Some three weeks after the events recorded in the last chapter, Zyna and Lurlee were sitting near the foot of the bed on which Tara was lying, and two Brahmun women—widows, as appeared from their shaven heads and coarse serge garments—sat on each side of it. One was fanning her gently. The bed was very low, hardly a foot from the ground, so that the women were seated on the floor, leaning against its frame. They had watched all night in pairs by turns, and the dawn was just about to break; but a small lamp, in a niche of the wall, threw a faint light over the room and the verandah beyond, and fell upon a figure lying there, covered in a sheet, which appeared, from its measured breathing, to be asleep. All four women were weeping silently, and their faces had that worn, haggard expression which is consequent upon long and continuous watching.

"When did he say he would come again?" asked Lurlee of one of the women in a whisper.

"They will both be here at dawn," said the woman addressed; "but they said they could do nothing now, unless she rallies of herself: medicine cannot help her; and still she sleeps."

"Look," said Zyna, with a tone of awe in her low voice, "if you can see her breathe. I have been watching for some time, and I cannot see the sheet over her move as it used to do. Mother! mother! she is not gone from us!"

"No, daughter," returned Lurlee, "she lives still, but she is near to death, fearfully near, and is in the hands of Alla. If she wake up restless, as she was before, we must put her on the floor, that the spirit may pass easily; but, as it is, we may yet hope, for there is rest now after her weariness, and she hath not asked for water all night. You have given her none, have you?" she asked of the women.

"No, lady," replied the elder of the two; "none since she went to sleep. It is near dawn, and if the soul had to pass it would be restless to go; yet she sleeps. We cannot move her, nor is there need; she breathes as gently as a child. Look!"

The woman took the lamp from the niche in the wall, and, shading it with her hand, yet so as to suffer a little light to fall on Tara's face, looked at it earnestly. "She smiles," she said in a whisper; "behold, lady, but do not rise, else it might wake her."

Lurlee and Zyna leaned forward and regarded her anxiously. Yes, the lips, though blistered with the parching heat of fever, seemed fuller and redder, and, as the sweet mouth was partly open, the light fell upon moisture on the white pearly teeth which glistened brightly. The cheeks were not so wan and sunken, and the eyes, instead of being partly open, with a dull glassy stare which, except when they flashed in delirium, had been their only expression for several days past, were now closed entirely, and the long eyelashes rested peacefully, as it were, on the cheek. One hand had been placed under her head, and the other lay across her bosom. Her breathing could scarcely be seen, and yet, if they looked intently, the arm across the bosom heaved slightly now and then, and as it were without excitement.

"It may be the flush of life which precedes death," said the woman; "yet then they do not often smile, nor dream. See, she is smiling again."

"Ah, there is no death in that smile, daughter! Look! O blessed saints, pray for her! O Prophet of God, she will be thy child soon; intercede for her, and have her spared! O holy Syud Geesoo Duraz! I vow a golden coverlet for thy tomb, and Fatehas to a thousand poor mendicants, if she be saved!" cried Lurlee, with clasped hands and streaming eyes. "O, give her to me! All have children but me, and this one strange child I took into my heart when ye sent her, and she abode there. O, take her not—take her not from me! What use would she be to ye now in her young life? Wilt thou not pray too, Zyna, for her?"

"Mother, I have prayed," replied Zyna earnestly. "Fazil hath prayed. We have vowed Fatehas to all the shrines, and to the holy Saint at Allund. Mother! I will send my gold anklets and her zone to the shrine there, if she but live, and will give her others."

So they watched and prayed, and saw the smile playing gently and sweetly over Tara's mouth and eyes. Was it to hear the whisper of the Angel of Death? It might be so, and then the last dread change would follow; the eyes would glaze and sink, the breathing become shorter and more difficult, and they must take her up and lay her down on the ground to die. Would it be so?

For many days Tara had lain between life and death. The great excitement she had passed through—during which her mind, strung by despair and superstitious belief, had sustained her—had passed away suddenly, and left its never-failing result in the utter prostration both of mental and physical power; and the exposure she had been subjected to in that wild night-ride from Wye, with the succeeding days of heat and fatigue, in the midst of constant alarm, had combined to produce severe fever. As she was lifted from the litter the evening she arrived by the women, she was entirely unconscious; but in Lurlee she had at once a skilful and loving nurse, and after a while she had recovered sufficiently to distinguish with whom she was, and to feel that the hideous insecurity of her life—nay, the imminent peril of a horrible and violent death—had passed away.

But after that short period of blissful recognition, and with the sound of Lurlee and Zyna's passionately endearing welcomes in her ears, unconsciousness had returned, and she knew no more for many days. The burning fever, accompanied by low delirium, continued without intermission. Happily her mind retained its last pleasant impressions most vividly: and from time to time, Lurlee and Zyna heard her murmur to herself more of her deep love for Fazil than she would ever have dared to tell them, and they listened wonderingly to the strange mingling of his name with those of gods and demigods of her own faith, and to the impassioned expressions which broke from her in that wild, perhaps poetic, language, with which, from her own studies and her father's recitals, she had become familiar.

The doctors of the town were early summoned; and there was an old Gosai, known to the merchant's wife, who lived in a village near, whose repute for curing cases of fever was very great, and who was sent for, when the doctors' period of nine days' illness had elapsed without any relief. He declared the fever would last three weeks: and that, on the twenty-first day, or thereabouts, Tara would either live or die, for the disease was dangerous and difficult to subdue, but—he would do his best. So they sat and watched her day and night; life now seemingly trembling on her lips, and yet again rallying within her, and giving hope when otherwise there was none.

Now, too, under the long sleep, her features had relaxed; the skin had lost its unnatural tension and dryness, and a soft smile was there which looked like life; and still they prayed and made vows.

"No," said the woman, holding the lamp and watching Tara, "it is not death, lady—not yet. There is no change; and see, the smile, faint as it is, does not pass away. Surely there are sweet thoughts below it—thoughts, perhaps, of life. Let us wait and pray."

And still they sat, and, after their own fashion, humbly prayed too; and the morning broke, and Fazil, who, wearied by watching, lay outside, arose, performed his ablutions, and, with Zyna, spread their carpets, and performed the morning service. Then he watched in turn; and the doctors came, looked at the sleeping girl, and one of them gently put his hand on her pulse and felt it, and smiled, and nodded his head approvingly. "There is life in it," he said gently, "but it is very feeble. Wait till she wakes—that is the crisis of life or of death; but, perhaps—God knows—it may be life."

It may be life! Ah, yes! Many who read these pages will remember like scenes; watching the fluttering spirit of one most beloved—parent, or wife, or child—with an intense and wondering earnestness of misery or of hope, mingled with prayer: incoherent perhaps—no matter—yet going straight from the heart, up to Him in whose hands are the issues of life and of death, to be dealt with as He pleased. Is there none of this among the people we write of? Why not as much as among ourselves? The same motives exist there as here, the same deep ties of affection, the same interests, and the same hopes and fears—often, indeed, more powerful as belonging to minds more impetuous, and less regulated by conventional forms. Then the hope is greater, the agony of bereavement more bitter, and the suspense between the final issue, perhaps, more unendurable.

So they sat around her. The kind, hospitable merchant's wife, with whom they still resided, came forth from her own court of the house, and, smiling as she saw Tara, bid them be of good cheer. No one spoke afterwards, but they watched the tranquil face; and the expressions still varying upon it, under the thoughts passing within, gave increasing hope of life.

It had been a sore struggle; but life at last was suffered to triumph over death. From the time when the weary tossing to and fro ceased, and the parched lips refused to speak even incoherently, and the deathlike sleep began, the exhausted frame had been gathering strength. More than a night, and nearly a day, had passed in hope and fear alternately to them, but in rest to Tara; and as the shadows were falling long towards the east, the sweet eyes opened to the full, and looked around.

They could see but dimly at first; but they read in the faces which at once turned towards her, now the most precious on earth, the assurance of that love, of which, as her spirit hovered on the threshold of the unknown eternal land, she had been permitted to dream. There was no fever now in those soft eyes—no glare, no glassy brightness: but dewy, and their deep brown and violet shaded by the long lashes, into an expression of dreamy languor—they seemed more beautiful by far than they had ever appeared before, and Fazil thought, as his creed suggested, that those of a Houri of the blessed Paradise, or a Peri angel of the air, could not be more lovely. None of them could speak then; but the tears were falling fast from their eyes in great and irrepressible emotion, as they stretched forth their arms to welcome Tara to life.

"My child! my life!" cried Lurlee, sobbing, who was the first to find utterance. "Now, God hath given thee to me again, and I will never leave thee—never. O, do not speak; it is enough that we see thee come back to us, more precious, and more beloved than ever!"

Tara attempted to reply, but was too feeble. They saw her lips moving, but no, words could be heard. She tried to stretch forth her hand to Zyna, but she could not lift it. Zyna saw the attempt, and threw her arm round her. "Not now, beloved," she said—"not now. Lie still and rest; we are all near thee, and will not go away."

So more days passed, and Tara grew stronger, though slowly. The shock to mind and body had been very heavy, and needed long rest and much care; but she was in tender hands, and gradually, but surely, they saw progression to convalescence, and were thankful. Lurlee could not restrain her pious gratitude; and Friday after Friday, the poor of the town, Hindus as well as Mahomedans, received a munificent dole of food and money, and rejoiced at the widow's profuse charity.

Dear reader, if you have ever recovered from such an illness as befell Tara, you will remember, vividly and gratefully, the pleasant languor, the perfect rest, and the sensation of growing strength of life,—amid its weakness, such as you cannot estimate till you attempt to act for yourself. You long to speak, but your tongue refuses words; you long to rise and help yourself, but your members as yet decline office. If you can turn yourself about as you lie, it is all that is possible. Then, if you are ministered to by loving hands, and you hear sweet familiar voices around you, how often has your heart swelled, and run over at your eyes, silently, and in very weakness, as you have abandoned yourself to their sweet influences! How powerfully the new life which God has given you, grows under their ever-present care! Sometimes you can hardly bear the excess of joy, and tremble lest it should suddenly cease; and again, you find periods of rest possessing you—dreamy unrealities—incomplete perceptions—even vacuity, which is not sleep, nor yet waking—and still with all, a consciousness of increasing strength which will not be denied.

It was so with Tara. No one spoke much to her, she could not bear it, nor could she reply; but if Zyna sat by her, or Lurlee, and held her hand, it was enough for reality; and morning and evening Fazil was admitted to see her, and to satisfy himself that she was gaining ground. The past was never alluded to by any of them. At first she had only a dim and broken remembrance of it, as of some great ill-usage or suffering. As she grew stronger, the detail became more distinct: and they often saw her shudder, and draw the end of her garment or the coverlet over her face, as if to hide it from observation, or to shut out some terrible sight from her view. Yet to herself there was an unreality about the whole, which she could neither comprehend, nor account for. Most of all about her parents: were they indeed alive, or was their sudden appearance on the day of the Sutee, a reality, or a trick of imagination—was all she retained in her mind one of the hideous dreams of her illness rather than a fact? Who was to tell her the truth?

All that Fazil had heard from the hunchback, he had told to Tara as they rested here and there in their escape; but her own mind was then in that state of terror and confusion that she could tell him nothing, nor, indeed, could she find courage to speak to him at all. Long before, when they had been together in camp, she had never dared to answer him. It was enough for her that he spoke, and that she listened. Her mind, as he rode with her that night before him—for he would trust her to no one—was sorely unhinged. That she had escaped death she knew; that she was with him she knew also: that she feared pursuit, and might be taken and burned alive, was an absorbing terror, which shut out the shame of her flight; and it was perhaps a happy circumstance that the fever, which had so long affected her brain, shut out all realities till she was stronger, and calmer to bear them.