‘Nay, cheer thee, beloved! thou must be now as thou wert ever wont to be, stout of heart and fearless for the future,’ said Rhyman Khan to his fair wife, as, on the evening of that day, he sat with her in their quiet secluded apartments, with the moon’s broad light playing on the slightly agitated fountain before them, and the cool wind rustling amidst the leaves above their heads. ‘Thou must not fear; what is there to dread? Hast thou not thine own nurse with thee, and my household, who are devoted to thee? hast thou not these apartments, where no one dares to intrude without thine especial leave, and a guard of my most faithful men around thee? why shouldst thou fear?’

‘My lord,’ she said, looking up to him—and it was hard to resist those pleading eyes—‘I know I am not worthy to share the fate of one who is honoured in the councils of the Sultaun, and who is respected in the assemblies of the great; yet, if thou art ill, who will tend thee like Ameena? if thou art wounded, who will soothe thy pain? Thou wouldst have no one to cheer thy dulness; even the PatÉl would fail thee—thou wouldst think of Ameena!’

‘But the English, fairest—men affect to despise them, but the Sultaun well knows their power, though he denies it to all, and scoffs at it (I pray Alla, he may feel it not soon)—’tis the English I dread for thee. Fighting with them is not like fighting with the infidel Hindoos, who are slaughtered like sheep, but the war of men against men—the shock of contending armies—the roar of artillery—the rattle of musketry; this thy gentle heart cannot bear.’

‘Bid me go before thee into the battle—bid me attend thee as thy servant—bind a turban on my brow and a sword to my waist, and see if Ameena will not follow thee to the death!’ she cried, hastily rising. ‘If the Mahratta women have done this many a time, thinkest thou that a Moghul of the old and proud blood of Delhi dares not?’

A sudden cry of admiration broke from the Khan. She had arisen from her seat and advanced towards him; her always soft and loving eye was filled with a daring and flashing light; her bosom heaved, and her slight and beautiful form was drawn up to its full height, as she stood almost panting, when she ceased to speak.

‘By Alla and the Prophet, thou art fit to be a soldier’s wife!’ he cried, starting to his feet; ‘one who feels so keenly a soldier’s honour and his fame, ought to share it with him. I had not thought that this spirit dwelt within thee. Come to me, girl—henceforth thou needst not fear; come evil or good, thou shalt share it with Rhyman Khan. I swear by thine eyes I will not leave thee; art thou content now?’

‘Thou art too kind!’ she murmured, as she bowed her head upon his shoulder; ‘thou knowest I have none here but thyself, and my home is afar off; thou art father, mother, husband—all to me. I bless thee that thou hast heard my prayer, and that I am not to be left tormented by a thousand fears for thee, and dreads (may they be visionary!) of coming evil.’

‘Of evil, Ameena?’

‘Ay, my lord; hast thou not felt often, upon the eve of some event in thy life, when, as yet, it had not burst from the womb of futurity, an unknown, undefinable sense of dread which pervaded thy senses, causing thought to be painfully acute, and to run into a thousand channels too intricate to follow for a moment, till it was lost in vague, oppressive conjecture leading to no end?’

‘Never, Ameena; I have never troubled myself to think much, but have been content to take events as it pleased Alla to send them.’

‘I may be wrong then,’ she returned; ‘these may be the offsprings of my own imagination only, and not common to others. It is well it is so; they are not enviable.’

‘There will be danger, Ameena,’ said the Khan, who misapprehended her; ‘bethink thee again upon going with me into the rough camp; remember, Kasim Ali will be here, and will protect thee, as he hath done before.’

‘Oh no! no! I would not stay—I would not stay with him, but go with thee, my noble lord,’ she said, averting her burning face from him; ‘for the sake of the Prophet do not mention that again; thou hast already said thou wouldst let me accompany thee.’

‘Bismilla! then be it so; yet why turnest thou away? art thou angry that I doubted thy firmness? I never doubted that, girl, since the night when we looked from the tower upon the burning village and those fierce Mahrattas; dost thou remember them?’

Alas! she remembered but too well; and even then the temptation had arisen within her to remain where Kasim Ali was, to be left under his care; but she had put it back with a struggle, and the Khan’s doubt of her bravery had rallied her spirit, and with it her best feelings had come to her aid.

‘I remember, Khan,’ she said carelessly; ‘but I would now prepare the few things I shall require, and warn Meeran to accompany me.’

‘Go then; I had told the PatÉl he would have to look after thee, and, strange enough, he thought thou wouldst be better with me as he was not to go. Perhaps he may be in the Dewan Khana, I will go there and seek him.’

Ameena was left alone; how strange it was, she thought, that Kasim should have advised what she herself had suggested; perhaps his dread had been the same as hers, and the very idea brought painful blushes to her face, and led her into a reverie which well nigh upset her resolutions; it would be so easy to change her determination, to confess her fears, to have him near her, to rely on him in all dangers; this would be happiness. But Ameena’s virtue was strong, far stronger than her servant’s, who at first almost reproached her for the voluntary loss of the opportunity, which, as she said, destiny had presented. Meeran’s sophistry was unable, however, to contend with the honest purpose of her youthful mistress, and she at length, but not without some difficulty, yielded to her whim, of which she protested she would be tired enough when the English cannon roared in her ears, and the balls whizzed through the camp.

Ameena might not, perhaps, have held out long against the combined effects of her own inclination and the terrible stories her nurse told her of the furious English; but there was little time for discussion—they were to move on the morrow; preparations for absence, though small, had to be made that night, and long ere noon the following day the army had left the city, for a longer absence than was at first contemplated.

But it is beyond our province to follow with the minuteness essential to history every event connected with the campaign, and we assume to ourselves, upon the precedents of many veterans who have toiled before us in the field of literary pursuit, the right of slightly sketching those details of historical occurrence which, however necessary to the historian, can be omitted, or merely glanced at, in a tale of the present character.

The Sultaun, at the head of his noble army, proceeded down the Guzulhuttee pass, the one in the angle formed where the grand range of the Neelgherries joins the table-land of Mysore, and where a tributary of the Bhowanee pours its rapid waters into the plain. On their right, as we have described when we took Herbert Compton to his lonely prison on the Neelgherries, rose their vast and blue chain, stretching far away into the distance; on the left, the wide plain, and the table-land breaking away into it in a series of giant ravines and gloomy depths. But for these the monarch had no eyes; a gloomy presentiment of evil appeared to possess him, and the constant succession of messengers with bad tidings, of the news of fall after fall of strongholds, forts, towns, and whole districts before the slight force of the English, inspired him with a dread which the confidence of the officers around him could not restore. Still if he could strike a decisive blow, he thought all would yet be well; and the fame and terror of the lion of Mysore, once more spread through the country, and reaching the ears of the English and their confederates the Nizam and the Mahrattas, would divert them from their alliance or convert them into positive friends.

The Bhowanee was full, but the army crossed in basket-boats, and, in the action which followed, met their enemies in such force and spirit, that the issue of the conflict compelled the English commander to draw off his force during the night, and to retreat, in the hope of effecting a junction with the commander-in-chief, whose force was daily expected. His movement was aided, as if providentially, by a violent rain, which, falling in the Sultaun’s camp, caused confusion not easily to be remedied in the morning, when the escape of the English was known.

Frantic with rage, Tippoo ordered an immediate pursuit, which, though gallantly performed by his troops, was ineffectual, as well from the nature of the ground, and the protection afforded to the English by the thick prickly pear-hedges, as from the resolute determination and patience with which it was met. At the small village of Shawoor the English commander determined to make a stand, for his men were worn out by fatigue and excitement; and this place—where as memorable a display of obstinate British valour against overwhelming odds as took place at Korygaum or Seetabuldee might have occurred, was not fated to be so distinguished. A false rumour arose of the advance of the main body of the army under Meadows, which, while it gave new energy to the English, inspired the Sultaun with dread; a vigorous charge by the English cavalry determined the day and the campaign; and the Sultaun, dispirited by this and by the death of a favourite and gallant officer of rank, drew off his troops; he could not be persuaded to resume the attack, but retreated southwards towards Errode, on the river Cavery.

Meanwhile the two English armies had united, and now advanced upon the Sultaun, who again retreated towards Coimbatoor; but imagining danger in that quarter, he turned again northwards, and falling upon the town of Darapoor, in which were some English sick and details, he captured it, and exacted a fearful revenge for his defeats and vexation. From hence, hearing of the advance of the English in the direction of Salem, and knowing the passes into Mysore in that direction to be easy and unguarded—in fact, only a series of undulations—he hurried thither, accompanied by all his cavalry, leaving a large body of his best infantry to hold the English in check, and, if necessary, to occupy the high and rugged passes that led directly to the capital.

The English armies were in possession of the country around the Tapoor pass, which leads from the fine town of Salem and farther to the south from Trichinopoly into Mysore; and it was evident to the Sultaun that their territories to the south must be inefficiently protected, considering the large amount of force which had been dispatched for the invasion of his dominions. His whole mind was now bent upon striking a blow in the rear of the advanced force, which should turn their attention from their meditated object to the defence of positions and districts; by this means time would be wasted, and the season for active operation pass away. Acting, therefore, upon this suggestion, he dexterously avoided the English army, though passing within sight of it; and leaving the magnificent range of the Shevaroy mountains to the left, he took the direct road through the beautiful valley in which Salem is situated to Trichinopoly. It was on the noble temple of Seringham that his fury first fell; and by the desecration of its sacred images, the plunder and forcible conversion of its priests, and the uncontrolled licence given to his bigoted soldiery to mutilate and destroy, a spirit of revenge was actively aroused against him in the minds of his Hindoo adherents, which had long been excited by his acts of horrible oppression and cruelty to their unhappy brethren the Nairs.

From Seringham ruin and devastation was mercilessly carried through Coromandel: each man had licence to plunder as he listed, and neither youth nor age was spared; the savage Pindharees of later years were not more destructive than the army of Islam, led on by its champion; and, although repulsed from the fort of Tiagar by a mere handful of British soldiers, yet that of Trinomallee was less fortunate in its defence, and on its unhappy garrison and inhabitants were vented in cruelties and tortures all the spleen that mortified vanity and ill success could prompt.

Tippoo had hoped too to arouse the ancient animosity of the French against the English, and to have involved them in the war; but his overtures for assistance were rejected or evaded by the Governor of Pondicherry, and his negotiations for an embassy to the Court of Louis XVI met with no encouragement. Foiled in these attempts, he renewed his correspondence with many English officers, in the same hollow strain of attempted complaint and wonder at the commencement of hostilities that had before proved unsuccessful. But he had more able diplomatists and more wary commanders to deal with now than formerly; and having been unable to put into execution his threat of burning Madras, he abandoned the design, and hurried to meet the storm which now threatened to burst forth from the Nizam and the Mahrattas on the north, and from the English on the east; for Lord Cornwallis was already at Vellore, and the army assembled there were prepared to advance. But the Sultaun, although the force with him used the most strenuous exertions, failed to arrive in time to occupy the passes, and the English ascended to the table-land of Mysore without opposition.

During the period of our tale hitherto, the Sultaun had been separated from the ladies of his harem, which had remained in Bangalore, nor had he held much communication with them for some years. The places of his lawful wives were supplied from time to time as caprice willed the change, by numbers—some rudely torn from their families by his agents—others captives taken from among the Nairs and Hindoos of the coast, where his excesses had been most dreadful, to remain in favour for a while, and to be flung aside when their novelty palled upon his senses. But the mother of his children and his own mother remained dear to him—dear as any could be to one of so cold and heartless a temperament, which warmed only at the trumpet-call of bigotry, and felt none of those endearments common to men of all ranks in the intercourse of their families. His anxiety was excited upon their account from the near approach of the English, which he was unable to check, though he several times attempted it by distant cannonades and threatening displays of large bodies of cavalry. It was therefore absolutely necessary that they should be removed; and having sent orders for them to prepare, the next day, at the head of his whole army, he escorted them from the fort to his encampment, and preparation was made for sending the harem on to the capital.

But while these stirring events proceeded in the camp, and men’s minds were gradually filled with alarm at the progress of the English and the formidable nature of their attack, events had occurred at the city which demand that we should notice them.

The army had left some days, and all was quiet within the fort, which but a short time before had resounded with the continuous beating of the Sultaun’s kettle-drums, the exercise of the soldiery, and the bustle of the thousands attendant upon the Sultaun. But the work of the arsenals and foundries continued in full vigour, and it was plain to see that if the worst was feared, there was at least preparation made to meet it. In the midst of this, however, with which he had no concern, Kasim Ali, formed for the active occupation of the camp, led a life of inaction, from which he saw no hope of release until he should once more resume his post near the Sultaun, and lead into battle against the English his own gallant fellows, who had often sworn to follow him to the death.

There was one, however, to whom his every movement was an object of intense interest, and who, tormented by a thousand contending passions, now vowed revenge against him because her suit had been rejected, now implored her attendant again and again to go to him. But after her first refusal, Sozun had no mind to encounter the stern looks of the young PatÉl, and as often as she was sent, she would return with a lie that he had repulsed her.

It was night—quite dark, for the heavens were overcast with thick clouds, and the wind sighed and moaned within the trees above the Khan’s dwelling; every now and then a gust would whistle round the apartment where the lady Kummoo sat, shaking the latticed windows and shutters which were carefully closed. She was alone with Sozun, and the theme had long been Kasim Ali and her wild, ungovernable passion for him.

‘I tell thee I will bear this no longer, Sozun,’ she said, as she arose, and opening the shutter looked forth. ‘The night is dark—it is fit for the venture; no one will see us, or if they do, we shall not be known.’

‘Holy Alla!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘thou wilt not go to him, Khanum?’

‘Ay will I, Sozun; my heart burns, my soul is on fire! can I bear this for weeks and months? am I a stone? I tell thee nay; but a daring, loving woman, whose thoughts, night and day, are fixed on one object; it is now within my grasp, and the moment urges. Come, I am ready; take thy sheet and wrap thyself—thou knowest the way.’

‘It is in vain for thee to go, Khanum; wilt thou eat shame? hast thou no pride?—a woman to seek him who spurns her love!’

‘Peace, fool! he has not seen me yet. Come, and delay no longer. I command thee; the way is short, and methinks I am already in his embrace. Quick! see, I am ready.’

‘If thy absence should be discovered, lady?’

‘I care not; I will say boldly I go to my mother; come, why dost thou delay?’

Sozun knew her mistress’s character too well to dare a refusal, and she wrapped herself closely and preceded her. As they descended the stairs they met a servant. ‘I go to my mother’s for a while—let no one follow me,’ said the lady, and passed on. In a few moments they had quitted the house and were in the open street.

‘Lend me thine arm, Sozun,’ said the lady in a whisper: ‘I tremble much, and the night is dark, very dark; I did not think it would be so fearful. Alla! how the clouds scurry along the heavens, and how the wind moans and sighs.’

‘We had better return, Khanum.’

‘No, no, not for worlds! I must see him;—quick! give me thine arm and lead on!’

Hastily traversing a few streets, Sozun stopped at a small door in a wall. ‘This is the place,’ she whispered; and as she said it she felt the arm within hers shake as if with ague.

‘For the sake of the Prophet, let us turn back—it is not too late—I have not knocked—thou art not fit to meet him,’ said the woman in broken sentences.

‘Peace, fool! in a few moments I shall see him; dare I not this? Knock, and say he expects us.’

Thou art a bold woman, thought Sozun, and she knocked loudly. The door was opened instantly; two men stood within.

‘We are expected,’ said Sozun, in a disguised voice, without waiting to be questioned, and they proceeded.

‘The PatÉl hath good company,’ said one fellow.

‘I marvel at this,’ said the other; ‘I have served him long, and have never known the like of this before.’

The women lost the rest as they passed hastily on. Kummoo’s knees could hardly support her, but she followed Sozun mechanically, her heart beating violently, and her thoughts striving to arrange a few sentences for the interview; vain effort! they rose one upon another in wild confusion, defying retention.

Sozun knew the way; she entered the open verandah and looked through the door into the next apartment; Kasim was there, reading, as she had first seen him. ‘That is he,’ she whispered gently; ‘enter!’

Kummoo was a bold and daring woman, but now her heart almost failed her—for a moment only, however—and she entered and stood before him.

‘Who art thou?’ he cried; ‘and who has dared to admit thee?’

She could not reply; a few broken words escaped her; and unable any longer to stand or to control herself, she fell at his feet, and clasping his knees sobbed aloud.

‘Thou art fair—very beautiful,’ he said, as he raised her up and gazed upon her features, for her veil had fallen; ‘who art thou?’

‘One who has loved thee long! I saw thee once—I have lived upon thy look,’ she said confusedly.

‘Thou art not a tuwaif; thy speech is not like theirs.’

‘I am not.’

‘Thou art a wife then, or thou wouldst not wear that ring?’

‘Why should I tell a lie?—I am; my lord is old—he is absent—he loves me not—he has neglected and thrown me aside for another. I have seen thee, O PatÉl, and my liver is become water; I have come to thee—pity me and love me, as I would love thee!’

Kasim was sorely tempted; her beauty, her large lustrous eyes sparkling with passion, shone upon him; she hung on him; her hand, as it touched his, was hot and trembling. He raised her up and caressed her, and she threw herself upon his broad chest and again sobbed—it was with passion.

Then, even then, a thought flashed into his mind, quicker than light; could she be the Khan’s wife; could he be the man, old, absent, who had flung her aside for another? his heart felt as though it made a mighty bound within his bosom. ‘Tell me,’ he cried, ‘by your soul—say, for my mind misgives me—tell me, art thou not the wife of Rhyman Khan?’

She could not reply—she burned—her mouth became parched and her eyes swam.

‘Speak,’ he cried, ‘for the sake of Alla!’ But no reply came; confusion was evident on her countenance; as he held her from him, suddenly her head drooped, and her form relaxed within his grasp; had he not supported her she would have fallen; for the sense of sudden detection had overpowered her already too excited feelings, and she had fainted.

‘Holy Prophet! what is to be done?—she is insensible,’ exclaimed Kasim aloud; he was heard by Sozun, who entered.

‘Tell me, by your soul, if she is the Khan’s wife?’ he cried in agitation not to be repressed.

‘What matter if she is, PatÉl? she loves you, your destiny is bright; shall I retire?’

‘It is as I thought then. Holy Alla! I bless thee that this was spared me! See, she is recovering; yonder is water—take her hence speedily, her secret will die with me; assure her of this, and tell her the Khan is my friend and benefactor.’ And so saying, he opened a small door and disappeared.

‘He is gone,’ said Sozun, as her lady recovered and looked wildly around her: it was enough. They did not wait more than a few minutes; then Kummoo returned to her distasteful home, filled with rage and shame, and burning for revenge.