Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents remain.

The cover was prepared by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE FLAME-GATHERERS

THE FLAME-GATHERERS

BY
MARGARET HORTON POTTER

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1904
All rights reserved

Copyright, 1904,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1904. Reprinted September, 1904.

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

TO
Gerhardt Hauptmann
WITH THE PROFOUND ADMIRATION
OF THE AUTHOR

PRELUDE

“UP FROM EARTH’S CENTRE THROUGH THE SEVENTH GATE

I ROSE, AND ON THE THRONE OF SATURN SATE;

AND MANY A KNOT UNRAVELLED BY THE ROAD,

BUT NOT THE MASTER KNOT OF HUMAN FATE.”[1]

GREAT OMAR, THIS VAGUE TALE RETOLD CONTAINS

PART ANSWER TO THE RIDDLE. ALLAH DEIGNS

A LITTLE WISDOM THROUGH THE MOST UNWISE:

THE SECRET OF THE UNIVERSE IN CHAINS.

BEHOLD IT, WRITTEN FOR THE OCCIDENT.

AH! WILL THEY SEE, ALTHOUGH THE VEIL IS RENT?

OR WILL NOT ONE BELIEVER PAUSE BEFORE

THE TATTERED GLORIES OF THE ORIENT?

M. H. P.

[1] “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam,” Ed. Fitzgerald, trans.

CONTENTS

BOOK I
FLESH-FIRE

“

“Daily walked, in radiant beauty,

To and fro, the Sultan’s daughter;

In the twilight, where the fountain

Ripples o’er with crystal water.

Day by day the youthful slave stood

In the twilight, where the fountain

Ripples o’er with crystal water.

Daily he grew pale and paler.

“Once at evening came the Princess

To his side, with hurried accents:

‘Tell thy name, for I would know it;

And thy home, thy sire, and kindred.’

“And the slave replied:

‘My name is Mahomet. I come from Yemen,

And my race is the race of Asra,

Who must die if love they cherish!’”

—Heinrich Heine, “The Asra.”

THE FLAME-GATHERERS

CHAPTER I
THE CONQUEROR

The sun was setting over the Narmáda plain. In the midst of long stretches of sunburnt farm land the waters of the great river rolled and flashed with light. The barren millet-fields were illumined with long streaks of yellow sunshine that ran to the base of Mandu, an immense plateau, rising sheer from the lowlands to a height of some three or four hundred feet. Between it and the nearest of the Vindhyas is a deep chasm, a quarter of a mile or more in width, bridged over by a miracle of man, a stone causeway, many centuries old even on the day of September 6, in the year of the Christian Lord 1205, and of the Hejira 601.

This causeway, a vast, stone bridge, supported on piers built up from the rocks below, balustraded to a height of five feet, and finished on each corner by watch-towers in which lookouts were always stationed, made the single approach to the otherwise impregnable plateau which formed in itself the entire principality of Mandu. Remarkable among Indian ruins to-day are those that crown the deserted height of this unique spot: temples, houses, and vast palaces of the most ancient times; and at the period of which we speak, the opening years of the thirteenth century, Mandu was in the heyday of its Indian glory, renowned throughout the West for its wealth, its power, and the righteousness of its rulers.

The rice harvest was just beginning, and the inhabitants of Mandu—Brahman, Vaisya, Sudra, and Pariah alike—were busily engaged in this toil of peace. The Kshatriyas, or warrior part of the population, were not in the minds of their fellows to-day; for at the end of the rains they had marched to the north on an expedition against an army of Mohammedans by whom their neighbors of Dhár were beset.

The great causeway was deserted save for its lookouts and a fakir who had chosen to light a harvest Ishti on the stones near the southwest tower. As the sun neared the horizon, however, the silence was broken by a sudden screaming of birds and monkeys in the wooded mountain gorge beyond the bridge. Two of the guards stretched themselves and looked out along the pass—looked, and were transfixed. Shrill trumpet-notes and the faint beating of hoofs along a rocky road became suddenly audible. The glint of spear-heads shone among the trees. Lastly came the tapping of the tiny saddle-drums. Two of the soldiers shouted together: “Avalu! They are coming!” and, leaping down to the bridge, started at breakneck pace toward the fields, crying as they ran: “The army! The soldiers! Lord Rajah! They are here! They have returned!”

The other two guards made no move to leave their advantageous posts. The Brahman, also, abandoning his invocation to Agni, mounted the nearest tower, to watch the arrival of his earthly ruler. He had scarcely taken up his position when the vanguard of returning warriors rode out upon the bridge, a glittering company, headed by the stateliest of figures, at whose approach the guards all but knelt in salute to their ruler, Rai-Khizar-Pál, Rajah of Mandu in the country of Malwa, a brave and noble king. Slightly behind him rode two other richly dressed men, mounted on beautiful horses, each of whom came in for some share of the acknowledgments of the guards,—Puran, captain of the troops, and Ragunáth, confidential adviser of the Rajah. Slowly, for the horses were fagged with long marching, the three passed over the bridge, followed by a lengthening train of officers and men, horse and foot, over whose robes of crimson and white and green played the last beams of the setting sun, sending off a dazzle of light from the rubies that fastened a long spray of white feathers to the turban of the Rajah.

By the time the first of the cavalcade had entered the broad road leading straight across the plateau to the palaces at its eastern end, throngs of field-workers and people of the town had begun to line the edges of the route; for the news of the army’s return had spread from one end of the plateau to the other, and men and women left their work and, stained and disordered with toil, rushed to the road to greet their ruler and their defenders. A well-built lot of people they were, by far the greater number of the men invested with the cord of the twice-born. And their king’s popularity was very evident from the welcome they were giving him. Men of the Brahman caste lifted their hands to him, Vaisyas fell upon their knees, and Sudras and Pariahs prostrated themselves upon the earth till he had passed. Then all stood gazing eagerly at the slow-moving file of troops. Jests, salutations, and words of welcome passed between the onlookers and the returning warriors; and the general spirit of joy was redoubled when it was found that the campaign, short as it had been, was also a victorious one. Evidences of victory presently became visible; for, at the end of the lines of foot-soldiers, came a long string of captives, many on foot, a few mounted upon mules, these last with their feet bound together by thongs passed round the animals, their arms tied behind them with ropes of hide, and the beasts themselves fastened together in a long chain. Beside this mounted company, who represented captives of station, rode a soldier armed with a triple-lashed whip, which he used with no great degree of compassion upon the backs of his charges.

These captives were greeted by the onlookers with shouts of triumph, but with no insults or even unfriendly remarks. The followers of the Prophet were still rather mythical enemies to these dwellers of the Dekhan. Mahmoud of Ghazni was a name they recognized; but Aybek, the great slave, who had just mounted the throne of Delhi, was as unreal to them as their own kings who had died three thousand years ago, in the first conquest of India. These captives now among them were tangible enough, but they presented too abject an appearance to give any idea of their force in battle. The chagrin of captivity, the many days of riding and walking, the intolerable suffering occasioned by their bonds, had broken the spirit of all save one, who rode at the head of the pitiable procession. He was young, this man, good to look on even in his unkempt state, and his clothes, through the stains of war and woe, showed their richness. He sat straight on his unsaddled mule, and his head was not bent down. He seemed to notice nothing of what passed around him, but kept his eyes fixed far ahead on the long, curving range of blackened mountains, lighted by the glow of the sunset sky that blazed behind them. His dignity and his unconsciousness made him a continual object of interest to the crowd, and the slave-master was under a running fire of questions which he was not slow to answer.

“He is a prince, a son of the enemy’s leader. He will bring a great ransom,” he repeated again and again, proudly.

Cheers never failed to follow the explanation; and, after some twenty minutes of this trial, the Arab’s head for the first time drooped, and a deep sigh broke from him.

“Let not my lord grieve,” whispered the person riding next behind him, a boy, scarcely more than fifteen years in age. “My lord will be ransomed.”

But the Mohammedan sighed again, making no answer; and the slave-master, overhearing the whisper, cut off the conversation with a quick stroke of his whip on the back of the boy, who bore it, as he bore all things for his Prince, without a sound.

By this time the road, which had hitherto run through grain-fields, approached a building set, as was the custom with many Indian temples and palaces, in the midst of a square pool of water. The structure was built of white stone, in the usual massive and grotesque Indian style, and seemed only approachable by a narrow path between two glassy sheets of water, which reflected in their mirror-depths the clumps of wild cotton trees, graceful bamboos, and feathery tamarinds by which they were surrounded. The eyes of the captives, turned from this structure only when it lay behind them, were instantly fixed upon another, infinitely greater, which a new bend in the road disclosed a few hundred yards beyond. The entrance to this new building was filled with a bustling throng, for here the soldiers were dismounting. It was the dwelling of the rulers of Mandu; and in five minutes more the captives themselves had halted in the huge, unpaved courtyard round which the palace was built.

The sun had now set and the brief twilight sunk into darkness. A bonfire burned already in the centre of the courtyard, and its fitful, wavering light accentuated the activity of the scene. The Rajah and a few of the officials had disappeared into the palace; but it seemed as if all the rest of the little army, together with a hundred attendants, were crowded into the courtyard:—soldiers, slaves, eunuchs, page-boys, villagers, and women,—women unveiled, unabashed, openly interested in their fellow-creatures. Finally, in the portal of the north wing, quiet, calm, betraying no sign of weariness, stood Ragunáth, the right hand of the Rajah, that small, slender, well-favored man, with the eyes of the lynx, an intellect keen as a steel blade, and a constitution that was superior to time and disease. He was still clad in his crimson riding-costume. The turban had not been lifted from his head; but he carried in his hand a thin, ebony staff. He was engaged in directing the dismount and disposal of the captives. Already those that had come on foot had been led away by guards into the south wing; and now, under his low-voiced commands, two men were lifting the riders from their mules and, as soon as they could stand, sending them after the others. One of these, only, made any resistance to this plan. He was the boy who had ridden second in the line, behind his leader. Spent as he was, this child struggled violently against separation from his master, at whose commands only he finally consented to be led away. And now this master remained alone, upon his mule, his face turned to Ragunáth, and in his eyes the faintest expression of dislike.

“What is thy name, captive?” demanded the Indian, in a flat, low tone.

“Fidá Ibn-Mahmud Ibn-Hassan el-Asra,” returned the captive.

“The son of the Mohammedan leader?”

“His brother’s son.”

“Ah! then you are not a prince?”

“I am the head of our race. My father is dead.”

“Ah!—Partha, let him be taken down and brought to my apartment. Then go tell the Lord Rajah that the work is done.” And, turning upon his heel, the minister disappeared into the corridor behind him.

Immediately the two men beside him cut the thongs that bound Fidá’s feet to the mule; and they also unfastened his arms. He was lifted from the animal, and set upon his feet, at the same time supported on either side. It was some moments before his numb and stiffened limbs would bear him; but at length he straightened, and followed his guides into the palace. They proceeded for some distance down a hall hung at regular distances with finely wrought lamps, and at length turned into a narrower passage that ended, Fidá could see, in another courtyard. Before this was reached, however, they halted at a doorway closed by a hanging; and here Fidá was bidden to enter and pass through into the farthest room. Then he was left alone.

The captive gave a sigh of relief. After the long strain, just ended, silence and semi-darkness seemed to him unspeakable boons. He longed to lie down here upon the ground and sleep. That being impossible, however, he took the only practicable advantage of the respite. Facing toward what he believed to be the west,—and Mecca,—he threw himself into the devout attitude and repeated the sunset prayers. Then, relieved in mind and heart, he pushed aside the hanging, and entered the apartment of Ragunáth. The first room was empty, illumined by a single lamp, the light of which gave some indication of the richness of the furnishings. Through this and another room Fidá passed, and then halted on the threshold of the third, the living-room of a fortunate man.

Here, reclining on a great pile of cushions, was the adviser and confidant of the Rajah. Beside him, on a low stand, were a dish of rice and a chased goblet containing wine. Two attendants were bathing his feet with perfumed water; and at the opposite side of the room, under a hideous image of Krishna, a Brahman was making the evening sacrifice of meal and ghee, over two or three sticks of burning wood. Fidá forgot himself in gazing at this scene, till Ragunáth, opening his eyes, which were shut under the soothing influence of rest and quiet, cried out, rather harshly:

“Come! Enter, slave! To thy knees!”

Fidá walked slowly forward, made a respectful salutation to the master of the room, and then stood upright again. Ragunáth shrugged his shoulders, but did not attempt to enforce his command, which was, indeed, contrary to the etiquette of captivity, he being in no way Fidá’s overlord. It was some moments before he would speak; and, during the interval, the Brahman, his task over, turned to him, announcing: “The evening Agnihotra is accomplished. Krishna and the gods are appeased. I will depart,” and forthwith left the room. Then Ragunáth, once more master of his tones, said smoothly:

“You are here, Asra, to choose the life of your captivity. Will you wait imprisoned and guarded till there come members of your race to treat for ransom; or will you take the clothing of the Rajah’s household and become the servant of our lord, his cup-bearer, till the time of your freedom?”

“Will not Rai-Khizar-Pál send messengers to treat with Omar for my ransom?” cried Fidá, in amazement.

“The way is long and difficult. We are but just returned from a dangerous campaign. The Rajah is satisfied with his victories.”

For some moments Fidá stared hopelessly at Ragunáth’s impenetrable face. Then he bent his head beneath the tumultuous wave of bitterness that overswept him. Finally, controlling himself, as all Arabs are taught to do, he looked up again, and answered in an unnatural voice: “I will enter the household of the Rajah. I will serve him as his cup-bearer.”

Ragunáth nodded, and touched a gong beside his couch. After a moment’s waiting a slave ran into the room, knelt before his master, and bent his head to the floor.

“Radai, take this man to the house of slaves, and let him be clothed in the fashion of the Rajah’s servants. He will serve to-night, at the feast, as cup-bearer to the Lord Rai-Khizar-Pál. Go!”

The slave rose, took Fidá by the hand, and turned to leave the room, when they perceived that a newcomer was standing in the doorway: a eunuch of high office. Ragunáth, seeing him, gave an exclamation.

“Kasya! Enter! enter!”

“My lord summoned me?” The man did not move from the doorway, and Fidá and his companion stood aside.

“Yes, yes, I summoned thee. How goes thy office? Enter, Kasya. All thy work is well?”

“The Lady Ahalya—is well.”

The answer was made in such a tone as brought Fidá’s eyes to the face of the man that uttered it. Kasya’s eyes were bright, Kasya’s lip was curled, and Fidá perceived that the sarcasm, the almost insult, in the eunuch’s tone had been fully intentional. In another moment Fidá was drawn from the room, but not before he heard Ragunáth utter a smothered oath, and had perceived a light of satisfaction in the eunuch’s eyes. It was an incident unusual enough to impress itself on the mind of the new-made slave; for he was sometimes a student of men. But there seemed no adequate reason why one word, the name that Kasya had spoken, should so have fixed itself in Fidá’s brain that, for the next hour or two, it beat upon him with a constant rhythm, “Ahalya—Ahalya—Ahalya,” till it seemed fuller of import than the great battle-cry the syllables of which so much resembled it. And, in the end, Fidá accepted it as an omen of all that afterward came upon him in this new land.

In the meantime the whole palace, and especially the great central portion of it, had been humming with life. Manava, the regent-minister, and all his staff of servants, were preparing an unexpected welcome for the return of the Rajah and his victorious troops. By half-past eight in the evening, the vast audience-hall presented a gala appearance; and shortly after that hour Rai-Khizar-Pál, with Purán on his right hand, Ragunáth on his left, and a great company bringing up the rear, entered and was received at the foot of the daïs by Manava, who, with this act of reception, discharged himself of his three months’ regency.

The hall, which was the largest in the palace, and opened immediately from the central courtyard, was a remarkable example of the massive, clumsy, and inartistic architecture of uninvaded India. Stone pillars, of unequal size and design, supported the roof. The walls were covered with multicolored hangings, and furthermore were to-night covered with ropes of flowers. A hundred lamps of wrought bronze and silver hung from the ceiling, and torches were fastened to the pillars. At the head of the room, opposite the entrance, was the daïs, on which stood a broad divan overhung with a canopy. This was the judgment seat of Mandu, to be used to-night in a lighter cause. As the Rajah laid himself in his place, the three high officials squatted on cushions near the royal couch, each with a low, round stand before him. Below, in the hall, stood three long, low tables, raised not more than eight inches from the floor, beside which were rows of woven mats, on which the feasters squatted in customary fashion. In three minutes every seat was taken, and immediately a throng of slaves came hurrying in, each bearing his burden of food or wine or metal bowls filled with water for the washing of hands. Among these ministers of the feast was Fidá, who came halting along in the rear, side by side with the young Ahmed, now perfectly content by reason of the nearness of his lord. Fidá was dressed in a loose white cotton vestment that hung to his ankles, and was confined about his waist with a broad, red scarf. The sleeves were wide and short, and the tunic opened loosely in the front, disclosing his bare, bronzed chest. His feet were unshod; but his head was bound round with a brass circlet, the sign of slavery. In his hands he carried a jar of the liquor forbidden to his creed. As he neared the royal divan many eyes were turned to him, and he was pointed out, here and there, as a prince of the enemy; and if the feasters gazed at him once for his station, they looked a second time at his beauty, for Fidá was worthy of his birth. Taller in stature, better shaped as to limb, cleaner-cut in feature than any Indian, he gave ample evidence of the higher civilization and keener intellect of his race. For at this time the men of Arabia were at the zenith of their power; and were bearing the religion of their Prophet at the point of their swords into every nation of the known world.

Fidá went up and bent the knee before his master; and Rai-Khizar-Pál turned upon him a gentle and kindly glance. “Come up, young man. Let me behold thee. So. Thou art named master of my drink. Fill, then, this cup, and Indra grant it may be full forever!”

Fidá obeying this command, the Rajah lifted the golden vessel to his lips, and instantly all those in the room sprang to their feet. He drank deeply, replaced the cup on the stand before him, waved one hand to his people, and the feast was opened.

To Fidá, tired, dreary, and, above all, famishing with hunger, the meal seemed endless. It was not, indeed, a refined sight to one suffering as he suffered. Flagon after flagon of wine he poured into the Rajah’s bowl, dish after dish of the richest food was presented at the royal stand, mountain after mountain of meat, river on river of drink, disappeared under the attacks of the feasters below; and still there was no end. One man alone, of all the number, displayed some fastidiousness in his taste. Ragunáth, after a moderate meal, ceased to eat, and sat cross-legged on his cushion, silent, motionless, oblivious, seemingly, of the sights and sounds around him: untempted by any viand or wine to exceed his capacity. In spite of this fact Fidá could not regard the man with admiration or even with respect. For to the prejudiced eyes of the slave, delicacy in Ragunáth only assumed a guise of affectation.

Time went on, hours apparently had passed, and still Fidá’s ministrations as cup-bearer showed no sign of diminishing. Finally, however, relief came from an unexpected source. Kasya, the head eunuch, whom Fidá had already seen, glided into the room through a small door to the right of the daïs, connecting the audience hall with the Rajah’s private apartments. Kasya knelt before Rai-Khizar and murmured a few words which brought the royal master to his feet, exclaiming to those near him:

“Come, my friends, let us go. There is to be dancing.”

Purán and Manava rose at once from their cushions, Ragunáth emerged from his spell, and the three of them, with Kasya and one or two slaves, followed the Rajah from the room, unnoticed by the rabble below.

Fidá, to his infinite relief, found himself left behind. He realized, indeed, that he was at the end of his endurance; and this fact made him bold. Going to Ragunáth’s place, he sat down and set to work upon the untouched food left there. Never had slave been so daring before; but, also, never before had a meal been so direfully needed. As he ate, he regarded the crowd below apprehensively; for he did not know what discovery might bring. But the great feast was nearly at an end. Half the company had gone straggling off to their beds. Of those that remained, few were in condition to observe anything; and, to his reassurance, Fidá presently perceived that slaves and servitors had begun to slip into empty places, and to begin their part of the meal. Among this number was Ahmed; and when presently the eyes of the two met, Fidá nodded slightly, and the other came running to the daïs, and stood before his master.

“Sit here by me, and eat, Ahmed,” commanded the young man.

“My lord! It is not fitting—”

“Sit here. Am I not a slave also? There! Here is lamb roasted with cinnamon and stuffed with raisins and sugar. Excellent! Eat of it. And this is deer flesh. And here is sesame, and rice, and a duck fried in oil. They do not starve in Mandu; but I have seen no water in this room.”

“I will fetch it!” and Ahmed darted away, to return presently with the prescribed liquid in a large, porous bottle.

Fidá drank gratefully, and then the two ate in silence, while below them, minute by minute, the great hall grew quieter. The meal was almost finished, and Fidá was smiling at the contentment of his devoted little servitor, when suddenly a eunuch came running through the Rajah’s door, and, seeing Fidá seated tranquilly on the daïs, gave him a violent cuff on the head, crying out:

“Dog! Leave thy gluttony and come to the King. He calls for his ‘cup-bearer’.—Faithful cup-bearer thou! Come!”

At the blow, both Mohammedans leaped to their feet; and the Asra stared upon the eunuch, his face flaming with anger. Ahmed, indeed, would have thrown himself upon the man, but that Fidá fortunately regained his temper, and, restraining the lad’s arm, bent his head before the messenger, and with a slight smile at Ahmed’s outraged expression, followed his guide from the room.

They passed through a hallway more richly furnished than any Fidá himself had ever seen; and then, crossing a corridor, turned down a narrow passage into the open doorway of the “theatre”—a large, irregular room, with a slightly elevated platform at one end, and the usual daïs at the other.

The place was brilliantly lighted. Rai-Khizar-Pál lay upon a divan; and disposed about him were his usual companions, together with one or two new officials, and a dozen or more slaves, who crouched back in the shadow of the hangings. In one corner of the room, below the stage, sat three musicians, playing, upon their strange-shaped instruments, a rhythmical minor air. The stage was occupied by six nautch-dancers, gayly and scantily clad, of their type good-looking, perhaps. They were performing a dance with which Fidá was familiar enough, having seen it many times at Delhi. It was called the “serpent”, and appeared to be highly acceptable to the spectators. The Rajah was laughing and talking genially, and even Ragunáth’s face wore a smile. At the entrance of Fidá, Rai-Khizar called him to the couch and good-naturedly abused him for deserting his post. The Arab offered no excuse, and was finally ordered to his task of pouring wine. Cups and jar stood close at hand; and from time to time the whole company drank a toast to some favorite performer. Fidá, refreshed by food and encouraged by the leniency of his master, watched the stage with some interest. In the course of an hour many dancers came and went. There were sometimes six, again two, occasionally one, on the stage; and all the time the low, droning, monotonous music never ceased.

In time the audience began to grow drowsy under the effects of light, wine, and unceasing sound. Rai-Khizar had nodded on his pillows, and Ragunáth yawned openly. By and by all the dancers left the stage, and the musicians’ tune died away. The Rajah started up, demanding to know why the dance stopped without his command. But, while he spoke, the music began again, this time with a different air, a swinging, graceful melody, new to its hearers. A little murmur of approval came from Manava and Purán. The rest waited. Then Fidá, his curiosity awakened, saw a woman run on to the stage:—a woman fair-skinned, dark-eyed, with a wreath of poppies woven into her hair, and garments of scarlet gauze flying about her slender, beautifully shaped figure. For an instant he shut his eyes; and, before he could open them again, there burst from two throats the same hoarse cry:

“Ahalya!”

Rai-Khizar-Pál and Ragunáth together had started to their feet; but she who danced only smiled and half lowered the lids of her dark and lustrous eyes.

“Ahalya!” shouted the Rajah, in a frenzy of excitement. “Ahalya! Get thee from this room! How darest thou appear—in this place? Kasya—take her away!”

As the enormity of his wife’s offence grew upon him, Rai-Khizar’s wrath waxed hotter till he stood panting with emotion as Kasya dashed upon the stage. Ragunáth, entirely forgetting himself, stood still, gazing upon the charming figure of the young woman, with a light in his eyes that was all too easy to read. Of the rest, slaves and officials alike watched the scene with impartial interest, all but Fidá, who, even after Ahalya, rebellious and laughing at her escapade, had left the room, still crouched in the shadow of the canopy, the blood pounding at his temples, his heart literally standing still, his brilliant eyes staring as at the vision of the wonderful red and white beauty of Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál of Mandu in Malwa.

CHAPTER II
THE INCEPTION OF A FLAME

Fidá slept that night on a divan in an antechamber of the Rajah’s suite, instead of in his lawful place, the house of slaves behind the palace. This breach of duty came about simply enough. After the tumultuous breaking-up of the party in the theatre, the slaves in attendance on the Rajah and his officials seized the opportunity for retiring, and disappeared with such quiet zeal that, three minutes after Ahalya’s departure from the stage, Fidá found himself alone on the daïs in the empty room. Rai-Khizar had rushed away to his delinquent wife; and the officials, tired out, lost no time in betaking themselves to their own apartments. Fidá was perfectly well aware of the situation of the house of slaves. He had dressed there in the early evening. But the Asra had no intention of passing the night in that uninviting spot if it could be helped. After a moment’s consideration, therefore, he left the theatre and wandered through the tangled web of little rooms constituting the royal suite, till he came upon one room which promised comparative safety for the night. It was unlighted. He believed it to be out of the way of the more inhabited part. And all round it ran a divan well covered with cushions. So, without stopping to consider consequences, Fidá lay down upon the pleasant couch, buried his tired head in a pillow, and in five minutes was sleeping the sleep of the slave.

He woke by degrees. First there was the consciousness of light; secondly of a weight upon his heart; thirdly it was extraordinarily still. Evidently he was not in camp. Was it Delhi—the palace? He opened his eyes to see—and he saw. Memory brought a groan to his lips; but he stifled it, half-uttered, and lay still to consider his situation. The first thing that occurred to him was that it must be past the hour of morning prayer. Rising, then, he turned his back to the sunlight that streamed in through a half-screened window, and, having gone through the form of ablution permitted when water is not at hand, he began the Niyyat, speaking in Arabic. The syllables fell lovingly from his lips, and his heart swelled with the comfort of his religion. Except the moment at Ragunáth’s door on the previous evening, this was the first solitude that had been his since the day of battle in which he had been taken captive by the Rajah. During the succeeding days he had stumbled through his prayers as he lay bound in tents, or rode, strapped to the mule, along rough paths through the hills. At last he was alone, unhampered, free to take the attitudes of prayer, free also to whisper the words of his own tongue, which of late years he had seldom used in ordinary intercourse with men.

Yet Fidá was not to end his devotions as he had begun them. He was standing with eyes cast down, repeating the Subhán:

“Holiness to thee, O God!

And praise be to thee!

Great is thy name,

Great is thy greatness;

There is no deity but thee!”

when a figure suddenly appeared in the doorway, and the captive’s words were stopped short as he met the eyes of Rai-Khizar-Pál, his conqueror.

So amazed was he that Fidá forgot to kneel or to give any sign of abasement. Thus they stood, gazing each at the other. Perhaps some mute message was carried from the slave to the master; for the Rajah’s expression little by little softened, till at length he asked quietly:

“What is it thou doest here, Asra?”

Fidá bent his head. “Mighty lord, I prayed.”

The Rajah smiled slightly, lifted one of his hands to the curtain beside him, grasped it, and settled into an easier position. “Thou art not a good servant, Asra,” he observed at last.

“It has not hitherto been my place to serve, O King.”

There was another pause, while the Rajah’s eyes travelled around the room. “Thou hast slept here?”

“Yes.”

“And why? Knowest thou not the house of slaves?”

For a second Fidá hesitated. Then he answered, “Too well I knew it, Lord Rajah.”

“What sayest thou?”

“Thou, O King—wouldst thou lie among the base born?”

“I!—I am Kshatriya! Among you there is no caste.”

“There is pride.”

Rai-Khizar laughed. “Thou’st a tongue, slave. It were my duty to have thee whipped. But this day is a day devoted to the gods. Begone, then. Get thee a morning meal and wait for a message from me. Yet remember this, my Asra: here there is no prince but me. If thou anger me, I shall have thee killed.”

“You dare not!” rose to Fidá’s lips, but he checked the words; for it was indeed time that he learned his place. And he stood with lowered head as the Rajah turned away and left him.

This encounter strongly affected Fidá’s state of mind. Reconsidering the conversation, he perceived that he stood the debtor of the man whose slave he had become—an infidel dog, a worshipper of images and Jinn. It could not be denied that Rai-Khizar’s toleration was greater than that of any Arab chief; and Fidá felt bitterly the humiliation of his leniency. Yet in all the Rajah’s mildness there had been a dignity that inspired in the Mohammedan an unwilling admiration and respect.

Perfunctorily, Fidá finished his prayers, and then acted upon the first of the two commands of his master:—he left the palace in search of food. It was some time, however, before he found it, and then only in the house of slaves, where a number of his fellows were beginning the morning meal. Among them was Ahmed, who sat a little apart from the chattering herd, apparently watching for some one. At sight of Fidá he rose eagerly and ran forward, greeting him with marks of respect which the Asra reproved. Then the boy led the way into the interior of the dirty, barren house, in the centre of which was a wood fire, overhung by a large iron pot filled with a bubbling mass of millet. Near by, on a stand, was an immense bowl of clarified butter, or “ghee”, which, mixed with the meal, formed the staple as well as the sacrificial food of the low-caste Hindoo throughout India. Fidá waited in silence while Ahmed handily procured him a dish of the none too appetizing mess. And then, eager to escape the vile and smoky air of the interior, the two hurried out into the shaded veranda, while the other slaves were eating.

It was now a not unpleasant scene that the captives looked upon. The day was hot, gay with sunshine and the chatter of birds, sweet with the perfume of the jessamine vines, which were still covered with flowers. The slave-house faced the angle of the palace formed by the juncture of the central building and the south wing. Directly opposite them was a long, wooden-pillared arcade called the veranda, running the length of the wing. It was covered with flowering vines, and furnished like a great room, with cushions and stands and hangings in place of more customary frescoes. In the end that faced the central courtyard, invisible from without, was a temple room, the priests of which seemed to spend the greater part of their lives lounging on mats in the fragrant veranda. In this same side of the palace lodged Manava’s suite and Purán’s; and at the end of all was a wooden barracks, where the soldiers were now just waking from the sleep induced by last night’s festivity. A group of these hung about the well, which stood between the house of slaves and their domicile, waiting their turn for water. There was a general splashing and shouting, little laughter, but also no swearing, for the Hindoo is always clean-mouthed.

From their vantage-point, Ahmed and Fidá, observing this life, found themselves entertained; for all the human nature of the palace found vent here. The two captives lingered over their meal, talking generally; and presently Fidá remarked on the number of slaves who had been passing and repassing near them. Ahmed answered him at once:

“There are more than three hundred employed here—including eunuchs, who do not sleep in this house. I have been made a sweeper. This morning the slave-master, Kanava, roused me at dawn, gave me a broom of dried kusa grass and sent me, with nine others, to sweep the corridors of the north wing.”

“Then thou hast had little enough sleep. Go, therefore, lie down and rest while I sit here. By my life, I would I knew what my duties are to be. No one orders me about. I am given no instructions. I have not even seen this Kanava.”

“Ah, dear lord, to think that thou must serve! He—Look. There is a stir opposite.”

Two slaves had entered the veranda of the south wing, and went running down it, shouting, as they went, some unintelligible words. At the sound, men came pouring out of the interior rooms, and turned in the direction of the courtyard, whither, in a moment or two, there moved a long procession of priests, soldiers, and petty officials. The last of these had not yet disappeared when every rear doorway and opening in the main building near by began to let forth slaves, who came toward their particular house in a straggling group of almost two hundred.

“It is a big sacrifice,” observed Fidá, who was familiar enough with Indian customs to know that no Sudra can participate in the service of the gods.

“Yes, early this morning there stood erected in the courtyard a great altar, to which many men were bringing fagots and flowers. It will be an animal sacrifice also; for a dozen sacred cows were tethered in an enclosure there when I passed through.”

“The animal sacrifice is not common. I have never seen one. It must be in honor of victory.”

Ahmed did not answer. His eyes were fixed on a man who had come out of the palace alone and was running toward the slave-house. “That is Kanava,” he whispered, as the man drew near. Fidá beheld a cruel face, marked with lines of habitual ill-temper and impatience, and rendered doubly unpleasant by the deep pock-marks which pitted it everywhere. His dress was that of the common slaves; but the band about his head was of beaten silver. At his appearance the clamor in the slave-house suddenly ceased. Ahmed jumped to his feet, but Fidá remained seated, his empty bowl in his lap. Kanava scowled at the breach of respect, and shouted:

“Up, slave! Up! You are summoned. Come!”

Fidá rose obediently, went to the first opening in the trellis, and stepped to Kanava’s side. Together they started toward the palace, and the groups left behind looked after Fidá, with new respect; for, though he had been rash, Kanava had neither struck nor abused him, and was now, moreover, walking not in front of him, but at his side.

As they neared the palace, Fidá’s curiosity as to their errand rose. But he would ask no questions, and Kanava did not offer information. So in silence they entered the palace, walked down long corridors to the audience hall, now cleared of every trace of last night’s festivity, and finally to the threshold of the outer door, where, without a word, Kanava turned and left the Asra standing stock-still before a remarkable scene.

He had but an instant’s view of the thing in its entirety:—a vast, close-packed sea of people, garlanded, decked, nay robed, in the brightest flowers; in the centre of the living mass a high, square altar, piled with firewood; and surrounding the altar, ranged in symmetrical order, twelve sacred cows, twelve accompanying priests, and twelve huge, earthen jars. All this Fidá took in at one, swift glance. The next instant a universal shout arose, and he was seized and drawn through the crowd, which opened for him, by two young Brahmans, naked except for loin-cloths and the sacred cord. In a moment Fidá was beside the altar, where stood the Rajah, flaming with jewels, and Ragunáth, scarcely less magnificent. Here, without a moment’s delay, the bewildered captive was taken in hand by two snatakas, and bound, hand and foot, with ropes. Then, as at some signal, the twelve priests began to chant those verses of the Rig-Veda that are designed for the great Srahda sacrifice. The crowd was silent now. There was not a whisper; there was scarcely a movement among them all. The twelve gray cows stood, as if long accustomed to such sights, mildly surveying the people. Fidá felt himself like them. He was stunned into perfect tranquillity. His eyes wandered aimlessly; he listened without interest to the words of the chant. He counted the number of flowers in the garland round the neck of the nearest cow. And all the time his mind was really circling about one idea, too horrible to be faced. For he had no doubt that he was to be the first offering in that triumphal sacrifice. This was the reason for Ragunáth’s evasion about his ransom. This was the explanation of Rai-Khizar’s mildness. Fidá looked toward the Rajah, whose eyes were fixed reverently on the ground. The next instant, however, he had caught Ragunáth’s glance, and the minister was smiling at him—a small, cruel, white-toothed smile, a smile like a grimace, that sent a sudden bolt through Fidá’s heart. Ragunáth could smile upon him in his death-hour! In that moment hatred was born in the Arab:—a hatred for this man, which, through all their future intercourse, never lessened and was never still.

At length the chant came to an end. Fidá felt a breath of relief; for self-control was becoming difficult. Now, at last, he was seized by the stalwart young Brahmans and lifted, like a log of wood, up and up till he was laid on his back on top of the great heap of unlit firewood. A hoarse shout went up from the people gathered below. Fidá’s heart throbbed to suffocation. His hair was literally rising on his head; but he made no movement, nor did he utter any sound. Even in his horror he remembered the behavior of women enduring the suttee, and the memory shamed him into stillness. Under the fierce rays of the sun, now in mid-sky, he closed his eyes and waited—waited for the first crackling flame to leap upon his flesh. Evidently the time for this had not yet come. Again the priests were praying those endless, senseless, Vedic prayers, to Indra, to Vishnu, to Agni—Agni, the fire-god. How long he lay upon the pyre Fidá did not know. It was at once a century and a second. Then the voices of the priests were still. Once more he was seized by the head and the feet and lifted to the ground. There his ropes were cut. He was free again. Trembling and faint, he found himself facing the King’s minister, who was smiling at him still.

“The captive did not know,” he murmured, “that our sacrifices are bloodless.”

Fidá felt himself redden, and the next instant met the eyes of the Rajah, who was staring at him in amazement: “Knew you not? told they you not? Didst fear such a death? It was a needless fear. Human blood stains not the altars of our gods. You, the foremost of our captives, were laid upon the altar of Indra as a sign that we attribute all our victories to him. That ceremony is over. You are free to depart from the sacrifice.” And, with a friendly gesture, the Rajah turned away again, and Fidá knew himself dismissed.

It was not now so easy a task to force his way through the dense crowd; for this time they did not voluntarily make way for him. He was fiercely possessed with the desire, however, to escape from this mob who had been unconscious witnesses of what he felt to be his cowardice. And, after a persistent pushing and edging, he found himself beyond the people and in front of that doorway where he had dismounted the night before. Here Ragunáth had stood and watched him, but had not then read his soul; or, if he had, had found there nothing of which an Asra might be ashamed. Now!—Coward or not, that Asra was leaning up against the palace wall, gone very faint, even his knees trembling with the reaction of a strain that had been greater than he realized.

He remained standing here for a long time, regaining command of himself, and, afterward, attracted by the spectacle before him. The wood on the altar had been lighted, and a hot, wavering flame leaped high in the centre of the garland-strewn multitude. Into this fire went the contents of the jars that had stood at the base of the altar:—four of fine, ground meal, four of ghee, and four of strained honey. From this sacrificial mess arose a thick smoke; but the odor that came from it was, surprisingly enough, decidedly agreeable; for the meal and butter had been so skilfully treated with aromatics that the natural smell of burning vegetable and grease had been overcome. The sacrifice was of course accompanied by a continuous high and musical chant from the priests. Chapter after chapter of the Vedas they repeated without halt or break. Prayers were sent up to every Vedic god: to Vishvakarma, the all-maker, to Varuna and Mitra, to Agni, to Surya, to Yama, to the Ashvins, brothers of dawn and twilight, to Rudra, the storm-god, and Vivasat, the father of death. The sacred cattle were offered to Prishni, the holy cow of heaven; and, their spirits being accepted by a sign in the flame, they were led away to resume their duties in the great temple at the other end of the plateau. Finally, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the last god was introduced: he who, for many centuries, had played the great rôle in this ceremonial: Soma, lord of the moon, and lord of drunkennesses, whose name is that of the plant from which the powerful, sacred liquor is distilled. And at the first pronouncing of this name, the sacrifice was interrupted by the arrival of fifty slaves, who made their appearance from the great hall, bearing on their heads jars of the liquid to be quaffed to the great ones above. They were greeted by a long, loud murmur of anticipatory joy, such as no lavish display of meal or cattle could ever call forth from the crowd. And now at last Fidá, too well aware of what was to follow, turned from the courtyard down the corridor through which he had passed on the previous night, on his way to Ragunáth’s rooms.

He walked slowly along the cool, dim hall, the silence of which was refreshing. Evidently there was not a single soul in this part of the palace; and for an instant there rose in the mind of the captive a wild idea of escape. He was here, alone, unseen—and hundreds of miles away from his uncle’s army, hundreds of miles from any possible safety. Sanity returned as quickly as it had left him, but bringing a new heaviness on his spirit. He came presently to the passage that led to Ragunáth’s rooms; and, looking down it, perceived that it ended in a bright patch of sunlight, marking an inner court. Instinctively he turned thither, finding himself presently on the edge of a charming little three-cornered courtyard, shut in on every side by vine-clad walls. Opposite the passage ran a veranda, overrun with passion-flowers; and in a corner near by rose a group of small tamarinds. The courtyard was unpaved, but in the centre of it stood a little fountain of clear, bubbling spring-water. This place, like the corridor, was without a sign of life; but, pleased with its homelike, pleasant air, Fidá entered it, suddenly seized with a sense of unfamiliar delight.

As if in answer to his appearance, a door across from him was opened, and out upon the veranda, and thence into the court, came a young woman, unveiled, dressed in pale, flowing silk, her hips bound with a striped sash, of the broad Indian fashion, her dark hair twined with purple clematis. She was humming to herself a little tune; and as she hummed, she swayed her lithe body from side to side and stepped as a dancer does. Fidá drew a sharp breath. She was the woman who had danced the night before. She was Ahalya, youngest wife of Rai-Khizar-Pál. She was—the fairest creature that Fidá’s eyes had ever looked upon. As he drew quickly back into the shadow of the doorway, he knew, as one knows things in dreams and visions, that it was her spirit filling this place that had made it dear to him. Oblivious of himself, he stood gazing at her while she came to the fountain, sat down upon its brim, and dabbled her hands in the cool water, smiling to herself the while, reminiscently.

Presently, lifting her eyes, she looked full upon Fidá, and, startled out of her composure, jumped to her feet, and then stood still again, uncertain whether she wished to run or not. Fidá advanced matters by walking forward into the courtyard again and performing a deep salaam before her. She saw the metal circlet on his head, knew him for a slave, and yet lifted up her voice and spoke to him. What manner of woman could she be!

“Who art thou? What is thy name?” she asked, surprising herself by her unpremeditated boldness. The beauty of her voice, however, made the slave’s senses swim anew.

“My name is Fidá. I come from Yemen. And my race is the race of Asra—” he looked into her eyes, and his voice sank to a whisper, as he added involuntarily, “who must die if they cherish love!”

The girl started slightly; but she did not move while he looked at her, her white face, her deep, heavy-lidded eyes with their long, black fringes, and the slender white throat left uncovered by her dress. Presently she spoke again, more timidly: “Thou’rt a captive—brought home from war by my lord?”

“I am a captive. I am the slave of thy lord. May Allah pity me!” And this last was drawn from him not by the thought of his captivity, but by the sight of her surpassing loveliness.

Ahalya’s expression softened and grew wistful. “I am a captive too,” she said. “I was born in Iran.”

“The land of roses! I have been in Iran. We passed through it on our long march from Yemen. And we rested in Teheran, where our people have made treaties with the Shah.”

He hoped to see her eyes brighten when he spoke of her country. But she only gazed dreamily beyond him and answered: “I do not remember it—Teheran. I was a baby when my mother brought me into this land. She was in the house of the King of Dhár, and from there I was married to the King of Mandu.—But thou must go, Asra! Thou’lt be—killed if they find thee here.”

“Nay, lady!” Fidá suddenly fell upon one knee. “Let me stay but another moment. Thou—thou hast made captivity so fair to me!”

“Hush, Asra! Go quickly. Indeed, indeed, I would not have thee harmed.”

She drew back from him, and he, coming suddenly to his senses, rose and turned away. Yet before he reached the doorway he had twice looked back at her, and each time found her facing him, her great eyes shining, a half smile trembling round her lips.

Fidá reached the corridor on fire. It was as if he had been drinking Soma. His blood raced in his veins. His heart pounded. His hands were cold. Yet he was not too much distraught to hear the sound of some one approaching in the corridor; and, with a quick sense of self-protection, he slipped into the nearest doorway, and concealed himself behind the hangings of Ragunáth’s antechamber.

The newcomer had come down the passage; and Fidá, peering cautiously out, perceived, with a start, that it was Ragunáth who was approaching—Ragunáth, the mild, the temperate, who had left the Soma sacrifice and come hither alone, to seek—quiet? To Fidá’s surprise and momentary relief, he passed his own doorway, and went on toward the little courtyard. And now the slave, suddenly forgetting himself in his interest in the movements of the man he hated, stepped full into the passage and watched. In the courtyard Ahalya was still seated beside the fountain; but at sight of Ragunáth she rose hastily.

“She was here to watch for him!” thought Fidá; and he clenched his hands at the thought.

Ragunáth went up to the princess and bowed before her as profoundly as Fidá himself had bowed. Evidently, at the same time, he spoke. Ahalya, however, began at once to move backward, away from him, he following her by degrees, till they had proceeded clear across the court. And then, suddenly, at the veranda step, the young woman turned around, and literally ran into the women’s apartments, whither none could follow her.

Ragunáth would be coming back now, and Fidá perceived the necessity for a quick escape. In a moment or two he was back in the broad corridor; and, looking round the angle into the passage, saw Ragunáth come slowly in from the court and enter his own rooms. From the man’s walk Fidá read enough to satisfy him. “She was not waiting,” he thought; and at the idea his spirits rose dizzily. Yet, after all, in this last pleasant surmise he was wrong.

CHAPTER III
AHALYA

Short of breath, flushed of face, and discomposed in temper, the Ranee Ahalya entered her day-room after the brief interview with Ragunáth. As she appeared, a girl, who sat on some cushions at the side of the room, working at a piece of embroidery, rose and bowed, and then asked eagerly:

“Did he come?”

Ahalya flung herself down on the broad divan that ran across the end of the room under the screened windows. “Yes, he came,” she said, petulantly. Then, after a moment’s reflection, she added: “I hate him, Neila.”

“Did he—what did he say?” asked the handmaid, forgetting her work as she watched her mistress.

“I don’t know what he said. How should I? I did not think of him. But I think he dishonors the gods. They were all at sacrifice, and he stole away because he does not like Soma. Nor is it good,” she added, with a touch of sympathy.

“But he is a man, and should have a man’s tastes.”

Ahalya shrugged her shoulders, and the two of them were silent for a few minutes, Neila waiting patiently for the mystery that she knew her lady would reveal—in time. Presently, indeed, the Ranee began to speak, in a low, reflective tone as if she were merely thinking aloud. “In all those months when my lord and the rest were away, fighting, I have thought many times of Ragunáth, who was kind to me at my first coming here. I thought I should be happy when he came again. I wanted him to come. And oh, Neila, thou knowest the days have been long and lonely, and I have been sick for Dhár and for my mother. My lord is very tender of me, and I know that he is good. But he is not young and beautiful to look on. His eyes are not bright nor do his lips smile when he sees me. And Ragunáth seemed younger and more in love with life. Last night, when I danced the poppy dance, it was for him. But, Neila, I have perceived that he is not a man. He makes me think of a snake, with his shiny eyes and his long, still hands. He does not burn with an honest fire.—Ugh, I hate him! So will I tell my lord.”

“Thou wilt not, Lady Ahalya! Thou darest not tell the Rajah you have seen this man! We should all be killed!” Neila sprang to her feet, her work dropping unheeded, while she stared at her mistress, who lay, hands clasped above her head, staring off into space, nor gave the slightest heed to her companion’s fear. Thus Neila presently returned to her place and took up her work again, not without anxiety in her eyes; for the service of the youngest wife of the Lord of Mandu was, to say the least, no monotonous life. Ahalya was as erratic and as reckless as an existence of stifled loneliness can make a young, brilliant, and impulsive nature. And this very careless openness, mingled as it was with a singularly pure and unsuspicious nature, had won a place for her with every one, from the King of Mandu down to the humblest eunuch of the zenana. She was even tolerated by Malati, the oldest wife, who had been born a Brahman. And than this nothing more can be said.

For some moments Ahalya continued to smile into space; which smile, considering her just-avowed aversion to Ragunáth, Neila was decidedly at a loss to interpret. Then Ahalya asked:

“Neila, have any of the slaves told thee anything concerning the captives brought home in the Rajah’s train?”

“Yes, Kasya spoke to me of one of them, who has been made the King’s cup-bearer. He presumes greatly on his station; for last night he would not even sleep in the slave-house, but lay on the divan in one of the Rajah’s antechambers, sleeping like a god. This man was a prince of his race:—At—Ak—I cannot remember—”

“Asra,” put in Ahalya, quietly.

“Asra! ’Tis that!”

Ahalya sat suddenly up and leaned forward a little. “Kasya told you this! Said he more? What will they do with him? Will he be ransomed?”

“The captive, madam?” Neila, so used to her mistress’s whims, was still surprised at this one. “I do not know what they will do with him. Kasya did not tell me. He was offered on Indra’s altar to-day—being by birth Kshatriya, and the chief of the captives.”

“Yes. He is a prince. Neila, I have seen this man.”

“Seen him! Oh, Ranee, Ranee, be careful! Why, he is a slave! If he were seen speaking with thee—they would burn him!”

Ahalya laughed joyously. “None saw him but me. He came before Ragunáth. And, Neila, he told me a strange thing. He said: ‘I come from Yemen; and my race is the race of Asra, who must die if they cherish love!’ What could he mean by that? To die because one loved! I should not die, I think. Neila, Neila, he was young, and his eyes shone. Neila! I am lonely! Go bring to me the young Bhavani. Say to him that I will tell him the tale he loves most to hear: of Prince Arjuna and the great bow and the beautiful Princess Draupadi.” Ahalya smiled. “Go tell him, Neila, and put away that endless work of thine.”

Obediently the girl rose, left her embroidery lying on the cushions, and went out of the room. When she was gone, Ahalya stretched herself still more lazily on her divan, closed her eyes to the light, and, as if she saw with her mind things more beautiful than real, smiled slightly, and began to sing the swaying melody of the poppy dance. About her was a perfect stillness. Not a sound, not so much as the tones of women’s voices from the interior of the zenana, penetrated to her solitude. Perhaps her reverie was broken by the silence, but she only smiled the more; for it had come to be an uncanny habit with her to smile through her loneliest and saddest hours. Only at those rare times when joy or interest lifted her out of herself did her face show all the strength and purity of its melancholy beauty. Her heritage from her mother was a self-defence of constant concealment, and a kind of inward cynicism, which, never revealed on the surface, was nevertheless constantly nourished and strengthened by the many humiliations of her existence. Just now she was considering her performance of the evening before, and the results of it, when, after she had left the theatre, her lord had come to her in great anger, expecting tears, repentance, and abasement from her, and had got only petulance, rebellion, and remorseless laughter, so that finally, worked into a fierce rage, he had left her alone to wake to a realization of her offence. This realization had by no means come; and she fully expected the Rajah to appear before her that evening humbly craving favor; for experience had taught her that she need never be the first to surrender. Rai-Khizar-Pál loved her far more dearly than she, unhappy child, cared for him, grave, honorable, and just as he was; and it was to her carelessness of favor and the consummate skill with which she let that carelessness be known, that the Lady Ahalya owed the favoritism she enjoyed and the rooms she lived in.

These rooms were the choicest in the zenana. They consisted of a tiny suite of three, opening from a passage that led directly into the main palace. The first of them was an antechamber, heavily spread with rugs, walled with carved wood brought from Ceylon, and lighted day and night by a single crimson lamp suspended from the ceiling. The second room, in which Ahalya now lay, was a light and pleasant place, its floors covered with silken rugs, the walls frescoed gayly with birds and flowers, the furniture and the thousand ornaments it contained all of the costliest variety, and, at the end farthest from the windows, a little shrine to Rahda, the Lady of Love. The last room, accessible only through the other two, was the sleeping-room, its walls hidden by silken hangings of pale purple and gold; its couch covered with cloth of gold; the chests to hold the Ranee’s garments, of precious woods inlaid with ivory and pearl, lined with sandal-wood; and teak-wood toiletstands displaying mirrors, brushes, perfumes, and cosmetics wherewith a woman might be beautified:—a heavily gilded room indeed, and one in which Ahalya spent little time.

Beyond these apartments of the favorite wife, across the whole length of this inner palace wing, stretched a long, narrow room, furnished with every luxury that Indian ingenuity could devise. This was the women’s day-room,—their common lounging-place,—where wife and slave met together in free converse. Around it were ranged the rooms of the other wives: Malati’s, where the young Bhavani, Rai-Khizar-Pál’s only son, the heir of Mandu, lodged with his mother; Bhimeg’s the Kshatriya woman’s; and those of Chundoor, the despised Sudra wife. At the end of the wing, farthest from the palace, lived the women slaves; and beyond was a separate house for the eunuchs. Such was the zenana, in the days of Indian rule in Mandu: a place full of life and color and sound; of interminable jealousy, strife, and bitterness; a place which only one man ever entered; he on whom all these women must expend the human love and fidelity that lay seething in their hearts.

In the meantime, to Ahalya, waiting on her couch, came Neila, bringing with her a lad ten years old, shaggy-headed, with big, black eyes, and a sturdy figure, who went up and kissed the Ranee affectionately. His eyes were bright with excitement as he cried to her: “Alaha! Alaha!” (it was his name for her), “I have been riding to-day! Kasya put me upon a horse, and we went almost to the old temple and back. And—and I am to go every day now!” Trained studiously to the dignity of his birth, he gave little active sign of his pleasure; but his face expressed his delight, and Ahalya, more demonstrative than he, threw her arms about him and laughed in sympathy.

“Beautiful, Bhavani! Beautiful! Now thou wilt soon be given a bow; and then—”

“Then I shall really go and contend in the games before the beautiful Draupadi!”

“Yes. Shall we play it now? You will be Arjuna, and these cushions your horse. Pile them up! Pile them up!”

“Yes, and you are Draupadi, there on the divan, and I will ride before you and contend with—with—”

“Neila!” cried Ahalya: “Neila! Where are you? There,” as the girl came in at the door, “Neila, if you please, you are all the other princes contending for my hand in the royal games. You are four of the sons of Pandu, and the hundred sons of Hastinapura, and—”

“And I am to wrestle with you, and shoot you, and kill all of you, Neila! And it will be splendid!”

And, Neila smilingly consenting to the slaughter, the game began. For half an hour the contest raged fiercely; and finally Ahalya herself came down from her throne to be killed by the all-conquering one. But at last, when the little room looked as if a devastating army had passed through it, the sport came to an end, and Ahalya and the little boy sat down together to rest, while the untiring Neila began the task of setting things to rights. It was then that Ahalya’s turn came, and she lost no time in beginning:—

“Bhavani, hast seen thy father to-day?”

“Yes! Oh, yes! He left the Soma sacrifice to see me ride!”

“Was he—was he in a glad humor? Asked he of me?”

Neila paused in her labors to hear the answer to this question.

“He was very glad and gay. He gave me a piece of silver for sitting straight on my horse. But—dear ’Laha, I think he did not ask for you.”

“And said he naught of any one else?”

“Of whom? Oh, but he just talked about me, and my riding, and how in a few years I should go to war with him.”

Ahalya laughed, but not with her eyes. “Well, I am tired now. I am going to sleep, Bhavani. Therefore run away. See what a mess we have made of the room! Run away.”

“But—I may come again soon, to play Arjuna?”

“Oh, yes.”

“To-morrow?” wistfully.

“Yes. But go now, Bhavani.”

Obediently and reluctantly, Bhavani went.

When he was gone, Neila and Ahalya found themselves looking at each other intently. “He will surely come this evening,” said the slave. “He cannot stay away longer.”

Ahalya flushed and frowned. “I do not want him to come,” she said. “I am tired. I am going to sleep now. Do not wake me till the evening meal is ready.” And the Ranee forthwith disappeared into her bedroom, pulling the purple hangings across the doorway behind her so that Neila could not see, as she lay on her bed, whether she slept or not.

Rai-Khizar-Pál did not come that evening, nor the next day, nor the next. And by the third afternoon Ahalya was secretly very anxious. Nothing ever went unknown for twenty-four hours in the zenana: that place whose inmates had nothing to do all day long but discuss each other; and for two days now nothing had been talked of in the common day-room but the favorite’s fall from favor. The Lord Rajah had been at home from his campaign nearly four days and had seen Ahalya in that time only once! Glory to Krishna! Who would get her place? On the afternoon of the fourth day Ahalya, braving the worst, appeared in the day-room. The chill of humiliation that met her was expected, but none the less hard to endure. Malati, when profoundly saluted, set the example for the room by barely noticing the Ranee. The very slave-girls laughed at her as she passed them; and only Chundoor, the Sudra woman, offered to make room for her. Ahalya, however, had not yet come to passing a whole morning with a person of low caste; nor yet was she to be driven from the day-room because Rai-Khizar-Pál was offended with her for the poppy dance. After her one bow to Malati, who, as oldest wife, was entitled to it, she walked once round the room, leisurely chose out a pile of cushions apart from the general groups, settled herself with inimitable, lazy grace, despatched one eunuch for sweetened rose-water, commanded another to fan her, gave orders to three or four more, and, when she had made herself important enough, caused Neila to bring in a tray of toilet articles and begin to shape and polish her nails. While Neila worked, she lay perfectly still, surveying the company near by in a supercilious manner, and giving her rivals ample opportunity to realize that, try as they would, not one of them could ever approach her in beauty, in grace, or in charm.

By this time the whole room was in a ferment of disdain and concealed envy. Suddenly, as if the excitement had not been already great enough for one morning, Rai-Khizar-Pál appeared on the threshold, and looked eagerly down the room. Every head was turned to him: Ahalya’s too, but leisurely, and with an indifference that was noticeable. Scarcely did she take the trouble to lift her eyelids, as the Rajah came slowly forward. Her husband’s eyes were busy, however, during his ceremonious progress; and he read a deal of history in that walk. It would have been impossible for him not to have made the comparison between Ahalya and those from whom she had so studiously withdrawn herself. Beside their dark, heavy, sensual faces, hers, in its clear-cut, Persian fairness, stood out as a rose among thistles, as gold beside brass. This morning, after three days without her, the Rajah appreciated her more keenly than usual; and, before her indifference, his displeasure melted like mist in the sun. Stopping to speak with no one else, he went to her, amid a sensible but scarcely audible murmur of disappointment. Ahalya looked up only when he bent over her; but she smiled at him for greeting, and he asked nothing better.

“My lotus-flower! My heart’s delight!” he said, gazing thirstily at her fair face. “Ahalya! Thou wilt dance no more nautch dances at the theatre?”

For a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then, because she had had enough of playing for the time, she answered, truthfully enough: “Nay, lord. I—am sorry that I danced the poppy dance.”

Rai-Khizar longed to take her in his arms; but this, in the face of all the zenana, even he scarcely ventured to do. So, bending low over her, he whispered:

“In two hours come to the marble bath, and we will eat together, alone, by the fountain there. Make thyself beautiful for me, rose of Iran!—my treasure!—my child!” Then, with the smile that he gave only to her, the Rajah turned away, and left the room without speaking to any other in it.

Ten minutes after he had gone Ahalya also departed, running the new gantlet of hurt and angry glances with less indifference than she had borne her humiliation an hour before. Her pride served her well in trouble; but ill-natured jealousy always cut her to the quick; and she had found but light armor against it.

Returning to her own room, she bathed, and let Neila dress her as the Rajah commanded. Her garments were silken tissues of palest pink, delicate as rose-petals. Her waist was girdled with gold and pearls; and her hair braided and bound up with golden threads. When Neila had finished her she was a picture, and she knew it, perhaps, though she took small delight in it; for the unexpressed thought in her heart was that she would have matched her raiment with her love; and Rai-Khizar-Pál she loved as a father, as a venerable and powerful man; her master, but never the lord of her heart.

The Rajah, however, was waiting her coming with very different feelings; for he loved Ahalya as most men love only in early youth. His delight in her was out of all proportion to his reserved and conservative nature. On her he lavished the wealth of his treasury. For her he would have sacrificed, without a thought, every other woman in his zenana. And while her escapades and her insubordination never failed to startle and hurt him, they only served, in the end, to bind her more strongly to him by the chains of fascination and elusiveness.

The place where the two were to sup together was the Rajah’s favorite retreat:—an open-roofed, white-colonnaded room, in the centre of which was a broad, marble bathing-pool. Beside the water grew grasses and flowers, carefully tended; and near at hand, on the marble pavement, were piles of cushions, low stands, and all the articles of Oriental furniture necessary to a retreat where even slaves were not allowed to come without command. By night the marble terrace was lighted with lamps placed on stands; and now, in a soft glow of rosy light, beside an ebony table spread with choice dishes and rare wines, the Rajah lay, appreciating the change of this miniature fairy-land from the rough existence of camps and battle-fields; and waiting for that which should put a finishing touch to his deep content.

She came, the Ranee of his soul, unattended, her delicate garments floating about her like a cloud. At sight of her he exclaimed, and she went to him, smiling and holding out her hands, secretly desirous that he should not kiss her face. She had her wish. Scarcely daring to touch her in her delicacy, he put her off at arm’s length, and gazed at her in a kind of wonder that such a thing should be human.

“Beautiful one! My princess! Sit there and let me look at thee. Most exquisite one! Art thou too frail to eat?” He smiled at his fears, and began to lay before her the various dishes. “See, here are mangoes, and figs, and tamarinds, and little custard apples. And here is a kid cooked in sugar. And rice—and all these sauces. And there is a cup of the wine of Iran, from thy mother’s land, beautiful one.”

With his own hands he served her, talking inconsequently, content just to gaze upon her roseate presence. And Ahalya, who had been wont to enjoy this patent adoration, sat wondering at herself that it had become painful to her. She strove well to conceal her feeling, not knowing what to make of it. And she ate, smiled, and praised the food and wine, but could think of nothing else to say. She was dreading the time that was coming; but she could not put it off. When both had eaten enough, and when another jar of Persian wine had been opened for the Rajah’s use, and Ahalya had washed her hands in a silver basin filled with rose-water, Rai-Khizar lay back on his cushions, called the Ranee to his side, and began tenderly:

“Thou’rt glad, beloved of mine, that I am returned to Mandu?”

Ahalya sighed. “I am glad,” she answered. “Oh—the days have been dreary! The weeks would not pass. Loneliness hath killed my soul. Hath my lord ever dreamed of the sadness of women’s lives when they are left alone in the zenana?”

Rai-Khizar laughed, misunderstanding her words; but Ahalya flushed with anger that he mocked her earnestness. Seeing her expression, his changed at once. Laying one hand on hers, he said, gently:

“Thou hast been lonely, beautiful one? Tell me of it.”

“How can I tell thee, who hast not been a woman? There are we left, day after day, hating and hated by those with whom we live. And we must dress and powder and perfume, eat, drink, sew, and be content that we have beds to sleep on by night and a prison to house us by day. If I leave the palace and wander abroad in the fields, under the bright sun, the women chatter and the slaves stare, and bearers must be at my heels to carry me if I tire. I cannot sleep away my days. Rather I would live like the Vaisya women, who are free to labor, and laugh, and grow hungry and weary with their toil. The monotony, the idleness of my life, kills my soul! It is for this I danced the poppy dance. It is for this I sometimes sit for hours in the old, ruined temple of Surya, watching the monkeys play in the cotton trees. It is for this I shout and sing and tear to pieces my silken garments, and break the ivories you bring me from the south. For I am not of Hindoo blood. My mother came from free Iran, and I am also of that race. And here, in this sleepy indolence, I suffer—I stifle—I die! There! Is it enough? Have I told thee?”

She stopped, hot and eager with the feeling of her speech, to find Rai-Khizar staring at her with troubled eyes. He gave her a long and close scrutiny; and when he spoke it was only to say, in a quiet tone: “Thou wilt do well to crush this spirit, Ahalya. I cannot make thee a man;—nor would I if I could. Therefore, being a woman, thou must be protected as one. Speak of this no more. Nay, listen, and I will tell thee of our campaign, of the battle on the plain of Dhár, and of these men of the west that are worthy warriors. Thou knowest, Ahalya, that, hundreds of seasons ago, there came, over the snow-clad mountains of the north, a great host, led by one called Mahmoud of Ghazni. They came, in the name of their one God, to conquer our country; and though many hundreds of times Indians and Rajputs drove them back, they have persevered, and are now masters of the north and east. In Lahore, their kings have ruled for generations; and now a slave sits on the throne of the new Kingdom of Delhi.[2] And out of Delhi a fresh horde has come for the conquest of Malwa. Beyond the walls of Dhár we met them in battle; and, by Indra and Vishnu, we routed them well! I have brought back in my train the nephew of their leader; and I think it will be long ere Omar crosses the Vindhyas to get him back!”

“Thou hast brought home the nephew of their leader! What glory for thee! Is he to be ransomed?”

[2] Aybek, a slave of Mahommad-Ghori, founded the present Kingdom of Delhi.

“No, by my life! I like the fellow, and I have made him my cup-bearer. He pleases me with his manner. He is like thee:—rebellious. Why, look you, on the first night of his captivity he slept in one of my rooms here—would not go into the house of slaves, and so put me to the blush for asking a prince to demean himself, that I have granted him a bed in one of the antechambers near my sleeping-room. Also, yesterday, at the noon meal, he ceased to fill my cup after the second jar was empty. I asked him why he failed in his duty, and he answered that he did not fail, but was, rather, careful of my welfare:—that the gods had made kings to be examples to their people; and that a drunken king bred drunkenness in his subjects!”

Ahalya’s eyes shone. “And thou—what didst thou, my lord?”

“I gave the fellow ten lashes for his impertinence. But I like him, and I shall keep him in my service.”

“Keep a prince for thy slave, lord?”

“Whoorroo, Ahalya! Thou hast his tongue to-night. Come; I am weary of talking. Dance for me—the poppy dance, if thou wilt, now we are alone.”

Ahalya rose submissively, and poised herself, while the Rajah lay back in deep comfort on his pillows. She was a beautiful dancer when she chose to dance; and she could hum her own music, beating the rhythm with her feet as she swayed slowly from one posture to another. But she did not dance the poppy dance to-night. She only made a series of tableaux that would have delighted the soul of an artist, and which fully satisfied the eyes of the Rajah. Ahalya circled round him like some broad-winged bird, moving more and more lightly, becoming more and more cloudlike to his stilling senses. And presently when, out of her gauzy mist, the Ranee looked at him, she perceived that his eyes were closed and that his breath was coming deeply and regularly.

Ahalya experienced a sudden feeling of relief. He slept. His sleep would wear the night away. She was free to go. Joyously, softly, swiftly, she passed out of that room and the next; but in the antechamber beyond she paused. Three or four rooms and a passage lay between her and the zenana. These she appeared to be in no haste to traverse. Halting indecisively, she stood looking about her as if in search of something—or some one; and her brow was drawn in meditation. Then, all at once, she started, not in the direction of her apartments, but through another door that led off into a long range of rooms, little used, in one of which the captive slave of Rai-Khizar-Pál had had the audacity to sleep on the first night of his coming to Mandu; and the use of which the lenient Rajah had afterward granted him. As she continued on her way, Ahalya’s excitement and her speed increased until she was fairly running along, her eyes, meantime, swiftly examining each room as soon as she entered it. At last, when her breath had become panting, and her color unnaturally brilliant; when, as it would seem, she began to realize what she was doing, she reached, by her devious route, the antechamber to the zenana, where an eunuch stood on guard. And he stared in amazement at her flushed and frowning face as she hurried past him into her voluntary captivity.

It was as well that the Ranee Ahalya sought her sleep that night without having peered out of her screened windows into the inner court; for had she done so, she might have found by accident that which she had unsuccessfully sought. For, till a very late hour that night, Fidá, the slave, risking his life, crouched in the shadow of the fountain of that court, watching, with burning eyes, the glow of a single lamp that shone in the Lady Ahalya’s rooms: a lamp which, though he knew it not, was never extinguished. And so, when weariness finally overcame him, he crept away without learning whether or not the lady of his dreams was sleeping behind her imprisoning walls.

CHAPTER IV
THE ASRA RUBY

It was some time past midnight when Fidá, baffled and exhausted, returned to his antechamber, and, wrapping himself in his white cloak, lay down on the floor. Weary as he was, he could not sleep at once, but lay for a little while thinking profitlessly on what he had done. Fate had twice given him that which he had not sought. But now, trying to circumvent Fate, he had been doubly defeated; for, had he been where he should that evening, Ahalya, in her reckless search, must have come upon him. This, happily, he did not know; but he was none the less unrighteously angry at his failure to find out something, even the smallest, of her habits. Her habits! Reason, which he had persistently smothered, rose up against him, and began to lay before him certain grim truths. This woman, of whom his nearly every waking thought was now composed, was a Ranee—a queen, a wife. To her he was an outcast, and yet he had dared to lift his thoughts to her. Fool that he was, he had got himself into a state men called love! What love could be more unholy than his? She was a Ranee. But, argued his other self, he was himself a prince by birth, and the actual head of a great race. Nevertheless, this race of his was a strangely unhappy one; and he, Fidá, had, all his life till now, persistently avoided women; for to his family women were fatal. He had taken the highest pride in his reputation for coldness, for chastity, for temperance. At sixteen he had left Yemen to put himself under the guardianship of his uncle,—a power at the court of Delhi; and, upon his departure for India, he had vowed lifelong devotion to the extension of the Prophet’s power; and had determined to allow no human temptation to conquer him. This present matter, however, he protested, was no temptation. It was even most unlikely that he should see the woman again, considering the difference in their present stations. Nevertheless, after a little more chaotic thinking, Fidá took from a certain secure hiding-place in his vestment a tiny golden box, scarcely half an inch square, fastened by a minute spring. Without opening it, he clasped this box closely to his breast; and, as if it held some magic power, under its pressure he grew calm again, his brain ceased to throb, sleep stole upon him, and little by little his hold on it relaxed, till at last his hand fell from his breast and his treasure rolled upon the floor.

Fidá’s awakening was sudden. The tones of a loud voice, calling confusedly, mingled themselves with his dreams. Then he sprang to his feet to find the Rajah standing over him, in a most dishevelled state, crying to him to bring drinking-water, instantly. And Fidá, startled and sleepy, hurried away on his errand.

When he returned with the desired drink, he found his master in his bedroom, surrounded by half a dozen attendants, each ministering to him in some way. Way was made with alacrity for the cup-bearer, however; for Rai-Khizar greeted the appearance of water with a positive roar of eagerness. After three brimming gobletfuls had been quaffed without pause, the Rajah gave a great sigh and sank back on his cushions. “By the fingers of Ushas,” said he, “that is the best liquor ever brought me! Fidá, thou abstainer, where learned thy people their wisdom?—Now I bathe. Let a meal be ready when I return, and summon Lord Ragunáth to eat with me. Sacharman, go rouse him. Thou, Asra, say thy prayers, and then come and wait at my table. Away! Out of my sight!”

There was a general scurrying, in the midst of which Rai-Khizar, restored to tranquillity, walked away to his bath, leaving the room free for other slaves to prepare in it the morning meal. In half an hour, when the King reappeared, all was in readiness, and Fidá stood alone behind his master’s seat. The Rajah seated himself at once; but, not greatly disposed toward food, sat waiting for Ragunáth before beginning his meal. The official did not long delay, though he made his appearance in no way hurriedly. He was carefully dressed, fresh-colored and smiling; and in his hand he carried a tiny, golden box. Fidá perceived it at once, and his heart throbbed with anxiety, but he did not speak. Greetings passed between Rajah and minister, and then Ragunáth took his place opposite Rai-Khizar, and laid Fidá’s box on the low brass table in front of him.

“This was upon the floor in the second antechamber,” he observed.

The Rajah took it up and examined it, Fidá still silently watching. For a moment Rai-Khizar seemed to consider. Then, suddenly turning to his slave, he exclaimed: “’Tis thine, Asra! I remember they found it on thee in my tent in the plain of Dhár, and returned it to thee again, it being a charm of thy god.”

“Yes, it is mine, O King.”

Rai-Khizar-Pál examined it further, with curiosity. “Doth the box open? What is its power?” he asked.

“It contains a charm, great Rajah, the charm of my race.”

“Show us this charm,” demanded the master, handing the box to his slave.

Fidá’s hand closed upon it with visible eagerness; but he was very loath to open it. However, there was no choice. Touching the delicate spring, that was almost undiscoverable, the golden lid flew open, and Fidá turned the box upward on his palm. When he lifted it, there lay in his hand a stone, red and brilliant: a ruby, as magnificent a gem as the Rajah had ever looked on. It was cut and polished, and from its prismatic sides shone an inward fire of palest crimson. This stone Fidá placed in the Rajah’s hand, who received it with an exclamation of wonder.

“Whoorroo! There is not, in all Mandu, a gem so wonderful! Thy family, Asra, must be powerful indeed! Come, as the price of keeping thy treasure, relate to us its merits as a charm, and how it came to be thine.”

Fidá was deeply troubled. He gazed at Ragunáth, who, forgetting himself, was leaning over the tray, his eyes fixed—was it hungrily?—upon that gleaming stone. There was an eagerness in the clear-cut face that was too easy to read; and as he watched, Fidá saw the man’s hands fairly tremble for the gem. Rai-Khizar-Pál was wholly different. His face, as he examined the stone, expressed pleasure; but there was not a hint of avarice in his large, quiet eyes. After three or four minutes of hesitation and inward struggle on the part of Fidá, the King exclaimed:

“Thy tale, Fidá! Or wouldst really lose the jewel to me?”

“The jewel,” cut in Ragunáth, in a smooth, quiet voice, “belongs by right of war to the Rajah. No slave should possess such a fortune as this.”

“Ah, good counsellor, there thou’rt wrong. This Mohammedan is not a Sudra. Moreover, he does not carry the ruby as riches, but for a reason that we wait to hear. Come, Fidá, speak!”

The King laid the ruby on the tray before him, and began to eat, slowly. At the same time Fidá, overpressed, entered upon his tale; and during the whole of the recital his eyes never once rested on the jewel, but were fixed unwinkingly on Ragunáth’s æsthetic profile.

“O conqueror, the story of this jewel that you bid me tell is stranger than you think. ’Tis such a story as is scarcely to be found outside of fairy lore. And yet I stand here to prove that it is true.

“Know that my race, the Asra, are an ancient and powerful family, that have dwelt for many centuries in Yemen, the holy land. We are of high descent, and among us, at the time of the Hejira, was a follower of Mohammad, afterward one of the writers of the Koran, a venerable and a holy man, accounted a sage: by name, Hussen el-Asra. At the same time there lived in Mecca the high and holy Osman, compiler of the Koran, worshipped throughout the city as a saint. Now Hussen had a son, a young man of great beauty of face and form, and of highly virtuous mind, called Abdullah. One day this young man, by an unhappy accident, chanced to see a maiden, the daughter of a wealthy nobleman of Mecca, Said ibn-Alnas; and in the first sight of her he loved the maiden, and, going to her father, asked her hand in marriage. Said received Abdullah in the most courteous manner, but was distressed by the object of his visit, in that his daughter had already a suitor in old Osman, who, though four times married to virtuous women, had become so enamored of the beautiful Zenora that he purposed divorcing himself of one of his wives in order to marry her. Abdullah, however, was unmarried; and the venerable Said preferred to make his child the first wife of an honorable man, to bringing dishonor on the head of another woman by marrying her to Osman. Zenora, likewise, when the matter was laid before her, as is our custom with our women, begged earnestly to become the wife of the younger man, whom she already loved. Thereupon, before Osman was made aware of the matter, Zenora and Abdullah were safely married, and she had taken up her abode in the house of her husband and her husband’s father.

“When news of this wedding was brought to the saint Osman, he fell into a violent rage of despair. Praying to the Prophet for vengeance, the Prophet listened to his prayer, and put into his mouth a curse. And so Osman went into the market-place and waited; and when Abdullah came thither, Osman went up to him and cursed him and his love, and the loves of his children and his children’s children, that whosoever of his race should truly love a woman should die of it, having by her no more than one son. And though an Asra should, in his heart, cherish love for a woman and not marry her, the curse should yet be upon him, till in a short time their whole race should perish from the face of the earth.”

“It was an unholy curse,” observed the Rajah, deeply interested. And Fidá rejoined:

“So thought all that heard it; and no man looked for it to come to pass. Yet it happened that Abdullah and Zenora had not been wedded a month when the husband sickened. Though he grew constantly worse, he but clung the more to his wife, and she to him, until it seemed that he must surely die. Then, in her bitterness and grief, Zenora called upon her father and her husband’s father for aid; and the nobleman and the learned and holy one took counsel together, and prayed to Allah and the Archangels. And their prayer was answered. A voice from heaven addressed them, bidding Said bring forth the richest treasure of his house, and then Hussen to bless it and then take it to Abdullah for a charm against the evil of the curse; and, while he carried it, it would give him health and bring him children. So Said went and got this ruby, which was renowned throughout Yemen for its size and perfection. And Hussen, performing his part of the task, blessed the gem and consecrated it to Allah, and took it to his son, who by it was miraculously restored to health. Abdullah and Zenora lived happily, and had many daughters, but only one son, to whom the ruby was given at his father’s death, with the word that it should descend in time to his first-born, and so on down. In time it was found that only those children born of deep and lasting love were subject to the curse; but upon these, since the time of Abdullah and Osman, the evil has never failed to take effect when the ruby is not worn as a protective charm. It was my father’s, and given me by him according to the custom; wherefore my uncle, though he married and has a son, has devoted his life to pursuits of war and hunting, knowing that the gentler pleasures of life are not for him.”

“And hast thou never put thy stone to the test? Hast never loved?” inquired Ragunáth, with a faintly curling smile.

“No,” answered Fidá, shortly. But the Rajah broke in:

“By Surya, ’tis a tale worth the price of the gem! Take it, Asra; and I think it were well for thee to keep it idle while thou remainest in this palace.”

Fidá gave a little, imperceptible start, and stared quickly into his conqueror’s face. There was nothing to be read in it; and surely it was impossible that the words could have had any under-meaning. Greatly relieved at receiving back his treasure, the Asra replaced it in its box, which he fastened again in his garment. As he did this he was aware that Ragunáth’s eyes were still upon him; but Ragunáth’s glances had annoyed him so often, that he failed especially to note this. He had recovered his jewel; and now the meal was coming to an end and for an hour he would be released from duty.

When he was again summoned to the Rajah’s side, it was in the great audience hall, where Rai-Khizar-Pál officiated in his judicial state. The Mohammedan was not a little interested in the proceedings of the long morning; and his respect for the ability of his master increased not a little as he watched him settle, one after another, with ease, rapidity, and remarkable insight, the great number of quarrels and suits brought before him by his subjects. At the second hour after noon, however, the court rose, and those natives whose cases had not come up that day were told to return on the morrow; whereupon they got up, without comment, from where they had been sitting in rows around the wall, and departed to their various pursuits. The Rajah, accompanied by Manava, retired to eat his second meal, which Fidá served. When it was over, he stood waiting to be dismissed; for it was the time of day when Rai-Khizar usually slept and the slave was accustomed to enjoy a period of idleness. Left alone with the captive, however, the King turned to him, and, after a few moments’ consideration, said gravely:

“Asra, I have said that I would not ransom thee; liking too well thy presence and thy service. Yet this I have in my heart reconsidered until, though I shall grieve to let thee go, I am willing to send envoys to thy uncle to treat for thy ransom. Doth this rejoice thee?”

Fidá fell upon one knee and pressed the Rajah’s hand to his head. “Thanks to my lord!” said he, in a voice muffled with emotion.

“Ah, thou’lt be glad to be in thine own estate again! I send the envoys forth to-day. It should be not more than three weeks ere thy freedom cometh. On my life, I shall be loath to part with thee. But now I can keep thee no longer in this servant’s garb. Thou shalt be habited like a prince again, and wait here, my guest, till thou goest forth.”

“Let the King pardon my boldness. What is the ransom thou wouldst free me for?”

“Far less than thou art worth, my Asra: five thousand pieces of copper, jewels to the worth of an hundred cows, and the oath that the Rajah of Mandu and the mighty Aybek of Delhi be henceforth as brothers.”

Fidá had risen to his feet; but he stood with his head so bent that the Rajah could not see his face. “I have a favor to ask my lord,” he said, still in the muffled tone that could not be interpreted.

“Speak.”

“Will the Rajah permit that, till the time of my freedom, I may remain as I am now:—the cup-bearer of my lord?”

“What! Art not a prince? Wouldst thou remain a slave?”

“I asked a favor of my lord.”

“Then it is granted, Asra. But, by the bolt of Indra, I understand thee not!” And, displeased with his captive’s request, he got up and strode out of the room. Fidá stood there alone, staring at the floor, with a curling, sorrowful smile on his lips, and a deep melancholy in his eyes. For Fidá knew his race well; and he was perfectly aware that, though an army of twenty thousand Mohammedans might storm the plateau of Mandu for the simple purpose of taking him out of captivity, yet they would never pay one-half of the ransom demanded; and, should they take the oath of brotherhood with an infidel, it would be for the purpose of plundering him at the first opportunity. Entertaining, then, from the first, no false hope of freedom, Fidá preferred remaining in his present state as personal servant of a king, to mutilation and degradation when the answer that his uncle would send should reach the ears of Rai-Khizar-Pál. Understanding all this, and having the courage to face it from the first, Fidá was none the less bitter at heart at the thought of it. And it was with dragging steps and a darkened face that he finally set off toward the house of slaves.

There, as he had hoped, he found Ahmed, unoccupied and awake. The brightness of the boy’s face at sight of his master roused Fidá a little from his mood, and his eyes had lost their sombreness when, side by side with his young companion, he left the chattering veranda, and walked in the direction of the great courtyard. As they went, they talked in their native tongue, and Ahmed, his boyish spirits always light, recounted all the gossip of under-life in the great palace which had not come to Fidá’s ears. The Mohammedan boy had made himself very popular even among the Indian slaves; and he, like all servants, was in possession of intimate details of the higher life that would have astonished and nonplussed certain august personages. His chatter was innocent enough, however. One of the slave-women in the zenana had had a quarrel with Bhimeg, the second wife, over a pet paroquet. Purán and Kanava had had a trial of strength in wrestling, and Kanava had come out victor. Two of the eunuchs of the zenana were just dead of a fever. And so on, infinitely, till Fidá had ceased to listen, and was occupied with his own thoughts, which had suddenly turned in another direction. After all, did he really wish to leave Mandu? Was there not something here that could not be taken away; something that was not to be found in any other country of the earth? Dwelt not the fairest woman in the world here, in the place of his captivity? Did he really desire to leave her land even for princely honors? Nay. It might be impossible that he should see her again; yet always she was here, and here only, the lady of his secret heart.

The two companions, loitering through the great courtyard, finally entered the temple room of Vishnu, that began the south wing of the palace. A curious place, this temple, devoted to that species of half-formed Hindooism that was at this time the prevailing religion of India. Into this religion, as into a gigantic pie, had been thrown pell-mell the doctrines of ancient Vedic worship, the religion of the great Triad, the worst side of dying Buddhism, and the Philosophies, insulted by their anthropomorphitic company. This temple room was a fair specimen of the mingled faiths. On one side, decked and carved with the symbols of fifty other gods, the images of Vishnu and Lakshmi reclined upon a throne about which was entwined the great serpent Sesha, symbol of eternity, in whose coils was caught a golden lotus, from which Brahma and the demigods had, in the beginning, come forth. Over the head of Vishnu hung a wooden monkey, representing Hanuman, the friend of Vishnu; and three or four living members of the chattering tribe dwelt in the room. Around the three other walls were images of different gods, all comparatively insignificant, but each with his priest and a sect, however small, of worshippers. At any hour of the day, indeed, but especially in the morning and in the evening, there were to be found from one to twenty worshippers seated on the floor before the various deities, engaged in performing an Agnihotra or an Ishti for prosperity and good fortune.

In the dusk of this holy place, lighted by its fires, Fidá and Ahmed continued their low-voiced talk, which had now turned upon the long-standing feud between Kasya, chief of the eunuchs, and Kanava, the slavemaster. Kanava was high in the favor of Ragunáth; but Kasya, heart and soul devoted to his Rajah, found little favor in Ragunáth’s eyes.

“Kanava,” Ahmed said, “is Ragunáth’s spy; and he can go anywhere in the palace except into the zenana. Kasya watches his eunuchs, so that Kanava has never been able to get in there; and I have heard one of the eunuchs say that he has tried to bribe every one of them to let him in. They say that Ragunáth is in love with one of the women—”

“What woman?” demanded Fidá, sharply.

“The youngest wife. They call her Ahalya.”

Fidá’s eyes blazed with anger. “Why is not the Rajah told of this?”

“Great Allah! Every one would be killed, I suppose,” returned the boy; and the subject was dropped.

In the midst of all this gossip Fidá had not told his companion anything of the chief event of the day:—the matter of his ransom. And, on reflection, he decided to say nothing about it. Ahmed’s young buoyancy could never be made to understand Fidá’s own view of the incident; and he could do nothing but raise hopes that would not be fulfilled. So, after a while, each returned to his duties, insensibly lightened at heart by the taste of intimate and affectionate companionship.

Fidá lay down in his corner, that night, tired out. According to old habit he slipped his hand inside his tunic and made sure that his little box was in its place, in a pocket that he had made for it himself, after his other clothes had been taken from him. Finding his treasure safe, he offered up a prayer, wondered where his uncle slept that night, still more wondered whether the Lady Ahalya was asleep, and, with her name on his lips, drifted off into unconsciousness.

He was awakened by the sense that some one was bending over him. Next he felt the lightest touch upon his body. A hand was slipping along him so softly that only an acute sense could have felt it. Then Fidá opened his eyes. Ten brown, sinewy fingers were working at his sash. Quietly the Asra laid his own hands on those of the marauder, and, while the blood rushed to his heart, gripped them with the strength of a giant. The intruder gave a soft exclamation; and Fidá found himself looking into the eyes of Kanava.

The gaze continued till the slave-master was beaten. He turned his eyes away. Then Fidá’s lip curled, and he spoke, his voice soft with scorn.

“Go back, Kanava, and tell thy master that the Asra ruby is not for him.” And, with a violent gesture, he flung the man away from him as one would fling a bag of meal.

Without a word Kanava got up and crept out of the room. After he was gone again Fidá relaxed, and, curiously enough, found no difficulty in going back to sleep. Nor did he afterward waste much time in thinking of the mortal enemy he had made by that night’s work.