"The gods be praised!" cried Jeyram Bhópey to Wamun Bhut, late in the
day after the attack upon the temple. "He has opened his eyes once
more. Speak, Vyas Shastree; you are safe amongst friends: the gods be
praised, and Toolja Máta, for this mercy, for we little expected to see
you live."
"Who are you?" said the Shastree faintly. "I see very dimly, and it
appears very dark.--Anunda! Tara!----"
"I, Wamun, speak to you," replied the elder of the two priests, "and
this is Jeyram Bhópey. We carried you away, and you are safe in
the house of Gunnésh Hurry, Putwari of Sindphul.--Look, friends,"
he continued, speaking to others without the door of the room,
"the Shastree is alive, and hath spoken, and asked for his wife and
daughter."
Vyas Shastree was sensible that the room darkened again, as a number of
men crowded to the door; but, feeling sick and faint from the exertion
of speaking even those few words, thought himself dying, and relapsed
again into insensibility.
Very anxiously did all those friends watch around the wounded man;
and it was long before he showed any appearance of rallying strength.
Night passed, and they hardly expected he would see the day; but still
he breathed, and as morning was breaking, a warm moisture took the
place of the chill, clammy, deathlike state in which he had remained
previously, and then those attending him hoped that he would live.
He had received a fearful wound. Bareheaded as he was in the
performance of the ceremonies so rudely interrupted, he had not thought
of protecting himself; but, as the Abyssinians advanced, had caught a
sword and shield offered him by a man in the crowd, who drew back and
fled, and had passed to the front with some others, crying the shout
of the goddess, "Jey Kalee!" "Jey Toolja!" and catching blows on the
shield rather than returning them. But when a gigantic negro before him
was pressing upon the front rank of those who defended the entrance
to the vestibule, so heavily that it seemed as if they must give way,
the old soldier spirit within the Shastree was stirred, and he struck
desperately at the man. Stung by the pain of the wound, the negro
instantly returned the blow with a furious cut, which laid open the
crown of the Shastree's head from back to front. Well for him that the
shield had greatly broken the force of it, or he had died instantly;
as it was, the Shastree fell stunned, and was trampled upon by the
advancing crowd; and lay there, unconscious, until the early morning.
Then the two friends who had watch him fall, and who, concealed in the
recess behind the shrine, had escaped slaughter, came forth and sought
for him. They found him under a pile of dead, still breathing, but
utterly insensible. It was impossible to take him to his own house, for
the gateway and bazar were filled with Abyssinians, and they feared a
renewal of slaughter with the dawn; so they lifted the Shastree from
the ground, obtained a bedstead from one of the closed archway rooms,
put him upon it, and, being joined by several of the Bhópey priests,
had broken open the postern by which Tara had been taken away, and
carried him at once, unobserved, to Sindphul.
Had Tara remained where she had been first stopped, she must have seen
her father borne past her, and would have been saved; but Fazil Khan
had sent her palankeen to the trees by the back of the rivulet, about
a gunshot's distance from the path, out of sight; and though those who
carried the Shastree were challenged by Shêre Khan's horsemen, there
was nothing suspicious in the fact of a dead body, for so it seemed,
being carried away,--and the little procession had passed unnoticed.
Heera, the barber of Sindphul, was a skilful surgeon, and on his
arrival at the house of the Putwari or accountant of the village,
the Shastree's wound was examined. The barber had seldom seen worse,
and during the time which had elapsed since he had received it, the
Shastree had become weak from loss of blood. So Heera shook his head.
Still he did his best: the wound was sewn up skilfully, and a composing
poultice of warm leaves and herbs applied to it, while the bruised
body was fomented. All night had Heera watched anxiously with the
friends about the Shastree, fearing the worst, for he was restless and
feverish; but with the morning came refreshing sleep, and the warm
moist skin for which the barber had so anxiously looked. Then he said,
"If the gods please, the Shastree will live. Let him be kept quiet, and
the room darkened."
At first the women of his family were hardly missed. All those who
could escape had fled into the fields and gardens around little
Tooljapoor, and many into the deep ravine beyond the town, or to
adjacent villages. Sindphul was crowded with them, and no one dare
return till the Mahomedan force had passed.
The Bhóslay of Sindphul had searched again and again through his
village and its hamlets for the Shastree's wives and for Tara, but in
vain. He had sent men to look for them in their own house, but they
were not there. The place showed the signs of violence we already know
of; and the men in charge of it could only hope that Jánoo Näik might
account for them.
Jánoo had been sought, therefore, and found in the liquor-seller's
shop drinking out his money; and when asked for Anunda and Tara, said,
with drunken solemnity, that he had buried them all. The idea had
possessed him that this was the safest answer for all questioners, and
he held to it the more pertinaciously as his drunkenness increased. It
was impossible not to fear that the story might be true; for all had
seen Tara in the throng of priests and priestesses, and knew also that
Anunda and Radha had been in the temple.
We left them crouching in a niche, as it were, of the rock, overgrown
by long pendant creepers and grass, near the little spring, and there
they passed the night. At early dawn Jánoo had come to them with his
son, and told them that their house had been attacked in the night, and
was no safe place for them. It was polluted, moreover, and they could
not return to it. That Tara and the Shastree had escaped to Sindphul;
that he dare not take them past the force which was guarding the town
and pass, and that they must go to Afsinga, where all was quiet. He
knew they had friends in a Brahmun's family which resided there, and
thither Anunda and Radha suffered themselves to be guided by the boy,
while Jánoo, after seeing them safe across the hill, returned to his
post.
Weeping bitterly, hardly knowing whether to go on with the lad or to
return, at all risks, to Tooljapoor, the two women had yielded to
Jánoo's well-intended but mistaken direction. The path was stony and
rough, and their naked feet, unused to such places, were sorely bruised
and cut in descending the rugged track by which, through the most
intricate and gloomy ravines of the hills, they were guided. It was
hardly four miles, perhaps, and yet, faint and wretched as they were,
the sun was high in the heavens ere they reached their destination, and
were kindly received.
They told their story; but what could be done? Who could go to
Tooljapoor? The Brahmun to whose house they had betaken themselves was
old and feeble, but a student who lived with him, and who had been
absent since daylight to obtain information, returned about noon.
He had no news of the Shastree or of Tara; but he volunteered to go
again to seek them, and did so, returning at night with accounts of
a fruitless search. Jánoo, he said, knew nothing of them, and he had
found him telling the same story, that he had buried Anunda and Radha
out of sight,--and understood--what the faithful but drunken creature
had perhaps meant to convey to all inquirers--that they were safely
hidden away.
Perhaps Jánoo would not have been absent so long had he been sober; but
the excitement and his potations together had been too much for him.
When he awoke, having lain down to sleep in the bazar, it was evening,
and they were lighting the lamps in the shops. "It is too late now,"
thought he, "to go across the hills for the Shastree's wives, and they
are safer where they are;" so he betook himself to the house. His men
were there in charge. The dead negro had been taken out and buried,
and some of the blood washed away; but the place was utterly defiled:
the sacred fire had gone out, and the whole premises must undergo
purification ere they could enter or inhabit it once more. Jánoo
shrugged his shoulders--"They cannot live here," he said; "there is the
hut in the garden at Sindphul, and I will take them there and hide them
in it."
So in the morning, before it was light, he set out from Tooljapoor, and
crossed the hills, with two of his men leading two stout ponies for
the women, and reached Afsinga before the sun had risen. He brought no
tidings of the Shastree; but it was reported generally in the town, he
said, that he and Tara were at Sindphul; and, in any case, they must go
there and live in the garden till the house could be purified, and fit
to be again inhabited. This was scant comfort to Anunda and Radha; but
Jánoo said that most families in the town were in the same predicament,
that he knew the Shastree and Tara were not among the dead, and
probability confirmed the report that they had fled in the confusion,
and were safe.
It was hardly four miles to Sindphul by the road at the foot of the
hills on the plain; and they set out, after their hospitable hosts had
insisted upon their taking an early meal. Anunda would fain have gone
by Tooljapoor, but Jánoo overruled it. There was no one there; they
would only sit down and cry at the house door; and if the Shastree
were at Sindphul, they would be delayed going to him. Nobody had been
disturbed there; and the Bhóslay and the Putwari would advise them for
the best in any case.
All these arguments overruled Anunda, and they set out with their
guide. They met no one, except a few men watching in their fields by
the wayside, who told them all was quiet. Jánoo would not even take
them near the pass of Tooljapoor, but, striking across the plain by the
Gosai's Mutt, and through the great mango grove, they reached Sindphul
unobserved.
It is not a large village, and they were well known there. Passing up
the central street, they had greetings from many friends, both men and
women. At last they saw their own old gardener sitting weeping at the
door of the Putwari's house; and Jánoo, who was leading Anunda's pony,
took them thither. They were both sick at heart as they dismounted and
entered. The Putwari's wife and his married daughter who lived in the
house were kind people, and met them in the outer court. "He is alive,"
said the dame; "fear not. Heera has dressed the wound, and he has
spoken to my husband, and asked for you. We told him we had sent for
you, and that you were coming, and, behold, the gods have brought you."
Then she led Anunda, weeping, into the inner court, and Radha followed.
The men sitting about the door of the apartment got up, and, feeling
they had no more to do, went out, all but the old Putwari.
"Vyas Shastree," he said, as the women approached the door, "be
comforted; they are safe, and have come to you. Be gentle with him,"
he added to Anunda; "he is very weak, and Heera says if he is made
anxious, or disturbed, fever may come on; therefore, be careful."
It was well meant to give them caution, but at such moments, nature
will have its course. The women had existed--since the attack on the
temple, and since they had fled with Jánoo--in a state of intense fear
and misery which cannot be described; and yet one mercy had accompanied
this dread, that they had not fully known what had happened in the
temple, and so hope had sustained them. Now, however, there was no
doubt; and in a paroxysm of mingled fear and thankfulness, they cast
themselves beside the low bed, embracing their husband's feet, and
weeping passionately. The Shastree was too weak to speak or move; he
could only lift up his hand gently, as if to bless them and welcome
them, while a faint but grateful smile spread itself over his pallid
features.
For a little time, and as they sat silently beside him ministering
to their wants--for Anunda was an unrivalled nurse, and had at once
proceeded to arrange many things about him, as he liked--strange to
say, they did not miss Tara; but Anunda's mind suddenly misgave her.
Her husband, whom her arrival had aroused, had again fallen into a
doze, and she went outside to ask for her. The whole court had been
left to them, and the door of the outer one was closed. "Tara," she
called gently, several times, but there was no reply. She might be
asleep, she thought, in one of the rooms which opened into it, and she
searched in each in succession. There was no one. Radha joined her.
"Where is Tara?" she said. "She should have been with him." True, she
should have been with her father, but she was not.
The women turned sick at heart and sat down. A nameless terror seized
them, so absorbing, that they could say nothing, but that she was not.
Anunda dare not ask. Of the two, Radha was most self-possessed. Looking
through the door, she saw the old Putwari's wife sitting outside it,
and as if watching the place. She called her in, and the dame saw at a
glance what was needed. O the misery of that mother's face! who, after
trying to articulate "Tara," which her lips formed, as though she spoke
the word, fell forward clasping the knees and feet of her old friend,
and groaning in her despair.
"The gods have given thee one precious object, sister, and taken the
other," she said. "Be thankful for what is spared thee."
Then Anunda thought Tara was dead, and so did Radha; but the woman
resumed--
"And yet, why should I say so, Anunda? We know not; she has not been
heard of. Let us wait. Hundreds of our friends fled from the temple
and from the town. Many we sheltered here all yesterday till the force
passed by; then they returned home. So Tara may be at some village
near, and we have men watching at your house and at the temple. The
Bhópeys will send intelligence if they get any."
"She is not in the garden?" asked Radha.
"No; we searched there long ago, and in all the gardens. No, she is not
here, and you must wait. She was favoured of the Mother, sister, and
will not be deserted. At least we know she was not killed."
Anunda was comforted for the moment by this, and the women went and
resumed their watch by their husband. It was a relief, perhaps, not to
speak--a relief, too, to find, in watching him and ministering to his
wants, a diversion from the other care. Sooner or later Tara might come
in. Jánoo had at once gone in search of her; the Bhópeys had despatched
horsemen to every village around, and there would surely be news of her
before nightfall.
But none came that night, nor the next day. The Shastree was not yet
aware of Tara's absence; fever had begun--the fever of the wound--and
he was unconscious of most things. Sometimes he recognized Anunda, and
sometimes called Radha, Tara. It was a blessed thing then that he knew
no more. Neither of the women relaxed for a moment in their work, and
sat there by the bed, without sleep and without rest, looking for news
of Tara; but none came. Messenger after messenger arrived, but with no
tidings of her.
Late next day Jánoo returned. He must see Anunda, he said; he had news
of importance about Tara, and, so far as he knew, she was not dead.
Anunda went to the man outside; he might not enter because of his
impure caste.
Jánoo was a man of few words and scant ceremony, and he blurted out,
"Moro Trimmul and Gunga took her away, lady. I was drinking last
night with some of our people, who are strangers, and came from a
distance, and who were dividing booty: and they said they had carried
off a beautiful Moorlee as the disturbance broke out, and put her
in a palankeen, and they were paid by Moro Trimmul, the reciter.
They treated me and some of my people to liquor, and told us of this
as a good piece of business. And I have not stolen them, lady; but
the jewels you gave me are gone; they were given to Pahar Singh's
hunchback, who came and asked for them in the Kuchéri in my name: but
Pahar Singh will give them up; or if not, I will burn a corn-stack of
his every night till he does."
All this was told rapidly and confusedly. The detail was hardly
intelligible; but one great fact came out beyond all others, and if it
were true, better Tara were dead--O, far better!
"Wait," said Anunda, "and I will come to thee again;" and she went in
and whispered it all to Radha. She saw the girl's face flush and her
bosom heave rapidly. "Gunga must have helped him," she said, "else he
had not dared it, and I will see to it myself." So they both went out
to the Ramoosee, and Radha at once declared she would go with him to
the town above, and make inquiries.
She was shrewd and active. Accompanied by Jánoo and two of the
Bhóslay's retainers, she soon found the man from whom Jánoo had heard
of Tara, and listened to his story. They had known nothing of Moro
Trimmul's purpose, he said, till that night of the recitation, or how
the girl they took was to be decoyed away, or who she was; but as the
disturbance began, she was brought out by him in his arms, and then
they took her. Yes, he knew what had become of her. Moro Trimmul had
been put in irons by the Mahomedan chief, and Tara had been carried off
to Sholapoor. He and his companions had watched the palankeen from the
rocks in the ravine where they had hidden themselves, because, if it
had been left unguarded, they would have gone to it.
It was clear enough now, therefore, that Tara was gone, not dead. That
would have been grief--bitter grief; but here was more misery than
death would have caused. Who had taken their Tara? for what fate was
she reserved? They could only think of her beauty as destined for some
Mahomedan harem--reserved for a fate worse than death.
It was piteous to see the mother and the sister-wife prostrated under
this misery and the state of their husband; and it was with difficulty
that Radha was restrained from going at once to Sholapoor after the
camp, and endeavouring to trace and reclaim Tara. If she had only done
so--if this energetic girl, used to rough ways and rapid journeys, had
been allowed to follow out her own plans, what misery might not have
been saved to all! Hard she pleaded, that she could not be denied to
her brother. She would force from him an account of Tara, and would
bring her back.
But Anunda hesitated; and the Shastree, to whom all was told, weak as
he was in body, was more than usually vacillating. The Mahomedan camp,
full of licentiousness, was no place for a Brahmun girl. "The Shastree
must be attended," Anunda said; and, in Tara's absence, he seemed to
cling the more fondly to his young wife, and to miss her ministrations
if even she was temporarily absent. Finally, the matter was left in
the hands of their friends, the Bhóslay and the old Putwari, and they
decided that Radha must not go; but a messenger should be sent, who,
assisted by friends and Brahmuns at Sholapoor, would do all that was
needful or possible.
In truth, all these friends thought that seeking for Tara at all was
injudicious. They could not believe, considering her beauty and public
vocation as a priestess, that she could have escaped observation, and
they had come to the conclusion that her preservation from dishonour
was impossible. Better she were dead; or, if alive, reunion was
henceforth impossible, for the hard rules of religious faith must
exclude her from all assistance and sympathy. These were home truths
which, sooner or later, Vyas Shastree himself would acknowledge; and
Radha's plan was overruled.
It was some days before an answer came. Communications were necessarily
slow when there were only foot messengers to carry them. The Shastree's
fever had passed away, and his wound was progressing favourably.
Mentally and bodily, he had passed a fearful crisis; but natures like
his bow to these calamities rather than break, and there was hope at
least in the messenger who had gone, to which they all clung.
Little by little they heard enough to sustain this hope. The Bhóslay's
correspondent, a banker in the town of Sholapoor, had spared no pains
for the recovery of Vyas Shastree's child; but beyond the fact that
in the family of Afzool Khan there was a new Hindu slave, of great
beauty, who was carefully secluded in the zenana, he could ascertain
nothing; and the inquiries, he wrote, must be continued in camp, for
the force had marched, and was now some stages distant, going towards
Wye.
Again, after an interval of weary expectation, and the daily endurance
of that heavy weight of uncertainty which is so often worse than the
bitterest agony of reality, there came fresh news which they could not
doubt. A poor Brahmun of Sholapoor, incited by the offer of reward held
out by the Shastree's friends, had proceeded to camp, and returned
from it direct. They never forgot that evening of his arrival. The
Shastree had, meanwhile, been removed to his own house, as soon as it
had undergone purification, and lay, weak as yet, but convalescent, in
the verandah of the inner court, living, as he said, in sight of the
objects most loved by his lost child; and it was almost an occupation
to watch dreamily Tara's bright flowers glowing in the sunlight. He
was lying there, watching them, as the evening sun declined, and the
colour of its light was growing richer as the shadows of the buildings
lengthened, and Anunda had just said he must retire to his room; but he
was pleading to be allowed to stay, when the man was announced without.
Weary and footsore, Radha and a servant poured water over his feet, and
led him in. "There was no bad news," he said; "none, Tara was well."
Then they all listened, with grateful hearts and tears of joy, to the
man's tale of having discovered her, though he could not get speech
of her or send a message to her; but in Afzool Khan's family there
was a Brahmun girl called Tara, who was an honoured guest; her people
had been killed, they said, and they were taking her to Wye, to her
relatives. He had watched several days about the Khan's tents in hope
of seeing her, but in vain; for the servants and soldiers, thinking
him a spy, had beaten him and driven him off. Day by day the distance
back to Tooljapoor grew greater, so he had returned. But there was no
doubt; the man described what he had heard distinctly, and they could
now trace Tara from the temple to where she then was. She must believe
they were all dead, and was going to their relatives at Wye: and she
was at least safe from Moro Trimmul, whom the messenger reported to be
in close confinement.
Now, for once, there was no indecision or vacillation in the Shastree's
mind. He could bear easy travelling in a litter; and Radha should have
it by-and-by, when he grew stronger. He would not delay, and they
could yet overtake the army at Wye, or soon afterwards. Very little of
the household property had been lost, after all; and Anunda's store
of money was at last to prove useful. That night, as with thankful
hearts they spoke of their lost child, they arranged plans for setting
out to reclaim her; and their friends, who crowded about them with
congratulations next day, soon completed the necessary arrangements.
The third day was a lucky one, according to the planets; and they moved
down the pass to Sindphul, followed by many friends, and the good
wishes and prayers of all who had known Tara from childhood.