motionless. Amra would have obeyed her father, but her limbs refused
their office. She trembled--she was sinking: she timidly looked up to
Govinda as if for support; his arms were extended to receive her: she
fell upon his neck, and wept unrestrained tears. He held her to his
bosom as though he would have folded her into his inmost heart, and
hidden her there for ever. He murmured passionate words of transport
and fondness in her ear. He drew aside her veil from her pale brow,
and ventured to print a kiss upon her closed eyelids. "To-night," he
whispered, "in the grove of mangoes by the river's bank!" She answered
only by a mute caress; and then supporting her steps to her own
apartments, he resigned her to the arms of her attendants, and hastened
after his preceptor. He forgot, however, the materials for the evening
sacrifice, and in consequence not only had to suffer a severe rebuke
from the old priest, but the infliction of a penance extraordinary,
which detained him in the presence of his preceptor till the night was
far advanced. At length, however, Sarma retired to holy meditation and
mental abstraction, and Govinda was dismissed.
He had hitherto maintained, with habitual and determined self-command,
that calm, subdued exterior, which becomes a pupil in the presence
of his religious teacher; but no sooner had he crossed the threshold,
and found himself alone breathing the free night-air of heaven, than
the smothered passions burst forth. He paused for one instant, to
anathematise in his soul the Sastras and their contents, the gods and
their temples, the priests and the sacrifices; the futile ceremonies
and profitless suffering to which his life was abandoned, and the cruel
policy to which he had been made an unwilling victim. Then he thought
of Amra, and all things connected with her changed their aspect.
In another moment he was beneath the shadow of the mangoes on the
river's brink. He looked round, Amra was not there: he listened, there
was no sound. The grass bore marks of having been recently pressed,
and still its perfume floated on the air. A few flowers were scattered
round, fresh gathered, and glittering with dew. Govinda wrung his hands
in despair, and flung himself upon the bank, where a month before they
had sat together. On the very spot where Amra had reclined, he perceived
a lotos-leaf and a palasa flower laid together. Upon the lotos-leaf
he could perceive written, with a thorn or some sharp point, the word
AMRA; and the crimson palasa-buds were sacred to the dead. It was
sufficient: he thrust the leaf and the flowers into his bosom; and, "swift
as the sparkle of a glancing star," he flew along the path which led to
the garden sepulchre.
The mother of Amra had died in giving birth to her only child. She was
young, beautiful, and virtuous; and had lived happily with her husband
notwithstanding the disparity of age. The pride and stoicism of his
caste would not allow him to betray any violence of grief, or show
his affection for the dead, otherwise than by raising to her memory a
beautiful tomb. It consisted of four light pillars, richly and grotesquely
carved, supporting a pointed cupola, beneath which was an altar for
oblations: the whole was overlaid with brilliant white stucco, and
glittered through the gloom. A flight of steps led up to this edifice:
upon the highest step, and at the foot of the altar, Amra was seated
alone and weeping.
Love--O love! what have I to do with thee? How sinks the heart, how
trembles the hand as it approaches the forbidden theme! Of all the gifts
the gods have sent upon the earth thou most precious--yet ever most
fatal! As serpents dwell among the odorous boughs of the sandal-tree,
and alligators in the thrice sacred waters of the Ganges, so all that is
sweetest, holiest, dearest upon earth, is mixed up with sin, and pain,
and misery, and evil! Thus hath it been ordained from the beginning; and
the love that hath never mourned, is not love.
How sweet, yet how terrible, were the moments that succeeded! While
Govinda, with fervid eloquence, poured out his whole soul at her feet,
Amra alternately melted with tenderness, or shrunk with sensitive alarm.
When he darkly intimated the irresistible power he possessed to overcome
all obstacles to their union--when he spoke with certainty of the time
when she should be his, spite of the world and men--when he described
the glorious height to which his love would elevate her--the delights
and the treasures he would lavish around her, she, indeed, understood
not his words; yet, with all a woman's trusting faith in him she loves,
she hung upon his accents--listened and believed. The high and passionate
energy, with which his spirit, so long pent up and crushed within him,
now revealed itself; the consciousness of his own power, the knowledge
that he was beloved, lent such a new and strange expression to his
whole aspect, and touched his fine form and features with such a proud
and sparkling beauty, that Amra looked up at him with a mixture of
astonishment, admiration, and deep love, not wholly unmingled with fear;
almost believing, that she gazed upon some more than mortal lover, upon
one of those bright genii, who inhabit the lower heaven, and have been
known in the old time to leave their celestial haunts for love of the
earth-born daughters of beauty.
Amra did not speak, but Govinda felt his power. He saw his advantage,
and, with the instinctive subtlety of his sex, he pursued it. He sighed,
he wept, he implored, he upbraided. Amra, overpowered by his emotion
and her own, had turned away her head, and embraced one of the pillars
of her mother's tomb, as if for protection. In accents of the most
plaintive tenderness she entreated him to leave her--to spare her--and
even while she spoke her arm relaxed its hold, and she was yielding to
the gentle force with which he endeavoured to draw her away; when at
this moment, so dangerous to both, a startling sound was heard--a
rustling among the bushes, and then a soft, low whistle. Govinda started
up at that well-known signal, and saw the head of the mute appearing
just above the altar. His turban being green, was undistinguishable
against the leafy back-ground; and his small black eyes glanced and
glittered like those of a snake. Govinda would willingly have annihilated
him at that moment. He made a gesture of angry impatience, and motioned
him to retire; but Sahib stood still, shook his hand with a threatening
expression, and made signs, that he must instantly follow him.
Amra, meantime, who had neither seen nor heard any thing, began to
suspect, that Govinda was communing with some invisible spirit; she
clung to him in terror, and endeavoured to recall his attention to
herself by the most tender and soothing words and caresses. After some
time he succeeded in calming her fears; and with a thousand promises of
quick return, he at length tore himself away, and followed through the
thicket the form of Sahib, who glided like a shadow before him.
When they reached the accustomed spot, the mute leapt into the canoe,
which he had made fast to the root of a mango-tree, and motioning
Govinda to follow him, he pushed from the shore, and rowed rapidly till
they reached a tall, bare rock near the centre of the stream, beneath
the dark shadow of which Sahib moored his little boat, out of the
possible reach of human eye or ear.
All had passed so quickly, that Govinda felt like one in a dream; but
now, awakening to a sense of his situation, he held out his hand for the
expected letter from his brother, trembling to learn its import, upon
which he felt that more than his life depended. Sahib, meanwhile, did
not appear in haste to obey. At length, after a pause of breathless
suspense, Govinda heard a low and well-remembered voice repeat an
almost-forgotten name: "Faizi!" it said.
"O Prophet of God! my brother!" and he was clasped in the arms of Abul
Fazil.
After the first transports of recognition had subsided, Faizi (it is
time to use his real name) sank from his brother's arms to his feet: he
clasped his knees. "My brother!" he exclaimed, "what is now to be my
fate? You have not lightly assumed this disguise, and braved the danger
of discovery! You know all, and have come to save me--to bless me? Is it
not so?"
Abul Fazil could not see his brother's uplifted countenance, flushed
with the hectic of feverish impatience, or his imploring eyes, that
floated in tears; but his tones were sufficiently expressive.
"Poor boy!" he said, compassionately, "I should have foreseen this. But
calm these transports, my brother! nothing is denied to the sultan's
power, and nothing will he deny thee."
"He knows all, then?"
"All--and by his command am I come. I had feared, that my brother had
sold his vowed obedience for the smile of a dark-eyed girl--what shall
I say?--I feared for his safety!"
"O my brother! there is no cause!"
"I know it--enough!--I have seen and heard!"
Faizi covered his face with his hands.
"If the sultan----"
"Have no doubts," said Abul Fazil: "nothing is denied to the sultan's
power, nothing will be denied to thee."
"And the Brahman Adhar?"
"It has been looked to--he will not trouble thee."
"_Dead?_ O merciful Allah! crime upon crime!"
"His life is cared for," said Abul Fazil, calmly: "ask no more."
"It is sufficient. O my brother! O Amra!"--
"She is thine!--Now hear the will of Akbar." Faizi bowed his head with
submission. "Speak!" he said; "the slave of Akbar listens."
"In three months from this time," continued Abul Fazil, "and on this
appointed night, it will be dark, and the pagodas deserted. Then, and
not till then, will Sahib be found at the accustomed spot. He will
bring in the skiff a dress, which is the sultan's gift, and will be
a sufficient disguise. On the left bank of the stream there shall be
stationed an ample guard, with a close litter and a swift Arabian. Thou
shalt mount the one, and in the other shall be placed this fair girl.
Then fly: having first flung her veil upon the river to beguile pursuit;
the rest I leave to thine own quick wit. But let all be done with secrecy
and subtlety; for the sultan, though he can refuse thee nothing, would
not willingly commit an open wrong against a people he has lately
conciliated; and the violation of a Brahminee woman were enough to raise
a province."
"It shall not need," exclaimed the youth, clasping his hands: "she loves
me! She shall live for me--only for me--while others weep her dead!"
"It is well: now return we in silence, the night wears fast away." He
took one of the oars, Faizi seized the other, and with some difficulty
they rowed up the stream, keeping close under the overshadowing banks.
Having reached the little promontory, they parted with a strict and mute
embrace.
Faizi looked for a moment after his brother, then sprung forward to the
spot where he had left Amra; but she was no longer there: apparently she
had been recalled by her nurse to her own apartments, and did not again
make her appearance.
Three months more completed the five years which had been allotted for
Govinda's Brahminical studies; they passed but too rapidly away. During
this time the Brahman Adhar did not arrive, nor was his name again
uttered: and Amra, restored to health, was more than ever tender and
beautiful, and more than ever beloved.
The old Brahman, who had hitherto maintained towards his pupil and adopted
son a cold and distant demeanour, now relaxed from his accustomed
austerity, and when he addressed him it was in a tone of mildness, and
even tenderness. Alas for Govinda! every proof of this newly-awakened
affection pierced his heart with unavailing remorse. He had lived long
enough among the Brahmans, to anticipate with terror the effects of his
treachery, when once discovered; but he repelled such obtrusive images,
and resolutely shut his eyes against a future, which he could neither
control nor avert. He tried to persuade himself, that it was now too
late; that the stoical indifference to all earthly evil, passion,
and suffering, which the Pundit Sarma taught and practised, would
sufficiently arm him against the double blow preparing for him. Yet, as
the hour approached, the fever of suspense consumed his heart. Contrary
passions distracted and bewildered him: his ideas of right and wrong
became fearfully perplexed. He would have given the treasures of Istakar
to arrest the swift progress of time. He felt like one entangled in the
wheels of some vast machine, and giddily and irresistibly whirled along
he knew not how nor whither.
At length the day arrived: the morning broke forth in all that splendour
with which she descends upon "the Indian steep." Govinda prepared
for the early sacrifice, the last he was to perform. In spite of the
heaviness and confusion which reigned in his own mind, he could perceive
that something unusual occupied the thoughts of his preceptor: some
emotion of a pleasurable kind had smoothed the old man's brow. His
voice was softened; and though his lips were compressed, almost a smile
lighted up his eyes, when he turned them on Govinda. The sacrifice was
one of unusual pomp and solemnity, in honour of the goddess Parvati, and
lasted till the sun's decline. When they returned to the dwelling of
Sarma he dismissed his pupils from their learned exercises, desiring
them to make that day a day of rest and recreation, as if it were the
festival of Sri, the goddess of learning, when books, pens, and paper,
being honoured as her emblems, remain untouched, and her votaries enjoy
a sabbath. When they were departed, the old Brahman commanded Govinda to
seat himself on the ground opposite to him. This being the first time he
had ever sat in the presence of his preceptor, the young man hesitated;
but Sarma motioned him to obey, and accordingly he sat down at a
respectful distance, keeping his eyes reverently cast upon the ground.
The old man then spoke these words:
"It is now five years since the son of Mitra entered my dwelling. He was
then but a child, helpless, orphaned, ignorant of all true knowledge;
expelled from the faith of his fathers and the privileges of his high
caste. I took him to my heart with joy, I fed him, I clothed him, I
opened his mind to truth, I poured into his soul the light of knowledge:
he became to me a son. If in any thing I have omitted the duty of a
father towards him, if ever I refused to him the wish of his heart or
the desire of his eyes, let him now speak!"
"O my father!"--
"No more," said the Brahman, gently, "I am answered in that one word;
but all that I have yet done seems as nothing in mine eyes: for the love
I bear my son is wide as the wide earth, and my bounty shall be as the
boundless firmament. Know that I have read thy soul! Start not! I have
received letters from the south country. Amra is no longer the wife of
Adhar; for Adhar has vowed himself to a life of penance and celibacy in
the temple of Indore, by order of an offended prince;--may he find peace!
The writings of divorce are drawn up, and my daughter being already past
the age when a prudent father hastens to marry his child, in order that
the souls of the dead may be duly honoured by their posterity, I have
sought for her a husband, such as a parent might desire; learned in the
sciences, graced with every virtue; of unblemished life, of unmixed
caste, and rich in the goods of this world."
The Brahman stopped short. Faizi, breathing with difficulty, felt his
blood pause at his heart.
"My son!" continued the old man, "I have not coveted possessions or
riches, but the gods have blessed me with prosperity; be they praised
for their gifts! Look around upon this fair dwelling, upon those fertile
lands, which spread far and wide, a goodly prospect; and the herds that
feed on them, and the bondsmen who cultivate them; with silver and gold,
and garments, and rich stores heaped up, more than I can count--all
these do I give thee freely: possess them! and with them I give thee a
greater gift, and one that I well believe is richer and dearer in thine
eyes--my daughter, my last and best treasure! Thus do I resign all
worldly cares, devoting myself henceforth solely to pious duties and
religious meditation: for the few days he has to live, let the old man
repose upon thy love! A little water, a little rice, a roof to shelter
him, these thou shalt bestow--he asks no more."
The Brahman's voice faltered. He rose, and Govinda stood up, trembling
in every nerve. The old priest then laid his hand solemnly upon his
bowed head and blessed him. "My son! to me far better than many sons, be
thou blest as thou hast blessed me! The just gods requite thee with full
measure all thou hast done! May the wife I bestow on thee bring to thy
bosom all the felicity thou broughtest to me and mine, and thy last
hours be calm and bright, as those thy love has prepared for me!"
"Ah, curse me not!" exclaimed Govinda, with a cry of horror; for in
the anguish of that moment he felt as if the bitter malediction, thus
unconsciously pronounced, was already fulfilling. He flung himself upon
the earth in an agony of self-humiliation; he crawled to the feet of
his preceptor, he kissed them, he clasped his knees. In broken words he
revealed himself, and confessed the treacherous artifice of which he
was at once the instrument and the victim. The Brahman stood motionless,
scarcely comprehending the words spoken. At length he seemed to awaken
to the sense of what he heard, and trembled from head to foot with an
exceeding horror; but he uttered no word of reproach: and after a pause,
he suddenly drew the sacrificial poniard from his girdle, and would have
plunged it into his own bosom, if Faizi had not arrested his arm, and
without difficulty snatched the weapon from his shaking and powerless
grasp.
"If yet there be mercy for me," he exclaimed, "add not to my crimes
this worst of all--make me not a sacrilegious murderer! Here," he
added, kneeling, and opening his bosom, "strike! satisfy at once a just
vengeance, and end all fears in the blood of an abhorred betrayer!
Strike, ere it be too late!"
The old man twice raised his hand, but it was without strength. He
dropped the knife, and folding his arms, and sinking his head upon his
bosom, he remained silent.
"O yet!" exclaimed Faizi, lifting with reverence the hem of his robe and
pressing it to his lips, "if there remain a hope for me, tell me by what
penance--terrible, prolonged, and unheard-of--I may expiate this sin;
and hear me swear, that, henceforth, neither temptation, nor torture,
nor death itself, shall force me to reveal the secrets of the Brahmin
faith, nor divulge the holy characters in which they are written: and
if I break this vow, may I perish from off the earth like a dog!"
The Brahman clasped his hands, and turned his eyes for a moment on the
imploring countenance of the youth, but averted them instantly with a
shudder.
"What have I to do with thee," he said, at length, "thou serpent! Well
is it written--'Though the upas-tree were watered with nectar from
heaven instead of dew, yet would it bear poison.' Yet swear--"
"I do--I will--"
"Never to behold my face again, nor utter with those guileful and
polluted lips the name of my daughter."
"My father!"
"Father!" repeated the old man, with a flash of indignation, but it
was instantly subdued. "Swear!" he repeated, "if vows can bind a thing
so vile!"
"My father, I embrace thy knees! Not heaven itself can annul the past,
and Amra is mine beyond the power of fate or vengeance to disunite
us--but by death!"
"Hah!" said the Brahman, stepping back, "it is then as I feared! and
this is well too!"--he muttered; "Heaven required a victim!"
He moved slowly to the door, and called his daughter with a loud voice:
Amra heard and trembled in the recesses of her apartments. The voice was
her father's, but the tones of that voice made her soul sicken with
fear; and, drawing her drapery round to conceal that alteration in her
lovely form which was but too apparent, she came forth with faltering
steps.
"Approach!" said the Brahman, fixing his eyes upon her, while those of
Faizi, after the first eager glance, remained rivetted to the earth.
She drew near with affright, and gazed wildly from one to the other.
"Ay! look well upon him! whom dost thou behold?"
"My father!--Ah! spare me!"
"Is he your husband?"
"Govinda! alas!--speak for us!"--
"Fool!"--he grasped her supplicating hands,--"say but the word--are you
a wife?"
"I am! I am! _his_, before the face of Heaven!"
"No!"--he dropped her hands, and spoke in a rapid and broken voice:
"No! Heaven disclaims the monstrous mixture! hell itself rejects it! Had
he been the meanest among the sons of Brahma, I had borne it: but an
Infidel, a base-born Moslem, has contaminated the stream of my life!
Accursed was the hour when he came beneath my roof, like a treacherous
fox and a ravening wolf, to betray and to destroy! Accursed was the
hour, which mingled the blood of Narayna with that of the son of a
slave-girl! Shall I live to look upon a race of outcasts, abhorred on
earth and excommunicate from heaven, and say, 'These are the offspring
of Sarma?' Miserable girl! thou wert preordained a sacrifice! Die! and
thine infamy perish with thee!" Even while he spoke he snatched up the
poniard which lay at his feet, but this he needed not--the blow was
already struck home, and to her very heart. Before the vengeful steel
could reach her, she fell, without a cry--a groan--senseless, and, as
it seemed, lifeless, upon the earth.
Faizi, almost with a shriek, sprang forward; but the old man interposed:
and, with the strong grasp of supernatural strength--the strength of
despair--held him back. Meantime the women, alarmed by his cries,
rushed wildly in, and bore away in their arms the insensible form of
Amra. Faizi strove to follow; but, at a sign from the Brahman, the door
was quickly closed and fastened within, so that it resisted all his
efforts to force it. He turned almost fiercely--"She will yet live!"
he passionately exclaimed; and the Brahman replied, calmly and
disdainfully, "If she be the daughter of Sarma, she will die!" Then
rending his garments, and tearing off his turban, he sat down upon the
sacrificial hearth; and taking up dust and ashes, scattered them on his
bare head and flowing beard: he then remained motionless, with his chin
upon his bosom, and his arms crossed upon his knees. In vain did Faizi
kneel before him, and weep, and supplicate for one word, one look: he
was apparently lost to all consciousness, rigid, torpid; and, but that
he breathed, and that there was at times a convulsive movement in his
eyelids, it might have been thought, that life itself was suspended, or
had altogether ceased.
Thus did this long and most miserable day wear away, and night came on.
Faizi--who had spent the hours in walking to and fro like a troubled
demon, now listening at the door of the zenana, from which no sound
proceeded, now endeavouring in vain to win, by the most earnest
entreaties, some sign of life or recognition from the old man--could
no longer endure the horror of his own sensations. He stepped into the
open air, and leaned his head against the porch. The breeze, which blew
freshly against his parched lips and throbbing temples, revived his
faculties. After a few moments he thought he could distinguish voices,
and the trampling of men and horses, borne on the night air. He raised
his hands in ecstacy. Again he bent his ear to listen: he heard the
splash of an oar. "They come!" he exclaimed, almost aloud, "one more
plunge, and it is done! This hapless and distracted old man I will save
from his own and other's fury, and still be to him a son, in his own
despite. And, Amra! my own! my beautiful! my beloved! oh, how richly
shall the future atone for these hours of anguish! In these arms the
cruel pride and prejudices of thy race shall be forgotten. At thy feet
I will pour the treasures of the world, and lift thee to joys beyond
the brightest visions of youthful fancy! But--O merciful Allah!"--