Early next morning, on the great maidan of the fortress, our young soldier took over the command of his detachment from the chief mansabdar1 of the Rajputs. The officer above him exacted a strict observance of discipline; but to that Kulluka’s pupil was well accustomed, and he himself saw the necessity for it. This mansabdar, too,—who presented him with the white feather and other symbols of his rank,—in spite of the severity of his disposition, was a man of cultivation and courteous, friendly manners. Siddha was equally pleased with the appearance of his men, clad in the same splendid array as their leaders. They were splendid riders, with soldier-like bearing, and countenances sparkling with life and courage.

At the request of the commander, Siddha put his troopers through some evolutions, which gave him the opportunity of showing off his own admirable riding and the training of his horse. Had Kulluka been present at these exercises he would have seen with satisfaction the approbation with which his pupil was regarded by his superiors. After some evolutions with all the troops assembled, the bugle signalled that the exercises for the day were over, and commanded the retreat. Siddha, giving his horse to Vatsa, who was in waiting, turned his footsteps towards one of the gardens of the palace, to which officers of his rank had access. But before he had reached the court he saw a young woman approaching him by one of the side-paths, who, from her attire, appeared to be a servant belonging to some great house. As she drew near she hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Are you not, my lord, the noble Siddha, just arrived from Kashmir?”

“You are right,” he answered; “you seem to know me.”

“Not personally,” said the servant; “but the noble lady who sent me gave me your description. She requests a few minutes’ conversation with you, if you will have the kindness to grant them to her.”

“But,” asked Siddha, “who is your mistress?”

“Excuse me, my lord,” was the answer, “if I withhold her name for the present; doubtless she will herself enlighten you, if you honour her with a visit, and, if you will, she expects you this evening. Come at about ten, by that mosque.” And she pointed to a beautiful building on a height, whose gilded cupolas and marble minarets were sparkling in the sunshine.

Siddha hesitated and sought for an answer. An adventure—and he thought of Iravati. A plot—and he remembered the warning of AbÚ-l Fazl.

“Well?” asked the maid, mockingly. “A soldier like you, and not know what to do when an illustrious lady asks for a short conversation! You are not afraid, I hope.”

“Afraid!” cried Siddha, while a flush of anger mounted to his face. “What gives you the right—but,” continued he, restraining himself, “my irresolution may appear strange, but the reasons are no concern of yours. Meet me at the appointed time at the mosque.”

“It is well,” replied the woman; and greeting him, she returned the way she had come.

For a moment Siddha thought of attempting to follow her unseen, and so to discover with whom he had to do; but a moment’s consideration convinced him she certainly would be on her guard. Dissatisfied with the whole affair, and with himself, he continued his walk, and soon reached the garden.

Rich and magnificent as it was, there was more to fatigue than satisfy the eye. Straight paths, one resembling another, paved with smooth polished stones, were shaded by trees; and there were tanks bordered with marble, from the centres of which fountains of various forms arose. The groups of trees in all directions threw thick, cool shade, inviting the passers-by to repose. After having wandered for some time without meeting any one, Siddha saw a middle-aged and powerfully-built man seated under the shade of one of these trees. There was something in the man’s appearance that immediately excited his attention, though he could scarcely have given a reason. The stranger was distinguished from the courtiers he had met, by something that words can hardly convey. The expression of his face, closely shaven, like others, was calm and frank; neither handsome nor the contrary, his attire was rich yet simple; and excepting the elaborately worked hilt of his sword, his only ornament was a diamond of extraordinary size that glittered in the folds of his turban. But what neither ornaments nor beauty of feature could give, was the peculiar expression and bearing that Siddha had remarked in Gurupada the hermit, but which was still more marked in this man, and bespoke him a ruler. Still, in the unknown he did not suspect more than a courtier or a great warrior attached to some prince who was in attendance at Akbar’s court. With a silent greeting he was about to pass by, when the stranger addressed him by name, and without rising or further introduction, asked if he had made acquaintance with his Rajputs. Somewhat surprised that everyone should know who he was, Siddha replied in the affirmative, and the other proceeded in explanation.

“By the heron’s feathers I recognised your rank, and knowing all your fellow-officers personally, and knowing also that you were expected to take up your appointment, I had no difficulty in guessing who you were. And how do you like your appointment? Sit down by me.”

“I should indeed be ungrateful,” said Siddha, accepting the invitation, which sounded more like a command, and scarcely noticing that the stranger treated him as an inferior,—“I should indeed be ungrateful to my benefactor and the Emperor if I did not highly prize the noble occupation in which they have placed me.”

“The Emperor!” repeated the other; “well, yes. But tell me, do you come to serve him, or simply to enjoy the privileges that your rank gives you at his court?”

“A hard question, noble lord,” answered Siddha, frankly, “and one I have never put to myself; but still I can answer without difficulty, that, above all, I should desire faithfully to serve the Emperor, as far as honour and duty allow. My having entered into his service of my own free will testifies to this.”

“Prudently answered,” remarked the stranger; “but now the question is, what do you understand by honour and duty?—those are difficult words to explain.”

“For some,” replied Siddha; “but I do not find them so. I take them in their strongest meaning. Honour and duty would forbid me to undertake anything against my country, even if Akbar himself should give the orders; and in that case to give up all the privileges secured to me by his favour.”

“And you would do well,” replied the other, approvingly; “but what reasons have you for imagining that the Emperor would ever require from you what would be to the prejudice of yourself and your countrymen?”

For a moment Siddha hesitated, as the conversation with his uncle crossed his mind. But quickly recovering himself, and looking in the stranger’s open face, he asked, with no further introduction, “Is not Akbar ambitious?”

“Young man,” exclaimed the stranger, in a tone and with a look that made Siddha involuntarily shrink from his side, “until now you have contented yourself with prudent remarks; but, at the court of Akbar himself, so to express yourself to a perfect stranger appears to me rather rash.”

“It may appear so,” answered Siddha, without embarrassment. “I do not know you, that is true; but to know your name or rank is indifferent to me. I see you and hear your voice, and know that it would be impossible for you to betray or harm a young and inexperienced man, who has trusted you and spoken frankly.”

These simple words caused a look of pleasure to cross the stranger’s countenance, not of flattered vanity, but a nobler and purer feeling of satisfaction. Flattery was not strange to him, nor was he insensible to it. But these were words from the heart, spoken in ignorance of who he was, and praising in him that which he prized above everything.

He said, laying his hand on Siddha’s shoulder, while his voice sounded gentler, “What you have said is true. You trust me, you say, though you do not know me; do the same when the time comes that you know me well. But now for Akbar. He is ambitious: in that you are right. I know him, and all is not so well as I could wish, and I agree that he is ambitious; but then, in what way? Do you really believe that his only desire is to add more and more kingdoms and peoples to his empire, which already is far too extended? Should he not be content with what he already has? I think the small kingdom of Agra and Delhi were his sole inheritance. Little if anything else was left him by Humayun,2 his unfortunate and sorely tried father; and at present his dominions extend from the borders of Persia to the furthest extremes of Bengal, and to the districts of the Dakhin and Golkonda. Then why do you imagine to yourself new conquests, and especially that of your far-distant Kashmir, which would not repay the many sacrifices that would be necessary to attain it. Still, reasons might arise which would force a prince no longer to respect the independence of neighbouring states; that is, if they should threaten to become dangerous for the peace and prosperity of his own people. And in such a case he must act, although he would gladly leave his sword in the scabbard; and although the peace and liberty of surrounding nations are as dear to him as those of his own dominions. Still all this does not prevent the descendant of Baber and Timur3 from being ambitious; and from his earliest manhood his ambition has been not only to found a great and mighty empire, but, above all, to ensure the happiness, prosperity, and cultivation of the people that the great Power has entrusted to him. He has striven to improve their condition, and to calm the jealousies and divisions of the different races, to put an end to religious disputes, and to bridle the tyranny and oppression of the powerful and selfish nobles. He has tried to benefit the industrious classes of Bengal, and striven to increase prosperity everywhere, to encourage science and art, and to raise his subjects to a state of cultivation and enlightenment for which many have shown great aptitude. Say, if you will, frankly, that this is too much for one mortal to accomplish, and I shall not contradict you; but the striving after an ideal should not be condemned even if it is unattainable. And, in truth, Akbar’s own ideal will never be fulfilled. How many years of thought and toil has he devoted to this goal; and how far, alas! is he now from attaining it!”

With respect and awe Siddha listened, as, carried away with his subject, the stranger rose to his feet, lifting his hand toward heaven; but as he finished, dejectedly he sank back, bending his head on that breast which contained a warm and noble heart. For a moment Siddha felt inclined to rise to his feet, not doubting but that he saw before him the Emperor himself; but then the idea that so great a man should so confide in a young, unknown stranger appeared too absurd to be reality. As he was about to attempt, by roundabout questions, to find out with whom he was speaking, approaching footsteps interrupted the conversation, and presently a man appeared, short and bent, clad in grave garments, and with what was rare at court, a thick black beard.

“Abdul Kadir,”4 said the stranger, more to himself than to Siddha, while a dark cloud crossed his countenance. Notwithstanding, he greeted the new comer with courtesy, at the same time making him a sign that he wished to remain unknown.

With a defiant glance Abdul Kadir looked at Siddha, who had stepped on one side, from head to foot, and then turned his back on him, without saying a word. That the blood rose to the cheeks of our Indian nobleman at such treatment was not surprising; but as he was about to demand an explanation of the insult, the stranger restrained him, and said, “Do not, noble Siddha, allow the treatment of my friend here to arouse your anger. It is not personally meant, of that I am sure; but he cannot bear the sight of you Hindus, as he imagines that you damage his faith. Is it not so?” he asked, turning to Abdul Kadir.

“You are right,” he answered. “I have, indeed, no personal enmity to you, young man,” he continued, turning to Siddha. “I do not know you, but to fight and strive against you, root and branch, is to me a holy duty; and I do strive against you, and hate you with an irreconcilable hatred. Still, as men, there are many among you whom I respect and honour. You injure our faith, and even make the Emperor himself averse to it. You deny Allah and mock His Prophet, and seek to drive us, the faithful, away, and to become masters of offices and employments, that you may put your false gods and false doctrines in the place of the God without whom there is no god, and of those who, in truth, acknowledge Him. Therefore, and for that reason alone, I hate you and yours, and will strive against you and yours till the death. You are either atheists or idolaters; in either case you lead the people astray, and tempt the prince. Enough that you are nothing but unbelieving——”

A severe, penetrating glance from the stranger held back on the lips of the speaker the word that was about to follow. Had it been spoken, Siddha, in spite of all his endeavours, would scarcely have been able to restrain his anger.

“Unbelieving, then,” continued Abdul Kadir; “and that for a true son of the Prophet is more than enough. But what can it concern you, if I, who here have nothing to say, nor am of the slightest importance, am not one with your race? The favour of the Emperor is assured to you, who can and does do anything as it best pleases him. He has freed you from the burthen justly laid on you by the true believers for your denial of the true faith. He calls you to all employments, places you at the head of his armies, chooses amongst you his councillors and friends. What would you have more? Leave me, then, leave us, our just wrath. We cannot harm you; but it may be that the anger of heaven will one day fall on your heads, and perhaps on his, also, who showered favours on you, instead of chastising you with the rod and the sword, which for this purpose Allah himself placed in his hand.”

“It appears to me,” coldly said the stranger, after this hot outbreak, “it appears to me that our conversation so carried on is neither profitable nor agreeable. Doubtless, friend Siddha, you have more to say in reply to Abdul Kadir, and I myself am far from agreeing with him. But if I do not mistake, this time he sought us not for the sake of a fruitless dispute, but to talk over an important affair, and on this I will willingly listen to him. Excuse me, therefore, if for the present I say farewell, hoping that we may meet again before long. Abdul Kadir,” he said, as with a respectful greeting Siddha took his leave, “what do you want with me?”

“Sire,” was the answer,—for it was indeed Akbar himself with whom Siddha had been conversing,—“my duty as a subject as well as a friend, though one of little importance, obliges me to seek your Majesty.”

“I know it,” interrupted Akbar; “you are not self-seeking, you care not for protection or favours. And yet I would that you did; then, perhaps, I might be able to content you, in which now I seldom or never succeed. But I suspect that it is on religious subjects you wish to speak to me. The exaggerated words you have just used have told me what was coming; at any rate, be so good as to use a little moderation.”

“In truth,” answered Abdul Kadir, “the faith, the one pure, true faith, is what now leads me here. For that I request a few minutes’ conversation,—and,” continued he, with a stern look, “earnest and grave conversation.”

“I will do my best,” replied Akbar, courteously; “and will promise not to laugh, if you will keep within bounds.”

“That will depend on your opinion,” remarked the other; “but I will do my best to treat the subject calmly. To warn you, and most earnestly to warn you, is imperative on all who mean well to Shah Akbar, and yet know what has come to my ears. As you well know, there has long been deep discontent among us true Muhammadans, caused by state offices being placed in the hands of men lukewarm like AbÚ-l Fazl, or atheist like Faizi. But what you do not know is that a party has arisen in the midst of your kingdom, and in the neighbourhood even of your court, which has irrevocably sworn to work for your fall and destruction, because you have refused to give ear to the claims which they, as the representatives of the ancient and only true friends of the House of Timur, have a just right to demand. Lately I had the opportunity of being present at an assembly of our Mullahs, and what I there heard was enough to make me shudder when I thought what such influential men among the Muhammadan population might accomplish, even against Akbar, if supported by ambitious nobles and discontented generals, of whom many may be found in the court of Agra, as well as throughout Hindustan.”

“But,” asked Akbar, impatiently, “what do your Mullahs and their followers want? Have they not the fullest liberty to think and speak as they will, and to make as many proselytes as they can? Have I ever laid as much as a straw in their path?”

“Certainly not,” replied his companion; “but does not that also call to heaven? Of what value to them is the liberty which is shared by unbelievers? Here, in your court, in the army, and in every kind of employment, are they offended by the defiling presence of the kafirs. And where is the vindication of the true faith, to which, above all men on earth, the Emperor is called, as the representative of Allah?”

“Yes,” cried Akbar; “here is again the old story, your people alone are entrusted with the truth, and before that all must give way, even I; and he who will not bend must break. But why should you alone be in possession of the truth?”

“Because the Prophet, blessed be his name, “has himself declared it to us, and because——”

“Because,” interrupted Akbar, “because he, and no one else, is good. Yes; we have the Padres, who come from the West, from the land of the Franks: brave, honourable men, as yourselves. They also have a Prophet, who, if I mistake not, they honour as their God. I do not clearly understand it; but, in any case, their faith is older than that of Muhammad. Then there are the Jews, who are not content with this or that, but hold by Moses alone; and then what do you say to our Brahmans? They have ancient books which merit the greatest reverence,—so venerable that they themselves can scarcely understand them; so ancient, that Moses with his Thora, Christ with his Evangelist, and Muhammad with his Koran are all new in comparison. And now I ask you, from your conscience, how can I, a simple man, who has heard somewhat of all this, but not a hundredth part of the whole,—how can I make myself judge amongst these various faiths, and decide, for example, whether that of Christ or Muhammad is the true one?”

“But you were brought up in the teaching of Islam.”

“No very satisfactory foundation for any one’s faith. A sure foundation should rest on conviction brought about by one’s own inquiries, and should hardly depend on the will of one’s father. But the question now is not what I personally believe—that concerns no one—but how I, as prince and ruler over the kingdom of the Mughals, should conduct myself towards the professors of the various religious sects who alike are subject to my rule, and who alike have a claim to my protection. And this question, best of friends, believe me, you will never answer as long as you only look at it from one side and not the other.”

“But, then, the dangers that threaten your kingdom and throne?”

“I have others to think of,” replied the Emperor, with a contemptuous smile, “than those with which the anger of your religious fanatics threaten me.”

“Others!” said Abdul Kadir, looking earnestly at the Prince. “Just so; you mean the kind of dangers caused by strangers. But what of those dangers, at present secret, but which may become open, and may find support in your own house, encouraged by those of your own race? If your son——”

“My son Salim!” exclaimed Akbar; “and yet,” he continued, “that is not impossible. Among the reigning houses around us, how many, through family feuds, have been subjected to our rule? And so you mean that Salim himself is ready to join these malcontents against me? for that appears to me what your words point to.”

“It is so, Sire,” answered Abdul Kadir; “at least, I mean that his religious zeal might induce him to do so; but I do not say that this is the case already.”

“One thing is certain,” rejoined Akbar, “if this should ever take place, religious zeal will not be Salim’s inducement. He cares far more for fine wines and beautiful women than for the Koran and the Prophet. But that is no reason that I should not thank you for the warning. If you had begun with it at first, many useless words might have been spared. If in the future you should have any more such communications to make, we will thank you for them. We must be a little on our guard, and keep a look-out on our people here. But, for the present, farewell.”

And, with a somewhat ironical smile on his lips, the Emperor left Abdul Kadir to think over the impression that his words might have made.

“By Allah,” muttered the follower of the Prophet between his teeth, “I have done a fine thing by naming Salim. I had only intended to disturb him, and so to render him more pliant to our will; instead of which I have simply warned him, and instead of helping, we shall now find him still harder to deal with. Now he knows or suspects that some of us league ourselves together with his son against him. You are looked upon as a wise man, Abdul Kadir, and yet you have acted like a fool. Ah! if the zeal that fills my soul for our holy faith would but preserve to me the calm that seldom or never forsakes Akbar! What an advantage that gives him over us!”

That the composure Akbar showed was as real as the other believed might well have been doubted by any one who had seen him returning to the palace, buried in thought, and with his eyes fixed on the ground.

In one of his private apartments a man awaited him, whose presence, if Abdul Kadir had but known it, would have given him fresh grounds for a violent outbreak. This was Kulluka the Brahman. He sat in thought, not noticing the splendour around him, nor the lovely view over the smiling gardens. Still, this was not the first time he had seen it.

Presently one of the Imperial Guard came to arouse him from his thoughts, and to conduct him to the Emperor.

“It is indeed a pleasure to see you here again,” said Akbar, affectionately returning the Brahman’s greeting, “and I hope you bring me good news from Kashmir.”

“Alas, Sire,” answered Kulluka, “I wish that I did, or that I could hide from your Majesty, as from others, all the causes of uneasiness. But the confidence you have placed in me, as well as the good of my country, oblige me to keep nothing hidden that I know.”

“I understand,” said Akbar; “the old story over again. Party feuds and disputes: sons against their fathers; brothers intriguing against each other, as in old days.”

“But too true,” replied Kulluka. “After Nandigupta, the lawful king, had disappeared from the stage, leaving all in his brother’s hands, we believed that order would be established, and for some time it was so; and the people were content with the government, although not enthusiastic for it. At any rate, there was no thought of further changes, but now that is no longer the case. The spirit of faction begins to stir up discontent, and fresh revolutions appear ready to break out. The worst of all is that we cannot discover where this plot has its origin. The king’s sons, who sooner or later threaten to rise against him, certainly do not act from their own inspiration; but whence, then, does it come? That is what we cannot discover.”

“That may be as it will,” said the Emperor, decisively. “Whether or not they act independently, the old game seems about to begin again. And what, if it cannot be stopped in time, will be the unavoidable consequence? That, as before, the different parties will take arms, and civil war will destroy your country. On all sides bands will be formed, who, the less they find within the boundaries of Kashmir, so much the more will they carry fire and sword among my people to repay themselves for what they have lost at home. And now I say, without circumlocution, and once for all, that I will not tolerate it. My kingdom and my people shall be respected; and if force is required, whatever trouble or treasure it may cost, I will again assemble my armies and march to the north to re-establish the peace that is necessary to the prosperity of my subjects. Better to tear down and destroy the whole robber’s nest than allow it to remain, to the injury of my people.”

In spite of his respect for the Emperor, these proud, defiant words could not but excite Kulluka’s anger, and, though he gave no reply, the dark colour mounted to his bronzed cheek.

“Forgive me, worthy Kulluka,” said Akbar, “if what I have said angers you. But you should know, as well as I myself, that in so speaking I do not mean the good men among your people, such as yourself, your present prince, and his ministers, but the miserable intriguers that will draw down upon you the greatest misfortune, while they threaten us with the consequences of their turbulence. To guard against this is my duty, and I well know how to fulfil it. Do all you can to make my intervention unnecessary, and you may rest assured that I shall be the last to wish to force it on you.”

“I place the fullest confidence in your words,” said Kulluka, “and if I could not suppress a feeling of anger, it was certainly caused as much by the accursed plots laid for our country and prince as by the threats, for which, I must confess, there is some occasion. But does treachery alone seek a home in Kashmir? Is it so impossible that it should also be present at your court, and that among your own courtiers and relations there may be found those who conspire against us and against your rule?”

“How now, what do you mean by that?”

“I went, perhaps, too far, and spoke rashly; still, I have my suspicions, and though I trust they may prove idle, yet I cannot put them from me. Salim——”

“What, again Salim? Is he also involved in this?”

“With what else he is concerned I do not know; but some slight indications have caused me to warn your Majesty. If they are groundless, so much the better, but to be on one’s guard can in no case do harm.”

“And that I shall be. For the present, however, all rests on supposition and assumed possibility. We must neither judge nor act rashly; but be assured that nothing you have told me shall escape my closest inquiry. When we meet again the hour for action may have come. But before you go, I must tell you something that will be personally interesting to you—I have just seen and spoken with your pupil.”

“How, Siddha?” exclaimed Kulluka, with astonishment. “And who presented him to you?”

“No one,” answered Akbar; “I met him in the park, and guessing who he was, spoke to him. You know, occasionally I like thus to converse.”

“And did he not know that he spoke with the mighty Emperor?”

“Naturally not; nor did he guess it. Do not tell him; I will myself enlighten him one day. You want to know what I think of him? Well, then, I am content with him. He is a fine, honourable young man, in whom I can trust. Perhaps somewhat imprudent in what——”

“He has not said what was not fitting to the Emperor?”

“Well,” said Akbar, laughing, “if he had known to whom he was talking. But do not be disturbed. When I made him see that he spoke a little too freely he blamed himself in a manner that I could not but accept. Enough: I have said he pleased me, and you know that I am not wont to decide so favourably respecting those I see for the first time. Let him only take care that the first good impression continues. But now other affairs call me, and I will not detain you.”

With a respectful greeting, Kulluka left the apartment. Akbar looked after him with affection. A man so far separated by rank and station, religion and nationality, was yet bound to him both by respect and friendship, and by a faith that could not fail where he had once given his word.

“On him, at least, I can reckon,” said the Emperor to himself; “in him is no deceit.” And he was right; but how many stood far nearer to him, and of whom he could not say the same!