Chapter XIX

“What need of the mirror, when our eyes meet, and
in them we view each other?”

INDIAN POEM.

The moon rising, with an orb almost complete, and exhibiting within its visible circumference but a small segment still to be silvered, forbade the pilgrims to seek repose during the night. They travelled onward in the direction prescribed by the guides--now along the edge of mural precipices--now over boundless heaths--now through dark forests--now through the dried channels of winter torrents, with all the expedition which their animals could command, until they reached a hamlet, where they found it absolutely necessary to take refreshment and repose. The means for both were speedily supplied by the tenants of the humble dwellings they found in that part of the mountain, the Cashmerians deeming it a sacred duty, or rather a privilege, to attend to all pilgrims who pass their way. From these good people, Auzeem learned, to his great satisfaction, that the habitation of the famed Zeinedeen was distant only a few hours; and that the temple of Mahadeo, of which the hermit was said to be the high priest, was within an arrow’s flight from his residence.

Remounting their ponies, just as the friendly light, which had hitherto guided their steps, grew pale in a sky resuming the roseate tints of morning, the pilgrims drew renovated strength and spirits from the spicy breath, which ascended as an offering to Aurora, from the meadows and the flowery hills below. Some remains of the winter snow still accompanied their path, especially where they had to pass abrupt rocks, or glens impervious to the summer sun. Their route became from hour to hour more and more enchanting, until they at length reached the entrance to the habitation occupied by the anchorite. It was then near mid-day. Auzeem remarked, that Zeinedeen must be engaged with visitors of distinction, as several ponies, caparisoned in a peculiarly elegant style, were tied together in an enclosure hard by.

Chunder, as soon as his infirm limbs could permit him, answered to the call of one of the guides, who seemed familiar with his name. The old man appeared to derive pleasure from seeing before him persons, whom he at once conjectured to be pilgrims, on their way to the temple of Mahadeo; for it was one of his constant complaints, that those shrines, which he remembered in his youth to have been frequented by throngs of devotees from all parts of the world, had been, in the degeneracy of modern times, almost wholly abandoned. The god, he informed them, had re-appeared as usual, and had nearly attained his perfect form. He had no doubt, that as soon as Zeinedeen was informed of their arrival, he would give orders for their entertainment, during their stay, within his own dwelling.

This intelligence was the more agreeable to Jehangire and Auzeem, as they had heard much of the hermit’s science, intelligence, and superior talent, and they were happy to have the opportunity of enjoying his society in that familiar intercourse which they would thus be permitted to hold with so distinguished a personage. The emperor would be under no necessity to conceal, even if concealment from such a superior being were possible, his true rank and character. Nor was he without a faint hope, that all anchorite as was the occupant of the place--curiosity, or accident, had already enabled him to learn something of the existence, the habits, perhaps the secret feelings and wishes of her, at whose shrine the imperial pilgrim would, at the moment, have preferred kneeling, rather than at that of any golden god or goddess, who had ever been worshipped in Cashmere.

While the strangers were waiting for the return of Chunder, a bevy of gay damsels, with small silver-mounted whips in their hands, rushed together from the interior halls into the court-yard, laughing and talking aloud, in their sweet and playful voices, until they found themselves unexpectedly in the presence of strangers. Immediately checking each other, and flinging their veils, some with rather a coquettish carelessness, over their faces, they passed on to the enclosure where the ponies where detained. The animals at once recognised their light-hearted owners, and permitted themselves to be led in succession to a stone bench, from which the damsels jumped on their backs, and rode away amidst an abundance of tittering, and of stolen looks at the pilgrims, who, upon their side, watched the scene with at least an equal degree of curiosity.

One of the ponies, a beautiful creature, of a half zebra breed, still remained unmounted, the rein being held by a female slave, who seemed to wait for some person not yet come forth from the residence of Zeinedeen. The pilgrims still stood in the court-yard, waiting to be summoned to the presence of the hermit. Presently a female figure, arrayed in a white muslin turban and veil, a dove-coloured satin pelisse, a tunic of white silk, slightly sprigged with silver, cinctured at the waist by a band of gold, with an emerald clasp in front, and trowsers of the same material as the tunic, appeared, also with a small whip in her hand, mounted in gold, crossing the court-yard with a hurried step. Her cheek was much flushed--her eye highly animated; as she passed, she stopped a moment, pressed the end of the whip to her reddened lips as if she doubted whether she had not forgotten something behind; but, immediately resuming her step, hastened to where the slave was waiting.

Auzeem, who had a full view of her countenance and person, stood mute with surprize. After a momentary pause, he turned to Jehangire, to express his emotions of admiration; but the emperor was no longer near him. The slave, who held the rein, felt herself obliged suddenly to yield it to a more vigorous hand, just as the fair rider had adjusted herself on the padded back of the animal, and in an instant the beautiful equestrian, her poney, and her new guide, were out of sight.

“This,” exclaimed the latter, when he found himself beyond the danger of observation; “this is, indeed, an unexpected joy. Oh! Nourmahal!”

The female so addressed, oppressed by terror upon finding herself in the hands of a stranger, who had hitherto bent down his face, whose motives for bearing her thus rapidly away, she could not divine; pre-occupied, too, to an intense degree of excitement as she had already been, so much so that she scarcely noticed what had happened, until a moment before she heard her name thus passionately sounded, wore no longer the ruby on her cheek or lips. A death-like shadow, pale and livid, by turns overspread her brow. Trembling in every limb, unable to hold her seat, she fell while clasping her hands, and, resting her head upon them, lay on the ground like a lifeless victim of despair.

Jehangire, plucking from his bosom the symbol which he hoped she had sent him, placed it in her hand, to assure her of his identity. Was he wrong in that hope? In its withered form would she still recognise the token? What fates depended in the balance of that moment? Kneeling by her side, he sickened in agony; her first word would be to him the sting of death, or the sun of all his future existence.

“Here--buried for ever; oh, fatal messenger!” exclaimed Nourmahal, as her returning sense informed her of the circumstances in which she was placed. “Forgive--forget this; it should never have left the bosom where it now rests.”

Jehangire hung upon every accent; no word escaped his lips. The rapture that rose, kindling within him,--the thought that, come what may, he was once more in the presence of all he most loved upon earth, dispelled every other idea.

“It hung here,” she continued; “it fell, I know not how--into that mystic fountain--since then, oh, what have I not suffered?”

“It is thine. If I ought not to have received it,--though how can I forget that it reached my hands, that it has since been the companion of my heart?--let it be thine again.”

“Do I dream?” asked the agitated Nourmahal, rising and looking wildly around her. “Whose words are those? That voice?”--

“Am I not remembered?”

“My sovereign! It is, indeed, my imperial lord, here in the midst of his enemies! Fly,--Allah! know you not that all Cashmere is in arms against you?”

“I am here a pilgrim.”

“If you be discovered, nothing will protect you from the hate of your enemies. It is madness to expose your anointed head to their arrows.”

“All seems at peace as yet within your valley.”

“You are assuredly not here without an escort?”

“I have a few,--two or three companions.”

“It is my first duty, then, to implore you to fly while yet you may. Be convinced, that if the intelligence get abroad that the emperor is in the province, you cannot count a moment on your safety.”

“I am, as you see, disguised.”

“Oh, Sire, no disguise can conceal your rank, for you cannot move, you cannot look unlike Selim,--I should have said Jehangire,” she added, blushing all over, kneeling before the sovereign, and bending her head upon the palm of her hand.

“To thee, Selim,--by no other name let me ever be known to thee, at least,--Oh, Nourmahal! How has all this happened? Why was I left in ignorance of the steps that led to this fatal marriage?”

“They were scarcely known to myself. In an evil hour, before--but, oh, question me not--to what tend now such enquiries? My fate is sealed, for _ever_!”

The deep sigh with which that _ever_ was pronounced, renewed the distraction which seized the mind of Nourmahal, when she was first borne away from the care of the slave. Happily a flood of tears came to her relief. Jehangire induced her to sit upon a green bank, and holding both her hands in his, soothed her feelings by all the kindness he could administer. He did not renew the subject nearest to his heart, until he saw that she was more composed.

“It has been always represented to me, that Abul-Fazeel--no friend of mine--was the author of what has occurred.”

“Alas! I know not with whom the idea originated. But I should never forgive myself if I did not, as I do, most fully admit that my consent was freely given,--given, before--Oh, how shall I confess it!--before I knew my heart, before I felt what it was indeed to love!”

“This is a condition hard to be endured. You should have been mine. There is not a pulse in this hand, Nourmahal,--not a thought in thy heart,--that does not proclaim its unison with another than him to whom the laws have bound thee. And he--does he not know this?”

“Afkun is the most generous of men; his soul is noble as his arm is valiant. Alas! that such a man, worthy of thy esteem, should be at this moment in arms against his lawful sovereign! He cannot be ignorant that there are some impulses, howsoever they arise, which cannot be controlled; but it is vain to think more upon this,--my duties are fixed, my destiny is cast!”

“It is equally vain--Nourmahal, can you--do you wish to forget who it was that first gave you that name?”

“Would it had never met my ear! Oh, that the circumstances of that evening could vanish from my soul!”

“They cannot,--I was about to say that it was equally vain to expect that I could not think more--think ever, of the impressions of that evening, which, for good or for evil, are inseparable from all that I can now ever know of happiness. I wear the crown of Hindostan, but behold, no sooner was it placed upon my brow, than my son,--Chusero,--my eldest, born--”

“My tears, too, have been shed for this unnatural rebellion.”

“Ah! had you been his parent, if you could but conjecture half the grief which weighs upon a father’s heart, when, instead of affection, obedience, reverence from him who shares the life-blood of your veins, whose infant caresses you remember with a delight that thrills your soul, whose earliest smiles remain star-lights in the canopy of your existence--when, instead of the tenderness you expect, not as a return for your solicitude, but as the growth of the seed you have sown and reared up, you meet only resistance, hostility, bitter, remorseless eagerness to supplant and destroy you,--oh! you would indeed, Nourmahal, give me all your sympathy.”

“Would I could hold out the hope, that even his evil fortunes had produced a disposition to seek for forgiveness.”

“Heaven be my witness, that I ask no more. He has but to utter a single expression of regret, all shall be expunged on the instant from my memory. Tell the boy,--you have lately seen him, perhaps--”

“This morning,--hush! I hear horsemen coming this way,--to those rocks, Sire, or you are lost!”

Jehangire had just time to climb a precipitous ascent above the bank where they were sitting, when Afkun and Chusero, attended by twenty spearmen, made their appearance in a defile below. They rode rapidly towards Nourmahal, who, summoning all her fortitude, mounted her pony, and composing her veil, rode on to meet them.

“We have been anxiously looking for you, Nourmahal,” said Afkun. “Knowing that you had gone to visit Zeinedeen, we have found it necessary to come out with an escort, for the advanced guard of the invaders are already visible from the castle. We must hasten home-ward, and I fear that your excursions must be given up, until the enemy shall disappear. You would be too precious a prize in their hands at such a moment.”

The ladies of the harem, who had only preceded Nourmahal to a fountain hard by, where they went to water their ponies, now joined the cavalcade, of which the emperor had a full view from his place of refuge, without being exposed to their observation. He could plainly distinguish his son, who was mounted on a grey Arabian courser; the animal curvetting, and now and then pawing the earth with a beautiful pride, seemed conscious that he bore on his back a rider of no ordinary rank. Afkun led the way, riding by Nourmahal’s side. The prince and the other ladies immediately followed, and the line was closed by the spearmen, mounted also on spirited animals.

Jehangire watched their progress down the mountain, with the most painful feelings. It was not until his straining eye failed to discern any part of the group, that he descended to the bank, so lately consecrated in his esteem, by having served as a couch for her, who had now full possession of his soul. Sitting there awhile, he tranquillised his thoughts. He felt as if the atmosphere around him still breathed of Nourmahal’s presence--still echoed her soft enchanting voice--still gave him back the fresh impression of those features, over which, in a few moments, so many traces of emotion--of emotion so precious to him--had passed, all exalting and perfecting that beauty, of which, he believed, the earth held no rival. At length, bending his steps towards the hermitage, he found Auzeem anxiously waiting his return. That experienced person, however, asked no questions. He had already learned from the slave, to whom the bewitching form belonged, which had excited his admiration. He easily conjectured what followed.