Fazil and Pahar Singh went out together into the street. The latter led
the way through the gate and along the main streets of the town to its
centre, where a busy, motley scene now presented itself. The Amil, or
local civil officer, was seated in his Kuchéri, or hall of audience,
surrounded by a crowd of people to whom he was giving orders for flour,
grain, butter, sheep, forage, and the other countless necessities of
the force which had so suddenly come upon him. They did not pause
there, but turned down the main street leading to the temple, the
gilded spires and other portions of which appeared at the end of it,
the craggy sides of the glen, and, beyond all, the precipices of the
Ram Durra, which were veiled in the blue morning vapour.
Now there was no doubt of what had happened. The pavement of the bazar,
worn smooth by the naked feet of thousands of pilgrims and devotees in
centuries past, was stained with blood which, as they advanced, was
still wet and slippery in many places. Already had the town scavengers
begun to wash it away, and were pouring vessels of water on the flags
and sweeping them with brooms. A few shops only were open for the sale
of flour, butter, and groceries, the owners of which sat within, with
scared faces, evidently in the direst terror.
"They lay thick here," said Pahar Singh--the first words he had spoken,
"but have been removed, and they are burying them yonder, outside, all
together--infidels, as your father would say, and true believers. But
stay, Meah Sahib, there is one of my poor fellows lying here in a shop.
I thought him dead, but he is alive as yet; let us look at him. A poor
fellow," he said, repressing a sob; "a poor hunchback, but he was like
a dog to me--not a man. Perhaps he may know me now, or he may be dead;
let us see."
Pahar Singh turned to the right into a small courtyard, in an open
verandah of which several rough-looking men were sitting beside a body
laid on the ground, and partly covered with a bloody sheet. They rose
as the chief advanced, and saluted him.
"How is he now, Nursinga?" asked Pahar Singh; "will he live? Rama,"
he continued, bending over the man, whose eyes were evidently glazing
fast, "Rama, dost thou know me--the master?"
The man looked vacantly around, hearing the words, smiled, and felt
about with his hands, as if to clutch what it was denied him to see.
Suddenly, and as the chief put his own hand into that which sought it,
the dying eyes brightened, and met those of his master in a scared,
wild gaze at first, but one which softened tenderly into a look of rapt
affection. He tried to speak, but it was hopeless; to raise himself by
drawing his master's hand to him, and clasping that he had in both his
own--but in vain. The lips moved, and Pahar Singh bent his head down to
listen. The bystanders could hear nothing; but Pahar Singh said in his
ear loudly, "Yes, it shall all be done--all; fear not."
It was enough. Perhaps the man might have lingered a while if he had
not been excited; but the old chief's words had suddenly rallied the
flickering lamp of life. It had sparkled for a moment, and fell back,
dull and smouldering, into the socket; the eyes again glazed, and the
clasped hands relaxed their grasp, tried once more to recover it,
failed, and fell powerless beside him, and the rugged bronzed features
were fast growing into the strange majesty of Death.
"It is no use staying," said the chief, drawing away his hand to brush
the tears from his eyes, "he will not know me again. Come, Meah; I,
too, am growing a fool. See to him, all of you. If his brother come,
well and good; if not, bury him decently, and not with the rest."
"Have you any retainer who is loved and trusted as you would trust a
faithful hound?" asked Pahar Singh, suddenly turning round as they
were walking out of the court. "Ah! I forget, dogs are impure to you
Mussulmans," he continued; "forgive me."
"Nay, no forgiveness is needed," replied Fazil. "Yes, I have one as
true and faithful to me as that poor fellow was to you."
"What is he?" asked the chief abruptly--"Mussulman or Hindu?"
"Hindu," replied Fazil; "a Mahratta."
"A Mahratta," cried the chief; "one of the enemies of your race? I
marvel, and yet am glad. Yes, be true to him and he will never deceive
you; he will give his life for you. Only be true, as I have been to
mine. Two in a month," he muttered to himself; "one there, one here;
my best and truest. What matter, Meah?" he continued aloud; "sooner or
later the message reaches us all. Mine might have come last night, yet
I am here."
Was this the old Jogi of the temple of Beejapoor? the sordid lover
of gold, the pitiless robber and murderer? A strange contradiction
in character as in acts; and now, sobbing as he walked out into the
street, Fazil could see that tears were wet on his cheek, and glistened
on the grizzled moustache where they had fallen.
"He was shot here," said the chief, pausing at the gate, "while
breaking it in with his axe, and the shot came from that loophole. When
I got in, the man who fired it died with a blow where he sat, so thou
wert avenged, my poor hound. But what use is it, Meah, now my slave is
gone? Come; you have already seen enough of this misery, and what is
below there is worse. Will you go on?"
"Yes, I will go," returned Fazil. "I would know if one Vyas Shastree
was slain, with others."
"Vyas Shastree, Meah!" cried the chief. "Why, he was in the temple.
I saw him. Ah, the poor Shastree, I hope not, for I knew him well--a
learned Brahmun, sir; indeed come, search for him is at least an
object."
It was a terrible sight as they advanced. Why dwell on it? Many bodies
had been removed, and all the wounded; but many still remained, men
and women together, as yet unclaimed, and there was blood everywhere,
glistening and drying in the sun. Near the temple porch were several
bodies in a heap. Pahar Singh looked at them all narrowly, but the
Shastree was not among them. One of the temple attendants was sitting
in the vestibule, weeping in stupid grief; the chief shook him roughly,
roused him, and he got up.
"Didst thou see Vyas Shastree?" he asked; "was he hurt last night?"
"He was killed," said the man, "there," and he pointed to the entrance.
"He was fighting, and a negro killed him. Ere day broke, they took him
up and carried him away."
"Dead?" asked Fazil.
"Dead," said the man,--"quite dead; I helped to put him upon the litter
they brought for him, and they have burned him by this time."
"And his wife?" asked the chief, "Anunda Bye?"
"Seek her at her house," said the man, turning away. "She was not here,
nor Radha Bye either. His daughter Tara was here, but no one knows what
became of her."
It was enough. The Shastree was dead. Another man who advanced from
behind the shrine said the same, and Fazil need ask no more. He looked
around--the place was slippery with blood, and dark, except for a dim
lamp in the shrine. He looked in,--the altar was bloody, and the image,
its rich clothes torn and dabbled in blood, lay beneath, on its back,
as it had fallen. The dim ray of the lamp fell upon it, upon a few gold
ornaments still about its neck and arms, and upon the weird ruby eyes,
that seemed to him to glow with a fiendish expression of malice.
"Evil spirit," he said, turning away, "if thou art in being among the
devils, thou art at least helpless to rise, or to avenge thyself--lie
there for ever. Why does the blessed Alla suffer thy abomination?"
"Come away," cried Pahar Singh to the young man. "Faugh! the place is
evil; come--go not near the Mother, she may hurt thee."
"Do you believe in her?" asked Fazil.
"I fear her," was the reply; "she is very greedy and very terrible: she
takes life for life, and more besides. Come--we will see after these
women: I know the Shastree's house."
Life for life, and more besides! Those words came back with a strange
vividness upon Fazil's memory in after times. Then, they but excited a
shudder of regret at the superstition which suggested them.
"O that I had come up here, instead of going below!" said Fazil to
his companion. "Had I but known the place, I would have done so. O my
father, why was this done?"
"It could not have been stayed, Meah. As they say in Persian,
'Shooduni-Shooduni'--what is to be, is to be," returned Pahar Singh;
"nay, for that matter, why did I bring your father and his men at all?
Some of those pig-headed servants of Nimbalkur's began it by shutting
the gate, and killing my poor Rama; and after the Peer Sahib's cry of
'Deen, Deen!' you might as well have tried to stop the Beema in flood
as the men. All I could do was to save Nimbalkur and others, while the
Peer was pulling down the Mother from her altar, and spitting on her.
Aha! holy priest! we shall see who is strongest, the Mother or thee.
Bless God for it, Meah, that thy father had nothing to do with that;
and when the Peer proposed to send for cows to slay there, he would not
have it done."
Fazil sighed. It was not that he feared the goddess Mother, though of
her power then, as now, there was an undefined dread among Mahomedans,
and ceremonies of propitiation, and deprecation of evil, were often
performed privately even among the most strict in religious matters;
but he dreaded the effect on the Mahratta people at large. No one could
know of the true reason of Afzool Khan's advance on the town; the
plunder and desecration of the temple would seem to all to have been
the actual purpose; and the deed would produce a shudder of execration,
he well knew, from one end of Maharástra to the other.
Thus conversing, they reached the upper gate, where one of the men in
attendance on the dying retainer met them. The tears on his face needed
no speech to explain them. "He is dead," said the man; "he never spoke
afterwards."
"My poor fellow!" exclaimed Pahar Singh. "Ah! Meah, the best swordsman,
the best rider--hunchback as he was--the best at all his weapons of all
that I have; and the truest heart too, rough and faithful. Well, no
matter now. Is Lukshmun there?" he continued.
"No, master, he is not. We have sent for him."
"Do not delay. Bury Rama at once. I do but accompany the young Khan;
and then the horn will sound. Be quick."
They passed on, turning to the left, into a street which ascended to a
higher level in the town. As they proceeded, evidences of plunder and
violence were but too visible. Here a patch of blood on the pavement
still wet--there portions of cloths,--brass and copper vessels dropped
in flight,--doors broken in with axes, and the interior courts of such
houses as were entered in dire confusion--women and men alike, weeping
and wailing bitterly.
"This is the Shastree's house, Meah," said Pahar Singh; "enter and see."
There was no one in it. They went to the end of the courts, even to
that in which was the temple and Tara's garden, all so trim and neat.
The body of an Abyssinian was lying among the flowers, and another of a
Mahratta near him. The sacred fire was still smouldering on the altar,
and Pahar Singh reverently lifted some logs of wood, and put them on
it. Here and there about the rooms were splashes of blood and marks of
violence, but none of the room doors were open.
"Their property is safe, Meah," said the chief; "but who are alive, and
who dead? There is no one here. Let us ask the neighbours."
They inquired of several. One man said that Jánoo Näik and the town
Ramoosees had defended the house and beaten off plunderers; but they
knew nothing of the women.
"Come," said Pahar Singh to Fazil, "we lose time here. Let us seek
Jánoo Näik. I know him. He will be at the Kuchéri, and will know;" and
they went.
Jánoo was found, but he had no idea of telling Pahar Singh, the robber
chief, and a good-looking Mussulman, where he had hidden Anunda and
Radha, who, now safely delivered from their night-watch on the ledge of
the rock, had been guided by his son at early daylight over the hill to
the village of Afsinga, where they were in safety. Jánoo had returned
to his post; and if Fazil and Pahar Singh had opened the kitchen door
they would have found five of his men in it, who had watched them
narrowly, and were on guard over the house.
To their united inquiries Jánoo had but one answer,--the Abyssinians
had attacked the house, carried off the women, and murdered them.
"Alas, alas!" he said, pretending to weep bitterly, "they had not even
Brahmuns' rites. They were flung into the trench without, and buried
with the rest. Alas, alas! and so beautiful as they were. Do ye doubt?
Look, here are some ornaments of theirs which I am going to give to the
Sirkar," and he showed a small bundle tied up in a bloody cloth, the
contents of which chinked as he handled it.
"We can do nothing more, Meah," said Pahar Singh.
"My lord, I ate their salt--why should I tell a lie?" he returned, with
a real expression of sorrow. "Go and see if they be in their house."
"They are after no good," thought Jánoo; "and if I could only find
Tara Bye, the Shastree would give me a gold kurra. At any rate, I have
prevented them asking more questions, I think."
"Poor girl," thought Fazil, "she is desolate indeed--father, mother,
all dead. Had they any relatives here?" he asked of the Ramoosee.
"None, my lord. The Shastree's elder wife came from Wye in the Concan,
they say; and the last one, Moro Trimmul's sister, also from thence.
Here there is no one; and I would not tell them if there were," he
added to himself. "What do they want with them?"
"We had better go, Meah Sahib," said Pahar Singh. "I will but tell
Boorhan-oo-deen the Näik to seal up the house of the Shastree, and
guard it from plunder, and join thee at thy father's. Do not wait for
me."
Fazil went on sadly. The state of the girl whom he had already rescued
from violence, affected him deeply. So beautiful, so strangely
beautiful to him, unaccustomed to see the higher classes of Hindu
women. "O that Zyna was here," he thought. "She might be a sister
to her, and soothe away that grief. Who can break to her what has
happened?"
As Pahar Singh had predicted, Fazil found his father and the Peer in
the act of dismissing the Mahratta sirdars, apparently with respect;
for there was a silver bottle of uttar standing upon a salver, and a
tray with betel leaves on it, on the floor, in the centre of the room.
Ibrahim Khan and several other officers were sitting around, and the
priest had apparently relaxed from his devotional position. A servant
took up the salver and tray as Fazil entered, and the chiefs prepared
to rise at the signal, as did also the Khan.
"Have we leave to depart, Khan Sahib?" said an elderly man, with long
white moustaches.
"Depart in peace," replied Afzool Khan. "I think you all understand
now, that it happened inadvertently. 'Shooduni-Shooduni,' you
know--what was to be, was to be; and what is done, is done. His Majesty
shall hear favourably of your visit to me. Inshalla! he will be
satisfied; and all intended fines and confiscations will be averted.
Only for that Brahmun intriguer ye had been safe. Did the royal troops
ever interfere with ye before? Mashalla, no! Ul-humd-ul-illa. No!
Astagh-fur-oolla! No! and never will again."
"And the bounty for restoration of the temple, Khan Sahib?" said the
old chief inquiringly.
"Ahem! Good. I will see about it; yes, I have no doubt the King will
be merciful. Go in peace," said the Khan decidedly; and, saluting them
again, they passed out.
"You see they are satisfied, son," said the Khan quickly; "we have told
them it could not have been helped, and they agree. Well, what didst
thou see? Did Pahar Singh tell thee how they fired first?"
"He did, father! he told me all, and I have seen all. I pray the
merciful Alla never to show me such a sight again. O father, how many
houses are desolate and in misery which were happy homes last night
before we came!"
"Ameen! my son," returned the Khan, sighing: "yes, we all say so now.
Do we not, Huzrut? But they fired first, and what was to be was to be!"
"And the idol was overthrown; that image of the devil's mother," cried
the priest grimly. "Didst thou see that, Meah?"
"I did," said Fazil, "and rejoiced, though those devilish red eyes
haunt me still."
"I spat on them, Meah, while they glared at me from the ground," said
the Peer savagely; "and I, too, see them still, flashing though the
priest's blood which gushed out upon them. But what fear, Meah, what
fear? What sayeth the holy book, chapter twenty-second? 'Verily the
idols which ye provoke, beside God, can never create even a single
fly;' no, nor hurt one either, my son. Wherefore there is no fear--no
fear; be comforted."
Fazil thought the priest shuddered as he shrugged his shoulders, and,
shutting his eyes, settled himself once more on his heels, and began
telling his beads with great devoutness. So a general silence fell
among them.