THE SIGN OF THE RUBY
The galloping horse, with its white rider, dashed round the curve
in the road that opened upon the great stone causeway; and Oman
perceived that he was none too soon. It was upon that narrow bridge
that the long, horrible retreat of the young Rajah of Mandu had
reached its climax. Here he made his last stand against the invincible
Prophet-horde. The scene on the causeway was indescribable. Oman had
one moment’s survey of it: one moment, during which all his strength,
all the fury of race and loyalty that were in him, rushed into his
two arms, into his brain, into his eyes. Then, without pause, he was
carried down into the writhing, struggling mass.
The plan of defence prepared over night for Viradha’s assistance had
come to naught. The two armies had fought their way, hand to hand, all
down the rocky defile that led to the plateau; and they reached the
causeway in an inseparable mass. It had taken the whole morning for the
Moslems to force the defenders from the entrance of the pass, two miles
above, to the bridge. The men of Mandu, knowing well the consequence
of defeat, had fought as never men fought before; and now, on the
threshold of their homes, they made the supreme effort. The retreat was
over. The fight on the causeway was the death struggle. When it ended,
there would be no more resistance to the followers of Mohammed.
Like others on that bridge, Oman too had gone mad. He did not think,
he did not feel. He was a machine. His horse, trained to war, had
plunged into the very thick of the battle. On every side men were
fighting together: man to man, two to one, three to one, but always
without concerted action, always as in a series of duels. Of those in
the mêlée, Oman was the only one who wore no armor; and how, during the
first ten minutes, he escaped with his life, it would be impossible to
say. After that, his shield was omnipresent, his sword all-pervading.
Man after man went down before him. Those of Mandu that saw him,
marvelled. Their Saint had become inspired by a demon. The Mohammedans
regarded him with suspicious fear. Was this an angel, a Jin, come from
heaven to defend a chosen country? It seemed, for a few minutes, as if
his appearance might turn the tide of battle. But victory was not for
Mandu. Where the war-cry of the Prophet now rose in India, it was not
to be stilled by any bravery, any heroism. Just now, no one looking at
that close-writhing mass of combatants could have told which way the
fight was going. But there was, for the Indians, a very _sense_ of
defeat, a gradually increasing fear, born of presentiment. Oman felt it
with the rest; but still he fought, with the fierceness of despair.
Not yet, in the closely packed company, had he caught a glimpse of the
young Rajah. Dealing out his blows and parries almost mechanically,
Oman found time to wonder in which of the heaps of dead and dying piled
against the high balustrades of the causeway, the son of Bhavani lay.
But presently the horror of that thought was removed. Just before him,
upreared on a bleeding horse, helmetless, blood-smeared, worn almost
beyond recognition with the work of the last week, was Viradha, closely
beset by a powerful Moslem, whose rich accoutrements and shining
scimitar proclaimed him of rank. In a kind of maze, Oman watched the
young man parry blow after blow, saw the terrible weapon finally
plunged down with undefensible stroke, and, in the same instant, waking
from his trance, flung himself forward across the young man’s body and
lifted his face to that of the Mohammedan. There was a strange shock.
The Moslem recoiled from the blow he had dealt, his eyes fixed in
fascination on something that shone on Oman’s uplifted breast:—the Asra
ruby, blazing in the sun.
Oman recovered himself swiftly, and drew back from the body beneath
him. His attempt had been vain. Viradha lay supine upon his horse,
limp and motionless, the bright life-blood gushing out of his very
heart. He was dead. Oman knew it before he looked. The hope of Mandu
was gone; and, in the same instant, the battle was ended. Like one in a
dream Oman heard the din gradually fade into silence, and saw the great
Moslem chief lean over, draw his weapon from the young body, and then
straighten up and look about him with a half smile. The Manduvians,
those that remained, had lowered their arms, and were piteously begging
for quarter. But Mohammed spares not the unfaithful. Oman, perceiving
what a hideous, silent carnage was beginning, felt a new rush of fury,
and hurled himself at the Mohammedan leader, the slayer of Viradha. At
once two other Arabs fell upon him, from the right and from the left,
and Oman surrendered, as the general gave two or three sharp orders,
and the soldiers, stopping short in their attack, seized Oman by the
arms, lifted him forcibly from the saddle, and dragged him down till
he stood on his feet. Then they led him back along the causeway to one
of the empty watch-towers. Into this they climbed with him, bound him
fast, hand and foot, with his own sash and two leathern straps from
their accoutrements, and then, with some words incomprehensible to him,
they descended to the bridge again, leaving him alone. For a moment his
thoughts swam through seas of blood. After that, the deadly reaction of
passion setting in, he mercifully fainted.
He was unconscious for a long time. When he came to himself again,
there was a singular stillness around him:—the stillness of many
dead, not to be broken by the faint, indistinguishable sounds of the
horde on the plateau. It was late in the afternoon; for the sunlight
was pouring through an opening in the west wall of the watch-tower.
Oman looked into the yellow light till he was half blinded. Then he
closed his eyes. He was in great pain; and half of him was numb with
lying for so long in one position. Unknown to himself, he had, in the
battle, received one or two wounds, not serious, unfelt, indeed, in the
excitement, but which now troubled him severely. This, and the ache of
his arms and ankles where the fetters held him, threw him into a kind
of stupor of pain. He could hear the flies buzzing over his blood; but
he could not think of anything. Why should he? Everything was gone;
and the mass of fact was too overwhelming to be realized. His brain,
recently overactive, was as weary as his body. He was aware only of the
lengthening afternoon, his own pain, and his rising thirst.
After a while the sun set, the swift twilight passed, and the young
moon shone in the west, above the dead, sunset colors. Oman was sleepy.
It seemed fitting that, with night, he should rest. He wondered a
little if he was to die in the watch-tower, forgotten, and raving
for water. To his dulled mind it made little difference, just now.
Wondering, stupidly, he fell asleep.
Oman had, however, been by no means forgotten. Shortly after moonset,
which was very early that night, he was waked by two men—soldiers—who,
penetrating his retreat, undid his bonds by the light of a torch, and
addressed certain sharp words to him in their unknown tongue. Oman,
obeying the instinct of common sense, rose to his feet, swayed and
reeled with numbness, and was promptly pummelled into sensibility by
one of the men who seemed to understand what he needed. So, presently,
the three of them, Oman with a soldier on either side, descended the
narrow stone steps of the tower and came out upon the causeway. Here
was a sight to try the nerves of the Mohammedan conqueror himself.
All was deathly still, yet already men were working by the light of
torches, the sickly, flickering glare of which cast streaks of light
and shadow over the horrid scene. The whole width of the bridge reeked
and steamed with blood; and here and there separate bodies blocked
the central path. Against the high balustrades, on either hand, were
great, inextricable heaps of slain. At the sight, Oman’s gorge rose;
but, at the same time, there shot into his mind the question: “Why am
I not lying here? What was it that preserved me from death?” He had
seen Osman’s look; but he could not account for it. He only knew that
quarter had been given him where nobody else was spared; and, even
before this scene of horror, he sighed; for he had long since been
ready to face the Unknown Beyond.
It was a long walk to the end of the plateau. Oman wondered a little
why the conquerors had made the palace, instead of the town, their
headquarters, never dreaming that, in six hours, Osman and his army
had swept Mandu from one end to the other, after the manner of a race
long accustomed to conquest. When the prisoner and his guides passed
the water-palace, Oman gazed sorrowfully upon its dark outline and its
empty door. Where was Zenaide, the Lady of Mandu? Alas! Who could say?
Finally, when the captive was on the verge of exhaustion, they reached
the palace courtyard, and here, at last, found a scene of life. In the
centre of the court, where so many holy sacrifices had burned to Agni
and the Hindoo Trinity, was an immense bonfire, at which torn and weary
soldiers were cooking food. Everywhere were men, talking, shouting,
laughing in their barbarous tongue. But nowhere could Oman find a
familiar face. Where were all the slaves that had been wont to pass and
repass through this court by night and day? Where were the officials?
Had they followed the fate of their defenders? At the thought, Oman
trembled like a woman. However, he and his guides crossed the square,
and entered the audience hall, where there was a scene indeed.
The place was lighted by a hundred torches and hanging-lamps that threw
a yellow, smoky glare over the confusion below. An impromptu feast had
been prepared for the general and his officers; and, the wine-cellars
found and rifled, these good Moslems for one night waived the tenets
of their creed and celebrated the day’s carnage after the Delhi[10]
fashion, by drinking themselves either maudlin or insane. As Oman, in
his blood-stained robes, appeared upon the threshold, Osman, the great
general, not so drunk as his men, was walking toward the daïs at the
head of the room, where stood the royal throne. Catching sight of the
figure in the doorway, however, the conqueror paused, with one foot on
the step and turned a little toward him. Oman got a distinct picture
of him there. The leonine head was bare, and the heavy, whitish hair
and beard framed a face of fierce and vigorous strength. Most of his
armor had been removed; and he was clad in a crimson robe, heavily
embroidered and studded with jewels. His undertunic was a vivid green;
and in his belt was stuck a dagger, the hilt of which flashed with
emeralds and blood-stones. This was Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra, head of
that perishable race; and he turned, in his hall of conquest, to meet
the deep-eyed gaze of him who wore the lost charm of the Asra.
[10] The law against drunkenness was never strictly kept by the
Mohammedans during the conquest of India. The Delhi kings were
notorious for debauchery.
Lifting his voice above the general clamor, the conqueror summoned Oman
to him. The captive obeyed, moving slowly forward till he could have
touched the hand of his captor, who still stood gazing at him. Again
their eyes met; and this time, before the penetrating glance of the
hermit, the eyes of the warrior fell. After an instant, however, they
were lifted again, and Osman, speaking in perfect Hindustanee, said:
“Thou art he whom they called, this afternoon, the white Demon?”
“I do not know what men called me.”
“Thou wouldst have saved the young Rajah from my scimitar?”
“Assuredly,” answered Oman, scowling; and the conqueror laughed.
In a moment, however, he was serious again, and, dropping all
preliminaries, demanded: “That stone—the ruby that you wear upon your
neck—what is it called? Where found you it?”
A sudden flash of understanding, of more than understanding, rushed
over Oman. Out of the long, long ago came remembrance of this same man
that now stood before him; and he asked, suddenly, the involuntary
question:
“Art thou Osman ibn-Omar el-Asra?”
“Yes. By the Prophet, how knewest thou I was ibn-Omar?”
Oman did not answer. He took from his throat the chain on which hung
the great ruby; and, with an indescribable gesture, he went forward and
slipped it over the head of the Mohammedan. “It is the Asra ruby,” said
he. “It has found its race again. My trust is finished.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room; nor
did any one attempt to stop him. Osman, confounded, dazed, indeed, by
the assurance of Oman’s act, remained motionless, staring after him.
The two guards who had brought him from the tower, and had watched the
scene with speechless astonishment, seeing that their lord gave no
commands about his recapture, stepped aside to let him pass. And the
others in the room never noticed him at all.
Heeding nothing of what lay behind, entirely fearless of the
conquerors, Oman left the hall in which Rai-Khizar-Pál, and Bhavani,
and lately he himself, had been wont to sit in council, crossed the
broad courtyard where the slave Fidá had so often watched, and finally
reached the road, which was silent, and lighted only by the stars. The
palace of Mandu was behind him, but he had yet one other mission to
fulfil. He went on to the water-palace, which, a little while before,
he had beheld, still with the stillness of death. Was Zenaide there?
Or whither was she gone? He must know. For she had now only him in the
world to look to.
When he came to the door of the building he found, to his amazement and
consternation, that it stood open. No slave was on guard; but within,
near the marble pool, hung a burning lamp that cast a faint light round
about. Oman halted beneath it, and listened intently for some sound.
There was one:—the softest, intermittent sighing:—a low cry, like the
wailing of a new-born child. Unhesitatingly Oman followed the direction
from which it came—followed through room and passage, till he had
reached the inner apartments of Zenaide, and penetrated to the sanctum:
her sleeping chamber. Here he found her.
All that he at first perceived was a long, narrow room, the walls hung
with palest blue, on which were embroidered white flocks of doves.
There were many tiny lights round about, and against the walls knelt
half a dozen women, wailing and beating their breasts. Beside these
were one or two of the male slaves, standing about dejectedly, but
uttering no sound. This was Oman’s first glance. Then he perceived
something else, which instantly swallowed up every other thought. At
the far end of the room stood a bier, hung with blue embroideries; and
upon it, quiet, peaceful, still as a marble figure, lay the priestess
of Radha, in her last sleep. The great eyes were shut. The wonderful,
red-dyed hair was bound smoothly into a high crown above her brow,
and one or two white lotos flowers were fastened above her ears. Her
garments were all white, her feet encased in white shoes. There was but
one spot of color anywhere. Over her heart, beneath her left breast,
was a stain of moist crimson, that widened and spread a little, even as
Oman gazed. It told him all that he would have asked. He stood silent
over her, while the women and slaves crept close, looking up to him
with some sign of hope in their heavy eyes. But, for the first time,
perhaps, Oman had no hope to give. His thoughts, indeed, were not here.
He was thinking of the slow order in which every one that he had known
and loved in his life had passed into the other land. It was beginning
to come home to him that his own hour of liberation was near. His eyes
travelled slowly over Zenaide’s perfect form, from her face, which now,
in its repose, showed the marks of time and sorrow, down her white
arms, and to her white-clothed feet. Then, suddenly lifting his hands
over her, he said, softly: “Rest thee, rest thee, in peace!”
Then he turned to go. But the living ones crowded about him, demanding
what they were to do.
“The invaders cannot forbid the right of burial. On the morrow let
her be burned, and the ashes placed in an urn. By night let one of ye
convey this to the palace temple and lay it upon the tomb of the Lord
Bhavani. Thus they shall meet in blessed death.”
Then Oman would have gone, but that one of the women, Zenaide’s
favorite attendant, ran to him and laid her hand upon his arm, saying:
“And thou, my lord, whither art thou going?” Her voice sank to a
whisper, for she felt her presumption.
“Whither I go ye know not. Sufficient it is that ye see me for the last
time. I commend your mistress to your care. Farewell.”
Then Oman, in his stained garments, with the marks of fetters on his
wrists and ankles, left the room of mourning and passed through the
house till he came again to the central room. Here, the crises of the
day at last ended, his body was overcome with weariness; and he lay
down beside the marble pool, and slept.