_AT THE TOMB OF FIROZ KHAN_
The city of the Rani slept. The bazaars and side streets were deserted.
But for an occasional light gleaming fitfully through a half opened
casement, and the dark forms of sentinels pacing back and forth in
noiseless tread upon the walls, Jhansi might have been a city of the
dead. In countless, glittering myriads, the heavenly bodies strode
majestically in their eternal courses above the silent night. By the
mercy of the supreme Parem-eswara, the labor of the day completed
with the departing sun, the people had lain down to rest; their joys,
sorrows, hopes, for a space, gathered into oblivion. Thus Jhansi slept.
Three figures habited in male attire approached the eastern gate, and
gave a password. The gate was slowly opened, and the three went forth.
Behind them, the massive portals swung back into place upon grating
hinges.
Direct from the lofty, frowning bastion, a road led toward the summer
palace on the borders of the lake. Here and there clumps of tamarind
and acacia rose indistinctly on either side of the way. Rapidly, yet
with caution to avoid intercepting the nocturnal adventure of some
poisonous reptile, the three directed their steps along the road.
Their feet impressed the thick coating of dust noiselessly. Not a word
was exchanged, and no sound broke upon their ears save the occasional
yelping of a startled cur or the dismal cry of a jackal summoning a
companion to a scent of prey. Once, only, a solitary figure met them at
a little distance from the city. If bent upon evil, he concealed his
purpose by a greeting of peace.
"The blessing of God be with you," he cried.
"And with you, O Stranger, peace," the foremost of the three answered
in a woman's voice, despite the conflicting evidence of her dress.
Presently they came to a parting of the road. A narrow path led amid a
growth of trees to the brink of the lake. Massively the white square
walls of the tomb of Firoz Khan, with its central dome became visible
through the branches. The party halted.
"What now, my Lord"? the owner of the voice that had returned the
wayfarer's salutation asked.
"Noble Rani," that of Ahmad Khan replied, "yonder is our destination.
Behind the wall thou canst just discern to the right, lie, well
concealed, a hundred of thy Valaiti bodyguard; but I know not if the
conspirators are assembled."
At the moment a white cloth was waved thrice above the wall. Ahmad
evidently took it for a signal. He spoke in a low tone.
"Whoever the villains may be, they are now gathered together. Here I
will leave thee to pass in hiding to the guard, while if thou art still
determined upon the enterprise, thou hadst better advance boldly to
the entrance. For the rest, I make no doubt thine own judgment and
discretion, will serve thee better than any advice of mine."
"Well said, my faithful Ahmad," the Rani answered. "Thou art certain to
hear my call if need be from yonder hiding place"?
"Were it softer than the note of the bulbul, fair Lady, be assured, it
would reach me even at the gate of Paradise."
Thus while Ahmad stealthily disappeared among the trees, the Rani
motioned her waiting woman to follow, and proceeded fearlessly toward
the entrance of the tomb.
That those within had taken measures to prevent a surprise was
demonstrated by a challenge the moment that the Rani emerged into the
open space about the building.
"Stand! who comes"? a voice demanded.
The Rani replied promptly in firm accents. "Two followers of the noble
Prasad Singh."
A short period of consultation among the conspirators apparently
ensued. Without, the Rani awaited the answer with deep emotion. Would
the report prove true or false, that he whom she loved was a traitor as
well as a libertine?
Presently the response came.
"It is well, advance."
"Alas! it is ill," her heart murmured. "Ah God! the ingratitude, the
cruelty of it."
She advanced to the open door and entered the main chamber of the tomb.
A shaded lamp dimly illuminated the interior. Her glance swept quickly
from the five or six armed men gathered in a group, to a stalwart form
she intuitively recognized as that of Prasad Singh, in spite of the
disguise he had assumed. He was pacing to and fro a little apart from
his companions, as if impatient of some detail of his plan yet to be
completed.
He turned quickly on her entrance and spoke in a voice of stern rebuke.
"Thou art late," he exclaimed. "Thou hast kept us waiting long after
the appointed hour."
"Pardon, my Lord," replied the Rani, halting in the dark shadow of a
pillar. "Our steps were misdirected."
"A curse upon the muddled brain of that astrologer," he muttered. "Now
hearken, while I tell thee briefly, what I have impressed upon thy
comrades at some length. We go now to the city as belated travelers,
with an admission at the gate that hath already been assured. Thou
wilt then follow my steps quickly and silently to the Rani's palace.
As the others have their allotted duty, thou wilt seek the garden gate
and hold it securely so that no one passes in or forth. If force be
threatened thou wilt in like manner threaten force, aye, and use it if
so need be. Thou hast arms"? he asked.
"Aye, noble captain," she replied. "Arms have we. But if the Rani doth
herself come forth. What then, great sir"? she questioned in return.
"Thou wilt detain her above all others, though careful to do her no
personal harm," he enjoined emphatically.
"But should she command us to let her pass, my Lord"? she pressed
still further, in a quiet, assumed voice.
"Thou wilt obey the command of him who payeth thee for thy service,
thou idle questioner," he returned. "Thy order is to hold her securely
until my pleasure concerning her hath been learned."
There followed a momentary pause, then her voice rose solemnly to the
vaulted roof.
"My Lord Raja, Prasad Singh, thou hast no need to go to Jhansi for the
Rani. Behold she is now before thee."
She moved from the shadow and stood confronting him, an expression of
offended dignity visible upon her face.
He uttered an exclamation of surprise mingled with dismay. Impulsively
he strode forward.
"Stand where thou art," she commanded. "Move not a pace, a man of you,
for at the raising of my voice a hundred troopers, lying at hand, will
hasten to my side."
With a muttered oath Prasad halted, while the Rani turned to the door
and summoned Ahmad.
Almost upon the instant the Mohammedan noble and a score of the Rani's
bodyguard appeared before the entrance.
"Alas, Ahmad," she said. "Our hope is dashed in pieces as a pitcher
hurled upon a rock. Bipin, poor fellow, hath earned my displeasure as
well as my gratitude for the truth that he has told. I would now, that
I could recompense him for being a liar concerning this night's work.
Take these duped fools into safe keeping, and then await my order. I
will speak with Prasad first."
She motioned the shrinking forms inside the chamber to pass without,
and remained alone with Prasad.
For several minutes there reigned an unbroken silence, as the Rani and
her guilty lover stood face to face. The moon had risen over the lake
and sent its pale light through a crevice in the dome of the ruined
tomb. It marked by deep shadows the recesses, and filled the chamber
with an atmosphere in sympathy with the chill that seized upon the
heart of the woman.
She spoke at last in a measured tone.
"How, now, my Lord Prasad Singh. A short while since you said the Rani
was to be held until she heard your pleasure. Behold, she now patiently
awaiteth it. What wilt thou do with her"?
Prasad hesitated a moment, then cast himself at her feet.
"Taunt me not, noble one," he petitioned. "I do not seek thy pardon;
but I do ask thee to hear me speak."
"Aye, will I," came the response coldly. "Is it not to hear what thou
canst say for such surprising conduct that I am now waiting on thy
words."
"As God sees my heart, my sole excuse is my all consuming love for
thee."
"Thy love for me," she echoed. "Surely it is a most unusual way of
showing it, good Prasad. Thou gatherest here a company of rascals to
assault my palace, and order them to heed not my command, to hold me
a prisoner until I shall learn thy pleasure. Thy love for me. Oh"! she
cried with a note of scorn in her voice. "Thou must indeed cherish a
constant love for me."
"Ah, fair one, be not so ungracious," he besought her. "Surely thou
hast tried me more than I was able to endure."
"I tried thee," she repeated bitterly. "Aye, I did try thee, and thou
hast proved to be most woefully amiss. What art thou, a drinker of
spirits, a libertine, and Ah God! a traitor to thy Queen."
Stung by her accusations he sprang passionately to his feet.
"It is not true," he retorted hotly. "Upon all things sacred do I swear
to it."
"Aye, thou art in a fitting situation for thy oath to carry weight,"
she answered; "but, believe me I care not for thy escapades with
_natch_ girls, or thy drunken orgies. Of such I do not look for an
account. Thy reason for this company is what I seek."
"Some accursed villain hath betrayed me," he muttered fiercely. "That
dog of an astrologer, or can it be my good Moslem friend, the noble
Ahmad Khan"?
"Nay," she replied sorrowfully. "It is thine own false heart, O Prasad,
that hath betrayed thee. I know of no astrologer, and as for Ahmad
Khan, thou art only adding an injustice to thy other wickedness by
slandering the fidelity of a friend. Even when this villainy of thine
was made plain to me, he it was who stood firm as a champion of thy
miserable faith. I doubt not that now his heart is sore with grief."
"Then fair Lady," he exclaimed. "Since the Gods have willed it, that
I shall appear in thine eyes as the vilest of creatures, life hath no
more object. Take it, O Rani. I yield it to thee as readily here, as I
would have done for thee amid the press of battle."
He drew a dagger from his girdle and offered the handle to the Rani. He
bowed his head submissively.
She gazed upon him with sorrowful eyes. She took the dagger from him
and for a moment grasped it tightly. Would she plunge it to his heart?
He waited resignedly. It would be an act of mercy was his only thought.
Then she spoke in slow accents, first sternly, but toward the close
with a quaver in her voice.
"As the Rani, I could, O Prasad, kill thee; but as Lachmi Bai
thou--thou art forgiven. Oh! why hast thou thus treated me"?
The dagger flashed with a clatter to the pavement; her hand dropped
listlessly to her side.
With a sudden burst of joy in his heart and arms outstretched, he
stepped forward, prompted by an impulse of the moment.
She waved him back imperiously.
"Nay, I command, do thou not touch me. If thou art forgiven by Lachmi
Bai, thou art not pardoned by the Jhansi Rani. Thy life she hath
returned to thee that thou mayest redeem thine honor by honorable
deeds, but thou canst not remain in Jhansi."
He drew back with dejection stamped upon his face.
She turned to the door and summoned Ahmad Khan.
The Mohammedan responded with reluctant steps. He paused on beholding
Prasad, sighed deeply, and directed his eyes toward the ground.
"Ahmad," she commanded. "It is my wish that thou dost now conduct the
noble Prasad Singh safely to the boundary of the state. He doth leave
me with a message to the Rao Sahib."
She added this from the desire to screen the Hindu noble's public
downfall.
"Noble Lady," petitioned Ahmad, ignoring her intention. "Thou placest
on my shoulders too heavy a burden. Prasad Singh hath grown to be my
friend. I cannot regard or hold one as a prisoner who hath so recently
been my honored guest. I beg thou wilt depute this unhappy duty to
another, such as thy faithful servant, the Dost Ali Khan, now without."
"By Heaven"! cried Prasad angrily, a wave of jealousy sweeping all
other feeling to the winds. "To such indignity I will not submit."
He stooped and seizing the dagger that had remained upon the floor,
stood at bay defiantly.
For a moment surprise was depicted on the Rani's face, then she sought
his reason.
"Why dost thou so object to the escort of Dost Ali"? she asked
innocently.
"Thou askest me why I should object to this Dost Ali"? he retorted.
"No," he laughed mockingly. "In pleasant company forsooth with thy----"
Something in the Rani's expression appealed direct to his sense of
honor, checking him in the utterance of the final word. Fortunately it
died upon his lips unspoken.
As if she had penetrated his meaning the Rani started, her countenance
menacing with sudden passion. She clutched Ahmad so tightly by the
wrist that he was forced to set his teeth to withhold an oath of pain.
The situation was also critical for him. If the Rani were to accept the
implied challenge of her virtue, the result might be a disclosure of
his deep intrigue.
The danger, for Ahmad, passed as she replied with an effort of
controlled emotion.
"Truly thou art mad, O Prasad. Thy folly and passion doth almost
accomplish its inevitable end. Fortunate is it, those who wish thee
well have pity for thee. To reason with thee would only be an act,
equally insane."
She walked toward him fearlessly and laid her hand upon the dagger hilt.
"Come," she enjoined. "Thou hast surrendered. Thou shalt obey my will
within my state, even if it be my pleasure that Dost Ali doth accompany
thee to the boundary."
"A curse upon thy pleasure," retorted Prasad sullenly, relinquishing
the dagger to her hand. "The sooner that my feet are free from this
unlucky soil, perchance the more quickly will I gain some peace of
mind. I care not how I leave it, so I ride forth speedily."
"Ah! in truth, good Prasad, how well dost thou display thy penitence,"
she answered reproachfully. "This dagger will I hold as a pledge for
thy better nature yet to claim. Farewell, my Lord. I pray a kindlier
fortune may attend our next meeting."
She moved toward the door, and pausing, turned upon him a look of deep
regret.
Prasad's countenance betrayed no change of feeling.
The Rani passed out into the moonlight, where her troopers had grouped
themselves about the tomb. Ahmad followed. He begged to know her wish
concerning the other prisoners.
"Carry them also to the boundary," she ordered, "and let them go to
whatever place God wills. I pray I may never set eyes on one of them
again."
"Doth the Rani now wish to return to Jhansi"? he asked, "or will she
accept the poor hospitality of Ahmad Khan. His house is within a little
distance."
"Not now, good Ahmad," she replied. "I would be for a short time alone.
Remain here with those unneeded for the escort, while I go yonder to
the shrine. Presently I will return."
She acknowledged the salute of the officers as they gazed with wonder
on her masculine attire, and moved slowly amid the trees to the temple
of the great god of Hindustan.
"Thanks be to Allah," Ahmad murmured devoutly. "This night is mine."
Black was the heart of the Mohammedan. The night was his--a night of
hell riot loosened in his soul. Passion and murder struggled for the
first place in his intention. Blood was already on his hands. Like a
tiger his thirst for more was now unquenchable.
Mohurran Goshi called to his door earlier in the evening had received
his unreckoned due. Ahmad's dagger had forever settled the account
between them. The wise discerner of other's good and evil fortune, had
failed to calculate his own swiftly approaching end.
In like manner a secret order to Dost Ali was to terminate the
conspirators' existence. Ahmad quickly planned that in some dark
ravine, before the boundary was reached, the deed might be easily
accomplished. Prasad to be dispatched in revenge, the others as a safer
fetter than money upon their silence. He quickly selected the escort,
and then drew Dost Ali to one side.
"It is the Rani's command, O discreet Ali," he said in an undertone,
"that these rascals are to be conducted to the boundary; but thou wilt
easily gather her implied meaning. She declared she doth hope never to
set eyes on any one of them again. Dost understand, she trusteth to thy
sword, that not one of them may by chance return."
Dost Ali drew himself up and replied tersely.
"I understand her command that they are to be set free at the
boundary."
"By Allah"! exclaimed Ahmad petulantly. "Thy mind doth evidence little
penetration. Clearly she doth not wish them to be set free at the
boundary, but in some convenient spot dispatched from further harm."
"If such be her meaning," replied the other firmly, "she must express
it thus to me in words. Too well do I know my duty to place an
interpretation of my own upon her plain command. As the order stands, I
will escort them to the boundary."
An exclamation of impatience burst from Ahmad's lips. The moment was
opportune for a still more wicked design. It left him no time to argue
the matter further.
"Then get thee gone upon thy business," he retorted angrily. "For all
my trouble I see thou art poorly witted to rise in favor at the Rani's
court. Thy stupidity will interpose between a great reward."
"To obey an order strictly was ever the injunction of my illustrious
teacher, Dost Mohammed Khan," the young officer replied firmly. "Alone,
by so doing, do I seek reward."
He saluted Ahmad haughtily, and turned to order the mounting of his
command.
"A curse upon the fool," muttered Ahmad fiercely. "Who could have
reckoned on a conscience from the Afghan school? But that the hour
has come to gratify a yearning hunger, I would beat submission to his
brain."
He bade the rest of the troopers await his return, and set forth in
the opposite direction taken by the Rani. When beyond the range of
observation from the tomb, he turned, and quickly but cautiously made
a _detour_ with the temple also, as his destination.
In his mind he beheld the woman of his passionate desire, practically
alone and unprotected. To the priests and attendants he wasted not
a thought. They would fly in terror at the first cry of alarm. She,
for whom he had jeopardized his soul by swearing falsely on the Koran
would then remain to suffer willingly or otherwise the purpose of
his mind. That the ground was sacred, mattered not. Dedicated to a
heathen God, it would have been an act of his faith to slaughter
the priests and raze the building to the ground. More, was not she,
also, an unbeliever, given into his embrace by the will of God. When
accomplished, a swift horse in waiting, would, if need be, carry him
far distant from the vengeance of the outraged woman. Of that he had
not been unmindful.
The Rani had approached the temple with sorrow consuming her heart.
Her affection for Prasad had gone forth spontaneously almost at their
first meeting. She had beheld in him what she believed to be her ideal
of a chivalrous noble. That he possessed failings due to youth and
inexperience she was ready to admit; but that he should prove such a
hopeless failure in all his qualities, was a bitter disappointment. A
drunkard, a consort of other women, while he asserted his unalterable
love for her, a conspirator against her authority if not her person,
surely her affection could not have been bestowed upon a more worthless
object. Her temperament was not such as to display her anguish by
lamenting Prasad's faithlessness and her own wrong into every willing
ear; but none the less was there the necessity to obtain relief by
an outpouring of her spirit. In secret, before the great God she
worshipped, she purposed to seek consolation for her wounded heart;
then to go forth and bear outwardly before her people no trace of her
inward grief.
The temple was wrapt in silence. In the outer building white robed,
recumbent figures of priests and attendants lay here and there where
they had chosen a resting place. With hushed steps the Rani stole
past these, crossed a courtyard, and entered the chamber of the God.
Save for the glow from an incense burner, the interior was veiled in
darkness, to emphasize the unknown mysterious element of Siva's being.
Before her, the figure of the God loomed a darker object, seated upon
an altar pedestal, wrapt in profound, eternal meditation. The morrow
was a festival and flowers had already been bountifully scattered upon
the altar, and, in wreaths, hung about the person of the sacred image.
She stood for a moment before the shrine, then knelt in prayer.
"O great Siva," she petitioned. "All wise, all powerful, all just God,
Protector of Animals, Vanquisher of Death; thou, whose vision and
understanding doth penetrate all things from the infinitude of Heaven
to the deepest secrets of the human soul, behold the unhappiness of
thy daughter. Striving to be just yet ever suffering injustice, to
appease jealousy but to behold new dissension rise on every hand, and
O Holy God, loving only to receive ingratitude and faithlessness in
return. Give me, I beg of thee, above all things, a spirit of resolute
courage to combat the vicissitudes of life, and to hold death powerless
of terror in whatever form it shall come. Aye, and O Great God, give
to me this divine quality so that I may inspire the faltering hearts
of others, if need be to valiant deeds for the honor of our faith and
country."
She raised her face upward to the protecting hands of the God, and
remained thus in silent communion.
Ahmad Khan, too, approached the temple, and passed by the sleeping
figures. With noiseless tread he crossed the court, and stood upon the
threshold of the shrine. Before him, the woman still knelt in wrapt
devotion. For a moment his eyes feasted on her captivating form. Ah
_Allah!_ his at last.
With the prize seeming to his hand, the intoxication of the moment
stayed his grasp. His opportunity was lost. A cry near by, shrill and
prolonged, as of a beast relentlessly attacked by some more powerful
adversary, rose upon the night. It echoed within the temple. The Rani
started to her feet as Ahmad took a hasty stride forward. She seized a
torch at hand and thrust it into the incense burner. Then facing him,
she held it high above her head.
Ahmad halted suddenly and trembled.
The figure of the Rani, majestic and awe inspiring, posed before the
dark image of the God, thrilled his soul with a first sensation of
terror. She appeared to gaze full upon him, yet beheld him not. Her
stature seemed to rise visibly before his eyes. The light of the torch
flaring upward cast into strong relief the ornate decorations of the
shrine, the countenance of Siva no longer buried in thought; but, in
his non-Aryan aspect, wrathful and menacing. Her lips moved, but no
sound came forth. She appeared to be enveloped in an ecstatic dream.
Before his fixed gaze, strange beings floated in the air. Ancient Vedic
Gods, the bright and shining ones. Indra the rain bringer, Agni the God
of fire, Vayu of the wind, Rudra the ruler of the tempest; their very
names long since buried in oblivion to the multitude.
They gathered about the transfigured form of the Rani, as if to protect
her from a shadow of harm.
Was the scene but the effect of a feverish imagination? In
contradiction to the tenets of his religion, superstitious of all that
was visionary and inexplicable, Ahmad was ready to believe the whole a
dread reality, a manifestation of divine blessing resting upon the head
of the girl.
He would have cried aloud for mercy, but terror had bereft his tongue
of speech. He clasped his brow tightly. For a moment he reeled, then
fell to the pavement.
The night was lost and won.