Never had the Brahmun's art been so effectively exercised by him
before. In the recitation of passages from the Ramayun his voice, high
and sonorous, pervading every portion of the court, delivered the
appeals to war, the description of the demigod's forces, and portions
of the battles, with a power which was listened to with breathless
interest; while the pleadings of Seeta, the beloved wife, and her
passionate confessions of love, were accompanied by tender actions,
and tones as low and sweet as a woman's. Now rolled forth the majestic
Sanscrit verse in its measured numbers, and again it was changed to the
sweet Mahratta vernacular, that all could understand. At every interval
the applause of the whole assembly arose in hoarse murmurs and loud
clapping of hands, while many wept passionately.
No one would have moved till morning, but there was yet much to do;
and, as Moro Trimmul sat down, Vyas Shastree ordered the distribution
of wreaths of flowers to the chief guests, which announced the close of
recitation for the night. Now, therefore, the main body of the people
got up and began to separate, and in a short time only those were left
who had been specially requested to stay. Now, too, the cressets, no
longer fed with oil, went out one by one; and the deep gloom of night
was fast spreading over the courts and buildings around.
"Will you not remain, Shastree," said Moro Trimmul, "to speak with
these people?"
"No," he said; "no; there is no one to go home with the women. I
thought you would accompany them."
"It will be late," he replied, gloomily; "no, I cannot come to-night."
"Your declamation was noble, Moro Trimmul," said the Shastree; "I had
never heard the passages so spoken. Who taught you this style?"
"That is the way our master likes them said. No one taught me," he
replied; "and if you could hear the whole in one of his assemblies in
the deep forest, you would feel that you were a Mahratta."
"So I am--so I am," returned the Shastree quickly; "do you doubt it?"
"Not your faith, Vyas Shastree," replied Moro Trimmul, "only your
energy. But go; I will come early to-morrow;" and, turning away, he
entered the vestibule and joined Maloosray and others who awaited him.
Guards of men, he saw, had been placed at each of the porches, so that
no one could enter but those privileged.
A solitary lamp flickered on the altar where the image still rested,
and cast a feeble and uncertain light into that portion of the
vestibule which was immediately before it, and where Maloosray, Moro
Trimmul, and the rest now seated themselves. Otherwise the spacious
area was altogether in deep gloom, a portion only of its massive stone
pillars catching rays of light, and seeming like giants standing around
in solemn array.
We need hardly, perhaps, follow Maloosray in his narrative, which was
listened to with breathless interest by his hearers. He had never as
yet come among them, but his name and feats were well known through
many a rough ballad both of love and war. There he sat, face to face
with them; his large soft eyes flashing with excitement, and adding
force to the few but burning words he spoke. Tannajee was no novice in
the art of reading men's hearts; and among the mountains and valleys
where he lived, there were already thousands of the best youth of the
country at his command.
"Now," he said finally, "ye have heard all. We are before the Holy
Mother, who comes to our Prince in his dreams, and tells him what to
do; she who will scatter these impure cow-slaying Moslems like sheep
before the wolf. O Holy Mother!" he continued, rising and bowing with
joined hands in adoration to the image, "here are thy children; bless
them, make them bold and true; they will swear not to hang back when
'the fire is on the hills,' and when they can strike for thy honour.
Hear thou the oath, and accept it."
As he paused and looked round there was at first a low murmur of
acquiescence. Then they who had been sitting started to their feet, and
as many as could reach it rushed to the threshold of the sanctum and
touched it reverently:--those who could not, stretched out their arms
towards it over each other's heads, while wild cries of "Jey Kalee!"
"Jey Toolja Máta!" "Bome, Bome!" (We swear, we swear!) rang through the
vestibule, and were taken up by those without.
"Now, let us write the names," cried Maloosray, when the excitement had
in some degree subsided; "sit down again, friends, and if there be a
scribe among ye let him come forward."
The Putwari, or hereditary clerk of the temple, was there, with his
writing materials tied up in a bundle, and he sat down and took them
out.
"Light one of the large lamps," said Moro Trimmul to an inferior
priest, "and set it in the midst; we are not afraid of our faces before
the Mother."
As the wicks were lighted, one by one, the assembly seemed to dilate.
Light after light flickered, but grew stronger. "A true omen," cried
Maloosray, with fervour; "that is as we shall be, my friends. Light
after light will appear to ye from afar; each may waver for a while,
but when 'the fire is on the hills' ye will see all plainly. Be silent
now, and let us write."
It was, indeed, a strange and impressive scene. In the midst sat
Maloosray and Moro Trimmul, with the scribe; around, the heads of local
families, Nimbalkurs, Bhóslays, Sindias, Ghoreparays, and a host of
others, each anxious to be named in the record, and leaning forward
to catch the eye of the scribe. Beyond them--some kneeling, others
standing--was a crowd of eager faces, all bearing the same expression
of excitement--one behind another on every side--while the light fell
upon their bronzed features and glistening eyes, till those in the
background were scarcely distinguishable.
One by one--chiefs, gentry, yeomen--gave in their names and complements
of men, and page after page was filled by the record till no more
remained.
"It is done, friends," said Maloosray, rising, as the Putwari had added
up the totals, and signed his name as the scribe; "there are more than
fifteen thousand men recorded. Enough for the time, and more hereafter.
By-and-by, when 'the fire is on the hills,' ye will be welcome; till
then, separate and be quiet, else Afzool Khan will come upon you, and
we can give you no help. We will abide the storm and let it pass over
us, and so must you all."
As he spoke the last words, those who had been sitting rose, and all
in turn saluting Maloosray, the meeting broke up. The retainers of
the respective leaders gathered round their masters, and the several
parties followed each other out of the temple precincts.
"I shall depart before daylight, Moro Trimmul," said Maloosray, as they
proceeded to the postern which led to the bottom of the ravine, below
which their ponies and attendants awaited their coming; "wilt thou
follow?"
"I have more to do here, Tannajee," he replied; "but after the Now
Râtree I will come. I must watch Afzool Khan and Pahar Singh."
"Take care they do not watch thee," returned Maloosray. "Yet I fear not
for thy enemies; of them thou art careful. I fear for thee, because of
that girl who played the cymbals. She is the devil that I see sitting
at thy heart, and looking out of thine eyes. I watched thee as they
followed her. It were well for thee to come now, even now; come!"
"Impossible," returned the Brahmun, turning away. "Go!"
"As thou wilt, friend," returned Maloosray. "Words were always useless
with thee; but be wary."
Moro Trimmul watched the party as they descended the steps to the
tamarind trees below. He saw them mount and ride off, the torches
with them throwing a ruddy glare upon the crags and brushwood above
the path,--and his heart bade him follow; but as one of the temple
watchers was about to close and bar the door, he turned aside. All in
the building was dark and deserted now. The image had been taken from
the altar, and put into its silken bed for the night, and a faint lamp
occupied its place. A few attendants flitted hastily here and there
across the dark courts and still darker vestibule, anxious to get away,
and the watchers only were all that would soon remain.
"Maharaj!--Moro!" said a female voice in a low whisper, as he passed
between the pillars of the temple, "stop!"
Moro Trimmul knew the voice. "Why art thou so late here, Gunga?" he
said hastily. "Begone!"
"I feared you were angry with me," said the girl, putting her hand on
his arm. "You would not look at me as I danced, only at her. I could
not go till I had spoken with you. Ah, you are not angry with me? Lo!
I will do your bidding, though my heart break and I die. Sit here,
beloved, and speak to me; come," and she tried to draw him to her
gently.
"Thou art one of the devils that are pulling me into hell!" cried the
Brahmun fiercely; and, pushing her violently from him, he rushed wildly
across the court.
Gunga fell back heavily against the pillar nearest to her, and as
she recovered herself, the pain of the fall obliged her to sit down,
involuntarily leaning against it. She drew her hand with a gesture of
weariness across her face and brow, then looked to see if there were
blood upon it. "Hath it come to this?" she said bitterly; "hath it come
to this--and for her? Ah, me for her!"
The girl had listened unobserved, in a dark niche near the shrine,
to what had transpired at the meeting, and her first thought now was
revenge, sure and deadly. A word from her, and the Mahomedan officer
in charge of the town would seize Moro Trimmul, and imprison him
in Nuldroog. As the thought occurred to her she rose, and, hastily
traversing the court, began to mount the steps which led up the
ravine; but her heart failed, and ere she had ascended a few of them
she wavered, sat down, and wept bitterly.
"They would kill him," she said, "and he must not die. No; I was wrong,
and he will forgive me; and to-morrow I will go to him as he desired."
Hers was a callous heart: but it had softened to her lover, and refused
to do him harm.
Time or country, what matter? How often is the history of woman's
love and man's passion like this! how often does such erring love
frame excuse for bitter wrong, endured from him who,--of all the
world,--should least inflict it!