LACHMI BAI

"Lachmi Bai! Lachmi Bai! Rani of Jhansi!" they cried.—Page [31].

Lachmi Bai
Rani
of
Jhansi

The
Jeanne D'Arc
of India

By
Michael
White

New York
J. F. Taylor & Company
1901

COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY
J. F. TAYLOR AND
COMPANY, NEW YORK

Press of
Riggs Printing Company
Albany, N. Y.

To
my wife

The RANI of JHANSI

"Being young, vigorous, and not afraid to show herself to the multitude, she gained a great influence over the hearts of the people. It was this influence, this force of character, added to a splendid and inspiring courage, that enabled her to offer a desperate resistance to the British.... Whatever her faults in British eyes may have been, her countrymen will ever believe that she was driven by ill-treatment into rebellion; that her cause was a righteous cause. To them she will always be a heroine."

KAYE AND MALLESON,
"History of the Indian Mutiny."

LACHMI BAI

Within no peerless Taj Mahal her body lies,
No gilded dome, nor fairy minarets against the azure skies,
Proclaim the place, where she, called by her foes, the "bravest and the best,"
Was laid by reverential hands to her victorious rest:
But in the eternal sanctuary of her race,
The holy river, holy Mother Ganges, that coveted embrace,
Doth hold her ashes, and for a monument to her name,
Sufficeth it, that in the people's hearts, her fame,
Doth shine immortal. For she was deeply loved, this Queen,
The beauteous, valiant Rani, India's great heroine.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LACHMI BAI

Chapter I
BEFORE THE STORM

It was a day of angry, torrid heat. The June sun of Central India blazed fiercely upon an uneven plain, upon a river winding to the northward, a lake bordered by trees, and upon the walled city of Jhansi with its rock fortress rising precipitously to guard the western front. Beneath the south wall, amid groves of acacia, whose parched and dust-coated limbs seemed to implore a speedy descent of the rains then due, were discernible the white domes of temples and tombs. A little further away, surrounded by gardens, were situated the bungalows of the Foreign residents, the cantonments of their troops, and the Star Fort containing their treasure and arms.

The hour of noon approached. Over all a reposeful silence reigned. Everyone had sought the shelter of cool halls and darkened chambers. In the fort and cantonments the soldiers had been dismissed from their duties; on the roads leading to the city there was little traffic; within the gates the bazaars were deserted; not a dog even ventured upon the blistering stones of the palace courtyard. Only in the shadow of a pillar near the main entrance to that turreted structure, a blind beggar sat, every now and then raising his monotonous cry for pity and alms.

Externally, an indefinite era of peace seemed to have settled upon Jhansi. Except for the periodical anxiety concerning the rains, there appeared to be no disquieting feature disturbing its outward calm. Yet for months past in that year of 1857 a token,[1] a warning of some great impending occurrence had gone forth through the land; from whence proceeding few men knew, to what purpose the masses did not comprehend, though they watched. With indifference as to what it might portend, the Foreigners had also observed the sign.

But in one place in Jhansi that day there was no rest at the noontide hour. It was in the palace of the disinherited Rani, or Princess of the state. There, an atmosphere of suspense, an air laden with that mysterious foreboding that some mighty event was about to take place, permeated every apartment, the halls, courts, and corridors. The very walls seemed to live with sinister animation. Men, many of them with arms displayed openly, moved stealthily back and forth from room to room, gathering in groups to discuss some weighty topic with hushed accents. Even the women servants appeared to have caught the infection of the hour, pausing to glean snatches of the men's conversation, and passing on with significant looks.

In a small enclosed garden of the palace, where palms, bright-leaved crotons, and fragrant blossoms, afforded a refreshing retreat from the atmospherical furnace without, a man and woman paced side by side in earnest discourse. The man was tall, bronze-visaged, and of martial bearing; the woman slender in form, graceful in carriage, and beautiful in so far as one might gather from features partly concealed by a fold of her embroidered chuddah. The former was a Mohammedan noble, Ahmad Khan; the latter, Lachmi Bai, the disinherited Rani of Jhansi.

At a turn in their walk the Princess turned to confront her companion.

"You say, my Lord," she spoke quickly, "that Bahadur Shah once more reigns supreme in Delhi; that the troops at Aligurth have marched out to join his standard; that Bareli has fallen into the hands of Khan Bahadur Khan; and yet there is no news from Bithur. When, in Heaven's name, is Dundhu Panth, the Peshwa, going to send us the signal to rise in Jhansi? For a month past my people have impatiently strained on the leash, awaiting my word to rush forth and drive the Foreigners from the State. I cannot—nay I cannot hold them in hand much longer. God knows, they have their own wrongs as well as mine to redress."

Ahmad raised a hand restrainingly.

"Patience! Patience! my Lady Rani," he exclaimed. "In a little, to-day, to-morrow, surely the Peshwa's messenger will arrive. Restraint will be for the best in the end. The arm of your people will strike all the harder; their onset will be the more irresistible."

"Aye, truly," she replied, "but you forget, O Ahmad, that the Foreigners will not sleep forever. The news from Delhi must have reached their ears. A single traitor might cause them to awake, defeating all our plans. I fear that the blow upon which we have staked so much, may yet fall without cleaving to the heart."

A Native officer in Foreign uniform entered the garden. He halted and saluted.

The Rani and her companion turned quickly toward him with expressions of sudden alarm.

The officer advanced to deliver a message.

"Your Highness," he began, addressing the Rani. "The Commissioner and Captain Sahibs will shortly arrive at the palace to seek an audience. I have been sent forward to acquaint you of their visit."

The Rani stepped close to the officer and scrutinized his features. Then she grasped him tightly by the sleeve of his jacket.

"Thou art the Jamadar Golab Das"? she interrogated.

"As thou sayest, noble Rani."

"Tell me, O Golab," she besought anxiously. "Have they heard? Have the eyes of the Foreigners been opened? Hath a traitor whispered in their ears"?

"They sleep on, all thy people are faithful," the officer returned significantly.

A sigh of relief escaped the Rani's lips.

"It is well," she exclaimed. "Then I will see the Foreign Sahibs. Go, carry them that message."

The officer again saluted and left her presence.

As if a sudden inspiration had gained possession of the Rani's mind, she turned to Ahmad and spoke authoritatively.

"It is my will to see the Foreign Sahibs alone in the Darbar hall."

He made a gesture as if about to protest against her purpose.

"Nay," she continued, "Nay, good Ahmad. It is the best plan. If they see me unattended they will be less suspicious. Go, order everyone to hide from view. Let not a face be seen or a voice heard. Let these walls be as silent as a tomb—aye even as the tomb that these Foreigners have built about my life, depriving me of what was justly mine. The palace sleeps, they will say. This woman can do no harm."

She gracefully recognized the Mohammedan noble's bow, signifying his compliance to her order, and moved quickly to a door leading to her private apartments.

At the southern gate of the city, the two Foreign Sahibs, attended by a Native orderly, were met by Golab Das, bearing the Rani's reply.

"Well Jamadar," said the military officer, "What does the Rani say? Did you see her personally"?

"I saw the Princess, your Excellency," returned the Jamadar. "She bade me say that she waits to learn the pleasure of your will."

"Tell me, Jamadar," continued the officer. "Was there any sign of uneasiness about the palace? People gathering, or additions being made to the Rani's bodyguard"?

"My eyes beheld no such gathering of people," returned the Jamadar laconically. "The Rani's servants are resting from the heat."

The officer ordered his subordinate to return to the cantonments. As they moved forward he turned a look of satisfaction toward his companion.

"Well Hawksley," said he. "I doubt after all if we shall have the fun yet of cutting our way through a mass of fanatics."

The Commissioner's face maintained a thoughtful expression.

"I did not anticipate that we would," he returned.

"Yes, but you are as full of gloomy forebodings as any old fortune teller," asserted the other.

"Oh! not at all," exclaimed the Commissioner, "only I think the situation more serious than the rest of us are inclined to regard it."

"What in Jhansi"?

"Yes, in Jhansi. Now look here, Vane," continued the Commissioner gravely. "Let us see how we stand. There is no doubt something horrible has taken place in Delhi."

"Rumors only," interposed the other, "and even then an isolated case. That old rascal, Bahadur Shah, will soon be brought to his senses, and punished drop for drop of our blood."

"I hope so," remarked the Commissioner. "But this morning I heard that the troops at Bareli had revolted and seized the place."

"A band of marauders," added the soldier lightly. "They will be hanged when caught, every one of them. For my part, I fail to perceive how these scattered out-breaks are likely to affect us in Jhansi."

"Yes, indirectly they may," the Commissioner persisted. "Now look here, Vane. Think a moment seriously, if you can do such a thing. Here we are a paltry hundred and fifty odd Europeans in the heart of India, far removed from the least chance of assistance."

"We shall not need any," remarked the soldier emphatically. "If the people hereabout should create any disturbance, my men will soon deal with them. They have sworn to a unit that they will stand by their salt oath of allegiance. I have implicit confidence in them."

"Granted! Granted that what you assert may be true," rejoined the Commissioner, "but to my mind the element of danger here lies in another direction."

"Where pray"? demanded the other dubiously.

They had passed the gate and were traversing the almost deserted bazaars.

"Where pray"? he asked again, glancing along a row of empty stalls. "I confess, I fail to note any sign of it."

"Perhaps not," rejoined the Commissioner, "but it is in evidence nevertheless. I refer to the Rani."

"What, to that girl, the Rani," the officer exclaimed.

"Nonsense! What mischief can she do. Her talons have been well pared for any evil that she might design."

"My dear Vane," said the Commissioner sagely. "Never underestimate the power and resources of a woman, if she nourishes a grievance."

"A grievance"?

"Yes, frankly, though unofficially, I consider that she has a grievance—even a just one against us. Now what is her position? First, we took from her the estate of her affianced husband, that by her law she was clearly entitled to hold."

"But transferred, I thought, according to the provisions of a treaty made with the late Raja."

"True, but still she was none the less a heavy loser by it. Well then, by way of recompense for this, what did we do? We gave her a paltry $30,000 a year."

"A devilish good allowance, I call it," flippantly interposed Vane. "I only wish I had $30,000 a year, and the Rani or the deuce might do what they pleased with Jhansi. Dear old Pall Mall would soon see me on the double."

The Commissioner refused to notice his companion's light humor.

"Out of that allowance," he proceeded, "small enough in all conscience for one in her position, we insisted on deducting a sinking fund to pay the late Raja's debts."

Vane struck his boot a smart rap with the end of his whip.

"Oh, hang it!" he exclaimed. "That was bad. It's shocking enough to be obliged to meet one's own i.o.u.'s; but to settle up for another fellow is monstrous. My sympathy there is with the Rani, though it wasn't our fault, you know."

"Yes, I thought that would appeal to you," remarked the Commissioner dryly, "but if I am not mistaken that matter of killing cows, in spite of her protests, has enraged her more than the loss of either the Jhansi throne or the revenue. That, was an unnecessary insult to her religious sensibilities. Now what I maintain is this, if she has been waiting for a favorable opportunity to strike a blow for what she may regard as her lost position and injured feelings, the present is as good a one as she is likely to be afforded. Her influence with the people is, I am convinced, a quantity worth taking into account."

Vane yawned with the heat and the little interest he felt in both the subject and the visit. He was satisfied that the Commissioner's fears were groundless, that there was not the slightest danger of an outbreak in Jhansi, and only with difficulty had he been persuaded to accompany his colleague to the Rani's palace.

"In any case, suppose there is something in your idea," he asked, "what can she do"?

"That is exactly what we are going to try and discover," returned the Commissioner firmly.

They had arrived before the main entrance to the palace. They dismounted and handed the reins of their horses to the native orderly.

Vane glanced contemptuously at an obsequious aged servant who had come forth to receive them, and round upon the drowsy appearance of the buildings.

"Conspiracy! Uprising of the people! Nonsense"! he ejaculated. "Hawksley's imagination has gone wandering. I'd wager six months' pay the girl is trembling at the bare idea of our visit."

As the request for an audience had been made upon the spur of the moment, the Commissioner regarded it as a favorable sign that the Rani consented to receive them without delay.

They were ushered through an inner courtyard surrounded by cloisters, in the shade of which a few Natives awoke to salute the Foreign Sahibs as they passed. Thence through dark halls and ante-chambers, in which the echo of their footsteps alone broke the profound silence that had descended on the palace. At last they crossed the threshold of the Darbar hall.

At the further end of the noble chamber, where for centuries it had been the custom of the Princes of Jhansi to dispense justice, she, from whom justice had been withheld, stood to receive her visitors. In the sight of the two officers as they gazed down a nave of pillars supporting the ornately decorated roof, she appeared as the statue of some divinity in the far perspective of an ancient temple—a youthful, white robed, graceful figure, brought into strong relief by a dark background of gold embroidered arras.

As if to emphasize the powerless condition to which she had been reduced, the Rani was attended by a single waiting woman, who remained throughout the interview a few paces in her rear, motionless and apparently unobservant.

The officers advanced to within a few paces of her position and saluted her respectfully.

With a slight inclination of her head, she acknowledged their greeting and waited to learn the nature of their errand.

The Commissioner had anticipated that the Rani would have hastily surrounded herself with numerous retainers to impress him with a semblance of her power. He realized that a hundred splendidly attired courtiers could not have added a shade of prestige to this girl, who stood alone.

It was not only the majestic pose, nor the beautiful contour of her face, crowned by a mass of dark hair, ornamented with a chaplet of pearls, that quickly confirmed the Commissioner's previous impression that Lachmi Bai, Rani of Jhansi, was far removed from the generally accepted type of her countrywomen. But there was a strength of character emphasized in every line of her distinctly Aryan features, a force of will, a mystical power in every flash of her lustrous eyes, in every movement, in every word, however gently spoken, warning him at the outset that he had to deal with no shrinking, simple, zanana maiden.

He had come prepared to assume a firm, if necessary a dictatorial attitude; but now in her presence he found himself slowly paving the way by conventional compliments.

Her silence at last compelled him to come to the point.

"Your Highness," he began, "will doubtless have heard of the disturbances that have broken out in several districts of the Northwest Provinces."

"Some reports have reached my ears," she replied, with apparent indifference, "but I give to them little credence."

"I am afraid," resumed the Commissioner gravely, "that there is only too much reason to believe their authenticity. I have, therefore, sought this audience with your Highness to request that in the event of any threatened outbreak in Jhansi, you will use your influence to preserve peace. I need not add that by so doing, by demonstrating at such a crisis that your sympathy is with the British Government, you will be rendering a service to the latter that I, personally, will guarantee shall not be overlooked."

The representative of the power that had deprived her of her possessions stood before her as a supplicant for her good will.

A nature less subtle, less under such admirable control, might at the moment have been over tempted to cast prudence to the winds, and in an outburst of long gathering passion jeopardize the complete success of her plans by summoning her retainers to seize prematurely the persons of the British officers. But trained in adversity, that best of schools to curb her real feelings, by not a sign did she betray, that for months past she had been preparing for the hour when the fate of Jhansi should rest in the palm of her hand; nor the infallible knowledge she possessed, that every man in the city, aye even every woman and child, together with the whole body of native troops within the British cantonments, awaited her signal to rise in revolt.

In a voice, in which only the faintest note of irony was mingled with surprise, she answered quietly.

"Surely the Foreign Sahib sets too great store upon my ability to assist him. What have I," she continued, raising the tone slightly, and extending a hand so that the gold bangles on her wrist jingled musically. "What influence hath Lachmi Bai with the people to control their actions? If they should rebel, has not the Sahib soldiers and guns to enforce his will; I, but a few poor servants to protect my person. No," she concluded, letting her hand fall again to her side, "the Sahib knows well I have no power, no authority in Jhansi."

The Commissioner twirled his moustache musingly. He knew that without doubt she had stated the literal truth; but he was now more firmly convinced than ever, that behind the dark eyes which so unflinchingly returned his gaze, there lay a power for good or evil in a possible emergency, that it would be suicidal to ignore.

Gravely he resumed the subject.

"It would be a poor compliment," he said, "to the esteem in which it is well known your Highness is held by the people, to place your influence at so low a value. Should an uprising take place in Jhansi, you could do much to preserve law and order."

For a few moments neither spoke. Each regarded the other as if endeavoring to find a vulnerable point in the contest of diplomacy, when the Rani skilfully turned the subject to her own advantage. She was anxious to discover if any suspicion of her plans had been engendered in the minds of the Foreigners, and how far they depended for their safety upon the fidelity of their native troops, already won over to her cause. She therefore replied by another question.

"But have you any reason to think that the peace will be broken in Jhansi"?

"At present, I have not," the Commissioner replied, after a short period of reflection.

"And even in that event you can surely rely upon the loyalty of your native troops"? she suggested with apparent absence of motive.

"Yes, I believe so," he affirmed decisively. "Certainly they will remain true to their salt."

"Then why come to me," she asked, "to seek assistance for which you are likely to have so little need"?

The Commissioner realized that argumentatively, his position was no longer tenable. So he determined to revert to his original purpose and make a firm demand upon the evasive young Princess.

"Nevertheless," he replied sternly. "It is my duty to inform you, that the British Government will hold you responsible for any outbreak among the people."

The Rani raised her eyebrows slightly, as she retorted in a rising tone of protest.

"Surely the Commissioner Sahib does not remember the position in which his Government has placed me. He forgets that it not only deprived me of my inheritance of the throne of Jhansi, but of my affianced husband's personal estates, and even compelled me out of the pittance of an allowance provided for my support to pay his debts. Thus, often have the poor in vain cried to me to alleviate their distress, daily are Brahmans turned from my gates unfed. I cannot help them. For the reason that you have deprived me of the means wherewith even to influence the actions of a beggar, I cannot assist you. I do not see, nay, I do not understand how I can be held responsible for the public peace. As well might you extract the teeth of a watch dog and expect it to guard your treasure safely. Does your Government also hold me responsible for the loyalty of your troops"? she concluded, with a note of scorn.

"No," he returned with emphasis, "but it will undoubtedly look to your Highness to act in the event of an outbreak, as I have suggested."

The ultimatum had been delivered.

The two officers bowed to the Rani and retraced their steps to the end of the hall. On the threshold Vane paused for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder and met the gaze of the Rani still fixed upon them. With her hands folded she had remained in the same position; but there was an unmistakable expression of scornful triumph on her face, carrying swift conviction to his mind, that their mission had failed, that this mere girl had routed their arguments and baffled their diplomacy.

As they passed down the steps, he linked his arm in that of his companion. He spoke in an undertone, with no vestige of his flippant humor remaining.

"I say, Hawksley. I say, old fellow. D'you know, I think the Rani is a devilish clever girl. We didn't get much out of her, did we"?

The Commissioner eyed his companion seriously.

"Yes," he acquiesced. "For my part, Vane, I believe it would have been better for all of us if we had arrived at that conclusion before."

They had scarcely disappeared from the hall, when white figures seemed to emerge from the very walls.

The Rani waved them back with a warning gesture.

"Go," she enjoined her attendant. "Go, Rati, and see if the Foreigners have left the court."

In a few minutes the girl returned with the information that the Foreign Sahibs had mounted their horses.

The Rani raised her arms above her head and cried aloud as she gave full vent to her suppressed emotion.

"Fools! Fools all! Of what do they think I am made. Am I clay to be moulded into any form, a pitcher with which to draw water for them when thirsty? Ah! By the great God of Gods, I swear that before another sun has set, they shall find that the will, if not the form of Lachmi Bai is fashioned out of steel."

Quickly she was surrounded by an eager throng, clamoring for news of the audience.

"What said the Foreign Sahibs, O Rani"? they besought her. "Tell us, O Queen, what said they"?

She waved them from her gently.

"It is enough," she cried, "that still hearing no sound but the call to plunder, they are deaf to the mighty whisper passed down from palace to hovel, and on from city to jungle, that the hour for India is at hand."

Chapter II
THE HOUR AT HAND

In a shaded room of the palace, the Rani had cast herself upon a low divan to obtain a short period of rest. The rugs of intricate patterns, embroidered hangings, curiously carved and inlaid screens, tables, and taborets, gave to the apartment an atmosphere more of richness, than comfort from the Occidental point of view. She watched reflectively the actions of her waiting woman in placing a smoking paraphernalia at her side.

"Strange, how strange," she murmured, "are the ways of these Foreigners. After all the wrongs they have visited upon me, the insults I have suffered at their hands; they boldly come and demand my influence to maintain such iniquities. They expect, forsooth, that if the door of my prison is opened, I will close it again upon myself. Surely they must think I possess less reason than a creature bereft of its senses. I—I cannot understand them."

She turned her head to notice a stout, little man, salaaming profoundly.

"Well, good Bipin," she exclaimed. "What matter of supreme weight and urgency is it now? Hath an evil minded fox crossed thy path on thy way to the temple, or a crow dropped a tail feather with sinister intent upon thy turban"?

"Protector of thy People," replied Bipin, "your Extraordinary Greatness will be pleased to know, that the illustrious Raja, Sivapuri Prasad Singh, an emissary from the Peshwa, awaits your Highness's command to enter."

The Rani rose to her feet instantly, manifesting intense emotion in her voice and actions, as she cried:

"The Peshwa's messenger at last. Go, good Bipin, bring him to me immediately. There is no one I long to see more than this same emissary from the Peshwa."

She had scarcely spoken when Bipin ushered into the room a Hindu noble of gallant mien, whose attire bore traces of hasty travel through jungle by-paths. He strode hurriedly forward and bowing before the Rani, glanced round with suspicion.

The Rani waved her male servitor from the room.

"Speak, noble sir," she urged reassuringly. "The walls are deaf as well as dumb. Ah, Mahadeva! How anxiously we have awaited thy coming."

"Good news, My Lady Rani," he replied, in an undertone. "The torch has been ignited. To-morrow Dundhu Panth proclaims himself Peshwa, and Cawnpore will fall into his hands. Strike now, for if Jhansi is won, other states, that waver, will follow suit. Such is the Peshwa's command."

"Welcome, most welcome, noble Raja," she cried, in a transport of joyful emotion. She extended her hands in greeting. "Welcome to the palace of the no longer unfortunate Rani of Jhansi."

He took the jeweled fingers of one of her hands in his and bowing low placed them to his forehead. Then he drew himself up and gazed with sudden admiration at the superb form, the beautiful features of the high caste Princess.

In a moment he resumed the conversation, still in a tone of caution.

"Are all thy plans complete, fair Lady"?

"Aye, even over complete, I had feared," she answered. "The hidden guns in the fortress have been disinterred, my retainers armed, guards posted on the highways to prevent the escape of the Foreigners, when the signal is given. All people in Jhansi wait impatiently upon my word."

"It is well," he exclaimed, approvingly. "But how about the Mohammedans? Can they be depended upon"?

"Ahmad Khan moves them at the raising of his hand."

"Aye, but of Ahmad Khan. At the raising of whose hand doth he obey without question"?

The Rani slowly raised her hand and held it outstretched before her.

A dart of racial jealousy pierced the Hindu noble's breast.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "It is perhaps well thus, for the moment."

The Rani's arm fell lightly to her side.

"It is well for all time, so long as we are united," she returned, with significant emphasis.

Prasad moved a step nearer and spoke almost in a whisper.

"What of the Foreigners? Do they suspect a rising"?

"They are in doubt, but rely implicitly upon the fidelity of their Native troops."

"Will their Native troops join us"?

"Every man among them."

"Are you certain"?

"As certain as that the wolf will hunt with his kind."

Prasad paused thoughtfully before putting another question.

"If we succeed what is to be done with the Foreigners"?

"Ahmad has my order to secure them as prisoners. We will hold them as hostages or send them out of the state."

Prasad took the Rani's hand in his and pressed it gently. Already he was a slave to her will. Henceforth the form of Lachmi Bai filled his soul with one aim above all others.

"Ah, my Lord," she cried, turning a radiant countenance toward him. "How long hath my heart pined for this hour—the hour when the scepter which was snatched from my grasp shall be placed in my hand; and the law of the Foreigner be no longer obeyed in Jhansi."

"Surely it is thy right, noble Rani," he replied. "When then can the signal be given"?

"Now, to-night, to-morrow, at any time."

"Then make certain that all is ready to-night, and let the signal be given for to-morrow."

The Rani beckoned her waiting woman to her side.

"Go," said she. "Go swiftly, let it be known that to-morrow at noon, the tigress will break down the bars of her cage."

Chapter III
BY THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE

Jhansi had fallen. At the revolt of their troops the Foreigners were taken completely by surprise. They hastily retreated to the Star Fort where, after a valorous defense for three days, lack of food and ammunition compelled them to surrender. They were obliged to seek terms of Ahmad Khan who was conducting the siege.

If they evacuated the fort would they be permitted to leave the state unmolested? was the request made under a flag of truce.

In response, Ahmad solemnly swore upon the holy Koran that if the Foreigners would open the gates no harm should befall them.

But the oath of the Mohammedan was not regarded as sufficiently binding. The Foreigners required a further assurance of safety from the Rani.

In her name Ahmad reiterated his vow of protection. This was all the hope of security they could possibly look for in their desperate situation. The Rani had ever been regarded as an upright woman. Upon the faith of her word they opened the gates and laid down their arms. Then under Ahmad's direction they marched out to a field nearby,—a pitiful, defenseless band, of men, women, and children.

The sun never shone upon a more brutal tragedy.

Beside a clump of trees all were ruthlessly butchered. Their honor alone was spared. Without a plea for mercy, without a cry of anguish, these heroes met a cruel fate, that might have been averted by a less exacting government.

Ahmad Khan was elated almost to a condition of intoxication by this final successful act of the revolt. He was now prompted to strike another immediate blow to gratify a long secretly nourished ambition. While outwardly he had professed intense devotion to the Rani's cause, in his heart, he aspired to seat himself on the throne of the Rajas of Jhansi. As to the Rani, he purposed that her rule should be encompassed by the walls of a luxurious harem.

At the head of a crime-frenzied Mohammedan band, bearing upon the points of their bayonets ghastly trophies of the recent massacre, he set forth on a triumphant progress to the palace.

To secure his object, he instructed his followers to overawe the Hindu population, devoted to the Rani's cause, by fierce gestures and loud shouts in his honor.

He entered the gate set in the massive stone wall, and waved his sword aloft crying—

"The Faith. The holy Faith. Success to the Faith of Mohammed."

His soldiers pressed closely upon the flanks of his horse. They brandished their weapons and struck dismay into the hearts of the Hindu guard, by adding exultingly to their distinctive shout of victory—

"And may Ahmad Khan, the Servant of God, long reign in Jhansi."

Onward the mob swept through the city, again and again vociferously proclaiming Ahmad Khan, Raja of Jhansi. The joy of the Hindus over their deliverance from Foreign rule gave place to alarm. They watched with misgiving a second coup d' etat on the part of their hereditary enemies, and began to wonder whether they would not fare worse under the rule of a follower of Mohammed, than they had done under that of the Foreigner.

In her palace the Rani anxiously awaited news of the surrender. Through Ahmad she had given the assurance that the Foreigners' lives would be spared. This course she had strenuously urged upon her lieutenant. Apart from her womanly repugnance to ruthless slaughter, she clearly perceived the advantage she would gain by holding them as prisoners to exchange for the recognition of her right to the throne of Jhansi. To kill the innocent, the already defeated, did not occupy a thought in her mind.

The news came swift and ominous. Not only had a tragedy taken place, but her own authority was in danger of usurpation.

The exultant Mohammedan cry rolled forward to the walls of the palace. It penetrated to the Rani's ears at first as a welcome sound; but as it rose in the courtyard bearing aloft the name of Ahmad Khan, a disquieting thought flashed into her brain.

She hurried to the Darbar hall, entering at one end, as Ahmad, surrounded by his officers, crossed the threshold at the other.

The Rani halted and waited. Intuitively she gleaned confirmation of her sudden alarm from their faces.

Ahmad advanced and saluted her with pointed courtesy. He was a tall, powerfully built man, whose swarthy irregular features indicated a mingling of low caste blood. As a whole his face was not unhandsome, though the expression of his mouth and chin denoted cruelty and treachery—the latter, perhaps, an accomplishment rather than a failing to the Oriental mind.

"Greeting, fair Lady," he exclaimed. "Jhansi is won. The Foreigners have surrendered."

She directed a searching glance to read the veiled meaning expressed in his intonation as well as in his manner.

"They have surrendered. Then where are they"? she asked. "Hast thou not brought any of them hither"?

A cruel smile broke upon Ahmad's face as he turned and pointed with the blade of his sword to the open doorway, through which could be caught a glimpse of the surging mob without, uplifting their bloody trophies.

"Aye," he explained, "I have brought some of them here. The rest I have sent to a secure prison."

His gesture was observed by his followers. The shout rose with greater volume than before—

"Deen! Deen! Futteh. Mohammed."

"Success to the Faith of Mohammed."

For a moment the Rani covered her eyes with her hands, as if to blot out the gruesome spectacle. Then she demanded sternly—

"Why hast thou done this, my Lord? Surely thou hast not killed them all"?

"Aye, all, fair Lady. And why not"? he returned, in plausible accents.

"Because I commanded you to spare their lives if they surrendered," she retorted, passionately.

Ahmad bowed low with feigned contrition.

"But, my Lady Lachmi Bai," he protested, "a higher authority, the Emperor of Delhi, had commanded me to spare none of them. Further his Majesty hath been pleased to place the government of the State of Jhansi in my hands until more settled times."

The two stood for a short period confronting each other in silence, Ahmad with a look of unconcealed triumph on his face, on that of the Rani, anger mingled with defiance.

"So this was his purpose! A plot within a plot revealed."

He strode up to her and with assurance took her by the hand. Then he spoke in a lower voice.

"Ah! Fair Rani. Thou art but a child, a girl fit rather to play with gems than swords and scepters. But fear not, thou shalt rule in Jhansi. Thou knowest well for what I hunger. All that thou longest for, thou shalt possess in return. It is a good bargain, is it not, Beautiful One"?

Her glance swept from his face to the crowd of his officers standing to his order in the background. She realized that the dominion for which she had so long and patiently striven was about to be seized by another at the moment of its accomplishment. By one, too whose religious principles were repugnant, and whose profession of personal devotion she had but tolerated for reasons of state. She saw the trap into which she had fallen, and from which an immediate counterstroke of diplomacy could alone save her.

Her mind was quick to grasp the situation and suggest a remedy.

With an effort she curbed her resentment and turned a look of approval upon the traitor.

"Aye, thou speakest truly," she replied, in a thoughtful tone. "I am, as thou sayest, but a girl, to whom the reins of government would be of little pleasure. I had longed that the Foreigners be driven forth from Jhansi. Now they are here no more to anger me, why should I not be satisfied? But, O Ahmad," she continued confidentially, "I would speak with thee alone. Send, I pray thee, these people of thine from the palace. I like not their fierce looks and clash of arms."

Ahmad was surprised. He had anticipated a stormy scene with the Rani, and a possible resort to force before she could be brought to submit to his will. Consequently he was gratified to meet with so little resistance to both his political and personal designs. For the moment he failed to remember that the brain which had displayed such masterly craft in plotting the downfall of the Foreigners would be swift to use the same power in frustrating his own project.

In compliance with her desire he faced his officers.

"Go," he commanded. "Return to the cantonments and in my name seize all the possessions of the Foreigners."

When the soldiers had left the hall the Rani drew close to him and spoke in a beguiling voice.

"O my Lord, thou must see how poorly I am attired in honor of so great an event. I would retire for a short space, to adorn my neck with jewels, and my hair with flowers; so that I may appear worthy of the noble Ahmad Khan's approval."

Blinded by vanity, he was flattered and deceived by her cajolery. He stretched forth his arms to enfold her in an embrace.

"Thou shadow of an houri," he exclaimed amorously.

She eluded him by a quick movement.

"In a little," she returned, playfully. "See that thou waitest until I come again to thee. Then shalt thou swear by thy Prophet's beard, that Lachmi Bai hath wit as well as beauty."

"Until death," he replied, "only tarry not too long, Fair One."

She cast toward him an enthralling glance, and passing from the hall, hurried to the inner apartments of the palace.

"Now by Allah"! he reflected, exultingly. "The fortune of Ahmad Khan, the Humble Servant of God, doth rise as the sun in a cloudless heaven."

The Rani's action was swift and silent. She summoned those upon whom she could rely and spoke in urgent accents.

"Go quickly," she commanded to one, "into the bazaars and summon all my people to the courtyard of the palace." To another, "Let my retainers arm themselves and guard every outlet so that no man passes in or forth. Tell Prasad and my officers, that I need their presence on the balcony overlooking the main entrance. Go, with wings on your feet. Hasten, for there is no time to be lost."

She passed into a private chamber and hastily arrayed herself in a magnificent embroidered sari, the silken clinging texture of which displayed her form to its perfection of royal beauty. Round her neck she hung ropes of pearls, and in her hair she entwined a wreath of fragrant blossoms. Thus attired she proceeded to the wide balcony overlooking the courtyard.

A throng of people had gathered and crowded about the main entrance. Others were hurrying from the bazaars and side streets at the bidding of the Rani's messengers. With animated countenances, they asked of each other the meaning of the summons.

Behind the domes and turrets of the rock citadel, the sun was sinking toward the horizon. It cast broad shadows over the courtyard, now filling rapidly with a surging, excited, human mass. The Rani was quickly joined by Prasad and officers faithful to her service. With these in attendance she moved to the edge of the parapet.

Immediately an outburst of enthusiasm rose from the people, gathering in force until a great shout filled the air about the palace.

"Lachmi Bai. Lachmi Bai. Rani of Jhansi," they cried.

She leaned over the parapet and smiled.

Again the cry rose, "Lachmi Bai. Lachmi Bai. Rani of Jhansi."

She raised her hand to enjoin silence. Gradually the tumult ceased.

Then she spoke to them. Her resonant, clear, voice filled the open space. Each word fell musically upon the ears of her audience.

"My people," she began. "At last you have been freed from the rule of the Foreigner. To-day, a great blow has been delivered by you for our independence—a blow that will resound in the most distant provinces of our land. Through your loyalty and courage, the end for which we have so long striven has been attained. To you belongs the spoil, the treasure that has fallen into our hands. It is your reward."

A murmur of applause told that the point had been well received.

"But my people," she proceeded. "You are still encompassed by great peril. The Foreigner is destroyed, but others of his race may return to try and wrest from you, your country. Enemies, too, may rise from within as rapacious and as hateful of your religion. It is necessary that you choose without delay a fearless and capable ruler."

A few voices called on her by name, but she again silenced them.

"As you well know," she continued, "by our law, to me belongs the right of succession to the throne of Jhansi."

"Aye, truly," many cried. "Lachmi Bai. Lachmi Bai. Rani of Jhansi."

"But, my good people, as the noble Raja, Ahmad Khan, hath pointed out, I am but a girl, uninstructed in the wiles of statecraft, unused to the wielding of a sword in dangerous times. A Raja, he declares, must be seated on the throne of Jhansi. Why not then the illustrious Ahmad Khan"?

Spontaneously the cry rose, "For us no stranger, no Mohammedan! We want him not to rule over us. Lachmi Bai. Lachmi Bai. Rani of Jhansi."

"But, good people," she persisted, as if earnestly pleading Ahmad's cause. "Ahmad Khan is a brave soldier. He is"——

Her voice was drowned in an uproar that shook the walls of the palace. Her name alone was borne upward by thousands of unyielding throats.

"Lachmi Bai. Rani of Jhansi. Lachmi Bai. Rani of Jhansi."

She stretched out her arms lovingly toward them. She appealed to them with a captivating smile.

"Would you then have Lachmi Bai for your ruler in Jhansi"?

A great shout rose and confirmed her in her right to the title. The throngs surged back and forth in the endeavor of those furthest away to reach a spot nearer to her person.

"Come to us," they cried. "Come down amid thy people, O Rani."

With a radiant countenance, she passed down the flight of stone steps into the courtyard. Unguarded she moved among the mass of people, stirred to a frenzy of enthusiasm by her presence. Some knelt in her path to touch the hem of her garment, while others waved their weapons aloft, vowing they would defend her to the death.

Darkness fell with the swiftness of the Tropics. She turned to re-enter the palace, and torches flared to light her path. They gave to the scene a weird, majestic splendor—the irregular outlines of the palace overshadowed by the huge black mass of the fortress; the exultant, white robed throng; the stern faces of the soldiers; the girl, whose mysterious being swayed their emotions like the wind playing upon lotus reeds.

In the Darbar hall Ahmad Khan impatiently awaited the Rani's return. He was startled by the cries of the populace, and dismayed at the discovery that his egress was blocked. Uneasily he paced back and forth, wondering what these ominous signs betokened. He cursed his imprudence at having dismissed his followers at so critical a moment.

"Tricked, I doubt not," he savagely exclaimed. "But one more fool who loses a crown in exchange for a woman's smile."

The Rani and her officers swept into the hall. Ahmad's hand impulsively grasped the hilt of his sword—a gesture which Prasad imitated by half withdrawing his from its scabbard.

The Hindu noble advanced a few paces, regarding Ahmad's sullen countenance as if willing to accept a challenge.

"Peace, my Lords," the Rani cried authoritatively.

She laid a restraining hand on Prasad's arm.

"Peace. It is my will. This is no hour to broach a feud."

She then fearlessly advanced to Ahmad's side, and addressed him calmly.

"My Lord Raja," said she. "My people will have it that I rule over Jhansi."

She held up her hand to draw his attention to the acclamations which penetrated the innermost recesses of the palace.

"You hear them," she continued. "I espoused your cause to the best of my ability; but, it seems, they will have no other than Lachmi Bai to be their Rani."

"And now," she concluded, addressing all present, "I look to you, Ahmad, Prasad, and all my brave officers to unite for one object, the defense of my throne and Jhansi."

Ahmad glanced round upon the determined faces of the Rani's loyal supporters, as they vowed to maintain the crown upon her head. He realized that, in turn, he had been outwitted. By a low obeisance he outwardly acknowledged her authority.

"The people are God's," he murmured, "the country is the Padshah's, and the Raj is the Rani's."

Thus was Lachmi Bai proclaimed Rani of Jhansi.

Chapter IV
A STAR IN THE ASCENDENT

The Rani's ambition to ascend the throne of Jhansi was achieved. But immediately she beheld difficulties rise on all sides. Everyone in Jhansi seemed to have a claim to urge upon her gratitude. The larger the pecuniary recompense that was supposed to be attached to a place of honor, the more numerous were the applicants. To that of the greatest responsibility, the command of the troops, the Rani was in a dilemma as to whom she would appoint.

From his well known military skill and tried valor, Ahmad Khan might wisely have been selected for the office; but the Rani hesitated to confide to his hands so much power after his recent exhibition of disloyalty.

In the meantime Ahmad had sullenly retired to his house without the city, there to plead sickness as an excuse for failing to respond to her summons to court.

On the other hand, Prasad remained close to her side, hourly transforming the early esteem which the Rani had conceived for him, into a warmer sentiment. He, too, intimated that his aspiration lay toward the chief military prize in the Rani's gift; but thus far she had let it pass ungratified, if not unrecognized. Apart from his untried ability as a commander, she realized that to appoint Prasad, a newcomer to the state, to such a coveted position, would surely stir up a feeling of bitter jealousy in the breasts of a score of Jhansi officers, who might justly claim a prior right to her consideration. These matters increasingly harassed the Rani's mind.

The morning of a few days after her accession discovered the Rani in the act of formally announcing that event, by letter, to the other princes who had risen in rebellion against the rule of the Foreigners.

Before her, Bipin Dat sat cross-legged upon a mat. He was laboriously endeavoring to indite these missives in what he considered to be correct form.

After a period of effort, he drew the Rani's attention to his latest production.

"This letter, noble Rani," said he, "is to the most illustrious Dhundu Panth, Peshwa of the Marathas."

The Rani signified her willingness to listen, and Bipin proceeded to read in a sonorous voice, emphasizing the repetition of his own name by inflection of tone, and gestures—

By the hand of the Intellectual
Bipin Dat
Secretary to Her Highness, Lachmi Bai,
Rani of Ihansiv To
The most noble, Dhundu Panth,
Peshwa of the Marathas
Greeting

"Be it known to you, O most Illustrious Sir, that by the will of God and the pleasure of the great Rani, the Honorable Bipin Dat ventures to address your Sublimity, for the purpose of disclosing certain information, as follows:

"On the 8th of the month the Foreigners were obliterated from the face of the earth in Jhansi, as if the devil had swept them all off into Hades. Further, on the same day, it pleased the great God to direct His people to seat Her Immortal Highness, Lachmi Bai, upon the throne of the Rajas of Jhansi, which events were witnessed by the observant eye, and recorded by the unerring hand of her faithful and esteemed servant, Bipin Dat.

"Lastly, it hath pleased Her Highness the Rani, to recognize the services of the aforesaid Bipin Dat in these great times, by appointing him her munshi.[2] Whereby he has set his hand to this letter on the 12th day of the month, etc.

(Signed) "BIPIN DAT,
"Secretary to the Rani of Jhansi."

Bipin finished his reading with a flourish of the hand and a look upon his solemnly cherubic countenance, that indicated his perfect satisfaction with the composition.

"That, noble Rani," said he, "will in proper form convey to the Peshwa the news of your Highness's accession."

A smile momentarily relieved the Rani's serious expression.

"He will also," she remarked, "be in little doubt as to the identity of the writer. The Peshwa, the Rani, and the Intellectual Bipin Dat. He may wonder if the third is not the most important of the three."

Bipin stroked his chin musingly.

"Dust under thy feet," he replied at last. "That could scarcely be the case, but it has ever been the opinion of the most learned pundits that in the work of great writers their personality shines forth as a diamond amid false gems."

"Then Bipin, thou must be a veritable stone of the first water," she replied. "But one thing I gather. You, at any rate, out of a multitude of aspirants for office, appear satisfied with your position."

"Noble Rani," he continued. "Satisfied am I of thy graciousness; but of the precise moment when it will be advisable for me formally to take upon myself the burden of my duties, I am not yet determined."

A look of displeasure crossed the Rani's face.

"How mean you"? she asked. "Have you, too, some petition to make that I will exchange it for one that brings a better revenue"?

"Noble Lady," he replied, "mere wealth holds out little inducement for those of intellectual worth. We, who are writers with inspired thoughts, look for a more imperishable reward; but in all events of importance it is ever well to consult those who read the future and who can discern the most auspicious moment to take an important step."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Rani. "Thou wouldst consult thy friend, the astrologer"?

Bipin bowed.

"Such is my desire, noble Lady."

"Go, then," she cried, "and get thy consultation over quickly, for I need the service of thy pen."

Bipin rose from his sitting posture. He salaamed thrice before his mistress and departed with an important air.

In the shadow of the pillar by the main entrance the blind beggar, who appeared to have sat there from the beginning of all time, instinctively recognized Bipin's footsteps. He accosted the secretary with a petition for alms.

"Good clerk," he cried. "Have pity upon the unfortunate."

Bipin halted and faced him with a look of offended dignity.

"Good clerk!" he returned, in scornful accents. "Good clerk! Thou fool. Dost know to whom thou art speaking"?

"Surely to the worthy clerk, Bipin Dat," replied the beggar, innocently. "Many a time hath he cast a crumb to the afflicted."

Bipin scowled magnificently upon the beggar.

"Then seldom in future will the afflicted benefit by his compassion," he returned sternly, "unless they have more discernment than to style him a clerk. Know, thou fool, that he to whom thou criest is no longer a clerk, but hath so gained the ear of the noble Rani, that she hath appointed him to be her secretary."

His breast swelled with pride as he authoritatively announced his new rank.

"Secretary to the Rani," cried the beggar in astonishment. "Secretary to the Rani. Behold how God rewardeth the deserving. Protector of the Humble," he whined, "it was my infirmity that led me to make the mistake."

"Be careful then not to make such a mistake again," replied Bipin, mollified by the beggar's submissive tone.

He tossed a pice into the beggar's outstretched palm. Then, with lordly gait, he strutted on his way through the bazaars.

That Bipin Dat had become a man of authority was quickly impressed upon the friends and acquaintances he encountered. With condescending dignity he returned their effusive salutations, clearly intimating that a wide gulf of distinction lay between Bipin Dat the Rani's present secretary, and Bipin Dat the former ordinary clerk. Upon the children that sedately played in his path he frowned so threateningly that they shrunk back at his approach. He carried his head as if his turban already swept the clouds. In his mind the question uppermost was, to what height might his ascending star of fortune still further exalt the name of Bipin Dat.

At length he turned from the broad, booth-lined thoroughfare into a narrow alley, and directed his steps toward the door of a squalid house. He halted and knocked several times before he received an answer to his summons. The door was cautiously opened, and a woman appeared.

"Is thy learned husband, Mohurran Goshi, within"? he demanded.

"My honored husband is at present deeply engaged in compiling the horoscope of a noble raja," replied the woman, "but if you will enter, I will bear him a message."

"Aye, do thou tell him that the Honorable Bipin Dat, Secretary to the Rani, would engage his ear for a space. Thy husband hath already done me service."

At the woman's invitation he crossed the threshold of a bare and dingy room, the air of which was filled with a savory odor, rising from a pot placed upon a small fire. To this, Bipin directed his attention, that ever in close sympathy with his stomach, was alert to be interested in the progress of cooking.

The woman disappeared from view through an inner door.

After an absence of several minutes she returned with a reply. Her husband, though deep in study, would nevertheless receive so good a client as the Rani's secretary. Would he be pleased to pass into the other room?

Bipin followed the woman's direction and found himself in an apartment divided in the center by a curtain. There, seated upon the floor, the grave astrologer Mohurran Goshi, was surrounded by books and a variety of scientific instruments.

For some moments after Bipin's entrance the astrologer appeared too profoundly absorbed in his work to notice the presence of his visitor. At last he withdrew his gaze from an abtruse calculation, and directed a keen glance toward the face of the Rani's secretary.

"Welcome, worthy Secretary," he exclaimed. "Thou seest I prophesied truly. Yesterday a clerk, to-day a secretary; who knows, to-morrow thou mayest attain thy ambition and become a zemindar."

"A zemindar, forsooth!" cried Bipin, disdainfully. "Thou must know, learned Astrologer, that my ambition now rises beyond the station of a zemindar. A raja! Why not a raja"? he exclaimed, strutting back and forth. "Why should I not aspire to become a raja"?

"There is truly no reason, good Secretary," replied the astrologer, "why you should not become a raja, if the fates are propitious. Is not the great Maharaja Sindhia descended from a slipper-bearer"?

"To be sure," acquiesced Bipin, confidently. "I see no reason why I should not become a raja, and for that matter even a maharaja."

"Thou mayest even become a king," suggested the astrologer, with a note of sarcasm in his voice.

"Perhaps, who can tell, a king," agreed Bipin, reflectively. "But not too great a jump at first, learned sir. One might become a trifle dizzy. At present I will beg of thee to cast thy eye into the future and see if I am in the right way to become a raja. To that end, is the moment propitious for my taking upon myself the duties of the Rani's secretary"?

The astrologer glanced slyly toward his client.

"For such work," he explained, "the fee is necessarily higher than it was in forecasting your path toward the position of a zemindar. The deeper an astrologer is required to penetrate into futurity, the larger is the sum he is compelled to ask for his services."

"Speak not of that," returned Bipin, grandiloquently.

"You may suppose that all the spoil of the Foreigners did not escape my fingers. Name thy fee for disclosing my way to become a raja."

The astrologer trading upon his client's vanity, named an extravagantly high figure. For a moment Bipin winced, but producing the money, he urged the astrologer to lose no time in the matter.

For a space, the astrologer pored over a chart of the heavens, muttering to himself unintelligibly; while Bipin impatiently awaited the result.

At last the astrologer spoke in an abstracted manner.

"Thy way to become a raja, O Secretary, is clearly revealed, but in thy path there stands a powerful enemy, who is even now within the palace of the Rani."

Bipin's countenance lengthened considerably.

"Is it that accursed pundit, Krishna Lal"? he asked.

"His name is not so written upon the heavens," returned the astrologer, "though its exact lettering I cannot as yet discern. But he is himself a raja and detesteth thee with all his soul."

"Blessed Devi"! exclaimed Bipin, with nervous apprehension. "What raja is there in the Rani's palace who beareth me so much ill-will. I know of no such one."

"So far he hath screened his animosity under a mask of kindness," replied the astrologer, returning to a scrutiny of his chart. "But thy path is clearly set in contradiction to his own. When they meet thou wilt be in danger of bodily harm. Thou wilt not lose thy life," he added, reassuringly, "but thou mayest be deprived of some of thy organs—thy nose, and possibly thy ears, good Secretary."

"Holy Kali," cried Bipin, impulsively raising his hand to his terror-stricken face. "At such a price I have no desire to be a raja. Nay, if such a danger encompasses me, the Rani may find another secretary."

"Patience, patience, good sir," continued the astrologer. "I did not say that there was no way of warding off these evils. By following such advice as I can give thee, thou mayest escape them all and yet live to be an unmaimed raja."

"Tell me how, I pray thee, O learned Astrologer," besought Bipin, with little trace of his importance remaining.

The astrologer appeared to reflect deeply before he replied:

"First, thou wouldst do well," he enjoined, "to remain in thy present service, because even if thou wert to fly to the end of the earth, that which is written on the heavens is bound to come to pass. But do thou carefully take note of everything in the palace, reporting each event to me from time to time, so that when thy evil moment approaches I can place before thee a sure defense. Especially do thou regard the actions of a Hindu noble recently arrived to join the Rani's cause. His looks I like not, though they be fair outwardly."

"Thou canst not mean the Raja Prasad Singh"? asked Bipin, in astonished accents.

"His name I cannot read as yet," returned the astrologer, "but if his image rises to thy mind from what I say, be assured he is the one who seeks to do thee so much injury."

Then the astrologer put a question pointedly.

"Of this Raja Prasad, of whom you speak. Does he stand close to the person of the Rani"?

"He is ever at her side," replied Bipin. "He seeks to be appointed to the command of the troops in Jhansi."

The astrologer shook his head gravely.

"Come to me again shortly," he concluded. "Then I will disclose to thee further. Remember to do as I have counseled thee."

As the astrologer appeared to be about to withdraw himself again into a state of profound abstraction. Bipin promised to return at an early date. With misgiving in place of elation in his heart, he left the house dejectedly.

"It seems to me," he reflected, as he made his way thoughtfully along the alley. "It seems to me I have gained little satisfaction by visiting that astrologer. For twenty rupees I have found out that the Raja, Prasad Singh, is an enemy who seeks to possess himself of my nose and ears. Twenty rupees is a large sum to pay for such information. What evil things might not the astrologer have disclosed for fifty rupees? As to Prasad Singh, he is evidently jealous of my influence with the Rani. I must keep a close watch on him, and report to the astrologer frequently."

Bipin had scarcely left the astrologer's presence, when the curtain was thrust aside and Ahmad Khan stood in the aperture.

"Well, noble sir," said the astrologer, "I think I reduced that fool to a pliable state for our purpose."

Ahmad laughed sardonically.

"It is well," he replied. "No doubt his fears will temper him into a useful tool. To-morrow I return to the Rani's court in a new character. Keep my counsel, O Mohurran, and thou shalt receive better pay than thou ever didst before in thy musty calling, well recompensed as I note it is. One thing we have gleaned from his chatter. It was that dog of a Prasad who advised the Rani to play me such a trick. He aspires to become commander of the troops, does he? Well, he will yet be obliged to seek his appointment at the hands of Ahmad Khan, Raja of Jhansi."

Chapter V
AHMAD RETURNS TO COURT

The rains had burst over India with terrific force. Even the arid and ever drought threatened State of Jhansi received a deluge. This soon rendered the main lines of communication impassable, and cut Jhansi off from the outside world.

Rumors only of stirring events reached the Rani's ears. In that mysterious way, by which news in India seems to filter through inanimate channels, she heard of the Foreigner's advance upon Delhi; but of the course which they intended to pursue toward her own State, she could obtain no reliable information. It appeared as if their desperate need to strike a blow at the center of the revolt would leave her unmolested for the present.

This was satisfactory as it gave her time to prepare for their return. But her position was still precarious from danger near at hand.

In the city of Jhansi her authority was now unquestioned, even though the rivalries among her retainers made it a delicate matter to enforce. But in the remaining parts of the State, the nobles, uninfluenced by her personality, were not so ready to submit to what they were inclined to regard as the capricious rule of a girl. From similar instances they feared the advent to power of some court favorite. More than one, also, had claims of his own to urge forward to the prize that had fallen into the Rani's grasp. With native caution they had waited for the result of the coup d'état before irrevocably declaring their own hands.

Thus, with the exception of a few minor nobles, the Rani's proclamation of her accession had been received by the Jhansi rajas throughout the State in ominous silence. A disquieting report persistently reasserted that the Maharaja Sadescheo, a cousin of the late Raja of Jhansi was collecting troops near his fortress of Shahpur, for the purpose of joining forces with the Peshwa. This did not deceive the Rani's alert intelligence. A descent upon the city of Jhansi was, in her reckoning, the Maharaja's more probable aim.

Under these circumstances she had prudently secured the gates and ramparts of Jhansi with her own soldiers, leaving the fort and cantonments without the city in the possession of Ahmad Khan, whose sullen attitude she viewed with anxiety. While the Mohammedan noble seemed to possess every evil trait to which mortal flesh is heir, she fully appreciated the control of his ferocious bravery, as an awe inspiring weapon to hold over the heads of those who yet disputed her title.

His plea of sickness, as an excuse for his absence from her court, if a ruse to screen other motives, was not confirmed by any sign of action. She was led to hope, that by the use of subtle influence, his allegiance might be retained without making too great a sacrifice to his ambition.

How to accomplish this was the question of the hour.

The Rani was seated in one of her private apartments discussing the news of the morning with Prasad, when Bipin entered. He paused within the door, and glanced suspiciously at the Hindu noble.

"Well, learned Secretary," greeted Prasad affably, "Thy face seems to reflect the scowl of the elements. Doth the weight of thy exalted office press too heavily upon thy turban"?

"Thanks to the Rani's graciousness," returned Bipin, "my turban rests lightly enough; and its folds well protect my ears," he added significantly.

"He shall not imagine," thought Bipin, "that I am not forewarned of his accursed design."

Prasad laughed good naturedly as he regarded the unusual size of the secretary's head covering.

"It is almost large enough to protect thy nose as well, good Bipin," he suggested.

The solemn expression on the secretary's face deepened as he received what he believed to be sure confirmation of the evil lurking in Prasad's mind.

"As the saying is, noble sir," he rejoined with an assumption of sage gravity. "He who looks well to the roof of his house need trouble little about an approaching storm."

"Truly Bipin, thou art a philosopher," remarked the Rani with a smile.

"Aye, always by thy favor, noble Lady," he answered.

"I keep a good watch not only upon my nose and ears, but upon all my other possessions."

The secretary concluded this passage of words with a wary look directed toward Prasad. He then advanced and delivered a missive to the Rani.

"From the Maharaja Sadescheo of Shahpur," he said, bowing. "A messenger hath just delivered it at the palace."

The Rani took the letter eagerly.

"Ah," she exclaimed. "Now we shall know whether Sadescheo's newly acquired martial spirit leads him to join the Peshwa. If I mistake not, his avarice prompts him to cast longing eyes upon the revenues of Jhansi. It is a treasure chest rather than honor which men like Sadescheo crave."

She hastily opened the letter and gathered its contents.

"Go," she cried with a commanding air, to Bipin. "Go, but remain within call, as I may need thy services."

When Bipin had retired, she handed the letter to Prasad.

"Read that, my Lord," she exclaimed. "We need no longer remain in doubt as to Sadescheo's reason for collecting troops. He reminds me that as the late Raja's cousin he is entitled to some voice in the settlement of affairs, and that until I have been proclaimed in a Darbar of the Jhansi nobles, he cannot recognize my right to inherit the throne. The fool! the fool"! she continued passionately. "How many of them are there to be taught that the power of Lachmi Bai doth not rest upon the will of nobles, but in her own spirit, and in the love of her people."?

Prasad, in turn, read the letter, and then tossed it contemptuously from him.

"Who is this Sadescheo that presumes to question your authority"? he demanded.

"Oh," she returned with a gesture of disdain. "Maharaja Sadescheo possesses a fortress at Shahpur. He hath some followers; but he would never have dared to address me in this fashion had Ahmad Khan remained at my side. I fear he must have received some hint of the Mohammedan's defection."

"Ah! Ahmad Khan! Ahmad Khan"! Prasad ejaculated impatiently. "His name is ever sounding in my ears."

He rose abruptly and passed to one of the windows where he gazed angrily out upon the lowering clouds, that swept across the sky, at intervals drenching the land with cyclonic violence.

Then as if a resolution was suddenly formed in his mind, he returned to the Rani's side and besought her in fervent accents.

"Fair Rani," he cried. "Why speakest thou so much of this Ahmad Khan? Surely thou canst no longer hold him in thy favor. One look upon his surly countenance and thou beholdest treachery marked by every line. Of this, recently thou hast had ample proof. But give me, ah, dear lady, I implore thee, give into my hands the command of thy troops, and thou shalt see how quickly I will subdue this presumptuous Maharaja."

The Rani smiled approvingly upon his eager countenance, but shook her head negatively.

"Prasad, well do I believe in thy devotion and courage, but thou art hasty in judgment. Consider how rash would be thy action. Thou wouldst carry my troops away to Shahpur, and leave me—to whom wouldst thou leave the defense of the city? To Ahmad's soldiers? Nay surely! No," she added thoughtfully. "In my mind all such work without the city must fall to Ahmad's lot. But how to control his savage nature, for the moment, I see not clearly."

Prasad again paced to a little distance. An expression of keen disappointment settled on his face.

"Nay Prasad," she enjoined in a gentle voice. "Be not out of humor with me. Thou dost not rightly see these things. Thou dost not understand what bitter jealousy would be stirred up among my own people, if I gave to thee that which many worthy officers covet most. Ahmad may be a greater villain than even thou wouldst have him, but forget not he goes to battle with greater zest than to a banquet. Bloodshed and rapine are his calling, and few there are who do not shudder at his name. Ah! If I could only send him forth to this impertinent Sadescheo."

"Is it possible thou, too, art afraid of him"? suggested Prasad.

A laugh of derision escaped the Rani's lips.

"Lachmi Bai afraid of Ahmad—of anyone? Nay, you know her not, O Prasad."

The Hindu noble's intense jealousy prompted him to an ungallant retort. He turned quickly toward her and muttered between his clenched teeth:

"Perchance thou art in love with the Mohammedan"?

She rose to her feet and stood confronting him; her form quivering with emotion; her cheeks aflame; her eyes flashing threateningly; her breast throbbing with the insult.

"Dare not thou ever speak to me again such thought," she retorted sternly. "Dost think that I, of noble birth and lofty caste, would descend to gratify the passion of an accursed Moslem, even if he could place upon my head an empire's crown. Dost think—Ah, Prasad," she continued in a softer tone. "Thou art surely out of thy mind to speak thus to me. Thou hast forgotten that although I am the Rani, I am still a woman. I did not think this of thee."

Her voice quavered as the passion roused by the insult to her dignity gave place to a realization of the wound made, by one, for whom she had come to form a tender regard.

Prasad glanced at the eyes from which the fire had been quenched by gathering tears. He was seized with contrition, and cast himself abjectly at her feet.

"Ah! Beast that I am," he cried in accents of self reproach. "How dare I throw a doubt upon thine honor? Forgive me. Forgive my folly, thou dear one. Surely thou knowest it is my love for thee, which maketh me hate the very name of any other uttered by thy matchless lips. I vow it is my only desire to do thee service, aye, if it be the will of God, to give my life for thee."

She rested a hand gently upon his shoulder, and gazed down upon him with affection.

"This time thou art forgiven," she returned. "But distress me not so again, my Prasad. Thou shall yet do me not unrequited service, if thou canst be unresentful of the means I am compelled to use to make my will obeyed. If thou seest me take in hand a two edged sword, be assured it is the best weapon I can find to parry disloyalty in both Hindu and Mohammedan."

"So be it, fair lady," he replied. "Thou art my will, my life."

He rose to his feet and for the moment was tempted by an uncontrollable desire to enfold her in his arms. He took a hurried pace forward, but the act was prevented by the entrance of a woman servant.

"My Lady Rani," the latter announced. "Ahmad Khan hath come to the palace. He urgently craves an audience with your Highness."

The Rani's face expressed welcome surprise.

"So," she cried. "Ahmad returns to caress the hand that sways his destiny. Fierce beast that he is. I—I am his mistress, aye, his master.

"Come," she added, beckoning to Prasad. "Be watchful of thy temper, O good friend."

When the Rani entered the room in which Ahmad was waiting, he saluted her with profound reverence. Thrice he made a courtly salaam at a respectful distance. In his outward manner there was no sign of the arrogance which had marked his last abrupt entrance into her palace.

Whatever conclusion the Rani drew from the glance directed toward him, she extended a friendly greeting. "Thou art welcome, Ahmad," she exclaimed, intimating her pleasure that he should draw nearer. "Thou art ever welcome to the Palace of the Rani. I trust thou art recovered from thy sickness."

"Noble Lady," he replied, as if with an effort. "The physician had enjoined a longer period of confinement to my room; but the news from Shahpur made me hasten to thy side."

The Rani started.

"Hast thou heard from Sadescheo then"? she asked wistfully.

"Of him rather than from him, noble Lady," replied Ahmad. "Sadescheo gathers troops about his fortress, so it is thy humble servant's advice that thou dost, without loss of time, dispatch a strong body to learn his reason."

The Rani turned a searching look upon the Mohammedan.

He met her gaze unflinchingly.

"Then will I set forth to bring this dog of a Maharaja to his senses"?—Page [57].

"Noble Rani," he petitioned. "Thou hast good cause to doubt my faith and word. But, gracious Lady, hear my explanation. True is it that Bahadur Shah commanded me to protect the Government of Jhansi, but surely for thy sake. My people were carried away by their zeal and triumph over the Foreigners. They were guilty of an offense against thy authority. In the same enthusiasm of the hour I, too, lost control of my proper reverence for thy person. For this, noble Rani, I do seek thy pardon; and as evidence of my regret, I beg that thou wilt direct me to march instantly with three hundred Afghan troopers, who have arrived this morning without the city, and demand submission of this Sadescheo. Be assured if he does not comply speedily, I will rout his people like sheep before a band of wolves. In chains, at my horse's hoofs, will I drag him and his relatives hither."

While Prasad gazed with wonder at the Mohammedan's altered manner, the Rani assured him that the past had already been forgotten.

"Then will I set forth for Shahpur, noble Rani," he asked, "to bring this dog of a Maharaja to his senses"?

"Not so hastily, my Lord," the Rani answered thoughtfully. "The sword once out of its sheath, the fight is on, and who knows what a turmoil we may stir up in the state. Wiser it would seem to me, to overawe Sadescheo by a display of greater force. How many people, think you, hath he already collected to his support"?

"Noble Lady," replied the Mohammedan, "I know, nor care not. But give to me the order and with a hundred Afghans to every thousand of his people few will remain in Shahpur to tell of Ahmad's visit."

"Ahmad, good friend," replied the Rani authoritatively. "That must not be. Well do I know and appreciate thy courage, but bloodshed among ourselves is what I strive to avoid."

"Better to crush the cobra before it raises its head," he remarked significantly.

"Aye, but I would rather that with thy Afghan horsemen, thou dost take an equal number of my troopers. Then will Sadescheo perceive that both Hindu and Mohammedan are united in my cause, and will submit without resort to force."

Ahmad appeared to coincide with her argument.

"Thou speakest ever wisely, O Rani," he returned. "But in such event might not I ask that the noble Prasad Singh here, doth lead thy troops, if he will deign the comradeship of so rough a man at arms."

Prasad looked up eagerly at the unexpected request, and implied compliment. He began to view Ahmad in a different light.

"With the Rani's permission, gladly will I do so," he acquiesced.

The Rani perceived that Prasad's presence with the expedition might act as a restraining influence, as well as a safeguard upon the Mohammedan.

She gave her consent readily.

"Thou wilt take three hundred of my horsemen," she addressed Prasad, "and accompany Ahmad Khan to Shahpur. Upon thy return a Darbar shall be held in which I will make the chief appointments in the state."

She then turned to Ahmad and asked if it would be possible for him to reach Shahpur in the present state of the weather.

"Fair Lady," replied the Mohammedan. "Have I not fought among the Afghan passes when the winter snows were tinged a bloody red. Have I not chased Kurd horsemen into their bleak fastnesses. Such squalls as these but refresh the mettle of our steeds. Fear not, at daybreak, Ahmad Khan will break his fast with Sadescheo."

"Then farewell, my Lords," the Rani cried. "Go, terrify Sadescheo as much as thou wilt, but, remember, draw not the sword unless thou art compelled as thou regardest my favor."

Ahmad saluted and retired first from her presence. Prasad was about to follow, when he paused a moment.

"What are thy commands"? he asked in a low tone, as if he expected an order yet to be disclosed.

"Be watchful," she replied. "For the present he may be trusted, because"—

A smile of triumph broke upon her face as she concluded—

"If thou dost love the Rani, remember her command."

She passed to a window and watched the two nobles mount their chargers. Her spirit was stirred by the sight of their martial bearing.

"Ah"! she sighed regretfully. "Ah! How I would like to be one of them. To be a man and ride forth sword in hand, to battle; to hear the cannon roar, and mingle with the clash of arms. Perhaps, who can tell, some day the Rani may command her troops in person."

Then her thoughts took another channel.

"Sadescheo," she exclaimed. "Sadescheo! Poor, foolish, coward. I have no fear how he will act when the dawn finds Ahmad demanding admittance, in my name, at the gates of Shahpur."

Chapter VI
THE OATH

Faithfully Ahmad kept his word to the Rani. Through the black, tempestuous night, he swept over the road to Shahpur. He recklessly plunged into swollen torrents. He callously hurled himself upon whatever obstacles lay in his path. Whirlwinds and stormbursts seemed in sympathy with his furious nature, bearing him onward rather than impeding his progress. Struggling, swearing, crashing in his wake, the troopers followed as best they could. A horse falling through sheer exhaustion, rider and beast were left to extricate themselves. Another, carried away in the flood of a river, was, without a saving effort, abandoned to his fate. To Ahmad, such incidents were only manifestations of the Will of Allah, by which all men must die when their appointed hour had come.

This exhibition of splendid recklessness was not without effect upon the brave spirit of Prasad. With rigid features he strenuously spurred forward at Ahmad's side. In his mind there gradually formed an understanding of the value which the Rani placed upon the services of the Mohammedan. It was like a bolt of lightning held in reserve, a force to be controlled only with the greatest skill and prudence; yet one that launched forth, burning to destroy, and oblivious of meeting with destruction itself; a terrible and awe-inspiring object.

Seldom were words exchanged. A guttural oath occasionally burst from the Mohammedan's lips as he found his way momentarily blockaded; an exclamation of anger went forth upon the night as he glanced back over his shoulder to discover that his pace had outstripped that of his followers.

The sullen break of day found Ahmad Khan and his companions, shaggy, dirt begrimed, with sodden garments, emerging from a ravine. At the entrance, perched upon the summit of a rock, rose indistinctly in the misty half light, the gray walls of the citadel of Shahpur.

He halted his men for a short space to enable stragglers to rejoin the party, and to perform a religious act. In Ahmad's nature, there was mingled with an absolute lack of human principle, a strange leavening of superstitious reverence. The more villainous the project upon which he was bent, the more scrupulous would he be in conforming to certain outward observances of his religion. If a murder was to be accomplished by the basest treachery, he would as fervently call down the blessing of Allah upon the act, as if another were about to sacrifice himself in some deed of true heroism.

He unrolled a small piece of carpet, and spread it upon the ground. Then he knelt with his face toward the west, and remained a few minutes in prayer.

"There is but one God and Mohammed is the Prophet of God," he solemnly ejaculated at its conclusion.

Several of his troopers added an amen.

He rose and remounted.

He then carefully inspected the company, arranging them in double file. This done to his satisfaction he cautiously led the way toward the mouth of the ravine, taking advantage of such cover as was afforded by the low underbrush and projecting spurs of rock.

Ahmad thus advanced into a narrow sinuous path leading up to the main gate of the citadel, when he pressed forward so rapidly and noiselessly, that he was demanding admittance of the keeper, before the watchers on the walls had discerned his approach.

"Open there," he shouted, "to Ahmad Khan and the noble Prasad Singh, bearing a message from the Rani of Jhansi."

Ahmad Khan! Ahmad Khan! A panic seized those within the gates roused from their slumbers by the stentorian voice of the Mohammedan.

"Open dogs," he thundered, as his summons failed of an immediate response.

"Noble lords," at last came a quavering rejoinder. "Maharaja Sadescheo yet sleepeth. The gates cannot be opened without his order."

"Wake him then," cried the Mohammedan. "By God's holy Prophet, time passes upon an urgent matter."

"Noble lords, that is impossible."

"Accursed jackals. Am I to batter down the gate. Go to thy master, and if thou wilt, lay all the blame on Ahmad Khan. He will awaken quickly, enough, if I mistake not," he added.

A short period elapsed, passed restlessly by Ahmad, when the voice was again raised within the gate.

"Maharaja Sadescheo extends greeting. He would welcome the noble Ahmad Khan and his followers but that the citadel is already over filled. If the noble Ahmad Khan will enter unattended, then will Sadescheo gladly see him."

Ahmad cast himself impulsively from the saddle.

"Thou wilt not accept this challenge, surely"? asked Prasad.

"Surely will I," the other retorted. "Thou wilt keep these fellows here, and if I do not return or send for thee within an hour, thou canst ask the reason by an assault upon the gate. But there is no danger."

He passed through the massive door and found himself in a courtyard filled with Sadescheo's recently collected soldiers. As he strode inward fearlessly, they fell back before his grim and martial bearing. His way made clear through these, he was conducted to a room in the interior of the fortress to await the Maharaja.

With soldierly instinct Ahmad stepped to a window that commanded a partial view of the defenses.

"A good position," he reflected, as his glance swept along the walls, "and worth holding if garrisoned by a handful of Mohammedans instead of this Hindu rabble. Sadescheo"!—

A smile broke upon his face.

"Sadescheo thinks to trick the Rani of Jhansi. By God! he little knows with whom he has to deal. She would make a fit wife even for the illustrious Dost Mohammed, the Lion of Afghanistan. I warrant there is more in that bewitching form than most give credit for. Thus, for the undoing of this accursed Prasad, will Ahmad for a time become her humble slipper bearer. Allah! what is it in the girl that moves a man in spite of himself."

A voice pronouncing his name interrupted the trend of his thoughts. He turned abruptly to confront a man of past middle age, whose weak features bore evidence of a life of sensual debauchery. With outstretched hands Sadescheo greeted the Mohammedan.

"Thou hast come unexpectedly, and apparently without waste of time upon the road, O Ahmad," he exclaimed, eyeing the Mohammedan's travel-stained attire. Then in a lower tone, "Hast determined to assist in ousting that chit of a girl from the Raj of Jhansi"?

Ahmad drew himself up to his full height as he replied haughtily.

"I have come from Her Highness the Rani to know the reason of your collecting troops, and to demand a recognition of her authority."

"Come! come! Good Ahmad," the other rejoined. "It is early in the day for pleasantry. It is a new thing for Ahmad Khan to joke."

"A joke," repeated Ahmad sternly. "By the Prophet's beard it is no joke. On the Koran I have sworn to support the Rani."

The feeble smile on Sadescheo's face gave place to an expression of dismay.

"Thou canst not mean this," he returned, "for but the other day thou didst send a messenger agreeing to our plans."

"And to-day," retorted Ahmad threateningly, "I come in person to denounce that same messenger as a liar. Briefly, good friend, it doth not suit Ahmad Khan to oppose the Rani for the purpose of uplifting Sadescheo."

"Then thou hast surely chosen an ill-fitting place to make the declaration," replied the Maharaja significantly. "Perchance Ahmad Khan may remain in Shahpur until he again finds it expedient to change his mind. He does not seem to be aware that he speaks within the walls of Sadescheo's fortress."

With a rapid movement Ahmad was at Sadescheo's side. Roughly he laid a firm grasp upon the Maharaja's shoulder, while his disengaged hand fell to the hilt of a dagger protruding from his girdle.

"Aye, and thou art in Ahmad's power," he muttered fiercely. "If he sees fit to change his mind, that is his affair. If he orders thee to throw open thy gates to his people, three hundred Afghans and as many of the Rani's troopers, impatient to enter, yea or nay, and summon hither his lieutenant, thou hadst better do it quickly, or he will open thy body and toss forth thy chicken heart to swine. Art willing to follow such advice, valiant Sadescheo"?

Sadescheo glanced timorously toward the open door. Within call were a dozen armed retainers who at the raising of his voice would rush to his assistance. But he knew full well that before they could reach his side, Ahmad's dagger would be buried a foot deep in his breast. If in turn, the Mohammedan were slain after he had made a pile of corpses to fall upon, that would be little satisfaction to him personally. He therefore called an attendant and gave the required order. For a moment the servant hesitated. "Go," cried Sadescheo nervously. "Go do my bidding, swiftly. What would you have now"? he asked of Ahmad.

"That my troops receive food and lodging for the day," replied the other, "and that on my return to Jhansi to-night my lieutenant, Suliman Abhas and a hundred Afghans replace your people on the walls of the citadel. Further, thou wilt proclaim the Rani in Darbar and hoist her banner on the gate."

To this Sadescheo made a gesture indicative of enforced compliance.

Presently, heavy footsteps in the passage announced the approach of Prasad and Ahmad's lieutenant.

Upon entering they glanced from Sadescheo, still held in Ahmad's grasp, to their leader, and waited.

With grim ceremony he presented them to the Maharaja.

Sadescheo bade them a reluctant welcome.

"With your permission, noble sir," suggested Ahmad, "we will proceed to your hall of audience. There the Rani's title will be proclaimed, and we will rest upon our return to Jhansi."

Before an hour had passed the Rani of Jhansi's banner was flying beside that of Sadescheo, and Ahmad's troops had replaced those of the Maharaja on the walls.

That night the two nobles set forth on their return to the capital.

The burst of the monsoon in Jhansi had for the time passed over, so they rode leisurely through the clear atmosphere. First, they discussed the general prospects of the rebellion, then their successful descent upon Sadescheo, and lastly the condition of their personal affairs.

"You carried your life upon the blade of your sword, when you entered Sadescheo's fortress," remarked Prasad admiringly. "It was an intrepid act."

Ahmad laughed carelessly.

"In truth no," he returned. "There are some men, I grant you, with whom it would have been a venturesome thing to do. It would be a dangerous trick to play upon such a one as Dost Mohammed, whose valour and resource rise with the greater odds against him. But with this Sadescheo"—

He uttered an exclamation of contempt as he concluded:

"Upon him you have but to frown, and he shivers from his turban to his slippers."

They rode on in silence for some distance across a wide plain, the troopers following in a long procession, phantom like by the light of the moon.

Ahmad, apparently deep in thought, at last spoke in a reflective manner.

"Thou art a fortunate man, friend Prasad. Providence hath undoubtedly taken thy affairs into her special keeping."

"How so"? the other asked. "If by casting obstacles at every turn of my way she is doing me good service, then only am I the most fortunate of men."

"Why, good comrade," returned Ahmad. "Is it not great fortune to stand so high in the beautiful Rani's favor. What could man desire more"?

Prasad turned a glance quickly upon the Mohammedan, but his companion's head was bent downward toward the pommel of his saddle.

"If I stand high in her favor," he replied, "then she well keepeth it a secret."

"Dost thou not count it a favor"? asked the Mohammedan, "to be appointed to the supreme command of her troops when many crave so honorable a post."

"She hath not appointed me to any office," replied Prasad, "except upon this expedition, which was owing to thy suggestion."

Ahmad raised his face upon which rested a well feigned look of surprise.

"Truly you astonish me," he exclaimed. "But the Rani is a prudent woman, and doubtless waits a favorable moment to give it to thee. At the Darbar she will probably pronounce thy name in honor."

"I doubt it much," returned Prasad, "though I grant you she is a mistress in the art of not making clear her mind."

"Tut, tut," ejaculated Ahmad soothingly. "Woman like, she is but playing with thee awhile. But I know well she holdeth thee in high esteem. How could she do otherwise than appreciate the gallantry of so fine a soldier. For me," he added indifferently, "I possess little influence with the Rani, and at any moment I may be called away to set the Emperor's house in order. But when I make my report of this little business, be assured I will not fail to keep thy name in mind. If a humble word of mine can do thee service, it shall not remain unspoken."

The eyes of the two men met in a steady gaze. Upon the Mohammedan's face stern and cold as it appeared, Prasad could detect no sign of hidden motive. He had yielded homage to the man's reckless valor; might there not, he argued, after all dwell beneath the rough exterior, a generous nature, carried away at times by mad impulse.

"If thou wouldst do this for me," he returned, "thou wilt have placed me under obligation of a life. To command the Rani's troops is now my great ambition."

For an instant a sarcastic smile flickered about the Mohammedan's lips. But it was gone before it could be detected.

"Gladly will I take an oath upon the holy book to do it," he answered. "These officers of the Rani are well enough, but they lack that proper martial spirit which, as a soldier, I have noted plainly in thy conduct. For myself, my aims now lie elsewhere than in Jhansi; but even were that not so, I would willingly yield to thee the office, as it is but right a Hindu noble should command the forces of a Hindu queen."

"Ahmad," Prasad cried enthusiastically. "I have done thee an injustice. More, I have ever done the same as those of thy religion. It is said a Moslem can never be a friend. Henceforth I vow that such is false."

Ahmad bowed his head in acknowledgment of the other's confidence.

"Everyone hath an enemy," he replied, "who will misrepresent a good intention. If influence of mine can do thee service, by the holy Kaaba I swear the Rani will go into Darbar with but thy name upon her lips.

"Come! The day breaks," he concluded, "and we are still some leagues from Jhansi."

Again he halted to dismount and pray with his face toward holy Mecca.

Ahmad's devotions were of short duration. He concluded with a petition to Allah to witness the truth in his heart. Then vaulting into the saddle, he drove his spurs into his horse's flanks. With arms glinting in the sunshine, at a canter, he bravely led the cavalcade.

Chapter VII
HOW AHMAD KEPT HIS OATH

Ahmad returned alone to the Rani's palace. To avert all suspicion of his conduct, he dismissed his Afghans to the cantonments on approaching the city. With the plea of furthering Prasad's interest, he had advised the Hindu noble to absent himself when the report of their expedition was made. It would be difficult, he explained, to properly advocate the claim of another, if the person chiefly concerned were present.

Prasad clearly perceived the force of the Mohammedan's suggestion. He relied implicitly upon the other's good faith, and readily acquiesced.

"Make my best salaams to the divine Rani," he enjoined Ahmad on parting, "and say that I will come to her side as soon as I have changed my attire for garments more suitable to the presence of a queen."

Ahmad vowed that he would leave no compliment unsaid on Prasad's behalf.

"In truth," he reflected, as he proceeded on his way, "I may be wrong, but this Rani of ours seems rather to prefer the smell of powder to the most delicate perfume of Teheran. I fancy the courtier finds less favor in her eyes than the man-at-arms. Ah what a treasure! What an houri. She must, by the God of Islam, she shall be mine, if I am compelled to play a hundred different parts in turn."

As Ahmad dismounted, the beggar who had petitioned everyone entering the palace that morning, ceased his cry for alms. He crouched further into his corner as instinct told him it was the fierce Mohammedan at hand—one whose boast was that he neither feared nor pitied any human being.

Ahmad remarked the beggar's action.

"Thou poor wretch," said he in a voice into which he threw as much compassion as he could assume. "Art dumb now as well as blind."?

Surprise was depicted on the face of the beggar, who had learned by past experience to expect a curse if he ventured to address Ahmad Khan.

"Noble Lord," he faltered. "Is it truly the voice of the great Ahmad that I hear"?

"Whose voice else"? demanded the Mohammedan in return.

The beggar shrugged his shoulders.

"Lord I know not," he answered.

Ahmad cast a small coin at the beggar's feet, and ascended the palace steps.

On the porch Bipin had been an interested spectator of the scene.

"Blessed Devi," he reflected. "What next will happen? Perchance we shall behold Ahmad Khan robed as a Mollah calling his people to prayer, from the balcony of a minaret. Everyone seems to be what he is not. To think that the well-looking Prasad should possess so villainous a heart, and the black Mohammedan display compassion for the unfortunate."

Bipin was still in a most unhappy frame of mind. That morning another circumstance had occurred fraught with ill-omen. A white cat bereft of one eye had persistently endeavored to sharpen its talons in his legs. To fathom the significance of the beast's actions, Bipin had promptly repaired to his friend the astrologer, who for a monetary consideration, had assured his client that they betokened the swift unfolding of Prasad's design. As a consequence, Bipin had armed himself with an ancient and rusty flint lock pistol, the massive butt of which protruded from his waistband.

The weapon at once attracted Ahmad's notice.

"What," he cried with gruff humor. "What do I behold? The worthy Bipin Dat, the man of peace, armed for mortal combat."

"Illustrious Lord," returned Bipin gravely. "When every man goeth armed, he is a fool who doth not follow the prevailing fashion."

"True, O Secretary," returned Ahmad, laying a familiar though heavy hand upon the other's shoulder. "Come, I like thee all the better for thy display of spirit. Soon thou wilt be wielding a sword with the best Afghan in my troop."

"And why should I not," rejoined Bipin. "One need not be born in a fortress to make a good fighter."

Ahmad threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Bipin," he replied, "I am inclined to think thou hast mistaken thy calling. Thou shouldst have been a soldier. Come! I will beg a commission for thee from Her Highness, so that thou mayest win the title, Singh."

"Not so fast, good sir," replied Bipin. "In dangerous times arms are well enough for protection, but he who makes a profession of exchanging blows receives too many for my liking."

Ahmad laughed again. "Well! well! Bipin," he exclaimed. "I make no doubt when the moment comes thou wilt acquit thyself with the best of us. But in the meantime I would see the Heaven endowed Rani."

Bipin turned, and beckoned Ahmad to follow. He led the way into the palace.

The Rani had feared that in spite of the solemn injunction she had laid upon Ahmad, his uncontrolled nature might have led him into some overt act against Sadescheo. She was relieved, early in the report, to learn, that he had managed to enforce her authority upon the Maharaja without igniting a racial conflagration within her territory.

"Ahmad," she cried with a display of satisfaction. "Thou hast done well indeed. How can I reward thy services sufficiently"?

"Noble Rani," he answered. "Thy approval of my actions is all the recompense I ask."

A momentary expression of added relief crossed the Rani's face.

She was afraid he might demand that which his soldierly qualities entitled him to claim, but which she still hesitated to give.

"If all others were only like thee," she returned, "how much easier would be my lot, how much more secure would be our position."

"Fair Lady," resumed Ahmad. "My position is uncertain, for I know not how soon I may be called away to sharpen the blunted teeth of Bahadur Shah's overfed soldiers. Wrangling among themselves over the plunder that has fallen into their hands at Delhi, they will scatter to the jungle like a band of jackals at the voice of the Foreign hunter. But if Ahmad Khan might presume to offer the great Rani some advice in certain matters, he would consider himself well repaid for any service he has rendered."

"Gladly will I hear thee, friend Ahmad," acquiesced the Rani.

"Principally is it," continued Ahmad, "in reference to the offices thou wilt doubtless make in Darbar to-morrow. Above all things it would be advisable to appoint a commander of the troops, to whom both thy Hindu and Mohammedan subjects will look with respect and confidence. If thou hast determined this already, then will the voice of thy humble servant remain silent."

"No Ahmad," returned the Rani thoughtfully. "I have not done so as yet. That matter troubles me more than all else. There are so many worthy aspirants that it is difficult to select the one who would suit the office best. Willingly will I listen to thy advice."

"Then, noble Rani," Ahmad proceeded, "Taking into account the conflicting aspects of the question, the man to be chosen must possess more than one qualification. Courage and daring must first of all be his birthright, but equally important is a knowledge of military strategy—none the less valuable if intuitive rather than acquired by experience, and in which rapidity of action must be the outward manifestation of an alert mind. To these must be added firmness of character to enforce discipline even to the point of seeming cruelty, holding human life in his own person and in that of others as of no account when necessary, yet not unmindful of the needs of his soldiers whose affection he will thereby gain in return. If, further, he should possess youth and a gallant bearing it will be to his advantage, for the trooper is ever the more eager to follow a captain of distinguished presence. If he possesses these qualities, noble Rani, even though thy selection were to fall upon a comparative stranger to the state, be assured thou wouldst act most wisely. Such a one I dare to have in mind."

Unconsciously Ahmad had faithfully portrayed the character as yet undisplayed of the girl before whom he stood.

In the pause which ensued it was evident the Rani was mentally reviewing the faces of those known to her who would be most likely to coincide with Ahmad's description.

"Ah"! she exclaimed at last. "Dost thou refer to Prasad Singh"?

A look of slight astonishment broke upon Ahmad's face.

"Prasad Singh"! he ejaculated. "Noble Lady," he protested, "for aught I know to the contrary Prasad Singh may possess all these qualities and more. Untried in any important affair, he may prove to be a great captain, though in our little ride to Shahpur, but for the banter of his rough companion, I think he would more than once have turned back. But Prasad surely is a good comrade and a handsome fellow, even if his name doth not hover on my lips."

"Whose name dost thou have in mind, then"? asked the Rani somewhat perplexed.

"It is the young officer Dost Ali, noble Lady," replied Ahmad confidentially. "Thou wilt have heard his father was a Maratha who was driven into exile by the Foreigners, and dying left his young son to the protection of the illustrious Dost Mohammed. Brought up by such a leader, he has well learned the trade of arms. By birth a Hindu and a Mohammedan by adoption, both factions in the state might well unite to serve under him. Moreover, such action on thy part would surely please the great Amir of Afghanistan, some of whose troopers are now a part of thy forces, and whose doubtful attitude toward the Foreigners might thereby be determined in support of India's cause."

The Rani turned from Ahmad and gazed out of a window pensively. There was forming quickly in her mind an ulterior object that might be promoted by following Ahmad's suggestion. Among her older officers there was a marked disposition to regard her opinion in military affairs lightly, as that of a mere girl whose judgment in such matters could be of no value. A younger man, susceptible to her personal charm, would, she thought, be more likely to follow, unhesitatingly, the dictates of her will.

"Thou hast observed the young officer of whom I speak, my Rani"? Ahmad asked with a shade of anxiety in his voice, as he waited on her answer.

"Truly I have," she answered. "I have remarked him well several times. I like his manner and appearance. There is much discernment in what thou sayest. For a space I will think over it, and to-morrow make known my decision."

Ahmad salaamed low and withdrew from her presence.

So far, he was satisfied with the favorable view the Rani seemed to take of his covert plan of installing a protégé of his own in one of the most important offices of the government, and the deeper project of eventually destroying his rival by that means.

The Rani proceeded to an inner court, and called her chief waiting woman to her side.

"Rati," she began. "I am curious to know what other women—the ladies of the zananas—think of me. Tell me, O Rati, thou who learnest such things, what is the opinion in such places of Lachmi Bai"?

The girl looked nonplussed.

"Speak truly," enjoined the Rani. "Flattery enough I can have for the wish."

The girl's uneasiness increased visibly.

"Noble Rani. They say. They say"—she hesitated.

"Yes, what do they say"? the Rani demanded impatiently.

"That thou art well gifted, O noble one," the girl replied evasively.

The Rani turned a look of displeasure upon the girl. "I did not ask for that," she spoke authoritatively. "Tell me what else do they say of me"?

"Some affirm that thou art as beautiful as the opening lotus, but others"—

The girl broke off timidly.

"Others," concluded the Rani with a smile. "Others are afraid for their sweethearts, aye Rati"?

"Perchance, noble Lady," acquiesced the girl.

The Rani's humor displayed itself in a silvery laugh that was echoed by the walls of the court.

"Rati," she commanded, "what more do they say"?

"O great one," petitioned the girl, "urge me not in this manner, lest thou become offended."

"Offended surely will I become unless thou doest as I bid thee."

The girl paused a moment, then proceeded fearfully.

"They say, O Rani, that thou art vain of thy beauty, and forgettest thy modesty as a Hindu woman by so openly consorting with soldiers and gallants."

"Say they so," the Rani cried passionately, stung to the quick by the implication.

The girl fell at the Rani's feet and implored her not to visit punishment upon an unwilling offender's head.

"Pardon, O Queen. Thou didst force me," she besought fervently.

"I am not angry with thee, poor girl," the Rani replied in a softened tone. "But while my actions are seen by all, to what do many of these zanana beauties stoop? The shutters of their windows can best tell. I will show them, these women of such fine sensibilities, how the Rani, for all her pride, observes a custom too much falling into disuse among the rich and great. I have heard that my honored guru[3] cometh to aid me with advice, that he even now approaches Jhansi. Go, therefore, order my bearers, so that I may go forth to receive him with all the respect due his office."

The girl rose, and departed to obey the Rani's behest.

The Rani raised a hand wearily to her forehead.

"So much discussion to appease," she murmured, "so much jealousy and envy among those who should assist, rather than thwart the only one who dared to do what has been accomplished. Love! Ah, only it seems do the poor and afflicted truly love the Rani. Even Prasad, who vows by all things sacred that my image beatifies his sleep, hath ever a favor uppermost in mind."

Presently a state duli[4] with curtains to screen the occupant from view, was carried to the entrance of the palace.

To the surprise of her servants the Rani came forth without her burkha, or long mantle, invariably worn by native ladies of rank to conceal the whole person in public.

She promptly ordered the curtains of the duli to be removed.

For a moment her servants hesitated to comply. Never before did they recollect such an order to have been given.

"What," she cried. "Dost thou not hear my command? Take those hangings away. I am not a Mohammedan, but a Hindu Rani in my own right. Of old time our princesses were not afraid to show their faces to the people. It is my pleasure that they shall know well the features of Lachmi Bai."

The curtains were hurriedly removed. The Rani entered her chair, and surrounded by her servants was borne in the direction of the city gate, through which it was expected her guru would enter.

At the head of the procession, the worthy secretary, Bipin Dat, marched with pompous dignity. Against all contingencies, he had prudently further armed himself with a long sword, that trailed in the dust at his side, and made him an awe inspiring object to the beggars that chanced in his way.

As the procession passed through the streets, the people saluted the Rani with terms of affection. Many turned to catch a glimpse of her face.

"See," they cried. "The Rani of Jhansi fears not the gaze of our eyes."

It had gone little more than half the distance to the gate, when it was met by a bullock cart in which rode an old man of venerable aspect.

The Rani seemed to instantly recognize his features. She commanded her bearers to halt.

"It is my dear Guru," she cried. "Ah, how glad I am to see him."

On his part the old man recognized the rich liveries of the servants as those of his godchild, the Rani. With an effort he dismounted from his cart and would have prostrated himself before her, had she not anticipated his action.

She alighted quickly and knelt at his feet. She embraced them affectionately, and cried in a voice which all might hear:

"O Guru, live forever. Grant a blessing to thy godchild, Lachmi Bai."

For a moment the old man's face reflected the astonishment of the crowd that had gathered. That she should thus humble herself in public was certainly a surprising act. But its significance was not lost upon the people, who, as the old man raised her in his arms tenderly, called down a thousand blessings on her head.

The first greetings over, the Guru was about to again climb into his rickety vehicle, when the Rani interposed. She insisted that he take her place in the duli.

At first, the old man demurred at so great an honor being accorded him. But the Rani was persistent.

"Before, I have ever met thee, dear Guru," she cried, "as but a poor captive in Jhansi. Now that I am the Rani, I desire my people shall see I am not unmindful of the ancient customs of our race."

Thus she followed on foot behind her Guru's chair, as the procession returned to the palace.

Chapter VIII
THE DARBAR

The great hall of the palace presented a splendid, an imposing spectacle. Its pillars were decorated with banners and trophies, its walls hung with rich draperies from the looms of Kashmir and Sind. At the further end a throne of ivory inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl, was placed under a gorgeous canopy. It stood upon a platform approached by a short flight of steps, covered with a Benares carpet of black velvet embroidered with gold thread. The subdued light, the atmosphere of antiquity, that pervaded the audience chamber of the Rani of Jhansi, enforced that reverential feeling, by which the human voice naturally sinks into a whisper.

As yet the throne was unoccupied.

In the body of the hall were groups of magnificently attired maharajas, rajas, and military officers, awaiting the entrance of the Rani. Diamonds blazed in turbans of many colors, ropes of pearls hung about their necks, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, scintillated in barbaric profusion amid the gold embroidery of their robes of state.

Amid these dazzling personages, Ahmad Khan, the humble servant of God, was a conspicuous figure by the simplicity of his martial uniform. In his new character he had evidently curbed his passion for outward display. In place of jewels he had mounted a green badge in his turban, as a sign that he was one among the Faithful who had obeyed the commandment of the Prophet and made the pilgrimage to the Holy City. Slung from his shoulder was a plain leather band suspending a sword encased, also in a plain leather sheath. But the sword was as sharp as the arm was strong to wield it. He gazed proudly round upon the throng. Was there any man who cherished evil in his heart? If so, his enemy was careful to display no outward sign of animosity.

Indeed, it was the knowledge that this awe inspiring warrior had openly espoused the Rani's cause, the report of his descent upon Sadescheo, carried swiftly to the boundaries of the state, that had brought many wavering nobles in haste to tender their allegiance at the first Darbar of the Rani.

Among the last to enter the hall before the hour set for the council was Prasad Singh. He had undoubtedly spent much time and thought in arraying his handsome form to striking advantage. A diamond aigrette rose from the folds of his turban directly above his forehead. A collar of emeralds encircled his neck, his long outer garment was stiff with embroidery, the velvet scabbard of his sword was encrusted with gems.

Ahmad who seemed to have been watching for Prasad, at once strode to the Hindu noble's side and greeted him with every outward mark of friendship.

He drew Prasad apart and spoke in an undertone to avoid being overheard.

"This is thy day, O Prasad," he said congratulatingly. "Thou wilt be reckoned as among the most fortunate of men. Thou mayest prepare thyself to receive the felicitations of both those who wish thee well and those who envy thee."

Prasad returned the Mohammedan's salutation responsively.

"What did the Rani say," he asked, "when thou spoke to her of me"?

"What could she say," replied Ahmad, in a tone as if he had advocated the other's cause so well that there could be but one conclusion drawn. "What could she say! I swear never did eloquence so flow from my tongue in any man's behalf, as it did for thee, my Prasad. I vowed to the Fair One that the appointment thou seekest should by every right be thine. Upon the Holy Book I swore that but for thy dash and bravery, even the war scarred veteran, Ahmad Khan, might have been compelled to turn his back before the fury of that night of storm, and the strength of Sadescheo's frowning walls."

Prasad's gratitude manifested itself in a warm tribute to the other's friendship.

"But," he protested with a slight accent of concern, "I fear thou mayest have performed thy task too well, O Ahmad."

"Not I," returned the other. "Fear not that one who has trod the pavement of the Afghan court has not learned to pick his way most warily. Be assured thy desire is already granted."

A sound of distant music broke upon their ears.

"Hark"! enjoined the Mohammedan in a whisper. "Hark! The Rani cometh to Darbar."

As the music drew nearer the nobles ranged themselves on either side of the hall leaving a passage in the center for the Rani and her attendants to approach the throne. A profound silence fell upon the brilliant assembly.

Nearer rolled the sound of an inspiriting martial air. Presently amid a loud clash of cymbals and the beat of drums, the foremost of the procession swept into the hall. Fans of peacock feathers waved aloft, emblems of state were borne before her to whom all eyes were directed.

"The Rani, the Rani," passed in an impressive whisper from mouth to mouth. In turn, each of the nobles made a low obeisance.

She walked with a stately, measured pace, a little apart from the rest of her suite. As she moved along the human aisle, the earnest expression on her beautiful features gathered an abstracted look, as if the thunder of the music crashing upward to the roof, carried her vision beyond the brilliant spectacle of the moment, to some perspective scene yet to be unfolded.

For the occasion she had robed herself with great magnificence after the Mohammedan rather than the Hindu fashion of ladies of high rank. Her reason was, perhaps, that it afforded her a better means of impressing those to whom a sumptuous display of jewels and fine raiment formed a considerable part of their existence.

In place of the simple, graceful sari, she wore an outer garment of scarlet cloth of gold, disclosing beneath, silken skirts of delicate hues and of such filmy texture that one might have supposed it was by a miracle the intricate embroidery of pearls had been stitched upon the material. Upon her head there rested lightly a cap of scarlet velvet set with pearls, that contrasted with the dark color of her gathered tresses. Pearls, lustrous, priceless pearls, adorned her neck, her ears, even her slippers. Upon her fingers, diamonds of Golconda served to draw attention to the symmetry of her hands.

"In the Paradise of the Prophet," murmured Ahmad as she passed, "could there be found such a one"?

Following in the Rani's train, the worthy secretary, Bipin Dat, marched with a lofty air, as if he trod upon the necks of the nobles present. His glance chanced to rest upon Prasad Singh. An inward tremor caused his spirit swiftly to descend to earth.

He hastily grasped a talisman that he had purchased from his friend the astrologer at great cost, and muttered a prayer.

"May holy Devi protect her servant from the accursed designs of the evil one."

The Rani approached the throne and seated herself with quiet dignity. On her right, the aged man, to whom she had accorded so great honor on the previous day, took up his station. Behind her, grouped themselves the personal retinue of her court.

The music ceased. Amid the silence which ensued, Ahmad Khan strode forward to the lowest step of the throne. He salaamed thrice before the Rani, then turned, and in a loud voice proclaimed her title.

"Behold," he cried. "The Pearl of Jhansi, the noblest of our Queens. Long live the fair Rani, Lachmi Bai."

The nobles gravely echoed the Mohammedan's salutation.

Then, one by one, they came forward, and were in customary form presented. They returned after the ceremony to chairs of state, or to seats upon the rugs spread on either side of the throne.

For each she found a suitable expression of greeting, but to Prasad she spoke in a gentler tone, and bade him take a place of honor at her hand.

"What did I tell thee," whispered Ahmad aside to him.

The Mohammedan had also been similarly favored by the Rani.

"What did I tell thee, friend. But I do not blame thy qualms. Lover like, thou canst not see a flower open until it is in full blossom."

A smile of gratification lit up Prasad's face, clouded for a moment as the Rani singled out the young Dost Ali, to stand upon the dais.

The presentations over, the Rani then rose to address the gathering. She spoke quietly but in her voice there was an unmistakable note of authority. It penetrated clearly to the furthest recesses of the hall.

First, she graciously thanked the nobles for their response to her summons to the Darbar, and their spontaneous recognition of her sovereignty. In return she assured them that her one aim was to promote the welfare of her state and people, that to everyone should be secured justice in his person and property.

"I who had suffered so much in that respect," she cried, "can never be unmindful of the misfortunes of others."

She then proceeded to confirm the nobles in all their ancient rights and privileges, and reviewed the situation as it related to the cause of India as against that of the Foreigners. The news from Delhi, she regretted to inform them, was unsatisfactory. Disrupted by internal dissension, the position of Bahadur Shah was fast becoming desperate, in the face of the investment of the city by the Foreigners. It was surely a warning to them in Jhansi, she declared emphatically, to submerge all personal animosities in the common object of defending to the death, the freedom they had regained with so much difficulty. She had, the Rani further related, dispatched trustworthy messengers to urge speedy action, on behalf of the cause, upon the powerful Maharajas, Gækwar of Baroda, Sindhia of Gwalior, and the great Mohammedan Nizam of Haidarabad. There was little reason to doubt that if they could only be persuaded to follow the unmistakable sympathy of their troops and people, Delhi might yet be preserved to the Emperor, and the Foreigners driven into the sea.

"But, my Lords," she cried, "we, at any rate, must prepare ourselves to defend the State of Jhansi against enemies from whatever direction they may come. The fortresses that have fallen into decay under the dominion of the Foreigners must be repaired speedily. New cannon must be cast forthwith and mounted on the walls. Ammunition and stores of grain above all our likely needs accumulated, and more troops raised to guard the passes. With your loyal co-operation, I have no doubt this necessary condition of affairs may be brought about with little waste of time."

The Rani paused for a short space; an interval that was utilized by her hearers in expressing their approval of her words.

At the commencement of her address they were impressed by her beauty and dignity; but as she proceeded amazement at her clear perception of the danger and needs of their position, gave place to all other feelings. More than one exclaimed:

"Truly the voice of Lachmi Bai is that of a great Rani."

With a motion of her hand she regained their attention, and continued:

"My Lords," she said. "To direct our best efforts for the end I have explained, there must above all things be established a firm central government in Jhansi. Not that I aspire to deprive any noble of his rule within his own district, but all authority must emanate from the throne it is mine by right to occupy. For this purpose certain officers of government must be appointed."

Ahmad's countenance remained impassive, while Prasad's gathered a look of eager expectancy.

"It is," the Rani continued, "partly to gain your approval of such appointments that I have called you to this Darbar. By such action, I trust, no jealousies will be aroused, no mistakes made that will stir up internal discord."

She paused for a moment, but as the countenances of the nobles thus far indicated approval of her words, she resumed.

"First, it is my desire that my honored Guru present, whose advice hath ever been of great benefit to me since my childhood, shall occupy the office of minister of state. In choosing him, you all know I am but following many ancient precedents, whereby Gurus of kings and princes have, by their wisdom, added luster to the crowns worn by their godchildren. Have I your approval of the appointment"?

Perhaps for the reason that no one particularly aspired to the office, perhaps because they might have thought there was little to be feared in the person of the venerable form at the Rani's side, the reply came unanimously, that the Rani's worthy Guru should be appointed her minister of state.

"It is well, my lords," she cried. "Now to a more difficult matter. It must be known to you all that an army without a chief commander, whose orders must be obeyed by everyone without question, is a mere rabble in the face of the enemy. But the difficulty in Jhansi is, that all my officers are so brave and competent, that to single one out from amongst the others for the high honor in my gift, is an impossibility. I have, therefore, to suggest a remedy in this way."

She moved forward to the edge of the dais and stood before them, a majestic figure.

"My Lords," she cried, stretching forth an arm. "I, Lachmi Bai, the Rani, will command the forces of the State. If anyone doth say me, nay, he hath the right to let his voice be heard in council. I will listen to him patiently."

At critical moments in the lives of those destined to play heroic parts in the eyes of their fellow creatures, it not infrequently happens, that nature appears to cast a vote in their favor, by a striking manifestation of sympathetic accord. To many, such may be no more than coincidences, but to some, particularly to the Oriental, they are fraught with deep significance.

The sun mounting over the Palace discovered a rent in the awning of one of the windows set in the roof of the Darbar hall. It sent forth a shaft of dazzling light that, penetrating the darkened chamber, descended full upon the form of the Rani of Jhansi. In her robes of state, for the moment, she appeared in a blaze of splendor, that to her audience betokened a supernatural power guiding her destiny. Against such, what was man, that he should dare to raise a voice in protest? Was it not clearly a sign that the blessing and protection of the great God rested on her head. Even to Ahmad Khan, surprised and dumbfounded by the Rani's unexpected action, as seeming to again baffle his carefully laid plans, the incident was not lost upon his sense of superstition. Prasad's mind merely reflected the feelings of the others. A profound silence followed the Rani's declaration. No man ventured a yea or nay.

The Rani waited patiently a few moments for their answer, then again spoke.

"By your silence, my Lords, am I to gather your consent"? she asked.

A Raja rose from his chair of state and replied:

"Surely thou art the Rani," he exclaimed. "Is it not the will of God that thy word shall be a law with us. Thou art the commander of us all."

"It is the will of God," came without a dissenting voice from all parts of the hall. "Aye, it is the will of Mahadiva."

The Rani warmly thanked the nobles for their confidence. She again eulogized their valor and loyalty, assuring them that when the moment of danger threatened, she would not be found wanting in courage, if necessary, to lead her army in person. So gentle yet so stirring was her appeal, that even the hearts of those before given over to sensual indulgences, were moved to do brave actions in her behalf.

They sprang to their feet and shouted enthusiastically. "Thou art our Rani. We will follow thee to the death, O Queen of Jhansi."

An expression of surpassing happiness rested on her face.

"Then, my Lords," she cried, "I bid you all attend me to-morrow when I will repair in state to the White Turret, and raise upon it my banner as the emblem of my military authority."

"And let him who dares," she concluded, "lift his hand against it."

The walls trembled with the applause which her concluding sentence and her defiant air brought forth.

Again she enjoined silence by a gesture.

"Before the Darbar closes," she added, "I have yet to speak a word to you. With much thought I have decided that the well tried valor of the noble Ahmad Khan, entitles him to the subordinate command of the forces quartered in the cantonments, as long as he shall remain in Jhansi. Further, for certain reasons, I will appoint as my lieutenant of Jhansi, the noble, Dost Ali, lately come to us from the great Amir of Afghanistan, Dost Mohammed."

Briefly she recapitulated the reason urged by Ahmad Khan for the Dost's appointment to the greater office. No voice dissenting she then declared the Darbar closed.

Kindly she turned to Prasad and invited him to accompany her to her private apartments.

With intense chagrin, jealousy, and disappointment in his heart, he bowed haughtily, and pleaded as an excuse a pressing matter requiring his presence elsewhere.

For a moment a look of pain crossed her face.

But the music again sounded, the fans of state waved on high, the procession re-formed, and between the ranks of salaaming nobles, the Rani retired from her first Darbar.

Ahmad Khan had scarce time to adjust his plans to the unexpected course taken by the Rani. But in the appointment of his protégé, even to the lesser position of honor, he beheld a dagger by which to stab his rival's favor with the Rani, a fatal blow.

Prasad strode toward the door, wrapt in gloomy, bitter feelings, without exchanging a parting salutation with anyone.

Ahmad followed quickly and caught up with the Hindu noble before the latter had crossed the threshold.

"Stay, good friend," he cried. "Thou art in a great hurry to shake the dust of the Darbar hall from thy feet."

"Aye," returned the other, with sullen ill humor. "And it will not be long before I shake the dust of the accursed city from my feet."

"Why so"? asked Ahmad with assumed astonishment.

"Why so," retorted Prasad angrily. "How canst thou ask, why so, after thy cajolery"?

Ahmad shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. "Friend, Prasad," he asserted. "I give thee my word, no man in the Darbar was more astonished than Ahmad Khan when the Rani grasped the sword of state herself."

For once he spoke the truth honestly.

"Of that I make no complaint," retorted Prasad. "If the Rani so wished it, hers was the prerogative; though a strange one for a woman to assert."

"Then to what hast thou taken so much offense"? asked the Mohammedan with apparent innocence.

Prasad, in turn, regarded Ahmad with a look of astonishment.

"Art thou so guileless, O Ahmad Khan"? he asked, "after all that has passed between us, not to imagine that I might be offended with the Rani's action, in giving to another—a stranger—that which she knew I besought of her favor."

"Ah! as to that, my Prasad," returned Ahmad, pacifically, "there may have been many reasons in the Rani's mind, apart from the chief one given. She may have assumed thou wouldst not have cared for the lesser honor conferred upon Dost Ali—by the way a handsome fellow too; or, woman like, mind, I say no word against the beauty, wisdom, and courage of the Rani, she may have admired the gallant bearing of this fellow. A new favorite, perchance. Thou must remember, good Prasad, she is a woman as well as Rani, and turneth her gaze first upon one, then toward another."

Prasad's brow scowled threateningly.

"By God," he muttered. "She shall not treat me so."

"Nay, nay, Prasad," Ahmad rejoined restrainingly. "Thou canst not dictate to the Rani. She would care little even if thou didst menace her with a sword. With her thou must fence with other weapons. I make no doubt it is but a passing fancy she hath conceived for this Dost Ali."

"Dost Ali"! Prasad muttered fiercely, "Dost Ali! Dost Ali had better look to the sharpening of his sword."

"Come! come, good Prasad," continued Ahmad, laying a friendly hand upon the other's arm. "Dost Ali hath no weight in the Lovely One's esteem. But display thy spirit and she will quickly turn again to thee, for she loveth thee in her heart, I could swear to it. Be advised in this way. Absent thyself from the ceremony of to-morrow. I will tell her I know not what ails thee, that thou art falling sick, perchance. Then behold how she will fly to thy side. Then see how speedily she will grant anything thou askest."

"Ahmad," the other returned gravely. "I know not what to think of thee. Thy ways here may win for thee the Seventh Heaven of thy Prophet's Paradise, or the lowest pit of his Inferno. But thou givest shrewd advice, I make no doubt."

Ahmad laughed. "Come, friend," he rejoined. "Clearly thou dost not understand a woman's ways. She delighteth in men striving for her favor, but let the chosen one display indifference, and she is at his feet. In the meantime let us to my house without the city. There," he added insinuatingly, "thou wilt discover a little treasure that may amuse thee—a Kashmir dancing girl of no ordinary charm, my Prasad. True her eyes, her lips, her form, are not comparable to the endowments of the superb Rani, but she hath a way with her that pleaseth many. Some of the Giours' spirits have I, too; and though as one of the Faithful I may not taste of such, yet thou mayest in their subtle waters, forget the passing cloud until the sun shall again blaze upon thy turban. Come! Let us away, and forget our disappointments. All will yet go well with thee."

To this proposal, after some demur, Prasad reluctantly consented.

With a courtly bow that concealed the sinister smile upon his face, Ahmad motioned the Hindu noble to take precedence of him, by passing first out of the Darbar hall.

Chapter IX
AT THE HOUSE OF AHMAD KHAN

The house of Ahmad Khan, with numerous out-buildings, was situated in a large compound, pleasantly shaded by willows, and overlooking the placid waters of the lake that stretched over a wide expanse to the eastward of the city. Both externally and internally its atmosphere suggested the impression that the owner was not averse to a comfortable, even a luxurious retreat after the hardships and dangers of his military exploits.

If the stables filled with high-bred chargers, the walls decorated with a splendid collection of trophies, and the large retinue of armed servants unmistakably emphasized the profession of Ahmad Khan; the shaded halls, luxurious divans, and the soft rugs woven in rich colored arabesque patterns, told that he possessed other tastes than those pertaining to the field of battle.

To Prasad he remarked these evidences of another life apologetically.

"For Ahmad Khan, O Prasad," he said, "the step of a mosque, or the bare ground for a sleeping place is enough; a bowl of rice and a cup of the coffee he has learned to drink in foreign lands sufficient provender; but for those who honor his roof with their presence, he is bound by the law of Islam to provide more generous entertainment."

"Truly," returned Prasad, as his eyes wandered over the handsome furnishings of the house. "Truly if thou keepest all these things solely for the benefit of thy guests, thou must indeed be a prince of hospitality."

Ahmad consigned his friend to the care of a skillful barber, who, for an hour previous to the evening meal, deftly shaved, perfumed, and assisted in attiring the Hindu noble's person in garments befitting one to whom the Lord of the House desired to extend the greatest honor.

In order to avoid the least semblance of offense to his guest's susceptibilities, Ahmad had ordered the dishes of the repast to be prepared separately, those from which Prasad was to partake being cooked by a Brahman. For a similar reason water was served by one of that caste.

The meal was sumptuous, both in the display of gold and silver plate, and in the long succession of courses spiced to tempt the palate of an Oriental epicure.

Prasad's ill humor was plainly marked in his meagre appetite. Savory dishes, of which he would, under ordinary circumstances, have partaken with avidity, he barely tasted. Others, he let pass without even inserting his fingers to test their quality.

"Come," cried Ahmad, at the conclusion of the banquet, "thou shalt now drink of the choicest of the Giours' spirits. I warrant that after the first cup thy peace of mind will be restored. Thou wilt forget past disappointments in the happiness of the present."

Wine for Prasad's benefit, and coffee for the Mohammedan were then served. Hookahs were set before them and lit by obsequious servants.

Prasad cast restraint to the winds and drank deeply, while his companion watched him craftily, encouraging his libations. But the insidious spirits of the Foreigners, looted from their bungalows, only served to intensify his dejection.

"Accursed life," he muttered. "What am I, that I should submit so tamely to the fickle humor of the Rani"?

"Patience, good friend, a little patience," returned Ahmad assuagingly, yet with an added sting.

"Dost Ali is but a passing fancy. Forget him in the pleasure of the moment. Drink, and thou wilt surely feel a new man before the Mollah's voice at sunrise, calls the Faithful to their devotions."

He raised his hand as a signal to an attendant, a heavy curtain was drawn back and a group of musicians, accompanied by dancing girls arrayed in yards upon yards of silken drapery, entered the apartment. They advanced to the divan upon which the two nobles sat languidly drawing from their hookahs and salaamed deferentially. The musicians then seated themselves in a half circle in front of the divan, while the girls awaited the first bars from the instruments. Presently an inspiring air rose in the chamber, the girls assumed individual poses, and the natch commenced.

Their graceful actions, glancing steps, and sensuous attitudes, frequently called forth words of praise from the Mohammedan; but Prasad's gloomy thoughts remained unconquered.

"Surely thou art hard to please," remarked Ahmad, as the girls retired for a brief rest.

"Thou knowest the distemper of my mind," replied the other sullenly.

"Aye, but wait," exclaimed Ahmad. "The jewel that shall bring fire into thine eyes hath not yet appeared."

He again gave a signal. The curtain was once more withdrawn. Upon the polished surface of a slab of ebony, uplifted upon the shoulders of six stalwart harkars, Ganga, the star of natch girls, was borne into the room.

For a moment, even Prasad's gaze rested approvingly upon the seductive form of the famous dancer. Her supple figure, attired in elaborately embroidered shawls, and colored silken skirts, artistically disclosed, one beneath another, was displayed with an effect well chosen to captivate those whom it was her profession to enthrall. Flowers adorned her hair. Her neck, arms, and ankles were ornamented with jeweled trinkets.

Upon the harkars halting before the divan, she raised her arms above her head, and assumed a graceful pose. In a low, fascinating tone, she commenced a dreamy song of love. Presently her feet caught the rhythm of the music, and to the accompaniment of tiny silver bells attached to the bangles on her wrists and ankles, she portrayed by her actions, in turn, the passions of love, hope, jealousy and despair.

From time to time Ahmad uttered exclamations of satisfaction. Prasad, in spite of himself seemed to be fascinated by her charm.

"Didst thou mark that languorous glance she cast on thee"?—Page [105].

Ahmad quickly noticed his guest's brightening humor.

"What did I tell thee," he whispered insinuatingly. "Miserable indeed would be the man whose soul was insensible to the eyes of such a one. Didst thou mark that languorous glance she cast on thee"?

Prasad sighed heavily.

"I grant you," he replied, "with but one exception, she hath a matchless form. At any other time she might have made a fair impression. Now, chains bind my soul about a thankless vision."

The girl finished her part by lightly springing from her elevated position, and prostrating herself before the nobles.

Ahmad took from his waistband a handful of gold coins and tossed them to the girl.

"Take them, O Ganga," he cried. "By Allah! Thou hast almost performed a miracle. Thou hast found favor in the eye of the inconsolable."

A slight note of sarcasm marked the Mohammedan's concluding sentence.

Far into the night the two nobles watched the repeated efforts of the dancing girls, stimulated by cups of wine, to outdo their previous displays of art. But after the first surprise on beholding Ganga's charms, Prasad relapsed within his cloud of dejection.

At last, the early shafts of dawn penetrated the reed blinds and mingled their light with that of the silver lamps suspended from the roof; a warning that the moment of sunrise was at hand. Twittering of awakened birds, and the voices of men and beasts proclaimed for the multitude the passing of the hour from rest to labor.

Prasad rose wearily from his recumbent position.

"Ahmad," he exclaimed. "In truth, I feel as if I may be sick. Perchance thou wilt not be obliged to resort to subterfuge in my behalf."

Ahmad turned a penetrating look toward his guest.

"Thou wilt not attend the ceremony of to-day"? he asked.

"As thou advisest," returned the other. "Do what thou thinkest best for me. I am sick with love, with jealousy, with I know not what, for yonder Rani."

He turned and slowly made his way toward one of the exits from the room.

Ahmad also rose to a standing posture.

From the balcony of a minaret near by, the voice of a Mollah resounded through the clear atmosphere.

"There is but one God and Mohammed is the Prophet of God."

Ahmad strode from the room to a porch facing the west. He knelt and reverentially bowed his forehead to the pavement.

"Thanks be to God," he murmured devoutly, "for the countenance He turneth toward His servant."

Then he uplifted his face to the brightening heavens. He stretched forth his arms above his head, as he cried in a deep, sonorous voice:

"Allah! Allah! Allah"!

Chapter X
THE WHITE TURRET

In the open space before the main entrance to the Rani's palace, a crowd of nobles, soldiers, and sightseers had collected. High mettled horses led by grooms, paced back and forth, while their owners in dazzling groups discussed the news of the morning. Peddlars of trifles, beggars, and ascetics, plied their various callings profitably in the interval awaiting the Rani's departure for the White Turret.

Before the door a suite of officers and servants in gala liveries, surrounded a royal elephant, gorgeously caparisoned with plumes, and scarlet velvet cloths embroidered with gold thread. To its back was strapped a canopied state houdah for the use of the Rani.

Near by, a groom with difficulty controlled the impatient spirit of a pure blue-black Arabian charger, the property of Ahmad Khan. The Mohammedan noble had entered the palace to make his daily report to the Rani.

Presently, without ceremony, the Rani came forth. A short period of confusion ensued as the nobles hurriedly sought their horses, and the soldiers pressed back the throng surging about the palace.

The Rani paused on the steps and gazed round as if she missed a familiar object. In so doing her eyes chanced to rest approvingly upon Ahmad's mount.

"Whose brave steed is that"? she asked of an attendant.

Ahmad strode forward and acknowledged himself as its owner.

"A gift from the Amir of Bukhara," he explained, "in recognition of a slight military service rendered. I prize the beast more than all the occupants of my stables together. No one hath ever crossed his back but myself, and," he added, "I doubt if anyone would care to try."

"Ah," laughed the Rani. "Dost wager a challenge then on Akbar's behalf"?

"Not I, fair Rani," returned the Mohammedan, "for it might mean a speedy death to one so venturesome."

Impulsively the Rani walked toward the beast. "Akbar," she cried, "Dost recognize a friend with those clear eyes of thine"?

The animal started, arched its proud neck, and snorted defiantly.

"Come, good Akbar," exclaimed the Rani soothingly. "Come. Thou art too noble a beast to display malice to a woman."

Fearlessly she raised her arm and affectionately stroked the glossy neck, passing her hand gently downward across its face.

A tremor passed over the beast's frame. It stamped the ground and whinnied as if half pleased with the caress, yet still uncertain in its humor.

Ahmad hurried to the Rani's side, while others watched with expressions of alarm.

"Noble Lady," he urged. "I pray thee touch not the beast. Its temper is so uncertain that I cannot answer for your safety."

The Rani again laughed lightly, as she permitted the animal to sniff her hair, her face, and hands.

"Akbar knoweth whom to trust," she cried. "See, he discerneth a true Maratha, of whom it has been said, he is born in the saddle with a sword in his hand. I vow, O Ahmad," she added, "this day I will ride your Akbar, or go in no other manner to the White Turret."

Before Ahmad could interpose a further objection, she had gathered the reins in her hand, placed her foot in the stirrup, and sprung lightly on to the charger's back.

The horse swerved violently, then halted, with ears set back and form rigid.

A moment of suspense for those watching followed.

"Come Akbar," urged the Rani firmly, while gently patting the beast's neck. "Come, thou must curb thy temper for thou canst not throw a daughter of the Marathas."

The beast pricked up its ears at her voice, and neighed its subjection.

"Ah, Ahmad," she cried with taunting pleasantry, "thou must seek another mount. Why not ride in the howdah of my elephant. How much didst thou wager, friend"?

"Surely the devil is in the girl," he muttered in astonished accents. "What will be her next performance"?

A servant approached the Rani deferentially.

"If my Lady Rani," said he, "elects to ride on horseback, will she let her pleasure be known concerning the noble elephant"?

"Truly," she replied. "If Ahmad Khan likes not to go in so much state, let my worthy secretary, Bipin Dat mount on high. From that exalted perch, he can survey the heavens and the earth complacently, frown majestically upon the populace, and imagine that he has at last become a Maharaja."

The Rani shook the reins and curveted to the front of her nobles.

Gallantly she led the brilliant cavalcade through the bazaars and streets to that part of the walls upon which the White Turret had been specially erected to fly her banner.

Plaudits saluted her progress on all sides. The people were accustomed to witness the exercise of greater personal freedom on the part of the Maratha ladies, to what is usually accorded women of high rank in other parts of India, but it was the first time they had beheld a princess of such beauty and high spirit leading, instead of being surrounded by the retinue of her court.

With admirable skill she controlled Ahmad's restive charger, until shortly, as if proud of its lovely burden, the beast followed obediently the guidance of her hand. At the bastion of the White Turret she dismounted and approached the spot where a group of officers awaited her arrival.

Her banner was already bent to the halliards, and held by a lieutenant so that its silken folds might not be sullied by contact with the ground. Near by, a soldier stood at a gun ready to ignite the powder of a first salute as the flag rose upon its staff.

The nobles grouped themselves about the Rani. An officer holding the halliards begged to know her command.

For a moment she hesitated. Then as if a sudden impulse had taken possession of her mind, she took the ropes from his hand and turned toward the nobles.

"My Lords," she cried. "The Rani will herself raise her banner on the walls of Jhansi, aye, and defend it, against whatsoever enemy may come."

Slowly hand upon hand she pulled upon the rope. Slowly the banner, embroidered with her device, rose upon the staff. It reached the top and waved proudly in a gentle breeze against the pale blue morning sky. A white cloud of smoke for an instant hung over the ditch below the bastion, as the tongue of the cannon saluted her military rank. Spontaneously swords flashed in the bright sunlight: spontaneously a loud chorus rose, mingled with the repeated roar of the cannon, hailing the fair defender of a throne.

"Lachmi Bai! Lachmi Bai! Rani of Jhansi," they cried.

She gazed round with joyful gratitude. A moment later, the same wistful look that marked her countenance upon the palace steps, came back into her eyes.

She beckoned Ahmad to her side.

"Where is the noble Prasad Singh"? she asked. "I have not seen him since the Darbar of yesterday."

An expression of regret settled upon Ahmad's face.

"Noble Rani," he explained. "Prasad Singh is sick."

His manner and intonation, whether intentional or otherwise, clearly implied a desire to conceal another reason.

The Rani returned his gaze penetratingly.

"I would speak with thee upon our return to the palace," she enjoined.

Ahmad bowed his compliance to her wish.

The ceremony was over. The Rani thanked the nobles for their renewed demonstration of affection. She again urged them to lose no time in repairing the defenses of their fortresses, and in the arming and drilling of fresh troops. She bade them farewell until she would again summon them to Darbar.

So while the Rani's banner fluttered defiantly from the peak of the White Turret, the procession retraced its way to the palace. Upon the Rani's countenance happiness called forth by the enthusiastic greetings of the people, was occasionally shaded by a look of disappointment. Something evidently had been wanting to complete the gladness of the hour.

On dismounting she summoned Ahmad to follow her into the interior.

"My Lord," she said, when they were alone, "thy reply concerning Prasad Singh causeth me to suspect that something hath gone amiss with him. Hath the foolish fellow taken umbrage at some new imaginary slight"?

Ahmad looked uneasy. He hesitated to reply, as if under the necessity of exercising prudent dissimulation.

"Thou dost not answer me," resumed the Rani, in a tone of some impatience. "Tell me, I command thee, why it was that Prasad Singh did not comply with my invitation to be present at the ceremony of the morning"?

"Fair Lady," Ahmad replied evasively, "surely the truth is, that the noble Prasad Singh is sick. I doubt not he was unable to be present."

"Sick is he," the Rani echoed, "Aye, but thy manner leadeth me to suspect another cause. I beg thee, good Ahmad, to tell me the nature of his malady. Is it a distemper of the mind"?

"Noble Rani," returned Ahmad, "Prasad Singh is sick. I ask thee to urge me to no further explanation."

"But I will urge thee," retorted the Rani imperiously. "I will have the whole truth from thee ere thou dost leave the palace."

Ahmad Khan appeared a victim of deep confusion.

"Most gracious Rani," he besought her, "I trust thou wilt not visit thy displeasure upon one who is my friend, my good comrade. Verily do I love Prasad as a brother. Ill would it seem in me to expose the pardonable follies of a gallant youth."

"Follies," exclaimed the Rani petulantly. "Speak! What follies hath Prasad Singh committed"?

Ahmad assumed an apologetic mien.

"Merely, noble lady," he replied, "the usual overflow of spirit in one of his high birth. He hath indulged too freely of the accursed spirits of the Foreigners."

A look of disdain settled on the Rani's face.

"So," she cried. "Like too many others he forgets the precepts of his caste. This, I did not think of Prasad. The spirits of the Foreigners! Truly one of the many curses brought to India in their civilizing wake." She concluded with intense bitterness in her voice.

"Noble Rani," continued Ahmad. "It was to draw him from the evil habit that I took him to my house; but alas! by some means he procured the Giours' intoxicating drink, and—"

He checked himself suddenly as if he would draw back from disclosing a moral precipice yawning beneath Prasad's life.

"And," caught up the Rani quickly. "And what more, good Ahmad Khan. What more hast thou to tell of Prasad"?

"Noble Rani," he petitioned with apparent earnestness. "I implore thee now to close my mouth."

"Nay, thou shalt open it the wider," she rejoined. "Speak, tell all thou knowest, I command thee."

"Miserable, faithless friend, that I must appear," he exclaimed self reproachfully.

"Thou wouldst be a disloyal servant if thou didst not obey thy Rani," she retorted. "Come! It is the Rani who commands thee."

He spoke in a tone of regretful emotion.

"Thou hast heard, noble Rani, of the charms of a certain natch girl, Ganga, by name"? he asked.

"Aye," she replied tersely.

"Alas! then," continued Ahmad. "The noble Prasad lyeth sick or drunk, I know not which, of the Giours' spirits and the subtle influence of this dancer of Kashmir."

For a moment even Ahmad quailed before the display of jealous anger on the Rani's face. She raised her arm with a threatening gesture as if about to give full play to her resentment; but as suddenly as the flame of passion had been called forth, as quickly it yielded to her control of temperament.

"Go," she commanded in a quiet voice, made more impressive by the emotion with difficulty suppressed. "Go, tell Prasad Singh, the Rani orders his presence hither immediately. If he delays, he may mount his horse and ride forth from her state.

"I have spoken," she concluded, turning from the Mohammedan.

"Noble Lady," petitioned Ahmad, "thou dost not blame thy servant for disclosing that which his conscience had enjoined him to conceal. Alas! Prasad hath eaten of Ahmad's salt."

"Thou hast obeyed my command," she replied. "In so doing thou didst well."

Ahmad bowed low and left the apartment.

The Rani turned again to watch his retreating form. When it had disappeared from view, sorrowfully she unfettered her emotion.

"Oh! that Prasad—Prasad, whom as a woman I have loved, and as the Rani I would honor, should appear in such a weak, a worthless light. Prasad, my Prasad," she cried, "that thou of all men shouldst be the shadow to darken my hour of happiness."

A sob broke from her lips. She covered her face with her hands.

Chapter XI
A SHREWD DIAGNOSIS

In spite of the Rani's urgent dispatch, Ahmad returned leisurely to his house. If gravity rested on his face, his spirit was grimly elated at the successful progress of his design upon Prasad.

"The accursed Hindu," he muttered at intervals. "He is well enmeshed in the net God has placed in the hands of His humble servant."

Prasad expectantly awaited his host's arrival on the porch. He marked the Mohammedan's serious aspect and begged of him the reason.

"Hath something gone amiss, good friend"? he asked anxiously.

Ahmad waved his hand indifferently, as he drew Prasad to a room apart.

"It is nothing that can be defined clearly," he returned, "but a feeling of uneasiness caused by the Rani's capricious humor. One knows not what to expect of her next. At the ceremony of the morning she first insisted upon riding to the White Turret on my Arabian charger, Akbar; and then raised her banner with her own hands. In truth, though," he cried with a note of genuine admiration, "I cannot but own she made a brave display of spirit. She looked as gallant a captain as ever rode at the head of a troop. The people worship her, the nobles prostrate themselves at her feet, even Akbar, who never yet submitted to the caress of any mortal being, acted like a lover at the sound of her voice, and followed the guidance of her hand as obediently as a faithful hound. I confess I know not what to make of her."

"True, O Ahmad," acquiesced Prasad. "Thou hast in part stated my own sentiment in regard to her. I know not what to make of the peerless Rani. But tell me," he urged, "did she notice my absence? Did she by word or sign indicate her feeling"?

Ahmad replied thoughtfully.

"I make no doubt the Rani marked thy absence, O Prasad, for it seems nothing of any moment escapes her notice. But as she loveth thee, she is far too circumspect a woman to disclose her tender sentiment in public. A favor she may cast here and there, as in the case of this Dost Ali; but the expression of her deeper feeling she will keep for thy ear alone. Thou wilt doubtless hear from her in some covert manner. She will, in turn, up-braid thee for thy negligence, and lavish upon thee tributes of her devotion. Have patience, good friend, for it is no boast that Ahmad Khan hath not mingled in more than one court intrigue without learning somewhat of the devious ways of women. Thou must control thy passion for a little."

"Patience"! exclaimed the other with every sign of impatience. "How can I have patience when I think she may, even at this moment, be casting her ravishing smiles upon Dost Ali."

"Ah! Dost Ali," Ahmad returned contemptuously. "Think not of him. He is but a feather wafted to her feet to-day, and to-morrow blown by the wind of Fate, God alone knows whither."

Prasad cast himself wearily upon a divan.

"Ahmad," he exclaimed. "Verily am I sick. I know not what it is that ails me."

Ahmad regarded his guest with apparent concern.

"Aye," he responded, "thou dost look unwell. Thy brow is feverish. Thou art out of humor, and hadst better see a skilful physician who will soon set thee in order. One such as I have in mind, the worthy doctor and astrologer, Mohurran Goshi. He hath mastered all the ancient schools of medicine; a man of profound learning, a sure foreteller of things about to happen."

"I beg thou wouldst send for him quickly," besought Prasad, "that he may relieve me of the burden that seems to be crushing me to earth."

Ahmad readily complied. He summoned an attendant, by whom he dispatched an urgent call to the astrologer.

In the meantime he regaled Prasad with the gossip of the court. He told of the ceremony at the White Turret, referring insinuatingly to the favor displayed toward Dost Ali, and of the Rani's varying humor.

As a consequence Prasad's restlessness and jealousy increased, in spite of the mollifying clause which Ahmad invariably subjoined.

The jolting of a bullock cart as it rumbled along the uneven road leading up to Ahmad's door, told of the astrologer's arrival.

Ahmad went forth to meet him alone. As soon as the astrologer had alighted, the Mohammedan engaged him in a whispered conversation.

"Thou fully understandeth thy part, learned Astrologer," he said in conclusion.

"Most rightly, noble Lord," the other answered obsequiously.

"Thy reward shall be greater than even thy mind can conjure, if thou art successful in ridding Jhansi of this meddlesome interloper," Ahmad promised. He conducted the astrologer-physician to Prasad's side.

In a bag slung over one shoulder, Mohurran Goshi carried his medicinal pills and ointments; while in the hand of the other arm, he grasped his calendar, and certain instruments pertaining to the occult branch of his dual profession. He approached Prasad and felt the patient's pulse gravely. Gravely, too, he examined Prasad's tongue, shook his head several times significantly, and then betook himself to a seat on the floor near by, where he absorbed his mind in a deep scrutiny of his calendar, intermittently muttering an unintelligible jargon.

As a result he finally delivered a sage diagnosis of the case.

"It is clear, noble sir," he said, addressing Prasad, "that the origin of your malady lies in the evil influence of an enemy working through the affection of one upon whom your heart is set, but whose notice he has temporarily beguiled. Most fortunate is it that you have called to your assistance, in time, a physician-astrologer, by profound study and long experience, well fitted to combat such designs."

Mohurran Goshi glanced craftily toward Ahmad, and gleaning that thus far his opinion was being well received, proceeded:

"By a sure sign I can demonstrate to you, great sir, the truth of what I affirm, that I am able to avert impending misfortune on your behalf, restore the object of your affection to your arms, and further you in your ambition. Soon will your sickness pass away like darkness before the rising sun. Is it the noble Lord's pleasure that I should do this"?

Prasad had not escaped the atmosphere of superstition in which the majority of his race had from time unknown been reared. In his condition of mind he was more than ready to fall a victim to the wiles of the astrologer.

"Do so," he replied. "From what you have said I feel great confidence in your ability."

The astrologer first called for a bowl of water in which he requested Prasad to wash his hands and forearms. Then he produced a splinter of bone which he required his patient to hold in the water, while he muttered in a low tone for several minutes.

The incantation over, he bade Prasad withdraw his hand from the water, when there appeared, a little above the wrist, the blotch of a human form impressed upon the skin by some dark stain.

The astrologer pointed to the mark on Prasad's arm with triumph.

"Behold, my Lord," he cried, "the image of thine enemy, the one who seeks to do thee so much injury."

Both Ahmad and Prasad expressed their astonishment at what appeared to them a miraculous display of the astrologer's skill.

"Now, my Lord," resumed Mohurran Goshi. "If it be thy pleasure that I should foil this enemy of thine, thou hast but to give thy command."

Prasad well understood the covert allusion to a fee in advance implied by the astrologer, and produced a handful of silver coins to secure his valuable services.

These, the astrologer tucked safely away on his person, and then proceeded to destroy the malign influence aiming for his patient's ruin.

From Prasad's hand he took the bone, and smeared it with an ointment, which he declared was composed of the most precious ingredients—the fat of a cobra, the blood of a white rat, salt, and the hoof of an animal unknown to them. He then rubbed the blotch on Prasad's arm with the bone for a space, again muttering unintelligibly, when lo! the image had disappeared.

The astrologer solemnly held up the bone before his patient's eyes.

"Into this, noble sir, have I gathered the influence which causes you so much bodily and mental anguish."

With wonder, the eyes of the two nobles gazed upon the bone fraught with so much magic charm. Though as a Mohammedan, Ahmad affected to scoff at the mysterious science professed by the astrologer, his hereditary instinct at times caused him momentary qualms, when inexplicable demonstrations of its power were afforded.

The astrologer next called for a metal tray, a seed, and a gold coin. These produced, he placed the seed, the gold coin, and the piece of bone together on the tray, and once more solemnly muttered incantations over them. As Ahmad and Prasad watched intently, in a twinkling the bone leaped into the air and disappeared.

"Thus, my Lord," cried Mohurran Goshi, "will thy trouble depart from thee, if thou art careful to follow my directions."

Prasad breathed a deep sigh of relief as if already a great weight had been lifted from his mind.

The astrologer then took the coin and passed it several times over his patient's head, muttering incantations as before, and finally inserted it in a fold of Prasad's turban. In the process it strangely changed from the precious metal into copper, another convincing proof of the astrologer's extraordinary power over inanimate things.