Gradually Kasim lead him to talk of his city, of his home, of his family; he earnestly wished to know more particulars of the Khanum, of her early life, and her ill-assorted marriage. Zoolfoo mentioned his sister.
‘Ay, her who thou saidst was servant in the Khanum’s family.’
‘The same: she was the Khanum’s nurse for awhile, and she is very fond of her.’
‘Why did she not bring her then?’
‘She wished to come, but the Khan said she would be a trouble on the road, and he left her behind; but—’
‘Perhaps the Khanum did not wish it?’
‘Not wish it? Sir, she was grieved to part with her, for she had tended her from her birth, and loved her as her own daughter.’
‘Then you have often heard of her?’
‘I have, a thousand times. My sister was her own attendant, and never quitted her till the hour of her departure.’
‘Know you then how she came to marry the Khan? You said once before that he was of no family.’
‘I will tell you,’ said the cook. ‘Her father is a Munsubdar,[20] of Nizam Ali’s court nominally he has good pay, and one or two villages to support his rank; but he was expensive in his youth, for he was a gay man, and perhaps not over scrupulous. Gradually the difficulties of the Government caused all the salaries of the officers to fall into arrears. Then came with that a train of distresses; the elephant was sold, some jewels pledged—then some horses went, and their servants were discharged. There were heavy mortgages made upon the villages, and other difficulties occurred; the interest accumulated, and the creditors grew very clamorous; some more jewels were sold, and they were quieted for awhile; but lately they were in distress, I heard—indeed my sister told me her pay and that of other servants had been reduced, and that the family denied themselves many luxuries to which they had been accustomed. This daughter, Ameena, was marriageable, and her great beauty was known; they had many offers for her, but they looked high; they thought the Huzoor[21] himself might ask for her, and that the fortunes of the house might rise; and while this was going on, the Khan Sahib, who had his emissaries abroad to look out for a beautiful wife, heard of her. He offered himself immediately; his low birth was not thought of, for he had great wealth and bestowed it liberally, and finally the marriage took place with much pomp. The poor child was dazzled; and you see her here, Meer Sahib, exposed to all the vicissitudes of travelling in unsettled times—one day drowned—another, attacked by those villainous Mahrattas—whom your worship has freed us of—when, rose as she is, she never ought to have left the zenankhana of a youthful and valiant lord.’
20. A nobleman who holds an office in a native court.
21. Prince.
Kasim sighed involuntarily. ‘It was a base thing,’ he said, ‘to sell one so fair and young.’
‘It was, Meer Sahib—you have rightly called it a sale; for the Khan had to pay off a heavy mortgage upon two of the villages, which has restored the family to affluence: however the thing is done now, and there is no helping it. I pity the poor Khanum, however, for she has to face two old wives, who will not thank the Khan for bringing one so young and beautiful to his house.’
‘You should keep a watch over her yourself, Zoolfoo.’
‘I will, so may Alla give me power!’ he said earnestly; ‘she does not know me as yet, but I will soon contrive to let her know, and thus I may be able to serve her at a pinch.’
‘And, remember, I am ever ready to aid you,’ said the young man; ‘I have saved her life once, and, by the blessing of Alla, no harm shall come to so fair a creature while I have power to help her.’
Just then the morning, which had been long in breaking, showed pretty plainly; and Kasim arose, and performing his ablutions, cried with a loud voice the Azan, or call to prayers. This too aroused the Khan, and joined by several others, they repeated, as indeed was their wont, their prayers together.
‘I am as stout as ever, Khan Sahib, I thank you,’ answered Kasim in reply to the many inquiries of the former; ‘the wound pained me a trifle, and your good Zoolficar, who is very expert, loosened the bandages for me; since then it has been quite easy. But how say you—march or halt, which shall it be?’
‘Let us take counsel of the Patél, he seems a decent fellow,’ returned the Khan, ‘and abide by his advice—he knows the country.’
He was summoned, and the result of the consultation was advice to them to depart immediately. ‘I am disinterested, noble sirs,’ he said; ‘for if otherwise, my own fears would prompt me to make you stay by me; but after your conduct last night I put myself and my village out of consideration.’
‘And the men, Meer Sahib?’
‘I had half engaged them yesterday, when the alarm was given; how say you, Patél, can we have them?’
‘Surely, surely! half of those I have shall accompany you; for I fear no further molestation.’
They were summoned, and at once expressed their readiness to go; after this, the preparations were soon completed, a hasty meal of kicheree[22] was cooked and eaten, and, girding up their loins carefully—seeing that their arms were properly loaded—making every preparation for defence, if necessary—the party assembled to start.
22. Rice and pulse boiled together.
Nine of the Mahrattas had fallen in the attack; of these, two lived, desperately wounded; five horses had been secured, two had been killed, and the remainder had been carried off by the horsemen.
The horses the Khan appropriated to his own use, and generously gave what plunder was found upon them and on the bodies to be divided among the sufferers of the village they had seen burned, directing the Patél to account for the sum. He had in vain attempted to press it upon Kasim.
Now, therefore, our travellers are once more upon the wide plains, moving warily and close together: altogether they are twelve good horsemen, and, with the six or seven villagers, armed with long matchlocks, and the grooms mounted on the ponies which the servants had ridden, present a very formidable appearance; while the dry gravelly road allows them to push forward at a good pace without interruption.
The road from Bellary to the Mysore country appears flat, but in reality is not so; the land rises in long and gentle undulations some thousand feet in the course of about one hundred miles—that is, from the town of Bellary to where it enters a rugged pass between some mountains, one side of which is formed by the rough and stony back of the fort of Pencondah. As the traveller advances from Bellary, he sees these undulations, each of many miles perhaps in length; and when arrived at the top of one, expecting to descend, he finds another spread out before him, perhaps of equal length, the summit of which he must reach in like manner. The difference this causes in the climate is most remarkable; a few days’ travel produces an entire revolution; and from the steaming heat of the Carnatic, at Bellary and above it, the traveller as he proceeds southward breathes a purer, cooler, and more genial atmosphere.
The heat which had existed where we began our narrative, and which rendered travelling irksome, had now given place to coolness, which even at near midday made them glad to wrap shawls or other warm garments around them; and thus, while it invigorated man and beast, enabled them to push on rapidly without fatigue.
They had travelled for two days without alarm, and were within an easy distance of the entrance of the pass, when, on arriving at the top of one of the summits we have mentioned, they saw with some alarm a body of horse before them, scattered, and apparently on the same track as themselves.
‘It