As usual, when evening closed in, a gaily coloured crowd thronged round the shops and houses of one of the smaller bazars of Agra, situated on the river. Here and there dice-players sat in open verandahs round their boards; and there passed drunken2 soldiers armed with various weapons; a little retired from the crowd reposed solitary opium-eaters, lost in blissful dreams; and there also were grave Muhammadans deep in earnest conversation, and deigning for once to take a turn amongst the despised Hindus engaged in their social pleasures.

“Yes, Ali,” said one of these to his companion, “with Akbar and his court things go from bad to worse. Evening after evening I know that these blasphemous meetings take place. Yesterday, about midnight, I passed by the palace, and what do you think I saw? All the Emperor’s windows were brilliantly lit, sparkling with many lamps and wax tapers. But for what? For no feast such as a prince might celebrate. No; all was still as death, excepting a solemn song, or rather hymn. Akbar himself has, I have heard, composed several of them; and however well they sound, they have nothing to do with our religious service to the praise of the Great Prophet.”

“And what does this betoken?” said Ali.

“What it really signified,” was the answer, “I cannot exactly say; but there is no doubt but that the light and singing were in connection with the new teaching that Akbar is trying to introduce in the place of that of Islam, and into which he initiates his confidants—a kind of fire and sun worship, which in an evil hour he has taken from the ancient Parsees, and also from the unbelievers here. May Allah have mercy on them!”

“What kind of religion is it?” asked Ali. “Though I have heard of it more than once, yet I do not exactly know what it is.”

“Nor do I very exactly,” replied Yusuf; “but that it is very bad is proved by the opposition it meets with from all the faithful, especially from a man like Abdul Kadir, who is very learned and much esteemed by Akbar himself. From personal experience I have lately become acquainted with things still more disquieting than those of which I have already told you. Not long since I saw a man steal from the palace secretly, and as if afraid lest anyone should see him; a man whom you must know, but whom you cannot meet without a cold shudder of horror—Gorakh, the so-called Yogi. Now,” continued he, sinking the whisper in which he spoke to a still lower tone, “do you know for what I hold that man? If not Shaitan himself, he is certainly his assistant; and with him Akbar has made a compact.”

Yusuf was silent, regarding his comrade with horror. “Protect us, Allah!” he suddenly cried, pointing to a figure approaching by the river-side; “there he is in person! May the waters of the Jamuna swallow him up!”

And, in truth, there was the Durga priest, approaching a group of Hindus and Persians engaged in lively conversation.

“What I say,” said one of these last, “is that we ought not, and we cannot, bear longer the scorn and ridicule which is openly and continually shown to our holy religion by Faizi and AbÚ-l Fazl, not to mention a still higher name; and I cannot understand how you people—although yours may be a different religion—how you can calmly look on at the destruction and overthrow of what you, as well as we, must hold sacred.”

“But to that we have not yet come,” said the Hindu. “It is well known that the Emperor and his followers do not think much of your Koran, and perhaps as much might be said of your religion. But so far I have heard nothing of destruction and overthrow; our temples are untouched, and no one interferes with our religious practices; while you Muhammadans in old days did nothing but torment and persecute us.

“As you well deserved, you sons of——”

“Come, men, no disputes,” said a Persian soldier, interrupting them; “quarrels will not aid us.” And he gave a sign to the angry Muhammadan.

“Let it be so,” he answered, turning his back on the Hindu, and, accompanied by two friends, passed on his way.

Now Gorakh joined in the conversation: “It was well that you were present, Mubarak,” said he; “open disputes may be dangerous. Most Hindus hold to the side of the Emperor; but if for the moment they are not to be won, when fortune changes they will come over to us. In the meantime what progress have you made?”

“The greater part of our mansabdars are already won,” answered Mubarak; “and they will openly declare on our side directly the signal is given. Those that go with the army will turn round at the right moment, and those that remain here at Agra will do the same, and they can depend on their troopers.”

This conversation had been listened to with eager interest by two men who had joined the group of speakers, and to whom, by the greeting they exchanged, they appeared to belong; but with still deeper interest they listened when Gorakh, in a low voice, replied:

“These last days have brought some changes in our plans; we must not wait to strike the blow until Akbar has reached the north, for it is always possible that in spite of the desertion of part of his troops he may gain a victory. Such reports from Kashmir would spread a panic, and we should find that there was little or nothing we could do here; so we must somewhat hasten matters, and put our plans into execution when Akbar is on the road, but too far off to return to Agra in a few days’ marches on hearing that Salim is declared Emperor and has strengthened himself in the fortress; then there is no doubt that the malcontents in the army will turn against Akbar. Take care, then, Mubarak, and you others, that our people are warned in time, and hold themselves in readiness to carry out our plans, although the time is advanced.”

After talking a little longer the conspirators separated, each going his own way, and leaving the last comers together.

“This is weighty news,” said one.

“It is indeed,” replied the other; “and if I am not mistaken it will make things easier for Akbar. How unfortunate that we cannot at once make our report to AbÚ-l Fazl; but we must wait till night, it may be dangerous to go to his palace before then; and also, I believe he is now with the Emperor, and we should not find him.”

“I think,” said the first, “that it will be wiser for us now to separate; we shall meet at midnight at the house of the Wazir.” And greeting his companion, he turned up a side street, while the other continued along the river-side.

However fearful and profane the rites may have been that were supposed to have taken place in the private apartment of the Emperor—leading the pious Yusuf and his followers to believe that Akbar had concluded a compact with Shaitan—on that evening, at any rate, a right-thinking Mussulman would have seen nothing remarkable, though he might have taken fresh offence at the conversation if he had been able fully to understand and follow it.

Faizi, AbÚ-l Fazl, and the Brahman Kulluka, who had but lately returned from the north, were with the Emperor.

“No further report from your spies?” he asked his ministers.

“Not since yesterday,” answered AbÚ-l Fazl; “but I expect them at midnight, and understand that they have news for me.”

“Is it not sad,” said Akbar, “that one must make use of such people? Oh! why are men thus forcing us to have recourse to such means?”

“It is,” replied the Minister, “a necessary consequence of our present form of government, which cannot be altered. Malcontents, whether they are so with justice or not, have no means of redressing their wrongs when all the power is vested in one, and that one pronounces their complaints to be groundless. The ambitious and fortune-seekers make use of them as tools to attain their own ends, and they easily allow themselves to be so employed.”

“But I never refuse to listen to the complaints of my subjects,” said Akbar; “and if they are just, I redress them as far as lies in my power.”

“If they are just!” repeated AbÚ-l Fazl. “Yes; but who decides that? The Emperor and his councillors?”

“But what would you have, then? We have heard of states and people in other parts of the world, where things are managed differently; but then, the condition of those people is very different from that of ours. How would it be possible among the many kingdoms and races subject to our rule to give any real share in the government to the people themselves, even if their character, their manners and customs, made it possible?”

“That is quite true,” said AbÚ-l Fazl; “and I have already said that I regard further changes as neither desirable nor possible. When I alluded to the present state of affairs, it was only to show how unavoidable is the use of means that we are forced to adopt in order to avoid what is still worse. So far as these men are concerned whom we contemptuously call spies, they are less to be despised than one supposes; at least, the two I have now in my mind are honourable men, respected by others, and devoted to us heart and soul. It is true that they are well paid, still that is not necessary, they would be faithful to us without that; and they have indeed rendered us good service. They discovered Salhana’s plot, and, what is not of less importance, the secret intrigues of Gorakh the Yogi.”

“Yes,” remarked Faizi, mischievously, “of that philosopher who for some time gloried in the favour of His Majesty, while he unfolded the mysteries of the Yogi teaching; but not much came of it, so far as I know.”

Akbar coloured as the remembrance was brought back to him how with all his wisdom he had almost, though but for a moment, been entirely taken in by the cunning deceiver. But at the right moment Kulluka interposed, and continued the conversation by saying: “It is indeed to be regretted, but it is wiser to have little to do with this Gorakh. My former pupil, Siddha, has communicated to me things about him which show that caution is necessary. And yet he knows more, perhaps by tradition, of the ancient and now almost forgotten teaching than we shall ever discover.”

“There you see,” said Akbar, triumphantly, to Faizi, “that our friend Kulluka, who is so well acquainted with all the learning of the Brahmans, does not look upon the Yogi system as so utterly unimportant.”

“I will willingly allow that it contains much that is valuable,” said Faizi, “if our wise friend says so, from whom we have learnt so much that is worth knowing. But excuse me, Kulluka, if I ask what it is you expect from this system of days gone by? So far as I know, it is nothing but a foolish mysticism, promising an impossible absorption of the individual in the supreme, brought about by charms and enchantment, or, to speak more plainly, by clever feats of jugglery.”

“I do not think so unfavourably of the system of Patanjali,”3 answered Kulluka; “although I do not for a moment believe it can boast the possession of absolute truth. The union with, and resolution of the mortal into the immortal, of human existence into the spiritual, according to the Yogi view, is in itself not so great a folly. But no doubt this teaching is erroneous when it seeks, through absorption or union, to solve the mystery of the existence of the mind of man, by which in a kind of ecstasy the mortal is absorbed into the immortal. If this absorption were possible, it would in truth be self-annihilation. I do not think that the fundamental idea is to be so entirely rejected, or at least a part of it, of which all this is the result. Is it not a truth that, just because men find themselves so weighed down and bound within narrow limits, their spirits know no higher exaltation than that to which they rise in those rare moments when they lose the sense of their personality in nobler or higher and more comprehensive ideas? Provided the ideas remain no empty abstraction, but take their being from strong human life, from knowledge, art, and the contemplation of the social existence of men, what, I ask, can you place higher than so to lose the finite and self-seeking I in the universal good? From the place whence the individual drew the true spirit of life, to that place it should return if it in truth accomplished its destiny.”

“These are words after my heart,” said Akbar. “This same thought, that of self-denial, animates our own philosophical systems as well as the new doctrines that these missionaries from the West have come here to preach. But is there not another subject to which the thoughts of men should be directed, especially those of philosophers? However true and exalted this doctrine of self-abnegation is, what does it tell us of the eternal union of spirit and matter which pervades existence?”

“Indeed,” answered the Brahman; “he would be unworthy the name of philosopher who did not take as a chief subject of philosophical thought the contemplation of life and morals proceeding from it. But who will ever solve for us the enigma of life?”

“No one, certainly,” answered Faizi; “at least not at present. What future knowledge, in distant centuries may contribute to its solution we cannot even guess. But for the present should we not content ourselves with the conviction, shared by all wise men, both past and present, and expressed by many of them more or less clearly, that there is in the universe an eternal life without end and without beginning; a life and being through which everything is bound together or brought into union, of which the highest law is development—the development of the lower steps or forms of existence into those still higher. And what are we ourselves—we men? Always the same as that which surrounds us—a revelation of the universal being, each destined, in his own circle and according to his powers, to take his part in the general development. In proportion as we can clearly keep before our eyes the higher and more universal aims, so will narrow feelings of self-love retire to the background, making room for unselfish devotion to the good of our fellow-men, of society, and of the state.”

“Very well put, my worthy Faizi,” said Akbar; “but true as all that may be, does it content you? Do you not long for something else, something more?”

“Assuredly,” was the answer. “That one idea, in its abstruse generalization, does not satisfy. We would understand it more clearly, and learn to apply it; we would strive after the knowledge of immortal life and of the original compact by observing their manifestations here; and to attain this knowledge all those strive who devote themselves to philosophy.”

“You do not quite understand me,” said the Emperor; “but I will allow all that you have said. What I meant was: has the universal being, of which you speak, its origin in itself, or in another still higher intelligence?”

“Intelligence and thought,” was the answer, “are necessary attributes of this being, as well as that which we are accustomed to call matter or extension.4 Both declare themselves in infinite manifestations; and how is it possible that that which is an attribute of a thing can at the same time be its cause?”

For some moments a deep silence reigned. The Emperor sought for an answer, but shook his head and said nothing.

“My brother,” at last said AbÚ-l Fazl to Faizi, “your reasoning is perfectly logical, yet it contents me as little as it does our venerated Emperor. What have you, and what have we, to do with this conception of soul and matter? What can it give us?”

“Well,” answered Faizi, smiling, “it need give you nothing if it is true; and if it is true, you should own it, though it may neither content nor please you. I mean to show that my idea gives or possesses a value in life only in so far as it awakens in us devotion to all that we regard as good and true; and what can you ask for more than this?”

“You are right,” answered AbÚ-l Fazl; “but I spoke not so much for myself and for us, as for those of less cultivation and enlightenment, who cannot comprehend all this, and yet seek for something more and higher than daily experience brings them. Would it not be possible so to dress up these abstract ideas as to make them more acceptable to the multitude?”

“Our friend Faizi,” said Akbar, “now says what I myself have often thought. If it is not possible to discover new images or emblems for these conceptions or notions proclaimed by Faizi, can we not receive those of ancient days which were not peculiar to solitary and independent religious systems, but which sprang from the religious and poetical spirit of the people themselves?”

“I understand your meaning,” replied Faizi, as Akbar was silent; “you allude, if I am not mistaken, to the new doctrine or teaching which the Emperor wishes to introduce, and with which some of his trusted friends are already acquainted. Is it not so?”

“In truth,” answered Akbar, “you are not mistaken. But allow me to make use of this opportunity to say something further about it. To you Faizi, and you Kulluka, I am indebted for much elucidation, and the turn that our conversation has taken, which gives me the chance of expressing my meaning, is indeed welcome to me. Listen, then. For a long time I have sought for some form in which a rational religion might be expressed, and which would at the same time content philosophical thinkers and those of less enlightenment. At last in some measure I found what I sought in making acquaintance with the images of the ancient Persians, but above all, Kulluka, of those of your philosophical poets of old days. I mean those so well known to you—Sun and Fire. The contemplation of the most striking manifestations of light and warmth may at first appear empty and worthless; but more carefully regarded, they contain an exalted truth, which perchance the knowledge of coming centuries may, through its results, exalt to the highest place. See,” continued Akbar, as he turned to the open gallery of the apartment, and pointed to the slowly-sinking sun, “there the glorious representation of all light and life in this world leaves us, to return to-morrow in sparkling glory. Earlier races regarded him as a god, and addressed prayers and adoration to him; while to the wise of old he was the exalted image of the principles of life, and the all-pervading force that is shown in endless manifestations. For are not light and warmth the givers of life, without which nothing could exist? In the light of the sun, moon, and stars, the flash of lightning, and the fire that we ourselves kindle on the hearth, we see the most common manifestations of this force—now beneficent, and now fearful and destructive. Everywhere is this force present—in the earth and planets, in man and animals, in light and water—though we may not always remark it. And if it is really thus, would it be considered as a mere poetical fancy if we chose this force as the emblem of the unity and the life of which, Faizi, you have just spoken? Our friend AbÚ-l Fazl is not only one with me in this, but is anxious that I should try my new teaching, or, if you will, the teaching I have borrowed from those of old days, among the people, and see if they would not accept it instead of the many superstitions that are now so general. A name was necessary to distinguish this teaching from others; and though a name cannot express the full meaning, that of Tauhid-i-Ilahi, ‘the unity of the Deity,’ did not appear inappropriate. Ceremonies and public services are entirely excluded, unless you can call public service a simple symbolical adoration of the sun during the day and in the morning, and of light during the night, by means of appropriate hymns. Touching this,” concluded the Emperor, “I have already imparted to you somewhat, but I have never before fully declared it to you. The time has now arrived: tell me frankly, what is your opinion?”

Neither of the friends appeared willing to comply with this request at once. At last Kulluka broke the silence.

“Wise Prince, pardon us if we are not at once ready with our answer; your important communication requires a moment’s thought. In the plan declared by you there is much that is tempting, and also, according to my humble opinion, much that is serious. The justness and grandeur of your images, borrowed for the greater part from our old poets and philosophers, I shall be the first to admit; but, may I ask, is there not great danger? These symbols once introduced amongst the people and accepted by them, would soon lose their original meaning, and in the end would sink to nothing but an outward and mechanical religious service. We must well consider that this same teaching, which you wish to proclaim, once actually belonged in truth to the faith of more than one people; and what did it become? Not only in these later days, but in ancient times, to which you refer, doubt arose respecting the object of worship, and then, as now, many a pious mind asked: ‘He who gives life, He who gives strength; Whose command all the bright gods revere; Whose shadow is immortality, Whose shadow is death; who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice?’5 Even then, Surya, the sun, and Agni, the fire, did not satisfy men as emblems of the representation of life and force; and shall a happier future await the Tauhid-i-Ilahi than that of the sun and fire worship of old days?”

Akbar gave no reply. “And you, Faizi,” he asked, “what is your opinion?”

“I have little or nothing,” he answered, “to add to what my worthy friend has already said. The doubt to which he alluded, as prevailing in the days of old, has been still more clearly expressed than in the passage quoted by him from the Vedas. Another poet puts it still more forcibly:

So it seems that doubt is as ancient as religion itself. But let us leave that on one side, and also the hate and opposition that a reformer must always expect from his contemporaries, the appearance of which we may already remark here and there where the new teaching has already been made known to the people. This an Akbar will not fear. But there is another danger that Kulluka referred to, which cannot be put so lightly on one side: the danger that a name once given, whether it be Allah or another, may become a personality to the uncultured, and be regarded as a personal representation, distinct from the Immortal Being; and then, naturally, all is at an end with your object—the unity of the Deity. And what will you have introduced, and what perhaps will you have made?”

“But, Faizi,” asked AbÚ-l Fazl, “what would you do to make the people wiser and more reasonable? How would you bring about this reformation of ideas that the Emperor desires?”

“The great philosophers,” was Faizi’s answer, “of China, and all great civilisers have long ceased to profess any religion; but they have made a real beginning as regards the cultivation and the enlightenment of the people, and one which we have too much lost sight of. This is, above all things, the education of the people. There is the only, but perfectly certain means. It is true that the results do not soon appear; but those who put their hands to a great work seldom see the end, which surely comes at last; while each announcement of a new teaching, whether supported by the authority of revelation or not, though for a time it may flourish, in the end is sure to degenerate.”

“There seems to be much truth in what you have said,” was Akbar’s answer; “and I will take it all into my most serious consideration. It may perhaps be best to restrict the new teaching to the circle of our own friends, in case we find its introduction among the people to be opposed by insurmountable difficulties. Still you will not expect that I should at once give up my favourite project. We will talk it over again. But enough for to-day; state affairs now call for our attention. I thank you, my friends, for all you have said: you, AbÚ-l Fazl, for the support you have lent me; and you, too, for your frank and well-meant opposition.”

After having taken leave of the Emperor, AbÚ-l Fazl returned to his palace, accompanied by his friends, to receive in their presence the report of the two spies.