Chapter X

Oh, Death! Death! Thou art a great avenger.
’Tis when thy arrow hath thy victim pierced,
That those, who mourn the lost, begin to know
His virtues, and remember in their heart
Of hearts how oft they caused the needless tear
To stain the cheek that ne’er shall blush again.

MINHAGE.

Upon his departure from the hermitage for the imperial camp, Kazim assured Mangeli, that if he did not return thither in the course of the day, he would despatch a messenger to give an account to her of his proceedings. He possessed, however, no means of accomplishing his promise. The rajaputs, to whose custody he was consigned by Bochari, though they treated him personally with respect, stated that they had no orders to forward communications from him to any person whomsoever, and that their duty was limited to attendance upon him until his arrival at Agra. Astonished at this intelligence, and alarmed for the effect which his continued absence and silence might produce upon the already too much agitated mind of Mangeli he entreated, at all events, that he might be permitted to see his wife and daughter before departing for the capital. He was told that the ladies would probably be at Agra before him, as swift-paced elephants had been already placed at their disposal, in order to enable them to return thither with as little delay as possible.

Kazim needed no reflection to feel assured that he was now, with his family, altogether in the hands of Bochari. He saw that, throughout all the occurrences which had recently taken place, he had been an instrument in the hands of that base and remorseless man. As to his personal safety, he thought no more of it. Doubtless measures were taken for sacrificing him, and having no longer any mode of avoiding his fate, he resigned himself to the decrees of Providence, But to be separated at such a moment from Mangeli and Nourmahal was, indeed, a thought full of anxiety and grief. Could he be assured that they were treated with ordinary respect,--could he be certain that they were yet in existence,--even information to this extent would quiet the pangs that every moment shot through his brain, threatening to bear away all the power of reason. But the officer in command of the rajaputs was inexorable. No entreaty could induce him to comply with Kazim’s desire for gaining intelligence upon these points. They rode on night and day, except for a few hours after noon-tide, sometimes on the public road, more frequently through the bye-paths, taking the shortest course they could find towards Agra.

Kazim’s feelings told him accurately what those of his consort and daughter were, under the circumstances in which they were placed. They agreed, without hesitation, in the opinion that his duty to the empire imposed upon him the necessity of losing no time in repairing to the camp, and in demanding a full and an immediate investigation into the origin of the massacre which had taken place at the castle. Zeinedeen already apprised them of the conclusions at which _his_ mind had arrived as to the stratagem which was practised by Bochari, with a view to obtain possession of the castle. But he concealed from them the apprehensions which he could not help entertaining, that the tragedy was designed to comprehend Nourmahal, as well as the prince and the subah, if not even the chancellor, whose integrity and great popularity must have been felt by Bochari as a continual reproach upon his own character.

The distance of the imperial camp from the hermitage was not considerable. It might easily be traversed by a horseman in an hour or two. As the morning wore away without any letters from Kazim, uneasiness became more and more wildly pictured upon Mangeli’s countenance. Zeinedeen took them to the summit of the tower, whence they could clearly see Kazim, if he were returning, or any messengers despatched with communications for them. But they could discern no object moving in any direction that led to the hermitage.

Now and then a trooper galloped out from the camp, and having watered his horse at a brook, that tumbled down the hill-side, where the tents were erected, seemed preparing to cross it. But he instantly returned the same way. Once or twice spearmen were seen moving beyond the outposts. They crossed the brook; after washing their feet, they hastened over the plain; but they then turned towards the castle, for the garrison of which they appeared to be charged with some instructions. Peasants also occasionally passed through the lines, again over the brook into the plain, and upon the very path that led to the hermitage. But they were speedily lost sight of.

All Mangeli’s terrors of the preceding night were rapidly returning upon her senses. Nourmahal endeavoured to soothe her mother’s alarm by every suggestion she could make. But between watching at the window for the appearance of her father, or of a messenger from him, and the attentions of which her beloved parent stood so much in need, she became almost distracted. Zeinedeen walked up and down in the apartment where they were, his arms folded, and occasionally offering hopes, and advising patience, which were very far from his own breast. Matters, he plainly saw, were, from one quarter of an hour to another, assuming a more sinister appearance, and it occurred to him that in not taking steps for conveying Mangeli and Nourmahal from the hermitage, he was not acting with his ordinary discretion.

At length the approach of a troop of horsemen was announced by Nourmahal. Zeinedeen looked out, and observing that they were galloping with all the rapidity they could command, he lost no further time in urging his companions to go with him to a place of safety.

His intention was to lead them, by a secret passage at the foot of the stair-case, to a subterranean chamber, where they might remain until the object of the troopers in coming to the hermitage should be known.

Unhappily, Mangeli, at the moment, fell into her daughter’s arms in a swoon. Nourmahal, overwhelmed by anxiety for her mother, could not be made to comprehend the necessity of yielding instant obedience to the advice of Zeinedeen. Mangeli breathed again. The trampling of the horses was heard. The hermit, taking both his companions by the hand, conducted them to the staircase, but before he descended half-way, he found it crowded with officers, whose long scabbards clattered on the steps as they were hastening upwards in search of his guests.

The hermit and his trembling companions were obliged to return to the chamber they had just left. They were followed by the strangers. One of the officers to whom the persons of Nourmahal and her mother were well known, after paying them his homage in the most respectful manner, stated that orders had been given for the immediate breaking up of the encampment, and the return of the army to Agra; that the emperor, after making arrangements for the future government of Cashmere, had already set out for the capital, attended by the commander and the high chancellor; and that the guards now in waiting were commissioned to attend upon their highnesses on their journey homewards.

This communication, made with an air of soldierly frankness and sincerity, tended in no small degree to confirm the apprehensions which the first announcement of the approach of the troops had kindled in the hermit’s mind.

“You have, of course,” he said, “letters from the high chancellor to his family.”

“I have no letters,” answered the officer; “nor am I aware that any of my comrades have been charged with any other communication than that which I have now made. Swift elephants will be here presently with palanquins, and as the emperor and chancellor cannot be far on their road, I should hope that we may easily overtake them in a few hours.

“I own,” said Zeinedeen, “I am surprised that the chancellor was not deputed by the emperor to take charge of his own family, or, at all events, that you have no written, or even verbal communication from him.”

“There seemed to have been little time for ceremony of any sort this morning; for such was the suddenness with which the orders for the march of the troops were given, and put into execution, that we have been most of us obliged to entrust the collection and care of our baggage to the suttlers of the camp, many of whom, as perhaps you know, are very little to be depended upon.”

Mangeli and her daughter, having retired to a recess in one of the windows, listened to this conversation with painful attention. The arrival of the palanquins having been announced, they, however, had now no alternative. It was not in Zeinedeen’s power, even had he wished it, to defer their departure. They were informed that there were two palanquins at their disposal; but that if they preferred proceeding together in the same vehicle, they were perfectly at liberty to indulge their wishes on that point. They might, moreover, rest assured of meeting from the escort, appointed to accompany them, every possible attention.

Zeinedeen’s fears were, in a great measure, disarmed by these assurances. Still a sense of disquietude lingered in his mind, which he in vain exerted himself to compose. When the cavalcade was declared to be ready for departure, Mangeli gave him her hand, fully expecting that he would accompany them to Agra. The thought had not before occurred to him. He mentioned her wishes to the officer in command, who, without hesitation, declared that he knew of no objection that could be offered to that course. A palanquin would be at the hermit’s service, if he chose to accept it.

Zeinedeen yielded to Mangeli’s entreaties, enforced as they were by those of Nourmahal, and by the solicitude with which his thoughts were filled for the fate of Kazim. Having informed his domestics of his intention, and desired them, however, to be prepared for his speedy return, he affectionately bade them farewell.

Poor old Chunder was sadly grieved at the departure of his beloved master. If he had tears he would have wept, but he could not. He was sure they would never meet again. Holding Zeinedeen’s hands in his, he kissed them, and prayed that Allah might protect him, and shower upon his head every good gift. He would allow nobody to assist him in raising his master to the palanquin,--a service, indeed, which he was ill able to perform. But the old man’s affection was allowed by the escort to have its way.

All the preparations for the departure of the cavalcade having been at length completed, it proceeded on its route. The lattices of the palanquin in which Nourmahal and her mother reclined, were carefully veiled, and female slaves were in readiness to wait upon them; so far as their personal convenience was concerned, they found that every arrangement had been provided necessary for a long journey.

Under other circumstances, the expectation of returning once more to “dear Agra,” as she often loved to call it, would have awakened in Nourmahal’s bosom its most fervent emotions of rapture. But what a world of reflections crowded upon her, as she passed by the castle lately her residence, now no longer ruled by the subah! It had been to her the scene of much suffering,--of many, many a gloomy hour, through which the rays of sunshine, that now and then struggled through them, were indeed but few!

Her mother deeply sympathised with her in all the tears which the retrospect of that scene called forth. They were tears of bitter sorrow. It was now at last admitted by her once cold and alienated heart, that she ought to have loved the husband who knew no joy on earth which did not derive its light from her. His every look of tenderness, to which, in life, she was indifferent; his timid advances towards hope that she would love him, which she had repelled; his generous abstinence from the slightest exhibition of unkindness, from even a gesture that could be construed into reproach,--these and a thousand other recollections now gathered in dense array before her, and demanded, if not vengeance, at least expiation.

Nourmahal never was inclined to conceal from herself the merits of Afkun’s character. His faults, if any she had known, were now forgotten. Her memory was active in shadowing out every particular transaction, in which the part of the sufferer fell to his share, in consequence of apathy on her side. Many were the instances in which she now acknowledged that she showed him too little forbearance; many those in which, by a slight act of assiduity, she might have spared him pain. His spirit looked upon her placidly, telling her that he forgave all; but it was this very meekness which wrung her heart with anguish.

Would that the warrior had indeed heard the sobs of remorse which escaped from that once proud breast, as pressing her head upon her mother’s lap she yielded to all the intensity of a widow’s grief! She mourned, not because she had ever felt for him the sentiment of love. It would have been hypocrisy to have attributed her agony to any such source. Nature, destiny, circumstances, for which it would have been unjust to blame that beauteous woman, denied to her the faculty of loving more than one being, who for good or for evil was appointed to absorb all that she could ever know of that divine emotion.

No; Nourmahal mourned because she had no longer the opportunity of repaying Afkun, as far as she might have done, any measure of the gratitude which she owed him for all his true enduring love, for all his god-like generosity,--the remembrance of which, now that he was no more, pierced her soul like a barbed arrow.