Faizi’s excuse for refusing the Prince’s invitation was no feigned one, for at the moment when Salim’s guests were assembling he was awaiting very different company in the private apartments of the Emperor. Preceded by a servant a man entered, by whose garb any one from the West would at once have recognised a Catholic Priest. It was the Padre Rudolf Aquaviva, head of the Jesuit Mission, and deputed to the court of Agra by the Father Provincial.1

“You are welcome, worthy Father,” said Akbar, returning his greeting; “welcome in the name of the Great Being whom we both worship, although in different ways. I hope,” he continued, “that the journey has not wearied you.”

“I am grateful to your Majesty for the interest you take in me,” answered Aquaviva. “Our journey, fortunately, has been accomplished without accident, although my health is feeble; but it is fitting that insignificant man should bear, without murmuring, what the Lord appoints.”

“In that I agree with you,” said Akbar; “but I have to thank you for the books that in your absence you were so good as to send me—your evangelists’ and other writings. My friend Faizi here, who doubtless you remember, has translated the greater part of them for me, and I assure you that we have carefully read them, together with AbÚ-l Fazl.”

“And,” asked the Padre, gazing earnestly into the Emperor’s face, “may we hope that the seed is fallen in good soil?”

“I believe that I can answer yes,” said Akbar. “Some of your holy books I prize very highly, now that I have made closer acquaintance with them. What beautiful, elevated truth they contain, and noble ideas, almost beyond our grasp (which, however, are not entirely wanting in the teaching of Islam). What a noble, pure conception of self-denial and self-sacrifice, and, above all, what a pure idea of love and charity! and this is entirely wanting in the Koran. After this I can hardly tell you how far above Muhammadanism I place Christianity.”

“The Lord be praised!” said the Jesuit, clasping his hands, and casting his eyes up to heaven. “That is the right way; first error recognised by comparison with truth, then is the soul steadfast. And how should it be possible that a man like Akbar, who is not only a powerful prince but a wise and learned scholar, should not be able to distinguish truth from lies?”

“I am flattered by your good opinion,” said Akbar; “but am afraid I shall fall in it when you hear what I have to add to the words I have already spoken. Still I must say it, for I wish to act openly and fairly with you. Though I expressed my warm admiration of much that is to be found in your holy books, yet that does not prevent me from being ready to welcome all that is good and beautiful in other creeds: for example, some of the original Vedic ideas that are still extant.”

“What!” cried Aquaviva, with irrepressible agitation,—“the terrible idolaters?”

“I acknowledge,” replied Akbar, calmly, “that there are many amongst them to whom the name is appropriate; but that is not the case with all. Am I not right, Faizi?”

“Most certainly,” was the answer; “and no one knows that better than my Emperor himself. He, as well as I, worthy Father, can testify to you that in these religions there is more than one passage, touching the points already mentioned, which are not inferior to your Christianity.”

“It is impossible,” said Aquaviva, firmly.

“And why impossible?” asked Faizi, smiling. “Are you intimately acquainted with all the religious systems?”

“All I know of them,” said the Padre, “is what I have seen here and there; but I neither wish nor need a closer acquaintance with them; what purpose could it serve? And can there be more than one truth?”

“That speaks for itself,” said Akbar; “but the question is, what is truth, and where is it to be found? Is it only to be found in one religious system, or scattered through many? You naturally will answer that you alone are in possession of truth; but then, I ask, what are your grounds for saying so?”

“The truth,” replied Aquaviva, “has been declared to us by Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

“So you say,” was the answer; “but my friend Abdul Kadir says that the truth was revealed to him through Muhammad the great Prophet; and if your Christ is really the Son of God, it would be well you should prove it, before calling upon him as such.”

“And,” added Faizi, “our Vishnuvites here say that truth was declared to them, not only by wise and holy men, but also through different incarnations of the Deity.”

“The authority of the one true Church rests on the Bible, the Word of God,” said Aquaviva.

“That again,” answered Akbar, “resembles the authority of the Koran, the Khalifas and Ulamahs, and the authority of the canonical books, and the teachings of the Vishnuvites, of whom Faizi spoke just now.”

“But surely the faith that stands firmly is of importance?”

“So are also all of like strength.”

“There is no doubt but that Christianity is far older than the teaching of Islam.”

“Yes, but not quite so ancient as the Vedas, on whose authority is founded the religious teaching of which we have just spoken. Buddhism is also far more ancient than Christianity; and while that, and I believe other religions, agree with yours in the teaching of true humanity, and also, to a wonderful degree, with the ceremonials of your church service, they go far beyond it in tolerance.”

“In this manner we shall make no progress,” remarked the Padre, angrily, in spite of his respect for the Emperor, in whose presence he was.

“No; I agree with you there, worthy Father,” said Akbar, with a slight smile; “but perhaps all would be better if you would study our different faiths, and give yourself the same trouble that we have not spared ourselves in making acquaintance with the religion of our country. We could then at least compare the different teachings, and so in the end decide on their comparative worth.”

“It was not for that purpose I came here,” answered the apostle of the heathen; “I was sent to preach the gospel, and save souls from destruction.”

“And in that,” said Akbar, in his usual calm tone, “I wish you all success; but I doubt whether you will achieve much if you simply seek to force on others what you yourself hold for truth, without inquiring what they on their side may consider true.”

“I believe,” said Aquaviva, not alarmed at the difficulties in his way, “in the irresistible power of conviction possessed by our faith alone, which in the end can soften the most obdurate hearts, be they those of atheists or idolators.”

“You mean by the teachings of your belief, do you not?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, however much this teaching differs from that of the other religions we have mentioned, I am but little inclined to share the implicit faith you place in it. I respect all; and on those points where you find other creeds to agree with your own there can be no strife, and your work of conversion will be unnecessary. What do you think, friend Faizi, is it not so? You are a man of calm judgment, not an idealist as I or even our worthy Aquaviva, therefore your opinion is for us of great weight.”

Whether the worthy Aquaviva agreed in this is very doubtful; however, he could not refuse to listen to Faizi, who thus began:—

“I do not think, Sire, that your Majesty requires any confirmation of your words from me. Still, I must assure the Padre, although in doing so I take from him his dearest illusions, that even though he may here and there make a convert, yet his teaching will never take root, neither among the Muhammadans nor among those it pleases him to call heathen. Those who cling alone to the dogma of the unity of God can never agree with what he inculcates about the Trinity, three persons in one God. There are others to whom this dogma will be less unacceptable, as they already worship the Great Being under more forms than one; but they will find other points which they also will never receive. For example, worthy Father, they will never allow it to be possible that God created man to let him fall, and that He offers Himself or His Son as a sacrifice, to save man; or that He created man as if He did not know that man would fall; and that by such extraordinary means of redemption alone could Divine justice and Divine love be again brought into harmony. They would, excuse me for saying so, consider such representations as utterly senseless, and feel no inclination for their sake to say farewell to the faith handed down to them by their fathers, which they find simpler and more rational. On the other hand, if you were content only to inculcate your doctrine of sin and reconciliation, and much of the same kind of teaching that I will not now allude to, and to declare nothing but your Christian morality, your ideas of humanity, of self-denial, and of love of man, to which all should gladly be sacrificed—when you have taught all this, it is nothing new here; and to say the least, your preaching is superfluous.”

“But,” said Aquaviva, “we hold fast by the truth we declare—the one truth that can save lost man and doomed souls from the eternal punishment of hell; and for this we are ready, here and everywhere, to take up our cross and suffer reproach for the sake of Jesus Christ, even should it be to the same martyr’s death that He and so many of His saints after Him have suffered.”

“But of that,” said Akbar, laying his hand on the arm of the angry and enthusiastic fanatic, “there can be no question as long as I reign over Hindustan; nor, do I think, have you met with scorn anywhere under my government. On the contrary, honour has been shown you, an honour so high that many are jealous of it; and you enjoy the fullest liberty to declare your faith when and where you will. But we spoke, if I do not deceive myself, of the chances of your doctrines prevailing over those already professed in this country, and these, I must confess with Faizi, appear to me but slight.”

“Still,” Aquaviva ventured to remark, “if your Majesty would set the example.”

“But I must first be convinced,” said Akbar; “or do you wish that I should declare with my mouth what my heart denies?”

“Certainly I do,” the other answered, “wild and absurd as the wish may appear; however, I do not urge it. But I had so hoped, so believed that the reading of the holy writings would have rendered the noble soul of Hindustan’s wise ruler steadfast in the one true faith that alone can save his soul and ours from eternal perdition. And now I see my most cherished hopes lie shattered. Is it not, then, to be excused if I have expressed myself too strongly?”

“There is no need of excuse, my worthy friend,” said Akbar; “I can quite understand your feelings. But I never said that I would not listen to you; on the contrary, I will willingly give you the opportunity of convincing me, if you can. For the present our conversation must cease; but let us regard this evening as the forerunner of others to come. This time we have touched on too many topics; on our next meeting we will keep to one distinct point, and who knows to what your learning and eloquence may bring me?”

If irony was mixed with the Emperor’s grave words, neither his voice nor bearing betrayed it. All that the Jesuit remarked was that the audience was over, and thanking the Emperor for the honour he had done him in listening to his words, he respectfully took his leave.

“All are the same,” said Akbar to Faizi, when they were alone; “if we listen to Abdul Kadir or Aquaviva, it is always authority, faith, revelation, never one word of reason or judgment, or of reasons founded on knowledge or experience. Still I always converse gladly with these zealots. From books we can learn the various theories of man’s connection with the infinite; but the living words of the professors of the various persuasions teach us far more.”

“Certainly,” replied Faizi; “but as to this constant reference to authority and revelation, is it not natural and unavoidable in those who, not content with the lessons of experience and reason, seek the solution of the enigma of life in their own imaginations? If they are shown the groundlessness or senselessness of their propositions, what remains to them but to take refuge in the authority of a revelation declared and handed down to them by their forefathers? But it is singular that contradiction so seldom leads to the study and criticism of their own doctrines; were it to do so, they would soon become aware of the vanity of their theories. Proudly and defiantly the towers and pinnacles of their temple rise into the clouds, but examination would show them that the foundations are laid in the shifting sands of phantasy.”

For some moments after Faizi ceased to speak Akbar was silent; on resuming the conversation, he said—

“I believe you are right, Faizi; still I have a sympathy with the people you reproach. And it may be that in some moment of enthusiasm and poetical imagination we may be carried away to the discovery of truth that we shall afterwards find to be supported by reason and knowledge. But for the present no more of this; we have other things to attend to, and presently I expect AbÚ-l Fazl, who has some important communication to make.”

On a subsequent evening another interview took place at Agra, which had nothing in common with that just described, except that it also was hidden from indiscreet eyes and ears.

After his first interview with Rezia, Siddha had more than once sought for the servant who had guided him to her dwelling. At last he met her in the neighbourhood of the imperial gardens, and received anew from her an invitation to visit her mistress, which he hastened to accept. Since then the visits had been repeated, following one upon another, until at last the day that passed without Siddha sitting beside Rezia in the verandah appeared to him empty and void. All that Agra had to offer him of beauty and pleasure; however great the delight he took in the favour of AbÚ-l Fazl, and, later, in that of the Emperor himself; or the pleasure of conversation with Faizi, whose house was always open to him, and who treated him as a trusted friend; or the amusement he found in the society of Parviz and that of his joyous comrades; all sank to nothing in comparison with the quiet dwelling of the lonely Armenian. That the image of Iravati retired more and more into the background was not strange, nor that Rezia speedily became to him more than a pleasant, entertaining acquaintance; nor was she herself entirely insensible to the unconcealed homage of the young chief. A feeling of terror had overcome him when he first made the discovery that, instead of loving her as a dear friend, his feelings for her had in them a depth and passion that until that moment he had never known; but he had soon become accustomed to this thought, and from that moment only one desire was master of his soul, that of calling her his, and knowing that his love was returned.

On a certain evening Siddha was again seated on a divan beside his fascinating hostess; before them was a low table decked with fresh fruits and sparkling wine in golden drinking-cups. She seemed lovelier than ever to him, deeper than ever the expression of her soft blue eyes, that now full of tenderness, and now with an indescribable fire, gazed up at him, and then again were hidden under the shadow of long, silken eyelashes. The scent of roses and jasmine filled the air, and moonlight, almost as bright as day, fell on the verandah, and silvered the groups of trees and fountains in the garden.

“Siddha,” said Rezia, with sudden gravity, interrupting their gay, laughing conversation, “you once did me a great service in undertaking that my letter should safely reach Kashmir; can I now ask of you a second, which, I tell you beforehand, may be of more consequence to yourself?”

“Command, and I obey,” said Siddha, without hesitation; “whatever you may desire, do not doubt but that I will endeavour to fulfil it.”

“Prudence, my friend,” said Rezia, playfully lifting up her finger; “you are committing yourself before you know what I require; and you do this because, from your high rank and assured position at court, you think you can look down on what a simple woman like me can wish, and assume that the question is only how some one of my whims may be gratified; but in this you may be mistaken.”

“I swear to you,” was the impetuous answer, “no such thought crossed my mind. Now, then, demand what you will, and I obey your commands.”

“Well,” said Rezia, approaching her worshipper a little nearer, “you are perhaps more concerned in what I wish than I am myself. You imagine, perhaps, that I, leading this solitary life, know nothing of what goes on in the palaces of Agra and the Emperor’s council. Accidental relations with people of high station give me the opportunity of knowing more than you perhaps suspect—more than you know of your own concerns, and of what should be known to your country and your people.”

“I believe,” said Siddha, “that I know what you mean; you allude to plans that may be formed to destroy the independence of Kashmir, as the many party divisions there give hopes that such plans may succeed.”

“You are right,” was the answer; “but what you do not seem to know is, that these plans are already ripe, that the imperial army is ready for the invasion, and that you yourself are destined to serve against your country and people; for your influence among the faithful RajpÚts, and your well-known name, will be important, should you remain blindly obedient to the commands of Akbar.”

“But, dear Rezia,” said Siddha, making a faint attempt to conceal under a cheerful voice the uneasiness that was mastering him, “even if this should be so, what is it to you? and what moves you to speak to me of it?”

“My own interests; but also the interest I take in you, my friend. I told you, as you will remember, of a friend who was exposed here to certain persecution. But now I will confess; I deceived you—it was not a friend, it was myself. The husband to whom my father’s cruel command gave me, and whose tyranny I detest, will soon return, and my own desire is to fly from him, to be free, and some day perhaps in safety to be able to give myself to the one I choose; and to attain this I sought Kashmir as my place of refuge, and opened a communication with some of my friends there. But should this country also become subject to Akbar, my hope vanishes and I know not where to turn. Quickly you will again see me in the power of this man, who has my fate in his hands; our happy meetings will be at an end; and Rezia will cease to exist for you, as you,” she added, with a slight sigh, “will for her.”

“Never!” cried Siddha, passionately; “that shall never happen. But what would you have? what means do you know of? what do you ask of me?”

“Only this,” replied Rezia, calmly, “that you should not allow yourself to be used as a tool against your own country, against yourself, against me. Remain by your own brave followers; but when the decisive day comes, do not lead them against us; but know how to go over to those of us, who, in spite of outward show of subjection to the Emperor, have a secret understanding. Then a powerful party in Kashmir will side with you, support you by their influence, and raise you to the greatest honour; and in the end, though that is of less importance, you will find a resting-place in my arms, who will ever be grateful to you for your protection.”

“But,” said Siddha, following, among all other plans and proposals, the thread of his own thought, “that would be treachery of the worst kind against the Emperor who has trusted me.”

“Certainly, treachery,” answered Rezia, with a contemptuous laugh. “As the Emperor has shown you some favour, he naturally has a full right to use you as a tool against your country and people, but you have not the right to repay him in the same coin. Now be subject—or slave! However, act as you please. Your assurances that you would do all I asked were nothing but the vain promises men are wont to make to simple women. But enough! Let our interview come to an end; not that I wish it, but it is better with firm resolution to part from one another, than to continue our intercourse only to see it inevitably broken off a few days later against our will.”

“Never!” said Siddha, as Rezia turned from him, as though to hide her grief. “Nothing shall part us, and if for a moment I hesitated, I did not deceive you when I promised to do whatever you might ask. I repeat it, command and I obey.”

“Your word.”

“My word as a RajpÚt. But why do you ask it? you know well that I can do nothing but what you wish. Why should I keep silence respecting that which you must long have known? At last let me say freely, that you are dear to me, above everything, dearer than life or even honour. I love you with a passion and devotion that until now I should never have thought possible; I believed I knew what love was, but what I took for it was only a childish liking. You have taught me differently; teach me more; teach me what it is when love like mine is returned. No slave can be more submissive to the will of his master than I to you; no slave of Akbar’s or of any one but yourself. Whatever I may gain in the future, rank, esteem, riches, belong to you alone. And the power you have over me you may use or misuse as you will. But be mine, Rezia, mine as long as life lasts!”

“No, Siddha,” said she, softly withdrawing her hand from him, “it is not fitting that I should hear such language, nor that you should use it. Remember that I am not yet free, and you yourself have other ties.”

“Other ties!” cried Siddha, passionately; “I break them, or rather I broke them long ago; and could I not do so, I should curse the day when they were laid on me. And you, if you are not free, I will soon make you so. We will fly to Kashmir, to that far-away, beautiful country in the north, where, as you say, Siddha Rama’s name and influence is well known, and where none will dare to injure you whom I protect, your hated husband least of all.”

“And will that protection avail against Akbar and his favourites?” asked Rezia.

“Against him and his, as against all others,” was the proud reply; “and against him we shall know well how to defend the liberty of Kashmir, if it were only for a place of refuge for you and for me.”

“But I cannot be yours,” interrupted Rezia; “and it grieves me, in truth, that you have so spoken this evening. You might have spared us all this, and then our friendly intercourse might have continued, and led perhaps later to another and a closer tie. Now all must cease, however deeply it grieves me. Go now, say farewell, and forget me, it is better for you and—for me, whom you say you love.”

“In truth,” said Siddha, as he rose, and, with his head sank on his breast, drew back a few steps, “to part at once is perhaps the wisest course. I see but too plainly that my love is despised. It is true that for me, without you, there is no life, no happiness possible. Still the continued martyrdom of meeting you, day by day, loving you more dearly, and yet knowing that you belong to that hated, cursed stranger, is more than I can bear. Fresh disturbances have broken out in the south, in the Dakhin, and the Emperor has ordered part of the army on service there. I will implore him to let me join them; and there in battle with the wild mountain races I may soon find, not forgetfulness, that is impossible, but an early and longed-for death.”

“Ah, Siddha,” said sadly the sweet, loved voice, “why such violence because a weak woman (who finds the strife against herself and her own heart too much for her) seeks for a moment’s strength to withstand you? It is, as you said, better that we should part, and yet—I cannot let you go; remain, it is but a short pause; seat yourself again by my side, and let me enjoy, even though it may be for the last time, that quiet conversation, undisturbed by passion, that until now we have found so much pleasure in.”

And before Siddha was quite aware of what he did, he was again seated by the side of her who had so mastered his whole mind and understanding. At her desire he seized the lute that lay beside them, and tried to bring back to his recollection one of the songs of his native land, for which, in the winning way peculiar to her, she had begged; but vainly he tried, sometimes beginning and then breaking off, his memory failed him, and dejectedly he laid down the useless lute.

“I know no more,” he said. “I can neither think nor remember.”

“How now, my singer,” said Rezia, laughing; “must I set you the example? But let us first drink to one another.” And lifting a golden goblet to her lips, she made Siddha empty his, and then began, in soft, melting tones, a Persian love song that soon brought Siddha back to himself.

“Now, then,” cried he, as Rezia finished, and he began the description of a lover’s reception from Kalidasa’s “Seasons,”2 “The Bride represented by the Return of Summer.”

The singer ceased, and she who listened to him had drawn nearer, gazing at him with her fascinating eyes, that now shone with an unwonted glow. Suddenly he seized both her hands, and drew her to him with irresistible force.

“Rezia,” he said, “Rezia, be to me as Kalidasa’s bride—now and always mine!”

She softly murmured Siddha’s name and flung her arms around his neck.

More than once since that evening a manly figure might have been seen in the darkness of night carefully looking around him, and then following the cactus road that led to the dwelling of the Armenian. Iravati’s lotus flower had struck against the frail vessel on which he had embarked, and had been wrecked by a sultry wind.