THE HEROISM OF A CHILD.
It was morning. All were assembled once more in the great hall, eager
for a termination of their work.
Fresh troops of men to be enrolled and branded arrived every moment.
Then came Nai Dhamaphat; the Kromathan, or overseer; and lastly the
Grand Duke, followed by an army of slaves, attendants, scribes, and
cup and punka bearers. As he looked about him he saw, with a gleam of
satisfaction, the veiled figure seated at her post, guarded by Amazons.
After a few minutes of conversation with the scribe who sat at his
side, he ordered the prisoner Rama Singalee to be brought in.
No one remembered when the old, white-headed stranger was ushered in.
But every one heard the wild cry of joy that seemed to die away on the
lips of the strange girl, as, throwing off her saree, she sprang across
the hall, and clasped the old man about the neck. After the first
paroxysm of joy was over, she realized that her father was a prisoner;
she looked still hopefully into his face, but, seeing no light there,
laid her head upon the fetters that bound his feet, as if the iron had
entered into her very soul.
Dhamaphat started, as if struck, and gazed sadly at the girl and her
father.
Never scene so touching had been presented in that hall before. It
arrested every eye, and filled every heart with sympathy; and it was
no wonder,--the girl was a creature such as that country had never
before produced. Her beauty was of the purest Indo-European type, rich
brown complexion, delicate almond-shaped eyes, finely arched eyebrows,
nose almost Greek in the purity of its outlines. Her feet, which had
never worn either sandals or shoes, were large and perfect in shape;
her arms, slender as those of a very young girl, were set off to great
advantage by the metallic and glass bangles she wore; her rich black
hair hung in long braids over a coarse blue bodice, which revealed a
form of faultless proportions; on her breast, suspended by a yellow
cord, was a flat silver ring, on which some mystic characters were
inscribed.
The wondrous beauty of the prostrate girl filled the father and the son
first with pleasure, then with fascination, afterwards with rapture;
drawn on by irresistible steps, they both arrived, unknown to the
other, at that stage of passion which blinds the sensibilities to
everything else.
But the desire of one was to possess, the other to rescue.
The old soldier did not attempt to raise his daughter, but, taking off
his turban, buried his face in it.
The duke was transported, stupefied; he paused, hesitated, then,
suddenly, without knowing what moved him, he said, in a gentle, tender
voice: "Why, girl? Raise up your head. See! your father is now going to
be set free."
Smâyâtee lifted up her head, and looked at the speaker with an
expression of childlike gladness and trust that brought to the heart
of the wretch before her the long-lost sense of shame, and he could
not for the moment give utterance to the iniquity he was about to
perpetrate against her; he beckoned to an attendant, however, a sort
of treasurer, with a heavy box, who approached, crawling, and at his
instructions counted upon the floor forty pieces of gold,--sixteen
times the value of an ordinary slave-woman.
Rama still covered his face with his turban, so that none could have
told what was passing within him. His daughter laid her hand upon his
arm, saying: "O, my father, the good duke gives us all this gold and
promises us freedom! take it, and thank him, that he may permit us to
return home."
The unhappy Rajpoot turned a look full of mournful tenderness upon
his child. At the same moment the scribe, who had been industriously
writing, laid a paper before him, and said, in rather an authoritative
manner: "Tham Khai khat thedeo" (make the sale good, i.e., sign the
paper).
Even now it did not occur to the girl what the paper and the forty
pieces of gold meant.
To her mind they brought visions of freedom, as her heart yearned for
the hills and groves of her native land. She once more whispered to her
father to "take the money, and thank the duke, that he may let us go
back home."
But the old man looked at her in silence, seemingly unable to utter
a single word; his breathing came quick and hard, and all at once he
gasped out: "The gods forbid me to sell my daughter to thee, my lord.
Indra, Agni, and the Maruts, at whose roaring every dweller upon earth
trembles, forbid me. O, pardon thy servant, my lord, and let us depart
hence in peace."
The duke was doubly enraged, because of his last night's promise and
the forty pieces of gold with which he had hoped to bribe him into an
easy parting with his child. He turned to the bewildered Smâyâtee, and
said: "Come hither, girl." But as she only looked at him, and made no
attempt to go nearer, he added: "One thing is certain; this old fool,
thy father, is still drunk, and knows not his mind; he sold you to me
last night, and now he refuses, saying the gods forbid it."
[Illustration: A YOUNG SIAMESE NOBLEMAN.]
Smâyâtee turned from the duke to her father, her look changing from
incredulity to surprise, from surprise to anguish, while the duke
continued: "Now it is you who must decide for him; shall I hand him
over to the royal judges to be tried and executed for the crime he is
accused of, or will you consent to be my slave for life? I will make
you rich and happy, and I will give him this gold, and he shall return
in safety to his home."
He uttered these sentences in a loud, harsh voice, very different from
that in which he had spoken to her a few minutes before.
When he had finished, the crowd cheered the speech.
The girl looked at them, and, not knowing why, began to cry.
This exasperated the duke.
He blew a small silver whistle; instantly a hand of armed men entered
the hall, and he gave orders that the prisoner should be conveyed to
the supreme court to be tried for attacking the chief officer of the
royal guard, with intent to murder him, while he was on duty.
At this instant the girl seemed to take her resolution; she crawled
up to the savage duke's feet, laid her head down upon them and kissed
them, saying: "I consent to be thy slave, my lord. O, give not my
father up to the king's officers."
The duke countermanded his orders.
"Yes," said she, her face suddenly transfigured, beaming with the
twofold radiance of beauty and nobility of soul, "strike off his
chains, and let him go free, dear, good lord."
There were no longer any arms being pricked with lancet-shaped needles.
There were no longer any scribes enrolling the people's names. There
were only fixed eyes, listening ears, and beatings of sympathetic
hearts. The crowd was dimly conscious of the sublimity of the act;
they were thrilled, awed, as much by her beauty as by the simplicity of
her heroic self-sacrifice.
But Dhamaphat, who felt more deeply than the rest, noted how suddenly
she had overcome her horror, how readily she had sacrificed herself for
her father, and thought he saw in her face the effulgence of a heavenly
light.
The order was given, and the Rajpoot was free. One final embrace, one
look of triumph and despair from the girl, and she was led away by some
female attendants.
Rama disappeared in the crowd, regardless of the gold, and the paper
which his daughter had signed.
The work of branding and enrolling went on again, and the red light of
the noonday sun shone upon the walls of the palace as if no young heart
had been broken within its halls that day.
Dhamaphat left his work and went away, cursing the old priest, his
tutor, and himself, in the impotency of his rage and sorrow.