The silence was oppressive. The Khan was smoking, and the dull, monotonous gurgle of the hookah went on incessantly, almost irritating Fazil, and provoking him to speak again; but his father had shut his eyes, and puffed mechanically, emitting the smoke through his nostrils, and the priest was evidently absorbed in devotional contemplation. Any interruption would be welcome.

"They have brought up the prisoner," said Ibrahim Khan, a strangely silent man, but good soldier, who rarely spoke to any one. "He is now entering the court door; shall he be ordered in?"

"Ay!" said Afzool Khan, "let him be disposed of before our breakfast. That kichÉri, Khan Sahib?"

"Inshalla, it will soon be ready; I will go and see to it," he replied; and he got up and went out, as Gopal Singh, Lukshmun, and some others entered. Moro Pundit was bound as before, with a turban round his neck, the end of which was held by Lukshmun with one hand, while the other grasped a heavy naked sabre. The girl Gunga followed them.

Afzool Khan, the priest, and Fazil looked at the Brahmun from head to foot; but he did not quail, or betray any emotion whatever, except that his broad chest was heaving under the bandage, and his hands, which just appeared below it, were tightly clenched.

"This is Moro Trimmul", said Gopal Singh; "we all know him. He used to lodge here with the Gosais, and they are all here to speak to him. Is it not true, O Bawas?" he continued to some of the household who crowded in.

"It is he, my lord, sure enough," cried several of the Gosais in a breath; "it is Moro Trimmul, who lived here."

"Have ye got his papers?" asked the priest.

"They are most likely in the panniers and bags on the ponies," said Gopal Singh, "or in the palankeen. What matter?—here is the man himself."

"Ask him, my son, if he has aught to say. Ask him in his own tongue," said the Khan. "We would not destroy him unheard."

Fazil put the question.

"I did not intend to speak," said Moro Trimmul, "for I am in hands which know no mercy, and I need none. All who take work like mine are prepared to die at any hour. All I ask of ye is to let this girl go; she is a poor Moorlee who was faithful to me. Let her go, Khan Sahib, with the gold I gave her. As for me, as you have slain many innocent Brahmuns, I am not to be spared, for I have done all I needed, and my mission is ended."

"What hast thou done?" asked the priest.

"Thou art a priest of thy faith," answered the man, "I one of mine; what thou dost and wouldst do for thy faith, I would do and have been doing for mine. Does that content thee?"

"Enough!" cried the Khan, "he confesses. What shall we do with him?"

"Let him die, father," said Fazil solemnly. "He was contriving more evil than you know of, as his face tells,—now look at it as I speak,—yes: and he would have done it too. Let him die."

As Fazil spoke, a grey ashy paleness overspread the Brahmun's face, and a shudder passed through him; but he did not answer, and taking, as it were, a long inspiration, drew himself up to his full height, closing his fingers convulsively.

"Fazil," asked his father, "dost thou say death, my son?"

"I do," said Fazil, "in justice for this man's evil deeds, which have brought misery to hundreds, and will yet cause more."

"Shabash," cried the priest, "Ul-humd-ul-illa! there is good stuff in thee yet, Meah. What sayeth the holy book, chapter forty-seven? 'When ye encounter the unbelievers, strike off their heads, until ye have made a great slaughter.' Yes, let him die."

Afzool Khan mused for a while. The priest's quotation was correct, and his own fanaticism confirmed it. Was he, however, so appalled by the recent destruction of innocent Hindu life, that he hesitated as to this one? or was it in regard to the fact that Moro Trimmul was a Brahmun, and the popular objection to putting such men to death being great, that he now hesitated? Both causes probably combined to influence him.

"I am not going to do it, Punditjee," said Lukshmun to Moro Trimmul in a whisper, "because thou art a Brahmun; but there is no harm wishing thee as sharp a sword as this is. See!"

Moro Trimmul looked askance at the hunchback as he would have done at a reptile, and shrank instinctively from him. They saw his eye wander along the edge of the bright blade from hilt to point; but though he shuddered perceptibly, he said nothing.

Afzool Khan took his chin and beard in his hand, leaned his elbow on his knee, looked furtively once or twice under his bushy eyebrows at the priest and Fazil in turn, but did not speak, and again resumed his position. The prisoner's large bright eyes were fixed on him with an intensely inquisitive and earnest expression, and drops of sweat gathered on his brow and temples; but though his life hung on a word, there was no fear visible, and Fazil could not repress admiration of the man's calm bearing and contempt of death.

"It cannot be, Huzrut, yet," said Afzool Khan at length; "we have much to learn from him; and, after all, son, he was but doing his duty truly and faithfully. If I had sent thee on such an errand, or the King had sent thee, wouldst thou not have done the same? Take him away, put irons on him. He must be sent to the King, and judged at Beejapoor."

"Where thou wilt die under the Goruk Imlee tree like JehÁndar Beg," said Lukshmun. "Ah, yes, that was a clean stroke of Rama's; and they don't care for Brahmuns there."

At that moment Pahar Singh entered. "Yes, that is the man," he said, looking intently at the Brahmun. Then turning to his follower, "Go, Lukshmun," he said, "they seek thee. Rama is dead, and thou shouldst go and pour the water at his burial."

"Dead!" cried the man, starting back, and dropping the end of the turban. "Dead! O no, master, not Rama!"

"Go, and thou wilt see," said the chief, turning away.

Lukshmun spoke no word. They saw his broad chest heaving, and he gasped for breath. The shock was too sudden and great, and he fell senseless against the wall. In doing so the gold zone which he had hung over his arm rolled away.

"It is mine," said Gunga, picking it up, and clasping it about her waist. "He gave it me, ask him;" and she pointed to the Brahmun; "ask him; and that fellow would have stolen it. May I go?" she continued, addressing the Khan; "I am only a poor Moorlee of the temple; you do not need me."

"Surely," said the Khan, "we want no women. Go!" and she made a humble salutation to him, and turned aside.

"Is he, too, dead?" asked Pahar Singh, turning to Lukshmun. "They were twins, ye see, sirs," he said to the bystanders, "and his spirit may have gone after his brother's."

But it was not so. Lukshmun had fainted, and revived as water was poured down his throat and a man fanned him with a cloth. He looked about him dreamily; then some one raised him up, and led him away.

"And he?" asked Pahar Singh of the Khan, pointing to Moro Trimmul. "Is he to die? what will ye do with him, Khan Sahib?"

"Not yet; he will go to Beejapoor," returned the Khan, "and answer for his deeds to the King."

"It is just," replied the chief; "he has only done what a good servant should do. He tempted me for his master, as I could have tempted him——"

"That is just what I said," said the Khan, interrupting.

"And he took no man's life," continued the chief, "and the law will spare his."

"The law," interrupted the priest scornfully, "the blessed law is not for infidels, save for their destruction. For what is written in chapter forty-seven——"

"Peace," cried the Khan, who dreaded a dispute between them, "let it pass. I have spared him. Take him away—keep him with the standard of the Paigah, and let no man or woman have speech of him; he can cook his own food."

They led Moro Trimmul away. He said nothing; but Fazil saw a smile of triumph, he thought, flash over his grave features. When they looked for the girl Gunga she had gone also, and was not to be seen. Fazil, too, had disappeared. As the Khan's breakfast was brought, the kichÉri and kabobs he loved so well, he washed his hands, and waited awhile for Fazil's return; but able to contain himself no longer, drew near to the smoking dish, and crying, "Bismilla!" he, the priest, and those present, after the necessary ablutions, plunged their hands into the pile of rice, and ate heartily.

Fazil could no longer restrain himself. He had promised the girl he had left below the pass, to get news of her people for her; and, taking advantage of Pahar Singh's entrance, and the confusion occasioned by Lukshmun's fall, had slipped out unobserved. It was but a short distance, his horse was still saddled, and he mounted and rode as rapidly as he could down the hill.

The men were where he had left them, under the trees by the rivulet. ShÊre Khan was on foot, standing by the palankeen, pointing to the road and to Fazil as he descended. Some of the men were on horseback, others lying in the shade holding their horses' bridles.

As he neared the palankeen, the old man slowly advanced, and Fazil could see there were tears on his furrowed cheek. He saluted the young Khan respectfully, and put his hand on his saddle-bow.

"I never saw grief like hers," he said, "nor such fear, nor misery, at your delay. 'Why did he go?' was all she could say at first—and since I soothed her, she has cried the more—'Why doth he delay?' Once I persuaded her to go and wash her face at the river and drink water, and she did so, and was the better of it. And, O Meah! she is so beautiful! Even our rough men say she is a Peri, not a woman. Speak gently to her, Meah."

Fazil dismounted and walked on. A large space had been left about the palankeen, and no one had intruded upon Tara. Towards the rivulet the doors were open, and she was sitting on the edge of the litter, but with her feet on the ground without, and her face buried in her knees. She did not look up till the young man was close to her; then, with irrepressible emotion, she threw herself at his feet.

"O take me to them!" she cried piteously—"take me to them! they are waiting for me, they are looking for their Tara! O sir, they will not rest, or eat, till they know I am safe. Let me go—take me to them. Why am I detained? I have done no evil!"

"Rise," said Fazil, "rise—I may not touch thee to raise thee up; but Alla has laid a heavy hand on thee, and thou must listen to true words, though they bring thee such affliction as thou hast not known in thy young life."

Tara raised herself to her knees and looked up. O, the misery of those great eyes in which were no tears—red, dry, and glistening: while the sweet features quivered under bewildering anticipations of what was to follow. Fazil could not bear to look on her, and turned away. "Would there were anyone else to tell thee but me," he said, "it would be well."

"Speak," she replied calmly, "there is no deceit in your tongue—he whom you left with me says so; he told me you would not deceive me, and this suspense is terrible, do not prolong it—speak. I will listen."

"Nor will I," returned Fazil; "sit down as thou wast, and may God keep thy heart, as I tell thee of thy misery. Yesterday there were a father, a mother, another wife, and thyself, in a happy home. Now three are gone, and thou art here."

He saw her, as he spoke, clutching nervously at her throat, which was heaving convulsively, and trying to swallow; and ere he could complete the sentence she had fallen sideways from her seat against the door of the litter, and lay there, powerless, for an instant. His habitual respect for women would have prevented his touching her, but she was so helpless that he raised her up, and, taking a pillow from the inside of the palankeen, placed it behind her, supporting it with his arm.

Gradually she seemed to recover a little. "Dead," she said gently, "all dead! O Holy Mother, why is this? Why am I not taken too?" and she shuddered, and cowered down, shrinking from him.

Fazil thought the truth might rouse her, and he was right. He dreaded her becoming insensible.

"Yes, so it has pleased God," he said. "Thy father was killed, fighting in the temple; and in the confusion afterwards, robbers attacked the house where your mother was and the other, and they also died."

"No—no, it could not be!" cried Tara, quickly and eagerly. "JÁnoo NÄik would be there; he would fight for them and protect them."

"JÁnoo himself told me this: he told me he saw them dead—two women, very fair, the elder Anunda, and the younger wife, Radha Bye. Some of JÁnoo's people are killed in the house, and he could not save them. Thy father?" he continued, as he saw her lips apparently moving, though the word was not spoken. "Yes, two men, priests in the temple, Khundoo BhÓpey and Rama BhÓpey—I asked their names—who lifted him upon the litter in which he was carried away, said he was dead and already burned. What can I do with thee or for thee now?" he continued. "Speak, and I will do it, lady, truly and faithfully."

"Is it true?" she asked dreamily, and with a rough husky voice, and staring at him with those great scared eyes. "The BhÓpeys would not tell lies."

"I swear it by the dead, it is true," replied Fazil. "I have neither rested nor eaten till I found out the truth. Had there been any one, even a servant, I would have sent for thee. JÁnoo told me there was no one belonging to thee in the town, no relatives;—and the Brahmuns are all fled. Men say they will not return to a polluted shrine, and JÁnoo NÄik and others said you had relatives at Wye, where we are going."

"Yes," she said calmly, and as if echoing his words, "there are relatives at Wye. Sukya Bye is there—and—no matter. Yes. I will go there—let me go."

"My mother and sister will be with us," added Fazil, "come to them. Zyna will be a sister to thee, and no harm shall come nigh thee. I would use no force—it must be of thine own free will; but the town yonder is filled with dead and dying, the temple is desolate, there is no one of thy people alive, and thou wouldst die of fear and sorrow. Come with us; ShÊre Khan will take care of thee, as of a daughter, till we reach my sister. I will not come nigh thee, but he will tell me of thee. O lady, I am not false! I am a stranger to thee; but Alla threw me in thy path, when else, dishonour was before thee. From that, at least, I saved thee, and thou knowest it."

"Who art thou?" she said gently; "yes, I was saved from worse than death—who saved me?"

"I, Fazil, the son of Afzool Khan of Beejapoor," he said.

"They say Pathans respect women's honour," she returned, rousing herself. "A poor orphan girl will not be without pity in your sight. Ah! sir, I am sorely bewildered now," she continued, beating helplessly with her hands on her lap. "I cannot think or speak, and my heart is dried up; but he told me—that old man—that you were true, and they loved you, all of them!—and so be kind to Tara, and do not deceive her; she will die soon, and go away, and will trouble you no more."

"By Alla! by my sister's honour! I will be true to thee, O lady!" cried Fazil earnestly; "truer than thou canst now think. Enough; when thou art with Zyna thou wilt know all; till then thou wilt not see me. Call the bearers," he continued, to ShÊre Khan; "take her on to camp, wherever it is; get guides from the next village yonder. Procure her food by the way, if she will eat. Here are twenty men with the litter; they will take thee into Sholapoor. Hark!" he continued to the men as they approached, "take this palankeen into Sholapoor at once, and ye shall have fifty rupees from Afzool Khan. Fear not, lady!" he said once more to Tara; "thou wilt be ShÊre Khan's daughter till thou art with my sister." Then, mounting his horse, he rode rapidly up the pass.

Tara followed his figure with her eyes, and her heart went with them. He was so kind, so gracious, and so beautiful. She could not realize the fact of her sudden misery and desolation, and yet she could not doubt it. As he disappeared behind a turn in the road, the sense of that desolation became more acutely painful. But she had no time for thought. ShÊre Khan rode up, bid her shut the doors of the litter, and told her he should not leave it; and a moment afterwards she felt it was taken up, and carried forward at a rapid pace, while the old soldier caracoled by her side, and the horsemen spread themselves around her, to screen as well as to protect the conveyance in which she lay.