In the meantime affairs at Agra followed the course which Akbar and his councillors had foreseen, especially after having received Siddha’s communication. It had been feared that Salim might be warned in time of the return of the army, and would not be caught in the act, in which case great difficulty would have arisen in convicting the Prince of treason; but now that the message from Gorakh, the chief of the conspirators in the army, had been intercepted; and that Gulbadan had been deprived of the means of warning Salim, the chance had greatly improved. In truth, though reports did reach the ears of the conspirators of the return of the Emperor and his army, yet as they were not confirmed by any tidings from their accomplices, these reports were considered as an attempt on the part of Akbar’s friends to prevent the conspiracy from being carried out.

On the appointed day, Salim took possession of the imperial palace, and caused himself to be openly proclaimed Emperor. At the same time he dismissed many of the principal officers, appointing others in their places. Alarm and surprise became general throughout the town. Rich people closed their houses, and tradesmen their shops, and Agra, so populous and full of life, appeared a city of the dead. The reports of Akbar’s return had found more belief among the people than among the conspirators, and they feared a terrible struggle when Salim, having strengthened himself in the fortress, should be able to offer a formidable opposition to his father. But when the Prince demanded admission to the fortress, to his no small astonishment the governor refused compliance, shut the gate, and directed his artillery on the town. The governor, faithful to Akbar, had, with his knowledge, chosen the side of Salim, so that the latter had thought himself certain of the fort. And now the reports of the movement of the army gained strength, and it was said that it was within an easy day’s march. Placed, as it were, between two fires, and finding himself deserted by others who had aided his rebellion, Salim saw that his only hope was instant flight. But it was too late; the advanced troops had already closed all the entrances to the town, and as Salim attempted with a few followers to leave it, he was taken prisoner by a division of cavalry, and, though treated with respect, carried back to the palace where he had been proclaimed Emperor. A few days later he received an invitation to appear before Akbar, who had then returned to Agra—his prince, his father, and his judge! Salim was brave, still he felt his courage sink, being fully conscious of his guilt. He knew that Akbar could be generous, but still that he could be severe in inflicting punishment when it was necessary for the welfare of his kingdom. His well-grounded fear gave way to surprise, when, left alone with the Emperor, he found him stretched on a divan, supporting his head on his hand, the other hand hanging wearily over the side. He did not alter his position as the guilty one entered.

“I have long delayed seeing you, Salim,” began Akbar at last, throwing a hasty glance at his son, who stood covered with shame before him. “I dreaded this interview, and wished that it might be spared me.” For a few moments he was silent, then half raising himself, and holding his arm up in the air, he burst into a passionate and bitter complaint. “My son, my son,” he cried, “that I should have lived to see this! To what have false friends and a false ambition led you? You knew how dear you were to me, and how, when it was possible, I sought to forestall your slightest wishes, and how I loaded you with honours and treasure; you know, too, you have heard more than once, both from your mother and myself, how I, then childless, prayed for the gift of a son, and how, when the prayer was granted, I celebrated it by the foundation of FathpÚr, where I had so often offered my prayers to Allah. But had I known what awaited me at your hands, my prayers had not been so earnest, nor my joy so great when they were granted. Ah! was it impossible that for once you should place some restraint on yourself, and wait with patience for your father’s death before you ascended your throne? was it impossible to return in the slightest degree the love that I had always cherished for you, and which had surrounded you with benefits?”

Salim knew not how to reply, as his father for a moment ceased to speak. He felt this reception deeply, so different from what he had expected, and the loving though melancholy words addressed to him, in spite of his errors; for Salim was not bad, nor hard-hearted, but weak and easily led; and on him rested the curse of despotism that Akbar had escaped,—the curse of the despot, and of him who is to become one,—that of placing his own will in the way of right and duty.

“But no,” continued the Emperor, “you would not, or rather you could not. You have never possessed the power of restraining yourself in anything; how, then, should you in this? For a time I saw with joy that you had given up your drinking, but for how short a time did this improvement last! You, who in my place wish to rule over others, cannot rule yourself. Had you only better understood your position, then your own interest would have shown you the right path. You would have seen that the straightforward fulfilment of duty would gain the respect and love of your future subjects; while actions such as those you were guilty of, only rendered you contemptible in their eyes, and when you had gained your wish and were their ruler, their obedience would be due to fear or self-interest, so foolishly and blameably have you lost their respect, and covered yourself and me with shame. If I could but have prevented this! I attempted it, when, following the counsel of Faizi, who was always well inclined towards you, I sent you to Allahabad, not suspecting that Salhana was a false traitor and one of the most dangerous of the party that was seeking to mislead you. Enough; the attempt to save you from your evil companions failed, and things continued their course. Then it became necessary to prove publicly that neither craft nor force could avail against Akbar, and that the reins of government remained in the Emperor’s hands. You have forced me to it, and on your head rests the blame of what has happened to-day. You have done yourself much injury, and grieved me deeply, more deeply than you can comprehend. May you never learn from experience what a father feels when, sword in hand, he is forced to meet his son as an enemy.”

This sad experience was not spared Salim, and in his old age the day came when the words of his father returned to his mind, and when Shah Jahan, his dearly-loved son, not only opposed him in the field, but defeated him more than once. When his father ceased speaking, his conscience awoke from its long sleep, and he recognised that crime to its fullest extent, which false councillors had palliated and made light of. Overcome by his feelings he flung himself on his knees before his father.

“Rise up,” said the Emperor, at last, after having for some time silently regarded his son; “and listen. That I possess full right to inflict punishment upon you, you less than anyone can dispute. But I require from you no further humiliation than that which you have already undergone. I do not wish it, because it would damage your future rule, shaking that respect which men will owe to you when you succeed me on the throne. If I punished you further publicly, I might as well declare you disinherited, and choose one of your brothers as my successor; but that I neither will nor can do. I hold you too dear to take such a course, so long as it can be avoided; nevertheless all depends on you. Tell me frankly, do you wish to work with me for the good of my kingdom, or do you feel no inclination and no strength for it? In the one case I will charge you with an honourable, though it may be laborious share; in the other, you can remain at my court, and there endeavour to learn as much of the art of government as is indispensable for your future. I leave the choice to you.”

“My father,” replied Salim, “I feel that I deserve neither of the generous offers you make me, and I should not complain if my last deed excluded me from the succession to the throne; but if indeed you leave me the choice, then, without hesitation, I choose the first. However difficult and dangerous may be the task entrusted to me, I will strive my utmost to fulfil it. You have indeed laden me with favours and honours, perhaps too many; my time has been thrown away in idleness, while you spent every day, from morning to evening, labouring for the good of the State; and then miserable idleness led me away to listen to the temptation of traitors, who pictured to me the fame that would be mine when power was once in my hands. Now, give me some work, however lowly, and I may perhaps be able to make up for the evil I have done.”

“You judge yourself justly,” said Akbar, “and to know oneself is the first step in the right path. I acknowledge that I am not myself free from blame for leaving you without employment, in the midst of luxury and self-indulgence. But enough of this. The rich and fruitful Bengal has not long been subject to my rule, and does not yet enjoy the privileges of a settled government. Go, and help me to carry out my principles of government there also. You shall reign under me, but almost as an independent king, until the day when, after having won the respect and love of your people, you shall in peace succeed to the empire of the whole of Hindustan.”

Tears of joy and gratitude sprang to Salim’s eyes, as he respectfully kissed the Emperor’s hand before leaving him, full of fresh courage and a new love of life. The reconciliation between father and son was sincere, and Akbar foresaw that the peace and friendship between them would never again be disturbed.

Though joy reigned in Agra as the time passed by, in Allahabad there was sorrow, at least in Iravati’s heart; for the new governor, in a few words, had imparted to her the news of her father’s death, but withheld from her all particulars, while he begged that she would remain in the castle as long as she pleased. She had never been aware of the crime of which Salhana had been guilty; and though she had not loved her father very dearly, still she had always held him in the highest respect, and, forgetting his recent treatment, she mourned him truly. In the midst of her grief another event happened, which gave her a fresh shock. Not long after the tidings of Salhana’a death had reached her, Kulluka the Brahman was announced. His faithful servant had been his only companion on his perilous journey from the north.

“Noble lady,” he said, when admitted to Iravati’s presence, “I accepted a sad task when I undertook to deliver a message, sad both for you and me. I bring you a token that you know well”: and feeling in his girdle, he drew out a finely-woven veil, and laid it in her hands. It was the same she had thrown to Siddha when for the last time she had seen him beneath her balcony.

“I understand all,” she cried, turning deadly white; “he is no more.”

“When I left him,” answered Kulluka, “he was still alive, but I fear the worst, and I doubt whether I shall ever more see my former pupil in life.”

“But say, what has happened?” asked Iravati. “See, I am quite composed, and can listen calmly to all you have to tell.”

Then Kulluka recounted all that he knew of Siddha’s last encounter. The Emperor had granted his earnest wish, and allowed him to march with his RajpÚts against the rebels in the north. There for some time, among the mountains so well known to him, he carried on a war which was both successful and glorious; he sought rather than avoided dangers, and had been victor in many a daring adventure, from which even the bravest of his followers had shrunk. At last, however, the insurgent bands, as he was traversing a mountain pass, managed to cut him off from the main body of his troop. After a long and hard struggle, in which many of the enemy fell before his sword, covered with wounds, he sank from his horse to the earth, while most of his followers lay either wounded or dead around him. Vatsa, who had never left his side, instead of attempting useless revenge, let himself slip from his horse, and lay motionless as though dead. A few moments later the troop arrived and drove back the enemy, and Vatsa sprang to his feet and found to his joy that his master still lived. With the help of some of the soldiers the wounded man was laid on a rude, hastily constructed litter, and carried to a Buddhist cloister in the neighbourhood. “At that moment,” continued Kulluka, “I was myself in the cloister, when the soldiers arrived with their sorely wounded leader. The good monks gladly afforded him all the help in their power. Among them was one learned in medicine, who assured me that neither skill nor care should be spared to bring him back to life. After a time Siddha regained consciousness, and seeing me, made a sign of recognition; but it was some minutes before he gained strength to speak. ‘Friend,’ he said, ‘I am going to leave you, I feel that I cannot recover. Do me a service.’ I looked inquiringly to the monk learned in healing, but he shook his head. He also seemed to have little or no hope. He strove to enjoin silence on Siddha, but Siddha heeded not. ‘I must speak,’ he said; ‘Kulluka, take the veil that you will find there with my armour, take it as quickly as possible to Iravati, and tell her that she was never so dear to me as now that death is near. Go at once, and do not wait for my death; let me die knowing that she has received this token from your hands.’ He then shut his eyes and spoke no more. I did not hesitate to fulfil his last wish; and taking the veil, and leaving Siddha to the faithful care of the monks and Vatsa, I at once set out.”

“I thank you,” said Iravati, “for the service you have rendered us both. But Siddha still lived, he was not dead when you left him? Then I know what I have to do.”

“To do?” asked the Brahman. “What can you do?”

“I shall go with you to Siddha,” answered Iravati calmly.

“You!” cried Kulluka in astonishment; “a weak, helpless woman attempt to pass through mountains and forests swarming with bands of insurgents and robbers, without a strong escort!”

“You did not fear,” was the answer, “to expose yourself to these dangers to fulfil Siddha’s wishes, and I fear them as little. Do not be afraid that you will find me a hindrance; I am not so weak, and am well accustomed to mountains and forests. No,” continued Iravati, as Kulluka made fresh objections, “do not attempt to shake my resolution, you will not succeed; and if you will not take me, then I will travel, accompanied by a servant. Do you think that I have come hastily to this determination, and that I shall draw back? I have more than once thought of the possibility of such an event as has now happened. I have often compared my life to that of Damayanti, and have determined that she should be my example. And what is my self-sacrifice to hers? Alone and despoiled of everything, she wandered through the wilderness, seeking her faithless consort. I, at least if you allow it, go under the protection of a man of tried courage, and where he can force his way I can follow.”

“His arm will never fail when you need his protection,” cried Kulluka; “and though his arm may be stiff, it still has strength enough to wield a sword. I both honour and respect the resolution to which you have come. Now prepare for the journey, and you will find me ready to undertake it with you.”

Without delay Iravati gave orders to her servant to hasten all the necessary preparations for the journey, while in a few words she told her the reason for undertaking it. The faithful Nipunika was not a little shocked when she heard the recital, but as she made an attempt to dissuade her dearly loved mistress from the undertaking, Iravati insisted on silence.

“Let me go with you,” entreated she.

“No,” replied Iravati, “that is impossible; to protect one woman is enough for Kulluka and his servant. I have told you of my plan, which for the present must be a secret, in order that, in case I should not return, some one may know where I am, and what I am doing in Kashmir.”

“But would it not be better to ask the Governor for an escort?”

“No, for a few armed men would awaken suspicion; and the Governor cannot spare a strong detachment. We three alone have a far better chance of accomplishing our journey in safety.”

It was not, however, possible to depart at once, for Kulluka’s horses were so fatigued by the distance they had come, that rest was necessary until the following day. Iravati found the hours of waiting long and wearisome: she sat, still dreaming over the one subject that was master of all her thoughts. Suddenly, with a terror which she could not explain to herself, she looked up as she heard the step of some one approaching, and in the next moment the man whom of all others she least expected to see, stood before her—Salim.

“You here!” she cried.

“I am on my way to Bengal,” answered the Prince, “and have arrived at a fortunate moment, to hinder you from carrying out a plan too wild and foolish ever to have found place in the mind of a sensible woman. Through love to you your servant has disobeyed your orders, and begged me to interfere, which I have promised to do.”

“Do not trouble yourself, my lord, with my plans, I entreat,” said Iravati. “I am no longer a child that knows not what it does; and in any case, it is not your duty to watch over me.”

“But I shall do so, for the sake of your welfare, and also—why should I not say it frankly?—because I cannot bear to see you go to my hated rival, who is himself untrue to you. I cannot bear the idea of your showering caresses on this man, if you find him living, when you have rejected me; and therefore I shall make use of my power, and force you to remain here against your will.”

“You can do so, Salim,” answered Iravati, “but you will not. You know well that instead of gaining by so cowardly an exercise of your power you would only lose; you would not win me, nor hasten Siddha’s death by one moment; and this action would draw down upon you my deepest contempt instead of the respect which, until now, I have felt for you, although I could not give you my love. Do you desire this? And not my contempt alone, but also your own. Will you behave as a weak woman who is not master of her own heart, and give way to unreasonable passion? or do you wish to behave as a man who knows how to rule himself, and who, by so doing, shows me he is worthy to reign over others? Choose for yourself; I ask no favour.”

With hasty step Salim paced up and down, while within his breast there was a bitter struggle between duty and passion, honour and self-will. To allow her, whom he had vainly striven to win, to go to his accursed rival was hard, almost beyond his powers. Still she was right; the exercise of his might would avail him nothing, only cause him to lose her respect, which he prized above everything. And then her last words, recalling his noble, generous father’s exhortation, which he had so deeply felt! Self-control, self-denial, the first duties and virtues indispensable to a prince—never before had he considered them seriously; and after his promises to lead a new life, should his first action be one which Iravati, with justice, called a cowardly exercise of power?

“Iravati,” he said, at last, “I submit, as I did before, to your will. What it costs me I need not say. Enough, I obey. Alas! as I said before, why did I not know you earlier? You would have made a different man of me; but this is all over, and I will endeavour to submit to the inevitable. Go, then; though I cannot but consider your resolution as rash, still I admit it to be courageous and noble. One thing more. It is not impossible that you may still find Siddha living, and then I understand only too well that you will be reconciled, and keep the faith you have sworn to him. I shall look upon this with envy, but neither seek vengeance on you nor on him whom you hold dear. Let it be said that the weak and selfish Salim controlled himself, and that the future ruler of Hindustan can rule his own heart. If, sooner or later, you or Siddha Rama have need of my protection, I give my princely word that it shall not fail you. Only one favour I ask of you, though you will receive none from me. Although it may be that we shall never meet again, do not refuse me your friendship, and do not think with anger and contempt of a man whose crimes towards you were caused by the deep love he felt for you.”

He awaited no answer, but hurried away. “My father!” he murmured, “for once at least you have cause to be content with your son.”