The Moolla had no respect for a Governor who had neither wife nor family. His predecessor was a respectable elderly soldier, a plain man, who cordially mixed with all classes, and was much beloved. He had a lady wife, who bore children, and the palace was often the scene of small domestic festivals, of general religious observances, in which the Moolla acted as chief manager, and received ample rewards for his services. His wife, too, was always welcome after her long trudge up the hill, and was hospitably entertained, contributing, on her part, all the gossip of the country round.
It was very different now. The Nawab had no wife, and no hareem of any kind. There were no entertainments, for the dancing women of the country were afraid of the Nawab's grim solitude, and declined even to cross the river while the water was high, with the chance of being cut off by a flood at any time and confined for an indefinite period.
The "Nawab," too, had other troubles which were even harder to bear. Soon after his cousin left, he had ridden over to Moodgul, and in company with some of his old associates, who belonged to the force stationed there, had indulged in excesses with a zest augmented by long abstinence, so that he became more notorious than was good for his reputation. The consequence of this being that his brother Nawab, the old friend of the Christian friar and his sister, a moral and devout man, treated him coldly, restricting his hospitalities to such ordinary observances as could not be dispensed with, considering the relative position of both.
Not in any way abashed by this, Osman Beg determined, if possible, to gain the beautiful daughter of the Moodgul commander and governor in marriage, and to this end he employed one of the professional female agents, who are well known among Mussulman communities, to make advances for him.
Máma Luteefa was a mistress of her art. She carried gold and silver ornaments, entrusted to her by the goldsmiths, from house to house; rich cloths also—portions of Portuguese velvets and silks; and while selling these had ample opportunity of carrying on her vocation. In the course of a few days she had contrived to make a proposal for her employer in a manner suited to his rank and her own importance. But it was rejected peremptorily; and when the old dame returned a few days afterwards with some valuable offerings, she found herself warned never to enter the precincts of the hareem again on a similar errand. Osman Beg also received an intimation that his presence in Moodgul was not desirable, and he had better withdraw. He therefore returned to his solitary life, but he took Máma Luteefa with him, in case, as she observed, there might be anyone in the fort, or near it, who could be considered a fitting person for the distinction which would be the lot of Osman Beg's wife.
We may consider, then, that the Nawab's cup of vexation was full, as far as his present position in the fort was concerned; and without it was equally gloomy. The issue on which he had set his heart was the victory of Eyn-ool-Moolk and the young Prince. He had already offered his sword and the fortress, which, as a frontier position, was very valuable. He should at once rise to rank and favour, and whether a new Court was established at Belgaum, or the present Court at Beejapoor became head of the Beejapoor kingdom, he should in either case fill a prominent position.
Nothing had, however, happened, except to increase his vexation and cut away the last chances of extrication. The Prince Ismail, we know, rejected by the Portuguese, had been apprehended and put to death. Eyn-ool-Moolk had been slain and beheaded, to which his grim head, stuck on a high pole opposite the gate of the citadel at Beejapoor, bore ghastly witness, and that fondly cherished hope was gone; whereas his numerous letters, which, in their offers of aid and counsel for the extension of the rebellion, contained the most conclusive evidence of his treachery, might have been preserved among the papers of Eyn-ool-Moolk, and would furnish incontestable proofs to his enemies, and lead directly to his condemnation. Once only he had received a few lines from his cousin to say that he had fallen ill on his way and was detained, but when anything affecting him could be heard of, he would write again; but nothing more had arrived. Yet, could he be recalled at any sacrifice, how easy would it be, if he escaped death, to carve out a path of his own, if not at Beejapoor, at Golcondah, at Ahmednugger, or with the Moghuls, who were steadily encroaching upon the kingdoms of the Dekhan. No, Osman Beg was not happy; he was, on the contrary, more discontented than ever, and his very body servants lived in terror of his outbreaks of ill-temper and violence.
The venerable Syud Dervish had also grieved at the departure of his guests. Francis d'Almeida's knowledge of Persian brought him into intimate acquaintance with the old man, whose remembrance of Spanish, which he had learned from his wife, assisted their means of communication very sensibly. The Dervish missed the pleasant arguments and discussions on religion and other subjects, the descriptions of European life, the histories of the countries he had once visited with so much enjoyment. He had grown interested in the good Padré's translations, and, a man of the world himself, could rise out of the humble place he occupied to the enjoyment of better things. He had now nothing to fall back upon, no cheery word from the Padré or gentle compassion from his sister. There was no one to sing to him either in early morning or the evening worship; and though both were sinful according to the strict rules of the Mussulman faith, yet they were fascinating all the same. The old man's days passed listlessly now, in prayer or meditation, and in prescribing for the sick brought to him; but, for the most part, in a state of vacancy from which it was difficult to arouse him.
But to Zóra the parting with Maria was more than a regret, it had become a grief for which there was no relief or consolation. It was Maria who had quickened the girl's dormant spirit, which before lay dead under an outer covering of ignorance and neglect, and might never have been moved but for the Señora's gentle teachings.
The natural intelligence of the child would have died out under the ordinary life of a Mussulman woman of the lower orders, a station which she at best could hope to fill. The intercourse with Maria, short as it had been, had opened to Zóra an apparently unbounded vista of the world without, and of knowledge which she burned to attain. Now that hope seemed dead within her; she could only revert to her former condition of life, to the care of her grandfather, to her Persian books, and the habitual services to the sick, in which she had made no alteration, and in which now lay her principal interest. Day after day the little memorials of her sisterly friend's visit were taken out, looked at, kissed, and put back again. Day after day she sang the little hymns and songs she had learned. She talked to her sick folk of the kind Christian lady, of her gentle, soothing presence, and her wise words; and here she found sympathy, such as gave her comfort.
But when could she hope to see Maria again? Perhaps when she returned to Moodgul; but the wicked Padré was yet there. Perhaps—ah! who shall tell the seeming possibilities presented by hope to a young, ardent mind, which yearns for fulfilment? Sometimes, once or twice only, she had persuaded her friend Ahmed to take her to their old seat on the gun bastion, whence she could follow every event of the day on which she had taken Maria there—the sudden flood, the dead panther, and the presence of one who to her was a new and trembling joy. "Forget him!" "do not think of him!" had been her friend's injunctions; but she only shook her head and sighed, and the unceasing moan of the river plashing at her feet seemed but an echo to her sad thoughts, which, as yet, in her young heart, had no definite meaning. Memories only of that terrible night, and of his manly, gracious bearing and kind looks, which had no expression in words—these would not depart, and yet she knew them to be fruitless. Had she possessed a mother, or even a friend, she could have spoken freely of those absent; but she was alone, quite alone, and the future to her was very dark.
Máma Luteefa had been at Juldroog some days. The Nawab had had one of the rooms in the zenana of the palace prepared to receive her, and made her as comfortable as he could; but the old dame was in no good humour, indeed, was in the last degree of indignation and vexation. Máma