Chapter XIX

“In the morning, when the raven of night had flown away, the bird of dawn began to sing; the nightingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rose-bud and the rose; the jasmine stood bathed in dew, and the violet also sprinkled his fragrant locks. At this time Zelika was sunk in pleasing slumber; her heart was turned towards the altar of her sacred vision. It was not sleep; it was rather a confused idea; it was a kind of frenzy caused by her nightly melancholy. Her damsels touched her feet with their faces; her maidens approached and kissed her hand. Then she removed the veil from her cheek, like a tulip besprinkled with dew; she opened her eyes, yet dim with sleep. From the border of her mantle the sun and moon arose; she raised her head from the couch, and looked around on every side.”

Jami.

Having taken his seat upon the divan, in the centre of the room, a herald, superbly attired, then appeared beside him, and read out the record of his accession to the throne, while the whole assembly were standing. The herald having concluded with the words—“And, therefore, Long live Bochari—Conqueror of the World—and the Padishah of Hindostan,” the cry was loudly repeated on all sides, with so much apparent enthusiasm and unanimity, that his spirit catching new fire from the homage he had received, prompted him to rise, and to express, in an improvised address, his sense of the proud honour they had conferred upon him. He then desired the banquet to proceed, the herald, in the mean time, making preparations for administering the great oath.

The rajaputs, seated all round the chamber, on divans placed close by the wall, the tables piled with gold and silver dishes, containing the most sumptuous fare—the usurper enthroned in the centre, before a golden table, also copiously supplied—the crowds of pages and footmen, in splendid liveries, waiting on the guests—the trumpeters on the fifty steps—the groups of black slaves employed in bringing to the banquet the numerous dishes prepared for the occasion—the candelabras, which shed their abundant and brilliant lustre over the whole scene—myriads of censers, fuming with fragrance, amid the sounds of martial music, interrupted now and then by the firing of artillery, exhibited, upon the whole, a spectacle of human grandeur, worthy of a better cause.

The wine-vases were rapidly emptied, and as rapidly replenished, in every quarter,—the imperial cellars having been thrown open on the occasion. The festival appeared to be passing off with every symptom of harmony and joy. Conversation was loud, eloquent, undisguised, at every table. No whisperings were observed; no dark looks shed upon the scene any shade of that sinister aspect, which had given to the morning so desponding a character. Bochari looked upon his possession of the throne as secured beyond all danger, and was already preparing in his mind measures for suppressing any revolt that might break out in the city, when his eye, which from the dreadful recollections of the previous night, had been more than once fixed upon the bronze portal, suddenly caught a shadowy figure moving inside it.

The horrors that had overwhelmed the mind of the merchant seemed to have been at once, as if by contagion, transferred to his own. His gaze was fixed. His countenance, hitherto flushed with wine and the excitement of the occasion, became deadly pale. In that shadowy form he beheld Fazeel, as he thought, beckoning all his slaughtered companions to assemble and witness the enthronement of their murderer.

“Wine, wine!” exclaimed the usurper, in a voice scarcely audible, while he still looked with glaring eyes upon the portal. The herald suggested to him that the time had arrived for taking the great oath.

“Wine!” repeated the Persian, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth;—“wine, I say. I am sick, sick at heart.” The words were followed by a deep moan, which startled the whole assembly. Some of the rajaputs already noticed the extraordinary attitude in which the usurper had placed himself, half risen from his seat, his hand waving as if in compliance with the call of some person through the portal, his lips quivering, his limbs trembling beneath him.

“But why me alone? I was not there. I touched thee not,” he exclaimed.

“What means all this?” asked Mohabet, as, quitting his seat and crossing the table, he hastened to Bochari. “What is all this? Has the crown already turned your head?”

“The crown! Ha! ha! ha! Take it,—see if it will deliver you from that dreadful spectacle. Here—the leader of these rajaputs—here is your real immolator.”

“The Persian is mad,” said Mohabet; “hear ye what he says?”

“Aye, hear ye what I say? Answer to those bleeding warriors,—answer to Fazeel; were ye not his murderers?”

The rajaputs, by an instantaneous impulse, all drew their scymitars. The herald and all the attendants fled up the steps of the chamber, looking backward affrighted, not knowing what was about to occur.

“Are you the man to upbraid us,” cried out several voices; “you who, if you were not the disguised astrologer that told us of the prey, at all events employed that merchant who ensured it.”

“It is false.”

“He raves. Give him water. This is not like a sovereign. For shame! Shake off this weakness. We wait to take the great oath,” said one of the chieftains, who was attached to Bochari’s cause.

“He begins his reign by insulting us all,” said Mohabet.

“He knows not what he says,” resumed the usurper’s partizan. “Back to your seats. It is but a cloud passing over his mind.”

“I go—hush!—look at their hands, red with your blood. None of it is here,” added Bochari, holding out both his hands; “they are white as the lotus.”

“We will not suffer this language. What! call us murderers? as if upon us only rested the blood which he procured to be shed for his own purposes.”

“Down with the Persian!”

“Down with the traitors!” cried out the two parties, as, separating, they rushed upon each other.

But before victory could declare on either side,—a victory that, giving preponderance at that moment to one faction or the other, might have been followed by many years of calamity to Hindostan, a hand unseen was unerringly preparing the penalty due to both. Auzeem was without the portal, anxiously expecting the very scene of contention which had now arisen, though he presumed it would have proceeded from a different cause. Fearful of involving the innocent with the guilty, he waited until the herald and the attendants had hastened up the steps in dismay. Then flying to the sluices, he struck the spring that held the lower gate in its place, and at the moment that the scymitars of the double oppressors of his country were lifted against each other, the sudden inundation from the Jumna, like an angry god, quelled the battle.

No groan was heard. The weight of the waters above the heads of the banditti was so tremendous, that nothing rose to the surface. The attendants, who had reached the upper steps, looked in silent horror upon the dark gulf below.

“Now,” thought Auzeem, as he returned to the palace to find out some faithful messengers whom he might despatch to the emperor; “now Kazim will do me justice. I ought not to wonder at his suspicions. Mine was, indeed, as he well designated it, an adventurous policy. To be seen co-operating openly, and even zealously, with the late usurper during a period of more than two years; countersigning his decrees; attending his councils; suggesting and advising measures of state policy, and assisting him even through the mazes of intrigue in which he was frequently involved; and in all things acting (he believed) as if I had utterly abandoned the emperor, whom I represented to be incapacitated for his functions, I did, no doubt, incur an awful responsibility.

“But I saw my course clearly from the moment the emperor was made prisoner in his own tent in Cashmere. I saw we were completely in the hands of the most ambitious, and the most remorseless of men. His next step I knew would be the assumption of the crown. Nothing could be gained—on the contrary—every thing would be hazarded by any premature resistance.

“The moment, long desired, however, has come at last. Success—more complete than I ever dared to hope, has crowned my proceedings. So perish all traitors to the honoured crown of the master, whom it will be the glory of my life to have thus rescued from the base tyranny of that Persian!”

Before the morning dawned, all the imperial galleys were assembled by the orders of Auzeem, and fully manned by crews attached to them, the men dressed in their state apparel, and the imperial standards flying. Intelligence of the awful event, which had put so decisive, and so unexpected an end to the usurpation, was diffused with the speed of lightning through the capital. The gloom, with which it had been overspread the day before, was dispersed, as if by an enchanter’s command. Every face beamed with rapturous joy. Families were seen in the streets and market-places, embracing each other, and pouring out tears of gladness. It was every where proclaimed that their beloved emperor was safe, and that he might be expected in Agra the following morning. The people seemed frantic with joy, for they venerated the house of Acbar, and loved their lawful sovereign with an enthusiasm, rendered still more intense by their hatred of the alien who had usurped his sceptre.

Couriers, on fleet Arabians, were directed by Auzeem to proceed along both banks of the Jumna, with despatches for the emperor, announcing, in a few words, what had taken place. The minister described Zeinedeen’s boat so minutely, that they could hardly fail to discover it. The state galleys, drawn against the current, by trains of swift-paced elephants, and filled with those of the omrahs and household officers, who had never wavered in their allegiance, followed the couriers. The first messenger, who had the good fortune to perceive the hermit’s boat just as the sun was setting, dashed into the river on horseback, directing the animal’s head towards the little bark, which was quietly gliding on in its course. He held up the despatch in his right hand, waving it in triumph over his head, and shouting—“Long live the emperor!”

The glorious tidings first caught the ear of Nourmahal, whose heart swelled with measureless delight, when, kissing her imperial consort, she repeated the salutation—“Long live the emperor—my own beloved—my husband—long and triumphantly may he reign in the hearts of his people as he reigns in mine!” Jehangire, pressing her in his arms, returned the kiss tenfold.

The messenger flung the despatch into the boat as soon as he could get near enough for that purpose. It was caught by Kazim, who handed it to the emperor.

“Admirable Auzeem! Read it, my lord chancellor, and suspect no more the ‘Preserver of the empire,’ as he shall henceforth be titled. Mangeli! behold the empress of Hindostan!”

The parents and the daughter were already locked in each other’s arms. Their many griefs were now all merged in a flood of transport. Zeinedeen, raising his eyes to Heaven, gave, from the bottom of his soul, thanks to Heaven that he had been permitted to witness this day of happiness for his country; and of just exultation for those dear friends—his children he might call them—whose virtues had been severely tried by prosperity, as well as by adversity. Without waiting for a carpet to be spread, the emperor followed his example, and the whole party, prostrating themselves, expressed, in silent fervent prayer, their gratitude to the Omnipotent, for the transcendant blessings He was then pleased to confer upon them.

The banks of the river were speedily crowded by couriers, who arrived one after another, but whose despatches were now superfluous. They were followed by two hundred state galleys, one of which, looked upon the waters, as the sun cast his parting rays upon them, a mass of burnished gold. Approaching Zeinedeen’s boat, they formed in a circle around it, and while the men, rising from their benches, and, lifting their oars straight in the air, hailed their sovereign with enthusiastic cheers, and the bands on board joined in the beautiful national anthem, composed by Oustad Nâë, Jehangire ascended, by a ladder of golden cords, to the deck of his own galley, on which the imperial flag was immediately hoisted.

Kazim and Zeinedeen assisted Nourmahal and Mangeli to the deck, where they were received, and successively embraced by the emperor, who, directing the cheers and music to cease for a moment, and, holding Nourmahal by the right hand, proclaimed her the empress of Hindostan. The intelligence was received with cheers, again and again repeated; for her virtues, her accomplishments, and her beauty—beauty heightened by the simplicity of her prison dress, which she still wore,—had gained her the love of every man, who had a heart to recognize the charms of filial affection, combined with an exalted passion, which knew not how to descend from its throne.

The couriers, returning to the capital, diffused the tidings of the spectacle they had just witnessed, along the whole line of the Jumna. The train of barges, forming in the rear of the imperial galley, proceeded down the river, the oars moving to the sounds of martial airs. The banks were every where crowded with people, who hastened thither from the neighbouring towns and villages, holding in their hands torches of pinewood, which gave to the darkening night almost the splendor of day. Myriads of small fishing boats were launched on the river, occupying it almost from bank to bank, at a short distance behind the courtly procession.

As the day approached, boats of every description were seen coming from the capital, filled with gaily dressed parties, anxious to pay their homage to the emperor and empress, who appeared on the deck of their galley, and received the congratulations of the joyous people in the most endearing manner. The beauty of Nourmahal was the theme of every tongue, and never did that noble being look more captivating than when thus beside him, whom she loved so well, fanned by the fresh zephyrs of the summer morning, and arrayed in a plain muslin robe and turban, the work of her own fingers, she stood under the flag of Hindostan.

As soon as the crowds moving down the river were observable from the tower of the citadel, the signal was given to the artillery. The guns summoned from the city and its extensive suburbs, all their vast population. The gates of the citadel were flung wide open; the great square was in a moment filled with the exulting multitude, whose incessant shouts, amidst the thunders of the ramparts and the music of a hundred bands, proclaimed the universal gladness that prevailed.

Upon arriving at the steps which led from the Jumna to the palace, the emperor beheld Auzeem waiting to receive him. Jehangire summoned him on board, and without permitting him to kneel, warmly embraced him, and immediately invested him with the title of “Preserver of the Empire.” In paying his homage to Nourmahal, Auzeem expressed to her the sincerity of his joy, that she was now in the station to which it had long been his hope that he would be instrumental in raising her. Kazim and Mangeli poured out their gratitude to him for his services to their family and their country; the chancellor, by the pressure of his hand upon his heart, rather than by any words, telling him how truly penitent he felt for having, even during a single hour, entertained the slightest suspicions of the minister’s unabated zeal for the welfare of Jehangire.

The debarkation of the emperor and his consort took place under fresh salutes of artillery from all parts of the capital. Upon surmounting the steps, which were spread with cloth of gold, they beheld the whole line before them strewed with flowers; on each side were ranged the daughters of the faithful omrahs, arrayed in white robes, their heads crowned with chaplets. Behind these beauteous maidens stood their fathers, many of them of venerable age, weeping with joy for having witnessed the restoration of their lawful sovereign, of whose cause they had almost despaired.

Jehangire and Nourmahal walked, hand-in-hand, along this fragrant path, to the palace, where officers were in attendance with the imperial vestments. Immediately proceeding to the Am-kas, the emperor and his consort ascended the throne, the former wearing his crown. He was followed by pages bearing upon a cushion another diadem, which he placed on the brow of Nourmahal, amidst repeated bursts of acclamation from the vast assembly below. They spent a great part of the day in receiving the petitions of the people—petitions, unhappily filled with the most afflicting narratives of the wrongs sustained by every class of the community during the usurpation.

It is needless to add, that the chancellor was speedily restored to the eminent station which he had so long dignified by his virtues, and adorned by his talents. His re-appearance in the supreme court of justice was hailed with a degree of enthusiasm, scarcely secondary to that with which the restoration of the lawful sovereign was rendered so memorable in the annals of the capital.

Zeinedeen contemplated all these unlooked-for changes with a sanguine delight, which he would not, for the present at least, suffer to be clouded in his mind by presages of those changes to which all human happiness is liable. He made no effort to explore the future history of Hindostan, contented that he saw, in the ascendancy which Nourmahal appeared already to exercise over the mind of the emperor, a powerful corrective of any defects which might have weakened his authority, and prepared fresh troubles for his reign. It was too much to hope, that the remaining years of that reign should be altogether free from vicissitude; but from the united talents and power of the empress and her father, he expected, with little fear of disappointment, that their influence would ensure to Hindostan many years of felicity.

For himself, Zeinedeen had now no further desire, except to return to Cashmere, and to devote the evening of his life to the religious and philosophical contemplations, that would best prepare him for the brighter worlds, to which he looked forward with so much ardour. Jehangire, however, would not hear of any plan, which would remove the good hermit from the neighbourhood of Agra. It was arranged, therefore, that a monastery should be constructed within a short distance of the capital, upon the banks of the Jumna, which Aquaviva and his companions should be invited to occupy; that in their sacred society, Zeinedeen should spend his remaining years; and that thither Jehangire, Nourmahal, Kazim, and Mangeli, should often repair, to talk over the events by which they had been bound together in links of sympathy, never to be solved at this side of the grave, and to renew their thanksgivings to the Omnipotent, in those beautiful forms of prayer furnished so abundantly by the ritual of the missionaries.

THE END.