Madar waited for a while, until he saw that the Khan’s servants had arrived; when, taking his silver stick of office with him, he sought their little separate encampment, which, busy as it had seemed elsewhere, was now swallowed up in the mass that occupied the space around them. He lurked about the busy and tired men for some time, not hazarding a remark to any one, lest he should meet with a sharp repulse, which indeed was to be expected; seeing that after a long march, men who must provide and cook their dinners, have much more to do than to hold conversations with prying inquirers.

At last, seeing Daood, the Khan’s attendant, busy preparing his master’s hooka, he advanced towards him, and seated himself upon his hams close to him.

‘Salaam Aliekoom, brother!’ said he.

‘Salaam!’ was the only reply Daood chose to give.

‘Mashalla! the Khan has returned in good health.’

‘Shookr Khoda! he has.’

‘Inshalla! he will long continue so.’

‘Inshalla!’

‘And so he has married a young wife! Well, the Khan is a powerful man,—a youth, yet.’

‘Inshalla, brother!’ and Daood continued his employment most assiduously, humming a popular tune.

‘The brother of the Khanum is a fine-looking youth—may his prosperity increase!’

Daood looked at the speaker with no amicable eyes. ‘Who, in the name of the Sheitan, art thou, O unlucky man? How darest thou, even in thy speech, to allude to the Khanum, and what mean these questions? Go! stay not here, or it may be that some of our folks may lay a stick over thee; and haply myself, if thou stayest much longer. Go, I tell thee; or thou mayst chance to eat dirt.’

Madar saw plainly enough there was little to be gained by conversation with Daood, so he left him; and after a while tried a groom who was busy with one of the Khan’s horses.

With him he was more successful, and soon he learned the history of the young man and the events which had occurred during their march from Hyderabad. Stored with these, he was preparing to depart, when he was roughly accosted by Kasim and Dilawur Ali, who had observed him in conversation with the groom; for Dilawur Ali well knew the character of the man to be of the worst kind, and that the inquiries he was making were to gratify the curiosity of his master, or perhaps to serve worse purposes.

Dilawur Ali was an officer who commanded a Duffa or division of the corps, and a man of some authority; so he cared little, now that his commander had arrived, either for the man or his master. For he was secure in the Khan’s favour, and well knew that the Jemadar dared not complain to him, even should his servant receive ill usage, or at any rate hard words. So he cried out lustily, ‘Ho! Madar Sahib, what seekest thou among the newly-arrived servants of the Khan? By the soul of the Prophet, thine appearance is like a bird of ill-omen,—like the first vulture to a dying sheep. What has he been asking of thee?’ he said to the groom; ‘speak, and fear not.’

‘May I be your sacrifice,’ replied the man; ‘he did but ask about the PatÉl Sahib yonder,’ for so Kasim continued to be called among them.

‘And what wouldst thou know about me, O base-born!’ cried Kasim; ‘what am I to thee or to thy master?’

‘Nothing, nothing, noble sir; only my master (may his prosperity increase!) bid me ask, in order that he might know something of one whose appearance is so like that of a youth brave in war; and he saw too that your worship had been wounded, and naturally wished to know whether the Khan Sahib (may his name be exalted!) had been in any danger on the way down, which may Alla avert!’

‘Thy words are smooth for once,’ said Dilawur Ali, ‘and well calculated to disarm suspicion; but I know thee well, Madar Sahib, and thy master too, and I warn thee of both, Kasim. In the present case there may be no harm meant, and perhaps it is unjust to accuse or to suspect thee; but thou hadst as well take the hint, for, Inshalla! we are neither fathers of owls or of jackasses, and can see and hear as far as other people: dost thou understand?’

‘I will tell thee more plainly, Madar Sahib,’ said the young PatÉl,—whose blood was fired by the thought that any one should be so soon prying into his affairs in the camp,—‘that if ever I catch thee about this encampment of ours, or tampering with any of my lord the Khan’s servants, I will break every bone in thy skin: dost thou hear?’

‘My lord!’ began the fellow.

‘Nay, no more,’ continued Kasim, ‘or I may be tempted to give way to wrath; begone, in the name of the devils on whose errand thou camest. I like thee not, by Alla! thy face is like an executioner’s,—a fellow who would give a brave man a cup of poison, or stab him from behind with a knife, and boast he had done some valiant deed.’

Some others who were standing by caught the words of the young man, and laughed loudly at the truth he had so unwittingly told; and their taunts, added to the previous ones he had been obliged to hear, caused Madar to slink off as fast as possible, followed by the jeers and abuse of those who had joined in the laugh against him.

‘He is off like a maimed cur!’ cried one. ‘You have eaten dirt!’ cried another. ‘Alla give thee a good digestion of it, and appetite for more the next time thou comest!’

‘Let us seize him and cut off his beard and mustachios! such an impotent coward and prying rascal is not worthy to wear the emblems of manhood—let him be shaven like an eunuch!’ cried a masculine virago, the wife of a camel-driver, setting her arms a-kimbo, who thought it a fair opportunity to join in. ‘Return, O Madar Sahib, that I may spit on thy beard!’

Madar did not apparently choose to accept this polite invitation, for he thought it possible that the first threat might be attempted, and the shout of laughter which followed the latter part of the speech caused him to quicken his pace considerably; and only once looking behind him, to throw a glance of hate towards those by whom he had been menaced, he pursued his way, and was soon lost in the crowd.

‘There goes a spiteful heart,’ said Kasim; ‘didst thou see the look he cast behind him?’

‘Ay, brother,’ replied Dilawur Ali; ‘thou hast said truly, he has a spiteful heart, and I could tell thee many a tale of his iniquity; but I am half sorry that we did not speak him fair.’

‘I am not: I would rather have an open enemy than one under the garb of civility or friendship.’

‘The scoundrel will tell all he has heard, and as much more as he can invent, to the Jemadar yonder.’

‘And what of that?’ said Kasim; ‘what have I to fear?’

‘This is no place to speak of him,’ said his friend; ‘come to my tent, I will tell thee much of him.’

And truly the account the worthy Syud gave of the Jemadar was not calculated in any way to allay fear, if any had existed in Kasim’s heart: for it was one of deceit, of villainy often successful, of constant intrigue, and of cruel revenge; but the young man’s fearless spirit only made light of these, which might have disquieted a more experienced person; and he asked gaily,

‘But what makest thee think that he bears me any enmity? we have as yet hardly seen each other.’

‘I know it from his vile face, Kasim. While the Khan often spoke to thee kindly in his presence, his eyes wandered to thee with a bad expression, and they no sooner left thee than he and that Sontaburdar of his exchanged furtive glances. I was watching them, for I saw at once he would be jealous of thee.’

‘He may do his worst,’ said Kasim, ‘I care not.’ But in spite of this expression, his heart was not quite so free of care about what had happened as it had been before he had heard Dilawur Ali’s stories.

Madar returned, burning with spiteful and revengeful feelings, and with much excitement visible in his countenance, he rushed into his master’s presence and flung his turban on the ground, while he gnashed his teeth in rage.

‘What news hast thou, Madar? What has been done to thee? speak, good man. What has happened?’

‘Judge if I have not cause to be revenged, Khodawund: I am less than a dog; and may my grave be unblessed if I do not avenge the insults I have suffered both for myself and you, O my lord!’

‘Why, what has happened?’

‘I tell you, you have been reviled by that son of perdition Dilawur Ali, and the boy whom that old fool the Khan has brought with him. Hear, Jemadar Sahib, what they said; they said they would—Inshalla!’ and Madar twisted up his mustachios fiercely as he spoke, ‘defile your beard, and throw dirt on it; they called you a coward and less than man. They said they did not value you a broken couree; and they threatened to beat me, to break every bone in my skin; and set up a vile woman, one without shame, with an uncovered face, to abuse me in vile terms, to call me an eunuch, and to threaten to shave my beard and mustachios; and this before a thousand others, loochas and shodas^[26] like themselves. But I will be revenged. Ya Alla! ya Hoosein! ya Hyder!’ he cried, as he took up his turban which he had thrown down in his passion, and began to tie it awry upon his head. ‘I will be revenged!’

‘They said this?—Ah, Kumbukht!’—cried the Jemadar, who had heard out his servant’s tale with some difficulty,—‘they said it,—and thou hadst ears to hear it? Alla! Alla! am I a sheep or a cow to bear this?—I who am, Inshalla! a tiger, an eater of men’s hearts,—before whom men’s livers turn to water,—that I should be obliged to devour such abomination! What ho! Furashes! any one without there! go, bring Dilawur Ali, Duffadar, and— But no,’ he said mentally, checking the torrent of passion; ‘it cannot be so. I have no authority now to punish, and they would defy me; the Khan would take fire in a moment if he heard I had been inquiring into the station of this proud youth,—whom, Inshalla! I will yet humble.’

‘Go,’ he continued to the servants, who had suddenly entered the tent; ‘when I want you I will call again; at present I would be alone with Madar.’

‘And so thou heardest all this abuse of me, and ate dirt thyself, and had not the heart to say a word or strike a blow in return! I could spit on thee, coward!’

‘May I be your sacrifice, Khodawund, I was helpless; what could I have done in that crowd? had I only returned a word, the woman whom they set up would have poured filthy abuse on me.’

‘They shall rue the day that they uttered the words thou hast repeated: Madar, they shall wish their tongues had never said them, and that their hearts had eaten them, ere they had birth: Ul-humd-ul-illa! I have yet power, and can crush that butterfly, whose gay bearing is only for a season,—but not yet—not yet.’

‘And who is this proud fool?’ he continued after a pause to Madar, who had been drinking in every word of his master’s soliloquy with greedy ears, and rejoicing in the hope of speedy revenge. ‘Who saidst thou he is?’

‘A PatÉl, noble sir,—a miserable PatÉl of a village, Alla knows where,—a man whose mother, Inshalla! is vile.’

‘I care not for his mother,—who is he? and how comes he with the Khan? Tell me, or I will beat thee with my shoe!’

‘My lord,—Khodawund!—be not angry, but listen: he is the PatÉl of a village where the Khan and his young wife were nearly drowned; he saved the lady, and he fought afterwards against some Mahrattas when they attacked the village where the Khan was resting for the night, and was wounded in his defence.’

‘And this is all, Madar?’

‘It is, protector of the poor! it is all; they say the PatÉl is a Roostum—a hero—a man who killed fourteen Mahrattas with his own hand, who—’

‘Bah!’ cried Jaffur impatiently, ‘and thou art a fool to believe them;’ and he fell to musing. ‘He must have seen her face,’ he said at length aloud.

‘He must,’ echoed his attendant; ‘they say he carried her in his arms from the river.’

‘Khoob! and what said they of her beauty?’

‘That she is as fair as the full moon in the night of Shub-i-Barat.’

‘Khoob! and he has seen her again, I doubt not, since then.’

‘Willa alum!’ said Madar, raising his thumbs to his ears.

‘How should your slave know? but it is likely,—people cannot conceal their faces when they are travelling.’

‘No, nor, Inshalla! wish to do so! but we shall see,—take care that you mention not abroad what occurred this evening,—they will forget it.’

‘But my lord will not!’

‘I never forget an insult till I have had its exchange, and that thou well knowest, Madar. Begone! make it known without that I may now be visited. We will consider of this matter.’

But we must return to the Khan, whose active furashes had encircled several of the pillars of the cloisters with high tent walls, swept out the inclosures thus made, spread the carpets, and converted what was before open arches and naked walls and floors into a comfortable apartment, perfectly secure from observation. Ameena took possession of it, and was soon joined by her lord, who, in truth, was in nowise sorry after the fatigues of the day to enjoy first a good dinner, and afterwards the luxury of a soft cotton mattress, and to have his limbs gently kneaded by the tiny hands of his fair wife, while she amused him with a fairy tale, or one of those stories of intrigue and love which are so common among the Easterns.

The cool air of the Mysore country had apparently invigorated her, and the languor which the heat and the fatigue of constant travelling had caused in the Carnatic had entirely disappeared, and given place to her usual lively and joyous expression. She had thrown a deep orange-coloured shawl, with a very richly-worked border, around her, to protect her from the night breeze that blew chilly over the tent walls, which did not reach to the roof of the building they were in, and it fell in heavy folds around her, appearing to make her light figure almost more slender from the contrast. She was inexpressively lovely, as she now bent playfully over the Khan, employed in her novel vocation, and again desisting, began afresh some other story wherewith to beguile the time till the hour of repose arrived.

‘Alla bless thee, Ameena!’ said the Khan, after one of her lively sallies, when her face had brightened, and her eyes sparkled at some point of her tale,—‘Alla bless thee! thou art truly lovely to-night: the Prophet (may his name be honoured!) could have seen no brighter Houris in Paradise (when the will of Alla called him there) than thou art.’ ‘I am my lord’s slave,’ said the lady, ‘and to please him is my sole endeavour day and night. Happy is my heart when it tells me I have succeeded—how much more when I am honoured with such a remark from thine own lips, O my lord! And as to my beauty’—and here she threw a glance into the little mirror she wore upon her thumb,—‘my lord surely flatters me; he must have seen far fairer faces than mine.’

‘Never, never, by the Prophet!’ cried the Khan, with energy; ‘never, I swear by thine own eyes, never. I have but one regret, Ameena, and that cannot be mended or altered now.’

Ameena’s heart suddenly failed her, for Kasim came to her remembrance, and she thought for an instant that he might suspect.

‘Regret! what dost thou regret?’ she asked hesitatingly. ‘Anything that thy poor slave hath done? anything—’

‘Nothing, fairest, on thy part; it was for myself.’

Her heart was suddenly relieved of a load. ‘For thyself?’ she said gaily; ‘what dost thou regret, Khan Sahib?’

‘That I am not twenty years younger, for thy sake, Ameena,’ he said with much feeling. ‘Methinks now, to see these grey hairs and this grey beard,’ and he touched them as he spoke, ‘so near thy soft and waving tresses, I seem more like a father to thee than a husband: and yet thou art mine, Ameena. I would thou wert older, fair one!’

‘And if I were, I should not be so fair,’ she said artlessly.

‘I care not, so that we had grown old together; at least I should have seen thy beauty, and the remembrance of it would have been with me.’

Ameena sighed; her thoughts wandered to Kasim’s noble figure and youthful yet expressive countenance; in spite of herself and almost unconsciously she drew her hand across her eyes, as if to shut something ideal from her sight.

The Khan heard her sigh; he would rather not have heard it, though his own remark he knew had provoked it. ‘I have said the truth, Ameena, and thou wouldst rather I were a younger man,’ he said, looking at her intently. ‘But what matter? these idle words do but pain thee. It is our destiny, sweet one, and we must work it out together.’

‘Ay, it is our destiny,’ she said.

‘The will of Alla!’ continued the Khan, looking up devoutly, ‘which hath joined two beings together so unsuited in age, but not in temper I think, Ameena. Thou art not as others, wilful and perverse—heavy burdens—hard to carry—and from which there is no deliverance; but a sweet and lovely flower, which a monarch might wear in his heart and be proud of. So thou truly art to Rhyman Khan, and ever wilt be, even though enemies should come between us.’

‘Enemies! my lord,’ she said with surprise in her tone; ‘I never had an enemy, even in my own home: and I am here with thee in a strange land, where I know no one who could be mine enemy!’

‘May Alla put them far from thee, fairest!’ he replied affectionately; ‘and yet sometimes I fear that thou mayst have to encounter enmity.’

‘I have heard it said by my honoured father, Khan, that as the blessed Prophet had many enemies, and as the martyrs Hassan and Hoosein came to their sad deaths by them, it is the lot of all to have some one inimical; but he meant men, whose occupations and cares call them into the world,—not women, like me, who, knowing no one but my servants, cannot make enemies of them if I am kind.’

‘But I mean those who would be jealous of thy beauty, and seek thus to injure thee,—from these I alone fear,’ replied her husband.

‘I fear not, Khan,’ she said, simply and confidently, ‘neither for thee nor myself. I cannot think that thou couldst ever give thy Ameena cause for jealousy, or any one else cause of jealousy of her. Alla help me! I should die if such could be—’

‘Nay, there thou shalt be safe,’ he said, interrupting her; ‘for never, never shalt thou have cause to say of Rhyman Khan that he was false to thee. I am a soldier, and one whose honour has known neither stain nor spot; and yet—’

He had stopped suddenly and appeared to think; and, while he thought, suddenly an idea flashed into her mind,—could she have already a rival? She could not bear it to rest there for an instant, ere she threw it off in words.

‘Speak, O Khan!’ she cried; ‘thou hast none but me who claims thy love? thou hast not belied thyself to one who has here none to protect her?—no father—no mother—none but thee! Oh, my lord!—thou canst not have deceived the child who trusted thee and never asked of thee aught?’ She was very excited.

‘I have not deceived thee, Ameena; but I have not told thee all my history,—I have not told thee as yet what sooner or later thou must know. I have not told thee how that for years I pined for the love of woman, such pure child-like love as thine, and found nought after a short intercourse but bitter words and a constant seeking after wealth which I had not to bestow,—how I have had to bear constant upbraiding from those out of whose families I chose them, because I would not spend my substance upon wasteful parents,—upon sons whose very existence was a disgrace to them. Hadst thou known this, Ameena, thou wouldst not marvel that I sought one like thee in a distant land,—one who, removed from every tie, and with no one to sow dissension between us, should learn to love and trust Rhyman Khan as, Inshalla! he ought to be loved and trusted.’

She knew not how to reply; on the one hand the concealment of other ties which the Khan had kept secret so long and now revealed so unexpectedly, and the undefined dread of the hate of rivals, smote her to the very heart; on the other, her attention was powerfully arrested by the bold truthfulness of his disclosure; she was affected by the picture of desolation he had drawn of his own state, and his disappointments, and she was soothed to think that all he had sought for years was centred in her. She was silent,—she could not speak under such conflicting thoughts.

‘Thou hast not told me all,’ she said at length; ‘thou hast not said how many—’ she could not finish the sentence.

‘There are two, dearest Ameena,—two, on each of whom I fixed hopes which have been broken in many ways. I have never had a child to bless me; and where love should have been, and mildness like thine to compensate for such a disappointment, rancour has come and ill-temper, and with them despair to me,—hopelessness of that quiet peace which my mind seeks when war and its perils and excitements are past. When disappointment came with the first, I thought a second might perchance be more to me than she had been: alas! I soon was undeceived, and bitterly too, Ameena. But, after all, who can say there are no flowers to be pulled in the rugged pathways of their lives? Had this not happened, I should never have known thee, my rose,—never have seen that look of pity which thy beauteous eyes wear now! It is from these I fear thou wilt have to bear some jealousies, some enmity; and canst thou brave somewhat for the love of Rhyman Khan? Continue to be to me as thou art now, and my wealth, my power, nay my life-blood itself, are thine, as freely as thou carest to use them. Now thou knowest all, and a heavy weight is gone from my heart, which had long abode there. Speak,—art thou content?’

‘I would I had known this earlier,’ she said sadly, after a while; ‘but as it is, I am thankful to hear it even now. My lord knows well that I am but a child, and no match for the intrigues of those who are more versed in the world’s wisdom. I feel that it has saddened and sobered me; and where I had hoped in my bright fancy to roam as I listed in the garden of thy love, unchecked and unheeded by any one but thyself, I must cover myself with the veil of discretion and deliberation, and take heed to my steps lest I fall into the snares which jealousy will not fail to place for me.’

‘Alla forbid!’ cried the Khan fervently; ‘thou hast no cause to fear them.’

‘I know not,’ she replied; ‘but I can scarcely hope that there may be friendship between me and those whom you describe; there may be a show for a while, but the end will be bitterness.’

And the poor girl wept; for she had suddenly been disturbed upon her height of security, or at all events of unmolested occupation, and even in a few minutes she could not help expecting some rude collision which would perhaps cast her down headlong. And her own peaceful home—its freedom from care, its loving affection, its harmless pleasures—rose so vividly to her mind, that she could not help for the time regretting bitterly that she had left it, to endure such a prospect as appeared to open before her. Nor did the Khan disturb, except by a caress or a well-timed word of cheerful hope, the thoughts which he knew must be passing in her heart, but to which he could not respond in a manner to make her forget them on the instant; they must have their vent, he thought, and thought wisely. She lay down and wept, till sleep gradually asserted its mastery over her wearied form and rudely-excited thoughts.

‘She shall never come to harm, so help me Alla and his holy prophet!’ said the Khan mentally, as he bent over her and gently drew some covering upon her without disturbing her; ‘she shall never know harm or evil, as long as the arm or power of Rhyman Khan can shield her! She still sobs,’ he said, as every now and then a sob broke softly from her, like to that from a child who has cried itself to sleep, and her bosom heaved under the oppression. ‘I would to Alla I had not caused her this pain! and yet it was inevitable. Their jealousy and malice will be great I know, and their power is great, but, Inshalla! there will be no fear of their machinations, and I will soon teach her to despise them; they too will cease to use them when they see them of no avail and unheeded.’