Siddha reached the Mosque at the appointed time, and had not waited long before he saw the servant approach and sign to him to follow her. She led him through different side-paths until they reached a high garden wall, in which there was a small door. She opened this, and carefully shut it again, after they had entered. A path thickly bordered with cactuses and other plants led him to a kind of terrace with orange-trees and fountains, on which the back part of a small but tasteful house opened; the rest of it being hidden by thickly growing trees. Siddha’s guide led him up a flight of marble steps and through a gallery to an apartment open to the fresh air, and having left him she disappeared behind the hangings. On a divan was carelessly stretched a young woman richly clad in the Persian style. No sooner did she become aware of her visitor’s presence than she arose and came forward to meet and welcome him. At the first moment Siddha could hardly have told whether she was beautiful or not. Her features were not regular; but her soft blue eyes, overshadowed with silken lashes, had an indescribably sweet and friendly expression; and though she was not tall, her figure, which her closely-fitting robe showed to perfection, was most perfectly proportioned. But what particularly struck Siddha was the whiteness of her neck and bosom, round which a pearl necklace hung; and the rosy tint of her cheeks, which he had never seen in other women.

“Noble lord,” she said,—and if the impression she had already made on Siddha had been unfavourable, the sweetness of her voice would at once have won him to her,—“I thank you for so speedily fulfilling my request. Perhaps it seems a little indiscreet; but when you hear the reasons, I trust you will not think harshly of me.”

“To refuse such an invitation,” answered Siddha, “would indeed have been uncourteous; though I confess I did not await the time with the impatience I should have done, noble lady, had I known whom I should meet.”

Acknowledging this compliment with a slight inclination of her head, she continued,—“My excuse is, that no personal reason made me take this step, but the affairs of another, of a friend of mine, whom I love with all my heart. Some time ago she was forced to fly from Agra to escape the snares laid for her by powerful persons here, and sought a refuge in your country, in Kashmir. Now I have a communication to make to her which may be of great importance; but until now I could think of no means of sending safely to her, as I do not trust any of the messengers at my disposal. Then I heard accidentally, it does not signify how, that you with your former tutor had arrived in Agra, and that the guru would shortly return. I at once saw that I could not do better than trust in the honour of a nobleman whose name was well known to me, and so determined on begging you to ask your friend to undertake the delivery of my letter, in which I inform my friend of many things that are only of importance to her; and I trust my request will not inconvenience you or the worthy Kulluka.”

At these words, Siddha’s first feeling was one of relief. So, then, the whole affair merely consisted in taking charge of an apparently innocent letter, and which, at any rate, did not concern him. But with his satisfaction was mingled a certain degree of disappointment, and that there should be no shadow of an adventure in this affair was not flattering to his vanity. He hastened to assure her he would gladly charge his tutor with the letter, who would willingly undertake to convey it.

At a sign from the lady the servant appeared, bringing her a paper folded in the form of a letter, and fastened with a silken cord, bearing a seal. “The direction, as you see,” she said, as the servant left the room, “is not to my friend, but to some one whom perhaps you know.”

“Certainly,” answered Siddha, “we have often hunted together.”

“He will deliver the letter, and so your friend Kulluka will not know who the real recipient is; for I think it is better that as few as possible should share the secret. I hope,” she continued, after a moment’s silence, “that my friend will profit by what I tell her. Indeed I pity her greatly in her banishment, though at times I almost envy her the opportunity she enjoys of visiting your beautiful country, of which I have read such glowing descriptions. But tell me frankly, are not these descriptions a little exaggerated—at least, they are rather poetical?”

“Indeed,” answered Siddha, “though my tutor has always warned me against exaggeration as outstepping the bounds of reality and good taste, still I must say the descriptions you mention fall far beneath the truth. Here nature has her beauties. Charming are the borders of your Jamuna, and with the magnificence and luxury of your palaces there is nothing in our northern land that can be compared; but the beauty of our mountains, woods, and valleys, can hardly be imagined by you, accustomed to less-favoured lands.” And led away by recollections of his native land, and by the interest shown by his new and really beautiful listener, our Siddha lost himself in descriptions of Hindustan’s world-famed paradise. His eloquence, as well as his good looks, increased the admiration with which his hearer regarded the handsome and powerful youth.

“But I detain you too long,” she said, at last rising, “and am taking advantage of your kindness. Still, one more request: let our interview, for the sake of my friend, remain a secret between you and me. This short meeting can be of no importance.”

“For you, certainly not,” said Siddha; “but for me more than you seem to think.”

“I see,” she replied, laughing, “that you Hindus are as well versed as our people in the art of paying compliments. But let us leave that. There still remains something that I should say. I should show myself indeed unworthy of your confidence, if, knowing who you are, I should myself remain unknown; and, under the promise of secrecy, I see no reason for withholding my name and rank, lowly as it is. My name is Rezia; my father, an Armenian, came here for commerce, and early married me to a merchant of this town, who was already far advanced in years. Some time ago he went to Persia on his affairs, and perhaps further; but it is long since I have heard anything of him. In the meantime I live here, as you see, solitary and quiet, enjoying the pleasure of a peaceful life. So now you know who you have had the trouble of visiting, although we may never meet again.”

“And why, noble Rezia, should that not be?” asked Siddha. “I see no reason against it, and possibly I may have things to tell you of the country where your friend now is, that might interest you.”

“Well,” answered Rezia, “I will not refuse your friendship; and if some evening you should have an idle hour, I would gladly hear tidings of my letter, and that its charge occasioned no trouble. At any rate, I am sure it has a good chance. No doubt you will meet my servant, and have only to tell her when you will visit me in my solitary dwelling.”

“For the opportunity of seeing you again, I shall indeed be grateful,” said Siddha, as he carefully placed the letter entrusted to him in his girdle, and prepared for the moment to say farewell.

When he reached his home he stood for some time in the verandah, busied with thought, gazing on the river that flowed softly below him. Those were the same waters that would bathe the walls of Allahabad fortress, and reflect back the lovely features of Iravati; true, might it not be that the waves would take a greeting to his loving betrothed, and whisper words of love and faith? And he snatched Iravati’s portrait from the wall, and pressing his lips to her image, he seated himself in the gallery; and as he gazed on her, lovelier than ever seemed the features of the noble and beautiful Hindu girl. But as his eyes wandered over the palace and gardens bordering the river, another’s figure appeared before him—the graceful form, the blue eyes, and sweet voice of Rezia the Armenian. What was she to him? Nothing, certainly; but what harm was there even if he found her charming? He had never promised Iravati that for her sake every other woman should appear to him both ugly and unpleasing.

“Hallo!” was heard next morning in the courtyard of Siddha’s dwelling. “Is your master awake? Go and see if a visit from me will disturb him.”

Before Vatsa could obey the command, Siddha, who was preparing to go out, recognised the cheerful voice of Parviz, AbÚ-l Fazl’s nephew; and hastened to meet and beg him to come in.

“Are you on service now?” he asked.

“Not for a couple of days.”

“That is well. Then perhaps you will come with me for an expedition?”

“Very willingly. Where shall we go?”

“To FathpÚr Sikri,1 the country residence of the Emperor, the place everyone visits when they first make an expedition in the neighbourhood.”

“I submit myself entirely to your friendly guidance,” answered Siddha; “but excuse me if I leave you for a few moments to say farewell to Kulluka, who is on the point of starting.”

He found his tutor in all the hurry of departure, and, as he said farewell, entrusted him with the letter, which Kulluka took without any questions. And before long Siddha and Parviz were mounted and, followed by their servants, on their way out of the town. Their journey was nothing but a pleasant ride, their road lying as it did through an avenue overshadowed with fine trees, with beautiful views on each side, over fields and shady groves.

“See,” said Parviz, after they had ridden for some time; “such avenues the Emperor has had planted almost everywhere; and in places where formerly no green leaf was to be seen, and men died of heat, now these shady roads are to be found. Is not this a great and useful work? Certainly every traveller has good cause of gratitude to Akbar.”

“Yes, indeed, the Emperor does great things,” answered Siddha—and his thoughts turned to the extraordinary man with whom, yesterday, he had talked of Akbar. And he described to Parviz his strange meeting, and asked if he knew who the person he described could be?

“No, I know him not,” said Parviz, with difficulty suppressing a smile; “but perhaps you will meet him again.”

“Very likely,” answered Siddha, “But, tell me, how is it that here there are so many people without beards? I always supposed that your Muhammadans thought a great deal of their beards.”

“So they do; but Akbar thinks quite differently. A little moustache, like yours and mine, he can put up with, but would rather see nothing at all on one’s face. The wisest men have their whims, and this may be one. Or he may do it with intention to vex the faithful, and to show them how little he thinks of their opinions and customs. But, whatever the reason, so it is; and, unimportant and childish as it seems, this has given rise to much talk and much that is disagreeable. Now we are approaching the dwelling of one of the chiefs of the village of this district, who I know very well, through my uncle the Minister. Shall we rest with him for a few moments while our horses are watered? My bay is much in want of it, for he was waiting saddled long before I was ready.”

Agreeing to this proposal they dismounted in the inner court of a farmhouse built of stone and wood, and surrounded by tamarinds and acacias. The proprietor himself soon appeared—a middle-aged, respectable-looking Hindu, with a magisterial air. After the usual greetings, and while fresh fruit and ice-cold water was brought for their refreshment, the conversation naturally turned to agriculture and the great prosperity of the district, although but lately brought under cultivation.

“Partly, of course,” said the chief of the village, “we owe the fortunate condition in which we find ourselves to our own labour and exertion; but we owe great thanks to the Emperor, whose wise and beneficent system of ruling first gave us the opportunity of using our own strength.”

“I have heard of his system,” remarked Siddha; “still, to tell you the truth, I am scarcely master of it.”

“Yet it is very simple,” replied the Hindu, “and, to one like you, very easy to comprehend. The system rests principally on a wise division of the land, and a just settlement of the taxes on land, and, above all, on the certainty of law and justice, possessed equally by proprietor and tenant. Everything used to depend on arbitrary decisions, and no one knew what he might keep or what he would be obliged to pay; and we chiefs of the villages had to decide what the yearly taxation of the fields should be. Now that is all changed: the fields are correctly measured, their boundaries fixed, and the taxation regulated with reference to their productiveness, according to which they are placed in classes, and rented for a certain number of years.2 And what, perhaps, is the most important of all, the taxes are payable either in money or in kind; and no Government officer can decide as he will, when disputes arise, but by the law alone. The consequence of all this is, that the cultivator, proprietor, or farmer can tell beforehand what land will cost, what he will have to pay, and what will remain his own property. Is it any wonder, then, that he now, understanding his affairs, applies all his energies to them, and becomes prosperous, whereas before he was content if he could but earn his daily rice. You see the fruits of the system around you, and can form your own opinion; but you could do so far better if you had known the former condition of the country as I do.”

“The same system in any country would lead to the same results,” answered Siddha. “What a blessing for a state to possess a prince like Akbar!”

“We must also be grateful to his councillors,” said the magistrate, “particularly to Todar Mal,3 the treasurer, who worked out the system; and to AbÚ-l Fazl, the great Wazir, who put the last touch to the work, and repressed with severity the extortions of the Government officers. If in the beginning these measures appeared to diminish the revenues of the state, in the long run it has been quite the contrary; but had the revenues been lessened, still they would have been far more productive, because the payments are certain and punctual.”

“But, worthy sir,” asked Siddha, “is there not danger of these excellent regulations falling to the ground if a less wise prince should ascend the throne?”

“I do not believe it,” was the reply. “No despot could easily take from our community such rights when it had once obtained them. You know that our people almost entirely govern themselves by their magistrates, and are thus, to a certain extent, independent of the sovereign. If he attempted to deprive them of their rights he would find that he must wage war against a dozen small states, and would not find soldiers enough to reduce them all to obedience. Even should he succeed in doing so, the villages would be almost entirely deserted, and the population would seek refuge in impenetrable jungles and wildernesses. On the other hand, our villagers leave the prince free to act as he will. He can carry on war against other kingdoms as much as he pleases, and as long as the state of his treasury admits; and they never concern themselves with court intrigues and disputes.”

“What a happy condition of things,” said Siddha, “for both parties.”

“But the union of state and people is not much advanced by it,” remarked Parviz, joining in the conversation.

“No, that is true,” answered the magistrate. “But do you believe it possible that there can be real unity in a State such as our present Hindustan, where so many and such different races and people are brought together under one rule?”

“I acknowledge that it may be difficult; still, it is worth trying for.”

The conversation, which was very interesting to Siddha, continued for some time, and then the two friends, taking leave, mounted their horses and continued their journey. A brisk but rather long ride, which obliged them more than once to halt and rest, brought them in sight of the heights on which the palace of FathpÚr was built. However striking had been the first view of the palaces of Agra, this was not less so. The buildings rising one above another, as though built on terraces, stood out proud and stately against the sky, with their tall towers, and sharply cut battlements. Broad marble steps glittered in the sunshine, here and there overshadowed by the thick green of tamarinds and other trees.

As Siddha and his companion, leaving their horses to the charge of their servants, entered the precincts of the palace itself, the former, though less astonished, was far more delighted than he had been with his first view of Agra. The gardens pleased him more, and were more satisfying to the eye, for here no wrong was done to nature; the paths, instead of being laid out with uniform regularity, followed the unevenness of the ground, and were thickly overshadowed by luxuriant vegetation. And what a magnificent and refreshing view over the neighbouring hills and fields, rich and golden with corn, and over the silver shining river! For some time the two wandered about, sometimes through solitary groves, and then through galleries filled with guards and servants. At last Parviz proposed they should go to the lower town to seek their lodgings, and to obtain better refreshment than had been possible on the road. This proposal was willingly agreed to; and after the two friends had enjoyed the needful repose, they again sallied out to visit what was to be seen in the town.

“Excuse me,” said Parviz, “if I leave you for a few minutes. I have to give some papers from my uncle to one of his officers here, and to speak to him about some affairs which will not interest you. He lives close by, and I shall be back immediately. In the meantime you can visit that old temple yonder, surrounded with acacias; or, if you like it better, pay your devotions there.”

“Very much obliged,” he answered, laughing; “I scarcely care to do that, but I will willingly visit the temple, and will await you close by.”

Siddha had hardly entered the vaulted, dimly-lit building before he recognised it as a temple of Siva by the numerous emblematic ornaments on the pillars, and, advancing a few steps, he saw at the furthest end a kind of hall lighted from above, where was placed a colossal image of the god, seated cross-legged on a lotus, his arms and ancles ornamented with numberless rings, the symbol of the trinity on his forehead, and a necklace of skulls around his neck. Siva was the immortal ruler of the world, creating to destroy, and destroying to create afresh, endless in his manifestation and transformation of being, from whence all takes origin, and to which everything must return. Well as our young Indian understood the idea represented by these images and their symbols, the mis-shapen, monstrous figures struck him with the same feeling of repulsion as they had done when he first beheld them. The temple itself was not wanting in beauty, though disfigured by the grotesque representations on the walls.

He had not been long alone before he heard a voice behind him, although the silence was unbroken by any sound of footsteps.

“Om,” sounded through the stillness; “Om, the unworthy servant of Siva’s holy consort greets thee, O Moral Force.”

Turning to the spot from whence came the voice, Siddha recognised the Durga priest Gorakh, whom he had seen in company with his uncle at Allahabad. “I greet you, holy man,” he said, and awaited what the other should say.

“So, then, we have not forgotten each other since our last meeting,” replied the priest. “In truth I have not lost sight of you since I saw you in the neighbourhood of Badrinath.”

“Let that be as it will,” answered Siddha, half impatiently; “but I scarcely comprehend, honoured lord, why you should concern yourself about me.”

“Should not,” asked the other, “the nephew of my old friend and pupil have claim to the interest I feel in him? and for that reason I feel obliged to give you a warning, if you will take it from me. You know who Gurupada the hermit is, do you not?”

“Gurupada?” asked Siddha. “Certainly; he is a hermit living in the mountains.”

“Yes; but I mean who he was before he assumed his present name.”

“Of that I know nothing—he never alluded to it.”

“But your guru, Kulluka, must have told you.”

“I never asked him; it was nothing to me.”

Gorakh turned a penetrating look towards the speaker; but he would have been no true Indian had his countenance displayed ought but utter indifference. However, irritated by the persistence of his questioner, he proceeded, with less caution, to say, “Even if I knew who and what Gurupada had been, can you not understand that I would not tell you?”

“Ha!” cried the Yogi, “you mean you do not trust me. You mean to defy me. Do you remember that I am a friend of the Governor of Allahabad?”

“Yes, I know that,” said Siddha, expressing vexation.

“What do you know?”

“I know what I know, and that is enough.”

The priest regarded Siddha with anger, not unmingled with disquietude. What was the meaning of this tone, and what could he really know? Still for the moment the wisest course seemed to be to break off the conversation.

“Enough, then,” said Gorakh, “both for you and for me; but bethink yourself, my young friend—though you are so little desirous of my friendship, and I will not force it on you,—think that the mighty goddess, to whose service all my feeble strength is devoted, not only protects but destroys also, and that there is no hope of mercy or chance of salvation for him whom, through her priests, she has chosen out for her service and who has turned from it.” So saying, he disappeared down a side aisle, without waiting for any answer to his mysterious menace. Siddha looked after him with an involuntary feeling of anxiety; and though in reality the Durga priest was alone, yet he almost fancied he could see him followed by a long train of naked bronze figures, with white cords round their necks, just as he had seen him in the dimness of night passing along the wall of Allahabad fortress and vanishing in the jungle. And that night, as he went to rest, he thought it would be as well to question his faithful servant who awaited his orders.

“Vatsa,” he said, “at Allahabad you assured me that neither you nor Kulluka’s servant had spoken to any priest or penitent; but can you not remember some other unknown person to whom you might have talked of our journey through the mountains, and recounted to him some of its incidents?”

“I should never have thought of it again, Sir, if you had not brought it to my mind,” replied Vatsa; “but now I remember that near the stable a half-naked, bronze-coloured man once talked with us, and told us much about the town and fortress, and then asked us about our journey.”

“And you told him of my adventure with Gurupada’s tiger?”

“I believe we did.”

“And did you say anything of the hermit and his appearance?”

“Certainly,” answered Vatsa. “His venerable and princely bearing had so struck us that we were full of it, and not thinking there was any harm in speaking of it we made no secret of our meeting with him to the stranger.”

“Did you describe Gurupada’s appearance exactly?”

“I cannot distinctly remember all we said; but I believe we did speak of it.”

“There is danger,” murmured Siddha to himself, “and more than danger. The priest naturally learnt enough from his spy about our journey to put me out of countenance. His suspicions seem to be aroused as regards Gurupada; and it is clear he tried to find out more from me. But what can he have to do with Gurupada or Nandigupta? And my uncle Salhana—is he also mixed up in this?”

“I hope we have done no harm by our talk with the stranger,” said Vatsa, disquieted by seeing his young master sunk in thought.

“No, no,” he replied; “and even had you done so, it was done unintentionally, and you are not to blame. We ought to have been more cautious, and to have warned you beforehand. But in future, Vatsa, do not speak to any one of the hermit, whoever it may be that asks you; do you understand?”

“Perfectly, my lord,” was the answer; “and in future I have never seen the hermit, or even if I have done so, I have entirely forgotten what he was like.”

“Nevertheless,” thought Siddha, “it might be as well to warn Kulluka, and even Nandigupta himself. I will try and find a safe opportunity, whether Salhana has anything to do with it, or not.”