We must not linger by the way, but at once proceed to the city, where the army has arrived a few days. And now there is bustle, activity and life, where of late all was dull and spiritless. Its arrival has brought gladness to many, but none to her whom we now introduce to the reader.

‘And thou hast seen him, Sozun?’ said Kummoo, the Khan’s wife who has been before mentioned, to her servant, who had always enjoyed her confidence—a woman with a cunning visage and deep-set twinkling eyes; ‘thou hast seen him—and how looked he? They say he was terribly wounded, and even now is pale and emaciated.’

‘They say truly, Khanum,’ said the woman; ‘your slave watched for him at the door of his house, and pretending to be a beggar asked alms of him in the name of the Beebee Muriam and Moula Ali of Hyderabad; and when he asked me if I were of Hyderabad, I said yes,—may Alla pardon the lie—and he flung me a few pice; lo, here they are. Yes, lady, he is pale, very pale: he looks not as if he could live.’

‘Ya Alla spare him!’ cried the lady: ‘when I last saw him he was a gallant youth; he was then going with the Khan to the Durbar; and as I beheld him urging his noble courser to curvet and bound before this window, my liver turned to water, and, as I live, his image hath been in my heart ever since.’

‘Toba! Toba! for shame! Beebee,’ said the woman in a mock accent of reproof. ‘How can you say so—and you a married woman?’

‘And if I am married,’ cried the lady, while her large lustrous eyes flashed with the sudden light of passion, and her bosom heaved rapidly, ‘if I am married, what of that? Have I a husband, or one that is less than a man? Have I children, have I love? have I even a companion? Have I not hate where there should be love—barrenness, where children should have blessed me—a rival, whose beauty is the only theme I hear, to insult me? Have I not all these, Sozunbee? Thou hast had children—they have loved thee, their merry prattle hath sounded in thine ears, they have sucked their life from thee. Thou wast ground by poverty, and yet wast happy—thou hast told it me a thousand times. I am rich, young, and beautiful; yet my lord hath no pleasure in me, and I am a reproach among women. Why should I honour him, Sozun? I love—why should I not be beloved? Ya Alla kureem! why should I not be beloved?’

‘It is possible,’ said the dame.

‘Possible!’ echoed the lady, panting with excitement; ‘I tell thee it must be. Listen, Sozun—thou canst be secret; if thou art not, were I turned into the street to-morrow I would dog thee to thy death, and thou well knowest my power is equal to my determination. I love that youth: he is noble, his large eyes speak love, his form is beautiful—Mejnoon’s was not more fair. I could sit and gaze into his eyes, and drink in the intoxication of this passion for ever. Dost thou hear? He must know this; he must feel that I will peril life, fame, all for him. Thou must tell him this, and bring him here, or take me to him,—I care not which.’

‘There will be peril in it, my rose,’ said Sozun.

‘And if there is, dost thou think that would deter me?’ cried Kummoo, in a tone of bitter scorn; ‘were there a thousand more perils than thou, whose blood is now cold, canst see or imagine in my path, I could see none. If thy heart burned as mine doth, Sozunbee,’ she added, after a pause, ‘thou wouldst think on no peril—thou wouldst only see a heaven of bliss at the end—the path between would be all darkness and indifference to thee.’

‘I have felt it,’ said the woman with a sigh.

‘Thou?’

‘Yes, Beebee. I thought no one would have ever known it but he and I; and he long ago died on the battle-field. Thou hast surprised me into confessing shame.’

‘Then thou wast successful?’

‘Even so,’ replied the woman, covering her burning face from the earnest gaze of her mistress. ‘I was young as thou art; he loved me, and we met.’

‘Then by that love, by the memory of that hour, I conjure thee, Sozunbee, as thou art a woman, and hast loved, aid me in this, and my gratitude shall know no bounds; aid me, and I will bless thee awake and asleep—aid me, or I shall go mad. I have endured thus long without speaking, and methinks as I now speak my brain becomes hot, and it is harder to bear than if I had been silent.’

‘I will, Khanum, I will,’ cried the woman; ‘I will do thy bidding, and only watch my opportunity. At times he walks on the northern rampart alone—I will meet him there.’

‘Give him these, then, and thou needest not speak much; he is learned, and will understand them. There is a clove, that will tell him I have long loved; there is a pepper-corn, to bid him reply quickly. Now begone; come to me when thou hast seen him, but not till then. I shall burn with impatience, but I can wait. May Alla speed thee!’

The woman took her departure, and Kummoo, looking from her lattice window, watched her across the large square, till she disappeared behind some buildings.

‘Ya Alla, should he despise me, should he spurn me!’ she thought; ‘should he— But no, he will not; he is young, he will hear I am beautiful, and his blood will burn as mine does now. Then he shall know what woman’s love is, and we will fly together, whither I care not.’

‘Kummoo, sister!’ said a voice behind her, at which she started, and the blood rushed to her face.

‘Why, Hoormut, is it thou? How thou didst startle me. I thought—but no matter: what seekest thou?’

‘Hast thou seen Ameena since she arrived?’

‘No—why dost thou ask me of one so hateful? Dost thou think I would go to seek her?’

‘I know thou wouldst not; but I heard that she had received rich presents from the old dotard, and I went to see them. It was true, they are superb.’

‘Holy prophet! what are they? Presents! and we have not even clothes fit to wear.’

‘There were shawls and brocades, and jewels too,’ returned Hoormut; ‘and a goldsmith sat in the verandah making gold anklets, whose weight must be immense. I tell thee we are fools to bear this, and to preserve a civil demeanour to them. Hast thou seen the Khan of late?’

‘No,’ replied Kummoo, ‘we are thrown by and neglected now, for her. It was to be expected that it would come to this, when we received her as if she was welcome, instead of making the Khan eat dirt as he deserved.’

‘And yet thy mother counselled that it should be so.’

‘She did; she thought that by means of the law we might get rid of her; but it seems there is no hope, for a man may have four wives lawfully, and this was a regular marriage; the Khan has the papers. But my mother will aid us; trust me that she loves me too well not to resent the insult which has been offered me. By the Prophet, that should be her palankeen crossing the square! it may be coming hither. It is—it is!’ she exclaimed, as she looked from the window; ‘it has stopped at the gate. She must have news for us, that she comes out from home.’

The old lady’s heavy tread was soon heard on the stairs, and both flew to meet her at the door. As she entered she embraced both cordially, and they led her to the seat of honour.

A hooka was quickly brought, and as soon as she had taken breath, she began to smoke and to speak.

‘And art thou well, Kummoo-bee?’ she said to her daughter. ‘Thou art thin: Mashalla! time was when thou wert fatter. Sozun came to me a short time ago, and said thou wert low-spirited, so I have come to see thee.’

‘I have little to do but eat vexation,’ said Kummoo with a pout; ‘have I not a rival? and is not that enough to make my days unhappy and my nights sleepless?’

‘And one who is loaded with rich gifts, while we are denied new clothes,’ said Hoormut, joining in. ‘O mother, canst thou listen to our shame and not aid us? once thou didst promise thou wouldst.’

‘It is her beauty which makes that old dotard fond of her,’ said Kummoo. ‘For she has no spirit—she is like a sheep; if that were blighted, he would shake her off at once.’

‘Is there no means of turning him from her?’ said Hoormut, drawing nearer; ‘you, my mother, once said you had a woman servant who was wise and could command spells; could she not aid us?’

‘She is ill,’ said the old lady; ‘then she was well. She was preparing the incantations necessary for her purpose when the Khan left this on service; they have been neglected since then, but she may be able to resume them. I will inquire of her.’

‘Couldst thou not send for her, mother?’ said Kummoo.

‘She is ill—nevertheless she may come. Yes, let the palankeen go, and here is my ring: let her know that she is wanted.’

Kummo hurried to the door, and dispatched a slave with the ring and a message in her mother’s name: they soon heard the bearers depart.

Not much conversation passed till the return of the palankeen, for the subject was not an agreeable one to any of them, and the ladies had nothing but their own fancied insults and neglects to reflect upon. At last the palankeen arrived, and they soon had the satisfaction to behold the old woman hobble into the room, supporting herself on a stick.

Kummoo and the other flew to assist her. ‘Welcome, mother!’ cried both; ‘your coming is happiness, may your steps be fortunate!’

‘Alla kureem!’ sighed the old woman, as she sank down on some soft cushions which had been spread for her. ‘Alla kureem! I bless the Prophet and the Imaums and the spirits of good that I am here in safety; it is a fearful thing for one so old to venture forth. Art thou well, Kummoo-bee?’ she asked, peering into her face with her yellow eyes, and into Hoormut’s also, who now sat by her.

‘As well as may be, mother,’ said the girl, ‘when I am not loved nor honoured in my house; hast thou no charm to preserve the love of men—none to destroy a rival?’

‘Then this is why thou wouldst see me,’ exclaimed the old woman; ‘in trouble only Kureena is sure to be sent for and consulted; is it not so?’

‘Thou knowest, for my mother says she has told it you, of the shame, the neglect, the insult, and bitterness which we endure daily. We have no honour as wives—we are as faded flowers, thrown aside for a fresh one which he hath lately taken to his bosom.’

‘Thou art not faded, Kummoo,’ said the crone, patting her cheek; ‘thy hand is soft and warm, thine eye is lustrous and full of fire, thou art not faded.’

‘No, Mashalla! I am not; but cease this trifling: wilt thou aid us? hast thou spells? hast thou blighting, withering curses, to fall on one who has despoiled us of our honour and made us a mockery among women?’

‘Ay, Alla knows!’ joined in Hoormut-bee; ‘wherever I go I am taunted with this shame; one tells me the Khan’s new wife is beautiful—another speaks of the magnificent gifts she has received, and I feel that I could eat my very fingers for shame. Mother, for the sake of the Prophet, aid us!’

‘Thou seest the strait they are in, Kureena,’ said Kummoo’s mother.

‘Can they do like me?’ cried the old woman in a cracked tone; ‘can they keep fasts and do penances to fit them for the work, to make the spells sure? can they dare to be present while these are said in the silence of the night, and when the spirits who obey them are hovering near to receive them?’

The women shuddered; superstitious terror for the moment asserted its full sway over them: but Kummoo’s was a daring spirit.

‘I can, mother!’ she cried, striking her breast; ‘I dare to follow thee, were there a thousand devils in my path, so that I had my revenge.’

The woman peered into her face. ‘I thought I had been stout-hearted myself,’ she said; ‘but, young and ignorant as thou art of this matter, I should have trembled; thou dost not fear?’

‘I know no dread when I have a purpose before me,’ said the lady proudly; ‘art thou thus minded, Hoormut-bee?’

‘Inshalla! I will do as thou dost,’ returned the other; ‘whither thou leadest, I will follow.’

‘Enough!’ cried the crone; ‘can we be alone here when the time comes, of which I will forewarn ye?’

‘We can,’ said Kummoo, ‘without a chance of interruption.’

‘Good—but no, it will be better done yonder, at thy mother’s: there all can be prepared.’

‘It will be less dangerous there,’ said the old lady; ‘thou canst do thy work in the closet which is off the private room. And when, Kureena-bee, shalt thou be ready?’

‘In a month, perhaps: the spell is a heavy one to work, and requires preparation and thought, lest anything should be omitted. Ye must send Fatehas to the shrine, feed Fakeers in your presence, eat cooling victuals, and abstain as much as may be from meat. Thus ye will be prepared; but on me will fall the sore fast and penance: it is hard for an old woman to endure, but ye are in an evil strait, and I were ungrateful for years of protection from your house, Kummoo-bee, and for the salt I have eaten, did I refuse you my aid. And now bid me depart, for I have much to do ere night.’

‘Not till you have eaten,’ cried Kummoo; ‘Mashalla! are we inhospitable?’

‘Not a mouthful, not a taste,’ said the old woman rising. ‘No food must pass my lips, save what is cooked by my own hands till the spell is finished; the vow is upon me, and I must begone.’

‘Alla Hafiz!’ then cried both the ladies, leading her to the door, ‘we trust to thee, mother; do not forget us.’ In a few minutes the sound of the bearers was heard, as they rapidly traversed the street below them.

‘She is as true as a soldier’s sword,’ said Kummoo’s mother, who had been almost a silent listener to the conversation; ‘she will not disappoint ye. Many a time hath she protected thee, Kummoo, from the evil eye, when it was upon thee—many a time wrought a spell for me, by which thy father’s love returned when I had fancied it was grown cold; and thou hast more courage than ever I possessed—thy work will be the surer.’

‘Inshalla!’ said Kummoo, ‘I feel as though I had that hated girl within my grasp, and could crush her.’

‘Hush!’ said her mother, ‘thou shouldst not hate so.’

‘I hate as I love, mother; and those who reject the one, provoke the other; thou shouldst know me by this time.’

Her mother was silent; she knew well the temper of her daughter, and her uncontrollable passions. ‘It is their destiny,’ she thought, ‘let them work it out; I dare not oppose it.’ And when the palankeen returned, she took her leave.

Meanwhile the object of this unprovoked hate was daily becoming more and more precious to the Khan. Returned from active service, while his risala continued absent under the command of his two subordinates, in the seclusion of the zenana he delighted to pass most of his time in Ameena’s company, and his sole study seemed to be to provide for her comfort, to deck her with the costliest robes, to have jewels made for her of extreme value, to get up entertainments, to which the other wives were sometimes, but rarely invited; he could not bear the remembrance of the bitter days he had passed with them, when Ameena, in her beauty and purity, and mild and gentle disposition, was before him.

Ameena’s beauty too now appeared to increase daily; for in the cool and shady zenana her complexion had assumed a more delicate tint, and her skin become softer and more polished. It was ravishing to the Khan to behold her, as she moved about the court of her zenana, tending her few flowers, that bloomed beside a small fountain which always threw up a tiny column of spray, or ministering to the wants of her various favourites. Above her the broad matted leaves of the plantain mingled with the lighter sprays of the cocoa-nut and betel-palm, and a huge tamarind-tree threw its broad shadow over all, forming that refreshing green light so grateful to the eye. The walls of the court were kept carefully white-washed, and the area spread with the finest gravel.

On two sides there were open rooms, supported upon rows of pillars and arabesque arches, which were carved and painted in quaint devices; costly carpets were spread upon their floors, and in the centre was placed a musnud, covered with white muslin, upon which rested soft cushions of crimson velvet. On a perch was a gorgeous looree, whose brilliant plumage glittered in hues of gold and blue and scarlet; and there were two or three cages hanging within, wrapped round with muslin cloths, and gaily decorated with coloured beads and bells, from which larks poured their merry song, now trilling their own joyous notes, now imitating a hundred sounds of other birds with which they had become familiar. A young gazelle, with a collar of red velvet about its neck, with tiny bells sown to it and fastened around its fore legs above its knees, frisked here and there in merry play; and high above the trees soared a number of beautiful pigeons, enjoying the bright and glowing sun and the fresh air in which they sported.

These were daily sights, and the Khan would lie beholding Ameena’s graceful actions, now and then bursting out into a torrent of praise of her beauty, and now joining in her tasks of feeding her birds or her pigeons, or would call them for her when they appeared to fly far away from her gentle voice. And their time passed peacefully on, marked by no occurrence whereby they could remember its flight—a continued stream of quiet pleasure, down which the Khan suffered himself to glide, enjoying the peaceful contrast to the life of turmoil he had passed in the camp; the more so as it showed to him the character of Ameena in its true light, that of domestic intercourse, freed from the interruption of others.

Kasim Ali too was his constant guest and companion; his wound had healed after tedious months of suffering; long after the army had arrived at Seringapatam he was unable to resume any duty or his attendance upon the Sultaun, and his time was passed mostly in company with the Khan, assisting him in the business of his risala, writing letters for him, or examining his accounts. He still retained too the happiness of occasional intercourse with Ameena, by means of the old servant; and as often as he received fruit, or any delicacy she thought acceptable to his weak condition, the gift was accompanied by kind messages, which Meeran would fain persuade him meant more than was apparent.

To Kasim Ali her love was too precious a thought to part with easily, and he clung to it with all the ardour of his soul, for he felt himself alone among that host. He possessed acquaintances, it was true, but they were either the wild and debauched characters of the army, whom he had met now and then on service, and in his attendance at the Durbar, with whom he had no congeniality of feeling—or the friends of the Khan, elderly men, who looked on him as a youth of inexperience, and with whom it would be beneath their importance to associate. But Kasim was content as it was. In the business the Khan provided for him there was enough of employment, and his weak state and constant ill health prevented him from seeking other society. Day after day he was seen in the Khan’s Durbar, acting as his secretary, and fulfilling the duties of that important trust far more efficiently than the Mutsuddees^[46] whom the Khan had hitherto employed.

We have before mentioned the extensive system of peculation practised by Jaffar Sahib, of whom indeed we have long lost sight; but as he was employed in a different sphere from the persons who belong to our history, we have not thought it worth our while to follow him into his career of oppression and spoliation, where he revelled in all the opportunities of gratifying his worst passions; nor was he a singular instance in the army of the Sultaun. Bigots in faith, zealots in the practice of it, there was no greater enjoyment to hundreds than the destruction of the Hindoos in those provinces of Malabar which had gradually been driven into rebellion, and afterwards conquered by the Sultaun, as we have already mentioned.

Employed with a portion of the risala, he had carried out to the letter the instructions which the Sultaun had personally communicated to him. Burn, slay, destroy, convert, were the reiterated orders, and they were literally obeyed. Jaffar Sahib had been with the camp only for a few days, when the storming of the breach was expected; and that having taken place, he was sent, with the rest of his own character, to finish the work in the defenceless territories of Travancore. But he had at last been withdrawn from thence, and was now attached to the large cavalry force which held possession of the plain of Coimbatoor, and guarded the passes into the table-land of Mysore.

To the Jemadar’s system of deception, however, Kasim Ali fancied he had at length gained a clue, when it was prominently brought to his notice by the Khan himself, who, much disturbed upon the subject, one day handed him a letter he had received from the Bukhshee^[47] of the army, who, it seemed, had detected the false accounts the Jemadar had furnished.

‘The worst of all is,’ said the Khan, after they had spoken a long while upon the subject, ‘the demand which the Government will make upon me for the arrears of this peculation, for it would appear that it has gone on for a long time.’

‘For years, Khan Sahib,’ replied Kasim; ‘here they give you the dates. I think I had better go over to the Bukhshee, and get access to the whole of the accounts which have been made out; we may perhaps detect the whole matter, and trace it to its source.’

‘A wise thought, Kasim—I will go with thee. But that the honour of Rhyman Khan is too well known, this might brand me for ever with infamy.’

They went. The Khan was too well known to have such a request refused; and day after day did he, with Kasim and secretaries, pore over the accounts, sometimes thinking they had discovered the cheat, at others almost despairing, so cleverly had the matter been managed. The delay and consequent vexation was beginning to have a serious effect on the Khan; when, after a day of severer toil than usual, Kasim had no doubt remaining that the whole of the papers had been written by the Moonshee, whose disgrace we have mentioned, though the handwriting was feigned and altered in all; and he mentioned his suspicion to the Khan.

This seemed to throw a new light upon the subject; they knew that the Moonshee was still attached to the person of Jaffar Sahib as a kind of secretary, for he could not write himself, and it became a matter of paramount importance to separate him if possible from the Jemadar; nor was this difficult to manage. A few men of the risala always remained with the Khan, under the charge of Dilawur Ali Duffadar, the rough old soldier we have before mentioned. He bore the Jemadar no very good will, and readily undertook to carry off the Moonshee, unknown to his protector, and bring him to the city.

Accordingly, he took his departure the following morning with six resolute fellows, and by rapid marches soon gained the camp. Here, however, it was no easy task to apprehend the person they sought, for he kept constantly with the Jemadar, and it was necessary he should not know of the proceeding; but they succeeded at last. The Moonshee was decoyed to the outskirts of the camp by one of the men disguised as a Fakeer, where they were met by the Duffadar and his mounted party, and in spite of his prayers, protestations, and threats, he was carried rapidly towards the city.

The rage of Jaffar Sahib was excessive when he fancied himself deserted by his dependent; no one could tell how he had disappeared or whither he had gone; the last known of him was that he had been seen in the company of a Fakeer, going in a certain direction. Jaffar Sahib was seriously uneasy at his supposed defection, not only because he had now no one on whom he could depend to transact his intricate business, but because this man knew more of his secret transactions than he cared to entrust to any one else, and which if divulged would be his ruin.

The arrival of the Moonshee was a source of true joy to the Khan and Kasim; at first, as might be expected, he knew, or pretended to know, nothing about the matter; but the suspicion was so strong against him, that the Khan, by a short mode of doing justice often practised in India, directed that no water should be given to him till he confessed the whole.

The threat was in the end sufficient; the fellow held out most vehemently for about a day, and then, overcome by terror at their determination, and threats that this was only the commencement of his punishments, declared he would confess all; and he unfolded secretly to the Khan and Kasim the whole of the deceits which had been practised from the first. Every account was gone through, and a fearful array of peculation registered against the Jemadar, who was written to, to make the best of his way to the city to answer the complaint against him. Ere the messenger reached the camp, however, the Jemadar had arrived at the city; for his active emissaries had traced the arrival of Dilawur Ali and his party, and their sudden departure, and it was evident that they must have carried off the Moonshee.