The Emperor, at the head of his troops, had set out for the north, and all accounts reported that he was already at some distance from Agra. Siddha was still waiting for orders to join his detachment, which had marched among the first; what wonder, then, if he had sought to shorten the time of waiting by repeated visits to Rezia Gulbadan! One evening he turned his steps towards her dwelling, although he could not flatter himself it was with the same eagerness as formerly. He had begun more and more to distrust her; and these repeated visits were partly to obtain more knowledge of her secrets and of the conspiracy. He little suspected that that evening would disclose to him more than he cared to know. Arriving at the little gate in the wall, he found, to his astonishment, that it was not shut as usual, and, in all probability through carelessness, the key had been left in the lock. He could therefore enter without giving the usual signal. Carefully closing the door behind him, he ascended the path with rapid steps. As he drew near the verandah he found fresh reason for surprise. Just at that moment a man entered, whom, at first, he did not recognise, but, as he withdrew into the thick shadow of the many plants, the lamplight showed his uncle Salhana, who, scarcely greeting Gulbadan, cried in the utmost excitement, “We are betrayed, shamefully betrayed! The Emperor,” he continued, as Gulbadan listened in terror, “is acquainted with all our plans. How, I know not, but it is too true. I have positive information from Gorakh, who, as you know, accompanies the army in disguise. Akbar not only knows of our undertaking from the beginning, but his spies have informed him of all the changes that have taken place in our plans. Cunning as he is, he let it come to our ears that he had seen through our first plan, without letting us know that he was also acquainted with the second; allowing us to think that he had fallen into the trap. Now he and his army have marched as though really for Kashmir. That is all very well, but he will suddenly turn round, and by forced marches surprise us here at Agra, when we believe ourselves to be in safety. I am only just warned in time to prevent Salim, on the settled day, from being proclaimed Emperor; but that will not avail us much. When Akbar knows all, he will not spare us, although he may not catch Salim in the act; and nothing now remains for us but to have recourse to the most extreme measures.”

“And what are they?” asked Gulbadan.

“Gorakh and his followers,” answered Salhana, “can aid us, and they must. Before the Emperor has time to reach Agra his life must be taken.”

At these words a shudder ran through Siddha, and he laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger, and was about to step forward, but restrained himself in time.

“Salim must know nothing of this,” continued Salhana; “nor must we tell him when the deed is accomplished. He may, indeed, have his suspicions, but he will conduct himself as though he knew nothing; nor will he hold us in less honour. To-morrow I go to the army to arrange all with Gorakh, who has told me how I may recognise him in his disguise; and in the meantime you must take care that Salim is warned. I myself will not visit him, for fear of rousing suspicions. Tell me, on what footing are you now with him?”

“I have not seen him here for a long time,” answered Gulbadan; “and the reasons for his continued absence are unknown to me. However, I am not uneasy: I know, cost what it may, he will have me for his Sultana; and that shall be when he is Emperor, not before.”

“And while waiting, you occupy your time with that nephew of mine I entrusted to your care, is it not so? A brave young man, and one in whom you seem to find pleasure.”

“For a time; but now he begins rather to weary me; and, well considered, he is not of much use. Without ceasing, one has to discuss with him over and over again all kinds of ideas of honour and duty. When he has served our turn, I shall show him the door, and all the more, as he may stand in the way of my plans with Salim.”

“What is that?” suddenly asked Salhana, turning towards the garden side of the verandah: “I think I hear a movement; is it possible that some uninvited guest may have found his way in?”

“Impossible,” answered Gulbadan; “the door in the garden wall is locked, is it not?”—Salhana had forgotten that in his haste he had left it open.—” And from the other side there is no danger, for Faizi started this morning to join the army. Go by this path, it will be more prudent, as you might meet Siddha in the neighbourhood of the garden wall.”

“All, then, is settled, is it not?” said Salhana. “You undertake Salim and those here in Agra, and I charge myself with Akbar; and if I am fortunate, we and his people will shortly be freed from his rule.”

With a slight greeting Salhana then disappeared behind a curtain, taking a side path unknown to Siddha, so that to follow him, according to his first impulse, was impossible.

The best course now was to return at once, and ensure the failure of the plot by warning the Emperor before the conspirators suspected anything. But his longing to show Gulbadan that he had ceased to be her despised tool was too great to be resisted, and with one bound he was in the verandah and standing before her.

“Cursed snake!” he cried, “you caused me to become a traitor; but do not flatter yourself that your accursed plot and that of yonder ruffian will succeed. I, who begin to weary you, will hinder it.”

“Ha! you have been listening, then,” said Gulbadan, an expression of hate and malice crossing her hitherto gentle face, depriving it of all its beauty; “and now you intend to betray us,—but that shall never be.” Before Siddha could guess her intention, she flew towards him, aiming a blow at his heart with a dagger. He half-mechanically sought to ward off the blow, but his arm fell helpless to his side at the sight of a figure that appeared to rise from the ground behind Gulbadan, and who seized the murderess’ hand in an iron grasp.

Gulbadan turned round hastily, and sank with a cry of horror to the earth. Behind her stood Faizi, and behind him two servants with drawn swords.

“Mercy!” she implored, returning to her senses, while Siddha stood motionless, gazing at the scene before him.

“Mercy, my lord and master!” And with her head bowed down so that her dark locks swept the ground, she crept on her knees towards Faizi, who stepped back as she strove to approach him more closely.

“Back!” he cried; “do not touch me. Bind that woman,” he said, turning to his followers, “and take her to my castle of Mathura. There let her be closely watched; and should she ever make an attempt, however slight, to enter into communication with the outer world, then carry out the sentence from which to-day I spare her. Never again will I see her, nor a single hair of her guilty head.” Then he turned and spoke to the fallen one who knelt at his feet; but his words were not such as to lighten her punishment. “Hope gives life,” he said; “and you, whose name will never more pass my lips, perhaps flatter yourself with a vain expectation. You think you can reckon on the protection of one more powerful than I, or who will one day be so. You think that Salim will stand by you, and release you from your imprisonment. This is a vain hope. He whom you have also deceived imparted to me your connection with yonder man; and this was Salim himself, whom you imagined safe in your toils.”

As he spoke, Gulbadan had raised her head, and listened with attention; but at his last words, with a cry she sank senseless to the ground, her arms stretched out in front of her.

“Do your duty,” said Faizi to his followers. And she was hastily conveyed from the apartment. “And now you,” said he, approaching Siddha, as he drew his sword from the scabbard.

“I have forfeited my life,” replied Siddha. “Strike! I ask nothing better than death from your hands.”

“That I understand,” said Faizi, thoughtfully, and letting the sword sink slowly back into its sheath; “and I am not inclined to fulfil your wishes. Others in the same case would think differently. A Musalman would lay your head before his feet; a Hindu would have you strangled; and a Frank, most foolish of all, would challenge you to fight. But I choose none of these. You may live, and depart unharmed from hence. Live, with the remembrance of the ill you have done, and of the manner in which you, who call yourself a nobleman, have repaid a true friendship. The remembrance of this shall never leave you, though you may become famous and rise high in rank; and however highly you may be honoured and respected, yet you will always cast down your eyes before any honourable man, remembering how in your youth you treated a friend. This is the punishment I lay upon you! Now go.”

Obeying an imperious sign from Faizi, and bowed down with shame, Siddha turned, and with faltering step took his way through the garden and still open door. For a time he wandered on unconscious of all around him. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he saw some labourers busy lading a boat; and as though it were his own affair, he stood narrowly watching their every movement, now wondering how they would manage to convey in safety some heavy bale over the plank that connected the vessel with the shore, and now shaking his head at their awkwardness. Then some soldiers attracted his attention, who sat drinking and playing dice by the wavering light of a torch, and he began to wish to join them in drinking and playing. But at that moment one thought drove out all others, the remembrance of the plot to murder the Emperor. Had Faizi heard all, so that he could warn Akbar? But these questions he was unable to answer. Then why not go himself, without a moment’s further waste of time? Salhana was to start the following morning, and another starting at once could easily precede him.

Siddha wasted no more time in thought, but hurried to the quarter of the city where his detachment was; and giving over the command to another officer, he turned to his own dwelling, and ordered Vatsa to saddle the bay—the bay given him by Faizi, and which, after discovering Rezia’s true name, he had never dared either to ride or return, though now, in the service of the Emperor and empire, he mounted it.

“Prepare to follow me to the army,” he said to Vatsa, as he led the horse out, “but at some distance. Start in an hour’s time, ride hard, and if necessary deliver the message with which I entrust you.” He then imparted to him as much as was necessary touching the plot against the Emperor, and ordered him to seek Akbar at once if he should not find his master with the army. Having said this, he struck spurs to his horse, and set off at a gallop.

A hurried journey, neither allowing himself nor his horse necessary repose, soon brought him to the army; and no sooner had he reached the camp than he sought an audience with the Emperor, which, after a short delay, was granted him.

“What do you do here?” asked Akbar, in a stern voice. “Who has given you leave to desert your post in Agra? It may go hardly with you if you cannot answer to my satisfaction.”

“Sire,” replied Siddha, “if I had nothing worse than this to answer for, I might call myself happy; but I come to accuse myself of the greatest crime a soldier can be guilty of against his prince—that of treason.”

“I suspected as much,” said the Emperor, “and therefore gave you orders not to leave your post; and now you yourself come to assure me of your treachery. Good; speak further.”

As shortly as possible, without withholding anything, Siddha recounted how, led away by Gulbadan, he had deceived his friend and benefactor, and become a traitor to his Emperor. During this recital Akbar paced up and down with slow steps, his countenance expressing nothing of what his feelings might be; but as Siddha ceased, he stopped before him, and said, sternly, “Your crimes deserve death.”

“That I know well,” was the answer; “and I come to receive my punishment at the hands of your Majesty,”

“Why did you not seek safety in flight, when you suspected that your treason was discovered?”

“Crimes demand their penalty; and how can I go forth into the world while it remains unpaid, an object of contempt to myself and others?”

“But how is it that you have come so suddenly to this determination? For this there must be some cause. I suspect you have not told me all; something is still wanting to your story.”

“You are right; but what I have still to tell could not be said until my doom was pronounced. Now I can proceed. The power which, in spite of myself, that woman so long had over me was suddenly broken. The bandage fell from my eyes, and at last I saw clearly what I was, of what I had been guilty, and what punishment I deserved.” And now followed more in detail the description of the scene that had taken place on the last evening he had seen Gulbadan, and of the plot he had overheard.

Still no expression was visible on the Emperor’s countenance; but, as he again walked up and down, his step was more hurried. When the story was ended he remained for some time silent, and then said, “With reason you seem to have thought that your last communication might have some influence over the sentence that I had to pronounce on you. You have rendered a great service to me and to my kingdom, and you are mistaken if you imagine that the sentence I pronounced was an irrevocable one. To say that a crime deserves death, is not to say that no mercy can be shown to him who is guilty of it; and yours is a case in point. Without your further communication, I might have recalled what I said, and shown you mercy. You have sinned deeply, Siddha, against me, and certainly not less against my friend. You are not a criminal, you have been the victim of an overwhelming temptation, and I know myself what it is to be so tried. But your feeling of honour was not destroyed, and sprang again into life as soon as you awoke from your dream. I do not in the least palliate what you have done, nor consider your fault a light one; but I am of opinion that you do not belong to the class incapable of improvement, and who, for the sake of society, cannot be allowed to live. I believe that your future actions will wipe away the memory of your misdeeds, and your conduct of to-day assures me that you will never again be guilty of treachery towards me. I therefore give you your life, and leave you in possession of your rank. Do not let me be deceived in you a second time.”

For some moments Siddha found it impossible to reply, but knelt before the Emperor and kissed respectfully the hem of his robe.

“I thank you, Sire,” he said at last, as the Emperor signed to him to rise, “not for life, that was no longer of any value in my eyes, but for the opportunity granted me in some measure to make up for the ill I have done. And if I may ask another favour, it is that I may at once be allowed to take part in the war that is now being waged in the north against the robber bands.”

“This favour I will also grant,” said the Emperor; “but first I will entrust you with another task. Some of the most faithful of my own life-guards shall be placed under your orders; go with them to meet Salhana, seize him, and bring him here in the greatest secresy, so that Gorakh may know nothing of his arrest.”

At a sign from the Emperor the audience was at an end; and no sooner had Siddha received the command of his troop of guards than he was again on the road. Sooner than he had expected, he met his uncle, who appeared to have travelled in great haste, and was accompanied by two followers. These were soon disarmed and prisoners. Salhana defended himself for some time, but was at last overpowered, and, to his anger, pinioned by order of his nephew, whom until that moment he had held in such contempt. A veil was flung around his head, so that no passers-by might recognise him, and he was hurried by his captors to the camp.

In the Emperor’s tent his bonds were loosened, and he was left alone with Akbar and Siddha.

“Your treachery, Salhana,” said the Emperor, “and your latest plans are known to me; your nephew has told me all. Prepare to die,—the executioners await you.”

Flinging a glance of rage and hatred towards Siddha, Salhana threw himself at Akbar’s feet, touching the ground with his forehead. “Spare my life,” he implored. “Punish me, gracious Prince, as you will; but let me live, and I will confess all, and tell all that I know.”

“Salhana,” replied the Emperor, contemptuously, “I knew that you were a traitor and a villain; but I had still to learn that you were also a coward. As for your confessions, they are worthless; I already know all that you can tell me excepting one thing, where and how is Gorakh to be found?”

“This I can tell you,” cried Salhana, welcoming with joy this ray of hope; “I can tell you exactly how to find him, and then——”

“I will grant you a shameful life; but should your information prove false, then, you understand, the sword awaits you.”

Salhana now eagerly gave all particulars by which Gorakh might be recognised in his disguise.

“Have this man closely watched,” commanded the Emperor, turning to Siddha; “and you yourself, with your men, go in search of Gorakh, and when you have found him, hang him on the nearest tree.”

This order was executed without delay. They were soon on the track of the Durga priest, and before long he was their prisoner.

“Ha! my young friend,” said he, with his hateful laugh, recognising Siddha; “and is this the way you repay the interest that I have shown in you? However, let it be; but show me one courtesy, that can cost you nothing. Tell me, who is my betrayer? It can only be Salhana; am I not right?”

“You are,” answered Siddha; and then, turning to his followers, he said, “Forward! take this man outside the camp, and carry out the sentence pronounced by the Emperor.”

“And what is the sentence?” asked Gorakh.

“The halter,” was the reply.

“Good,” he said; “that is in my line.”

It was needless to bind him, for, without the slightest attempt at escape, he calmly walked between two soldiers.

For some time Siddha did not turn to look at him, nor did his guards observe his actions very closely. But as they left the camp, and Siddha turned to give some orders to his followers, he saw the Yogi busied in marking characters on a long leaf that he held in his left hand, and must either have picked up on the road, or have had concealed in his clothes. In another moment he held it high in the air, waving it as though it were a fan.

“Come,” cried Siddha, impatiently, “leave that juggling alone, it can help you no further, and throw that leaf away; we have had enough of your magic.”

Gorakh obeyed, but not before he had laughingly made two more signs in the air. He then threw it on the ground, and they proceeded on their way. A few moments later the lifeless body of the priest hung from the bough of a tree.

In the meantime two men, from their appearance the servants of some nobleman, had witnessed the arrest, and, unnoticed, had followed at some little distance the troop that was conducting the doomed man to his place of punishment. As soon as the soldiers had passed the place where Gorakh had flung away the leaf, the two men sought eagerly in the sand, and soon found the object of their search. It was a dry leaf, on which were hastily written a few words with some sharp-pointed instrument. After reading it together, one concealed it carefully in his garment, and they hurried back to the camp.

There, as soon as the news of Gorakh’s death reached the Emperor, Salhana received the promise of his life; but was given in charge to some soldiers, who were to guard him closely. When the war was ended, then should it be decided what was to be done with him. Imprisonment in some fortress or other, he understood well, would be his lot so long as Akbar reigned. But when Salim ascended the throne, without doubt he would be set free; and then, perhaps, too, he would have an opportunity of wreaking his vengeance on Siddha.

He was not so closely watched but that it was possible to approach him; and one evening it happened that the servant of a splendidly dressed person that passed by, slipt a rolled-up leaf into his hand. What could it be? A secret communication from one of his friends, from Gulbadan perhaps, pointing out some means of flight. “Salhana,” ran the hastily written note, “the Emperor who has doomed me shall not die to serve you; Durga chooses for her victim you, who have betrayed me.”

With a cry of terror, Salhana’s arms fell helpless to his side, and the leaf dropped to the ground. He knew but too well the meaning of those few words, and he knew that his sentence was irrevocable. The last order of the Durga priest would not be neglected; rather hundreds of his followers would be sacrificed than leave that command unfulfilled. Was there indeed no hope, no chance for him? In truth, as good as none. If he were but in Agra or in some fortress! where it might not be so easy to penetrate to him as here in the open field. But he was in the rear of the army, which only progressed slowly. He implored his guards to keep good watch by him, as his life was threatened by assassins; but they only laughed at him, and he heard them say to each other, “That would be no great loss.” Then he prayed to be allowed to have a light at night, and this request was only met with ridicule at his cowardice. He had not another peaceful moment. During the march he imagined that behind every bush he saw some dark figure lurking, that watched and followed in his footsteps. When they halted to rest he remained on his guard, keeping his eyes on the jungle and trees around. And then the night—the long, frightful, endless night! He did his best to remain awake, listening to every sound, and feeling around him in the dark; but at times sleep overcame him, and he awoke with a start of terror, and felt his throat, thinking he could not breathe. Sometimes he fancied the cord was round his neck, and about to be drawn tight; then he had to convince himself, by feeling with his fingers, that it was only imagination; and at last to put his hand to his throat became quite an involuntary movement. Then the question rose before him, whether he should not take his own life, and so end his martyrdom; but he dared not, his courage was not sufficient to plunge a dagger into his own heart; and then there was still the hope, however slight, that he might arrive safely at Agra. But slowly and still more slowly marched the army. At last the Thugs took upon themselves the task Salhana dared not perform, and freed him from his suffering. Early one morning his guard found him lying dead in the tent that had been pitched for his shelter during the night.