‘These are too precious to remain here, Charles,’ said Philip; ‘we must remove them.’ It was easily done: with their pen-knives they carefully cut round the plaster of each inscription, and then separated it from the wall without difficulty; they were precious relics, and the young men long gazed on them, with that depth of feeling which such memorials were well calculated to excite. ‘Ah! Philip, if we could only trace him further,’ said Charles.

‘We thought not of this when we came hither,’ he replied, ‘and we should be thankful; it is just possible that some one in the town may have heard tidings of him if he were really ill, and we will go thither and inquire.’

They did not tarry on the rock for an instant; their horses awaited them at the bottom, and the distance between the rock and the small town being quickly traversed, they arrived in the bazaar. Philip directly made for the Chouree, where the former Kotwal and others sat engaged in their functions of superintending the market, and directing the issues of grain and forage to the followers of the British army.

They were received courteously by the functionary, who was all civility to his late conquerors: Philip at once opened the cause of his visit, and expressed his anxiety for intelligence, however vague, of his lost friend.

The Kotwal racked his brains, or appeared to do so; he could remember nothing about the rock or its victims, being fearful lest he should compromise himself by some unlucky remark or confession. ‘So many had perished there,’ he said; ‘it was the Sultaun’s order, and in Balapoor they never knew anything about them.’

‘But was no one ever brought here?’ asked Philip.

‘Really he could not remember, so many went and came; how could he, the Kotwal, who saw a thousand new faces every day, retain a recollection of any? Prisoners too in hundreds passed by—sometimes remaining there for a day, but he never saw them; he had no curiosity, he had other business; he was in fact the Kotwal, upon whom rested all the affairs of the town.’

Philip was in despair. ‘Can you get me no information?’ he said; ‘I do not speak the native language, and to me inquiry is useless.’

‘Of course, if my lord wished it,’ he would make every inquiry; and in truth he began in earnest with those about him; none, however, could remember anything but vague descriptions of prisoners passing and repassing; and Philip, after a long and patient investigation which led to no result, was about to depart, disappointed and vexed, when a man entered who had been absent on some message; he was one of the labourers, or scouts of the village, and the Kotwal immediately said to Philip, ‘If any one can give you the information you seek, it is this man, for it was his business to attend upon the Sultaun’s people who came hither with prisoners.’

He was immediately questioned, and gave ready answers; he perfectly remembered a Feringhee who was brought ill, and long remained at the Fakeer’s Tukea,^[54] beyond the town, lying upon the Chubootra;^[55] they were told he was an officer, and an order came to him from the Sultaun himself, brought by Jaffar Sahib Jemadar.

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‘Surely, surely!’ cried the Kotwal, whose memory appeared wonderfully refreshed; ‘’tis strange I should have forgotten him, seeing that he was often fed from my house; women you know, Sahib, have tender hearts, even for those of a different faith, and we knew nothing of the brave English then.’

‘Canst thou guide me to this Fakeer?’ said Philip to the man, who could speak indifferent Hindostanee.

‘Certainly,’ he replied; ‘’tis but a short distance.’ And so saying he took up his long staff. Philip rose to depart.

‘I will accompany you, sir,’ said the Kotwal; ‘the old Sein^[56] is very curious in his behaviour to strangers, and may not be civil; besides he hath been ill of late.’

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‘I thank you,’ returned Philip, ‘but I would prefer going alone. I have no doubt the old man will be reasonable, even to a Feringhee. Salaam!’

Guided by the scout, who ran before their horses, they were quickly at the garden we have before mentioned. It had been respected by all; the little mosque was as purely clean, the space around it as neatly swept as ever: the flowers bloomed around the tiny fountain, and the noble trees overshadowed all as closely as when, sick and exhausted, Herbert Compton lay beneath their shade, and blessed God that he had found such a refuge and such a friend as the old Fakeer.

The venerable old man sat in his usual spot under the tamarind-tree; before him was his Koran, which he read in a monotonous tone; his face was very thin, and he looked weak and attenuated by sickness.

‘Salaam, Baba!’ said Philip advancing, ‘we are English officers, who would speak to thee.’

‘Salaam Aliekoom!’ returned the old man benignantly, ‘ye are welcome; the turn of destiny hath allowed us to say that to those whom we have called kafirs; but ye are welcome to the old Fakeer—all are welcome who come in peace and good will. What seek ye?’

‘Father,’ said Philip, much touched by the benevolence of his tone and appearance, ‘thou art no bigot, and wilt aid us if thou canst. I seek a lost friend, as dear to me as a brother; I know not if it be the same, but I have heard that one of my race was tended by thee, and remained ill with thee for long; it may be he; didst thou know his name?’

‘Holy Alla!’ cried the old man eagerly, ‘art thou aught to him who loved me as a son?’

‘Alas! I know not his name, father.’

‘His name! it was—’ and he fell to musing, his forefinger between his teeth. ‘I cannot remember it now,’ he said, ‘though it is daily on my lips. Ka— Ka—’

‘Compton?’ said Philip.

‘The same! the same!’ cried the old man; ‘the same—Compton—Captain Compton; the name is music to me, Sahib; I loved that youth, for he was gentle, and often told me of your cool and beautiful land in the distant west, where the sun goes down in glory; and he taught me to love the race I heard reviled and persecuted.’

‘Alla will reward thee!’ said Philip; ‘but canst thou tell me anything respecting his fate?’

‘Alas! nothing; for a month he was with me, ill, very ill—we thought he would die; but the prayers of the old Fakeer were heard, and the medicines of his hand were blessed; and once more he spoke with reason and grew calm, and the fever left him; then, when his strength returned, an order from the Sultaun arrived, and it was a bold bad man that brought it, and he was taken away from me, and never since that have I gained any tidings of him. May his destiny have been good! my prayers have been night and day for him to that being who is your God and mine.’

Philip was much touched, and poured out his thanks to the old man most sincerely and with a full heart. ‘Alas! I fear all trace of him is lost,’ he said.

‘Say not so, my son; I dread—but I hope. The Sultaun is not always cruel—he is just; his death was never intended—his life was too valuable for that; he is most likely at Seringapatam, whither ye are proceeding they say—I would not despair. And now listen: Alla hath sent thee hither, thou who wast his friend; he gave me a letter, a packet which he wrote here in secret; I would ere this have delivered it in thy camp, but I am grown very feeble and infirm of late, the effect of illness, and I could not walk so far, wilt thou receive it? to me it has been a memorial of the young man, and I have looked on it often, and remembered his beautiful features, and his gratitude when I risked this my little possession, which to me is a paradise, in taking it from him.’

Eagerly, most eagerly Philip implored to see it, and the Fakeer rising attempted to walk to his humble residence, but with difficulty. Philip and Charles flew to his aid, and leaning on them, as he glanced from one to the other with evident pleasure, the old man reached the door. ‘Remain here,’ he said, ‘the dwelling is low—ye are better here. I will return to you.’ He did so in a few minutes, bearing the packet.

Philip took it with a delight he had no words to express, and was well nigh overpowered by his emotion as the familiar handwriting met his eye. ‘There can be no doubt,’ he said, ‘that it was he—I would swear to his handwriting among a thousand.’

‘Do not open it here,’ said the Fakeer; ‘but sit and speak to me of him and his parents, and his beloved, for I heard all,’ continued the old man with a sigh, ‘and pitied his sad fate.’

Philip told him all, and they talked for hours over the lost one; he told him how he had gone to England and married his sister; how the youth beside them was her brother of whom he had heard; and then the old man blessed the youth. ‘Thou wilt not be the worse that I have done so,’ he said; while a tear filled his eye—rested there for a while—then welling over, trickled down his furrowed cheek and was lost in his white beard.

Long, long they talked together, and the day was fast declining ere they left him, promising to return whenever they could; they took away the precious packet with them, to pore over its contents together in Philip’s tent.

They opened it with eager anxiety; it was addressed ‘To any English officer.’ There were a few lines from Herbert, informing whomsoever should receive it that he was alive, and imploring him to forward it to the Government; and a few more descriptive of his captivity, of his escape from the rock, and his uncertainty for the future.

There were letters too to be forwarded, one to his father, one to Amy; another for Philip himself, which he opened impatiently. It was short—he said he dared not write much. He described his various trials and sufferings, and the kindness of the old Fakeer, without whose aid he must have perished: he besought him not to despair of finding him alive, even though years should intervene between that time and when the letter should reach him.

‘Nor will I despair, dear Herbert,’ cried Philip; ‘never, never! The hand of Providence is clearly discernible through all this chain of events; it will lead us, Charles, to the close. Yet we must be secret: these letters must not be delivered, nor must our present success be known in England till we can confirm the glad tidings, or for ever despair.’

There was not a day while the army remained there that the friends did not visit the old Fakeer. They could not prevail on him to accept money; but there were articles which were of use to him—cloth, and blankets, and other trivial things, which he received gladly. They left him with sorrow, and with little hope that they should ever renew their intercourse with him. Yet they met again.

The progress of the army was slow; for the forage, except in a few places, had been destroyed, and the draught and carriage bullocks died by hundreds. The Nizam’s force, too, had joined the British army, and it presented a most gorgeous Eastern display, far more imposing than any Philip had yet seen. Men of all nations of the East, and tribes of India, the courtly Persian, the reckless Afghan, the wild Beloche, the sturdy Pathan, the more slender and effeminate Dukhanee, the chivalrous Rajpoot and hardy Mahrattas, all were mingled in a wild confusion—men hardly belonging to any corps, and clustered round every leader’s standard, apparently as fancy, or caprice, or hope of plunder dictated. The force was utterly inefficient, however, for the purposes of the war, for the leader had no control over it, nor could he supply it with food; and his fidelity to the English cause, if not the Nizam’s also, was questionable.

At every day’s march the distress of the army increased. Men were upon the lowest rations; the cavalry were almost inefficient from the starvation and weakness of their horses, and the active and irregular cloud of the Nizam’s horse consumed what little forage was left in the country, long ere it could be collected by the English. The leaves of mango and other trees, where they could be procured, were even gladly devoured by the starved cattle in lieu of other food. Nevertheless, in spite of these discouraging prospects, the army advanced by slow marches; and as the heat was moderate—for the height of the table-land of Mysore, from three to four thousand feet, gives it a temperate climate at all seasons of the year—the troops, long accustomed only to the enervating climate of Coromandel, gained fresh vigour and health as they proceeded.

Meanwhile the advance of the English, though he often affected to despise it, was a source of the greatest alarm to the Sultaun. In vain had he consulted the stars, in vain tried magical arts. They still proceeded, and drew nearer to his capital daily. Nevertheless he heard accounts of the distress and famine prevalent in the English camp; and could he only gain time, even by negotiation or by retreat, he might protract the campaign so that the English would be obliged to retreat, and he would then pour upon them his whole force and annihilate them for ever. Night after night was occupied in discussions with his chief advisers, Meer Sadik, Kishun Rao and Purnea, but their counsel was hardly listened to in the wild schemes which were revolving in his mind.

‘Our government is the gift of God!’ he would cry. ‘Are kafirs who heap abuse on the name of Mohamed his apostle to subdue it? Are we not blessed with holy dreams, with visions of conquest, and of possessing the five kingdoms of Hind? Are all these for naught? I tell ye nay, but true and holy revelations, even such as were made to Mohamed, whose shadow upon earth we are. Here we have daily written them—records of our thoughts—prophecies of our greatness, which as they become fulfilled we will read to ye. Ah, ye sceptics! Let the kafirs advance—they come into the snare. Ha, ha! their cattle are dying. How, Jaffar Sahib?’—he was present—‘thou didst see them.’

‘Peer-o-Moroshid! they are,’ replied Jaffar Sahib; ‘they can hardly drag the guns: even the men are harnessed, and work like beasts.’

‘They will get tired of that, perhaps, soon. Let them come on, I say, even to the gates of the town. I fear not—why should I fear? my destiny is bright.’

‘But why not give up the prisoners, Asylum of the Earth? May your generosity increase!’ said Meer Sadik, whose dauntless spirit spoke out before the Sultaun. ‘Dost thou not break faith in keeping them?’

‘By Alla and the Prophet, thou art bold to say that, Meer Sadik. No! never shall they be wrested from me: rather would I kill them with my own hand. Have they not broken faith, to make war on us without a cause—to destroy our country, to enter into a league against us? We swear before ye, sirs, not one shall return alive.’

Tippoo retained Jaffar always about his person. He was spy, plotter, adviser, executioner, by turns. That night—shortly before the action which followed at ArikÉra—they were alone in the Sultaun’s tent. All had left him, and he was uneasy and fretful. No wonder, for his thoughts at night were terrible, and he could not bear to be alone. He had summoned one of his favourite ladies from the city, and sought in her society a respite from his thoughts. All was in vain: he could not shut out from himself his danger, though he scoffed at it openly.

‘And thou hast seen him, Jaffar, and spoken with him?’

‘I have: he is a conceited, arrogant Dukhanee—a man to be despised—a man whose rapacity is not to be satisfied.’

‘And what said he?’

‘He was haughty at first, and it was hard to hear how he spoke of thee, O Sultaun!’

The monarch gnashed his teeth. ‘Ya Alla! grant me power to chastise those who mock thy favourite,’ he cried, looking up devoutly. ‘But thou gavest the letter?’

‘I did.’

‘And the bills for money?’

‘Yes; he said he would forward that to the Prince at Hyderabad.’

‘And will he fight against me? will he not come over at once and desert them?’

‘He dare not; but he will be neutral, I think. But he is well where he is: his presence is a burthen to the kafir Feringhees; they wish him—anywhere. His men devour the forage, and they starve. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘Good, Jaffar. Now listen; those prisoners, Jaffar—the boys—the cursed Feringhees know of them and the others.’

‘Let them not trouble you, Light of the Earth! Your poor slave has, Inshalla! done some service.’

‘How! wouldst thou return them?’

‘Return them! no, by your head and eyes, no! What, eat so much abomination! Darest thou trust me? I am your slave, there can be no fear. I have eaten your salt, I am the child of your house; command me, and I will do thine orders.’

‘What dost thou advise?’

‘For the boys? they are young, they are but women—nay worse. Why shouldst thou hesitate?’

‘Speak thy mind fully, Jaffar.’

‘Death!’ said the other in a hollow tone, as if he feared the very echo of the words.

‘Good,’ said the Sultaun, but his lip quivered as he spoke; ‘thou wilt require a warrant. Write one, I will seal it.’

‘I cannot write, O Sultaun.’

‘Pah! why are men such fools? Give me the inkstand. There, go now—even now. Let it be done silently, the people must not know of it. One by one—thou knowest, and spill no blood. Enough, begone! thou must return to-morrow by this time, I have more work for thee.’

‘On my head and eyes be it,’ he said, and departed from the tent.

The Sultaun could not bear to be alone; he arose and entered the inner apartments. The lady was alone; she was very beautiful and very fair for her country. Her soft melting eye spoke of other love than that of the cold Sultaun’s, and its expression was much heightened by the deep black tinge she had given to her eyelids. Her dress was the purest white muslin woven with silver flowers, which she had thrown over her gracefully, and which partially covered a petticoat of most gorgeous cloth-of-gold. The floor of the tent was covered with fine white calico, and on one side was a low couch, on the other a crimson satin mattress, which formed a dais, furnished with pillows of blue velvet. She arose and made a graceful salutation, but did not speak; for his brow was knit into a frown which she feared, and he was not safe when he looked so.

He threw himself upon the dais, and buried his face in his hands. He was long silent, but she dared not address him.

He spoke at last to himself, and she could hear every word in the still silence.

‘It is my destiny,’ he said gloomily—‘the destiny of my house. The Brahmin who warned me—he who spoke out against me fearless of death, and now lives in the dungeon yonder, he told me of the Feringhees. Whence is their mighty power? They roll on, a fierce tide against me. Is there no hope? Ah, for one hour of his presence who was ever victorious over them—my father! but he is gone for ever, and I am alone—ay, alone.’

The girl was touched; she drew nearer to him.

‘Men of Islam!’ he resumed, after a pause, ‘will ye not fight for me? Why should I fear? Alla Akbar! Assud Ali is false; he has taken the money and the letter. Pah! I have humbled myself to that proud Nizam Ali—to him who trampled on me and scorned my alliance. But no matter, we may be even with him yet. Assud Ali is false to his cause, and will aid mine. Ya Alla kureem, that he may! Then the Mahrattas will follow: they are wily—they keep aloof—they will see how the game goes, and join the winners. Why should I fear? Zeman Shah in the north with the Afghans; then the men of Delhi and the Rohillas, the hill tribes. The French are now wary and cool, but they will rise: one action over, and all is safe. Then conquest comes, and these hateful sons of Satan are driven away for ever.’

At last he was silent. There were visions of gorgeous triumphs passing through his heart, which defied words to express them.

He looked up, and his eyes met those of the lady. ‘Come hither,’ he said, ‘and sit by me. Thine eyes are full of love; they are not like those of men abroad. When I look into theirs, I read distrust, faithlessness; I doubt them all, Fureeda. They know of many things which, were they to tell the Feringhees—But no: they dare not. What thinkest thou, child—how goes the game?’

‘I am your slave,’ she said, ‘but I will tell the truth. Men say thou dost not fight, and they are gloomy. Why are not the troops of the Sircar led on against the kafirs? Why are they kept in idleness, retreating day by day? Where are thy valiant cushoons—all thy artillery—all thy invincible and thundering cavalry? Arouse thee, O my lord! Let even a slave’s voice aid that of thy mother—thy wife—those who would fain see the glory of the Faith exalted, and the tiger of Mysore rend to pieces the kafir English. Art thou a man and a soldier to bear this? By Alla! were I one, and in thy place,’ she said, her eye flashing, ‘I would mount my horse and cry Bismilla! as I led my warriors to victory. Art thou a coward?’

‘Coward! sayest thou this to me?’ cried the Sultaun, gnashing his teeth, as his small dagger flashed from its scabbard in his girdle, and was upraised to strike.

The lady trembled, but bowed low before him. ‘Strike!’ she said; ‘I can die at thy feet. The lonely Fureeda will not be missed upon the earth; all who loved me are dead, thou well knowest, and my spirit yearns to be with theirs. Strike! I am ready.’

‘And dost thou think me a coward, Fureeda?’ he exclaimed, as his hand dropped.

‘Alla and the Prophet forbid! I know thou art brave, but men complain. They tell thee not of it, but they complain that the old fire is quenched within thee. I, who fear not, tell thee this truth.’

‘It is not, by Alla! I will show them it is not. We will see what the morrow brings. The night is gloomy and hot; there may be rain—in that they will be helpless; then we will set on them, and cry Alla Yar! Now get thee to thy bed. The night advances and we would be alone, for visions press on us which we would record for those destined to follow our steps.’

She left him, and lay down on the bed, but could not sleep. The night was oppressive, and she watched him. He wrote awhile; then she saw him put aside his paper and lie down—sleep had come to him. She arose, took a light shawl and threw it over him gently. Then she sat down and watched him. Presently the thunder muttered in the distance, and flash after flash of blue lightning penetrated through the tent, dimming the light of the lamp which burned beside him. The thunder came nearer and nearer, and the loud patter of heavy rain upon the canvas of the tent she thought would have awakened him; but he slept on. She was naturally terrified at thunder, but she did not relinquish her watch, for he was restless and disturbed in his sleep. Now and then he muttered names, and she could hear him when the roar of the thunder ceased for an instant or two. Soon his dreams were more distinct, and she shuddered as she listened.

‘Jaffar!’ he said, ‘Jaffar! away with them to the rock—No, not yet!—do not kill them yet; there are two I love—spare them! do not spill blood—remember I told thee not. Kafirs, sons of defiled mothers, we will set on them to-morrow, Inshalla! Inshalla!—Coward! we are no coward.’ Then after awhile his sleep was more uneasy, she saw his brows knit and his hands clench fast. ‘Do not approach! Alla, Alla! they come. Aid me—holy Prophet, aid me, all ye saints!—Mathews! away, old man! I did not kill thee—it was not my orders. Away, or by Alla I will strike— Your faces are cold and blue; are the English so in death? Go, go, ye are devils from hell. Go! I will not come;—by Alla, I will not! Go! my destiny is yet bright and clear.’

Then he was quiet for a while, but big drops of sweat stood on his brow. She would have given worlds to wake him; she wondered the thunder did not, for peal after peal crashed overhead.

Once more he spoke: it was very hurried and low, and she could hear a word only now and then. ‘Again, Mathews? kafir Feringhee! I tell thee it was not my order—the poison was not for thee. I will not come—there are devils with thee—hundreds! Why didst thou bring them from the rock? Why do ye look on me with your dead eyes? Away—I will strike!—old man, come no nearer! Ha! thy lips move, thou—’

There was a crash of thunder which seemed to rend the earth—a flash of lightning which almost blinded her. Fureeda cowered to the ground as the Sultaun started up, his eyes glaring, and his hands clenched and thrust out before him, as he looked wildly around.

‘They are gone,’ he said. ‘Holy Alla, what thunder! that is better than their voices. What! thou here, Fureeda? Did I speak, girl?’

‘My lord was restless in his sleep, but I heard no words.’ She dared not tell the truth.

‘Enough—it is well. Alla aids us with this rain and storm; they will be in confusion, and we will set on them early. As the day dawns thou shalt see, girl, that we are no coward.’

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