After witnessing the gradual wasting and feverish excitement of her young mistress for some weeks, the faithful Meeran could no longer bear to see her wretched condition. She knew how devotedly Kasim Ali loved her, and she determined, as her last resource, to make an appeal to his generosity, if not to his love, to implore him to rescue her from the condition she was in, and to assist her to escape, or at once take her under his roof.

It was late in the evening before that on which the English arrived before the fort, that she betook herself to Kasim’s abode. She had openly declared her intention to Ameena; indeed she had spoken to her of it for days before, and endeavoured gradually to prepare her to abandon the Khan and fly to her home—distant though it was—or to seek at once the protection of the PatÉl. His mother too, whose village, though many days’ journey distant, she thought it possible she might be able to reach, and she felt assured would receive her, after resting there for a while, she could pursue her journey to Hyderabad; and Ameena timidly, distrustfully, and yet anxiously, had at last given permission to her to go and ascertain if it were possible.

Meeran had placed Zoolficar upon the watch to note the return of the young PatÉl from his tour of duty to rest for the night; and when she was apprised of that, she bade her young mistress farewell for the while, and telling her to be of good cheer, that she would soon return with joyful news, she departed.

Zoolfoo awaited her without, and in a few minutes they had arrived at the PatÉl’s abode. Anxiously they looked around, lest any one should observe them, but there was only one woman at some distance, whom they hardly heeded; they opened the door of the court-yard, which they found unfastened, and leaving it in the same state (for they knew not why it was opened), they passed on to the PatÉl. He was wearied with his day’s attendance on the Sultaun, and lay reclining on his carpet, reading as usual, which was a solace to him, after the empty compliment, the lies, the inflated vanity of the Sultaun’s words, and more frequently of late his querulous remarks and violent bursts of passion. They hesitated for a minute; but he had heard the noise in the verandah, and, supposing it to be his servants, desired them to enter.

‘It is I, Khodawund,’ said Zoolfoo, ‘and I have brought my sister—she would speak with thee.’

‘Holy Prophet! what hath happened?’ cried the young man, starting up in great agitation; ‘she is not worse?’

‘No, my lord; she is, praise be to Alla! better,’ answered Meeran; ‘I think her more cheerful than she hath been for many days. She arose to the evening prayer and walked about the court-yard; the wind was cool, and refreshed her. But ah! PatÉl, she is not what she was;’ and Meeran burst into tears.

‘I know, nurse; I know she is not; thy brother here hath daily brought me word of her—news which Alla, who sees my heart, knows that I think on day and night; in my dreams she is before me, in my waking thoughts I see her, sometimes lovely as when I first beheld her, and now dim-eyed and wasted. Alas! that such should be her destiny; alas! that so fair a flower should wither under the blighting chill of neglect. Would to Alla I could aid her! my life, my heart’s blood should be hers if she—’

‘I knew it! I knew it!’ cried the nurse, in an ecstasy of delight, as she had listened to the young man, and now suddenly interrupted him; ‘I knew it! Thou canst aid her, PatÉl Sahib—thou canst save her, O Jemadar, and thou wilt! thou wilt!’ And she cast herself at his feet and sobbed aloud.

‘Rise, Meeran, this is unseemly,’ said Kasim gently; ‘again I swear to thee, if I can aid her, even by peril of my life, I will do it.’

‘Listen then, Meer Sahib,’ she continued, rising and wiping her eyes; ‘I have gained her consent—I have spoken to her already—I have told her thou art willing, that thou wilt aid her in flight—and assist her beyond the city, from whence she can escape to thy mother’s, and wait there till thou canst be freed from hence, or that she can rest there till she has strength to go on. Wilt thou not aid her? By the head of thy mother, by thy hopes of paradise, I conjure thee to do it, O PatÉl!’

‘But the Khan,’ said Kasim, ‘will he not let her go?—the enemy is in the path, but were it Satan I would face him for her.’

‘The Khan?’ cried the nurse,—‘thooh! I spit on him for a man; his days are wasted in dalliance with her who, as sure as Alla rules above us, is the author of this calamity. Speak to him? No, by the Prophet!—she hath asked him a thousand times, and I have too. “The enemy is out,” saith he, “the English kafirs, who would make a captive of her; it would be madness,” Bah! they do not war against women as he does. No! there is no hope from him?’

‘But will he not relent towards her?’

‘Alla is my witness, no! for a week he hath not seen her, and the poor soul is cut to the heart by the neglect; she is an angel or a peri, Meer Sahib, or she could not bear this indignity.’

Kasim sighed. ‘Has she strength?’ he said after a while.

‘Ay, enough for that; her body is weak but her spirit is stout; if once she was bent on escape, it would turn her mind from the thought of the curse, and she would recover as soon as she had escaped from these accursed walls.’

‘Alas!’ sighed Kasim, ‘how dare I leave my post at such a moment, when the English are upon us, and every man must be true to his salt? Why was not this said a week sooner?’

‘Thou wert long absent, Meer Sahib, and since thou hast returned there has not been a day, hardly an hour, when I have not spoken to her of this.’

‘Stay!’ he cried, a sudden thought seeming to strike him; ‘her father lives, does he not?’

‘Inshalla! Meer Sahib, who does not know Roostum Ali Beg at Hyderabad—the bravest amongst its warriors?’

‘Then he will be among the advancing army, surely,’ cried the young man; ‘and what matter if he is not? they will receive his daughter, and I will conduct her to them.’

‘To whom, Meer Sahib, to whom?’ she asked eagerly.

‘To the troops of Nizam Ali Khan, who attend the English,—they will be before the city to-morrow.’

‘Shookr Alla!’ cried the woman, lifting up her hands and eyes in ecstasy, ‘Shookr Alla! Oh, how I bless thee, Meer Sahib, for the news; that will lend her courage, that will make her beauteous eye flash again and her cheek glow; even should her father not be there, there will be a hundred others to whom the daughter of Roostum Ali Beg will be as a daughter. Ya Alla kureem! there is hope, there is hope at last; the day hath long been gloomy, but the evening is bright.’

‘Rather say the night, sister,’ said the cook; ‘let this pass as a hideous dream which hath occupied our senses; let us awake to a bright morning, to share days of happiness with the Khanum, and to pray Alla that his devout Syud may soon be joined to her.’

‘Ameen!’ said the nurse: but Kasim could not speak, his thoughts were too busy.

‘I will prepare all,’ he said, after a while, ‘a dooly and bearers shall he ready here; she must go at night. Dare she come here? will she, nurse?—will she speak one word to me ere she leaves us? wilt thou conduct her hither?’

‘On my head and eyes be it!’ said Meeran; ‘on my head and eyes!’

‘Then remember when I send to thee, come quickly; all will be prepared, and I will myself give her over to the leader of the Dakhan troops; if she will go to my mother’s, she will become a daughter to her; and I—but no matter, let that be as it is written in our destiny. Go now, ye have tarried long.’

Ere they arose to depart, a female figure, which had been seated at the door, drinking in every word of their discourse with greedy ears, arose rapidly, and gliding away to the edge of the verandah, stepped from it into the court-yard, and squatted behind a thick bush of MÉhndee which grew there. The joyful pair passed on, and, after allowing a few moments to elapse, she arose and followed them. That woman was Sozun.

A few nights after, in a small chamber in the house of Kummoo’s mother, adjoining the one which we have before mentioned, sat Kummoo and the wretched old woman her accomplice; they spoke in low tones and whispers, and in dread, for the cannon of the English roared without, and was answered in loud peals from the walls of the Fort. The siege had begun now two days; the issue of the night-attack of the 6th of February, and its effect upon the Sultaun’s army, causing nearly one-half of its number to desert and fly from a service they had long detested, is well known. On the following morning twenty-three thousand were missing, and among them hundreds of the Europeans, upon whom he had placed such reliance; they preferred surrendering themselves into the hands of a generous enemy, to the service of a blood-stained and capricious monster. The rest of the army had retired within the walls, and, faithful to their cause, had determined to defend them to the last.

There was an awful din without; the roar of cannon, the incessant rattle of musketry, the hissing sound of shells as they descended and burst, came full on the ears of the guilty pair, and the old woman cowered to the ground in fright.

‘Knoweth Hoormut-bee of this? why is she not here?’ she asked, after a long silence.

‘She knoweth it, mother,’ said Kummoo, ‘but she is a coward, a pitiful coward, and dared not venture forth when shot is flying; but it is late—come—why dost thou delay? thou saidst all was ready.’

‘But the cannon, daughter—the noise—my heart is appalled.’

‘Ay, who is the coward now? once thou didst call me a coward, Kureena; behold I am now ready. What are the cannon to us? arise and come, I say; I see thou hast prepared the figure—come, time passes, and the Khan expects me; he will be returned ere this from the Durbar.’

‘She will die without it, daughter. Munoo and Shekh Suddoo came to me in my dreams last night,’ said the hag, ‘and they told me she would die; this new ceremony is useless.’

‘I will not believe it. By Alla! thou liest, nurse; she was better, and I—I hate her. Come, here is gold for thee—thou lovest it—come!’ And she disengaged a gold ring from her wrist, and forced it upon the other’s, while she seized her arm and dragged her along.

‘My blessings on thee, Khanum—the blessings of the old woman who is nigh death!’ she said; ‘this will feed a hundred Fakeers, this will purchase a hundred readings of the Koran for me when I am dead; my blessings on thee, daughter!’

‘Come quickly!’ cried Kummoo, ‘come quickly! why tarriest thou—the materials have been ready these many days. Enter now—I follow thee.’

She did so, and closed the door.

The room was the one we have before mentioned; a magic figure, of a different form to the first, was drawn on the clay floor—a square, divided into compartments, with figures in each, or marks intended to represent them. The old hag as she entered made three low obeisances to each side of the figure, and, placing herself at the head, began a low monotonous chant, which was intended to be a chapter of the Koran read backwards, rocking the while to and fro; it was, in truth, mere unintelligible gibberish. After awhile she untied some earth and ashes from the corner of her doputta, and pouring water upon them, gradually increased her tone, kneading the mixture into a stiff clay. Soon she changed the incantation into the names of the many demons she had invoked before, and her tones became wilder and wilder as she formed the clay into the rude image of a human being. This done, she rested awhile, mumbling to herself with her eyes shut; and at length, taking from her cloth a number of small pegs of wood, she drove them into the head, the arms, the body, the legs and feet of the image, accompanying each with curses at which even Kummoo shuddered.

‘Hast thou the shroud, daughter?’ she said as she finished; ‘behold the image is ready; a bonny image it is—the ashes of a kafir Hindoo, burned at the full moon, the earth of the grave of a woman who died in child-birth—I had much ado to find one—kneaded together. Hast thou the shroud?’

‘Here it is, mother.’

‘Ay, that will do, ’tis like a pretty corpse now. Take it away with thee, fair one, to thy home, to the embraces of thy lord. Mark! in three days there will be a young corpse in thy house, and remember to call me to the washing—’tis an old woman’s business, and I love to look on such. Ha! ha! away! delay not—place it at her door, its head to the east, that she may see it in the morning ere the sun rises—away!’

Kummoo’s brain was in a whirl, and she obeyed almost without speaking in reply; she hurried home through the thronged streets, little heeding any one—not even the shot which whistled above—and she reached her abode undiscovered.

For many nights Ameena had not slept so soundly or so refreshingly as on that when the plot intended to cause her death was proceeding to its completion. What if the cannon thundered without—she heard it not, she was secure in Kasim’s faith; a day more—nay, the next night—she was to leave that roof, she hoped for ever! Meeran had been busily occupied in removing her mistress’s jewels to Kasim’s house, where a comfortable dooly was already prepared for her, and two stout ponies for herself and her brother; a few articles of clothing too, and some of the rich garments which the Khan had presented to Ameena in the days of their pleasant intercourse; there were many that she abandoned with a sigh, but it was impossible to take all.

The dreams of the sleeper were fresh and balmy visions; now she thought she wandered through groves, where the rich scent of tube-roses perfumed the air, and the song of birds was sweet to the charmed ear—by fountains, whose murmuring plash mingled with the sighs of the soft wind among the trees above them. Kasim Ali was beside her, pouring forth a tale of love, of devotion, to which she listened with delight and rapture. Again she was with her mother, her dear mother; and as she lay in her arms and wept tears of joy after their long separation, which were kissed from her cheeks as fast as they trickled over them—she felt a joy, a sense of security in her soul, which was delicious beyond expression. She fancied her mother spoke to her, and she awoke.

‘Alla and the twelve holy Imaums keep thee this day! my rose of beauty!’ said old Meeran, advancing; and kissing her forehead, she passed her hands over Ameena’s head to take the evil from it; ‘my blessing, and the blessing of holy angels and saints be on thee! how brightly thou didst smile in thy sleep! Alla bless thee, and the lady Muriam, the mother of Jesus! there is no sadness in thy face now.’

‘None, dear nurse, none. I had such happy dreams, even when you awoke me. I thought, but no matter—’ And she hid her face in the pillow.

‘Ay, thou wert smiling in thy sleep, fairest, and my heart was glad; art thou strong to-day? remember it is to-night we go.’

Ameena blushed deeply. ‘I remember,’ she said; ‘I am strong, I will meet him.’

‘Bless thee, my daughter, he is noble, and worthy of thee; now listen and lie here for a while, it will rest thee; thou shalt rise towards afternoon. I have prepared all yonder, I and my good Zoolfoo. Ya Alla kureem! Ya Moula Ali! Ya Boorhanee Sahib! grant that the issue of this be favourable; now turn thee, fairest, and sleep again: may sweet visions be present to thee, for there is no longer aught to fear.’

Meeran left her: she had arisen early, and as she approached the door of her mistress’s room, her eye caught the fatally intended image, which had been laid there; for a moment she was staggered, and her heart failed her, as she remembered its fearful import, but instantly she rallied. ‘I bless thee, O gracious Alla! that she hath not seen this,’ she said; ‘to me it will do no hurt, nor to her, for I will remove it.’ But at first she hesitated to touch so foul a thing as that which in its corpse-clothes lay before her. ‘Bismilla hir-ruh man-ir-ruhcem! in the name of the most clement and merciful!’ she cried, in very desperation, as seizing the figure at last, and hiding it under her doputta, she hurried forth into the open air. ‘It would be well to lay it at her own door,’ she thought, as she passed near that of Kummoo-bee; ‘but no, better to destroy it.’

She passed out into the street, the fresh grey dawn was breaking, and only an occasional firing disturbed the silence, except the howling of the dogs, which was dreadful. She looked for a dunghill; there was one not far off, occupied by a dozen dogs snarling at each other, and quarrelling for soft places among the ashes. With a volley of abuse and a few stones they fled, and Meeran proceeded to do her errand. ‘May all the curses which were said over this image,’ she cried aloud, ‘descend upon the authors of it! may they dwell in their bones, their livers, their blood, and their flesh, Ameen! Ameen! Ameen!’ She then spat on the face of the image, and throwing it on the ground with volleys of abuse, not of the most decent character, she trampled it to atoms under her feet, and pounded them with a stone till not a fragment remained entire; then taking up the dust, she threw it to the four quarters of the heavens; and then, and then only, felt satisfied that the spell was broken. Her return to her happy smiling mistress was the dearest proof she could have obtained that she was right.

‘Art thou sure, Sozun?—this is no lie of thine?—thou dost not dream?’

‘As I told thee, Jaffar, I heard it with my own ears; as I passed along they entered his house. I had before suspected, and followed them, for I knew the place, and that he would be at home, and then he said as I have told thee.’

‘And they have arranged for to-night?’

‘Ay! at eight she will be there in his embrace.’

‘Oh rare! rare!’ cried Jaffar, ‘the virtuous Kasim! the virtuous Syud! on whom the dancers cast their glances in vain. Oh rare! rare!’ and he laughed heartily, and with a triumphant sound. ‘What fortune!’ he continued, ‘both at once! both! who have wronged me of money, of credit, of rank. Ya Alla Mousoof! I shall be even with them. At eight, Sozun?’

‘At eight. I heard it from Meeran, whom I have dogged these three days. I heard her say it to her brother.’

‘Good! I will prevent it; now go, fair one, for to me thou art ever fair, Sozun, and beloved—come hither at ten, I shall be alone till morning; there will be confusion in the house, and thou wilt not be missed.’ And thus saying, he took up his sword and passed forth on his errand.

The Khan was at his post, in a cavalier near the rampart; Jaffar ascended it: the men were working two heavy guns, and some French officers directed them from time to time; as he mounted the steps a shot was fired.

‘Shabash Monseer!’ cried the Khan, ‘well aimed, by Alla! it hit a man yonder—I saw him go down. Ha, Jaffar Sahib, welcome; come and see the sport; stand here; so now, they are preparing another.’

‘I would speak to thee privately, Khan; descend a few steps, there, we shall be unheard.’

‘Ha! a message from the Sultaun. Well, I attend thee,’ and he descended. ‘Now speak; what is it?’

Jaffar regarded him for an instant, and chuckled; it was the laugh of the devil within him. ‘Pardon the question,’ he said, ‘I would ask after thy house; thy wife is sick, I have heard?’

‘Ay, truly; but by my beard I understand thee not, Jaffar; dost thou mock me?’

‘No, by Alla! Hath she been really ill? At the point of death?’

He laughed again—but slightly. ‘They say Kasim Ali PatÉl saved her life once, Khan Sahib.’

‘Why dost thou ask? away with thy ribald jokes, Jaffar—I like it not. Thou knowest I will not brook insult, least of all from thee.’

‘Pah!’ said the other, ‘I mean no insult; I mean well to thee.’

‘Well?’

‘Ay, well! Art thou sure thy wife was ill? was there no pretence? no deception of thee, to gain her own ends?’

‘Pretence! deception!’

‘Ay—why dost thou repeat my words? Did Kasim Ali ever perform ceremonies for her—for her, thy wife, Ameena?’

‘Kasim Ali—for Ameena? Dog! how darest thou name her before me?’

‘Dog in thy teeth!’ cried the other fiercely; ‘I tell thee, old man, I am thy friend, else I would have blood for that word. Khan Sahib, listen: thou art old—thou hast untarnished fame—men love thee—I, whom thou hast sneered at and reviled, love thee—I would not see thee wronged.’

‘Wronged!’

‘Ay, wronged! cannot such things be?—Old men have young wives—what is the consequence? Old man, I say, look to thine house to-night, for one will leave it to return no more.’

The Khan gasped for breath, and tottered to the wall of the cavalier, which prevented his falling; he rallied after an instant, and with his sword uplifted rushed upon Jaffar.

‘Strike!’ said the latter, as he drew himself up proudly, ‘if thou canst strike one who speaks only for thy good!’

‘For my good—O Alla!’ groaned the Khan, dropping the point of his sword; ‘messenger of evil! say that thou hast lied, and I will forgive thee—I will bless thee!’

‘I cannot; by the holy Kaaba of Mecca, I swear it is too true.’

‘True! blessed Prophet! give me patience; what! of Kasim Ali?—of my son?’

‘Ay, and Ameena; thou hast been a dupe, Khan Sahib, as many another. Ha! ha!’

‘Do not laugh,’ said the miserable Khan, ‘do not laugh—it is mockery to laugh; how didst thou hear this? tell me—I am calm, I can listen.’

‘No matter how; wilt thou abide the proof? I will accompany thee at the hour.’

‘Whither?’

‘To the PatÉl’s house; darest thou come?’

‘Now! now!’ shouted the Khan in frenzy, ‘let me have immediate proof.’

‘No, no! there has been no harm done yet—there may not be any meant. Wilt thou come with me at night?’

‘I will.’

‘Till then be calm. I may be wrong—I pray Alla I may be, for I honour the PatÉl; if we are wrong, we will say it is a visit; dost thou agree?’

The Khan was stupefied. ‘What didst thou say?’ he asked, ‘I did not hear thee.’

Jaffar repeated his question.

‘I will come; thou wilt find me here, Jaffar—here, at my post, like a soldier; if indeed by that time I am—But no matter—if I am alive I will accompany thee.’

‘Farewell then, Alla keep thee!’

The Khan remained leaning against the cavalier; the shot was whistling around him, but he heard it not; there was no sound in his ears but one, the low but distinct ‘Ay, and Ameena!’ which Jaffar had uttered; he would have given worlds could they have been recalled.