‘Come, my child! my sweet one, my rose! Now, come! What fear is there?
Thou art closely veiled: all are in consternation, and men and women run
hither and thither abroad, making vows and vain prayers that this firing
may cease. Come! no one sees us. Zoolfoo waits without to protect thee;
he is armed, in case of insult by the way—but of that there is no fear.
Come! he expects thee. Even now his heart is burning for thee! why dost
thou fear? thou art now strong.’
So spoke Meeran, as, when the evening fell, with passionate entreaty she
implored her mistress at once to summon courage and accompany her. But
the poor girl was greatly agitated; she had several times essayed to
move, but had sunk down again upon the low bed on which she sat, closely
muffled in a long white sheet.
‘Alla help me! I cannot, nurse—it is impossible. Go—say to him I shall
die here—I am content to die!’ and she pressed her hand on her heart, in
a vain attempt to still its throbbings. ‘I have no strength to walk; my
knees tremble; my heart fails me; there is no hope.’ And she burst into
tears.
‘They will do her good,’ thought Meeran; ‘her heart is too full.’ Awhile
she waited; then recollecting that there was cool sherbet without, she
ran for it. ‘Drink!’ she said, ‘drink!—no, that is not enough.’ For
Ameena had but moistened her lips with it—she could not swallow. ‘Drink!
and thou wilt be better. Drink all, and thy heart will cool. So, now,
Shabash! art thou not better, fairest?’
‘I am, dear nurse,’ said Ameena—‘more composed perhaps than before; but
it is useless—I cannot go. Hark! the din without is terrible.’
‘This is folly, my child—folly. Where is thy courage? Art thou not a
Moghul? Many a woman among them has wielded weapons ere now. What would
thy father say if he saw thee? Come—fie on this coward heart of thine!
Dost thou not remember when the Mahrattas were upon ye? thou hast often
told me thou hadst no fear.’
Ameena was much agitated: it was not with fear—she was brave and
fearless—but it was shame, an overwhelming sense of modesty, which she
imagined she was about to outrage. What if he loved her?—he was a
stranger to her, or should have been so; his home was not hers: her fair
and precious fame was blasted for ever, should she be seen with him, or
be known to have gone to his abode. But Meeran’s taunts had roused her a
little, for, with all her meekness and gentleness, there was as proud a
spirit within her as ever roused to trumpet-call. She arose and made a
step: the action was nothing—the effort of her mind was immense.
‘Shookr Khoda! Bismilla—ir-ruhman—ir-ruheem!’ said Meeran, seizing her
arm, and supporting her tottering frame; ‘come on—quick! quick!—so now
lean on me. Holy Alla! how thou tremblest! Remember the curse!—Away from
this spot, and thou art free. Think of that in thy heart, and be firm.
’Tis well—see, the moon even is propitious—she hath veiled her light for
an instant. Bismilla! thy destiny has opened brightly; _now_ dost thou
fear?’
‘Not so much—my heart is stiller; but, O nurse, what will he say?’
‘He will adore thee, he will love thee, he will pity thee! Come, canst
thou not think he burns to meet thee?—that his spirit is with thine
now—even now?’ As she spoke they passed out through one little court
after another which belonged to the zenana. They went on to a small door
which led into the street. Meeran coughed slightly—the signal was
answered. They opened the door and went out. Zoolfoo was there, armed
with sword and buckler; only that he was rather too stout, he would have
looked quite martial.
‘Keep close behind us!’ said Meeran; ‘close—we will lead. When we have
entered the Patél’s door, go thou round to the other, where the ponies
are. All is prepared—is it not?’
‘They are there even now,’ said Zoolfoo, ‘and the Patél waits. Bismilla!
walk fast—I pray for ye as I go.’
They hurried on: the open fresh cool air had revived Ameena, and though
she still trembled exceedingly, and her heart was in a tumult of
conflicting feelings, she suffered herself to be led rather than walked,
at as rapid a pace as Meeran thought it possible for one so weak to
maintain. Ameena knew the house was near, but moments seemed like hours
as they proceeded. There were many people in the streets, hurrying about
confusedly, and many forms of shrouded women, like her own, some alone,
others in company, walking very fast—soldiers, horsemen and artillery,
proceeding to their destinations on and near the walls. Cries, oaths,
the rattle and creaking of the artillery-wheels, and, above all, the
roar of the cannon, resounded in Ameena’s ears, and the din and
confusion almost stunned her; but Meeran cheered her on, and she felt
stronger as she proceeded.
Two persons were watching for her whom she little thought of; they were
her husband and Jaffar.
‘There!—dost thou see, Khan? dost thou see? They come, by Alla!’ the
latter whispered.
‘Where, Jaffar? where? I see them not.’
‘No, I was cheated! they turned off; they cannot be yonder—they would go
to the door at once.’
The Khan breathed again. He was standing with Jaffar at the corner of a
street, nearly opposite Kasim’s abode; they were in the deep shadow of a
high wall, and could not well be observed. The poor Khan panted and
gasped for breath; his soul was on fire; revenge burned there, and
suspicion of wrong. Sometimes during the day he thought he would fly to
Ameena and implore her forgiveness—implore her to remain—throw himself
at her feet and kiss them. Then again his passion arose at the thought
that she should have been false—so false to have used so long a
deception, as to have estranged him from her—driven him to another.
Above all his revenge burned against Kasim Ali; his son he had fondly
called him—his adopted—who would have inherited his wealth—he for whom
he had been ever anxious. It was a base return to make, to seduce from
him the tender being whom he had so long loved. But his thoughts were
incoherent—a chaos of wild passion; he could not reason—he did not
attempt it. Proof of their guilt was all he looked for, and often he
prayed to Alla that it might not come. There was one spot on which his
gaze was steadfast—the angle of the street which led into that where was
Kasim’s abode. He looked neither right nor left, nor up to the glorious
planet that sailed on in her sea of deep azure, but straight on,
sometimes clearly, sometimes dimly; and then he would fiercely dash away
the tears which arose unconsciously to his eyes.
‘Look! look! Khan,’ said Jaffar in a hoarse whisper; ‘again two figures!
and now a man! see! he’s fat—’tis her brother! And one leads the other
on. Oh the vile one, thus to pander to a man—her nose should be cut off!
She hesitates, by Alla! the other drags her in—no—she stops—the cook
passes on—shall I cut him down?’
‘Ameena!’ gasped the Khan in a low husky voice, stretching his arms out
to her; ‘Ameena, enter not!—away, home!—pass on!—anything—’tis his
door—’tis the Patél’s—thou hast no business there! thou hast—She hears
not—Ya Alla kureem; she hath gone in of her own accord, and firmly.’
He had only spoken in a hoarse whisper, but he thought he had shouted
those broken sentences.
‘Art thou satisfied, Khan? am I thy friend now?’ said Jaffar in a tone
of triumph. ‘Wilt thou see more?—follow, the door is open; softly, thou
shalt see all; thou knowest the place; they will be in the inner room.
Come, come! thou mayest yet prevent it.’
‘Prevent what?’ said the Khan abstractedly. He was bewildered; he could
hardly speak, his mouth was so parched.
‘Come and see! come! we may be late.’ And Jaffar seized his arm and
dragged him across the road; the door was ajar; they entered.
How slowly had sped the dull hours to Kasim Ali that evening! he had
prepared all for the reception of Ameena, and had secured one of the
posterns which led towards the river, by some of the men of his own
risala, who he knew were faithful; they awaited his coming; there was
personal danger, but it was nothing in comparison with her safety. There
was no firing on that side, for there was no attack; but few men were
there, and he would not be noticed in the confusion. His heart yearned
to the poor invalid. Ameena his—under his roof—driven from the Khan by
unkindness! he dared not think of what bliss might be hidden from them
behind the veil of the future, but which could not follow now. Yet he
should see her, should welcome her—speak to her. Oh! it was more than he
had ever dared to hope. He was restless and impatient! now he paced his
small chamber,—examined a hundred times the dooly which was there,
arranged the pillows, and smoothed the soft bedding.
Again he tried to read—absurd! his ear was alive to every sound. At last
the door of the court opened gently; he hardly breathed; something white
entered—another form—and it was closed carefully. Both advanced towards
him; he dared not show himself, lest they should retreat; the figures
swam before his eyes. One lingered, but the other urged her on, and
spoke cheerily. Still nearer they came—nearer—the foot of one was on the
step; she appeared to totter—the woman behind caught her, and called his
name; he darted to her, and, raising the slight form she supported in
his nervous grasp, bore it into the inner apartment, and laid it upon
his own soft cushions.
‘Ameena! Ameena! speak to me,’ he murmured in her ear; ‘mine own, now
and for ever! Ameena! look on me. Holy Alla! how thou art changed!’
Her veil had fallen from her face, and her pallid features and hollow
eyes met his view; they were shut, and she dared not open them; but his
voice was music in her ears, and she sought by no word or gesture to
restrain his speech.
‘Holy Alla! how thou art changed!—so sunken, so pale! but never heed,
thou art safe now,—safe for ever. Now thou wilt know no pain or care,
for I am to thee even as the tree of the forest to the creeper. Art thou
well, fairest? strong enough to proceed? if not, rest here; thou wilt
not be missed. I will tend thee—love thee: my whole soul is in thine,
fairest! Oh, thou knowest not, Ameena, how I love thee, and have loved
thee for years! Alla bless thee! thou art mine own confiding one, and I
pray Alla bless thee for having trusted me!’
‘Dost thou hear that, Khan?’ whispered Jaffar; for they had stolen into
the apartment. ‘Dost thou see?’
The Khan panted hard and quick—so quick that his breath hardly came at
times: it was marvellous they heard him not. His hand grasped his sword;
he looked through a chink in the door with eyes that glared like a
tiger’s and were starting from their sockets.
‘Dost thou believe now?’ said Jaffar again, in a low devilish whisper.
‘Ha! was I true? Look! he takes her hand—he fondles her! canst thou bear
that? art thou a man? The woman is present too—Toba! toba[58]!’
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Footnote 58:
Shame! shame!
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‘This is no time for dalliance,’ said Meeran. ‘Arise, Beebee! the dooly
is ready. Come, we lose time; thou wilt follow, Patél Sahib?’
‘I will. Arise, beloved!’ and he raised her to her feet. ‘Behold I
attend thee; yet ere thou goest, one look, I implore thee—one kiss—the
first—the last, perhaps, Kasim Ali will ever press on thy beauteous
lips; one kind look, to say this presumption is forgiven.’
It was granted: the gentle being, as he supported her to the conveyance
with his arm around her, turned on him a look so full of love from those
glorious eyes glistening in lustrous beauty—a look of joy, of love, of
gratitude, of passion, blended—that a delicious thrill shot through his
frame; he clasped her to his heart; his lips were fastened to hers in a
kiss which for the time gave them but one breath, one being; their souls
mingled together in that sweet communion.
‘Dost thou hear him, Khan?’ whispered Jaffar, ‘Ya Alla! that look of
love! and now—’
The demon had done his work. In a frenzy, like a maddened beast, the
Khan dashed through the door, which opened inwards. His sword was naked,
and flashed as it was high upraised in his nervous and passionate grasp.
A wild shriek burst from Meeran, and she fled.
‘Devils!’ he shouted in a voice of fury, ‘Devils! Dog of a Patél! Rhyman
Khan hath seen ye!’
The sword was quivering above his head, and it descended blindly, to
annihilate, he thought, both at a blow. Kasim Ali stretched forth his
arm to stay it; he was too late: the blood of Ameena, who was senseless,
gushed forth over him, and her head fell back upon his bosom. Kasim
tried to get at his sword, while he held the lifeless form on his arm;
he tore it desperately down from the nail on which it hung above him,
expecting another blow momentarily; it came not. His sword was tied to
the scabbard, and the knot of the cord would not open; all was the work
of an instant; he turned, ready to ward off another blow, and beheld a
sight in which horror and pity struggled with revenge for mastery.
The Khan’s sword was on the ground, his hands were clasped, his eyes
staring and fixed upon Ameena; the sight of blood had calmed his fury.
‘Miserable man, what hast thou done?’ said Kasim hurriedly.
The Khan could not reply. He rolled his blood-shoot eyes upon Kasim, and
waving his hand turned and fled.
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed a voice he knew to be Jaffar’s. He laid Ameena
down, and looked at her with dim eyes—she seemed dead.
‘I will revenge thee!’ he cried, and darted after them.
He saw them pass the small door, close it violently; and when he had
opened it, and dashed on into the open street, he saw them not, but
taking the way opposite to theirs, he fled down it at his utmost speed.
A moment after him a woman with breathless haste entered by the same
door. ‘O Alla! grant,’ she exclaimed, ‘thou who didst soften my heart,
grant I may not be too late. I vow offerings to thee, O holy saint of
Sérah! O Mullik Rhyan! if I be in time. Something hath happened; Jaffar
and the Khan fled past me. Alla, Alla! how he looked!’
She hurried through the courts, traversed the little verandah, and
darted into the room; her sight for an instant failed her; there was a
pool of blood on the white musnud, and the lady lay there—her white
sheet and long hair dabbled in it. For an instant her heart was sick,
but she rallied herself. ‘If there is only life! Meeran, Meeran, where
art thou? Holy Prophet! _if_ there be only life, I vow to be her slave
for ever! Lady, dear lady, dost thou hear? Meeran, Meeran, where art
thou?’
‘Who calls?’ said Meeran, advancing terror-stricken from the other door
in the court before them.
‘It is I, Sozun; haste hither! we may yet save her. Quick! is thy heart
so cowardly?’
‘How camest thou here, Sozun?’
‘No matter, I will tell thee—so raise her up.’
‘Ya Mousoof Alla! Ya Beebee Muriam! what a gash!’ exclaimed both,
turning their heads away from the horrid sight for an instant. ‘But she
is warm,’ said Meeran. ‘Apostle of Alla! there may be life. Hold her,
while I run for my brother—he is without.’
He came quickly; for a long time they doubted if she would revive, and
her first breath was hailed with a burst of joy.
‘I know a secure place,’ said Sozun; ‘she is not safe here. She will be
discovered by the Khan, and he will kill her.’
‘Art thou to be trusted, Sozun?’ said Meeran; ‘it was thou who didst
cause this murder, and I mistrust thee.’
‘Alla who sees my heart knows how true it is,’ said the woman, ‘and how
bitter is my repentance. Ye may leave this poor flower if ye will; but
never while Sozun hath life will she depart from her, come weal, come
woe.’ And as she said it she looked up fervently; and when Meeran saw
that her eyes glistened with tears which fell over on her cheeks—that
her features were quivering, and her lips moved in silent prayer, then
she believed her, and yielded to the necessity of the moment.
Zoolficar, with their assistance, bound up the wound, which had cut
deeply into the shoulder and neck, and had bled much, and they now laid
the lady in the dooly. Only that she sighed now and then, she would have
been thought to be dead; but there was life, and while life was in the
nostrils there was hope. The bearers, who had been ready without from
the first, were now called; and preceded by Sozun, they went on till
they stopped at an obscure house behind the principal bazaar, in an
unfrequented part of the Fort. The lady still lived, when they lifted
her out of the dooly and laid here upon as soft and easy a bed as the
house afforded.
* * * * *
Kasim Ali passed a wild and restless night—in comparison of which, that
upon the battle-field, when the jackal and hyena had howled around him,
was remembered with pleasure. He searched every corner of the Fort,
every ravelin, every bastion, the most miserable purlieus of the bazaar,
which rung with wild shouts of revelry, of drunkenness and debauchery.
He went into the thickest and hottest of the fire, where shot and shells
and the deadly grape whistled around him. He examined every group of
men, but saw neither the Khan nor Jaffar. Twice he returned to his
house—once ere he had been long absent, dreading to behold again that
beauteous form lying in its blood and disfigured by the gaping wound. It
was not there—that misery, he thought, was spared him by the kind Meeran
and her brother. ‘They have taken it away to bury,’ he thought; but
where he knew not—the morning would reveal. Her blood lay there, clotted
upon the white muslin, a horrible evidence of the crime that had been
committed. He sought not to remove it; but it reminded him of the state
of his own garments, which were saturated. He changed them, and again
sallied out.
He returned towards morning, and wrote a few lines to the only other
friend he possessed, a Moolah of the mosque in the Fort, to whom he had
willed that his little property should be given, in case of his death
and the Khan’s, in trust for his mother; they were a few lines only, to
tell of his fate; and for the second time he went forth, to seek death
in the hot battle.
He found it not, however, all that night; and sick at heart, as the
morning broke over the beleaguered city, he entered the court of the
mosque, from the tall minarets of which the Muezzin was proclaiming the
morning prayer. ‘It will calm me,’ he said, ‘to join in it.’
As he entered he met his friend the Moolah. He could not resist the
impulse, his spirit was oppressed, and he again requested the Moolah’s
kind administration of his property in case of his death, and the
remission of its proceeds to his mother. Such requests were not uncommon
at that period, and death was too busy in the Fort for every man not to
prepare for his own end. The Sultaun arrived soon after from his early
circuit of the walls, attended by his chief officers, and the morning
prayer commenced.
It was finished, and men arose and were preparing to depart. ‘Stay!’
cried the Sultaun, ‘we would speak to all.’ And as he cast his eye
around, ‘Ye all here love me,’ he said, in so melancholy a tone that
most were touched by it. ‘Ye, Kummur-ud-deen, Syud Sahib, Syud Ghuffoor,
Bakir Sahib, and thou Kasim Ali, who once saved me, ye are all here.
Alas! there are but few remaining like you. How many have been
faithless, who have eaten my salt for years! Listen—our glory is
gone—the light of the earth, the star of Islam is quenched. No more
triumphs to the Faith—all is dark before us. Hear ye what we have come
to; we asked for peace at the hands of the infidels—we asked the cause
of this unjustifiable attack—why we were insulted and bearded in our
very capital; but no answer is returned. The insatiate thirst of power
and conquest is apparent in the reply of the kafir Cornwallis. Listen.’
There was perfect silence: every man felt that the Sultaun’s spirit was
broken, and melancholy was upon every face, as he unfolded a letter,
and, mounting a step of the pulpit, began to read. It was short, and
there were few ceremonious expressions: to resign half his territories,
to pay the cost of the war, and to surrender his sons as hostages, were
the humiliating terms proposed; and as they heard it, a burst of
indignation arose from the assembly, which rung through the lofty arches
and fretted roof of the mosque.
‘I thank you, friends and brothers,’ he said; ‘ye feel for me—I bless
ye, that ye have hearts for the unfortunate. But will you bear this?
Will ye, whose victorious arms have ere now vanquished the kafirs, will
ye submit to these insults?’
‘If all in this fort were as true as we are,’ cried Syud Ghuffoor,
‘there would be no fear; but, alas! the faint-hearted tremble for their
lives, as every English shot strikes the wall, and there are thousands
such.’
‘Alla be merciful to me!’ said the Sultaun, bowing his head; ‘are they
so faithless? What say ye, sirs?’
Many replied, but only a few could answer for the men, and then many
wept passionately. The grief of those strong warriors was moving to look
on.
‘And are we to die here—to die like dogs, like wild beasts in a cage?’
broke out the Sultaun frantically, and throwing his turban on the
ground; ‘to have our children torn from us, our wives defiled before our
eyes? to be plundered of our kingdom—torn from our throne—humbled in the
dust? Are we to bear this from kafirs, from hogs too? Holy Alla, and
Mahomed the Apostle, are we to suffer this indignity? are we to be so
beaten down? Sirs, have ye no hearts? Where is your vaunted bravery? Ye
have eaten my salt, ye have grown rich where ye were poor—have ye no
gratitude? have ye no faith?’
‘We have! we have!’ cried one and all of that assembly. ‘We will die at
your feet; our lives are in your hand.’
‘The infidels are before ye—they for whose presence ye have often
longed, to prove your prowess. Will ye swear before Alla, and here in
his house, to be faithful to me his servant, to your Sultaun?’
Then arose the oaths of all, in hoarse tones, as they waved their arms
on high, and swore to be faithful till death.
‘’Tis well!’ he said, ‘else ye had been kafirs, fit only to herd with
the vile. I bless ye, O my friends. Alla, who sees my aching heart,
knows that I believe you true—true to the last—true in prosperity, true
now in adversity; while I—I have often deceived ye, often been
capricious. Will ye forgive me? I am no Sultaun now, but a poor worm
before Alla, meaner than yourselves. Will ye forgive me?’
Then the passionate gestures and exclamations of devotion to him by the
enthusiasts knew no bounds; and their wild and frantic cries and
expressions of service unto death—to the shedding of their hearts’
blood—broke forth without control. Those without, and the soldiery,
caught up the wild excitement, thronged into the mosque, and filled the
steps and the court, uttering violent exclamations.
‘Blessed be Alla! your old fire is still within you,’ cried Tippoo; ‘and
were I but rid of Cornwallis, that host yonder would disperse like smoke
before the sun: we might pursue them to annihilation. Will no one rid me
of him? Will no one lead a sortie from the fort, and dashing at his
tent, ere he be suspected, bear him or his head hither? I vow a reward,
such as it hath not entered into any one’s thoughts to conceive, to him
who doeth this: and those who fall ye well know are martyrs, and when
they taste of death are translated into paradise, to the seventy virgins
and undying youth.’
Unknown to each other, and from opposite sides, two men dashed forward
eagerly to claim that service of danger. The one was Kasim Ali, the
other a man from whose blood-shot eyes and haggard features—upon which
anguish and despair were fearfully written—all shrank back as he passed
them: it was Rhyman Khan.
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