It was on a bright fresh morning when Siddha, accompanied by two horsemen, took his way to FathpÚr, charged with the delivery of some letters, too important to be trusted to the hands of an ordinary messenger. The sun shone brightly, but its beams did not burn. In the trees sang many coloured birds, and squirrels and small monkeys sprang from bough to bough. All nature seemed awake and full of joy; and even the peasants met with on the road had exchanged their usual heavy tread for a lighter one, as if they also shared in the joy that reigned around.

But Siddha, once so full of mirth and hope, took no part in it. Sombre and lost in thought, he rode on silently, followed by his attendants. He seemed, indeed, another man from what he was when he first arrived in Agra and joked with Parviz and his friends, listening with sympathy to the confidence of the former about the noble daughter of the Treasurer. With surprise Parviz had remarked the change, though discretion withheld him from making any inquiries; and still more deeply did Siddha himself feel how different all with him now was. How different from the day when Kulluka had seen him spring forward gracefully on his steed, as though he would conquer the world, calling on the loved name of his future bride! How different when a single kiss from Iravati was bliss to him—before he had learned to long for the passionate embraces of a Rezia—when his conscience was pure, and he had no cause for shame in having made himself guilty of treachery, faithlessness, and ingratitude! Sombre indeed were his reflections, for now more than ever suspicion crossed his thoughts. Was Rezia really faithful to him, or did she only treat him as she did her husband, who, far more than he, deserved her love? In truth, did Salim only come to her for state reasons, or were there other motives for his visits? And then the conspiracy, in which Siddha had become more and more entangled. Now that he thought it over it began to assume quite another character; it was not entirely for the defence of his fatherland, but appeared to be directed to very different ends. And had not Rezia, on her own confession, deceived him more than once? and what reason had he now for believing that this time she indeed spoke the truth? Into what new entanglement had he now fallen? and for the perpetration of what crime did he allow himself to be used as a tool?

An exclamation from one of his troopers awoke him from his reflections, and looking in the direction to which the soldier pointed with his lance, he saw in the distance a group of horsemen engaged in combat.

“Forward!” cried Siddha, putting spurs to his horse; and followed by his companions at full gallop, he turned towards the combatants. As he approached, to his astonishment and alarm, he recognised AbÚ-l Fazl, and in the man who sought to cut him down with his sabre Nara Singh, a Raja whom he had met more than once with Prince Salim. Directly the Raja’s followers caught sight of the new comers, a detachment rode to encounter them. Siddha attacked the leading man of the troop, who soon lay with his horse on the ground, pierced by Siddha’s lance. He then drew his sword, and with one blow emptied another saddle. He had harder work with the third, who was an accomplished soldier, and well acquainted with the use of the sword; and while the two troopers were busy with their opponents, others came riding up to the assistance of their comrades. The affair began to look very critical for our three, when Siddha by a fortunate blow placed his enemy hors de combat, and was just ready to receive the new comer, when the retreat was sounded, and they at once turned bridle; but at the same moment that he had felled his opponent and seen the others hurrying up, Siddha beheld AbÚ-l Fazl throw up his arms into the air, letting his sabre fall, and then sink from his horse to the ground. The next moment Nara Singh had called off his soldiers and retreated at a gallop over the plain. Siddha’s first impulse was to pursue the murderers; but on second thoughts he saw that he, with his two men, one of whom was wounded, could do little, while the Minister’s four servants lay stretched out dead on the field, and AbÚ-l Fazl, above all, required his aid.

Springing from his horse, and flinging the reins to one of his followers, he knelt by the side of the wounded man, and loosing his clothes, sought to staunch the blood that flowed from a deep wound in his chest. To his joy AbÚ-l Fazl opened his eyes, and recognised him; but his joy was of short duration.

“Your help, my brave Siddha, comes too late,” he said, in a faint voice; “my work for the Emperor and his kingdom is over. One last command I give you: if you suspect who the murderer is, keep his name from Akbar.”

“Nara Singh,” answered Siddha, “was, I see clearly, only a hireling; the real murderer is—” and here he hesitated to say the name.

“Salim,” continued AbÚ-l Fazl; “I had already been warned against him.”

Exhausted, the dying man sank back in Siddha’s arms; but shortly after, consciousness returned, and he found the strength, though his voice was scarcely audible, to send a last greeting to his imperial friend, whom he had so faithfully served all his life. “Say to Akbar that my last thought was of him, and tell him I die in the firm conviction of the truth of those principles of which we have so often spoken, and so lately as yesterday. The glory of the sun I shall hardly see more, though I feel that the light still lives in me, but that also will be soon extinguished. I do not complain; I believe that I have been in a position to do some good to my fellow-men, though less than I wished, and so I die content. Strive, my young friend, so to live, that you may one day say the same. And now farewell,” whispered the Wazir, after a short pause, gently pressing Siddha’s hand. His head sank on his breast, and Siddha soon felt that his arm only supported a corpse.1

At about the same time, but far away from this spot, another drama was being played, which, though in some respects different from the tragedy of the Wazir, in others resembled it closely. Among the mountains of the HimÁlayas, especially near Badari-natha, a burning heat had for some time reigned. At evening, the beneficent heavenly time, dark rain-clouds appeared, promising drink to the thirsty earth, but they were again driven away by the evil Vritra, the dark demon; and the next day the burning rays of the sun returned to dry up and parch all vegetation. At last the mighty Indra, monarch of the heavens, rose up and prepared himself for the strife. Again at evening the clouds gathered, and again the demon strove to disperse them; then Indra seized his lightning, and flung it among the mountains with so mighty a blow that it re-echoed, rattling and thundering from all sides. Vritra felt the stroke, but would not at once abandon the combat, and only a few heavy rain-drops fell here and there on languishing nature. Again fell the mighty blow, while the mountain tops and valleys were lighted by one dazzling blaze; gigantic trees were cleft in two, and heavy masses of rock were flung down into the ravines. Then the rain fell heavily, and brooks and mountain streams began to swell and rush downwards to the valleys. At last the fearful battle was over, rain ceased to fall, lightning flickered through the twilight, and no sound broke the silence except the rushing of waters.

Then Gurupada, the hermit, left his dwelling, to enjoy the fresh air laden with fragrance. He seated himself beneath his verandah, overgrown with roses and jasmine. He sat there enjoying the peace of nature and the new life which the refreshing rain had called forth; while he thought of the ancient epic of the clouds, with Indra the slayer of Vritra2 as its hero, which floated before his mind, as if it had been a poem of yesterday. Then sombre and disquieting thoughts forced themselves upon him. The accounts that Kulluka had lately brought from Kashmir and Agra filled him with anxiety respecting the future of his dearly-loved country. “And so,” said he to himself, “it must in the end come to what I have so long feared, and hoped to have averted by many years of self-inflicted banishment. A strange ruler is on the point of seizing on our unhappy country, and the road is smoothed to him by our own fatal disunion. He is right from his point of view: he must restore order in a neighbouring State when the anarchy continually causes disturbances in his own empire; and if this cannot be accomplished while the independence of that country is respected, then must it be forced to subjection. But is there in truth nothing that can be done? No, no,” continued he. “Kulluka’s proposal that I should return, and, perhaps supported by Akbar, take the government from the hands of my weak brother—no, that would not do. My return would only be a temporary remedy, even if it were that. And I have become too old and unpractised in the art of ruling again to reign, and, above all, there, where youth and energy are required. Life cannot last much longer; I am weary and long for rest; I have long sighed for union with the immortal Brahma, whence we take our short independent existence, and to which we shall return again.” And Gurupada slowly closed his eyes as he stretched himself upon a soft bed of fresh moss. A flash of lightning, that for a moment lit up the valley and all around, awoke and called him back for a few moments to his reflections.

“And perhaps it is as well that things should indeed go as they seem fated to do. A renewed party warfare, of which the end can never be foreseen, would impoverish our people, and bring our country to ruin. But should it be subjected to a wise and just government, its industries and commerce would revive, and its former prosperity return. Akbar is a prince who knows how to make his subjects happy; and to-day many people bless him who formerly resisted his rule. Yet it is hard for a country to see itself deprived of a liberty which has been its boast for centuries. Ah, that it might be spared me to see this happen to my own country!” So saying, he laid his head down again, with a sigh, and, half listening to the rushing of the brook, fell into a light slumber. All seemed in the deepest rest far and near; there was nothing to disturb the old man’s sleep, except that every now and then he became aware of the humming of an insect, and felt it brush his cheek gently; and then a strange, unaccountable feeling crossed him that he was not alone. Again he looked up, but could see nothing, and even the insect seemed to be driven away by his sudden movement. In a short time it returned, then flew away, and again returned, until the sleeping man took no further notice of it, and gave himself up entirely to slumber. This was not so heavy but that the slightest cause would again awaken him. Suddenly he put one hand to his neck and seized a cord that had been flung round it; with the other he felt around him, and touched a cold, slippery body that had been rubbed with oil. Having freed himself from the cord, he seized his assailant with both hands, but in vain; he slipped through his fingers and appeared to escape. The stillness of night was broken by a sharp cry, answered by a growl, and close by Gurupada saw two fiery balls gleam. In another moment a flash of lightning showed him his tiger Hara, with its powerful claws fixed in the body of a man who lay stretched on the ground.

At the sound of this cry the servant hurried from the house with a torch, the light of which showed Gurupada that his sight had not deceived him; and he at once understood what had happened. The man that lay there had attempted to strangle him; but, just in time, he had felt the cord; and the tiger, driven by some instinct, had followed the Thug as unobserved as he himself had approached the hermit.

“Back! Hara,” cried Gurupada, springing forward and seizing the tiger by the neck; “back, I say.”

At first the animal would not move, and then, slowly and unwillingly obeying the voice of its master, it drew out its claws, and retreated growling, for a few paces, and laid itself down.

With the help of the servant, the hermit lifted the fallen man from the ground, where a blow from the tiger’s paw had laid him; and finding that life still lingered, they placed him carefully on the moss.

“I know this man,” said Gurupada, after having closely examined him. “In the days of my power I showed him many favours and benefits. What could have driven him to this treacherous attack?”

On hearing these words, the wounded man looked up, and gazed attentively and earnestly at the hermit; then murmured, with astonishment, “Nandigupta! is it possible!”

“Nandigupta, in truth,” was the answer. “What induced you to seek my life?”

“My lord and prince,” said the Thug, with a firm voice, “I swear to you by Siva and his holy consort that I knew not who you were, and had long thought you dead. Had I known it, I should never have had the strength or courage to fulfil the behest of Durga, however great the punishment of her anger might have been. But, happily, she herself did not desire your death, and sent this tiger to take my life in the place of yours. Blessed be her name!”

Exhaustion prevented his saying more. With the servant’s help, Gurupada washed and bound, as well as was possible, the terrible wound caused by the tiger’s claws, and having given him drink, and seeing he began to recover a little, Gurupada asked further, “What drove you to this deed? and if you did not know who I was, who told you that Durga desired my death?”

“Gorakh the Yogi,” was the reply.

“Ha! the villain!” murmured Gurupada; “then there must be more behind. So you have become a Thug,” he continued. “I am sorry to see you so led away and blinded. Was I the only one pointed out to you by Gorakh as a chosen sacrifice?”

Pain for a few minutes hindered the wounded man from replying, though his countenance betrayed nothing of what he was suffering. At last he answered and spoke very steadily, with pauses between his words, “The First Minister of Kashmir, Salhana’s brother, is also chosen; but his death is entrusted to my brother, who is also well known to you. Should he fail, then I am to carry it out.”

“And has your brother started for Kashmir?”

“He left me yesterday a little distance from here, and took his way towards the north.”

“On foot?”

“Yes.”

“Are any others acquainted with these orders respecting the Minister and me?”

“No one else knows. Only when it is known that we have failed will the task be entrusted to others.”

Gurupada signed to his servant, and went on one side with him.

“Go,” he said, “and saddle your horse at once. You must instantly set off on a journey.”

A low, suppressed groan called him back to the side of the wounded man.

“My lord,” he murmured, “I have only a few minutes to live; and I ask you to add one more favour to the many I have enjoyed at your hands: say that you forgive me.”

“I forgive you, unhappy man,” answered Gurupada; “I know you were nothing but a tool in the hands of others.”

“Then I die happy, and with a foretaste of bliss enter into immortal life, assured of the grace of the goddess both to you and me, through the wonder she has worked in receiving me as a sacrifice in your place. Holy Trinity, holy Durga!” cried he, in a louder voice, and stretching out his arms as though animated with fresh strength; “receive me into the temple of your glory! I come!” With these words he fell back motionless, and the faithful follower of the Goddess of Destruction was no more.

For some time the hermit remained gazing at the lifeless body, to which, in the wavering light, its emaciation, dark colour, and forehead marked with the red and white symbols of Siva, gave a ghostly aspect.

“To what,” he muttered, “cannot religion or fanaticism lead! it turns otherwise good and quiet people into criminals, murderers, and mad-men. Still this man is in no way to be pitied; he died as a martyr, in the full conviction of being received into endless happiness. But the hypocrites, the shameless villains, such as Gorakh, who make use of such simple souls as tools wherewith to execute their accursed plans, what of them? What do they deserve but a war of destruction? Yet no,” he continued, shaking his head, “that would not be right. No mercy where a crime has been committed or attempted; but no persecution when it is only threatened. Who can place the limit where a religious sect becomes dangerous, and where it is not?” Here the return of the servant interrupted his thoughts.

“Help me,” he said, “to carry this man who lies here. He is dead, but I do not wish that Hara should devour him, which otherwise he certainly will do; and when we have finished, then to horse. Hasten you to Kashmir, to warn the Minister of what we have learnt; and endeavour to trace out the brother of this man, whom you well know. Seek to hinder him in his undertaking, and to prevent his communicating with any of his associates. If you can, also discover where Gorakh is; do not spare him for a moment: the wretch doubly deserves the cord he prepares for the necks of others.”

“But, honoured master,” asked the servant, with hesitation, “must I leave you entirely alone here in the wilderness? It seems that your place of refuge is now discovered, and there may be fresh attempts on your life. Must I leave you, just at this moment when I might be of service?”

“My best friend,” answered Gurupada, smiling, “do not disturb yourself about me. What is my life in comparison with the greater interests that depend on the speedy execution of your mission? I am here as safe as with you for my guard, at least as long as Hara lives. You have seen how brave a guard he is. I would not advise any more of these marauders to show themselves in the neighbourhood. Hara now knows those kind of people, and is not inclined to allow them to come here in peace. Is your horse ready?”

“Yes, lord.”

“Well, quickly away. First, help me with our work here.”