‘Come, my child! my sweet one, my rose! Now, come! What fear is there? Thou art closely veiled: all are in consternation, and men and women run hither and thither abroad, making vows and vain prayers that this firing may cease. Come! no one sees us. Zoolfoo waits without to protect thee; he is armed, in case of insult by the way—but of that there is no fear. Come! he expects thee. Even now his heart is burning for thee! why dost thou fear? thou art now strong.’

So spoke Meeran, as, when the evening fell, with passionate entreaty she implored her mistress at once to summon courage and accompany her. But the poor girl was greatly agitated; she had several times essayed to move, but had sunk down again upon the low bed on which she sat, closely muffled in a long white sheet.

‘Alla help me! I cannot, nurse—it is impossible. Go—say to him I shall die here—I am content to die!’ and she pressed her hand on her heart, in a vain attempt to still its throbbings. ‘I have no strength to walk; my knees tremble; my heart fails me; there is no hope.’ And she burst into tears.

‘They will do her good,’ thought Meeran; ‘her heart is too full.’ Awhile she waited; then recollecting that there was cool sherbet without, she ran for it. ‘Drink!’ she said, ‘drink!—no, that is not enough.’ For Ameena had but moistened her lips with it—she could not swallow. ‘Drink! and thou wilt be better. Drink all, and thy heart will cool. So, now, Shabash! art thou not better, fairest?’

‘I am, dear nurse,’ said Ameena—‘more composed perhaps than before; but it is useless—I cannot go. Hark! the din without is terrible.’

‘This is folly, my child—folly. Where is thy courage? Art thou not a Moghul? Many a woman among them has wielded weapons ere now. What would thy father say if he saw thee? Come—fie on this coward heart of thine! Dost thou not remember when the Mahrattas were upon ye? thou hast often told me thou hadst no fear.’

Ameena was much agitated: it was not with fear—she was brave and fearless—but it was shame, an overwhelming sense of modesty, which she imagined she was about to outrage. What if he loved her?—he was a stranger to her, or should have been so; his home was not hers: her fair and precious fame was blasted for ever, should she be seen with him, or be known to have gone to his abode. But Meeran’s taunts had roused her a little, for, with all her meekness and gentleness, there was as proud a spirit within her as ever roused to trumpet-call. She arose and made a step: the action was nothing—the effort of her mind was immense.

‘Shookr Khoda! Bismilla—ir-ruhman—ir-ruheem!’ said Meeran, seizing her arm, and supporting her tottering frame; ‘come on—quick! quick!—so now lean on me. Holy Alla! how thou tremblest! Remember the curse!—Away from this spot, and thou art free. Think of that in thy heart, and be firm. ’Tis well—see, the moon even is propitious—she hath veiled her light for an instant. Bismilla! thy destiny has opened brightly; now dost thou fear?’

‘Not so much—my heart is stiller; but, O nurse, what will he say?’

‘He will adore thee, he will love thee, he will pity thee! Come, canst thou not think he burns to meet thee?—that his spirit is with thine now—even now?’ As she spoke they passed out through one little court after another which belonged to the zenana. They went on to a small door which led into the street. Meeran coughed slightly—the signal was answered. They opened the door and went out. Zoolfoo was there, armed with sword and buckler; only that he was rather too stout, he would have looked quite martial.

‘Keep close behind us!’ said Meeran; ‘close—we will lead. When we have entered the PatÉl’s door, go thou round to the other, where the ponies are. All is prepared—is it not?’

‘They are there even now,’ said Zoolfoo, ‘and the PatÉl waits. Bismilla! walk fast—I pray for ye as I go.’

They hurried on: the open fresh cool air had revived Ameena, and though she still trembled exceedingly, and her heart was in a tumult of conflicting feelings, she suffered herself to be led rather than walked, at as rapid a pace as Meeran thought it possible for one so weak to maintain. Ameena knew the house was near, but moments seemed like hours as they proceeded. There were many people in the streets, hurrying about confusedly, and many forms of shrouded women, like her own, some alone, others in company, walking very fast—soldiers, horsemen and artillery, proceeding to their destinations on and near the walls. Cries, oaths, the rattle and creaking of the artillery-wheels, and, above all, the roar of the cannon, resounded in Ameena’s ears, and the din and confusion almost stunned her; but Meeran cheered her on, and she felt stronger as she proceeded.

Two persons were watching for her whom she little thought of; they were her husband and Jaffar.

‘There!—dost thou see, Khan? dost thou see? They come, by Alla!’ the latter whispered.

‘Where, Jaffar? where? I see them not.’

‘No, I was cheated! they turned off; they cannot be yonder—they would go to the door at once.’

The Khan breathed again. He was standing with Jaffar at the corner of a street, nearly opposite Kasim’s abode; they were in the deep shadow of a high wall, and could not well be observed. The poor Khan panted and gasped for breath; his soul was on fire; revenge burned there, and suspicion of wrong. Sometimes during the day he thought he would fly to Ameena and implore her forgiveness—implore her to remain—throw himself at her feet and kiss them. Then again his passion arose at the thought that she should have been false—so false to have used so long a deception, as to have estranged him from her—driven him to another. Above all his revenge burned against Kasim Ali; his son he had fondly called him—his adopted—who would have inherited his wealth—he for whom he had been ever anxious. It was a base return to make, to seduce from him the tender being whom he had so long loved. But his thoughts were incoherent—a chaos of wild passion; he could not reason—he did not attempt it. Proof of their guilt was all he looked for, and often he prayed to Alla that it might not come. There was one spot on which his gaze was steadfast—the angle of the street which led into that where was Kasim’s abode. He looked neither right nor left, nor up to the glorious planet that sailed on in her sea of deep azure, but straight on, sometimes clearly, sometimes dimly; and then he would fiercely dash away the tears which arose unconsciously to his eyes.

‘Look! look! Khan,’ said Jaffar in a hoarse whisper; ‘again two figures! and now a man! see! he’s fat—’tis her brother! And one leads the other on. Oh the vile one, thus to pander to a man—her nose should be cut off! She hesitates, by Alla! the other drags her in—no—she stops—the cook passes on—shall I cut him down?’

‘Ameena!’ gasped the Khan in a low husky voice, stretching his arms out to her; ‘Ameena, enter not!—away, home!—pass on!—anything—’tis his door—’tis the PatÉl’s—thou hast no business there! thou hast—She hears not—Ya Alla kureem; she hath gone in of her own accord, and firmly.’

He had only spoken in a hoarse whisper, but he thought he had shouted those broken sentences.

‘Art thou satisfied, Khan? am I thy friend now?’ said Jaffar in a tone of triumph. ‘Wilt thou see more?—follow, the door is open; softly, thou shalt see all; thou knowest the place; they will be in the inner room. Come, come! thou mayest yet prevent it.’

‘Prevent what?’ said the Khan abstractedly. He was bewildered; he could hardly speak, his mouth was so parched.

‘Come and see! come! we may be late.’ And Jaffar seized his arm and dragged him across the road; the door was ajar; they entered.

How slowly had sped the dull hours to Kasim Ali that evening! he had prepared all for the reception of Ameena, and had secured one of the posterns which led towards the river, by some of the men of his own risala, who he knew were faithful; they awaited his coming; there was personal danger, but it was nothing in comparison with her safety. There was no firing on that side, for there was no attack; but few men were there, and he would not be noticed in the confusion. His heart yearned to the poor invalid. Ameena his—under his roof—driven from the Khan by unkindness! he dared not think of what bliss might be hidden from them behind the veil of the future, but which could not follow now. Yet he should see her, should welcome her—speak to her. Oh! it was more than he had ever dared to hope. He was restless and impatient! now he paced his small chamber,—examined a hundred times the dooly which was there, arranged the pillows, and smoothed the soft bedding.

Again he tried to read—absurd! his ear was alive to every sound. At last the door of the court opened gently; he hardly breathed; something white entered—another form—and it was closed carefully. Both advanced towards him; he dared not show himself, lest they should retreat; the figures swam before his eyes. One lingered, but the other urged her on, and spoke cheerily. Still nearer they came—nearer—the foot of one was on the step; she appeared to totter—the woman behind caught her, and called his name; he darted to her, and, raising the slight form she supported in his nervous grasp, bore it into the inner apartment, and laid it upon his own soft cushions.

‘Ameena! Ameena! speak to me,’ he murmured in her ear; ‘mine own, now and for ever! Ameena! look on me. Holy Alla! how thou art changed!’

Her veil had fallen from her face, and her pallid features and hollow eyes met his view; they were shut, and she dared not open them; but his voice was music in her ears, and she sought by no word or gesture to restrain his speech.

‘Holy Alla! how thou art changed!—so sunken, so pale! but never heed, thou art safe now,—safe for ever. Now thou wilt know no pain or care, for I am to thee even as the tree of the forest to the creeper. Art thou well, fairest? strong enough to proceed? if not, rest here; thou wilt not be missed. I will tend thee—love thee: my whole soul is in thine, fairest! Oh, thou knowest not, Ameena, how I love thee, and have loved thee for years! Alla bless thee! thou art mine own confiding one, and I pray Alla bless thee for having trusted me!’

‘Dost thou hear that, Khan?’ whispered Jaffar; for they had stolen into the apartment. ‘Dost thou see?’

The Khan panted hard and quick—so quick that his breath hardly came at times: it was marvellous they heard him not. His hand grasped his sword; he looked through a chink in the door with eyes that glared like a tiger’s and were starting from their sockets.

‘Dost thou believe now?’ said Jaffar again, in a low devilish whisper. ‘Ha! was I true? Look! he takes her hand—he fondles her! canst thou bear that? art thou a man? The woman is present too—Toba! toba^[58]!’

‘This is no time for dalliance,’ said Meeran. ‘Arise, Beebee! the dooly is ready. Come, we lose time; thou wilt follow, PatÉl Sahib?’

‘I will. Arise, beloved!’ and he raised her to her feet. ‘Behold I attend thee; yet ere thou goest, one look, I implore thee—one kiss—the first—the last, perhaps, Kasim Ali will ever press on thy beauteous lips; one kind look, to say this presumption is forgiven.’

It was granted: the gentle being, as he supported her to the conveyance with his arm around her, turned on him a look so full of love from those glorious eyes glistening in lustrous beauty—a look of joy, of love, of gratitude, of passion, blended—that a delicious thrill shot through his frame; he clasped her to his heart; his lips were fastened to hers in a kiss which for the time gave them but one breath, one being; their souls mingled together in that sweet communion.

‘Dost thou hear him, Khan?’ whispered Jaffar, ‘Ya Alla! that look of love! and now—’

The demon had done his work. In a frenzy, like a maddened beast, the Khan dashed through the door, which opened inwards. His sword was naked, and flashed as it was high upraised in his nervous and passionate grasp. A wild shriek burst from Meeran, and she fled.

‘Devils!’ he shouted in a voice of fury, ‘Devils! Dog of a PatÉl! Rhyman Khan hath seen ye!’

The sword was quivering above his head, and it descended blindly, to annihilate, he thought, both at a blow. Kasim Ali stretched forth his arm to stay it; he was too late: the blood of Ameena, who was senseless, gushed forth over him, and her head fell back upon his bosom. Kasim tried to get at his sword, while he held the lifeless form on his arm; he tore it desperately down from the nail on which it hung above him, expecting another blow momentarily; it came not. His sword was tied to the scabbard, and the knot of the cord would not open; all was the work of an instant; he turned, ready to ward off another blow, and beheld a sight in which horror and pity struggled with revenge for mastery.

The Khan’s sword was on the ground, his hands were clasped, his eyes staring and fixed upon Ameena; the sight of blood had calmed his fury.

‘Miserable man, what hast thou done?’ said Kasim hurriedly.

The Khan could not reply. He rolled his blood-shoot eyes upon Kasim, and waving his hand turned and fled.

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed a voice he knew to be Jaffar’s. He laid Ameena down, and looked at her with dim eyes—she seemed dead.

‘I will revenge thee!’ he cried, and darted after them.

He saw them pass the small door, close it violently; and when he had opened it, and dashed on into the open street, he saw them not, but taking the way opposite to theirs, he fled down it at his utmost speed.

A moment after him a woman with breathless haste entered by the same door. ‘O Alla! grant,’ she exclaimed, ‘thou who didst soften my heart, grant I may not be too late. I vow offerings to thee, O holy saint of SÉrah! O Mullik Rhyan! if I be in time. Something hath happened; Jaffar and the Khan fled past me. Alla, Alla! how he looked!’

She hurried through the courts, traversed the little verandah, and darted into the room; her sight for an instant failed her; there was a pool of blood on the white musnud, and the lady lay there—her white sheet and long hair dabbled in it. For an instant her heart was sick, but she rallied herself. ‘If there is only life! Meeran, Meeran, where art thou? Holy Prophet! if there be only life, I vow to be her slave for ever! Lady, dear lady, dost thou hear? Meeran, Meeran, where art thou?’

‘Who calls?’ said Meeran, advancing terror-stricken from the other door in the court before them.

‘It is I, Sozun; haste hither! we may yet save her. Quick! is thy heart so cowardly?’

‘How camest thou here, Sozun?’

‘No matter, I will tell thee—so raise her up.’

‘Ya Mousoof Alla! Ya Beebee Muriam! what a gash!’ exclaimed both, turning their heads away from the horrid sight for an instant. ‘But she is warm,’ said Meeran. ‘Apostle of Alla! there may be life. Hold her, while I run for my brother—he is without.’

He came quickly; for a long time they doubted if she would revive, and her first breath was hailed with a burst of joy.

‘I know a secure place,’ said Sozun; ‘she is not safe here. She will be discovered by the Khan, and he will kill her.’

‘Art thou to be trusted, Sozun?’ said Meeran; ‘it was thou who didst cause this murder, and I mistrust thee.’

‘Alla who sees my heart knows how true it is,’ said the woman, ‘and how bitter is my repentance. Ye may leave this poor flower if ye will; but never while Sozun hath life will she depart from her, come weal, come woe.’ And as she said it she looked up fervently; and when Meeran saw that her eyes glistened with tears which fell over on her cheeks—that her features were quivering, and her lips moved in silent prayer, then she believed her, and yielded to the necessity of the moment.

Zoolficar, with their assistance, bound up the wound, which had cut deeply into the shoulder and neck, and had bled much, and they now laid the lady in the dooly. Only that she sighed now and then, she would have been thought to be dead; but there was life, and while life was in the nostrils there was hope. The bearers, who had been ready without from the first, were now called; and preceded by Sozun, they went on till they stopped at an obscure house behind the principal bazaar, in an unfrequented part of the Fort. The lady still lived, when they lifted her out of the dooly and laid here upon as soft and easy a bed as the house afforded.

Kasim Ali passed a wild and restless night—in comparison of which, that upon the battle-field, when the jackal and hyena had howled around him, was remembered with pleasure. He searched every corner of the Fort, every ravelin, every bastion, the most miserable purlieus of the bazaar, which rung with wild shouts of revelry, of drunkenness and debauchery. He went into the thickest and hottest of the fire, where shot and shells and the deadly grape whistled around him. He examined every group of men, but saw neither the Khan nor Jaffar. Twice he returned to his house—once ere he had been long absent, dreading to behold again that beauteous form lying in its blood and disfigured by the gaping wound. It was not there—that misery, he thought, was spared him by the kind Meeran and her brother. ‘They have taken it away to bury,’ he thought; but where he knew not—the morning would reveal. Her blood lay there, clotted upon the white muslin, a horrible evidence of the crime that had been committed. He sought not to remove it; but it reminded him of the state of his own garments, which were saturated. He changed them, and again sallied out.

He returned towards morning, and wrote a few lines to the only other friend he possessed, a Moolah of the mosque in the Fort, to whom he had willed that his little property should be given, in case of his death and the Khan’s, in trust for his mother; they were a few lines only, to tell of his fate; and for the second time he went forth, to seek death in the hot battle.

He found it not, however, all that night; and sick at heart, as the morning broke over the beleaguered city, he entered the court of the mosque, from the tall minarets of which the Muezzin was proclaiming the morning prayer. ‘It will calm me,’ he said, ‘to join in it.’

As he entered he met his friend the Moolah. He could not resist the impulse, his spirit was oppressed, and he again requested the Moolah’s kind administration of his property in case of his death, and the remission of its proceeds to his mother. Such requests were not uncommon at that period, and death was too busy in the Fort for every man not to prepare for his own end. The Sultaun arrived soon after from his early circuit of the walls, attended by his chief officers, and the morning prayer commenced.

It was finished, and men arose and were preparing to depart. ‘Stay!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘we would speak to all.’ And as he cast his eye around, ‘Ye all here love me,’ he said, in so melancholy a tone that most were touched by it. ‘Ye, Kummur-ud-deen, Syud Sahib, Syud Ghuffoor, Bakir Sahib, and thou Kasim Ali, who once saved me, ye are all here. Alas! there are but few remaining like you. How many have been faithless, who have eaten my salt for years! Listen—our glory is gone—the light of the earth, the star of Islam is quenched. No more triumphs to the Faith—all is dark before us. Hear ye what we have come to; we asked for peace at the hands of the infidels—we asked the cause of this unjustifiable attack—why we were insulted and bearded in our very capital; but no answer is returned. The insatiate thirst of power and conquest is apparent in the reply of the kafir Cornwallis. Listen.’

There was perfect silence: every man felt that the Sultaun’s spirit was broken, and melancholy was upon every face, as he unfolded a letter, and, mounting a step of the pulpit, began to read. It was short, and there were few ceremonious expressions: to resign half his territories, to pay the cost of the war, and to surrender his sons as hostages, were the humiliating terms proposed; and as they heard it, a burst of indignation arose from the assembly, which rung through the lofty arches and fretted roof of the mosque.

‘I thank you, friends and brothers,’ he said; ‘ye feel for me—I bless ye, that ye have hearts for the unfortunate. But will you bear this? Will ye, whose victorious arms have ere now vanquished the kafirs, will ye submit to these insults?’

‘If all in this fort were as true as we are,’ cried Syud Ghuffoor, ‘there would be no fear; but, alas! the faint-hearted tremble for their lives, as every English shot strikes the wall, and there are thousands such.’

‘Alla be merciful to me!’ said the Sultaun, bowing his head; ‘are they so faithless? What say ye, sirs?’

Many replied, but only a few could answer for the men, and then many wept passionately. The grief of those strong warriors was moving to look on.

‘And are we to die here—to die like dogs, like wild beasts in a cage?’ broke out the Sultaun frantically, and throwing his turban on the ground; ‘to have our children torn from us, our wives defiled before our eyes? to be plundered of our kingdom—torn from our throne—humbled in the dust? Are we to bear this from kafirs, from hogs too? Holy Alla, and Mahomed the Apostle, are we to suffer this indignity? are we to be so beaten down? Sirs, have ye no hearts? Where is your vaunted bravery? Ye have eaten my salt, ye have grown rich where ye were poor—have ye no gratitude? have ye no faith?’

‘We have! we have!’ cried one and all of that assembly. ‘We will die at your feet; our lives are in your hand.’

‘The infidels are before ye—they for whose presence ye have often longed, to prove your prowess. Will ye swear before Alla, and here in his house, to be faithful to me his servant, to your Sultaun?’

Then arose the oaths of all, in hoarse tones, as they waved their arms on high, and swore to be faithful till death.

‘’Tis well!’ he said, ‘else ye had been kafirs, fit only to herd with the vile. I bless ye, O my friends. Alla, who sees my aching heart, knows that I believe you true—true to the last—true in prosperity, true now in adversity; while I—I have often deceived ye, often been capricious. Will ye forgive me? I am no Sultaun now, but a poor worm before Alla, meaner than yourselves. Will ye forgive me?’

Then the passionate gestures and exclamations of devotion to him by the enthusiasts knew no bounds; and their wild and frantic cries and expressions of service unto death—to the shedding of their hearts’ blood—broke forth without control. Those without, and the soldiery, caught up the wild excitement, thronged into the mosque, and filled the steps and the court, uttering violent exclamations.

‘Blessed be Alla! your old fire is still within you,’ cried Tippoo; ‘and were I but rid of Cornwallis, that host yonder would disperse like smoke before the sun: we might pursue them to annihilation. Will no one rid me of him? Will no one lead a sortie from the fort, and dashing at his tent, ere he be suspected, bear him or his head hither? I vow a reward, such as it hath not entered into any one’s thoughts to conceive, to him who doeth this: and those who fall ye well know are martyrs, and when they taste of death are translated into paradise, to the seventy virgins and undying youth.’

Unknown to each other, and from opposite sides, two men dashed forward eagerly to claim that service of danger. The one was Kasim Ali, the other a man from whose blood-shot eyes and haggard features—upon which anguish and despair were fearfully written—all shrank back as he passed them: it was Rhyman Khan.