HOW THE NIGHT PASSED.
The evening wore on, the golden sunset faded, and the stupendous mass
of the fort became grey and dim; while on the uppermost towers the
light lingered, as if loth to leave them. Still the old man hoped and
hoped, and his old servant comforted him, or tried to do so, though
she could not conceal her own sad fears. Had Zóra slipped and fallen
into the river or into a crevice of the rocks? Had she and Ahmed been
attacked by the panthers, which began to growl as the day declined?
Whom could she send to see? She dare not venture herself or leave her
master. Then the night fell on all suddenly; and the old man, blind
as he was, knew the change from day to night had come. He was very
restless, groping his way into the courtyard, and feeling in every
room and corner with his staff. "Zóra! Zóra! Zóra!" he cried almost
unremittingly, "where art thou? Come to me, come to me! I bid thee
not delay. Oh, I shall die if thou comest not." Then he went into the
little mosque, cried the evening call to prayer, and waited, but no one
came. "Why had all deserted him, and Zóra too?"
When he had finished his prayer he got up and went into the house,
and sat down in his usual place. "Where is Zóra?" he asked of the old
servant; "hath she not come?"
"No," replied Hoosein-bee; "I daresay she is with her sick children.
One is very ill, she told me so this morning; perhaps it is dying, and
she is with it." It was a poor attempt to satisfy herself and calm the
old man's fears, and it was all she could do to check her own sobs.
"It is night now," said her master, in a trembling voice; "the pigeons
have ceased to coo, and the air is chilly. Why delayest thou, Zóra,
Zóra, Zóra?" and the piteous, wailing cry began again, as he rocked
himself to and fro. Sometimes he thought the panthers had killed her;
again that she had fallen between the frightful crevices of the rocks
and was lost. "Oh, child! so beloved, art thou dead? Dead! and the old
man living? Nay, there is no justice in it. Why did Alla let her die?"
"Peace!" cried Hoosein-bee, rebuking him; "art thou accusing God? I
loved the child as well as thou didst, but if the Lord hath taken her,
dare we refuse her to Him? What does it matter for us, who are old and
will soon die? Peace! someone will find the child and bring her in,
then it will be time enough to weep."
"I have sinned," returned the old man, submissively; "I will not
complain: whatever her destiny was, I could not avert it, Ameen!
Ameen!" and he rocked himself to and fro as before. "And yet," he
muttered to himself, "her horoscope was fine, and there were happiness,
and honour, and children, and wealth in it. And I believed that; but it
may have been a deceit of Satan; and I shall never hear her sweet voice
again, nor feel her soft hands about me, alas! alas!"
"I see a torch coming from the village gate," cried Hoosein-bee, who
had been watching from the door. "There are a man and a woman, and the
torch-bearer. Master! master! they come hitherwards; they will surely
have news. Let us vow offerings to the saints if Zóra be safe! Oh,
Syud, dost thou hear?"
But the old man could not speak; he only rose and tottered to the door.
"Are they come?" he asked, tremblingly. "Hoosein-bee, who are they?"
"I see them now, master," she said; "only Peeroo and his wife
Goolab-bee."
"What can they know about the child?" he returned, peevishly. "Why do
they come when I am in grief?"
"Be quiet, master," she replied; "they know, else they would not come.
Hark! they are calling."
"Here; I am here," she continued. "Is Zóra with you?"
"No! we will tell thee;" and they hurried forward. But when they
entered the house it was no easy matter to break the tidings they
brought to Zóra's grandfather. He sat trembling and speechless at
first. His darling gone, only to be returned to him dishonoured and
impure. His little Zóra, his beloved, his stay and support; and he
blind and aged. His fairy-face, his apt scholar, all the endearing
terms he had ever spoken, came from him with sighs and groans. "Oh!" he
cried, "if she were only dead, so that she were pure; but polluted!"
No one could offer a word of comfort, and the pán seller and his wife
could devise no means of consolation.
"Let me go to him!" cried the Syud, passionately, as he rose up. "Give
me my sword, I will cut him down on his own threshold--before his
slaves. Let him kill me! Ah, that would be welcome, now honour is gone!
Dishonoured!" he exclaimed, after a pause. "Dishonoured! Pain has come,
blindness has come, and helplessness and poverty, but never dishonour.
Yea, O merciful God, I would die, I would die! O friends, take me to
him, that he may slay me."
It was no use trying to soothe this incoherent raving, and they let
it have its course, till the old Syud was nearly exhausted; then
Hoosein-bee brought him a cup of water, and he drank it greedily. "I am
ready to go," he said, "let us depart;" and he tried to wind his scarf
about his waist, and groped for his staff.
"Huzrut," said Peeroo, speaking for the first time, "what the good Alla
sends us we must bear; and thou, our teacher, and a man devoted to
His service, ought to show us an example. Listen, Zóra is not harmed
yet, and no harm can come to her but from violence from thee. I have
thought over all my wife told me, and we must get the child away while
she is safe. If the Nika be said, neither thou nor any of us can help
her. When Ahmed heard what my wife said, he drew his sword and swore he
would go and kill the Nawab or die. Foolish man! His head would have
been off his shoulders in the twinkle of an eye, and his body cast out
to the jackals, and vultures, and kites. I made him reasonable, and he
put up his weapon. Then we consulted. 'No one can help her but Runga
Naik,' said I. 'That is a blessed thought,' said he. 'Someone must go
for Runga,' I said; and Ahmed said someone must go; and we sat with our
fingers between our teeth thinking. Then my wife said, 'What are you
thinking about? There is only one man, and that is Kaloo, the Beydur;
send him.' Kaloo is a true man, Huzrut; and would go through fire and
water to serve thee, Huzrut, and Zóra, for ye saved his child. Well,
Ahmed went for Kaloo, and we told him how the matter stood. 'I know the
way into the zenana by the broken wall,' he said, 'and I will go and
stab the Nawab in his sleep; who will know of it? I am not a Beydur if
I fail.' Well, we thought this would do, but my wife said, 'Let there
be no murder, it would bring a curse on Zóra. Leave the Nawab to Alla
and his destiny. Send for Runga.' And Kaloo said, 'Yes, it is good, and
I will go for him. He is at Kukeyra, I know, for I ought to have been
with him; they have a play there, and will be up all night. I will call
on him to come in the name of the Syud, and if he won't, I can only
return and kill the Nawab as he is asleep.' 'Very good,' we said; 'if
there is no other remedy thou shalt slay the Nawab;' and he bound up
his loins, took his bundle of gourds from the roof, and his sword and
shield, and is gone: he will be far across the river by this time, and
by daylight Runga will be here. That is what we have done, Huzrut, and
here is Ahmed to speak for himself."
"It was all my fault, Huzrut," exclaimed the worthy fellow, bowing his
head between the old Syud's knees, and sobbing. "I ought never to have
left her, but I was afraid, and she knew Johur so well. It was true
the Nawab wanted me, but it was an idle message to the Moolla that he
wanted him; and I was going up to say he could not come then, when
I met Goolab-bee, and she told me all. So, my prince, thou must be
patient, and wait for Runga. Inshalla! all will be well. He and his men
are able to take a man and his bed up, as he sleeps, and carry them so
that he never wakes. Kaloo is gone, and we shall hear by daylight what
comes of his errand. Let me see; three hours to Kukeyra, and it is now
the first watch of the night. Then three hours to return, and perhaps
an hour there. Men can't fly you know, my prince; but Runga Naik and
Kaloo are no laggards. Let Peeroo go; I and Goolab-bee will watch by
you till daylight."
"Ye are kind, ye are kind," said the Syud, "but there should be no
murder. If I should never see my child again, let there be no murder.
Let him live, and let the just Alla deal with him as He listeth. But,
O Zóra! O my child! may all be well with thee, for I am helpless and
blind, very helpless."
"Give him his opium," whispered Goolab to Hoosein, "and let him sleep."
It was a merciful thought, for the aged man slept quietly through the
night. As day was near the dawn, he woke, but felt as it were stunned
by his great grief. "Zóra!" he cried, "get me water for the ablution,
it is day." Then he remembered his great sorrow. "Zóra! who told me she
was with the Nawab? Is it so, or have I had an evil dream?"
"Why should we tell you a lie, father?" said Hoosein-bee "Zóra is not
here, she is in the palace. God help her!"
"Yes," returned the Syud, "she is dishonoured," and he lay down again
and moaned piteously. "O my darling! wert thou dead and in honour
I should mourn thee till I die. Now, what will become of me? Alla!
merciful Alla! send thine angel quickly, that he may take my spirit;
behold thine aged servant is ready. I will await him," he murmured
softly, "let him come;" and he lay down again, turned to the wall, and
covered his face.
"I think he will die," said Goolab, wiping her eyes; "the shock has
been too great for him."
"It were perhaps better he should die than hear of further misery,"
said her companion. "Why do not they come? Runga Naik should be
faithful."
Hoosein-bee had hardly spoken, when she heard the door of the outer
court opened gently, and the voice of Ahmed, who had been watching
without, speaking to some others. After a few moments he entered the
room, and said, "Is he not awake? Runga is here! Is he to come in?"
"Runga!" cried the Syud, rising on his arm; "ah! he alone can save the
child: let him come. Save her, friend," he continued, attempting to get
up, as he heard Runga Naik enter. "Save her, and she will bless thee.
And I--what can I do--who am blind?"
"Give me your blessing," returned the Beydur; "put your hands on my
head, and I shall not fail. If I return not with Zóra, believe that
I am dead. Have no care how we bring her, but ere the morning breaks
to-morrow thou shalt have her in thy arms. Under God's help we will
bring her to thee."
"But there will be bloodshed--murder, perhaps. O Runga, shed not blood!"
"It would be easy for me, with fifty good fellows, to hide in the
panthers' dens, and carry the palace before any one knew of us,"
returned Runga, laughing; "but no force is needed, only contrivance,
unless violence has been done; and then the Nawab dies. Nor would it be
justice to save him. We Beydurs often take justice into our own hands
if we can get it by no other means; and who can say we are wrong?"
"And who will protect us if thou bring Zóra here? I cannot help her."
"It is a sad thing, father," returned the Beydur. "Listen! but I must
speak boldly. If I bring her, ye cannot stay here; ye must come with
me. Across the water the Nawab and his slaves have no power, and there
a thousand good swords and guns are ready to protect ye both. But wilt
thou come, even for a while? Zóra and you saved his life whom I love,
and shall I abandon you to grief?"
"Let it all go, though I loved it. I am but a Fakeer, and fear no
change, for Alla will keep me."
"We will take what we can with us, Huzrut; and now lie down again and
sleep, for we have much to do. When art thou going to the palace,
Goolab-bee?" he asked of her. "Come with me, and I will explain what is
to be done;" and he took her out into the court. "Ahmed tells me thou
art true," he said, "else I am silent; but thou canst do much."
"She and Abba saved my child, my Pearoo, and I would go through fire
for her," was the reply. "I am going up the hill at sunrise to deliver
my first bundle of pán, and I shall see her. In the afternoon I go
again. What am I to say?"
"Tell the child not to sleep, not to eat; 'tis but a day's fast. At the
third watch of the night two great owls will hoot near the wall of the
kitchen where it is broken. If she comes after the third hoot, well; if
not, I will come for her. Where is she?"
"In the court next to the kitchen court," said Goolab; "and there is
no door to it. I went in yesterday by the broken wall, for the servants
all use it now, and have made a pathway."
"Good," he returned; "mind, the third hoot. She must be awake and
ready, and fear not. Tell her Runga Naik comes to her for Meeah's
sake--would he were here, dame; would he were here. Now go! I shall
rest here, and we will get what we can down to the boat as best we can."
Goolab-bee hastened away, took her bundle of pán on her head, filled
her capacious pocket with parched rice, and hied up the hill with all
the speed she could. She entered the kitchen court by the gap in the
wall, meeting the Nawab's cook, who was one of her gossips.
"That won't be half enough, Goolab-bee," said the woman, pointing to
the bundle of pán; "we are to have the Nika to-night, and more will be
wanted. There will be a great feast for my lord's Nika, and you are
invited to it."
"I suppose he has satisfied Zóra-bee, then," she returned, carelessly.
"I will bring more pán in the evening."
"Oh, yes, she is quite satisfied; Shireen-bee told me so. She is quite
ready. You know all brides require a little smoothing down. But go and
see her yourself; some good fresh pán will refresh her."
Goolab went into the next court. There was no door between them, only
a curtain made of coarse black blanket. She pulled this aside, and
saw Zóra sitting in the cloister of the court before the door of the
room she had been in. The two women sat by her, and one of the eunuchs
stood with his arms folded, at a short distance from them, idly leaning
against the wall.
"Mother!" cried Zóra, in a husky voice, stretching out her arms;
"mother, oh, come to me; they will not let me go to thee!"
"Ah, poor darling!" said Máma Luteefa, "we brought her out here into
the cool morning air, for she did not sleep; we watched her by turns
all the night, and offered her food and water, but she would not eat or
drink. Now if she would take a mouthful of plain kicheri she would be
better. Take her in, and speak to her; she knows you, and will tell you
we have done all we could; and my lord sent early to know how she had
slept, and is anxious about her, as the Nika is fixed for to-night,"
she whispered, "but don't tell her."
"Come, my darling," said Goolab, "come with me, I will put thee to
sleep, and watch by thee." She led Zóra to the bed where she had been
laid the night before, and they were alone. The women sat without,
looking in now and then, but did not disturb them.
"I have not slept, mother, though I feigned to do so. I have not spoken
to them. They have been trying to persuade me to submit, but, oh,
mother, I hate him! I should die if I remain longer here."
"Not long, my treasure," replied Goolab. "Runga Naik is come. Now
listen, for we must not be seen to speak much; at the third hour of the
night he will come and hoot like an owl, and at the third hoot thou art
to go out to him by the gap near the kitchen wall. There is nothing to
prevent thee. And if thou dost not go to him, he will come to thee.
Fear not, and may Alla love thee and keep thee."
"I will do it," whispered the girl, throwing her arms round Goolab's
neck. "If they see me, they will kill me; but I do not fear death. And
Abba, how is he?"
"He is looking for thee." Till then they had spoken in Canarese, now
Goolab spoke in the Dekhan dialect of Hindostanee, so that the women
could hear. "Now sleep, Zóra; sleep, my darling. I will not leave
thee." And she patted the girl gently, and crooned a low lullaby, as
she would have done to one of her own children, holding up her finger
to the women who were chattering outside. When Zóra's soft breathing
assured her that the girl slept, she got up and joined the two women
outside. "Zóra sleeps," she said; "she was weary, and in a strange
place. No wonder she lay awake. Now, when she wakes, I will get her to
eat something."
"Oh, do!" said the women, in a breath. "We could never do it. Poor
child! if she only ate."
Zóra slept an hour or more, woke, and called to her old friend. "I
have had pleasant dreams," she said, simply. "I was with Maria, and
she looked like an angel; and he was there," and she hid her face in
Goolab's bosom; "and he said, 'Zóra, do not fear;' and, oh! his voice
was sweet and tender."
"Now thou must eat, my soul; I will go to the cook myself. The Nawab's
kicheri will be ready now, and it will be certain to be safe." The
cook was very amiable, and readily gave what was wanted, with which
Goolab-bee returned. "See, she will eat now," she said to Máma Luteefa;
"I thought I could persuade her."
"Thou art a blessed woman," returned Luteefa. "If I had gone on my
knees to her she would not have touched a morsel. Let her use my basin
and ewer, the water will refresh her!"
And Zóra ate as much as she could, for she was weak from hunger and
violent excitement, and felt strengthened. Her features resumed much
of their old expression, but there was a look of determination about
the eyes, and in the set lips, which was new to her old friend, who
rejoiced to see it. Goolab could not delay longer. "I shall be up
again in the afternoon," she said, "and will tell Abba thou art well;
meanwhile be not afraid."