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last been withdrawn from thence, and was now attached to the large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?’