Contentment’s realms no fears invade,
No cares annoy, no sorrows shade;
There placed secure, in peace we rest,
Nor aught demand to make us blest.
While pleasure’s gay fantastic bower,
The splendid pageant of an hour,
Like yonder meteor in the skies,
Flits with a breath, no more to rise.
LAMIAT ALAJEM.
The moon being on the wane, was just ascending on the horizon,
indicating the near approach of midnight, when Kazim arrived within
view of his cottage. Through the small aperture, that served as a
back window, he perceived a light, which told him that Mangeli was
still watching for his return. For the first time, he felt a shade of
uneasiness gathering, to qualify the delight he always experienced in
meeting her after a short absence. He now held a secret in his breast,
calculated to influence, perhaps, the whole of his future destinies;
and he had pledged himself not to reveal it even to her. In giving
an account of the circumstances that detained him so unusually long
from home--circumstances into which she would inquire with all the
solicitude of affection--he was sensible that he must be guilty of a
departure from that degree of unlimited confidence, which had hitherto
subsisted between them. Treading gently by the path that led behind
the cottage, he lingered involuntarily outside the window, as if to
see how Mangeli was employed; but really hoping that he might be able
to compose his thoughts, and to assume, before he entered, a calmness
which he did not feel.
A small bright charcoal fire was burning in the hearth, on which
an earthen pan of rice was stewing. On a low table, spread with a
snow-white cloth, was a jar of spring water, a loaf of bread made from
the grain of purslane, a quarter of a large melon, and a basket of
figs, all evidently untouched, as if Mangeli could have no enjoyment
which was not shared by her husband. Her father, Gulbeg, who, although
he had already counted more than seventy winters, always rose at the
dawn to drive the goats to pasture, was sleeping on his dry grass bed,
at some distance from the fire; behind him lay his small herd of goats,
also in profound repose. Two or three kids were skipping about, in vain
soliciting the notice of Mangeli, who was looking out anxiously from
the door.
“No--nowhere can I discern the least appearance of his shadow; what
can detain him? Kazim, dear, dear Kazim!” she exclaimed, as turning
from the door she closed it almost in despair. “This rice will be quite
spoiled,” she said, as approaching the hearth she stirred the pottage
with a wooden spoon. The falcon, awoke by that well-known voice,
fluttered a moment in Kazim’s bosom, where it had hitherto lain asleep.
Suddenly Mangeli stood up in the attitude of listening. A smile of joy
rising from her tremulous lips, flashed rapidly over her countenance.
“It must be his step: hush!” she cried impatiently to the kids, that
were jumping to touch her hand.
The light of the lamp, which was suspended from the roof, fell full
upon her countenance, then in the very bloom of beauty. The clear air
of the mountains, if it had not wholly prevented her cheek from being
tinged with the brunette, so common to the Tartar tribes, gave it a
transparency, through which the blush, that now inflamed it, appeared
like the lightning behind a summer cloud. The usually mild lustre of
her dark eye changed into a bright living glow, that sparkled with
delight. Her black glossy hair, simply braided in front, was gathered
in a graceful knot on the top of her head, prepared for the usual hour
of repose. A plain cotton robe, descending a little below the knee, and
tightened by a girdle of the same material at her waist, revealed the
graces of her delicately formed figure, which would have been deemed
sylph-like, had not a slight undulation, commencing beneath her bosom,
just like the wave when first rising from the surface of the tranquil
deep, betrayed the approach, though yet distant, of a period that was
to kindle in her breast feelings of rapture it had never known before.
The hawk, which struggled incessantly for freedom, at length escaped
through the window, and lighting on the table, began to peck at the
bread. “Ah, now I know he is come, indeed!” said Mangeli, hastening to
the door, where she met and folded her husband in her arms. She pressed
him to her bosom, as if she would never part with him again; until a
shower of tears--tears of joy, came to her relief. “What has happened?”
she at length asked:--“where, in the name of Allah, have you been?” He
then related to her, circumstantially, the dangers he had encountered
in pursuit of the falcon, by this time sleeping once more on its own
perch. Mangeli gazed upon her husband with alarm, while he told her of
the caverns into which he had descended.
“But you have not yet mentioned how you escaped.”
“Did I not say there was a boat on the lake?”
“A boat?--thanks to Allah, who must have sent it for your safety.
I never heard of the places you speak of, though I know that the
mountains about us are full of dangerous precipices. You must promise
me, dearest Kazim, never to go there any more;” and accepting the
promise as if it had been already given, she kissed him again and
again, and placed the pan of rice on the table.
But Kazim, although he affected to be very busy in dispatching his
supper, had no appetite.
“I am afraid that the rice is quite spoiled, it has been so long on the
fire: put it by, love, and let me give you some of this melon, which,
you know, my father says is one of the best he ever tasted.” To Kazim,
who had, in fact, already supped well, the melon was as little tempting
as the rice, and he endeavoured to excuse himself on the score of
fatigue, and being much heated with his journey.
Mangeli looked anxiously at his burning forehead, where the wine, of
which he had so recently partaken, kindled an unwonted fire.
“You are not well, Kazim. Oh! if any thing had happened--if any thing
should happen to you--what is to become of Mangeli?”
“Fear not! He who sees the sparrow fall, and the rose-bud blow, will
take care of you, whatever may be my fate. Let us pray to him that he
may stretch over us the shield of his merciful protection!”
The young pair having hastily finished their humble meal, knelt down
side by side, and prostrating themselves on the floor, uttered a
short but fervent supplication to Allah, full of gratitude for their
escape from the perils of the day, and entreating his assistance,
that by leading a just and innocent life, they might still, in some
degree, merit his continued favour. They then retired to an inner
chamber, where, upon a bed of dry leaves, fragrant of herbs, they gave
themselves up to sleep, from which they waked not until the sun had
already dispersed the mists from the valley and the mountain.
“I wish you very much, Kazim,” said Mangeli, after their morning repast
was over, “to look at those yellow rose trees in front of our cottage.
The flower has been by no means so large or so beautiful this year as
usual. Perhaps it would be well to transplant them to a spot where they
may have freer air.”
Kazim went out as she desired; but as he looked at the trees, on which
a solitary fading rose still remained, he felt a prophetic inspiration
that he should never see them bloom again. His mind during the night
had been harassed by a multitude of dreams, in which horses flying
over fields of battle, palaces, prisons, robbers, and a thousand
different objects were mixed together in painful confusion. Mangeli,
after putting her little household into order, joined him in the
garden, and suggested some other alterations, which might improve its
appearance. The lilac trees were growing well; they would be beautiful
in spring, when their flowers would hang in tassels again, preceding
all the other delights of the season. The Indian pinks, too, were
prosperous; the sun-flower looked a blaze of gold; the hollyhock reared
its stem aloft, laden with buds, of which there were still many to open
their treasures to the bee; the white jasmine wanted training; the
vine, on which the grapes were just beginning to grow purple, would
also require to be pruned. Thus she went on through the space in front
of her cottage, picking up here and there the newly fallen leaves, and
reminding Kazim of a variety of improvements he had promised to make
in their little residence before the approach of winter. But Kazim’s
reflections were engrossed with subjects, of which Mangeli could
have then formed no notion. She saw plainly enough that he attended
negligently to what she said; but she was not unaccustomed to the fits
of abstraction which occasionally came upon him, and she had the good
sense to wait in patience until they passed over, finding for herself,
in the meantime, some employment not likely to break in upon his mood.
Kazim, however, was very far from being indifferent to the appearance
of the garden, which he had cultivated with his own hand; and perhaps
he never looked upon the fruits or flowers, whose progress he had
watched from their earliest stages, with a deeper interest than at
this moment. Offers were made to him, which, if accepted, would of
necessity change the whole plan of his life. Was he to accept them? Was
he to quit for ever his own cottage, the shade of his own fig-tree,
the little world of happiness and peace he found with Mangeli among
his flowers, and the volumes of history, science, poetry, and popular
fiction, he had copied while at Samarcand?
Back upon his memory came crowding the long winter nights, during which
he cheered his beloved wife and her affectionate parent, by reading to
them tales of Arabian writers, in which marvels of the most enchanting
description were made to appear as matters of ordinary life. The
tempest roared through the gorges of the mountain, the rain rushed from
the skies, and swept against the walls of their cottage with the fury
of a torrent; but the door was well secured, the window closed tightly
by a board, that admitted not a breath of air; the fire burned bright
in the hearth; Mangeli’s eyes drank fresh light from the animated
looks of Kazim; Gulbeg reclined at his ease upon the woolly side of a
sheep-skin; the goats and their young were carefully housed; and while
the wonders of the magic lamp, or the powers of the magnetic mountain,
or the beauties of the city of Bagdad, kept the souls of the reader and
his small audience enthralled, they took little note of time, the rain,
or the storm.
With the seasons changes came, and every change was delightful. The
snow-drop and the crocus told that the winter was passed, and the
primrose confirmed their tale. With what pleasure did Kazim collect for
Mangeli the earliest violets and daisies! How he loved to gather for
her hair the lillies of the valley, with which she decorated herself
on the holidays! There was no flower, were it ever so humble, which he
had been accustomed to see near his cottage, or in the declivities
or valleys in its neighbourhood, that had not now for him a peculiar
interest. They seemed to reproach the seductive ambition so suddenly
kindled in his breast, and to remind him of the folly of exchanging the
peace of mind he now, or at least very lately, enjoyed, for a state of
splendour which, however brilliant on the outside, would be sure to
have misery at its core.
While these reflections pursued each other through his mind, he found
himself walking with unusual rapidity along the banks of the Ilamish.
He felt glad that he was alone, as he wished to allow free scope to the
visions to which the occurrences of the previous day had given birth.
Who was Suleiman? Who was Seirami? That they were both of a superior
order of men he entertained no doubt. The sentences he had heard of
their conversation were marked by a polished, yet natural eloquence
of expression, which had not met his ear since he quitted Samarcand.
This was of itself a fascination to a youth, brought up as he was in
the company of the most sage and accomplished men of the East. But
was he fit to be a soldier? That he could follow through any dangers
a chieftain to whom he had pledged his faith, he felt confident; but
wholly unskilled as he was in the use of the spear, the sabre, or the
bow, he feared that in a hot engagement, his arm would be found of very
little use. And then, if he should fall thus early in his youth, when
he had seen little more than his twentieth summer, whither would have
sped all the daydreams of celebrity in which his fancy had so often
indulged? But above all, what would be the fate of Mangeli and their
child? Her father, already bending under infirmity, could not live much
longer; and who would then remain to tend the goats, to cultivate their
rice-field; to take care of their garden, which supplied so great a
part of their subsistence; to gather the wild strawberries and other
fruits, which grew on the distant hills?
Kazim, stretching himself at full-length on the bank of the clear
and rapid river, fixed his eyes upon the water, and envied the peace
apparently enjoyed by its numerous tenants, now leaping to the surface
of the stream, and leaving behind them a dimple, that circled wider
and wider until it broke against the reeds on either side--now hiding
in the shade of a waterlily,--now shining in the light like scales of
silver. Sometimes a solitary bee passed by, murmuring, and searching
the wild flowers that grew around him. He thought of the summer-days,
when the soft music of the insect would have soothed him to sleep; but
now it was a song of rural industry and contentment, which he was,
perhaps, to hear no more. The bee had its secret home hard by, to
which it would soon return, laden with the treasures it had collected,
and thus it would pursue its pleasing occupations while the season
permitted. He had also his home, remote from the world, where, for
three years, he had found happiness, unalloyed by care; what would he
gain by exchanging it for the turmoil in which he was now invited to
partake?
From these meditations Kazim was at length disturbed by the shrill call
of Mangeli, which, uttered at her cottage-door, floated through the
air, reaching the hill-sides where her father was stationed with the
goats. It was the signal that their mid-day meal was nearly prepared,
and that their immediate return was expected. Kazim rose abruptly,
feeling as if he had been engaged in thoughts that would afford
no pleasure to Mangeli; but as he bent his steps homeward, he half
resolved on giving up all the ambitious prospects disclosed to his
view, rather than abandon the solitude in which he enjoyed so much real
felicity.
“The life of man is at best but a moment,” he said to himself, “as
compared with the ages that have passed, and are to come. What is
distinction, fame, splendour, station? If I be happy here, it is
sufficient. I will stay with my vines and rose-trees, and will
immediately set about the alterations of which Mangeli has reminded
me.”
As Gulbeg sat down on the floor, to partake of the humble meal which
Mangeli had provided, he said that something of importance must be
going on in Arjun, for he had seen several couriers riding over the
distant ridges of the mountains, as if their horses had wings, and
they had no fear of the precipices over which they galloped with the
speed of arrows. He had also heard from the hollows of the earth those
extraordinary sounds of drum and trumpet, which seem to accompany the
marching of innumerable troops, and always precede the approach of a
battle.
Kazim looked conscious, while Mangeli listened to the intelligence
with breathless attention; but he made no remark, fearful of trusting
himself on a subject which he now hoped he might soon altogether
forget. While they were still at their meal, the quick ear of Mangeli
caught the sound of a Mogul horn, which she said must have been borne
from some distance along the current of the Ilamish. Gulbeg rose upon
his feet, and going out, placed his ear close to the ground, when he
confirmed what his daughter said; and added, that it was a party of
cavalry, as he heard the paces of their horses distinctly, and that
they would be immediately in sight.
He had scarcely said the word, when a small blackness, like a patch of
thunder-cloud, was seen on the summit of one of the mountains through
which the Ilamish ran. By degrees the cloud became larger and less
dense, and then approaching nearer and nearer, it seemed to open out,
breaking into small masses, which moved together with great rapidity.
Presently horse-tail standards became distinctly visible, and then
horses and their riders galloping in close array, their spears in rest,
and their naked sabres glistening in the sun.
On they came at full speed, the trumpet now and then flinging its wild
blast through the mountains and forest around, which was echoed along
the river. The cottage of Gulbeg was evidently the object towards which
they directed their progress, and in a few moments a thousand warriors
were in front of it, their saddles and stirrups all covered with foam,
and their arms clattering as they came to a halt. Gulbeg and Kazim went
forth to offer them such hospitality as their hut afforded. Mangeli
instinctively fled to her chamber.
The leader of the troop, a Mogul chieftain, throwing off his cloak,
alighted, and saluting Gulbeg and Kazim, proceeded with them into the
cottage. He was dressed in a long frock of China satin, ornamented with
flowered needle-work, loose trowsers of the same material over which
his boots were drawn, a cuirass of steel, near which hung a whetstone
and a purse-pocket, the latter being ornamented with trinkets that
dangled from it, not unlike a lady’s necklace. His cap was embroidered
with flowers; his bow was slung upon his back, and his quiver of green
shagreen, well stored with arrows, sounded, as he moved along in all
the pride of a commander.
“I wish to know,” said he, as stooping down he entered through the low
door of the cottage, “whether you can give us any information of Acbar,
who calls himself the emperor of Hindostan, and whose steps we have
traced with certainty to this neighbourhood.”
Gulbeg answered at once that he had not received the slightest
intimation that such a person ever visited those parts. He was
constantly out in the mountains, and in the habit of meeting several
goat-herds and peasants passing to and from different quarters of the
country, but he had heard none of them pronounce the name of Acbar; nor
had he seen any troops for some years, until the appearance of those
who were now before the cottage. Kazim added, that he had, indeed,
heard of Acbar, while he was a student at Samarcand; but that since
then he had no tidings whatever of the exploits of that great warrior.
The stranger, he thought, could not be Mirtas.
“Justly said--a great warrior he is indeed--a commander of infinite
resources and bravery; but whose ambition knows no bounds. He tramples
upon our relatives and friends, as if they were no better than the dirt
beneath his feet. He takes from them their provinces and their wealth,
which he adds to his own, and not contented with the conquests he has
made in Cashmere and Lahore, and other parts of Hindostan, he now seeks
to extend his empire beyond the Himalas, and to make us all tributaries
to his lawless power. But, I swear, it shall not be! No; sooner than
our standards should be planted around him, I would tear them asunder,
and scatter them on the winds, and become, myself and all my brave
followers, the food of the vulture.”
The countenance of the young chieftain flashed with fire; while, with
an angry gesticulation, he gave expression to the feelings of fierce
hostility which he entertained towards Acbar.
“Aye,” continued the stranger, “the sultan’s military renown has
already reached every quarter of Asia, and filled the rulers of the
provinces on this side of the Himalas with just alarm. His plan of
tactics is all his own. He sometimes enters the camp of his enemy at
night, with a handful of men, at a moment when he is supposed to be at
a considerable distance. Surprise effects in an hour, what he might
not have been able to accomplish for months with a regular army at his
command. His personal bravery is indeed equal to any enterprize which a
fearless mind can conceive, and his followers make up by their amazing
activity and practised discipline for their want of numbers. But Allah
be with you! then we must go on,” said the khan, quitting the hut and
returning to his troops, accompanied by Kazim; who, forgetting his
half-formed resolutions in the midst of the martial pomp by which the
stranger was surrounded, asked him whether he was acquainted with the
noble warrior Mirtas.
“I am Mirtas,” replied the Khan.
“Doubtless, then, you must know Suleiman.”
“Suleiman is my cousin. Oh! that he were now with me, accompanied by a
few of his mountaineers! I should then have no fears of Acbar.”
“Suleiman expects your highness, and has charged me to conduct you to
his camp.”
“Welcome intelligence! Is it far hence?”
“About five or six hours’ journey in that direction,” answered Kazim,
pointing to the east.
A beautiful Arabian steed was immediately placed at Kazim’s disposal,
who, after taking a hasty leave of Gulbeg and Mangeli, and promising
that he would speedily return, rode into the circle, where the Khan
was communicating to his followers the tidings he had received.
The standards being then placed beside the chieftain, all the men
dismounted; and having taken from their saddles leathern bottles of
humiz, sprinkled some first towards the standards, and then drank off a
portion. The trumpets and drums struck up together, the humiz was again
and again sprinkled as before, after which the soldiers thrice rent the
air with the war-shout. They then leaped into their saddles, drawing
their sabres, which they brandished over their heads, and putting their
horses to full speed, pursued their way towards the mountains.