“Form quickly,” said the commandant of the RajpÚts, as he stood in the court of the fortress, while the cavalry fell into rank; “and then march for the field where the Emperor reviews the troops to-day.”

This order was obeyed without delay, and, when outside the fortification, they broke into a trot, until they reached a plain, at some little distance from the town, where the review was to be held. A splendid sight lay stretched out before Siddha, as, at the head of his detachment, he ascended a small hill. On the right was a whole town, as it were, of tents; long, broad streets, laid out with the utmost regularity. In the middle stood the imperial tent, made of red cloth, with a gilded dome-shaped roof,—if one might call a palace of cloth and wood a tent; and on the left, brilliant with many colours, were drawn up the different army corps—some horsemen in armour and some without, some armed with lances and some with guns; and there stood the artillery and war elephants; and further off, other elephants with luxurious hauda, on whose cushions were seated ladies, most of them veiled, who had come to see the spectacle.

Soon after the arrival of the RajpÚts the troops moved forward, and, preceded by their bands, defiled before the Emperor and his staff. Siddha did not hesitate long before deciding which was the Emperor among that brilliant group of officers, their arms and horse-trappings glittering with gold and jewels. Unmistakable was his whole bearing—a robust man on a splendid white horse, with the commander’s staff in his hand, standing a few steps in advance of the others, his standard and umbrella bearer behind him. Instantly Siddha recognised in the mighty ruler the man with whom he had spoken in the gardens of the palace, a suspicion of whose real rank had for a moment crossed his mind.

When his turn came to pass before the Emperor with his men, he bent his head and pointed his lance to the ground, as he had seen others do; and stealing a glance at the Emperor, saw a smile pass over his stern features, from which he gathered that Akbar had not taken ill his bold words, and he remembered that excepting a passing outburst of anger, his interlocutor had maintained during the whole interview a frank and friendly tone. He came to the conclusion that he had no cause to dread his presentation to the Emperor, which Faizi had warned him would most likely take place after the review. This expectation was soon fulfilled. No sooner had the halt been sounded, a sign that the troops might for a time repose, than Siddha saw Faizi beckon, and on joining him he was guided through tents, the magnificence of which rivalled that of the palace itself; and a few minutes later he found himself in presence of the Emperor. Faizi was not a little surprised at seeing Akbar, without waiting for the official presentation, step forward to meet Siddha, replying to his reverential greeting with a gracious movement of his hand, and say, “Well, I saw you at the head of your troop, and it seems to me that you will turn out a good officer. Take care that my expectations are fulfilled. I have already made acquaintance with your friend,” he continued, turning to Faizi; “we met a few days ago, although at the time he had no idea who I was.”

“Even had I known it, Sire,” said Siddha, respectfully, “I could not have regarded your Majesty with more reverence than I did the unknown stranger.”

“But perhaps spoken a little less freely,” said Akbar, smiling. “However, there is no harm done, and I had far rather hear what men think of me than guess what they say behind my back. Our former meeting induces me to command, or rather to request, for what I wish cannot be forced, that now you know me, you will trust me as you did when I was a stranger. You see to-day that your confidence was not misplaced. Turn to me, and not to others, when you think that you have cause of complaint against me or mine. I never refuse to hear grievances: if they are groundless I try to refute them; if real, to redress them. Boldness and free speaking, my friend Faizi here can bear witness, never arouse my anger, however much dissimulation and falsehood may do so.”

After some questions and replies regarding the particulars of Siddha’s service, the Emperor signified that the audience was at an end, and they took their leave, Faizi not a little bewildered about this first meeting, a full account of which his young companion soon gave him.

“You are indeed a child of fortune,” said Faizi; “such things do not happen to every one, however easy of access Akbar is, and however willingly he enters into conversation. You seem to have made a favourable impression on him, and that rejoices me from my heart. But do I not see Parviz approaching? Yes, indeed; but what can he be doing here? Well,” continued he to his nephew, “what is my lord the future councillor doing here among warriors in their tents?”

“As much as my worthy uncle the philosopher,” answered Parviz; “but I willingly confess that I can rival him as little in statecraft and learning as in deeds of arms.”

“No compliments, my nephew,” answered the other, laughing; “they are not fitting between us. But shall I tell you my suspicions? That you have come to have a glance at those beautifully decorated elephants yonder: the lovely daughter of Todar Mal is perhaps not unaccustomed to your appearance, although you are supposed never to have seen her.”

“Uncle, now in my turn I say, no betrayal of my secrets! However,” added Parviz, good-naturedly, “I have none from my friend Siddha, and all the more, that I am sure of his sympathy whenever he thinks of his no less dearly loved betrothed, though I am less fortunate than he; and even if I hope to find favour in the eyes of the daughter, I am not so sure of doing so in those of the father.”

“That will all come right in time,” remarked Faizi, good-naturedly; “but enough at present of our confidences. See, here come others, for whose ears they are not intended.”

“Who is that?” asked Siddha, as he saw a group of horsemen approach, in the centre of which rode a young man but a few years older than himself, and whose appearance for more than one reason attracted his attention. He was dressed with the most luxurious splendour: over his coat of gold cloth he wore no less than four necklaces of pearls of unwonted size; his turban was ornamented by a heron’s feather and three jewels of priceless worth. On his arms, up to the elbows, were clasped numerous bracelets, all set with precious stones; and on each finger was a ring; while his weapons and horse-trappings were a mass of pearls and diamonds. But in strange contrast to all this splendour was the wearied white face, its sallowness still more marked by the jet-black eyes and finely pencilled moustache and eyebrows. Originally the features must have been noble and beautiful, but they were ruined and aged before their time, and bore signs of many a night spent in dissipation and riot.

“What, do you not know him?” answered Faizi; “that is Salim, the Emperor’s son and heir.”

With a silent greeting the Prince was about to ride by, but a sudden thought striking him, he drew in his horse by Faizi, and said, “Sirs, I am glad to meet you here; I expect some friends this evening in my palace to a feast, will you also give me the pleasure of your presence?”

“The invitation,” answered Faizi, “would be to me a command, if a still higher one did not prevent me from obeying: the Emperor has invited me for this evening.”

“And so you will give my father another lesson from your unbelieving philosophers; is it not so?” said Salim, with a half-contemptuous smile, not quite pleased with the refusal.

“What I myself may do,” was the answer, “can depend on the will of your Highness; but what the Emperor may think good to do is, it appears to me, above your opinion and above mine. Also there may be a question as to which evening will be most profitably spent.”

“Now do not be angry, noble Faizi,” said Salim, good-naturedly. “I mean no harm; and if I leave your evening alone, let me have mine. And you, Parviz,” said he, turning to him, “have you also some important business to prevent your enjoying some innocent amusement?”

“Certainly not,” answered Parviz, “and even if I had, I would desire nothing better than to thrust it on one side before the pleasure of a feast in Salim’s palace. But allow me, if it is not indiscreet, to present to your Highness a new friend of mine.” And signing to Siddha to approach, he announced his name and rank.

“Oh yes,” said Salim, “I remember hearing of his arrival; and if you,” he continued, turning to Siddha, “will accompany your friend this evening, it will give me pleasure.”

“It will be both honour and pleasure to me,” said Siddha, bowing respectfully.

“There is not much honour in it,” said Salim, “I am of no consequence at this court; still I hope that our meeting may give you pleasure. Till this evening, then.” And turning his horse the Prince rode off, followed by his retinue.

“And allow me also, honoured friend,” said Siddha, “to take my leave; it is time that I should return to my troop.”

“If you will,” said Parviz, “come and fetch me this evening; my dwelling is on the way, and we can go together.”

“With pleasure,” answered the other, as he turned away to return to his post.

Though Siddha had anticipated that Salim’s palace would be one of great splendour, yet his expectations were far outstripped by the unheard-of luxury which surrounded him on all sides, as he passed through different ante-rooms and rows of servants, before reaching the brilliantly lighted hall where the Prince welcomed his friends. In spite of the richness of the imperial palace, there was something grave and sober about it; but here, on the contrary, in the midst of Moorish architecture and sparkling decoration, all breathed of luxury and the search after boundless enjoyment. Many coloured hangings of silk and gold hung from the finely cut arches, and the marble walls were partly covered with variegated mosaic work and gilding; thick masses of flowers spread fragrance around; broad mirrors reflected back the light, while the foot sank deep in soft carpets of fantastic designs; luxurious divans wooed the passer-by to repose; and there at his hand were drinking-cups of open-worked gold and crystal, and porphyry and marble coolers of every form. On one side of the hall was a kind of stage, lighted with coloured lamps, where dancers and players were to perform. All this formed a picture that at first sight would strike the beholder with surprise, however accustomed he might be to the palaces of India.

Salim quickly caught sight of the new comers among the other guests, who stood talking in groups, while others reclined on divans, and advancing towards them, he said, “You are right welcome to my humble dwelling, and I hope that this evening will afford you enjoyment; but let me tell you that etiquette has nothing to do with pleasure, and here we are all friends.”

The Prince turned away, and at the same moment Siddha saw approach a well-known but unexpected figure—that of Salhana, Governor of Allahabad.

“Well, nephew,” he said, giving him his hand, “I am very glad to meet you here; I have just arrived, and found an invitation from the Prince awaiting me.”

“And how goes all yonder?” asked Siddha; “and how is——”

“Iravati,” interrupted Salhana. “Very well; she sends her greetings. But see, there comes a man whose acquaintance you must make; he is not much seen at court, but, for all that, is a man well worth knowing.”

No introduction was necessary, for the man was no other than Abdul Kadir, Badaoni, the Islam fanatic, whom Siddha had already met in the imperial park with Akbar. To his astonishment this man greeted his uncle with courtesy, although he was an unbeliever like himself; and even to his share fell a recognition which could not be considered uncourteous.

“I have already met your nephew accidentally,” said Abdul Kadir, as Salhana was about to introduce him; “and I hope,” he continued to Siddha, “that you regard the words I then spoke in the sense I gave them, for you see now that persons are not hated by me, however much I combat the false doctrines they hold.”

“I honour your feelings, noble Sir,” said Siddha, “although I regret that you are not one with us; perhaps——”

“Perhaps what?” began Abdul Kadir, angrily.

“No, no, my friends,” interposed Salhana; “no disputes, I pray, over your different beliefs. Think rather of the grave dangers which threaten us all, we Hindus as well as you true sons of the Prophet, should the plans be carried out in true earnest that the higher powers now think of.”

Some others, apparently trusted acquaintances of Salhana and the Muhammadan, had joined the speakers, forming a thick ring around them, while Parviz and some young friends had gone to the other end of the hall.

“Let us consider,” continued Salhana, in a low but audible voice, “how we should bear ourselves should our otherwise honoured Emperor attempt, as is probable, to force upon us a religion alike abhorrent to our feelings, customs, and morals. Will you Muhammadans, the present rulers of the land, deny Allah, and kneel in adoration before the sun and stars, and perhaps——”

“By the beard of the Prophet,” began Abdul Kadir, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, “we should——”

“Let that be as it may,” interrupted the other; “there are still worse things. Consider the words ‘AllÁhu Akbar’1 we now find on our coins and firmans; they are innocent enough if you understand them as ‘God is great,’ but far different if you read them in the sense of ‘Akbar is God.’”

“That goes indeed too far,” broke out Abdul Kadir, in bitter anger.

But Salhana again interposed.

“Let us be calm,” he said; “we have at present only to do with suppositions, which may, as I hope, turn out to be groundless. But should it be so, could you, and would you, submit?”

This question was addressed as much to those standing around as to Abdul Kadir, and made a deep impression on Siddha. That Akbar had thought of founding a new religion had already come to his ears; but could it be that he thought of using force as an aid to conversion; was this possible?

“Therefore,” concluded Salhana, “let there be no division between us; let us consider together, and by unanimity and the use of legitimate measures we may ward off the dangers that threaten us, through the excited imagination of an otherwise excellent sovereign being worked on by fanatics and intriguers. But I believe that the Prince already signs to us that the feast is about to begin. Let us for the moment break off our conversation; I shall remain at your command, my lords. Perhaps I am in error; from my heart I wish that it may turn out so.”

As the guests were taking their places on the divans, Siddha heard, in passing one of the groups of talkers, a few words that attracted his attention—“And Kashmir,” asked one of the speakers; “is she informed?”

“Thoroughly,” was the reply; “the mine is almost ready to be sprung.”

“And the letter?”

“Is in the best of hands.”

Other guests divided Siddha from the two whose conversation he had accidentally heard, and he was soon seated, not far from Salhana, but divided from him by several young people, with whom he was soon in conversation; while servants carried round various refreshments, and rich wines flowed in the golden drinking-cups. Now and then the words he had heard crossed his mind, but their meaning was dark. Could they refer to secret divisions in his native land, which, according to Salhana were stirred up by Akbar. And the letter! Involuntarily his thoughts turned to Rezia’s letter that he had entrusted to Kulluka; but what could that have to do with state affairs? His attention was soon engrossed by the dancers who, accompanied by musicians, appeared on the stage at the end of the hall. Their bronze-coloured arms and necks were bare, while a long robe fell to their feet. To the music of stringed instruments and cymbals, they commenced one of those dances so dear to both Indians and Muhammadans, and which they can watch unwearied for hours. Now and then, for a change, their places were taken by singers, who treated their audience with extracts from the Persian poets, which Salim and his friends listened to with great pleasure, but which to Siddha appeared a little monotonous.

“Where is Rembha,” at last asked the Prince, “that she does not come and sing a few translated passages from an old Indian poem, that you, Siddha, doubtless know well—I mean the Gita Govinda?”

“Oh yes,” answered Siddha; “the pastoral of Jayadeva, which describes the adventures of the god Krishna with the shepherdesses, and his reconciliation with the beautiful Radha. I have myself attempted a translation.”2

“Let us listen,” said Salim; “here comes Rembha.” And on the stage appeared a dark but beautiful young woman, in rich and luxurious costume; and, accompanied by soft music, she began half to sing, half to recite, the following:

“The poetry and the meaning,” said Salim, as the singer paused, “leave nothing to be desired; but what, noble Siddha, do you think of the translation?”

“Not bad,” he answered; “the imagery and spirit are well and freely given, even if here and there the word are not exactly followed; but that, I believe, in the poetry of the present day, would be difficult if not impossible. Is not the name of the translator known?”

“It is Faizi, with whom I saw you talking this morning,” said the Prince, smiling at the confusion painted on Siddha’s cheeks at hearing these words and thinking of the rather magisterial opinion he had just expressed. “Do not be disturbed,” continued he; “Faizi will not take it ill that you do not consider his work faultless; but, on the contrary, will be grateful for any corrections. Now, Rembha, let us hear one piece more, and then for this evening we will not trouble you again.”

“This,” said the singer, “is the complaint of the forsaken Radha to her friend:

For a short moment Rembha paused, and then continued in a slightly altered measure, and with a softer and sadder tone in her sweet voice, as though she from her heart threw herself into the rÔle of the loving Radha.

Universal applause greeted the singer as she concluded: the beauty of the words, so fully expressed by her voice and bearing, came home to them all.

“Then follows the reconciliation of Krishna and Radha, does it not?” said Salim, “but that we will have another time. Tell me, worthy Abdul Kadir,” he continued, perhaps not without intention, “does the Hindu poetry give you as much pleasure as our own, or, like others of the Faithful, have you a horror of the false ideas proclaimed by these Hindus?”

“With poets,” answered Abdul Kadir, with difficulty suppressing his anger, “I have not much to do; and our Holy Prophet, blessed be his name, cursed with good reason the impious Amru-l Kais,7 however highly his Mullakat was famed by others. But that the Hindus, not content with writing the wanton poetry we have just heard, should dare to hold up such beings as Krishna and Radha as objects of worship, appears to me too gross.”

Just as Siddha was about to attempt to show the fanatic that there was a difference between mythology and true worship, between poetry and faith, Salim hindered further discussion by saying—“No theology, gentlemen, I beg; let us leave that to my honoured father, who is, at this moment, I believe, occupied with the learned Faizi, and, it may be, with other philosophers also; but we younger ones have met together to pass a merry evening. Ho! you singers and players! A drinking song, and a gay one too, that may bring back the right tone amongst us; and let wine flow to rejoice our hearts. That no anger may linger in your mind, noble Abdul Kadir, think that even a poet, whom our great Prophet did not curse, and who is honoured amongst us,—think that Tarafa8 sang:

And why should we not follow the good advice?”

The sullen Muhammadan muttered behind his beard, but dared say nothing, for he had need of Salim, as the latter well knew, as an ally in the troubles that might arise from Akbar’s forsaking the faith. He was silent, therefore, and ended with consoling himself for his wrongs by drinking as deeply as any, in spite of what the Prophet might have said.

The other guests made good use of their time, and the drinking-cups were no sooner emptied than they were refilled. Then the singers and bayadires, at a sign from Salim, mingled in the gay company, and took their places on the divans amongst them.

The beautiful Rembha seated herself by Siddha, and before long they were in conversation. He discovered her not only to be accomplished but good-hearted, from the compassionate manner in which she spoke of the unfortunate dancers, who, though not slaves in reality, were sold in their earliest years by their parents to the highest bidders, and then passed from one to another like so much merchandise, leading a life but little better than real slavery.

“And though,” she said, frankly, “in the beginning mine was the same fate, fortunately I had a talent for music. My patron gave me a thorough education in it; and now I can support myself by means of my art. And when,” she continued, smiling, “I become old and ugly, then——”

“Then what?” cried Siddha, who had listened with sympathy to all she said.

“Oh no,” answered Rembha, “I know what you mean, and you forget yourself. When I become old and ugly, I need not descend to a life of adventure; being a Hindu of high caste, there will be no difficulty in finding employment in one of the temples to superintend the dancers and singers kept by the priests for their ceremonials.”

Here the words were interrupted by a wilder and louder burst of music, and when it ceased other guests and women joined in the talk. But now the conversation became less guarded, and many an expression met Siddha’s ear that until now was unknown to him, but the meaning of which he soon caught. By degrees he also began to lose his sense of decorum. Here and there lay a reveller, still clasping his empty goblet, and quite unconscious of all around. And there on the divan were groups whose bearing showed no recollection of the high presence in which they found themselves.

But the Prince had long ceased to take much notice of what went on around him; he had thrown himself carelessly back between two dancers, one of whom played with the hilt of his dagger, while the other examined the many bracelets on his arms. One of these he unclasped and flung at her, tossing at the same time two costly pearls, he had torn from his coat, to her companion; then filling high his goblet, he drained it to the last drop, and sank back senseless on his cushion. And now, as the conversation became more confused, so also it became louder and louder, while the music played, and the wine flowed in streams; and our Siddha, overcome by the noise, and heavy perfume of flowers, and still more perhaps by the wine, by degrees remarked less and less all that went on around him. But a heavy hand laid suddenly on his shoulder aroused him from his stupefaction. It was Salhana, who had approached him unnoticed.

“Come,” he said, “it is time we departed; on occasions like these who can tell what quarrels or disputes may break out?”

“Yes,” answered Siddha, with hesitating speech; “but can we go before the Prince gives the sign for leave-taking?”

“The Prince!” answered Salhana, contemptuously: “look! and judge whether he is likely to know or care whether we go or remain.”

He glanced towards Salim, who reclined on a divan with closed eyes, his arm hanging over the cushion, while a few paces from him lay his newly-filled goblet that had fallen from his hand and rolled on the carpet. Though Siddha did his best, he could not see Salim; or, if he did, it appeared to him there were two Salims; and without resisting he let his uncle lead him from the hall, and assist him into a palanquin which awaited them at the door; and after giving directions to the bearers, Salhana, who had certainly not drunk less than his nephew, turned, with a firm and steady tread, towards his dwelling. As he passed through one of the narrow streets he saw under the shadow of a house a tall thin figure, which, after looking cautiously around, left its hiding-place and approached him—it was Gorakh the Yogi.

“Does all go well?” he asked.

“Nothing could be better,” was the reply. “Our cause prospers; I cannot yet give particulars, but when I know more, and certainly in case we have need of you and your followers, you shall be warned at once.”

“And our young simpleton? keep your eye upon him, for I believe he has suspicions of our understanding. When he is once with us that will not signify. But tell me, is the bird in the trap?”

“Not yet,” answered Salhana; “but it will not be long before he is.”

Gorakh laughed, and the men parted, each going his own way.