever you do, for there are those in our merry England who look for
them with almost feverish impatience. God bless you!’

They wrung each other’s hands with warm affection, and even the tears
started to Herbert’s eyes. He thought then that he should be alone, to
meet any vicissitudes which might arise, and he could not repress a kind
of presentiment of evil, vague and indefinite. If he had been Dalton, he
would have expressed it; but his was a differently constituted
temperament, and he was silent. Another warm and hearty shake of the
hand, and Philip was gone.

The rest of that evening and night was sad enough to Herbert, and many
anxious thoughts for the future rose up in his mind. Dalton was only to
be absent a month; but in that time what might not happen? The army was
inefficient, from being broken up into detachments, and the best
commanders were about to leave; the authority would devolve upon others
who were untried in such situations; disaffection and party spirit were
at a high pitch. Should the enemy hear of this, and attack them, he
feared they could but ill resist.

However, he thought he could do much by forcible entreaty with the
general, whom he was now in a condition to advise; and, as he said,
these thoughts are but the effect of circumstances after all. For how
often is it that they who are departing on a journey in the prospect of
novelty and occupation of thought, have spirits lighter and more buoyant
than those who, remaining, can not only imagine dangers for the absent,
but are oppressed with anxieties for their safe progress, and lest evils
should come in which their aid and sympathy will be wanting!

But sad thoughts will soon pass away under the action of a
well-regulated mind: and Herbert, in his ensuing duties, found much to
occupy his, and prevent it from dwelling upon ideal evils. They were
not, however, without foundation.

But a few days had elapsed after the departure of his friend, ere
Herbert began to suggest plans to the commander for the general safety.
Young as he was, he put them forward with much diffidence, and only when
they were supported by another officer of the staff who could not blind
his eyes to the critical state of the army. Leaving for a while the
vexatious subject of money, upon which the general could not be
approached without giving way to passionate expressions, they gradually
endeavoured to lead his attention to the state of the fortifications,
which, ruinous and neglected as they were, could not afford defence
against any ordinarily resolute enemy. They next endeavoured to organise
some system of intelligence; for of what was passing within twenty miles
of Bednore—nay, even the state of their own detachments—they had no
knowledge whatever. They urged upon their infatuated commander the
necessity of establishing some order and discipline in the army, which
from neglect, inactivity, and poverty, was becoming riotous and
unmanageable.

But all was in vain. The more apparent the difficulties of his situation
were made to him, the more he tried to shut his eyes against them; and
when driven by absolute conviction to confess the peril, which daily
increased, though as yet no enemy threatened, he declared that he had
reliance in Almighty power to send succour, to perplex the councils of
his enemies, to distract their attention from one who, having carried
conquest so far, was destined (though certainly in some strait at
present) to rise out of all his troubles triumphant, to confound his
enemies and those who sought to dispossess him of his situation.

It was in very despair therefore that Herbert and the others, who had
aided him in his plans, were at length obliged to desist from further
importunity, and to settle down into a kind of dogged resolution to bear
with resignation whatever might be hidden behind the dark veil of the
future; and all hoped that news would speedily arrive of the
supercession of the general, and the appointment of some other more
competent person.

It will be remembered that two persons came into the English camp on the
night before the storming of the pass. The fate of one will be fresh in
the reader’s memory. The other performed his part well: he led the
column he guided steadily on one side of all the entrenchments, by
narrow bypaths and difficult places: it reached the top in time to
intercept the fugitives, who, driven from redoubt to redoubt, and
finally from the last, as we have already mentioned, fled
panic-stricken, and were destroyed in great numbers by the second
column, which intercepted many of them at the summit of the pass.

This guide, whose name was Jaffar Sahib, therefore, received his full
reward, and more; and as he was assumed to be faithful, so the general
kept him about his person, and lent a ready ear to his suggestions. By
him he had been informed of some secret stores of treasure, which he had
added to the general stock. By him he was told of the terror with which
his presence and conquest had inspired Tippoo and his armies, who would
not dare to attack him; and if the unfortunate general ever ventured to
express a doubt of the security of his position, he was flattered into
the belief that there was no fear, and was told, in the language of
Oriental hyperbole, that it was impregnable.

The interpreter between them was the general’s personal servant, who—not
proof against a heavy bribe, and greater promises—had lent himself to
the deep designs of the other.

It was long before suspicion of this person entered the mind of Herbert;
but a remark that fell from the general one day, that he had the best
information of the proceedings of the enemy, when it was very evident he
had none at all, led him to suspect that Jaffar Sahib was exercising
with the general a fatal and as yet unknown influence. The man’s
conduct, however, was so guarded, his civility and his apparent
readiness to oblige so great, that it was long before Herbert’s
suspicion led him to adopt any course to detect him.

But expressions, however light, will sometimes remain upon the memory,
and oftentimes obtrude themselves upon our notice when least expected.
During a nightly reverie, when the scenes of the short campaign were
vividly present to his imagination, he remembered the tone of contempt
in which the gallant Nair had spoken of Jaffar Sahib; and though he had
not understood the words, yet he could not help thinking there was more
implied in them than Wheeler had noticed. Early the next day he sought
that officer, with whom he had been in constant association, and
mentioned his doubts to him.

Mr. Wheeler readily repeated the words which the Nair had used; and
remembering his tone of contempt, he was gradually led to think with
Herbert that there was ground for extreme suspicion and watchfulness.
Nothing, however, could be discovered against the man; and though they
set others to watch his movements, they could not ascertain that he held
communication with any one but the general’s own servants, among whom he
lived.

The first three days of April had passed, and as yet there was no news
of the issue of the appeal to Bombay. All were anxious upon the subject,
and party-spirit ran higher and higher in consequence. They had soon,
however, matter for sterner contemplation. On the fourth morning, early,
there arose a slight rumour that Tippoo’s army was approaching. Three
similar ones had been heard before, but nothing had followed; and
Herbert flew with the intelligence to the general, accompanied by
Wheeler; for their suspicions were roused to the utmost against Jaffar
Sahib.

‘Impossible!’ said the general when he had heard the news. ‘I have the
most positive information that Tippoo is at Seringapatam, and purposes
advancing in the opposite direction to meet the Madras army. Who is the
author of this groundless rumour, gentlemen?’

‘It was prevalent,’ they said, ‘in the bazaar.’

‘Some scheme of the grain-merchants to raise the price of grain, I have
no doubt. But here is Jaffar Sahib, the faithful fellow to whom we owe
much of our success, and who would be the first to give this information
if it were true: ask him, if you please, Mr. Wheeler, what he thinks.’

Wheeler put the question, and the man laughed confidently.

‘It is a lie,—it is a lie! Look you, sir, as you speak my language so
well, perhaps you can read it also. Here are letters which I have daily
received from Seringapatam, through a friend, who thus risks his life in
the service of the brave English. They contain the daily records of the
bazaar there, and the movements of the troops.’

‘We will have them read by a scribe, if you please, general,’ said
Wheeler. ‘If thou art faithless, as I suspect,’ he continued to the man,
‘thou shalt hang on the highest tree in the fort!’

‘My life is in your hands,’ he replied in his usual subdued tone; ‘I am
not afraid that you should read.’

The letters were read, and were, as he described them to be, daily
accounts from the capital, where the army was said to be quiet. The last
letter was only four days old, the time which the post usually occupied.

‘Now, gentlemen, are you satisfied?’ cried the general in triumph. ‘Have
I not always told you that I possessed the most exact information
through this my faithful servant? Contradict, I pray you, this absurd
rumour, and believe me that there is no danger.’

But the next morning, as the day broke, a cloud of irregular cavalry was
seen by those on the look-out, advancing from the southward; and amidst
the confusion and alarm which followed, no efforts were made to check
them—none to defend the outer lines of fortification, which would have
enabled the English to have strengthened their position within. A few
skirmishes occurred, in ineffectual attempts to retain their ground, and
before noon the place was formally invested by the regular infantry and
very efficient artillery of Tippoo’s army.

Herbert and Wheeler made every search for Jaffar Sahib, but he was
nowhere to be found. In the confusion, he and the general’s servant, who
had been his confidant and associate, had escaped.

Then only broke upon the unfortunate general a bitter prospect, and a
sense of the misery he had brought upon himself and others. But instead
of yielding to any despair, the courage and discipline of the army rose
with the danger which threatened its very existence: animosities were
forgotten: and while the siege of the fort was vigorously pressed by
Tippoo, and with the most efficient means, its defenders exerted
themselves with the intrepidity and spirit of English soldiers to repel
their assailants.

With their insufficient means of defence, however—with broken and ruined
walls—the gradual failure of ammunition and of food—their exertions at
length relaxed; and after a vigorous assault, directed by Tippoo in
person, they were forced to relinquish the outer walls, and retire
within the citadel, where they were now closer and closer pressed, and
without any chance of escape or relief. In this condition, and having
done all that brave men could for the defence of their honour and of
their post, the general was induced to offer a capitulation. The
deputation was received with courtesy by Tippoo, the officers
complimented on their valorous defence of an almost untenable post; and
the articles of capitulation having been drawn up, they returned to
their companions. The conditions were accepted with some modifications,
after a day or two’s negotiation, and the 30th of April was fixed as
that on which they should march out with the honours of war; and after
that, they should move with their private property to the coast. It was
destined, however, to be otherwise.

By the articles of capitulation it was specified that all treasure in
possession of the garrison was to be given up—that, though the private
property of the officers and men was to be respected, yet all public
stores and treasure were to be surrendered in good faith.

But the officers and men, whose means of subsistence—now that the army
was to be broken up and disorganised, upon becoming prisoners of
war—would entirely depend upon the charity of their conquerors, were
little inclined to trust to so questionable a source; and the evening
before the capitulation was to be carried into effect, a large body of
the garrison, in a state of mutiny, surrounded the abode of the general,
and with tumultuous cries demanded pay.

Herbert was with the old man, assisting him to pack up such articles as
could most easily be carried away, when the demand was made. It was in
vain that, by the general’s order, he attempted to reason with the men
to show them the dishonour of touching anything of what had been
promised in exchange for their lives. They would listen to no reason.

‘We are starving,’ they cried, ‘and there is treasure yonder: we will
have it!’

But at last they were satisfied, on receiving the assurance of a month’s
pay to each man, and reluctantly the general surrendered the keys of the
treasury.

The regiments were engaged in receiving the money, when some one bolder
than the rest exclaimed, ‘Why not have it all, boys? We may as well have
it, as let it go to the enemy.’

The cry acted at once upon their excited spirits. ‘Let us have it all!’
was repeated by hundreds; and ere they could be prevented, the contents
of the treasury were plundered and distributed amongst them. Officers
and men alike were laden with the spoil in jewels and money.

It was with bitter regret that this was seen by Herbert and many others,
whose high sense of honour forbade their sharing in the work of plunder.
It would be impossible, they thought, to conceal such an event from the
Mysore chief; and as it was a direct breach of the articles they had
solemnly agreed to, they but too justly anticipated a severe retribution
for the act.

It was even so. On the morrow, as they marched out with the melancholy
honours of war, a wasted band, worn out with fatigue and privation, they
were surrounded by Tippoo’s troops, while others took possession of the
fort. The keys of the magazines and treasures had been given up with the
rest, and there was an immediate search made for the valuables, of which
the place was well known to be full—to Tippoo personally; for, as may
have been anticipated, the guide Jaffar was the means of the
intelligence which he possessed, and through whom he had been informed
of every event which happened; though his share in the previous British
success he had kept concealed from the Sultaun: indeed it was known to
none except the British.

Disappointed at the issue of the examination, the English were at once
suspected, and denounced by Jaffar. They were surrounded and rudely
searched: on most was found a portion of the missing money and jewels;
and, as it but too well fell in with Tippoo’s humour, and gratified his
hate against them, they were one and all decreed to captivity—which,
from the horrors all had heard related of it, was in prospect worse than
death.

-------

CHAPTER XX.

Abdool Rhyman Khan, as may be imagined, quitted his wives in no very
pleasant mood. Tired by his long march, and without having tasted food
since the morning, the bitter insult he had received, their disrespect
and their abuse, were the more aggravating, and sank deeply into his
heart. Although not a man of wrath habitually, or one indeed who could
be easily excited, he was now in very truth enraged, and felt that he
would have given worlds for any object on which he could have vented the
fury that possessed him.

‘Alla! Alla!’ he exclaimed, as he ground his teeth in vexation; ‘that I
should have been born to eat this abomination; that I, who have a grey
beard, should be thus taunted by my women, and called a coward, one less
than a man! I who, Mashalla! have slain men, even Feringhees!—that I
should have to bear this—Ya Hyder! Ya Hoosein!—but I am a fool to be
thus excited. Let them only fail to receive Ameena as she ought to be
received—let me but have a pretext for what I have long desired, and now
threatened, and they will see whether my words are truth or lies. Too
long have I borne this,—first one, then the other—now Kummoo, now
Hoormut—now one’s mother, now the other’s brothers and cousins; but,
Inshalla! this is the last dirt I eat at their hands—faithless and
ungrateful! I will send them back to their homes; I have often
threatened it, and now will do it.’

His horse awaited him at the door, and springing into the saddle, he
urged him furiously on through the Fort gate, into the plain beyond; and
here—for the rapid motion was a relief to him—he lunged him round and
round; now exciting him to speed, now turning him rapidly from one side
to another, as though in pursuit of an imaginary enemy. This he did for
some time, while his groom and Daood looked quietly on; the latter
attributing to its true cause the Khan’s excitement, the former
wondering what could possess his master to ride so furiously after the
long journey the horse had already performed that morning.

The Khan at last desisted—either from feeling his temper cooling, or
from observing that his horse was tired—and turning first towards the
encampment, he proceeded a short distance; but apparently remembering
something, he retraced his steps towards the Fort; indeed he had
forgotten to report the arrival of his corps to the officer whose duty
it was to receive the intelligence.

As he passed his house, he saw one of the women-servants, who used to go
on errands or make purchases in the bazaar, issue from the door-way, and
covering her face, dart on before him, apparently to elude his
observation.

‘Ha! by the Prophet, I will know what that jade is after,’ muttered the
Khan to himself, as he dashed his heels into his charger’s flanks, and
was up with her in a moment. ‘Where goest thou?’ he cried; ‘Kulloo,
think not to conceal thyself; I saw thy face as thou camest out of the
door; what errand hast thou now?’

‘May I be your sacrifice, Khan!’ said the woman; ‘I am only sent for the
Khanum Kummoo’s mother,—may her prosperity increase!’

‘May her lot be perdition rather!’ cried the Khan; ‘an old devil,—but
never mind me; go thy way; I know why she is called. May the Prophet
give them grace of their consultation!’ he added ironically; ‘tell thy
mistress that; and tell her too,’ he continued, speaking between his
teeth, and looking back after he had gone a little way, ‘tell her to
remember my words, which I will perform if there be occasion, so help me
Alla and his Prophet—now begone!’

The woman was right glad to escape, and the Khan pursued his way to the
office where he had to make his report, and to ascertain what was to be
done with the prisoners whom he had escorted from Bangalore. This
necessarily occupied some time: the officer was an intimate friend, and
the Khan had not only much to learn, but much also to communicate. His
own marriage, his journey, his double escape, and the gallantry of his
young friend Kasim Ali were mentioned, and excited the utmost praise,
with many expressions of wonder from the hearers; and all were anxious
to see, and become acquainted with, the hero of so much adventure.

‘And what news have you from Hyderabad for us, Khan Sahib?’ said his
friend, whose name was Meer Saduk, a favourite and confidential officer
of the Sultaun; ‘what news for the Sultaun? may his greatness increase!
I hope you were able to gather the intentions of the court there, or at
any rate can give us some idea of them.’

The Khan’s journey to Hyderabad had not entirely been of a private
description. A native of the place, when he asked leave to proceed there
to see his family, he had been requested by the Sultaun to ascertain as
far as he could the politics of the State, and the part the Nizam
personally was likely to play in the drama of Indian intrigue and
diplomacy; and he had performed his mission with more tact than could
have been anticipated from his open and blunt nature.

‘I have news,’ he replied, ‘Meer Sahib, which will gratify the Sultaun,
I think; and from such good sources too, that I am inclined to place the
utmost dependence upon them. No sooner was it known that I, as an
officer of the Sircar Khodadad,[30] had arrived in the city, than I was
sought by several of the nobles and Munsubdars of the court, who in
truth were friendly to the last degree, when I did not well know how I
should have fared with them; and it appeared from their speech that the
Huzoor himself was well inclined to be friendly. This is all I can tell
you, Meer Sahib, and you must not press me, for I have sworn to tell the
rest to the Sultaun only; after he has heard it, I will let you know.’

-----

Footnote 30:

‘The Government, the gift of God.’

-----

‘Enough, Khan, I am content; the Sultaun will be at the Doulut Bagh
to-night, and to-morrow also; wilt thou come this evening?’

‘Pardon me, not to-night; I am tired, and have to arrange my house after
my journey; but, Inshalla! to-morrow evening, when I shall present my
young Roostum, and solicit employment for him. Being the bearer of good
news, I may be successful; but in any case I think Kasim Ali would be
welcome.’

‘There is not a doubt of it,’ replied his friend. ‘I go to the Durbar
to-night, and will tell of thy adventurous journey; this will whet the
Sultaun’s curiosity to see the young Syud.’

The friends then separated. In spite of this amicable interview, the
Khan’s temper, which had been so violently chafed, was not completely
soothed: the memory of the abuse which had been poured upon him still
rankled at his heart, and he was at a loss what to tell Ameena of his
interview with his wives, and of her having to meet them that evening.

The nearer he approached his tents in the camp, the more oppressive
these thoughts became; and alternately blaming himself for having
visited his wives so early after his arrival, and mentally threatening
them with punishment should they continue insubordinate, he had
gradually worked himself up to a pitch of ill temper, but little less
than that in which he had left his house, and which he was ready to
discharge upon any one.

The opportunity was not long wanting; for, as he entered his outer tent,
which was used by Kasim and the Moonshees, as well as by any visitor or
friends, he heard a violent altercation, in which Kasim’s voice and that
of the Moonshee, Naser-oo-deen, were very prominent.

‘I tell thee thou art a cheat and a rogue!’ Kasim was exclaiming with
vehemence; ‘this is the second time I have detected thee, and therefore
instantly alter these accounts and repay the money, or I will tell the
Khan.’

‘I am no cheat nor rogue, any more than thyself, thou nameless
base-born!’ retorted the Moonshee, whose remaining words were lost in
the violent passion of the other.

‘Base-born! dog! thou shalt rue this,’ cried Kasim; ‘thou shalt not
escape me, by Alla! I will beat thee with a shoe.’ And a scuffle ensued.

‘Hold!’ exclaimed the Khan, who now rushed into the tent and parted
them; ‘what is the meaning of all this?’

‘Khodawund!’ cried both at once.

‘Do thou speak, Naser-oo-deen,’ said the Khan; ‘thou art the oldest.
What is the meaning of this disturbance? is this the bazaar? hast thou,
an old man, no shame? Hast thou too lost all respect, Kasim Ali?’

‘Judge if I have not cause to be angry, O Khan, at being called a rogue
and a cheat by that boy," said the Moonshee; ‘have I not cause to be
enraged when my character is thus taken away?’

‘Wherefore didst thou say this, Kasim, to a respectable man like him?
these words are improper from such a youth as thou art.’

‘Khan Sahib,’ said Kasim, ‘you have hitherto trusted me implicitly; is
it not so? you have never doubted me?’

‘Never; go on.’

‘Alla is my witness!’ he continued; ‘I know no other motive in this but
your welfare and prosperity, which first led me to inquire, in
consequence of my suspicion. Since the Moonshee has provoked it, and my
lord is present, know then why I called him rogue and cheat. At
Bangalore, by making notes of the prices in the bazaars, I detected him
in overcharging for grain and forage to an immense amount in the week’s
account; I found the papers here, while my lord was absent, and for lack
of other occupation I began looking over the items. I see the same thing
again attempted—he swears he will not alter the papers, and I was angry;
he called me base-born—’

‘Yes, I heard that, Kasim; but say, hast thou proof of all this?’

‘Behold the daily memorandum I made of the rates, Khan, village after
village, and day after day, written as I made the inquiry; the grain and
forage was I know bought from the very people from whose lips I had the
rates. Call them if you like—they are the bazaar merchants.’

‘And so thou wouldst have cheated me, Naser-oo-deen,’ said the Khan, his
choler rising rapidly and obstructing his speech, and looking wrathfully
at the trembling Moonshee; ‘thou who owest me so much, to cheat me!
Alla! Alla! have I deserved this? To what amount was the fraud, Kasim?’

‘A hundred rupees or more, Khan, at least, even upon this week’s
account; I could not tell exactly without making up the whole
difference.’

‘I doubt it not, I doubt it not; and if this for one week or a little
more, what for the whole time since thou hast had this place—the sole
control of my horses’ expenditure! what—’

‘My lord! my lord!’ ejaculated the Moonshee, ‘be not so angry; your
slave is terrified—he dares not speak; he has not cheated, he has never
given a false account.’

But his looks belied his words; he stood a convicted rogue, even while
he tried thus weakly to assert his innocence; for he trembled much, and
his lips were blue from terror.

‘We will soon see that,’ said the Khan deliberately. ‘Go!’ he said to
Daood, who stood by, ‘bring two grooms with whips; let us see whether
they cannot bring this worthy man to a very different opinion.’

It was not needed, however; the Moonshee, terrified almost to
speechlessness, and not heeding the interference Kasim was earnestly
making in his behalf, prostrated himself on the ground at the Khan’s
feet.

‘I will pay! I will pay all!’ he cried; ‘I confess my false accounts. Do
with me what thou wilt, but oh! save my character; I am a respectable
man.’

‘Good!’ said the Khan; ‘all of ye who are present hear that he has
confessed himself a thief before he was touched, and that he says he is
a respectable man. Ye will bear me witness in this—a respectable man—Ya
Moula Ali!’

All answered that they would. ‘Take him then,’ he said to Daood and some
of the Furashes who stood near, ‘take him from my sight; put him on an
ass, with his face to the tail; blacken his face, and show him in the
bazaar. If any one recognises the _respectable_ Naser-oo-deen, and asks
after his health, say that he is taking the air by my order, for having
cheated me. Enough—begone!’

The order did not need repetition; amidst his cries and protestations
against the sudden sentence, the Moonshee was carried off; and in a few
minutes, his face blackened, and set on an ass with his face to the
tail, he was the sport of the idlers and vagabonds in the camp. He had
richly deserved his punishment, however; for with a short-sighted
cunning he had imagined that he could brazen out his false accounts, and
that, as he had declared that any division of the spoil was at an end
from the previous detection, he had made himself now sure of the whole.
He had thought too that Kasim, contented with his first detection of
overcharge, would not have continued his system of inquiry. Thus he was
doubly disappointed.

Having vented his long pent-up rage, the Khan soon cooled down into his
usual pleasant deportment, begging Kasim to explain to him minutely the
whole of the Moonshee’s system of false accounts. This Kasim did
clearly, and showed him how much cause there was to suspect far greater
delinquencies, for months, nay years past; indeed, it was but too
apparent that the Khan had been defrauded of large sums, and that the
Moonshee’s gains must have been enormous.

‘And this might have gone on for ever, Kasim, but for thy penetration,’
said the Khan. ‘Well, thou hast added another to the very good reasons I
already have for aiding thee. Our reception is to take place to-morrow
evening, against which time get thy best apparel ready; or stay—I have a
better thought; wait here, and I will return instantly.’ He did so, and
brought with him a superb suit of cloth-of-gold, quite new.

‘There,’ he said,‘take that, Kasim, and wear it to-morrow; it is the
best kumkhab[31] of Aurungabad, and was made for one of my
marriage-dresses. Nay, no words, for thou hast saved me far more than
the cost of it in the detection of yon scoundrel; and now prepare
thyself. This may not fit thee, thou canst have it altered. I shall
remove the Khanum to my house to-night, and sleep there; but come by the
third watch of the day to-morrow; they will show thee where it is, and I
will be ready to accompany thee. Inshalla! I have that news for the
Sultaun which shall make him propitious towards us both.’ And so saying,
he left him, and went through the enclosure which separated the tents,
into that which was appropriated to Ameena.

-----

Footnote 31:

Cloth-of-gold.

-----

From a window in the tent, which was screened by transparent blinds, so
that the inmates could look out without being seen, Ameena was sitting
and gazing on the plain, which swarmed with men, elephants, horses, and
camels, hurrying to an fro. Beyond was the Fort, from the gate of which
every now and then issued a gay cavalcade,—an elephant, bearing some
officer of rank, surrounded by spearmen and running footmen,—or a troop
of gaily-dressed horsemen, who, as they advanced, spread over the plain,
and amused themselves with feats of horsemanship, pursuing each other in
mock combat, or causing their horses to perform bounds and caracoles, to
the admiration of the beholders.

‘A gallant sight! is it not, fairest? and a gallant and noble patron of
soldiers do we serve—one who hath not his equal in Hind. Say, didst thou
ever see such at thy city?’

‘No, in truth,’ said Ameena, who had risen to receive her lord; ‘but
thou knowest we lived in a quiet street of the city, so that few
cavaliers passed that way; nevertheless, we have brave soldiers there
also. I would I could live among such scenes always,’ she added; ‘it is
pleasant to sit and look out on men of such gallant bearing.’

‘I am afraid thou wilt not see so much within the Fort,’ said the Khan;
‘nevertheless, my house is in the main thoroughfare, and there are
always men passing.’

‘And when are we to remove there, my lord?’ asked Ameena timidly, for
she feared the introduction to the wives more than she dared express.
‘Methinks I should live as well here as there; and I have been now so
much accustomed to the tents, that a house would appear a confinement to
me.’

‘Why, fairest, thou shouldest remain in them, only that they want repair
very much, and we have prospect of immediate service; besides, the house
is all prepared for thee, and I long to make my rose mistress of what is
hers in right; so we will go thither this afternoon. Zoolfoo has orders
to prepare our evening meal.’

‘And they—’ she could not say _wives_—

‘Fear not; they will be prepared to receive thee with honour. I have
spoken with them, and bidden them be ready to welcome thee.’

‘Alla bless them!’ said Ameena, the tears starting to her eyes; ‘and
will they be kind to one whom they ought to hate? Alla bless them! I did
not look for this, but expected much misery.’

‘Fear not,’ said the Khan, who winced under her artless remark, yet
dared not undeceive her. ‘Fear not, they will be kind to thee; Inshalla!
ye will be sisters together.’ Alas, he had but little hope of this,
though he said it. But it is necessary to revert to the ladies
themselves.

The Khan’s two wives sat in anxious expectation of the arrival of the
lady for whom they had dispatched the servant; they had held a hurried
colloquy together after the Khan’s departure in the morning, and had
come to the resolution of abiding by the advice of the mother of
Kummoobee, who was the wife of the head Kazee of Seringapatam, a wealthy
but corrupt man, who, of good family himself, had married the daughter
of a poor gentleman of long descent but of extreme poverty. She
inherited all her father’s pride of birth, and had married her daughter
to the Khan, only because of his rank and known wealth; for she despised
his low origin, which had become known to her—indeed it was not sought
to be concealed.

As the ladies waited, they heard the sound of bearers, and in a few
moments the jingle of the anklets and heavy tread of the old lady, as
she advanced along the open verandah of the court which led to their
apartment. They rose to welcome her, and the next moment she entered,
and advanced towards her daughter—almost starting as she saw the Khan’s
other wife, knowing that they had been enemies; but returning her salaam
very courteously, she proceeded to take the evil from her daughter by
cracking her knuckles over her. Having done this, and embraced, she was
led to the musnud; and being seated thereon, and her daughter’s hooka
given to her, she drew a long breath as if she had exerted herself very
much, and looking from one to the other (for the slaves had been ordered
out of the room), demanded to know what they had to say to her.

‘We have news for thee, mother,’ said Kummoo-bee pettishly.

‘Ay, news, rare news!’ added the other, who seemed as spiteful as
suppressed anger could make her.

‘Ajaib!’ said the old lady, looking from one to the other, ‘wonderful
news? By your souls, tell me what news: what has happened that I know
not of?’

‘Of the Khan,’ said Kummoo, edging nearer to her mother.

‘Ay, listen,’ said the other; ‘Mashalla! it is worth hearing.’

‘Of the Khan? most wonderful! Is he dead?—have ye all his money?’

‘No!’ ejaculated Kummoo passionately; ‘it would be well for us and him
if he were dead. Dead! no, he is returned, and well.’

‘Well!’ said the old lady, apparently relieved, ‘there is nothing very
wonderful in this—nothing particular to marvel at, that I see; if I had
known I was to have been called from home only to hear this, I can tell
you, you would have waited long. I had a thousand things to do when
Kulloo came for me; I was going to cook a dish, and then I had the woman
with bangles for my arms, and then the silversmith was coming, and—’

‘Alla! Alla! how shall I tell this shame?’ cried her daughter,
interrupting her; ‘how shall I utter the words, to make it fit for thee
to hear or my tongue to utter? Alas! mother, he has returned, and
brought a woman with him,—a woman who, Inshalla! is vile and ugly, and
unchaste, and low-born, and who—’

‘Punah-i-Khoda, a woman! thou didst not say a woman! Another wife?’
cried the old lady, interrupting the torrent of foul names, which, once
the subject of them had been named, followed rapidly enough.

‘So he says, mother,’ cried Hoormut, ‘another wife. He dared not write
this to either of us; he dared not tell us how he had misused us, how he
had cheated us; he dared not tell us this; and we heard it only from my
cousin, who discovered it at Nundidroog, and wrote to the family.’

‘I will throw ashes on his beard—I will fill his mouth with earth! I
will spit on him!’ cried the old lady, who, having looked from the one
to the other, was now excited to fury at this sudden intelligence; ‘Ya
Alla Kereem! What dirt has he not eaten? What abomination have ye also
to bear, O my daughters? Married again? another wife? a young one, I’ll
warrant, the old lecher! Oh shame, shame on his grey hairs! may dogs
defile them! And beautiful, too, I have no doubt! Is there no law? is
there no justice? Inshalla! we will see to that. Is he to throw dirt on
the family of the chief Kazee, and cause his daughter to eat grief? is
he to mock us, to cheat us, to bring his vile women before our very
faces, without we turn and strike again? Are we cows and sheep?
Inshalla, no! but persons of good family, of a hundred descents; while
he—pah! he is a poor, pitiful, low-born, ill-bred wretch!’ And she
paused, fairly exhausted from want of breath.

‘Ay, mother,’ said Kummoo-bee, ‘and what is more, he has threatened to
bring her here to-night—here, into this very house—to make us see her
and welcome her—pah! I could cry with passion.’

‘Here? it is a lie!’ roared the old lady; ‘it is a lie! this is some
trick of yours, or joke; I will not believe that. Is he mad to do it?’

‘It is the truth, however,’ said Hoormut; ‘and what is more, he swore by
Alla and the Prophet’s beard, if we did not receive her kindly, he would
send us both home to our parents, and let them support us, for he would
not.’

‘At least _I_ need not care about _that_’ said Kummoo, pointedly and
spitefully; ‘Inshalla! I shall always find food and clothes there; _my_
people, Mashalla! are not poor.’

With the other it was different; for her family were poor, and had been
ruinously extravagant; and even their mutual dilemma could not prevent
this expression of spite from her richer sister-wife.

‘I should like to know,’ retorted Hoormut, tartly, ‘who could not?’

At any other time a quarrel would have resulted to a certainty. But now
Kummoo’s mother spoke again, fortunately for the general peace.

‘So he threatened that, did he? And what said ye?’ added the old lady,
more calmly; for, in truth, the sudden vision of her daughter’s return
to her house, which the words she had just heard caused, were not by any
means agreeable.

‘Mother, we could say nothing, for he left us,’ replied her daughter;
‘and we have sent for you to ask your advice as to what we should do,’
said Kummoo, wiping her eyes with the end of her doputta.

‘Humph!’ said the old lady, after a pause, and some most vigorous pulls
at the hooka, ending in a discharge of smoke through her nostrils; ‘do
you know whether the girl is beautiful?’

‘We hear she is,’ said Hoormut very reluctantly, and with an indignant
toss of her head, which was repeated by the other lady.

‘Then there is no use to resist, my daughters. The old fool is bewitched
with her, and all you can do is to bear the insult—for such it is—until
you can revenge it. Ay, revenge it: Thou art no daughter of mine,
Kummoo, if thou canst bear this like a mean-spirited thing. I never
suffered any one to come between me and thy father; he tried it more
than once, but, Mashalla! he got tired of that.’

‘And so thou wouldst have me bear it, mother,’ said Kummoo, bursting
into a torrent of tears, the effects of her vexation. ‘I had expected
different advice from thee. How can I bear to meet the vile creature,
whom I could spit upon and beat with a shoe? how to lose my power,
influence, money, clothes, jewels, attendants—all of which will be
lavished on this child? How can I eat the dirt which the very seeing her
will occasion? Mother, I tell thee true, I cannot and I will not bear
it. I will appeal to my father, and to the Sultaun, if he will not hear
me.’

‘Patience, my child, patience!’ said the old lady, soothingly. ‘Not so
fast—all in good time; it is better to eat dirt for one night than all
thy life. Why shouldst thou be afraid? Mashalla! thou art beautiful—thou
art of perfect form—thou art not old. Inshalla! wait therefore; let this
novelty wear off, and he will return to thee—to both of you, Inshalla!
Inshalla! Meanwhile I will consult thy father. I will see if the law can
avail thee aught. But for the present—for the sake of the Prophet—keep
thy temper. Wouldst thou not eat dirt for ever—both of ye, I say—if he
turned ye out to your homes? What would not be said? Verily, that ye
were vile and worthless, and that he had detected you in his absence.
Therefore wait: Inshalla and the Prophet! we will be revenged. I who am
your mother say this, on him and her we will have our exchange for this,
if charms or spells, or, what is better, women’s wit, can effect this.’

‘Quickly then, mother, by your soul! devise something. I shall live in
misery till thou dost, and we will aid thee. Is it not so, sister?’

‘I promise to do all ye wish of me,’ returned Hoormut; ‘I am in your
hands. Alas! I have now no mother whom I can consult; you are my only
mother, lady!’ And she began to sob.

‘Do not cry, daughter,’ said the dame, rising majestically; ‘Inshalla!
we shall prosper yet. Alla Hafiz! I go to think over the matter, and
consult my faithful Ummun; she is wise, and to her I am indebted for
many a charm, without which it would have fared ill with me. I will send
her to-morrow, and thou canst tell her what happened when he brought
her, and what she is like;’ and so saying, she left them.

‘Since we are to see her,’ said Kummoo, who had been hiding her vexation
by looking out of the window to watch her mother’s departure, ‘and to
behold her triumph over us, we must only eat our own vexation, and make
the best of the matter; let us prepare the room—the Khan has ordered the
repast—we will get some garlands and salute them. If we are not to be
revenged at once by insulting them both, at least let us pretend
civility, which may blind them to our ultimate purposes.’

‘Excellent advice, sister!’ said Hoormut, who, though the elder, yet had
lost much of her authority to the younger and far handsomer Kummoo; ‘let
us make a rejoicing of it—sing and play to them, and put on our best
clothes; we shall not fail to please the Khan.’

‘Best clothes!’ echoed Kummoo, ‘alas! the time for those is gone. We may
even have to wear _her_ cast-off suits for want of better. No more
clothes, no more jewels!’ she added pettishly; ‘but what matters it?
revenge will follow. Hoormut, thy advice is good; we will prepare for
the marriage-feast. Pah! I have no patience to mention it.’

And so they did. A clean covering was put upon the musnud; the crimson
velvet pillows of state occasions laid upon it; the Khan’s gold Pāndān
and Uttrdān set out, and their costly hookas arranged near them. All the
slaves were desired to put on clean clothes; and they themselves,
dressed in their most sumptuous apparel and adorned with all their
jewels, were seated about the time of evening in the room which on that
morning had been the scene of so violent an altercation.

Trembling for the issue of the event, but cheered by the Khan to the
utmost of his power, the gentle Ameena accompanied him about dusk to his
abode in the Fort. The palankeen was set down in the court-yard; and the
bearers having retired, she essayed to get out of it, but could hardly
support her trembling limbs. One or two of the women servants, however,
kindly assisted her, and a cup of cool water refreshed her. The Khan too
had now arrived; and veiling herself closely, she followed him into the
apartment which had been prepared.

The Khan had been uncertain what would be the issue, until he reached
the room; but he had determined, if necessary, to carry his threat into
execution. A glance, however, assured him that all was right. The ladies
rose courteously, made them low salaams, and advanced to meet them; and
as he led forward the shrinking girl, they took her kindly by the hand
with many warm welcomes and blessings, and, despite of her protestations
to the contrary, seated her upon the place of honour and themselves at
her feet. This done, a slave advanced with a tray of garlands of the
sweet Moteea, one of which they hung around her neck, while they again
salaamed to her, and the slaves one by one did the same. The Khan too
underwent these ceremonies with delight, for he had little expected such
a greeting.

The ladies at last were seated, and Kummoo said, ‘Let us, I pray thee,
sister, see the face of which report hath spoken so warmly; unveil, I
beseech thee, that we may look on our new sister.’

‘It is not worth seeing,’ said the timid girl, throwing back the end of
her doputta; ‘nevertheless your kindness and welcome is so great that I
cannot refuse you.’

‘Ya Alla!’ cried one and all, ‘how beautiful!’ for they were really
struck with her appearance, and could not restrain their sincere
expression of admiration at her loveliness. ‘Mashalla! the Khan has good
taste.’

Kummoo, the principal speaker, and the youngest of the two wives, was
beautiful too; but her flashing eyes, full person, and rather dark skin,
though her features were regular, could but ill stand a comparison with
the gentle beauty, exquisite though small proportions, and fair skin of
Ameena; and the Khan’s eye, which wandered from one to the other for a
few moments, rested at last on Ameena with a look so full of admiration,
that it did not—could not—escape Kummoo’s notice. She of course said
nothing, but the venom of her heart arose with more bitterness than
ever.

‘Ay, she is fair, Kummoo-bee,’ said the Khan, ‘and gentle as she is
fair; I am thankful that ye seem already to love her as a sister.
Inshalla! ye will be friends and sisters in truth, when ye know each
other better.’

‘Inshalla-ta-Alla!’ said Kummoo-bee reverently; ‘the Khanum (may her
house be honoured!) is welcome; how sayest thou, Hoormut? hast thou no
welcome for the lady?’

‘By your head and eyes, you speak well, sister. If the love of such an
unknown and unworthy person as I am be worth anything, the Khanum is
welcome to it.’

‘I am grateful,’ said Ameena; ‘ye are more than kind to one who hath no
claim on ye; but I am alone here, and my people are far distant—very
far. Your love will be precious to me during the years Alla may cast our
lots together.’

There was something very touching in her sad and gentle tone; and as the
old Khan’s heart had been moved by his wives’ unexpected kindness, he
well nigh blubbered aloud.

‘Ameena!’ he said, ‘Ameena! Alla, who hears ye say these words of
affection, will give ye grace to abide by them.’

‘But come,’ said Kummoo, who thought these protestations of love going
rather too far, ‘we have some of our singers for thee to hear, lady: we
of the south call them good, but we hear rare things of the Dāmnees of
Hyderabad. Call them in,’ she added to an attendant.

They came in, and, having tuned their instruments, began one of the
usual songs of congratulation; it was followed by others, while the
party sat and conversed cheerily on the adventures of the journey. An
ample repast was shortly after spread; and at the end of the evening
Ameena retired to her new apartments, believing, in her simplicity and
goodness, that her sister-wives loved her in real truth, and enjoying
those sweet sensations which ensue whenever doubt and mistrust have been
removed from the heart. If the Khan felt any of his own doubts
remaining, he did not seek to disturb Ameena’s security by imparting
them to her; and for the first time since she had heard of the existence
of her sister-wives, Ameena felt happy.

-------

CHAPTER XXI.

Kasim attended closely to the advice of the Khan, and spared no pains,
on the day which was to fix his fate and rank in the service, to adorn
his person to the best advantage. The splendid brocade suit which the
Khan had given him—of crimson silk, with large gold flowers upon it, the
most expensive the looms of Aurungabad could produce—he had found to fit
him so nearly, that it required but few alterations, which were easily
made.

This, therefore, he was able to wear. Around his head was a mundeel, or
turban of gauze and gold in alternate stripes. The colour of the gauze
was green, which marked his descent as a Syud; and it was an additional
reason, beyond his own pride in the matter, for thus openly showing it,
that the Sultaun, in his zeal for the Faith, was particularly partial to
the nobly-descended race. The mundeel was of the richest and most
expensive kind, and its costly fabric suited well with the appearance of
the brocade suit. He had bound it, too, in the most approved and genteel
form—that worn by the nobility of the Dekhan, and which is called
_nashtalik_.

Under his chin, and tied on the top of his head, so as to protect the
ears, he wore a Benares handkerchief—the gift of his mother—of purple
and silver, the glittering ends of which fluttered in the breeze as he
walked, while the colour contrasted well with his fair skin. His waist
was girded by a crimson muslin doputta, or scarf, with gold ends nearly
a foot long, richly embroidered, which hung down on one side, and were
displayed to the best advantage. A pair of tight-fitting trousers of
yellow mushroo, or thick satin, striped with crimson, completed a
costume which for its splendour could not well be surpassed, and which
displayed his striking figure and handsome face to the best advantage.

The baldric, which held his father’s trusty sword, was tarnished to be
sure, but that was a mark of its having seen service; and it was the
more honourable in appearance on that account. Its gold inlaid
half-basket hilt had been newly polished, and the crimson velvet
scabbard renewed; and it looked, as indeed it was, a handsome as well as
most formidable weapon, from its great length and breadth. Two or three
daggers, with richly chased and ornamented handles, occupied a
conspicuous place in his girdle; his shield hung loosely at his back;
and thus accoutred, he mounted the gallant horse which the Khan had
provided for him, and which had not only been more richly caparisoned
than usual, but decked with a profusion of silver ornaments, and took
his way into the Fort.

Many an eye was turned towards him as he passed along; for the proud
animal he rode, apparently aware that the appearance of his rider
warranted more than usual exertion, and excited by the clashing and
jingling of the silver ornaments and tiny bells around his neck and upon
his crupper, bounded to and fro, curvetted and pranced, as much to show
off his own unexceptionable shape, as to display his rider’s admirable
and easy horsemanship to the best advantage.

‘A gallant cavalier!’ cried one, as he passed near the gate of the Fort,
loud enough for Kasim to hear it; ‘five hundred rupees would not buy his
suit of clothes. Mashalla! this is the place after all where soldiers
are patronised, and come to spend their money in adorning their
persons.’

‘Ay, brother,’ said the man he was with; ‘knowest thou who that is? it
is Kasim Ali Patél—he who saved Rhyman Khan’s life on—’

Kasim lost the rest of the sentence as he passed on; but it proved to
him, and not unpleasantly, that the only action he had as yet performed
worthy of note was known.

‘If my fate favour me, it shall not be the last. Ya Nusseeb!’ he cried,
apostrophising his fate, ‘thou art darkly hidden; but if it be the will
of Alla, thou shalt yet shine brightly out.’

‘Alla kereem! what a beautiful youth!’ exclaimed a bevy of dancing
girls, whose gaily-ornamented bullock-carriage obstructed the gateway of
the Fort, and who in all the pride of gay and glittering apparel, and
impudence of fair and pretty faces (their lustrous eyes even made more
so by the use of soorméh), were proceeding to the Sultaun’s Durbar.

‘Alla, what a beautiful youth!’ cried one; ‘wilt thou not come and visit
us?’

‘Shall we see thee at the Durbar?’ cried two others.

‘I am stricken with love at once,’ said a fourth.

‘What a coat! what a horse! what eyes!’ cried first one, and then
another; until Kasim, whose horse had become uneasy at this volley of
words, and at the jingling and clashing of the bells around the
bullock’s necks or attached to the posts and crimson curtains of the
car—and had curvetted once or twice, so as to cause a few faint shrieks,
and afterwards a burst of merry laughter from the fair ones—bounded on,
and freed him from them.

Passing hastily through the gateway, he rode on into the Fort—first
through an open space, where cannon-balls in heaps, cannon mounted on
carriages, and soldiers moving in all directions, showed the efficient
state of the Fort for defence. Beyond this was the bazaar—long streets
of goodly houses, the lower parts of which were shops, and where all
sorts of grain, rich clothes, tobacco, brazen pans, and arms of all
kinds, were exposed for sale.

As he rode along slowly through the crowd—among which his appearance
attracted much notice and many flattering comments—he could not but
observe that every house was gaudily ornamented with paintings, which
were a proof, if any was needed, in what hatred the English were held by
all.

Here were represented a row of white-faced Feringhees, their hands tied
behind them, and with their faces half blackened; while others were
seated on asses, with their faces to the tail. Again there were some
being torn to pieces by tigers, while men of the true faith looked on
and applauded; others were under the feet or chained to the legs of
elephants, one to each leg, while the beast was depicted at his utmost
speed, his trunk raised into the air, and the Mahout evading him with a
huge ankoos. Again another row were undergoing the rite of Mahomedanism
at the hands of the Kazee; others were suffering torture; several
appeared drawn up in a line, whose heads were all falling to the ground
under one vigorous blow of the executioner—a man of the true faith, with
a huge beard and mustachios curling up to his eyes, while streams of
gore, very red and much higher and thicker than the sufferers
themselves, gushed from the bodies.

Here again were a group of ten or twelve seated round a table, each with
a fierce regimental cocked-hat upon his head, a very red and drunken
face, and his right hand upraised grasping a huge glass filled with red
wine; while others, overcome by inebriation, were sprawling under the
table, and wallowing among the swine and dogs which lay at the feet of
those who were yet able to preserve their equilibrium.

Kasim was amused at all this; and if he could not enter into the general
hatred with all the zest of one of Tippoo’s soldiers, perhaps it was
that the remembrance of the young Englishman whom we have mentioned rose
in his mind, as he looked on these disgusting and indecent pictures of
his race, with far different feelings than they were calculated to
engender in a Syud and a true believer.

As he passed on, the tall minarets of the mosque built by Hyder Ali Khan
towered above him, which, pierced from top to bottom with pigeon-holes,
after the manner of those in Arabia, were surrounded by thousands of
pigeons of all colours and kinds, wheeling hither and thither in the air
in immense flocks, whilst others sat quietly cooing in the niches and
enjoying their abode unmolested. Soon afterwards he emerged from the
narrow street into the square, the Futteh Mydan, or plain of victory, on
one side of which was the long line of the Sultaun’s palace, presenting
nothing to the observer but a line of dead wall with many windows, whose
closed shutters showed they were the Zenana. Around the gate, however,
were many guards dressed in the striped tiger-skin-pattern calico in use
among his bodyguard of regular infantry, interspersed with men in richer
dresses and armour,—those of the irregular troops who were permitted to
share the watch over the monarch’s abode. In the centre of the square
were a number of men under instruction, whose evolutions, with the words
of command, were quite new to Kasim, and inspired him with great
admiration. At the other side of the square the venerable forms of the
ancient Hindoo temples reared their huge conical and richly ornamented
roofs; and around their massy gates and in the courts lounged many a
sleek and well-fed Brahmin, whose closely shaven and shining head, and
body naked to the waist—having only a long white muslin cloth tied
around his loins, with its end thrown over his shoulder—proved him to be
in the service of the enshrined divinity, whose worship was not
forbidden by the fanatical ruler of the Fort—nay, it was even whispered,
shared in by him.

The Khan’s house was not far from the temple, in one of the chief
streets; and having announced his arrival to the gate-keeper, Kasim
continued riding up and down before it till the Khan should issue forth
to accompany him.

This was then the place where Ameena was secured, he thought; the
gentle, lovely being on whose fair face his eye had rested only a few
times; yet each glance, however short its duration had been, was
treasured up in the inmost shrine of his heart. As long as she remained
in the camp, he might have an opportunity of seeing her, even though for
a moment, and of displaying the scarf she had given to him—a mute
evidence which would prove to her she was not forgotten; for he had
continued to wear it tied around his chest as at first, even though his
slight wound was so far healed as to require nothing but a bandage
underneath his vest.

It had been even a comfort to him to watch the arrival of her palankeen
daily in the camp, and before that to busy himself in writing the
despatch for the Furashes, who prepared the tents for her reception.
Sometimes, as she got out of her palankeen, he would catch a glimpse of
her muffled figure, or hear the chink of her gold anklets, and even this
would be pleasant to him. But now there was no hope; she had passed
within those walls which had, he thought, for ever shut her from his
sight; and while his memory was busy with the past, he strove, under the
weight of obligation with which the Khan had loaded him, and which that
day would be augmented, to drive away the thoughts of his fair wife,
not, however, with the success which ought to have attended his efforts.

Indeed, the beautiful image of her face was too deeply fixed upon his
memory; and the fears that her lot, so young and gentle-tempered as she
was, in the companionship of her lord’s older and ill-tempered wives,
would not be a happy one, made him again determine that in need or
danger she might rely on one who would be true to her. Every now and
then he cast up his eyes to the lattices to see if perchance any one
looked out from thence; but there was no one, and he continued his slow
pace to and fro.

In a short time, however, his reverie was interrupted by the cheerful
voice of the Khan, who, fully armed, was splendidly dressed in a suit of
bright chain-armour over a tunic of cloth-of-gold; a highly-polished
steel cap glittered on his head, from the sides of which to his neck
descended lappets of chain-links strengthened with scales; his long
straight sword was suspended in an embroidered baldric, and his waist
was girded by a green and gold scarf similar to that Kasim wore. He
greeted Kasim heartily.

‘By the Prophet! thou art no disgrace to me, and the Ulkhaluk becomes
thee; a green mundeel too—that is well, as thou art a Syud, and hast a
right to wear it. I would thou hadst a pair of Persian boots like
mine—but no—better as thou art; they would not fit thee, nor suit thy
dress. So now let us see thee make my Yacoot bound a little.’

As Kasim complied with his request, the delight of the Khan and his
retainers, who had now assembled, was extreme; and cries of ‘Shabash!
shabash! Wah wah! Wah wah!’ rewarded his exertions; indeed Kasim’s
horsemanship, like that of most Dekhanie’s, was perfect; and he sat his
excited horse with the ease and grace of one who was completely at home
upon his back, in spite of his extreme spirit and violence.

As the Khan prepared to mount, Kasim happened once more to cast his eyes
up toward the lattices which looked into the street: they were guarded
with transparent blinds, but nevertheless he thought he could
distinguish one or more female figures behind each, and his heart beat
very rapidly as he thought—nay was sure—that Ameena beheld him; it was
not an unpleasant thought that she looked upon him, richly dressed and
accoutred as he was, and had seen him exhibit his spirited horsemanship
to the Khan.

Again he looked—and for a moment, with an apparent pretence of arranging
the blind, the corner was drawn inwards: a face which was new to
him—dark, yet very beautiful—appeared; and a pair of large flashing eyes
threw a glance towards him, which met his. It was not Ameena’s, and he
was disappointed; but he could not the less remember afterwards the
glance he had received from eyes so bold and so commanding, and the
older yet beautiful face and remarkable expression, and involuntarily
sought it again. The Khan, however, at the moment he saw it, called to
him to proceed; and the spearmen and running footmen and grooms having
arranged themselves in front, they set forward at a quick pace, followed
by the Khan’s retainers, who were almost as well mounted, though not so
richly clothed, as themselves; those in front shouting the Khan’s
titles, and clearing the way, often with rude blows of the heavy
spear-shafts.

They retraced Kasim’s steps through the bazaars, where the profusion of
salaams and compliments which greeted them, showed how greatly the Khan
was respected and esteemed; and the various cries of the Fakeers, who
appealed to him by name as they solicited charity, and mentioned many of
his valiant acts in high-flown and laudatory terms, proved how well his
brave deeds were known to all. Kasim also came in for his share; and as
his connection with the Khan was mentioned truly, and the subsequent
engagement with the Mahrattas, it was plain that it had become known to
those rapid acquirers of topics for gossip, the Fakeers, and had already
become the common talk of the bazaars.

Issuing from the Fort, they escaped from this in a great measure; yet
here and there along the road sat a half-naked Fakeer, or Kalundur, with
his high-pointed felt cap, and quilted chequered gown of many colours,
who, with a sheet spread before him, upon which was a cup, solicited the
alms of the true believers, alternately with prayers, threats, or abuse,
as the quality of the passers-by warranted. Instead of taking the road
to the right, which led to the camp, they struck off to the left, and
after a few minutes’ ride arrived at the gate of the garden of the
Duria-i-Doulut, or Sea of Wealth, by the river side, where, for the day,
the Sultaun held his court.

This palace, which had been erected by his father many years before,
stood in the centre of a garden of great beauty, which, from the
richness of the soil and plentiful supply of water, brought from the
river by a deep water-course, flourished in the utmost luxuriance. Large
trees, mango and tamarind, walnut, and the sweet-scented chumpa, with
many other forest kinds distinguished for their beauty of growth, or the
fragrance or luxuriance of their foliage and blossom, with large clumps
of feathering bamboos, overshadowed the broad walks and long green
alleys, and in the hottest weather formed an almost impervious shade,
while the coolness was increased by the constant irrigation and
consequent evaporation from the ground.

Passing through the gate, the Khan and Kasim rode down the avenue, at
the end of which was the palace; they could not see the extent of it,
nor was there anything remarkable in the outward appearance which
corresponded at all with the splendour within. The building was two
storeys high, the lower of which was occupied by kitchens, halls for
servants, and long corridors—the upper contained the rooms of state; a
projecting roof, which was supported by carved wooden pillars, formed a
deep verandah, which was occupied by a crowd of persons—servants, and
those who attended either with petitions or upon business, and whose
rich and gay dresses contrasted well with the dark foliage which almost
swept the ground near them.

‘Behold the triumph of art!’ cried the Khan, as they dismounted and
approached the building, and Kasim could see that the walls were covered
with paintings; ‘there are not such paintings in Hind, thanks to Hyder
Ali Khan—may his place in Heaven be blessed, and his grave honoured!
Behold the whole of the rout of the kafir English at Perambaukum, where,
praise be to Alla! the arms of the true believers were completely
victorious, and thousands of the kafirs tasted of death at their hands.
Yonder is Baillie and his troops; you can see Baillie in the centre.
Mashalla! he was a great man: so indeed he and the other leaders
appeared, for they were much larger than the troops. Yonder are the
valiant Assud Illahee of the great Hyder, the disciplined troops before
which the English battalions are only as chaff; behold, they are
advancing to the attack, and bear down all before them. There are the
guns too pouring fire on the devoted Feringhees, and the rockets flying
in the air, which overwhelm them with confusion. In the midst of the
fire the cavalry of the Sircar, led on by the young Tippoo, are
charging, and Hyder himself is animating the attack by his presence on
his elephant. And look there,’ he continued, pointing to another part of
the wall, after Kasim had expressed his admiration at the rare skill of
the artist, who had delineated so many figures; ‘that is the end of the
affair, as the end of all like affairs ever will be: the kafirs are
being cut to pieces, while their blood is poured out upon the earth like
water.’ This indeed was pretty evident from the prostrate forms of the
Europeans, and the figures of the Mahomedans hacking at them with swords
rather larger than themselves; while large daubs of red paint showed how
indeed the blood had been poured forth like water. The figures, being
all in profile, had considerably exercised the ingenuity of the artist
to express what he meant.

‘Alla kureem!’ ejaculated Kasim at last, who was mightily struck with
the magnitude of the drawings, the lines of charging cavalry, all with
their fore feet in the air—the bodies of infantry, which marched in all
kinds of lines to the attack with their right legs uplifted—the smoke of
the guns that obscured everything—the rockets flying in the air with
fiery tails—the elephants, and the General’s officers, some of whom were
bigger than the elephants they rode—the horses and their riders—the
whole battle, of which, from the peculiarity of the perspective, it was
difficult to say whether it was on the earth or in the sky,—‘Alla,
kureem! it was a great battle, and this is a wonderful picture—may the
designer’s prosperity increase!’

‘Ay, you may well say that,’ continued the Khan; ‘and behold, here are
the Feringhees in captivity, all wounded, but enduring life; there they
are, brought before Hyder the victorious, who, seated on his throne,
allows the officers to live, while the soldiers he orders to be
dispatched to the regions of perdition by the executioner. Yonder are a
row kneeling in terror, while the sword is brandished behind them which
shall cause them to taste the bitterness of death. There again are
others under torture, and those who are spared by the clemency of the
exalted in rank, going into a deserved captivity!’

‘Those we brought were then some of them,’ said Kasim.

‘No, I think not. I rather believe they were all discharged, or most of
them, at the peace, four years ago. These are some who, if I mistake
not, were taken at Bednore, when Mathews was surrounded, and obliged to
yield himself to the Sultaun; however we shall soon know, for I have
heard that judgment is to be done on them to-day. But come, the Durbar
is open, we have much to do and to see; others are pressing on before
us, and we shall lose our place.

So saying, he led the way by one side of the building to a flight of
broad stairs under the cover of a verandah, and they ascended amidst the
crowd of courtiers and military officers who were thronging to the
Durbar; for proclamation was being made as they waited without, and the
cries of the Chobdars of ‘Durbar-i-Aum! Durbar-i-Aum!’ announced to all
that the Sultaun had taken his seat. The head of the stairs opened at
once into the hall of audience, so that when they reached the top the
scene burst fully upon them. To the Khan there was nothing new in it;
but to Kasim, who had never seen anything grander than his own village,
or at most the town of Adoni, the effect was dazzling and overpowering.

The room was large, but low in its proportions. The walls were of that
beautiful stucco which is only to be seen in perfection in the south of
India, and which, from its high polish and exquisite whiteness, so
nearly resembles the purest marble. This was wrought into most elaborate
designs of arabesque work; and the sharp edges of every flower, leaf,
and line were picked out with a faint line of pure vermilion, here and
there relieved with gold, which gave a peculiar but agreeable effect to
the ornament. In the niches and compartments into which the walls were
divided, upon the deep cornices, and especially around the open arched
windows, the patterns were more intricate and delicate than elsewhere.
The windows themselves were without frames, and were open to the garden,
which in all its beauty and luxuriance could be seen through them; and
they admitted the cool breeze to play through the room, which otherwise,
from its crowded state, would have been insufferably hot. Heavy purdahs,
or gilded curtains of crimson cloth, hung above them, which could be let
down so as to exclude the air completely if required. The ceiling was
covered with fret-work and arabesque patterns of stucco in chequers,
from the intersections of which depended a small stalactite, decorated
like the walls with red and gold; this, while it caused a heavy effect
to the room, was nevertheless extremely rich and handsome. The floor was
covered with rich carpets to about one half of its length, where
commenced a white muslin cloth, on which none dared to venture but those
whose rank or station about the monarch entitled them to that honour.

At the further end of the room was a raised dais, which was covered,
like the floor, with white muslin; but in the centre of it was a square
carpet of rich purple velvet, surrounded with soft cushions, also of
velvet, upon which sat Tippoo, alike the pride and the dread of those by
whom he was surrounded.

Kasim easily distinguished the bull-slayer of the previous day in the
person before him; but he was dressed with extreme plainness in white
muslin, and would not have been taken for the Sultaun by a stranger,
except from the place he occupied, and the large and peculiarly-formed
turban, with which every one was familiar from description.

On each side of him knelt two fair and rosy-faced youths, dressed in
gorgeous apparel, the children of Europeans captured on various
occasions, who, forcibly converted to Mahomedanism, always attended the
Sultaun, and waved chowrees, formed of the white tail of the Tibet cow,
with gold handles, on all sides of him, to drive away the flies. On each
side of the dais, in semicircles, sat the officers of state and of the
army, in their various costumes, leaving an open space in the centre,
through which those passed who desired to present their nuzzurs to the
Sultaun.

Some French officers were there in glittering uniforms, but whose
tight-fitting clothes, bare heads and feet, without boots or shoes,
looked meanly amidst the turbaned heads and more graceful costume of the
courtiers. Behind all were a number of the royal Chelas, or bodyguard,
splendidly dressed, and armed to the teeth, whose formidable appearance
completely awed the assembly, if indeed the presence of the Sultaun
himself was not sufficient to produce that effect.

The figure of the Sultaun was of middle height, and stout; his
complexion was darker than that of most of those who surrounded him, and
he sat with an affected air of royalty, which, though it at first
impressed the spectator with awe, yet that passed away in a great
measure upon the contemplation of his face, which wanted the dignity of
expression that his body assumed. His eyes were full and prominent, but
the whites of them were of a dull yellowish tint, which, with their
restless and suspicious expression, gave them a disagreeable look, and
one which bespoke a mind of perpetual but not profound thought; his nose
was small and straight, and, with his mouth, would have been
good-looking, except for the habitual sneer which sat on both; his
eyebrows and mustachios were trimmed most carefully into arched lines,
and he wore no beard. In his hand there was a large rosary of beautiful
pearls, with emeralds at the regular distances, which he kept
perpetually counting mechanically with the fingers of his right hand.
Before him lay a straight sword of small size, the hilt of which was
inlaid with gold and turquoise stones; and near him stood a gold
spitting-cup, inlaid with precious stones, into which he incessantly
discharged the saliva engendered by the quantity of pān he chewed, the
red colour of which appeared upon his lips and teeth in a disagreeable
manner; and a chased gold writing-case, containing some reed pens, ink,
paper, and a pair of scissors to cut it to the sizes required, lay near
his left hand.

The ceremony of presentation and of obeisance went on rapidly; almost
all offered their nuzzurs of gold or silver, which the Sultaun took, and
deposited beside him until there had accumulated a goodly heap, Kasim,
at the distance he then was, could catch nothing of the conversation
which was going on; for in spite of the loud cries of ‘Khamosh!
Khamosh!’ from the attendants, there was more noise in the assembly than
he thought befitting the presence of the Sultaun. After waiting some
little time, and having advanced nearer and nearer to the musnud, the
Sultaun’s eye fell upon the Khan, who in truth was a remarkable figure,
even among that richly-dressed assembly, being the only one who wore
armour. As the Sultaun’s eye met his, the Khan advanced, and bidding
Kasim remain where he was till he should be called, he performed his
obeisance, presenting, with the handle of his sword upon an embroidered
handkerchief, his nuzzur of five gold mohurs, which the Sultaun received
most propitiously.

‘We welcome thee back, Khan Sahib, most heartily,’ said the Sultaun;
‘and it is pleasant in our eyes to see an old friend return in health;
but thou art thin, friend, the effects of the journey perhaps. Praise be
to Alla! his servant, unworthy of the honour, hath been given power of
dreams such as no one else hath enjoyed since the days of the Apostle,
on whose memory be peace! We dreamed last night—and the blessed planets
were in a most auspicious conjunction, as we learned upon inquiry this
morning as soon as we arose, which assures the matter to us—that we
should see the face of an old friend, and receive a new servant, who
should eclipse all the young men of our court in gallant bearing,
bravery, and intelligence.’

As he looked around when he had said this, all those within hearing
cried, ‘Ameen! Ameen! who is favoured of Alla like unto the Sultaun? may
he live a hundred years! whose knowledge is equal to his? not that even
of Aflatoon or Sikundur.’

‘Ay,’ he continued, ‘behold it hath come true; here has the Khan, as it
were, dropped from the clouds, and with him a young man, who, Inshalla!
is one whose bravery is great. Bring him forward, O Khan, that our
fortunate glance may rest on him.’

‘May I be your sacrifice, Huzrut!’ said the Khan, ‘he is unworthy the
honour; nevertheless, I offer him unto your service, and can answer that
he hath as stout an arm and as brave a heart as he looks to have.
Mashalla! I have seen both tried, in circumstances of great peril to
myself.’

‘Good!’ said the Sultaun, before whom Kasim had performed the Tusleemât,
or three obeisances, and now stood with folded hands. ‘Good! by the
Prophet, a fine youth! there is truth on his forehead—his destiny is
good.’

‘Ul-humd-ul-illa! who can discern character like the Sultaun?’ cried
several; ‘behold all things, even men’s hearts, are open to him.’

‘He hath lucky marks about his face, only known to us,’ continued the
Sultaun; ‘and the planets are auspicious to-day. A Syud too, his
services will therefore be good, and beneficial to himself and us.’

‘Ul-humd-ul-illa!’ cried the court in ecstasy; ‘what wisdom! what
penetration! what gracious words! they should be written in a book.’

‘Wilt thou take service, youth?’ he continued to Kasim; ‘art thou
willing to strike a blow for the lion of the Faith?’

‘Huzrut! your slave is willing to the death,’ cried Kasim
enthusiastically; ‘prove him; he will not be unworthy of such exalted
patronage.’

‘Thou shalt be tried ere long, fear not. Enrol him,’ he continued to a
Moonshee; ‘let his pay be twelve hoons, with allowance for a horse: hast
thou one?’

‘The Khan’s generosity has already furnished me with one,’ said Kasim.

‘Good! thy business shall be to attend my person, and our friend the
Khan will tell thee of thy duties. Enough! you have your dismissal.’

‘I beg to represent that the Khan escorted some kafir prisoners from
Bangalore,’ said an officer who was sitting near the Sultaun; ‘would
your Highness like—’

‘True, true!’ replied the Sultaun; ‘we had forgotten that;’ and he
added, as the expression of his countenance changed, ‘Command silence,
and let them be brought into the presence.’

-------

CHAPTER XXII.

There hardly needed the order to be given that silence should be
observed: as the words the Sultaun spoke fell upon the ears of the
assembly, and they observed the sudden change in his countenance, the
busy tongues ceased directly; there continued a little talking and some
bustle towards the end of the room, but as the Chobdars called silence,
and went hither and thither to enforce it, all became hushed except the
Sultaun himself, who was inquiring from the secretaries whether any
despatches had accompanied the prisoners from Bangalore.

‘Huzrut!’ said the Khan, again advancing, ‘they are in the possession of
your slave, who craves pardon that in the confusion of presenting his
nuzzur, he forgot to deliver them.’ And he laid the packets at the
Sultaun’s feet, who instantly tore open the envelope, and selecting one
of the enclosures directed to himself, fell to perusing it with great
attention.

‘This speaks well of the prisoners,’ he said at length to Syud Ghuffoor,
who sat near him; ‘the Killadar of Bangalore writes that one of them, a
captain, is a man of knowledge, well versed in the science of war and
tactics; that he understands fortification and gunnery, so that he is
worthy of being offered our clement protection. Inshalla! therefore,
though we need no instruction in these matters,—thanks be to Alla, who
hath implanted a natural knowledge of them in our heart, which is not
surpassed by any of the whoreson Feringhees—’

And all around interrupting him, cried ‘Ameen! Ameen!’

‘Inshalla!’ he continued, ‘as this is an auspicious day, we will offer
life and service. If he accept it, well; if not, I will send him to
hell, where thousands of his accursed and mother-defiled race await his
coming: are not these good words?’

‘Excellent—excellent words! They are not worthy to live! the race is
accursed of Alla!’ cried several; ‘the Sultaun’s clemency is great!’

As this ceased, the tramp of many feet was heard on the wooden
staircase, and as the noise approached nearer, Kasim, who had been
watching the Sultaun narrowly with intense interest, could see that he
was far from being at ease; he fidgeted upon his musnud, the rosary
passed twice as fast as usual through his fingers, his eyes winked
sharply, and he stroked his mustachios from time to time, either with
exultation or inquietude, Kasim could not distinguish which; at length
the prisoners reached the head of the stairs, and their escort appeared
to wait there for commands.

‘Bid the officer advance,’ said the Sultaun; ‘the rest may be withdrawn
for the present, we will send for them when this man is disposed of.’

The order was obeyed, and all were withdrawn but one, who, being desired
to come forward through the lane which was opened for him to the foot of
the musnud, advanced slowly, but with erect and manly gait and proud
bearing, nigh to where the Sultaun sat.

‘Salaam to the light of the world, to the sun of Islam! Perform thine
obeisance here, and prostrate thyself on the ground,’ said a Chobdar who
accompanied the prisoner.

‘I will salute him as I would salute my own monarch,’ said the prisoner,
in a voice audible to all, and in good Hindostanee, but spoken with
rather a foreign pronunciation: and still advancing, he had placed one
foot upon the white cloth which has been already mentioned.

‘Kafir!’ cried the Chobdar, striking him, ‘son of perdition, keep back!
dare not to advance a step beyond the carpet; prostrate thyself to the
Sultaun, and implore his clemency.’

The Englishman turned in an instant, at the blow he had received, and
raised his arm to strike again; the Sultaun observed the action and
spoke.

‘Hold!’ he cried; ‘do not strike, O Feringhee, and do some of ye seize
that officious rascal, and give him ten blows upon his back with a
cane.’

The fellow was seized and hustled out, while the Englishman continued
standing where he had been arrested.

‘Advance!’ cried the Sultaun.

Some of those near tried to persuade him not to allow the Englishman to
approach.

‘Pah!’ he exclaimed, ‘I have caused the deaths of too many with arms in
their hands, to fear this unarmed wretch. Advance then, that we may
speak with thee conveniently; be not afraid, we will do thee no harm.’

‘I fear thee not, O Sultaun,’ said Herbert Compton (for so in very truth
it was), advancing, and bowing stiffly yet respectfully, ‘I fear thee
not; what canst thou do to me that I should fear thee?’

‘I could order thee to be put to death this instant,’ said the Sultaun
sharply; while others cried out fiercely that the speech was insolent,
and reviled him.

Herbert looked round him proudly, and many a one among the crowd of
flatterers quailed as his clear blue eye rested on them. ‘I am not
insolent!’ he exclaimed; ‘if my speech is plain and honest, take ye a
lesson from it, cowards! who could insult one so helpless as I am;’ and
he drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms, awaiting what
the Sultaun should say to him. His dress was mean, of the coarsest white
cotton cloth of the country; his head was bare, and so were his feet;
but in spite of this, there was a dignity in his appearance which
inspired involuntary respect, nay awe to many.

The time which had elapsed had but little altered him, and if indeed
there was a change, it was for the better! his appearance was more
manly, his frame more strongly knit. His face was thinner and paler than
when we last parted with him at the capitulation of Bednore, from
whence, with the rest of his comrades, he had been hurried into
captivity; but four years had passed since then, and his weary
imprisonment, chequered by no event save the death or murder of a
companion or a fellow-captive, would have utterly worn down a spirit
less buoyant and intrepid than Herbert’s.

Mathews had perished by poison almost before his eyes; he had been
accused of having buried treasure, and persisting in the denial of this,
he had been tortured by confinement in irons, denied food, subjected to
privations of all kinds, which failing in their effect to force a
confession of what had not taken place, he had been poisoned by the
Sultaun’s order. Numbers had been destroyed; numbers had died of
hopelessness, of the climate, of disease engendered by inaction; many
had been released at the peace of 1784, but still Herbert and a few of
his comrades and fellow-prisoners remained, and had lingered on their
wretched existence in the various prisons and forts of the country; for
Tippoo hoped that long captivity and hardships at one time, and again
indulgence and relaxation, would induce them to accede to his terms of
service, which were offered from time to time, with alternate threats of
death and promises of immense rewards.

Herbert’s situation near the person of the General, and the plans of
fortifications, books on the same, works on mathematics, on engineering,
and his many drawings, all of which had been seized with him, had early
marked him as an officer of superior attainment, and one whose services
would be highly valuable. The others who were confined with him were for
the most part men of the artillery, of whose experience and excellent
skill as marksmen Tippoo had too often seen the fatal results to his own
army not to be very anxious to get them to join him.

A few of the captives, from time to time, dazzled by promises which were
never fulfilled and weary of imprisonment, had voluntarily become
renegades, and others had been violently converted to Mahomedanism;
these served in the army, and, though dissolute in their habits, were
yet useful and brave when occasion needed; and the value of their
services only made Tippoo more anxious to secure those of a higher grade
and more extensive acquirements and education. With Herbert, and those
who accompanied him, his many attempts had been vain; and while his
desire to accomplish his ends became the more violent from their
continued opposition, there now existed a necessity for urging their
compliance, which will presently be made manifest. But we have
digressed.

‘Peace!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘we have not sent for thee, O Feringhee, to
hear thy bold speech, but to advise thee as one who is a friend to thee,
and has a true interest in thy welfare.’

‘Dost thou understand the condescending speech of the Sultaun, or shall
one of the Franceese interpret it for thee?’ asked one of the Moonshees
officiously.

‘Peace!’ again cried the Sultaun, ‘he understands me well enough; if he
does not, he will say so; and now, Captain Compton, since thus it is
written is thy name, we have sent for thee from the Fort, not as a
common criminal and one whose end is perdition, but with honour; we had
thee seated on an elephant, lodged in a good tent, supplied with
excellent food, and now thou art admitted into the presence, thou
shouldest bow in acknowledgment of the condescension shown thee; nay,
thou wouldst have done so, we are persuaded, but thy manners are not
formed upon the model of those of the true believers. Now our good
friend the Killadar writes to us that, weary of confinement, and induced
by a sense of the obligations thou and thy companions are under to me,
thou art in a frame of mind to accept our munificent offers of
entertaining thee in our service, of raising thee to rank, of admitting
thee to share—’

‘Stop!’ cried Herbert suddenly, while, as he spoke, the Sultaun fairly
started at the suddenness of the interruption to his harangue and the
boldness of the tone. ‘Stop! when we are on equal terms thou canst offer
me service; it is a mockery to tempt me with promises thou wouldst not
fulfil.’

‘By the gracious Alla and his Prophet, I would,’ cried the Sultaun
eagerly: ‘say then, wilt thou serve me? thou shalt have rank, power,
wealth, women—’

‘I am in your hands, a helpless captive, O Sultaun,’ replied Herbert;
‘and therefore I cannot but hear whatever thou choosest to say to me:
but if thou art a man and a soldier, insult me no more with such words.
Nay, be not impatient, but listen. When Mathews was poisoned by thy
order,—nay, start not! thou knowest well it is the truth,—I was given
the choice of life, and thy service, or death upon refusal,—I chose
death. Year after year I have seen those die around me whom I loved; I
have courted death by refusal of thy base and dishonourable offers: thou
hast not dared to destroy me. My life, a miserable one to me, is now of
no value; those whom I love in my own land have long mourned me as dead.
It is well that it is so—I am honoured in death. Alive, and in thy
service, I should be dead to them, but dishonoured: therefore I prefer
death. I ask it from thee as a favour; I have no wish to live: bid
yonder fellow strike my head from my body before thine eyes. As thou
lovest to look on blood, thou wilt see how a man, and an Englishman, can
bear death. Strike! I defy thee.’

‘Beat him on the mouth with a shoe! gag the kafir son of perdition! send
him to hell!’ roared many voices; ‘let him die!’ while scowling looks
and threatening gestures met him on all sides.

‘Peace!’ exclaimed the Sultaun, who seeing that his words were not heard
amidst the hubbub, rose from his seat and commanded silence. ‘Peace! by
Alla I swear,’ he cried, when the assembly was still once more, ‘if any
one disturbs this conference by word or deed, I will disgrace him.’ And
then turning to Herbert, who with glowing cheek and glistening eye stood
awaiting what he thought would be his doom, ‘Fool, O fool!’ he cried,
‘art thou mad? wilt thou be a fool? Thy race mourn thee as dead; there
is a new life open to thee, a life of honourable service, of rank and
wealth, of a new and true faith. Once more, as a friend, as one who will
greet thee as a brother, who will raise thee to honour, who will confide
in thee, I do advise thee to comply. Thou shalt share the command of my
armies—we will fight together: thou art wise—we will consult together:
thou art skilled in science, in which, praise be to Alla! I am a
proficient, and we will study together. Alla kureem, wilt thou not
listen to reason? Wilt thou refuse the golden path which thine own
destiny has opened to thee? Let me not hear thy answer now. Go! thou
shalt be lodged well, fed from my own table; in three days I will again
hear thy determination.’

‘Were it three years, my answer would be the same,’ cried Herbert, whose
chest heaved with excitement, and who with some difficulty had heard out
the Sultaun’s address. ‘I defy thee! I spurn thy base and dishonourable
offers, with indignation which I have not words to express. When thou
canst give me back the murdered Mathews, whose blood is on thy head—when
thou canst restore to life those whom thou hast murdered, thrown from
rocks, strangled—when thou canst do this, I will serve thee. For the
rest, I abhor thy base and unholy faith.’

‘Hog! son of a defiled mother! vilest son of hell!’ screamed the
Sultaun, almost speechless with passion, ‘dost thou dare to revile the
faith? Do ye hear him friends? do ye hear the kafir’s words? Have ye
ears, and do not avenge me? have ye swords, and do not use them?’

Fifty swords flashed from their scabbards as he spoke, and many were
uplifted to strike the daring and reckless speaker, when Kasim, who had
been listening with the most intense interest, and remembering his
promise of succour, while he felt the high sense of honour which
prompted the Englishman’s defiance of the Sultaun, rushed forward, and
with uplifted arm stayed the descent of the weapons, which would have
deluged the floor with blood, and committed murder on an innocent
person.

‘Hold!’ he exclaimed, with the utmost power of his strong voice,—‘are ye
men? are ye soldiers? to cut down a man unarmed, and who is helpless as
a woman? Have you no regard for honour, or for truth, when you hear it
spoken?

‘Rash and foolish youth!’ cried the Sultaun; ‘is this thy first act of
service? An act of disrespect and rebellion. And yet I thank thee for
one thing—though he whom thou hast saved will curse thee for it—I thank
thee for his life, which I have now to torture.’

‘Thy death, kafir Feringhee,’ he continued to Herbert, ‘under the swords
of the Moslims would have been sweet and that of a soldier—it shall now
be a bitter one. Away with him to the Droog; no matter how he is carried
thither, the meanest tattoo, the meanest dooly is enough. Here, do thou,
Jaffar Sahib, see this done; travel night and day till it is
accomplished: see him and his vile companions, or such of them as will
now dare to refuse my offers, flung from the rock by Kowul Droog, and
hasten back to report that they are dead. Begone!’

‘Farewell, brave friend,’ said Herbert to Kasim, as they laid hold on
him roughly, and with violent abuse urged his departure; ‘if we meet not
again on earth, there is a higher and a better world, where men of all
creeds will meet, but where yonder tiger will never come. Farewell!’

‘Say, have I not acquitted myself of my promise to thee?’ cried Kasim
passionately, for he too was held by the Khan and others.

‘Thou hast,’ was the reply. ‘May God reward thy intentions—’ His last
words were lost in the exclamations, threats, and obscene abuse of those
who dragged him away.

The Sultaun re-seated himself on the musnud, and the tumultuous heaving
of the assembly was after a short while once more stilled. No one spoke,
no one dared to interrupt the current of the monarch’s thoughts,
whatever they might be. All had their eyes fixed upon Kasim, who, held
by the Khan and another, waited expecting his doom in silence, but not
with dread: yet his thoughts were in a whirl of excitement; and the
remembrance of his mother, Ameena, the Englishman, and the acts of his
own life, flashed through his mind, till he could hardly distinguish one
from the other. But Kasim’s earnest gaze was all the while fixed upon
the monarch, who for a few moments was absorbed in a reverie, in which
indecision and a feeling of mercy toward the young Englishman appeared
to be struggling with the fiercely excited passion which still trembled
about the corners of his mouth and his chin in convulsive twitchings.
After a little time it passed away, and left only that stern expression
which was habitual to him when a sneer did not occupy his features. His
eyes had been fixed on vacancy; but on a sudden he raised them up, and
they met those of Kasim, who, still held by the Khan, stood close to
him.

‘Ai Kumbukht!’ he exclaimed. ‘O unfortunate, what hast thou done? By
Alla I would have loved thee, only for thy rashness. Knowest thou the
peril of coming between the tiger and his prey? Knowest thou that I have
but to speak, and, ere thou couldst say thy belief, thy young blood
would moisten the grass yonder? Knowest thou this, and yet didst thou
dare to brave me? Alla kureem! what dirt has not been ordained for me to
eat to-day? Whose unlucky face could I have seen this morning when I
awoke? Speak, slave! thou art not a spy of the kafir English, that thou
wentest beside thyself in his behalf whom we have doomed to death?’

‘May I be your sacrifice, O Sultaun!’ cried Kasim, joining his hands and
addressing Tippoo, ‘I am no spy—I am not faith-less—thou hast the power
to strike my head from my body—bid it be done; your slave is ready to
die.’

‘Then why didst thou behave thus?’ said Tippoo.

‘The Englishman was helpless—he was unarmed—he was my friend—for I
rescued him from insult at Bangalore,’ replied Kasim; ‘he told me his
history, and I grieved for him: he besought me not to enter thy service,
O Sultaun, but to join his race. I was free to have done so; but I
despised them, and longed to fight against them under the banner of the
lion of Islam. I swore to befriend him, however, if ever I could; the
time came sooner than I expected, and in an unlooked for form; and I had
been faithless, craven, and vile, had I failed him when he could not
strike a blow in his own defence. This is the truth, O Sultaun! punish
me if thou wilt—I am thy slave.’

‘Unhappy boy,’ said the Khan to him in a whisper, ‘thou hast spoken too
boldly. Alla help thee, for there is no hope for thee that I can see.
See, he speaks to thee.’

‘Kasim Ali,’ said the Sultaun, ‘had one of these who know me dared to do
what thou hast done, I would have destroyed him; had any one dared to
have spoken as boldly as thou hast done, I would have disgraced him for
disrespect. Thou art young—thou art brave; thou hast truth on thy
forehead and in thy words, and we love it. Go! thou art pardoned: and
yet for warning’s sake thou must suffer punishment, lest the example
should spread in our army, which—thanks to Alla! who hath given his
servant the wisdom to direct and discipline it after a fashion, the
perfection of which is not to be met with upon the earth—’

Here he paused, and looked around, and all the courtiers cried ‘Ameen!
Ameen! listen to the words of wisdom, to the oracle of the faith of
Islam!’

‘For example’s sake,’ continued the Sultaun gravely, ‘thou must be
punished. We had thy pay written down at twelve hoons—it shall be ten;
thou wast to be near my person—thou shalt serve under the Khan, as he
may think fit. If thou art valiant, we shall hear of thee with pleasure,
and reward thee; and remember our eyes, which are as all-seeing as those
of Alla and the angels, will ever be fixed upon thee. Remember this, and
tremble while thou thinkest upon it!’

Kasim saluted the monarch profoundly and drew back; he had been rebuked,
but mildly, and the honest face of the Khan was once more overjoyed.

‘Inshalla! thy destiny is great,’ he whispered; ‘now had I, or any one
else here, got by any accident into such a scrape, we should have been
heavily fined, degraded, and Alla only knows what else; but thou hast
come off triumphant, and, as for the loss of the money, thou needest not
mind. Alla grant, too, there may soon be an opportunity of winning fame.
Inshalla! we will yet fight together.’

Just then the loud cries of ‘Khamoosh! Khamoosh!’ again resounded
through the hall, and the Sultaun once more spoke.

‘Let every officer inspect his cushoon[32] minutely during the ensuing
month,’ he said; ‘let the officers of cavalry look well to their horses:
let those who have the charge of our invincible artillery look to their
carriages and bullocks: let all the departments of the army be in
readiness to move at the shortest notice: for we hear of wars against
our detachments in Canara, and that the infidel Nairs (may their lot be
perdition!) have again taken up arms, and are giving trouble to our
troops. Therefore it was revealed to us in a dream, which we have
chronicled as it appeared, and with which we will now delight the ears
of our people.’ And feeling under him for a manuscript, he began to read
it with pompous gravity.

-----

Footnote 32:

A division of troops.

-----

‘On the night before last, soon after this child of clay lay down to
rest, an angel of light appeared to him, even like unto the angel
Gabriel, as he manifested himself unto the blessed Apostle (may his
memory be honoured!) and of whom this mortal is an unworthy imitator;
and the angel said,—“The Nairs in thy dominions are becoming
troublesome, therefore shalt thou destroy them utterly; their
abominations and the loose conduct of their women are offences against
the Most High, therefore they shall be punished,—they shall be all
honoured with Islamism.” And so saying the angel vanished, and this
servant awoke, and recorded the dream as he had heard it.’

‘Ajaib! Ajaib! Karamut! Karamut![33] The Sultaun is the friend of
Alla—the Sultaun is the apostle of Alla!’ burst from the assembly, with
many other ejaculations equally devout and flattering.

-----

Footnote 33:

Wonderful! wonderful! a miracle! a miracle!

-----

‘Yes, my friends, even thus doth the providence of Alla overshadow us,’
continued the Sultaun, ‘and enable us to avert the evils which the
infidels would bring upon the true faith. Inshalla! however, we will
teach them a lesson, and one which they will remember while they have
being. I have read you my dream, and behold, in confirmation of it, this
morning’s post brought letters from Arshed Beg Khan, our governor, which
informs us of the disorders, and that he is making head against them
with all the force he can muster: therefore we would have you all
prepared should reinforcements be needed. And now, Rhyman Khan,’ he
added, ‘what news hast thou for us from the court of Nizam Ali Khan?’

‘Shall I speak it out, Protector of the Universe, or wilt thou hear it
in thy closet?’ said the Khan advancing.

‘Here, friend, here; what secrets have I that my friends about me should
not know? Mashalla! in the Sircar Khodadad all is as open as daylight.’

Amidst the murmur of applause which this speech produced, the Khan
hemmed audibly, to ensure silence, and proceeded.

‘I beg to represent,’ said he, ‘that Nizam Ali Khan is favourable to the
Sircar—entirely favourable. The English pressed him to give up the
province of Guntoor, which he is bound to do by treaty; but he is
unwilling (and no wonder) to comply; things have advanced to almost a
quarrel between them, and if he was sure of the feeling of this Sircar,
I would pledge my life on it that he would declare war to-morrow, and
thus the two Sircars could fight under the banner of Islam, and
exterminate the unbelievers. But, Inshalla! there will be more proof
than my poor words; for I heard from good authority that the Huzoor was
about to select an ambassador, a man of tact and knowledge, who will
explain all his wishes satisfactorily,’

‘An ambassador! sayest thou, Khan? By Alla, rare news! He is then in
earnest, and with his aid what may not be done? he can bring a lakh of
men—cavalry too—into the field, and he has infantry besides. Alla grant
he may come soon! let us only chastise these infidel Nairs, and thus
make a step towards the extermination of unbelief from Hind. Let the
Durbar be closed!’ he cried suddenly and abruptly after a short silence;
and rising, he retired into one of the smaller rooms, where, alone, he
meditated over those wild schemes of conquest which were eventually his
ruin.

-------

CHAPTER XXIII.

Dragged away by his relentless guards, Herbert Compton had no leisure
allowed him to speak with his companions; even the last miserable
gratification of a hurried farewell was denied him; and as he passed
them, a melancholy group, some standing or leaning against the building,
others sitting upon the grass in dejected attitudes, he strove to speak;
but every word was a signal for fresh insult, and he was pushed, struck
with shoes, spit upon by the rabble of the courtiers’ servants and
grooms, to whom the sufferings of a kafir Feringhee were the highest
sport that could be afforded.

A sad spectacle was Herbert’s renewed captivity, in insult and
suffering, to those of his fellow-countrymen who beheld it. They had
seen him and several others of their body brought from Bangalore in
decency, if not with honour; during their journey the utmost indulgence
had been shown them, and all their hearts had been buoyant with
excitement when Herbert alone had been sent for into the Durbar, for
they were well assured that upon his fate would turn the issue of their
life or death, continued captivity or release.

There had been many among them who had, in the buoyancy of hope
anticipated a release; before whose minds visions of home, of return to
those beloved, to those who had mourned them dead, had been rapidly and
vividly passing; who, when a ray of hope had darted in upon their
cheerless thoughts, had allowed it to illuminate and warm them till it
had induced even extravagances of behaviour. Some had exulted to their
more staid companions; others had sung or whistled joyfully; and the
mockery of their guards and of the bystanders only served to excite them
the more, and to cause them to anticipate their triumph by words and
gestures not to be misunderstood by those to whom they were addressed.
But when Herbert passed out, ruffled, insulted, dragged away without
being allowed to exchange a word with them—apparently led to death, and
followed by the jeers and scoffings of the crowd who thirsted for his
blood—then did hope forsake them, and the memory of the deaths of former
companions by poison, by torture, or by the executioner, came upon them
suddenly, and caused a revulsion of feeling which had an almost deadly
effect on the most sanguine. The more sober and less excited exchanged
glances and a few words with each other, expressive of their awful
situation, and that their last hope had fled.

They were, in bodies of three and four, led before the Sultaun in the
evening Durbar, and, like Herbert, offered the alternative of death, or
service and life. A few were found to prefer the latter, but by far the
greater part braved the tyrant’s wrath, and in despair chose to die.

That evening saw the return of a melancholy band to the fort of
Nundidroog, the rigours of the captivity of which had been known to them
before by report, as also the fate there of many a brave fellow European
and native, boasted to them by their guards in the various forts and
prisons in which they had been confined. Nor was it as if they had been
led to death at once; those who could speak a few words of the language
of the country had implored this of the Sultaun, but had been refused
with exultation; and they had to endure a long march of many days, with
every hardship and indignity which the unconcealed wrath and spite of
the Sultaun, descending almost in a redoubled degree to his subordinate
officers, could inflict upon them. Their food was of the coarsest
description; bad water, where it could be found, was given them to
drink; miserable doolies, in which it was impossible to lie at full
length, or even to sit, and open so that the sun beat in on them, were
given to some: they were carried too by the inhabitants of the villages,
who were pressed from stage to stage, in order that they might travel
with the utmost expedition; and as these men were unaccustomed to carry
loads in that way, the exhausted men they bore were jolted, until excess
of fatigue often caused faintness and even death. Blest were those who
died thus! they were spared the misery the survivors had to endure.

Nor was the person under whose charge they travelled, Jaffar Sahib, one
likely to make any amelioration in their condition; he had received his
last orders from Tippoo at the evening Durbar, relative to Herbert
Compton (in regard to whom his instructions were somewhat different to
those the Sultaun had given in the morning), and also to the rest of the
prisoners; and well mounted himself, and accompanied by an escort of his
own risala, the Jemadar hurried on, travelling the whole day, with but
short rests, when the exhaustion of some of the prisoners, or at times
the want of a relay of bearers, caused an unavoidable stoppage.
Everywhere it was made known that the Feringhees were going to death;
and while crowds from many of the villages and towns flocked to see them
as they passed by, they were everywhere met by bitter insults, abuse,
and derision.

It was a bitter cup to quaff for Herbert Compton, who, in spite of all,
was not cast down. His stout heart, on the contrary, prepared for death
by long suffering and abandonment of all hope, looked to the termination
of his journey with joyful feelings as the time when he should be
released from his earthly troubles. Indeed, since the capitulation of
Bednore, after they were all led away into captivity,—the frequent
disappearance of his comrades and brother officers telling their
untimely fates,—he had daily prepared himself for death, not knowing in
what hour or by what manner he should be summoned to it. This had lasted
so long, that the dim visions of hope which had now and then broken the
gloom in which his future was wrapped, so far as life was concerned,
were at an end; now a hope of death succeeded, which amounted to a
certainty, and was even pleasant in contemplation.

At first, how bitter, how agonising had been his thoughts of home, of
his parents—worst of all, of Amy, whom he could not help picturing to
himself as worn down by sorrow, broken in spirit, and mourning his
absence, most likely his death, in vain. His mother too, alas! what a
world of thought was there not in her name who had so loved him, and
whose tender nature could ill have borne so rude a shock as that of his
death, for he was sure they must long ago have abandoned all hope of his
being alive. And when at the peace some captives were given up, and it
was told that the others were dead, though it was well known in India
that there were many retained, yet they would be ignorant of this in
England, and would conclude he was dead also. Thus he looked to the
future, with a hope, a certainty of reunion in death with those he had
best loved on earth, and this made him cheerful and calm, when many
around him either held the stern silence of despair or mournfully
bewailed their fate.

As they passed Bangalore the governor visited them, by order of the
Sultaun; he had known Herbert, and supplied him with Hindostanee books,
which was done by Tippoo’s order, that he might in the solitude and
_ennui_ of prison-life learn the language of the country, which would
fit him for the duties for which he designed him. He was grieved to see
him, and advised him to comply with the Sultaun’s request, which Tippoo,
knowing that he had been kind to the young Englishman, and thinking he
might be able to turn him aside from his purpose, had advanced to him.
The brave soldier, who not long afterwards met a warrior’s death in
defence of the fortress, used his utmost persuasion to alter Herbert’s
resolution, but in vain,—it was deeply rooted; the alternative proposed
was too dishonourable in prospect, and the event so nigh at hand too
welcome, for his resolution to be shaken. He bade Herbert farewell, with
an expression of deep feeling and interest which gratified him, and
which his friend did not seek to disguise. With one or two of the
captives, however, the governor was more successful; the near approach
of death, and the inability to look on it continuously for many days,
was more than they could bear, and they yielded to solicitation which
they little hoped would have been used. There were still a few, however,
whom the example of Herbert, and their own strong and faithful hearts
kept steady to their purpose, men who preferred death to dishonour in
the service of their country’s foe.

The Killadar caused nearly two days to be spent in the negotiations with
the prisoners, in despite of the inquiry of Jaffar Sahib, who pretended
to be full of zeal in the execution of the Sultaun’s orders; but on the
third morning after their arrival, there was no longer pretence for
delay, and the party again set forward.

The day after Herbert knew they should arrive at the fort of Nundidroog,
and their place of execution was then but at a short distance. Another
day, thought he, and all will be over!

Already the dark grey mass of the fort appeared above the plain as they
approached it; its immense height and precipitous sides rose plainly
into view. That evening they passed over the large tank to the southward
of the fort on the Bangalore road; and as its huge bulk appeared to
sleep peacefully reflected on the waters, making its perpendicular sides
and immense height the more apparent, Herbert thought the death to which
he was doomed would be easy and sudden, and that it was a more merciful
one than that of Mathews, or the lingering torment or strangulation of
so many others.

Herbert observed during the journey that the officer who commanded the
large party which escorted them kept aloof from him in particular; he
had seen him address the others, and heard from them that he endeavoured
to reason them into acceptance of the Sultaun’s offers; to himself he
had never spoken, but concealed his face from him; he had, however, seen
it several times, and on each occasion was inclined to think that it was
familiar to him; but, on reflection, he could discover no clue to the
supposition in his mind, and he vainly strove to dismiss the idea from
his thoughts.

The town of Nundidroog was in sight; it was evening, the mountain flung
its broad shadow over the plain under the declining rays of the sun, and
the warm red light of an Indian sunset covered every object with
splendour. The herds of cattle, and of sheep and goats, were hastening
home from their pasture with loud lowings and bleatings, and the simple
melody of the shepherd’s pipe arose, now far away, now near, from the
various herds they passed. On their left towered the huge rock almost
above their heads; its fortifications, built on the giddy verge full
eight hundred feet above the brushwood and rocky declivity out of which
it rose naked, appeared ready to topple over the precipice. There was
one huge round bastion in particular, on the very edge of the steepest
and highest part, and Herbert speculated whether or no that was the
spot; he was looking so intently at it that he did not heed the approach
on his right hand of the leader of the party, who, speaking to him
suddenly, almost startled him by the familiar accent of his voice.

‘Dost thou see yonder bastion, Feringhee?’ said the officer, pointing to
it—‘yonder round one, from which the flag of the Sultaun floats proudly
upon the evening wind?’

‘I do,’ replied Herbert; ‘it is a giddy place.’

‘Many a kafir Feringhee,’ continued the man, ‘has been flung from
thence, while a prayer for mercy was on his lips, and his last shrieks
grew fainter and fainter as he descended to perdition: many an unworthy
Moslim and kafir Hindoo, taken in arms against the true believers, have
wished they had never been born, or had never seen your accursed race,
when he was taken to the edge and hurled over it.’

‘Death will be easy from thence,’ said Herbert calmly. ‘I can look on
it, and think on it with pleasure; is that the place where—’

‘No,’ cried the man exultingly interrupting him, ‘that is too good for
thee and thy obstinate companions. Dost thou see yonder lotos-shaped
hill?’ And he pointed to one around which the evening vapour was
wreathing itself in soft fleecy masses, while the red sunlight lighted
up its rugged sides and narrow top.

‘I see it,’ said Herbert.

‘Beneath it,’ continued the man, ‘there is a rock; thou wilt see it
to-morrow—till then farewell.’

‘Stay!’ cried Herbert, ‘tell me, if thou wilt—for it matters little to
one so near death—tell me who thou art; surely I have met thee ere now;
thy voice is familiar to my ears.’

‘Thou shalt know to-morrow,’ was the only reply the man gave, as he
touched the flanks of his horse and galloped to the head of the
detachment.

The wearied prisoners were glad when they reached the ancient Hindoo
cloisters, where we have before seen the Khan and Ameena with his risala
encamped; and though the evening wind, which had arisen sharply, blew
chill around them and whistled through the ruined arches and pillars,
they were glad to eat their humble meal of coarse flour cakes and a
little sour curds; and wrapping themselves in the horse-cloths which
were flung to them out of pity by the grooms, they lay down on the hard
ground, each with a stone for his pillow, and exhausted nature claiming
its repose, they slept soundly.

But Herbert only for a while; he had dreamed vividly and yet confusedly
of many things, and at last awoke, fevered and unrefreshed. A jar of
water was beside them; he arose, drank some, which revived him, and sat
down on a broken pillar, for he could not sleep again; thought was too
busy within him. There was no one stirring except the men on watch, who
lazily paced to and fro close to him, talking in short sentences: he
strove to listen to their conversation.

‘And do you think he knows where it is? they say the Feringhees buried
it when the place was taken,’ said one.

‘Willa Alum!’[34] said the other, ‘the Jemadar says he does, and that he
will make him tell where it is before—’

-----

Footnote 34:

‘God knows!’

-----

Here Herbert lost the rest, and they did not return to the subject
again, but wandered away to others which to him had no interest. The
night was very chill, and a keen wind blew, raising the fine dust which
had accumulated in the place, and blowing it sharply against his face;
there was something melancholy in the sound, as it whistled and moaned
through the ruins, and through the branches of an old blasted
peepul-tree which, blanched with age, stood out a ghastly object against
the dark sky. At length, after some time of weary watching, a cock in
the town crew; another answered his call; and as Herbert looked into the
east, the grey flush of dawn was apparent, and he was glad the day had
come, though it was to be, as he thought, his last.

The whole party were soon astir, the unhappy sleepers aroused, and, as
one by one they awoke to consciousness, with the light that greeted
them, miserable thoughts of death poured into their hearts, and occupied
them to the exclusion of every other idea. One sat motionless, and
apparently stupefied, as though he had eaten opium; another prayed aloud
wildly, yet fervently; others laughed and spoke with a feverish
excitement; and there were one or two who blasphemed and cursed, while
they bewailed their early and fearful fate.

For some hours they waited in the cloisters, and the sun was high and
bright, ere a body of men on foot, the soldiers of the country, armed
with sword and matchlock, marched into it. It was plain that their
escort was to be changed, and that the respectable men who had been with
them were no longer to accompany them, but had given place to some of
the lowest description of Tippoo’s troops, who were usually composed of
the unclean castes of the country. Their appearance was forbidding, and
in vain the prisoners looked for a glance of pity from the half-naked
and savage-looking band to whom they were given over; they appeared used
to the scenes which were to ensue, and regarded the miserable Englishmen
with a cold stare of indifferent curiosity.

But little communication passed between the prisoners; Herbert had for
some days spoken to them, and advised them to prepare for death by
prayer and penitent confession to God; he had reasoned with several, who
had from the first shown a foolhardy and light demeanour, on the madness
of attempting indifference to their fate; but as the time drew near, he
was too fully occupied with his own overpowering thoughts to attend to
the others, and he had withdrawn to as far a distance as possible from
them, where he sat moodily, and contemplated with bitter thoughts his
approaching death.

While he was thus occupied the Jemadar entered the court, and having
given some orders to the men who remained behind, he directed the legs
of the prisoners to be tied. This having been executed, they were placed
in the doolies, and the whole again proceeded.

Passing the outskirts of the town of Nundidroog, they travelled for two
or three miles through the avenues of mango-trees, which in parts line
the road: could they have had thought for anything around them, they
would have admired the varied prospect presented to them by the rugged
rocky hills, and their picturesque and ever-varying outlines: but one
idea absorbed all others, and they were borne along in a kind of
unconscious state; they could see nothing but death, even though the
bright sun was in their eyes, and the glad and joyful face of nature was
spread out before them.

At length the leading men turned off the road by a by-path towards a
huge pile of rocks in the plain, about half a mile distant, and the
others followed; it was plain to all that this was their destination.
Then it flashed across their minds that the rock was not high enough to
cause death instantaneously; and while some demanded in haughty words of
expostulation to be taken to the fort itself, or to the summit of the
conical mountain, which arose precipitously on the right hand,—others
besought the same with piteous and plaintive entreaty, in very
abjectness compared with their former conduct. They might as well have
spoken to the wind which blew over them in soft and cool breezes as if
to soothe their excited and fevered frames. Ignorant of the only
language of which the Europeans could speak a few words, the rude
soldiers listened with indifference, or replied with obscene jests and
mocking gestures and tones.

They reached the foot of the rocks; the bearers were directed to put
down the doolies, and the prisoners were dragged from them with
violence. A few clung with fearful cries to the wretched vehicle, which
had been their wearisome abode for so many days, and one or two
resisted, with frantic efforts, to the utmost of their power, the
endeavours of their guards to lead them up the narrow pathway; they were
even wounded in their struggles; but the men they had to deal with were
far stronger than the attenuated Europeans, and had been accustomed to
the work too long to heed cries or screams; they were the far-famed
guard of the rock, even now remembered, who had been selected for their
fierce behaviour, strength, and savage deportment, to carry into
execution the decrees of the Sultaun.

All the while they had been accompanied by the Jemadar, who, having
ridden in advance of the party, now awaited their coming at the top of
the rock. Herbert was the first who arrived there, led by the rope
which, tied to both his arms, was held by one of the guards, while
others with drawn swords walked on each side of and behind him. He had
been cast down in heart since the morning, and faint and sick at heart;
but now his spirit seemed nerved within him. One plunge, he thought, and
all would be over; then he should be released from this worse than
death. Prayer too was in his heart and on his lips, and his soul was
comforted, as he stepped firmly upon the level space above and looked
around him.

The Jemadar was there, and a few other soldiers; the terrace was a naked
rock, which was heated by the sun so that it scorched his bare feet.
There were a few bushes growing around it, and on one side were two mud
houses, the one close, the other open for the guard. Besides these,
there was a hut of reeds, which was used as a place for keeping water.

‘Thou art welcome, captain,’ said the Jemadar with mock politeness. ‘Art
thou ready to taste of the banquet of death?’

‘Lead on,’ said Herbert firmly, ‘and molest me not by thy words. I am
ready.’

‘Not so fast, sir; the Sultaun’s orders must first be obeyed. Say, art
thou ready to take his service, or dost thou refuse?’

‘I have already told him my determination, and will waste no words upon
such as thee,’ was Herbert’s reply.

‘It is well!’ said the Jemadar, ‘thou wilt learn ere long to speak
differently:’ and he turned away from him to where several of the others
were now standing. He regarded them for a few minutes steadily and
exultingly, as one by one the miserable beings were led up; and some,
unable from mental and bodily exhaustion to support themselves, sunk
down on the rock almost insensible.’

There was one youth, a noble and vigorous fellow. Herbert had remembered
him when he was first brought to Bangalore from some distant
fortress—high-spirited and full of fire, which even captivity had not
tamed. But the long and rapid journey, the bad food, the exposure to
scorching heat and chilling dew, had brought on dysentery, which had
exhausted him nigh to death. He was almost carried by the guards, and
set down apart from the rest. His languid and sunken eye and pallid
cheek told of his sickness; but there was a look of hope in the glance
which he cast upwards now and then, and a gentle movement of his lips,
which showed that his spirit was occupied in prayer.

The Jemadar’s eye rested on him. ‘Let him be the first—he will die
else!’ he cried to some of the guards, who, having divested themselves
of their arms, stood ready to do his bidding.

A cry of horror burst from the group of Englishmen. There were two or
three of the strong men who struggled firmly with their captors, as
their gallant hearts prompted them to strike a blow, for their suffering
comrade. But, bound and guarded, what could they do?

They saw the young man lifted up by two of the executioners, and borne
rapidly to the further edge of the rock, not twenty yards from them. He
uttered no cry; but looking towards them sadly, he bade them farewell
for ever, with a glance even more eloquent than words. Another instant,
and he was hurled from the brink by those who carried him.

Almost unconsciously each bent forward to catch even a passing sound,
should any arise; and there was a dead silence for a few moments, as the
men who had done their work leaned over the edge to see if it had been
surely effected. But none arose: the sufferer had been quickly released
from his earthly pain.

‘Dost thou see that, Captain Compton?’ said the Jemadar. ‘Thy turn will
come.’

‘Now,’ was the reply; ‘I am ready,’ And Herbert hoped that his turn
would be the next. His energies were knit, and his spirit prepared for
the change.

‘Not yet,’ said the Jemadar: ‘I would speak with thee first. Lead the
rest away into the house yonder,’ he continued to the guard, ‘loose
them, and lock the door.’ It was done, and Herbert alone remained
outside.

‘Listen!’ he said, addressing Herbert, ‘does thou remember me?’

‘I said before that I thought I knew thee; but what has that to do with
death?’ said Herbert. ‘I am ready to die; bid thy people do their
office.’

‘That will not be for many days,’ he replied; ‘I have a long reckoning
to settle with thee.’

‘For what? I have never harmed thee.’

‘When Mathews was in Bednore, and there was alarm of the Sultaun’s
coming, thou didst suspect me, thou and another. Thou didst insult and
threaten to hang me. We are even now,—dost thou understand?’

‘What! Jaffar Sahib, the guide, the man who betrayed the salt he ate?’

‘Even so. Ye were owls, fools, and fell into the snare laid for you.’

‘Has thy resentment slumbered so long then?’ said Herbert. ‘I pity thee:
thy own heart must be a hell to thee.’

‘Kafir! dare to speak so again, and I will spit on thee.’

‘It would befit thee to do so; but I am silent,’ was Herbert’s reply.

‘Where is the money that thou and that old fool, who is now in
perdition, buried in Bednore? Lead me to it, and I will save thy life.
The coast is near, and thou canst escape. Fear not to speak,—those
around do not understand us.’

‘Thy master has been told by me, by Mathews, who lost his life in that
cause, and by every one, that there was none but what he found. We hid
no money—thou well knowest this: why dost thou torment me?’

‘Thou wilt remember it in three or four days, perhaps,’ said the man;
‘till then I shall not ask thee again. Go to the company of thy people.’

Herbert’s mind had been strung up to its purpose, and he coveted death
at that moment as the dearest boon which could have been granted. But it
was denied him; and he could only gather from the leader of the party
that further suffering was in store for him. In spite of his utmost
exertions to repel the feeling, despondence came over him,—a sickening
and sinking of his heart, which his utmost exertion of mind could not
repel.

The day passed away, and the night fell. As the gloom spread over their
narrow chamber, the men, whom the light had kept silent or cheering each
other, now gave way to superstitious terrors; and, as they huddled
together in a group, some cried out that there were hideous spectres
about them; others prayed aloud; and those who were hard of heart
blasphemed, and made no repentance. As night advanced, some yelled in
mental agony and terror, and the thought of those who were to die on the
morrow appalled every heart. None slept.

Four days passed thus; on every morning a new victim was taken, while
the rest were forced to look on. Sometimes he went gladly and rejoicing,
sometimes he had to be torn from his companions, who in vain strove to
protect him: two suffered passively—two made desperate resistance, and
their parting shrieks long rang in the ears of the survivors. On the
fourth day the Jemadar arrived. ‘Come forth,’ he said to Herbert, ‘I
would speak to thee. Wilt thou be obdurate, O fool? wilt thou longer
refuse to tell of the money, and the Sultaun’s benevolence? Bethink
thee.’

‘Thou couldst not grant me a greater favour than death,’ said Herbert;
‘therefore why are these things urged? If there was money hidden thou
shouldst have it; I know it is thy god. But there is none, therefore let
me die. I tell thee once for all, I spurn thy master’s offers with
loathing.’

‘Dost thou know what this death is?’ said the Jemadar; ‘thou shalt see,’
And he called to several of the guards who stood around. Herbert
thought, as they led him to the brink, that his time was come. ‘I come,
I come, Amy!’ he cried aloud—‘at length I come! O God, be merciful to
me!’

They led him passively to the brink; the Jemadar stood there already; it
was a dizzy place, and Herbert’s eyes swam as he surveyed it.

‘Thou art not to die, Feringhee,’ said the Jemadar; ‘but look over.
Behold what will be thy fate!’

Herbert obeyed mechanically, and the men held him fast on the very
verge, or the temptation would have been strong to have ridden himself
of life. He looked down: the hot and glaring sunlight fell full on the
mangled remains of his comrades, which lay in a confused heap at the
bottom: a hundred vultures were scrambling over each other to get at
them, and the bodies were snatched to and fro by their united efforts.
The Jemadar heaved a fragment of rock over, which, rebounding from the
side, crashed among the brushwood and the obscene birds; they arose
screaming at being disturbed, and two or three jackals skulked away
through the brushwood. But Herbert saw not these; the first glance and
the putrid smell which came up had sickened him, weak and excited as he
was, and he fainted.

-------

CHAPTER XXIV.

‘He has fainted, or is dead,’ cried the men who held him, to the
Jemadar, who was busied in heaving over another fragment of rock. ‘He
has fainted; shall we fling him over?’

‘For your lives do not!’ cried the Jemadar; ‘draw back from thence—let
us see what is the matter.’

They obeyed him, and laid Herbert down softly upon the rock, while the
Jemadar stood over him. His hand was powerless and cold, his face quite
pale, and he looked as though he were dead.

‘He has cheated us,’ said the Jemadar to those around; ‘surely he is
dead. Who prates now of the valour of the Feringhees? Even this leader
among them could not look on a few dead bodies without fainting like a
woman: Thooh! I spit on the kafirs: I marvel that the Sultaun so desires
him to enter the service, and is at such trouble about him.’

‘He will die,’ said one of the men; ‘his hand grows colder and colder.’

‘He must not die yet, Pochul,’ said Jaffar Sahib; ‘what would the
Sultaun say to us? Away! get some water; he may revive. This is only a
faint, the effect of terror; he will soon speak again.’

The man obeyed the order, and brought water. They dashed some on
Herbert’s face, and opening his lips, poured some between his tightly
closed teeth. But it was in vain; he moved not, nor showed signs of life
for a long while; and was it not that his body continued warm, they
would have thought him dead. At length he sighed, and opening his eyes,
gazed wildly around him. The effort was greeted with a shout from those
about him, which he appeared not to hear, but sank back again
insensible. Again they essayed to revive him as they best could; and
after a long time partially succeeded as before; but it was only to see
him relapse again and again. Once or twice he spoke, but incoherently.

For some hours he continued thus. At last a violent shivering commenced;
and seeing him so affected (for the Jemadar had left them for a while,
having given the men strict orders to look carefully to Herbert, and to
remove him to their guardhouse), as they were aware he was a person of
more than ordinary consequence, they used what means they could to
alleviate his sufferings. One lent him his rozaee, or quilted
counterpane; another kneaded his limbs or chafed his hands; a third
heated cloths and applied them to his back and head. But it was in vain:
the shivering continued, accompanied at times with dreadful sickness.
After being in this state for awhile, he broke into a violent heat—a
burning, exhausting heat—which excited him furiously. Now he raved
wildly: he spoke sometimes in English, sometimes in Hindostanee; and as
none of the men around him understood either, they held a hurried
consultation among themselves, and came to the resolution of selecting
one of the prisoners to remain with him, and minister to his wants. The
office was gladly accepted by the man they chose, whose name was Bolton,
and whom they fixed on because he had been seen in conversation with
Herbert more than the rest, and could speak a few words of their
language, Canarese, which he had learned where he had been last
confined.

All that night was passed by the unfortunate young man in violent
raving, the consequence of the raging fever which consumed him. He
tossed incessantly to and fro in the small corded bed upon which he had
been laid; now yelling forth, in the agony he suffered from his head,
which he held with both his hands; and now moaning piteously, so that
even the rough guards felt compassion for the young and helpless
Englishman. ‘Water!’ was the only coherent word he could utter; the rest
was a continued unintelligible muttering, in which some English words
and names were sometimes faintly discernible.

Poor Bolton did what he could, but it was in vain; and when the Jemadar
returned in the morning for the purpose of adding another victim to his
last, he found Herbert in such a state as to alarm him; for the Sultaun
had sworn he would have life for life if aught happened to him.

‘He must be removed instantly,’ he said. ‘Away, one of ye, for a dooly!
Bring it to the foot of the rock—we will carry him down thither, and he
must be removed to the town.’

In the end too he was merciful, for he took Bolton with him to attend on
Herbert while he should live; it could not be long, he thought, for he
raved incessantly, until exhaustion ensued, and he gained fresh strength
for further frantic efforts.

And they left the fatal rock soon afterwards, the only two of that
numerous company alive; nor was the fate of the rest long protracted.
They were murdered as the rest had been; and the bleached bones and
skulls, and fragments of clothes which had no shape to tell to whom they
had belonged—for they had been stripped from the dead by the beaks of
vultures and teeth of jackals—proved to those who long afterwards looked
on the place, that the tales they had heard of the horrors of that fatal
rock, and which they had in part disbelieved, were not unfounded.

It was on a mild and balmy evening that Herbert awoke to consciousness,
about a week after he had been removed. He looked languidly around him,
for he was so weak that even the effort he made to raise himself caused
a giddy faintness; and for an instant the remembrance of his last
conscious moment upon the brink of the precipice flashed across his
mind, and he shuddered at the recollection of what he had seen. Again he
looked around, but he was not upon the rock; the fatal and wretched
abode in which he had passed five days—such days of enduring agony as he
could not have believed it possible to sustain—with its bare walls
scrawled all over with the names of its miserable inhabitants, and their
care-worn, despairing, and almost maniac faces, were around him no
longer. He lay in the open air, under the shade of a wide-spreading
peepul-tree, upon a mound of earth surrounding a tomb; which, from its
clean white-washed state, and the garlands of flowers which hung upon
it, was evidently that of a Mahomedan saint or holy martyr. At a short
distance was a small mosque, exquisitely white and clean, behind which
rose some noble tamarind-trees, and with them cocoa-nut and plantains,
which formed an appropriate background to the pureness of the building,
their foliage partly shaded and intermingled with the minarets and
ornamented pinnacles of the mosque. Before it was a little garden, where
flourished luxuriantly a pomegranate-tree or two, covered with their
bright scarlet blossoms—a few marigolds and cockscombs, intermixed with
mint and other sweet herbs, which appeared to be cultivated with care.
The space around the tomb and before the mosque, and for a considerable
extent all round, was carefully swept; and the branches of the peepul
and tamarind-trees, which met and interweaved high above, formed a cover
impenetrable by the rays of the fiercest sun at noon-day; but it was now
evening, and the red light streamed in a flood between the stems of the
trees, lighting up the gnarled branches of the peepul and the thick
foliage beyond. Innumerable parroquets and minas screamed and twittered
in the branches above him, and flew from place to place restlessly: but
the only sound of man was from one drawing water for the garden, by the
aid of the lever and bucket common to Mysore, whose monotonous yet not
unmusical song and mellow voice ceased only to allow the delicious sound
of the rush of water to reach Herbert’s ear, as the bucket was emptied
from time to time into the reservoir which supplied the garden.

He lay in a half unconscious state, in that dreamy languor, which, when
fierce fever has subsided, is almost painful from its vagueness; when
the mind, striving to recall the past, wanders away into thoughts which
have no reference to it, but which lose themselves in a maze of unreal
illusions too subtle and shifting to be followed, and yet too pleasant
to excite aught but tranquil images and soothing effects.

The sun sank in glory,—in such glory behind the mountains beyond as
Herbert had never before witnessed, save once, when he was at sea, and
the land which held him a prisoner, and was his living grave, appeared
in sight. As the evening fell, and the golden tints of the west faded,
giving place to the rich hues of crimson and purple which spread over
it, the sonorous voice of the Muezzin, from a corner of the enclosure,
proclaimed the evening worship; and in the melancholy yet melodious tone
of the invitation, called the Believers to prayer. A few devout answered
to it, and advancing from one side, performed their ablutions at a
little fountain which cast up a tiny thread of spray into the air; this
done, they entered the mosque, and, marshalled in a row, went through,
with apparent fervour, the various forms and genuflexions prescribed by
their belief.

Afterwards two advanced towards Herbert,—one, a venerable man in the
garb of a Fakeer, the other a gentleman of respectable appearance, who,
from the sword he carried under his arm, might be an officer.

Herbert heard one say, ‘Most likely he is dead now; he was dying when we
last saw him, and his attendant went with Jaffar Sahib to purchase his
winding-sheet; poor fellow, he was unwilling to go, but the Jemadar
forced him away.’

‘I have hope,’ said the old Fakeer, ‘the medicine I gave him (praised be
the power of Alla!) has rarely failed in such cases, and if the paroxysm
is past he will recover.’

Herbert heard this and strove to speak; his lips moved, but no words
followed above a whisper: he was weaker than an infant. But now the
Fakeer advanced to him and felt his hand and head; they were cool and
moist, and Herbert turned to look on them with a heart full of gratitude
at the kindness and interest which their words and looks expressed.

‘Ya Ruhman! ya Salaam! Oh he lives! he is free from the disease (blessed
be the power of Alla!)—he is once more among the living. Therefore
rejoice, O Feringhee,’ exclaimed the Fakeer, ‘and bless Alla that thou
livest! for He hath been merciful to thee. Six days hast thou lain in
yonder serai, and the breath was in thy nostrils, but it hath now
returned to thy heart, so be thankful.’

‘I am grateful for thy kindness, Shah Sahib,’ said Herbert, speaking
very faintly,—for he had learned the usual appellation of all
respectable Fakeers long before—‘Alla will reward thee; I pray thee tell
me who thou art, and where I am. Methinks I was—’

‘Trouble not thyself to think on the past,’ he replied; ‘it was not
destined to be, and thy life is for the present safe; thou art in the
garden of the poor slave of Alla and the apostle, Sheikh Furreed, of
Balapoor.’

‘A worthy Fakeer, and one on whom the power to work miracles hath
descended in this degenerate time,’ said his companion; ‘one who may
well be called “Wullee,” and who will be honoured in death.’

‘I have an indifferent skill in medicine,’ said the Fakeer; ‘but to the
rest I have no pretensions, Khan Sahib; but we should not speak to the
youth; let him be quiet; the air will revive him; and when they return
he shall be carried back to the serai.’

They left him; and ere long he heard footsteps approaching; a figure was
running towards him—he could not surely be mistaken—it was an English
face: he came nearer—it was Bolton.

The poor fellow sobbed with very joy when he saw his officer released,
as it were, from the jaws of death; he hung over him, and bathed his
hand with tears; he little expected ever to have heard him speak again.
Now his officer lived, and while a load of sorrow was removed from his
heart, he blessed God that He had been so merciful.

‘I have carried you forth day by day in my arms, and laid you yonder,’
said the faithful fellow, as he lifted him up like a child: ‘they said
you would die, and I thought if you were sensible before that time came,
you would like to be in this shady cool place, where the light would not
be too strong for you, the fresh air would play over you, and you could
look around upon the green trees and gardens ere you went hence.’

Herbert could only press his hand in silence, for his heart was too full
to speak; indeed he was too weak also; for in being carried to the serai
once more, he fainted, and it was long ere he recovered. But that night
a few mouthfuls of rice-milk were given him, and he slept
peacefully,—that noiseless, almost breathless sleep, which is attendant
on extreme weakness, when dreams and pleasant phantasies flit before the
imagination like shadows chasing each other over beautiful prospects,
when the day is bright and soft. Herbert’s visions were of home, of
walks in the twilight with Amy, of her soft words, of the plashing of
the river in their well-known haunts, sacred to him by the dearest and
holiest ties,—and he woke in the morning refreshed and strengthened.

He could now speak; he could converse with the soldier who had watched
over him so devotedly, and he learned from him all that had occurred.

‘You were delirious, sir,’ he said; ‘and I was sent for from among the
rest; poor fellows! I hear they are all murdered. I thought you had been
struck by the sun, for you were bareheaded; perhaps it was so, for you
were quite mad and very violent. They brought you here in the dooly,
which was sent for by the Jemadar, and at first no one would receive
you. You lay raving in the bazaar, and people avoided you as they would
have done a devil,—they even called you one. But the good Fakeer who
lives here saw you by chance, and took you away from them, and he has
watched you and given you various medicines, which have made you, I
fear, very weak, sir; but you are better now.’

‘So they were all murdered?’ said Herbert, his thoughts reverting to the
past.

‘They were, sir; but why think of that now? it will distress you—you
should not; there are brighter things in store for you, depend on it.’

‘Alas!’ said Herbert, ‘I fear not, Bolton; but since God has spared me
from that death, and protected me through this dreadful illness, of
which I have a confused remembrance, surely it is not too much to hope.’

And he did hope, and from his soul he breathed a fervent prayer; for
through the future there appeared a glimmering ray of hope on which his
mind loved to rest, though clouds and dark vapours of doubt and
uncertainty would rise up occasionally and obscure it. Day by day,
however, he recovered strength, and the old Fakeer sate by him often,
and beguiled the time with tales and legends of the mighty of the earth
who were dead and gone. It was a dreamy existence, to live weak and
helpless among those shady groves, to lie for hours listening to the
ever-sighing trees, as the wind rustled through their thick foliage,
watching the birds of varied plumage as they flitted among their
branches, while his ear was filled with wild legends of love, of war, of
crime, or of revenge.

But this had an end—it was too bright, too peaceful to last. When a week
had elapsed, the Jemadar who had avoided him studiously during his
recovery, came to him with the Fakeer; for knowing Herbert’s detestation
of him, he had not dared to venture alone.

‘The Jemadar hath news for thee, my son,’ said the old man; ‘fear not,
he will not harm thee—I would not let him do so. He hath shown me the
Sultaun’s letter to him, which arrived a short time ago by an express.’

‘Listen, Feringhee!’ said Jaffar Sahib; ‘the Shah Sahib will bear me
witness that there is no wrong intended thee; my royal master doth but
seek his own, and still asketh thee for the treasure.’

‘Shah Sahib,’ said Herbert, ‘hear me say, and be witness, that as Alla,
whom we both worship, sees my heart, that it is pure of deceit,—I know
nought of it. Unlike those who loaded themselves with money, and
plundered the treasury at Bednore, I and a few others never touched it.
Canst thou not believe that, to save my life, I would have told if I had
known aught of it?’

‘I believe that thou wouldst, my son, but—’

‘There must have been lakhs of money and jewels buried there or
destroyed,’ said the Jemadar; ‘else, where is the treasure? Every one
was searched, and yet not half was found that I myself saw there
before—’

‘Before what?’ asked the Fakeer, whose curiosity was raised.

‘Let him tell his own tale of shame if he can,’ said Herbert; ‘I would
not so humble him, though he is my enemy, for some reason that I know
not of.’

‘Thou knowest well I have cause to be so,’ said the Jemadar, with bitter
rancour in his tone; ‘but this is foolishness; here is the Sultaun’s
letter; thou must either tell of the treasure, or go again into
confinement;—tell of it, and thou wilt be freed and sent on an embassy
to thine own people,—refuse, and the alternative is thy doom. Choose
then—in this at least there is no tyranny.’

‘Alas! I am but mocked,’ said Herbert sadly; ‘I have given thee my
answer so many times, that this is but torment, exciting hope that makes
me dream of joy I can never realise. My own people—alas! to them I am
dead long ago, and— But why speculate? I tell thee, before this holy
witness, my kind and benevolent friend, that I have no other reply to
give than that thou knowest.’

‘It is well, Sahib,—thy fate is cast; the old prison at Bangalore awaits
thee, where, if Alla give thee long life, thou art fortunate, but where
speedy death will be thy most probable fate.’

‘It will be welcome,’ said Herbert; ‘but while I have life, I will
remember thee, O Fakeer, who hast been to me a friend in bitter
adversity, when to all others I was accursed. When am I to travel?’

‘To-morrow,’ replied the Jemadar; ‘the letter is peremptory, if thou art
strong enough to bear the journey.’

‘He is not,’ said the Fakeer, ‘he is still weak. On my head be the blame
of his remaining longer.’

‘No,’ said Herbert, ‘I am feeble, it is true, but let it be as the
Sultaun wills. I am too long accustomed to hardship to resist or object,
and thou, my friend, wouldst only bring down his wrath upon thee by
keeping me here: yet think, when I am gone, from this our short
acquaintance, that our race can be grateful, and when thou hearest us
reviled, say that we are not as our slanderers speak of us. For myself,
while I have life, I will remember thee as a kind and dear friend; and
if Alla wills it, we may meet again.’

‘If Alla wills it?—Ya Moojeeb![35] ya Kubeer![36] ya Moota-alee![37]
grant that it may be that we may meet again.’

-----

Footnote 35:

O answerer of prayer!

Footnote 36:

O Lord of power!

Footnote 37:

O most sublime!

-----

And, full of regret, of pain at parting with his old and true
friend,—even shedding tears, for he was weak in body and in mind, as he
left those quiet, peaceful groves and green shades,—with the memory of
his fearful illness, his kind nursing, and the devotion of their
possessor fresh and vivid in his thoughts,—Herbert left the place the
next day, accompanied by his comrade in captivity, whose only hope now
was, that they should never again be separated. In the secrecy of
friendship, he had procured a pen and paper from the old Fakeer, and had
written a few lines to the Governor of Madras, stating who he was, and
that he still lived; this the old man promised to send whenever an
opportunity occurred; but he was over-cautious, Herbert thought, and
there was but little hope that it would ever reach its destination.

The journey did not fatigue him as he had expected; in contrast to the
hurried travel in coming, they returned to Bangalore in three days, and
Herbert was even stronger and better for the exertion. He expected once
more his old cell, and the company of books, even sometimes a word with
his kind friend the Killadar; but there was another trial in store for
him, of which he could have had no idea—it was terrible in
contemplation.

It would seem as if the capricious mind of the Sultaun was never settled
to one point about Herbert; order after order was revoked, and others
substituted; the last, which met him at Bangalore, was that Herbert
should be taken to a solitary mountain fortress beyond Mysore, in a
region which was known to be inclement, and from whence tidings of his
existence could never find their way. He had been passive in the hands
of his captors now for years, and this fresh mark of tyranny was nothing
new, nor the changes in the Sultaun’s designs for him to be wondered at.
A few days’ delay occurred at Bangalore, where some suits of coarse but
thickly quilted clothes were given to him, two or three blankets, a
counterpane, and a few other necessaries; and he once more journeyed
onwards. A bitter pang to him was the loss of his faithful friend and
attendant Bolton, who was not permitted to accompany him. They separated
in sorrow, but they exchanged written memoranda of each other’s history,
to be made known to their countrymen in case either had ever an
opportunity.

Herbert travelled many days; following at first the road to
Seringapatam, the party struck off to the left when near the city; there
he was rid of the hateful presence of the Jemadar, who to the last urged
him to confess the existence of the treasure, and repeated his offers of
conniving at his flight, should he disclose it.

At length a blue wall of mountains appeared in the far distance; their
bases were wreathed with vapours, which rolled along their sides but
never appeared to reach the summit. Day after day, as they approached
them nearer, their giant forms displayed themselves in grander and more
majestic beauty. What had appeared chasms and rents in their sides, when
the light rested on them, now revealed valleys and thickly wooded glens,
into which imagination strove to penetrate, in speculation of their real
loveliness.

At length they reached the pass, which from the table-land of Mysore
descends into the plain of Coimbatoor; and from thence the boundless
prospect which met Herbert’s eye filled his mind with delight and
rapture. The blue distance melted into the sky, by a succession of the
tenderest tints: away through the plains rolled the Bhowanee, a silver
thread glittering amidst the most exquisite colours. The huge mountains
were on his right,—blue and vast—their rugged sides, here hewn into deep
chasms, and again clothed with woods of a luxuriance which he had never
before seen equalled. In the distance of the lofty chain, one mountain
of peculiar form, whose sides were naked precipices, stood out boldly
against the blue plain. The soldiers pointed to it exultingly, and when
he asked them the reason, he was told that it was his destination.

They descended; everywhere the same noble views, the same glory of the
works of Heaven, which Herbert worshipped in his heart, met his gaze.
Having passed along the foot of the mountains for two days, and
approached them nearer and nearer, they began to ascend. Below the
rugged pass, the mighty forests, the huge bamboos, the giant creepers,
and their lovely flowers, had filled Herbert’s mind with wonder and awe;
as he ascended, this gave place to feelings of delight. The path was
rugged and stony, and the pony he rode (for which the dooly had been
exchanged beneath the pass) climbed but slowly, and he was obliged to
rest him occasionally, while he turned round to enjoy the mighty
prospect. How grand it was to see the high table-land of Mysore breaking
into the plain in mountains of four thousand feet high, of every
conceivable form, and bathed in the bright light of an Indian sun, while
the boundless plains stretched away from their feet!

As he ascended, the air blew cooler and cooler, and plants and beautiful
flowers new to him grew profusely by the wayside; at last he saw—he
could not be mistaken—some fern! How his heart bounded as he plucked it,
and kissed its well-remembered form. A little higher there was a bed of
blue flowers peering from among the luxuriant shrubs; they had familiar
faces,—he stopped, and dismounting ran to them. They were violets,—the
same as those with which he had a thousand times filled his Amy’s lap in
summer time, when they were children;—how full his heart was!

Further on, a brake of brambles met his eye; the ripe black fruit was a
luxury to him, such as he had not dreamed of; and below them a bed of
wild strawberries, the same as they had grown in the Beechwood groves
and round the Hermitage. He was now near the summit; the air was cold
and fresh like that of England, the sky was bluer than below, and a few
light fleecy clouds floated about the mountain-top, veiling its beauty.
They still advanced, and he was in rapture: he could not speak, his
thoughts could only find vent in thanksgiving. A familiar flower caught
his eye in a bush above his head; it was woodbine—the same, and as
fragrant, as in England. Herbert’s heart was already full to
overflowing, and thoughts of the past increased by these simple objects
were too powerful for him to bear calmly; he could resist nature’s best
relief no longer, and wept—tears which soothed him as they flowed; and
while he sate down, and with dim and streaming eyes gazed over the
almost boundless prospect, he felt that if he could have passed away to
another existence with those feelings, it would have been bliss.

-------

CHAPTER XXV.

Some years have now elapsed since Philip Dalton parted from his friend
Herbert at Bednore, upon the mission of the unfortunate Mathews; and it
becomes necessary to revert to him for a while, in order to present
successively the various events which belong to our history, in such a
manner as may best serve to fix them upon the reader’s attention, and
which from their connection, though at considerable distances of time,
it is needful to follow to the end in their true order.

Philip’s journey to the coast was rapid, but he had time once more to
tread the ground which was the scene of that spirited conflict, once
more to visit the grave of his young companion, which was undisturbed;
and he saw with satisfaction that the simple monument which they had
ordered to be erected over it, to preserve it from being molested as
well as to mark the place, was in a state of forwardness and would soon
be finished. In a few days more the party were at the coast, and finding
vessels there belonging to the Government, they embarked, and with the
soft and favourable breezes of the season, soon reached their
destination in safety.

Here now ensued a scene of bitter contention among the friends of both
parties, and opinions ran high on both sides. While the one urged the
incompetency, the neglect of orders and caution, and the obstinacy of
Mathews, in not listening to the advice of those well calculated by
their rank and experience to give it, there were also those who argued,
that in all his acts Mathews was fully justified,—that, should disaster
come, the Government of the island was alone to blame, in having
directed him to undertake operations of such magnitude with means so
insignificant, which, though they had been eminently successful, he
could not be expected to maintain without large and speedy
reinforcements.

Before the council, however, the affairs were argued with calmness and
temper; the letters of Mathews certainly threw no light upon his
position, his means of defence or intelligence of the enemy; and though
Philip Dalton defended his commander with zeal and temper, he was forced
to acknowledge that there were many points on which he, in common with
others, had offered advice that had been disregarded—points, the neglect
of which could not be otherwise than injurious to the discipline of the
army, which had already suffered in a great degree.

The arguments against Mathews finally prevailed, and the orders for his
supercession in the command were given to Macleod, who, with Shaw and
Humberstone, already mentioned, took a speedy departure from Bombay. A
severe indisposition prevented Philip’s accompanying them, as he had
intended; for Macleod, aware of his talent, zeal, and military skill,
had offered him the same office on his own staff which he had filled
with Mathews, and he had accepted it; and as the Government had promised
a reinforcement, which the commanders represented as absolutely
necessary to enable them to hold the ground they had acquired, there was
an opportunity for proceeding with troops. This, besides being more
agreeable to Philip, would enable him to be of use to the officer who
was nominated to the command, from his knowledge of the road and of the
country.

But he was destined never to proceed: the three commanders, who had
sailed from Bombay in a small armed vessel belonging to the Government,
were attacked off the Mahratta fort of Gheriah by some heavy Mahratta
vessels, for which they were no match. The officers defended themselves
and their charge bravely, and made a determined though ineffectual
resistance, in which one of their number, the gallant Humberstone, lost
his life; the others, with the crew and vessel, were carried into
Gheriah, and it was not until after a long lapse of time that their
release was effected. When the news of this disaster reached Bombay, it
retarded the preparations for embarkation which were being made for the
troops; and ere many weeks had passed, the sad intelligence of the
disaster at Bednore completed the distress and consternation of the
Presidency.

From the few that escaped, who magnified the terrors of the event, and
described in fearful terms the miseries endured by the prisoners,—and
from the reports of the cruelties exercised upon them, which had long
been prevalent, and were known to be well founded—Philip had despaired
of ever gaining intelligence of his friend Herbert; and while he wrote
to his family, whose direction he was in possession of, to inform them
of the sad event, and to tell them that Herbert was known to have been
in good health when he was taken with the rest, he could give them but
little hope as to the final issue; indeed upon this point he was quite
silent, as, having no hope himself, he was unable to impart any to them.

He did not, however, write for several months after the intelligence had
been received at Bombay; for the letters he had dispatched for Herbert
immediately on his arrival would, he hoped, prevent his family from
being over anxious; and he thought that perhaps news might arrive of the
prisoners, of their health and condition, which would be acceptable, or
that some treaty might be arranged between the English and Mysore
Governments which would put an end to their captivity; indeed it was in
the latter confident hope that he wrote, when all prospect of an
immediate release was out of the question.

The letters which Herbert had dispatched had reached England, and by
them his family were informed of the issue of the war as far as the
capture of Bednore; and he then wrote in the highest spirits, like a
young and gallant soldier, of the prospects of the campaign, made light
of his wound, and was eagerly looking for fresh encounters with the
enemy, in which distinction and promotion were to be won. This account
greatly soothed his parents and Amy, who was especially tormented by
agonising fears and apprehensions regarding him, in spite of his often
repeated but playful assurances that he was safe and well.

‘He cannot be safe,’ she used to argue to herself, ‘when there are such
desperate engagements as that of which he writes us word, and where he
has too the baneful climate to contend against; but God is over all, and
to Him I commit the future in hope and confidence.’

And so she continued—a vague dread of future misery striving for mastery
in her heart with deep religious reliance; and during this struggle her
parents became, from her altered appearance, so anxious for her, that
they would fain have removed her to one of the watering-places for
change of air and scene.

She firmly opposed the proposal, for she clung with increasing
attachment to her home, and apparently to the pursuits which Herbert had
shared with her. But if they looked at her sketches, there used to be
little advance made from day to day; she would sit for hours seemingly
engaged on them, whilst her eye was fixed upon vacancy, or gazing upon
the familiar spots she was delineating, where she had often watched his
figure, or realising to her tenacious memory all the words she had heard
him speak there.

And thus the time passed; her companionship with the family of Herbert
increased, and she would spend days in conversing with them, especially
with Mrs. Compton, about him, listening to every tale of his life,—to
every incident even of his childhood with delight, and an interest which
appeared to increase in their repetition. But the suspense after the
receipt of his last letter—the one dispatched by Philip Dalton—grew day
by day more insupportable; several vessels arrived, but there was no
intelligence from Herbert. Many of the newspapers of the day mentioned
the expedition, with some criticisms upon its object, and prophesied an
ill termination to its exertions: and at length, when the ship arrived
by which she had expected a long despatch, and there was none, and the
letter was read from Mr. Herbert’s agent, as we have before recorded,
wherein he stated broadly that there was bad news from India—the poor
girl’s brain reeled under the shock of having her worst fears confirmed.
Her active and already excited mind in an instant presented to her the
being in whose existence her own was wrapped up, as if in death,
ghastly, with disfiguring wounds; and the thought, suddenly as it had
come into her mind, for the time paralyzed her faculties; her body was
not strong enough to resist its influence, and, yielding at once, she
had fainted under the overpowering weight of her misery. News, however,
there was of Herbert, which in some measure relieved their worst fears
and gave room for hope; although sickening in its uncertainty, it gave
room for hope, to which every member of both families clung with the
tenacity naturally inspired by their affection.

The newspapers gave such accounts as could be gained of the disaster,
and the name of Herbert was mentioned among those who were known to be
in captivity. But they nowhere saw that of Dalton, whom Herbert had so
constantly mentioned in his letters, and they concluded that he had been
killed in one of the engagements: this was an additional source of pain
to them, that Herbert had lost his dearest friend.

However in a few months after, the first letter from Philip arrived at
the rectory, and despite its melancholy tone, it gave the family good
reason to hope. Philip was one who could not believe implicitly in the
constant ill-treatment said to be exercised by the Sultaun upon his
prisoners, and he could plainly see that such statements were encouraged
by the Government, in order to induce those favourable to their cause to
lend their aid in the struggle. And perceiving this, he wrote that he
hoped the treaties about to be drawn up between the two nations would be
productive not only of Herbert’s release, but of that of his
fellow-captives;—he undeceived them, too (which was necessary), as to
the natives of the country being savage, assuring them, on the contrary,
that they were polite and courteous; and as the hopes of peace continued
to be confirmed from time to time by Philip, who wrote by every
opportunity, as well as by the papers, they remained in a most pitiable
state of excitement, which was doomed to be bitterly disappointed.

The peace of 1784 came. Many a man whose existence had been despaired of
by his long-expecting and wretched family reappeared, and that of the
rectory now looked forward with intense eagerness to the receipt of
letters from Herbert or from Philip Dalton, announcing their reunion,
and the prospect of their speedy return home.

Alas! while others rejoiced, they were plunged into deeper despair than
ever; for, as Herbert’s name did not appear in the lists of those who
had been given up, Philip did not immediately write his bitter
disappointment that his dear friend was not among their number.

Who could paint the withering effect of this miserable intelligence upon
the unhappy Amy? She had striven, and successfully, against her own
despairing heart; whilst a ray of hope broke in upon her gloomy future,
she cherished it, and strove to dispel the clouds which doubt would, in
spite of her exertions, accumulate before her. She was cheerful, and
when Mrs. Compton mourned her son’s early fate in bitter grief, and
almost refused comfort, Amy would soothe her, and raise her to hope
again. But from the last news there was no comfort to be gained. Had
Herbert been alive, he would have been given up like the rest; and
though it was suspected at the time that many prisoners were retained by
Tippoo in defiance of the articles of treaty, still that was so
uncertain, so vague and wretched a hope, that it was abandoned as even
sinful to indulge in, and Herbert was mourned as dead.

It was happy perhaps for Amy that her own grief was in a measure
diverted by the long illness of Mrs. Compton, whom the violence of the
affliction brought to the very verge of the grave. For many months did
the gentle and patient girl minister to her who was to have been her
mother, with a devotion of affection which hardly found its equal in
that of her own daughter. From no one’s hand did the sufferer take the
remedies prescribed so readily as from Amy’s; none could smooth the
pillow of the languid invalid like Amy—none read to her so sweetly, none
conversed with her upon their favourite subject—him who was lost to them
both—so eloquently and so devotedly as Amy. And her beauty, which had
grown up with her years, until it was now surpassingly bright—her meek
and cheerful resignation, after the first pang of sorrow was over—her
unceasing and untiring benevolence—made her an object of peculiar
interest to the neighbourhood of all ranks, to whom her sad story and
early trials were known.

Calm and cheerful as she usually was in the society of her family and at
the rectory, no one but her mother knew the bitter bursts of grief to
which nature would force her sometimes, when the memory of him they
thought dead was more prominently excited. Herbert was constantly the
subject of their conversation; for this Amy loved, and it often soothed
her to hear him spoken of or alluded to. But it was not this that
affected her; it was often the merest trifle and sudden thought, the
sight of a flower, a word or tone from Charles, who now strongly
resembled his brother, that caused these paroxysms, which, violent as
they were, prostrated her for the time, only to rise with renewed
cheerfulness, resignation, and affection for those she loved.

They continued to hear from Philip Dalton, who, restless under the
belief that Herbert still lived, spared neither money nor pains to get
information. As time flew on, it became known that some Europeans were
in confinement, and Philip had dispatched one or two trusty emissaries
to endeavour to discover Herbert. All had, however, ended in
disappointment, and he was baffled in every inquiry. He did not assert
to Herbert’s family that he lived, but from time to time he renewed the
supposition. After the lapse of nearly four years, they heard from him
that he was about to return home on leave, and that he would take the
earliest opportunity of visiting the rectory. His coming was earnestly
and impatiently expected for many months; for how much should they not
have to hear of their long-lost Herbert from his most devoted friend!
how many particulars of their short service together and its fatal
result, which, though the themes of many letters, were incomplete in
comparison with what they should hear from him in person!

At length his arrival in England was announced by him, and though he
could not say when he should be at liberty, he declared it would not be
long ere he performed his promise. Philip had thought it better thus to
leave them in uncertainty, lest, having their attention fixed upon any
particular day, the contemplation of the excitement which would
necessarily follow would be more than the female part of the families
could endure.

But he did not, he could not delay long; he was impatient to communicate
his suspicions, his hopes that Herbert existed, which every day’s
experience and reflection told him were reasonable; and hardly a
fortnight had elapsed, ere he took the mail to the town of ——, where the
regiment had been quartered, and where he had now a friend. Leaving his
portmanteau at the barracks, he took with him a change of linen, and
late in the afternoon rode his friend’s horse over to the rectory.

It was a lovely autumn evening; the twilight had begun to deepen the
shadows of the luxuriant woods of the park, and the rectory groves
appeared dark and solemn at that hour. A few leaves had already fallen
upon the smooth and beautifully kept entrance avenue, which passed under
some huge elms, on whose tops the noisy rooks still sat cawing, or
rising suddenly with eccentric and rapid flights large bodies of the
colony sailed through the air, alighting only to dispossess others of a
more favoured place or one more coveted. Beyond a turning in the avenue,
the house opened upon his view—an old edifice of red brick, of the age
of Elizabeth; the large oblong windows of the drawing-room, with their
diamond panes, were a blaze of light; and even as he rode along he could
distinguish the forms of many within, and the cheerful notes of music
came to him through the open casement.

A pale elderly lady lay on the sofa working—he felt sure it was
Herbert’s mother. There were several standing round a pianoforte: he
listened for a while with deep pleasure, as the sounds of music now
rose, now fell upon the evening air, and affected him the more
powerfully as the air was one he well remembered Herbert to have often
sung, and now the place he had occupied there was vacant, perhaps for
ever.

As he listened, the voice of a female arose in a solo part, so liquid,
so melodious, so exquisitely modulated, that he drew closer to hear it
better. Could it be that of Amy? he thought, or one of Herbert’s
sisters, of whom he had heard him speak so often that he fancied he
almost knew them?—Ellen perhaps, his favourite; but it was useless to
speculate—he should soon know all. The solo ceased; again arose a full
swell of voices, attuned by constant practice, and assisted by the
instrument and a bass violin, which was played by an elderly gentleman.
It lasted for a while, then ceased entirely—the party broke up
cheerfully, and the sound of their merry voices caught his ear—a change,
perhaps an abrupt one, from the melody he had heard, which he would have
wished had been followed by silence, for his feelings were mournful, and
the image of his lost friend was painfully vivid to his imagination;
they might have arrived together he thought.

Again he cast his eyes around him; the house, with its deeply embayed
windows and quaint projections, was covered with roses and creepers,
which entwined thickly around the drawing-room; beside there were a
pear-tree and a large fig-tree which were trained over the wall, and
almost hid it with their luxuriant foliage, showing here and there the
large black crossbeams which appeared through the masonry of the wall,
and added to its venerable appearance. Before the house there was a
flower-garden, which bloomed with a profusion of flowers, whose rich
perfume arose in the evening air. On one side a long conservatory, and
beyond it a thick and closely kept hedge that partly screened a wall
which led to other gardens. On the other side was a lawn, close and
mossy-looking, which stretched a short distance to a sunken fence,
beyond which was a field with a few single trees, and the deep woods of
the park made up the distance. The hall-door was low and deeply screened
by a porch, around which roses and clematis flourished in luxuriance.

Dismounting from his horse he rang the bell, which was quickly answered;
and desiring the servant to inform Mr. Compton that a gentleman wished
to speak to him, he remained in the porch.

‘Who can it be?’ said some, as the servant announced the message. In
another instant it had flashed into the minds of all that it might be
Captain Dalton; and with him came the memory of poor Herbert, now to be
so freely awakened.

‘If it should be he, Maria,’ said Mr. Compton to his lady, who at the
announcement had risen from the sofa, ‘can you bear to see him?’

‘Yes, love—yes, here—but with you only. Go into the dining-room, my
children, we will call you after a while.’

They obeyed instantly, and Mr. Compton hurried into the hall to receive
the stranger, while his lady prayed fervently for support in the coming
interview; for she trembled exceedingly, and her conflicting emotions
almost overpowered her.

The servant was holding Philip’s horse, and he himself was pacing slowly
up and down the narrow porch. As Mr. Compton advanced, Philip turned to
meet him; and his first glance assured him that the friend of his lost
son was before him.

‘You need not mention your name, my dear sir,’ said the old gentleman,
as he clasped his hand most warmly and affectionately in his own, while
his trembling voice showed how deeply he was agitated; ‘I am convinced
that I now welcome our long-expected and already very dear Captain
Dalton. We have been long expecting you and I need hardly say how
anxiously we have looked for the arrival of one who was so dear to—’ and
he hesitated for an instant; but mastering his emotion, he continued—‘to
our poor Herbert, from whom we heard so much of you. God bless you, sir!
that you have come to us so soon, when you must have had so many claims
upon you from your own family.’

‘I thank you, sir, heartily, for this warm welcome,’ said Philip. ‘But
before I proceed further, tell me candidly whether Mrs. Compton is able
to see me. That I have seen you, will be a comfort to me, and for the
present I will leave you, and give her time for any preparation she may
wish to make.’

‘By no means: she is already aware that this visit could be from no
other but yourself, and she will be better when she has seen you. You
must make some allowances for a mother’s grief—a fond mother’s
too—Captain Dalton.’

‘I know all, sir,’ said Philip, pressing his hand; ‘and Miss Hayward?’

‘She is fortunately not with us to-night,’ replied Mr. Compton, ‘and we
will speak upon the subject with her parents before we tell her that you
are come.’

They were at the drawing-room door, and Philip’s heart beat faster than
he had ever remembered it to beat before. The suspense and anxiety he
was in, as to the issue of his meeting with Mrs. Compton, almost
overcame his habitual self-possession; and he would have given worlds
could he have ensured her equanimity, which was little to be expected.
She, too, was not less excited; and a feeling of faintness came over her
as she heard the hand of her husband upon the lock. She made a strong
effort, however, to repel it, and the next moment he and Dalton were
before her.

‘This is Captain Dalton, Maria,’ were all the words Mr. Compton had time
to utter ere his lady advanced to meet him. It needed not his words to
assure her that the tall, manly, and soldier-like figure of the young
man was Philip; and as she eagerly took his proffered hand, while her
eyes were full of tears, she in vain strove to speak. She read in the
expression of his fine features, as she looked into his face, that her
own grief was reciprocated, and she could no longer restrain the
utterance of her feelings, nor the impulse of her affectionate heart.
She threw herself into his arms, as she would have done into her own
son’s, and wept; the tears and bitter sobs of a mother’s grief could not
be restrained, and she yielded to them freely.

For a while his reserved demeanour, under which was concealed as kind a
heart as ever beat, struggled with his awakened sensibilities; but
nature asserted her power; Philip’s tears mingled with hers, and she
could feel them falling fast upon her cheek, though silently, as he bent
over and supported her. Mr. Compton did not interrupt them; he was too
glad to see her emotion find so natural and easy a vent, for he had
anticipated a much more violent effect. Mrs. Compton soon rallied.

‘You will forgive this welcome of one who is so dear to us, Captain
Dalton,’ she said, speaking with difficulty; ‘but you know that with you
are associated many, many painful recollections. Bear with me,—I shall
be calm soon. I feel that my heart has already been relieved and is
lighter.’

Philip could not then say much in reply; but soon their conversation
flowed more naturally and calmly; and ere long the rest of the family
were admitted, and he was introduced and received as a brother among
them.

Gradually their conversation turned upon him they thought dead. Philip
had to answer a thousand questions, and to give the minutest particulars
to the eager and loving inquirers; and though the tears of all flowed
silently and fast, even as they spoke, yet Mrs. Compton felt, when she
retired to rest at a late hour, as if some portion of the load which had
oppressed her had been removed, and she fervently blessed God who had
sent her such a friend and comforter.

-------

CHAPTER XXVI.

The first constraint of ceremony having been broken, and the subject so
near to the hearts of all touched upon even on the first night of their
acquaintance, as every succeeding day passed they became more attached
to each other—the parents, to one they looked upon and loved as a
son—the children, to their poor brother’s friend and dearest companion.
Day by day the subject of poor Herbert’s fate was the theme of
conversation; they were never weary of it, and Philip unfolded to them
gently but unreservedly his convictions that Herbert still
lived—confined perhaps in some lonely hill-fort, away from the capital
of Mysore, or engaged in the hated service of the ruler of the country.
For many others were known to have submitted to Tippoo’s will in this
respect, in the hope that some opportunity would be afforded for escape,
or some action with their countrymen would facilitate their desertion.

Poor Amy! the bitterest trial she had endured since the news of
Herbert’s captivity, and next to his supposed death, was the meeting
with Philip, and receiving from his own hands the little packet which
Herbert had entrusted to him in case of his death, and which he had
retained. For many days she could not see him; but at length she fixed a
day and hour, and he walked over to Beechwood. He had not seen her
except at church, where he had caught a glimpse of her graceful figure,
dressed in simple mourning: this only excited his curiosity to know more
of one whom his poor friend had loved with such intensity of affection—a
love so faithfully reciprocated.

Mrs. Hayward received the young soldier, and in a short conversation
with him justly estimated the strength and delicacy of his feelings; it
was impossible for any one to have been more deeply aware of the
difficult part he had to perform, nor to have evinced more tenderness in
the manner in which he executed it.

‘I would not have pressed Miss Hayward upon the subject,’ he said; ‘I
would not willingly distress her, nor excite thoughts which must
violently affect her; but I made a promise solemnly to Herbert, and I
have come to fulfil it: and it will be a gratification to me if I am
allowed to do so. Still, if she declines an interview with me, I would
leave the packet with you, Mrs. Hayward—convinced that it will be in
safe hands, and it can be delivered or not to Miss Hayward as you
please.’

‘If you will remain here, Captain Dalton, I will see Amy, and state what
you say to her,’ replied the old lady, ‘but I can promise nothing: she
is usually calm and strong-minded, but your coming may have such an
effect upon her as to unfit her for receiving you. You shall, however,
soon know the truth.’ And so saying she left the room.

Philip looked around. There were books, Italian and Spanish poets open
upon the table, with some beautiful embroidery, which showed that Amy
must have been there when he was announced. On a side table was an
unfinished landscape—a large tree, a few sheep, and a mossy bank,
beautifully painted; and the colours and water which stood near it
proved that she had lately been engaged upon it. Philip went to examine
it, and while admiring the freedom and vigour of the drawing, and the
keen perception of nature evident in the colouring, the door gently
opened, and a lady entered, whose appearance caused in his heart a
thrill of excitement, and a confusion in his address which he had little
expected.

‘Miss Hayward, I presume,’ he said, advancing to her with hesitation;
for her beauty, the sweet expression of her face, and her mild blue
eyes, fixed his attention, and rendered his manner involuntarily
constrained.

Amy could not reply, her heart was full even to choking; she had in vain
tried to compose herself when his name was announced; but unable to do
so, she had left the room; and it was only on hearing the message her
mother had delivered, that she determined to see the friend of her
Herbert, to speak to him who had received his last message for her; and
she came down alone to meet him. She had, however, taxed her powers of
endurance to the utmost: the sight of the tall and manly figure of
Philip, his dark and expressive features—bronzed somewhat by an eastern
sun, yet preserving the ruddy glow of health—his soldier-like form and
bearing—all caused at first a rush of remembrances almost too powerful
to endure; and her imagination, despite of her efforts not to yield to
such thoughts, could not help picturing to herself how Herbert would
have been improved—how he would have looked, how he would have met her
after their long absence! She could not speak to Dalton, but trembled
exceedingly, and would have fallen; but, seeing her agitation, he
assisted her to a seat; she sank into it, and, unable to speak, buried
her face in her hands. Philip sat silent for a while, but he saw that
further delay would only be a protraction of her misery.

‘Miss Hayward,’ he said very respectfully, ‘I am the bearer of a small
packet for you, which I promised to deliver; if you will receive it from
my hands, I shall be gratified, as you will have enabled me to fulfil a
promise I have looked on as sacred.’

Again Amy endeavoured to reply, but her words failed her, and her hand
trembled so much as she stretched it out to him, that he feared the
consequences of her emotion.

‘I implore you to be calm, Miss Hayward; shall I ring for water—for your
mother? can I do aught to assist you?’ he continued, as he gave her the
little packet, which she received with extreme agitation, and not daring
to look at him.

‘No, I thank you, Captain Dalton,’ she said at length, after a severe
effort to repress her feelings, in which she partly succeeded. ‘I am
better now, and will hear whatever he—whatever you have to say—it will
be better than to delay.’

But Philip feared the result, and urged that her mother at least should
be present.

‘No,’ she replied, ‘it is better thus; with her I should fail, alone, I
think, I can be firm; therefore proceed.’

And he obeyed her: he told her of their last service—of the events of
the war; and when she appeared to listen calmly, he mentioned their last
few days’ intercourse, their last interview, their farewell, and their
mutual promises in case of the death of either. There was no message in
particular to herself—the packet would explain all, he said; he had been
desired to mention to her the events that had occurred before he
received it, and he was thankful he had been spared to deliver the
message himself.

Amy listened patiently, and grew calmer as he proceeded; he could not
see her features, for her hand covered them as she leaned back; but at
length, before he ceased, he could perceive that his simple narrative
had soothed her; for a silent tear forced its way between her slender
fingers, and trickled over her fair hand; she appeared not to be aware
of it, and others followed rapidly; nature had yielded her most gentle
remedy for a troubled spirit—silent tears, which flow without pain or
sobbings.

He did not disturb her thoughts, which appeared entirely to absorb her,
and he fancied that she prayed mentally, for her lips moved. He arose,
and stealing to the door, opened it very gently and quitted the
apartment; it was enough that he had seen and spoken to her. Mrs.
Compton stood without, anxiously awaiting the issue, should there have
been occasion for her aid; he told her how touchingly, how beautifully
she had heard him; and the mother was glad that Dalton had seen her,
that the crisis had passed so calmly.

‘She will be better for this hereafter,’ she said, and judged rightly.
Amy was more cheerful, and more equably so from that day.

Mrs. Hayward accompanied Philip to her husband’s study, to bear him the
happy tidings that had so rejoiced her; and here they long and earnestly
talked over Philip’s hopes, his almost certainty that Herbert lived.
There was much which appeared to both Mr. and Mrs. Hayward improbable in
what he thought—much that they could not understand, from their
ignorance of the habits of the natives, and of their highly civilised
and cultivated character. In the end, however, they could not but
encourage the glimmering of hope which had entered their minds—dimmed,
it is true, by doubts and fears, but still abiding there. It would have
been cruel, however, to have mentioned this to Amy, and for the present
she was ignorant of it.

Amy sat long so absorbed in thought that she had not noticed the
departure of Philip Dalton; and when she spoke, not daring to withdraw
her hands from her eyes, and received no answer, she looked around and
saw that she was alone. Then she thanked Philip in her heart for his
tender consideration of her, and long remembered the act, simple as it
was, with gratitude. She held the packet she had received, and once more
dared to look on the well-known handwriting. She knew that it could be
of no later date than the letters she had already in her possession; but
it was not opened, it was to be given her only in case of his death; and
her mind was oppressed with feelings of awe, as she almost hesitated to
break the seal and peruse its contents. It is a period for solemn
thought when we open a letter from one known to be dead—to think that
the hand which traced the characters is cold and powerless, that the
mind whose thoughts are there recorded is no longer constituted as ours.
This carries us involuntarily into a deep train of thought and
speculation, vague and indefinite—leading to no end but a vain striving
for knowledge of what is better hidden in futurity. Or if the writing be
that of one dear or familiar to us, how many reminiscences crowd
instantly into the mind! tokens of affection, in which nature is
prolific, soothing the thoughts of the survivor, while they hallow the
memory of the dead.

Amy’s packet was precious indeed; Herbert had written to her gravely and
thoughtfully, yet here and there with passionate love, as though he had
at times failed in checking the expression of feelings to which, when
she received the letter, he could no longer respond. He had enclosed a
little locket, which contained his hair, and implored her with an
earnestness which his strong sense of honour prompted, but which cost
him pain to write and her to peruse, while she honoured his memory in
death, not to refuse that station in life to which she would be
solicited by many. She appreciated these expressions with a just sense
of the feelings under which he had written them; but while she read
them, she more strongly than ever clung to his memory with grateful and
devoted, yet mournful affection. And could Philip have seen her as she
rose from the perusal of that letter, with eyes dim and glistening with
tears, and advancing to the window, look forth in her calm and gentle
beauty over the broad and glowing landscape—he might have worshipped her
in his heart as a personification of one of those pure beings who do
service in heaven, and who, touched with our infirmities, can be
supposed to feel in some degree the sorrows of an earthly existence.

From that day forth there was no reserve on Philip’s part towards the
Beechwood family, with whom he was ever a welcome and a sought-for
guest. His own affairs, and a visit to his elder brother (for his
mother, his only surviving parent, had died while he was in India),
occupied him for a month after his departure from the rectory; and when
this period had arrived, he was only too glad to avail himself of the
pressing invitations of both families to return and spend some time
alternately with them. The young Haywards too had returned home; the one
from Scotland, where he had been on a visit; the other from Oxford,
where he was studying for a degree.

-------

CHAPTER XXVII.

In this delightful society Philip’s time flew rapidly and happily; he
was fond of the chase and of shooting, and in the noble stud of
Beechwood, and over its broad manors and preserves, there were ample
resources for both pursuits, and the young men became intimate and
inseparable companions. Among themselves they often talked of Herbert as
of a departed brother, and Philip at length unreservedly opened his
heart to them on the subject which, except one of later growth, was
nearest to it.

Our hearts often take strong impressions from the veriest trifles;—how
much more when they are assisted or coloured by adventitious
circumstances! As Philip listened to the sweet voice he had heard
singing as he rode up to the rectory on the evening he first arrived
there, his sensibilities had been powerfully excited towards the
songstress, either because she might be the affianced, or the sister of
his friend.

He had been introduced to all the family in succession on that evening,
and he was at once struck with the beauty of one of the young ladies,
and her great likeness to his friend; she had the same large and
expressive blue eye, regular features, and brown hair, falling upon her
shoulders in luxuriant curling tresses; she was taller in proportion
than he was, but her figure was remarkable for its grace and beauty of
contour. He then hoped she might be the songstress; why, he could hardly
have told.

He heard her repeat the air to which he had first listened, for it was
often afterwards sung by the small but well-trained band, and
distinguished by the name of Captain Dalton’s favourite; night after
night did Philip sit listening with increasing delight to Ellen’s rich
voice as she sang either alone or in parts. Indeed she was a thorough
mistress of the art, in which she had from the first been well grounded;
and her execution evinced a pure taste, which, entering into the spirit
of the composer, sought rather to draw gratification from giving
expression to his thoughts, than to indulge in the poor vanity of
exhibiting her own powers. She was by no means insensible to the marked
pleasure which her singing gave to the young soldier; and from this
commencement, there gradually sprang up a warm and increasing
attachment, which her parents observed with sincere pleasure.

Philip found, on a further knowledge of her character, that she
possessed many tastes and feelings in common with his own; and he
observed with delight her extensive charity, her visits with Amy to the
sick and poor of the neighbourhood, and their close and affectionate
friendship. Somehow or other, he oftener spoke to her than to the rest,
and she listened (so he thought) with more interest than the others to
his tales of foreign climes and hard service; he oftener found something
to do for her, oftener walked with her, or escorted her and Amy upon
their charitable visits. A thousand kindnesses passed between them,
which in others would have been forgotten, but with them were treasured
up, and remembered vividly when they were separated.

We do not intend to be the chroniclers of this tale of mutual
attachment, which steadily increased, and—as there was no opposition
from her parents, but on the contrary the utmost desire that it should
progress steadily and uninterruptedly—was in the end successful. Philip
waited, however, until he had known her for nearly a year; and when he
felt sure that his offer would be accepted, he made it, and was
rewarded. The gentle and lovely girl had long been his, and she now gave
herself up to the ardent feelings of her loving heart.

They were married: early in the spring of the year succeeding the one in
which Philip had arrived, the joyous bridal took place—on one of those
bright and sunny days when hardly a cloud dims the serenity of the sky,
when the buds are just bursting into life, and nature, having rested
through the winter, is about to resume her robe of luxuriant foliage,
ere she rejoices in the genial sun and the warm winds of summer.

Amy consented, with much fear and many doubts of her ability, to go
through her simple duties as one of the bride’s-maids; and she appeared
that day in more than her usual beauty, having thrown off her garb of
mourning. Ellen’s sisters, and Philip’s only one, were the others; and
as the joyous procession wound down the broad aisle of the old church,
and the light streaming through the painted windows rested upon the
group collected around the altar, assuredly on a gayer bridal party, or
one whose hearts were more linked together by affection, the bright and
glowing sun never shone. Nevertheless, there were a few among them on
whom the hand of sorrow had lain heavily, and who, if they did not join
in the exuberant joy of the rest, were as sincere and as fervent in
their prayers and wishes for the happiness of those who plighted their
vows in their presence.

Some months—nearly a year—passed, and, what Philip had wished so much,
the purchase of a majority in a regiment then in India, was at last
within his attainment; for he had not concealed from Mr. Compton nor
from his wife, that he still looked to that land for distinction and
advancement in his profession, and also for the chance of sooner or
later discovering a clue to the fate of him whom all still mourned. The
handsome portion which he had received with Ellen had enabled him to
meet the outlay for this advancement with perfect convenience, and in a
short time he was gazetted as Major in the —th, then serving in the
Madras Presidency; and being anxious to join his regiment, he prepared
without delay.

This was, however, productive of another incident in the family circle
of Beechwood. In the mind of the youngest of Amy’s brothers, Philip’s
wild tales of adventure—of battles, of marches, of the gorgeous country,
and its curious and interesting inhabitants—of their ceremonies and
their various faiths—of tiger and wild-boar hunts—had excited a restless
curiosity to behold them, and to become an actor in the stirring scenes
which were every day taking place. But when Philip spoke of Herbert, and
of his own hope that he would be eventually recovered, Charles Hayward’s
enthusiasm was warmed by his affection, and his waking thoughts and
dreams were alike incessantly occupied with speculations upon the
subject, which unfitted him for study, and rendered him restless and
uneasy. Long before Philip had declared his intention of returning to
India, Charles had determined upon requesting his father’s permission to
enter the army in a regiment serving as near the scene of Herbert’s
disappearance as possible.

Charles, too, loved his sister with an intensity which would have urged
him to make any sacrifice for her sake, and it was anguish to him to see
her bowed down by mental suffering, and clinging with fond tenacity to
the memory of the dead, when his own exertions, guided by the experience
of their friend Dalton, might, under the aid of Providence, be
instrumental in restoring her to her usual health and joyous spirits. It
was true she had expressed no thought or hope of Herbert’s existence to
any of them; and the youth, as he roamed with her through the park, or
sat with her in her own little study, where she was surrounded by
precious memorials of Herbert, often longed to tell her of Philip’s
suspicions, and his own wild yearnings towards that distant land.

Had he done so, there is little doubt that she would have disclosed to
him, sooner than she did, the hope she secretly cherished, that Herbert
still existed and would return. No sooner had Philip openly declared his
intention of revisiting India, than Charles’ determination was formed to
break the matter at once to his father, and to proceed with Philip,
should no opposition be made—some objections he certainly anticipated,
but he thought he could overcome them. Before he broached the subject to
his parents, he held a long and anxious conversation with Philip, and
was delighted to find that he not only coincided in his views, but was
prepared to aid them by his interest in the purchase of an ensigncy in
the regiment to which he now belonged, in which there was a vacant
commission.

His proposal, as he had anticipated, was met by many objections and much
distress on the part of his parents and sister. Loving him tenderly as
she did, Amy could not bear the thought which at first obtruded upon
her, that India would be his grave, as it had been that of Herbert. But
the young man was resolute; and, after exhausting all his arguments, he
called Philip Dalton to his aid, who not only promised to be a guardian
to him, but declared he would let slip no opportunity of bettering his
station and prospects in his profession. All opposition, therefore,
ceased gradually, partly because Charles appeared to relish the
prospects of a military life more than any other, and partly because
there appeared a likelihood of rapid advancement in the regiment while
it remained on its eastern service.

The day at last arrived when he was to leave home for his long absence;
to all it was a source of bitter grief, but the most so to his mother
and to Amy; and ere the hour came when he was to depart from them, Amy
led him away from the house, and, wandering together, they talked over
the future—to him bright with promise—a contrast, and a sad one to hers,
which was so overcast. They wandered on through the parks, and by the
stream, where years before she had roamed with Herbert. Charles knew
that she must be thinking of him whose fate was wrapt in mystery, and he
longed to know and to share all her thoughts and feelings on the
subject. Gradually he led her to speak of Herbert; and as their
conversation warmed, the devoted girl could no longer refrain from
unburdening her heart, and confessing the hopes which only her God, to
whom she addressed them night and morning in fervent prayer, knew to
exist.

Still, however, Charles was sorely perplexed, and his judgment and
affection were at variance; but the latter prevailed under her artless
confidence, and he told her in hesitation and fear of Philip Dalton’s
hopes of the chances of Herbert’s life, spoke to her of the folly of
cherishing hope only because they had not heard he was dead, but
nevertheless declared how this had preyed on his mind till it almost
amounted to an earnest of success.

She listened with breathless interest to his narrative—it was too much
in accordance with her own thoughts to be slighted. She did not blame
her brother that he had kept it from her, and she could not have borne
it from Dalton: now she believed all—not rashly, however—for her mind
was strong and tempered by affliction; but there was more room for hope
than ever, and she felt as though the hand of Providence was discernible
in the matter, guiding her brother onward in the track of her lost
Herbert. Now that their most secret thoughts were in common, she felt
that she could part with Charles more easily; and he left her at last in
their little summer-house, where she loved to sit, and where they had
been conversing—afflicted, yet with hope in her heart.

His mother bade him farewell, with many tears and many prayers for his
safety; and, accompanied by his father and his elder brother, Charles
was rapidly whirled away from his home, to enter upon the life of danger
and adventure he had chosen for himself. In another week, he, with
Philip Dalton and his wife, had left their native shores for a long and
perhaps perilous absence.

Six months had now passed at Seringapatam, during much of which time
Kasim Ali had been absent on the various duties connected with his new
situation. He had risen in rank, and from the steadiness of his conduct,
the Khan would have been glad to have kept Kasim always with him; but
this was impossible, for the Sultaun’s eye was upon him, although,
remembering the scene in the Durbar, he had wished to see little of one
who had behaved so boldly before him, yet whom he respected from the
lucky appearances he believed Kasim to possess, and which he had given
himself credit for having discovered. He would often say to his
favourite, Syud Sahib, that he was sure Kasim Ali, notwithstanding he
was in disgrace, would be of service to him in the end, and that it was
better he should be checked at first, and thus inspired with a thirst
for distinguishing himself, than spoiled by too early notice or
promotion.

But he had nevertheless given a strong proof of his reliance on the
young man’s ability and courage. Hardly a month had passed after his
disgrace, and Kasim was fast sinking into a state of apathy at his dim
prospects, which at first were so brilliant, when the Sultaun entrusted
him with a mission requiring much delicacy and tact in its execution. It
will be remembered that the Khan had stated in the Durbar, that he had
heard of an embassy to Seringapatam being meditated at the Nizam’s
court; and this Tippoo so earnestly desired, that his restless mind was
in a constant state of irritation upon the subject. Could he only detach
the Nizam from the alliance of the hated English—could the Afghan
monarch only see the two great Mahomedan powers of the south united in a
close alliance—his would pour his hardy followers upon their northern
possessions—there might be a second battle of Paniput! And, with such a
result, what was to prevent the northern army joining with the
Nizam’s—with his own—and, falling in one overwhelming mass upon the
English possessions,—their driving the hated race into the sea for ever?
A month passed, and still no embassy arrived, nor was there any
intelligence of one; to gain news therefore of the Nizam’s court, he
dispatched Kasim, attended only by a horseman or two, to travel by rapid
marches to Hyderabad, and to discover, as far as lay in his power, the
sentiments of the Court and the feeling of the people.

Kasim was gratified beyond expression by the selection of him above
others of known sagacity for such a mission, and he determined to spare
neither exertion nor zeal in his master’s cause, in order to regain his
favour. By the most rapid marches he traversed the nearest road to
Bellary—that to the westward of Nundidroog; and resting only a night at
his own humble but not less dear home, where he found his mother well
and his affairs continuing prosperous, he pushed on to Hyderabad; where,
as soon as he arrived, he set himself to work to gain information.

For nearly three months did he wait there, expecting with anxiety the
determination of the vacillating prince. At one time he heard that an
embassy would soon set off, and that a nobleman was appointed
ambassador; this was again contradicted, and it was rumoured that the
Nizam had entered into a fresh league with the English. But in the end
there was no doubt that an embassy would be sent to try the temper of
the Mysore chief; and Kasim, hearing from undoubted authority the name
of the gentleman who had been nominated, Ali Reza, waited on him,
disclosed the subject of his mission, and having given such an account
as he was able of the Sultaun’s anxiety, received in return the purport
of the proposed embassy, which was in effect what Tippoo looked for.
Having obtained this, and being assured by Ali Reza that they should
meet again in a short time, Kasim left Hyderabad, and, with the same
expedition, returned to Seringapatam. Again, on his way, he stayed with
his mother; again he visited the spot, which continued dear to him from
the memorable night’s adventure,—the trees were growing up, and the tomb
of the poor soldier was neatly kept. He had to answer a thousand
questions to his mother respecting their journey and Ameena, of whom
Kasim could now tell her nothing, except that the Khan, whenever he
inquired after her health, said she was well and happy.

-------

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The Sultaun was delighted at the news he received, which, while it
surpassed his expectations, apparently confirmed him in his immediate
plans of action. As the rainy season of 1788 closed, large bodies of
troops were despatched to Coimbatoor, for the purpose of prosecuting the
war against the rebellious Nairs, who, in the jungles and forests of
Malabar, continued to defy the governor’s power, and the forces from
time to time sent against them. Among the latter was Kasim, soon after
his return from the mission to Hyderabad, from the success of which he
had hoped to have re-occupied his place near the Sultaun’s person: but
the wrong he had done had not been entirely forgiven or forgotten.

Nor was the Khan his companion; he was detached with the other half of
the Khan’s risala, which was commanded by Dilawur Ali, an officer
somewhat like the Khan himself, but older—one of Hyder Ali’s earliest
adherents, who had been spared through many a hard fight and rough
service; to him Kasim was of the utmost use, both as an excellent
secretary, and an intelligent and upright adviser.

The Sultaun took the field in person against the Nairs in January of the
ensuing year, and prosecuted the war against them with the utmost
energy. In one fort alone, two thousand of them capitulated, who were
converted, under the threat of death if they refused the rite of Islam:
complying therefore, they publicly ate of beef, which, abhorrent as it
was to them, they were obliged to partake of. The war prospered, and,
ere the rains had set in, the territory was subdued by the ravages of
the Mysore army; for the war had been proclaimed a holy one by the
Sultaun, who, with mad fanaticism, everywhere destroyed temples, broke
their images and plundered their treasures. Those Nairs who would not
accept the conversion offered, were hunted like wild beasts and
destroyed in thousands.

The army at Coimbatoor heard of these events one by one as they
happened, and of the marriage of the Sultaun’s son to the beautiful
daughter of the lady ruler of Cannanore; and he soon afterwards arrived
in triumph at Coimbatoor, having left a large detachment to complete the
destruction of the Nairs.

Great were the rejoicings upon the victories that had been gained; the
army had tasted blood, and, like their tiger leader, thirsted for more.
Here was celebrated the Mohurrum, the sacred anniversary of the deaths
of Hassan and Hoosein, with all the pomp and with all the zeal to which
an army of fanatical Mahomedans could be excited by the example of their
bigoted Sultaun. At this time was issued the proclamation that the
kingly Noubut was to be performed five times on every Friday, because
that day was the sabbath of the faithful—the day on which the flood
happened—the day on which the Heaven was created. The Sultaun and his
astrologers observed the aspect of the stars; and in a fortunate hour
when the Moon was in Taurus, Mercury and Venus in Virgo, the Sun in Leo,
Saturn in Aquarius, and Venus in opposition to Libra, it was proclaimed
with pomp in the mosques that the music would be played and royal state
observed. Then the deep tones of the huge kettle-drums burst from the
neighbourhood of the Sultaun’s tent, and the assembled army broke into
loud acclamations and hoarse cries of ‘Deen! Deen! the Sultaun is the
apostle! the Sultaun is the conqueror!’

A few days afterwards the long looked-for embassy arrived from
Hyderabad, and Kasim once more welcomed his friends. They were presented
to the Sultaun in a full durbar of his officers, native and European,
with all the pomp of regal state. They were at once disgusted with the
assumed consequence of one whose state was less than that of their
prince; but they presented the splendid Koran they had been entrusted
with, upon which it was said that the Nizam had sworn to aid Tippoo with
his whole army and power against the English. The letters they bore were
cautious and dignified; yet, through the overwhelming flow of Eastern
compliment, could be discovered the hidden meaning which Tippoo had so
long and so earnestly expected. The ambassadors were dismissed for the
present with honour, and the whole army rejoiced that such an alliance
would be entered into.

A long conference did Tippoo hold that night, with the officers whom he
habitually consulted, upon the subject of the embassy. He had long been
solicitous of allying himself by marriage with the princely family of
the Dekhan, but had never had an opportunity of proposing it; now, when
the Nizam had sought him—when, humbled by the English and in dread of
the Mahratta power, that prince had asked aid against both from his
brother in the faith—he thought he could make that a condition of
compliance. It had been his favourite project for years, and he was now
determined to urge it.

It was in vain that those who wished his cause well, advised him bluntly
and honestly to forego his request for the present; there were others
who listened to his rhapsodies about the stars, to the records of his
dreams, until they were carried on to support the demand; and it was
made as proudly by the vain and inflated Sultaun, as his receipt of the
embassy had been ostentatious and offensive.

But the Nizam’s ambassadors were men of sound judgment; they knew that
their prince had lowered himself already in sending the embassy to a
self-constituted Sultaun—a low-born upstart; and, men of high family
themselves, they could well appreciate the situation in which he would
feel himself placed by the proposal. They answered the demand in cold
and haughty terms, and, requesting their dismissal, soon after left his
camp.

It was in vain that the Sultaun’s best friends urged their recall as of
vital importance to himself,—and to the cause of Islam, the ambassadors
were allowed to proceed on their return to Hyderabad. The Sultaun’s
message was received with indignation by the Nizam, whose pride
instantly rose against the degradation of the proposed matrimonial
connection. An embassy from Tippoo, which followed, was dismissed with a
flat refusal; and the Nizam, throwing himself now entirely into the
cause of the English, pressed them for the execution of the treaty of
1768, which involved the conquest of Mysore.

Those who were near the Sultaun when he received the reply, for he had
waited the issue of his demand ere he commenced the operations he had
long ago determined upon, saw how nearly the refusal had touched his
pride, and expected some outbreak of violent passion. But he stifled his
feelings for the time; or perhaps, in the pride of possessing the fine
army he commanded, and the slavish adoration which it paid him, he did
not heed the slight. He was only heard to say, ‘Well, it is a matter of
no consequence; we, who are the chosen of Alla, will alone do the work
which lies before us, marked out so plainly that we cannot deviate from
it. Inshalla! alone we will do what Nizam Ali Khan will wonder at in his
zenana, as he sits smoking like an eunuch. Ya, kureem Alla! thou art
witness that thy servant’s name has been left out from among those who
are not to be attacked; Nizam Ali and the base infidel English have done
this. But let them beware; thou canst revenge me on them both if thou
wilt!’

His army too felt the slight which had been offered, and in their mad
zeal might have been led to the gates of Hyderabad or those of Madras,
but that was not the Sultaun’s plan; he had resolved on one which had
been sketched out by his father, and which he thought he had now
matured. The possession of Travancore had long been coveted by his
father, but he had been repulsed in his attacks upon it; and as many of
the conquered Nairs had taken refuge in the Travancore territory, the
Sultaun now demanded that they should be given up as rebellious
subjects. This being indignantly refused, as he expected, he at length
marched from Coimbatoor at the head of thirty-five thousand men, the
flower of his army.

The Khan had arrived with the remainder of the corps from Seringapatam,
and had brought Ameena with him, to the disgust and chagrin of his other
wives, who, during his stay, had vainly endeavoured to begin their
scheme of tormenting the gentle girl. She had hitherto been unmolested,
and as happy as it was possible for her to be with these companions, and
such others as she became acquainted with from time to time.

The friends were now once more united, and looked forward with ardour to
sharing the events and dangers of the campaign together. Kasim, in the
daily march, often watched the well-known palankeen of Ameena to its
destination, and, as often as etiquette permitted, inquired after her.
He heard she was well, and it would have been pleasant to him could he
have known the truth—that he was often the subject of interesting
conversation between her and her lord, and that she remembered him
gratefully and vividly.

Through the plain which extends westward to the ocean, between the huge
and precipitous Neelgherries on the one hand, and the lofty and
many-peaked Animallee range on the other, the host of Tippoo poured. Day
by day saw an advance of many miles; and the season being favourable,
they marched on without a check. The Sultaun was always at the head of
the column of march, sometimes on foot with a musket on his shoulder,
showing an example to his regular infantry who followed in order,
relating his dreams, and pretending to inspiration among his sycophants
who marched with him. At other times he appeared surrounded by his
irregular cavalry, whom of old he had led against the English at
Perambaukum,—a gorgeous-looking force, consisting of men of all
descriptions—the small and wiry Mahratta, the more robust Mahomedan, men
from Afghanistan and from the north of India, whom the splendid service
and brilliant reputation of the Sultaun had tempted from their distant
homes.

Sometimes he would be seen to dash out from among them as they rode
along—a wild and picturesque-looking band—and turning his horse in the
plain, would soon be followed by the most active and best-mounted of his
officers, whose bright costumes, armour, and gaudy trappings glistened
in the sun as they rode at one another. Then would ensue some mock
combat or skirmish, in which the Sultaun bore an active and often a
victorious part, and in which hard blows were by no means of rare
occurrence. Ever foremost in these mock encounters were Kasim Ali and
the Khan his commander; the former however was always the most
conspicuous. He was usually dressed in a suit of chain-armour, which had
been given him by the Khan, and which he wore over his usual silk or
satin quilted vest; on his head was a round steel cap, surmounted by a
steel spike, and around it was always tied a shawl of the gayest red or
yellow, or else a mundeel or other scarf of gold or silver tissue. He
usually carried a long tilting-lance of bamboo, with a stuffed ball at
the end, from which depended a number of small streamers of various
colours; or else his small inlaid matchlock, with which from time to
time he shot at birds, or deer as they bounded along in the thickets
which lined the road. He had expended all the money he could spare in
purchasing handsome trappings for his horse; and indeed the Khan’s noble
gift well became his silver ornaments and the gay red, yellow, and green
khogeer,[38] the seat of which was of crimson velvet, with a deep fringe
cut into points, and hanging far below its belly.

-----

Footnote 38:

Stuffed saddle.

-----

Tippoo often noticed the young Kasim since his mission to Hyderabad, and
as he attended the Khan (who was always among the crowd of officers near
the person of the Sultaun) he frequently had an opportunity of joining
in these _melées_, in which he was dreaded by many for his strength,
perfect mastery of his weapons, and beautiful horsemanship. Indeed the
Sultaun had himself, on more than one occasion, crossed spears with the
young Patél, and been indebted for victory to the courtesy of his
antagonist rather than his own prowess. He never addressed to him more
than a word or two during these mock encounters, noticing him however to
the old Khan, by whom the gracious speeches were related to Kasim in his
tent.

Kasim had been more than usually fortunate one morning, a few days after
they had left Coimbatoor; he had engaged rather roughly with another
officer, and had overthrown him, and the Sultaun expressed himself with
more than usual warmth to the Khan.

‘By the Prophet, we must forgive thy young friend,’ he said, ‘and
promote him; didst thou see how he overthrew Surmust Khan just now, Khan
Sahib? there are few who could do that. We had much ado to persuade the
Khan that it was accidental; thou must tell the youth to be more
discreet in future; we would have no man his enemy but ourselves.’

‘May your condescension increase!’ cried the Khan; ‘I will tell the
youth; but did my lord ever see him shoot?’

‘Ha! can he do that also, Khan? could he hit me yonder goat, thinkest
thou?’ exclaimed Tippoo, as he pointed to one, the patriarch of a herd,
browsing among some craggy rocks at a short distance, and which,
interrupted in its morning’s meal, was bleating loudly, as it looked
over the glittering and busy host which was approaching.

‘It is a long shot,’ said the Khan, putting his forefinger between his
teeth and considering; ‘nevertheless, I think he could.’

‘Wilt thou hold me a wager he does?’ cried the Sultaun; ‘I will bet thee
a pair of English pistols against that old one of thine, he does not hit
it.’

‘May your favour never be less upon your servant! I accept it,’ cried
the Khan; and he turned round to seek Kasim, who was behind among the
other officers. The Sultaun stopped, and those around him cried out, ‘A
wager! a wager! Inshalla, the Sultaun will win, his destiny is great!’

Kasim was brought from the rear after some little time, to where the
Sultaun stood awaiting him; the Khan had not told him why, and he
appeared to ask for orders. All was soon explained to him; but the
distance was great, and he doubted his power; however, not daring to
disobey, he addressed himself to his task. The goat continued steady,
and after a long aim he fired. It was successful; the animal lost its
footing, rolled from its high place, and ere any one of the grooms could
reach it with a knife, or pronounce the blessing before they cut its
throat, it was dead: the ball had broken its neck. ‘Mashalla!
Wonderful!’ passed from mouth to mouth, while some wondered at, and
others envied the young Patél’s success.

‘It must have been chance,’ cried the Sultaun good-humouredly; ‘even we,
who are by the blessing of Alla a sure shot, could not have done that.
Nevertheless thou hast won the pistols, Khan, and shalt have them. But
what say you, my friends, to a hunt; yonder are the Animallee hills, and
it is strange if we find no game. We will prove thee again, young sir,
ere we believe thy dexterity.’

‘A hunt, a hunt!’ cried all; and the words were taken up and passed from
rank to rank, from regiment to regiment, down the long column, until all
knew of it, and were prepared to bear their part in the royal sport.
Preparations were begun as soon as the army arrived at its
halting-place; men were sent forward for information of game; all the
inhabitants of the country round were collected by the irregular horse
to assist in driving it towards one spot, where it might be attacked.

For a day previously, under the active superintendence of the royal
huntsman, the beaters, with parties of matchlock and rocket-men, took up
positions all round a long and narrow valley; its sides were thickly
clothed with wood, but it had an open space at the bottom through which
it was possible to ride, though with some difficulty, on account of the
long and rank grass. The ground was soft and marshy in places, and had
been, at one time, cultivated with rice, as appeared by the square
levels constructed so as to contain water. Large clumps of bamboos arose
to an enormous height here and there, their light foliage waving in the
wind, and giving them the appearance of huge bunches of feathers among
the other dense trees by which they were surrounded. Where the ground
was not marshy, it was covered with short sward, in some places green,
in others parched by the heat of the sun. The sides of the valley arose
steeply for five or six hundred feet, sometimes presenting a richly
coloured declivity, from which hung the graceful leaf of the wild
plantain, creepers innumerable, smaller bamboos, and other light and
graceful foliage, amongst which was mingled the huge leaf and sturdy
stem of the teak.

Far above the head of the valley—terminated by an abrupt rock, over
which a rivulet flung itself in a broken waterfall—hill after hill,
mountain after mountain towered into the fleecy mists and clouds—not so
lofty as the Neelgherries, which, in the distance on the right, appeared
like a huge blue wall, except where the sun glistened upon a precipice
of many thousand feet in height, or where a vast chasm or jutting
shoulder threw a broad shadow over the rest—but still very lofty, and
wooded almost to the summit. A strong body of infantry had been placed
across the mouth of the valley, with directions to throw up stockades in
the elephant paths; and what game it was possible to drive in from the
plain had thus been compelled to enter, and lay, it was thought,
securely in the valley. One or two elephants had been seen, which gave
hope of more.

Upon the back of that noble white-faced elephant Hyder (which was taken
at the siege of Seringapatam, and still adorns, if he be not recently
dead, the processions of the present Nizam), in a howdah of richly
chased and carved silver, lined with blue velvet, sat Tippoo—his various
guns and rifles supported by a rail in front of him, and ready to his
hand. Only one favourite attendant accompanied him, who was in the
khowass, or seat behind, and had charge of his powder and bullets. The
Sultaun’s dress was quite plain, and, except for his peculiar turban, he
could not have been distinguished.

His cortége was gorgeous beyond imagination. As soon as the usual beat
of the kettle-drums had announced that he had mounted his elephant, all
who had others allowed them hurried after him, dressed in their gayest
clothes and brightest colours. Fifty or sixty elephants were there of
that company, all rushing along close together in a body at a rapid
pace; around them was a cloud of irregular cavalry, who, no longer
fettered by any kind of discipline, rode tumultuously, shouting,
brandishing spears and matchlocks, and occasionally firing their pistols
in the air. The hoarse kettle-drums sent forth their dull booming sound,
mingled with the trampling of the horses, and at times the shrill
trumpeting of the elephants. The army had cast aside its uniform for the
day; officers and men were dressed in their gayest and most picturesque
apparel—turbans and waistbands, and vests of every hue, and armed with
weapons of all kinds, swords and shields, matchlocks and heavy
broad-bladed spears; such as had not these, brought their own muskets
and ammunition.

Thousands had gone on before, and were seen crowding the sides of the
entrance to the valley, but kept back by the exertions of the huntsmen,
in order that the Sultaun should enter first, and take up his position
in the most open place, while the game should be gradually aroused and
driven towards him. From the shape of the valley, and its almost
perpendicular sides, it was impossible to surround it so as to make a
simultaneous advance from all sides.

One of the Sultaun’s own elephants had been sent for the Khan and Kasim,
who were desired to keep as near him as the crowd would allow. They
reached the entrance of the glen at last, and by the streamlet they met
the chief huntsman, who was ready to lead them to the spot they should
occupy, but the Sultaun would not permit this.

‘Let us advance together,’ he cried; ‘I see the end of the glen is
occupied by men, so nothing can escape us. Bismilla! let the signal be
given to proceed.’

It had been previously agreed upon; and the discharge of a small
field-piece, which had been dragged to the spot, awoke a thousand echoes
in the quiet glen, and the merry thousands with one hoarse shout rushed
forward.

-------

CHAPTER XXIX.

It was a heart-stirring and magnificent sight to see the advance of that
mighty hunting party into the glen. Scarcely a quarter of a mile across,
the numerous elephants and horsemen were so closed together that it was
impossible for anything to escape the line which now slowly but steadily
advanced. The distance from the mouth to the waterfall was not more than
three-quarters of a mile, and nearly straight, so that the greater part
of the intervening distance could be seen distinctly—in some places
presenting a thick and impenetrable jungle, in others open, as we have
before stated. Along the most abrupt sides, and in advance of the royal
party, men were stationed, who, as the line advanced, discharged
rockets, which whizzing into the air descended at a short distance among
the trees and brushwood, and urged on the game to the end, where it was
met by other discharges. Hundreds of men bore large flat drums, which
they beat incessantly with sticks; and from time to time the broken and
monotonous sound of the kettle-drums which accompanied Tippoo, and
showed where he was, mingled with the din of shouts, screams, halloos,
the shrill blasts of the collery horn, the shriller trumpetings of the
elephants, and the neighings of the wild and frightened horses. All
these noises collectively reverberated through the narrow glen, and from
the echoes there arose one vast chaos of stunning sound, the effect of
which was assisted by the clear air, while it produced the wildest
excitement among the hunters.

At first no game was seen, except the wild hog of the country, which in
hundreds arose from their resting-places, ran hither and thither
confusedly among the crowd,—sometimes upsetting and seriously wounding a
man or two; or a timid deer occasionally, unable to escape up the sides
and terrified by the din, tried to break the line and perished in the
attempt. Innumerable peafowl arose, and with loud screaming flew
onwards, or alighted upon the sides of the glen, and thus escaped; and
birds of every plumage darted from tree to tree; large flocks of
parroquets flew screaming into the air, and after wheeling rapidly once
or twice alighted further on, or rising high took at once a flight over
the shoulder of the glen and disappeared.

At length two huge black bears were roused from their den among some
rocks which overhung the little stream, and with loud roars, which were
heard by all, strove to pass through the line; they were met by the
swords and shields of fifty men upon whom they rushed, and, though they
strove gallantly for their lives and wounded several, they were cut to
pieces.

The party had now proceeded about half way, and there was before the
Sultaun’s elephant a patch of dry rank grass which reached above its
middle—even above old Hyder’s, who far exceeded all the rest in height;
it was of small extent, however, and was already half surrounded by
elephants with their gay howdahs and more gaily dressed riders.

‘Hold!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘we would try this alone, or with only a few;
it is a likely place. Come, Khan, and you Meer Sahib, and you Syud
Ghuffoor, see what ye can do to help us; now, Kasim Ali, prove to me
that thou canst shoot—Bismilla!’

‘Bismilla!’ cried one and all, and the Mahouts urging on the noble
beasts, they entered the long grass together. They had not gone many
yards, when Hyder, who led, raised his white trunk high into the air,
giving at the same time one of those low growls which proved there was
something concealed before him. ‘Shabash, Hyder!’ cried the Sultaun,
‘thou shalt eat goor for this; get on, my son, get on!’

The noble beast seemed almost to understand him, for he quickened his
pace even without the command of the Mahout. At that moment a rocket,
discharged from the side, whizzed through the grass before them. The
effect was instantaneous; two beautiful tigers arose at once. One of
them stood for an instant, looking proudly around him, and lashing his
tail as he surveyed the line of elephants, several of which were
restless and cowardly; the other tried to sneak off, but was stopped by
a shot which turned him; and with a terrific roar, which sounded clear
far above the din of the beaters, it charged the nearest elephant. It
was beaten off, however, receiving several shots, and was then followed
by a crowd of the hunters.

Kasim and the Khan had a mind to pursue it too, but the former’s
attention was at once attracted to the Sultaun, who, having fired and
wounded the other tiger, had been charged by it, and had just fired
again; he had missed, however, and the animal, excited to fury, had
sprung at old Hyder—a far different foe to that his companion had
attacked. Hyder had received the onset firmly, and as the tiger strove
to fasten upon his shoulders had kicked him off; but at the second
charge, when the Sultaun could not fire, the tiger had seized the
elephant’s leg, and was tearing it with all the energy of rage, which
now defied his exertions to shake him off.

In vain did the Sultaun try to fire; he could see the tiger only for a
moment at a time, and as Hyder was no longer steady, he again missed his
aim. Kasim was, however, near, and with others was anxiously watching
his opportunity to fire; but ere he could do so, one of the men on foot,
a stout brawny soldier, with sword drawn and his buckler on his arm, and
to whom death had no terror in comparison with gaining distinction under
the Sultaun’s own eye, dashed at the tiger, and dealt him a fierce blow
on the loins. The blood gushed forth, and the brute, instantly quitting
his hold, turned upon the man with a roar which appalled all hearts; the
latter met him manfully, but was unskilful, or the beast was too
powerful. All was the work of an instant: the tiger and the man rolled
upon the ground,—but only one arose; the lacerated and bleeding body of
the brave fellow lay there, his features turned upwards to the sun, and
his eyes fixed in the leaden stare of death. Now was Kasim’s
opportunity; as the tiger looked around him for an instant to make
another spring—he fired; the brute reeled a few paces to the foot of the
Sultaun’s elephant, fell back, and his dying struggles were shortened by
the vigorous kicks of the old elephant, who bandied the carcass between
his legs like a football.

‘Bus! bus! old Hyder,’ cried the Sultaun, who had been soundly shaken.
‘Enough! enough! he is dead—thanks to thy friend yonder;—what! not
satisfied yet? Well, then, this to please thee,’ and he fired again. It
was apparently sufficient, for the noble beast became once more
composed.

While the Mahout[39] dismounted to examine the elephant’s wounds, the
Sultaun made some hurried inquiries regarding the man who had been
killed. No one, however, knew him; so directing his body to be borne to
the rear, and the Mahout having reported that there was no injury of
consequence done to Hyder, the Sultaun, and with him the whole line,
once more pressed forward.

-----

Footnote 39:

Elephant-driver.

-----

As he passed Kasim, the Sultaun now greeted him heartily. ‘Thou didst me
good service, youth,’ he cried; ‘but for thee my poor Hyder would have
been sorely hurt. Enough—look sharp! there may be more work for thy gun
yet.’

So indeed there was: at every step, as they advanced, the quantity of
game appeared to increase; another bear was aroused, and, after
producing a vast deal of merriment and shouting, was slain as the former
ones had been. Several hyænas were speared or shot; guns were discharged
in all directions at the deer and hogs which were everywhere running
about, and bullets were flying, much to the danger of those engaged in
the wild and animated scene: indeed one or two men were severely wounded
during the day.

Suddenly, when they had nearly reached the head of the glen, the
Sultaun, who was leading, stopped; the others hastened after him, as
fast as the thick crowd would allow, and all beheld a sight which raised
their excitement to the utmost. Before them, on a small open spot, under
a rock, close to the right side of the glen, stood three elephants; one
a huge male, the others a female and her calf, of small stature.

No one spoke—all were breathless with anxiety; for it was impossible to
say whether it would be advisable to attack the large elephant where he
stood, or to allow him to advance. The latter seemed to be the most
prevalent opinion; and the Sultaun awaited his coming, while he hallooed
to those in advance to urge him on. The noble monarch of the forest
stood awaiting his foes—his brethren, who were thus trained to act
against him. His small red eye twinkled with excitement; his looks were
savage, and he appeared almost resolved upon a rush, to endeavour to
break the line and escape, or perish. He did not move, but stood holding
a twig in his trunk, as if in very excess of thought he had torn it down
and still held it. However, there was no time for consideration. As the
Sultaun raised his gun to his shoulder several shots were fired, and the
noble beast, impelled by rage and agony, rushed at once upon the nearest
elephant among his enemies. A shower of balls met him, but he heeded
them not: he was maddened, and could see or feel only his own revenge.
In vain the Mahout of the elephant that was attacked strove to turn his
beast, which had been suddenly paralysed by fear; but the wild one
appeared to have no revengeful feelings against his fellow. While they
all looked on, without being able to afford the least aid, the wild
elephant had seized in his trunk the Mahout of the one he had attacked,
wheeled him round high in the air, and dashed him upon the ground. A cry
of horror burst from all present, and a volley of bullets were rained
upon him; it had the effect of making him drop the body: but though
sorely wounded, he did not fall, and retreating, he passed from their
sight into the thick jungle.

‘Pursue! pursue!’ cried Tippoo from his elephant. ‘Ya Mahomed! are our
beards to be defiled by such a brute? Inshalla! we will have him yet. A
hundred rupees to him who shoots him dead.’

The crowd hurried on; their excitement had reached almost a kind of
madness; and the reward offered by the Sultaun, and the hope of his
favour, had operated as a powerful stimulus. Everyone scrambled to be
first, horsemen and foot, and those who rode the elephants, all in
confusion, and shouting more tumultuously than ever. All other game was
disregarded in the superior excitement; even two panthers, who, roused
at last, savagely charged everybody and everything they came near, were
hardly regarded, and were killed after a desperate battle by those in
the rear. Those in the van still hurried on—the Sultaun leading, the
Khan and Kasim as near to him as etiquette would allow, and the rest
everywhere around them.

They were close to the top of the glen; the murmur of the fall could
sometimes be heard when the shouting ceased for an instant, and its
white and sparkling foam glistened through the branches of some noble
teak-trees which stood around the little basin. The ground underneath
them was quite clear, so that the elephants could advance easily.

‘He is there—I see him!’ cried the Sultaun, aiming at the wounded
elephant, and firing. ‘Holy Alla, he comes! be ready—Fire!’

The noble animal came thundering on with his trunk uplifted, roaring
fearfully, followed by two others, one a large female, who had a small
calf with her, not larger than a buffalo; the other a male not nearly
grown. It was a last and desperate effort to break the line; the blood
was streaming from fifty wounds in his sides, and he was already weak;
with that one effort he had hoped to have saved himself and the female,
but in vain. As he came on, the Khan cried hurriedly to Kasim, ‘Above
the eye! above the eye! you are sure of him there.’ He was met by a
shower of balls, several of which hit him in the head. He seemed to
stagger for a moment; his trunk, which had been raised high in the air,
dropped, and he fell; his limbs quivered for an instant, and then he lay
still in death. Kasim’s bullet had been too truly aimed.

‘Shabash, Shabash! he is dead!’ shouted the Sultaun, wild with
excitement; ‘now for the rest. Spare the young one; now for the
female—beware, she will be savage!’

But she was not so at first; she retreated as far as the rock would
allow her, and placing herself between her enemies and her calf, which,
unconscious of danger, still strove to suck her milk, she tried to
protect it from the shot, that hit her almost every time. Now and then
she would utter low plaintive moans, which if those who fired at her
possessed any feeling, would have pleaded with them to leave her
unmolested. At times, goaded on by maddening pain, she charged the line,
but only to be driven back foiled and disheartened.

‘Ya Alla!’ cried Kasim, ‘will they not let her go free—she and the young
one? Listen, Khan, to her moans. By the Prophet I will not fire—I
cannot.’

But the others continued the attack; and it was evident that she could
not hold out much longer. She made one more desperate effort, but was
beaten back by loud shouts and rockets, and her moans, and the cries of
the calf, became more piteous than ever.

‘For the sake of Alla put her out of pain!’ said the Khan. ‘Aim now
again just over the eye, in the temple; be steady, the shot is sure to
kill. Now! see they are going to fire again at her.’

Kasim raised his unerring matchlock: the firing had ceased at the
moment—all were loading. One sharp crack was heard, and the poor beast
sank down without a moan or a struggle.

A crowd rushed forward to seize the calf, which was pushing its mother
with its proboscis and head, as if to raise her up, uttering even more
touching and piteous cries than ever. Alas! to no purpose. It had by a
miracle escaped the shower of balls, and was strong enough to give much
trouble to its captors ere it was secured. The Sultaun, who had looked
on in silence, now dismounted to examine it; and all his officers and
courtiers, Mahomedan and Hindoo, followed his example. The scene was a
striking one, as that splendidly-dressed group stood beneath the shade
of the noble teak-trees, by the waterfall and the clear stream which
murmured over shining pebbles. Behind them was the rock, a sheer
precipice of fifty feet, covered with flowers and creepers and beautiful
mosses; by it lay the dead female, and near her the male elephant, whose
length some were measuring and registering.

Already more than one had tried the temper of his sword upon the dead
elephant’s carcass, and the Sultaun stepped forward to see the exercise,
which requires a strong and steady hand, and a fair cut, or the sword
would bend or break.

Many had performed the feat with various success—none better than our
friend Kasim; and many others were awaiting their turn, when the young
elephant, bound and secured, was brought before the Sultaun. Instantly
it appeared to Kasim that his eye lighted up with the same cruel
expression he had once or twice noticed, and his countenance to appear
as if a sudden thought had struck him.

‘Bind it fast!’ he cried to the attendants, ‘tie it so that it cannot
move.’ For the poor thing was bleating and crying out loudly at its rude
usage, while its innocent face and tremblings expressed terror most
strongly. The order was obeyed—it was bound with ropes to two adjacent
trees.

‘Now,’ cried the Sultaun, looking around him proudly, and drawing his
light but keen blade, ‘by the blessing of the Prophet we are counted to
have some skill in our Qusrut—let us prove it!’ So saying, and while a
shudder at the cruelty of the act ran round the circle, and the Hindoos
present trembled at the impiety, he bared his arm, and advancing, poised
himself on one foot, while the glittering blade was uplifted above his
head. At last it descended; but being weakly aimed, the back of the poor
beast yielded to the blow, while it screamed with the pain. Almost human
was that scream! The Sultaun tried again and again, losing temper at
every blow, but with no better success.

‘Curse on the blade!’ he cried, throwing it upon the ground; ‘it is not
sharp enough, or we should have cut the beast in two pieces at a blow.’
Several stepped forward and offered their swords; he took one and looked
around—his eye was full of wanton mischief. ‘Now Ramah, Seit,’ he cried
to a portly Hindoo banker who was near, ‘thou shalt try.’

‘May I be your sacrifice,’ said the banker, joining his hands, and
advancing terror-stricken, your slave is no soldier; he never used a
sword in his life.’

‘Peace!’ exclaimed the Sultaun, stamping on the ground, ‘dost thou dare
to disobey? Take the sword, O son of perdition, and strike for thy life,
else it shall be worse for thee.’

‘But your slave is a Hindoo,’ urged the trembling banker, ‘to whom
shedding the blood of an elephant is damnable.’

‘It is right it should be so,’ cried Tippoo, whose most dangerous
passion, bigotry, was instantly aroused by the speech; ‘what say ye, my
friends? this is a kafir, an enemy of the true faith; why should he not
be made to help himself on to perdition?’ and he laughed a low,
chuckling, brutal laugh, which many remembered long after.

‘A wise speech! Ah, rare words! Whose speech is like the Sultaun’s?’
cried most of those around; ‘let him obey orders or die!’

‘Therefore take the sword, most holy Sahoukar,’ continued the Sultaun,
with mock politeness, ‘and strike thy best.’

The poor man, in very dread of his life, which indeed had been little
worth had he disobeyed—advanced and made a feeble stroke, amidst many
protestations of want of skill. His excuses were received with shouts of
laughter and derision by the ribald soldiery, who, with many of his
flatterers, now surrounded the Sultaun, and urged him on. The man was
forced to repeat the blow many times, nor was there a Hindoo present who
was not compelled to take a part in the inhuman barbarity.

Why dwell on the scene further? The miserable animal was hacked at by
the strong and by the weak—bleating and moaning the while in tones of
pain and agony, which grew fainter and fainter, until death released it
from its tormentors. Then only did the Sultaun remount his elephant; and
the human tiger, sated for that day with blood, hunted no more.

‘By Alla and his Prophet!’ said Kasim to the Khan as they returned, and
unable any longer to keep his indignant silence, ‘should there be a
repetition of this, I vow to thee I will forswear his service. This is
the second instance I have seen of his cruelty: hast thou forgotten the
bull?’

‘I have not,’ said the Khan; ‘I well remember it; but this is the worst
thing he has ever done, and is the effect of the refusal of the
marriage. He is ever thus after being violently provoked; but it is much
if Alla does not repay him for it with reverses—we shall see.’

Their horses were at the entrance of the glen, and alighting from their
elephant, they mounted them, and rode on towards the camp, which, with
its innumerable white tents, could be seen from the elevated ground on
which they then stood, at about two miles distant, backed by the blue
distance, and the noble range of the Neelgherry mountains. Here and
there groves of date or palm-trees studded the plain, and in places were
seen dense jungles, between which were open patches of cultivation, and
little villages with their white temples or mosques. The thousands who
had come out for the sport were now returning, some in crowds together,
singing a wild song in chorus, others in smaller groups chatting upon
the events of the day. Here and there was a palankeen, its bearers
crying their monotonous song as they moved, bearing to the camp either
some one too indolent or too grand to ride on horseback, or else the
fair inhabitant of the Sultaun’s or some other harem, who had been
allowed to see as much as was possible of the amusement of the royal
hunt.

‘That is surely the Khanum’s palankeen,’ said Kasim, as its well-known
appearance met his view at a turn of the road.

‘Yes,’ said the Khan, ‘she has been dull of late, and I begged her to
come out; she could have seen nothing, however, and ’tis well she could
not, for that butchery was horrible. Bah! how the creature bleated!’

‘I wish it had not been, Khan, but there is no use speaking of it now.
But how is it that the Khanum is unattended in such a crowd as this?
Some loocha[40] or shoda[40] might insult her, or say something
disagreeable.’

-----

Footnote 40:

Disreputable fellow.

-----

‘By the Prophet! well remarked—the horsemen must have lost her; let us
ride up and see.’ They urged their horses into a canter, and were soon
with her.

‘How is this?’ cried the Khan to the Naik of the bearers; ‘how comes it
that thou art alone?’

‘Khodawund!’ replied the man, ‘we lost the escort, and so thought we had
better return by ourselves, for we knew not where to look for them in
such a crowd.’

‘We had better stay by the palankeen ourselves, Khan Sahib,’ said Kasim;
and Ameena well remembered the tones of his voice, though she had not
heard it for some months; ‘it is not safe that the lady should be here
alone.’

‘Be it so then, Kasim; we will not leave her.’

In a few minutes, however, the Sultaun, who they thought was before, but
who had lingered behind to shoot deer, advanced rapidly on horseback at
the head of the brilliant group of his officers;—a gay sight were they,
as the afternoon sun glanced from spear and sword, from shield,
matchlock, and steel cap, and from their fluttering scarfs of gay
colours and gold and silver tissue. A band of spearmen, bearing the
heavy broad-bladed spears of the Carnatic ornamented with gay tassels,
preceded him, calling out his titles in extravagant terms, and running
at their full speed. Behind him was the crowd of officers and
attendants, checking their gaily caparisoned and plunging horses; and
quite in the rear, followed the whole of the elephants, their bells
jingling in a confused clash, and urged on by their drivers at their
fullest speed to keep pace with the horses. The Sultaun sat his
beautiful grey Arab with the ease and grace of a practised cavalier, now
checking the ardent creature and nearly throwing him backwards, now
urging him on to make bounds and leaps, which showed how admirably he
had been taught his paces, and displayed his own and his rider’s figure
to the best advantage.

‘By Alla, ’tis a gallant sight, Kasim!’ said the Khan; for they had
drawn up to one side, as the cavalcade came thundering on over a level
and open spot, to let it pass; ‘looking at them, a soldier’s eye
glistens and his heart swells; does not thine do so? Look out, my
pearl!’ he cried to Ameena; ‘veil thyself and look out—the Sultaun
comes.’

‘My heart beats,’ said Kasim, ‘but not as it would were he who rides
yonder a man whom I could love as well as fear.’

‘Inshalla!’ cried the Khan, ‘thou wilt forget to-day’s work ere long,
and then thou wilt love the Lion of the Faith, the terrible in war, even
as I do. Inshalla! what Sultaun is there on the earth like him, the
favoured of Alla, before whom the infidels are as chaff in the wind? But
see, he beckons to me; so remain thou with the Khanum, and bring her
into camp.’ And so saying, the Khan gave the rein to his impatient
charger, and bounded onwards to meet the Sultaun, who appeared to
welcome him kindly.

Kasim saw the Khan draw up beside him; joining his hands as if speaking
to him; and as the wild and glittering group hurried by, horses and
elephants intermingled, he lost sight of him among the crowd, and the
cavalcade rapidly disappeared behind a grove of trees.

And now she, who for many months had often filled his dreams by night,
and been the almost constant companion of his thoughts by day, was alone
with him. He had seen her fair and tiny hand shut the door of the
palankeen, which was an impenetrable screen to his longing eyes; and he
would have given anything he possessed for one glance—to have heard one
word, though he dared not have spoken to her.

And in truth, the thoughts of the fair inmate of the vehicle, which was
being borne along at the utmost speed of the bearers, were busied also
in a variety of speculations upon her young guardian. Did he remember
her still? had he still the handkerchief with which his wound had been
bound? for he had never returned it. Did he remember how she handed him
matchlock after matchlock, to fire upon the wild Mahrattas, and cried
with the rest Shabash! when they said his aim was true? She had not
forgotten the most trivial incident; for her heart, in the lack of
society, had brooded on these occurrences; they were associated too, in
her youthful mind, with the appearance of one so noble and gallant, of
whom she heard such constant and florid encomiums from the Khan her
husband, that it would have been strange had she not dwelt on this
remembrance with more than friendship for the author of them. But the
current of these thoughts—when his noble figure was present to her
imagination—as he had dashed on hotly in pursuit of the Mahrattas,—was
suddenly and rudely interrupted by a hubbub, the reason of which she
could not at first comprehend.

The bearers were proceeding rapidly, when, at a turning of the cross
road which they had taken for shortness, they perceived an elephant, one
of the royal procession, which, either maddened by the excitement of the
hunt, or goaded to desperation by its driver, was running hither and
thither upon the road in the wildest manner. The Mahout repeatedly drove
his sharp ankoos[41] into its lacerated head; but this appeared to
enrage, and make it the more restive, instead of compelling it to go
forward, as was evidently his wish.

-----

Footnote 41:

Pointed goads with which elephants are driven.

-----

The bearers stopped suddenly, and appeared irresolute; to attempt to
pass the infuriated animal was madness, and yet what to do immediately
was difficult to determine, for the road was bounded by a thick and
impenetrable hedge of the prickly pear. It was in vain that Kasim
shouted to the Mahout to go on, for he did not immediately comprehend
the cause of the elephant’s behaviour; the obstinate beast could not be
moved in the direction required—it was impossible to force him through
the hedge, and it was frightful to see his behaviour, and to hear the
wild screams and trumpetings he uttered when struck with the sharp goad.
Kasim saw there was danger, but he had little time for thought; he
however drew his sword, and had just ordered the bearers to retreat
behind the corner, when the elephant, which by a sudden turn had seen
what was behind, uplifted its trunk, and with a loud cry dashed forward.

Kasim was brave and cool; and yet there was something so frightful in
the desperate rush of the maddened animal, that his heart almost failed
him; nor could he discover whether it was himself or the palankeen that
was the object of the elephant’s attack; but he had confidence in the
activity of his horse,—his sword was in his hand, and he little feared
for himself. The elephant’s advance was instantaneous; Kasim saw the
palankeen was his object, and dashing forward almost as he reached it,
he struck with his whole force at the brute’s trunk, which was just
within reach. The blow and pain turned the animal from his purpose, but
his huge bulk grazed the palankeen, which, with its terrified bearers,
fell heavily and rudely to the ground, and rolled upon its side.

Kasim heard the scream of Ameena (who had been unable to discover the
cause of the alarm, and was afraid to open the door) the moment the
shock was given, and throwing himself from his horse he hurried to her
assistance, for he was certain she must be severely hurt. This was no
time for ceremony; in an instant the palankeen was set upright, the door
opened, and seeing the fair girl lying, as he thought, senseless within,
he cried out for water, while he supported her inanimate figure, and
poured forth a torrent of passionate exclamations which he could not
restrain.

But no water was there to be had, and it was fortunate that the lady had
received no serious injury; she was stunned and extremely terrified; but
a few moments of rest, and the consciousness of Kasim’s presence,
revived her. Instantly a thought of her situation, and her own modesty,
caused her to cover herself hurriedly with her veil, which had become
disarranged; and, not daring to look upon Kasim, whose incoherent
inquiries were sounding in her ears, she implored him in a few broken
sentences to leave her, and to have her carried onwards. He obeyed,
though he would have given worlds to have heard her voice longer, broken
and agitated as it was; he withdrew sadly, yet respectfully; and the
danger being past—for the elephant had fled madly down the road by which
they had come—they pursued their way to the camp.

-------

CHAPTER XXX.

‘But he saw my face—he must have seen it,’ cried Ameena; as, after
relating the adventure to her lord, she was lying upon the soft cushions
which had been spread for her. ‘I was not sensible, and he thought I
must be hurt. Ah, what wilt thou not think of me, my lord!’ And she hid
her burning face in her hands upon the pillow.

‘What matter, fairest?’ replied the Khan, as, bending over her with much
concern in his countenance, he parted the hair upon her forehead and
kissed it tenderly. ‘What matter? had it been another, indeed, who had
opened thy palankeen, the officious rascal should have paid dearly for
his temerity: but Kasim—why should it concern thee? did he not save thy
life? and is he not my friend? and now again have we not cause to be
thankful to him? Let this not distress thee therefore, but praise Alla,
as I do, that thou art safe.’

It was not, however, the simple gaze of Kasim upon her face that had
disturbed the agitated girl, though in confessing this to her lord she
sought ease from other thoughts which were engrossing her. He had seen
her face; happy were it if that had been the only result of the
accident; but the passionate words which in his anxiety for her he had
uttered, had fallen upon her ears, and but too readily accorded with her
own previous thoughts; she remembered, too, as she looked around with
returning consciousness after the shock, how she had seen his expressive
eyes, lighted up with enthusiasm and anxiety, gazing on her; and she had
read in them, even had he not spoken, that he loved her. And when she
repeated to her husband again and again that Kasim had looked upon her
face, that was all she dared to tell him of what had happened.

Poor Ameena! the Khan’s constant theme of conversation had been Kasim
Ali, as from time to time any new feat of arms, of horsemanship, any new
weapon or gay dress he had worn, attracted his attention; he would
delight to relate all to her minutely, to recount how adroitly he had
foiled such an one, how handsome he had looked, and to dwell upon these
themes with expressions of praise and satisfaction at Kasim’s daily
proving himself more and more worthy of his patronage. Often would he
foretell an exalted station for the young man, from the Sultaun’s early
selection of him to fulfil so delicate a mission as that to Hyderabad;
and on that very day, when he had been beckoned by the Sultaun, it was
to hear the praises of Kasim Ali, to be asked whether it was not he who
had won the reward he had offered; and, upon his answering in the
affirmative, the Sultaun had graciously bidden him bring Kasim to the
morning Durbar, when he should be enrolled once more among his personal
attendants.

Ameena was obliged to listen to all this; and after listening, she would
brood over these discourses upon his noble qualities, until her heart
grew sick at the thought that to _her_ none such would ever be—and her
dearest hopes, for one to love her in whom should be united all those
qualities which she heard he possessed, had long ago been blighted for
ever. She needed no new event to remind her of Kasim’s first service,
nor to impress more strongly upon her mind his noble but melancholy
features; which, except when lighted up by the hot excitement of battle,
habitually wore a sad expression. And yet the last adventure had come,
like the first, unsought and unexpected, and the consequences were sad
to both. In Ameena, producing an inward shame, a consciousness of
harbouring thoughts she dared not reveal—a vain striving between her
honour to her lord and her love for the young man his friend. In Kasim,
a burning passion—which, as it exists in Asiatics, is almost
irrepressible—struggling with his high feelings of rectitude, of
respect, nay of affection for him he served, which was hardly to be
endured.

And thus it continued, producing misery in both; except in
forgetfulness, there was indeed no alleviation; and that was impossible,
for they thought of little else than of each other, through the long
hours of the days and nights which followed.

The Sultaun had ordered the Khan to bring Kasim Ali before him in the
morning after the usual march, but it was in vain that his messengers
sought him, to apprise him of the order; he had been seen to ride off
after the arrival of the Khanum, and was not to be found. In truth, the
young man felt himself unable to meet the Khan with any composure after
what had happened, and he also dreaded (if Ameena had heard the
expressions he uttered) that she was offended. He had no possible means
of ascertaining this—of imploring her not to denounce him to the Khan,
as faithless and treacherous; and under the influence of these mingled
and agitating feelings, the young man continued to ride hither and
thither as if without a purpose—now in some level spot urging his horse
into a furious gallop, to gain release from the thoughts which almost
maddened him—again allowing him to walk slowly, while he brooded over
the exquisite beauty and gentleness of her whom he had twice saved from
injury, perhaps from destruction.

But the hour for evening prayer drew nigh, and he turned his horse
towards the camp: its many fires were everywhere twinkling upon the fast
darkening plain, and the deep sounds of the evening kettle-drums,
mingled with the dull and distant murmur of thousands of voices, were
borne clearly upon the evening wind.

He quickened his pace, and as the sonorous and musical voices of the
Muezzins among the army, proclaiming the Azan,[42] called the faithful
into their various groups for prayer, he rode up to the Khan’s tent,
where the usual number had their carpets spread, and awaited the proper
moment for commencement. Kasim joined them, but the act of supplication
had little effect in quieting his agitation; the idea that Ameena might
have told all that had passed precluded every other thought, and caused
a feeling of apprehension, from which he could not release himself.

-----

Footnote 42:

Call to prayer.

-----

When the prayer was ended, the Khan addressed him in his usual kind and
hearty manner, and calling him into his private tent, poured out his
thanks, and those of Ameena, for his timely and gallant assistance in
her late extreme danger. As he spoke, Kasim at once saw there was no
cause for suspicion; and as the dread of detection passed from his
heart, a feeling of tumultuous joy, that his words had not been ill
received by her to whom he had addressed them, on the instant filled its
place, and for a while disturbed those high principles which hitherto
had been the rule of his conduct.

‘And now,’ said the Khan, after he had fairly overwhelmed the young man
with thanks, ‘I have news, and good news for thee! thou art ordered to
attend the morning Durbar, and I suspect for thy good. The Sultaun (may
his condescension increase!) has looked once more with an eye of favour
upon thee; he means to give thee a command among his guards, and to
attach thee to his person. I shall lose thee therefore, Kasim, but thou
wilt ever find me as sincere and devoted a friend as thou hast hitherto
done. We may soon be separated, but so long as we march thus day after
day, indeed so long as this campaign continues, we may at least
associate together as we have been accustomed to do.’

Kasim could hardly reply intelligibly to the Khan’s kind expressions.
That he had been exerting his influence with the Sultaun on his account,
he could have no doubt; and this, with the affectionate friendship he
had professed, again very powerfully brought all the young man’s best
feelings to his aid, and he went from his presence late in the evening,
with a determination to seek Ameena no more, and, if possible, to drive
all concern for her from his heart. Vain thought! Away from the Khan,
his excited imagination still dwelt upon her, and his visions that night
of their mutual happiness almost appeared to him an earnest that they
would be ultimately realised.

He accompanied the Khan as usual during the march, for the army
proceeded the next morning on its way, and at its early close he rode
with him to the place where the Sultaun held his morning Durbar, in some
anxiety as to what would happen. The tents of the monarch had not been
pitched, for under the thick shade of some enormous tamarind-trees there
was found ample space for the assembly; and pillows had been placed, and
soft carpets spread for his reception. One by one the different leaders
and officers of rank arrived, and dismounting ranged themselves about
the place which had been set apart for the Sultaun: their gay dresses
somewhat sobered in colour by the deep shade the trees cast upon them,
and contrasting powerfully with the green foliage, which descended in
heavy masses close to the ground. On the outskirts of the spot the
grooms led about their chargers, whose loud and impatient neighings
resounded through the grove. On one side the busy camp could be seen, as
division after division of horse and foot arrived in turn, and took up
their ground in regular order.

At last the Sultaun’s kettle-drums were heard, and in a few minutes he
galloped up at the head of a crowd of attendants, and immediately
dismounting, advanced into the centre of the group, and returned the low
obeisances of those who hastened to offer them. There were a few reports
to be listened to, one or two summary and fearful punishments to be
inflicted; and these done, the Sultaun turned to Rhyman Khan, who stood
near him.

‘Where is the young man?’ he said; ‘we have thought much of him during
the night, and our dreams have confirmed the previous visions we have
mentioned regarding him. Therefore let him be brought, we would fain do
justice in his case: this is a fortunate day and hour, as we have read
by the stars; and the planetary influences are propitious.’

Kasim was at hand, and amidst the crowd of courtiers, sycophants, and
parasites, who would have given all they possessed to have been so
noticed, he advanced, performed the Tusleemât, and then stood with his
hands folded in an attitude of humility and attention.

‘Youth!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘we have heard that it was thou who killed
the mad elephant yesterday, when our royal hand trembled and our gun
missed fire. We offered a reward for that deed—dost thou claim it?’

‘May I be your sacrifice!’ replied Kasim, ‘I know not; what can I
say?—let the Khan answer for me.’

‘He has already told me all,’ cried the Sultaun, ‘therefore we have sent
for thee. Hear, then, and reflect on what we say to thee. Thou shalt be
raised higher than thou wast before, and we will arrange thy pay
hereafter. It will be thy business to attend on and accompany us; and in
the coming battles, in which by the aid of the Prophet we intend to
eclipse our former achievements, which are known to all—’

Here he looked around, and cries of ‘Wonderful! The Sultaun is great and
valiant! he eats mountains and drinks rivers! before his eye the livers
of his enemies melt into water!’ passed from mouth to mouth.

‘Therefore,’ he continued, after a pause, ‘do thy service well and
boldly, and it shall be good for thee that thou hast eaten the salt of
Tippoo. Thou art Jemadar from this time forth, O Kasim Ali! and hear all
of ye that it is so ordered.’

The congratulations of all fell upon the gladdened ears of the young
Patél, who, in truth, as he bowed lowly and fell back among the crowd,
was somewhat bewildered by his new honour, so great and so unexpected.
Now he should rank with the men of consequence,—nay, he was one himself;
and he felt, as was natural, proud and elated at his promotion.

The Khan’s joy knew no bounds. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘thou wouldest be
taken into favour, and have thy pay increased, but this is most
excellent. By Alla! Kasim, say or think what thou wilt, the Sultaun has
a rare discrimination. Wilt thou now forget the scene of yesterday, and
the young elephant?’

‘I shall never forget it,’ said Kasim, ‘but I pray Alla it may never be
repeated.’

‘Ameen!’ responded the Khan; ‘yet listen—the Sultaun speaks.’

And the voice of the Sultaun was again heard, interrupting the Khan.
‘Proclaim silence!’ he cried to the attendants; and after the loud cries
of ‘Khamoosh! khamoosh!’ had in some degree subsided, he addressed the
assembled officers, whose number was every moment increased by other
wild and martial figures from the camp, who crowded behind the rest on
tiptoe to hear his address.

‘Ye all know,’ he said, ‘how the infidel Rajah of Travancore—who has his
portion already with the accursed—has allowed our rebellious and infidel
subjects the Nairs to have shelter in his territory. We have demanded
them from him, and have met with insult and scorn in his replies; are
we, who are the chosen of Alla, to bear this patiently?’

‘Let him die! let him be sent to hell!’ cried the assembly with one
voice, their passions suddenly aroused by this abrupt address.

‘Stay!’ continued Tippoo—his visage becoming inflamed, and his eye
glistening like that of a tiger’s chafing into fury,—‘we, by the favour
of Alla, possess accurate knowledge of the councils of the unbelievers
and of the kafir English. We know that this miserable Rajah is upheld by
them in his contumacy; but we have ere now humbled their pride. Baillie
and Mathews, with their hosts—where are they? and we will, Inshalla!
humble them again, and drive them into the sea! They have threatened us
with war if we attack the wall which this Rajah hath built upon our
subjects’ territory, and over which we have a right to pass to Cochin,
whither it is our pleasure to go. Say, therefore, my friends, shall
there be peace? Shall we, who wear swords on our thighs, eat dirt at the
hands of these lying and damnable kafirs? or shall—’

The remainder of his speech was lost. The cry for war was as one voice.
He had appealed to the fierce passions of his officers, who saw only
victory in prospect, and they had responded as warmly as he could wish.

‘Be it so,’ cried the Sultaun, when the tumult was stilled; ‘in a few
days we shall see this wonderful wall, of which we hear things that
would produce terror in any mind less strong or valiant than our own;
and then, Inshalla-ta-Alla! we will see what can be done by the army of
the Government, which is the gift of Alla, led by him who is an apostle
sent to scourge all kafirs and sceptics. You have your dismissal
now;—go, and prepare your men for this service. Mashalla! victory awaits
our footsteps!’

In a few days afterwards the army arrived within sight of the wall; it
was of considerable height and thickness, had a broad and deep ditch in
front, and presented a formidable obstacle to the invading army. It is
probable that, had Tippoo attacked the wall at once, he might have
carried it by escalade; but he was evidently uncertain as to the result
of his negotiations; he hesitated for a time to strike a blow which must
inevitably embroil him with the English, and therefore drew off a short
distance to the northward; where, engaged in correspondence with the
English and Travancore Governments, he passed most of his time, thus
allowing his enemy every opportunity to increase his force and prepare
for resistance.

Kasim’s post near the Sultaun’s person led him into daily and close
communication with the monarch, and he gradually gained an insight into
his extraordinary character. Sometimes, when he uttered the noblest and
loftiest sentiments of honour, he would love and respect him; again some
frivolous or ridiculous idea would get possession of his imagination,
and drive him into the commission of a thousand absurdities and terrible
cruelties. It was no uncommon thing to see beyond the precincts of the
camp a row of miserable Hindoos hanging upon trees, who had defied the
Sultaun’s efforts at conversion, and had preferred death rather than
change the religion of their fathers. For Shekh Jaffur had arrived in
camp with a division of the army which was ordered to join from the
Canarese provinces, where he had been particularly active against the
Nairs; and to him Tippoo delegated the direction of the torture and
punishment of those Hindoos, whom, on the slightest pretext, either of
rebellion, disobedience, or denial of supplies, they could get into
their hands. With this duty Kasim Ali had no concern; but he observed
that under the other it flourished, and that day after day some wretched
beings were dragged before the monarch, whose death appeared to stay his
appetite for slaughter till the negotiation should end, as he expected,
by his letting loose his army upon the defenders of Travancore.

But month after month passed, and the season was advancing; the immense
preparations of the English, the Nizam, and the Mahrattas, to join in
one common league for his destruction were everywhere reported; it was
necessary for him to strike some blow, else, after the preparations he
had made and the threats he had promulgated, his conduct would appear in
a weak and puerile light to his enemies. To Kasim Ali this state of
inactivity was insupportable; he had hoped from the Sultaun’s address
that the army would at once have been led to battle, and he was
disappointed beyond expression when, after a trifling skirmish before
the wall, the whole drew off to that ground it was destined to occupy
for so long. Instead of active employment in the field, in the
excitement of which he might for the time forget Ameena, or strengthen
his resolution to think no more of her with love—there was absolute
stagnation.

The life he led was entirely the opposite of what he wished it, and
during the days of idleness and inactivity he had little else to do than
dream of her. But he refrained from seeking her, even when opportunity
was afforded by the return of his old friend the cook Zoolficar, who,
having been left at Seringapatam by the Khan, had been sent for upon the
misconduct and discharge of the one he had brought with him.

His arrival was heartily welcomed both by the Khan and Ameena; by the
first, because he could once more enjoy his excellent cookery and most
favourite concoctions; by the lady, because his sister, the old servant
of her family at Hyderabad, who had joined the worthy functionary at
Seringapatam, accompanied him to the camp. She was gladly welcomed by
Ameena, who, among the women that attended upon her, had no one to whom
she cared to open her heart; for they were all natives of the south,
with whom she had little communion of thought and feeling, and who spoke
her language indifferently.

With Meeran, however, almost a new existence commenced; while alone the
most part of the day—when the Khan’s duties and attendance upon the
Sultaun kept him away from her—she had few occupations except her own
thoughts, which were sad enough; yet in Meeran’s society, humble though
she was, she could ever find topics of conversation—of her home, her
family, her friends and acquaintance; old subjects long gone by were
revived and dwelt upon with all the zest of fresh occurrences; and the
incidents of her travel to the city, and every event connected with
herself since she left her home, were repeated again and again with that
minuteness which is commonly the result of a want of other occupation.

It hardly needed the very quick penetration common to a woman whose wits
had been sharpened by a residence in such a city as Hyderabad, to
discover very soon that her young and beautiful mistress was unhappy;
and Meeran heard so often of the young Patél, as Ameena still called
him, and found that she so evidently delighted to speak of him and his
acts, that she very naturally concluded that much of her unhappiness was
attributable to the young man, however innocent he might be of the
cause. For, after speaking of him, and describing his noble appearance
as she had seen it on several occasions, and repeating the constant
eulogiums of her lord, Ameena would often involuntarily find a tear
starting to her eye, or a deep-drawn sigh heave forth, which she fain
would have suppressed, but could not.

Now Meeran had from the first, and while there was yet a chance of
averting the evil, protested against the giving away of her child (for
so she called Ameena) to a man as old as the Khan for a sum of money;
and though she had every respect for him, yet she could see no harm,
after a little consideration, and the overcoming a few scruples, of
striving to help the lovers. She had nursed Ameena at her own breast,
she had tended her from infancy, had been the confidant of all her
secrets, and, if the truth were known, had helped the young girl to form
exactly such an idea of a lover as it appeared Kasim was—young, gallant,
handsome, and of a fine generous temper.

Kasim had renewed his acquaintance with the good-natured Zoolficar, and
on several occasions the man had come to his little tent upon one excuse
or another; sometimes to talk over their journey, sometimes to cook him
a dish he liked, when the Khan was employed elsewhere, and they did not
dine together. Often had their conversation fallen upon Ameena; and
though at first the mention of her name had been avoided by the young
Jemadar, yet the theme was so pleasant a one, that he insensibly dwelt
upon it more and more. Soon Kasim heard from the cook that his sister
was with his young mistress, and that she was happier in the society of
her old nurse than she had been before her arrival.

Habitual indulgence in conversation about her naturally begat a craving
in the young man to know all the particulars of Ameena’s daily
existence. The most trifling circumstances appeared to be welcome to
him; and it was not long ere Zoolficar, finding that he could not give
the information so greedily looked for as minutely as was required,
proposed that his sister should supply it. This, however pleasant, was
nevertheless a matter of more difficulty, and one that required
concealment; for it would have been at once fatal to Ameena’s
reputation, had her favourite servant been seen in private conversation
with one like Kasim Ali. Despite of obstacles, however, they contrived
to meet; and on the first of these interviews the nurse saw clearly
enough how passionately devoted Kasim was to her fair mistress, and how
precious to him was every detail of her life, of her meek and gentle
temper, and of her loving disposition. The nurse would often bewail her
unhappy destiny, in being cut off from all chance of real happiness in
company with the Khan; and she could appreciate, from the evident
agitation of the young man, and his half-suppressed exclamations, how
difficult it was for him to withhold an open declaration of his
thoughts. Yet she could not help seeing that through all this there was
nothing breathed of dishonour to the Khan, no wish to meet her whom she
was sure he so passionately loved.

It was not until after some time and many such conversations with the
young Jemadar, that Meeran dared to mention to Ameena that she had seen
him. She had heard from Kasim the account of his protection of her from
the enraged elephant, and he had confessed what he had then uttered.

‘She knows of his love, then,’ said Meeran mentally, ‘and she dares not
mention it to her old nurse. We shall see whether this humour will last
long. Inshalla! they shall yet be happy in each other’s society.’

She could not appreciate the nice morality either of Kasim or her young
mistress: she knew that neither was happy, and believed she had in her
power the means of making both so. ‘Could they but meet,’ she used to
say, ‘they might speak to each other, and even half the words that I
hear, spoken by one to the other, would set their hearts at rest for
ever.’

But Ameena grew really angry with the woman, that she had dared to think
of such a step, much less to speak of it. Meeran bore all
good-humouredly, but she determined to persevere, convinced that she was
acting for their mutual good.

Time passed on; the army advanced nearer to the wall, and at length the
Sultaun, tired of inactivity or protracted negotiation, determined to
strike the first blow in the strife, which it was useless to disguise to
himself was fast approaching; and could he but possess himself of
Travancore, his operations against the English would be materially
aided. His resolution was, however, suddenly and unexpectedly made.
Kasim with some men had been directed to examine a part of the defence
where the wall joined a precipice, some miles from the camp, and to
report the practicability of its assault. His statement confirmed the
Sultaun’s previous intentions, and he gave orders for the attacking
parties—ten thousand of the flower of his army—to prepare for immediate
action.

Kasim was aware that his post would be one of danger, for the Sultaun
was determined to lead the attack in person, and it was more than
probable that he would be bravely opposed by the defenders of the lines;
among these were many of the fugitive Nairs, who burned for an
opportunity of revenging upon the Sultaun’s army the many insults and
oppressions they had suffered.

Much, however, was hoped from so powerful an attack on an undefended
point; and the Sultaun’s order was delivered to the army on the
afternoon of Kasim’s report. The divisions for the assault were ordered
under arms after evening prayer, and all were in readiness, and exulting
that ere that time on the morrow the barrier before them would be
overcome, and the dominions of their enemy open to plunder.

The night was bright and clear and cool: there was no wind, and the
melancholy and shrill notes of the collery horn came up sharp upon the
ear from all parts of the wall before them, which extended for miles on
either side. Lights were twinkling here and there upon it, showing that
the watchers did not sleep, and sometimes the flash and report of a
musket or matchlock appeared or was heard, fired by one or other of the
parties. The camp of the Sultaun was alive with preparation, and the
busy hum of men arose high into the still air. Soon all was completed;
and when it was no longer doubtful that darkness veiled their
preparations, the mass of men moved slowly out of the camp, and led by
Kasim, took their way to the place he had discovered.

-------

CHAPTER XXXI.

The huge column moved slowly and silently onwards, aided by the light of
a brilliant moon. The Sultaun, at its head, sometimes on foot, at others
on horseback, or in bad places upon his elephant, cheered on his men and
officers with words he knew would best arouse their zeal and spirit.
There was hardly need, however, for the army proceeded as fast as the
nature of the ground would permit. All night they marched, but slowly
enough, through the narrow and rugged road, and sometimes through the
thick jungles; and often the Sultaun would turn to Kasim, and question
him about the path, evidently thinking that he had lost it, and that the
expedition would be in vain. But the young Jemadar was sure of the way;
the guides he had taken with him when he explored the path in the first
instance were also confident; and as morning broke, the dull grey light
disclosed the precipitous rock which was their object, close before
them.

‘Art thou sure this is the place, Kasim Ali?’ said the Sultaun, as he
rode backwards and forwards, vainly endeavouring to find the path which
led to the summit. ‘Art thou sure? By the Prophet, it will be worse for
thee if thou hast led us wrong!’

‘May I be your sacrifice,’ said Kasim, ‘this is the place. Let the army
halt here for a short time; your slave will take a few of the pioneers
and see if it be clear of the enemy; but it is not probable they would
defend it, so far from the gate, and in this wild jungle.’

‘I will accompany thee,’ replied the Sultaun; and despite the entreaties
of the numerous officers by whom he was surrounded, he rode after Kasim.
A strong body of infantry supported them in case of danger.

There was however none: the path, which was concealed from view by a
large tree, and ran up between two high rocks, was undefended. A few men
might have disputed it against a host, but the Sultaun’s threatening
disposition of troops in front of the gate, which was many miles
distant, had drawn all the defenders to that spot; and where the wall
terminated against the rock there was no one left to guard it.

Accompanied by a few of the household slaves, sword in hand, Kasim
advanced slowly and cautiously up the path. There was perfect silence,
except when a jungle fowl, scared from its roost by the unusual sound of
men’s feet, flew with a loud whirr into the dense thickets beyond the
pass; or when the ravens, aroused from the trees below, flew before them
from bush to bush, croaking their dismal welcome to the feast they
seemed to anticipate.

They gained the top without interruption; and Kasim, sending word to the
Sultaun (who had not ventured with the leading party up the pass) that
all was safe, went on to the edge of the precipice, and looked over the
scene before him.

The night mists still lay quietly in the hollows, looking like unruffled
lakes in the dim light; and here and there a huge rock, like the one on
which he stood, was surrounded by them, and appeared like an island.
Immediately below him all was clear, and the long columns and crowds of
persons—the elephants moving majestically about, and horsemen here and
there appearing where the jungle was thin or open—was a sight at which
the young soldier’s blood danced briskly through his veins; for all were
now pressing forward towards the pass, and he hoped that the leading
divisions would soon be at the summit. Away to the left, the line of
wall, with its bastions and towers, which so long had been their object
of desire, stretched over the undulating ground; but it was deserted,
except at a distant point, where two or three faintly twinkling lights
showed that a watch was kept.

‘By the Prophet, thy road is a rare one, Kasim Ali!’ said the Sultaun,
who had come up to him unobserved, and touched his shoulder; ‘the army
will soon be up, though it is somewhat narrow. Dost thou see any one
stirring on the wall?’

‘No one, my lord; they have all been deceived by the troops before the
gate, and imagine the attack is to be made there.’

‘Yes,’ said the Sultaun, ‘we are unrivalled in such stratagems; it was
ourself who planned the ambuscade which ended in the discomfiture of
Baillie and his kafirs; and we have ever exercised the talent which Alla
hath confided to us, among many others, of military skill, in which we
surpass the English and French—may their races be defiled!’

How long the Sultaun might have continued the theme of his own praises,
which was always a most pleasant one to him, it is impossible to say,
but his harangue was rather rudely interrupted by two shots, discharged
in quick succession from a distant part of the wall before them, one of
which whistled over their heads (for they were standing upon the crest
of the rock)—the other struck the ground a little below them.

‘Ha! so the rogues are awake,’ cried Kasim; ‘I beseech you, my lord, to
turn back, and not to expose yourself to danger. Your slave will lead
the way, and send these infidels to perdition.’

‘Inshalla!’ cried the Sultaun, yielding to the solicitations of all
around him, and retiring a few paces, ‘Inshalla! many will see the angel
of death ere night. On with ye! victory is before—cry Alla Yar! and set
on them. Think that ye fight for the faith, and that your Sultaun is
beholding your deeds of prowess.’

‘Alla Yar! Deen! Deen!’ was now shouted by the hoarse voices of the
crowd which occupied the top of the rock, and the cry flew from division
to division down the pass and into the plain; thousands shouted ‘Alla
Yar! Alla Yar!’ the Sultaun’s war-cry, and strained every nerve to press
onwards.

The shout of the army was answered by several single shots from the same
spot as before; and an officer of the regular infantry, who had been
standing on the very brink of the precipitous rock, was seen to toss his
arms wildly into the air, and, ere he could be caught by several who
rushed to his assistance, had fallen headlong into the thicket below.

‘Follow Kasim Ali Patél!’ cried the daring young man—for he was the
foremost, and the path was not at first apparent to the rest. Drawing
his sword and putting his arm through the loops of his shield, he dashed
down it, followed by a hundred of those who waited the signal of attack.

They scrambled down the side of the declivity on to the wall—there was
nothing that could be called a path for soldiers—and it was still so
dusk that objects could but ill be discerned. Once on the wall, however,
all was fair before them: the parapet was broad enough for three or four
men to pass abreast; but Kasim and the rest were obliged to wait a while
ere they were joined by a sufficient number to press on.

‘We shall have hot work ere long,’ said the officer who had accompanied
Kasim, ‘and this is no place for infantry to fight in—a narrow wall,
with a deep ditch on the one hand, and a thick jungle, with only a
narrow path through it on the other. By Alla, I like it not.’

‘Art thou a coward?’ said Kasim, turning on him with some contempt in
his voice; ‘thou hadst better in that case go to the rear. Fie on thee
to speak thus! do we not eat the Sultaun’s salt? Come on, in the name of
the Prophet! there are enough of us—more are coming every moment, and
the top of the rock is already crowded.’

‘Thou shalt see I am no coward,’ cried the officer, darting forward; but
he was stopped by another deadly shot, and fell on his face without
uttering a word or cry.

His fate did not, however, check the assault. ‘Alla Yar! Alla Yar!’ was
still the shout, and the whole body hurried on, impelled forward by the
pressure from the rear. There was no retreating; on the one hand was the
impassable ditch, on the other the jungle—here and there open, and with
paths through it running parallel to the wall, by which many rapidly
advanced. They saw nothing of the defenders, though from time to time a
fatal shot struck the dense mass, and one of their number fell headlong
from the narrow path, or sinking down wounded, was thrown over by his
comrades. The thick jungle hid the defenders of the wall, who retreated
as the others advanced; for they were as yet too few to offer any
resistance. But gradually the noise of the shouting and firing was heard
along the line of wall, and its defenders hurried along to the right to
meet their enemies, judging that their flank had been turned, and that
there was little hope of retaining their post if the Sultaun’s army
should succeed in advancing. In this manner parties joined together and
gradually succeeded in arresting the rapid approach of their enemies,
who had now to fight for every foot of ground. Tower after tower was
desperately disputed; the day was advancing, many of the men were
already exhausted by their long night march, and to stop or retreat was
impossible.

‘At this rate we shall never reach the gate,’ cried the Sultaun, who had
entered a tower which had just been taken, and where Kasim and many
others were taking breath for an instant ere they recommenced their
advance. ‘We shall never gain the gate—it must now be nearly three coss
from us;’ and he looked from one to the other of those assembled.

‘And the men are very weary,’ said Kasim, for he spoke boldly.

‘Ya, Alla kureem!’ exclaimed the Sultaun, ‘dost _thou_ despair, Kasim
Ali?’

‘Alla forbid!’ was his reply; ‘by the favour of the Prophet we shall
prevail; but my lord sees that it is tedious work, for the kafirs have
heard the firing and are collecting more and more in every tower; and
though they pay dearly for their temerity in resisting the power of the
Lion of the Faith, as these unblessed bodies testify, yet the taking of
every succeeding tower is a work of more labour, and many of the
faithful have tasted of death.’

‘A thought strikes me,’ said the Sultaun; ‘what if the wall were thrown
down? we should then possess a breach, by which we could enter or go out
at pleasure.’

‘A wise thought! Excellent advice! What great wisdom!’ was repeated by
the whole circle, while the Sultaun stood by silent, apparently in
further consideration upon the subject.

‘Yes,’ he continued, after holding his forefinger between his teeth in
an attitude of deliberation for some time,—‘yes, it is a good thought;
and we charge you, Syud,’ he added, to his relative, ‘with its
execution; collect the pioneers, heave over the battlements into the
ditch, fill it up level with the plain. Inshalla! there will be a broad
road soon. Be quick about it; and now, sirs, let us lose no more time,
but press on; our swords are hardly red with the blood of the infidels,
and they appear to be collecting yonder in some force.’

‘But,’ said the Syud, ‘this is a pioneer’s work: in the name of the
Prophet, leave me not with them.’

‘I have spoken,’ replied the Sultaun, frowning. ‘Enough! see my command
obeyed, and be quick about it.’

‘We may need the road too soon,’ said a voice: but, although they tried
hard, they could not discover whose it was.

Once more then they resolutely set forward, and the Sultaun was on foot
among his men, who were full of animation as he often spoke to them, and
reminded them that those who fell were martyrs, who would be translated
to Paradise, and those who survived would win honour and renown. But it
was easy to see that, tired and exhausted as they were, the men had not
their first spirit; and some hours of constant fighting, with no water
to refresh them, had been more than they could support; the opposition
every moment became more and more certain and effective, and each step
was disputed.

Meanwhile the road over the ditch progressed but slowly. The Syud had
thought himself offended by being left behind to see it done, and looked
sulkily on without attempting to hasten the operation. The pioneers were
too few to effect anything rapidly; indeed it would have been impossible
to have done what the Sultaun had ordered, even had the whole force
joined in the work; for the ditch was wide and deep, full of thorns,
briars, matted creepers, and bamboos, which had been planted on purpose
to offer a hindrance to an enemy. A few stones only had been displaced,
though the work had gone on nearly an hour, when it was suddenly and
rudely interrupted.

The advancing party had proceeded hardly half-a-mile, with much labour,
when on a turn of the wall they perceived a square building filled with
the enemy, who in considerable numbers had taken post there, and were
evidently determined to dispute it hotly.

‘Ah! had we now some of my good guns,’ cried the Sultaun, as he beheld
their preparations for defence, ‘we would soon dislodge those unblessed
kafirs. By Alla, they have a gun too! there must be some one yonder who
understands fighting better than those we have yet seen.’

‘May their mothers be defiled!’ cried a gasconading commander of a
battalion of infantry, who was well known for his boasting. ‘Who are
they that dare oppose us? my men are fresh’ (for they had just come up
from the rear), ‘and if I am ordered I will go and bring the fellow’s
head who is pointing the gun yonder.’

‘Ameen!’ said the Sultaun, quietly; ‘be it so—thou hast volunteered—go!
Stir not thou, Kasim Ali, but remain here; we may require thee.’

The officer addressed his men for a few moments, formed them as
compactly as he could on the narrow wall, and placing himself at their
head, with loud cries of ‘Alla Yar!’ they dashed on, followed by many
who had collected during the pause. Those in the enclosure reserved
their fire till they were near.

‘They have no ammunition,’ cried the Sultaun; ‘Ya Fukr-oo-deen! Ya
Nathur Wullee! I vow a covering for both your tombs if they take the
place.’ But as he made the invocation, they saw (for all were looking
from the tower where they had stayed in intense eagerness) one of the
men inside the enclosure lift a match to the gun, and apply it;—it would
not ignite.

‘Ya Futteh-O!’ cried Kasim, snatching a matchlock from a fellow who
stood near, and aiming; ‘it is a long shot, but, Bismilla!’ and he
fired.

The man was raising his hand again when the shot struck him; he fell
back into the arms of those behind him.

‘Another, for the sake of the Prophet, or it will be too late!’ cried
Kasim, not heeding the cries of ‘Shabash! Shabash!’ which all poured
forth.

It was indeed too late: the success of the first shot had gained the
advancing party a moment, but ere he could be sure of his aim a second
time, the fatal match was applied, and with the explosion half of the
leading division fell as one man.

‘May perdition light on them!’ cried the Sultaun, in agony; ‘may hell be
their portion! My men waver too. Ya Kubeer! Ya Alla kureem! Support
them—Ya Mahomed!—against the infidels!’

But his wild invocations were of no use; the commander of the party had
fallen; and the men, having fired a volley at random, turned and fled as
hastily as they could on that narrow, crowded way.

‘Cowards!’ exclaimed Kasim. ‘Ah, had I here fifty of the youth of my
country, and their good swords—Inshalla! we would see whether we were to
eat this abomination.’

The Sultaun was speechless with rage for some moments. ‘Order on the
next corps!’ he shouted at last; ‘that unworthy one shall be disgraced.
Before my very eyes to behave thus! Do not stay to fire,’ he cried to
its commander who came up; ‘upon them with the steel! were ye English,
ye would carry the place—ye are of the true faith, will ye not fight
better? Ya Karwa Owlea! Ya Baba Boodun! grant me your prayers.’

‘Let me head this attack,’ cried Kasim, for others appeared to hang
back; ‘on my head and eyes be it—I will carry the place or die in the
effort!’

‘Remain here!’ exclaimed the Sultaun fiercely; ‘art thou, too,
rebellious? remain and shoot if thou wilt, we may need thee. Let them go
whose duty it is.’

‘Jo Hookum!’ exclaimed the officer who had been addressed; ‘I will
either carry it or die.’

Again the advance was made, while those in the tower kept up an
incessant fire, the Sultaun himself aiming frequently; but they had now
to face men emboldened by success. The division was allowed to advance
nearly to the same place as the former had done; and again the fatal
cannon, loaded almost to the muzzle with grape, was fired. A loud shout
from the enemy followed. The execution was terrible; the survivors
hesitated for a moment, then turned and fled, leaving a heap of mangled
and writhing forms between them and the enemy. At this moment too, a
body of men from an eminence on the flank, who had hitherto been
concealed, poured in a destructive volley, which added to the terror.
The retreating body met another which was hurrying on to their
assistance, and the confusion became irretrievable. Blows and
bayonet-thrusts were even exchanged on the narrow wall, and many a man
fell wounded or maimed by the hands of his fellow-soldiers, while only
the powerful could keep possession of the passage. On a sudden arose a
cry of ‘The road! the road!’ and as if the means of escape were thus
open, the whole, for a great distance down the wall, turned and fled.

The Sultaun saw the action; it was in vain that he tore his hair, threw
his turban on the ground, raved, swore, implored the assistance of the
Prophet and all the saints in one breath, and in the next wildly invoked
the vengeance of Heaven upon his coward army. It was in vain that he
threw himself, accompanied by Kasim and his personal attendants, into
the crowd, and upon the narrow path strove to withstand the torrent
which poured backwards. It was in vain that he shouted—screamed till he
was hoarse: his voice was lost in the mighty hubbub, in the cries of
thousands, the oaths, the groans, and rattle of musketry from behind. It
was in vain that, drawing his sword in despair, he cut fiercely at, and
desperately wounded, many of the fugitives, and implored those around
him to do the same. He was at last overpowered, and accompanied by Kasim
and a few of the strongest of his slaves, he was borne on with the
crowd. No one heeded him; in the _mêlée_ he had lost his turban, by
which he was usually known, and he became undistinguishable to his
soldiery from one of themselves.

Thus it was that the throwing down of the wall was interrupted; the cry
from the panic-stricken multitude, re-echoed by the advancing troops,
rose almost instantaneously upon the air with a deafening sound. ‘The
road! the road!’ all shouted, and hurried to where they expected to have
seen it completed. The narrow stream met from two opposite directions,
pouring on, urged by the energy of despair from behind. The two extremes
met; there was no time for thought—not a second; those who were first
had hardly looked into the ditch, and seen there only a heap of stones
instead of a road, and those thirty feet below them, ere, with one wild
cry to Alla, they were pushed into it by those behind, whose turn was to
come next. A few there were—men of desperate strength—who clung to the
battlements with the tenacity of despair; a few who, drawing their
swords, turned and tried to cut their way through the mass. Vain effort!
force was met by force, for the danger was not perceived till the men
were on the brink and were pushed over; those in the rear thought they
had escaped, and no warning cry was heard, or, if heard, attended to or
understood.

The multitude poured on. Ten thousand men had to pass by that place.
Those who leaped, lay at the bottom, many maimed, others crushed and
entangled amidst the thorny briars and thick grasses. The mass at the
bottom of the ditch gradually increased; and a road arose, not of the
ruins of the wall, but a mass of human bodies: those uppermost
struggling in agony for life, those underneath already at rest in
death—a quiet foundation for the superincumbent structure.

The Sultaun and his companions were hurried on. Kasim had a dread of
what he should see—a sickening feeling, as the shrieks and imprecations
which arose from that horrible spot fell upon his ear as they
approached; they could do nothing however, for to turn was impossible;
to leap from the walls into the midst of the enemy would have been
death, for they pursued the flying army with exulting shouts, and
pressed close upon the flanks and rear with their long spears. By the
road there was a chance of life—a chance only—and that was clung to as a
reality at that moment.

They reached the brink. ‘Way for the Sultaun! aid the Sultaun! rescue
your King!’ shouted Kasim with his utmost energy, while he dealt blows
right and left, as did also the others with him, to stay the crowd even
for an instant. The Sultaun looked down on the horrible heap, which,
wildly agitated, was heaving with the convulsions of those beneath it;
he appeared to turn sick and stagger, and Kasim observed it.

‘For your life,’ cried he, ‘Lall Khan and some more of ye, keep
together, or he is lost! Now leap with me!’ and as the Sultaun still
hesitated, Kasim seized him by the arm and threw himself from the brink.

Now began a fresh struggle—one for life or death, in which only the
strongest prevailed. For an instant Kasim was stunned by the shock, but
he saw Lall Khan trying to help on the Sultaun, whose features wore the
hue of despair, and he made a mighty effort to aid him. The footing upon
the heaving mass was unsteady and insecure; in the wild despair of
death, the struggling beings below clung to the legs of those above
them, and thus the weak were drawn down to destruction. But Kasim Ali
and those who followed him were powerful men, and raising the almost
senseless body of the Sultaun in their arms, and spurning many a feeble
and exhausted wretch beneath their feet, they bore it with immense
exertions across the ditch.

There remained, however, the counterscarp to surmount. Here many a man
who had passed across the ditch failed to ascend, for it was of rock,
and so rugged and inclining inwards as to afford no footing. It was vain
attempting to raise the Sultaun to the top, without he made some
exertion, and Kasim shouted his danger in his ear, while he pointed to
the place. The Sultaun at last comprehended the peril, and being raised
by Kasim and the others on the shoulders of the tallest of his slaves,
he twice essayed to mount the bank, and twice fell back among the
writhing and crushed wretches at the foot, upon whom they were standing.

The second time he was raised he was evidently much hurt, and could not
stand; what was to be done? Motioning to the others—for to speak was
impossible—Kasim mounted by their aid to the top; and the Sultaun being
once more lifted, was received by the young man, who supported him a few
steps, and then laying him down, groaning heavily, he flew to the rescue
of those who had so nobly aided him.

One by one they had ascended by his and their mutual aid, and the
generous fellow had stretched his hand to several despairing wretches,
who were weak with their efforts and previous fatigue, and rescued them
from death; when, seeing the enemy now lining the wall and about to fire
upon the bank opposite to where he stood, he turned away in order to
remove the Sultaun, who still lay where he had placed him, out of
danger. He had gone but a few paces, when he heard a sharp discharge of
matchlocks, and felt a cold stinging pain in his shoulder and all down
his back; the next instant a deadly sickness, which precluded thought,
overpowered his faculties, and he sank to the ground in utter
insensibility.

-------

CHAPTER XXXII.

While the principal division of the army was displaying its choicest
manœuvres in front of the gate of the wall, now and then venturing
within shot, and giving and receiving a distant volley, the noise of the
firing came faintly to those engaged, and, as it was expected, caused no
sensation, except of anxiety for the moment when their victorious
Sultaun should arrive, driving before him the infidel defenders; and
when the gates should be opened, and the mass of cavalry should rush in
to complete their rout and destruction. Many a man there anticipated the
pleasure of slaughtering the flying foe, of hunting them like wild
beasts, of the fierce gratifications of lust and unchecked plunder; but
hours passed and no victorious army appeared; the defenders of the fort
called to them to come on, with insulting gestures and obscene abuse,
and shook their swords and matchlocks at them in defiance. This was
hardly to be borne, and yet they who mocked them were beyond their
reach; at length, as they looked, several horsemen approached them with
desperate speed, their horses panting with fatigue and heat. The Khan
and many others rode to meet them.

‘Ya Alla kureem,’ cried all, ‘what news? where are the army and the
Sultaun? why do you look so wildly?’

‘Alas!’ answered one who was well known to the Khan as a leader of note,
‘the army is defeated, and we much fear the Sultaun is lost; he was in
the van leading on the attack with Syud Sahib, Hussein Ali, Bakir Sahib,
and the young Patél, who was fighting, we heard, like a tiger, when Alla
only knows how the army took a panic and fled.’

‘And you were within the walls?’ cried many voices.

‘We were, and had marched some miles. Alas! it would have been better
had we never entered.’

‘And how did you escape?’

‘The ditch was already filled with our companions,’ said the horseman,
‘and we scrambled over their bodies; I found a horse near, and have
ridden for my life to tell the news.’

They asked no more questions, and each looked at his fellow with silent
shame and vexation that this should have been the end of all their
hopes. One by one the leaders drew off, and in a short time division
after division left the ground, and returned towards the camp; a few
only daring to meet the discomfited host, which soon began to pour by
hundreds into it, exhausted, humbled, full of shame and mortification.

Among the first was the Sultaun; for the elephants had, at a little
distance, kept a parallel line with the wall. One was easily procured
for him, and having been lifted upon it, he was rapidly borne to the
camp; but he was unattended, and arrived at his tents almost unknown and
unobserved.

But the loud nagara soon sounded, and men knew that he was safe; and
though it was the signal that the Durbar was open, and that he expected
their presence, few went to him, or cared to meet him in the temper
which they knew must possess him. The Khan was among the first who
entered; his low salaam was almost disregarded, and he took his seat,
pitying the Sultaun’s shame and mortification, which was fully expressed
on his sullen countenance.

One by one, however, the leaders of the divisions which had remained
behind entered, and took their places in silence; none dared to speak;
and the restless eyes of the monarch, the whites of which were yellow
and bloodshot, wandered from one to another round the assembly, as if
searching for some pretext to break forth into the rage which evidently
possessed him, and which was augmented by the pain of the sprain of his
ankle. There was a dead silence, so unusual in his Durbar; and the words
which were spoken by the attendants to one another were uttered in a
whisper. Now and then the Sultaun rubbed his ankle impatiently, and knit
his brows when a severe paroxysm of pain passed through it: or else he
sat silent, looking round and round;—the bravest of those present used
to say afterwards that they waited to see who would be first sacrificed
to his vengeance. The silence was insupportable; at last Nedeem Khan,
his favourite and chief flatterer, ventured to speak.

‘May Alla and the Prophet ease the pain thou art suffering, O Sultaun!’
he said; ‘can your slave do aught to relieve it?’

‘Oh, rare bravery to speak!’ cried the Sultaun with bitterness; ‘thou
wert not with me, Nedeem Khan, to partake of the abomination we have
eaten this day at the hands of our own friends and those infidel
Hindoos—may their ends be damnation! No, thou didst volunteer to be with
the division without the gate, that thy fine clothes and fine horse
might be seen by the defenders of the wall. Verily thy destiny is great,
that thou wert not among that crowd, nor struggling with that heap of—
Pah! where is Kasim Ali Patél?’ he continued after a pause; ‘why is he
not present? and Lall Khan also?’

‘Kasim Ali Jemadar Huzrut!’ cried Lall Khan advancing, ‘has not been
seen since—’

‘Not been seen!’ thundered the Sultaun, attempting to rise, and sinking
back in pain,—‘not been seen! and thou to tell me this! Oh kumbukht! By
Alla, Lall Khan, hadst thou not too aided me, thou shouldest have been
scourged till the skin was cut from thy back. Begone! thou and thy
companions—seek him, dead or alive, and bring him hither to me.’

‘Asylum of the world! he lies, if he be killed, among the dead upon the
edge of the ditch, and the enemy is in possession of the walls, and—’

‘Begone!’ roared the Sultaun; ‘if he was in hell thou shouldest bring
him. Begone! thou art a coward, Lall Khan.’

‘Huzrut!’ said the old Khan, rising and joining his hands, hardly able
to speak, for his grief was choking him; ‘if your slave has his
dismissal, he will accompany Lall Khan in search of—’ He could not
finish the speech, and the big tears rolled down his rough visage upon
his beard.

‘Go, Rhyman Khan,’ said the Sultaun, evidently touched by his emotion;
‘may you be successful.’ And again he relapsed into silence, as the two
officers departed on their almost hopeless errand.

‘The tiger will have blood ere he is pacified,’ whispered Bakir Sahib,
who had arrived, and now sat near Nedeem. ‘I pray Alla it may be none of
this assembly!’

‘Will they find Kasim Ali?’ asked the other.

‘Willa Alum,’ responded his friend, ‘I think not; but he will be no loss
to us.’

‘None—but what is this?’

As he spoke there was a noise without, and suddenly a man, evidently a
Hindoo, rushed bare-headed into the assembly, crying out, ‘Daad! Daad!
Daad!’[43] and advancing threw himself on the ground, and lay at full
length motionless before the Sultaun.

-----

Footnote 43:

Complaint.

-----

‘What ho, Furashes! Chobdars!’ roared the Sultaun, his face quivering
with rage; ‘what is this hog—this defiled father of abomination? were ye
asleep to allow our Durbar to be polluted by his presence? who and what
art thou?’ he cried to the trembling wretch, who had been roughly raised
by the Furashes; ‘speak! art thou drunk?’

‘You are my father and mother—you are my Sultaun—you are my god!’ cried
the man; ‘I am a poor Brahmin; I am not drunk—I have been plundered—I
have been beaten by a devil they call Jaffar Sahib; he seeks my life,
and I have fled to your throne for mercy.’

‘Thou shalt have it,’ said the Sultaun quietly, with his low chuckling
laugh, which not even his officers could listen to without feeling their
blood curdle; ‘thou shalt have it. Away with him, Furashes!’ he cried,
raising his shrill voice, ‘away with him! I see an elephant yonder;
chain him to its foot, and let him be dragged to and fro before the
place he has defiled.’

The wretched man listened wildly to his sentence—he could not understand
it; he looked on the Sultaun with a trembling smile, and then with a
feigned laugh round the assembly; nought met his eye but stern and
inexorable faces; there were many who felt the horrible injustice of the
act, but none pitied the fate of the Brahmin after the event of the
morning.

‘Do ye not hear?’ cried the Sultaun again; and, ere he could say a word,
the Brahmin was borne shrieking out of the tent. All listened fearfully,
and soon they heard the shrill scream of the elephant, as, after the
wretched man had been bound to his foot, the noble and tender-hearted
animal—it was old Hyder—was unwillingly goaded into a desperate run,
and, dashing forward, soon put an end to his sufferings. They looked,
and saw something apparently without form jerked along at the end of a
chain by the foot of the elephant at every step he took in the rapid
pace into which he had been urged.

‘The Durbar is closed,’ said the Sultaun after a time, during which he
had not spoken, but continued moodily to watch the door of the tent for
the elephant, as it passed to and fro. ‘Ye have your dismissal, sirs, we
would be alone.’

They were glad to escape from his presence.

‘I said how it would be, Khan,’ said Bakir Sahib, as they passed out;
‘Alla knows what would have happened if that Brahmin had not rushed in.’

‘Alla knows!’ said the other; ‘I trembled for myself, for he was savage
to me. After all it was the Brahmin’s fate—it was written—who could have
averted it?’

The glaring day waned fast. Kasim had been wounded about mid-day, and
still lay near the same spot, enduring almost insufferable agony. At
first he had been insensible, but when he recovered and was enabled to
look around him, the place was deserted, except by a few of the enemy at
a distance, who were busily employed in stripping the dead and wounded
of their arms and clothes. He found his sword, his shield, and daggers
were gone,—his turban and waistband, and upper garment also: his head
and his body were bare, for they had thought him dead, and the fierce
rays of the burning sun descended in unmitigated fury upon him,
increasing to an agonising degree the torment of thirst.

‘Water! water!’ he cried to those whom he saw afar off; ‘Water, for the
sake of your mothers and your children!—will ye suffer me to die?’

Alas! they heard him not; they were too busy in their work of plunder;
and if they had, it would have been only to return, and with a thrust of
a spear or a sword to have ended his sufferings. To him death would have
been welcome, for his agony was past enduring, and he had no hope of
alleviation till he died. But his voice was too weak for them to hear;
and if he exerted it there came a rush of blood into his mouth which
almost choked him.

He tried to move, to drag himself under the shade of a bush which was at
a short distance; it was impossible,—the pain he suffered became
excruciating; and, after making several desperate but ineffectual
attempts, he fainted. This temporary oblivion, at least, brought absence
from pain, and was welcome,—but it did not last; and as the returning
life-blood poured through his heart, his agony of body was renewed, and
thoughts too rapid and too vague to assume decisive forms—a weak
delirium, in which his mother, Ameena, his friend, the Sultaun, the
dreadful passage of the ditch, and the heaps of struggling forms—were
incoherently mingled in wild confusion. Now his distempered fancy caused
him to imagine that he again bore on the Sultaun,—now his form would
seem to change into Ameena’s, and he would shout his despair, and cry
the war-cry of the faith as he strove for life and mastery among the
thousands who fiercely struggled with him; but his fancied shouts were
only low moans, which from time to time escaped him, as he lay to all
appearance dead.

And again the thirst, the heat, and the pain slowly but surely brought
on frenzy—fierce ravings of battle and hot contest; and words of
encouragement to those around him: defiance of the enemy, with wild
invocations of Alla and the Prophet, broke from his lips in faint
murmurs, though passionately uttered; he thought them shouts, but they
could scarcely have been heard by one standing over him. At times the
sweat poured from him in streams, or stood in big drops on his brow;
again his frame would seem to dry up, till he thought it would crack and
burst.

In a lucid moment he found he had dragged himself, during a paroxysm of
delirium, under the shade of the bush; it was grateful to him, and
soothed his burning head and skin; and with the coolness came visions of
quiet shady groves—of fountains, whose ceaseless plashings, mingling
with the gentle rustling of leafy boughs, were music in his ears—of
bubbling springs, whose waters flowed up to his lips and were dashed
thence by malignant forms which his excited brain created. By turns
despair and hope possessed him, but in his quiet moments he prayed to
Alla for death, for release from suffering, and from the deadly sickness
caused by a burning throat and loss of blood. He could feel that he had
been shot through the body, and he wondered how it was possible to
retain life in such a state.

As often as he looked for a moment over the open space, he saw in
hundreds the horrible birds of prey, ravens and kites, and the filthy
and powerful vultures, tearing the hardly cold bodies, and disputing
with each other over their sickening banquet, while others wheeled and
screamed above them ready to take the place of any who should be driven
by the rest from their meal. Wherever he looked, it was the same; there
were hundreds of the obscene birds, struggling, scrambling, fighting
with each other, while thousands of crows, in clamorous and incessant
flight, hovered over, alighting where chance threw in their way a
coveted morsel; and now and then some prying raven would approach him
with long hops, croaking to his fellows, his keen black eye glistening
brightly in anticipation, and would hardly be scared away by the faint
gestures and cries of the sufferer.

The night fell gently—that night, which many an one would spend in
luxury, in the enjoyment of voluptuous pleasures, surrounded by objects
which enthral the senses, lying upon the softest carpets, while burning
incense filled the air with rich perfume, and the soft sighs of women
and the gentle tinkling of their anklets sounded in their ears—that
night he would pass in terror, surrounded by the ghastly forms of the
dead.

The sun sank in glory, the hues of the brilliant west faded dimly on his
aching sight, and from the east over the wooded hills the yellow moon
arose, dim at first, and seemingly striving to maintain the waning
daylight. Soon, however, that faded away, and the melancholy and
quivering wail of the brass horn, and the deep sound of the evening
kettle-drums from the wall, showed that the enemy were setting their
night-watch. The gorged birds of prey flapped their broad wings heavily
in their short flights to the nearest trees, to roost there till the
morrow should break, enabling them to recommence their glutting and
bloody feast.

They were succeeded by beasts of prey: one by one jackals issued from
the jungle, and looking carefully around, first one and then another
raised his nose into the air, and as he sniffed the banquet, sent forth
a howl or shriek which ran through the unfortunate Kasim’s veins like
ice. Now he could see many, many, running to and fro in the moon’s
bright light, and their cries and screams increased fearfully. To his
excited and delirious spirit—for his senses fled and returned at
intervals—the place he thought was the hell he had read of, and the
howls like those of the damned. Now stalked abroad the stealthy wolf,
and the gaunt and fierce hyæna mingled his horrible howl with those of
the innumerable jackals which hurried on in packs to the ditch; and
Kasim could hear the distant bayings of others as they answered the
invitation from afar. How he prayed for death! Had he possessed a
weapon, he would have rid himself of life; but he had to endure all, and
he shrank into the bush as far as he could, to screen himself from the
notice of the wild animals, lest he should be torn in pieces by them ere
he was dead. Some even came and sniffed at him, and their bright and
wild eyes glared upon him; but seeing that he yet lived, they passed on
to where in the ditch carcases lay in heaps inviting them to feast.

On a sudden, while he lay in utter despair, he thought he heard the
clashing sound of an elephant’s bells, and the peculiar and monotonous
cry of palankeen-bearers. Could it be? or was it only a mockery of his
senses, such as had raised water to his lips and spread before him
delicious and juicy fruits? He listened in fearful suspense; he did not
hear it for a time, and hope, which had arisen strong within him, was
dying away, when it came again on the soft night breeze that had just
arisen, and he could hear it clearly above the yells and howls of the
beasts around him, who were fighting savagely over the dead.

Alla! how he panted, as the welcome sound came nearer and nearer; and
how his spirit sank within him as he thought it might only be travellers
by some by-road he knew not of. Now his faculties were all sharply
alive; had he possessed the power of motion, how gladly would he have
hurried to meet them; he tried to move, to raise himself, and fell back
helpless. ‘Alas!’ he said aloud, ‘it is but a delusion; they will pass
me, and the light of morning will never shine on Kasim Ali alive.’ His
own voice seemed awful in the solitude, but he could speak now, although
very faintly, and if they passed near him he was determined to exert his
utmost energy in one cry, should it even be his last effort.

A horse’s neigh now rang shrill and clear in the distance, and the clash
of the elephant’s bells became more and more distinct. They were
coming!—they were surely coming—perhaps for him—perhaps it was the
Khan—perhaps the Sultaun had thought of him—how tumultuous were his
thoughts!

Now he even thought he could hear voices, and presently there was
another loud snorting neigh, for the horses had smelt the dead afar off.
He crawled out from his hiding-place, and looked with intense
expectation; there was a twinkling light far away among the jungle. It
blazed up.

‘Ya Alla kureem! it is a torch—they come, they come!’ cried the poor
fellow. He heard a confused sound of voices, for the yells of the beasts
had ceased: he could see many slinking off into the thickets, and there
was perfect silence. Now the red light illumined the trees at a little
distance—they were descending one side of a hollow towards him—he could
track their progress by the light upon the trees—he lost it for a time,
as they ascended the other side—again it gleamed brightly, and on a
sudden burst like a meteor upon his glance, as the body of men, with
several torches, the elephant, the palankeen, and some horsemen appeared
for a moment on an open spot pressing towards him.

He could not be mistaken: but Kasim now dreaded lest the garrison should
make a sally over the ditch; he looked there—all was dark, but in the
distance a few lights on the wall were hurrying to and fro, as though
the alarm was given, and a shrill blast of the collery horn was borne to
his ear. ‘They will not come!’ he thought, and thought truly; they would
not have dared to face the ghastly spectacle in the ditch.

The voices were real, and the lights were but a short distance from him:
the party had stopped to consult, and the poor fellow’s heart beat
wildly with suspense lest they should advance no further; he could not
hear what they said, but on a sudden a cry arose from several, ‘Kasim
Ali! Kasim Ali! ho!’ which resounded far and wide among the still
jungle.

He strove to repeat it, but the blood gushed into his throat: he fell
back in despair. They came nearer and nearer, shouting his name.

‘It was near this spot,’ said one; ‘I am sure of it, for here is a
corpse, and here another: let us look further.’ And they continued to
track the way of the fugitives by the dead.

‘Kasim Ali! Kasim Ali! ho, hote!’ shouted a voice which thrilled to
Kasim’s very soul, for it was the Khan’s: how well he knew it—an angel’s
would have been less welcome. One torch-bearer was advancing, hardly
fifty paces from him; he waited an instant, then summoning his
resolution, ‘Ho! hote!’ he cried, with all his remaining power. The
sound was very faint, but it was heard.

‘Some one answered!’ shouted the torch-bearer.

‘Where? for the sake of Alla,’ cried the Khan from his horse.

‘Yonder, in front.’

‘Quick, run!’ was the reply, and all hurried on, looking to the right
and left.

Kasim could not speak, but he waved his arm; as they came close to him,
the broad glare of the torch fell on him, and he was seen.

All rushed towards him, and the old Khan, throwing himself recklessly
from his horse, ran eagerly to his side and gazed in his face. Kasim’s
eye was dim, and his face and body were covered with blood; but the
features were well known to him, and the old soldier, unable to repress
his emotion, fell on his knees beside him, and raising his clasped hands
wept aloud.

‘Shookur-khoda! Ul-humd-ul-illa!’ he cried at last when he could speak,
‘he lives! my friends, he lives! I vow a gift to thee, O Moula Ali, and
to thee, O Burhanee Sahib, for this joy; I vow Fatehas at your shrines,
and to feed a hundred Fakeers in your names.’

‘Do not speak, Kasim Ali, my son, my heart’s life. Inshalla! you will
live. Inshalla! we will tend thee as a child. Do not stir hand or foot:’
(Kasim had clasped the Khan’s hand, and was endeavouring to raise it to
his lips:) ‘no thanks, no thanks—not a word! art thou not dear to us?
Ay, by Alla and his apostle! Gently now, my friends, gently; so, raise
him up—now the palankeen here, ’tis the Khanum’s own, Kasim—never heed
his blood,’ he added, as some of the bearers strove to put their
waistbands under him. ‘Aistee, aistee![44]—kubardar![45]—well done! Art
thou easy, Kasim? are the pillows right?—what, too low? thou canst not
breathe?—now, are they better?—nay, speak not, I understand thy smile;’
and truly it was one of exquisite pleasure which overspread his face.

-----

Footnote 44:

Easy, easy!

Footnote 45:

Take care.

-----

‘What, water?’ he continued, as Kasim motioned to his open mouth, ‘Ya,
Alla! he can have had none here all day. Quick, bring the soraee and
cup! There,’ he said, filling a cup with the sparkling and cool fluid,
‘Bismilla, drink!’

The fevered Kasim clutched it as though it had contained the water of
Paradise; cup after cup was given him, and he was refreshed. The flower
of life, which had well nigh withered, was revived once more, and hope
again sprang up in his breast.

‘Go on with easy steps,’ cried the Khan to the bearers, ‘I will give you
a sheep to-morrow if ye carry him well and quickly.’

‘On our head and eyes be it,’ said the chief of the bearers, and they
set forward.

The men on the wall fired a few random shots at the party, but they were
too distant to aim with effect, and it proceeded rapidly. The journey of
some miles was a severe trial to the exhausted Kasim, and they were
several times obliged to rest; but they reached the summit of the last
declivity after some hours, and the welcome sight of the huge camp
below, the white tents gleaming brightly in the moonlight, among which
hundreds of watchfires were sparkling, greeted the longing eyes of
Kasim. In a few minutes more they had arrived at the Khan’s own tent,
and he was lifted from the palankeen into the interior, and laid on a
soft bedding which had been prepared within. The place was cleared of
those who had crowded round, and although Kasim’s eyes were dizzy, and
the tent reeled before him, he was conscious that the gentle voices
which were around him, the shrouded forms which knelt by him, and the
soft hands which washed the hard and clotted blood from him, were those
of Ameena’s women.

-------

CHAPTER XXXIII.

The excitement of the day had prevented the Sultaun from feeling the
pain of the severe sprain until late, when it became insupportable: in
vain it was fomented and rubbed; that seemed only to increase the
swelling and stiffness; but when he heard that Kasim had arrived in the
camp badly wounded, he could not withstand the desire of seeing him to
whom he owed the preservation of his life; accordingly he was lifted
into a chair, and, entirely unattended, directed his bearers to carry
him to the Khan’s tent, where he sent orders for his chief physician to
meet him.

Such an honour was entirely unlooked for by the Khan and his household;
nevertheless he was received with respect, carried into the tent where
Kasim was, and set down by the side of the sufferer, who lay almost in a
state of insensibility, showing consciousness only at intervals. The
women servants who had been fomenting the wound, and had arisen at his
entrance, now resumed their occupation; for though Daood and his other
men had offered their services, the Khan had thought truly that there
was more lightness and softness in the hand of woman; and Ameena’s
nurse, Meeran, had set the example to the rest, aided by the
instructions of her brother Zoolficar, who was busy preparing a poultice
of herbs for the wound.

The Sultaun regarded Kasim intently before he spoke to the Khan, and
several times stooping down felt his pulse and head.

‘Inshalla! he will yet live,’ he said; ‘we, the chosen of the Prophet,
are counted to have much skill in the treatment of wounds, and therefore
we say, Inshalla! he will live; his pulse is strong and firm, and he is
not going to die.’

‘Alla forbid,’ echoed all around.

‘Whose advice hast thou got for him, Khan?’ asked the Sultaun.

‘None as yet, Asylum of the World! My Khanum’s women here have been
fomenting the wound, and a slave of mine who has skill in such matters,
for he was a barber once, is preparing a poultice.’

‘We desire to know what is in it,’ said the Sultaun; ‘there is much in
having lucky herbs boiled under the influence of salutary planets; send
for him.’ The replies of Zoolficar were deemed satisfactory by the
Sultaun, who desired him to proceed with the work. The Hukeem too
shortly afterwards attended, and began carefully to examine the patient;
he had evidently but little hope, and shook his head with a melancholy
air when he had made his survey.

‘There is no hope of his life,’ said the old man. ‘I have seen many
shot, but a man never survived such a wound—his liver is pierced, and he
must die.’

‘I tell thee no! Moorad-ali,’ said the Sultaun; ‘we have had dreams
about him of late, his destiny we know is linked with our own, and we
are alive—Inshalla! we shall yet see him on horseback.’

‘Inshalla-ta-Alla,’ said the Hukeem, ‘in him alone is the power, and we
will do what we can to aid any merciful interference he may make.’ But
his directions for an application were little different from the mixture
of the cook, which was shortly afterwards applied. The Sultaun waited a
while in the hope of hearing Kasim speak, but he continued to lie
breathing heavily and slightly groaning, when additional pain caused a
pang.

‘We can do no good,’ he said to the Khan; ‘let us leave him to the care
of Alla, who will restore him to us if it be his destiny. Come then with
me to the morning Durbar; we will summon the leaders, and settle some
plan for the future, which we were too disturbed to arrange yesterday.’

The Khan followed him, charging the women strictly with the care of the
poor sufferer until he returned; he was soon afterwards engaged in
deliberation with the Sultaun and his officers. One of two alternatives
presented themselves to Tippoo; either to abandon the undertaking
suddenly, and while the English should think him engaged there to fall
upon their territory with fire and sword,—or to send for heavy guns from
Seringapatam, and breach the barrier, when an assault, such as could not
be withstood by the besieged, might be made with success. The latter was
in the end adopted; the army serving in Malabar was desired to join the
Sultaun by long forced marches; heavy batteries of guns were ordered
directly from the city; and his officers, from his manner and the
eagerness with which he entered into the matter, saw how intent he was
on providing for the emergency.

The pain Tippoo had suffered the whole night was intense; but the
excitement of the Durbar, the dictation of the letters to his officers,
and the deliberation, had prevented him from betraying it more than by
an impatient gesture or ill-suppressed oath. At last he could bear it no
longer, and sank back upon his musnud, cursing terribly the infidels who
had caused his defeat and suffering; but he rallied again immediately,
and started up to a sitting posture, while he exposed and pointed to his
ankle, which he had hitherto kept concealed under a shawl.

‘Ye see what pain and grief are devouring us,’ he cried, ‘and we call
upon ye to revenge it.’

‘We are ready—on our head and eyes be it!’ cried all.

‘For every throb of pain,’ continued the Sultaun, speaking in suppressed
rage from between his closed teeth, while he held his ankle, ‘we will
have a kafir’s life; we will hunt them like beasts, we will utterly
despoil their country. Ya, Alla Mousoof! we swear before thee and this
company, that we will resent this affront upon thy people to the
death—that we will not leave this camp, pressing as are our necessities
elsewhere, till we have sent thousands of these kafirs to perdition; and
ye are witness, my friends, of this.’

‘And I swear to aid thee, O Sultaun!’ cried the Khan with enthusiasm,
‘and to revenge that poor boy if he dies.’ ‘And I! and I!’ cried all, as
they started to their feet in the wild spirit of the moment; ‘the kafirs
shall be utterly destroyed.’

‘I am satisfied now,’ cried the Sultaun; ‘what has happened was the will
of Alla, and was pre-ordained; whatever a man’s fate is, that he must
suffer;’ and the assembly assented by a general ‘Ameen!’ ‘However,
Inshalla!’ he continued, ‘we have seen the last reverse; and we are
assured by comforting thoughts that the army of the faith will be
henceforth victorious. Ye have your dismissal now, for we are in much
pain and would consult our physician.’

During the absence of the Khan, the attentions of the women to poor
Kasim had been incessant, and everything was done that kindness could
suggest to procure any alleviation of his pain. His wound was fomented,
his limbs kneaded, his still parched and fevered lips moistened with
cool sherbet. Meeran had striven to comfort her young mistress for some
time, but in vain: she had not been able to repress her emotions when he
was brought in wounded, although she dared not in presence of her lord
give full vent to her feelings; but when she knew that he had left the
tent with the Sultaun, she could no longer restrain herself, and gave
way to a burst of grief, which would have proved to Meeran, had she not
before known of her love for him, how deep and true it was.

‘I must see him, Meeran,’ she said at length; ‘the Khan is gone now, and
canst thou not devise some means? Quick! think and act promptly.’

‘I will send away the women, my rose,—thou shalt see him,’ said the
attendant; ‘when I cough slightly do thou come in; they say he cannot
speak, and lies with his eyes shut.’

‘Ya, Alla kureem!’ cried Ameena; ‘what if he should die ere I see him?
Oh grant him life,—thou wilt not take one so young and so brave. Quick,
good nurse! I am sick at heart with impatience.’

Meeran found but little difficulty in sending away the women upon some
trifling errands, for Kasim slept, or appeared to dose; so taking their
place by his side, she coughed slightly, and Ameena, who had been
waiting anxiously behind the screen which divided the tents, withdrew it
hastily and entered.

She advanced with a throbbing heart; she could hardly support herself,
as well from her despair of his life as of her own feelings of love for
him, which would now brook no control; her mind was a chaos of thoughts,
in which that of his death and her own misery were the most prominent
and most wretched.

Nor was the sight before her, as she drew near Kasim, at all calculated
to allay her fears; he lay to all appearance dead; his eyes were closed,
and his breathing was so slight that it scarcely disturbed the sheet
which was thrown over him; the ruddy brown of his features had changed
to a death-like hue, and his eyes were sunken.

Ameena was more shocked than she had anticipated, and it was with
difficulty that she could prevent herself from falling to the ground
when she first saw his features, so deadly was the sickness which seemed
to strike at her heart; but she rallied after an instant of
irresolution, and advancing sat down by her nurse, who gently fanned the
sleeper.

‘He sleeps,’ she whispered; ‘Zoolficar has bound up the wound, his
remedies are always sure, and there is luck with his hand. Alla kureem!
I have hope.’

‘Alas! I have none, Unna,’ said Ameena; ‘I cannot look on those altered
features and hope. Holy Alla! see how he looks now—what will happen?’
and she gasped in dread, and put her hand before her eyes.

‘It was nothing—nothing, my life, but a slight spasm, some pain he felt
in his asleep, or perchance a dream; but it is past; look again, he is
smiling!’

His features were indeed pleasant to behold. Even in a few minutes a
change had come over them; he had been dreaming, and the excitement and
pain of one had been followed, as is often the case, by another of an
opposite nature—one of those delirious visions of gardens and fountains
which had mocked him as he lay on the battle-field again arose before
him, and he fancied that Ameena was beside him, and they roamed
together. They saw his lips moving, as though he were speaking, yet no
sound came, except an indistinct muttering; but Ameena, whose whole soul
was wrapt in watching him, fancied that the motion of his lips expressed
her name, and mingled emotions of joy and shame struggled within her for
mastery.

Again the peaceful vision had passed away, and his brow contracted; his
nervous arms were raised above the covering over him, and his hands were
firmly clenched; he ground his teeth till the blood curdled in their
veins, and his lips moved rapidly. ‘Oh that I could wake him, Unna!’
said Ameena; ‘that I could soothe him with words—that I dared to speak
to him. Hush! what does he say?’

‘Water! water!’ whispered Kasim hoarsely. The rest they could not hear,
but it was enough for Ameena; a jar of cool sherbet stood close to her;
with a trembling hand she poured out some into the silver cup and held
it to his lips. She only thought of his pain, and that she might
alleviate it, and Meeran did not prevent the action. The cool metal was
grateful to Kasim’s dry and heated lips; they were partly open, and as
she allowed a little of the delicious beverage to find its way into
them, the frown from his brow passed away, the rigid muscles of his face
relaxed, and as she softly strove to repeat the action, his eyes opened
gently and gazed upon her.

For an instant, to his distempered fancy, her beauty appeared like that
of a houri, and he imagined that he then tasted the cup of heavenly
sherbet with which the faithful are welcomed to Paradise; but as he
looked longer, the features became familiar to him, and the eyes—those
soft and liquid eyes—rested on him with an expression of sympathy and
concern which they could not conceal. For an instant he strove to
speak—‘Ameena!’ The name trembled on his lips, but he could not utter
it; he suddenly raised himself up a little, and coughed; it was followed
by a rush of blood, which seemed almost to choke him.

Ameena could see no more; her sight failed her, and she sank down beside
him unconsciously. Meeran, however, had seen all; she raised her up, and
partly carrying, partly supporting her, led her away, while she called
to her brother, who stood at the tent-door to watch, to come to Kasim’s
assistance.

‘Thou must keep a stouter heart within thee, my pearl!’ she said to
Ameena, after having with much assiduity recovered her ‘Holy Alla!
suppose the Khan had come in then, when thou wert lying fainting beside
him—what would he not have thought? I shall never be able to let thee
see him again if thou canst not be more firm.’

‘Alas!’ sighed Ameena, ‘I shall see him but little again; his breath is
in his nostrils, and there is no hope: this night—to-morrow—a few
hours—and he will cease to live, and then I shall have no friend.’

‘Put thy trust in Alla!’ said the nurse, looking up devoutly; ‘if thy
destiny is linked with his, as I firmly believe it is, there will be
life and many happy days for you both.’ But her words failed to cheer
the lady, who wept unceasingly, and would not be comforted.

Days passed, however, and Kasim Ali lived; his spirit of life within him
would one while appear to be on the verge of extinction, and again it
would revive, and enable him to exchange a few words with those by whom
he was tended. It was in vain that he entreated the Khan to allow him to
be removed to his own tent; his request was unheeded or refused, and he
remained. Gradually he regained some strength; and with this, a power of
conversing, which he was only allowed to exert at intervals by the
physicians, and by the kind old cook, who, with the Khan’s servant Daood
and Ameena’s nurse, were his chief attendants. As he lay, weak and
emaciated, he would love to speak with Meeran of her who he knew had
visited him on the first night of his wound, and to hear of her anxious
inquiries after his progress towards recovery.

To Ameena the days passed slowly and painfully; sometimes, when the Khan
spoke of Kasim, it was with hope,—at others, as if no power on earth
could save him; but she believed her nurse more than him, for her hope
never failed, and she was assured by Zoolficar that the crisis had
passed favourably, that all tendency to fever had left him, and, though
his recovery would be slow, yet that it was sure; and on this hope she
lived. Day and night her thoughts were filled with the one subject, and
she conversed upon it freely with the Khan, who loved to speak of Kasim,
without exciting any surprise in his mind.

And often would she steal softly on tiptoe to the place where Kasim lay
asleep, at such times as she knew he was attended only by Meeran; and
looking upon his wasted features, to satisfy herself that he was
advancing towards recovery, she would put up a fervent prayer that it
might be speedy. But Kasim knew not of these visits, for Ameena had
strictly charged her nurse not to mention them, lest they should excite
him or he should look for their continuance. Often would the old nurse
rally her upon her caution, and urge that it would gratify Kasim, and
aid his recovery, to speak with her, but Ameena was resolute.

‘I should fail in my purpose,’ she would say. ‘Meeran, I dare not risk
it; to look on him daily, even for an instant, is happiness to me which
thou knowest not of, and such as I may indulge in without shame; but to
speak to him, knowing his feelings and mine, would be to approach the
brink of a giddy precipice, from whence we might fall to perdition. Am I
not the Khan’s wife? he is old—I cannot love him, Meeran, but I honour
him, and while he lives I will be true to him.’

‘Alla send thee power, my child!’ Meeran would reply; ‘thou art but a
child, it is true, but thou hast the faith and honour of an older woman,
and Alla will reward thee.’

But it was a sore temptation to Ameena, and as she gradually became
habituated to her silent and stealthy visits, the thought rose up in her
heart that it would be pleasant to sit by him for a while, to watch his
gentle and refreshing slumbers, even to tend him as Meeran and the
others did, above all, to listen to his converse; but she put these
thoughts from her by a violent effort, and when once conquered they
returned with less force.

Nor did Kasim occupy a less dangerous position; but his principle of
honour was high, and, experiencing the constant kindness of the Khan,
shown daily in a thousand acts, could he plot against his honour? His
passion had imperceptibly given place during his long and great weakness
to a purer feeling, which his best reflections and gratitude to his
benefactor daily strengthened.

Weeks, nay months, passed. Kasim’s recovery was slow and painful; it was
long ere he could even sit up, and speak without pain and spitting of
blood. But as his strength enabled him to do so, he was allowed to sit
for a while, then to crawl about, a shadow of his former self! He was
pitied by all, and there was hardly a man in that camp who did not feel
an interest in the life and recovery of the Patél. Often, too, would the
Sultaun visit him, and overpower him with thanks for his preservation;
and he showed proofs of his gratitude, in advancing him to higher rank,
and to a place of trust near his own person.

But the life of dull inaction that he led was irksome to Kasim Ali; the
noise of the cannon thundered in his ear, and from the Khan’s tent he
could see the batteries day after day playing upon the wall, that had
hitherto defied them. There was now a huge breach, through which the
whole army might have marched, with little chance of opposition; the
ditch became gradually filled up by the rubbish, and the fire of the
besiegers was but faintly returned by those within; still, however, at
times they showed a bold front, and often sallying forth, would do
mischief to the advanced posts of the army.

Day after day reports of the progress of the siege, the camp gossip, the
arrival of the remains of that splendid embassy which the Sultaun had
sent to Constantinople, and the failure of its purpose, and the immense
sums it had cost, were retailed to Kasim by the Khan and others; but he
was helpless, and, though he longed again to mix in the strife and to
strike a blow for the faith, the power was denied him.

Meanwhile the Sultaun had been a severe sufferer; the sprain of his foot
was acutely painful, and subsided only after a tedious confinement,
during which his temper had been more than usually capricious. The
failure of his noble embassy to Turkey, the immense sum it had cost him,
without any equivalent, except a letter of compliment from the Sultaun
of Constantinople, the true value of which he could justly
appreciate—the continued preparations of the English, the Mahrattas, and
the Nizam, and their united power—pressed on him with force and occupied
his thoughts by day and his dreams by night.

He had summoned the heaviest of his artillery from Seringapatam, and in
time he had completed a breach, some hundred yards in extent, which
invited attack; at length it was made. Opposition there was none, and
the army, thirsting for revenge and plunder, poured upon the now
defenceless territory of Travancore. Impelled by a smarting sense of the
degradation they had suffered in the attack on the wall, and in the
subsequent delay which had occurred before the storming of the breach,
the army now gave itself up to frightful excesses. The inhabitants were
hunted like wild beasts, shot and speared by the merciless
soldiery—their women and children destroyed, or sent into a captivity,
to which death would have been preferable. Thousands were forcibly made
to profess the faith, and amidst the jeers of the rabble were publicly
fed with beef and forced to destroy cows, which they had hitherto
venerated.

But the necessities of his position began at length to press hard upon
the mind of the Sultaun; he was far from his capital; in his present
condition he was unable to strike a blow against his enemies; and,
though he had endeavoured to mislead the English by plausible letters,
and protestations of undiminished friendship, yet he could not disguise
from himself that there was a stern array of preparation against him,
which required to be met by decisive and vigorous operations.

‘They shall see—the kafir English!’—he exclaimed in his Durbar, after
the receipt of a letter from his capital, which warned him of danger;
‘they shall see whether the Lion of the Faith is to be braved or not.
Mashalla! we have hitherto been victorious, and the stars show our
position yet to be firm; our dreams continue good, our army is faithful
and brave, and those who remember the triumphs of Perambaukum and of
Bednore will yet strike a blow for the Sultaun.’

These addresses were frequent, and the army was in daily expectation of
being ordered to return, but as yet it did not move; the most sagacious
of his officers, however, urged it at last with such force upon the
Sultaun’s notice, that he could no longer delay. ‘We must utterly
destroy the wall,’ he replied to them; ‘then we will return.’

And this was done. It was a magnificent sight to see that whole army,
headed by the Sultaun himself, advance to the various positions upon the
wall, which had been previously assigned, for the purpose of razing it
to the ground. As the morning broke, the various divisions, without
arms, moved to their posts, where pickaxes and shovels had been already
prepared for them. All the camp-followers, the merchants, grain-sellers,
money-changers, men of all grades, of all castes, were required to join
in the work, and in the enthusiasm of the moment rushed to it eagerly.
The Sultaun himself, dressed in gorgeous apparel, and surrounded by his
courtiers, his chiefs and slaves, quitted his tent amidst a discharge of
cannon which rent the air, the sound of kettle-drums and cymbals, and
the shouts of assembled thousands, ‘Alla Yar! Alla Yar! Deen! Deen!’

Tippoo rode on Hyder, his favourite elephant: the umbaree he sat on was
of silver gilt, the cushions of crimson velvet, and the curtains of the
finest cloth with gold fringes. The housings of the noble beast, of
crimson velvet trimmed with green, swept the ground. Around him were all
his officers, on a crowd of elephants and horses, decked with their
richest trappings, and wearing cloth-of-gold or muslin dresses, with
turbans of the gayest colours, red and pink, white, lilac, or green,
sometimes twisted into each other.

The Sultaun dismounted from his elephant, for which a road had been made
across the ditch, and seizing a pickaxe ascended the wall. For a while
he stood alone, high upon a pinnacle of a tower, in the sight of his
whole army, whose shouts rose to the skies, with pride in his heart and
exultation flashing from his eye: his favourite astrologer was beneath
him, busied with calculations.

‘Is it the time, Sheikh?’ he asked: ‘surely it is near?’

‘My art tells me it will be in a few minutes,’ was the reply.

There was a breathless silence; at length the Sultaun’s arm was uplifted
to strike—the fortunate moment had arrived!

‘Bismilla-ir-ruhman-ir-raheem, in the name of the most clement and
merciful! Strike, O Sultaun!’ cried the Sheikh.

The blow descended, and a shout arose, which mingling with the cannon
and the drums, almost deafened the hearers; while each man of that great
host applied himself to the task and tore down portions of the wall.
Gradually, but rapidly, the long extent within sight disappeared, and in
six days the whole for nearly twenty miles had been so destroyed as to
make it useless for any purpose of defence. This completed, the army
began to retrace its steps toward the capital, soon to enter upon new
and fiercer scenes.

-------

CHAPTER XXXIV.

We must not linger by the way, but at once proceed to the city, where
the army has arrived a few days. And now there is bustle, activity and
life, where of late all was dull and spiritless. Its arrival has brought
gladness to many, but none to her whom we now introduce to the reader.

‘And thou hast seen him, Sozun?’ said Kummoo, the Khan’s wife who has
been before mentioned, to her servant, who had always enjoyed her
confidence—a woman with a cunning visage and deep-set twinkling eyes;
‘thou hast seen him—and how looked he? They say he was terribly wounded,
and even now is pale and emaciated.’

‘They say truly, Khanum,’ said the woman; ‘your slave watched for him at
the door of his house, and pretending to be a beggar asked alms of him
in the name of the Beebee Muriam and Moula Ali of Hyderabad; and when he
asked me if I were of Hyderabad, I said yes,—may Alla pardon the lie—and
he flung me a few pice; lo, here they are. Yes, lady, he is pale, very
pale: he looks not as if he could live.’

‘Ya Alla spare him!’ cried the lady: ‘when I last saw him he was a
gallant youth; he was then going with the Khan to the Durbar; and as I
beheld him urging his noble courser to curvet and bound before this
window, my liver turned to water, and, as I live, his image hath been in
my heart ever since.’

‘Toba! Toba! for shame! Beebee,’ said the woman in a mock accent of
reproof. ‘How can you say so—and you a married woman?’

‘And if I am married,’ cried the lady, while her large lustrous eyes
flashed with the sudden light of passion, and her bosom heaved rapidly,
‘if I am married, what of that? Have I a husband, or one that is less
than a man? Have I children, have I love? have I even a companion? Have
I not hate where there should be love—barrenness, where children should
have blessed me—a rival, whose beauty is the only theme I hear, to
insult me? Have I not all these, Sozunbee? Thou hast had children—they
have loved thee, their merry prattle hath sounded in thine ears, they
have sucked their life from thee. Thou wast ground by poverty, and yet
wast happy—thou hast told it me a thousand times. I am rich, young, and
beautiful; yet my lord hath no pleasure in me, and I am a reproach among
women. Why should I honour him, Sozun? I love—why should I not be
beloved? Ya Alla kureem! why should I not be beloved?’

‘It is possible,’ said the dame.

‘Possible!’ echoed the lady, panting with excitement; ‘I tell thee it
must be. Listen, Sozun—thou canst be secret; if thou art not, were I
turned into the street to-morrow I would dog thee to thy death, and thou
well knowest my power is equal to my determination. I love that youth:
he is noble, his large eyes speak love, his form is beautiful—Mejnoon’s
was not more fair. I could sit and gaze into his eyes, and drink in the
intoxication of this passion for ever. Dost thou hear? He must know
this; he must feel that I will peril life, fame, all for him. Thou must
tell him this, and bring him here, or take me to him,—I care not which.’

‘There will be peril in it, my rose,’ said Sozun.

‘And if there is, dost thou think that would deter me?’ cried Kummoo, in
a tone of bitter scorn; ‘were there a thousand more perils than thou,
whose blood is now cold, canst see or imagine in my path, I could see
none. If thy heart burned as mine doth, Sozunbee,’ she added, after a
pause, ‘thou wouldst think on no peril—thou wouldst only see a heaven of
bliss at the end—the path between would be all darkness and indifference
to thee.’

‘I have felt it,’ said the woman with a sigh.

‘Thou?’

‘Yes, Beebee. I thought no one would have ever known it but he and I;
and he long ago died on the battle-field. Thou hast surprised me into
confessing shame.’

‘Then thou wast successful?’

‘Even so,’ replied the woman, covering her burning face from the earnest
gaze of her mistress. ‘I was young as thou art; he loved me, and we
met.’

‘Then by that love, by the memory of that hour, I conjure thee,
Sozunbee, as thou art a woman, and hast loved, aid me in this, and my
gratitude shall know no bounds; aid me, and I will bless thee awake and
asleep—aid me, or I shall go mad. I have endured thus long without
speaking, and methinks as I now speak my brain becomes hot, and it is
harder to bear than if I had been silent.’

‘I will, Khanum, I will,’ cried the woman; ‘I will do thy bidding, and
only watch my opportunity. At times he walks on the northern rampart
alone—I will meet him there.’

‘Give him these, then, and thou needest not speak much; he is learned,
and will understand them. There is a clove, that will tell him I have
long loved; there is a pepper-corn, to bid him reply quickly. Now
begone; come to me when thou hast seen him, but not till then. I shall
burn with impatience, but I can wait. May Alla speed thee!’

The woman took her departure, and Kummoo, looking from her lattice
window, watched her across the large square, till she disappeared behind
some buildings.

‘Ya Alla, should he despise me, should he spurn me!’ she thought;
‘should he— But no, he will not; he is young, he will hear I am
beautiful, and his blood will burn as mine does now. Then he shall know
what woman’s love is, and we will fly together, whither I care not.’

‘Kummoo, sister!’ said a voice behind her, at which she started, and the
blood rushed to her face.

‘Why, Hoormut, is it thou? How thou didst startle me. I thought—but no
matter: what seekest thou?’

‘Hast thou seen Ameena since she arrived?’

‘No—why dost thou ask me of one so hateful? Dost thou think I would go
to seek her?’

‘I know thou wouldst not; but I heard that she had received rich
presents from the old dotard, and I went to see them. It was true, they
are superb.’

‘Holy prophet! what are they? Presents! and we have not even clothes fit
to wear.’

‘There were shawls and brocades, and jewels too,’ returned Hoormut; ‘and
a goldsmith sat in the verandah making gold anklets, whose weight must
be immense. I tell thee we are fools to bear this, and to preserve a
civil demeanour to them. Hast thou seen the Khan of late?’

‘No,’ replied Kummoo, ‘we are thrown by and neglected now, for her. It
was to be expected that it would come to this, when we received her as
if she was welcome, instead of making the Khan eat dirt as he deserved.’

‘And yet thy mother counselled that it should be so.’

‘She did; she thought that by means of the law we might get rid of her;
but it seems there is no hope, for a man may have four wives lawfully,
and this was a regular marriage; the Khan has the papers. But my mother
will aid us; trust me that she loves me too well not to resent the
insult which has been offered me. By the Prophet, that should be her
palankeen crossing the square! it may be coming hither. It is—it is!’
she exclaimed, as she looked from the window; ‘it has stopped at the
gate. She must have news for us, that she comes out from home.’

The old lady’s heavy tread was soon heard on the stairs, and both flew
to meet her at the door. As she entered she embraced both cordially, and
they led her to the seat of honour.

A hooka was quickly brought, and as soon as she had taken breath, she
began to smoke and to speak.

‘And art thou well, Kummoo-bee?’ she said to her daughter. ‘Thou art
thin: Mashalla! time was when thou wert fatter. Sozun came to me a short
time ago, and said thou wert low-spirited, so I have come to see thee.’

‘I have little to do but eat vexation,’ said Kummoo with a pout; ‘have I
not a rival? and is not that enough to make my days unhappy and my
nights sleepless?’

‘And one who is loaded with rich gifts, while we are denied new
clothes,’ said Hoormut, joining in. ‘O mother, canst thou listen to our
shame and not aid us? once thou didst promise thou wouldst.’

‘It is her beauty which makes that old dotard fond of her,’ said Kummoo.
‘For she has no spirit—she is like a sheep; if that were blighted, he
would shake her off at once.’

‘Is there no means of turning him from her?’ said Hoormut, drawing
nearer; ‘you, my mother, once said you had a woman servant who was wise
and could command spells; could she not aid us?’

‘She is ill,’ said the old lady; ‘then she was well. She was preparing
the incantations necessary for her purpose when the Khan left this on
service; they have been neglected since then, but she may be able to
resume them. I will inquire of her.’

‘Couldst thou not send for her, mother?’ said Kummoo.

‘She is ill—nevertheless she may come. Yes, let the palankeen go, and
here is my ring: let her know that she is wanted.’

Kummo hurried to the door, and dispatched a slave with the ring and a
message in her mother’s name: they soon heard the bearers depart.

Not much conversation passed till the return of the palankeen, for the
subject was not an agreeable one to any of them, and the ladies had
nothing but their own fancied insults and neglects to reflect upon. At
last the palankeen arrived, and they soon had the satisfaction to behold
the old woman hobble into the room, supporting herself on a stick.

Kummoo and the other flew to assist her. ‘Welcome, mother!’ cried both;
‘your coming is happiness, may your steps be fortunate!’

‘Alla kureem!’ sighed the old woman, as she sank down on some soft
cushions which had been spread for her. ‘Alla kureem! I bless the
Prophet and the Imaums and the spirits of good that I am here in safety;
it is a fearful thing for one so old to venture forth. Art thou well,
Kummoo-bee?’ she asked, peering into her face with her yellow eyes, and
into Hoormut’s also, who now sat by her.

‘As well as may be, mother,’ said the girl, ‘when I am not loved nor
honoured in my house; hast thou no charm to preserve the love of
men—none to destroy a rival?’

‘Then this is why thou wouldst see me,’ exclaimed the old woman; ‘in
trouble only Kureena is sure to be sent for and consulted; is it not
so?’

‘Thou knowest, for my mother says she has told it you, of the shame, the
neglect, the insult, and bitterness which we endure daily. We have no
honour as wives—we are as faded flowers, thrown aside for a fresh one
which he hath lately taken to his bosom.’

‘Thou art not faded, Kummoo,’ said the crone, patting her cheek; ‘thy
hand is soft and warm, thine eye is lustrous and full of fire, thou art
not faded.’

‘No, Mashalla! I am not; but cease this trifling: wilt thou aid us? hast
thou spells? hast thou blighting, withering curses, to fall on one who
has despoiled us of our honour and made us a mockery among women?’

‘Ay, Alla knows!’ joined in Hoormut-bee; ‘wherever I go I am taunted
with this shame; one tells me the Khan’s new wife is beautiful—another
speaks of the magnificent gifts she has received, and I feel that I
could eat my very fingers for shame. Mother, for the sake of the
Prophet, aid us!’

‘Thou seest the strait they are in, Kureena,’ said Kummoo’s mother.

‘Can they do like me?’ cried the old woman in a cracked tone; ‘can they
keep fasts and do penances to fit them for the work, to make the spells
sure? can they dare to be present while these are said in the silence of
the night, and when the spirits who obey them are hovering near to
receive them?’

The women shuddered; superstitious terror for the moment asserted its
full sway over them: but Kummoo’s was a daring spirit.

‘I can, mother!’ she cried, striking her breast; ‘I dare to follow thee,
were there a thousand devils in my path, so that I had my revenge.’

The woman peered into her face. ‘I thought I had been stout-hearted
myself,’ she said; ‘but, young and ignorant as thou art of this matter,
I should have trembled; thou dost not fear?’

‘I know no dread when I have a purpose before me,’ said the lady
proudly; ‘art thou thus minded, Hoormut-bee?’

‘Inshalla! I will do as thou dost,’ returned the other; ‘whither thou
leadest, I will follow.’

‘Enough!’ cried the crone; ‘can we be alone here when the time comes, of
which I will forewarn ye?’

‘We can,’ said Kummoo, ‘without a chance of interruption.’

‘Good—but no, it will be better done yonder, at thy mother’s: there all
can be prepared.’

‘It will be less dangerous there,’ said the old lady; ‘thou canst do thy
work in the closet which is off the private room. And when, Kureena-bee,
shalt thou be ready?’

‘In a month, perhaps: the spell is a heavy one to work, and requires
preparation and thought, lest anything should be omitted. Ye must send
Fatehas to the shrine, feed Fakeers in your presence, eat cooling
victuals, and abstain as much as may be from meat. Thus ye will be
prepared; but on me will fall the sore fast and penance: it is hard for
an old woman to endure, but ye are in an evil strait, and I were
ungrateful for years of protection from your house, Kummoo-bee, and for
the salt I have eaten, did I refuse you my aid. And now bid me depart,
for I have much to do ere night.’

‘Not till you have eaten,’ cried Kummoo; ‘Mashalla! are we
inhospitable?’

‘Not a mouthful, not a taste,’ said the old woman rising. ‘No food must
pass my lips, save what is cooked by my own hands till the spell is
finished; the vow is upon me, and I must begone.’

‘Alla Hafiz!’ then cried both the ladies, leading her to the door, ‘we
trust to thee, mother; do not forget us.’ In a few minutes the sound of
the bearers was heard, as they rapidly traversed the street below them.

‘She is as true as a soldier’s sword,’ said Kummoo’s mother, who had
been almost a silent listener to the conversation; ‘she will not
disappoint ye. Many a time hath she protected thee, Kummoo, from the
evil eye, when it was upon thee—many a time wrought a spell for me, by
which thy father’s love returned when I had fancied it was grown cold;
and thou hast more courage than ever I possessed—thy work will be the
surer.’

‘Inshalla!’ said Kummoo, ‘I feel as though I had that hated girl within
my grasp, and could crush her.’

‘Hush!’ said her mother, ‘thou shouldst not hate so.’

‘I hate as I love, mother; and those who reject the one, provoke the
other; thou shouldst know me by this time.’

Her mother was silent; she knew well the temper of her daughter, and her
uncontrollable passions. ‘It is their destiny,’ she thought, ‘let them
work it out; I dare not oppose it.’ And when the palankeen returned, she
took her leave.

Meanwhile the object of this unprovoked hate was daily becoming more and
more precious to the Khan. Returned from active service, while his
risala continued absent under the command of his two subordinates, in
the seclusion of the zenana he delighted to pass most of his time in
Ameena’s company, and his sole study seemed to be to provide for her
comfort, to deck her with the costliest robes, to have jewels made for
her of extreme value, to get up entertainments, to which the other wives
were sometimes, but rarely invited; he could not bear the remembrance of
the bitter days he had passed with them, when Ameena, in her beauty and
purity, and mild and gentle disposition, was before him.

Ameena’s beauty too now appeared to increase daily; for in the cool and
shady zenana her complexion had assumed a more delicate tint, and her
skin become softer and more polished. It was ravishing to the Khan to
behold her, as she moved about the court of her zenana, tending her few
flowers, that bloomed beside a small fountain which always threw up a
tiny column of spray, or ministering to the wants of her various
favourites. Above her the broad matted leaves of the plantain mingled
with the lighter sprays of the cocoa-nut and betel-palm, and a huge
tamarind-tree threw its broad shadow over all, forming that refreshing
green light so grateful to the eye. The walls of the court were kept
carefully white-washed, and the area spread with the finest gravel.

On two sides there were open rooms, supported upon rows of pillars and
arabesque arches, which were carved and painted in quaint devices;
costly carpets were spread upon their floors, and in the centre was
placed a musnud, covered with white muslin, upon which rested soft
cushions of crimson velvet. On a perch was a gorgeous looree, whose
brilliant plumage glittered in hues of gold and blue and scarlet; and
there were two or three cages hanging within, wrapped round with muslin
cloths, and gaily decorated with coloured beads and bells, from which
larks poured their merry song, now trilling their own joyous notes, now
imitating a hundred sounds of other birds with which they had become
familiar. A young gazelle, with a collar of red velvet about its neck,
with tiny bells sown to it and fastened around its fore legs above its
knees, frisked here and there in merry play; and high above the trees
soared a number of beautiful pigeons, enjoying the bright and glowing
sun and the fresh air in which they sported.

These were daily sights, and the Khan would lie beholding Ameena’s
graceful actions, now and then bursting out into a torrent of praise of
her beauty, and now joining in her tasks of feeding her birds or her
pigeons, or would call them for her when they appeared to fly far away
from her gentle voice. And their time passed peacefully on, marked by no
occurrence whereby they could remember its flight—a continued stream of
quiet pleasure, down which the Khan suffered himself to glide, enjoying
the peaceful contrast to the life of turmoil he had passed in the camp;
the more so as it showed to him the character of Ameena in its true
light, that of domestic intercourse, freed from the interruption of
others.

Kasim Ali too was his constant guest and companion; his wound had healed
after tedious months of suffering; long after the army had arrived at
Seringapatam he was unable to resume any duty or his attendance upon the
Sultaun, and his time was passed mostly in company with the Khan,
assisting him in the business of his risala, writing letters for him, or
examining his accounts. He still retained too the happiness of
occasional intercourse with Ameena, by means of the old servant; and as
often as he received fruit, or any delicacy she thought acceptable to
his weak condition, the gift was accompanied by kind messages, which
Meeran would fain persuade him meant more than was apparent.

To Kasim Ali her love was too precious a thought to part with easily,
and he clung to it with all the ardour of his soul, for he felt himself
alone among that host. He possessed acquaintances, it was true, but they
were either the wild and debauched characters of the army, whom he had
met now and then on service, and in his attendance at the Durbar, with
whom he had no congeniality of feeling—or the friends of the Khan,
elderly men, who looked on him as a youth of inexperience, and with whom
it would be beneath their importance to associate. But Kasim was content
as it was. In the business the Khan provided for him there was enough of
employment, and his weak state and constant ill health prevented him
from seeking other society. Day after day he was seen in the Khan’s
Durbar, acting as his secretary, and fulfilling the duties of that
important trust far more efficiently than the Mutsuddees[46] whom the
Khan had hitherto employed.

-----

Footnote 46:

Clerks.

-----

We have before mentioned the extensive system of peculation practised by
Jaffar Sahib, of whom indeed we have long lost sight; but as he was
employed in a different sphere from the persons who belong to our
history, we have not thought it worth our while to follow him into his
career of oppression and spoliation, where he revelled in all the
opportunities of gratifying his worst passions; nor was he a singular
instance in the army of the Sultaun. Bigots in faith, zealots in the
practice of it, there was no greater enjoyment to hundreds than the
destruction of the Hindoos in those provinces of Malabar which had
gradually been driven into rebellion, and afterwards conquered by the
Sultaun, as we have already mentioned.

Employed with a portion of the risala, he had carried out to the letter
the instructions which the Sultaun had personally communicated to him.
Burn, slay, destroy, convert, were the reiterated orders, and they were
literally obeyed. Jaffar Sahib had been with the camp only for a few
days, when the storming of the breach was expected; and that having
taken place, he was sent, with the rest of his own character, to finish
the work in the defenceless territories of Travancore. But he had at
last been withdrawn from thence, and was now attached to the large
cavalry force which held possession of the plain of Coimbatoor, and
guarded the passes into the table-land of Mysore.

To the Jemadar’s system of deception, however, Kasim Ali fancied he had
at length gained a clue, when it was prominently brought to his notice
by the Khan himself, who, much disturbed upon the subject, one day
handed him a letter he had received from the Bukhshee[47] of the army,
who, it seemed, had detected the false accounts the Jemadar had
furnished.

-----

Footnote 47:

Paymaster.

-----

‘The worst of all is,’ said the Khan, after they had spoken a long while
upon the subject, ‘the demand which the Government will make upon me for
the arrears of this peculation, for it would appear that it has gone on
for a long time.’

‘For years, Khan Sahib,’ replied Kasim; ‘here they give you the dates. I
think I had better go over to the Bukhshee, and get access to the whole
of the accounts which have been made out; we may perhaps detect the
whole matter, and trace it to its source.’

‘A wise thought, Kasim—I will go with thee. But that the honour of
Rhyman Khan is too well known, this might brand me for ever with
infamy.’

They went. The Khan was too well known to have such a request refused;
and day after day did he, with Kasim and secretaries, pore over the
accounts, sometimes thinking they had discovered the cheat, at others
almost despairing, so cleverly had the matter been managed. The delay
and consequent vexation was beginning to have a serious effect on the
Khan; when, after a day of severer toil than usual, Kasim had no doubt
remaining that the whole of the papers had been written by the Moonshee,
whose disgrace we have mentioned, though the handwriting was feigned and
altered in all; and he mentioned his suspicion to the Khan.

This seemed to throw a new light upon the subject; they knew that the
Moonshee was still attached to the person of Jaffar Sahib as a kind of
secretary, for he could not write himself, and it became a matter of
paramount importance to separate him if possible from the Jemadar; nor
was this difficult to manage. A few men of the risala always remained
with the Khan, under the charge of Dilawur Ali Duffadar, the rough old
soldier we have before mentioned. He bore the Jemadar no very good will,
and readily undertook to carry off the Moonshee, unknown to his
protector, and bring him to the city.

Accordingly, he took his departure the following morning with six
resolute fellows, and by rapid marches soon gained the camp. Here,
however, it was no easy task to apprehend the person they sought, for he
kept constantly with the Jemadar, and it was necessary he should not
know of the proceeding; but they succeeded at last. The Moonshee was
decoyed to the outskirts of the camp by one of the men disguised as a
Fakeer, where they were met by the Duffadar and his mounted party, and
in spite of his prayers, protestations, and threats, he was carried
rapidly towards the city.

The rage of Jaffar Sahib was excessive when he fancied himself deserted
by his dependent; no one could tell how he had disappeared or whither he
had gone; the last known of him was that he had been seen in the company
of a Fakeer, going in a certain direction. Jaffar Sahib was seriously
uneasy at his supposed defection, not only because he had now no one on
whom he could depend to transact his intricate business, but because
this man knew more of his secret transactions than he cared to entrust
to any one else, and which if divulged would be his ruin.

The arrival of the Moonshee was a source of true joy to the Khan and
Kasim; at first, as might be expected, he knew, or pretended to know,
nothing about the matter; but the suspicion was so strong against him,
that the Khan, by a short mode of doing justice often practised in
India, directed that no water should be given to him till he confessed
the whole.

The threat was in the end sufficient; the fellow held out most
vehemently for about a day, and then, overcome by terror at their
determination, and threats that this was only the commencement of his
punishments, declared he would confess all; and he unfolded secretly to
the Khan and Kasim the whole of the deceits which had been practised
from the first. Every account was gone through, and a fearful array of
peculation registered against the Jemadar, who was written to, to make
the best of his way to the city to answer the complaint against him. Ere
the messenger reached the camp, however, the Jemadar had arrived at the
city; for his active emissaries had traced the arrival of Dilawur Ali
and his party, and their sudden departure, and it was evident that they
must have carried off the Moonshee.

-------

CHAPTER XXXV.

The detection of his long concealed and successful peculations was a
thunderbolt to the Jemadar. The Khan refused to see him, or to hear any
exculpation he had to urge; and then, knowing the influence Kasim Ali
possessed with his commander, he sought him, and implored him to use his
influence with the Khan for pardon and for silence on the subject; he
became abject, he even threw himself at the young man’s feet, and when
these failed, offered him a bribe to accede to his terms. It wanted but
this to excite Kasim Ali’s full indignation: he had despised the man for
his meanness, but the insult aroused him, and he spurned the offer
fiercely.

‘Cheat and rogue!’ he cried, ‘many a man is whipped through the bazaars
for less than this. Inshalla! I shall live to see this done upon thee. I
have not forgotten thee, and thou art too well known in the army for any
good men to feel regret at thy fate. Men say that thou art a devil, and
not a man. By Alla I believe them. Begone! wert thou the Sultaun’s son I
would spurn thee.’

There was no one near, and the Jemadar eyed Kasim as the thought flashed
into his mind that a thrust of his sword or dagger would silence him for
ever, and that without his aid the Khan would easily be persuaded to
drop the prosecution. Kasim was weak too, and might easily be overcome,
and his hand stole to his sword-hilt; but the string which secured it to
the scabbard was fast, and he could not draw it; with a muttered curse
he clutched a long knife he wore in his girdle, and, on pretence of
repeating his request, advanced a step; his eye glistened like that of a
tiger about to spring; another moment might have been fatal to Kasim
Ali, but he saw the action, and instantly seizing his sword which lay
before him he started to his feet.

‘I see thy cowardly intention, Jemadar,’ he said; ‘as yet, I will not
draw this weapon, which would be polluted by a coward’s blood; but
advance one step, and by Alla and the Apostle thou mayest say the Kulma,
for thou diest. Begone! in the name of the Prophet, and seek not thine
own death.’

The coward attempted to stammer out an excuse, to protest that he had
been misunderstood; but he could say nothing intelligible, and he slunk
away defeated and mortified, with deadly hate rankling at his heart and
urging him to revenge.

‘That I should have been foiled by that boy!’ he said aloud as he
quitted the house; ‘that I should have been destined to devour such
abomination! that I, Jaffar Sahib, should have been thus trampled upon!
Ya Ali! ya Hoosein! grant me power of revenge. Yea, his blood will
hardly wipe out the insult I have suffered. Yes, tell him so,’ he cried
to a woman who he thought watched him; ‘tell him so—tell him Jaffar
Sahib curses him, and, as there is a light in heaven, will have his
revenge for what has happened.’

‘Jaffar Sahib!’ cried the woman, rushing forward; ‘thou canst not be he?
thou canst not be he whom I thought dead years ago?’

‘Begone! I know thee not; thou art one of his followers, and I curse
thee;’ and flinging her off, for she had clung to his arm, so violently
that she stumbled against a stone and fell, he strode on at a rapid
pace.

She arose slowly, and looked after him as he hurried on. ‘Holy Prophet!’
she said, as she brushed away the dust and her loose hair from her eyes,
‘it must be he; his look when he was excited, his very tones, his name
too, all are his. Jaffar Sahib! that name hath not sounded in mine ears
since we met last, when the bright moon was above us, and the trees
casting their deep shade over us veiled that from her prying glare which
even now shames me to remember. Holy Alla! he did not remember Sozun!
how should he? Years have passed since we were young, and they have not
been without effect; and to meet thus, when I had thought him dead long,
long ago, and mourned him in my heart! Ya Alla! what destiny is this
before me? Be it what it may,’ she continued, walking a few paces, ‘I
will see him, and he shall know that Sozun still lives.’

Jaffar Sahib had but one resource left; and as he hurried along his mind
became resolutely bent upon attempting it. To urge the Khan again was
impossible, and against Kasim his desire of revenge became more wild and
implacable every moment. ‘My only refuge is in the Sultaun; I will go to
him and confess my fault. If I am fortunate—and who shall dare to say
that the destiny of Jaffar Sahib is evil?—there is no worse to be
apprehended than if I were proceeded against publicly. I may be
fortunate and prevent all.’ And thus saying and meditating how he should
open his statement, he arrived before the gate of the palace, and
entered it hastily; being well known no opposition was made to him, and
he passed on to the appartment of those who waited upon the Sultaun, for
he well knew that at that hour he must be alone, or in consultation with
Purnea, or Kishun Rao, his advisers and ministers.

‘Is the Sultaun alone, Abdool Hoosein?’ he said, addressing the
monarch’s chief and confidential attendant, who, with a crowd of others,
waited without.

‘He is engaged in writing,’ said the functionary; ‘it would be as much
as my life is worth to disturb him. This day he has received letters
which have sorely distressed him, and he is not in his right senses.’

‘I must see him,’ said the Jemadar; ‘my business is of the utmost
importance.’

‘You must write then, for it is impossible for me to mention it,’
returned the man doggedly.

‘Abdool Hoosein,’ said Jaffar Sahib, taking him aside, ‘thou knowest we
have been friends hitherto, and, Inshalla! mean to continue so. I cannot
write what I have to say—it would be impossible; but here is a trifle;’
and he slipped a gold coin into his hand.

‘It is not enough,’ said the attendant, glancing his eye from the money
to the giver, for he well knew with whom he had to deal; ‘it is not
enough—take it back.’

‘Nay, be not hasty,’ returned the other; ‘here is more, but I have no
gold.’

‘’Tis the worse for thee, Jaffar Sahib; I do not move under three gold
pieces, and no one else dares to—’

‘Take them then in the name of the Shitan,’ cried the Jemadar. ‘Go! say
that I am here, and have a petition to make.’

‘The Sultaun thinks thou art at the camp,’ said the attendant; ‘’twas
but yesterday he spoke of thee.’

‘He will soon know why I am here,’ replied the Jemadar; ‘but begone! I
have neither time nor inclination to bandy words with thee.’

The man went and returned. ‘Go,’ he said, ‘in the name of Sheikh Suddoo,
the father of mischief; I would not be present at your interview with
the Sultaun for much. Away! he hath sent for thee.’

How the heart of the coward beat as he heard these words; but there was
now no means of retreat, and he proceeded.

The Sultaun sat in a small room which communicated with the private
apartments of the palace; the walls were plain, but the ceiling was
richly painted and ornamented, and the casements and shutters of the
windows also. On the floor there was spread a clean white calico
covering; and at one end, upon a carpet supported by cushions,
surrounded by heaps of papers, and holding in his left hand a stiff
leather case, which supported the paper on which he was writing, sat the
Sultaun.

Jaffar Sahib hesitated for a moment at the door, for he had looked
through a chink, and seen that there was a frown on the Sultaun’s brow,
and that peculiar expression about his mouth which was always the
precursor of mischief; but there was no time allowed him for reflection.
The Sultaun had heard and called to him; and the Jemadar, hastily
entering, at once threw himself at full length flat on the ground before
him, with his arms and legs extended, and lay there motionless and
silent.

‘Why, Madur-bukht, what ails thee? in the name of the Prophet speak and
tell; we thought thee at the camp. Why hast thou come here without
leave? why hast thou transgressed orders, and the regulations of our
army, which were drawn up with our own wisdom and are perfect models of
military knowledge. Speak, O Kumbukht! O man without a destiny! why art
thou come?’

‘Pardon, O Asylum of the World!’ cried the Jemadar, not daring to look
up; ‘thy slave’s fault is great, and his liver is turned to water; I
crave forgiveness ere I can tell my errand. My lord is generous—he will
forgive magnanimously and will not punish the error of his slave.’

‘Get up, in the name of the Prophet! and tell thy tale; do not lie
snivelling there like a Hindoo: by Alla! thou remindest me of the
Brahmin who said thou hadst plundered him, and whom we—but no matter.
Get up! or by the Apostle I will prick thee with my sword;’ and he drew
it.

‘Alla and the Prophet be my refuge, and the saints Hassan and Hoosein!’
cried the man, rising up and joining his hands, while he trembled
fearfully; ‘if thou art against me, O Sultaun, I have no refuge in the
world; may I be your sacrifice! I will speak the truth; why should I
tell a lie?’

‘Speak, then, and say it, Madur-Bukhta!’ cried the Sultaun impatiently;
‘dost thou think that we, the beloved of Alla, on whom rest the cares
and protection of this kingdom, and of the true faith in Hind—dost thou
think that we have nought to do but listen to thy prating? Quick!’

‘Huzrut!’ said the Jemadar, his agitation almost denying him utterance;
‘thou mayest order me to be blown away from a gun, if what I say be not
true.’

‘Well!’ exclaimed the Sultaun, ‘what more?’

‘I am disgraced—my character is gone—I have no friend—no, not one.
Rhyman Khan and his minion Kasim Ali have leagued together to blast my
reputation and to ruin me.’

‘Hold!’ cried Tippoo; ‘the one is a man I am proud to call my friend,
the other saved my life; beware how thou namest them.’

‘May I be your sacrifice! thou mayest hang me if it be not the truth;
listen and judge:—when I was with the camp, engaged in the Sircar’s
affairs, my Moonshee, a humble man, disappeared; your slave thought he
had been murdered, and became uneasy; he discovered in a few days that
the Khan had sent a party of the risala and carried him away privately;
since then he and Kasim Ali have kept him here, tortured him, and made
him draw up a declaration that your slave had made false accounts.’

‘Ha!’ said the Sultaun; ‘but go on.’

‘Yes, false accounts, protector of the poor! I who have fed on the
Sircar’s bounty, I who have eaten the Sircar’s salt, who am a
Khanazad,[48]—that I should do so base an act!’

-----

Footnote 48:

One born in the family.

-----

‘Peace!’ exclaimed the Sultaun; ‘I see by thine eye, Jaffar Sahib, that
thou art guilty; there is no hiding truth from me. As I slept one night,
the dream is recorded, the angel Gabriel appeared to me. “Thou art a
Sultaun,” he said, “and the destinies of thousands and millions are in
thy hands; thou shalt be able from henceforth to detect a lie at once,”
and so saying he vanished; and I, who am a child of clay, and not worthy
of the honour, feel that he said truly. Dost thou not tremble as I read
thy heart in thine eye, and see that thou art a thief? yes, thou dost
wince—the thief of the Sircar Khodadad.[49] Shall I have thee taken into
the square, Kumbukht, and set in a high place, and a proclamation made
that thou art a thief? Toba! Toba! wert thou not content with the
plunder of the infidels, but thou must needs steal from us? Ya Alla
kureem! grant us patience to bear this.’

-----

Footnote 49:

The Government, the gift of God.

-----

‘Enough! enough, O fountain of mercy!’ said the trembling wretch;
‘enough; I beseech you by my long and faithful service to forgive me, to
pardon the past, to keep me from shame. I am your slave, I lick the dust
of your feet! Holy Alla! be my aid, and ye saints and martyrs in whose
name I have slain and despoiled infidels!’

‘Who is this grovelling wretch?’ said Meer Sadik the Dewan, and Kishun
Rao the Treasurer, who then entered.

‘Ay, who is he? ye may well ask,’ replied the Sultaun; ‘one who,
Inshalla! has owned himself to be a thief,—to have taken the Sircar’s
money,—to have been unfaithful to his salt.’ And then, though the
miserable Jemadar pleaded hard for mercy, he told all he had guessed at,
and invented the rest, joking the while upon the affair, at the expense
of the culprit, who could have borne wrath, but not the cold and bitter
irony of the Sultaun, and those who heard it.

‘Alla! Alla! this is worse than death,’ he cried at length; ‘bid me be
blown away from a gun, it will be an end to all misery and persecution.’

‘Not so fast, Jaffar Sahib,’ said the Sultaun; ‘we intend, Inshalla! to
make thee pay back the money thou hast taken, and to keep thee alive to
serve us and eat our salt. What say ye, sirs?’ he cried to the others.

‘I beg to represent,’ said Kishun Rao, ‘that your slave hath learned
with grief of the peculation which has been discovered in the department
of the paymaster, from the false accounts of the risalas and the
infantry, and was about making a report upon the subject; but enough;
here is one culprit, let him smart for it, and the rest will be more
careful.’

‘Not so! Rao Sahib,’ said the Sultaun; ‘not so; this man we will pardon,
because we have the memory of many of his services in our heart, where,
Shookr Khoda! the services of each man of our invincible army is
treasured up; this time we will spare his fame. Dost thou hear?’ he
cried to Jaffar Sahib; ‘thou art free to go, and we shall desire Abdool
Rhyman Khan to suspend his proceedings; but thou shalt pay to our
treasurer two thousand hoons[50] by to-morrow at this time, if not, it
will be worse for thee.’

-----

Footnote 50:

A hoon is about four rupees.

-----

‘I call the Prophet to witness,’ cried Jaffar Sahib, ‘I have not half
the quarter of that sum; five hundred I might perhaps—’

‘Peace!’ exclaimed the Sultaun; ‘how darest thou to swear to a lie in
the presence of the friend of the Apostle? I have spoken.’

‘I have it not—where am I to find such a sum?’

‘In hell!’ roared the Sultaun, ‘where I will send thee to seek it, if
thou delayest one moment beyond the time. Begone! Look thou to this,
Kishun Rao—we have spoken, and we will be obeyed; we shall expect thy
report punctually.’

Jaffar Sahib silently made his obeisance, and retired burning with shame
and anger, and renewed threats against Kasim, the author of all. Alone
he could have borne the Sultaun’s irony and bitter words, but that
others should know of his detection and disgrace was more than he could
endure. He did not wait to speak to those in the ante-chamber, but
hurried at once to his temporary lodging in the bazaar.

‘We have sent for you, my friends,’ said the Sultaun to his ministers,
after a short pause, ‘to advise with us regarding momentous affairs
which press upon our notice; not that we need advice—for, by the
blessing of the Prophet! whose agent we are upon earth, and the favour
of the Most High, we receive such intimations of our destiny in dreams,
and by secret and holy communings with the saints, that our path is
clearly marked out for us; but there are, nevertheless, matters which we
have heard of within the last few days that disturb our rest. The kafir
Feringhees of Madras have written to us, and remonstrated sharply for
our attack upon Travancore; they have the insolence to demand
satisfaction for it, and the price of what was destroyed. Vain
arrogance! they should know us better, than to think a mere threat could
disturb the ruler of the kingdom which Alla hath given into our hand.
They are making mighty preparations for war; they have incited the kafir
Mahrattas (may their end be perdition!) and the imbecile ruler of
Hyderabad to join against me. Nay, be not surprised; for though these
have been the reports of the bazaars for months, yet we did not believe
them; but here are the proofs:’ and he handed to them the letters he had
received, containing the intelligence, which they perused in silence.

‘And now listen,’ he continued, his mean features lighting up with a
sudden excitement; ‘listen to the revelation we have had from Alla
himself. These letters arrived but yesterday; and as we lay cogitating
upon their contents, and praying to Alla to enable us to devise some
means of extrication from the difficulty, our eyes closed and we fell
asleep. Soon, however, gorgeous visions began to crowd upon us, and
shapes of glory, which, though almost indefinite, yet hovered around,
filling the mind with wondrous delight; as we looked, we heard a voice
which said, “Art thou hungry, O Sultaun?” and then I bowed down and
cried, saying, “I lack food, O Alla! but it is revenge for the blood of
the martyrs shed in thy cause, and I am hungry for aid, that all thine
enemies may be subdued, and the banner of the faith float proudly over
the realms of Hind, even as it did of yore under the power of Delhi;”
and then, even as I finished speaking, three trays, whose surface
sparkled with the light of Heaven, and upon which were piled fresh
dates, the food of the true believers in paradise, descended to me, and
the angel said,—“Eat, O beloved of the Apostle! and thou wilt be able to
discern the hidden meaning of this vision:” and I ate; and lo! there
came light into my heart, and I know that the three trays of dates were
the dominions of the three confederates my enemies, and they were sweet
to the taste, even as victory is sweet to the soldier.’

‘Ajaib! most wonderful! most extraordinary!’ echoed the two listeners,
who were provoked enough at this puerile harangue. ‘Inshalla! there is
no fear.’

‘Fear!’ cried the Sultaun bitterly; ‘fear! no, there is no fear; there
is joy that at last we shall have them in our power. In a few months the
King of the Afghans will rise in our favour, and, leagued with the Rajah
of Nipaul, and the rulers of Joudhpoor and Jynuggur, who shall be able
to withstand them? The French will rise with ten thousand men; our
valiant troops are a lakh and more. Pressed on all sides, our enemies
will fall; and then for revenge and plunder!’ As he spoke his eyes
flashed fire, his action was high and restless, and even that sedate
counsellor the Dewan caught a portion of his excitement.

‘Upon them then,’ he cried, ‘in the name of Alla! Syud Sahib is below
the passes with all the cavalry. Bangalore hath a gallant commander, and
the garrison is staunch and true; there is plenty of powder and ball; to
the north are all the Droogs,[51] for the Mahrattas and Nizam to break
their force against. Inshalla then! unfurl the standard of the faith in
Durbar this night, and cry Alla Yar! He who is faithful to his creed and
his Sultaun will follow thee to the death.’

-----

Footnote 51:

Hill-forts.

-----

‘Asylum of the World!’ said an attendant, entering; ‘these letters have
just arrived, and are said to contain news from the army; there hath
been fighting.’ And he laid them at Tippoo’s feet.

‘Ha!’ cried the Sultaun exultingly, taking them up and tearing the
covers off as he looked at the seal; ‘Syud Sahib! then the English must
have advanced. Now listen, my friends, to news of victory. Inshalla! the
Syud is a brave man and a skilful general—’ But, as he read silently,
they saw his features change in expression; his brow contract; his lips
become compressed; a nervous twitching of his face commenced, which
always expressed his violent agitation, and they exchanged significant
glances with each other. At last he was no longer able to bear his
vexation, and broke out into a paroxysm of rage.

‘Ya Futteh-o! Ya Alla Mousoof! A hog, and not a man, hath
done this—a coward and a fool! not Syud Sahib, but Syud
Ahmuk!—beaten—disgraced—foiled by the kafir English—forced to retire
beyond the Bhowanee, and he is now close upon the Guzalhuttee pass. O
saints and martyrs! grant me patience to read, to hear all;’ and he read
on. ‘Reinforcements? infantry and guns?—that they may be led into evil,
and lost to me! Never, by the Prophet! never, by the soul of my
father!—may his sepulchre be honoured! Thou mayest even fight it out,
Syud, or return disgraced; thou shalt have the option. What think you,
sirs?’

‘It is heavy news,’ said Meer Sadik, ‘and enough to ruffle my lord’s
temper; but the Syud is wary and cautious. Perhaps the English force is
overwhelming, and he has wisely retired before it, drawing them into a
snare, from whence it will be impossible to escape.’

‘Ha! thinkest thou so? By Alla! a good thought; he shall have the men
and the guns; we will write the order now to the commanders of the
Cushoons[52] to attend the evening Durbar.’

-----

Footnote 52:

His division of regular infantry were so called.

-----

‘I beg to represent,’ said Kishun Rao, ‘that in such an undertaking
there is no one like thyself, O Sultaun; under thine own eye all will go
well; without thee, there is fear and hesitation, for the responsibility
is great.’

‘Well spoken,’ responded the monarch; ‘we have—blessed be the Dispenser
of Wisdom!—such military skill, that before it the genius of the kafir
English is nothing, and their livers become water. Was it not so in
Baillie’s affair? Inshalla! then, we will lead this expedition, and
there will be many such.’

‘And,’ continued the Rao, ‘what is there to prevent the victorious army,
when it has driven the English beyond the boundary, to follow them to
the gate of Madras—to burn, to slay, to plunder, and destroy all? The
French, their bitter enemies, will rise upon them; and when the success
is noised abroad, the Mahrattas, who hate them, and the Nizam, who is
now under their power, will cast them off; and then what is to prevent
the army of the Sircar Khodadad from driving them into the sea, and,
with the power thus gained, of turning upon the faithless Nizam and
destroying his power utterly? then shall Madras be the seaport of the
Sultaun, and he may pitch his tents on the plain of Surroonuggur, and
take his pleasure in the palace of the proud ruler of Hyderabad.’

‘Mashalla! Mashalla! Inspiration! Inspiration!’ exclaimed the Sultaun in
rapture; ‘it shall be done; the thing is easy. Our dreams forewarned us
of this, and behold, our destiny points to it. One victory gained, and
the Mahrattas are on our side; Sindia and his power can be thrown into
the scale: then with the Afghans, the Rohillas, the brave men of the
Dekhan, the Assud Illahee, and the French—Ya Futteh-o! thou wilt grant
victory, and our power will reach a pitch such as men will wonder at and
admire.’

‘But stay, whose letter is this by the same post?’ and he opened the
envelope. The look of exultation at once gave way to passion. ‘Here is
another coward, another traitor!—Palghatcherry has fallen! the place we
ourselves saw provisioned and garrisoned with the best troops;—shame on
them! shame on them! they are women, not men. By Alla! I have women in
the Mahal who would have died ere they had suffered a kafir to enter.
Now there is a road opened from sea to sea, and the infidel English will
not be slow to avail themselves of it. Yet this does but hasten our
intentions. Ye have your leave now to retire, my friends. Go, and say
there will be a Durbar to-night,—no, to-morrow at noon; for, by the
blessing of the Prophet! ere then a new dream may be vouchsafed for our
guidance, Khoda Hafiz!’

They withdrew with many obeisances, and the strange being was left to
his meditations, and to the wild visions of conquest, which the words of
the Rao had resolved into matters apparently within his grasp.

Jaffar Sahib reached his abode with feelings it would be difficult to
describe; the money was but a trifle to him in amount, for in his career
of rapacity and plunder he had amassed thousands; but it was so lent out
among bankers, suttlers, the men of the risala, and those of the bazaar,
that he feared he should hardly be able to raise it in time to meet the
Sultaun’s demand, and without it he had little hope that mercy would be
extended to him. As he dismounted from his horse, his attendant Madar
met him.

‘A woman is within,’ he said, pointing to the door of the apartment;
‘she came here a short while ago, and would take no denial, saying she
would wait for thee.’

‘A woman! in the name of the Shitan what doth she want?—is she young and
fair?’

‘Willa-alum!’ replied the man, grinning, ‘your worship will see; she is
veiled from head to foot.’

‘Most strange! Away with ye all from hence, it may be the matter is
private, and we would be alone.’ As he spoke, he entered the door. There
was a small room at the back of the open shop he had hired; a door led
from that into a small court, where was a shed for cooking or bathing,
and a low verandah. There was no one in the room; he opened the door,
and looked around. Close beside it, in the verandah, sat a woman, veiled
from head to foot in a thick sheet; she appeared to be trembling
violently, for the covering was much agitated.

‘Who, in the name of Satan, art thou,’ cried the Jemadar, ‘who comest at
this unseasonable hour?’ She did not reply, and he spoke again more
roughly.

‘Alla be merciful to me! Jaffar,’ she exclaimed, throwing herself at his
feet, and clasping his knees, while she cast the veil from her, ‘it is
indeed thou! hast thou forgotten Sozun?’

‘Sozun! Sozun!’ he repeated, as he drew his hand across his forehead,
‘she of Salem? Holy Alla! hast thou risen from the dead? is this a
dream?’

‘No! no! look on me. My features are wasted, but I am the same; thou
didst spurn me a while ago like a dog, and my heart was broken. There
was kindness between us once, Jaffar!’ and she sighed deeply.

‘I knew thee not,’ he said, raising her up, and, for the moment yielding
to a softer feeling, caressed her. ‘I had been maddened! insulted by
that dog of a Patél, Kasim Ali. I knew thee not, Sozun.’

‘Ha! dost thou know him?’

‘To my cost; he and his dotard patron, Rhyman Khan, have despoiled me of
money—villified my character; but enough, ’tis no affair of thine. Why
dost thou ask?’

‘I have too a reckoning to settle with him, but let it pass; we will
speak of that which once was pleasant to us. Thou hast not forgotten me
then, Jaffar?’

‘Alla is my witness—never! But canst thou come hither this night at
dusk, unobserved? then we will speak of past times uninterruptedly; now
I have affairs of moment to settle, and must begone.’

‘I will come surely,’ was the reply; ‘thy voice is music in mine ears
after so long a separation.’

‘Follow me then, and I will dismiss thee openly before my servants; but
be sure thou dost not fail to-night.’

-------

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Looking from her latticed chamber sat Kummoo-bee, her heart beating so
that its pulsations seemed audible to her own ear, her bosom heaving as
though it would almost burst the bounds of the light boddice which
enclosed it, and her eye flashing brightly, as she thought upon the sure
success of her mission. Little she heeded the soft and chastening light
which the moon’s rays cast upon every object around, silvering the tall
white minarets of the mosque, till they stood out in perfect relief
against the deep blue of the sky, and resting upon the sharp pinnacles
of the ancient temples, where all else was lost in shadow. The large
courts around them, into which she looked in the day-time, then filled
with busy throngs, were now deserted, save by the broad giant shadows
which the temple and the trees around it cast across them. Now and then
the shrouded form of a Brahmin would pass noiselessly through them, the
moon’s light resting brightly upon the white drapery around him; but as
he hurried on the deep black shadow seemed to enshroud him, and he was
no longer discernible within its influence.

As Kummoo sat thus, she would idly speculate, with vacant eye fixed upon
some figure in the square beyond, or listen to the hoarse and distant
noubut, which, as the night advanced, beat at the tomb of the Sultaun’s
father, or to the wailing and quivering sound of the brass horns which
arose from the camp, when the watch was being relieved. She heeded not
the luscious perfume of orange-flowers and tube-roses, which, loading
the air, came in at her open window from the garden beneath; but her
whole senses were absorbed in one object, which she rather wooed than
strove to turn away from her mental vision; at times too a tear would
fill her large lustrous eye, and, welling over the lid, trickle down her
face unheeded—a tear of burning passion—no soother to her excited mind,
but rather aggravating those feelings which had now become almost too
painful to be borne.

‘What can delay her?’ she said, speaking half aloud to herself; ‘by this
time I might have been with him. Ya, Fatima, aid me! my liver is burnt
with passion, and the air which comes to me seems hot—hot with my own
breath; I can bear this no longer. Why does she tarry?—she is old, or
she might be dallying with him. What if she were? but no, that cannot
be—she dared not. She knows well I would tear her limb from limb if she
harboured even a thought of his love; and she is faithful too. I must
wait; he was away perhaps—he may have been here—here, under this roof,
where he little dreamed there existed one whose greatest happiness would
be to die at his feet. Holy Alla! who is that?’ she cried, as a long
train of musing into which she had fallen was suddenly interrupted by
the opening of her chamber door. ‘Who comes?’

‘Sozunbee,’ was the reply.

‘Sozunbee!’ she said, while the blood poured through her frame in wild
pulsations; ‘and ’tis thou at last! Hither, quick! quick! sit here, and
tell me all. I have long, long looked for thee; why hast thou tarried? I
am ready now—even now; come, let us haste—what? thou dost not speak!
Woman! hast thou done my bidding?—hast thou seen him?—if not, tell me,
and I shall be cool—now I am burning!—Ya Alla kureem, burning!’ and she
fanned herself violently, while her articulation showed that her mouth
was quite parched. ‘Speak! why dost thou not speak?’

‘I have seen him,’ was the reply.

‘Well! Oh for patience to listen! By Alla! thou canst never have loved,
Sozunbee, or thou wouldst know what it is to have fire within
thee—fire!—wilt thou not quench it?’

‘It will be hard for thee to hear all, lady; shall I tell it?’

‘All—all! thou sawest him—well! why dost thou hesitate?’

‘I would spare thee pain; go now to rest, thou wilt be calm to-morrow.’

‘Pain! what dost thou mean? Pain!—he cannot—’ she almost gasped in a
hoarse whisper, while her eyes flashed so that Sozun could hardly bear
their intense gaze; ‘he cannot have denied me! he dare not have flung
aside love like mine! Holy Prophet! Sozun, thou dost jest!’ and she
laughed wildly.

‘May the holy Mother of Ali, and the Lady Murium, and the saints aid
thee, my life!’ said the woman, rising and passing her hands over her
head, to withdraw the evil from her. ‘May they give thee peace! As I
live I saw him and spoke with him, but thou must be calm ere I tell it
thee.’

‘I am calm—see, I am quite calm,’ she said, making a violent effort to
swallow; ‘feel my hand—it is cool—I can listen.’

But her hand belied her words; it burned as though she were in a fever,
and the quick and strong pulsations of her blood were distinctly
perceptible; to delay, however, was but to excite her more.

‘I went,’ said Sozun, ‘to his abode; long I watched at the door: men
came and went; the Khan was there; there was haste and bustle, and much
deliberation. At last all departed; a Khitmutgar[53] observed me, and
asked me what I did there? I said I would speak with the Syud, that I
had a matter to tell him of; he went in, and I followed. I was closely
veiled. “Wait here,” said the man, “I will inform him.” I waited; the
moments were like hours. “Go in,” said the man when he returned, “he is
alone.” I trembled as I proceeded, and found myself in his small
apartment ere I was aware. The Syud was writing. “Stop! who art thou?”
he asked, and his words were sweet as the sound of children’s voices at
play. I salaamed thrice.’

-----

Footnote 53:

Attendant.

-----

‘Quick! quick! good Sozun, what said he?’ asked the lady eagerly. ‘I
care not what thou didst.’

‘Thou shalt hear. “I am your slave,” said I, “and bring thee a
message—wilt thou listen?” "Say on," he replied, “I hear thee; sit down
and speak; hast thou any complaint?” "No, no!" I said, “I have none;
cease writing, and listen.” He did so: then I untied the corner of my
dooputta, and gave him what thou hadst sent. “Dost thou understand the
tokens?” I asked.

‘Beebee! he looked sorrowfully on them. “They speak of love,” he said;
“why hast thou brought them to one who is dying?”

‘“She is fair,” I said—“most lovely. Her eyes are large, her lips are
red; in beauty she is like a rose when it opens to meet the morning sun
which drinks the fragrant dew from its cup. She has seen thee, O Syud,
and her liver has become water.”

‘“What misfortune is around me?” he said. There was no anger in his
tone, but sorrow. “I have no love now but for one; but let that pass. Go
to her who sent thee: say I pity her—say, as we have never met, and I
know her not, so let her turn her thoughts to another; she will see many
in the Durbar.”

‘He had thought thee one of the palace dancers; thou knowest they are
high and proud, and men account themselves fortunate to win a smile from
them: I eagerly undeceived him.

‘“She is no Tuwaif,” I said; “she is a householder, and as far above
them in beauty as the moon is above a star.”’

‘And what said he, Sozun?’

‘Then he grew grave, my pearl, and said sternly,—“Such love is sinful—it
is impure; bid her forget it. She hath a lord—what am I to her? Why hath
she looked on me with eyes of passion? Begone! say to her, Kasim Ali
Patél is no man of dishonour, but pure and unstained; as yet, no
dissolute or debauched gallant. Away! thou art an offence to me.”
Beebee! I tried to speak; he would hear nought. “Begone! begone!” alone
sounded in mine ears, and his eyes were so large and so severe that I
trembled.’

‘And was this all, Sozun? was this all? Ah fool! ah fool! why didst thou
not say I was a Tuwaif—anything—a slave—he would have heard thee. Ah
fool! couldst thou not have pleaded for me in words—hot, burning words,
such as would have inflamed his heart, dried up the cold dew of his
virtue, and turned him to me with a love as violent as mine own? Couldst
thou not have said that I live upon his look?—one look I had, only one,
which mine own thoughts have magnified into years of intercourse—couldst
thou not tell him that I am one who will brook no control? Ya Rehman
Alla! couldst thou—’

‘But he said he loved another,’ interrupted Sozun, vainly endeavouring
to stem the torrent of her mistress’s words.

‘What, another! O woman, thou didst not say so—thou didst not dare to
say it. He loves another! Then he _can_ love, if he has loved another.
Who is she? couldst thou discover her, O dull one? A Tuwaif perhaps—some
vile and worthless one, some scum of perdition! No, he is too noble for
that.—Water, Sozun, water! By Alla, I choke! Enough—now take the vessel.
Thou saidst another. Ha! if it were she! _if_ it were she! What dost
thou think?’

‘Who?’

‘Ameena! it must be—it can be no other. She is beautiful, very
beautiful; he hath saved her life, twice saved it. They have been in
camps together, and he must have met her, and then— Dost thou not see
all, Sozun, clear to thine eye as daylight? Does it not all open
gradually upon thee, as when the dawn of morning dispels the darkness,
objects that were before dim and shadowy assume palpable forms?’

‘There is suspicion surely, Khanum, but we have never heard aught
breathed against her.’

‘No, she hath been discreet; but may it not be so? I ask thee calmly,
when Alla knows my heart is on fire.’

‘It may, but—’

‘Enough! enough! we will watch: and she who was born to be my curse—she
who hath thrown me from my seat of pride, and intruded between me and my
rights—may perchance be rudely thrown from her elevation. Grant it, O
Prophet! O ye saints and holy men, grant it! Yes, we will watch now,
Sozun; wilt thou not aid me?’

‘To the last.’

‘Enough then now; this hath calmed me somewhat for the while: revenge is
dimly seen in the distance, but it will come, it will come! Now lie down
beside me and sleep; the night is far spent, I am weary of watching, and
my heart aches, Sozun.’

‘Alla keep thee, lady!’ returned the other; ‘I will watch beside thee
for a while, for I feel not sleepy, and the air is pleasant.’

And she watched silently, for her thoughts were busy with the events of
that night—her strange meeting with Jaffar, his now apparently reckless
character, and the threats he had held out against the young Patél; for
she had been with him long, and if they had not renewed the passionate
love of former years, he had caressed her, and vowed to befriend the
only being for whom he had ever felt affection.

The fresh breeze of night, laden with perfume from tree and flower,
poured in gentle whispers through the casement, murmuring and sighing
above it amidst the slender leaves of the palms. Abroad all was still,
except now and then the bark of a dog, or the call of the sentinels upon
the walls to each other that all was well. Gradually the moon’s glorious
light crept round to the window, and stealing into the room, it wandered
over the recumbent figure of the lady till it rested upon her face. ‘She
sleeps now,’ thought Sozun, ‘or the light would disturb her; peacefully
too! and oh, how lovely her features and those long lashes appear, as
the light plays among them, and kisses them in very wantonness. I would
he could see her now—he, with those glorious eyes so full of expression,
into which no woman could look without love! her fate is in the power of
her destiny. May it be propitious! Our paths are dark and rugged before
us, yet we must walk on without a light or a guide. And now I will to
rest also, for mind and body are both weary.’

Men poured into the Fort from every side the following morning, both
officers and men; for the order had gone forth for all to hear the
determination of the Sultaun upon the crisis. Elephants and horses, gay
palankeens, their bearers striving with each other for precedence,
proceeded to the Durbar, exerting their utmost speed with loud cries;
and glittering armour, cloth of gold and silver, and the most brilliant
silks, satins and muslins, shone in the bright sun, as the turbans, the
vests, or the scarfs of the wearers. Rumour had gone forth that the
Sultaun himself would proceed against the infidels, and every man was
eager to be led to war and plunder—victory in the one, and rich booty in
the other, being his by anticipation.

Crowds hurried on. The hall of audience in the palace had long been
filled, and the people reached from the entrance far beyond into the
courtyard. Cries of ‘Deen! Deen! Alla Yar! Alla Yar!’ rose perpetually
from among the mass, and mingled with the sound of the kettle-drum and
shrill pipes, which continued playing while the Durbar was open. The
Sultaun was seated upon his throne, over which, suspended by a fine
wire, so as to appear really to flutter over him, was hung a golden
bird, whose wings and tail, set with precious gems, glittered as the
wind stirred it to and fro. This was the Humma, or sacred bird of
Paradise, whose shadow, so long as it falls upon a monarch, prevents his
sustaining any injury, and to which many miraculous powers were ascribed
by the lower order of soldiery, or those who had risen from it. Around
Tippoo—some engaged in fanning him, others gently moving peacocks’
feathers or tails of the Thibet cow to and fro, to prevent the flies
from settling on him—were a number of fair and youthful creatures, whose
ruddy or pale cheeks showed their origin to have been in the cold and
distant climate of the West. They were all dressed sumptuously as women,
they had been instructed in the arts of music and dancing, and were thus
held up to the scorn of the people generally, who were taught, by
frequent allusions to them, that all English were effeminate cowards,
fit only to be dressed as women, and to be engaged in such frivolous
occupations. Some of the boys were young, and had known no other
existence than that debased slavery. These took pride in their gorgeous
dresses, and moved about to display them; others, apparently
over-powered by shame at their disgraceful situation, hung down their
heads and strove to conceal their faces from the prying glances of the
spectators. A miserable lot was theirs: many of them retaining a vivid
remembrance of their countrymen, their faith, and their freedom, were
obliged to perform a routine of bitterly degrading duties, dancing and
singing before the Sultaun for the amusement of the Court; and although
many of the spectators pitied the poor boys and their sad fate, yet no
one dared to utter a word of sympathy in their behalf, while there were
too many who rejoiced in their abject condition.

Seated near the monarch were his sons, three fine youths; and in double
and treble rows from the throne, the officers of the army, of the state,
his own flatterers and sycophants, and a host of others, as closely
packed as it was possible to stand or sit. From time to time some of the
boys would perform a dance before him, or a few jesters, buffoons or
actors, exhibit some ribald scene: the more their language was indecent
and keenly directed against the English, the more applause it received
from those present, particularly from the Sultaun, who encouraged them
by words and promises of liberal reward; while shouts of laughter would
resound through the hall at any successful sally or witty allusion.

The moments were, however, precious; and when the Sultaun observed that
the hall was full, the dancers and jesters were dismissed, and silence
commanded. The order was obeyed, and all looked with impatience to hear
the real result of their monarch’s deliberation, in regard to the matter
of peace or war, which had so long appeared to be doubtful. For a while
he appeared to meditate: then, partly raising himself up, he selected a
small paper from among the heap before him, and, ere he read it, spoke
to those immediately around him.

‘We, whose government is the gift of Alla,’ he said, ‘desire no
concealment in our affairs; therefore listen, O ye faithful, and my
friends—we are about to read you a revelation which was vouchsafed to us
last night, and which on awaking we recorded; it hath since pleased the
author of power to afford our mind a clue to the unravelment of the
mystery, and this too we will unfold to you. As we lay asleep soon after
midnight, we thought we stood on the shore of the sea, and afar off
sailed many great and powerful ships which bore the colours of the
English. As we looked, behold a little cloud arose, and soon there was a
mighty wind, before which all was scattered, and those who were on the
seashore awaiting their arrival returned to their homes dejected and
dispirited. These were the kafir Feringhees (may their graves be
unblessed!)—they are helpless now; and, by the favour of the Prophet, as
they have provoked a war by their own imprudence and bad faith, they
shall find that the men of Islam are ready and willing to fight for
their faith.’

‘We are ready! we are ready!’ cried the assembly with one voice; ‘lead
us to battle! we are your children—we will fight with you to the death.’

‘Listen further,’ he continued; ‘there was yet another vision more
wonderful than the last vouchsafed to us, which proves that all those
Moosulmans who fight against us in the armies of the English become hogs
when they are stricken with death.’

‘They deserve it—they are faithless and treacherous—they sin against the
holy Prophet (may his grave have rest!)—so may their ends be perdition
and unholy!’ shouted many of those who listened, while the rest cried,
‘A miracle! a miracle! that such revelations should be made to our
Father and our Sultaun!’

‘But that was not all,’ continued Tippoo; ‘for, to prove his words, the
angel withdrew a film from before mine eyes, and I beheld a most
extraordinary spectacle—one which filled me with amazement: before me
stood a man with a hog’s head, who, when he saw me, advanced to meet me.
“Who art thou?” I said. “I am one of the true faith of Islam,” he cried,
“but I no longer desire to be called one, for I fought against it under
the banners of the infidels, and now I suffer for my indiscretion and
faithlessness. I am, as you see, a hog; and these men have all been
transformed into hogs; they also were killed in the various engagements
with the kafirs; we are in the dreary land of spirits, and thine is
permitted to hold communion with ours here, in order that the glory of
the faith may be upheld, and the terror of our example made known among
thine armies.”

‘Then methought all became dark and dreary, and a cold wind blew, and
before us were shadowy objects which the eye could not determine at
first; but as we looked upon the scene, dim forms were seen advancing
towards us in lines, even like unto regiments, and the spirit which had
spoken to us began to manœuvre them after the manner of the English,
with whose system it appeared to be acquainted. But, O my friends, as I
looked, all had hogs’ faces! and the words of him they obeyed sounded
like grunts in our ears. Wherefore we beseech you to consider this
thing, and whether it is better to live and die in a natural state—the
beloved and chosen of Alla—or whether ye would also be hogs, and wallow
in the filth of your own abomination, like unto the Christians and those
who serve them?’

‘Miracles! miracles!’ shouted the assembly; ‘the Sultaun is the beloved
of Alla! To him alone are now revealed visions and wonderful dreams! for
him we will fight, and for the faith!’

‘Ay, ye say right,’ cried Tippoo; ‘very wonderful are the manifestations
of Alla to his servant; therefore we shall this day begin our march, for
we have heard that the kafirs are below the passes: Inshalla! a few days
will bring us up to them, and then we will see whether their pride and
haughtiness cannot be humbled. Let us, therefore, join together and send
these infidels to the regions of perdition; and if ye be crowned with
victory, ye will be full of honour and renown, and become the envy of
the world; while to those who fall, martyrs in the cause of Islam, hear
what the Prophet (blessed be his name!) hath promised. “They shall enter
into pleasant places, where many rivers flow, and curious fountains send
forth most murmuring streams, near which they shall repose themselves on
soft beds, adorned with gold and precious stones, under the shadow of
the trees of Paradise, which shall continually yield all manner of
delicious fruits. And they shall enjoy beautiful women, pure and clean,
having black eyes and countenances always fresh and white as polished
pearls, who shall love none but themselves, with whom they shall enjoy
the perpetual pleasures of love, and solace themselves in their company
with amorous delights to all eternity; drinking with them most delicious
liquors without ever being overcharged by them, which shall be
administered by beautiful boys, who shall be continually running round
their beds to serve them up to them in cups of gold and glasses fixed on
diamonds.”’

‘We will follow the good path!’ cried hundreds, with flashing eyes and
fierce gestures; ‘show us the infidels, and we will fall on them and
annihilate them for ever!’

‘Bismilla, so be it!’ returned the Sultaun; ‘every man to his post! pay
shall be issued to all, and to-morrow we shall advance. The planets are
in a fortunate conjunction, and the kafirs shall tremble once more at
our terrible war-cry of Alla Yar.’

-------

CHAPTER XXXVII.

‘Nay, cheer thee, beloved! thou must be now as thou wert ever wont to
be, stout of heart and fearless for the future,’ said Rhyman Khan to his
fair wife, as, on the evening of that day, he sat with her in their
quiet secluded apartments, with the moon’s broad light playing on the
slightly agitated fountain before them, and the cool wind rustling
amidst the leaves above their heads. ‘Thou must not fear; what is there
to dread? Hast thou not thine own nurse with thee, and my household, who
are devoted to thee? hast thou not these apartments, where no one dares
to intrude without thine especial leave, and a guard of my most faithful
men around thee? why shouldst thou fear?’

‘My lord,’ she said, looking up to him—and it was hard to resist those
pleading eyes—‘I know I am not worthy to share the fate of one who is
honoured in the councils of the Sultaun, and who is respected in the
assemblies of the great; yet, if thou art ill, who will tend thee like
Ameena? if thou art wounded, who will soothe thy pain? Thou wouldst have
no one to cheer thy dulness; even the Patél would fail thee—thou wouldst
think of Ameena!’

‘But the English, fairest—men affect to despise them, but the Sultaun
well knows their power, though he denies it to all, and scoffs at it (I
pray Alla, he may feel it not soon)—’tis the English I dread for thee.
Fighting with them is not like fighting with the infidel Hindoos, who
are slaughtered like sheep, but the war of men against men—the shock of
contending armies—the roar of artillery—the rattle of musketry; this thy
gentle heart cannot bear.’

‘Bid me go before thee into the battle—bid me attend thee as thy
servant—bind a turban on my brow and a sword to my waist, and see if
Ameena will not follow thee to the death!’ she cried, hastily rising.
‘If the Mahratta women have done this many a time, thinkest thou that a
Moghul of the old and proud blood of Delhi dares not?’

A sudden cry of admiration broke from the Khan. She had arisen from her
seat and advanced towards him; her always soft and loving eye was filled
with a daring and flashing light; her bosom heaved, and her slight and
beautiful form was drawn up to its full height, as she stood almost
panting, when she ceased to speak.

‘By Alla and the Prophet, thou art fit to be a soldier’s wife!’ he
cried, starting to his feet; ‘one who feels so keenly a soldier’s honour
and his fame, ought to share it with him. I had not thought that this
spirit dwelt within thee. Come to me, girl—henceforth thou needst not
fear; come evil or good, thou shalt share it with Rhyman Khan. I swear
by thine eyes I will not leave thee; art thou content now?’

‘Thou art too kind!’ she murmured, as she bowed her head upon his
shoulder; ‘thou knowest I have none here but thyself, and my home is
afar off; thou art father, mother, husband—all to me. I bless thee that
thou hast heard my prayer, and that I am not to be left tormented by a
thousand fears for thee, and dreads (may they be visionary!) of coming
evil.’

‘Of evil, Ameena?’

‘Ay, my lord; hast thou not felt often, upon the eve of some event in
thy life, when, as yet, it had not burst from the womb of futurity, an
unknown, undefinable sense of dread which pervaded thy senses, causing
thought to be painfully acute, and to run into a thousand channels too
intricate to follow for a moment, till it was lost in vague, oppressive
conjecture leading to no end?’

‘Never, Ameena; I have never troubled myself to think much, but have
been content to take events as it pleased Alla to send them.’

‘I may be wrong then,’ she returned; ‘these may be the offsprings of my
own imagination only, and not common to others. It is well it is so;
they are not enviable.’

‘There will be danger, Ameena,’ said the Khan, who misapprehended her;
‘bethink thee again upon going with me into the rough camp; remember,
Kasim Ali will be here, and will protect thee, as he hath done before.’

‘Oh no! no! I would not stay—I would not stay with him, but go with
thee, my noble lord,’ she said, averting her burning face from him; ‘for
the sake of the Prophet do not mention that again; thou hast already
said thou wouldst let me accompany thee.’

‘Bismilla! then be it so; yet why turnest thou away? art thou angry that
I doubted thy firmness? I never doubted that, girl, since the night when
we looked from the tower upon the burning village and those fierce
Mahrattas; dost thou remember them?’

Alas! she remembered but too well; and even then the temptation had
arisen within her to remain where Kasim Ali was, to be left under his
care; but she had put it back with a struggle, and the Khan’s doubt of
her bravery had rallied her spirit, and with it her best feelings had
come to her aid.

‘I remember, Khan,’ she said carelessly; ‘but I would now prepare the
few things I shall require, and warn Meeran to accompany me.’

‘Go then; I had told the Patél he would have to look after thee, and,
strange enough, he thought thou wouldst be better with me as he was not
to go. Perhaps he may be in the Dewan Khana, I will go there and seek
him.’

Ameena was left alone; how strange it was, she thought, that Kasim
should have advised what she herself had suggested; perhaps his dread
had been the same as hers, and the very idea brought painful blushes to
her face, and led her into a reverie which well nigh upset her
resolutions; it would be so easy to change her determination, to confess
her fears, to have him near her, to rely on him in all dangers; this
would be happiness. But Ameena’s virtue was strong, far stronger than
her servant’s, who at first almost reproached her for the voluntary loss
of the opportunity, which, as she said, destiny had presented. Meeran’s
sophistry was unable, however, to contend with the honest purpose of her
youthful mistress, and she at length, but not without some difficulty,
yielded to her whim, of which she protested she would be tired enough
when the English cannon roared in her ears, and the balls whizzed
through the camp.

Ameena might not, perhaps, have held out long against the combined
effects of her own inclination and the terrible stories her nurse told
her of the furious English; but there was little time for
discussion—they were to move on the morrow; preparations for absence,
though small, had to be made that night, and long ere noon the following
day the army had left the city, for a longer absence than was at first
contemplated.

But it is beyond our province to follow with the minuteness essential to
history every event connected with the campaign, and we assume to
ourselves, upon the precedents of many veterans who have toiled before
us in the field of literary pursuit, the right of slightly sketching
those details of historical occurrence which, however necessary to the
historian, can be omitted, or merely glanced at, in a tale of the
present character.

The Sultaun, at the head of his noble army, proceeded down the
Guzulhuttee pass, the one in the angle formed where the grand range of
the Neelgherries joins the table-land of Mysore, and where a tributary
of the Bhowanee pours its rapid waters into the plain. On their right,
as we have described when we took Herbert Compton to his lonely prison
on the Neelgherries, rose their vast and blue chain, stretching far away
into the distance; on the left, the wide plain, and the table-land
breaking away into it in a series of giant ravines and gloomy depths.
But for these the monarch had no eyes; a gloomy presentiment of evil
appeared to possess him, and the constant succession of messengers with
bad tidings, of the news of fall after fall of strongholds, forts,
towns, and whole districts before the slight force of the English,
inspired him with a dread which the confidence of the officers around
him could not restore. Still if he could strike a decisive blow, he
thought all would yet be well; and the fame and terror of the lion of
Mysore, once more spread through the country, and reaching the ears of
the English and their confederates the Nizam and the Mahrattas, would
divert them from their alliance or convert them into positive friends.

The Bhowanee was full, but the army crossed in basket-boats, and, in the
action which followed, met their enemies in such force and spirit, that
the issue of the conflict compelled the English commander to draw off
his force during the night, and to retreat, in the hope of effecting a
junction with the commander-in-chief, whose force was daily expected.
His movement was aided, as if providentially, by a violent rain, which,
falling in the Sultaun’s camp, caused confusion not easily to be
remedied in the morning, when the escape of the English was known.

Frantic with rage, Tippoo ordered an immediate pursuit, which, though
gallantly performed by his troops, was ineffectual, as well from the
nature of the ground, and the protection afforded to the English by the
thick prickly pear-hedges, as from the resolute determination and
patience with which it was met. At the small village of Shawoor the
English commander determined to make a stand, for his men were worn out
by fatigue and excitement; and this place—where as memorable a display
of obstinate British valour against overwhelming odds as took place at
Korygaum or Seetabuldee might have occurred, was not fated to be so
distinguished. A false rumour arose of the advance of the main body of
the army under Meadows, which, while it gave new energy to the English,
inspired the Sultaun with dread; a vigorous charge by the English
cavalry determined the day and the campaign; and the Sultaun, dispirited
by this and by the death of a favourite and gallant officer of rank,
drew off his troops; he could not be persuaded to resume the attack, but
retreated southwards towards Errode, on the river Cavery.

Meanwhile the two English armies had united, and now advanced upon the
Sultaun, who again retreated towards Coimbatoor; but imagining danger in
that quarter, he turned again northwards, and falling upon the town of
Darapoor, in which were some English sick and details, he captured it,
and exacted a fearful revenge for his defeats and vexation. From hence,
hearing of the advance of the English in the direction of Salem, and
knowing the passes into Mysore in that direction to be easy and
unguarded—in fact, only a series of undulations—he hurried thither,
accompanied by all his cavalry, leaving a large body of his best
infantry to hold the English in check, and, if necessary, to occupy the
high and rugged passes that led directly to the capital.

The English armies were in possession of the country around the Tapoor
pass, which leads from the fine town of Salem and farther to the south
from Trichinopoly into Mysore; and it was evident to the Sultaun that
their territories to the south must be inefficiently protected,
considering the large amount of force which had been dispatched for the
invasion of his dominions. His whole mind was now bent upon striking a
blow in the rear of the advanced force, which should turn their
attention from their meditated object to the defence of positions and
districts; by this means time would be wasted, and the season for active
operation pass away. Acting, therefore, upon this suggestion, he
dexterously avoided the English army, though passing within sight of it;
and leaving the magnificent range of the Shevaroy mountains to the left,
he took the direct road through the beautiful valley in which Salem is
situated to Trichinopoly. It was on the noble temple of Seringham that
his fury first fell; and by the desecration of its sacred images, the
plunder and forcible conversion of its priests, and the uncontrolled
licence given to his bigoted soldiery to mutilate and destroy, a spirit
of revenge was actively aroused against him in the minds of his Hindoo
adherents, which had long been excited by his acts of horrible
oppression and cruelty to their unhappy brethren the Nairs.

From Seringham ruin and devastation was mercilessly carried through
Coromandel: each man had licence to plunder as he listed, and neither
youth nor age was spared; the savage Pindharees of later years were not
more destructive than the army of Islam, led on by its champion; and,
although repulsed from the fort of Tiagar by a mere handful of British
soldiers, yet that of Trinomallee was less fortunate in its defence, and
on its unhappy garrison and inhabitants were vented in cruelties and
tortures all the spleen that mortified vanity and ill success could
prompt.

Tippoo had hoped too to arouse the ancient animosity of the French
against the English, and to have involved them in the war; but his
overtures for assistance were rejected or evaded by the Governor of
Pondicherry, and his negotiations for an embassy to the Court of Louis
XVI met with no encouragement. Foiled in these attempts, he renewed his
correspondence with many English officers, in the same hollow strain of
attempted complaint and wonder at the commencement of hostilities that
had before proved unsuccessful. But he had more able diplomatists and
more wary commanders to deal with now than formerly; and having been
unable to put into execution his threat of burning Madras, he abandoned
the design, and hurried to meet the storm which now threatened to burst
forth from the Nizam and the Mahrattas on the north, and from the
English on the east; for Lord Cornwallis was already at Vellore, and the
army assembled there were prepared to advance. But the Sultaun, although
the force with him used the most strenuous exertions, failed to arrive
in time to occupy the passes, and the English ascended to the table-land
of Mysore without opposition.

During the period of our tale hitherto, the Sultaun had been separated
from the ladies of his harem, which had remained in Bangalore, nor had
he held much communication with them for some years. The places of his
lawful wives were supplied from time to time as caprice willed the
change, by numbers—some rudely torn from their families by his
agents—others captives taken from among the Nairs and Hindoos of the
coast, where his excesses had been most dreadful, to remain in favour
for a while, and to be flung aside when their novelty palled upon his
senses. But the mother of his children and his own mother remained dear
to him—dear as any could be to one of so cold and heartless a
temperament, which warmed only at the trumpet-call of bigotry, and felt
none of those endearments common to men of all ranks in the intercourse
of their families. His anxiety was excited upon their account from the
near approach of the English, which he was unable to check, though he
several times attempted it by distant cannonades and threatening
displays of large bodies of cavalry. It was therefore absolutely
necessary that they should be removed; and having sent orders for them
to prepare, the next day, at the head of his whole army, he escorted
them from the fort to his encampment, and preparation was made for
sending the harem on to the capital.

But while these stirring events proceeded in the camp, and men’s minds
were gradually filled with alarm at the progress of the English and the
formidable nature of their attack, events had occurred at the city which
demand that we should notice them.

The army had left some days, and all was quiet within the fort, which
but a short time before had resounded with the continuous beating of the
Sultaun’s kettle-drums, the exercise of the soldiery, and the bustle of
the thousands attendant upon the Sultaun. But the work of the arsenals
and foundries continued in full vigour, and it was plain to see that if
the worst was feared, there was at least preparation made to meet it. In
the midst of this, however, with which he had no concern, Kasim Ali,
formed for the active occupation of the camp, led a life of inaction,
from which he saw no hope of release until he should once more resume
his post near the Sultaun, and lead into battle against the English his
own gallant fellows, who had often sworn to follow him to the death.

There was one, however, to whom his every movement was an object of
intense interest, and who, tormented by a thousand contending passions,
now vowed revenge against him because her suit had been rejected, now
implored her attendant again and again to go to him. But after her first
refusal, Sozun had no mind to encounter the stern looks of the young
Patél, and as often as she was sent, she would return with a lie that he
had repulsed her.

It was night—quite dark, for the heavens were overcast with thick
clouds, and the wind sighed and moaned within the trees above the Khan’s
dwelling; every now and then a gust would whistle round the apartment
where the lady Kummoo sat, shaking the latticed windows and shutters
which were carefully closed. She was alone with Sozun, and the theme had
long been Kasim Ali and her wild, ungovernable passion for him.

‘I tell thee I will bear this no longer, Sozun,’ she said, as she arose,
and opening the shutter looked forth. ‘The night is dark—it is fit for
the venture; no one will see us, or if they do, we shall not be known.’

‘Holy Alla!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘thou wilt not go to him, Khanum?’

‘Ay will I, Sozun; my heart burns, my soul is on fire! can I bear this
for weeks and months? am I a stone? I tell thee nay; but a daring,
loving woman, whose thoughts, night and day, are fixed on one object; it
is now within my grasp, and the moment urges. Come, I am ready; take thy
sheet and wrap thyself—thou knowest the way.’

‘It is in vain for thee to go, Khanum; wilt thou eat shame? hast thou no
pride?—a woman to seek him who spurns her love!’

‘Peace, fool! he has not seen me yet. Come, and delay no longer. I
command thee; the way is short, and methinks I am already in his
embrace. Quick! see, I am ready.’

‘If thy absence should be discovered, lady?’

‘I care not; I will say boldly I go to my mother; come, why dost thou
delay?’

Sozun knew her mistress’s character too well to dare a refusal, and she
wrapped herself closely and preceded her. As they descended the stairs
they met a servant. ‘I go to my mother’s for a while—let no one follow
me,’ said the lady, and passed on. In a few moments they had quitted the
house and were in the open street.

‘Lend me thine arm, Sozun,’ said the lady in a whisper: ‘I tremble much,
and the night is dark, very dark; I did not think it would be so
fearful. Alla! how the clouds scurry along the heavens, and how the wind
moans and sighs.’

‘We had better return, Khanum.’

‘No, no, not for worlds! I must see him;—quick! give me thine arm and
lead on!’

Hastily traversing a few streets, Sozun stopped at a small door in a
wall. ‘This is the place,’ she whispered; and as she said it she felt
the arm within hers shake as if with ague.

‘For the sake of the Prophet, let us turn back—it is not too late—I have
not knocked—thou art not fit to meet him,’ said the woman in broken
sentences.

‘Peace, fool! in a few moments I shall see him; dare I not this? Knock,
and say he expects us.’

Thou art a bold woman, thought Sozun, and she knocked loudly. The door
was opened instantly; two men stood within.

‘We are expected,’ said Sozun, in a disguised voice, without waiting to
be questioned, and they proceeded.

‘The Patél hath good company,’ said one fellow.

‘I marvel at this,’ said the other; ‘I have served him long, and have
never known the like of this before.’

The women lost the rest as they passed hastily on. Kummoo’s knees could
hardly support her, but she followed Sozun mechanically, her heart
beating violently, and her thoughts striving to arrange a few sentences
for the interview; vain effort! they rose one upon another in wild
confusion, defying retention.

Sozun knew the way; she entered the open verandah and looked through the
door into the next apartment; Kasim was there, reading, as she had first
seen him. ‘That is he,’ she whispered gently; ‘enter!’

Kummoo was a bold and daring woman, but now her heart almost failed
her—for a moment only, however—and she entered and stood before him.

‘Who art thou?’ he cried; ‘and who has dared to admit thee?’

She could not reply; a few broken words escaped her; and unable any
longer to stand or to control herself, she fell at his feet, and
clasping his knees sobbed aloud.

‘Thou art fair—very beautiful,’ he said, as he raised her up and gazed
upon her features, for her veil had fallen; ‘who art thou?’

‘One who has loved thee long! I saw thee once—I have lived upon thy
look,’ she said confusedly.

‘Thou art not a tuwaif; thy speech is not like theirs.’

‘I am not.’

‘Thou art a wife then, or thou wouldst not wear that ring?’

‘Why should I tell a lie?—I am; my lord is old—he is absent—he loves me
not—he has neglected and thrown me aside for another. I have seen thee,
O Patél, and my liver is become water; I have come to thee—pity me and
love me, as I would love thee!’

Kasim was sorely tempted; her beauty, her large lustrous eyes sparkling
with passion, shone upon him; she hung on him; her hand, as it touched
his, was hot and trembling. He raised her up and caressed her, and she
threw herself upon his broad chest and again sobbed—it was with passion.

Then, even then, a thought flashed into his mind, quicker than light;
could she be the Khan’s wife; could he be the man, old, absent, who had
flung her aside for another? his heart felt as though it made a mighty
bound within his bosom. ‘Tell me,’ he cried, ‘by your soul—say, for my
mind misgives me—tell me, art thou not the wife of Rhyman Khan?’

She could not reply—she burned—her mouth became parched and her eyes
swam.

‘Speak,’ he cried, ‘for the sake of Alla!’ But no reply came; confusion
was evident on her countenance; as he held her from him, suddenly her
head drooped, and her form relaxed within his grasp; had he not
supported her she would have fallen; for the sense of sudden detection
had overpowered her already too excited feelings, and she had fainted.

‘Holy Prophet! what is to be done?—she is insensible,’ exclaimed Kasim
aloud; he was heard by Sozun, who entered.

‘Tell me, by your soul, if she is the Khan’s wife?’ he cried in
agitation not to be repressed.

‘What matter if she is, Patél? she loves you, your destiny is bright;
shall I retire?’

‘It is as I thought then. Holy Alla! I bless thee that this was spared
me! See, she is recovering; yonder is water—take her hence speedily, her
secret will die with me; assure her of this, and tell her the Khan is my
friend and benefactor.’ And so saying, he opened a small door and
disappeared.

‘He is gone,’ said Sozun, as her lady recovered and looked wildly around
her: it was enough. They did not wait more than a few minutes; then
Kummoo returned to her distasteful home, filled with rage and shame, and
burning for revenge.

-------

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Months had passed, and Herbert Compton remained in the lonely fastness
to which he had been doomed. He had no hope of release—none of escape.
As he looked forth over the vast plain beneath his feet, he could see
the interminable forests spread out before him, through which he well
knew there was no path, or, if any, one known to the inhabitants only of
the hills—intricate, and utterly unattainable by himself. The Fort
itself occupied a round knoll on the very verge of the range, and jutted
out, a bold promontory, into the plain, forming evidently one of the
extreme angles of the chain of mountains upon which he was; its sides
were dizzy precipices of five thousand feet almost perpendicular to the
bottom, where they rested amidst forests, the waving even of which could
not be seen from the top. Looking eastward was the plain of Coimbatoor,
stretching away to a dim horizon, where, at the distance of a hundred
miles, were seen the rocky ranges of the Barah Mahal hills, broken at
first, but gradually appearing to unite and form a continuous chain away
to the left, till, increasing in height in the immense circle, they
joined the huge mass on part of which stood his prison.

Through this the Bhowanee, the Baraudee, and several other streams which
escaped from the mountains, wound their silent course, glistening in the
bright sun like silver threads, away to the broader Cavery, a faint
glimmer of which might now and then be seen, as the early rays of the
morning sun shone upon the plain. Away to the south and west the
mountains recommenced with the triangular peak of Dindigul, which could
sometimes be seen, and continued, range over range, of every form, of
every hue with which a brilliant sun, acting upon a dry, a damp, or a
hot atmosphere, could clothe them—hues of sombre grey, of violet, of
brilliant purple, till in the nearer range of the Animallee hills they
assumed more positive colours and forms.

To the west lay the broad valley, filled with wood, the only road to the
sea; and thence Herbert’s sad thoughts often wandered in vivid
remembrance of the past, to the land where those most dear to him on
earth mourned him as dead. He could not think that they could retain any
hope that he lived; years had fled since they had heard of him, and he
was become to them as one in the grave; one for whom—when any trivial
incident, a word, a look, a tone, recalls the dead to present
association—regrets, mingled with hopes for the future, are the
spontaneous expressions of undying affections, and a tear is silently
dropped, the overflow of some heart which clings to the memory of the
dead with fondness which even time does not impair.

To the north and west Herbert looked across the tremendous chasm through
which the military road now winds its gradual and easy ascent up to
Coonoor, upon the verdant and sunny hills beyond. It was clothed with
wood here and there, as though planted with the most consummate taste,
occupying now the side, now the gorge of a tiny valley, through which a
small stream leaped from rock to rock, till, joining some larger one, it
dashed down the precipitous sides of the chasm, into the foaming stream
of the Baraudee, the roar of which sometimes reached his ear. At times
he could distinguish noble herds of elk browsing upon the smooth,
verdant sides of the declivities, and would watch their motions for
hours with curious interest; or huge herds of buffalos, tended by a few
herdsmen, who appeared to be the only inhabitants of those lovely
regions, where the cool climate of his beloved country was joined to the
brightness and radiance of an eastern sun.

But though he lived amidst the most exquisite scenery that it is
possible to conceive, it was but a poor compensation for liberty; true,
under the rigour of a burning climate, captivity would have been more
difficult and painful of endurance than here, where he might almost
fancy himself in his own land; and could he have enjoyed the happiness
of wandering about as he listed over those beauteous hills, through the
valleys and beside their bounding streams, it would have sufficed to him
to have thus dreamed away his existence. Poor Herbert! his guards might
have set him free; for escape from those mountains, through untrodden
and pestilential jungles, into a country where death would await him if
he were discovered, was guarantee enough that he would have remained;
but they were answerable for him with their lives, and every kindness
consistent with his safety was shown him; and though their food was
coarse barley bread, rice, and the flesh of elk or wild hog, or jungle
game,—yet his health and strength seemed to increase, and he had never
felt greater vigour.

There were often changes in the little garrison: new comers brought such
spices and condiments as were needed, and among them at last arrived one
who spoke a few words of Hindostanee. That he should be able to speak
intelligibly with any one was a subject of inexpressible delight to
Herbert; but soon a new hope sprung up in his heart, which though slowly
admitted, yet was, or might be, practicable—escape. Without a guide it
was a useless risk of life to attempt it; with one who knew the country
and the roads, either to the coast or to Madras, it was a matter, he
thought, of difficult but not impossible attainment. Long he watched his
opportunity to converse with his friend, for the man, he thought, was
civil and obliging beyond his fellows; but he was evidently afraid to
speak before them, lest he should at once be suspected and dismissed;
but the time came at length.

Herbert, as was his wont, lay upon the green sward on the highest point
of the Fort, basking in the warm sun, watching the shadows which chased
each other over the beauteous and many-hued plain—now sailing over what
appeared endless forests—now dimming the sparkle of the Bhowanee for a
moment, which again glittered brightly as the shade passed away: again
they appeared to creep up the face of some precipitous hill, or hang
among its woods, while the sunlight toyed with the green slopes and
mossy banks. Sometimes he speculated idly upon the scene below, and
tried to make out the forms of villages among the groves which
everywhere appeared amidst the cultivated parts. All was quite still,
and not even a leaf rustled to disturb the silence; only the drowsy hum
of a bee was heard now and then, as one flew by to its nest under a
precipice, laden with sweets. Suddenly, as he listened, he thought he
heard the roll of musketry: it was very faint, but it came to a
soldier’s ear with distinctness enough to be heard. He started to his
feet, and listened with painful eagerness, while his eye travelled in
the direction of the sound. His whole action was so sudden, and his
attitude so wrapt, that his attendant, who had been basking beside him,
was thrown completely off his guard.

‘What dost thou hear, Sahib?’ he said eagerly in Hindostanee. ‘What dost
thou see?’

‘Hush!’ cried Herbert; ‘listen! there was a gun, and then musketry;
hark—a gun again! What can that mean?’

‘Alla knows!’ said the man; ‘but it is even so. Look! was that smoke? By
Alla, it is; at Coimbatoor too—thou canst see the minarets of the mosque
gleaming brightly.’

‘Thou speakest well in thy new tongue,’ said Herbert. ‘Why hast thou not
spoken to me before?’

‘I dared not: even now do not, for the sake of your faith and mine,
venture by word or sign to speak to me before the others, or it may cost
me my life.’

‘I will be discreet, and risk nothing; where are they?’

‘Some are hunting, some are at the house. Enough—listen!’ The sound came
again. ‘Dost thou not see the smoke?’ inquired he.

‘No, I see none,’ said Herbert, straining his eyes.

‘The Sultaun must be there, and they are firing,’ said the man. ‘It is
wonderful that sound should come thus far.’

For some time they continued to hear it; for Ahmed, Herbert’s
acquaintance, called his associates, and they all listened and
speculated, but could come to no conclusion; and then the wind arose,
and they heard no more. But they were evidently perplexed, and continued
to speak of it during the evening. At last one went out, and returned
with an expression of wonder upon his countenance: he spoke to his
companions, and some got up and followed him. Soon these sent for the
rest, and they took Herbert with them.

It was quite dark. Near them a few objects were distinguishable when the
eye became accustomed to the darkness, but overhead the sky was quite
overcast and black; and though there was no wind, yet the cold air of
night was chill and piercing at that height. They advanced to the place
where they had been in the morning; it was within a stone’s throw of the
brink of the precipice, which descended full four thousand feet before
it met even any of the projecting buttresses which appeared to support
the mighty fabric. With difficulty they could see to the edge; beyond
that all was black—a vast void, into the depths of which the eye strove
to penetrate, as the mind into illimitable space and eternity, and felt
as if it were thrust back and checked for its presumption by the awful
profundity. It seemed to Herbert as though the ground they trod had no
support, and was sinking into the gloomy abyss. There seemed to be no
horizon, no sky. Instinctively the group closed together, and seemingly
awe-stricken spoke hardly above their breath.

‘We saw it awhile ago,’ said one to another of those who had just
arrived with Herbert.

‘What did ye see?’

‘Lights,—sparks in that black darkness. Look carefully, ye may see them
again.’

‘There! there!’ cried several. ‘Look! what can they be?

Herbert saw where they pointed; in the direction where he had heard the
firing in the morning, and in the middle of the void before him, for an
instant or two were several bright flashes; he rubbed his eyes, which
ached from gazing, and from the effect even of those transient flashes.
Again he looked and listened; there was no sound except the sigh of the
night breeze in a tree near him; but again there were flashes in the
same place. And now, while they gazed, a light arose, soared in a little
circle into the air, and descended. Another and another. Herbert knew
what they were, and his heart bounded within him with a quickness of
pulsation it had not known for years. _If_ they should be his
countrymen!

His guards turned to one another, and spoke rapidly among themselves
with eager gestures. At last Ahmed addressed him.

‘They bid me ask you,’ he said, ‘what this is; you Europeans know all
things. Hath the sky such lights?’

‘No, it is a siege,’ said Herbert, ‘and the lights are shells and
cannon. Is the Sultaun at war?’

‘I know not, but will ask.’ And Herbert heard the word Feringhee in the
answer. He was sure that his countrymen were near, and his heart yearned
to them.

‘There have been rumours of war,’ said Ahmed, ‘and we heard that the
English were in the Barah Mahal; but they cannot have got so far, for
the Sultaun had marched in person with the whole of the army.’

Herbert thought otherwise. He could imagine nothing but victory for the
arms he had once borne, and for the cause in which he would gladly have
died. After watching long they withdrew from the spot chilled and
wearied, and all lay down to rest. But Herbert could not sleep; his
thoughts were too engrossing for sleep. Escape was now possible, and
long he deliberated whether it was not practicable alone. On the south,
east, and north sides of the Droog were huge precipices, as we have
already mentioned; the only access to it was from the west, by which he
had come. Even were he to escape from the fort, could he venture to
descend any of the passes to the plain? Narrow paths, which at the
bottom branched out into endless ramification, led he knew not whither
through dense forests that extended for miles and miles, the abode of
pestilence and of wild beasts innumerable. The thought was appalling;
and the more he weighed the risk in his mind, the less chance did there
appear of success. Could it be that Ahmed would assist him? the obstacle
of language had been broken through; and no sooner did his busy thoughts
suggest the idea, than his mind clung to it. Ahmed was poor, he could
not refuse money, and he would offer him anything he chose to
demand—thousands, for liberty! He waited till his watch came, and when
all were asleep and breathing heavily, he called him by name in a loud
whisper.

‘Ahmed! Ahmed!’

He was dozing even on his watch, and did not hear at first. Herbert was
in agony lest the others should awake.

Ahmed answered at last. ‘What dost thou require?’ he said.

‘Come here, I would speak to thee secretly.’ He arose and crossed the
hut; it was a good sign. He seated himself close to Herbert; perhaps he
had too been thinking of the escape.

‘Ahmed,’ said the young man, ‘thou hast been kind to me: I love thee,
for thou hast spoken to me: thou art my friend. Wilt thou then aid me?’

‘They say you English are deceitful and faithless,’ replied the man.

‘They wrong us—by thy head, they wrong us. Our enemies alone say so; we
are faithful even to death. Wilt thou trust one, and that one me?’

The man moved, but spoke not.

‘Wilt thou aid me?’ continued Herbert, for he perceived he was listened
to. ‘Behold, I trust thee in thus speaking to thee, and am utterly in
thy power; if it is thy will, thou canst denounce me to thine associates
even now. See how I trust thee—thou wilt not betray me. For years I have
languished in captivity. I have a father, mother, brethren, sisters—one
other, too, even dearer than they. They think me dead, and the old have
long mourned with bitter grief, even the grief of parents for a
firstborn and beloved. Hast thou no heart for this to plead for me
within thee?’

Again the man writhed, but spoke not.

‘Hast thou no tenderness, that I may appeal to it? Hast thou no
father—mother—wife—who, if thou wert dead, would mourn for thee, but
who, living, rejoice for thee?’

‘I have all,’ was the reply.

‘I have not the last,’ said Herbert sadly, ‘that was a pang spared me.
Yet there is one who in blighted hope, and crushed and withered
affection, mourns me as long since numbered with the dead. Thou canst
restore peace where there is sorrow, hope where there is despair.’

‘I cannot aid thee, Sahib.’

‘Thou canst! thou canst! My countrymen are yonder; I feel that they
are,—they must be victorious, else they had not penetrated so far. Guide
me to them, and thou wilt earn my gratitude, and with it a competence
for life. Thou knowest the passes; to me the attempt unaided would be
death.’

‘It would indeed: alone I would not attempt them for a kingdom, even
with my knowledge; but I feel for thee, Feringhee; thy looks are gentle,
thy speech is soft; thou art not as I have been told the English are: I
will believe thou art to be trusted.’

‘Oh believe it, believe it, Ahmed! my life will be in thy hands; thou
canst guide me to liberty or to death; I am ready to trust thee. Can I
say more?’

‘Enough, Sahib; I rely upon thee. I swear by Alla and the Prophet to
guide thee safely to Coimbatoor—if it be true that thy countrymen are
there: further than that, if they are not there, I should but lead thee
into death and fall a sacrifice myself. But listen, I risk much; my
parents live—they love me: I have too a wife and a child—they are
dependent upon me. If we are detected, the vengeance of the Sultaun will
fall on them, and that is fearful. Thou seest I have an equal risk with
thyself;—now wilt thou trust _me_?’

‘Thou hast, brave fellow! and I estimate thy generosity as that of a
brother; but we have spoken of no reward.’

‘Nor will I,’ said the man; ‘you are noble; your words—your appearance,
even in those rags, is noble. I trust to you.’

‘Gallant fellow! thy confidence shall be well repaid. If I live, thou
shalt know no poverty, but wealth to the end of thy life, and honourable
service, if thou choosest it. But enough—when shall we make the
attempt?’

‘The relief is expected to-morrow, or the day after; the men will bring
us news, and upon that we will arrange all.’

By evening the next day the expected relief came. The news was true: the
English besieged Coimbatoor, but with indifferent success; it was said
that the Sultaun was out, and victorious even to the gates of Madras;
the men were exulting over the discomfiture of the English.

‘Darest thou now attempt it?’ asked Ahmed that evening; ‘the news of thy
people is bad.’

‘I will, should I perish in the attempt.’

‘Then I will lead thee out to-morrow, on pretence of taking thee with me
to hunt. I have already said thou shouldst have recreation, and they
have agreed to allow it. Enough now; but gird up thy loins tightly and
be ready, for we shall have far to go, and to tarry by the way is
death.’

The morrow dawned,—a cloudy and damp day; the mighty mists lay still in
the hollows and ravines, obscuring everything. Ahmed was in despair.
‘Through those clouds,’ he said, ‘we can never penetrate, but should be
lost among the precipices.’ Long before noon, however, the wind arose,
and stirring the vast volumes of cloud from their repose, caused them to
boil up from the abysses around them, and gradually to melt into air.

‘Come!’ said Ahmed to Herbert, whose heart bounded, and his eye
sparkled, as he heard the summons,—‘Come, the men are about to return;
we will see them a little way, and then turn on ourselves. Come! they
are departing.’

He obeyed eagerly, and soon the Fort was left behind; and the narrow
neck which connects the place to the main body of the chain—an awful
precipice on each hand—was passed in safety. Soon they plunged deeper
and deeper into the woods by a narrow path, descending till they reached
one branch of the Baraudee, which, foaming and dashing amidst rocks,
brawled on its way to the plain. Here they divided; the party ascending
the green slope before them, and Herbert and his companion turning up
the stream, apparently in search of game.

‘Lie down! lie down!’ cried Ahmed; ‘Shookur Alla! they are gone, and
there is yet day enough for us. Ere evening we must be on the edge of
the range, and the morrow will see us far below it. Canst thou bear
fatigue?’

‘Any: look at me—I am stronger than thou art.’

The man regarded him earnestly, and read full well in the clear eye and
open brow, ruddy cheek, and firmly knit frame, a defiance of danger. ‘I
fear not for thee,’ he said; ‘Alla Akbar! the victory will be ours.’

A while they lay concealed among the long fern, and then rising up,
Ahmed looked carefully around him; the party was long out of sight, and
they proceeded with light hearts and buoyant steps.

Ahmed had not overrated his knowledge of the mountains; he led Herbert
along the edge of the stream for a while, and as they went along Herbert
pulled wild flowers,—the flowers of his own England. Woodbine and wild
rose, archis and wild hyacinth, and the graceful cyclamen, and fern and
violets; and the more familiar buttercup and wild anemone. ‘They know
not that such a paradise exists in this land,’ he said, ‘and these shall
be my tokens; even as the spies brought grapes and figs to the children
of Israel in the desert.’

Hardly now he heeded the lovely scenery that was around him everywhere,
among which the round top of his old prison occupied a conspicuous
place, clothed with wood to its very summit; and its precipitous sides
rising out of the huge chasm that now lay between him and it, at the
bottom of which roared the Baraudee, leaping from ledge to ledge in
foam, in an endless succession of cataracts. Now and then they would
catch glimpses of the blue plain beyond which melted into the horizon;
and the deep and gloomy ravine on their right hand presented an endless
variety of views, of such exquisite beauty, that Herbert would often
stop breathless to contemplate in admiration of their loveliness, for
which his companion appeared to have no eyes.

They had now travelled for some hours, and the road had been a toilsome
one, owing to the constantly recurring deep valleys which broke into the
ravine we have mentioned.

It was now evening; the sun was sinking into the west amidst clouds of
glory, and the huge shadows of the mountains were fast creeping over the
plain. The precipices of Hulleekul-droog shone like gold under the red
light, which, resting upon the vast forests and hanging woods, caused
them to glow with a thousand rich tints; and wherever a small oozing of
water spread itself down a naked rock, it glittered so that the eye
could hardly behold it.

‘Art thou fatigued, Sahib?’ asked Ahmed; ‘thou hast borne this well, and
like a man. By Alla! I had thought thy race were as soft as women.’

‘No! I can endure yet a good hour,’ said Herbert gaily.

‘’Tis well! then we will push on. Why hast thou burthened thyself with
those flowers? fling them away—thou wilt be the lighter.’

‘Not so, my friend; these are the flowers of my own land, and I take
them to my comrades; thou dost not know—thou canst not feel how dearly
such things are prized in a distant land—bringing with them, as they do,
remembrances of past time, and of those who shared it. On with thee!
behold I follow.’

Hardly a mile further, on the very summit of the mountain, ere it
declined into the plain, they reached a rock, beside which was a tiny
footpath, hardly perceptible. ‘This is our resting place for the night,’
said Ahmed; ‘many a time have I slept here, with a load of tobacco on my
shoulders for the mountaineers, who are a curious people.’

‘Ay, indeed!’

‘Yes, I will tell thee all about them: but lay thyself down beneath this
rock, and it will shelter thee from the cold wind. I will get some
sticks, and we will have a fire; I should like a smoke, too, after this
travel.’ And so saying, he disencumbered himself of his arms, and turned
off to a short distance.

Herbert lay for a while looking out on the glorious prospect, in a sense
of the most delicious security and enjoyment. What exquisite visions
were floating before his eyes, as, shutting them, he allowed the ideas
to crowd into his soul!—visions of home, of love, of Amy, of his
parents! Suddenly, however, there was a loud roar, the crash of which
seemed to paralyse his heart: it was followed by a scream so shrill and
piercing, that he never forgot it to his dying day. Hastily snatching up
the sword which lay before him, he drew it, and hurried to the spot from
whence it had proceeded—but his brave guide was gone for ever!

-------

CHAPTER XXXIX.

There are few on earth, who in the chequered track of their earthly
pilgrimage—often cheered by the glowing beams of a sunny mind, often
obscured by despondency, often hurried on by impatience and
querulousness, and yearning with vain desire to penetrate the veil of
the hidden future—who do not recall to memory some crisis when the
happiness they sought has been apparently within their reach—when the
hand, stretched forth to grasp the cup, has been dashed down by a rude
but irresistible force, which taught them in that moment how vain was
their power, how little their strivings to attain their end, when
compared with the Providence which held it in disposal. Providence,
fate, destiny, chance—call it what we will—there is an overruling power,
visible in the meanest events of our lives, which, if we follow it up to
its source in our own hearts, cannot fail to impress us with awe—with a
feeling of littleness, often mortifying, and hard for proud minds to
bear,—a feeling that there is a power guiding, and often suddenly and
rudely checking us, in the midst of a career which we have marked out
for good—certainly for gratification—but which may not be accordant with
the purposes of our being. Happy is the possessor of that temperament
who, even in the midst of disappointment—when a murmur at misfortune,
blighted hope, prolonged sickness, or blasted ambition rises to his
lips—can say, ‘It is for my good—it is the hand of Providence—I bow to
its correction in humility.’

But it was difficult for Herbert Compton to be reasonable under so
bitter a disappointment; wild with excitement, he roamed hither and
thither without fear, for in that moment he had no thought of danger.
The poor fellow who had perilled his all for him—the safety of his
parents, of his wife—who had so trusted him as to commit without
hesitation his future destiny into his hands—whose last act was one of
careful kindness and solicitude—was gone for ever! The happiness, the
exquisite enjoyment of a meeting with his countrymen, which he had
tasted in anticipation, had been dashed from his hand in one moment!

How often, while there was light, did he awake the echoes of the
mountains with the name of Ahmed! He roamed everywhere, tried to track
the animal who had carried off his poor friend by the trail of his body
through the fern, and succeeded for a short distance, but lost it again
irretrievably. He returned to the spot where they had first stopped; the
whole was a hideous dream, which in vain he tried to shut out from his
thoughts. Vain indeed was the effort! the tiger’s roar and Ahmed’s
piercing scream rang in his ears, and often he would start, as he
thought they were repeated, during the fearful hours which ensued. As
the night closed, the wind arose, and with it clouds came up out of the
west, filled with cold driving rain; the ledge he was under afforded but
slight protection, and yet it sheltered him enough to allow of a
smouldering fire, which after many efforts he kindled.

The storm increased; dark masses of clouds hurried past, apparently
close to his head, and the blast groaned and whistled through the
ravines and around the peaks and precipices. Of the mountains he could
see nothing, for the same black darkness which had surrounded
Hulleekul-droog the night before, now enveloped him; there was only the
little light of the fire, as the leaves and dead fern blazed up at times
under the effect of an eddy of wind, and then utter darkness fell again.
Hour after hour passed in deliberation as to his future conduct. Dare he
attempt the passage of those fearful jungles alone? Encounter wild
beasts, thread trackless forests, where there was no path, and which
were filled with rank grass and reeds, thorny rattans, matted creepers,
dank and noisome swamps, the abode of deadly pestilence? For the time he
was free; but even if he gained the plain, did not a more terrible
captivity await him perhaps in a hot and parching dungeon, where the
fresh air and the beauteous face of nature would never be felt or seen?
But he was not to be daunted; he thought he knew the direction,—his
countrymen were before him, and the path was distinct enough, he
supposed, for him to track it: this idea consoled him, and he fell
asleep for a while, till the morning broke.

He awakened only to endure fresh disappointment; he was surrounded by
dense mists, which, though sometimes they would partially clear away,
filled the space before him so completely that he could see nought but a
thick boiling mass, fearfully agitated by the wind, now rising up as
though to overwhelm him, now sinking and displaying for an instant the
bluff top of Hulleekul-droog or a part of its precipitous sides, or at
an immeasurable and giddy depth the bottom of the chasm, with the
Baraudee roaring and flashing among the darkness.

He was in despair, but he was calmer; even the utter hopelessness of
attempting to proceed down a precipitous mountain-side into a trackless
forest, enveloped in cloud, caused a revulsion of feeling, and a sense
that there was an unseen but sensibly-felt protection afforded him—that
the very obstacles in his path probably preserved him from following it
on to destruction.

There was no other course left but to return—perhaps to captivity, for
suspicion might be aroused against him,—to a life of wearisome
endurance, but still with beautiful nature for a companion, in whose
ever-varying and glorious features there was ever something new to
contemplate and to adore.

Ahmed’s sword, shield, and matchlock lay on the ground: he took them
with him, vowing they should never part from him; the latter was useless
for defence, for the charge was wet, and the powder-horn and
bullet-pouches had been around the waist of the dead. The flowers he had
gathered too lay beside them: they were faded now—fitting types of his
withered hope; that day he was to have rejoiced over them with his
countrymen! Alas! when would such an event now come; the future was a
dreary blank before him, where so lately all had been bright and sunny;
and with a sad heart, but with feelings subdued from the excitement of
the past evening, he began to retrace his steps. This was no easy task,
for the rain, which had cleared away for an hour or so after daylight,
now began again to pour in torrents, and he was chilled to the heart.
But the very difficulties before him caused him to summon all his
energies to meet them, and he strove manfully and conquered. His worst
suffering was faintness for want of food; for the cakes they had brought
with them Ahmed had tied in a handkerchief about his back, which he had
not removed.

As the night set in gloomily and dark, Herbert Compton, well nigh
exhausted by hunger, fatigue, and cold, toiled up the steep and rugged
path which led to the Fort from the stream below; and though often
missing the way, which in the darkness caused by the thick wood over his
head was almost undiscernible, he at last crossed the narrow neck
already mentioned, and soon after saw the welcome lights of the garrison
huts twinkling among the trees above him. This lent him fresh energy,
and in a few minutes he arrived before them. Hungry, wet and cold, he
did not consider for a moment the probable issue of his reception, and
entered that habitation where he had used to reside.

There was a group sitting smoking around a blazing fire, who started to
their feet suddenly, as he thus unceremoniously presented himself; and
after gazing earnestly at him for a moment, all simultaneously dashed
towards him and seized him. Herbert did not struggle in their hands, nor
could he answer the rapid and almost unintelligible inquiries for their
missing companion which were poured forth in a torrent. In a few moments
too they saw Ahmed’s sword and shield, and their dark frowns and
menacing looks were bent upon him, and the hand of more than one stole
to the weapon by his side as if to inflict summary revenge on him who
they might well suppose had destroyed their absent friend. Gradually,
however, Herbert’s calm and sorrowful manner impressed them with a sense
of his innocence; and as they became more reasonable in their behaviour,
he described as well as he was able, and mostly by signs, the event
which had happened, and pointed in the direction of the place.

Sorrow was on all their faces, and many wept, for Ahmed had been a
favourite among them; and while one of them set refreshment before the
weary Herbert, the rest conversed in groups upon the subject. Although
he could understand but little of what passed, he could see that it was
their intention to put his innocence to the proof, by conducting them to
the spot where the event had happened. He was right: they allowed him to
rest that night without molestation, but by daylight he was awakened,
and he found the majority of the little garrison, twelve or fourteen
men, equipped for the expedition, each with his match lighted; after a
hasty meal they proceeded.

The morning was clear and fine, and the air fresh and bracing: the
errand upon which he was going was a sad one to Herbert, and yet there
was a melancholy satisfaction in finding perhaps the body of the
unfortunate Ahmed, and at any rate the cheering excitement of vigorous
exercise, in a rapid walk over the beautiful hills. There were no traces
of the storm of the day before, except an increased freshness and odour
of the wild flowers: here and there vast masses of white vapour were
hanging softly upon the precipices of the droog, or resting in the
abysses at its foot. Herbert proceeded at a rapid pace before the rest.

There was evidently much surprise excited among them at the direction
which he took, and many significant glances were exchanged from time to
time; nor were these the less decided when they arrived at the rock and
little footpath: several appeared at once to conclude that escape had
been Ahmed’s object, and they pointed significantly to the plain and to
the path which led to it. Here was the place, however, and having
explained as well as he could their arrival, and Ahmed’s intention of
lighting a fire, Herbert led them to the long fern whither he had gone
for materials for the purpose.

They were all armed, and every man blew his match, and looked carefully
as he proceeded; it was evident now that they believed him. The chief
among them was in advance; he was a capital shot, and Herbert had often
seen him hit the smallest marks when they practised for their amusement
at the Fort. The trail of the body was quickly found, and these expert
hunters at once traced it, where Herbert could see no mark, much further
than he had any idea the tiger would have gone. Here and there, too, a
bit of rag fluttered upon a thorny bush, which was a plain indication
that they were right.

At last, as they proceeded more and more carefully, a crow suddenly
arose from among some tall fern with a hoarse and startling croak, and,
hovering over the spot, aroused many others; some vultures and kites,
too, flew up and wheeled around, screaming discordantly; and a jackal
skulked off into a near thicket, evidently disturbed from his repast.

‘He is there!’ said the leader of the party in a low tone; and a hasty
colloquy took place among them for a moment: all seemed brave fellows,
and again they advanced without hesitation.

They had scarcely gone many steps when some torn apparel met their eye,
and a few steps further, lying amongst the fern, were the mangled
remains of their poor comrade; his features were all gone, but the
powder-horn and bullet-pouches were around his waist, and to his back
was fastened the handkerchief, which still contained the cakes he had
tied up in it. With a passionate burst of grief most of them darted to
the spot, and looked on the sad spectacle—most sad to Herbert, who,
overcome by bitter thoughts, gave full vent to emotions he did not seek
to repress.

But they were not long inactive; a search for the tiger seemed
determined on, and they proceeded in a body round and round the place.
They had not gone far, however, when they heard a growl, a low harsh
growl, which made the blood run cold in Herbert’s veins; they stood for
a moment, and it was repeated. It appeared close to them, and one fired
in the direction. It was enough: with a roar which rent the air, the
noble brute bounded forth from his lair of fern, his yellow-streaked
sides shining in the bright sun: for an instant he regarded them with
glaring eyes,—then turned and fled.

There was a precipice a little beyond: he stopped at the edge and looked
over; it was evidently too high to leap, and as he hesitated on the
brink one man fired;—the shot was well aimed. The tiger turned again,
roared most fearfully, but immediately after staggered to the edge of
the cliff; his hind quarters appeared paralysed and fell over, but he
still held on by his claws, though they slipped every moment. The leader
saw his opportunity, raised his gun and fired. Herbert heard the ball
crash into the skull—saw the grim head quiver for a moment, the paws
relax their hold, and the whole frame slip. All darted forward and
looked over: it was a fearfully giddy place; the blue depth was filled
with boiling mist—the tiger’s body was descending rapidly, turning over
and over; at last it hit a projection and bounded away, till the mist
appeared to rise and hide it from their view.

‘Enough!’ cried the leader, ‘let us depart.’

They returned to the dead; it was impossible to remove the remains, they
were so mutilated; but they hastily dug a shallow place with their broad
hunting-knives and laid them in it, covering the spot with thorns and
large heavy stones. Then all lay down on the brow of the mountain and
rested for a while; and Herbert was glad when they set out on their
return homewards, for the spot was filled with too many bitter regrets
for the dead, and for the untoward accident that once more had thrown
him back into captivity, which now appeared endless; for as they passed
the rock and pathway, they pointed to it and to the plain, and shook
their heads—some laughing, others with frowns and threatening gestures,
which told him plainly that to attempt to escape would be death.
Henceforth his life became a blank.

* * * * *

It was not long after Philip Dalton and his wife reached India with
their companion young Hayward, that the aggressions of Tippoo Sultaun
upon the Rajah of Travancore, and his known detention of prisoners since
the peace of 1784, together with many insults upon the frontiers for
which no satisfaction was ever obtained, determined Lord Cornwallis to
declare war against him; and once this had been done in a formal manner,
every nerve was strained by the Government of India to meet the exigency
in a decisive and efficient manner.

It is foreign to our tale to describe every event of the war, which has
already been so much more efficiently done in the histories of the
period; besides we have a pleasant licence in such matters, without
which it would be impossible for us to conduct our readers to any
satisfactory conclusion of our history. We shall therefore only state
that, availing himself of the undefended state of the passes, and while
the Sultaun was occupied with his fruitless negotiations with the
French, Lord Cornwallis ascended into Mysore, and, ere he could be
opposed by any force, had advanced considerably towards the strong fort
of Bangalore. There were partial engagements for some days between the
Mysore cavalry, led often by the Sultaun in person, and the English; but
they were attended by no decisive result, and did not operate in any way
to check the invasion.

Bangalore fell: the siege and the heroic defence of its brave governor
are themes which are still sung in the country, and will never pass from
the memory of its inhabitants while there remains one of its itinerant
bards, who, with two brass wires stretched between two gourds at each
end of a stick, perambulate the towns and villages for a scanty and
hard-earned subsistence.

The Sultaun retreated upon his capital, and to capture that was the
object of the campaign; but ere the army could advance, it was thought
necessary to reduce some small forts in the neighbourhood, and to throw
into them garrisons of such Hindoo inhabitants of the country, who had
welcomed the English invasion and already assisted it against the
Sultaun, as would keep them from the occupation of the Sultaun’s troops.

From his interest with the higher ranks of the army, and his talent and
efficiency, Philip Dalton had, in the opening of the campaign, been
appointed to the general staff of the army, while Charles Hayward
remained with his regiment; they continued, however, together, both
inhabiting the same tent, and as their history was known to many, they
were objects of peculiar interest. Indeed poor Herbert’s fate was one in
which the sympathies of all were powerfully excited, and many were the
sincere aspirations that the issue of the war might restore him and
others, both English and native, to sorrowing and despairing relatives.

The reduction of the small forts we have alluded to was a service of no
great difficulty; and when the army lay encamped near Balapoor—one of
them—while arrangements were being made for its occupation, it was
common for the officers to examine such places or objects of interest as
the neighbourhood of their camp afforded. Pre-eminent among these was
the famous rock whence prisoners used to be flung, and of which mention
has already been made as connected with Herbert Compton.

No one, whether European or native, could approach this spot without
feelings of horror; for the lonely rock stood alone in the plain; and
the fearful use to which it had been devoted, both by Hyder and Tippoo,
was fresh in the memory of all. A few in the force had seen and examined
it, and Philip Dalton and Charles rode thither accompanied by a few
mounted orderlies on the very first opportunity of leisure.

A silent feeling of sickening apprehension grew upon them as they
approached it, and a thought would force itself upon Philip, despite of
his hopes and prayers to the contrary, that Herbert’s fate might have
been the dreadful one experienced by the hundreds whose whitened bones
and skulls lay around the foot of the rock; but he did not mention this
to his companion, and they rode on in silence. At length they reached
the rock, and, leaving their horses below, ascended to the top, where
still stood, though somewhat dilapidated, the small hut or house we have
once mentioned. But this did not attract their notice at first; the
fatal brink, which had witnessed the frantic death-struggles of so many,
was the spot to which they were led by the orderlies, who had a hundred
marvellous tales to tell of events that happened there, and of the
tremendous strength of those whose business it was to hurl the victims
from the precipice. They looked over, too, and saw the bones and skulls
scattered at the bottom, and shreds of white calico and red cloth
fluttering among the bushes—the sad evidence of the fate of brave
soldiers who had perished there. There was nothing there to induce them
to remain, and Philip and his young friend turned away sickened from the
spot.

‘And this is the place where the unfortunate persons were confined,’
said an orderly, who, pushing open a rude and half-broken door, ushered
them into a mean and dilapidated apartment.

‘Good God! it is covered with the names of poor fellows who have died
here,’ exclaimed Philip; ‘what if _his_ should be here? we must not
leave an inch unexamined, Charles.’

‘Why, do you think he was ever here?’ asked the young man in an agitated
tone.

‘God forbid! but it is our duty to look; we may possibly gain a clue.’

And they fell to examining the walls with careful scrutiny. It was a
painful task; there were many names; the hands which had written them
were now dry bones bleaching without, or had long ago mouldered into
dust; many were the humble prayers written there, and obscene words and
curses mingled with them in strange combination. Many a direction, too,
for parents and wives and children of those who were dead, in case
others might visit the spot, and bear them to the far west.

‘Heavens!’ exclaimed young Hayward suddenly; ‘Come here, Philip! quick!’

Dalton darted across the apartment, and Charles pointed to a small
writing scratched in the plaster with a pin or nail; it was plain even
to his swimming eyes and sickened heart.

‘Herbert Compton.

‘May 24, 17—. Many have been thrown from this abode of death; I have
waited my turn; it will come to-morrow; it will deliver me from a life
of misery and—’

There was no more—a stone flung against the wall had hit the rest and
obliterated it.

Philip sank down and groaned aloud. That there should be such an end to
his hopes, which this proved to have had foundation, was hard indeed to
bear. Awhile Charles strove to comfort him, but both their hearts were
sick, and they were poor comforters one to another.

‘There may be further trace of him,’ said Philip; ‘let us look around.’

They did so. For a while they found nothing, but at length a joyful cry
again broke forth from Charles. ‘God be praised!’ he said, ‘come here
and read, Philip.’

The writing on the wall was rough and misshapen, but they were
characters of blessed hope to both; the words were these:—

‘Captin Comtin was taking awey from this horible pleace verry ill, on
the day of—

‘John Simpson.’

‘God be praised for this!’ exclaimed Philip, as he fell on his knees and
blessed Him aloud; ‘there is yet hope, for assuredly he did not perish
here, Charles.’

-------

CHAPTER XL.

‘These are too precious to remain here, Charles,’ said Philip; ‘we must
remove them.’ It was easily done: with their pen-knives they carefully
cut round the plaster of each inscription, and then separated it from
the wall without difficulty; they were precious relics, and the young
men long gazed on them, with that depth of feeling which such memorials
were well calculated to excite. ‘Ah! Philip, if we could only trace him
further,’ said Charles.

‘We thought not of this when we came hither,’ he replied, ‘and we should
be thankful; it is just possible that some one in the town may have
heard tidings of him if he were really ill, and we will go thither and
inquire.’

They did not tarry on the rock for an instant; their horses awaited them
at the bottom, and the distance between the rock and the small town
being quickly traversed, they arrived in the bazaar. Philip directly
made for the Chouree, where the former Kotwal and others sat engaged in
their functions of superintending the market, and directing the issues
of grain and forage to the followers of the British army.

They were received courteously by the functionary, who was all civility
to his late conquerors: Philip at once opened the cause of his visit,
and expressed his anxiety for intelligence, however vague, of his lost
friend.

The Kotwal racked his brains, or appeared to do so; he could remember
nothing about the rock or its victims, being fearful lest he should
compromise himself by some unlucky remark or confession. ‘So many had
perished there,’ he said; ‘it was the Sultaun’s order, and in Balapoor
they never knew anything about them.’

‘But was no one ever brought here?’ asked Philip.

‘Really he could not remember, so many went and came; how could he, the
Kotwal, who saw a thousand new faces every day, retain a recollection of
any? Prisoners too in hundreds passed by—sometimes remaining there for a
day, but he never saw them; he had no curiosity, he had other business;
he was in fact the Kotwal, upon whom rested all the affairs of the
town.’

Philip was in despair. ‘Can you get me no information?’ he said; ‘I do
not speak the native language, and to me inquiry is useless.’

‘Of course, if my lord wished it,’ he would make every inquiry; and in
truth he began in earnest with those about him; none, however, could
remember anything but vague descriptions of prisoners passing and
repassing; and Philip, after a long and patient investigation which led
to no result, was about to depart, disappointed and vexed, when a man
entered who had been absent on some message; he was one of the
labourers, or scouts of the village, and the Kotwal immediately said to
Philip, ‘If any one can give you the information you seek, it is this
man, for it was his business to attend upon the Sultaun’s people who
came hither with prisoners.’

He was immediately questioned, and gave ready answers; he perfectly
remembered a Feringhee who was brought ill, and long remained at the
Fakeer’s Tukea,[54] beyond the town, lying upon the Chubootra;[55] they
were told he was an officer, and an order came to him from the Sultaun
himself, brought by Jaffar Sahib Jemadar.

-----

Footnote 54:

_Lit._ Pillow, the abode of a Fakeer.

Footnote 55:

Elevated seat or terrace.

-----

‘Surely, surely!’ cried the Kotwal, whose memory appeared wonderfully
refreshed; ‘’tis strange I should have forgotten him, seeing that he was
often fed from my house; women you know, Sahib, have tender hearts, even
for those of a different faith, and we knew nothing of the brave English
then.’

‘Canst thou guide me to this Fakeer?’ said Philip to the man, who could
speak indifferent Hindostanee.

‘Certainly,’ he replied; ‘’tis but a short distance.’ And so saying he
took up his long staff. Philip rose to depart.

‘I will accompany you, sir,’ said the Kotwal; ‘the old Sein[56] is very
curious in his behaviour to strangers, and may not be civil; besides he
hath been ill of late.’

-----

Footnote 56:

Respectful appellation of a Mahomedan Fakeer.

-----

‘I thank you,’ returned Philip, ‘but I would prefer going alone. I have
no doubt the old man will be reasonable, even to a Feringhee. Salaam!’

Guided by the scout, who ran before their horses, they were quickly at
the garden we have before mentioned. It had been respected by all; the
little mosque was as purely clean, the space around it as neatly swept
as ever: the flowers bloomed around the tiny fountain, and the noble
trees overshadowed all as closely as when, sick and exhausted, Herbert
Compton lay beneath their shade, and blessed God that he had found such
a refuge and such a friend as the old Fakeer.

The venerable old man sat in his usual spot under the tamarind-tree;
before him was his Koran, which he read in a monotonous tone; his face
was very thin, and he looked weak and attenuated by sickness.

‘Salaam, Baba!’ said Philip advancing, ‘we are English officers, who
would speak to thee.’

‘Salaam Aliekoom!’ returned the old man benignantly, ‘ye are welcome;
the turn of destiny hath allowed us to say that to those whom we have
called kafirs; but ye _are_ welcome to the old Fakeer—all are welcome
who come in peace and good will. What seek ye?’

‘Father,’ said Philip, much touched by the benevolence of his tone and
appearance, ‘thou art no bigot, and wilt aid us if thou canst. I seek a
lost friend, as dear to me as a brother; I know not if it be the same,
but I have heard that one of my race was tended by thee, and remained
ill with thee for long; it may be he; didst thou know his name?’

‘Holy Alla!’ cried the old man eagerly, ‘art thou aught to him who loved
me as a son?’

‘Alas! I know not his name, father.’

‘His name! it was—’ and he fell to musing, his forefinger between his
teeth. ‘I cannot remember it now,’ he said, ‘though it is daily on my
lips. Ka— Ka—’

‘Compton?’ said Philip.

‘The same! the same!’ cried the old man; ‘the same—Compton—Captain
Compton; the name is music to me, Sahib; I loved that youth, for he was
gentle, and often told me of your cool and beautiful land in the distant
west, where the sun goes down in glory; and he taught me to love the
race I heard reviled and persecuted.’

‘Alla will reward thee!’ said Philip; ‘but canst thou tell me anything
respecting his fate?’

‘Alas! nothing; for a month he was with me, ill, very ill—we thought he
would die; but the prayers of the old Fakeer were heard, and the
medicines of his hand were blessed; and once more he spoke with reason
and grew calm, and the fever left him; then, when his strength returned,
an order from the Sultaun arrived, and it was a bold bad man that
brought it, and he was taken away from me, and never since that have I
gained any tidings of him. May his destiny have been good! my prayers
have been night and day for him to that being who is your God and mine.’

Philip was much touched, and poured out his thanks to the old man most
sincerely and with a full heart. ‘Alas! I fear all trace of him is
lost,’ he said.

‘Say not so, my son; I dread—but I hope. The Sultaun is not always
cruel—he is just; his death was never intended—his life was too valuable
for that; he is most likely at Seringapatam, whither ye are proceeding
they say—I would not despair. And now listen: Alla hath sent thee
hither, thou who wast his friend; he gave me a letter, a packet which he
wrote here in secret; I would ere this have delivered it in thy camp,
but I am grown very feeble and infirm of late, the effect of illness,
and I could not walk so far, wilt thou receive it? to me it has been a
memorial of the young man, and I have looked on it often, and remembered
his beautiful features, and his gratitude when I risked this my little
possession, which to me is a paradise, in taking it from him.’

Eagerly, most eagerly Philip implored to see it, and the Fakeer rising
attempted to walk to his humble residence, but with difficulty. Philip
and Charles flew to his aid, and leaning on them, as he glanced from one
to the other with evident pleasure, the old man reached the door.
‘Remain here,’ he said, ‘the dwelling is low—ye are better here. I will
return to you.’ He did so in a few minutes, bearing the packet.

Philip took it with a delight he had no words to express, and was well
nigh overpowered by his emotion as the familiar handwriting met his eye.
‘There can be no doubt,’ he said, ‘that it was he—I would swear to his
handwriting among a thousand.’

‘Do not open it here,’ said the Fakeer; ‘but sit and speak to me of him
and his parents, and his beloved, for I heard all,’ continued the old
man with a sigh, ‘and pitied his sad fate.’

Philip told him all, and they talked for hours over the lost one; he
told him how he had gone to England and married his sister; how the
youth beside them was her brother of whom he had heard; and then the old
man blessed the youth. ‘Thou wilt not be the worse that I have done so,’
he said; while a tear filled his eye—rested there for a while—then
welling over, trickled down his furrowed cheek and was lost in his white
beard.

Long, long they talked together, and the day was fast declining ere they
left him, promising to return whenever they could; they took away the
precious packet with them, to pore over its contents together in
Philip’s tent.

They opened it with eager anxiety; it was addressed ‘To any English
officer.’ There were a few lines from Herbert, informing whomsoever
should receive it that he was alive, and imploring him to forward it to
the Government; and a few more descriptive of his captivity, of his
escape from the rock, and his uncertainty for the future.

There were letters too to be forwarded, one to his father, one to Amy;
another for Philip himself, which he opened impatiently. It was short—he
said he dared not write much. He described his various trials and
sufferings, and the kindness of the old Fakeer, without whose aid he
must have perished: he besought him not to despair of finding him alive,
even though years should intervene between that time and when the letter
should reach him.

‘Nor will I despair, dear Herbert,’ cried Philip; ‘never, never! The
hand of Providence is clearly discernible through all this chain of
events; it will lead us, Charles, to the close. Yet we must be secret:
these letters must not be delivered, nor must our present success be
known in England till we can confirm the glad tidings, or for ever
despair.’

There was not a day while the army remained there that the friends did
not visit the old Fakeer. They could not prevail on him to accept money;
but there were articles which were of use to him—cloth, and blankets,
and other trivial things, which he received gladly. They left him with
sorrow, and with little hope that they should ever renew their
intercourse with him. Yet they met again.

The progress of the army was slow; for the forage, except in a few
places, had been destroyed, and the draught and carriage bullocks died
by hundreds. The Nizam’s force, too, had joined the British army, and it
presented a most gorgeous Eastern display, far more imposing than any
Philip had yet seen. Men of all nations of the East, and tribes of
India, the courtly Persian, the reckless Afghan, the wild Beloche, the
sturdy Pathan, the more slender and effeminate Dukhanee, the chivalrous
Rajpoot and hardy Mahrattas, all were mingled in a wild confusion—men
hardly belonging to any corps, and clustered round every leader’s
standard, apparently as fancy, or caprice, or hope of plunder dictated.
The force was utterly inefficient, however, for the purposes of the war,
for the leader had no control over it, nor could he supply it with food;
and his fidelity to the English cause, if not the Nizam’s also, was
questionable.

At every day’s march the distress of the army increased. Men were upon
the lowest rations; the cavalry were almost inefficient from the
starvation and weakness of their horses, and the active and irregular
cloud of the Nizam’s horse consumed what little forage was left in the
country, long ere it could be collected by the English. The leaves of
mango and other trees, where they could be procured, were even gladly
devoured by the starved cattle in lieu of other food. Nevertheless, in
spite of these discouraging prospects, the army advanced by slow
marches; and as the heat was moderate—for the height of the table-land
of Mysore, from three to four thousand feet, gives it a temperate
climate at all seasons of the year—the troops, long accustomed only to
the enervating climate of Coromandel, gained fresh vigour and health as
they proceeded.

Meanwhile the advance of the English, though he often affected to
despise it, was a source of the greatest alarm to the Sultaun. In vain
had he consulted the stars, in vain tried magical arts. They still
proceeded, and drew nearer to his capital daily. Nevertheless he heard
accounts of the distress and famine prevalent in the English camp; and
could he only gain time, even by negotiation or by retreat, he might
protract the campaign so that the English would be obliged to retreat,
and he would then pour upon them his whole force and annihilate them for
ever. Night after night was occupied in discussions with his chief
advisers, Meer Sadik, Kishun Rao and Purnea, but their counsel was
hardly listened to in the wild schemes which were revolving in his mind.

‘Our government is the gift of God!’ he would cry. ‘Are kafirs who heap
abuse on the name of Mohamed his apostle to subdue it? Are we not
blessed with holy dreams, with visions of conquest, and of possessing
the five kingdoms of Hind? Are all these for naught? I tell ye nay, but
true and holy revelations, even such as were made to Mohamed, whose
shadow upon earth we are. Here we have daily written them—records of our
thoughts—prophecies of our greatness, which as they become fulfilled we
will read to ye. Ah, ye sceptics! Let the kafirs advance—they come into
the snare. Ha, ha! their cattle are dying. How, Jaffar Sahib?’—he was
present—‘thou didst see them.’

‘Peer-o-Moroshid! they are,’ replied Jaffar Sahib; ‘they can hardly drag
the guns: even the men are harnessed, and work like beasts.’

‘They will get tired of that, perhaps, soon. Let them come on, I say,
even to the gates of the town. I fear not—why should I fear? my destiny
is bright.’

‘But why not give up the prisoners, Asylum of the Earth? May your
generosity increase!’ said Meer Sadik, whose dauntless spirit spoke out
before the Sultaun. ‘Dost thou not break faith in keeping them?’

‘By Alla and the Prophet, thou art bold to say that, Meer Sadik. No!
never shall they be wrested from me: rather would I kill them with my
own hand. Have they not broken faith, to make war on us without a
cause—to destroy our country, to enter into a league against us? We
swear before ye, sirs, not one shall return alive.’

Tippoo retained Jaffar always about his person. He was spy, plotter,
adviser, executioner, by turns. That night—shortly before the action
which followed at Arikéra—they were alone in the Sultaun’s tent. All had
left him, and he was uneasy and fretful. No wonder, for his thoughts at
night were terrible, and he could not bear to be alone. He had summoned
one of his favourite ladies from the city, and sought in her society a
respite from his thoughts. All was in vain: he could not shut out from
himself his danger, though he scoffed at it openly.

‘And thou hast seen him, Jaffar, and spoken with him?’

‘I have: he is a conceited, arrogant Dukhanee—a man to be despised—a man
whose rapacity is not to be satisfied.’

‘And what said he?’

‘He was haughty at first, and it was hard to hear how he spoke of thee,
O Sultaun!’

The monarch gnashed his teeth. ‘Ya Alla! grant me power to chastise
those who mock thy favourite,’ he cried, looking up devoutly. ‘But thou
gavest the letter?’

‘I did.’

‘And the bills for money?’

‘Yes; he said he would forward that to the Prince at Hyderabad.’

‘And will he fight against me? will he not come over at once and desert
them?’

‘He dare not; but he will be neutral, I think. But he is well where he
is: his presence is a burthen to the kafir Feringhees; they wish
him—anywhere. His men devour the forage, and they starve. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘Good, Jaffar. Now listen; those prisoners, Jaffar—the boys—the cursed
Feringhees know of them and the others.’

‘Let them not trouble you, Light of the Earth! Your poor slave has,
Inshalla! done some service.’

‘How! wouldst thou return them?’

‘Return them! no, by your head and eyes, no! What, eat so much
abomination! Darest thou trust me? I am your slave, there can be no
fear. I have eaten your salt, I am the child of your house; command me,
and I will do thine orders.’

‘What dost thou advise?’

‘For the boys? they are young, they are but women—nay worse. Why
shouldst thou hesitate?’

‘Speak thy mind fully, Jaffar.’

‘Death!’ said the other in a hollow tone, as if he feared the very echo
of the words.

‘Good,’ said the Sultaun, but his lip quivered as he spoke; ‘thou wilt
require a warrant. Write one, I will seal it.’

‘I cannot write, O Sultaun.’

‘Pah! why are men such fools? Give me the inkstand. There, go now—even
now. Let it be done silently, the people must not know of it. One by
one—thou knowest, and spill no blood. Enough, begone! thou must return
to-morrow by this time, I have more work for thee.’

‘On my head and eyes be it,’ he said, and departed from the tent.

The Sultaun could not bear to be alone; he arose and entered the inner
apartments. The lady was alone; she was very beautiful and very fair for
her country. Her soft melting eye spoke of other love than that of the
cold Sultaun’s, and its expression was much heightened by the deep black
tinge she had given to her eyelids. Her dress was the purest white
muslin woven with silver flowers, which she had thrown over her
gracefully, and which partially covered a petticoat of most gorgeous
cloth-of-gold. The floor of the tent was covered with fine white calico,
and on one side was a low couch, on the other a crimson satin mattress,
which formed a dais, furnished with pillows of blue velvet. She arose
and made a graceful salutation, but did not speak; for his brow was knit
into a frown which she feared, and he was not safe when he looked so.

He threw himself upon the dais, and buried his face in his hands. He was
long silent, but she dared not address him.

He spoke at last to himself, and she could hear every word in the still
silence.

‘It is my destiny,’ he said gloomily—‘the destiny of my house. The
Brahmin who warned me—he who spoke out against me fearless of death, and
now lives in the dungeon yonder, he told me of the Feringhees. Whence is
their mighty power? They roll on, a fierce tide against me. Is there no
hope? Ah, for one hour of his presence who was ever victorious over
them—my father! but he is gone for ever, and I am alone—ay, alone.’

The girl was touched; she drew nearer to him.

‘Men of Islam!’ he resumed, after a pause, ‘will ye not fight for me?
Why should I fear? Alla Akbar! Assud Ali is false; he has taken the
money and the letter. Pah! I have humbled myself to that proud Nizam
Ali—to him who trampled on me and scorned my alliance. But no matter, we
may be even with him yet. Assud Ali is false to his cause, and will aid
mine. Ya Alla kureem, that he may! Then the Mahrattas will follow: they
are wily—they keep aloof—they will see how the game goes, and join the
winners. Why should I fear? Zeman Shah in the north with the Afghans;
then the men of Delhi and the Rohillas, the hill tribes. The French are
now wary and cool, but they will rise: one action over, and all is safe.
Then conquest comes, and these hateful sons of Satan are driven away for
ever.’

At last he was silent. There were visions of gorgeous triumphs passing
through his heart, which defied words to express them.

He looked up, and his eyes met those of the lady. ‘Come hither,’ he
said, ‘and sit by me. Thine eyes are full of love; they are not like
those of men abroad. When I look into theirs, I read distrust,
faithlessness; I doubt them all, Fureeda. They know of many things
which, were they to tell the Feringhees—But no: they dare not. What
thinkest thou, child—how goes the game?’

‘I am your slave,’ she said, ‘but I will tell the truth. Men say thou
dost not fight, and they are gloomy. Why are not the troops of the
Sircar led on against the kafirs? Why are they kept in idleness,
retreating day by day? Where are thy valiant cushoons—all thy
artillery—all thy invincible and thundering cavalry? Arouse thee, O my
lord! Let even a slave’s voice aid that of thy mother—thy wife—those who
would fain see the glory of the Faith exalted, and the tiger of Mysore
rend to pieces the kafir English. Art thou a man and a soldier to bear
this? By Alla! were I one, and in thy place,’ she said, her eye
flashing, ‘I would mount my horse and cry Bismilla! as I led my warriors
to victory. Art thou a coward?’

‘Coward! sayest thou this to me?’ cried the Sultaun, gnashing his teeth,
as his small dagger flashed from its scabbard in his girdle, and was
upraised to strike.

The lady trembled, but bowed low before him. ‘Strike!’ she said; ‘I can
die at thy feet. The lonely Fureeda will not be missed upon the earth;
all who loved me are dead, thou well knowest, and my spirit yearns to be
with theirs. Strike! I am ready.’

‘And dost thou think me a coward, Fureeda?’ he exclaimed, as his hand
dropped.

‘Alla and the Prophet forbid! I know thou art brave, but men complain.
They tell thee not of it, but they complain that the old fire is
quenched within thee. I, who fear not, tell thee this truth.’

‘It is not, by Alla! I will show them it is not. We will see what the
morrow brings. The night is gloomy and hot; there may be rain—in that
they will be helpless; then we will set on them, and cry Alla Yar! Now
get thee to thy bed. The night advances and we would be alone, for
visions press on us which we would record for those destined to follow
our steps.’

She left him, and lay down on the bed, but could not sleep. The night
was oppressive, and she watched him. He wrote awhile; then she saw him
put aside his paper and lie down—sleep had come to him. She arose, took
a light shawl and threw it over him gently. Then she sat down and
watched him. Presently the thunder muttered in the distance, and flash
after flash of blue lightning penetrated through the tent, dimming the
light of the lamp which burned beside him. The thunder came nearer and
nearer, and the loud patter of heavy rain upon the canvas of the tent
she thought would have awakened him; but he slept on. She was naturally
terrified at thunder, but she did not relinquish her watch, for he was
restless and disturbed in his sleep. Now and then he muttered names, and
she could hear him when the roar of the thunder ceased for an instant or
two. Soon his dreams were more distinct, and she shuddered as she
listened.

‘Jaffar!’ he said, ‘Jaffar! away with them to the rock—No, not yet!—do
not kill them yet; there are two I love—spare them! do not spill
blood—remember I told thee not. Kafirs, sons of defiled mothers, we will
set on them to-morrow, Inshalla! Inshalla!—Coward! we are no coward.’
Then after awhile his sleep was more uneasy, she saw his brows knit and
his hands clench fast. ‘Do not approach! Alla, Alla! they come. Aid
me—holy Prophet, aid me, all ye saints!—Mathews! away, old man! I did
not kill thee—it was not my orders. Away, or by Alla I will strike— Your
faces are cold and blue; are the English so in death? Go, go, ye are
devils from hell. Go! I will not come;—by Alla, I will not! Go! my
destiny is yet bright and clear.’

Then he was quiet for a while, but big drops of sweat stood on his brow.
She would have given worlds to wake him; she wondered the thunder did
not, for peal after peal crashed overhead.

Once more he spoke: it was very hurried and low, and she could hear a
word only now and then. ‘Again, Mathews? kafir Feringhee! I tell thee it
was not my order—the poison was not for thee. I will not come—there are
devils with thee—hundreds! Why didst thou bring them from the rock? Why
do ye look on me with your dead eyes? Away—I will strike!—old man, come
no nearer! Ha! thy lips move, thou—’

There was a crash of thunder which seemed to rend the earth—a flash of
lightning which almost blinded her. Fureeda cowered to the ground as the
Sultaun started up, his eyes glaring, and his hands clenched and thrust
out before him, as he looked wildly around.

‘They are gone,’ he said. ‘Holy Alla, what thunder! that is better than
their voices. What! thou here, Fureeda? Did I speak, girl?’

‘My lord was restless in his sleep, but I heard no words.’ She dared not
tell the truth.

‘Enough—it is well. Alla aids us with this rain and storm; they will be
in confusion, and we will set on them early. As the day dawns thou shalt
see, girl, that we are no coward.’

-------

CHAPTER XLI.

It was truly an awful night; the wind howled in fierce blasts over the
plain, driving with it cold and piercing rain, which benumbed men who
had only been accustomed to the heat of the Carnatic and the coast; the
bullocks and horses of the cavalry, exhausted by dearth of food, could
no longer struggle through the mud, and fell in great numbers to rise no
more. Then men applied their shoulders to the wheels, and laid hold of
the drag-ropes of the guns with wild energy, and urged them on with loud
shouts and cries. Everywhere the most appalling confusion existed, for
the enemy was in front, at a short distance, and, with their knowledge
of the ground and of the country, what might not be effected during such
a night?

But it was too wild even for the enemy to venture forth to an attack,
which might after all be doubtful. The thunder roared and crashed
overhead in stunning peals; men shouted, but were not heard; there was
no road to be discovered, and infantry and cavalry, often mingled
together, floundered on in the inky darkness.

Amongst the rest the commander vainly strove to track the road, but soon
lost it, and with his staff wandered they knew not whither, while
parties of the enemies’ horse were everywhere abroad. It was a fearful
risk for one on whom so much depended. They halted, at length, upon a
rising ground, but could distinguish only wild groups of struggling
figures, as the vivid lightning disclosed them for instants only at a
time everywhere around them. Sometimes it appeared as if the enemy were
surrounding them, for the deep booming sound of their kettle-drums and
the wild shrill neighing of horses came clearly upon the blast at
intervals; and in the distance they often thought they could see masses
of troops marshalled in array, and the lightning flashing from the
points of spears and bayonets.

Their situation was very precarious, and Philip and some others essayed
to find the way back to the point from which they had set out, and after
much difficulty they succeeded. Plunging through a ploughed field alone,
he found a road beyond, and venturing slowly and cautiously, heard,
through the din of thunder and roar of the wind, the welcome sound of
English voices. It was enough, he retraced his steps to the place where
he had left his general, by the glare of the lightning, and gave him the
welcome news; he was eagerly followed, and once more the commander was
placed in safety.

The wind and the rain ceased; gradually the storm passed onwards, and a
few stars shone out here and there, gradually heralding the brilliant
dawn. It broke at length to the expectant eyes of that wearied army, and
in a short time the confusion of the night before was restored; men
repaired to their proper standards, and discipline was once more
restored.

With the earliest dawn the Sultaun had been astir, and, calling to him
the leaders upon whom he most depended, he gave orders for an assault
upon the exhausted English. ‘They will be our prey,’ he said; ‘let them
come on, let them fall into the trap which destiny has marked out for
them. Shookr Alla! they have come so far that to retreat is
impossible—they must advance into our hands. Go, in the name of the Most
Mighty, go and conquer! your destiny is bright; this day will be a fair
one for the honour of Islam, a day which men shall record in history,
and the nations of the West tremble at when they hear it.’

The leaders wondered what had so suddenly changed his resolution of not
giving battle, for the day before he had been obstinately bent upon
retreat into the city; but they were glad, for the troops were loud in
their murmurs, and retreat day after day before a weakened enemy was
fast undermining any notions of discipline or subordination which still
remained. They obeyed his various orders with alacrity; and as the light
became broader and clearer, and the English army could be descried, a
shower of rockets was directed against it, which, although annoying, was
of little effect.

The Sultaun looked on from a rising ground; before him the two armies
were spread out, his own cushoons in large masses, for the while
inactive, with the long lines and columns of the English opposed to
them, and the artillery vainly endeavouring to get the guns into
position; the cattle were exhausted, and could hardly move. He saw the
annoyance the rockets caused, and exulted.

‘Shabash! Shabash! give them more; ride, Khan Sahib,’ he said to an
officer near him, ‘and tell them not to spare the rockets and the shot.
Mashalla! they fall into the midst of the kafirs and kill many; tell
them they shall be rewarded well. Ha! they are about to charge. Holy
Alla! look at the miserable horses, tottering as they move; _they_ think
to overwhelm the true believers—Ha! ha! ha! See, they advance—Dogs,
kafirs, come on, ye defiled, to your destruction! Now, Rhyman Khan, upon
them and annihilate them! Oh for Kasim Ali Patél! he would have led the
charge. Ha! there is no need—they turn! they turn! the cowards—the less
than men—the faint-hearted!’

But his exultation was soon checked, for when the lines of redcoats
advanced he saw his own cushoons retire, and one fell into confusion.
Assud Ali and his cloud of cavalry were close upon them—the Sultaun was
in agony. ‘If he is true to me he will not charge,’ he cried. ‘Alla!
Alla! turn his heart; holy saints and martyrs, let him not destroy them!
I vow coverings to your tombs and offerings. He will charge now—he
moves; Alla Kereen, I cannot look at it.’

‘He is steady,’ exclaimed one near him; ‘he stirs not.’

‘Enough, enough! the bait has taken, and we are safe. Ha, ha, ha!
Inshalla! there is no mind like ours, for, with the blessing of Alla, it
is all-powerful over our enemies. Assud Ali will earn this day a hopeful
reputation—may Alla give him a good digestion of it! And now, since the
crisis is past, give orders to retire. We have checked the Feringhees,
we have turned their boasted cavalry. Ye saw, sirs, they dared not
attack; Alla Akbar! we will retire into the city; let them come on, we
shall be ready to meet them.’

And he retreated that day to his fortified position under the guns of
the fort; the English took up his late position upon the field, and
advanced even beyond it; but the distress in the army was frightful, and
there was no prospect of relief. Abercromby, who, it had been hoped,
would have joined it, was not to be heard of, nor were the Mahrattas;
there was no forage—every blade of grass, even the trees, had been
destroyed; most of the wells and tanks were poisoned by branches of
Euphorbium thrown into them; the cattle grew weaker and weaker, and died
by hundreds. No man had hope that, before the efficient army of the
Sultaun, and against a strong fort, there could be any possible hope of
victory, and all looked anxiously for the decision of him who led them
on.

It was on the evening of that day that Philip Dalton and Charles Hayward
ascended a small hill near the camp, and looked forth over the glorious
view which was spread out before them. A few miles distant was the city,
the tall minarets of the mosque in the fort, and here and there a small
dome, with clusters of white-terraced houses, sparkling among the thick
groves which surrounded them; the long lines of the regular walls of the
fort, and their tall cavaliers, could be seen; and in the plain before
them redoubts were everywhere thrown up, between which the gay tents of
the huge army glittered in the evening sun; for a flood of golden light
poured upon the city and the camp from the declining sun; and as the
light evening clouds sailed slowly on, the view was chequered by soft
shadows, which added to the beauty of the scene. The broad Cavery
glittered where waters stood deep in pools, and its broad and rocky bed
could be seen around the fort and town, and stretching far away to the
western hills; there was no bridge across the river, but with his
telescope Philip could make out the ruins of that which had been
destroyed. In all directions columns of white smoke were ascending,
straight into the air, from the burning villages, which had been fired,
lest they should afford protection or shelter to the enemy.

Both were long silent, as they sat looking upon the prospect, for their
thoughts were sad; and the hope which had filled their hearts when they
had left Bangalore victorious, trusting soon to be before Seringapatam
and to see the Sultaun humbled, and the captives of years brought forth
in triumph, had now given place to despair; for the delay even of a day
was perilous to the whole army, and already the determination had been
made of destroying the battering train, and retreating until a better
system of supply for the army could be organised, and the strength of
the exhausted cattle restored.

‘Poor fellow!’ said Philip—he was thinking of Herbert Compton as the
city lay before him; ‘if he be immured in a dungeon yonder, he will have
heard our firing, he will have known of our advance, and we cannot
conceive the state of anxiety and suspense he must be in, and how
dreadful will be his disappointment.’

‘Are we then to retreat, Philip?’

‘I believe it is so determined,’ he replied. ‘For the public cause it is
good, for we shall have gained experience; but we shall return soon, I
trust, Charles. I hope and trust in a short time, when forage is more
plentiful; and for you, proud Sultaun,’ he said, looking towards the
city, ‘there is a severe reckoning in store. Oh, my poor Herbert! if
thou art there, may God preserve you to a deliverance at our hands!’

But now the evening was fast closing in, and the fires of the Sultaun’s
army were sparkling in the dusky plain; gradually but quickly the city
was fading before their sight, and the quiet pools of the Cavery,
wherein the deep yellow and orange of the sky was reflected, shone more
brightly amidst the gloom around them: there was no use in staying
longer, and they arose and returned to the camp. In a few days, having
destroyed the noble battering-train, the army retreated towards
Bangalore.

The Sultaun sat on the high cavalier which stands at the southeast angle
of the fort, surrounded by his officers; the busy camp of the English
was within sight, in which it was plain that there was a movement; he
was gloomy and dispirited, in spite of the force around him, which was
ostentatiously displayed; there was a secret misgiving in his heart, a
dread of private treachery, of the unfaithfulness of the army, though
one and all had sworn to defend their trust; the men around him hardly
spoke but in whispers.

‘They will be upon us soon,’ said the Khan to Kasim, who stood by him,
‘and the thunder of the English cannon will be heard for the first time
at Seringapatam. Ya Alla avert it! for their destiny is great.’

‘Shame on thee, Khan!’ cried the young man; ‘let them come—I for one
will welcome a stroke against the kafirs: I have not drawn a sword for
months, and am tired of this inactivity.’

‘Thou art not strong yet, Kasim.’

‘As I ever was, Khan; feel my arm, its sinews are as firmly knit as
ever; let them come, I say, and Alla defend the right! are we not the
children of the faith, and they are infidels?’

‘Kasim Ali! where is Kasim Ali?’ cried the voice of the Sultaun. He
answered and stepped forward.

‘Look through this,’ continued the monarch, handing his telescope to the
young man; ‘tell me what thou seest, for by Alla, I cannot believe mine
own eyes.’

‘Cowards!’ cried the young man after a moment; ‘they retreat; their
backs are towards us.’

‘Alla Hu Akbar! Ya Alla kureem!’ cried the Sultaun; ‘then our prayers
have been listened to. Ha! ha! ha! they turn—the cowards—the kafir dogs!
They are gone—away, after them, my friends—dog their steps to the very
gates of Madras. Inshalla! our hunt will be Cornwallis! A jaghire to him
who brings us his head! Now are our dreams come true; our visions
wherein we have trusted. Be not deceived, my friends; behold the proofs
that I am the favoured of the Prophet, and that though sometimes the
power of prophecy is withdrawn from us, yet the light which is within us
burns still and will never be extinguished. Away, ye of the household
cavalry! Kasim Ali, Rhyman Khan, away after them!—yet stay—go not too
far; prudence and wariness have won us this victory; we must not abuse
it. Ye must return in three days, when we will determine upon future
operations. Begone!’

But as they prepared hastily for the service, the movement was
countermanded, to the bitter disappointment of Kasim Ali; for the
Sultaun feared risking his best horse against the combined forces of the
English and the Nizam’s cavalry, and ordered them to remain; nor was
there for a considerable period any movement of interest. Strange it was
that he made no attack upon the retiring English, nor any effort to
retake Bangalore, his once favourite fortress; but the danger for the
moment had passed away, and, though the thunder growled and the
lightning flashed in the far distance, there appeared no immediate risk
of the approach of the tempest.

The campaign had been an arduous one for poor Ameena, who had far
overrated her strength; indeed the rapid marches made by the Sultaun,
whose personal activity was wonderful, had sorely tried the Khan
himself; and he had been selected for the duty of escorting the ladies
of the harem from Bangalore to the capital. He had therefore had no part
in the late movements of the campaign, but remained at his post without
the city, accompanied by the young Patél, who was sufficiently recovered
to bear once more his active share in the command of the body of horse
to which he had been appointed.

But as soon as the immediate alarm of the British advance and siege of
the fort was over, they returned to their old ways of life; the Khan to
the enjoyment of the repose of his zenana, and to the society of Ameena,
whose health, owing to fatigue and over-exertion, had been indifferent;
and Kasim to his daily attendance at the Sultaun’s Durbar, where he soon
grew to be familiar with the strange and perplexing character he served.

So long as the hurry and bustle of the arriving and departing troops,
the preparations for siege, and the constant alarms of the English
continued, the minds of all were filled with speculations as to the
issue of the war—some swayed by hope, some by fear. Kummoo was like the
rest, and because the objects of her hate were absent, she was
powerless; but when once more all was fairly tranquil, her thoughts
returned rapidly into their old channels; and as the Khan never now
visited her, but, contented with Ameena, merely sent cold inquiries as
to the state of her health, she detested her sister-wife more than ever,
and perhaps with better cause than at first, since the effect was more
lasting.

From time to time she had urged her mother and her old servant to aid
her in preparing the charms and spells which were to work Ameena’s ruin;
and after long delays, caused partly by the timidity of the old woman to
begin, her deferred selection of lucky and unlucky days, and often by
her scruples of conscience—for she believed firmly in her own power—a
night was determined on when they were to attend and assist in the
ceremony.

Meanwhile, and especially as the day drew near, the attention of the two
wives was more and more turned upon Ameena. Gradually they had removed
from her the thought that they were inimical to her, and at the time we
speak of she could not have supposed that they, whose professions of
friendship and acts of kindness were constant, harboured any thought of
ill towards her. If the old woman herself had seen the innocent and
beautiful being against whom she was plotting, it is probable her heart
would have relented towards one whose thoughts were purity and
innocence, and whose only sin was often an indulgence in thoughts of
one—more tender than befitted her condition—whom she had loved from the
first. And yet there was every excuse for her; the Khan was old, and
weak in many points; and, though a brave soldier, so superstitious that
the merest trifles affected him powerfully, and much of his time was
spent in averting by ceremonies (for which he had to pay heavily)
glances of the evil eye which he fancied had been cast on him when any
pain or ache affected a frame already shaken by the wars of years.

Ameena could not love him, though he was kind and indulgent to her; she
honoured, tended, respected him, as a child would do a father; but love,
such as the young feel for each other in that clime, she felt not for
him, and she had much ado to repress the feelings which her own heart,
aided by her fond old nurse Meeran, constantly prompted for Kasim. Poor
Ameena! she tried to be happy and cheerful; but she was like a fair bird
in a gilded cage, which, though it often pours forth its songs in
seeming joyousness still pines for liberty and the free company of its
mates.

It was with mingled feelings of awe and superstitious terror that the
Khan’s two wives betook themselves to the house of Kummoo’s mother, on
the day assigned for the incantation. As their food had been cooked by
their own women in their own private apartments, they had been able to
practise the requisite abstinence from the various spices, condiments,
and particular descriptions of food which had been interdicted by the
old woman. They had bathed as often as had been directed, and observed
all the injunctions to perfect purity of body that had been laid upon
them. The night was dark and gloomy, and was well suited for their walk
to and from the house unobserved. They hardly spoke, as, closely veiled,
and under the guidance of Sozun, they entered the house and at once
passed on to the inner apartments.

‘Do not delay,’ said Kummoo’s mother; ‘I am unclean; ye will be defiled
if ye stay here; she is within, in the chamber.’ They obeyed her, and
entered it. It was a small square room; the floor was of beaten clay,
and had been most carefully swept; the walls and roof were quite bare,
and there was nothing whatever in the apartment. The old woman sat at
the head of a square figure, divided into many compartments, traced on
the floor, in which were written many Arabic characters and ciphers; the
figure was a rude imitation of a man, in square lines and crosses; and
the silence, the dim light of a miserable lamp, and the crouching figure
of the old crone, who was mumbling some words as her beads passed
rapidly through her fingers, inspired them with dread.

‘Soh! ye are come at last, children,’ she said, in answer to their
benediction; ‘are ye pure from all taint? In the name of Soleemān! of
Pharoon! of Shudad! of Israeel! of Ulleekun and Mulleeckun! I conjure ye
to say the truth. If ye are not, beware! for the evil of this will fall
upon ye.’

‘We are pure, O mother! we have eaten only what thou hast directed, and
bathed as it was necessary.’

‘Good! Now attend: here is a knife, and I have here a white fowl; one of
you must behead it and scatter the blood over the charm.’

Both hesitated and trembled.

‘Shame on ye, cowards!’ cried the crone. ‘Shame! without this the charm
is vain—the offering is vain! Without this, do ye think they will attend
to hear your commands?’

‘Who, mother?’

‘Who?—Muleeka, Hamoos, Mublut, Yoosuf, the deputies of the Shitan,
Mullik Yeitshan, Shekh Suddoo, the Father of Mischief. Obey! I tell ye
the time passes, and your livers will dry up instead of hers, if ye
refuse to do this.’

Both again hesitated, but Kummoo was daring; she at last seized the
knife and the fowl, and, in very desperation, at one stroke severed the
head from the body.

‘Hold it fast! hold it fast!’ cried the crone, for its convulsive
motions could hardly be restrained; ‘it bleeds well—that is a good sign;
so now hold it there: let the blood sprinkle over all. They are present
now; I feel they drink the blood.’ And she continued her incantation in
a low tone, while her hearers were paralysed with fear.

At length she broke out aloud, and desired them to repeat the words, ‘Ai
Boodboo! Ai Shekh Suddoo! Ai Nursoo! Ai Numrood! Ai Murdood! and ye who
are present, having drunk blood, enter into her—into Ameena—and possess
her! Let her have no rest by night or by day! As in each of your names I
pierce this lime with five needles, so may your sharp stings pierce her
heart! as they rot by the acid, so may her liver consume within her!
Ameen! Ameen! Ameen! Ameen! Ameen!’ And as she pronounced each Ameen!
she stuck a needle through the green lime she held in her hand.
‘Enough!’ she cried; ‘it is done! Leave this at her door, or at her
bedside, that she may see it when she rises in the morning. You will
soon hear of her, Inshalla!’

They were glad to escape from the place, for guilt was in their hearts,
and terror of the demons whom they believed to have been present. They
did not even stay with the old lady, but hurried home as fast as was
possible in the darkness. When all were asleep, Kummoo stole softly into
the outer apartment of that where Ameena was, and deposited the charmed
lime at the threshold of the door, surrounding it with a circle of red
powder, as she had been directed: the door opened inwards, so there was
no fear that it would be displaced.

-------

CHAPTER XLII.

We fear we can hardly convey to our readers any adequate sense of the
terror with which, as she arose in the morning, and opening the door,
essayed to go forth to her ablutions for morning prayer, Ameena regarded
the fatal sign which lay before her; a faint cry which she had uttered
roused the Khan, who darting to her side, beheld with equal or indeed
greater dismay than hers, the dreadful sight.

A matter so trifling and absurd would even, to the most uneducated
person in this enlightened land, only furnish matter for ridicule; but
to Ameena and her husband, who with their countrymen generally were
deeply imbued with the belief of jins, fairies, spirits of the air, and
other supernatural agents and devils, supposed to be at the command of
any who choose by study or penance to qualify themselves for the
exercise of power over them, the sight was one of horror: the thought
that their deaths were desired, the death of both, or certainly of one,
first struck upon their hearts; a dull but a deadly blow it was to
Ameena, to whom the first sight of the awful spectacle gave a terrible
earnest that she was the person for whom it was intended.

The Khan could give her no comfort. She had no friend but her old nurse
Meeran, who, even more superstitious than Ameena, and herself mistress
as she thought of many potent charms, well knew the power which had
directed such an one as that before them.

I would not assert that men of station, respectability, and education in
India, among the Mahomedans, are not many of them free from the debasing
belief in charms and witchcraft, even though their existence is allowed
by the Koran; but no one will be hardy enough to deny that by far the
greater part dare not disbelieve it; that many practise it in secret, if
not themselves, at least by aid of Fakeers and old women; and that in
their harems, among their ladies, to doubt the existence of it would be
as sinful as to doubt that of the Prophet himself. But it must be
remembered that the Khan was a man born in the lower grade of society,
that he had been a reckless soldier of fortune, was ignorant, and,
though he had risen to high rank and wealth, was far from having shaken
off the superstitions with which he had begun life.

All that day dismay was in the household; all seemed equally struck with
consternation; and the authors of the evil gave to Ameena their most
hearty sympathy, while they exulted over the deed, and saw that the
arrow drove home to her very heart. In the general consultation which
ensued, they gave it as their opinion that it could have been intended
for no other than Ameena, and that her evil destiny had led her to look
upon it.

Kasim Ali was sent for by the Khan, and with better sense than the rest,
tried to argue him out of a belief that there was any danger, to assure
him that no one could have ill-will to one so pure, so innocent, and so
unknown as his wife. But his heart misgave him as to the author of the
evil; he dared not, however, mention this, and there was no cause for
suspicion except in his own thoughts.

Devoted to the Khan, and more than ever anxious for Ameena, of whose
declining health, under the horrible ideas that she was possessed by
devils, which preyed on her, he constantly heard through the faithful
Zoolfoo from Meeran, Kasim Ali spared no pains to give such ease as he
could impart by the performance and directions of those ceremonies which
were prescribed to be used in such cases. The most holy Fakeers were
consulted; they made expeditions and offered Fateehas[57] at all the
saints’ and martyrs’ tombs within reach, in her name. Puleetas or
lamp-charms were burned in her name, and she was fumigated with the
smoke. Charmed words were written by holy Fakeers and Moolas, which she
sometimes ate among her food; at others they were washed off the paper
into water which she drank.

-----

Footnote 57:

Offerings for the remission of sins and favour of Heaven.

-----

Many of these ceremonies were so curious that we are almost tempted to
describe them minutely; but as they would occupy much space (and, alas!
we are restricted to pages and lines), we are compelled to abandon them
to imagination; in truth they are so ridiculous and puerile, that
perhaps they might only provoke risibility, especially in our fair
readers, if we should relate them very gravely, and almost insist on
their belief in their efficacy.

But all these efforts brought no relief to poor Ameena; sometimes she
would rally awhile, and might be seen tending her few flowers, feeding
her birds or her pigeons; and though with wasted and pallid features,
and a hollow short cough, from which she could obtain no respite, she
tried to throw off the dreadful weight at her heart, and would sometimes
partially succeed, it would again return with redoubled force, and
prostrating her strength reduce her, by the slow fever which came with
it, to a state of weakness which prevented all motion. The poor girl
would lie for hours in her open verandah, gazing up into the depths of
the clear sky above her, in no pain, but with an intense yearning to be
at rest for ever, to join the society of the angels and Peris, whom she
fancied hovered there ready to receive her. How often she pined for
home—to lie on her honoured mother’s breast, and breathe away her life
in happy repose; and often she implored the Khan to send her thither.

‘It is impossible,’ he said, ‘to travel; the English hold the frontiers,
the fierce marauding Mahrattas and the Nizam’s forces occupy the roads,
and it would be madness to attempt so hazardous an undertaking.’

No! she was to hope; such illnesses were long, but, Inshalla! there was
hope. Inshalla! the charms, the spells, the exorcisms would take effect,
and she would rise again to be his own Ameena.

But, alas! we grieve to write it, that in one who possessed so many
noble qualities, courage, frankness, honesty, sincerity, there should be
one terrible failing—a vice rather—which, though not openly discernible,
lurked at his heart, and ere long broke forth to the peril of poor
Ameena.

Her wasted cheek, the hollow dull eye, though sometimes the large and
expressive orbs flashed with a light almost painful to look on, and
which to those around her was an earnest that the malignant spirits
lurked still within her, caused gradually in the Khan an absence of
affection, of solicitude—nay, of that love which he had once delighted
to show. He was a sensualist; and in Ameena’s faded beauty—for like a
withered flower there were only the lineaments traceable of what existed
in the full vigour of health; and in her wasted and enfeebled form,
there was no enjoyment, no attraction. His change to her was gradual,
very gradual, but it was perceptible. It would have been merciful,
perhaps, had it come at once; it would have prevented days and nights of
wretchedness which had no power of alleviation; and with the horrible
thoughts and ideas which haunted her, the miserable one of being
gradually deserted came upon her slowly, but too surely.

While she lay burned by consuming fever, pallid, exhausted, reduced
almost to a skeleton, with parched lips and mouth, there moved around
her bedside, ministering to her trifling wants with a mock gratification
and assiduity, the work of a fiend glutting over the ruin she had
caused, the noble form of Kummoo, her features full of beauty, her eyes
flashing with love, her every motion one of grace and dignity. She
always dressed with the most scrupulous care, generally in the purest
white muslin, which, transparent as it was, when she wound it about the
upper part of her perfect form, disclosed enough to attract notice, if
not desire. She would study the times when the Khan was likely to arrive
in his zenana, and, always contriving to be there before him, would rise
to depart when he entered.

For a long time he permitted this, only returning the distant salutation
she gave him; but gradually he spoke to her, asked after her health,
then bade her remain, and so it continued from time to time, until they
conversed gaily together.

And at first poor Ameena was glad that they were friends, and that there
was a chance that the harmony of intercourse might be restored which
once must have existed between them; but she never heard that he visited
Kummoo in her own apartments, or that they met elsewhere than before
her; she could not have objected had he done so, for Kummoo was his wife
as well as she; but she often sighed for the past, and that her lot had
not been cast with one, who with her and her alone would have gone
through the pilgrimage allotted them upon earth, and in whose love she
could have been blest.

Her trial came at last; she heard from Meeran, who had long discerned
the approaching intimacy, and detected its gradual development, than the
Khan had visited Kummoo in her apartments, that he had dined with her,
and spent the evening in her company. She was glad at first, a feeling
she had been trying to reason herself into by degrees; but Meeran in her
zeal and love was indignant, and sought, but happily with no effect, to
inflame her mistress’s jealousy. Poor Ameena! jealousy she never
felt—that pang was in mercy spared her; she smiled at her nurse’s fears,
told her that she looked to greater happiness from this—to sweeter
intercourse with her sister-wife, and to a friendship which the Khan
would share with both. Alas! these were dreams which cheated her pure
and sunny mind, where no evil thought ever intruded—which was full of
love and innocence.

But when neglect came—when a day passed and the Khan did not visit
her—when she heard that he was constantly in Kummoo’s society—when
messages came from the lady to inquire after her health, and stated that
because the Khan was with her she could not attend her; when day after
day elapsed and she saw him not—and when he came his stay was short, his
questions hurried and abrupt; and though in her meek and gentle nature
she never complained, yet his demeanour would show that he was conscious
of having wronged her, and he would be formal, and she fancied even
cold—_then_ the arrow which had been shot to her very heart of hearts
rankled deeply, and, in the utter prostration of her intellect before
the misery she suffered, she prayed earnestly for death, in the hope
that ere many weeks or days she would be numbered with the dead, and her
place among the children of earth become vacant for ever!

How Kummoo exulted in the success of her scheme! she heaped presents
upon the old woman by whose aid she had effected it; she gave her jewels
from her own stores, clothes of costly price, which the hag treasured
up, though the grave was yawning to receive her, and which she vowed to
expend in distributions to Fakeers and holy saints for the repose of
Kummoo’s soul, and her acceptation with Alla. Day after day brought
confirmations of the evil work: the bolt had struck—the barb rankled,
and could not be withdrawn: Ameena was ill—she wasted away—she burned
with fever.

‘Ha! ha!’ cried the hag, ‘did I not say, when your hand trembled at the
sacrifice (it was well ye did it and the blood poured forth freely),
that it was accepted—that they drank it? Ha! ye slaves to my will,
Iblees and his legions, ye Musoo and Shekh Suddoo, and ye legions of
Chooraeel! and ye nine sons of Satan! I thank ye all: abide within her;
ye are not to come forth till the exorcism of a more powerful than I am
is performed—and where will they find that one, my pearl and my ruby?’

And then by her counsel Kummoo had put herself in the way of the Khan;
and as she bade her to wait patiently the working of the spell, so did
she; not taking offence at fancied slights, but adorning herself with
jewels, and disclosing her beauteous face to him from time to time. And
when there was appearance that he relented, the old woman bade her
prepare a feast for him, and gave her a powder to mingle with his food—a
charm which should turn his heart, were it of stone, and cause it to
become as wax in the hand of the moulder. A spell she had prepared in
secret, the ingredients of which were only known to those students of
her mystic art who had devoted years to its accomplishment.

She was successful: all went right. The Khan partook of her food; she
sang and played to him, and displayed the witchery of her charms. He had
never thought her so lovely; she was his wife, his own Kummoo, once more
such as she had been when he took her from her home to his; and a bright
field of enjoyment was spread out before them, wherein were flowers
blooming, and no shadow to dim their brilliancy. Then came new clothes
and jewels, and money and rich gifts, and the old woman partook of all,
and laughed in her heart that she, and she alone, knew the depths of the
human mind, whose own passions and not her demons were working the issue
which she contemplated.

When is it, however, that guilt is satisfied by one step to gain an end
desired? The very progress, the watching the slow process of the
machinery of the plot, only causes insatiate desires to accelerate its
motion, endless yearnings after the end; fears and doubts of success
alternate with guilty terrors, which turn back again and meet the
desires for completion. Now that Kummoo had gained her purpose, that the
Khan was her daily companion, that Ameena, sick to death, neglected and
thrown aside, mourned over her lost happiness, and was regarded as one
in whom even devils abode, one whose fate it was to linger for a while,
and then to pass away from the memories of men, even now Kummoo longed
for her death, and looked to it impatiently. Once the devil within her
had suggested poison, but she put that back with a strenuous effort. ‘It
cannot last long,’ she thought; but it did, for Ameena lingered.

The thought constantly arose that Ameena would recover, that again she
would see her in her hated beauty: the power she had gained over the
Khan would then melt away, and her former state of degradation would be
renewed. She held long conversations with Sozun, who, bad as she was,
dared not even follow her mistress’s thoughts of crime. Hoormut had
gained nothing by the spell, for she was still neglected, and the
wretched state of Ameena stung her conscience bitterly: often she longed
to disclose all; but the dread of the shame and punishment which would
have followed, and the vengeance of the reckless woman who had led her
on, deterred her. It was enough for her that the mischief which was fast
progressing had been done; she would aid its fulfilment no further.

Kasim Ali had been unavoidably absent for some time; the Sultaun’s
possessions in the Barah Mahal had gradually fallen before the forces of
the English under Maxwell and Floyd, and one by one the strongholds had
been reduced. Kistna Gherry still held out, and had earnestly applied
for succours of money and men. The young and daring Kasim was the man on
whom the Sultaun’s eye rested for the performance of this feat—for it
was one—to conduct a large force through the ground occupied by a
powerful enemy. Kasim burned for distinction, and he fulfilled his trust
manfully; for though pursued hard both by Maxwell and Floyd, at the head
of the English cavalry, he eluded them, and, having attained his object,
returned into Mysore with but little loss.

It was during his absence that the Khan’s change towards Ameena had
become visible; and on his return, in reply to his anxious queries as to
whether she lived, he was told of her still precarious state, and her
fresh cause for misery. Alas! Kasim Ali could not aid her, except by
constant messages of kindness through Zoolficar, and proffers of
service, even to death, should she require or command them. How often
did he long to remonstrate with the Khan upon his behaviour, to implore
him to allow her to depart to her own home, but he dared not; that would
have been impossible.

* * * * *

Months had passed: the English army, recruited and invigorated by the
fine climate and the luxurious forage of Mysore, and, joined by the
Nizam’s troops under a new and more honest commander, and also by the
Mahrattas, once more advanced upon the capital, in a far different
condition to that in which they had before essayed its capture, and
fought a battle within sight of their destination. As they proceeded,
fort after fort fell before them. The impregnable Nundidroog, commanded
by as brave an officer as the Sultaun possessed, Lutf Ali Beg, fell, and
few of the garrison escaped. It would have taken the Sultaun months to
reduce it with his whole army—which a single detachment of the English
effected. Savundroog—‘the abode of death’—where the Sultaun exulted that
the English went, for he knew its impregnable strength and the deadly
jungles by which it was surrounded,—that too fell by a _coup de main_.
He could not credit it; he raved like a wild beast when the news was
brought; but that did not alter the loss, and it was followed by other
reverses day after day. It was true that the success of his son Futteh
Hyder against Gurrumcoondah, which had been taken by the Nizam’s troops,
and which contained the family of his relation, Meer Sahib, revived him
for a while; but the resolute and rapid approach of the English army
upon his capital was not to be disguised, and their unvaried success
smote hard at his heart, and daunted his army. But there were other
causes for dismay on both sides.

Men had begun to ask among themselves, soon after the battle of
Arikhéra, as day after day they attended the Durbar, and the band of
beautiful English boys, upon whose dancing their eyes had rested in
admiration, and to whose delicious voices they had used to listen, did
not appear—what had become of them? The many others, too, who had long
languished in confinement, and whom they had used to mock and
deride—where were they? And then speculation and conjecture arose, and
would not be still, for there went suspicion abroad that they had been
destroyed, and it was right. Despite of the Sultaun’s care, there were
those who told openly in their drunkenness that they had strangled them,
and that Jaffar Sahib Jemadar had looked on, and while he mocked their
cries, had encouraged their destroyers: many others too had been
secretly murdered in the lonely hill-forts, where they were confined,
and even in the secret prisons and apartments of the palace.

Men openly talked of the butchery; and though they hated the English,
yet they were men and soldiers, and abhorred the secret murders and the
concealment; and all pitied and mourned over the fate of the poor boys,
dreading the vengeance of the English when the reckoning should come,
and there should be few to meet it. Discontent openly showed itself
everywhere: there was a feverish excitement among the troops, a restless
desire that the English should arrive, and their suspense be dispelled
either by victory or defeat.

The twenty-fifth day of January 1792 was one long remembered by those
who witnessed it. The English army, led by its noble commander, now more
like a triumphal procession than a slow invasion, had arrived on the
distant heights, and were rapidly pouring from them upon the plain which
led to the city; and the Sultaun, dreading an immediate attack, had
ordered out the whole of his force, which in glittering array lined the
fort-walls, the esplanade before it, the banks of the river, and the
redoubts and batteries beyond. It was a gorgeous spectacle: that English
host in long narrow and compact columns, their bayonets glancing in the
sun, as they moved with measured tread to the sound of their martial
music. Everywhere around in wild disorder were crowds of the Nizam’s and
the Mahratta horse, accompanied by numbers of elephants, many of the men
in bright armour, with gay scarfs wound round their steel caps; others
in coats-of-mail, or thickly-quilted satin tunics; many in gorgeous
cloth of gold or silver, their horses’ trappings of velvet or fine
cloth; most in white, with gay scarfs and turbans—the whole everywhere
restless, clamorous—thousands careering about, firing matchlocks as they
advanced; now dashing out to the front and brandishing their spears,
without any order, discipline or command, and crying shouts of abuse, or
the various war cries of their respective faiths.

Under the walls was the Sultaun’s army—a vast concourse, arrayed in
their regiments, and in fair order at their various posts. Everywhere
among them moved richly caparisoned elephants and horses, whose riders
were as gaily dressed as those of the advancing army. The walls of the
fort, the minarets of the mosque, the terraced houses, the trees, every
rising ground, were covered with the inhabitants of the fort and the
city, looking at the advancing stream of their enemies, which appeared
to flow on without resistance. Above all glowed a sun dazzlingly bright,
but now declining fast, whose slanting beams lighted up the scene,
catching the various objects, and causing them to glitter even more than
if they had come from above. The waters of the river—the plain covered
with burning villages—whereon one army was in motion, the other waiting
to receive them—the fort, the batteries, the mosque and temples, glowed
with a brilliance and exciting effect, which the circumstances of the
thousands present were not likely to efface from their remembrance.

-------

CHAPTER XLIII.

After witnessing the gradual wasting and feverish excitement of her
young mistress for some weeks, the faithful Meeran could no longer bear
to see her wretched condition. She knew how devotedly Kasim Ali loved
her, and she determined, as her last resource, to make an appeal to his
generosity, if not to his love, to implore him to rescue her from the
condition she was in, and to assist her to escape, or at once take her
under his roof.

It was late in the evening before that on which the English arrived
before the fort, that she betook herself to Kasim’s abode. She had
openly declared her intention to Ameena; indeed she had spoken to her of
it for days before, and endeavoured gradually to prepare her to abandon
the Khan and fly to her home—distant though it was—or to seek at once
the protection of the Patél. His mother too, whose village, though many
days’ journey distant, she thought it possible she might be able to
reach, and she felt assured would receive her, after resting there for a
while, she could pursue her journey to Hyderabad; and Ameena timidly,
distrustfully, and yet anxiously, had at last given permission to her to
go and ascertain if it were possible.

Meeran had placed Zoolficar upon the watch to note the return of the
young Patél from his tour of duty to rest for the night; and when she
was apprised of that, she bade her young mistress farewell for the
while, and telling her to be of good cheer, that she would soon return
with joyful news, she departed.

Zoolfoo awaited her without, and in a few minutes they had arrived at
the Patél’s abode. Anxiously they looked around, lest any one should
observe them, but there was only one woman at some distance, whom they
hardly heeded; they opened the door of the court-yard, which they found
unfastened, and leaving it in the same state (for they knew not why it
was opened), they passed on to the Patél. He was wearied with his day’s
attendance on the Sultaun, and lay reclining on his carpet, reading as
usual, which was a solace to him, after the empty compliment, the lies,
the inflated vanity of the Sultaun’s words, and more frequently of late
his querulous remarks and violent bursts of passion. They hesitated for
a minute; but he had heard the noise in the verandah, and, supposing it
to be his servants, desired them to enter.

‘It is I, Khodawund,’ said Zoolfoo, ‘and I have brought my sister—she
would speak with thee.’

‘Holy Prophet! what hath happened?’ cried the young man, starting up in
great agitation; ‘she is not worse?’

‘No, my lord; she is, praise be to Alla! better,’ answered Meeran; ‘I
think her more cheerful than she hath been for many days. She arose to
the evening prayer and walked about the court-yard; the wind was cool,
and refreshed her. But ah! Patél, she is not what she was;’ and Meeran
burst into tears.

‘I know, nurse; I know she is not; thy brother here hath daily brought
me word of her—news which Alla, who sees my heart, knows that I think on
day and night; in my dreams she is before me, in my waking thoughts I
see her, sometimes lovely as when I first beheld her, and now dim-eyed
and wasted. Alas! that such should be her destiny; alas! that so fair a
flower should wither under the blighting chill of neglect. Would to Alla
I could aid her! my life, my heart’s blood should be hers if she—’

‘I knew it! I knew it!’ cried the nurse, in an ecstasy of delight, as
she had listened to the young man, and now suddenly interrupted him; ‘I
knew it! Thou canst aid her, Patél Sahib—thou canst save her, O Jemadar,
and thou wilt! thou wilt!’ And she cast herself at his feet and sobbed
aloud.

‘Rise, Meeran, this is unseemly,’ said Kasim gently; ‘again I swear to
thee, if I can aid her, even by peril of my life, I will do it.’

‘Listen then, Meer Sahib,’ she continued, rising and wiping her eyes; ‘I
have gained her consent—I have spoken to her already—I have told her
thou art willing, that thou wilt aid her in flight—and assist her beyond
the city, from whence she can escape to thy mother’s, and wait there
till thou canst be freed from hence, or that she can rest there till she
has strength to go on. Wilt thou not aid her? By the head of thy mother,
by thy hopes of paradise, I conjure thee to do it, O Patél!’

‘But the Khan,’ said Kasim, ‘will he not let her go?—the enemy is in the
path, but were it Satan I would face him for her.’

‘The Khan?’ cried the nurse,—‘thooh! I spit on him for a man; his days
are wasted in dalliance with her who, as sure as Alla rules above us, is
the author of this calamity. Speak to him? No, by the Prophet!—she hath
asked him a thousand times, and I have too. “The enemy is out,” saith
he, “the English kafirs, who would make a captive of her; it would be
madness,” Bah! they do not war against women as he does. No! there is no
hope from him?’

‘But will he not relent towards her?’

‘Alla is my witness, no! for a week he hath not seen her, and the poor
soul is cut to the heart by the neglect; she is an angel or a peri, Meer
Sahib, or she could not bear this indignity.’

Kasim sighed. ‘Has she strength?’ he said after a while.

‘Ay, enough for that; her body is weak but her spirit is stout; if once
she was bent on escape, it would turn her mind from the thought of the
curse, and she would recover as soon as she had escaped from these
accursed walls.’

‘Alas!’ sighed Kasim, ‘how dare I leave my post at such a moment, when
the English are upon us, and every man must be true to his salt? Why was
not this said a week sooner?’

‘Thou wert long absent, Meer Sahib, and since thou hast returned there
has not been a day, hardly an hour, when I have not spoken to her of
this.’

‘Stay!’ he cried, a sudden thought seeming to strike him; ‘her father
lives, does he not?’

‘Inshalla! Meer Sahib, who does not know Roostum Ali Beg at
Hyderabad—the bravest amongst its warriors?’

‘Then he will be among the advancing army, surely,’ cried the young man;
‘and what matter if he is not? they will receive his daughter, and I
will conduct her to them.’

‘To whom, Meer Sahib, to whom?’ she asked eagerly.

‘To the troops of Nizam Ali Khan, who attend the English,—they will be
before the city to-morrow.’

‘Shookr Alla!’ cried the woman, lifting up her hands and eyes in
ecstasy, ‘Shookr Alla! Oh, how I bless thee, Meer Sahib, for the news;
that will lend her courage, that will make her beauteous eye flash again
and her cheek glow; even should her father not be there, there will be a
hundred others to whom the daughter of Roostum Ali Beg will be as a
daughter. Ya Alla kureem! there is hope, there is hope at last; the day
hath long been gloomy, but the evening is bright.’

‘Rather say the night, sister,’ said the cook; ‘let this pass as a
hideous dream which hath occupied our senses; let us awake to a bright
morning, to share days of happiness with the Khanum, and to pray Alla
that his devout Syud may soon be joined to her.’

‘Ameen!’ said the nurse: but Kasim could not speak, his thoughts were
too busy.

‘I will prepare all,’ he said, after a while, ‘a dooly and bearers shall
he ready here; she must go at night. Dare she come here? will she,
nurse?—will she speak one word to me ere she leaves us? wilt thou
conduct her hither?’

‘On my head and eyes be it!’ said Meeran; ‘on my head and eyes!’

‘Then remember when I send to thee, come quickly; all will be prepared,
and I will myself give her over to the leader of the Dakhan troops; if
she will go to my mother’s, she will become a daughter to her; and I—but
no matter, let that be as it is written in our destiny. Go now, ye have
tarried long.’

Ere they arose to depart, a female figure, which had been seated at the
door, drinking in every word of their discourse with greedy ears, arose
rapidly, and gliding away to the edge of the verandah, stepped from it
into the court-yard, and squatted behind a thick bush of Méhndee which
grew there. The joyful pair passed on, and, after allowing a few moments
to elapse, she arose and followed them. That woman was Sozun.

* * * * *

A few nights after, in a small chamber in the house of Kummoo’s mother,
adjoining the one which we have before mentioned, sat Kummoo and the
wretched old woman her accomplice; they spoke in low tones and whispers,
and in dread, for the cannon of the English roared without, and was
answered in loud peals from the walls of the Fort. The siege had begun
now two days; the issue of the night-attack of the 6th of February, and
its effect upon the Sultaun’s army, causing nearly one-half of its
number to desert and fly from a service they had long detested, is well
known. On the following morning twenty-three thousand were missing, and
among them hundreds of the Europeans, upon whom he had placed such
reliance; they preferred surrendering themselves into the hands of a
generous enemy, to the service of a blood-stained and capricious
monster. The rest of the army had retired within the walls, and,
faithful to their cause, had determined to defend them to the last.

There was an awful din without; the roar of cannon, the incessant rattle
of musketry, the hissing sound of shells as they descended and burst,
came full on the ears of the guilty pair, and the old woman cowered to
the ground in fright.

‘Knoweth Hoormut-bee of this? why is she not here?’ she asked, after a
long silence.

‘She knoweth it, mother,’ said Kummoo, ‘but she is a coward, a pitiful
coward, and dared not venture forth when shot is flying; but it is
late—come—why dost thou delay? thou saidst all was ready.’

‘But the cannon, daughter—the noise—my heart is appalled.’

‘Ay, who is the coward now? once thou didst call _me_ a coward, Kureena;
behold I am now ready. What are the cannon to us? arise and come, I say;
I see thou hast prepared the figure—come, time passes, and the Khan
expects me; he will be returned ere this from the Durbar.’

‘She will die without it, daughter. Munoo and Shekh Suddoo came to me in
my dreams last night,’ said the hag, ‘and they told me she would die;
this new ceremony is useless.’

‘I will not believe it. By Alla! thou liest, nurse; she was better, and
I—I hate her. Come, here is gold for thee—thou lovest it—come!’ And she
disengaged a gold ring from her wrist, and forced it upon the other’s,
while she seized her arm and dragged her along.

‘My blessings on thee, Khanum—the blessings of the old woman who is nigh
death!’ she said; ‘this will feed a hundred Fakeers, this will purchase
a hundred readings of the Koran for me when I am dead; my blessings on
thee, daughter!’

‘Come quickly!’ cried Kummoo, ‘come quickly! why tarriest thou—the
materials have been ready these many days. Enter now—I follow thee.’

She did so, and closed the door.

The room was the one we have before mentioned; a magic figure, of a
different form to the first, was drawn on the clay floor—a square,
divided into compartments, with figures in each, or marks intended to
represent them. The old hag as she entered made three low obeisances to
each side of the figure, and, placing herself at the head, began a low
monotonous chant, which was intended to be a chapter of the Koran read
backwards, rocking the while to and fro; it was, in truth, mere
unintelligible gibberish. After awhile she untied some earth and ashes
from the corner of her doputta, and pouring water upon them, gradually
increased her tone, kneading the mixture into a stiff clay. Soon she
changed the incantation into the names of the many demons she had
invoked before, and her tones became wilder and wilder as she formed the
clay into the rude image of a human being. This done, she rested awhile,
mumbling to herself with her eyes shut; and at length, taking from her
cloth a number of small pegs of wood, she drove them into the head, the
arms, the body, the legs and feet of the image, accompanying each with
curses at which even Kummoo shuddered.

‘Hast thou the shroud, daughter?’ she said as she finished; ‘behold the
image is ready; a bonny image it is—the ashes of a kafir Hindoo, burned
at the full moon, the earth of the grave of a woman who died in
child-birth—I had much ado to find one—kneaded together. Hast thou the
shroud?’

‘Here it is, mother.’

‘Ay, that will do, ’tis like a pretty corpse now. Take it away with
thee, fair one, to thy home, to the embraces of thy lord. Mark! in three
days there will be a young corpse in thy house, and remember to call me
to the washing—’tis an old woman’s business, and I love to look on such.
Ha! ha! away! delay not—place it at her door, its head to the east, that
she may see it in the morning ere the sun rises—away!’

Kummoo’s brain was in a whirl, and she obeyed almost without speaking in
reply; she hurried home through the thronged streets, little heeding any
one—not even the shot which whistled above—and she reached her abode
undiscovered.

* * * * *

For many nights Ameena had not slept so soundly or so refreshingly as on
that when the plot intended to cause her death was proceeding to its
completion. What if the cannon thundered without—she heard it not, she
was secure in Kasim’s faith; a day more—nay, the next night—she was to
leave that roof, she hoped for ever! Meeran had been busily occupied in
removing her mistress’s jewels to Kasim’s house, where a comfortable
dooly was already prepared for her, and two stout ponies for herself and
her brother; a few articles of clothing too, and some of the rich
garments which the Khan had presented to Ameena in the days of their
pleasant intercourse; there were many that she abandoned with a sigh,
but it was impossible to take all.

The dreams of the sleeper were fresh and balmy visions; now she thought
she wandered through groves, where the rich scent of tube-roses perfumed
the air, and the song of birds was sweet to the charmed ear—by
fountains, whose murmuring plash mingled with the sighs of the soft wind
among the trees above them. Kasim Ali was beside her, pouring forth a
tale of love, of devotion, to which she listened with delight and
rapture. Again she was with her mother, her dear mother; and as she lay
in her arms and wept tears of joy after their long separation, which
were kissed from her cheeks as fast as they trickled over them—she felt
a joy, a sense of security in her soul, which was delicious beyond
expression. She fancied her mother spoke to her, and she awoke.

‘Alla and the twelve holy Imaums keep thee this day! my rose of beauty!’
said old Meeran, advancing; and kissing her forehead, she passed her
hands over Ameena’s head to take the evil from it; ‘my blessing, and the
blessing of holy angels and saints be on thee! how brightly thou didst
smile in thy sleep! Alla bless thee, and the lady Muriam, the mother of
Jesus! there is no sadness in thy face now.’

‘None, dear nurse, none. I had such happy dreams, even when you awoke
me. I thought, but no matter—’ And she hid her face in the pillow.

‘Ay, thou wert smiling in thy sleep, fairest, and my heart was glad; art
thou strong to-day? remember it is to-night we go.’

Ameena blushed deeply. ‘I remember,’ she said; ‘I am strong, I will meet
him.’

‘Bless thee, my daughter, he is noble, and worthy of thee; now listen
and lie here for a while, it will rest thee; thou shalt rise towards
afternoon. I have prepared all yonder, I and my good Zoolfoo. Ya Alla
kureem! Ya Moula Ali! Ya Boorhanee Sahib! grant that the issue of this
be favourable; now turn thee, fairest, and sleep again: may sweet
visions be present to thee, for there is no longer aught to fear.’

Meeran left her: she had arisen early, and as she approached the door of
her mistress’s room, her eye caught the fatally intended image, which
had been laid there; for a moment she was staggered, and her heart
failed her, as she remembered its fearful import, but instantly she
rallied. ‘I bless thee, O gracious Alla! that she hath not seen this,’
she said; ‘to me it will do no hurt, nor to her, for I will remove it.’
But at first she hesitated to touch so foul a thing as that which in its
corpse-clothes lay before her. ‘Bismilla hir-ruh man-ir-ruhcem! in the
name of the most clement and merciful!’ she cried, in very desperation,
as seizing the figure at last, and hiding it under her doputta, she
hurried forth into the open air. ‘It would be well to lay it at her own
door,’ she thought, as she passed near that of Kummoo-bee; ‘but no,
better to destroy it.’

She passed out into the street, the fresh grey dawn was breaking, and
only an occasional firing disturbed the silence, except the howling of
the dogs, which was dreadful. She looked for a dunghill; there was one
not far off, occupied by a dozen dogs snarling at each other, and
quarrelling for soft places among the ashes. With a volley of abuse and
a few stones they fled, and Meeran proceeded to do her errand. ‘May all
the curses which were said over this image,’ she cried aloud, ‘descend
upon the authors of it! may they dwell in their bones, their livers,
their blood, and their flesh, Ameen! Ameen! Ameen!’ She then spat on the
face of the image, and throwing it on the ground with volleys of abuse,
not of the most decent character, she trampled it to atoms under her
feet, and pounded them with a stone till not a fragment remained entire;
then taking up the dust, she threw it to the four quarters of the
heavens; and then, and then only, felt satisfied that the spell was
broken. Her return to her happy smiling mistress was the dearest proof
she could have obtained that she was right.

* * * * *

‘Art thou sure, Sozun?—this is no lie of thine?—thou dost not dream?’

‘As I told thee, Jaffar, I heard it with my own ears; as I passed along
they entered his house. I had before suspected, and followed them, for I
knew the place, and that he would be at home, and then he said as I have
told thee.’

‘And they have arranged for to-night?’

‘Ay! at eight she will be there in his embrace.’

‘Oh rare! rare!’ cried Jaffar, ‘the virtuous Kasim! the virtuous Syud!
on whom the dancers cast their glances in vain. Oh rare! rare!’ and he
laughed heartily, and with a triumphant sound. ‘What fortune!’ he
continued, ‘both at once! both! who have wronged me of money, of credit,
of rank. Ya Alla Mousoof! I shall be even with them. At eight, Sozun?’

‘At eight. I heard it from Meeran, whom I have dogged these three days.
I heard her say it to her brother.’

‘Good! I will prevent it; now go, fair one, for to me thou art ever
fair, Sozun, and beloved—come hither at ten, I shall be alone till
morning; there will be confusion in the house, and thou wilt not be
missed.’ And thus saying, he took up his sword and passed forth on his
errand.

The Khan was at his post, in a cavalier near the rampart; Jaffar
ascended it: the men were working two heavy guns, and some French
officers directed them from time to time; as he mounted the steps a shot
was fired.

‘Shabash Monseer!’ cried the Khan, ‘well aimed, by Alla! it hit a man
yonder—I saw him go down. Ha, Jaffar Sahib, welcome; come and see the
sport; stand here; so now, they are preparing another.’

‘I would speak to thee privately, Khan; descend a few steps, there, we
shall be unheard.’

‘Ha! a message from the Sultaun. Well, I attend thee,’ and he descended.
‘Now speak; what is it?’

Jaffar regarded him for an instant, and chuckled; it was the laugh of
the devil within him. ‘Pardon the question,’ he said, ‘I would ask after
thy house; thy wife is sick, I have heard?’

‘Ay, truly; but by my beard I understand thee not, Jaffar; dost thou
mock me?’

‘No, by Alla! Hath she been really ill? At the point of death?’

He laughed again—but slightly. ‘They say Kasim Ali Patél saved her life
once, Khan Sahib.’

‘Why dost thou ask? away with thy ribald jokes, Jaffar—I like it not.
Thou knowest I will not brook insult, least of all from thee.’

‘Pah!’ said the other, ‘I mean no insult; I mean well to thee.’

‘Well?’

‘Ay, well! Art thou sure thy wife was ill? was there no pretence? no
deception of thee, to gain her own ends?’

‘Pretence! deception!’

‘Ay—why dost thou repeat my words? Did Kasim Ali ever perform ceremonies
for her—for her, thy wife, Ameena?’

‘Kasim Ali—for Ameena? Dog! how darest thou name _her_ before me?’

‘Dog in thy teeth!’ cried the other fiercely; ‘I tell thee, old man, I
am thy friend, else I would have blood for that word. Khan Sahib,
listen: thou art old—thou hast untarnished fame—men love thee—I, whom
thou hast sneered at and reviled, love thee—I would not see thee
wronged.’

‘Wronged!’

‘Ay, wronged! cannot such things be?—Old men have young wives—what is
the consequence? Old man, I say, look to thine house to-night, for one
will leave it to return no more.’

The Khan gasped for breath, and tottered to the wall of the cavalier,
which prevented his falling; he rallied after an instant, and with his
sword uplifted rushed upon Jaffar.

‘Strike!’ said the latter, as he drew himself up proudly, ‘if thou canst
strike one who speaks only for thy good!’

‘For my good—O Alla!’ groaned the Khan, dropping the point of his sword;
‘messenger of evil! say that thou hast lied, and I will forgive thee—I
will bless thee!’

‘I cannot; by the holy Kaaba of Mecca, I swear it is too true.’

‘True! blessed Prophet! give me patience; what! of Kasim Ali?—of my
son?’

‘Ay, and Ameena; thou hast been a dupe, Khan Sahib, as many another. Ha!
ha!’

‘Do not laugh,’ said the miserable Khan, ‘do not laugh—it is mockery to
laugh; how didst thou hear this? tell me—I am calm, I can listen.’

‘No matter how; wilt thou abide the proof? I will accompany thee at the
hour.’

‘Whither?’

‘To the Patél’s house; darest thou come?’

‘Now! now!’ shouted the Khan in frenzy, ‘let me have immediate proof.’

‘No, no! there has been no harm done yet—there may not be any meant.
Wilt thou come with me at night?’

‘I will.’

‘Till then be calm. I may be wrong—I pray Alla I may be, for I honour
the Patél; if we are wrong, we will say it is a visit; dost thou agree?’

The Khan was stupefied. ‘What didst thou say?’ he asked, ‘I did not hear
thee.’

Jaffar repeated his question.

‘I will come; thou wilt find me here, Jaffar—here, at my post, like a
soldier; if indeed by that time I am—But no matter—if I am alive I will
accompany thee.’

‘Farewell then, Alla keep thee!’

The Khan remained leaning against the cavalier; the shot was whistling
around him, but he heard it not; there was no sound in his ears but one,
the low but distinct ‘Ay, and Ameena!’ which Jaffar had uttered; he
would have given worlds could they have been recalled.

-------

CHAPTER XLIV.

‘Come, my child! my sweet one, my rose! Now, come! What fear is there?
Thou art closely veiled: all are in consternation, and men and women run
hither and thither abroad, making vows and vain prayers that this firing
may cease. Come! no one sees us. Zoolfoo waits without to protect thee;
he is armed, in case of insult by the way—but of that there is no fear.
Come! he expects thee. Even now his heart is burning for thee! why dost
thou fear? thou art now strong.’

So spoke Meeran, as, when the evening fell, with passionate entreaty she
implored her mistress at once to summon courage and accompany her. But
the poor girl was greatly agitated; she had several times essayed to
move, but had sunk down again upon the low bed on which she sat, closely
muffled in a long white sheet.

‘Alla help me! I cannot, nurse—it is impossible. Go—say to him I shall
die here—I am content to die!’ and she pressed her hand on her heart, in
a vain attempt to still its throbbings. ‘I have no strength to walk; my
knees tremble; my heart fails me; there is no hope.’ And she burst into
tears.

‘They will do her good,’ thought Meeran; ‘her heart is too full.’ Awhile
she waited; then recollecting that there was cool sherbet without, she
ran for it. ‘Drink!’ she said, ‘drink!—no, that is not enough.’ For
Ameena had but moistened her lips with it—she could not swallow. ‘Drink!
and thou wilt be better. Drink all, and thy heart will cool. So, now,
Shabash! art thou not better, fairest?’

‘I am, dear nurse,’ said Ameena—‘more composed perhaps than before; but
it is useless—I cannot go. Hark! the din without is terrible.’

‘This is folly, my child—folly. Where is thy courage? Art thou not a
Moghul? Many a woman among them has wielded weapons ere now. What would
thy father say if he saw thee? Come—fie on this coward heart of thine!
Dost thou not remember when the Mahrattas were upon ye? thou hast often
told me thou hadst no fear.’

Ameena was much agitated: it was not with fear—she was brave and
fearless—but it was shame, an overwhelming sense of modesty, which she
imagined she was about to outrage. What if he loved her?—he was a
stranger to her, or should have been so; his home was not hers: her fair
and precious fame was blasted for ever, should she be seen with him, or
be known to have gone to his abode. But Meeran’s taunts had roused her a
little, for, with all her meekness and gentleness, there was as proud a
spirit within her as ever roused to trumpet-call. She arose and made a
step: the action was nothing—the effort of her mind was immense.

‘Shookr Khoda! Bismilla—ir-ruhman—ir-ruheem!’ said Meeran, seizing her
arm, and supporting her tottering frame; ‘come on—quick! quick!—so now
lean on me. Holy Alla! how thou tremblest! Remember the curse!—Away from
this spot, and thou art free. Think of that in thy heart, and be firm.
’Tis well—see, the moon even is propitious—she hath veiled her light for
an instant. Bismilla! thy destiny has opened brightly; _now_ dost thou
fear?’

‘Not so much—my heart is stiller; but, O nurse, what will he say?’

‘He will adore thee, he will love thee, he will pity thee! Come, canst
thou not think he burns to meet thee?—that his spirit is with thine
now—even now?’ As she spoke they passed out through one little court
after another which belonged to the zenana. They went on to a small door
which led into the street. Meeran coughed slightly—the signal was
answered. They opened the door and went out. Zoolfoo was there, armed
with sword and buckler; only that he was rather too stout, he would have
looked quite martial.

‘Keep close behind us!’ said Meeran; ‘close—we will lead. When we have
entered the Patél’s door, go thou round to the other, where the ponies
are. All is prepared—is it not?’

‘They are there even now,’ said Zoolfoo, ‘and the Patél waits. Bismilla!
walk fast—I pray for ye as I go.’

They hurried on: the open fresh cool air had revived Ameena, and though
she still trembled exceedingly, and her heart was in a tumult of
conflicting feelings, she suffered herself to be led rather than walked,
at as rapid a pace as Meeran thought it possible for one so weak to
maintain. Ameena knew the house was near, but moments seemed like hours
as they proceeded. There were many people in the streets, hurrying about
confusedly, and many forms of shrouded women, like her own, some alone,
others in company, walking very fast—soldiers, horsemen and artillery,
proceeding to their destinations on and near the walls. Cries, oaths,
the rattle and creaking of the artillery-wheels, and, above all, the
roar of the cannon, resounded in Ameena’s ears, and the din and
confusion almost stunned her; but Meeran cheered her on, and she felt
stronger as she proceeded.

Two persons were watching for her whom she little thought of; they were
her husband and Jaffar.

‘There!—dost thou see, Khan? dost thou see? They come, by Alla!’ the
latter whispered.

‘Where, Jaffar? where? I see them not.’

‘No, I was cheated! they turned off; they cannot be yonder—they would go
to the door at once.’

The Khan breathed again. He was standing with Jaffar at the corner of a
street, nearly opposite Kasim’s abode; they were in the deep shadow of a
high wall, and could not well be observed. The poor Khan panted and
gasped for breath; his soul was on fire; revenge burned there, and
suspicion of wrong. Sometimes during the day he thought he would fly to
Ameena and implore her forgiveness—implore her to remain—throw himself
at her feet and kiss them. Then again his passion arose at the thought
that she should have been false—so false to have used so long a
deception, as to have estranged him from her—driven him to another.
Above all his revenge burned against Kasim Ali; his son he had fondly
called him—his adopted—who would have inherited his wealth—he for whom
he had been ever anxious. It was a base return to make, to seduce from
him the tender being whom he had so long loved. But his thoughts were
incoherent—a chaos of wild passion; he could not reason—he did not
attempt it. Proof of their guilt was all he looked for, and often he
prayed to Alla that it might not come. There was one spot on which his
gaze was steadfast—the angle of the street which led into that where was
Kasim’s abode. He looked neither right nor left, nor up to the glorious
planet that sailed on in her sea of deep azure, but straight on,
sometimes clearly, sometimes dimly; and then he would fiercely dash away
the tears which arose unconsciously to his eyes.

‘Look! look! Khan,’ said Jaffar in a hoarse whisper; ‘again two figures!
and now a man! see! he’s fat—’tis her brother! And one leads the other
on. Oh the vile one, thus to pander to a man—her nose should be cut off!
She hesitates, by Alla! the other drags her in—no—she stops—the cook
passes on—shall I cut him down?’

‘Ameena!’ gasped the Khan in a low husky voice, stretching his arms out
to her; ‘Ameena, enter not!—away, home!—pass on!—anything—’tis his
door—’tis the Patél’s—thou hast no business there! thou hast—She hears
not—Ya Alla kureem; she hath gone in of her own accord, and firmly.’

He had only spoken in a hoarse whisper, but he thought he had shouted
those broken sentences.

‘Art thou satisfied, Khan? am I thy friend now?’ said Jaffar in a tone
of triumph. ‘Wilt thou see more?—follow, the door is open; softly, thou
shalt see all; thou knowest the place; they will be in the inner room.
Come, come! thou mayest yet prevent it.’

‘Prevent what?’ said the Khan abstractedly. He was bewildered; he could
hardly speak, his mouth was so parched.

‘Come and see! come! we may be late.’ And Jaffar seized his arm and
dragged him across the road; the door was ajar; they entered.

How slowly had sped the dull hours to Kasim Ali that evening! he had
prepared all for the reception of Ameena, and had secured one of the
posterns which led towards the river, by some of the men of his own
risala, who he knew were faithful; they awaited his coming; there was
personal danger, but it was nothing in comparison with her safety. There
was no firing on that side, for there was no attack; but few men were
there, and he would not be noticed in the confusion. His heart yearned
to the poor invalid. Ameena his—under his roof—driven from the Khan by
unkindness! he dared not think of what bliss might be hidden from them
behind the veil of the future, but which could not follow now. Yet he
should see her, should welcome her—speak to her. Oh! it was more than he
had ever dared to hope. He was restless and impatient! now he paced his
small chamber,—examined a hundred times the dooly which was there,
arranged the pillows, and smoothed the soft bedding.

Again he tried to read—absurd! his ear was alive to every sound. At last
the door of the court opened gently; he hardly breathed; something white
entered—another form—and it was closed carefully. Both advanced towards
him; he dared not show himself, lest they should retreat; the figures
swam before his eyes. One lingered, but the other urged her on, and
spoke cheerily. Still nearer they came—nearer—the foot of one was on the
step; she appeared to totter—the woman behind caught her, and called his
name; he darted to her, and, raising the slight form she supported in
his nervous grasp, bore it into the inner apartment, and laid it upon
his own soft cushions.

‘Ameena! Ameena! speak to me,’ he murmured in her ear; ‘mine own, now
and for ever! Ameena! look on me. Holy Alla! how thou art changed!’

Her veil had fallen from her face, and her pallid features and hollow
eyes met his view; they were shut, and she dared not open them; but his
voice was music in her ears, and she sought by no word or gesture to
restrain his speech.

‘Holy Alla! how thou art changed!—so sunken, so pale! but never heed,
thou art safe now,—safe for ever. Now thou wilt know no pain or care,
for I am to thee even as the tree of the forest to the creeper. Art thou
well, fairest? strong enough to proceed? if not, rest here; thou wilt
not be missed. I will tend thee—love thee: my whole soul is in thine,
fairest! Oh, thou knowest not, Ameena, how I love thee, and have loved
thee for years! Alla bless thee! thou art mine own confiding one, and I
pray Alla bless thee for having trusted me!’

‘Dost thou hear that, Khan?’ whispered Jaffar; for they had stolen into
the apartment. ‘Dost thou see?’

The Khan panted hard and quick—so quick that his breath hardly came at
times: it was marvellous they heard him not. His hand grasped his sword;
he looked through a chink in the door with eyes that glared like a
tiger’s and were starting from their sockets.

‘Dost thou believe now?’ said Jaffar again, in a low devilish whisper.
‘Ha! was I true? Look! he takes her hand—he fondles her! canst thou bear
that? art thou a man? The woman is present too—Toba! toba[58]!’

-----

Footnote 58:

Shame! shame!

-----

‘This is no time for dalliance,’ said Meeran. ‘Arise, Beebee! the dooly
is ready. Come, we lose time; thou wilt follow, Patél Sahib?’

‘I will. Arise, beloved!’ and he raised her to her feet. ‘Behold I
attend thee; yet ere thou goest, one look, I implore thee—one kiss—the
first—the last, perhaps, Kasim Ali will ever press on thy beauteous
lips; one kind look, to say this presumption is forgiven.’

It was granted: the gentle being, as he supported her to the conveyance
with his arm around her, turned on him a look so full of love from those
glorious eyes glistening in lustrous beauty—a look of joy, of love, of
gratitude, of passion, blended—that a delicious thrill shot through his
frame; he clasped her to his heart; his lips were fastened to hers in a
kiss which for the time gave them but one breath, one being; their souls
mingled together in that sweet communion.

‘Dost thou hear him, Khan?’ whispered Jaffar, ‘Ya Alla! that look of
love! and now—’

The demon had done his work. In a frenzy, like a maddened beast, the
Khan dashed through the door, which opened inwards. His sword was naked,
and flashed as it was high upraised in his nervous and passionate grasp.
A wild shriek burst from Meeran, and she fled.

‘Devils!’ he shouted in a voice of fury, ‘Devils! Dog of a Patél! Rhyman
Khan hath seen ye!’

The sword was quivering above his head, and it descended blindly, to
annihilate, he thought, both at a blow. Kasim Ali stretched forth his
arm to stay it; he was too late: the blood of Ameena, who was senseless,
gushed forth over him, and her head fell back upon his bosom. Kasim
tried to get at his sword, while he held the lifeless form on his arm;
he tore it desperately down from the nail on which it hung above him,
expecting another blow momentarily; it came not. His sword was tied to
the scabbard, and the knot of the cord would not open; all was the work
of an instant; he turned, ready to ward off another blow, and beheld a
sight in which horror and pity struggled with revenge for mastery.

The Khan’s sword was on the ground, his hands were clasped, his eyes
staring and fixed upon Ameena; the sight of blood had calmed his fury.

‘Miserable man, what hast thou done?’ said Kasim hurriedly.

The Khan could not reply. He rolled his blood-shoot eyes upon Kasim, and
waving his hand turned and fled.

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed a voice he knew to be Jaffar’s. He laid Ameena
down, and looked at her with dim eyes—she seemed dead.

‘I will revenge thee!’ he cried, and darted after them.

He saw them pass the small door, close it violently; and when he had
opened it, and dashed on into the open street, he saw them not, but
taking the way opposite to theirs, he fled down it at his utmost speed.

A moment after him a woman with breathless haste entered by the same
door. ‘O Alla! grant,’ she exclaimed, ‘thou who didst soften my heart,
grant I may not be too late. I vow offerings to thee, O holy saint of
Sérah! O Mullik Rhyan! if I be in time. Something hath happened; Jaffar
and the Khan fled past me. Alla, Alla! how he looked!’

She hurried through the courts, traversed the little verandah, and
darted into the room; her sight for an instant failed her; there was a
pool of blood on the white musnud, and the lady lay there—her white
sheet and long hair dabbled in it. For an instant her heart was sick,
but she rallied herself. ‘If there is only life! Meeran, Meeran, where
art thou? Holy Prophet! _if_ there be only life, I vow to be her slave
for ever! Lady, dear lady, dost thou hear? Meeran, Meeran, where art
thou?’

‘Who calls?’ said Meeran, advancing terror-stricken from the other door
in the court before them.

‘It is I, Sozun; haste hither! we may yet save her. Quick! is thy heart
so cowardly?’

‘How camest thou here, Sozun?’

‘No matter, I will tell thee—so raise her up.’

‘Ya Mousoof Alla! Ya Beebee Muriam! what a gash!’ exclaimed both,
turning their heads away from the horrid sight for an instant. ‘But she
is warm,’ said Meeran. ‘Apostle of Alla! there may be life. Hold her,
while I run for my brother—he is without.’

He came quickly; for a long time they doubted if she would revive, and
her first breath was hailed with a burst of joy.

‘I know a secure place,’ said Sozun; ‘she is not safe here. She will be
discovered by the Khan, and he will kill her.’

‘Art thou to be trusted, Sozun?’ said Meeran; ‘it was thou who didst
cause this murder, and I mistrust thee.’

‘Alla who sees my heart knows how true it is,’ said the woman, ‘and how
bitter is my repentance. Ye may leave this poor flower if ye will; but
never while Sozun hath life will she depart from her, come weal, come
woe.’ And as she said it she looked up fervently; and when Meeran saw
that her eyes glistened with tears which fell over on her cheeks—that
her features were quivering, and her lips moved in silent prayer, then
she believed her, and yielded to the necessity of the moment.

Zoolficar, with their assistance, bound up the wound, which had cut
deeply into the shoulder and neck, and had bled much, and they now laid
the lady in the dooly. Only that she sighed now and then, she would have
been thought to be dead; but there was life, and while life was in the
nostrils there was hope. The bearers, who had been ready without from
the first, were now called; and preceded by Sozun, they went on till
they stopped at an obscure house behind the principal bazaar, in an
unfrequented part of the Fort. The lady still lived, when they lifted
her out of the dooly and laid here upon as soft and easy a bed as the
house afforded.

* * * * *

Kasim Ali passed a wild and restless night—in comparison of which, that
upon the battle-field, when the jackal and hyena had howled around him,
was remembered with pleasure. He searched every corner of the Fort,
every ravelin, every bastion, the most miserable purlieus of the bazaar,
which rung with wild shouts of revelry, of drunkenness and debauchery.
He went into the thickest and hottest of the fire, where shot and shells
and the deadly grape whistled around him. He examined every group of
men, but saw neither the Khan nor Jaffar. Twice he returned to his
house—once ere he had been long absent, dreading to behold again that
beauteous form lying in its blood and disfigured by the gaping wound. It
was not there—that misery, he thought, was spared him by the kind Meeran
and her brother. ‘They have taken it away to bury,’ he thought; but
where he knew not—the morning would reveal. Her blood lay there, clotted
upon the white muslin, a horrible evidence of the crime that had been
committed. He sought not to remove it; but it reminded him of the state
of his own garments, which were saturated. He changed them, and again
sallied out.

He returned towards morning, and wrote a few lines to the only other
friend he possessed, a Moolah of the mosque in the Fort, to whom he had
willed that his little property should be given, in case of his death
and the Khan’s, in trust for his mother; they were a few lines only, to
tell of his fate; and for the second time he went forth, to seek death
in the hot battle.

He found it not, however, all that night; and sick at heart, as the
morning broke over the beleaguered city, he entered the court of the
mosque, from the tall minarets of which the Muezzin was proclaiming the
morning prayer. ‘It will calm me,’ he said, ‘to join in it.’

As he entered he met his friend the Moolah. He could not resist the
impulse, his spirit was oppressed, and he again requested the Moolah’s
kind administration of his property in case of his death, and the
remission of its proceeds to his mother. Such requests were not uncommon
at that period, and death was too busy in the Fort for every man not to
prepare for his own end. The Sultaun arrived soon after from his early
circuit of the walls, attended by his chief officers, and the morning
prayer commenced.

It was finished, and men arose and were preparing to depart. ‘Stay!’
cried the Sultaun, ‘we would speak to all.’ And as he cast his eye
around, ‘Ye all here love me,’ he said, in so melancholy a tone that
most were touched by it. ‘Ye, Kummur-ud-deen, Syud Sahib, Syud Ghuffoor,
Bakir Sahib, and thou Kasim Ali, who once saved me, ye are all here.
Alas! there are but few remaining like you. How many have been
faithless, who have eaten my salt for years! Listen—our glory is
gone—the light of the earth, the star of Islam is quenched. No more
triumphs to the Faith—all is dark before us. Hear ye what we have come
to; we asked for peace at the hands of the infidels—we asked the cause
of this unjustifiable attack—why we were insulted and bearded in our
very capital; but no answer is returned. The insatiate thirst of power
and conquest is apparent in the reply of the kafir Cornwallis. Listen.’

There was perfect silence: every man felt that the Sultaun’s spirit was
broken, and melancholy was upon every face, as he unfolded a letter,
and, mounting a step of the pulpit, began to read. It was short, and
there were few ceremonious expressions: to resign half his territories,
to pay the cost of the war, and to surrender his sons as hostages, were
the humiliating terms proposed; and as they heard it, a burst of
indignation arose from the assembly, which rung through the lofty arches
and fretted roof of the mosque.

‘I thank you, friends and brothers,’ he said; ‘ye feel for me—I bless
ye, that ye have hearts for the unfortunate. But will you bear this?
Will ye, whose victorious arms have ere now vanquished the kafirs, will
ye submit to these insults?’

‘If all in this fort were as true as we are,’ cried Syud Ghuffoor,
‘there would be no fear; but, alas! the faint-hearted tremble for their
lives, as every English shot strikes the wall, and there are thousands
such.’

‘Alla be merciful to me!’ said the Sultaun, bowing his head; ‘are they
so faithless? What say ye, sirs?’

Many replied, but only a few could answer for the men, and then many
wept passionately. The grief of those strong warriors was moving to look
on.

‘And are we to die here—to die like dogs, like wild beasts in a cage?’
broke out the Sultaun frantically, and throwing his turban on the
ground; ‘to have our children torn from us, our wives defiled before our
eyes? to be plundered of our kingdom—torn from our throne—humbled in the
dust? Are we to bear this from kafirs, from hogs too? Holy Alla, and
Mahomed the Apostle, are we to suffer this indignity? are we to be so
beaten down? Sirs, have ye no hearts? Where is your vaunted bravery? Ye
have eaten my salt, ye have grown rich where ye were poor—have ye no
gratitude? have ye no faith?’

‘We have! we have!’ cried one and all of that assembly. ‘We will die at
your feet; our lives are in your hand.’

‘The infidels are before ye—they for whose presence ye have often
longed, to prove your prowess. Will ye swear before Alla, and here in
his house, to be faithful to me his servant, to your Sultaun?’

Then arose the oaths of all, in hoarse tones, as they waved their arms
on high, and swore to be faithful till death.

‘’Tis well!’ he said, ‘else ye had been kafirs, fit only to herd with
the vile. I bless ye, O my friends. Alla, who sees my aching heart,
knows that I believe you true—true to the last—true in prosperity, true
now in adversity; while I—I have often deceived ye, often been
capricious. Will ye forgive me? I am no Sultaun now, but a poor worm
before Alla, meaner than yourselves. Will ye forgive me?’

Then the passionate gestures and exclamations of devotion to him by the
enthusiasts knew no bounds; and their wild and frantic cries and
expressions of service unto death—to the shedding of their hearts’
blood—broke forth without control. Those without, and the soldiery,
caught up the wild excitement, thronged into the mosque, and filled the
steps and the court, uttering violent exclamations.

‘Blessed be Alla! your old fire is still within you,’ cried Tippoo; ‘and
were I but rid of Cornwallis, that host yonder would disperse like smoke
before the sun: we might pursue them to annihilation. Will no one rid me
of him? Will no one lead a sortie from the fort, and dashing at his
tent, ere he be suspected, bear him or his head hither? I vow a reward,
such as it hath not entered into any one’s thoughts to conceive, to him
who doeth this: and those who fall ye well know are martyrs, and when
they taste of death are translated into paradise, to the seventy virgins
and undying youth.’

Unknown to each other, and from opposite sides, two men dashed forward
eagerly to claim that service of danger. The one was Kasim Ali, the
other a man from whose blood-shot eyes and haggard features—upon which
anguish and despair were fearfully written—all shrank back as he passed
them: it was Rhyman Khan.

-------

CHAPTER XLV.

‘Kasim! Kasim Ali! thou art not fit for this service; thou art weak—thy
cheek is pale. Go, youth!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘there are a hundred
others ready.’

‘Not so, Light of Islam!’ replied the young man. ‘I was the first—it is
my destiny—I claim the service; if it be written that I am to fall this
day, the shot would reach me even in thy palace. I am not weak, but
strong as ever I was; behold my arm.’ And he bared it to the elbow; the
muscles stood out in bold projections as he clenched his hand. ‘Behold I
am strong—I am full of power, therefore let it be so; Inshalla! your
slave will be fortunate; there is no fear.’

‘It is _my_ right,’ cried Rhyman Khan. The hollow tone of his voice as
it fell on the Sultaun’s ear caused even him to start. ‘I was before
him, bid me go instead; he is young and should be spared; the old
soldier is ripe for death.’

‘Prophet of Alla! what ails thee?’ said the Sultaun to him. ‘Why dost
thou stare so, and roll thine eyes, Rhyman Khan? art thou ill?’

‘I am well,’ he answered, ‘quite well. Ha! ha! quite well; but as I am
thy slave, and have eaten thy salt for years, could I hear thy words
unmoved? By Alla, no! therefore let me go, it is _my_ right, for I am
his elder.’

‘Go, both of ye,’ continued Tippoo; ‘you have been friends, nay more,
father and son; take whom ye will with ye. Go—may Alla shield ye both
from danger! Go—if ye fall, your places will be indeed vacant, but your
memories will dwell in the hearts of those who love brave deeds, and ye
will die as martyrs in the cause of the faith; and this is a death that
all covet; but we will pray for your success. Inshalla! victory awaits
you, and honour and my gratitude when ye return. Go! ye have my prayers,
and those of every true believer who will behold ye.’

Both saluted him profoundly, and then turning, their eyes met. ‘Come!’
said the Khan, ‘we delay.’ There was a burst of admiration from the
assembly—a shout which rose and spread abroad to those without. ‘Who
will follow Rhyman Khan?’ he cried aloud; ‘whoever will, let him meet me
at the southern gate in half-an-hour;’ and so saying, he hurried rapidly
in the direction of his home.

All was confusion there, for the lady Ameena, with Sozun and Meeran,
were missing; he ordered his best horse to be prepared for action, and,
without speaking, he passed into the apartments of Ameena and fastened
the door.

They were as she had left them—nothing had been disturbed: her larks
were singing cheerily; her looree, which knew him well, fluttered its
bright wings, and screaming tried to fly to him; her gazelle ran up with
a merry frisk, and rubbed its nose against his hand, and butted gently
with its forehead, gazing at him with its large soft eyes. Her flowers
were fresh and bright, and their odour was sweet in the cool morning
air. His eye wandered around: every well-remembered object was there;
but she whose joyous smile and sweet tones had made a heaven of the
place, where was she? dead and cold he thought, disfigured in death by
his own hand. He cast himself frantically on the bed, which remained in
disorder even as she had left it, and groaned aloud.

How long he lay there he knew not: he had no thought of present time,
only of the past, the blissful past, which floated before his mental
vision, a bitter mockery. Some one knocked; it recalled him to his
senses.

‘They wait,’ said Daood, ‘the Patél and a hundred others; he has sent
for thee.’

‘I come,’ cried the Khan, ‘I come: it was well he remembered me; he
seeks death as I do,’ he added mentally.

‘The lady Kummoo would speak to thee,’ said a slave, as he passed out.

‘Tell her I go to death!’ he replied sternly; ‘tell her I follow
Ameena—away!’ The girl stared at him as though the words had stunned
her, gazed after him as he passed on, saw him spring quickly into his
saddle, and dashing his heels into his noble charger, bound onwards at a
desperate speed.

‘’Tis well thou art come, Khan,’ said Kasim Ali, ‘we have waited for
thee.’

‘Hush! why seekest thou death? thou art not fitted to die, Kasim.’

‘More fit than thou, old man,’ was his reply. ‘Come, they wait—they
remark thee; when we are before the judgment thou wilt know all. Come!’

The Khan laughed scornfully, for he remembered the kiss. ‘Come, my
friends,’ he cried; ‘follow Rhyman Khan for the faith and for Islam:
Bismilla! open the gate.’

‘For the faith! for Islam!’ cried the devoted band as the heavy door
opened, and emerging from the shadow of the gate and wall, the sunlight
glanced upon their naked weapons, gay apparel, and excited horses, and
they dashed in a fearful race toward the camp.

‘Show us the tent of the great commander!’ cried Kasim to a sentinel who
stared at them as they passed, evidently taking them to be a body of the
Nizam’s horse.

‘Yonder!’ said the man, pointing to one at some distance.

‘Follow Kasim Ali! Follow Rhyman Khan!’ were the cries of the leaders,
both urging their horses to full speed in reckless emulation. They had
been observed, however: a staff-officer had watched them from the first,
and suspected their intention; now he could not be mistaken; he flew to
a picquet of native soldiers, and drew them up across the very path of
the rapidly-advancing horsemen. Kasim marked the action, as the muskets
obeyed the word of command; he saw the bright sun glance on a line of
levelled barrels, and heard the sharp rattle which followed; his horse
stumbled; as it fell, he saw the Khan toss his arms wildly into the air
and reel in his seat, and the next moment his affrighted charger was
flying riderless through the camp! He saw no more, he felt stunned for
an instant, and his dead horse lay on his leg—causing exquisite pain; he
extricated himself and tried to rise—his leg failed him, and he fell
again to the ground—it was broken. Again he looked around, a number of
men and horses lay confusedly together. Some writhing in pain and crying
out for mercy, while the rest of the band were flying confusedly to the
Fort.

The Sepoys who had fired ran up, headed by an English officer. Kasim had
lost his sword; it lay at a little distance, and he could not recover
it. One of the men, seeing that he lived, raised his bayonet as he
approached to kill him. He shut his eyes, and repeated the Kulma.

‘Hold!’ cried a voice, ‘do not kill him—he is an officer; raise him up
and disarm him.’

‘Thou art a prisoner,’ said the officer to Kasim; ‘do not resist—art
thou wounded?’

‘My leg is broken,’ said Kasim; ‘kill me, I am not fit to live, I have
no desire for life.’

‘Poor fellow!’ said the officer, ‘he is in great pain. Lift him up, some
of ye, and take him to my tent; he is evidently an officer, by his
dress, and the rich caparisons of his horse.’

‘Yonder lies my leader!’ said Kasim, pointing to the Khan; ‘raise me,
and let me look upon him once more. We were friends in life until
yesterday—in death we should not have been divided.’

They were touched by his words, and obeyed him. The Khan lay on his
face, quite dead. They turned the body: Kasim looked upon the familiar
features—they were already sharp and livid; there was a small hole in
the forehead, from which a few drops of black blood had oozed; his death
had been instant as thought. Kasim heeded not the pain he suffered, he
felt as though his heart were bursting; and throwing himself beside the
body, wept passionately.

After a while he tried to rise, and they assisted him. ‘That was a
gallant soldier!’ he said to the officer; ‘let him be buried as one, by
men of my faith.’

‘I will answer for it,’ said a native officer, stepping forward; ‘thou
shalt hear this evening that the rites of our faith have been performed
over him. If he was an enemy, yet he was a brother in the faith of
Islam.’

‘Enough! I thank thee, friend,’ replied Kasim. ‘Now lead on—I care not
whether I live or die, since those I lived for are gone from the earth.’

But the officer’s curiosity had been excited by his words and his
appearance, which was eminently prepossessing. He was removed gently to
his tent, and a bedding laid on the ground. A surgeon, a friend of the
officer, was sent for; Kasim’s leg was examined; the thigh was badly
fractured above the knee, but the operation was skilfully performed, and
in a manner which surprised Kasim. It was bound up, and he was soon in
comparative ease. How little he had expected such kindness! And when he
contrasted it with what would have been an Englishman’s fate within the
Fort, his heart was softened from the bigotry it had previously
entertained.

The officer was Philip Dalton. He had long thought on the possibility of
saving some captive, that he might gain information of the English
prisoners, and he tended Kasim kindly. In a few days they were better
friends; the cold reserve of Kasim had worn off before the frank manner
of the Englishman, and they now conversed freely of the war, of their
own vicissitudes and adventures, and of the present chances of success.
Kasim soon perceived that all hope for the Sultaun was at an end, from
the vigour of the attack and the efficiency of the army, and he knew
that within the Fort existed dread and discontent. After a while Philip
asked him of the prisoners—at first warily, and only hinting at their
existence. But Kasim was faithful to his Sultaun, though he could have
told him of the fearful murders which had been openly mentioned among
the army, to avenge which they supposed the English thirsted. Yet he did
not reveal them, even though he knew from Philip’s own lips that the
English had been informed of them by the hundreds who had deserted on
the night of the first attack. Often Philip would ask him whether he had
ever known any of the prisoners; whether he had ever spoken with them
when on guard over them, or perchance escorting them from station to
station: for he knew that the captives were frequently removed, lest
they should attack those who attended them.

And when Kasim related to him his interference in behalf of an English
prisoner at Bangalore, and his attempt to protect him in the Sultaun’s
Durbar, risking his life for him ere yet he was himself in service,
Philip’s cheek glowed, and his heart throbbed, in a silent conviction
that it was Herbert himself.

‘Was he tall, and brown-haired? and had he very large blue eyes?’ he
asked anxiously.

Kasim recollected himself: it was a long time ago, and his memory
appeared to have been impaired by the late events; he had only seen him
in times of great excitement. But after a long reflection, he thought it
was the same; however, the prisoner’s features had made little
impression upon him.

‘Poor youth!’ added Kasim, ‘I saw him no more.’

‘How! what became of him?’

‘He was doomed to die. While I was held back by men—for I was excited—I
saw him dragged away. I heard the Sultaun give the fatal mandate to
Jaffar,—a man whose heart is blacker than that of Satan.’

‘He of whom thou hast told me so much of late?’

‘Ay, the same. I heard mention made of the fatal rock, and the young
Englishman was dragged forth, spat upon and insulted. Yet even then he
spoke to me, and said that my action would be remembered in the
judgment. Alas! I had no power to rescue him, and he must have died.’

‘Gallant fellow!’ cried Philip, ‘the pain of that thought I can save
thee; he died not there.’

‘How dost thou know? what was he to thee, Sahib?’

‘He was dear as a brother to me—he was my friend. I married his sister,
after years of absence from my native land. When we took Balapoor, I
went to the rock thou knowest of—it was in curiosity only. His name was
written there, and that renewed the hope which had never been dead
within our hearts: for one of the miserable victims had written that he
had been taken away ill; and by a chance, sent by Providence, we traced
him to a worthy Fakeer’s Tukea,—thou mayest remember it?’

‘I do; a cool shady place, where the wearied wayfarer is ever welcomed.’

‘The kind old man tended him, administered medicine to him. He
recovered, and we heard that he was taken away by that same Jaffar whom
thou hast mentioned—whither, he could not tell.’

‘Alas! then I fear there is no hope of his life. Jaffar is a devil, yet
in such a matter he dare not act without the Sultaun’s order. I
remember,’ he added after a pause, ‘a conversation between them about an
Englishman—it was before the siege; there was no one else present.
Tippoo spoke of one who was skilled in fortification, in the arts of war
and of gunnery, far above the French adventurers in his service, who
after all are but pretenders to science. Could this be thy brother?’

‘It is! it is!’ cried Philip, catching at the idea in desperation; ‘it
must be, he was eminently skilled in all. Your last words determine the
idea that it was he. By your soul, tell me if you know aught of him.’

‘Alas! no,’ said the young man. ‘Yet they concealed nothing: Jaffar said
it was useless; that he had sent trusty messengers to him to the fort,
through the jungles, at the peril of their lives, with offers of mercy,
pardon, wealth, if he would take service in the army. He had spurned
all; and then the Sultaun grew furious, and swore he might die there.’

‘Did he mention the fort, the place where it was, in what direction?’
asked Philip eagerly.

‘No, and I know not, Sahib; it is not in this district. If he be still
alive, he is in one of those lonely posts away to the west—in Coorg, or
on the frontiers of Malabar, a little spot on the top of some lonely
peak, piercing the sky, which is ever wrapped in clouds and mists, with
its base surrounded by jungles, to traverse which days and weeks are
required—garrisoned by the rude and barbarous infidels of the mountains,
whose speech and appearance are hardly human. It is a horrible fate to
think on, Sahib,’ he said, shuddering; ‘better that he should have died
long ago. But, after all, it may not be your friend.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Philip, sighing; ‘and yet I have hope; and when the
Fort is stormed, and yon proud Sultaun brought to the reckoning he
deserves, it will be hard if we gain not news of him we seek.’

‘May Alla grant it, Sahib! Thou hast bound me to thee by the kindness
thou hast shown a stranger and an enemy, and I will rejoice, even as
thou dost, that thy friend and brother should be saved. But, alas! I
have little hope. Yet when I recover, and this war is over, if I live I
will search for thee and rescue him.’

‘God bless thee!’ cried Philip; ‘I believe thee. Thou hast now known
that we are not the miscreants which the bigots of the faith would
represent us to be; and if thou canst bring me even news of his death,
it will be a melancholy satisfaction, and will still the restless hopes
which have so long gnawed at our hearts and excited us, only to be cast
down into utter despair.’

* * * * *

Days passed of constant success on the part of the English: their cannon
played night and day upon the breaches, till they were almost
practicable. Those in the Fort looked on in sullen despair, and
abandoned themselves to a blind reliance on their destiny. It was in
vain that Tippoo made the most passionate appeals to them to sally out
and cut the English army to pieces; it was in vain he read to them the
humiliating demands of the allies; in vain he raved, as he saw the
groves of his favourite and beautiful gardens levelled with the earth,
and transported to construct fascines and gabions for new parallels and
trenches. The sorties were weak, and driven back with loss, and with the
remembrance of the fatal issue of that led by Rhyman Khan and Kasim Ali,
no one dared to hazard a similar attempt, though rewards beyond thought
were offered by the frantic monarch. The murmurs within gradually
increased, as the breaches widened daily, and men looked to the issue of
the storm in fearful dread. Women shrieked in the streets, and men were
everywhere seen offering vain sacrifices of sheep and fowls to the
senseless idols of the temple, that the firing might cease.

At length it did; the Sultaun in despair yielding to terms of which he
could not then estimate the leniency. The firing ceased, and though the
maddened English could hardly be restrained from rushing into the Fort
and searching its most secret apartments and hiding-places for their
unhappy countrymen, they were kept back, and the negotiations proceeded.

The event is already matter of history, and we are not historians.
Although even his children had gone from him as hostages into the
British camp, in a paroxysm of passion the Sultaun desperately refused
the cession of Coorg to its rightful owner, whom he had dispossessed—one
of the terms of the treaty, but which he well knew, if yielded, would
open a road into the heart of his dominions at any time. The stern
resolution of the English commander—the presence of his victorious army,
the threats of which were openly stated to him by his officers—the
general discontent and dread which pervaded all, in spite of his appeals
to their pride, their bigotry, and their courage—the repair of the
breach while the English cannon ceased—all conspired to check their
spirit. He sullenly yielded to a destiny he could not avert, and
accepting the conditions, he delivered up those captives who were known
to be in the Fort and province.

With what agonising apprehension did Philip Dalton and Charles Hayward
fly from body to body of these men—some grown aged and careworn from
misery and long confinement, while others, having been forcibly
converted to the faith of Islam, now openly abjured its tenets, and
flung away their turbans and other emblems of their degraded condition.
Alas! Herbert Compton was not among them, nor could any one tell of his
fate, though his name was remembered vividly; and it was known among
them from Bolton, who was dead, that he had not perished at the rock of
Hyder.

Now therefore, for the Sultaun again and again protested that he had
given up all, and that Herbert had died soon after his escape from the
rock, Philip and young Hayward abandoned all hope. True, for a while
they thought that one of the strongholds of Coorg might contain their
poor friend; but there too they were disappointed; and there was no
longer a straw floating upon the waters of expectation at which they
could catch in desperation; and hope, which had been for years buoyant,
sank within them for ever.

The news of the victory reached England; the nation rejoiced at the
triumph, that their bitterest enemy in the East had been humbled and
despoiled of his fair provinces, and that the political horizon of their
already increasing possessions was once more clear. But there were two
families among the many who mourned for those who had met a soldier’s
death, which, though the bereavement was not a present one, yet felt it
as acutely as if it had been recent; nay more so, since their hopes had
been so long excited. They knew not that Amy had ever thought there was
hope of Herbert’s life; but long ere letters came, when it was known
that the army was in Mysore, they saw her look for every succeeding
dispatch with more and more impatience, and a feverish anxiety she could
not conceal. And when the end came, they knew, from her agonised burst
of bitter grief, that she too had lingered in hope even as they had.

But Amy’s was a strong mind, and one which her affliction, though deep
and heavy to bear, had never driven into repining. She looked with
earnest hope to the future; and in reliance on the Divine power and
wisdom, which she had early practised, and which never failed her in her
need, she drew from that pure source consolation, which those who loved
her most dearly could not impart; she had lived on a life of meek and
cheerful piety, almost adored by the neighbourhood, and in sweet
intercourse with those around her, whose constant care for her was amply
repaid by her devoted affection.

-------

CHAPTER XLVI.

The Sultaun was not humbled by the issue of the campaign, though for a
time his resources were straitened. On the contrary, he burned with
revenge for the indignity which he had suffered, superadded to the
fierce hate for the English which he had ever retained, and which rose
now to a degree of ferocity he could hardly restrain. The demand of
three millions and a half sterling made for the expenses of the war—for
which, and the relinquishment of the territory he had agreed to resign,
his children were held as hostages—he met partly by a payment from his
own treasury, partly by a demand upon his army and his civil officers,
and the residue was directed to be raised in the provinces, where means
were employed for the purpose at which humanity shudders. Mild as had
been his civil administration previously, and flourishing as was the
cultivation of his whole country under the admirable administration of
Purneah, his finance minister—often in marked contrast to the desolation
of the English provinces, where the rule of Englishmen was not
understood, nor their information as yet equal to the complexity of
revenue affairs—there now ensued a remarkable contrast. As the
oppression and forced contribution proceeded with horrible rigour,
thousands fled into the English possessions, where they were received
and protected; and this, while it did not check the infatuated
persecution of many of his people, in whose welfare lay his own safety,
added fresh cause for his hatred of those from whose protecting sway he
could not withdraw them.

Meanwhile his restless mind embraced every subject which came, or which
he fancied could come, within his grasp; astrology and magic, with all
their absurd and debasing rites, were studied with greater avidity and
attention than ever under the guidance of some who had pretensions to
those sciences, both Brahmins and Mahomedans. From them he drew the most
magnificent auguries of his future brilliant destiny; the past, he said,
was but a cloud which, as he had ascertained from the stars, had hung
over him from his birth; it was now dissipated, melted into thin air
before the bright beams of the rising sun of his destiny. Physic, too,
absorbed his attention; to perfection in which he made vast pretensions
by aid of a thermometer, the true use of which he declared he had
discovered by a revelation from the angel Gabriel, with whom he seemed
to have established in his dreams a perfect confidence. It is only
necessary, he would say, for a sick man to hold the bulb in his hand,
and then, as the mercury rose or fell, so was the disease hot or cold;
and according to its scale of progression, so should the remedies,
differing in potency, be applied. Often he would, in his caprice, remark
upon the altered look of any one present in his court; and in spite of
their protestations of perfect health, apply the test, and administer a
remedy upon the spot, which it would have been death almost to refuse.

The news of the revolutionary movement of 1789-90 in France, also, for
which he had been gradually prepared by the adventurers in his service,
infected him with a restless desire of imitation, which ran into the
most ludicrous and often mischievous channels. As the French names of
years and months were altered, so were his. A new era was instituted;
and this being in direct opposition to the precepts of the Koran, which
direct an implicit observance of them, he had recourse to his dreams and
visions once more, by which it was for the while established.

In all departments of finance, of the army, of agriculture, of justice,
there were perpetual alterations, sometimes undoubtedly with good
effect, at others the most puerile and absurd. Words of command,
invented from the Persian language, were given to his army, and new
orders for their regulation and discipline constantly promulgated. He
contemplated a fleet to exterminate the English one; which, having
before defeated the French, had prevented them from sending such succour
to his aid as he had expected. One hundred ships of immense force was to
be the complement; of these, forty were directed to be commenced at
Tellicherry, Mangalore, and his other ports on the western coast; and
officers were appointed to them, commanders and admirals, who had never
even seen the sea, had no conception what a ship was, save from the
descriptions of others. Some of these men were sent to superintend their
completion, others retained at court for instruction in the science of
navigation and naval warfare; in which, as in his military pretensions,
his dreams, visions, and assumed revelations, alone assisted him.

He was merchant and money-lender by turns; and huge warehouses, which
still exist in the Fort of Seringapatam, long open rooms in the palace,
capable of containing vast quantities of merchandise, were filled with
every description of goods, which in time he forgot entirely, and so
they remained till his death. By his system of banking, and of
regulating, as he imagined, in his own person the exchanges of his
dominions, he put a stop to the operations of the bankers of his
capital, by whose assistance alone he was able to administer his
affairs; nor would they resume their business until he agreed to abandon
this one of the thousand schemes which were on foot for fame and
aggrandisement.

New and perplexing laws were for ever being coined in the fertile mint
of his own brain; new interpretations of the Koran, which he pretended
to receive by inspiration, when in reality he understood not a word of
its language, and very indifferently Persian, in which the commentaries
upon it were written. The penal enactments against the lower classes of
his Hindoo subjects were horrible; the meanest offences, the wearing of
any scrap of green, the sacred colour of Mahomed, about their persons,
or the transgression of any one of his arbitrary rules, was punished
with death, or obscene mutilations, to which death would have been far
preferable. These were often done in his own presence; and with Jaffar
Sahib, Madar (who had once been his servant, but who had risen in rank),
and many others, he was at no loss for instruments to carry them into
execution. He would call himself the Tiger of the Faith—the beloved
friend of Mahomed; and while he arrogated to himself the last title, the
impiety of which shocked the religious among his officers, he acted up
to the first not only in words, but in deeds, such as we have alluded to
cursorily, by dressing his infantry in cotton jackets printed in tiger’s
stripes,—by sitting on the effigy of one for a throne, and by having two
large ones chained in the courtyard of his palace, who were often made
the executioners of his terrible will.

Many are the tales, too, even now very current in the country, of the
ludicrous effects of his inspirations regarding particular people, whom,
for some fancied lucky termination or commencement of their name, or
some meaning he chose to attach to it, a fortunate horoscope, or even
from lucky personal marks, he would select from the meanest ranks, to
fill offices for which they were alike unfitted by education, talents,
or acquirements, and who, when their incapacity was detected, were
mercilessly disgraced. It has been said of him by an eminent
historian,[59] whose account of the period is a vivid romance from first
to last, that ‘his were the pranks of a monkey, with the abominations of
a monster’; and indeed it is impossible to give an idea of his character
in juster terms.

-----

Footnote 59:

Wilks.

-----

Kasim Ali was again with him, and, rewarded, for his exertions on the
day we have mentioned, had risen to a high rank among his officers.
Unable to walk when the army broke up from before Seringapatam, Philip
Dalton had persuaded him to travel by the easy stages at which the army
proceeded, as well for the change which his weakened condition required,
as for the continued attendance of the English surgeon under whose care
he was placed. To this he had agreed, for in truth the representations
of the noble-hearted Englishman had set many matters before him in a new
light, and he now looked upon acts of the Sultaun with abhorrence which
he had before considered as justifiable, nay, meritorious, when
exercised upon infidels, whether Hindoos or English; and having
accompanied Philip to Bangalore, he parted from him there with regret,
and with a strong sense of his kind and generous behaviour, promising
that should he ever discover any clue to the fate of poor Herbert, he
would write; for the nations being now on good terms, the communications
were open, and he could do so with safety.

For a long while, however, he was unfit to move; he made a report of his
escape to the Sultaun, and receiving in return an honorary dress for his
gallant behaviour, he was assured that his rank remained to him—nay, was
increased; and having solicited leave of absence, he returned to his
village to regain, in its quiet seclusion, the strength and peace of
mind he had lost. Of Ameena he never thought but as one dead; for though
he had written to his friend the Moola to endeavour to trace her fate,
and to discover where she had been buried, in order that he might have
the melancholy satisfaction of erecting a tomb over her remains, yet she
could not be traced, nor her attendants, who were supposed to have
escaped to the Nizam’s army in the confusion which ensued after the
siege, and her body to have been buried in some obscure place during the
night on which she had been cut down. The Moola wrote word that the
matter was not known, except perhaps to a few of the Khan’s servants,
who had not divulged it.

Kasim found, too, that he had been declared heir to most of the Khan’s
wealth, which was large; there was a handsome provision made for his two
wives, besides their dower upon marriage, and it was said their families
were satisfied with the will, which, regularly drawn up, had been
deposited long before his death with responsible executors. In it a
large sum was assigned to Ameena; but as she did not appear, it was kept
in trust for her should it ever be claimed. Hoormut, the elder wife, had
gone to her relations, at some distance from the city; and it was said
that Kummoo, whose beauty was much spoken of, had been transferred to
the Sultaun’s zenana, the laxity of the morality of which would, Kasim
thought, exactly suit her.

Kasim was thus raised to a handsome independence of station, and he
spared no pains to make his mother’s declining years as happy as was
possible. A new and handsome abode was erected for her; his village
walls were rebuilt, and strengthened against perhaps troublous times to
come. A new mosque was built; and a neat serai, near the soldiers’ tomb,
marked the spot in which he had rescued Ameena. This was his favourite
resort, where of an evening, spreading a carpet beneath the trees, he
would remain, in conversation with those he loved and respected, the
elders of his village, both Hindoo and Mahomedan, or else in silent and
sad thought on the past,—on the happiness which had been so rudely
dashed from his lips. His health continued very indifferent, and from
time to time his leave of absence was renewed; however, at length he
could delay no longer, and he once more resumed his attendance at the
court of the Sultaun.

It was not, however, with the same feelings of indifference that he now
regarded the monstrous acts of the Sultaun; his mind had been purged
from the dross of bigotry by his residence in the English camp, where,
besides Philip Dalton’s society, there were many others who, either out
of curiosity or to while away a tedious hour of ennui, would come to the
pallet-side of the Jemadar, and listen to his conversation; relating in
turn tales of their own green land, which to Kasim’s senses appeared a
paradise. Jaffar Sahib was an offence in his sight; and his increased
favour with the Sultaun, his constant attendance on his person and at
the Durbar, his now fearful reputation, and the memory of the past (for
Kasim felt sure he was connected with that fatal night and Ameena’s
death), as well as the fate of the young Englishmen,—all caused a total
revulsion of feeling towards the monarch, and he felt his situation
becoming daily more distasteful to him, in spite of the splendid
prospects which were undoubtedly in the distance. Kasim, too, was a good
Mussulman; he was regular in his prayers, and hated innovations; and the
endless capricious changes, the blasphemous conduct of the Sultaun, and
his pretensions to supernatural power—his devotion to unholy and magical
rites, which were openly mentioned, and, above all, his acts of cruelty
and tyranny—determined him, and some others of his own character, to
abandon a service in which their high notions of justice, decency, and
piety were daily outraged.

By the partition treaty, also, the territory in which were situated the
villages of Kasim Ali had been transferred to the Nizam, and he at last
found it impossible to serve two masters. As long as he remained at
home, the authorities dreaded him, and were quiet; but after a time a
system of annoyance commenced, of which he had such frequent accounts,
that he was soon left no resource between selling his patrimony and
cleaving for ever to the ruler of Mysore, or abandoning his service and
retiring into seclusion. Had the Sultaun’s conduct not shocked him by
its levity and brutality, he might have sold his villages, and withdrawn
his family into Mysore; but he shrank from that, and, having converted
his property into bills on Hyderabad, Adoni, or other towns which were
readily negotiable in the district he belonged to, he prepared himself
for a journey, and formally tendered his resignation to the Sultaun in
open Durbar.

There were many of his friends who had advised him to ask for leave, and
write his intention of not returning from his own home; but he thought
this a cowardly manner of proceeding, and determined that his memory
should not be reproached with cowardice, and that it should remain as it
stood, high among those who were honoured in the army. At an evening
Durbar, therefore, when all were present, and many eyes fixed on him
(for his resolution was known), he arose, stepped forward, and having
made the tusleemat, said to the Sultaun,—

‘Your slave would make a petition, if he is permitted?’

‘Surely,’ said the Sultaun; ‘what did Kasim Ali ever say that was not
welcome?’

‘My lord,’ he began, ‘it is hard for one who hath received benefits at
thy hands, and who in a bright prospect before him—the glorious career
of the lion of the faith—seeth no end but advancement, to shut it out
from his sight, and to deny himself the pleasure of seeing day by day
the Light of Islam—the Lion of the Faith. O Sultaun! be merciful to thy
servant, and forgive the request he makes, that he may retire from thy
service into the obscurity and quiet he has long coveted. It is well
known to all this assembly, that thy slave is one to whom the stirring
events of life have no charm—the intrigues, the factions, the wavering
politics of a court, no attraction. If I have hitherto preserved my
place here, it has been by kindness and forbearance, not by merit.
Another far more fitted than I am will succeed me, and I shall be
content in the administration of my property, which, distant as it is,
requires my constant attention and care.’

Tippoo stared at him, and Kasim felt uncomfortable; he could not
remember that any one had ever made such a request before, and he could
not foresee the result. Yet the Sultaun had been in good humour all the
day and he hoped for the best.

‘What do I hear, Kasim Ali—that thou wouldst leave my service?’

‘Even so, Huzrut! When thou wast in peril of thy life, mine was risked
freely, though others hung back. I, and he that is gone—may his memory
live in honour!—led those into the English camp who might have ended the
war, had Alla so willed it. In adversity I stood by thee, and I have not
quitted thee since, for these six years. Thou art now prosperous: the
French are thy friends; thou art courted by the nations of Hind; thou
art at peace with the English—long may this continue—thou art prosperous
everywhere; and now when all is fair and bright around thee, I would in
the season of joy take my leave, grateful for a thousand benefactions
from the liberal hand of him who has not ceased to uphold me since I was
a youth.’

‘Thou art joking, Kasim Ali,’ said Tippoo; ‘and yet thou hast a serious
face. By your soul, say this is not meant!’

‘It is in very truth, O Prince! I have long meditated it. I waited only
till my lord’s mind was happy and free from care to announce it, for I
would not have my memory linked with painful recollections, but with
pleasant thoughts.’

The Sultaun’s brow darkened. ‘Thou art considerate, young man!’ he said
bitterly. ‘When I was happy and merry in my heart, thou must needs mar
all by this news. By Alla! I would rather thou hadst told it when the
storm within me was at the highest; but no matter; thou hast served us
well and faithfully—we shall long remember it; nor would we detain any
one against his will. We have (blessed be the Prophet!) hundreds in our
valiant army to fill vacant places. Therefore go—thou hast thy leave.
Yet thou shalt not have it to say I was churlish in this; thou art
dismissed with honour. Bring hither two shawls, a turban, and an
ornament for the head—also a noble horse from my stables, and a sword
and shield from the private armoury,’ he cried to an attendant. ‘Ye
shall see, sirs, how Tippoo estimates greatness, and how he rewards it.’

Kasim was much moved: he had expected a stormy scene, an absolute
refusal; he had prepared himself for it, and for flight if necessary;
now he could have cried like a child; all the Sultaun’s caprice,
cruelty, and impiety were forgotten. There sate before him the
benefactor and the steady friend of years. He continued gazing on him,
and often he felt the tears rush to his eyes, as though they would have
had vent. The attendant entered with a tray; upon it were a pair of
magnificent shawls of Cashmere, a superb mundeel, and a jewel of great
value for the forehead. The Sultaun examined them with the air of a
merchant. ‘They are a handsome pair, and worthy of him,’ he said; ‘and
this too is rich, and the diamonds of good water. Approach, Kasim Ali!’

He obeyed: the Sultaun arose, cast over his shoulders the rich shawls,
took the turban and jewel from the tray, and presented him with them.
‘Embrace me,’ he said,—‘I love thee: I shall ever remember thee
gratefully, Kasim Ali; and thou wilt not forget the poor servant of
Alla, Tippoo Sultaun: should his enemies revile him, there will be one
whose tongue will speak his praise. Shouldst thou ever feel disposed to
return, thy place is open to thee; or if as a guest, thou art ever
welcome. Go—may Alla keep thee!’

‘Never will I forget thee, O benefactor!’ cried Kasim, completely
overcome; ‘never will I allow a word to be said against thee; and in my
home—in the wide world—wherever I go, men shall know of the generosity
of the lion of Mysore. I go—my prayers are for thee and thy prosperity
night and day.’

Kasim made low obeisances as he passed out of the audience-hall; he cast
a last look round the well-known place; what scenes he had witnessed
there, of joy and misery, frantic enthusiasm and fierce bigotry,
torture, and even death! Dreams, visions, lewd and vile torrents of
abuse against the English; poems, letters of war, of intrigue, of
policy, of every conceivable kind. Enough! they were gone for ever, and
he was glad that the feverish existence was at an end; henceforth before
him was the peaceful and quiet existence he had so long coveted.

The horse, richly caparisoned, stood at the palace-gate, and men bearing
the sword and shield. Kasim bounded into the saddle, and before the
admiring spectators, many of them his kind friends, caused him to curvet
and bound to show how perfectly the animal was trained; and then
saluting them he rode on. Next morning he was on his way beyond the
Fort.

That night Jaffar was alone with the Sultaun; they had conversed long on
various matters. At last Jaffar exclaimed, ‘May I be your sacrifice! it
was wrong to let Kasim Ali go.’

‘Why?’ said Tippoo.

‘He knows too much,’ was the reply.

‘But he is faithful, Jaffar?’

The fellow laughed. ‘He is a good friend to the English.’

‘To the English?’

‘Ay! remember how often he has spoken in their favour, how often he has
bearded others who reviled them. May I be your sacrifice! he is
unfaithful, or why should he leave thee?’

The Sultaun was struck by the remark. ‘If I thought so,’ he said
quickly.

‘Why should he for months have been collecting his money?’ continued
Jaffar; ‘every rupee he could collect has gone to Hyderabad, bills,
hoondees, gold, all except what he has with him; he has ground the
uttermost couree from those who owed him anything.’

‘Is this true?’

‘Ay, by your head! shall I bring the Sahoukars who gave them?’

‘Ya Alla!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘what a serpent have I been nourishing!
Thou saidst to Hyderabad?’

‘Ay, he will go to Sikundur Jah, and fill his ears with tales of thee
for the English, and give them a plan of this fort. Was he not always
with the engineers?’

‘Enough, good fellow,’ said the Sultaun sternly; ‘he must not reach the
city—dost thou understand?’

‘I will not lose a moment; the men will have to travel fast, but they
can overtake him.’

‘Will they dare attack him? methinks there are few who would attempt
that, even among thy devils.’

‘There are some of them who would attack hell itself and its king
Satan,’ said the man with a grin, ‘when they have had bhang enough;
trust me, it shall be done. He escaped me once,’ said Jaffar, as he went
out; ‘he will be lucky if he does so again; we shall be even at last.’

* * * * *

Kasim Ali rode on gaily; with him were a number of men who had
previously obtained leave of absence, and had stayed for the advantage
of his society and safe conduct, for he was respected by all. They were
proceeding, some on horseback, others on ponies, to various parts of the
north of Mysore; some to his own district, some to Hyderabad. The road
was light under their horses’ feet, and coss after coss passed almost
without their knowledge, as they conversed freely and merrily together.
At the point where the river Madoor crosses the road to Bangalore there
is a good deal of thick jungle, but they heeded not the pass, though it
was noted for robbers; they were too formidable a party to be attacked.
As they proceeded carelessly, a shot whistled from among some bushes to
the left—it went harmless; another, and Kasim felt a sting in his left
arm, and he saw a man fall.

‘Upon them!’ he cried, drawing his sword; ‘upon the sons of defiled
mothers!’ and he dashed into the jungle, followed by the best mounted;
ten or twelve men were flying at their utmost speed—but they had a poor
chance before those determined horsemen. Kasim cut at two as he passed
them; they were not killed but badly wounded; three others were
despatched.

‘I know that rascal’s face,’ said one of his companions, as the
prisoners were brought up; ‘it is one of Jaffar’s devils.’

‘Ay, and this is another,’ said Kasim; ‘he was in the Durbar yesterday
morning.’

‘Tell us why thou hast done this?’ he said; ‘why didst thou attack me?
what have I ever done to harm thee?’

‘Nothing,’ said one sullenly; ‘it was the Sultaun’s order.’

‘Thou liest!’ cried Kasim, striking him.

‘Do not beat me,’ he replied; ‘but behold, here is the order to give us
horses to overtake thee, shouldst thou have gone on. We knew not that
thou hadst tarried in the city last night; we arose and came on to the
last village; they told us there thou hadst not passed, and we waited
for thee. Behold! this is the Sultaun’s seal.’

It was truly so—his private seal: Kasim well knew it; he shuddered as he
looked on it. ‘Why should there have been such black treachery?’

‘Go!’ said he to the man, recollecting himself, ‘thou are but the
instrument of others; go—may Alla give thee a better heart! Tell thy
master I recognise his work; and bid him say to the Sultaun, or say it
thyself—the love that was between us is broken for ever. Go!’

‘Let us press on, my friends,’ said Kasim, ‘not by the road, but by
bye-paths. Though I know not what vengeance I have provoked, ye see I am
not safe.’

They did so, and it was well that they travelled fast, for the baffled
tiger raved at the loss of his prey, and many men pursued Kasim and his
companions, but in vain.

-------

CHAPTER XLVII.

The morning of the twenty-sixth of April 1798 was a scene of universal
excitement in the fort of Seringapatam. As the day advanced, crowds of
men collected in the great square before the palace; soldiers in their
gayest costumes, horsemen, and caparisoned elephants, which always
waited upon the Sultaun and his officers. The roofs of the houses
around, those of the palace particularly, the old temples, and the flat
terraces of its courts and dhurrumsalas, even the trees were crowded
with human beings, on the gay colours of whose dresses a brighter sun
had never shone. There arose from the mighty mass of garrulous beings a
vast hubbub of sounds, increased by the Sultaun’s loud kettle-drums, the
martial music of the band of a French regiment, the shrill blasts of the
collery horns, neighings of horses and trumpetings of elephants, as they
were urged hither and thither.

No one in this soberly-dressed land can have an idea of the gorgeous
appearance of these spectacles; for an eastern crowd, from the endless
variety of its bright colours, and the picturesqueness and grace of its
costumes,—its gaily caparisoned horses, elephants, and camels,—is of all
others in the world the most beautiful and impressive.

In the centre of the square was an open space, kept by French soldiers;
in the middle of this stood a small tree, which had been uprooted and
planted there; but already its leaves had faded and drooped. It was
covered with gay ribbons of all colours and of gold and silver tissue,
which fluttered in the fresh breeze and glittered in the sun: this was
surmounted by a spear, on which was the red cap of liberty, the fearful
emblem of the French revolution.

Around it were many French officers, some dressed fantastically and
crowned with wreaths of green leaves, others in brilliant uniforms,
their plumes and feathers waving. Many of them spoke with excited
gestures from time to time, and swore round oaths at the Sultaun’s
delay; for the sun had climbed high into the heaven, and no shade was
there to save them from its now scorching beams.

The amicable issue of the embassy to Paris, sent by Tippoo in 1788, had
been exaggerated by the envoys to enhance their consequence; and the
French officers in his service had by every possible means in their
power kept this feeling alive. When the revolution broke out, the roar
of which faintly reached the Sultaun of Mysore, it was represented to
him by those of the French nation who were there, in such terms of
extravagant eulogium, while its bloody cruelties were concealed, or, if
mentioned, declared to be acts of retributive justice, that the
Sultaun’s mind, itself a restless chaos of crude ideas of perpetual
changes and progression, eagerly caught at the frenzied notions of
liberty which the Frenchmen preached. At the same time it is almost
impossible to conceive how an Asiatic monarch born to despotism could
have endured such an anomaly as his position presents—one who with the
most petty jealousy and suspicion resisted any restriction of, or
interference with, his absolute will and direction of all affairs, even
to the most minute and unimportant of his government, whether civil or
military.

From time to time, allured by the certainty of good pay in his army,
many needy adventurers came to him from the Isle of France, who were
entertained at once, and assumed, if they did not possess it, a
knowledge of military affairs. These kept up a constant correspondence
with their parent country; and willing to humour the Sultaun, while
indulging their own spleen, they poured into his ready ear the most
virulent abuse of the English, and constant false statements of their
losses by sea and land; while the accounts of French superiority and
French victory were related in tones of exaggerated triumph.

Ripaud, an adventurer with more pretension and address than others,
having arrived at Mangalore, and discerning the bent of the court from
Tippoo’s authorities there, represented himself to be an envoy from the
French republic, and was invited at once to the capital. It may well be
supposed that he did not underrate his own assumed influence, nor the
immense advantages of an embassy in return; and one was sent by Tippoo,
which, meeting with various adventures by the way, returned at last, not
with the mighty force he had been led to expect, but with a few needy
officers, the chief of whom was Chapuis, men who determined to raise for
themselves at his court a power equal to that of Perron at the court of
Sindia, and of Raymond at that of the Nizam.

This was a feverish period for India, when those two mighty nations,
England and France, were striving for supremacy. True, the power of the
English was immeasurably more concentrated and effective, and their
resolute and steady valour more highly appreciated than the brilliant
but eccentric character of the French. Still, however, the latter power
had increased extraordinarily since the last war with Tippoo; and 45,000
men at Sindia’s court, over whom Perron held absolute sway, and 14,000
under Raymond at Hyderabad, were pledged by their leaders to aggrandize
the power of their nation, and to disseminate the principles of the
revolution.

Chapuis had laboured hard to effect his object; a man of talent and
quick-witted, he had at once assumed a mental superiority over the
Sultaun, which he maintained. He had flattered, cajoled, and threatened
by turns; he had written to the French Government in his behalf—he had
promised unlimited supplies of men and ammunition—he had bewildered the
Sultaun’s mind with the sophistries of the revolution, with vague
notions of liberty, equality, and the happiness which was to follow upon
the earth from the adoption of these principles by all ranks—he had told
him of the rapid rise of Buonaparte, of his magnificent victories, and
inflamed him with visions of conquest even more vast than those of the
French general.

The French expedition to Egypt became known, their successes and their
subjugation of the country. That seemed but the stepping-stone to
greater achievements. Alexander with a few Greeks had penetrated into
India and had subdued all in his path. Buonaparte, with his victorious
armies, far outnumbering the Greeks, was at a point from whence he could
make an immediate descent upon Bombay; then would Perron lead Sindia
into his alliance—Raymond, the Nizam. The Mahrattas, a wavering power,
would side with the strongest. Zeman Shah and his hardy Afghans had
already promised co-operation, so had the Rajpoots, and the men of Delhi
and those of Nipal; last of all Tippoo himself, who had single-handed
already met and defeated the English in the field. All were to join in
one crusade against the infidel, the detested English, and expel them
for ever from India. It is no wonder that the wild and restless ambition
of the Sultaun was excited, his intrigues more and more frequent, and,
as success seemingly lay within his grasp, that he himself was more open
and unguarded.

‘Join but our society,’ Chapuis would say to him, ‘you league yourself
with us,—you identify yourself with the French republic,—its interests
become yours,—your welfare its most anxious care. You become the friend,
the brother of Buonaparte, and at once attach him to you by a bond which
no vicissitudes can dissever.’

And he yielded, though with dread, for he knew not the meaning of the
wild ceremony they proposed, of destroying the symbols of royalty, and
reducing himself to a level with the meanest of his subjects; it was a
thing abhorrent to his nature, one which he dared not disclose even to
his intimates, but to which he yielded, drawn on by the blindest
ambition that ever urged a human being to destruction.

The Frenchmen had long waited; at length there arose a shout, and the
kettle-drums and loud nagaras from the palace proclaimed that the
Sultaun was advancing. He approached slowly, dressed in the plainest
clothes; no jewel was in his turban, only his rosary around his neck, a
string of pearls without a price, for each bead had been exchanged for
another when one more valuable could be purchased. A lane was formed
through the crowd, and his slaves, headed by Jaffar, his confidential
officer, preceded him, forcing the people back by rude blows of their
sheathed sabres, and shouting his titles in extravagant terms.

All hailed the spectacle as one to exult in, though they could not
understand it; but to the Sultaun it was one of bitter humiliation, his
feelings at which he could hardly repress. He passed on, the crowd
making reverence to him as he moved; he did not return their salutation,
his eyes were downcast, and he bit his lips almost till the blood came.
Before him was the place where he was going to a moral death—to abjure
his power over men—to allow himself to be on equality with the meanest,
to hold authority over them, not of inherent right, but by their
sufferance. Had any one known his intention, and spoken one word to him
in remonstrance, he would have turned; but the men were before him to
whom he had sworn obedience, and he proceeded. Chapuis advanced, he saw
his agitation, and in a few hurried words implored him to be firm,
reminding him of the issue at stake, and this rallied him.

He led him to the tree; there was an altar beneath, as if for sacrifice;
a small fire burned on it, and its thin blue smoke rose among the
branches, and melted away into air; a perfume was thrown from time to
time into the flame, which spread itself abroad as the smoke was
dissipated.

Chapuis and some others officiated as priests of the mysteries, and they
knelt before the altar, while one made a passionate invocation to
liberty, which another tried in vain to explain to the Sultaun. It was
finished: they arose, and Chapuis advanced toward him. ‘Hast thou the
emblems?’ he said.

The Sultaun took them from an attendant, the feather of gold tinsel he
always wore in his turban, and an ornament of trifling value for the
head.

‘These are all,’ he said; ‘be quick.’

‘They will be nothing without your Highness’s own turban,’ replied
Chapuis; ‘placed in that, your people will understand the ceremony;
otherwise it is vain. Your Highness remembers your promise and mine. I
have performed mine; see that thou, O Sultaun, dost not fail!’

The others echoed his words, and urged the Sultaun to obey.

Hesitating and almost trembling, he did so.

‘They will not understand,’ he said to himself, ‘they cannot comprehend
this mummery; they cannot hear what the Frenchmen say, much less
understand their broken language.’

He took the turban from his brows, and gave it into Chapuis’ hand. The
officer placed in it the tinsel feather, and threw it contemptuously
into the fire. An attendant raised and unfurled a scarlet chuttree, or
umbrella, over the monarch’s head: that too was remarked.

‘It must follow,’ said Chapuis to him; ‘that is a regal emblem,—there
must be none left of the abomination.’ He caught it from the attendant
and flung it on the fire.

There arose a deep murmur of indignation from the multitude to see their
monarch’s turban taken from his head and burned; to see his chuttree
forcibly taken and destroyed was more than they could bear without an
expression of excitement, and cries of indignation rent the air.

‘To hell with the Feringhees!—cut them down!—what impiety is this? What
insult to the Sultaun?’ And many drew their swords and raised them on
high to strike. The Frenchmen were in imminent peril, but they were
firm.

It was a grand and striking scene—that excited crowd—those fierce
gestures—gleaming weapons—and those hoarse shouts and threats. In the
centre, the group on which all eyes were fixed, the bare-headed Sultaun,
and those few needy adventurers, reckless and unprincipled, who had
gained a mastery over one whose smallest gesture would have caused their
instant annihilation.

‘Peace!’ he cried, raising his arm; ‘it is our will—it is decreed.’ The
multitude was hushed, but many a muttered threat was spoken, many a
prayer for the dire omen to be averted, many an expression of pity for
the position of one whom all feared and many even venerated.

And truly, to see that degradation done to one who knew not its meaning,
who, bareheaded before his people, and under a fierce sun, stood and
looked on at the destruction of the emblems of his power—might have
caused pity for his condition; but it did not in those who stood around
him; the act sealed their own power—they had no thought of pity.

As the last fragments burned to ashes in the blaze of the fire, Chapuis
lowered the spear on which was the cap, and presented it to the monarch.
‘Wear it!’ he said, ‘consecrated as it is in the smoke of those emblems
which are destroyed for ever; wear it—an earnest of the victories thou
wilt gain.’

The Sultaun put it on. Chapuis seized a tri-coloured flag which an
officer bore near him, and waved it above his head. It was the signal
agreed on: the artillerymen were at their posts on the ramparts, and the
roar of two thousand and three hundred cannon proclaimed that Tippoo,
the Light of the Faith, the Lion of Islam, the Sultaun of Mysore, was
now citizen Tippoo of the French Republic, one and indivisible.

Then followed the coarse salutations of the French soldiery, who,
excited by liquor and by the event, rushed around the Sultaun, and
seized his hand, shaking it in rude familiarity; his cup of humiliation
was full, and he returned to his palace in bitter mortification and
anger. There were many of his officers who, deeply touched by the
mockery of the exhibition, remonstrated with him, and advised him to
revoke the act by a solemn scene in the mosque, attended by all his army
and the high religious functionaries. But it was impossible to arouse
him to the act—to shake off the domination to which he had subjected
himself; and while it was whispered abroad that the Sultaun had become a
Feringhee, those who wished well to his cause saw that he had with his
own hands struck a vital blow at its interests.

It was happy for the British cause in India that a nobleman was
appointed to the responsible station of Governor-General, who, from the
moment he undertook the office, and during his passage out to India,
bent his whole mind to the complete investigation of the politics of the
country he came to govern. He was happy in having those with him who
could afford him an insight into the designs and wishes of the native
princes, and there is no doubt that Lord Mornington resolved to act upon
many suggestions he received even before he arrived. To the intrigues of
the Sultaun his notice had been particularly attracted, and the designs
of the French were too obvious to be unnoticed for a moment. By a chain
of events, which are points of history, the Sultaun’s intrigues with the
French Government of the Mauritius became known; the proclamations of
its governor were received at Calcutta, and though doubted at first,
from the continued expressions of friendship made by the Sultaun, yet
their authenticity was established beyond a doubt by subsequent
inquiries.

After the scene in the fort which we have mentioned, Tippoo abandoned
himself to the councils of his French officers. He was admitted by them,
as a proof of brotherhood, to a participation in the secrets of the
correspondence held between Chapuis, Raymond, and Perron. Buonaparte was
successful in Egypt, and it was debated only when the time should be
fixed for the army of Tippoo to be set in motion and to overwhelm
Madras. The army itself was full of confidence, and great attention had
been paid to its discipline by the French; all branches were more
perfectly efficient than they had ever been. The Sultaun had now no
apprehension about the fort, for he had been surrounding it with another
wall and ditch, and the gates had been strengthened by outworks. There
never was a time when all his prospects were so bright, when the
political condition of India suggested movement—when all the native
princes, by one exertion on his part, might be incited to make common
cause against the English, and when, by the proposed expedition against
Manilla, the British forces would be much reduced, both at Madras and in
Bengal. It was at this hazardous moment that the genius of Lord
Mornington, guided by the sound views of the political agents at the
various courts, decided upon the line of action to be pursued. The
French interest in India was to be annihilated at all hazards;
therefore, after a preparatory treaty with the Nizam, an English force,
by rapid marches, arrived at Hyderabad, and joining the subsidiary force
there, surrounded the French camp, which was found to be in a state of
previous mutiny against its officers. The whole submitted; and a blow,
moral as well as physical, was struck against the French influence, from
which it never recovered.

The effect of this news at Seringaptam may be imagined; and when it was
followed up by that of the glorious victory of Nelson at the mouth of
the Nile, the Sultaun’s spirit fell. It was in vain that he wrote
apparently sincere letters to the Governor-General, and at the same
moment dispatched camel-loads of treasure to Sindia to urge him to move
southwards; the one estimated the true worth of the correspondence, and
the wily Mahratta, though he took the money, yet stirred not a foot; he
had too much at stake to be led into a quarrel of which he could not see
any probable termination. Tippoo’s ambassadors at the courts of Sindia
and Holkar, of the Peshwa, of the Rajah of Berar, all wrote word that
these potentates would join the cause; but their letters were cold and
wary, and the Sultaun discovered too late that he must abide the brunt
of the blow himself.

His dread of the English was vented daily in his Durbar, in compositions
the most abominable that his fertile brain could invent. Besides his
pretended supernatural revelations, letters were read, purporting to be
from Delhi, from Calcutta, from Lucknow, describing the atrocious
conduct of the English, the forced conversion of Mahommedans to
Christianity, the violation of females of rank by the soldiery, the
plunder and sack of towns given up to rapine; and after reading them,
Tippoo would give vent to frantic prayers that judgment might come upon
them. In this, however, as in many other instances, he overreached the
mark he aimed at. A few of the flatterers around him, at every
succeeding story, swore to spread it abroad; and while they applauded,
pretended to feel excitement; but they ridiculed them in secret, and
they were soon listened to, except by the most bigoted, with contempt.

Thus passed the whole of 1798, a year of anxious suspense to the British
in India, when their power rested in a balance which a hair might have
turned. During this period the mind of Tippoo presents a humiliating
spectacle; now raving for conquest, now sunk in despair and dread at the
slow but certain preparations of the English—at times prosecuting, with
all the bigotry and savageness of his nature, conversions of the Hindoos
in various parts of his dominions, and at others bowing down in slavish
obedience to the dictates of the Brahmins, and offering up in the
temples of the fort sacrifices in secret for the discomfiture of his
enemies; while in the retired apartments of the palace magical rites
were held—abominable orgies, at which he himself assisted, to relate
which as we have heard them told, would be to defile our pages with
obscenities too gross to be repeated.

In the midst of this mental darkness there would break out gleams of
kindly feeling towards his sons, his officers, oftentimes to a sick
servant; and upon the lady Fureeda he lavished such love as his heart,
cold by nature, possessed, and whom his secret sufferings, absolute
prostration of intellect at times when fresh disastrous news reached
him, would inspire with a compassion she would fain have expressed in
words, in those consolings which to a fond and wounded spirit are
acceptable and bearable only from a woman.

There was another on whom his memory rested, and whom he besought, now
by threats, now by immense rewards, to join his cause—it was Herbert
Compton. His existence was known only to Jaffar and the Sultaun; the
latter had, during the lapse of years and while the repairs of his fort
proceeded, offered him rank, power, women, all that his imagination
could suggest to dazzle a young man, but in vain; he had threatened him
with death, but this was equally vain. Herbert had looked on death too
long to fear it; and despite of the climate, the weary life he led had
grown almost insupportable, and he saw no relief from it; death would
have been welcome to him, but he was suffered to live on. Even the
visits of Jaffar were events which, however trying to him at the time,
and exciting to one so secluded, were yet looked back upon with pleasure
from the very thought they created. Sometimes the Sultaun would relent
towards him, and seem on the point of releasing him and others; but the
shame of the act, the indignant remonstrance that he dreaded from the
British, and the advice of Jaffar himself, deterred him. Thus the poor
fellow lingered on almost without hope or fear, and in the end, amidst
other more stirring and anxious matters, his existence was almost
forgotten.

How often too would Tippoo’s thoughts revert to Kasim Ali, his conduct
to whom, in spite of the treachery denounced by Jaffar, would sometimes
rise up in judgment against his conscience. To do him justice, however,
it should be mentioned that, when the emissaries of Jaffar returned
foiled and with Kasim’s message, he did make inquiries in the bazaars
relative to the money which Jaffar had told him Kasim Ali had remitted
to Hyderabad; and he found all his statements so completely established,
that they confirmed in his mind at the time the conviction that Kasim
had been false to him, and that his falsehood had been long meditated,
and at last successfully executed. But this wore off at length; and for
one so esteemed, nay loved, there remained a painful impression that
injustice had been done; to say the truth, when all around him were
suspected, the flatterers and courtiers from their habitual
subserviency, and his elder and more trusted officers from their blunt
advice and open condemnation of many of his schemes and proceedings, he
often longed for the presence of the young Patél, who would in his own
person have united the qualities he most needed—sincere affection,
joined to a mild demeanour and an honest heart.

Early in 1799 it was impossible to disguise from himself that the time
had come when he should either make resistance against the English
invasion—for his attack upon Madras had long been abandoned as
impracticable even by the French—or he should march forth at the head of
his army and oppose them. He determined on the latter course; and
leaving his trusty commanders, Syud Sahib and Poornea, in charge of the
Fort, he marched, on a day when his astrologers and his own calculations
of lucky and unlucky days promised an uninterrupted career of prosperity
and victory, to meet the Bombay army, which was approaching through
Coorg, at the head of fifty thousand men, the flower of his troops. Once
in the field, his ancient vigour and courage revived; his army was in
the highest efficiency; the Bombay force he knew could not be a fifth of
his own; and by selecting his own ground, which he should be enabled to
do, he might practise the same manœuvre as he had done at Perambaukum
with Baillie, and, by drawing them into an ambuscade, destroy them. His
low estimation, however, of the English, was fated to be corrected; and
though at Sedaseer, where he met the Bombay army, he led in person
several desperate charges upon the British, and though under his eye his
troops fought well, and were driven back with loss, only to advance
again and again in a series of desperate onsets for five hours, yet he
was defeated. Losing all presence of mind and confidence in his army,
although there was every chance of success had he persevered in his
attacks on Lieut.-General Stuart’s corps, he retreated from the scene of
action upon the capital, to draw from thence fresh troops with which he
might oppose the march of the grand army from the East.

And now began that gloomy thought for the future, that utter despair of
his life which continued to the last, chequered only by fits of the
wildest excitement, by blind reliance at times upon vain rites and
ceremonies, and forced hilarity, which, the effect of despair, was even
more fearful to behold. The great drama of his fate was rapidly drawing
to a close—a gorgeous spectacle, with mighty men and armies for actors,
and the people of India for spectators.

-------

CHAPTER XLVIII.

The morning of the twenty-seventh of March broke with unclouded
splendour; the army of the Sultaun were expecting their enemies with
impatience, and the result was looked to with confidence. Tippoo had
been urged by Chapuis to take up a position upon the Madoor, in the same
pass as that where Kasim Ali had been attacked; but the Frenchmen had
lost very considerably the influence they possessed since the news of
their defeat in Egypt, and the discomfiture of Raymond at Hyderabad, and
he determined to pursue the bent of his own inclination, both as to the
ground he should select and the disposition of his troops. Since
daylight he had been on horseback, indefatigable in marshalling his
army. The ground he had selected was commanding, and covered the road.
Malvilly, he knew, was the destination of the English on that day; and
as it was one marked by a particularly auspicious conjunction of the
planets, he determined on trying the result of a general action. When a
few attempted to dissuade him that morning from opposing the English,
lest by a defeat he should dispirit his troops and unfit them for the
siege which all felt sure must follow, he flew into a violent passion.

‘Are we cowards,’ he said, ‘that we should retire before the kafirs and
cowardly English? No! let them come on—the base-born rascals! let them
come on and taste of death! if our father—may his name be ever
honoured!—could overwhelm the English in the field, should we not follow
so exalted an example? No, by the Prophet! we will not retire; the day
is fortunate—the planets are in good conjunction. If ye are cowards, and
like not the English shot—go! your absence is better than your
presence.’

But all swore to fight to the last drop of blood, and the Sultaun’s
disposition was made. Soon after sunrise all were at their posts—the
heavy guns in the centre, the infantry behind. Two corps, one of them
the favourite Kureem Cushoon, were pushed forward upon the flanks, and
hundreds of rocket-men were interspersed with the line. It was a gallant
and inspiring sight to see that huge force drawn up in steady array,
determined upon retrieving their fame that day, and fighting for Islam
and for their Sultaun.

They had waited long: the Sultaun had heard from scouts that the English
had left their camp long before dawn, and their coming was looked for
with eagerness. ‘They will fly,’ he cried, ‘when they see the array; the
sons of dogs and swine will not dare to face the true believers.’

‘Yes,’ said Nedeem Khan and Nusrut Ali, favourites who were always near
him, ‘it will be as my lord says, we shall have no fighting. Will they
dare to advance against these cannon, and the various divisions which
are drawn up in such wonderful order that not even a rat could get
between?’

‘Infatuation!’ said Meer Ghuffoor to Abdool Wahab; ‘for all the
boastings of those young coxcombs, thou wilt see them turn and fly. I
have served the English, and know them well. Ere an hour elapses after
the first shot, we shall be in full retreat.’

‘I trust not, Meer Sahib,’ said the other; ‘but what is that yonder?’

‘’Tis they! ’tis they!’ cried the Sultaun. ‘Now upon them, my sons! upon
them, and let us see ye do brave deeds. Your Sultaun is beholding you!’

It was indeed a beautiful sight to behold. The Sultaun was on a high
ground, and could see all. A few English red-coats were first seen—then
more; the sun glanced from their bright bayonets and musket-barrels as
they proceeded. Gradually column after column came on; though they were
still at some distance, there was a halt perceived, and considerable
bustle.

‘They retreat! they retreat!’ cried the Sultaun, in an ecstasy of joy,
clapping his hands and laughing in his excitement. It was changed in an
instant, when, after a short disposition of the troops, the English army
advanced; but it appeared such a mere handful of men, when compared with
his own force, that his derision grew even louder. ‘Ha! ha!’ he cried,
‘they have left half their army to keep their baggage. They hold me
cheap indeed to attempt to attack me with the few that are yonder! But
it is well: Inshalla! ye will see, sirs, ye will see! What troops are
those on the left?’ he asked after a while, as he examined them with a
telescope; ‘what green standard is that? Dare the infidels to use the
sacred colour?’

Just then the breeze unfurled the standard to its full width, and, as
all descried the white crescent and ball beneath it, a cry of exultation
burst from the Sultaun.

‘’Tis the standard of Sikundur Jah! ’Tis they—the effeminate
Dekhanees!—men who are no better than eunuchs. Advancing upon my own
Cutcherie too—upon the Kureem Cushoon! Inshalla! Inshalla! let them
come. The renegades from the faith, advancing against the favoured of
the Prophet! Holy Mohamed confound them!’

The English army halted: its long columns deployed into lines steadily
and gracefully; it was a beautiful sight in that bright sun. There was a
large opening in the line, and Tippoo rode forward, urging his cavalry
to break through and attack the general, who with his staff was beyond.
‘Ah! had I Kasim Ali and my brave old Rhyman Khan now, they would shame
ye!’ he cried to those who he fancied were tardy in movement; but they
did their duty—they charged.

‘Steady, men!’ cried the officer at the head of the regiment nearest the
point of danger—it was Philip Dalton; ‘let them come near.’

The cavalry thundered on—a grand picturesque mass—shouting their cries
of ‘Deen! deen!’ and ‘Alla Yar!’ The English were not to be daunted;
they were steady as rocks, and awaited the word, ‘Present—fire!’ The
effect was deadly. As the smoke cleared away, the flying mass was seen
in wild confusion, and before the line a heap of men and horses
struggling. A few daring fellows had, however, dashed through the
interval, and fell gallantly fighting in the rear.

Meanwhile the Sultaun’s infantry advanced steadily and firmly; he
cheered them on, putting himself at their head even within shot, and
then he turned to watch his favourite division. It was composed of
picked men: their arms, dress, discipline, were all superior to the rest
of the army; they were advancing against the Nizam’s troops, and were
confident of victory. The Sultaun was in an ecstasy of delight. Little
imagined he then to whom he was opposed; that one led the troops, which
he expected would fly like dust before the whirlwind, to whom fear was
unknown—who bore within him the germ of that renown which has raised him
to the proudest, the most glorious pinnacle of heroic fame—Wellesley!
Wellington! What heart so callous that does not bound at those
illustrious names, recalling with them victories upon victories to his
remembrance—not the result of fortuitous circumstances, but of devoted
bravery, of admirable foresight, of consummate skill, of patience and
fortitude under every privation through a long series of years—the most
splendid array of triumph that ever the world beheld, which, already so
glorious, will yet increase in after times to a renown more brilliant
than we can at present estimate.

‘Now ye will see them run!—now they will fly! Forward, my brave fellows!
forward to victory! I vow every man a month’s pay, and a jaghire to
their commander. Look! they halt—not a man wavering! it is a gallant
sight. They will fire!—then upon them with the steel. Shookr Alla! how
many have fallen!’ he exclaimed, as the division fired, and many of
those opposed to it fell. ‘Now charge!—charge, for the love of Alla!—why
do ye wait? ye lose time. Alla! Alla! the enemy fire in turn! Merciful
Prophet! how many have tasted of death! Never heed, however—now is the
time!—while they are loading, upon them!—upon them! Ya Kubeer! Ya
Hyder!’

It was fearful to look on him: his hands were clasped together, his eyes
strained, his features quivering with excitement and anxiety. On the
issue of a moment was victory or ruin.

‘Curse them!’ he cried; ‘curse them! they waver. Holy Prophet! why dost
thou not turn them? Alla! Alla! why dost thou not blast the infidels?
They waver! the Feringhees are upon them!—they fly!—now there is no
hope—Prophet of Alla, spare them!’

It was a sight which curdled his blood: his favourite corps turned—they
dared not abide the charge of the British and Nizam’s division, led by
the gallant Wellesley; and the cavalry, headed by his old enemy Floyd,
dashed out upon them. Hundreds went down before that terrible charge:
the Cushoon, which had so lately inspired confidence, turned as one man,
and in an instant became a confused rabble, flying for their lives; in
the midst of whom were the English cavalry, riding down the fugitives,
while they cut at them with their long swords.

The Sultaun gazed breathless and stupefied for a few moments: no one
dared to speak. At last he turned, his face wore a ghastly expression of
horror, at which his attendants shuddered. For an instant he looked
back; the cavalry thundered on—other portions of his troops were giving
way before them. He could look no more, but dashing his heels into the
flanks of his charger, fled from the field.

‘Shabash! Shabash! well done, gallant fellow!’ cried many English
officers, surrounding a richly-dressed native, apparently of rank, who,
clad in a magnificent suit of chain-armour over a cloth-of-gold vest,
with a bright steel cap on his head, and upon a noble chesnut horse, now
rode up at full gallop, accompanied by many of his risala, as martial in
appearance as himself, and equally well mounted. Their swords were red
with blood, and their faces flushed and excited with conquest. ‘Well
done! well done! ye have earned the good-will of the General, and ye
will be rewarded.’

‘I thank you,’ he said; ‘you are kind, and flatter our poor services;
but can you tell me where Colonel Dalton is?’

‘He is yonder,’ said an officer; ‘come, I will lead you to him.’

The action was now over. Philip had borne an honourable part, and was
attending to his wounded men when Kasim rode up to him.

‘Behold!’ he said, showing his sword, ‘I have fulfilled my promise; I am
faithful to the salt I eat; thou wilt testify to that?’

‘Noble fellow! I will indeed; thou hast distinguished thyself before the
army. Come, I will lead thee to the General,—he will love to look on one
so brave and devoted.’

‘They were my old companions,’ said Kasim, ‘but I knew them not; my
heart was steeled against them; had I wavered, I was disgraced for ever.
Ye suspected me, but now I am free of taint.’

‘Thou art indeed, and thou wilt see how grateful an English commander
can be. Come!’

That night Kasim, Philip Dalton, and many others were in the General’s
tent; they had been asking him about the road. He seemed to think a
while.

‘Will ye take my advice?’ he asked, ‘the advice of one who is not worthy
to give it?’

‘Say on,’ replied the General.

‘Abandon this road, then,’ said Kasim; ‘there is a ford at Sosillay, two
easy marches from hence; it is deep, but the water is now low and it
will be practicable. I will guide you to it, if you will trust me. You
will cross the river there—forage is plentiful, the other bank is clear
of troops, and ye can hurry on and surprise the city.’

‘Is this true?’ said the General.

‘By your head and eyes—by your salt, it is!’

‘Will any one answer for you? it is a fearful risk.’

Kasim looked round; his eyes met Philip’s. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘if thou art
for a ride, come this night and I will show it thee: I and my men will
escort thee: Wilt _thou_ trust me?’

‘To the death!’ said Philip.

‘I believe him,’ said the General; ‘and he will see that this great
service shall be rewarded. Nevertheless I should like to know more about
the ford, and if it can be reconnoitered. Will you make the report,
colonel? you can take an escort of cavalry.’

‘With pleasure; you shall know early to-morrow.’

‘And I will accompany you,’ said another officer; ‘it will be a pleasant
ride.’

‘Come, gentlemen,’ said Kasim, ‘we lose time, and we have a long ride
before us.’

* * * * *

The Sultaun, plunged into despair, had retired westward. The army had
collected, but thousands were missing, killed, or had deserted from his
standard. Still there was hope: his officers were yet faithful; the
forage of the north bank of the Cavery was utterly destroyed; and the
active Poornea, at the head of the irregular cavalry, was out burning
villages and setting fire to the grass of the wide plains. If the
English should advance, they would be drawn on to defeat as before.
There was still hope: his plans of defence were being matured: troops
poured into the Fort from all sides, and provisions for a year. He had
treasure too, and there was no fear. What could the English, with their
small amount of artillery, effect against the hundreds of cannon in the
Fort and the new fortifications? ‘Let them come on!’ he would say; ‘with
that fort before, and a bare country behind them, let us see how long
they will stay!’ And his words were echoed by his sycophants; but it was
easy to see, for all that, how dread gnawed at his heart.

On the evening of the fourth day after the action, he was in his tent of
audience. He was confident, for no news had been heard of the English
army, and it had not advanced upon the road as he had expected. He hoped
it had retreated, or was stationary for want of forage; and he was even
asserting broadly that it had.

Suddenly a messenger entered with dismay upon his face. Tippoo knew not
what to think. All his officers were present, and every one trembled,
though they knew not what to expect.

‘Speak, Madur-bukhta!’ cried Tippoo fiercely; ‘what hast thou to say?’

‘May I be your sacrifice! May I be pardoned,’ stammered the man; ‘the
English—the kafirs—have crossed the river!’

‘Crossed the river?’ echoed all; ‘how? where?’

‘Dog!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘if thou liest, I will have thee torn asunder.
Where did they cross?’

‘At Sosillay.’

‘At Sosillay! Who has been the traitor? Is any one missing?’

‘May I be your sacrifice!’ said an officer, ‘it must be Kasim Ali Patél.
He was seen hewing down the true believers at Malvilly.’

‘Kasim Ali!’ gasped the Sultaun; ‘Alla help me! then all is lost.’ And
he sank down on his musnud in stupor.

Long he remained so, only at times repeating ‘Kasim Ali’ and ‘Sosillay!’

Hardly any one spoke except in whispers. After some delay, sherbet was
brought to him, and he seemed to revive. He sat up, passed his hand
across his forehead, as though his brain was bewildered; then he arose,
and looked around him; his face was wan and careworn; those few minutes
appeared to have done the work of years. Many burst into tears.

‘Ye weep,’ he said, ‘ye weep; why should ye weep for one abandoned of
Alla? I have no hope now. Why stay ye with a man who is doomed? why link
your fate to a drowning wretch, who hath not even a straw upon the
whirlpool of his fate to clutch at? Go! ye have served me well—ye have
fought for me, bled for me. Go—may Alla keep ye! Ye have been my
friends, my companions. I have been harsh, often cruel. Will ye pardon
me? will ye pardon a poor slave of Alla? Go! I—I—have ever loved ye, and
now—’

He was interrupted: an officer, with streaming eyes, rushed from a side
of the tent, and throwing himself at the Sultaun’s feet, clasped his
knees and sobbed passionately aloud.

Tippoo could endure no more. He who had been by turns bitter in sarcasm,
brutal in mirth, cruel, proud, exacting, unfeeling, tyrannical,
overbearing among his subjects, was now humbled. He appeared to struggle
for a moment; but, unable to quell the wild tumult within him, he burst
into tears—the first he had ever been seen to shed.

Then ensued a scene which words cannot paint—a scene of passionate
raving, of tears, of oaths, of fidelity to death. Men embraced one
another, and swore to die side by side. Those who had cherished
animosities for years, cast themselves on each other’s breasts, and
forgot enmity in the bond of general affliction. All swore before Alla
and the Prophet, by the Sultaun’s head and the salt they ate, that they
would die as martyrs; they determined to retreat upon the city, and to
fight under its walls to death.

The army retired, and awaited the onset, but they were disappointed; the
English army passed three miles to the left, in glittering array, and
encamped at the opposite side of the Fort to that on which the former
attack had been made, and for the time the Sultaun exulted in his
safety.

Days passed: the thunder of cannon ceased not night or day, and the
hearts of all were appalled. No mercy was expected from the British.
Death would have been welcome at first; but its gradual approach, and
the stern progression of the English to victory, could not be shut out
from men’s eyes. All the redoubts beyond the Fort had been carried long
ago; even the French, upon whom the eye of the Sultaun rested in hope,
were beaten back by the native troops of his enemies, though they fought
bravely. Then he felt how he had been cajoled, deceived, betrayed into
destruction. To all his letters to the English commander there was but
one reply—send the money and the hostages, and the cannon shall cease,
but not before. At this his proud heart rebelled; there were those
around him who still ridiculed the idea of danger, but he well knew its
reality. Day by day the mosque resounded with his frantic prayers; the
Moolas to this day tell how impious they were—how he raved, prayed,
cursed by turns, till those who heard believed that a judgment would
follow them.

He held no communication with his family, for his presence in the zenana
was ever a signal for an outburst of grief. He lived in his hall of
audience, or in a small room off it, where most part of the day and
night was passed in vain astrological calculations, or those horrible
magical rites we have before alluded to; at other times he was upon the
walls, directing cannon, and firing with his own hand.

The breach became practicable; the guns on both sides of it had long
been silenced, and men looked on at the work of destruction, and heard
the storm of shot, shells, and grape which poured through it, in sullen
despair. The brave Meer Ghuffoor, who was devoted to the Sultaun, saw
that it could not be defended much longer; when the day dawned he went
to the monarch, to try to rouse him to a sense of his danger: it was
vain.

‘There is nothing between thee and thine enemies, O my Sultaun!’ said
the Syud; ‘nothing to prevent the storm. Their men are ready in the
trenches, and have been there since it was light; I have watched them.
The walls are gone. If your slave is permitted, he will commence a wall
and a ditch across the inside that cannot be breached, and it will stop
them.’

‘Go, Syud, we fear not,’ said the Sultaun; ‘we have hope in other
things; events will happen which thou knowest not of. The English will
be blasted this day—withered from the face of the earth. Already we have
ordered Fateehas for to-morrow. Go, old man! we feel for thy zeal, but
there is no fear; Mars is yet in the circle of planets.’

‘Thou wilt never see to-morrow,’ said the Syud prophetically, ‘unless
what I advise is done. I will do it; I have sought death these many
days, but it comes not—I may find it there.’

‘Go then, in the name of the Shitan, go!’ cried the Sultaun hastily;
‘trouble me no more. Do as thou wilt, but trouble me not.—So, Runga
Swamee! what news? hast thou prepared all?’

‘Alas!’ said the Syud as he went out, ‘I shudder at his communion with
those Brahmin infidels. I would to Alla I were with my old brethren in
arms; but that is now impossible, and death alone will be honourable to
the old soldier.’

‘All is prepared, O Sultaun,’ replied the Brahmin; ‘we wait for the
men—thou hast them ready?’

‘Ay, there are twelve dogs, sons of unchaste mothers, swine!—take them.’

‘The goddess will be pleased, O Sultaun—she will drink their blood.
To-night, to-night she will put fear into their hearts; she will send
rain—the river will fill—they will be cut off.’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed the Sultaun, ‘and twelve base-born Feringhees will
go to hell. Who is without—Jaffar?’

‘Refuge of the world! I am here.’

‘Hast thou obeyed the orders I gave thee yesterday?’

‘Protector of the poor! I have; not one lives now—Feringhee, Moslim, or
Hindoo; the prisoners died in the night. It was hard work, there were so
many, but it was done,’ and he chuckled. ‘There were twelve spared—the
last twelve.’

‘Good: if the Fort is taken, the kafirs will look in vain for their
brethren. Now go thou to the prison, take the twelve sons of perdition
who were captured in the sortie, bind them hand and foot, and convey
them to the temple. Thou art ready, Runga Swamee? As the sun rises,
their blood must flow, one by one. The men are ready, the priests wait,
the swords are sharp—what more? Enough—go! thou understandest, Jaffar?’

‘Ay, my lord.’

‘Hast thou sent for him—for Compton?’

‘The men go to-morrow.’

‘Good: when he comes he shall be the next offering, if thou wantest
more, Pundit.’

‘I am thankful,’ replied the man: ‘thou wilt gain much favour for this
and thy gifts to Brahmins—thirty thousand years of protection for every
offering.’

‘Inshalla!’ said the Sultaun; ‘go! time flies.’

It was noon, the day was bright and hot, and a strong mirage flickered
upon the white tents of the English camp, the parched ground around
them, and the black and rocky bed of the river. In the camp many men
were moving about, and marching to and fro. The Sultaun was looking at
them with his telescope, but saw nothing to excite alarm. He was gayer
than usual, for he had seen his face in a jar of oil, and the reflection
had been fortunate.

‘Rain will fall to-night in the hills,’ he said to a favourite near him,
Rajah Khan, as he observed some heavy masses of white fleecy clouds in
the west, which hung over the nearer hills and shrouded the distant
peaks. ‘The Brahmins are right, the sacrifice has done good; after all,
only a few Feringhees have gone to hell before their time—ha! ha!’

‘May your prosperity increase!’ said the officer; ‘they have deserved
their death.’

As he spoke a man rushed up the steps of the cavalier. Tears were in his
eyes, and his manner was wild.

‘What has happened, O fool?’ said the Sultaun; ‘hast thou seen the
devil?’

‘Khodawund!’ said the soldier, speaking with difficulty, ‘the Syud, the
holy Meer Ghuffoor is dead.’

‘Merciful Alla!’ cried Tippoo, ‘art thou sure of this?’

‘Alas! quite sure, Light of the World! I carried him away: behold his
blood.’

‘It was his destiny,’ said the Sultaun gloomily; ‘it was once said his
fate was linked with mine,—let it come. His death was that of a soldier,
may mine be the same! Go! let him be buried with honour. We will dine
here,’ he added to an attendant; ‘we feel hot within, and this air from
the water is cool.’

His light repast was soon finished, and again he sat looking towards the
trenches. He thought there were many men in them; as if by mutual
consent, the firing had ceased on both sides, and no sound arose except
the busy hum of the city: in the English camp all was still as death. He
speculated for a while idly upon the unusual quietness, and looked
again. On a sudden a man climbed upon the mound of the trench; he was
tall and noble in appearance; his height was exaggerated by his
position—he looked a giant. The Sultaun’s heart sank within him; he
could not be mistaken in those features—it was Baird, whom he had so
often reviled. ‘He comes to revenge the old man,’ he muttered—‘to
revenge Mathews!’

It was a noble sight to see that one man stand thus alone in front of
both armies: he appeared to look at the Fort for an instant, then drew
his sword from its scabbard, and as it came forth it flashed in the
sunlight. He waved it high in the air. Another leaped to his side: he
was a native, and wore a steel cap and glittering chain-armour; a shield
hung on his arm, and he waved a broad sabre. They leaped together from
the mound, followed by hundreds, who with loud cheers dashed on in
regular order.

‘Prophet of Alla!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘they come—Baird and Kasim Ali!
Look to the breach! every man to the breach! defend it with your lives!’

He was hurrying away, when a thought appeared to strike him. ‘Stay!’ he
cried, ‘bring water; we have eaten, and are unclean; we would not die
like a kafir, but one for whom the Apostle waits ere he enters Paradise.
I come, O Mohamed! I come quickly now.’

-------

CHAPTER XLIX.

‘To the breach! to the breach!’ was now the cry far and wide; those who
loved the Sultaun hurried there to die, to stop with their bodies the
ascent of the devoted English—a living wall in place of that which had
been torn down.

It was a sight on which men looked with throbbing hearts and aching eyes
from both sides—those in the English camp, and those in the Fort. There
were but few cannon to stop the English; all upon the breach had been
dismounted, and no one dared show himself upon the dismantled defences
to plant others. But as the British advanced, a storm of shot and
rockets met them, which was enough to have turned more daring men. Many
went down before it, many writhed and struggled; the column was like a
march of ants where a human foot has just trodden, some hurrying on, a
few turning to carry away a wounded and disabled comrade.

‘They are drunk!’ cried the Sultaun; ‘the hogs—the kafirs—they have been
plied with wine. Be firm, brothers, and fear not, though they are
desperate. Be firm, ye with the long spears, and do ye of the Kureem
Kutcheree regain your lost fame! Remember, we are present,—a hundred
rupees for every Feringhee! Look to your aim—they cannot pass the
ditch.’

Such broken sentences escaped him from time to time, as he fired upon
the enemy with his own hand, often with deadly aim; but though the
resistance made was desperate, what was able to withstand the hot ardour
of this assault? Man after man went down before the strong arm of Baird,
who toiled like a knight of old in the breach, cheering on his men with
loud cries of revenge for the murdered. Kasim fought beside him, and
equalled the deeds of the British leader.

‘They bear charmed lives!’ cried the Sultaun, dashing to the ground the
gun he had just fired; ‘twice have I struck down the men close to them,
but the balls harmed them not.’

‘Retire, I beseech you, O Prince!’ cried Rajah Khan and a hundred others
around him; ‘this is no place for you; on our lives be it we drive them
back.’

‘No; I will die here,’ said Tippoo doggedly; ‘they shall pass into the
Fort over my body; but the ditch is yet before them—they cannot pass it
unless it is filled as it was at— Bah! why should I have thought of that
scene?’

This passed in a moment: the struggle on the breach was over—the
defenders and their enemies lay there in heaps; still there was the
ditch to cross, which was wide and deep; for an instant even Baird was
staggered, and his men ran right and left seeking for a passage. Kasim
Ali and he were close together; there was a scaffolding, and a plank
over it leading to the rampart on the other side: it was enough, the way
was found, and hundreds poured over it quicker than thought.

It was the last sight the Sultaun saw—everything else swam before his
eyes; he looked stupefied, and said, hurriedly and gloomily, ‘It is
finished—where are my bearers? take me to the palace—the women must
die—every one: we would not have them defiled by the kafirs. Come!
haste! or we are too late.’

They led him to his palankeen, mingling with the fugitives, who in the
passage between the two walls were rushing on to the small postern where
it had been left; men had been sent for it, but what bearers could
struggle against that frantic crowd? As they hurried on, Rajah Khan
vainly endeavoured to persuade him to fly by the river-gate; Poornea and
his son were out, he said, and they might yet escape to the fastnesses
of the west.

‘Peace! cried the Sultaun; ‘the women are sacred—they must die first;
then we will throw ourselves upon the kafirs, cry Alla Yar, and die. May
hell be their portion!’ he exclaimed suddenly, as he stumbled and fell.
They raised him—a shot had struck him; he was sick to death, but they
were strong men, and they urged him on, supporting him. Another cry he
uttered—they saw blood pour from his back—he was wounded once more; but
the gate was close at hand, and they strained every nerve to reach it.
Hundreds were struggling there: the fierce English were behind,
advancing with loud oaths and cheers, maddened by excited revenge,
slaughter, lust, and hope of plunder. A fearful thing is a strife like
that, when men become monsters, thirsting for blood.

They reached the palankeen, and laid the Sultaun in it. ‘Water! water!’
he gasped; ‘air! I am choking! take me out, take me out, I shall die
here! Water! for the love of Alla, water! one drop! one drop!’

‘Remember the murdered, give no quarter,’ cried many whose bayonets were
already reeking with blood. ‘Here is a gate, we shall be inside
directly—hurrah!’

‘They come, Huzrut,’ said Rajah Khan, trying to rouse the dying man;
‘they come, they are near, let us tell them who thou art, they will
spare thee.’

‘Spare me!’ he cried, rousing himself at the last words. ‘No! they burn
for revenge, and I should be hung like a dog; no! I will die here.’ He
was very faint, and spoke feebly.

‘Here is a prince—I’ll be the first!’ cried a soldier, dashing into the
gateway and snatching rudely at the rosary which was around the
Sultaun’s neck.

It rallied the expiring lamp of life. ‘Dog of a kafir! son of an
unchaste mother!’ cried the Sultaun, gnashing his teeth as he seized a
sword which lay by him, ‘get thee to hell!’ and he struck at him with
all his might; it was the last effort of life, but it was not fatal.

‘Damnation!’ muttered the man, setting his teeth with the pain of the
wound, as he raised his musket.

He fired, the ball pierced the skull, the Sultaun’s eyes glared for an
instant, quivered in their sockets, then his head fell, and he was dead.
The lion of the faith, the refuge of the world, had gone to his account!

‘Well met, noble Kasim,’ cried Philip Dalton, as heading his party he
dashed down the cavalier which had first been gained, and was now in the
body of the place; ‘keep with me; thou knowest the prisons?’

‘Every one, colonel; but haste! they may even now be destroying them.’

Philip shuddered, there was no time for thought. Many men were around
him, and they rushed on, led by Kasim Ali, whose reddened sword, and
armour sprinkled with blood, showed how he had been employed.

Eagerly, and with excitement which hardly admitted thought, so
engrossing was it, did those two and Charles Hayward search every part
of the Fort, and every place where it was possible that prisoners could
have been concealed: they found none. And when the palace was opened
they rushed into its most secret prisons and burst them open; they found
traces of recent habitation by Englishmen; and while their fears were
horribly confirmed, their last hopes for Herbert Compton departed.

‘Ah! could I but meet the villain Jaffar!’ cried Kasim, as they gave up
further search, for it was now dark; ‘if indeed he be alive, then would
we wring from him the fate of your poor friend. Inshalla! he may be
found: I know his haunts, and will watch them all night; I will come to
thee in the morning.’

‘I shall be here with my regiment,’ Dalton said sadly; ‘but I have no
hope, for that cowardly villain will have fled long ere now with his
ill-gotten wealth.’

The morning broke gloomily after that fearful day and night; for during
the latter there had been appalling alarms, shots, screams from
terrified, plundered, and often violated women; there were many dreadful
excesses, but they were checked. As the day advanced, order was restored
once more, and the moderation of the English in their victory, their
justice, and protection of all, is yet sung and said through the country
by wandering minstrels.

The Sultaun’s body had been discovered where he had fallen; his faithful
attendant lay beside him, with others who had fought with him to the
last. They were brought into the palace, and recognised by the women
with unfeigned and bitter grief. Of all that host of secluded women, two
only truly mourned his fate. The one was his mother, the other Fureeda,
who could with difficulty be torn from his body, as they took it away
for burial. Her love had grown with misfortune; for in her society he
had found rest from care and from his own restless mind; of late he had
visited no other, and, despite of his vices, she had felt security with
him, whom no one else looked on without fear; and as his fate
approached, she foresaw it, pitied, and loved him.

The last rites of the faith had been performed upon the body. The grave
clothes, which, brought from Mekha, had been for years in his
possession, were put on with the requisite ceremonies, ablutions, and
fumigations; the sheet, filled with flowers, was laid over the body; the
attendant Moolas chanted thrice those parts of the Koran, the ‘Soora e
fateeha,’ and the ‘Qool hoo Alla!’ They were about to raise it, to place
it in the coffin, when two women again rushed in; the one was old,
wrinkled, and grey—it was his nurse; she beat her bare and withered
breasts, and, kneeling beside the corpse, showed them to it with
passionate exclamations. ‘Thou hast sucked them,’ she cried, ‘when I was
young, and they were full of milk! Alas! alas! that I should have lived
to say I bestow it on thee.’

The other was Fureeda; she spoke not, but sobbed bitterly, as she looked
on the pinched and sharpened features, and livid face of him who had
till the last clung to her with affection.

They were removed with difficulty, and the procession passed out slowly,
the Moolas chanting the funeral service with slow and melancholy
cadences. The conquerers of the dead awaited his coming, and, in silent
homage to their illustrious enemy, lifted their plumed hats from their
brows, as the body passed on to its last resting-place beside the noble
Hyder. The troops, which had the day before been arrayed in arms against
him, now paid the last honours to his death; and through a street of
British soldiers, resting upon their firearms reversed, while their
bands played the dead march in Saul, the procession wound its way.
Without in the street were thousands of men, who, frantic in their
grief, cried aloud to Alla; and women, who beat their breasts, and
wailed, or else uttered piercing shrieks of woe, flung dust into the
air, and, casting loose their hair, strove to prostrate themselves
before the body of the dead. The solemn chant proceeded; each verse sung
by the Moolas, who in their flowing robes preceded the coffin, was
repeated by all around. The body was surrounded by all the officers of
Tippoo’s late army who had survived, and those of the Nizam’s force, on
foot; and there was one of his sons on horseback, who sat in a kind of
stupor at the overwhelming affliction.

The day had been gloomy, and was close and hot; not a breath of wind
stirred the trees, and heavy lurid masses of clouds hung over the city,
from whence at times a low muttering growl of thunder would break, and
seemingly rattle all over the heavens. Men felt heavily the weight of
the atmosphere, and every now and then looked up at the threatening mass
which hung above them.

Through the plain, which extends to the mausoleum of Hyder, the
multitude poured; and as the procession gradually approached its goal,
the frantic cries of the people increased, almost drowning the
melancholy dead march and the chant which arose, now one, now the other,
and sometimes both blended into a wild harmony upon the still air. Then
there was a momentary silence, only to be succeeded by bursts of grief
even more violent than before. The thunder appeared to increase in
loudness every moment, while flashes of lightning darted across the
heavens from side to side.

The procession reached the burial-place; the grenadiers formed a street,
rested upon their firearms reversed, and the body passed on. The band
now ceased, and the bier being laid down, the body was taken from it,
preparatory to being laid in the grave. The Moola (for one alone now
officiated) raised his voice in the chant of the first creed; it was a
powerful one, but now sounded thin and small among that vast assembly;
he had said only a few words, when a flash of lightning burst from
above, nearly blinding them, and a peal of thunder followed, so
crashing, so stunning, that the stoutest hearts quailed under it. It
died away, and as it receded far into the east, the melancholy tone of
the Moola’s voice, which had been drowned in it, again arose clear and
distinct, like the distant wail of a trumpet.

The heavens were still for a while; but as the body was laid in its last
narrow resting-place, its face to the west, and as the Moolas chanted
out ‘Salāam wo Aliekoom wo Ruhmut Ullāāh!’[60] again a crashing peal
burst forth, and their words were lost in the deafening roar. Now peal
after peal rolled from the clouds. As yet there was no rain nor wind,
and the black mass appeared almost to descend upon the tall palm-trees
which waved above, and flashes of lightning so vivid that the heavens
blazed under the light, darted from it, and played fearfully around. Men
looked at each other in awe and wonder, and felt their own littleness,
when the mighty lay cold in death before them, and the thunder of his
Creator roared, seemingly as in deprecation of the deeds of his life.

-----

Footnote 60:

Peace and the grace of God be with you.

-----

The companies formed on each side of the grave to pay their last tribute
of respect to a soldier’s memory, and the word was given—‘Fire!’ The
rattle which followed seemed to be taken up by the sky; away rolled the
awful echoes into the far west, and, lost for a moment among the huge
crags and mountains of the Ghâts, seemed to return with double force to
meet the peals of artillery and volleys of musketry which broke from the
Fort and the British army. The bands struck up again, but they were
dimly heard; and, as all returned to the sound of their merry music, it
seemed a mockery amidst the din and turmoil of that tempest.

* * * * *

But we must carry our readers back to Herbert Compton, over whom years
had passed, chequered by no events save the visits of Jaffar Sahib, to
urge upon him compliance with the Sultaun’s demands for assistance,
plans of fortifications, or military instructions. The Sultaun had from
the first taken it into his head that Herbert was a man of education and
skill beyond his fellows; and as every idea was esteemed a revelation
from Providence, he had clung to this one with all the obstinacy of his
nature, for he had a necessity for the aid Herbert might have given.
Often he would forget him for months. Once or twice, provoked by his
obstinate refusals, he had issued orders for his death, and revoked as
fast as he had written them. Herbert had lingered on upon those
mountains, the cold and mists of which, exaggerated to the Sultaun, made
him suppose that the place was the one where hardship would be the
greatest, and life the most difficult to bear. But he knew not of that
glorious climate, of its cool, fresh, elastic, invigorating breezes; of
its exquisite scenery; of the thousands of wild flowers, and green hills
and hanging woods; deep wooded glens, in which brawled clear and
sparkling rivers, now chafing over a pebbly bed, now creeping still
under some golden mossy bank, covered with wild thyme and violets, from
among which peered the modest primrose, the graceful cyclamen and tall
fern, which nodded over the sparkling water. He knew not what ecstasy it
was to Herbert to lie at length upon the soft sward, and to listen to
the melody of the blackbird, which in the joy of its heart trilled its
liquid song, and was answered joyously by its mate—or to see the lark,
high in air, wheeling around in wide circles, till it was lost to sight,
the same as he had used to listen to with Amy in the groves of
Beechwood. Herbert’s thoughts were often carried back to the past,
remembering with the minutest exactitude every tone, every word of their
sweet converse.

It was an unreal life, with none of the world’s occurrences before him;
from his high prison he looked forth over a wide country, but he could
only speculate idly upon what was passing in the world. He had no hope
of deliverance,—for ever since the first siege of the city, of which he
heard after the English had departed, he had ceased to think of liberty
except in death. He had no hope that his life, his intellect, which he
felt to be strong and vigorous, would ever be called into the action
they were fitted for;—nor his kind heart, his affectionate sympathies
find again objects on which to fix. He had no companion but nature, upon
whose varying face he could always look with delight, while he listened
to the brawling streams, the murmurs of the waving woods—those sweet
voices with which she peoples her solitudes.

Yet latterly he had found a companion. One of the guards brought a dog;
Herbert attached it to himself, and the man gave it him when he went
away. He could speak to it—he could speak English to it; and as they
would sit upon a sunny bank together, he listening idly to the murmuring
plash of waters, the hum of bees, watching the bright flies, as they
sported in the sunbeams, or the butterflies flying from flower to
flower—drinking in the loveliness of the prospects, whether over the
vast blue plains and endless ranges of mountains, or inwards, among the
quiet peaceful valleys and swelling hills—he would, after musing a
while, speak to his favourite of her he loved, of his home, of his
mother; and often, when tears started to his eyes, and his voice
faltered, the dog would look at him wistfully, and whine gently as he
scratched him with his paw; he seemed to know there was something wrong,
and he thus expressed his sympathy; and when Herbert arose to go, he
would run in wide circles upon the mountain-side, chasing the larks from
their nests, tearing the grass with his teeth, and barking so joyfully
that Herbert’s spirit would be gladdened too.

But who can tell his yearnings for home—for the sight of a face beside
those of his guards—for one word from a countryman? If ever he should
escape, what tidings might be in store for him—of the changes, the
events of years? Escape! alas that was impossible. Everywhere the same
rugged sides presented themselves, everywhere the same vast forests
below, to enter which was death, and beyond them the territory of the
Sultaun. He often longed to make a second attempt to be free, but his
better thoughts proved its utter impracticability.

One day a few showers had fallen, and the air was soft and balmy; the
dry winds of May had already abated, and the summer was beginning to
burst forth. Herbert was lying upon the spot which we have once
mentioned in Hulleekul Droog; his little garden was freshened by the
late rain, and the odour of the flowers came to him gratefully, as he
looked over the wide prospect, now so familiar, yet, for all that,
presenting in colour, in effect, perpetually new features.

The Naik of his guard came to him. ‘Arise!’ he said, ‘I have news for
thee.’

‘Speak!’ said Herbert—‘what news? is Jaffar coming again? is he
arrived?’

‘Not so,’ said the man, ‘thou art to travel.’

Herbert’s heart sank within him.

‘To travel!’ he said anxiously; ‘has the Sultaun sent for me?’

‘No,’ said the man, ‘_he_ has not—he is dead. The English have taken the
city, and the Sultaun is no more.’

‘Merciful Providence!’ cried Herbert aloud in his own tongue; ‘is this
true, or is it a dream? _killed_, didst thou say?’

‘Ay, Sahib,’ said the man, dashing a tear from his eye; ‘he was a great
man, and has died like a soldier! Wilt thou come? thy countrymen will
look for thee now, and perhaps the act of taking thee to them will give
me favour in their eyes. As to this post, it will be abandoned—no one
will need it; and if we remain here, no one will remember us. What dost
thou think?’

But he spoke to one who heeded not his words—they hardly fell upon his
ear. Herbert had knelt down, and on the spot where his first vision of
escape had come to him, where he now heard he was free, he poured forth
thoughts that were too big for words—incoherently, perhaps—what matter?
they rose out of a grateful, glowing heart, and ascended to the throne
of Him who looked into it and saw the feelings there, while the words
that expressed them passed away upon the sighing wind unheeded.

Herbert arose. ‘Art thou ready?’ he said.

‘To-morrow morning, Sahib; ere the dawn breaks—there is a moon—we will
set out. In four days, if we travel fast, we shall be at the city.’

* * * * *

‘Have you seen the poor fellow who has been just brought into camp upon
a cot, Dalton?’ said an officer of the staff, who lounged into Philip’s
tent, about noon, some days after the above. ‘It seems he was confined
in a hill-fort, and the garrison have brought him in. Poor fellow! he is
in a high fever; for they rested by the way in the jungles, and there he
took it. But —— is looking after him; they have taken him into the
hospital.’

‘Some native, I suppose,’ said Philip, looking up; he was writing to his
wife.

‘No—an Englishman; it was supposed there were none left, but—’

‘Good heavens!’ cried Philip, seizing his cap, and rushing precipitately
from the tent. ‘If it should be he!—merciful Providence!—_if_—’

He flew across the camp; the officer looked after him in wonder. ‘What
can he mean?’ he said aloud. He saw Philip run at full speed to the
hospital tent, and he followed him there more leisurely and looked in.
Philip was kneeling beside the bed of the sufferer, whose hands were
clasped in his; the tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he was
striving to speak. The other’s eyes were upraised, while his lips moved
as if in prayer, and a look of silent thankfulness, of joy, of perfect
peace and happiness was upon his handsome features, which he could
hardly have conceived expressible by any emotions. He looked for a few
minutes, and then hurried away to hide his own. ‘It must be Captain
Compton,’ he said, ‘so long missing; I will not disturb them.’

It was indeed. In that silent grasp of the hand,—in the long, earnest,
loving embrace which had preceded it,—in the recognition at once of the
friend, and even brother, of his early years, Herbert had already
forgotten all his sufferings. He had caught a branch upon the shore he
had so long floated past, and leaped upon it; and now secure, could even
in that moment follow the frail raft which had so long borne his sad
fortunes, and gradually lose sight of it in the visions which opened
before him.

Not long did he remain on that humble pallet; removed to Philip’s tent,
and in his company and that of Charles Hayward, he felt, as they told
him of the events of the past, that it was like one of those blissful
fancies which had cheated him so often. He fell asleep, and dreamed of
joy and peace, vaguely and indefinitely, and awoke refreshed by rest,
and the prescriptions of the surgeon who attended him; he gazed around,
and his eyes met the happy faces and joyful looks of his friends,—then,
then only, did he feel it all to be true.

CONCLUSION.

Day by day Herbert made progress towards recovery, and with peace of
mind returned strength and vigour. He had been ill for nearly a
fortnight before the time we speak of, and had been tended with that
constant and unremitting solicitude by his dear friends and brothers,
which can easily be imagined, but not easily described. There was
another too, the brave Kasim Ali, who had been quickly summoned to
Philip’s tent after the arrival of the lost one, and who had rejoiced in
his recovery with joy as genuine as the others.

‘How often I told you to hope, Sahib,’ he would exclaim, as he looked on
the joy of the friends, and their love for each other. ‘How often I said
he was not dead; that the Sultaun (may his sepulchre be honoured!) would
not destroy him.’

And then they would shake their heads, and think that if the Sultaun had
been alive, how little would have been the chance of their ever meeting
again upon earth.

‘You appear to cling to his memory with fondness,’ said Dalton, in reply
to a burst of praise which Kasim had uttered; ‘yet he used you ill, and
would have killed you.’

‘I do,’ he replied; ‘he was a great man—such an one as Hind will never
see again. He had great ambition, wonderful ability, perseverance, and
the art of leading men’s hearts more than they were aware of, or cared
to acknowledge; he had patient application, and nothing was done without
his sanction, even to the meanest affairs, and the business of his
dominions was vast. You will allow he was brave, and died like a
soldier. He was kind and considerate to his servants, and a steady
friend to those he loved. Mashalla! he was a great man.’

‘Yet he was treacherous to you, Meer Sahib,’ said Philip.

‘Ay, and had he not been so, ye might now have been far from hence. Ye
see, sirs, the power of destiny, which, working even by such mean
instruments as myself and Jaffar, has wrought great ends.’

‘What treachery?’ said Herbert. ‘I have wondered to see thee here in the
English camp, but thought thou mightest have been admitted to protection
like the rest of the Sultaun’s officers.’

‘It is a long tale,’ said Kasim, ‘but your brother, the colonel, knows
much of it already, and he will tell it to you.’

‘Not so,’ said Philip, ‘tell it yourself, I should only blunder in the
narration;’ and he added, ‘since we have been together, I have never
asked after the lady you loved, Meer Sahib; it is a painful question,
perhaps, and may awaken thoughts and feelings long since dead. You
smile—I rejoice to see it.’

‘You know, Sahib, we Moslems are not given to speaking of our wives or
families,’ said Kasim, ‘and therefore I have never mentioned her; but
she lives, I rejoice to say, and is as beautiful to my eyes as ever.’

‘Come!’ said Herbert, ‘if it be a tale of love, let me hear it; I have
talked long enough, and can listen patiently.’

Kasim then related his adventures, from the time he had appeared a youth
in Tippoo’s Durbar, to that in which, wearied by his cruelties and
uneven temper, he had left him, and had so narrowly escaped
assassination.

‘I reached my village,’ he continued, ‘and long remained in secrecy,
enjoying the quiet of my own home. I read my favourite poets, wrote
verses, and a history of my own adventures, to pass the time; but in
truth, after so much excitement, I at length grew tired of the dull
life, and looked around me for employment. The administration of the
affairs and collection of the revenue of my district happened then to be
vacated by the person who had held the offices, and, as I understood the
duties perfectly, I solicited and obtained the situation by help of a
douceur to the minister: in its duties, and in the suppression of the
disorders of the country, I found ample employment. Still I had never
visited the city of Hyderabad, and as I had need to go there to arrange
some matters with the minister regarding the revenue collections, I
determined upon a short visit, and was courteously received both by him
and by the Prince, who spoke much to me of the Sultaun’s character, and
the wild schemes of conquest which he meditated.

‘I was delighted with the city, and the polite and courtly character of
its nobles, and I remained longer than I had intended. One day I was
riding towards the minister’s house, in order to take my leave of him,
previously to my departure, when a woman, rather old, but decently
dressed as a servant, whose features at first sight appeared familiar to
me, ran towards me in the open street, and catching hold of the rein of
my horse uttered a loud cry of joy. The horse was a spirited one, and
began to curvet and bound, and she dared not approach me. I saw her
speak to my groom; and when she had learned where I lived, she told him
she would come in the evening, waved her hand to me, and darted down a
narrow street. All that day I wondered much who she could be; I could
not by any effort recall her name to my memory, and though I had an
engagement with a friend, I waited at home till late.

‘About dark a woman came, closely veiled, leading another. Both, as they
entered, threw themselves at my feet, and kissed them repeatedly,
uttering expressions of joy; they could not speak intelligibly for some
time, nor would they unveil, though I could hear from their voices that
they were aged. At length one playfully pulled the veil from the other’s
head, and to my joy and surprise I beheld Meeran. I recognised her
instantly, and, raising her up, embraced her cordially. Sahib, the other
was Sozun.

‘I was, as you may suppose, breathless to know Ameena’s fate. Was she
alive? or did that hated place I remembered hold her mortal remains?
“Speak, I conjure you,” I cried, “for I burn with impatience.”

‘“She lives, Meer Sahib,” said Meeran; “she lives, blessed be Alla and
Moula Ali, and the Apostle and the Lady Muriam! to whom we have offered
up Fateehas for her recovery on every anniversary of that event. Ah,
Meer Sahib, it is before me now!”

‘“Alive!” I cried; "but perhaps she is another’s; some nobleman hath
heard of her beauty, and hath sought her in second marriage?"

‘“No, by your soul!” cried Sozun; “she lives, and thinks but of you. She
is as beautiful as a houri; the years that have passed now seem but as
hours; her skin is as fair, her eye as bright, her form as round and
perfect as ever.”

‘“And the wound?” I asked.

‘“Ah! it was a horrible gash,” said Meeran, shuddering, ‘and it was long
before it healed; she will show you the place if—if—"

‘“Come,” said I, “come! I burn to see her. I am not married; I never
should have married, perhaps. Come! it is my destiny. Ya Alla kureem,
how it hath been worked out!”

‘They led the way joyfully: her mother had been advised of my presence
in the city by Meeran in the morning, and, closely veiled, she sat in
her private apartment, awaiting me. Her husband was absent on some
military duty, so I had to arrange all with her.

‘How my heart beat as I entered the house! To be once more under the
same roof with her who had loved me so long and so truly—to be there in
the hope that ere many hours should elapse she would be mine—mine for
ever! Sahib, I had fought and bled on a battle-field, yet I never felt
so agitated as I did at that moment.

‘A cry of joy from the old lady welcomed me. “Blessed be Alla!” she
said, as she embraced me like a son; “blessed be his name, that thou art
here! Oh that my lord were here, to welcome thee, and greet thee as a
son!”

‘“And Ameena,” I said, “tell me, by your soul, how is she? Doth she
still remember Kasim Ali? I am rich, I am high in rank; I have left the
Sultaun’s service, and am now in that of your own Government. What delay
need there be? Let me, I beseech you, speak to her, and send for the
Moola to read the Nika.”

‘“Fie!” said the old lady, “that would be indecent haste.”

‘“What, after years of absence, mother? nay, say not so, but tell her I
am here.”

‘“Wait,” she said; “I will return immediately.”

‘I arose and walked about, burning with love, with hope, with joy. The
passion which for years had been smothered within me broke out as
freshly, as strongly as when I had first seen her. The memory of that
kiss was as if it still lingered on my lips. I heard a movement, a sort
of hesitation at the door; I thought the old lady would come in. A
figure entered, veiled from head to foot; it was a useless precaution—my
heart told me that it was Ameena. I rushed towards her, caught her
tottering form in my arms, removed the veil from her lovely features,
and in a moment more strained her to my heart in an embrace which she
did not resist; and in a kiss which united our souls once more, I
pledged to her my faith and love for ever.

‘Yes, she was as fair as ever; even more beautiful in the mature charms
of womanhood, than had been the girl I bore from the dreadful waters, or
preserved from the maddened elephant. There was more fulness in her
form, more fire in the large and soft eye, which, filled with tears,
rested on me. She clung to me as though I should never part from her
again, and her hand trembled in mine.

‘I understood her. “I will not go from thee, fairest! most beloved!” I
cried; “more even than the bulbul to the rose! more than Mejnoon to
Leila will I be to thee!”

‘Her mother entered soon after; she saw Ameena unveiled and in my arms.
She gently chid her, but she did so no longer when the fair and gentle
creature bent on her an imploring look, and nestled closer to my bosom.

‘The next evening the Moola came: all had been prepared in the
meanwhile, and such a marriage as mine wanted no long ceremony—it was
that only of the Koran. Some friends were sent for: in their presence I
wrote a settlement upon Ameena, and received an assignment of all her
property; it was little needed, for henceforth our lot was to be
together for good or for evil. There was a screen put up in the
apartment; the ladies came behind it; I heard the rustle of their
garments, and the tinkling of their anklets—it was like delicious music.
The few prayers were quickly read, the witnesses signed and sealed the
papers, and they left me. I heard the old lady bless her daughter, and
the servants join in a fervent Ameen! In a few moments the screen was
withdrawn, and I was alone with Ameena. Sirs, the true believer when he
enters Paradise, and is welcomed by the beauteous houris that await his
coming, is not more blessed than I was then. Hours flew, and still we
talked over the past, and the miseries and sufferings of that dreadful
time.

‘“Tell me,” I said, “how you escaped, and show me the place—the wound.”

‘She bared her beauteous neck, modestly and shrinkingly. I looked on the
wound and kissed it; it was on her shoulder, and had reached the back of
her neck. A heavy gold necklace and chain, she said, had saved her life;
but for that she must have been killed.

‘“But,” she continued, “I knew nothing until I found myself in a small
hut; Sozun was there, and Meeran. I shrank from Sozun, for I knew her to
have been an evil woman; but she was vehement in her protestations of
affection, and I believed her. I knew not till long after how nearly she
had been connected with my fate; but she has been faithful, and that is
long since forgiven and forgotten in her constancy. The house belonged
to her daughter, and her husband was a foot-soldier in the army; they
were kind and good to me, and the faithful Zoolfoo bound up my wound;
indeed he sewed it up, which gave me great pain; but I was soon strong
again, and I inquired for the Khan and for you; they said you had both
fallen, and I mourned you as dead. Afterwards when the Sultaun
capitulated, and there was peace, I followed my protector as a humble
woman, and attended by Meeran and Sozun, under pretence of making
offerings at a shrine, we escaped from the Fort, and entered that of the
troops of the Dekhan: although my father had not accompanied them, yet I
found his intimate friend Sikundur Beg, with whose daughters I had been
a playmate. He was a father to me, gave me his palankeen to travel
hither, and in my own home I speedily recovered.”

‘I should weary you, sirs,’ continued Kasim after a pause, ‘were I to
tell you of her daily increasing love, and the joy I felt in her
society. I wrote word to my mother that I had met her and was married;
and the old lady, transported with joy, actually travelled up to the
city to greet her daughter. I was fortunate in meeting with a good
deputy in the person of my excellent uncle, and I remained at the city
with Ameena’s family. Her father arrived in due time from his post, and
there never was a happier circle united on this earth than ours. I
became known in the city: there was talk of a war with the Sultaun, and
I was offered the command of a risala of horse, and received a title
from the Government; they are common, but I was honoured. “Distinguish
thyself,” said the minister, “thou shalt have a jaghire[61] for life.”
Sirs, ye know the rest. He has given me two villages near my own, the
revenue of which, with my patrimony, and the command of five hundred
horse, most of which are my own, makes me easy for life. My mother (she
has old-fashioned notions) sometimes hints that the marriage was not
regular, that I should even now ask the young daughter of a nobleman of
high rank, and go through all the forms with her; but I am content,
sirs, with one wife, and I wish to Alla that all my countrymen were so
too; for I am well assured that to one alone can a man give all his
love, and that where more than one is, there ensue those jealousies,
envies, wild passions, evil, and sin, which were well-nigh fatal to my
Ameena.’

-----

Footnote 61:

Estate.

-----

‘Thou art a noble fellow!’ exclaimed both; and Charles Hayward too—for
he also had been a listener—added his praise; ‘and believe me,’ added
Dalton, ‘thou wilt often be remembered, and thy wife too, when we are
far away in our own land. If it be not beyond the bounds of politeness,
carry her our affections and warmest wishes for years of happiness with
thee. I would that my wife could have known her! she must have loved one
so sorely tried, yet so pure in heart. Thou wilt see her at Bangalore,
Meer Sahib, and will tell thy wife of her.’

The tears started to Kasim Air’s eyes: he brushed them away hastily. ‘I
am a fool,’ said he; ‘but if any one, when I served him who ruled
yonder, had told me that I should have loved Englishmen, I would have
quarrelled with him even to bloodshed; and now I should be unhappy
indeed if I carried not away your esteem. I thank you for your interest
in Ameena. I will tell her much of you and your fortunes; and when you
are in your own green and beautiful land, and you wander beneath cool
shady groves and beside murmuring rivers, or when you are in the
peaceful society of your own homes, something will whisper in your
hearts that Kasim Ali and Ameena speak of you with love. I pray you then
remember us kindly, and now bid me depart to-day,’ he said—but his voice
trembled. ‘I have spoken long, and the Captain is weary.’

Dalton’s regiment moved soon after, and Kasim and his risala accompanied
it; they marched by easy stages, and soon the invalid was able once more
to mount a horse, and to enjoy a gallop with the dashing Risaldar, whose
horsemanship was beyond all praise. At Bangalore they halted some time,
it was to be a station for the Mysore field-force, and Dalton’s regiment
was to belong to it. His wife had arrived from Madras, and the deeply
attached brother and sister were once more united after so long and
painful an absence. Kasim saw her there; and though he thought it
profanation to gaze on one so fair, yet he often paid his respectful
homage to her while he stayed, and told the wondering Ameena, and in
after days his children, of the fair skin, golden hair, and deep blue
eyes of the English lady; and as he would dwell in rapture upon the
theme, they thought that the angels of Paradise could not be fairer.

When Kasim Ali could stay no longer, he came to take his leave. ‘I shall
pass the old Fakeer,’ he said; ‘have you any message for him? the old
man still lives, and prays for you.’

‘We will go to him,’ said Philip; ‘’tis but a day’s ride.’ Herbert
agreed readily, and they set out that day.

The old man’s joy at seeing them cannot be told; the certainty that his
poor efforts were estimated with gratitude, were to him more than gold
or precious stones; but his declining years were made happy by an
annuity, which was regularly paid, and he wanted no more the casual
charity of passing travellers.

And there, beneath those beauteous trees, which even now remain, and
which no one can pass without admiration, the friends parted, with
sincere regret, and a regard which never diminished, though they never
met again. The martial and picturesque companions of the Risaldar
awaited him; Philip and Herbert watched him as he bounded into his
saddle, and soon the gay and glittering group was lost behind the trees
at a little distance.

About three weeks after the Fort had fallen, two men, one driving a
heavily-laden pony, passed out of the gate of the Fort, and took their
way towards the river; the rain had fallen much during that and the
previous day, but there was as yet no more water than usual in the
river.

‘Come on, Madar!’ said one whom our readers will easily recognise; ‘that
beast goes as slow as if he had an elephant’s load; come on! we are
lucky to get across, for there is no water in the river.’

‘I tell thee the brute will never travel, Jaffar; the load is too heavy.
Why wouldst thou not buy the other?’

‘I could not afford it,’ he said; ‘one is enough; come on!’

The pony was laden with gold and silver bars and heavy stuffs, cloth of
gold and silver, the plunder of years, and more especially of that night
when the Sultaun was killed, for Jaffar knew the places where the silver
and gold utensils were kept, and he had laden himself with the spoil.

‘He! he! he!’ said he chuckling, ‘we will go to Madras and live with the
kafir Feringhees; no one will know us there, and we can trade with this
money.’

‘Good!’ said Madar, ‘it is a wise thought; may your prosperity
increase!’

They were now on the edge of the river. Opposite the Fort it is broad,
and the bed, one sheet of rock, has been worn into thousands of deep
holes and gulleys by the impetuous stream. It was no easy matter to get
the over-laden beast across these, and he often stumbled and fell
against the sharp rocks.

‘The curses of the Shitan light on thee!’ cried Jaffar to the animal, as
it lay down at last, groaning heavily, and he screwed its tail
desperately to urge it on. ‘Wilt thou not get up? Help me, Madar, to
raise it.’

They did so by their united strength, but ere it had gone a few paces it
fell again. Jaffar was in despair. There was no resource but to unload
it, and carry the burden piece by piece to the bank. They were doing
this when a loud roaring was heard.

‘What was that?’ said Madar.

‘Nothing, fool,’ said the other; ‘the wind, I dare say,’

It was not—it was the roaring of the mighty river, as it poured down
beyond the sharp turn above the Fort—a wall of water three feet
high—foaming, boiling, roaring, dashing high into the air—a vast brown,
thick, muddy mass, overwhelming everything in its course. Madar fled at
once to the bank.

Jaffar cursed aloud; the bundles had been tied up with scrupulous care,
lest the money should fall out, and it was hard to lose all after years
of toil. He tugged desperately at the knots—they would not come untied;
he drew his sword and cut fiercely at them, bars of gold fell out; he
seized as much as he could hold in his hands, and turned to fly. Some
men were on the shore with Madar hallooing to him; he could not hear
their words, but he thought they pointed to a rock higher than the rest;
he got upon it, or in another instant the roaring flood would have
overwhelmed him. He was safe for a minute; the waters were rising
gradually but fearfully fast; he clutched the rock, he screamed, he
prayed wildly; the rush of the boiling waters appeared to increase; his
brain grew dizzy; then he tried to scramble up higher—to stand upright.
In attempting this his foot slipped; those on the bank saw him toss his
arms wildly into the air, and the next instant he was gone! The fearful
tide rolled on in its majesty, but there was no sign of a living thing
upon its turbid waters.

Herbert did not long wait at Bangalore. Letters to England had now
preceded him more than a month; they had gone in a ship of war, which
was some guarantee for their safe arrival. There was danger on the seas,
but he thought not of that. Home—Amy was before him, more vividly than
it is possible for us to paint; the days seemed to pass as weeks, as the
gallant fleet sailed along, for home bounded their prospect; ere five
months had passed they anchored at the Nore. Philip Dalton and Charles
were soon to follow.

It was on a bright warm day, early in December, that a travelling
carriage, with four horses, was seen driving at desperate speed into the
town of——; it stopped at the inn.

‘Horses on to my father’s—to Alston,’ cried a gentleman within; ‘quick,
quick!’ The landlord looked at him for a moment; it was not Mr.
Compton’s son, the clergyman; no, this was a darker, taller, handsomer
person than him; he looked again, and then exclaimed, ‘It cannot
be!—surely it cannot be Captain Compton?’

‘Yes, I am he,’ was the reply; ‘but pray be quick!’

‘Hurrah!’ cried the jolly landlord, throwing up his cap into the air;
‘hurrah for the Captain! three cheers for Captain Compton, and God bless
him! You shall have a barrel of ale, my lads, to-day, for this joy. I
little thought to have ever seen you alive again, sir.’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Herbert; ‘I will come soon and see you; now
drive on, boys, at full speed;’ and away they dashed.

An anxious party was assembled that day at the old Rectory; in trembling
expectation of the sound of wheels, all felt nervous and agitated, and
some laughed and cried by turns.

Poor Amy! it is difficult to describe her feelings of joy, of silent
thankfulness. Her beauty was more radiant than ever; the purity of her
complexion, with the exquisite expression of her eyes, was more
striking, far more, than that of the lively and joyous girl of six years
ago.

There was one who heard the sound of wheels long before the rest—it was
Amy; the others watched her; her face, which had been flushed and deadly
pale by turns, was lighted up on a sudden with a joy so intense that
they almost feared for the consequences. On a sudden she appeared to
listen more earnestly, then she arose, but no one followed her; she went
to the door, passed into the hall, seemed to gaze vacantly around,
returned, sank into a chair, and pressing her hand to her heart, panted
for breath. Soon after a carriage at full speed dashed past the house; a
man opened the door—jumped out almost ere it had stopped—hurried with
breathless haste into the hall—passed a crowd of servants who were
sobbing with joy, and in another instant he was in the room. Amy sprang
to meet him with outstretched arms, and uttering a low cry of joy threw
herself into his embrace, and was strained to his heart in silent
rapture. Others hung round him, sobbing too, but their tears were those
of joy and gratitude; the past was even then forgotten, for they beheld
their long-lost Herbert safe, and knew, as he pressed to his the
faithful heart which had so long loved him, that their past sorrow would
soon be turned into rejoicing.

THE END.

------------------------------------

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Transcriber’s Note

Errors in the text have been corrected where they are reasonably
attributable to the printer or editor, or where the same word appears as
expected elsewhere. Where the issue can be attributed to the
idiosynchronies of the author or the era, the text as printed has been
retained. Punctuation is frequently missing at the end of sentences and
especially paragraphs, and has been supplied here. The use of quotation
marks is also erratic at times, and where the voices can be followed,
they have been disambiguated.

The details of each correction are noted below.

p. 34 Khan Sa[b/h]ib Corrected.

p. 36 anxiety.[’] Removed.

[‘]They will Removed

p. 37 [‘]he will kill Removed.

p. 41 cooked for his zenana[,/,] Corrected.

p. 44 rushed forth in a tumult[u]ous manner Added.

p. 47 we can fight as well as sleep.[’] Added.

p. 61 Nor was Mrs. Compton su[r]prised> to Added.
hear

other tha[t/n] the ordinary dangers of Corrected.
life.

p. 71 have such an opportunity[’]. Added.

p. 73 [‘]what can be done? Added.

p. 80 but daily records of hi[s] thoughts, Added.

p. 88 ‘Then we shall have a deligh[t]ful Added.
evening,

p. 100 or at any[ ]rate hard words. Added.

‘And what wouldst thou know about me, O Added.
base-born![’]

p. 101 of villa[i]ny often successful, Added.

p. 131 at any[ ]rate, you Added.

p. 136 their ensuing service[.] Added.

p. 138 [‘]I will not disturb you, Added.

p. 149 [“\‘]Wait for the word—Fire! Corrected.

p. 165 as let it go to the enemy.[”/’] Corrected.

p. 170 my horses’ expenditure! what—[”/’] Corrected

p. 171 so that the i[m/n]mates could look out Corrected.

p. 185 his admiration at the [r]are skill Added.

p. 197 ‘Kasim Ali[./,]’ said the Sultaun[./,] Corrected.
‘had one of these

p. 214 striving to recal[l] the past Added.

genuflexions prescribed by their Added.
belief[.]

p. 218 is thy doom[,/.] Choose then—in this Added.

may meet again[,/.] Corrected.

p. 221 in the Beechwood groves and round the Corrected.
Hermitage[,/.] He

p. 228 a field with a few single t[er/re]es, Transposed

p. 244 The S[a/u]ltaun’s message Corrected.

p. 249 distance could be seen Transposed.
disti[cn/nc]tly—in some places

p. 274 and the whole body hurried on[./,] Corrected.

p. 276 of a battalion of infant[r]y Added.

p. 285 [th ers/others] wheeled and screamed Corrected.

[oth/the] obscene birds, Corrected.

p. 301 ‘I will, Khanum, I will,’ cried the Added.
woman; [‘]I will

p. 305 was before him[.] Added.

p. 307 he revelled in all the opportun[it]ies> Added.

p. 311 and he passed on to the [appartment] of _Sic._
those

p. 312 ‘[’]Tis the worse for thee, Added.

and no one else dares to—[”/’] Corrected.

p. 315 sharply for our att[t]ack upon Added.
Travancore;

p. 320 despoiled me of money—[villified] my _Sic._
character;

forgott[o/e]n me then, Jaffar?’ Corrected.

the light [boddice] which enclosed it, _Sic._

p. 341 got up and followed him[,/.] Soon these Corrected.
sent

p. 356 said Philip; [‘]we must remove them.’ Added.

p. 359 [‘]but sit and speak to me Added.

p. 360 the distress of the army increased[.] Added.

p. 389 that she hath not seen this,[’] she Added.
said;

p. 405 A surgeon, a friend of the officer, was Removed.
sent for[,]; Kasim’s leg was

p. 407 Could this be thy brother?[’] Added.

‘It is! it is![’] cried Philip, Added.

p. 408 it may not be your friend.[’] Added.

p. 421 having ar[r]ived at Mangalore, Added.

p. 428 would inspire with a compas[s]ion Added.

p. 437 [‘]we have hope Added.

p. 440 ‘Stay![’] he cried, Added.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Tippoo Sultaun - A tale of the Mysore war" ***

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