The morning ceremony was at length over, and, somewhat wearied by it, and by sitting inactive so long, Sivaji rose and passed into his private apartments, to which the shed or pavilion was a temporary addition. The rough mountain fortress afforded no royal palaces. A few terraced houses, divided by courts, with some thatched out-offices and stables, stood on an elevated spot near the walls; and the Rajah's favourite retreat was a small vaulted apartment, which joined the fort-wall—indeed, formed portion of it—and from which a small projecting window, placed immediately above one of the deepest precipices, looked out over the valley and mountains, and commanded a view of part of the ascent.

It was a habit of Sivaji's to go to no ceremony, nor return from any, without saluting his mother. Did he ever leave the house or return to it, he touched her feet reverently, while she gave him her blessing. The son's faith in his mother was only equalled by her faith and love for him; and as a pattern of filial piety and devotion, his example is still inculculated upon the Mahratta youth by many a village schoolmaster.

She met him at the threshold of the door, and, as was her wont, passed her hands over his face and neck, kissing the tips of her fingers; while, bowing low, he touched both her feet, then his own eyes and forehead.

"Is Tannajee arrived, son," she asked, "that thou hast broken up the reception so early?"

"No, mother," he said; "but come with me, for my spirit is heavy, and there is a shadow of gloom over me which thou only canst dispel. No, there is no news, and that vexes me."

She followed him into the apartment we have mentioned. A plain cushion had been placed near the window upon a soft mattress, and he flung, rather than seated himself, upon it, and buried his face in his hands, turning away from her.

She sat down by him, and again passed her hand over his face and neck, and kissed her fingers without speaking.

A mother's loving hand! O ye who know it, who possess it as the rude waves of life come breaking one by one against you, be thankful that it is there in its old place, soothing and sustaining like nought else of earthly comfort! Ye who have lost it, never forget how lovingly it used to do its blessed work. In times of anxious trial, perplexity, and sickness most of all,—ye shall feel it still, in the faith which leads ye where it is gone before, and awaits your coming. So, forget it not!—forget it not!

For a while both were silent. The mother knew the feelings which filled her son's mind too well to interfere with their course. Still she sat by him, and patted him occasionally as she used to do when she soothed him to rest as a child. "If he could sleep," she thought, "this gloom would pass away; but it will do so nevertheless."

He lay still, sometimes looking out into the blue air, watching the swallows as they passed and repassed the window in rapid flight to and from their nests, which hung to the ledges of the precipices—or the groups of people ascending and descending the pathway to the gates. Again, burying his face in the cushion, he lay still, and his mother watched, and gently waved the corner of her garment over his head, lest any insect should light on him and disturb him. There was no sound save the dull buzzing of flies in the room, and sometimes the loud monotonous note of a great woodpecker from the depths of the ravine below.

He turned at length, and she knew the crisis was past. "Mother," he said, "hast thou been with the goddess to-day? To me she is dim and mournful; I ask my heart of her designs, but there comes no answer. Is her favour gone from us?"

"Who can tell her purposes, my life?" she replied, "we are only her instruments. O, fail not in heart! If there be troubles, should we not meet them? If she bid us suffer, shall we not suffer? But, O, fail not—doubt not! Remember thy father doubted and failed, and what came of it but weary imprisonment, fine, pain, shame, and failure? O, not so, my son: better thou wast dead, and I with thee, than to doubt and fail."

"The trial will be heavy, mother," he returned. "Here we are safe, and I fear not for thee: but for the rest, the cause is hopeless, and that is what vexes me. Years of stratagem and arrangement are gone with that man's death, and all we have planned is known."

"And if it be known, son, dost thou fear?" she exclaimed. "What has been gained by these communications with a traitor? O son, he who is not faithful to the salt he eats, is untrue to all besides. I—a woman only—and the priests will tell thee not to trust a woman's thoughts or designs—I tell thee I am glad: I rejoice that a trial has come to thee. One hour such as thou hast passed now, with thine own heart to speak to thee, is worth more to the cause than a thousand priests or a lakh of swordsmen. I tell thee I am glad: for such things only can teach thee to trust thyself, and not to look to others."

"And thee, mother?" he said, smiling.

"No, no—not to me," she replied quickly, "except the goddess speaks by my mouth. No, not to me. I am but a woman else, fearful of thee, my son—fearful of the bullet, the sword, the lance, the wild fray of battle—fearful of——"

"Nay, mother," he cried, sitting up and interrupting her, "not of the sword or the battle; there I am safe,—there I fear not. Were I but there now, this heaviness at my heart would pass away. 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' the cry—the shout rings in my ears and urges me on; then there is no time for thought, as now in this silence."

"And it shall ring again, my son," she replied. "Fear not—doubt not, only act: that is all. Wilt thou be like thy father, drifted here and there by every current of rumour like a straw upon the sea? 'Such a one will not join, what can I do? Such a thing threatens, what can I do? This man says this, shall I follow it? That man says the other, shall I follow it?' So he followed as others led; so he acted as others advised. What came of all? only shame, my son. Had he said to all, Do this, they would have done it. O Mother, O Holy Mother," she cried, standing up and lifting her joined hands towards the deep blue sky, "come from thence—come from the air into thy daughter's heart; teach me what to say, how to direct him, or direct him thyself! O Mother, we do all for thy name and honour, and for the faith so long degraded: let us not fail or be shamed!

"Not thus, son," she continued after a pause—"not thus will the spirit come upon me, but in the temple must I watch alone and pray and fast, ere she will disclose herself to me; and I will do so from to-night. Yes, she will be entreated at last. Perhaps," she continued simply, but reverently, "the Mother is in sorrow herself, and needs comfort. No matter, I will entreat her."

"Surely she hath heard already," replied her son after another pause, "for my soul is better for thy words—stronger, mother. Yes, I see how it will be; nor Moro Trimmul, nor Tannajee, nor Palkur, nor any one but myself. I had thought to lay all these matters before the people at the Kutha to-night, but I will not. I will only say we must work for ourselves—against the Emperor, against the King, and most against Afzool Khan. If they will only trust in me—yes, mother, if they will only trust in me—we shall have victory, and I will not disappoint them or you."

"Now, a thousand blessings on thee, Sivaji BhÓslay, for those words," cried his mother, passing her hands over his head. "I have no fear now—none. Go to the Kutha—tell them all that their time is come; and when you cry 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' each shout of theirs in reply will echo the death-cry of a thousand infidels. Now, let me depart, my son; it is well for me to go to the Mother, and sit before her; haply she may come to me. Better to be there, than that a woman should be near thee, when the woman's spirit has passed out of thee."

"Bless me, then, my mother, and go; nor will I stay here long," he replied. "The shadows are even now lengthening in the valleys, and I should have the people collected ere it is dark."

She placed her hands upon his head solemnly: "Thus do I bless thee, my son—more fervently, more resignedly than ever. Go, as she will lead thee in her own time. To all thy people thou wilt not alter, but, to the Moslems, be stone and steel. Trust no one—ask of no one what is to be done, not even of me. Do what is needful, and what thy heart tells thee. Show no mercy, but cut out thine own path with the sword. If thou wilt be great, do these things; if not——: but no, thou wilt be great, my son. She hath told me so; and thou wilt reckon the true beginning of it from that silent watch there, by the window. I go now, but stay not thou here. See, there are none ascending, and even those descending the hill are fewer. Go to them."

He watched her intently as she left him and disappeared behind a curtain, which fell before a door of the apartment leading to the small household temple. An expression of triumph lit up his large dark eyes and expressive features. "She said I must act for myself," he cried aloud. "Yes, mother, I will act for thee first, and then for the people; and there shall be no idle words again—only 'Hur, Hur, Mahadeo!' when the fire is on the hills."