From a straggling, irregular village, which could hardly be called a town, nestling in a hollow under the mountain of PertÂbgurh, a rude pathway, for it was little else, ascended to the fort above. Very rough, but very lovely, was this road. The forest, or jungle, had been partly cleared away from its sides, but noble trees still hung over it, affording grateful shade as it wound round ravines and shoulders of the mountain in gradual but easy ascent; and the huge broad leaf of the teak tree, the graceful and feathery bamboo, and other masses of luxuriant foliage, rich with great creepers now covered with flowers, which hung from tree to tree in graceful festoons, or clung in dense masses about their tops,—presented endless and beautiful combinations with the bold upper precipices of the mountain itself, and the distant ranges behind it. Farther up, as the air grew fresher in the ascent, and you looked down into deep gloomy dells, or abroad over the valley, or up to the rugged sides of the great mountain beyond,—a subtle blue atmosphere appeared to pervade everything; and this, the peculiar characteristic of those high tropical regions, seemed to increase in depth of colour,—and, without in reality obscuring the features of the scenery, to soften its rugged outlines, and blend its almost savage elements into harmony.

It has been said of natives of India that they are insensible to beauties of natural scenery. We admit that Mussulmans to a great extent are so, but not Hindus, still less Mahrattas, of these glorious mountains. Their sacred books, their ballads, and recited plays, abound with beautiful pictures of natural objects; and, living among combinations of the most glorious forms in nature, peopling every remarkable rock, deep dell, or giant tree with spiritual beings belonging peculiarly to each, who are worshipped with a rude veneration,—insensibility to outward impressions and their influence upon character would be impossible.

So now, at the time we speak of, a numerous company of men on foot were ascending by the pathway already mentioned to the fort, and that light merriment prevailed among them which ever accompanies the enjoyment of fine scenery and pure mountain air, and excites physical capability for the endurance of the heaviest fatigue. Some ran or leaped, as occasional level portions of road occurred; others climbed among the crags and rocks by its side, or, knowing shorter paths to the summit, struck out of the main road, and breasted the steep mountain with a freedom and agility only known to mountaineers.

Keen-eyed, lithe, spare, yet muscular men; low in stature, yet of extraordinary power of endurance; often heavily armed with long matchlock, and its accompaniment of powder-horns, bullet-bags, and other accoutrements tied round the waist,—a long, straight, heavy two-handled sword hanging over the left shoulder, or a smaller curved sabre fastened into the waist-band, with a dagger or two, and a broad shield at the back—such were Sivaji's Mawullees. Ordinarily unburdened with much clothing—a pair of drawers fitting tight below the knee, a coarse handkerchief wound about the head, and a black blanket thrown over all, or crossed over the chest, leaving the arms free, sufficed for ordinary purposes; on festival days, however, all were clad in a clean suit of coarse cotton cloth, with a gay turban, and scarf round the waist, and bunches of wild flowers tucked fantastically into the folds of their head-dress.

This was a festival day—for their Rajah had ordered a Kutha; and all knew when this took place that it was the prelude to some raid or foray—some distant expedition in which honour and booty were to be gained—and when the Mawullees would strike in, hard and fierce, on the unsuspecting Moslems. The "Dhunni," or master, as they called him, had been unaccountably quiet for some time past; but to a man they knew he was not idle, and throughout that country, as in more remote provinces, the conviction prevailed that something unusual was to happen—some manifestation of the will of the goddess, whom all feared and most worshipped. There was nothing apparent or tangible; but expectation and excitement prevailed nevertheless.

For several days previously, the usual messengers had run from village to village among the Mawuls or valleys of the ranges near PertÂbgurh, giving news of the Kutha. The players had come from Wye, from Sattara, and other towns, and the Rajah's hill-men had been clearing the usual place of celebration, and were now decorating the royal seat, and stage for the players, with green boughs and wild flowers. The little town was already full of people, and others were crowding up the mountain to make their salutation to their beloved prince who, now seated in his hall of audience, surrounded by a few friends, soldiers, and priests, denied no one the privilege so dearly prized, that of making a "salam" to their Rajah, and receiving one in return.

Up the mountain-side, through the grim gateways, till they emerged upon the irregular plateau at the top, the men poured in a continuous stream. Some singly or in small groups; others in larger companies headed by a pair of "gursees," or pipers, one playing a drone, the other a reed flageolet, very strong and shrill in tone, the combination of which, as well as the wild melodies played, being curiously like bagpipes in effect. Others had with them their village trumpeters; and shrill quivering blasts of their horns, accompanied by the deep monotonous notes of large tambourine drums, not unfrequently arose together or singly from different parts of the ascent, and were answered by the Rajah's horn-blowers stationed on the bastions above the gates, and elsewhere in the towers above the precipices. The fort was full of men, for several thousands were assembled in it: sitting in groups, rambling about the walls, or by the side of springs and wells, untying the bundles of cakes which each man had bound to his back, and making a noonday meal; or proceeding to their chieftain's kitchen, received the daily allowance of meal bread, which was served out without stint to all comers on those occasions, and of which huge piles stood on the kitchen floor ready for distribution.

All the morning Sivaji had sat in his humble hall of audience, surrounded by some of his tried friends, and some Brahmun priests and scribes. No gorgeous palace was this, like that at Beejapoor, but a broad shed made by poles fastened together, and thatched with grass and teak-leaves, decorated gracefully and appropriately with leafy branches and wild flowers. At the upper end was the Rajah's seat, a low dais covered with coarse cotton carpets, on which the "guddee" or royal seat—a velvet pillow covered with gold embroidery, and a seat to match—had been placed temporarily. Below the dais, the leaders of large and small parties of men came—saluted—seated themselves by turns, and got up and departed with the usual salutation, but seldom without notice; and while other men passed quickly by, the chief had a kind word of greeting or reminiscence or salute for every one. Many saw that his features were clouded with care; but the news from the capital concerned no one, and the Kutha to come off that night would, they knew, prove the usual prelude of active service.

Seated as he was amidst a crowd of friends and attendants, the Mahratta Rajah seemed, in the distance, almost contemptible, from his small stature and plain, insignificant appearance. Dressed in ordinary white muslin, the only ornament he wore was the "jika," or jewel for the turban, which sparkled with valuable diamonds. A light red shawl drawn over his shoulders protected him from the somewhat chill wind, and before him lay his terrible sword Bhowani, and the large black shield of rhinoceros hide which he usually wore. A nearer view, however, gave a different impression. Somewhat dark in complexion, with a prominent nose, broad in the nostril; large, soft eyes, small determined mouth and chin; a thin moustache curled up at the ends, and bushy black whiskers shaved on a line with his ear,—formed a countenance at once handsome and intelligent: while his slight figure, apparently more active than strong, evinced, by its lithe movement even while sitting, a power of endurance which was confirmed by the expression of his face.

No one who had once seen the Maharaja ever forgot him. Though now mild in expression, if not sad, most about him had seen and remembered the face in other and wilder moods of excitement: in war, or in the actual hand-to-hand combats, in which he delighted, and from which he could with difficulty be restrained; while the impression that he was an incarnation of divinity, mingled awe with the respect and love which all bore him.