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A Noble Queen: A Romance of Indian History (Volume 1 of 3)

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Title: A Noble Queen: A Romance of Indian History (Volume 1 of 3)

Author: Meadows Taylor


        
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NOBLE QUEEN: A ROMANCE OF INDIAN HISTORY (VOLUME 1 OF 3) ***

    A NOBLE QUEEN:
    _A ROMANCE OF INDIAN HISTORY._

    BY

    MEADOWS TAYLOR,
    C.S.I., M.R.A.S., M.R.I.A., &c.
    AUTHOR OF 'SEETA,' 'TARA,' AND OTHER TALES.

    'O, never was there queen
    So mightily betray'd!'
    _Antony and Cleopatra_, act i. sc. iii.

    IN THREE VOLUMES.
    VOL. I.

    LONDON:
    C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
    1878.




    (_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._)




    TO
    HIS EXCELLENCY
    MOOKHTAR-OOL MOOLK
    SIR SALAR JUNG BAHADUR, G.C.S.I.
    THE EMINENT AND ACCOMPLISHED STATESMAN
    AND
    LEADER OF ALL THE ADVANCING CIVILIZATION OF THE DEKHAN
    THIS WORK,
    ILLUSTRATIVE OF A PORTION OF ITS HISTORY,
    IS DEDICATED
    BY HIS FAITHFUL FRIEND,
    _MEADOWS TAYLOR_.




INTRODUCTION.


The favour with which my former Indian tales have been received has
induced me to write another, in illustration of one of the most
important epochs in the history of the Dekhan. The character of the
noble Queen Chand Beebee is still popular in the country; and her
memory is reverenced, not only as the preserver of Beejapoor, but
for the heroic resistance she made to the Moghul armies in their
first invasion of the Dekhan and siege of Ahmednugger. The whole
circumstances relating to the Queen, upon which this tale has been
founded, are detailed in the history of Mahomed Kasim Ferishta, and
can be read and verified in the translation of that work by the late
Major-General Briggs.

    MEADOWS TAYLOR.

    OLD COURT, HAROLD'S CROSS, CO. DUBLIN.
    _August 27, 1875._




CONTENTS
OF
THE FIRST VOLUME.


    _BOOK I._
    CHAPTER                                 PAGE
       I.  THE CATARACT OF THE KRISHNA         1
      II.  "A NIGHT'S VIGIL"                  25
     III.  THE PRIESTS OF MOODGUL             44
      IV.  AN INSULT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES     54
       V.  A NEW ARRIVAL                      80
      VI.  THE STORM AND THE FLOOD            97
     VII.  CONFIDENCES AND FAREWELLS         119
    VIII.  MÁMA LUTEEFA PROPHESIES           138
      IX.  TREACHERY                         156
       X.  HOW THE NIGHT PASSED              175
      XI.  SAVED                             188


    _BOOK II._
    CHAPTER                                 PAGE
       I.  BEEJAPOOR.                        200
      II.  A RETROSPECT                      222
     III.  THE EVENTS OF A DAY               237
      IV.  THE EVENTS OF A DAY--_continued_  251
       V.  THE ORDEAL                        265
      VI.  THE COMBAT                        286


    Errata.
    At page  81, vol. i., line   4, _for_ Hoosein-bee _read_ Mamoolla.
        "   176,  "         "    4, _for_ Hoosein-bee _read_ Mamoolla.
        "   176,  "         "   17, _for_ Hoosein-bee _read_ Mamoolla.
        "   177,  "         "    6, _for_ Hoosein-bee _read_ Mamoolla.
        "   181,  "         "   11, _for_ Hoosein-bee _read_ Mamoolla.
        "   199,  "         "    4, _for_ Hoosein-bee _read_ Mamoolla.
        "   201,  "         "    8, _for_ corn _read_ cover.




A NOBLE QUEEN.

BOOK I.


CHAPTER I.

THE CATARACT OF THE KRISHNA.


Queen Elizabeth reigned in England. In the Dekhan, King Boorhan Nizam
Shah ruled over Ahmednugger, and King Ibrahim Adil Shah II. over the
kingdom of Beejapoor. They were rivals.

It was a fiery day in the end of the month of May 159-, when a small
party of horsemen, evidently weary from long travel, were passing over
the plains which lie north of the Krishna river. They carefully avoided
village and road tracks, and kept a steady course eastward across the
cultivated and uncultivated ground which seemed well known to them.
There were no hedges, as the fields are unenclosed, except near the
villages; and there were no trees, except distant clumps here and
there, which marked the site of a village or hamlet, or perchance a
lonely Mussulman shrine or Hindoo temple.

Nothing could be more dreary or desolate in appearance than the
landscape; every green thing had long ago been burnt up; the soil was
for the most part black and cracked; and the fields, which had been or
were being ploughed, were broken into large clods, over which the tired
horses strained with difficulty.

Beyond the river Krishna, which lay at a few miles' distance to the
right hand, was a small cluster of hills, and directly before them a
continuation of the range, which seemed to be broken in the middle by
a gap; but the hills themselves were continually distorted by the hot
wind and mirage, which had effect on everything about them.

Trees suddenly appeared to start up, which dwindled into bushes as the
party approached them; villages, with their walls and roofs of white
slaty limestone, rose into seeming palaces, glittering in the sun, and
disappeared; lakes of water seemed to gather together, and again vanish
under the fierce blasts of the burning wind, which carried with it at
times clouds of choking dust. Men and bullocks ploughing were seen for
a moment, then rose quivering and misshapen into the air, and vanished
under an increased blast.

Now and then the droning song of the ploughmen came upon them in
snatches, borne by the wind, and again ceased, and there was no sound
except the plaintive whistle of the red plover, as flocks ran swiftly
over the ground, the shrill chirrup of grasshoppers, or the wail of the
lapwing when it was disturbed and flew away. Occasionally large lizards
with red throats raised their heads stupidly as the party passed them,
or the small blue-throated species looked pertly from its position on a
stone or high clod, puffed out its beautiful azure neck, and whistled a
defiant note as it beheld the unusual sight, or darted into the hole or
crack in which it lived, and was seen no more.

Over ploughed fields flocks of crows or white storks, with their beaks
wide open, searched among the newly-turned clods for insects, and rose
up with harsh cries and flew away before the mirage, and were soon lost
to view; or trembling in the hot air took a short flight and settled
again. Here and there a small river bed or a brook suggested a pool of
water or thread of stream, at which the horses and men could quench
their thirst; but they stayed rarely for this, and pursued their way
with all the speed, a quick amble, that their horses were capable of.

In truth, painful to endure as it undoubtedly was, this hot wind and
mirage had proved to be their preserver from capture, and probably
death. The times were lawless and fierce; party feeling ran high in
the Dekhan kingdom, and partizans showed little mercy to each other in
the civil war then raging. Early that morning a small force of cavalry
in the service of the King of Beejapoor had started on its way to join
one of the main bodies of the Royal army on its march to subdue the
rebellion of the Prince Ismail, the King's younger brother. But the
rebellion was, in fact, that of Eyn-ool-Moolk, the ex-Prime Minister,
who in putting forward the young prince had trusted to regain his old
influence and power. Nor did this seem at all improbable, as he was
certain of the assistance of the King of Ahmednugger and his powerful
armies, in order to pay off scores with his cousin of Beejapoor.

It was necessary, therefore, for Beejapoor to send all the troops at
its disposal to quell the insurrection which had begun at Belgaum,
and the party of cavalry under the young Abbas Khan, which had held a
frontier outpost, being ordered to join a larger division, had been
pushing on incautiously that morning before daylight, when it was
attacked suddenly by an overwhelming force, and, after losing half its
number on the field, was forced to fly. Many more were pursued, and
captured or slain; many followed their brave young leader, occasionally
showing front to their pursuers; but they gradually fell off, and only
the four best mounted remained. Even they had had a narrow escape. From
the brow of an undulation they had caught the glint of spears on the
plain below, while they had also been seen in their elevated position,
and were pursued with fresh ardour; but as they plunged into the hot
waves of mirage, then beginning to blow, they had been concealed by it,
or their figures so distorted that they could not be recognised.

We have no concern in this tale with the progress of the rebellion, or
its sudden collapse after the death of Eyn-ool-Moolk, its instigator,
and have only mentioned it incidentally to account for the flight of
the small party whom we are following.

They seldom spoke one to another, for their heads were muffled in folds
of cotton cloth, and the cotton sheets they usually carried on their
saddles were now thrown over their persons to keep off the fierce heat
of the sun. It was evident that two of them were wounded; and exhausted
by the heat and loss of blood, could barely sit their horses. One of
these was the young leader of the party, Abbas Khan, who occasionally
reeled in his saddle as if about to faint from weakness, but again
revived by a drink of water from a companion's leathern bottle, rallied
bravely, and the march was resumed as before.

Abbas Khan, the nephew of Humeed Khan, and his adopted son, was,
perhaps, twenty-five years old, or it might be less. His dress of
Genoa velvet, braided with gold, was rich and handsome, but frayed
with perpetual use, as were also the crimson velvet saddle-cloth and
housings. On his head he wore a steel morion with a spike at the top,
covered partly with padded velvet flaps, which fell over his ears and
part of his neck behind, and were protected by small scales of steel;
and a steel bar, as part of the morion itself, projected over his
forehead, and was covered with velvet as the side pieces. Long Persian
boots of soft leather, embroidered in coloured silk, greaves of padded
velvet, strengthened by steel scales, covered his thighs, and steel
gauntlets, richly inlaid with gold, defended his wrists and his arms up
to his elbow; a waistband of a rich green muslin scarf, the brocaded
ends of which were tied at his right side, partly supported his sword,
which hung from a baldrick embroidered with gold, crossing his breast.

It was the handsome dress of a Dekhan cavalier of the period, and there
was not a braver, nor as yet one more distinguished, than the young
Abbas Khan. For the times were rough. Insurrections and rebellions were
the normal condition of the country, and especially of the capital;
while from Ahmednugger on the north, and Beeder and Golconda on the
east, the frontier was rarely or ever secure. Often, indeed, great
leagues were made among the rival Sovereigns, and large armies sent
into the field, when heavy actions were fought with terrible slaughter.
Abbas Khan's service had always been in frontier posts, and his
daring character and athletic frame urged him to undertake perilous
enterprises, with little heed as to the possible results; indeed, he
seemed to have no perception of danger, nor thought but to strike a
blow against an enemy whenever he might appear. Rash to a degree, his
uncle had refused him a command in his own army lest by his indiscreet
valour he might compromise the effect of military skill; but he had no
wish to curb the young man too much, and as the best experience was
to be gained in frontier service, he had from time to time committed
important posts to his nephew's charge.

Those who had escaped with him from the skirmish at Kórla were his own
retainers; but they had, as we know, fallen behind from exhaustion,
wandered into other paths, or taken refuge in villages. There were
only three left--one, by name Jumal, as badly wounded as the young
leader himself, who with difficulty kept his seat. He was the Khan's
standard-bearer, and still carried the small green pennon he had
defended so bravely in the fight. The second was Yasin, an attendant
of his own; the third Runga, a chief of the Beydurs of the country to
the eastward, a tall grim-looking Hindoo, who acted as guide. All were
well mounted, but the hardy, active horse of the Beydur was perhaps the
freshest.

The day was now declining, and the furious wind had somewhat fallen,
but still blew in occasional gusts, accompanied by clouds of dust; but
the wounded men could barely hold out, and there were drops of blood
oozing from the bandages with which the Khan's chest and left arm had
been hastily bound up, while the pressure of the velvet coat, soaked
in blood, which had dried hard and adhered to a part of the wound, was
exquisitely painful.

The Beydur saw that it was so, and tried to cheer his young master,
saying in his rough Canarese tongue, which the Khan understood
perfectly, "Fear not, Abbas Khan, fear not, an hour hence thou wilt
be safe in the fort. See, the trees of Nalutwar are already behind us,
and my own hills are growing more and more distinct amidst the haze and
dust. Cheer up, and set thy teeth like a true soldier as thou art; I
say another coss and thou art safe among my people, and the wound shall
be dressed again. And thou, too, Jumal, we will care for thee also.
Faint not, man, but keep a good heart."

"I do not like the ceasing of the wind so suddenly," said Yasin Khan;
"if the rebels were to see us now, we should have a poor chance for
life."

"We could at least die like soldiers," was the Khan's reply. "It was my
rashness which caused this disaster and the loss of so many of our poor
fellows! May God forgive me, for I fear my uncle will not; and to your
fidelity I owe my life, O friends; may Alla reward ye. Yes, I will hold
out, if the bleeding will let me, but even now the ground swims before
my eyes. Give me some more water, for I thirst." And after a long
draught from the leathern bottle, the young man settled himself afresh
in his saddle, spoke cheerily to his horse, and pressed on again.

They had not proceeded more than a mile when several men sprang out of
a thicket and rushed towards the Beydur chief, whose feet they kissed
with passionate tears and cries of joy. "Oh, thou art safe, thou art
safe," was all they could find words to say. "We heard thou wert dead,
lying on the field by Kórla, and some have gone to seek thee there."

"Peace," cried the chief, laughing. "See, children, I am unharmed and
safe."

"But there is danger," cried several. "A party of the rebel horsemen
have tracked ye, and are near us now. Can ye not ride faster? once
within the pass and ye are safe. Ride on, we will follow."

"On your lives," returned the chief, "stop them there. Keep yourselves
close within the brushwood, and fire at them as ye can. Their horses
are as weary as our own, and can do little. Ye can defend the mouth of
the Cháya Bhugwuti; or, if they are many, ye may entice them into the
hills on the main road."

"And what would ye do by the Cháya Bhugwuti? Do ye not know, master,
that Mother Krishna is running full, and ye cannot get refuge in the
fort?"

"Ha!" cried the chief, "is it so indeed? and when did this happen? We
did not hear the mother."

"About noon," was the reply of several. "She comes down before her
time. Listen!"

As the man spoke, a deep hollow sound fell upon their ears. The wind
blowing from the west, along the course of the great river, had
prevented this sound reaching them before; but there could be no
mistake now, and on passing a small eminence they saw the river in
flood, from bank to bank, rushing rapidly along; while in the gap of
the hill before them rose a column of mist, which increased as the
wind lulled, and again was blown away as a gust came down the river.

"If there were time," said the leader of the new party with his men,
who were running beside the horses, "ye should turn by the upper road,
and make straight for Korikul, but it is too late now for that; and how
are ye to cross the river?"

"Let us reach Narrainpoor first, and we will see to that," said Runga,
quietly. "Away, some of ye, to Narrainpoor, and tell the fishermen to
go on to the lower ferry with their gear. Their lives shall answer
for the young Khan's if there be any delay, and I, Runga, declare it.
Tell Krishna, the barber, to have his needles ready; there may be time
to dress the Khan's wound. Ye remember him, children, how he slew the
panther with his sword, and how ye all worshipped him. Away! we have to
save his life; no matter what the flood is, we shall be cowards if we
do not place him in the fort ere the sun sets."

The men he spoke to were Beydurs like himself. Indeed, Runga was not
only a chief but a relative of the Rajâh of the Clan, then a very
powerful one, which could bring twenty thousand men into the field.
Runga Naik held the lower part of the western frontier with horse and
footmen, and had been summoned to join the young Khan according to the
tenor of his service to the State. He was a true adherent, not only
because of his service, but because of his love for and admiration of
the Khan, and this was shared by the people. It would be disgrace
indeed if aught happened to Abbas Khan or his followers; and at their
chief's appeal several of them dashed forward in the direction of the
hollow booming sound and cloud of mist.

They were fleet of foot, and admirably equipped for tough frontier
service. On their heads they wore conical caps of leather, which drew
in by a string round the forehead and temples. Each wore loose leather
drawers reaching as far as the knee, with a red waistband of strong
stuff, and pliant sandals completed their costume. Some had sword and
shield, with a knife in the girdle; others carried long matchlocks,
with the powder-horns and bullet-bags hanging at their waists.
Among rocks and brushwood they were invisible, and as the aspect of
the country had suddenly changed, there were now granite rocks and
brushwood enough to conceal a host of such men as they.

"Some of us had better stop here," cried the leader of the footmen, as
they approached a small pass in the hill, "and wait for the rebel dogs
if they come up."

"Do so, my sons," replied the leader, "but do not fire unless they make
an attempt to pass you. And now, Khan," he said to the young man, as
he pointed out a small village with some green rice fields around it,
"that is Narrainpoor, and I vow an offering to Cháya Bhugwuti herself,
if she allow us to pass her in safety. Cheer up now, and keep thy heart
thankful, for all danger is past."

It was well, indeed, that the refuge was near, for Abbas Khan was past
speech. He was faint and sick, reeling in his saddle at every stumble
of his noble horse in the rough ground. Often he had patted its neck
and encouraged it by his voice; and met with a response in a low whinny
and a toss of the head; but now horse and rider were alike exhausted.
The young Khan was conscious of nothing but a dull booming sound in his
ears, which increased every moment, yet he clung instinctively to the
saddle, and his standard-bearer's powerful arm alone had prevented him
from falling to the ground for the last few miles. He had heard the
Beydur's last speech with only a dim consciousness of what it meant,
but he smiled faintly, and pointed to his wound, and to his mouth,
which was parched, and was becoming swollen. Then Runga Naik dashed
forward and returned with a number of men and a low bedstead; the young
Khan was placed upon it, and borne gently into the village, while
his charger was cared for by kindly men, who allowed him to nibble
mouthfuls of the fresh green rice, as he passed on.

"See whom I have brought you, Bheemajee," said the Naik. "'Tis Abbas
Khan, our young master, and a brave one too; therefore assist him, for
he is badly wounded, and, notwithstanding, hath ridden through this
fearful day without a murmur, true soldier as he is: but now he has
fainted at last. Where is Krishna, the barber? He must see to the wound
directly."

"I am here, Maharaj," said that functionary, stepping forward. "Show me
the wound, and I will do what is needful."

They stripped him as he lay unconscious on the bed, and the stiff
velvet coat being carefully removed, as well as the heavy steel morion,
and his head bathed with cool water, the young man sat up, and at first
looked wildly about him.

"Ul-humd-ul-Illa," said the standard-bearer, piously. "He wakes from
his trance, and will live; but I thought he would have died."

"Not this time, friend," said the Khan, faintly enough, but with a
cheery smile. "How much farther have we to go? Let me mount again and
get on; we have yet far to ride, and I feel strong and well already."

"You are among my people now," cried Runga Naik, cheerily; "no more
riding, and the fort is nigh at hand, where you will be safe for a long
rest. Fear not, therefore; old Krishnajee will dress your wound, and
they are cooking some kicheri. Praise to the gods! you are safe, my
noble master!"

Then the barber performed his duty skilfully and tenderly. The wound
was long, extending from the left breast across the left arm, and had
bled much, but was not very deep. A few stitches were put into it to
keep the lips together, a poultice of green herbs, carefully mashed,
was placed over it, and a few bandages completed the simple dressing,
which was borne, though it had been exquisitely painful, without a
murmur.

The other wounded man was treated in the same manner, but he was
weaker, and his wound was deeper, and a Mussulman fakeer who was
present took charge of him carefully.

It was surprising to see how the young Khan had rallied; but his great
strength of frame and vigorous constitution enabled him to conquer
at last the weakness that had overtaken him, and after a slight but
grateful meal, he professed himself ready to go on.

But now the old Patell interfered. "The mother river is raging," he
cried; "do not ye hear her? and, indeed, the thunder of the cataract
has increased as the wind fell. No one could attempt to cross the
rapids below and live. My sons, be not mad! and let the lives the gods
have spared rest here with us in safety. Go not to certain death!"

"Peace, Bheemajee!" returned Runga Naik, somewhat scornfully. "I have
crossed the rapid myself when it was worse than it is now, and the
mother has done me no harm. I tell thee there is no time to delay.
Hark! dost thou hear that--and that? The enemy are at the pass, and
there are only twelve men to hold it. Burma will not let them through
if he can help it; but if they are many he must fail, and we perish.
Ho! my sons," he cried to the people around, "who will swim with me
across the ford? do ye fear?"

With a shout and yell, such as Beydurs only can give, a number of stout
young fellows answered the appeal and ran for their bundles of gourds,
which were always ready. "We are your children," they said, touching
their master's feet and the Khan's; "we will take you over, and fear
not. Let us go now. There is an hour's good light, and we can remain in
Juldroog and cross by the lower ferry in the boat. Come!"

It was indeed time, for the first few shots in the pass seemed to
be followed up by others, and the shouts and shrieks of the Beydurs
sounded closer. "Away with ye," cried the Beydur Naik to the men who
had accompanied him; "tell Burma to hold the pass with his life for
half an hour, then to retreat to the Cháya Bhugwuti, and hold that till
death, if needs be." And as the men departed, the Khan's bed was taken
up, the horses sent on before, and the little procession, leaving the
village, proceeded at as rapid a pace as the rugged ground would permit.

"If the pass is forced," said Runga to the Patell, "keep the wounded
man safely concealed, and bring what men ye have to the entrance of
Cháya Bhugwuti, and all of ye defend that. If Burma and his people are
safe, fire two shots down the ravine over the ford, and we shall know
what they mean."

"May the Mother guide you, my lord," said the old man piously. "I vow a
sacrifice to Cháya Mata if she let you pass safely."

The path was narrow and intricate, among huge masses of granite rock,
which sometimes almost blocked the way. It would have been impossible
to have ridden through it. Suddenly Runga Naik stopped.

"You would like, perhaps, to see the nymph in her fury," he said, "and
you can do that without walking. Come on to the edge," he said to the
bearers of the Khan's litter, "and set it down on the terrace." The men
did so, and Abbas Khan beheld a scene which, from its combined grandeur
and beauty, struck him with utter amazement.

The terrace of rock was level, and his bed had been set down on the
very edge. At first he closed his eyes, for he hardly dared to look
on the turmoil of waters below him; but the tall figure of Runga Naik
was even nearer the fearful precipice, and he seemed to stand unmoved.
"Wait a little, Khan Sahib," he said in his strong, manly voice; "wait
till a gust of wind drives away this blinding mist, and thou wilt see
it all." And almost as he spoke the spray, driven by the wind, passed
to the other side of the chasm, slowly unveiling by degrees the noble
cataract, which he could now see nearly from the top, whence the water
of the mighty river precipitated itself--to the bottom, where it was
still partially veiled with spray. The river was full from bank to
bank, and about a quarter of a mile, perhaps indeed more, in breadth,
and fell from point or step to step of the incline of four hundred feet
with a fearful crash and clamour. In no part of its course, except one,
was the rock perpendicular, but it was broken by huge masses of rock
which showed their tops only in a few places. The steps of the whole
incline were in irregular portions, which caused breaks in the fall
and added to its sublimity. Here and there the action of the water
had hollowed out large deep holes, which now and again spouted forth
columns of water and spray to a surprising height, and fell back with
a roar and splash with marvellous effect. The whole was a seething,
roaring mass, which dazzled his eyes and, weak as he was, overpowered
his senses, and he sank back almost fainting; but he rallied directly,
and again the Beydur chief spoke.

"The pool is clear, Meeah," he said. "See, it is like all the horses in
the world tossing their manes and fighting."

It was, indeed, a frightful place to look upon. At his feet, as it
seemed, in a wide pool at the foot of the fall, the tremendous masses
of water falling into it met other currents and eddies of equal power,
and dashing together raised enormous waves which met in innumerable
shocks, and cast their spray high into the air, whirling, foaming,
breaking, with inconceivable violence and grandeur almost impossible
to look on with a steady eye for a moment together. Yet the Beydur, to
whom the scene was familiar, beheld it with a serene gravity.

"This is the nymph in her fury," he said, "and we worship her, and cast
flowers and our simple offerings into her bosom to appease her. When it
is past we can wander over the rocks and make offerings at the holy
pools, which now vomit forth the columns of water you see rising, and
the pool now so fearful to look upon is as still as a lake. Come, you
have seen enough."

But the Khan was fascinated. "A little while more, and I shall be
ready," he said. "The first shock of the sight was almost too much for
me, but now I am calmer, and I would watch awhile."

The sun had become low in the heavens, and the slanting beams of his
light played over the boiling water with exquisite effect. The terror
of the cataract had passed away, and only its beauty remained. Although
the water was yellow and muddy, yet the rosy light played among every
giant stream, or tiny portion of the vast fall, causing rainbows to
appear, to vanish, and to re-appear in every part of the spray on which
the sun shone. No one could count them: some remained steady for an
instant, then broke to pieces; some were seen only to disappear; while
beneath them the stupendous rushes of water from the great holes,
rising in perpetual changes, seemed hung with these lovely garlands
ever varying. The banks of the chasm were huge piles of granite rock,
covered with trees and brushwood, which seemed to bend in homage to
the genius of the place, and they were all now lighted up with roseate
tints, while the deep shadows of the ravine increased the beauty and
solemnity of the scene.

"Enough!" cried the young Khan, after a silence of some minutes. "My
soul is full of it. And such are the powers and works of the Lord of
Might! Yet no one had told me of this most wonderful sight. Lead on,
friend. I shall not forget what I have seen. This is, indeed, a land of
wonders. And is yon roaring torrent to be crossed?"

"Even so," said his guide. "The Holy Mother will protect us if we are
brave and trust to her. The water is smooth at the ferry though it is
rapid, and we need to be careful. A hundred times have I crossed it
alone, with only a few gourds tied to my back; but my lord is precious,
and we have made every preparation."

Then the bed was taken up and carried on along the almost level top
of the bank of the ravine, but the way became more difficult and
intricate as they proceeded. Presently, as they emerged from behind a
great cluster of rocks piled one upon another, as it were by mortal
hands, the noble fort of Juldroog appeared. At first it seemed to
belong to the rocky range on which the party were proceeding, but after
a little time the Khan saw that it was detached and stood alone. It
was a lofty hill, consisting of the same granite rocks as the range,
and in its natural state must have been almost inaccessible; but it
had been strengthened by bastions and curtains wherever they could be
placed, and had been made a perfectly impregnable citadel. The house
of the commander surmounted all, and from its roof flew the Royal
standard of Bejapoor. The sun shone brightly upon the rocks, the
brushwood, and the massive fortifications, and seemed to soften and
harmonise their rugged details, and the young Khan looked eagerly to
his place of refuge and his cousin's pleasant society with a degree of
feverish anxiety, which was the consequence of his wound as well of the
exhausting day he had gone through.

Now the bearers began to descend a narrow pass in the bank, which was
traversed with difficulty, even by men; but the people who carried him
were sure footed, and performed their task steadily and successfully.
At the foot was a small portion of green sward, on which some persons
were resting, with a bed smaller than that the Khan had been carried
upon, with, as it seemed, piles of dry gourds tied to its legs and
sides.

From this spot the view of the fort was even more impressive than from
above. It appeared to rise like a cone to the height of five hundred
feet or more; a pile of masses of granite, built up by Titans, but
softened by foliage and brushwood. The bastions, which from above
seemed to be part of the fort itself, now projected from the rocks in
bold relief against the reddened sky, and the sun, shining down the
river, lighted the waters with a soft red glare, which rested upon
the fort and the mountains beyond with a rich, but lovely, effect.
Before them the channel they had to pass was hardly more than a bowshot
across, but the current, though smooth, was very rapid, and the water
passed in undulations, either caused by masses of rock beneath or by
its own inherent force. These undulations were regular, and nowhere
formed breakers. Already they saw the walls beyond and the beach,
filling with people to watch their progress; but even the powerful
voice of the Beydur chief could not be heard, and, taking a brass horn
from one of the men, he blew a loud blast, with a peculiar quivering
note at the end of it, which was answered at once from the fort.

"Ah! they know my signal, you see, Khan, and now we shall have thy
cousin to welcome thee. Come, the raft is ready, Bismilla!"

Runga Naik had divested himself of his dress and arms, and placed only
his sword upon the frail raft, where the Khan's dress and arms were
also bestowed. The horses and the Khan's followers had been sent by the
upper path to the village of Jernalpoor, and would rest there till the
flood subsided. And all was now ready.

"Stay," cried the Beydur, "I would fain hear that my people are safe,
and I have arranged the signal. Hark!"

Almost as he spoke two shots were discharged from the upper pass, and
he knew that the enemy's attack had been repulsed. "Bismilla!" he
exclaimed, as he sat astride between two piles of gourds, united by
a broad and strong horse-girth, "one cannot be drowned with such as
these. Now, my sons, take the Khan up gently, and place the bed in
the water--wait my signal, and let the next wave pass by. Now!" he
shouted, as one of the waves of the current, passing by, broke on the
pebbly beach. "Now, for your lives, Jey Mata!" "Jey Mata!" was repeated
by the ferrymen, and the little raft shot out with the vigorous strokes
of the swimmers into the stream.

The passage was not without extreme danger, for the power of the
current was immense and carried them down a long distance, and the
young Khan, as the banks seemed to shoot past him, and the raft was
whirled round and round with great velocity, almost gave up hope that
the stream would be passed; but the Beydur cried to him not to fear,
for all danger was over; and, in any case, resigning himself, like a
good Moslim, to his fate, he saw, after a time that appeared to him
interminable, that the raft was urged into a backwater, and men on the
bank flung ropes to them, by which the shore was soon gained.

"Well done! well done!" cried a manly voice from a crowd of soldiers.
"I say, well done, Runga Naik, 'tis like thee to do a feat of daring
like that; but whom hast thou there? By the Prophet, but I should know
his face. Abbas Khan! brother! how comest thou here in such a woful
plight; and wounded, too?"

"It is no time to ask questions of him now, my lord," said the Beydur;
"but for that ugly wound he would be as strong and fresh as I am; but
you see he has been bleeding all day in the hot wind, and has been
often insensible, and seems to have fainted again. Yet run to some
shelter, I pray thee, and let thy surgeon look after him."

"He is gone to Moodgul, alas!" said Osman Beg, the killadar or governor
of the fort, who was usually termed Nawab, "and all I can do is to
recall him when any one can get across the large channel, which I fear
may not be for some days. There is, however, the old Dervish, who hath
a rare skill, and he can be taken there at once."

"Good, my lord; let him be taken up as he is by my people, and if thou
wilt send one of thy servants with him, the holy Syud will no doubt
help him, though he is blind."

"I will go myself," said the Nawab, "and see to his comfort."

Then the bed was taken up and carried on gently, and set down within
the enclosure of a small mosque and dwelling-place. At first the old
Dervish could not understand why he had been so suddenly disturbed, but
on hearing that a wounded man needed his care, bade him to be brought
in, and, after examining him, declared he must remain for the present
where he was, and that the attendant whom the governor had nominated to
wait upon his cousin should remain also to minister to him.

The young Khan was at once bathed, dressed in dry garments, and laid in
a comfortable bed. The barber's stitches of his wound had at least held
well, and bleeding had ceased. He was already refreshed, but he could
not give a clear account of what had happened to the old Sheykh and
his cousin, who sat by him. His pain had increased, and a low delirium
had commenced.

"Oh that I could see you," he said, "but I am blind! Zóra, my child,
make up the soothing potion for him and a poultice of herbs, and tell
his people how it is to be applied. We will both watch him to-night,
for the fever is strong; but, Inshalla, ere many days he will be strong
again. Be assured, Nawab Sahib, that your poor servant will do his
best."

"Then I leave my cousin in thy care, Hazrar, and will return early to
see him," said the Nawab, as he saluted the Dervish reverentially and
took his departure.




CHAPTER II.

"A NIGHT'S VIGIL."


The night was hot, and the incessant roar of the cataract came fitfully
on the ear as it now swelled into a deep thunderous sound, and again
was softened by the night air. Under the effects of the opiate the
young man seemed to sleep for a while, but the fever prevailed again,
and with bright glassy eyes the sufferer now stared vacantly about him,
recognising no one, and relapsing into insensibility; but he muttered
low words to himself, and all they who watched could distinguish were
an occasional fierce battle cry, and the broken interjections of a
combat. From time to time the old Dervish felt his pulse and his head,
but there were no signs of relief, and he sate down again anxiously.
"The sun hath stricken him," he said to the child, "as well as the
sword, and it may go hard with him, strong as he is. Alas! alas! if
he should die? Yet he shall not die unless Alla wills it. If I could
but see him. Ya Kureem! if I could but see him! Watch him carefully,
Zóra, and tell me from time to time how he looks; give him the cooling
drink when he is uneasy, and see that the cloths on his brow do not
get dry. Ere morning he may sleep quietly. Meanwhile I will pray for
him, child, and if it be his fate he will live;" and the Dervish turned
aside, and Zóra saw his beads passing through his fingers and his lips
moving in prayer as he bowed his face to the ground.

So the child watched, and wondered as she gazed on the face and figure
lying before her. Sometimes the features would be distorted by pain,
and again this would be changed to fierce excitement, and the battle
cries would be uttered with a fierce vigour as he partly rose and waved
his right arm as if it held a sword; but the girl put it back gently,
and patted him as she would a child. Sometimes his lips would seem to
be dry, and his tongue stiff and clammy, and he would cry for water
faintly and querulously; and the cool drink administered to him from
time to time soothed him for the moment, and he lay quietly. Zóra was
an experienced nurse, for often she had attended the sick and wounded
who were brought to her grandfather's humble dwelling for help. She had
no timidity of men, she had never been secluded like other girls of her
age, and her office was to lead her grandfather when he moved abroad,
and to tend the sick who came for his advice. The light was purposely
dimmed, but her form could be clearly seen, and we may endeavour to
describe it.

Zóra was apparently about fourteen years old, perhaps somewhat more;
but she was tall for her age, and her figure was lithe and supple. She
was fair in comparison with ordinary Mussulman women of her country,
but not fairer than a light, clear, ruddy brown, betokening health
and strength. Her head was small and perfectly shaped, sitting on a
graceful neck; and her hair, a glossy black, escaped from under the
scarf she wore in a profusion of soft curls, which seemed to wind
lovingly about her neck and shoulders. Her forehead was wide and
somewhat low, but smooth and glistening, the eyebrows gently arched
and regular; but it was the eyes that involuntarily attracted every
beholder, and with her mobile lips expressed every emotion of her
mind. Now they would be fully and tenderly opened, and you would see
the large soft dilated pupil of a velvety black, floating, as it were,
on a ground of the tenderest violet and azure. A merry arch glance
shot from them as they closed almost to a twinkling dot of light. They
seemed incapable of anger or petulance, and, indeed, the child's life
had as yet been one of little sorrow or excitement of any kind, and her
natural disposition was gentle and submissive.

It was certain that her figure would be strikingly elegant as her
age progressed, but as yet there was no indication of form, except a
litheness and grace which marked every movement; and as she stretched
forth her hand to minister to the wounded sufferer, her rounded arms,
small hands, and taper fingers, gave promise of actual beauty in days
to come; while as she threw back her luxuriant hair, the movement of
her neck conveyed an exquisite undulating motion to her whole figure.
No one could call the girl beautiful, or her features regular; they
would not have been nearly so charming had they been so; but her mouth
and pearly teeth accorded with all else, and combined to produce a
countenance as attractive as it was in reality arch, good humoured,
and interesting. She was very plainly, not to say coarsely, clad; but
the simple muslin scarf, which passing round her body and head fell
over her right arm, was worn with a peculiar air and grace, and the
petticoat of cotton stuff was, perhaps, fuller and more womanly than
her age required.

She was mistress of her grandfather's house; and the gossips about,
though somewhat shocked at her being seen abroad at all, told her she
was too old to wear a child's trousers, and they had been discarded.
Round her neck she wore a single silver ring, and bracelets and anklets
of the same, but hid away in a chest were some gold ornaments and
rich clothes. And in regard to these, and to his former life, her
grandfather was silent. Some day, he had said, he would tell her all,
but she was too young yet, and it was a sad story. All that she knew
of him from the neighbours was that, although a Dervish, he was a
State prisoner, and the time of his first coming to the fort had been
forgotten long ago.

Her mother had died in her infancy, yet Zóra's young life had been a
happy one as she grew up. The old man had taught her the rudiments of
Persian, and the meaning of words, at first parrotwise, but gradually,
and with the aid of a village scribe, she had progressed easily and
satisfactorily. Her grandfather usually spoke to her in that language,
and she could now write a fair hand, and record what he dictated to
her. She had had few companions, except when she was a mere child,
for as she grew older her grandfather admonished her against the idle
gossip of the little village which lay beneath the fortress, and when
she went out with him to lead him where he desired to go, no one,
out of respect to the old man, ever addressed her. She had only one
attendant, an old woman named Mamoola, who swept the house and cooked
their simple meals, and was assisted by Zóra in all other household
matters with unceasing skill and interest in her occupation. Who
could make the tender hot cakes and the various kinds of vermicelli
in which the old man delighted more deftly than Zóra? Who could sew
the old-fashioned flowing garments he wore so well as she? And she
had learned also to make quilted caps, and embroider them with gold
and silver ornaments and spangles, which the soldiers of the fort
commissioned, and were sold also in the little weekly bazaar, bringing
a welcome addition to their limited means. Zóra's soft, pretty drawer
strings, also, were knitted in elegant patterns, and finished with gay
tassels, and there was an active demand for them. So, in all respects,
the little maiden was ever busy, and any loneliness of life or care
had, as yet, never reached her.

Zóra sighed as she looked on the young Khan, so restless in his
feverish sleep. Why should he have come to such a pass? Why should the
pitiful Alla have thus struck him down in his strength and power of
life, and cast him upon the care of strangers? What misery would be
his mother's, or his sister's, perhaps his wife's, if they could only
see him now, moaning and murmuring in his sleep, and now and again
shouting his fierce battle-cry, "Deen! Deen!" and raising his arm to
strike. What was war, that men should risk their lives for its dread
honours, sudden death or a maimed life? War was, indeed, a common theme
even among children of her own age, and there were names of heroes in
their mouths. But war had now come to the lonely, secluded fortress of
Juldroog. Soldiers came and went, and wounded men were brought in, and
her grandfather was often called to them. Ah! it must be pitiful to see
thousands of them lying on the bare earth, blistering in the sun, with
horrible wounds undressed and uncared for; and the very thoughts made
her shiver and draw her scarf tighter around her.

Before her lay a youth whose form was cast in a noble fashion. His
muscular arms were bare, and his broad chest, except where it was
bound up. When the features were at rest, they seemed to her grand and
beautiful; and when he sometimes smiled during his snatches of sleep, a
winning frank expression passed over them, and the gentlest smile she
had ever seen. Again, in a paroxysm of pain or delirium, the whole was
distorted and blurred, and the girl turned away her face with tears
and low sobs, which she could only with difficulty stifle. And still
she watched, and the old man kept his prayerful vigil, and the cataract
continued its monotonous, thundering roar, which seemed at times to
fall into a sobbing moan.

"Lie down and sleep, Zóra," said the Dervish, in a low tone. "Thou must
be weary of watching, my child, and the night is far spent."

"Not so, Abba!" which was her usual term of endearment for her
grandfather; "not so. I am not weary. I cannot sleep; and he needs
watching every moment. He will not bear the sheet over his chest, and
is ever throwing it off; his lips are dry and parched; and he looks at
me sometimes, and points to his throat and head, as if to ask for cool
drink and wet cloths, and I have to give them. O Abba! will he die?
Surely the good God will spare him. Come and feel his pulse, for he
seems hotter and more restless."

"It is as you say, my darling," replied the old man, who had risen and
felt his patient all over. "It may be the crisis of the sun fever,
and he may be better, or may pass away in death at dawn. Go quietly;
bring me of the cooling powders we made a few days ago; they are from a
formula of Aboo Sena, of blessed memory, and are potent to check fever
like this. Go and bring one."

"Oh that these sightless eyes could see but for a moment, that his
face might be revealed to me," thought the Dervish; "names that I
have not heard for years have escaped his lips, and Humeed Khan is
his uncle! What Humeed Khan? what Ankoos Khan? Eyn-ool-Moolk--is that
traitor still living? Even as I sit here, blind and helpless, the old
scenes--the noble buildings of Beejapoor, the pomp of royalty and war,
are before me--all confused and blurred in my memory with the miserable
King Ibrahim and his riotous debauchery. Strange mockery of fate! that
when honour and wealth were seemingly in my grasp they should have
passed into blindness and this prison. Yet it was thy will, O pitiful
Alla! and the old Dervish accepts it reverently. I must be careful," he
continued to himself, as the light step of Zóra entered the chamber.
"She hath never known, and must not see my weakness. Zóra, hast thou
brought the medicine?"

"It is here, Abba," she said. "How am I to give it?" "When he is
athirst again, put half the powder into the drink, and watch the
result. If his skin becomes moist, give no more; but if in an hour
he is still burning, give him the rest. I can do no more, child, but
commit him into the Lord's hands. I shall not leave thee, Zóra; but
I am weary, and would sleep. If thou art afraid at any time, I shall
awake with a touch, and will sit by thee; but where are the Nawab's
people? they can take their turn, surely."

"All gone," said Zóra. "With one excuse or other they went away, and
I have been alone; but one man lies without who has sat there since
the youth was brought in, looking wistful, like a dog which seeks his
master. I asked him who he was, and he says he is Runga Naik Beydur,
but that he may not come in as he is of low caste. May he come, Abba?"

"Surely, child, surely. True Islam knows no distinction of caste in
mercy's service, and thou mayest admit him to watch with thee if thou
wilt; and 'tis thus, my brave one," he added, tenderly passing his
hands over her face; "'tis thus thou learnest the ways of mercy and
pity. See, he stirs and writhes. I hear his movement."

"'Tis but what has happened before," she replied, as she poured some of
the sherbet into a small silver cup, and mixed the powder with it. Zóra
saw that he drank it eagerly, and again shrank back upon his pillow.

"Now I will call the Beydur," said Zóra, as she went to the door, and
found the man watching as before. "Rise, and follow me," she said.

"But I am unclean, lady," was the reply. "Who admits the Beydur within
the threshold of a devout Moslim? Yet if I might help thee to tend
him--my brave boy--my heart would thank thee."

"My grandfather bids thee come, in the name of Alla," said the girl.
"Rise and enter; you are welcome."

The man rose, and bending down to the earth clasped her feet and kissed
them passionately. Zóra could feel the hot tears dropping from his
eyes, as he put his lips to them. "So much love," she thought, "and for
a Moslim!" "Abba lies in here," she said, as she crossed the chamber,
and the stalwart form of the Beydur followed.

"He is welcome, in the name of the Most Merciful," said the old man;
"let him watch."

"Not before I have kissed your reverend feet. I know thee, Huzrut, but
I can be silent as death," said the man, partly removing his turban,
and prostrating himself. "And I may watch?"

"Hast thou eaten, my son? dost thou desire food?"

"None," replied Runga. "To see him yonder and watch by him is food and
drink to me, for I love him, Huzrut, love him as though he were my own
child. If he lives, I will eat when I have bathed. If he die, I will
stay till the earth covers him, and then depart, for I shall have a
long and weary journey before me. Will he live?"

"As God pleases," was the reply. "I have done what I could, and he is
in His hands. Watch and see."

Then Runga Naik sat down by the bed and watched with the girl. His
touch seemed as tender as a woman's as he smoothed the pillow of the
sufferer, changed the wet cloths on his head, and placed the wounded
arm in easier positions; but still the moaning and delirium continued,
and the muttering, of which Zóra could catch only a word here and
there.

"His spirit is in the fight," said Runga, softly. "Do not be afraid;
and he killed his enemy as he received that blow. But he did not strike
first, and Meeah's was the strongest blow, and Elias Khan was dead ere
he fell from his horse. Then we too struck in, and brought Meeah away
safely, I and two others; but it was hard to bring him through the
waves of heat, and now it is harder still, for they struck him down.
Hast thou no more medicine? he must not rave thus."

"I have," she said; "but whether he will live or die under it Abba
cannot tell, and I fear."

"Give it, in the name of the Lord!" said the Beydur, earnestly. "The
remedy of a holy man cannot fail. And now lie down and sleep, lady," he
continued, after the remedy had been administered; "I will watch."

"I cannot sleep," she replied, "let me watch with thee."

So they remained silent; but the two faces before her had a fascination
for Zóra that she could not overcome. The one, noble, dignified, and in
its full beauty of tender manhood, with its, as yet, downy moustache
and beard; and the other hard and stern, with eyes and mouth that
could perhaps be cruel, a thick moustache and grizzled whiskers, and
a forehead seamed with furrows--yet all combining in an expression of
tender pity and grief that could hardly be suppressed. What could be
the connection between the two men, separated as they were by race and
faith?

They watched till the day was breaking and the birds in the trees began
to chirp and twitter, and a cock crew loudly; then Abbas Khan, who had
been lying, as it were, in a trance, suddenly opened his eyes quietly,
and saw the Beydur sitting by his bed. "Runga!" he said, faintly.
"Runga!"

"Dost thou know me, Meeah?" was the reply. "It is, indeed, Runga. What
wouldst thou?"

"I have been dreaming," he said, wearily, "and the last scowling glance
of my foe as I struck him down has been ever before me; but there came
at times a Peri of Paradise who gave to me of the heavenly sherbet, and
the angel drove him away, and he could not take me to hell;" and he
sank back exhausted.

"It is the crisis Abba spoke of," whispered Zóra, "and if he sleep it
is well. Speak not, but watch."

The intensity of anxiety with which both watched the young man cannot
be described, but the struggle between death and life did not continue
long. Presently tears seemed to steal from his eyelids and fall upon
his cheek, the quick gasping breath became more regular, there was a
dew upon the lips, and the skin was becoming cooler and moister every
moment; and yet, it might be deceptive!

"Dost thou know me, Meeah?" asked the Beydur. There was no reply, but
a gratified smile overspread the face, and, taking the Beydur's rough
hand in his own, Abbas Khan clasped it to his heart and fell gently
into slumber.

"Oh! I vowed sheep to thee, Mother, for his life, and thou hast
accepted the vow, and he is safe. Safe, lady, safe!" he said eagerly to
Zóra, in a low voice full of emotion. "Safe, and he shall ride again
with me against his country's enemies. Now more covering if thou hast
it, for cold must not strike him. And do thou take rest, for the night
has been a weary one to thee. See, the old man sleeps softly; Meeah
said truly, thou art of heaven."

The excitement had been great, and the girl had not once closed her
eyes. Now the kind words of the stranger affected her deeply, and as
she lay down on her carpet, which had been spread in a corner of the
room, tears burst from her eyes and low sobs rose which she could not
control; but they soothed her, and she fell into a deep sleep.

The world abroad was astir in the early morn, the birds twittered and
chirped in the great tamarind trees, pigeons fluttered in the little
mosque, cooed and greeted each other, ringdoves seemed to answer them,
and noisy paroquets flew screaming abroad to get their early food. As
the sun rose, his ruddy beams rested on the grim rocks and feathery
foliage of the deep glen with glowing lustre, and at the end of the
Fort Island the noble river spread out into a large, quiet, lake-like
pool. The cataract above still roared with a sullen moan, but the water
was not so high, for, like all sudden and early floods, the river had
subsided continuously during the night. The only one stirring in the
house was the old woman servant. She had milked the cow and the goats,
and turned them loose to graze, and had sat down to pick rice for the
morning meal.

"It must be kicheri and dall, I suppose; they had phoolkas and dall
yesterday. No, I will make the kicheri; too much dall is not good for
the Huzrut, and it will be good for the stranger too, if he wakes and
the fever is gone. Ya Kureem! what a night it was, and yet that child
never flinched once nor feared the wild raving she heard. Punah! I
could not have borne it--not I; and when I looked in last, who should
be sitting by the bed but that bloody reiver Runga Naik, who shook his
finger at me and then put his hand on his lips and motioned me away;
and Zóra lay in the corner sleeping, never thinking that that man
of blood was nigh her. Ugh! I should have trembled too much to have
attempted to sleep; but God only knows what that child is. Mayhap an
angel from before the Lord, for she is born for good works and loving
deeds. 'Nurse,' she says sometimes, 'are there none sick in the village
whom I could attend? are there none poor whom we can feed? Go, look
round, and bring me news.' She would be doing good now, I warrant me,
if she were not asleep. But let her sleep and wake of herself, my
fairy! my darling!"

"Mother! Mother Mamoola!" cried a rough strong voice at the entrance of
the little enclosure before the Dervish's dwelling. "Mother! where art
thou? I have been looking everywhere about, but no one is stirring.
Art thou dead? Is the Dervish dead?"

"Get away with thee, O bawling wretch!" cried the dame angrily, as
she put down her rice sifter, not relishing this interruption to her
soliloquy. "Get thee gone, I say, and keep silence. They are all
asleep, after a fearful night with the wounded man," she continued,
as she reached the entrance. "Ah! it is thee, Ghuffoor. Why art thou
bawling so?"

"Do not be angry so early in the day, mother," said the man; "it will
spoil thy temper. My lord the Nawab is even now coming down the hill
with all his retinue, and must be admitted to see his cousin. I am sent
on to warn ye all. Where is the fairy face? and the Huzrut ought to be
at prayers in the mosque; let me go to him, wherever he be."

"I tell thee, again, begone!" retorted the dame. "Tell the Nawab Sahib
that they are all asleep, and neither I, Mamoola, nor anyone else
shall rouse them for the Nawab, or fifty Nawabs. Tell him this from
me, Mamoola, and bid him go back as he came. The youth's spirit hovers
between life and death, but, praise to the saints, he sleeps; and they
all sleep, too, except Runga Naik, who watches the youth as though he
were his own son. Begone, I say, and run at thy best speed, or we may
have the crier shouting my lord's titles, and horns blowing, and a din
enough to wake the dead."

"Well, if it be so," said the man, laughing, "I will deliver thy
message, but the Nawab will not relish it. Hath he not prepared
chambers, and have not the cooks been at work since daylight?"

"Ah me!" said the dame, wiping her eyes with the corner of her scarf;
"you will have to eat the good food yourselves, for the youth may not
eat except what the Huzrut allows him, even if he eat at all for many
a day, except a mouthful. He is as weak and helpless as a child, after
that wound and sun burning; and I am going to cook a mild kicheri
myself. God grant him strength to eat, if ever so little. But I am
prating to thee while thou shouldst be half way up the mountain. Away
with thee, and return soon; if the youth recovers we will send word
that the Nawab may come in the evening."

"Now I did what was right," crooned the old dame to herself, as she
resumed her rice picking on the steps of the dwelling. "Perhaps my
lord, the Nawab, may be angry; but who cares? What would the old man
have said if I had let them all in, I wonder?"

"Mother!" said a gentle voice behind her; "Mother! he sleeps still.
Runga hath not even withdrawn his hand that the youth took and held
fast; but he motioned me to feel his head, and said it was painful. And
I looked, and behold! there is a wound in it. Yet he has never flinched
or complained. Mother, come with me; we can wash it gently, and we can
put on the cool herbs and tie it up. And Abba still sleeps peacefully,
and the youth like a tired child, and never stirs. O, mother! he will
live! he will live! May the good saints preserve him for his mother."

And the girl and her attendant went and did their kindly office. The
Naik's wound was not deep, but he had narrowly escaped death, as
he knew; and as the cool dressing was applied, tears of relief and
gratitude coursed down his rugged cheeks.

"He sleeps: he is cool as an infant," he said in a whisper. "He has not
moved nor let go my hand. Yes, he will live, lady; live to be grateful
to thee, as I am."

Zóra marvelled at the man's endurance and heroism, so truly proved.
All the previous day, though badly wounded in the defence of his young
master, he had borne heat, and dust, and fatigue without a murmur or
a thought except for him whom he had rescued from death, and he had
watched through the night without food or relief from pain. "What am I
to him?" she thought, sadly; "but I am only a child, only a child."

And the hot day passed, and they fanned the sleeper gently. The old
Dervish, when he awoke, examined his patient carefully, and was
satisfied. Nothing could induce Runga to leave his post, but having
bathed hurriedly in the holy river, he ate a little of the dame's good
mess, drank some of the cooling sherbet, and was refreshed. The Nawab
had turned back as he had been bidden to do, but he sent continual
messages of inquiry, and was told in reply that the youth still
slept. So the day passed in perfect quiet to all, and when the sun
was declining, and the birds were coming to rest, the young Khan woke
quietly.

At first he could not remember where he was, or what had happened, and
his first glance rested upon Zóra, who was gently fanning him, and he
said, almost in a whisper, "Who art thou? I know thee; thou art the
angel that came to me in the night and gave me sherbet of Paradise. Who
art thou?"

"I am only Zóra," she said, modestly, while she covered her face with
her scarf, as if for the first time she became aware that a man gazed
at her. "But you are not to speak, sir; I am bid not to let you speak;
close your eyes and sleep again."

"No," he said; "I have slept enough, and the burning fever hath
departed."

"She is right, Meeah," said Runga Naik, bending over him. "Sleep now,
again, for danger is past, and Huzrut says you will live. When you wake
again you may have some light food."

"Runga, thou here! I thought I saw thee in a dream, and had thy hand in
mine. But why is thy head bandaged?"

"'Tis only a scratch, and the Huzrut has dressed it," he replied. "I
will tell thee all another time. I am well of it now that I hear thy
voice."

"It seems all like a hideous dream, Runga; the fight, the ride through
those billows of heat and dust; and I remember, too, seeing a
cataract, and seething water below, tossing like horses fighting. Who
told me that? And then I thought I was on a raft, dancing on the waves,
and thou supporting me; and I swooned, and remember no more except the
angel who came to me and cooled my parching thirst."

"Enough!" cried Zóra, stamping her little foot. "Do I not tell thee
thou art not to speak? Art thou mad?"

The oddity of the child's vehemence, and her tone of absolute command,
seemed to amuse the sufferer, for he smiled gratefully as he looked up
at her.

"Yes, fairy face," he said, "I will try to sleep again, and do thou
come to me in my dreams."

The next day, however, the Nawab was not to be silenced. His physician
had arrived from Moodgul, and having visited the wounded man, declared
that he might now be removed to the upper fort in a closed litter with
safety, and that the comparative freshness of the air of the citadel
would conduce to his recovery. Towards evening, therefore, the young
Khan took his departure, promising to return to see them when he was
able.




CHAPTER III.

THE PRIESTS OF MOODGUL.


The town of Moodgul is situated in the western division of the district
which lies between the Krishna river to the north and the Toongbaddra
river to the south, and has always been a place of importance in
the country. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries it was a
never-failing object of contention between the Hindoos of Beejanugger
and the Mussulman kings of the Dekhan, and many a bloody action
between immense armies on both sides had been fought near it for its
possession, and that of its dependencies. Ráichoor, the capital of the
eastern portion of the Dooab, as the province was called, was at that
time of comparatively small importance, and Moodgul was the capital
of the province and the seat of the local Government. The league of
the Mussulman kings of the Dekhan against the Maharajah of Beejanugger
terminated in a desperate action called the battle of Talicota by
historians, but which was fought in December 1569, on the south bank
of the Krishna, about thirty miles west of Moodgul. The destruction
of the Hindoo kingdom ensued, and at the period of this tale the town
and its fortress were in quiet possession of the Mussulmans, who have
still retained it. It was then the chief station of the south-western
province of the Beejapoor kingdom, and a very considerable force was
always stationed there ready to act against any disturbance of the
frontier, and to overawe the various military tribes of Beydurs and
others, who, though they paid tribute and professed allegiance to the
Mussulman Government, were yet turbulent and often defiant, and much
given to marauding, cattle lifting, and other nefarious practices.

Even now, ruined as it is for the most part, the fort of Moodgul is a
striking and picturesque object. Built partly by the Hindoos and partly
by the Mussulmans, it occupies the summit of a group of singularly
fantastic granite rocks, which seem to have been raised one upon
another, but which belong to one of the great eruptions that took place
at some immensely remote period. They are quite isolated, and rise
from a level plain, which is fertile to their very base. Necessarily
the fort is of very irregular construction, advantage having been
taken of the highest accessible portions of the rocks on which to
build bastions, while the intervals between each group are closed
by single, double, and treble rows of curtains and bastions, as the
ground requires. On the north side is a considerable tank, or lake, for
irrigation, which is still perfect, and affords means of cultivation of
a tract of land; and there are many groves of fine mango and tamarind
trees about its shores, which soften the otherwise rugged character of
the landscape, and above which the rocks and towers of the fort rise
with very picturesque effect. The town lies to the eastward of the
fort, and is still tolerably populous; but the ruins on every side show
that the prosperity of the place was at one time much greater than at
present, and the fort itself is utterly deserted: many of its proud
towers and long portions of the curtains have become heaps of ruins,
and those that remain only show how strong the citadel must have been
in the early times we write of. The place was famous for two kinds of
manufactures: one of weaving cotton fabrics of all kinds, for which the
adjacent parts of the province furnished ample material; the other, of
a kind of camlet blankets, some beautifully fine and others coarse,
woven from yarn spun from the fleeces of the large herds of sheep
which were tended on the wide plains by local shepherds--a powerful
and numerous clan, which, though ostensibly following a peaceful,
industrious calling, had notwithstanding taken part in local wars and
the defence of their fort; and both weavers and shepherds remain still
in their normal condition.

It will be deemed strange, perhaps, that these shepherds and blanket
weavers were Christians at the period of this tale, and that they have
continued faithful through all vicissitudes to the present time. At
what exact period they were converted, or by whom, is not precisely
known, but a Jesuit monk belonging to the mission of St. Francis Xavier
had penetrated to Moodgul, gathered the shepherds about him, and,
preaching to them in their own language--Canarese--had converted and
baptised them, and they proved steadfast and obedient. In the town of
Ráichoor other conversions followed, chiefly among the potters, and
there were, and still are, smaller congregations in other villages;
but the most numerous flock was that of Moodgul, and the church there
is pre-eminently the head of all others in the province. The building
itself is a small one with a tiled roof, and in the Goanesque style of
architecture, and there are two supplementary chapels. The decorations
of the cathedral, as it may be called, are poor and tawdry enough; but
there is, or was, one picture of the Virgin by some Portuguese artist
which has merit. There are schools attached to the mission in which
Canarese is taught, and which are presided over by the priest, if he be
present, or, in his absence, by one of the deacons.

King Ibrahim Adil Shah I., who died in 1557, was the first benefactor
to the mission by recognising it, and conferring lands upon it by his
Royal deeds of grant; and Ally Adil Shah followed, with settlements of
money from the customs duties and other sources, which have hitherto
been respected by local and general rulers. Dues are also collected
from the congregation, both in money and in kind, and in all respects
the mission is self-supporting and independent. The service, when by
a priest, is generally in Latin; but the offices of the church have
been translated into excellent Canarese, as also homilies, which are
preached, and selections from the Old and New Testament. Portions
of these are read on saints' days and other solemn occasions, and
invariably on the Sabbath by the deacons of the Church, who, when the
priest is not present, carry on the regular services, except the mass,
which is reserved for the priest alone. Some of these manuscripts
are exquisitely written in a somewhat older and stiffer character
than prevails at present, and the authors of them were unquestionably
excellent scholars in the copious language they had to deal with,
though it is impossible to conceive how they could have acquired it so
perfectly.

It may be difficult also to account for the unusual toleration of the
Mussulman kings of Beejapoor in allowing Christian missions to be
established in their territory, and endowing them with Royal gifts;
but Ibrahim Adil Shah I. and Ally Adil Shah had intimate relations
with the Portuguese, who had assisted Ibrahim on one occasion with
3,000 European infantry; and though both kings had quarrels with their
neighbours, and Ally Adil Shah on one occasion beleaguered Goa for
nine months and was obliged to raise the siege, yet the Mussulmans and
Christians contrived to make up their quarrels, and at the period we
write of were very good friends. The mission at Moodgul was, therefore,
in an easy and flourishing condition--outwardly, at least--but within
there was trouble.

There were two priests in charge of the Moodgul church and mission.
One, Dom Diego di Fonseça, had been for some time in the office of the
Inquisition; and the steadfast character of the missions being doubted,
he had been sent specially to relieve his predecessor, who had been
suspected of laxity in morals and practice. This man professed himself
to be a champion of the Church, a Jesuit. He had already visited
Bengal and China, and had, after the fashion of the time, made many
converts, and examined the internal discipline of the missions with
a notorious severity; but his private character was infamous, and,
but for his official zeal and services, he might, indeed, have been
condemned to the horrible death to which he had assisted to devote
so many. Dom Diego was of a noble family in Portugal, and had been
intended for the Church there; but his fiery disposition would not
brook control, and he chose a missionary life in the Indies, where
his peculiar qualifications would find full employment. In person Dom
Diego was remarkable. His noble figure towered over all around him,
and the haughty expression of his features was in accordance with his
bodily power; but though handsome, they were vicious and repellant. In
complexion he was dark, and the sun of India had still more bronzed
his face and hands, till they were darker than those of many of his
Moodgul flock. All soon feared him; none loved him. He was to their
simple minds an incarnation of power and force which must be obeyed,
and, knowing his official authority and rank, the native Christians did
not dare objection, much less disobedience. God would punish his evil
ways some time--in His own time--they said among themselves, and they
watched his actions alike with wonder and amazement. Could this fiend
be a priest of the Holy Church of Christ and His tender-loving mother,
whom in their simple faith they adored?

Dom Diego's colleague was a very different person. Francis d'Almeida,
a Franciscan friar, was a very personation of a devout and humble
follower of his order. It was some years since he had left Portugal,
and on his arrival he applied himself with great assiduity to the
study of the native languages. Canarese and Mahratta were both used
and spoken at Goa, as well as the rough Oordoo of the Dekhan, used by
the lower orders of Mussulmans; but he had devoted himself to Canarese
as the most copious and expressive language of all, and best suited to
the translation of the Scriptures and the offices of the Church. In
the stirring ecclesiastical affairs of Goa he took but little part,
and succeeded in avoiding them, and only prayed to be sent to some
distant and lonely mission in Canara, where he could finish the work
he had begun. The two priests were as different in appearance as in
character--the one, dark, saturnine, and vindictive; the other, fair
for his country, with clear, soft, brown eyes, brown silky and curly
hair, which flowed over his shoulders, a gentle, expressive face, full
of devout thought and pity for the religious ignorance he found to
be existent. A selection from a thousand could not have supplied a
teacher and guide more fitting for his post than Francis d'Almeida.
His flock adored him. His gentle teachings and admonitions, delivered
with a purity of language which only a Brahmin could equal or surpass,
attracted others besides his flock to the mission church, and his
eloquent illustrations of true Christian life often moved his hearers
to tears. To the simple shepherds he was an incarnation of Divine love
and mercy, and under his pastoral care many new converts had been
registered and baptised, who had been prepared by teaching, for the new
creed.

He was not alone. His sister Maria, whom he had left in Portugal a
child, had grown up, and married Colonel Dom Philip de Pereira, who
commanded a battalion of infantry not long arrived from Portugal;
but he had been speedily affected by the climate in jungle warfare
on the frontier against the Mussulmans, and he had succumbed to the
treacherous, deadly malaria of the forests. Doña Maria might have
returned home, or, staying at Goa, might have re-married; but she had
seen her brother Francis, listened with wonder to tales of the manners
and customs of his flock, and at once dedicating herself, as she said,
to the Lord's work, she was sent up to Moodgul under an escort, and
had joined her brother some three years before the time we write of.
She was clever and studious. Under her brother's care she had learned
Canarese as perfectly as he had, and in her beautiful handwriting had
copied all her brother's rougher translations into the great volumes
of the Church, and these manuscripts were illustrated by her own simple
and elegant designs and quaint initial letters.

If her brother were almost worshipped by the shepherds, she herself had
a place in their affections even more tender. She visited the sick and
afflicted, and could comfort them; her sweet, persuasive tongue soothed
many a sad death-bed. Her instruction to the children of her school
was received by them as a joyful treat rather than in dull routine.
All she knew she communicated to them as they showed capacity. It was
not very much, perhaps, but it was pleasant to teach and pleasant to
be taught, and teacher and pupils enjoyed themselves. Doña Maria was
also a welcome guest in the Nawab of Moodgul's family. Dilawer Khan,
a famous general of the Beejapoor army, was no bigot; he loved the
Padré Francis for the good he did and for his consistent piety. He even
enjoyed arguments between the Padré and the local Mussulman priests
and learned men; and the fair Doña Maria was not only admitted to his
hareem, but was a welcome guest whenever she came. Then noisy children
gathered round her, and matrons too, and she told them of the holy
child Jesus of Nazareth, and what He did as He grew up; and taught the
elder ones embroidery, and almost persuaded some to be Christians.
Doña Maria was very fair, and the bright colour of her native land had
come back to her cheeks with the fresh Dekhan air; and it was a great
delight of the younger children to declare she had painted her face,
and to insist on washing it, which only brought out the rich colour
more vividly. And she sung to them in her sweet voice, accompanied by
her lute, the ballads and songs of her native land, and the noble hymns
of the Church, and these were ever welcome.

So in peace and love with all around them the brother and sister had
lived with great happiness. They had pleasant morning and evening walks
among the groves and by the little lake. They had each a Dekhan jennet,
and a gallop over the downs beyond was a rare pleasure, and gave them
health among their hard labours. They had their garden too, and grapes
and oranges grew well, and still grow in the Padré's garden. What could
they require more? What they had was spiritual wealth and comfort, and
as to worldly affairs, they needed no more. Would it but last! but
since Dom Diego's arrival, now a few months, they had had many grave
anticipations for the future.




CHAPTER IV.

AN INSULT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.


We need not describe the progress of difference between two such men as
the priests of Moodgul--the one violent, overbearing, and unscrupulous,
the other gentle and peaceful, but enduring, and, after the manner
of such men, brave, and, in the service of the Church, undeterred by
threats or persecution. Often had he remonstrated, as it became him to
do, against his colleague's violence towards the congregation, against
repeated instances of notorious immorality and irregularity in his
ministry, but in vain. Dom Diego knew that he had strengthened his
influence with the Archbishop of Goa; that the Inquisition at large
were his friends, and that he need not fear the remonstrances of the
humble Franciscan friar who was associated with him. He had formed,
too, a party among the shepherds, which consisted of some of the most
unmanageable of the youthful members, who scoffed at the friar's
devotion, resisted his admonitions and decrees of penances, and, in
short, set him at defiance. This was Dom Diego's first step towards
ridding himself of his colleague altogether. What more easy than to
denounce him to the Inquisition for interference with his own measures?

What more certain to succeed than to accuse him of the laxity in
spiritual affairs which he himself had been despatched to redeem?
Even were that not sufficient, accusations might be made of improper
intimacy with Mussulmans, the worst enemies of the Church, and constant
visits to the Nawab of Moodgul paid by him and his sister, Doña Maria.
Ah! could he but separate them, who could protect the beautiful girl?
From the first sight of her, so young, so lovely as she was, a guilty
passion had absorbed any better feeling he possessed. No risk could
be too great to run for her possession, and yet, to take any active
part--to carry her away by force--would but be to ensure his own ruin,
and perhaps death. No, the event must be gradual; and when her brother
was once made over to the Inquisition he would be in Goa for months,
nay, possibly years, where no possibility of aid or even news from
without could reach him. It was a fiendish plot, and day by day he
found it more and more difficult to restrain himself, for the constant
sight of her great beauty inflamed him, and in the services of the
Church he was brought into constant connection with her.

He had written his report to Goa. He had described Francis d'Almeida as
a mere bookworm, careless of the honour and discipline of the Church,
and absorbed in studies of heathen books; that his most intimate
friends were Brahmin priests and Mussulmans; that his lectures in the
Church to the shepherds were, so far as he could comprehend them, mere
adaptations of heathen doctrine, into which if he had not lapsed
himself, he might do at any moment, and thus the Church, which had
been built up with vast labour by faithful missionaries in a foreign
land, might be lost, and relapse into heathenism, a scandal and a
reproach to Christianity. As to his sister, Doña Maria, though she
openly made profession of faith, yet she was in reality more corrupt
than her brother. One of her constant resorts was the Nawab's house,
where she was admired and courted for her beauty and accomplishments.
The Nawab was very wealthy, and had a son, now absent in the wars,
but it was currently reported that he would marry Doña Maria when he
returned. Finally, Dom Diego advised that Francis d'Almeida should be
at once sent for alone, admonished, and, if needs be, prosecuted for
his laxity; and that his sister might remain for the present to await
her brother's return, or to be forwarded to Goa, as the Council might
decree.

There was no suspicion of sinister motives to be gathered from this
document, no violence of expression. It led to the conclusion that an
able but over-studious character had been gradually led into laxity
of observance, and could only be recovered by admonition from his
superiors, and it had been determined by the ecclesiastical authorities
to order the priest to appear before the Council on as early a date
as practicable. It was not easy to communicate with Goa from Moodgul.
Special messengers could only be employed, men who at some personal
risk could traverse the country intervening and return with replies;
and sometimes merchants and carriers from the two cities made their
annual journeys with coast produce, to be exchanged for the cotton and
woollen stuffs of Moodgul, and who took letters to and from Goa, and
delivered them safely enough; and by one of the parties returned from
the coast, Dom Diego had received the long-expected despatch from the
Council.

To him it was all that he desired. It authorised Dom Diego to suspend
his colleague from all Church offices, and to despatch him to Goa as
soon as practicable, and it contained a citation from the Inquisition
to appear. It praised Dom Diego's vigilance and zeal for the welfare of
the Church, and admitted the justice of his proposal in regard to Doña
Maria, whom he was enjoined to watch, and keep within the precincts of
the Church, till she should be required.

Dom Diego was not long in deciding on the course he had proposed. After
the morning mass, on the Sabbath after he had received the despatch,
he proclaimed the suspension of his colleague from ministrations, and
delivered to him the citation from the Council, which was received by
D'Almeida with reverence; and Dom Diego also announced, through his
interpreter, that another priest, well skilled in Canarese, had been
despatched, and would shortly arrive.

Doña Maria heard the proclamation with dismay that cannot be expressed
in words. Her brother was officiating at the altar, and she, with her
children classes, was seated at the side at some distance. She saw her
brother depart sooner than usual, for he generally came to examine the
children, and he now omitted to do so. So she dismissed them, and went
at once to their house, where she found her brother, in his chamber, on
his knees before his crucifix, and the citation lying at its feet. He
had been praying, and the drops of sweat stood out on his brow, in his
agony, as those of his Lord's had done when He endured the cross and
the shame. Doña Maria did not interrupt him, and withdrew behind the
door, hearing only the last words of the prayer.

"And now protect me, O my Lord, if Thou wilt, from this danger. If I
have to endure shame, or torture, or death, do Thou in mercy support
me. I am not conscious of neglect of thy work, but I am conscious of
many errors and shortcomings, of many secret sins. Chasten me, then, O
my Saviour, as Thou seest I have need of; for I commit myself into thy
pitiful hands and care, doubting not, fearing not, but saying, with all
my trust and faith, O Lord, thy will be done."

Then he bowed his head to the foot of the cross, and wept passionately
for some moments, and arose calmed and prepared for the worst. His
sister met him at the door of the chamber, and cast herself upon his
neck. She could not weep, though the humble prayer had moved her;
her mind was in utter and blank despair, which no ray of comfort had
penetrated. "My brother! my brother!" she cried, continually, "how
wilt thou bear this? What hast thou done to deserve this shame he has
put on thee?"

"I will bear it, Maria," he said gently, touching her forehead with
his lips. "He, our Lord God, endured the shame that He might win the
victory, and I fear not, neither shouldst thou fear. The soldiers of
Christ and the Church should never flinch from danger. I say to thee,
fear not."

"I am but a weak woman," she said, "and women have not the power of
men; but even I could bear what is the Lord's will, though against Dom
Diego's I should rebel. Is the citation regular and legal?"

"It is both," answered her brother, returning with the document which
he had left where he had laid it. "It is both; nay, the purport is even
tender, sister; read it yourself. I now go to receive the admonition
and instruction of the Holy Council, and they may think I need them.
Surely a son of the Church need not fear to meet his fathers in the
Lord."

"I know not," she replied, with a shudder. "I know not. When I was at
Goa many were led to a fearful death, and----"

"Nay, but dearest sister, it was because they deserved death.
Incorrigible sinners and apostates the Church deals fiercely with, as
it needs do in a heathen land; but I fear not, and our beloved flock
will testify for me; and the translation of the homilies, which no one
hath attempted to produce but me, will plead for my devotion to the
Church's interests. Nay, Maria, thou shouldst not fear, but the rather
rejoice that I have this opportunity of making known what I had too
modestly kept back; and thou wilt remain at peace in this our home, and
do thy work fearlessly, as thou hast done. It will not be long ere I
return in safety, under the Lord's guidance.

"Oh, do not say that," she cried, clinging to him in fear. "Not alone
with that fearful priest. Oh, for the love of the Mother Mary, leave me
not alone; I dare not stay."

"If thou hadst been summoned, too," he returned, "we could have gone
together; but bethink thee of the fierce heat now, and the rain and
wind that are to come, to which I dare not expose thee. No, sister, it
is well as it is, and in the good Nawab and our own people thou hast
protectors enough. What dare _he_ do to thee?"

"Perhaps it is idle fear," she said, sobbing, "and I am but a weak
woman to bear solitude and anxiety alone; but if thou thinkest it is my
duty, I bow to the Lord's will and thine, and will surely do my best."

"Ah!" he returned, with a proud smile, "there my brave sister's spirit
speaks out again; and I tell thee, Maria, if he or anyone threatened
thee, there is many a sword among our shepherd flock that would be
drawn for thee; peaceful as they are, they are yet soldiers to a man,
and would defend thee. Fear him not; he dare not hurt thee!"

Maria was silenced, but not satisfied. She did fear the priest. She
could not conceal from herself that his foul, sensual admiration of her
sometimes overpowered his discretion, and that his looks and demeanour
were not those of a priest, but of a dissolute soldier. Still, he had
never offended her in speech; and, except in the affairs of the church,
she had held no conversation with him whatever. When he came to the
house she invariably withdrew to her chamber, and left her brother and
Dom Diego to consult together; but what virtuous woman could doubt
the expression of those burning eyes? But for these secret fears,
fears known only to herself and to God, she would have bid her brother
Godspeed, and rejoiced in the prospect of his holy useful labours
becoming known to those who could really appreciate them.

Many of the congregation came to them that day, both men and women,
and the time passed in prayer and conversation with them, as was usual
on the Sabbath; and both were consoled by the sincere professions of
affection made by all, and the assurances of help and protection, if
necessary, given by women as well as men.

"We are three hundred stout fellows," said one stalwart old shepherd,
who held the office of deacon, "and most of us have seen war in our
time, and we are well armed. So fear not, lady, for three hundred good
matchlocks can escort you anywhere, were it even to Goa or Beejapoor.
Thou art our loving friend, and if the noble Queen Chand could but see
thee, she would take thee to her heart, and the good old Nawab would be
thy protector too. Bah!" continued the old man, "with all these to do
thy bidding thou needest not fear."

So the day passed; and though her brother could not perform his
afternoon duty, Maria went to the church as usual for the service,
which, on account of the great heat, had been deferred till evening.
She took her guitar with her, for she purposed to teach some of the
elder girls a new hymn, and they could only be taught by ear. Only the
altar was fully illuminated, and the rest of the church had a light
here and there from dim lamps.

Dom Diego performed the service as usual, and apparently departed;
and Maria, begging of the sexton to allow her the altar lights for a
while, led in a little troop of girls to the altar steps, and sat down
there, tuned her instrument, and began the simple music of the hymn.
What a voice it was! full, rich, and penetrating, it echoed through
the empty building with a peculiar resonance and sweetness. No one
could have heard it unmoved. The hymn was a Canarese translation of a
Latin one used in the church, and accorded with the music perfectly.
Presently, after an interval and directions to the children, she began
the air again line by line, and the shriller pitch of the girls'
voices required much patient instruction to modulate. At last she was
satisfied, and dismissed them. It was but a step to her house across
the small enclosure of the church, and she had no fear of meeting
anyone, although it was now quite dark. The day had been very hot, and
the fierce hot wind had continued almost without a break from before
noon; now it had quite fallen, but the heat had not decreased. All was
still around the church, except the cicadas, who kept up their shrill
chirrup in the large tamarind trees, and the little grey owls, who
seemed to increase their strange twittering hoot as the night advanced.

Maria knew she was alone, for the old man who would put out the lights
was snoring in a corner. "One more hymn," she said to herself, as she
made a deep reverence to the picture of the Virgin, on which the light
shone brightly--"One hymn and prayer to thee, O pitiful, gracious
Mother! to whose care I commit him--thy servant--and myself;" and
striking a chord on her instrument, and playing a simple prelude, her
voice rose through the building with a power and effect of which she
was not conscious. Who could have heard it without emotion! But she
herself was refreshed, and felt strengthened by the exercise. "And
now, sweet Mother," she said, looking up at the picture above her,
which almost seemed to smile, "I have sung to thee with all my heart,
as I used to sing in my own beloved Portugal; and thou must graciously
accept the hymns, and protect us. Good night, sweet Mother. Good
night!"

She had spoken aloud, but now her lips moved in silent prayer; and
as she stood upon the lower step, with her tiny bare foot resting
on the one above it, and her arms stretched out to the picture with
closed hands, her exquisitely-moulded figure and attitude were seen in
perfection. As she had raised her arms the sleeves of the loose black
dress she wore had fallen back nearly to her shoulders, displaying
their pure whiteness and rounded contour against the gloom beyond;
while the delicate white throat, and soft, bright complexion, stood out
in strong relief. Her large blue eyes were raised in a rapt devotion,
in accordance with her thoughts. Such faces and such attitudes are seen
in the great old masters' religious pictures, but even such as Maria de
Fonseca's are rare.

She had finished her prayer, when, as she turned to depart, she saw
the figure of Dom Diego standing close beside her, and she shrunk back
instinctively and cowered down to the ground.

"Forgive me for disturbing thee, lady," he said; "and I dispense with
thy salute to thy superior; but as I sat alone, thy voice--so tender,
so sweet--reached me, and I stood at the door till thy vesper hymns
were finished. Would I could hear thee more frequently; but thou art
chary of thy voice, except to the children, and to thy brother. Why am
I excluded, and have to listen in stealth? Nay, I have a voice, too;
and, I have heard it told me, a good one. We might join together in
some of the old duets of our land, even here among the heathen."

"I pray thee let me pass, Signor," she said, timidly; for he stood
between her and the door. He was not dressed in his robes, but in rich
black velvet, and wore the plumed hat of a cavalier, which he carried
now in his hand.

"Nay, be not hard on me, sweet lady, now that we shall have to spend
so much of our time together till thy brother returns from Goa. Thou
knowest thou art to be under my pastoral care, and fortunate am I to
have so beautiful and so accomplished a companion. Ah, yes! thou wilt
be kind to a solitary priest like me, and we can be happy if thou wilt
till thy brother returns."

"Will he return?" asked the girl, eagerly. "Is this a true citation?
Will he be safe? Answer me, Dom Diego, before the Mother of God, who
sees us."

"Nay, if she can see," he cried, sneeringly, "if she can see, she will
know what is in my heart. Safe? Thy brother safe? Yet, if thou wilt, he
is."

Her pleading face, her hands uplifted to him, as it had been to the
Virgin's picture, made him think for a moment that she had yielded to
him; and the temptation in that foul heart was sudden and irresistible.
"Maria!" he almost hissed between his teeth, "I repeat, if thou wilt,
he is safe; but----"

"Speak," she said; "as a priest of the Holy Church give me thy
assurance, and I will pray for thee day and night."

"Priest!" he exclaimed, with scorn. "I am a priest when it suits me
to be so, and for the rest a cavalier of the world, like my Jesuit
brethren. Love me, Maria," he cried, bending his knee; "love me, as
I have loved thee for months in secret, and I can make thy brother
pass through the terrors which await him at Goa with safety; but if
not, he is a doomed man, and will die at the stake. Ha! ha! for the
love of God! Nay, Maria, think me not cruel; 'tis thou who art cruel,
my sweet. See, before the Virgin, to whom thou wert crying, I devote
myself to thee; I am thine henceforth. If we may not stay here, there
is the world before us. India, the Moghul, the Chinese, the sweet Spice
Islands, where we may dream away our lives. Europe, if thou wilt,
where many a priest like me hath his sweet leman, and no one unfrocks
him. Come! I say," he urged tenderly; "come! Thou art young, thou art
lovely, thou mightest be a queen. Come! the world is wide enough for
us."

The girl's passion had risen with every sentence he spoke, but his
utterance was rapid, and she could not speak; her bosom was heaving
with scornful emotion, and her bright eyes flashed with angry fire. She
was more beautiful in her wrath than in her submission and petition.

"Traitor!" she cried, as he ceased to speak; "perjured priest and liar.
Thou hast insulted the Holy Mother; thou hast proposed infamy to her
votary; thou hast denied thy Christian faith. I defy thee! I, a poor,
helpless widow, defy thee in her name, and spurn thee. Let me pass,
Dom Diego. If I walk barefoot to Goa, those whom thou boastest of shall
know this. Yea, if they send me to the stake, I will testify against
thee till I die."

"Thy beauteous limbs would fare ill on the wheel," he said, with mock
piety. "Thy charms should be seen by another than thy executioner,
lady. Dost thou wish thy brother's safety? Do as thou hast spoken, and
he dies; listen to me, and he lives. Speak! the last chance resteth
with thee." And he drew up his tall figure, and folded his arms on his
chest. "Not now," he added hurriedly; "not till he is gone, then thou
wilt be alone and I with thee."

Maria could make no reply, her speech seemed paralysed with terror. She
essayed to escape, but he stretched out his arms and prevented her,
caught her in his own, and strained her to his heart. "Maria!" he said;
"Maria!" But with a piercing shriek, which resounded through the church
and through the grove, she sank down insensible. "Fool!" cried the
priest, "I have betrayed myself, and they or I must die." And he fled
out of the building.

Francis d'Almeida had sat musing over the events of the day, and
wondering why his sister stayed so long, as the music had ceased. "She
may have gone to see Catarina, who is very sick; or--or--but it is
late, too late." And as he was thus thinking, the shriek reached him.
"'Tis Maria's voice!" he cried, snatching down his sword from the
wall. "What can have happened?" And he ran out.

In the church the altar was still ablaze with light, but no one
answered his anxious call. "Maria! Maria! Where art thou?" He dashed
towards the altar, where, partly on the steps and partly on the floor,
he saw his sister lying insensible. Though at the first sight of her
body he had thought her dead, as he gently raised her he felt a strong
shudder pass through her, and a plaintive cry escaped her, in which he
could only catch Dom Diego's name; and had he appeared he might not
have escaped.

"This, then, was that fiend's object," he muttered to himself, as he
raised his sister's form and bore it out of the church. "Before God,
and before men, I swear he shall answer for this outrage. Courage,
Maria! be brave, and have no fear, the miscreant has fled, but he may
be found. Come, if thou canst walk; if not, I will carry thee; when
thou art in the house thou canst tell me all."

The air had revived her, and the strong arm of her brother was around
her; and, though still dizzy, she went on, her brother supporting her
till they reached her chamber, where she fell prostrate upon her little
bed. For some minutes she could not speak, but as she drank some of the
water offered to her, she rose up, and seeing her brother's naked sword
in his hand, cast her arms around his neck.

"Not by that, Francis," she murmured, "should he meet thy punishment.
He hath insulted God and the Holy Mother, leave him to them, leave
them to chasten his cowardly insult to me; but, oh, brother, we cannot
remain here now; let us fly while we have time, and escape from his
infamous purposes."

But Francis d'Almeida was not to be restrained; there had been an
insult done to his sister, and his gentle nature was inflamed to
desperation. Without answering her, he tore himself from her arms and
rushed out of the house. He searched every part of the church and
the enclosure; he rushed impetuously into Dom Diego's dwelling, but
he could not find him, and his servant told him that his master had
dressed and gone out some time ago; where, he knew not. Again Francis
searched the grove and the adjacent bushes, but there was no one.
It was no use searching farther, for Maria might need his aid, and
he turned towards his house. As he approached it he saw a number of
figures standing near the gate, and for an instant his thought was that
there might be danger; but he was relieved by the hearty voice of the
old deacon, who cried--

"We are friends, your own people, and are watching the house for you.
Come, thou art safe among us; come!" Then the old man took Francis
aside and said, "There have been ugly rumours about for several days,
O Padré, that some violence was intended against the Lady Maria, your
sister; and to-day many Beydurs of Jalhali were seen about the town,
who are known to my clan as bad and desperate characters. Some of my
men mixed with them, and one who was intoxicated declared, only just
now, that there was a dacoity planned upon your house, which would be
attacked before daylight in the morning. So I thought I had better
bring some of my lads; and here are thirty of us, enough to guard thee
and them from all danger. Whom dost thou fear? Hast thou any enemy?"

"None but my superior," he said; "I have no enemy but him."

"Ah!" returned the old man, "and he would possess thy sister."

"Even so, friend," was the reply. "He hath already insulted her, and
had I met him----"

"Thank God," returned the deacon, piously. "Thank God that thou hast
not his blood upon thy sword. Let it pass. If thou hast to depart
to-morrow, we will guard thee and thine, and watch here till morning,
and till we can get a guard of soldiers from the Nawab. Come, see to
thy lady sister, for she hath been anxiously asking after thee."

"How can I thank thee enough for this care of us; we are strangers in
a strange land, and feel your interest keenly. Ay! I do thank the Lord
that I met him not, else I should have been a murderer."

Maria had heard her brother's voice, and ran out to meet him. "Oh! thou
art safe," she cried; "but I have been miserable. I prayed, I asked
the Holy Mother that thou mightest not meet him, and thou didst not.
Oh, say thou didst not, Francis."

"Thy prayer was answered, sister," he said. "I searched for him
everywhere, but I did not find him, else, for my blood was hot, I had
not spared him. Soldier as he is, I had not spared him, or should have
died myself. Oh, I am grateful, Maria, for thy sake, that I met him
not. But what shall we do to-morrow if I obey the citation? I must
depart to Goa; who can protect thee? Thou canst not remain in the
Nawab's family without scandal to thy fair name and the Church, and
dire offence to the Inquisition; nay, wouldst thou be safe, even then,
among the Moors, who little respect even their own women?"

"I see it," said the girl, sadly, "we have no friends but the Lord and
these faithful children of our flock; but my remaining with them would
only bring trouble and his vengeance upon them; and if, as the deacon
told me, he has allied himself with Beydurs, it is an alliance with the
evil one, and in your absence what would become of me?"

"It is all true," said her brother, burying his head between his knees.
"Only for the citation I would accept our deacon's offer, who would,
doubtless, know of some place of concealment; but I dare not disobey it
without danger, even death at the stake. Lord, look thou down upon thy
servants, and direct us in thy mercy, for we know not what to do!"

They were both silent for some minutes. At last Maria said, "Let us go
to the Nawab and ask his advice. He is kind and wise, and is our local
governor, with all temporal powers. His wife, Zeenat Khanum, is my
friend, whose kind heart I could not doubt; yet though she would press
me to stay with her I could not, brother; thou art right, there would
be scandal to me and to the Church, and he, our enemy, would make the
most of it. Perhaps he may send us both to Goa, and he hath the power.
It is not late yet, brother, and I am now strong. I was not harmed but
in heart, brother, when he asked me to be his leman when thou wert
gone. Then, indeed, I fainted, and till you raised me I was bereft of
sense. Come, now, we linger, we have not long to deliberate; our choice
must be decisive;" and throwing her usual scarf over her shoulders, and
putting her feet into her sandals, she stood ready, and, with a smile,
beckoned her brother on.

"All thou needest is already packed, and old Pedro is ready for his
journey. Anna," she said to her attendant, who was Pedro's wife, "do
thou pack up what I may need, and be ready."

"Stay," said her brother, as if struck with a sudden thought, "I will
deposit the manuscripts in the sacristy, and the deacon will see that
they are kept safely;" and when this was done they set out, escorted
by twenty of the shepherds, leaving the deacon, as he said, to watch,
and bidding him a loving farewell, with their blessing to all, men,
women, and children, whom they loved so dearly, and by whom they were
so deeply loved.

The gates of the Nawab's palace, as it was called by the people, were
shut, but at the earnest entreaty of Francis they were opened; all knew
the good Padré, and the officer on guard saluted the brother and sister
respectfully as they passed him. "The Nawab is sitting in the audience
room," he said, "playing at chess with a learned Brahmin; but I know
you will be welcome: pass on. Need your men wait?"

"Not all of them," said the priest, and, calling out several by name,
he bade the rest return to the deacon.

They knew the premises well, and were ushered through the outer court
to the inner one, where the Nawab sat, apparently deeply engaged in his
game. A woman servant took charge of Maria and led her to the hareem,
while the Nawab, rising, saluted Francis courteously, and bade him be
seated. "I have nearly beaten my enemy," he said, laughing, "and it has
been a stiff fight, so, with your leave, we will finish this game;" and
they played on.

"Mât, at last," cried the Nawab; "but never mind, Gunnesh Punt, thou
shalt have thy revenge to-morrow; methinks thou hadst too little fear
of the pawn which beat all thy forces; but we will not discuss the
game now. The Padré Sahib has no doubt come to me on business;" and he
ordered in the usual offerings on a guest's departure. Presently all
were gone, and he beckoned to the Padré to draw near and speak freely.

"What is this I hear of disputes between you, my friend, and thy new
priest, who looks to me more of a fop and dissolute soldier than a
peaceful Padré? Speak out fully to me as a friend, and I will help thee
if I can."

Then Francis d'Almeida told all; how he had been suddenly cited to Goa
to be admonished; how he dare not refuse the summons; and how that
enemy, Dom Diego, had made his vile proposal to his sister.

The old nobleman took his flowing beard in his hands and meditated. He
had always avoided interference with the affairs of the Mission, and
had had no trouble in regard to it while d'Almeida was in charge of
it; but he saw things were changed. He had been an ambassador to Goa,
and knew of the Council of the Church and the Inquisition, at which
he had marvelled, and then blessed God that neither among Mussulmans,
nor Hindoos, though they were deemed infidels, could such a thing be.
He saw that d'Almeida must go to it, and to dissuade him from doing so
would be to give the worst possible advice under the circumstances. The
only difficult point was the Lady Maria.

"I could send thee safe, my friend, to Goa," he said, "but the Lady
Maria is ordered to remain, and is not safe. My house should be her
home, and she is loved by the Khanum and all the children. But, Padré,
she is so beautiful; and I have a son, who is now absent, as you know,
but who is expected by us in a few days. I dare not risk a sight of
her by him, nor should you, and I speak of her as I would were I truly
her father. Let me hear what the women say," he continued. "Do thou
remain here, I will not be long away;" and pushing aside a curtain near
him, he went into his Zenana.

For some time the priest sat in a very confused state of mind, from
which he could see no means of extrication. To take his sister to Goa
when the citation forbade it, to risk the chance, having no special
friends in the great Council, of accusing his colleague when he himself
was under suspension, might be even worse, and would, he thought, be
courting self-destruction. To leave the dearest object of his love on
earth to the chances which the Nawab more than hinted at, was equally
impossible. Whither should he flee? There were other Christian churches
he knew in India, but they were far distant, and held heretical tenets.
What could he do? He was naturally timid, though brave when aroused,
and unable to restrain himself: he wept silently.

Meanwhile the discussion had continued above, partly before Doña
Maria, who was surrounded by the children, many of whom had roused
from their slumbers, and partly between the Khan and his wife, who was
weeping plenteously at the tale of distress. But on one point they
agreed perfectly, that to expose the lovely Christian lady to their
son's admiration would not only be dangerous, but bring scandal on the
family and the Church; while, as the remedy appeared to be in their
own hands, they were bound to provide one. All that Maria could say was
that she was ready to face death if needs be, but to remain for further
insult by the superior she would not, and death were better.

At last a thought seemed to strike the Nawab. "I have it, I think,
now," he said; "the remedy will not be pleasant perhaps to either, but
they must be saved, and I think the Padré will agree with me."

"What is it? Ah! what wilt thou do with Maria, tell me?" cried the
Khanum.

"I had better not," he said, laughing; "women's wit is sometimes great
and ready, but sometimes small, as thine hath been to-night. O wife! if
I were to tell thee what hath passed my thought, thou and Maria might
set thy wits together and spoil all; but 'tis a sure plan, and bethink
thee, wife," he added, gravely, "we must save them from shame and from
death," and, so saying, he departed.

"We have been consulting," he said to d'Almeida, when he returned
to the audience chamber, "but my wife can suggest nothing, all her
wits have departed with poor Maria's, and so far we are as we began;
but I think I have a good plan now, and, Inshalla, thou wilt make no
objection. I must make State prisoners of ye both for a while."

"State prisoners! and of what are we charged?" said the priest,
drawing himself up proudly. "Do you forget that Portugal can defend its
servants?"

"Nay, I mean no offence, Padré Sahib," said the Nawab, laughing; "we
all know what Portugal can do when she has a blow to strike. This
morning only, as the flood has subsided, I received despatches from the
Court, written by the Queen's own hand, the King being absent in the
field. You may not have heard of it, but the Prince Ismail rebelled
against the King, and, aided by Eyn-ool-Moolk, raised the standard of
revolt, and offered to your people at Goa any terms they liked to ask,
even to half the kingdom, if they would give him aid in troops and
arms, especially in guns. The Queen was much alarmed, and Humeed Khan
had marched against the rebels; but it had transpired that intrigues
with Eyn-ool-Moolk and the Prince had been carried on with the Church
here, and I am ordered to watch it carefully.

"Now, listen further," he continued, as the Padré was protesting his
innocence of any political intrigue. "I know thou art innocent as a
babe, though the superior may not be, and I shall watch him. I shall
put it out of thy power to obey the citation. I shall not separate thee
from Maria. I shall place you both in absolute safety, and when thou
wilt thou canst fulfil the summons. Thou art not a free agent now, nor
shalt thou be, perhaps, for a few months; but ye will be treated with
all distinction, and all your expenses will be defrayed. I do not even
ask your permission, but prepare at once to send you to Juldroog,
where, from all your enemies, bodily and spiritual, you are safe."

Then he clapped his hands, and by an attendant sent for Peer Mahomed,
his secretary and chief scribe. "Write to Jan Beg Risaldar to send
fifty horsemen for service here, at the third watch of the night, with
two closed litters. Write also to the Nawab Osman Beg of Juldroog to
receive the Padré d'Almeida and his sister with honour, and afford them
the best accommodation possible. The last, Padré Sahib, I shall write
myself to my old friend the Dervish, who lives there, to give ye what
ye need freely."

There was no use resisting the Nawab's impetuosity. "As to your
effects, do not fear. I will have the house, &c., shut up under
attachment, and everything will be safe till ye, as I hope, return to
us. Some of your people once there, send for what ye need, and I will
despatch one of my own men to see they are brought."

Padré Francis thought of the centurion who had men under his command,
and obeyed. His sister came to him, and the Nawab kindly explained
what they would have to do. "If our beloved Queen can send for you,
'tis but a short journey, and a special messenger will leave to-day
for Beejapoor to tell her what I have done, and that ye are noble,
and ye have not only nought to fear, but joy and peace will await ye.
Remember, ye are not free agents. I do not ask you to go, but send you
hence and for your good."

Then the Nawab embraced him, and as a priest of Jesus asked his
blessing. Maria, with one of the children, lay down to rest; and, as
the cool morning air began to blow, Francis d'Almeida was roused from
his sleep, as he had laid down, and going to the gate was saluted
by the officer in command of the party, a grave old warrior; and on
Maria's arrival, closely covered by a shawl the Khanum had insisted on
her taking, they entered their litters, and the cortège moved on. It
was not more than fourteen miles to the river fortress, and they would
arrive before the sun was hot.




CHAPTER V.

A NEW ARRIVAL.


A few days had elapsed since, badly wounded and in strong delirium from
sunstroke, Abbas Khan had reached the solitary fortress of Juldroog. He
was now recovered from the fever, and his arm and breast were partly
healed, but not sufficiently to allow of his proceeding to Beejapoor,
as he desired to do. Momentous events were passing there. Humeed Khan,
his uncle, had routed the rebels, who had supported and encouraged the
Prince Ismail in his revolt. The chief of them, Eyn-ool-Moolk, a man
who had in turn been true and faithful or rebellious to the kingdom, as
his interest seemed to sway him, but whose reputation for consummate
ability was believed by all--a man to be feared as well as loved--had
been at last killed in action, and his head sent to Beejapoor, and
stuck upon a pole opposite to the chief gate of the citadel, a warning
to all traitors. The King of Ahmednugger, Boorhan Nizam Shah, was in
the field with a powerful army and large train of artillery, intending
to strike in with Eyn-ool-Moolk and the young Prince. Ibrahim, King of
Beejapoor, himself only a youth, was in the field also, watching his
uncle Boorhan's movements, and prepared to check him if he advanced,
or succeeded in inducing the Portuguese to join him in a combined
movement with Prince Ismail and Eyn-ool-Moolk on Beejapoor. But the
whole scheme had been stopped, in its apparently successful course,
by the death of one and the defeat of others of the conspirators. The
Prince Ismail was in confinement, and the King of Ahmednugger was the
last enemy to be dealt with, to give to Beejapoor the rest and peace
it had so long yearned for. During the King's absence in the field,
the Queen Dowager Chand Beebee carried on the Executive Government, as
she had done for the many years of the King's minority, with the same
calmness and profound ability she had always shown since she was called
upon to take part in public affairs.

On the morning we write of, the Governor of the fort and his guest
had risen early, performed their stated devotions, and were sitting
in a cloister of the Governor's house, which, for distinction, was
called "the Palace." It was a plain edifice, built of hewn granite,
stuccoed inside, and contained some few comfortable rooms, but much
confined, as the space on which the building had been erected, the very
apex of the cone of the hill, was necessarily very limited. Around it
were huge masses of smooth granite rocks, in every fantastic form,
which rose almost perpendicularly from the river bed on three sides,
sloping more gradually to the east, where, on a portion of tolerably
level ground, lay the little town of the fortress. To a lover of
natural scenery, if such a person had existed among the unobservant and
indifferent Mussulmans who formed the garrison, Juldroog would have
been a welcome residence; but Osman Beg, the present governor, was not
one of such persons. The son of a distinguished officer in the army of
the State, by birth a Persian, he had been unruly and disobedient at
home and strongly disposed to intrigue, which had made his presence at
the capital somewhat dangerous for him; and the command of Juldroog
becoming vacant, he was, as it were, rusticated for a while, and his
father held responsible for his fidelity.

He had now been two years in the fortress, and though he had written
many penitential letters to his father, and petitions to the King
and the Queen Dowager, he had not been relieved. The times were too
exciting for a restless spirit like his to be allowed full liberty, and
he had been kept at his unenviable post sorely against his will. If the
Prince and Eyn-ool-Moolk had succeeded in their enterprise, he would,
no doubt, have joined them; and this, from his intimacy with the young
Prince, being more than suspected, his petitions for return were, for
the present, disregarded.

I have already said that the situation of Juldroog was eminently
picturesque and beautiful, but it was beauty of a savage kind. The
river Krishna, in the course of ages, in which the great cataract
had been formed, had cut its way through a range of rocky hills which
continued northwards and southwards from the brink of the ravine,
through which its waters flowed. Throughout the ravine, which was about
three-quarters of a mile long, its sides were formed of rugged and
precipitous rocks, amongst which there was enough foliage to redeem
them from entire savageness. Towards the end of the ravine the fort
was situated, evidently a portion of the main range, through which the
river had cut its way. Looking from the crest of the cataract above, it
seemed as if the giant mass of the fort blocked up the narrow ravine
altogether; but at the angle opposed to the river it separated into two
branches, one to the north and one to the south. Abbas Khan had crossed
over the northern branch, which was comparatively narrow, and at a
somewhat steeper incline than the southern, which was more spread out
and more full of scattered rocks.

Both branches united at the end of the island thus formed, and the
noble river flowed on unbroken, except by low rocky islands covered
with wood. In dry weather the stream was reduced to a comparatively
small compass, the cataract was divided into many portions threading
through the rocks in their white streams, and disclosing the whole of
the wonderful construction of the fall, huge masses of granite rocks
crossed by veins and dykes of basalt. From the crest of the cataract to
the pool beneath, the measure by level of the descent is four hundred
and eight feet in about a quarter of a mile; and, as I have before
attempted to describe, the fury of the descending mass of water when
the wide river is in flood, is majestic and wonderful in the extreme;
but the place is so lonely, so entirely out of the way of ordinary
travellers, that few, except the people of the country immediately
around, know of its existence.

The young men were sitting together near an archway, which commanded
a noble view. To the west was the ravine of the cataract, with the
majestic fall now reduced, but still showing sheets of rushing water,
and its foaming, agitated passage through the rocky channels and bed
of the ravine. The sun had not risen, and the east was full of orange,
purple, and crimson clouds rising almost to the zenith, with a pale
green streak of clear sky near the horizon. To the north and south the
sky was flecked with fleecy cloudlets, which caught, now golden, now
crimson, now orange and pink rays, growing fainter and fainter as they
receded; but the glory of all was in the centre, which glowed like
molten metal, and was reflected in the large pool where the two streams
met below. To the east the river pursued its course through a level,
fertile plain, its pools and current glistening in the morning light,
till it seemed lost among the hills far beyond.

Suddenly the sun appeared to leap into the sky, and for a few minutes
his glowing rays touched every object with gold and crimson colour; the
hoary pinnacles of the hills beyond the river north and south, the
rocks and foliage of the sides of the ravine, flamed in the brilliant
light, the foam of the river seemed to flow in crimson flakes, and the
cataract glistened and shimmered like streams of fire.

For a brief while the spectacle was one of extraordinary grandeur and
beauty, and even the two young men were affected by it, for both had
started up from the soft cushions on which they had been reclining, and
were looking out in silence, when, as suddenly as it had broke forth,
the sun entered the bank of cloud above it, the gorgeous light faded,
and all became dull and grey.

"'Twas a pity it vanished so soon, brother," said Abbas Khan, as he
went to his hookah again, and the gurgling murmur succeeded. "'Twas,
methinks, like the glance of a beauty's eye, which sets one aflame, and
when withdrawn leaves one as grey and desolate as yonder rocks, which a
moment ago flashed like jewels. Hast thou often such exhibitions?"

"If I had them every day, Meeah," was the reply, "dost thou think I
should waken to see them, or care if I did see them? No; if thou hadst
been here two years like me, thou wouldst send thy curse against every
rock and tree, against all that roaring water, and most especially
against yonder frightful cataract, which for three months in every
year seems to clamour at me like a devil; mingles with my dreams if I
am asleep, and carried by the wind when it is in flood, the noise and
spray even enter here, and I am deafened and drenched. Thou hast heard
of the hell where infidels burn, but this is a water hell for poor
fellows like me, who have no friends. For the love of Alla, when thou
art at Court again, and of thy brotherly love, say a kind word for me,
and get me withdrawn. Surely even our prim Dowager Queen can see no
evil in me now. Wilt thou speak for me, O brother?"

"I will," answered the young Khan; "and if they listen to me, we will
soon play our jerreeds in the plain before the palace, to be looked
at by the Queen mother herself, or her pretty maidens. But tell me,
brother, how dost thou spend thy time?"

"Attend," he replied, with mock gravity. "Behold there are no women,
so I cannot ogle them, or make love to them. There are no dancers
or singers, for they are afraid to cross the river and come up here
for fear I should never let them go again. God help me! I never see
a woman's face, except when I go down to the old Dervish--who hath a
granddaughter like a fairy--and hear the few singers who come to visit
the tomb of the old saint on his anniversary."

"Then thou hast seen the maiden, brother?"

"I have seen her but once," he returned. "She came in when I was
speaking to the old blind man, but she vanished like a flash of light.
By and by she will be of marvellous beauty, and she reminds me of what
we have just seen. Hast thou noticed her?"

"I do not know," he said. "I was not in my senses when I was taken to
their house; and dreams only linger, now well-nigh forgotten, except
the faces of Elias Khan, as I slew him, and a girl----"

"Protection of God!" cried the other. "If one were to be haunted by
the face of every man one slew in fair fight there would be no more
war--men would fear ghosts, not enemies! So forget Elias Khan, or wait
till thy next charmer drive him out of thy head and put something
better of her own instead. But to resume my history of myself. I smoke;
I drink sherbet when it is hot, and coffee when it is cold, and I eat;
and when that is done I begin over again. Sometimes I play at chess
with my doctor or the Moonshee. I have letters to write. Sometimes
I read Hafiz or Saadi, but only with vexation at the tantalising
descriptions they give of nymphs with lotus eyes, ruby lips, cypress
waists, ivory necks and bosoms, and wine, which I have none of.
Sometimes I ride over to Moodgul and pass a day with the old Nawab,
who, I hear, has a marvellously pretty daughter, who will be well
dowered; but the old man is too good for me, and the worst of it is, I
cannot get to them in private; else there are some choice spirits among
the force there with whom time would pass merrily enough. I cannot ask
them here, where I have nothing to show them but rocks and tumbling
water; and, what is more, they do not care to come.

"If I go to the north side, I am among those unsainted barbarians, the
Beydurs, who shriek and yell like fiends; but I have some good sport
at times, and the savages are always ready for a hunt. Once, will you
believe it? I made a vow of pilgrimage to Sofy Surmurt's tomb at Sugger
(may he have entered heaven), that if he would procure my relief, I
would send a hundred rupees to his shrine; but he has not relieved
me, and I have not sent it, nor shall I. There, too, the old Naik of
Wakin-Keyra waylaid me, and insisted on my staying with him; but the
whole was barbarous, and I was afraid of being fed on wild pig; he ate
so much of it that I felt polluted by his very touch, and got away. But
look! what is that yonder? A party of the Nawab's horse, as I live,
from Moodgul; and see, two closed litters, which the bearers have set
down. Prisoners, no doubt, of whom I have to take charge. Could he not
have kept them himself?"

Abbas Khan could not help laughing at his cousin's doleful account
of his life, though he felt its truth, and then an uneasy thought of
the sweet girl who had attended him flashed across his mind. Even his
cousin, callous and licentious as he was, had remembered the only
glance he had ever had of her. But the thought was but for a moment,
and before Osman Beg's exclamation passed away, he, too, had risen, and
was looking out towards the ferry far below, and the two basket boats
in waiting on the river's bank.

"Who can they be?" said the Khan; "ladies of rank evidently, but from
where? The Nawab would hardly send his hareem here, when other ferries
are open. Let us go down, brother, and see, it will pass an hour; or
they may be State prisoners only. Come."

"Not I," said his cousin, again throwing himself idly on his cushions;
"not I. My people will report to me who they are, and it will be time
enough to go when there is need; in the evening, perhaps, when the town
is in shadow."

So they remained looking out. They saw the boats leave the shore
beyond, shoot into the rapid, and carried down; then enter a backwater,
by which they were floated up again, finally stopping at a point whence
the boats were towed up by ropes close to the town.

"Now we shall soon know," said the Governor, "all about these people;
but for my part I am not the least curious; and I object to State
prisoners, as I have sometimes to see them beheaded."

"But I am curious," said his cousin; and they sat together for some
time in silence.

Then one of the attendants brought in a packet of papers, covered his
hands with his scarf, and offered them to his master, who opened them
and began to read.

"A Christian priest and a woman," he cried, with derisive laughter.
"Now, Meeah, tell me, hath the old man gone mad? Am I, Osman Beg,
master of Juldroog, to guard a priest and a woman?--a Christian priest,
a Nazarene, whom may the Lord confound! By the saints, I have a mind to
send them back as they came. A Nazarene priest and a woman. Bah!"

"Do nothing of the kind," exclaimed Abbas Khan. "Thou hast not read
half the letter; perhaps thou hast forgotten how to read, and needest a
scribe to read for thee. Give it to me."

"I see," he continued, after running his eye over the letter. "Señor
Francis d'Almeida, of Goa, priest, and Maria, his sister, sent by order
of Her Majesty, the refuge of the poor, to be kept under surveillance
till she sends for them herself, or gives orders regarding them."

"Hem," said the Governor, gravely, "there may be some mischief even in
a Nazarene priest and his sister, and I must see to their good keeping."

"Stay! here is a postscript in the Nawab's own writing; shall I read
it?"

"Surely," was the reply. "I can never make out the Nawab's crabbed
characters; they are worse than a schoolboy's."

"Here, then, brother, listen. These persons are not to be treated as
prisoners. Let them go where they will about the fort; it is enough
that they are quietly watched, and not suffered to leave your fort till
they are wanted."

"Where, then, can I put them except in the prison?" said the Governor,
with vexation. "If they get away, my head must answer for it. Ho!
Ahmed!" he cried; "bid the darogah have the two best rooms in the
prison cleaned out, they are good enough for these Christian swine."

"May I be your sacrifice, O Nawab," said Ahmed, joining his hands,
"but they are already provided with lodging. The priest had a letter
with him, and took it to the Dervish. His child read it, and the old
man came out and bid them welcome in the name of God. Are they to be
removed to the prison?"

"No!" shouted the Governor; "let them remain where they are. By the
Prophet," he continued to his companion, "a Christian priest, a holy
Syud, and a woman; was there ever the like before? What can it mean?"

"Never trouble thine addled head about them," said the young man,
laughing; "let them be where they are, and treat them well."

"And the priest is one beloved by every man in Moodgul," added the
attendant, in the brusque manner common to many confidential Indian
servants; "and the lady, Doña Maria, is an angel of goodness and
beauty, and the poor adore her; so be kind to them, my master."

"Then thou shalt look after them thyself, O blockhead. Go, see that
they get rations of all they require; will that satisfy thee? Go! Will
that satisfy thee, too, Meeah?" he added; "wilt thou have them up here
with us? The girl is an angel I have heard from many, and----"

"Peace with thy ribaldry, cousin," said Abbas Khan, gravely. "They are
holy people committed to thy hospitality and care; wouldst thou break
those ties sacred even to Nazarenes?"

"Nay, I have done, Meeah," returned his cousin. "Thou art too good for
me. I swear to thee they are my brother and sister henceforth; can I
say more? Let them be, and tell me how thou camest across Elias Khan,
and how thou slew him. It will turn our thoughts away from the priest
and the beautiful Maria, and thou hast not told me yet."

"It is not a pleasant subject to tell thee of," said his companion;
"but I have to tell it to all who may ask me. You know Elias was an
Abyssinian."

"Yes, Meeah; but far removed from the parent stock. If I am right, we
were both his relatives, though we are Dekhanis."

"Distantly," was the reply; "but listen. I was at Kórla with my
cavalry, to watch the ford there against Eyn-ool-Moolk's marauders,
when one day my spies brought me word that my uncle's force was
pressing on to Belgaum, and I determined to join him, as everything was
quiet where we were, and my spies, out in all directions, said there
was not an enemy within fifty coss. I marched, then, early one morning,
the morning of the day I came here, before daylight; but before we had
proceeded more than a little distance, there was an alarm in front,
some shots were fired, and in galloping up to the head of the men, I
met Elias, with a cloud of his horsemen charging furiously. There was
no time for flight, even had I been a coward, so as I had a few men
with me I charged right at Elias, and called him by name. The confusion
and the war cries, Dekhan and Abyssinian, were frightful; the light was
as yet very dim, but I saw him when he was close to me, and cut at me
with all his power, beat down my guard, and wounded me, as you know.
I had not time to feel sick or faint, but struck at him with all my
force. Had he worn his usual chain armour, I had failed, and he would
have slain me; as it was, I clove him through the shoulder, and he
dropped from his horse dead, but his frightful curse as he received my
blow, and his scowl of hate, haunt me still.

"When I looked round there were only three men with me, and one was
badly wounded, my brave Jumal, who died at Narrainpoor the day after
we arrived there of the heat and his wound, and Runga Naik, who was
wounded also, but I did not know that at the time. All the rest of my
fellows, pursued by ten times their number of Abyssinians, were flying
for their lives, and the fight had gone away some miles. I could only
hear the shouts as we at last proceeded. There was no place of refuge
but Juldroog, and it was now clear to me that the rebels had crossed
the river somewhere in the night before the flood came down, with the
intention of cutting off my party, which, weak as it was, they would
easily have done in a surprise. It was a long and weary ride, cousin,
and the heat and the dust were frightful, and you know my condition
when I arrived."

"A fair fight, a fair fight between you, and you won it, my brave
brother. The worst of it is that Elias Khan was the chief of a large
faction of the Abyssinians, and they will make a party quarrel of it.
You will have to be careful when you get back to Beejapoor, and guard
against surprise and treachery; but so, indeed, has everyone nowadays."

"I do not fear that," returned Abbas Khan, quickly; "but what I do fear
is that my conduct may be misrepresented. It may be said that I fled
and left my poor fellows to their fate; and if that time come it would
have been better had I died of heat and thirst. One is already dead;
one is still with me, and brought away my standard, and he and Runga
Naik are the only two who saw what happened."

"But your wound is a witness, Meeah; and I am one also, when thou wert
sick to death; and the old Dervish and his child as well."

"Ye all know that I came and was in truth sick unto death, but ye did
not know how I had come, or why."

"But thy uncle, our uncle, Humeed Khan, thou art sure of him; and now
he has overcome Eyn-ool-Moolk and the Prince, he will be high in favour
with the King, and no one could oppose him."

"Alas!" returned the youth, "our uncle is a stern man, and if he
thought I had done a dastardly or cowardly act, would slay me with his
own hand. It is not death that I fear, but dishonour, which is worse
than death. That it is that preys on me, and that is why Elias comes
often to me and cries, 'Thou shalt die!'"

"He was a devil in life and he is a devil in death," said his cousin
with a shudder. "Bethink thee, brother, hadst not thou best have his
evil spirit exorcised and made to quit thee? The old Dervish is a holy
man; hundreds come to him for charms and amulets, and he can give thee
one against Elias and all other evil spirits; nay, even against the
Shytán himself! We will send word to him, and go down in the cool of
the evening. Canst thou walk so far?"

There is no Indian Mussulman who, more or less, does not believe in the
worth of charms and amulets against the effect of the Evil Eye; and
there are none who do not believe in the malignity of evil sprites and
demons who, wicked in life, have taken possession of innocent persons.
In the Dekhan and south of India generally this belief is peculiarly
strong, and it would have been impossible that Abbas Khan should not
have shared a superstition which was so universally prevalent among all
classes of the people.

"Yes; I will go, brother," he said, "but not to-day, for my soul is
heavy. The old man's guests, too, are hardly settled, and he will have
too many cares for them to think of me. So let us have a game at chess,
and this cloud may pass away. My wound, too, is painful, and I would
have rest, instead of a rough walk over your rocks."

"By all means, Meeah, let us play. There is thunder in the air, and
there will be rain, and therefore thou art suffering. When thou art at
ease we can go; till then, the Dervish and his guests are best left to
themselves." And the cousins betook themselves to their game.




CHAPTER VI.

THE STORM AND THE FLOOD.


Meanwhile, the good Padré and his sister, having been ferried over
the river, as already mentioned, and their litters removed from the
boats, looked around in amazement at the wild and impressive scene
before them. High above, the fantastic rocks of the gloomy fortress
towered majestically, and bastion after bastion revealed itself
among them, glowing in the rising sun, and by its ruddy beams bereft
awhile of their actual grimness. Below, the small village, with its
half-ruined walls, seemed astir; for cattle and goats issued from the
gate enveloped in clouds of dust, attended by shepherds, who drove them
forth to graze on the level ground at the lower point of the island.

A company of women, with bright water-pots on their heads, were going
for water, and some people had collected in groups to watch the unusual
sight of the strangers' arrival. Among them were some of the Governor's
attendants, to one of whom the officer from Moodgul explained who the
priest and his sister were, and, delivering his letters, bade the Padré
a courteous farewell, and proceeded to return; while the attendant,
after a few civil questions, bidding the litters to be taken to a
shady spot under some tamarind trees, accompanied the party.

"Can you tell me where the Dervish, who lives here, resides?" asked the
priest of the man, who appeared civil.

"Certainly," he replied, "it is close by. Come with me and I will call
him."

Zóra answered to the summoner, and the priest, taking off his hat,
saluted her. He could not help being struck with the extreme beauty of
the girl. "Can you speak Canarese?" he asked, "for I have a letter here
for your father."

"He is my grandfather," she said, modestly, "but if you will give me
the letter I will read it for him, for he is blind." Then the girl
retired with it, and in a few minutes returned, leading the old man by
the hand, saying, "Abba, this is the Padré Sahib; speak to him."

"You are welcome, Sir, to my poor house, in the name of the God we both
worship, and in the name of Jesus and his mother. Your friend, the
Nawab, asks me to give you shelter for a few days, and I do so with
pleasure. My house is your own, if you can put up with scant room and
such attendance as we can supply; my child, Zóra, must be your hostess.
Where is your sister?"

"Close by," said the priest, "under the trees; I will bring her to you."

"Maria," he said, as he opened the curtain of the litter, "I have
seen the old Dervish, who is kind and hospitable. He has offered us
shelter, as the Nawab said he would; and he has one of the brightest
and sweetest-looking of grandchildren, whose very smile will cheer you.
Come! I will see to our baggage and dismiss our escort."

"O gentle lady!" cried Zóra, clapping her hands and advancing to greet
her guest as she passed the threshold, "surely thou art as beautiful
as an angel;" and the girl's face was expressive of her wonder and
admiration.

Her large, liquid eyes were dilated to the full; her lips open,
showing her white glistening teeth; and her first look of amazement
had expanded into a beaming smile as she stretched forth her arms to
embrace her guest. Nor was Maria slow to express her confidence, and
took Zóra in her arms and held her to her heart in a warm embrace.

"I shall be a trouble to you," she said, "and I cannot speak Persian
like my brother."

"But you speak my own language, you speak Canarese, lady, like a
Brahmin; but see, there is my grandfather, he would welcome you, too."

"Would that I had eyes to see thee, lady; but thou art welcome truly,"
said the old man kindly, and feeling in the air for his guest.

"Let him put his hand on thy head, lady," said Zóra, "'tis that he
wishes to do;" and she guided her grandfather's hand to Maria's head.

"May God and the Holy Mother of Jesus keep thee, my child," he said
reverently. "If thou art in trouble, or pain, or grief, thou wilt find
peace in this poor house, and Zóra will love thee, and watch thee. That
soft silky hair of thine is not of Hind, but of Europe, and thou wilt
tell me of thy sweet country."

Maria had removed her hood, and her fair, silky hair was clustering
about her neck and shoulders. She had never looked more lovely than at
this moment; the rich complexion glowing with excitement and pleasure;
her fair white throat rising out of her kerchief of fine white muslin,
as she stooped down to receive the old man's blessing of welcome; and
as he put Zóra's hand into hers, he said, "Take her, and guide her, for
she is alone."

"Come, lady!" said Zóra, "I will show thee where thou wilt live. Long
ago, they say, my grandmother and my mother lived there; but the place
is too large for me alone, and my old servant and I live in a room
apart, near my grandfather. Come and see!"

They passed through a room, which was used as a kitchen, and entered a
small court, which had low cloisters all round, from which doors opened
to apartments within. The whole was small, but exquisitely neat and
pure; and in the centre was a plot in which were some purple amaranths,
marigolds, and other common flowers, and some bushes of several kinds
of jessamine.

"These are my flowers," she said, "and I love them so; and yonder is
a vine, which gives us grapes in the cool weather; and one fig-tree,
which shades me from the sun; and I love to sit here and read, and feed
my pigeons and the birds that come to me. And they know me so well
now, even the parrots and mynas, though they are wild. Coo! coo!" she
cried, raising her voice, as a flock of beautiful pigeons flew in, and
alighting, pressed round her. "They belong to the mosque, you know,
lady, and no one molests them."

"Call me Maria now," said the lady. "There should be no veil or
restraint between us."

"But I am only a poor orphan," she said.

"As I am also," Maria returned, sadly, "and a widow, too."

"Thou a widow, and so young and so beautiful?" said the girl. "May I
love thee, and serve thee? See! the pigeons are not afraid of thee, nor
am I."

"We will love each other," said Maria, gently stroking the girl's head.
"And if we stay----"

"Oh, you will not depart," said Zóra, pitifully, "and leave me alone
again! I have seen you only to love you, and without you all would be
dark. I have had no world but this to live in, and I was happy; but now
you are come from a far country, and brought with you a joy my heart
has never known. Ah, yes, the Mother Mary would not take you away from
Zóra! And now see," she continued more gaily, "here are your brother's
rooms, and a door to go out by to the mosque, if he wishes, and
whithersoever he pleases; and a room for your servants, which can be
your kitchen. No one will come near you, and you can do as you please."

The apartments were indeed ample for all purposes, and when the
priest had got up their few possessions, and the two old servants,
Pedro and Joanna, had arranged them and their own, the rooms lost the
bare, uninhabited look they had had at first, and became cheerful
and comfortable. Zóra's old servant had prepared an ample repast of
omelette and kicheri, to which the travellers did justice after their
night journey.

The morning had been oppressively hot, and indeed all day the sun's
rays had beaten down upon the narrow valley and its bare granite
rocks with an intensity of heat hardly supportable, yet the court had
remained refreshingly cool. In the evening, however, the radiation
from the rocks increased the heat, and the brother and sister betook
themselves to the terrace of the court and looked around them. Heavy
clouds were gathering overhead, and flashes of lurid sheet lightning
every now and then seemed to spring from their depths and rush across
the sky, lighting up the grim fort for an instant, and again leaving
all darker than before. Low mutterings of thunder came down the ravine,
accompanied by fitful gusts of wind, which again ceased, and all was
still; but the darkness grew more intense, till not even the fort or
the rocks could be seen.

Maria was no coward of the elements, and she and her brother watched
the sublime progress of the storm which was evidently approaching, with
intense interest, hardly speaking. A few large plashing drops of rain
fell on them, and warned them to retire, but they only rose and gazed
around. The low moaning of the cataract above came down in the still
silence, and the river murmured with a kind of measured plash among the
rocks; there was not a breath of wind to stir the flame of the small
lamp which burned below, and the very suspense was fearful.

Suddenly a heavy shower fell, with an almost sulphurous odour, forcing
them to retire, when, and as if that had been the signal, a stream
of forked lightning burst from the clouds which hung, as it were,
immediately over their heads, illuminating in a ghastly manner the
fort, the town, the river, and hills beyond; yet but for an instant
only, one which was never forgotten, for thunder crashed above them.
Peal after peal broke over the ravine of the fort, and was re-echoed
among the rocks and wild hills with tremendous and deafening roar,
which for a time was almost continuous.

Brother and sister performed their evening devotions, thankful for
the shelter they enjoyed; and when Francis had withdrawn to his
room, Maria sat long, meditating over the events at Moodgul and their
consequences, grateful for having escaped violence, the cause of which,
but for Dom Diego's uncontrollable passion, she would not have been
aware; thankful, too, for shelter in their trouble to both.

Whether they were to be prisoners, or whether guests, she knew not;
but at least they had found friends who seemed real and sincere, and
anything, even a prison, would be welcome rather than the ordeal of the
Inquisition, or the dangers of her own once happy home. What the end
might be, whither she might be led, she had no thought, for all the
future was dark; but she could rest her hopes on Jesus and his Holy
Mother, and in sure faith in both, she knelt down before her crucifix
and prayed fervently.

As she prayed she heard the door open softly, and amidst a glare of
lightning which soon ceased, the terrified face of Zóra appeared,
pale and anxious. "Forgive me," she cried, as she entered, "but I was
frightened by the thunder and lightning, and have come to thee. Abba
sleeps soundly, and I was alone; may I stay here with thee till the
storm is past?"

"Thou art welcome, child," said Maria, gently; "lie down on my little
bed, and I will be with thee presently. It is truly a fearful night,
but God protects us. When I have finished my prayer I will come to
thee."

Then Zóra lay down, and covered herself closely at first, but now and
again peered out, her large eyes distended with wonder as she watched
the Christian lady's simple devotions. "She prays," she thought, "and
yet men say Christians are godless and infidel; but they are false and
wicked who say so."

After a little while Maria rose, combed out her silky hair, divested
herself of her upper garments, and after her usual ablution, kissed the
child, and lay down beside her; and though the thunder still roared and
the lightning flashed, sleep came to them as they lay locked in each
other's arms: thus they rested peacefully, while the thunder clouds
passed away down the river to the east, dispensing their cooling and
fertilising influences far and wide, and the stars shone out with
a dewy brilliance over the fort, the river, and the ever-moaning
cataract. It was the opening of the monsoon.

In the early morning they awoke. Zóra raised herself on her arms, and
looked with earnest eyes on her companion. "How beautiful thou art,
Maria," she said, as she smoothed the soft hair from her brow; "and how
fair, and thy cheek like a pale Oleander flower. Alla pity thee, and
protect thee!"

"I have rested well," said Maria, smiling; "I do not think we awoke
for all the thunder, and now 'tis calm and fresh. When it is time, if
thou wilt, we will go abroad for awhile. I am used to do so, alone at
Moodgul, for I had many sick people to look after who expected me. Thou
art not afraid?"

"Oh, no!" returned the girl. "I, too, have sick people in the village,
and I will show them to thee. I am not afraid, and everyone is kind to
me, even the rough soldiers salute me; and I had such sweet dreams,
Maria. Angels of Paradise seemed to be tending me, and there were
flowers around me, and all because I lay in thy arms like a child."

"Would thou wert a child of hers, Zóra," and Maria pointed to a little
picture she had hung beneath the crucifix; "but go now, and when thou
art ready come for me. See, there is my old servant to help, and I will
not delay. And how hast thou passed the night, Joanna?" she asked. "A
good day to thee."

"We barely slept," said the old dame, in the broken snuffling
Portuguese spoken by the lower orders of Goa. "We shut the door, and
the lightning would come in, whether or no. It used to be bad at Goa,
but this seems worse; the saints help us. How are we to get away from
this terrible place, where the rocks seem ready to fall on us and crush
us, and the fort looks like a gloomy prison? Yet thou hast a smiling
face, Señora; dost thou not fear?"

"No," said Maria, "I dread nothing; and these new friends, whose guests
we are, seem truly kind; why should we fear?"

"No, mistress, the house is well enough, I allow. There is a
bathing-place for thee inside, and I have water ready, and the
cocoa-pot is simmering, and----"

"But where is my brother; hath he not risen, Joanna?"

"Oh, yes!" returned the dame; "he rose about daylight, for a soldier
came from the fort and said the Governor wished to see him before the
sun was hot, and he thought it best to go, so he went with the men--for
there were several--and said he would be back as soon as he could, and
you were not to be anxious, for the messengers said he was to come
without apprehension, for he would be taken care of, and sent back."
But notwithstanding Joanna's assurance, a thought of possible treachery
and a dungeon floated into Maria's mind. Yet she remembered the civil
messages of the day before, and the ample allowance for maintenance
which had accompanied them.

"And there is plenty to eat, Señora," continued the dame, when she
brought the cup of warm cocoa, after Doña Maria had bathed, "plenty.
There are two lambs and many fowls, and rice, and butter, and spices,
and flour, salt, and cocoa nuts, and coffee, and sugar, and sugar
candy, and plantains, and eggs, and----"

"Enough, enough!" cried Maria, laughing outright; "why there is more
than we could eat in a month, Joanna."

"And the man told Pedro that this was to be the daily allowance, and he
would bring it every morning. He is a Brahmin scribe, I think, for he
had a pen stuck into his turban. I will bring him to you when he comes,
and you or the Señor can tell him what you please; and when you come
in, a good breakfast will be ready for you and the master, I can tell
you."

"I am troubled to hear about all the food that has been sent us by the
kind Governor," said Maria to her young friend, when Zóra entered.
"What are we to do with it?"

"You can give it to the poor if you can't eat it all, lady," replied
the girl. "It is because you are great people that the Nawab has sent a
feast for you, and you will get it every day. Ah! he is rich, and the
Government is rich, and will never miss it; but come, the Señor is gone
up to the fort to see him, and we may meet him as he returns."

So they went out towards the village. The sun was rising veiled in
clouds, which, as the remainder of the storm, lay in a dark bank
far behind the distant hills which bounded the horizon. The slight
breeze was fresh and cool, the rocks glistened, wet as they were, in
the light, all the birds--mynas, paroquets, and others--flew about,
chattering and calling to each other, and there was a clearness and
transparency of the air which revealed rock and tree, hill and ravine,
with far greater distinctness than on the previous day when they had
arrived. How beautiful it all seemed to Maria.

"And what is that sound I hear?" she asked of her companion; "sometimes
it is loud, sometimes a low murmur. Is it the river?"

"Yes," replied the girl, "it is the river. Not far above, the water
falls over a great rock as high as the hill yonder, with a terrible
foam and clamour, and you can see it from yonder bastion. It is not
far from here, and I often go there when the water is in flood to look
at it."

"Alone!"

"Oh, yes, alone! I am only Zóra, and no one minds me. Sometimes one
of the soldiers we know, Ahmed, comes with me if he sees me, and says
I ought not to go alone, and tries to frighten me about the panther
which sometimes comes here; but I never saw one. Now here we are in the
village, what do you think of it?"

It was a poor place; the main street contained a few shops where grain
and flour, butter and spices, were sold, and some of the soldiers of
the garrison were grouped about them, most of whom saluted the two
girls civilly enough. The rest of the houses belonged to weavers and
cultivators who had fields at the end of the island, or had lands
across the river, which, except in the highest floods, they could
cross at any time on their floats of gourds. Many of the houses were
comfortable and in good order, and their dames standing at their doors
were well clad, and welcomed them with kindly greeting.

We will not follow the companions on their little tour. Zóra had
several sick people to visit, chiefly women and children; but it was
easy to see how much she was beloved by all. Maria was soon at her
ease among them; her sweet face, the softness of her manner, and the
perfection with which she spoke the Canarese tongue, charmed and
affected many deeply. Indeed, most of them knew her and her brother
by report, and some had even seen them when they went to the Moodgul
fair. To some Maria promised her own medicines, and invited others to
come and tell their ailments to her brother, for the medicine chest
had not been forgotten, and long practice and reading had made Francis
d'Almeida a skilful physician.

They were returning through the little bazaar, when Maria heard her
brother's voice calling, as it were, from above, "Maria! Maria!" The
sound seemed in the air, and on looking up she saw him descending by a
steep pathway. "Wait!" he cried, and was presently with them. He told
them that though he had obeyed the Nawab's summons with some misgiving,
yet he had been received kindly and courteously; and though he might be
delayed a short time till instructions arrived regarding him, he must
remain at his ease without apprehension, and that the whole fort was
free to him to come and go as he pleased. "And it is the most wonderful
place you ever saw, sister," he continued. "The view up the ravine of
the river is glorious; and though there is not water enough now to
fill the cataract, it is still surprisingly beautiful, and I will take
thee to see it some day. The Nawab has a guest, too, a cousin, in whom
I am much interested. He is suffering from some delusion, which, I
think, I can remove by tonics, and he is to come to me this evening to
consult with me. He was wounded, too, in some battle, but the wound is
very nearly healed. I will put a simple dressing on it, and he will
be fit to travel in a week. I was much interested in him, for he is a
brave and modest youth, with a stamp of greatness about him which the
Nawab lacketh, who is altogether of a coarse type; but he was kind
nevertheless. I have enjoyed the climb and walk greatly, Maria, and am
hungry for my breakfast;" and they passed on.

At the entrance to his dwelling their venerable host met them, with
anxious inquiries about their health and comfort; and Zóra told him
how they had already visited her sick folk, and how the Señora had won
all hearts, and the children hung about her; and as the old man was
praising her, Maria simply said,

"I am vowed to good works, and have renounced the world, Sir. This is
only my daily care, to be fulfilled wherever I may be; and it rejoices
me to find Zóra so efficient a guide. The people all love her, and so
do I already."

"Nor will she fail you, lady," returned the Dervish. "She is the light
of these sightless eyes now, and is all that is left to me on earth.
But go, you will be hungry. I only hope you and your good brother have
all you need."

He said this with a combined dignity and courtesy which struck Maria
forcibly. "Surely he is no ordinary Fakeer," she thought; "perhaps some
great person who, weary of the world, has taken refuge here, and Zóra,
I dare say, will tell me."

It was in the afternoon when Zóra came into Maria's room, where she
was busy copying some of her brother's translations. "Come," she said,
"there is no sun, and we can walk to the bastion. I know a short way by
a postern; and Ahmed is here and will go with us, and your brother will
come also."

"Yes, he will come, and it will be so pleasant to have a stroll with
him; we always go out together."

"We must not be long away," he said, "for I expect the Nawab's cousin
at sunset, and would not fail him."

"No! we need not even be so long. They say the panthers come out as the
sun goes down," said Zóra, laughing gaily, "but we never met any of
them, did we, Ahmed?"

The bastion could not be seen from where they were below, and they
followed a path behind one of the curtain walls of the fort; but as
they got round a shoulder of the hill the ascent grew steeper, and
turning a corner of the wall the bastion stood before them. It was
built on a high, isolated rock, one side of which could be ascended by
steps that rose from the ground. The rock completely shut out the view
up the ravine, and the curtain wall that of the river; but they could
hear it roaring and dashing against the rocks far below. It was evident
that the whole ravine above could be seen from the bastion, and Zóra,
leading the way, bounded fleetly up the steps.

"There," she cried, helping Maria up the last one; "look! but the rocks
are not half covered with water."

The wildness of the scene before her, and its extreme beauty, caused
Maria to start back and almost feel dizzy; but Zóra held her by the
hand. "Do not tremble," she said, leading her up a small circular
platform on which there was a long iron swivel gun placed. "Sit down on
the gun here, and shut your eyes, as I do, then you will not tremble
when you open them."

Maria followed the girl's advice, and waited for a few moments; then
she looked out. The gun was raised some feet above the parapet of
the bastion, and the view around was completely clear. The stream
dashed against the foot of the rocks, more than a hundred feet below,
rebounding among other rocks in its bed, throwing up waves and spray,
and rushing down the gorge with violence.

Above, to the left hand, she could see where the hill was cut in two
by the point of the island, which ascended nearly perpendicularly for
hundreds of feet; but of all, the bed of the river above the fall, the
sides of the ravine, and the huge cataract itself at the end were the
most impressive. Maria sat in a sort of trance, unable, for several
minutes, to speak, clasping Zóra's hand as the girl nestled to her.
Zóra said, "Is not that God's power? I thought you would not speak. I
can hardly breathe sometimes when the flood comes down. Ah!" she cried,
with a half shriek, "look, it is coming; but do not be afraid, we are
quite safe here. It is last night's rain."

Maria looked up to the crest of the fall, which, such was the clearness
of the air, seemed to be quite close. She saw a swell of water
gradually rising over it. It appeared to move slowly at first, but as
the momentum and the body of water increased in volume, it dashed down
the rocks with irresistible fury and velocity, foaming, sending up
clouds of spray, and roaring with a sound deeper than thunder.

Gradually the whole of the crest was covered by the flood which,
pausing as it were in the great pool below, now rolled in majestic
force down the ravine in a seemingly compressed column, rising every
moment. The effect of this huge mass of water in the comparatively
confined space was very singular, and almost indescribable, for it
appeared to grow in height every moment, and, thundering down before
them, to look almost as if it would overwhelm them; but there was a
fascination in the superb sight that was irrepressible as the torrent
came on, its crest feathered with white foam, while it seemed to lick
up the huge rocks and boulders in the bed, to rush into the hollows
of the ravine sides in furious waves, and gradually to fill the whole
gorge with tumult.

Presently they saw the foremost wave strike against the base of the
fort and divide, the chasm beneath them becoming filled by the torrent.

"The flood seems rising up to us, doesn't it?" cried Zóra, clapping
her hands; "that's what I like to feel, sister; but it could not, you
know, we could escape up there;" and she pointed to the rocks above,
"and the good Alla would not let it carry us away. But what is that?
Ahmed, Ahmed! what is that?" and with wide distended eyes she looked
at a spot on the side of the hill, only a little distance from them,
pointing at the same time, "What is that?"

A panther had crept out from its den under a rock, and after stretching
itself, yawned and gave a slight growl, then looked about warily, and
seeing the group on the bastion, crouched as if to spring.

"If I had but brought my gun," said Ahmed in a whisper. "Do not notice
the brute, he will not attack us. Oh! if I had but my gun."

Almost as he spoke a shot was fired from behind a bush at a short
distance, which stood near one of the zigzag paths which led up the
ascent. The panther staggered for a moment, then sank to the ground
with a scream, and falling, rolled down the steep bank below him on to
the pathway, quite dead.

"A good shot! well fired!" exclaimed Ahmed, as he prepared to descend
the steps from the bastion, while a voice cried from above, "Take care,
Ahmed! take care! he may not be dead!" But Ahmed hurled down a large
stone, followed by several others, which hit the carcase; but it did
not move, and he cried to the man above, "Come down, it is quite dead."

Then a small party emerged from the position they had taken up behind
some rocks, which consisted of the Nawab and his cousin, and several
attendants.

"We saw you from above," said the Nawab, saluting the Padré
courteously, "but we did not like to disturb you. May we come down?"

"I do not like him," said Zóra, clinging to Maria; "he always looks at
me when I chance to meet him, and his eyes are evil. Let me be near
you. Oh that he would go away. Why does he intrude upon women?"

But Osman Beg and his companion, after inspecting the dead animal,
ascended the steps and were soon among the little party.

He did not address Maria, but saluted her courteously; and of Zóra he
took no notice, save by some furtive glances from time to time.

"It is well we came down by the path yonder, or that brute might have
alarmed your sister," he said to the Padré; "but it is fortunate for
me that I have the unexpected pleasure of seeing her. Perhaps she will
accept the claws of the panther in memory of this incident; they make a
pretty necklace, and shall be cleaned and sent to her. I cannot dare to
ask her to my poor house, but she has seen the flood from here, which
is grand to-day."

"It is, indeed, wonderful," replied Francis, curtly. He did not like
the manner with which the Nawab regarded his sister. "But we cannot
stay now, it grows late. May we depart?"

"Nay, Señor, it is I that should depart, and leave you to enjoy
yourselves; but my cousin has promised a visit to you, Sir, and the
Dervish, and he will accompany you, if you have no objection, with two
or three men, in case more panthers may be abroad. So I will take my
leave of you, Señor; may you reach your house safely." And, descending
the steps, they watched him ascend the path by which he had come.

Abbas Khan, though he had not seen Zóra since his night of delirium,
yet remembered her perfectly, and his eyes beamed with delight.

"It was such a flood as this when I was brought across this torrent,
wounded and sick almost to death," he said very quietly to Zóra. "Hast
thou forgotten it? It was thy face then that I saw as an angel's, who
gave me cool sherbet of Persia; and I would have come to thank thee
and the old man, but I was too weak till now. Dost thou remember?" he
added, after a short pause; and as she did not speak, "I remember thy
name--Zóra, is it not?"

"I have not forgotten," she said, looking up to him timidly with her
soft eyes, and then casting them to the ground; "I remember all, and we
thought thou wouldst have died."

"I have no remembrance save of thee, Zóra," he continued, tenderly;
"only an angel seemed to visit me, and soothe me. Then Runga Naik
came, and ... but it is all a dream, for I knew little more till I was
taken to the palace, where I have since been, except that an old man
with a long white beard visited me often, and a servant brought food.
Where wert thou?"

But she did not reply.

"Come, then," he said to the Padré; "come, the evening draws in; and,
as my cousin says, we may perchance see more panthers;" and after a
lingering look around her, Maria rose, and followed Zóra down the
steps, for the continuous roar and turmoil of the waters oppressed her.

Almost at the foot of the steps lay the dead panther, its glossy skin
flecked with blood stains, and its eyes glaring and glassy. The claws
had been cut off, but the skin was perfect. "'Twill make a good carpet
for Abba," he said to Zóra, "and I will send some men to skin it
presently."




CHAPTER VII.

CONFIDENCES AND FAREWELLS.


"O sister, I have seen him once more!" cried Zóra, as she flung her
arms round Maria's neck, when they had reached the privacy of her room.
"I have seen him, and he looked kindly upon me, and has not forgotten
me. Oh, sister, I am so happy!"

"Who is he?" asked Maria; "and how earnest thou to know him?" she said
in some surprise. "Is he thy betrothed?"

"Oh, no," replied Zóra, shyly. "I have no betrothed; if I had he would
not speak to me, nor I to him, till we were married. But I have no
betrothed; I am only Zóra yet, and I shall never change. Who would ask
for a Fakeer's child but a Fakeer? and I would not go. No, I am with
Abba now, and while he lives I will not leave him."

"And after that, Zóra?"

"I do not know. Whatever is in my fate will surely come," she said,
simply. "I hear of many good women who live by good deeds, and even my
poor people here would not let me go."

"And thou hast no relatives, no friends?"

"None in all the world, lady," said the girl, with a sigh. "No one but
the good Abba, and he always keeps me safe. I have no one but Abba in
all the world, and he is very old now, and often tells me he shall die
soon; but I pray to Alla that he may live many years--oh, many years!
And I shall have no care. But did you not see, sister, _he_ remembered
me. Ah, yes," she continued, her eyes flashing with excitement, "he had
not forgotten me, though I saw him only one night, and they would not
let me go to him next day; and I never saw him again till the panther
was killed, and then I dare not look at him."

"And who is he?" asked Maria, with some curiosity. "Tell me; thou art
not ashamed, Zóra."

"I am ashamed only to myself," she replied. "I only think of him
sometimes as he lay shouting his war cry, and cowering down as he
cried, 'Elias! Elias! away, away, to hell!' I don't know who he is,
but they call him Abbas Khan; and Runga Naik told me he was a brave
soldier, although so young, and his uncle was a proud warrior at
Beejapoor, in the good Queen Chand's favour; and he is an orphan like
me, sister. That is all I know."

Did the Señora remember the first dawning of love to her own gallant
soldier husband in the far-off home-land of her youth, where he had
wooed her and won her? Perhaps she did, as her heart softened to the
girl, and she took her in her arms, and laid her head on her own
breast. But she said naught of love; what Zóra had said was but a
premonitory symptom, if, indeed, it was even that.

"Yes, it is pleasant to be remembered," she answered, "especially when
one has tried to do a kindness. But he is a noble of rank, and will go
away to his people and leave thee here. Why shouldst thou think of him?"

"Yes," she said, sadly. "I did not think of him before, but I was so
happy; and now, if he had not spoken kindly to me, I should not have
cared. He would have been as others who have come and gone. Ah, well!
it is my fate, my fate; and when Abba is gone there is no help for me
but Alla;" and she burst into a flood of tears, while Maria held her to
her breast and soothed her.

"There, it is gone now," she said, half sobbing. "Forgive me, sister,
that I was so foolish;" and she looked up with a bright smile, though
her eyes were wet with tears. "And you will not forget the river, and
the cataract, and the foaming, whirling waters?"

"No, indeed, Zóra," she said, with almost a shudder; "but it was almost
too terrible. Hark! how it thunders now, and the river roars!"

"We who live here," returned Zóra, "are accustomed to it, and seldom
heed it; but I love it at its wildest, and Ahmed and I often go to
the bastion and sit there wondering till I can hardly get away, and
sometimes even weep. Think, lady, it was in such a flood as that that
Runga Naik brought him here; but it was the good Alla that protected
him, and it was not his fate to die."

"You promised me you would not think of him, Zóra!"

"Only when the flood comes, lady; then, indeed, I cannot help it,
perhaps, and he will be far away with his people."

Meanwhile Abbas Khan was in consultation with the old Dervish, to whom
he had told his mental trouble, and the appearance that tormented him.
It would have been impossible for the old man to have ignored the
affection, for he was himself a thorough believer in such appearances,
and Zóra had drawn up for him many an amulet and charm against evil
influences; but he thought also, with a physician's experience, that
the illusion was more of the body than the mind, and resulted from the
effects of the delirium, which it had been so difficult to relieve. He
had charms and amulets of many kinds, and knew where they were all kept
by Zóra; and he got up, went to a cupboard, and brought a paper divided
into sixteen squares, in each of which there were Arabic figures.

"Wear this, in the name of Solomon, son of David," he said; "it will be
good for thee; and let me press thy head while I say the prayer over
thee, my son." And while Abbas Khan kneeled at his feet, the Dervish
placed his hands on his temples and compressed his head as tightly as
possible, muttering a prayer or exorcism in Arabic, of which the young
man could only distinguish a few words, which appeared to be from the
Koran. "If the vision trouble thee again, Abbas Khan," he resumed, "go,
when thou art at Beejapoor, to the Chishtee Peer Sahib; tell him what
I have done to thee, and he will relieve thee more than I have power to
do; and for thy body, let us consult the Padré Sahib. I have long heard
of his skill as a physician."

"And is it lawful to take the medicine of a Feringi when I have my
charm about me, O Dervish?" asked the Khan.

"Medicine is from Alla," he replied, "who directs its operation upon
all. Feringis are men of the Book, and believe in the Lord Jesus and
his mother Mary," said the old man, solemnly. "They have not our light,
for that came later to the world; but their light is to be honoured, my
friend. And this is a Padré, a holy man of whom all the country, Moslim
and Hindoo, speak well. Yes, his medicine will be blessed to thee, and
need not be feared. I will send for him presently, or, better still,
I will ask him to see thee to-morrow, then thou wilt be calm and thy
pulse even; now I find it is agitated more than usual. Meanwhile let
the charm work."

"If I knew whom to thank," said the young man, earnestly, "I would
revere thy name, for what do I not owe thee, for help when I was
raving, and rescue from death? What can I do for thee, O holy man? If
I, or my uncle Humeed Khan, could do aught, thou hast only to speak.
Surely I and mine are grateful to thee, and to her who tended me alone."

"Ay, Zóra, sir; but she did only her duty, and has passed away from
thy mind. Who am I? and how art thou to call me? May I trust thee?
The nephew of Humeed Khan should be as true as he is, and to no one
yet hath my tale been told here, while at Beejapoor the old Syud is
forgotten now. Yes, it matters not for me, but for Zóra much," he
continued, after a pause, "very much. When I am gone, who shall defend
her? She is an orphan, and alone."

"I promise to be secret and true," returned the young man, fervently,
as he touched the feet of the Dervish; "treat me as a son, and before
Alla I will be true."

"Listen, then. Didst thou ever hear of Syud Ahmud Ali?"

"Yes, father," he replied, "I have. Men speak now of the holy Syud as a
great physician, and use his prescriptions; but he is dead many, many
years. Was he aught to thee?"

"I am Syud Ahmud Ali," replied the Dervish.

"Then why art thou here?" asked Abbas Khan, eagerly.

"Because I am forgotten," said the old man, with a deep sigh. "All my
contemporaries are dead, or have passed away elsewhere; if any live
they have forgotten me, and new men have sprung up who never heard
of me. Listen! When I was a youth I went on the pilgrimage to Mecca
with my father, who was a noble of the Court of Ibrahim Adil Shah,
of honoured memory, and our family had been nobles of the court from
the time of the great Yoosuf Adil Khan. My father died of the plague
at Jedda, and, having ample means, I desired to see the world. I had
been studious also, and had no desire for a military life, and wished
to be a physician. I went to Cairo, where I studied deeply, and learnt
the Arabic tongue to perfection. I then visited Constantinople and
Morocco, where there were Western Syuds of great learning. I even
crossed into Spain, where some devout Mussulmans still remained. I
married one of their daughters, a Houri in person, and I returned to
Beejapoor with her, where the King Ibrahim Adil Shah received me with
honour, gave me an estate--it was Almella, near the Bheeman--and all
its dependencies; and I became known as the Syud of Almella. The King
attached me to himself, and I served him, not only as a physician, but
as a counsellor, and often in the field also, with all the fidelity and
ability I possessed; and I grew in station, in rank, and in wealth.

"Perhaps I was too proud, perhaps neglected service to God which I
ought to have done; but who can fathom the purposes of God, or question
His decrees? for at the zenith of my fame and fortune I was overthrown
so utterly that I have never risen again--and yet so unjustly.

"You have heard of the King's cruelties in his debaucheries during
the latter days of his life; how he banished some of his physicians
because they did not cure him, imprisoned others, and even had some
put to death. What medicine could cure a man who, when he had obtained
the least relief, disobeyed all directions and became infuriated
with wine? I had obtained leave to visit Almella for a few days to
arrange the cultivation of my estate for the season, and the King
gave it willingly. I left medicines for him, and instructions to the
physicians who were to take my place, and I thought all was secure.
But, alas! it was a false trust. No sooner had I reached my home than
dreadful rumours began to arrive of how the King had become more and
more furious; how he had caused several of the doctors to be trampled
to death before him by elephants, and how he raved for me. Should I go
or fly? I could have escaped easily into the dominions of the King of
Golcondah, to Beeder, or to Ahmednugger; but I knew if I did that I
should be followed by an army, and that the wars which had been happily
ended would be renewed. But I had little time to think. The day after
I had received the first message a large body of cavalry, with two of
the eunuchs of the palace, came to fetch me. I was torn away from all I
loved--my beautiful wife and my son--and hurried to Beejapoor.

"I expected no less than death; but when I arrived the King was calm,
and his manner even affectionate. 'I have missed you much,' he said,
'and you are the only attendant in whom I can trust. They are weary
of me, and want to poison me. Even now my son Ali is plotting with
Kishwur Khan; Sikundur Khan and others are raising armies to dethrone
me. I have no peace. I have constant tormenting pain and agony, which
only you can relieve. They told me you had fled, like many traitors,
but I believed none of them, and sent an escort for you. O Syud Ahmud,
forsake me not now! but bear with me, and relieve me;' and he bowed his
head into my arms as I sat beside his bed. And I wept, for I was much
affected; and the dread I had felt passed away.

"But not the danger. I had sent for my wife from Almella; riches poured
in on me, for the King, in gratitude for the relief I was affording
him, was lavish in his generosity. A large addition was made to my
estate, and I received the Royal deeds for it. I was more than ever
courted by the great and noble of the city; but still I felt that I
might be dashed to the earth at any moment, yet I did not betray my
feelings, though I often knew it was all I could do to restrain them,
and the fatal hour overtook me at last. Who can resist the decrees
of fate? Who can avert their final doom? As in life men are suddenly
stricken with death, so I, at the zenith of my fame and fortune, was
stricken down to this living death, which does not close.

"One morning, very early, I was summoned to the palace by a eunuch,
who said the King was dying, had asked for me, and again relapsed into
insensibility. I could not account for it, for when I left him he was
cheerful and well. I only thought his time had come, and he must yield
up his soul to God. When I arrived at the palace all was confusion
and every one excited; and I heard loud wailings from the ladies'
apartments; yet I went on, for my trust in the King overmastered fear.
'Beware!' whispered a eunuch who stood at the entrance of the chamber;
'beware! he is furious; some one brought him strong wine last night,
and he is mad. Beware!' But this did not stop me. I had often soothed
him in his furious excitement, and I trusted to do so now. I heard him
calling out my name, for the devils were tearing him to pieces, and I
must send them away; and I entered the chamber, calling to him that I
was present, and to fear not.

"He was lying on some cushions on the floor, almost naked, and as I
approached him he rose up suddenly, and glaring at me with eyes that
appeared starting from their sockets, cried, 'O traitor! who left me
to the devils, thou shalt not escape me now; I will kill thee!' And
the King was a powerful man, and I was never strong. He threw me down,
and tried to strangle me, but I escaped and cried for help. Again and
again he attacked me, but he was too much intoxicated to effect his
purpose. At last he cried to the eunuchs who had clustered together at
the curtain of the door, and were afraid to interfere, 'Away with him,
put out his eyes, send him to Juldroog that his name may be forgotten;'
and he sank back on his cushions exhausted. There was no delay; there,
before him as I lay, one of the slaves, an Abyssinian armour-bearer,
put out my eyes with his dagger, while others held me; and when it was
done he said to the King, 'It is accomplished,' and I was led away.

"Not to my home, where I might have been soothed and tended in my
agony, but to a cell, while preparations were made to send me away.
Some pitying soul--who it was I never knew--gave me water and applied
a dressing of cool herbs to my burning eyes; and at nightfall I was
despatched hither. What had become of my wife and child I knew not.
I remember nothing of the journey, except that I heard the sound of
rushing waters, and was told I had reached Juldroog. My eyes healed
gradually, but the beautiful world was gone for ever. After some
months, when the King was dead, and the Prince Ali Adil Khan had
succeeded, my wife and child were sent to me. She said all my wealth
had been taken away, but she had secreted some gold, and brought it
with her. I sent petitions to the new King, to the Ministers, to
every friend I thought I had, for release and for justice; but the
seeming friends had only been the companions of prosperity, and not
one stretched out a friendly hand. I was told by the Governor then
here, Azim Khan, a worthy kind man, that he had been told to forward no
further petitions from me, and he exhorted me to bear the will of God
with submission.

"I then determined to build a small house near the tomb of the holy
Syud, which is yonder among the trees, and make myself its guardian. No
objection was made, and I expended what my wife had brought upon it.
I directed the observances at the tomb, and the sick came to me for
help. In some years my wife and helpmate died. My son Luteef, becoming
impatient of a lonely life, went to Beejapoor, and being of a fine
presence entered a body of Dekhan horse, where he soon rose. He once
came to see me, after many years, and having married, left his wife
with me, as she was pregnant, and could not return with him. Luteef
told me that he had tried all he could to interest his commander in me,
and to procure my release, but failed. I had been forgotten. Not long
after we heard that my son had fallen in a great battle, and his wife,
being taken in the pangs of labour, brought forth Zóra; and I was left
with a helpless infant, who is now growing up, and is the prop of my
remaining years, many or few, as Alla will. I have lived here forty
years!"

"But surely," said the young man, earnestly, "justice is not dead in
the kingdom; and though more than a reign is past, some of those old
friends are living. Surely the noble Queen Chand would interfere in
such a case as this, father; and she hath ever been like a mother to
me since I was an orphan; and my uncle, too, Humeed Khan, who hath
overcome Eyn-ool-Moolk, the traitor, who died in battle, and must be in
favour. Ah! do not despair, for my heart tells me we shall yet meet in
happiness."

"It is not for myself, for they give me all I need, and more," returned
the old Syud, "but for the child that I would fain be free. Who is to
tend her as she grows up? And if I died, who would shelter her? What
would be her fate alone? Ah, thou knowest well that such as she, poor
and unfriended, are little respected. She is no longer a mere child,
running wild and free among the people. No, as yet she hath gone
everywhere unveiled and unfettered; but she hath learned no evil, no
breath of evil thought hath touched her pure mind, but I cannot but
feel that she is in danger. Wilt thou make one promise to me, Abbas
Khan? Thy grandfather was a loved friend once, and Alla seems to have
sent thee to me. If I should die, wilt thou rescue this poor child from
want, if not from infamy?"

"I will, father, else I were false and ungrateful both to thee and to
her. I would she were present that I might tell her so myself!"

"Nay! it were better not," returned the old man, gravely. "I will tell
her as much as I need to do, and she will rely on thy truth and honour
as I do. And now depart, for the evening is closing fast, and the road
is not smooth. Rest peacefully to-night, and the Padré shall attend
thee early to-morrow. For the rest, fear not; the talisman will keep
thee from harm."

For many days there was no change in the daily life; the old Syud
made his ministrations at the Saint's tomb; the priest laboured at
his translation, and now and then visited his patient, in whom he had
taken much interest. From him he had heard no ribaldry or banter, like
that of the Nawab's, but was treated with respect and consideration;
and Abbas Khan only awaited answers to letters from the capital, and
the priest's permission to proceed. With renewed health his illusions
had ceased, and he longed for the bustle and stir of the capital, and
the chances of employment in the field. An event, too, which seemed
unavoidable, was to happen--his own marriage to one to whom he had been
betrothed in childhood; a thought which he detested, but of this more
hereafter.

It will not be doubted that Maria and Zóra had become fast friends.
Maria did not feel the time pass wearily. She had copies to make of her
brother's daily work; she continued her embroidery and her lace-work,
in which she was particularly skilful, and she taught it to Zóra,
as she in turn admired the girl's own industry and its effects. The
illumination of her manuscripts was also a delightful occupation, at
which Zóra used to marvel greatly; but it was Maria's music that was
her greatest attraction. The chanting of their morning and evening
services was listened to even by the old Syud with delight, and by Zóra
with positive rapture. Often, too, would Maria sing the sweet ballads
of her country, and play on her guitar, and was surprised at Zóra's
quick ear, and the readiness with which she learned to play simple
airs and accompaniments. So it was again a peaceful time to all; and
letters came from Moodgul bidding the Padré to be patient, and they
were generally accompanied by baskets of ripe mangoes and sweetmeats
from the Nawab's children. The old deacon, too, and some of his people
had come also, and told how Dom Diego had become morose and sullen;
how he often neglected the services of the church; and, it was reported
by his servant, drank too much strong wine at night. How the garden was
flourishing, and, indeed, the mangoes he brought were delicious.

Thus a month had passed at Juldroog; the floods had come and gone, and
come again; and so departed: but Maria never endeavoured to reach the
gun bastion, or to enter the precincts of the fort. She had no desire
to encounter the claws of a panther again, and, above all, she feared
the licentious look of the Governor, whom she might meet at any time.
Even Zóra failed to persuade her to revisit the place she had seen, and
ceased to urge it. At home they had ample employment: the flowers were
tended in the little garden, the vine and the fig-tree were pruned by
the priest after the Portuguese manner, and for a morning or evening
stroll they had the lower end of the island, where the grass was
now green, and filled with pretty wild flowers, and the lovely wild
oleanders were in full bloom.

Neither of the young men came down from their airy pinnacle except
once, when they went to hunt on the left bank of the river, and to meet
Runga Naik, whom Abbas Khan desired to see; for when he returned to
Beejapoor, whom could he trust to send him intelligence of the Syud's
death if it occurred? who could protect Zóra? But Runga Naik, who
resided within a few miles, whose men served in the fort, would be sure
to know everything. Taking him aside, then, as all were resting for a
while, Abbas Khan easily obtained his promised co-operation.

Runga had known the old Syud from his youth upwards, and had a
superstitious regard for him. They had always been good friends, and
for Zóra's care of his young chief during that memorable night, he had
felt gratitude and love. Yes, he would watch over them and protect
them; Zóra should never come to harm; and if her grandfather died
suddenly he would bring Zóra away, and his wife should receive her,
and she should be sent to Beejapoor whenever he got an order to do so.
Meeah need not fear, the fort should be watched, and every night the
Syud's home should be guarded. Perhaps the Beydur chief had no good
opinion of the Nawab's morality, and feared for the fate of Zóra if she
should be unprotected, and in fact in any case.

And the inevitable day of separation came at last. A letter from
the Nawab of Moodgul came to Francis d'Almeida, and with it other
despatches to Osman Beg and the young Khan.

"The Queen desires to see you," wrote the Nawab to Francis, "and
commands you to come in all confidence to her feet. There are many
events pending between the Government of Portugal and that of the Adil
Shahies, in which your presence will be of great service to both, and
Her Majesty wants your confidence. A suitable escort will be sent for
you, and you will be under the charge of Abbas Khan, who is directed to
accompany you. In three or four days you may expect the escort, and
you will have time to make your preparations. I am sorry to lose you,"
he continued, in his own rough writing, "but before the orders of the
Queen regrets are unavailing. I have only to trust that you may return
to your friends here and your people, who grieve at your absence; but
they hope, as your friend does, that you may return in peace to dwell
among us. The Khanum Sahiba salutes your sister, and prays for her."

The priest took the letter to the palace, where he found his patient
in the highest spirits and good humour. The prospect to him of an
honourable return to Beejapoor, and the few lines addressed to him
by the Queen Dowager in her own hand, had charmed him. His uncle had
not returned, but was soon expected; and the sincere regard he had
contracted for the priest made the prospect of his company the more
acceptable. "My cousin," he said, "has received his own orders to send
you on, but he does not relish the idea of future solitude, and is
vexed about it. As for myself, the prospect of escape from here is too
joyful almost to realise, and my only regret remains with your host,
to whom, under Alla, I owe my life; yet I think I may be able to serve
him, and poor little Zóra also, sooner than they think. Tell the old
man I will come to take leave of him before we depart."

As to Zóra, her misery was more than can be told. In one short month
a new life had opened to her under Maria's influence which was now
to cease. Who would teach her? who would sing to her? who would give
her holy counsel? The communion with Maria's sweet pure spirit had
raised the girl's ductile mind from many imperfections, which were
the result of neglect and uncontrol, and till the day of parting she
was inconsolable; but to Maria's surprise and gratification the girl
rallied.

"I can let you go," she said, simply, "for I know we shall meet again.
You will send for me if you go to Moodgul, will you not? And if Abba
dies I will come to you. I have no trust but in you and in God, and
Abba tells me that will never fail."

When Abbas Khan came to take his leave of her grandfather, she could
not help hearing what he said of thanks and gratitude to him and to
herself, and his renewed promise of care and protection. She heard his
sob as he embraced her grandfather, and for a moment saw his face as he
turned to go away. It was a new joy and comfort to her to know that she
had not been forgotten, and might look to him in any trouble.

We will not follow the little events which made up the departure, and
farewells between persons who had been so strangely cast together are
too often painful. Zóra did not go to the river side with Maria; she
sat on the terrace of the house, whence she could see her, and pressed
the little cross that Maria had given her to her heart. It seemed
to her a talisman of safety. All the little gifts Maria had given
her--some drawings and other trifles--she had put away carefully. They
were her only treasures. As she looked, with her eyes blinded by tears,
she saw the elephants and horses on the farther bank, and palanquins
and bearers, and camels for the baggage. Then Maria and her brother and
the two old servants entered one basket boat, and the Khan another with
his attendants; Runga Naik and his men directing everything.

As they were leaving the shore, all waved to her a last farewell: the
rowers took their places, and the boats shot down the swift current
with speed, edging, however, gradually to the land opposite. Then
all landed, and Abbas Khan, after caressing him, mounted a fiery
horse, which bounded and caracoled under him. The Padré and Maria
seated themselves in palanquins, and the whole procession moved on.
Zóra watched it ascend the bank, and her eyes followed it, while the
jangling bells of the elephants came fitfully on the wind among the
brushwood and trees, till she could see it no longer. Then she left
her seat, and betaking herself to her grandfather, fell on his neck,
weeping passionately.




CHAPTER VIII.

MÁMA LUTEEFA PROPHESIES.


In the lonely fortress its late visitors were sorely missed by all
those with whom they had resided for nearly two months, and by none
more impatiently than by Osman Beg, its governor. By nature cruel,
self-indulgent, and profligate, he was a man of all others most
unlikely to endure a lonely life with ordinary firmness, or accommodate
himself to banishment, or at least seclusion, of which he could see no
means of enlivenment or termination. He had no companions, for he had
no sympathy with the Hindoo zemindars who were his neighbours, for the
most part rude and uncultivated men, who despised his affectation of
superiority, and did not disguise their opinion of his uncourteous,
and often insulting, language. They seldom visited him, indeed, except
to pay the usual rents of the dependencies of the fort, which they
held from the State. The Moolla of the mosque and his own physician
were intense bigots, whose conversation was limited to the subject of
the Koran and its various commentaries, of which they were diligent
students; and from the Moolla the Nawab had to endure many rebukes
as to laxity in observances of the faith, or license of speech
and conduct, and the meetings of the men often resulted in bitter
altercations, which only made matters worse.

The Moolla had no respect for a Governor who had neither wife nor
family. His predecessor was a respectable elderly soldier, a plain man,
who cordially mixed with all classes, and was much beloved. He had a
lady wife, who bore children, and the palace was often the scene of
small domestic festivals, of general religious observances, in which
the Moolla acted as chief manager, and received ample rewards for his
services. His wife, too, was always welcome after her long trudge up
the hill, and was hospitably entertained, contributing, on her part,
all the gossip of the country round.

It was very different now. The Nawab had no wife, and no hareem of
any kind. There were no entertainments, for the dancing women of the
country were afraid of the Nawab's grim solitude, and declined even to
cross the river while the water was high, with the chance of being cut
off by a flood at any time and confined for an indefinite period.

The "Nawab," too, had other troubles which were even harder to bear.
Soon after his cousin left, he had ridden over to Moodgul, and in
company with some of his old associates, who belonged to the force
stationed there, had indulged in excesses with a zest augmented by long
abstinence, so that he became more notorious than was good for his
reputation. The consequence of this being that his brother Nawab, the
old friend of the Christian friar and his sister, a moral and devout
man, treated him coldly, restricting his hospitalities to such ordinary
observances as could not be dispensed with, considering the relative
position of both.

Not in any way abashed by this, Osman Beg determined, if possible,
to gain the beautiful daughter of the Moodgul commander and governor
in marriage, and to this end he employed one of the professional
female agents, who are well known among Mussulman communities, to make
advances for him.

Máma Luteefa was a mistress of her art. She carried gold and silver
ornaments, entrusted to her by the goldsmiths, from house to house;
rich cloths also--portions of Portuguese velvets and silks; and while
selling these had ample opportunity of carrying on her vocation. In
the course of a few days she had contrived to make a proposal for her
employer in a manner suited to his rank and her own importance. But
it was rejected peremptorily; and when the old dame returned a few
days afterwards with some valuable offerings, she found herself warned
never to enter the precincts of the hareem again on a similar errand.
Osman Beg also received an intimation that his presence in Moodgul was
not desirable, and he had better withdraw. He therefore returned to
his solitary life, but he took Máma Luteefa with him, in case, as she
observed, there might be anyone in the fort, or near it, who could be
considered a fitting person for the distinction which would be the lot
of Osman Beg's wife.

We may consider, then, that the Nawab's cup of vexation was full, as
far as his present position in the fort was concerned; and without it
was equally gloomy. The issue on which he had set his heart was the
victory of Eyn-ool-Moolk and the young Prince. He had already offered
his sword and the fortress, which, as a frontier position, was very
valuable. He should at once rise to rank and favour, and whether a new
Court was established at Belgaum, or the present Court at Beejapoor
became head of the Beejapoor kingdom, he should in either case fill a
prominent position.

Nothing had, however, happened, except to increase his vexation and
cut away the last chances of extrication. The Prince Ismail, we know,
rejected by the Portuguese, had been apprehended and put to death.
Eyn-ool-Moolk had been slain and beheaded, to which his grim head,
stuck on a high pole opposite the gate of the citadel at Beejapoor,
bore ghastly witness, and that fondly cherished hope was gone; whereas
his numerous letters, which, in their offers of aid and counsel for
the extension of the rebellion, contained the most conclusive evidence
of his treachery, might have been preserved among the papers of
Eyn-ool-Moolk, and would furnish incontestable proofs to his enemies,
and lead directly to his condemnation. Once only he had received a few
lines from his cousin to say that he had fallen ill on his way and was
detained, but when anything affecting him could be heard of, he would
write again; but nothing more had arrived. Yet, could he be recalled at
any sacrifice, how easy would it be, if he escaped death, to carve out
a path of his own, if not at Beejapoor, at Golcondah, at Ahmednugger,
or with the Moghuls, who were steadily encroaching upon the kingdoms of
the Dekhan. No, Osman Beg was not happy; he was, on the contrary, more
discontented than ever, and his very body servants lived in terror of
his outbreaks of ill-temper and violence.

The venerable Syud Dervish had also gri

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