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and occupied them to the exclusion of every other idea. One sat
motionless, and apparently stupefied, as though he had eaten
opium; another prayed aloud wildly, yet fervently; others laughed
and spoke with a feverish excitement; and there were one or two
who blasphemed and cursed, while they bewailed their early and
fearful fate.
For some hours they waited in the cloisters, and the sun was high
and bright, ere a body of men on foot, the soldiers of the country,
armed with sword and matchlock, marched into it. It was plain that
their escort was to be changed, and that the respectable men who
had been with them were no longer to accompany them, but had
given place to some of the lowest description of Tippoo’s troops,
who were usually composed of the unclean castes of the country.
Their appearance was forbidding, and in vain the prisoners looked
for a glance of pity from the half-naked and savage-looking band to
whom they were given over; they appeared used to the scenes
which were to ensue, and regarded the miserable Englishmen with a
cold stare of indifferent curiosity.
But little communication passed between the prisoners; Herbert
had for some days spoken to them, and advised them to prepare for
death by prayer and penitent confession to God; he had reasoned
with several, who had from the first shown a foolhardy and light
demeanour, on the madness of attempting indifference to their fate;
but as the time drew near, he was too fully occupied with his own
overpowering thoughts to attend to the others, and he had
withdrawn to as far a distance as possible from them, where he sat
moodily, and contemplated with bitter thoughts his approaching
death.
While he was thus occupied the Jemadar entered the court, and
having given some orders to the men who remained behind, he
directed the legs of the prisoners to be tied. This having been
executed, they were placed in the doolies, and the whole again
proceeded.
Passing the outskirts of the town of Nundidroog, they travelled for
two or three miles through the avenues of mango-trees, which in
parts line the road: could they have had thought for anything around
them, they would have admired the varied prospect presented to
them by the rugged rocky hills, and their picturesque and ever-
varying outlines: but one idea absorbed all others, and they were
borne along in a kind of unconscious state; they could see nothing
but death, even though the bright sun was in their eyes, and the
glad and joyful face of nature was spread out before them.
At length the leading men turned off the road by a by-path
towards a huge pile of rocks in the plain, about half a mile distant,
and the others followed; it was plain to all that this was their
destination. Then it flashed across their minds that the rock was not
high enough to cause death instantaneously; and while some
demanded in haughty words of expostulation to be taken to the fort
itself, or to the summit of the conical mountain, which arose
precipitously on the right hand,—others besought the same with
piteous and plaintive entreaty, in very abjectness compared with
their former conduct. They might as well have spoken to the wind
which blew over them in soft and cool breezes as if to soothe their
excited and fevered frames. Ignorant of the only language of which
the Europeans could speak a few words, the rude soldiers listened
with indifference, or replied with obscene jests and mocking
gestures and tones.
They reached the foot of the rocks; the bearers were directed to
put down the doolies, and the prisoners were dragged from them
with violence. A few clung with fearful cries to the wretched vehicle,
which had been their wearisome abode for so many days, and one
or two resisted, with frantic efforts, to the utmost of their power, the
endeavours of their guards to lead them up the narrow pathway;
they were even wounded in their struggles; but the men they had to
deal with were far stronger than the attenuated Europeans, and had
been accustomed to the work too long to heed cries or screams;
they were the far-famed guard of the rock, even now remembered,
who had been selected for their fierce behaviour, strength, and
savage deportment, to carry into execution the decrees of the
Sultaun.
All the while they had been accompanied by the Jemadar, who,
having ridden in advance of the party, now awaited their coming at
the top of the rock. Herbert was the first who arrived there, led by
the rope which, tied to both his arms, was held by one of the
guards, while others with drawn swords walked on each side of and
behind him. He had been cast down in heart since the morning, and
faint and sick at heart; but now his spirit seemed nerved within him.
One plunge, he thought, and all would be over; then he should be
released from this worse than death. Prayer too was in his heart and
on his lips, and his soul was comforted, as he stepped firmly upon
the level space above and looked around him.
The Jemadar was there, and a few other soldiers; the terrace was
a naked rock, which was heated by the sun so that it scorched his
bare feet. There were a few bushes growing around it, and on one
side were two mud houses, the one close, the other open for the
guard. Besides these, there was a hut of reeds, which was used as a
place for keeping water.
‘Thou art welcome, captain,’ said the Jemadar with mock
politeness. ‘Art thou ready to taste of the banquet of death?’
‘Lead on,’ said Herbert firmly, ‘and molest me not by thy words. I
am ready.’
‘Not so fast, sir; the Sultaun’s orders must first be obeyed. Say, art
thou ready to take his service, or dost thou refuse?’
‘I have already told him my determination, and will waste no
words upon such as thee,’ was Herbert’s reply.
‘It is well!’ said the Jemadar, ‘thou wilt learn ere long to speak
differently:’ and he turned away from him to where several of the
others were now standing. He regarded them for a few minutes
steadily and exultingly, as one by one the miserable beings were led
up; and some, unable from mental and bodily exhaustion to support
themselves, sunk down on the rock almost insensible.’
There was one youth, a noble and vigorous fellow. Herbert had
remembered him when he was first brought to Bangalore from some
distant fortress—high-spirited and full of fire, which even captivity
had not tamed. But the long and rapid journey, the bad food, the
exposure to scorching heat and chilling dew, had brought on
dysentery, which had exhausted him nigh to death. He was almost
carried by the guards, and set down apart from the rest. His languid
and sunken eye and pallid cheek told of his sickness; but there was
a look of hope in the glance which he cast upwards now and then,
and a gentle movement of his lips, which showed that his spirit was
occupied in prayer.
The Jemadar’s eye rested on him. ‘Let him be the first—he will die
else!’ he cried to some of the guards, who, having divested
themselves of their arms, stood ready to do his bidding.
A cry of horror burst from the group of Englishmen. There were
two or three of the strong men who struggled firmly with their
captors, as their gallant hearts prompted them to strike a blow, for
their suffering comrade. But, bound and guarded, what could they
do?
They saw the young man lifted up by two of the executioners, and
borne rapidly to the further edge of the rock, not twenty yards from
them. He uttered no cry; but looking towards them sadly, he bade
them farewell for ever, with a glance even more eloquent than
words. Another instant, and he was hurled from the brink by those
who carried him.
Almost unconsciously each bent forward to catch even a passing
sound, should any arise; and there was a dead silence for a few
moments, as the men who had done their work leaned over the
edge to see if it had been surely effected. But none arose: the
sufferer had been quickly released from his earthly pain.
‘Dost thou see that, Captain Compton?’ said the Jemadar. ‘Thy
turn will come.’
‘Now,’ was the reply; ‘I am ready,’ And Herbert hoped that his turn
would be the next. His energies were knit, and his spirit prepared for
the change.
‘Not yet,’ said the Jemadar: ‘I would speak with thee first. Lead
the rest away into the house yonder,’ he continued to the guard,
‘loose them, and lock the door.’ It was done, and Herbert alone
remained outside.
‘Listen!’ he said, addressing Herbert, ‘does thou remember me?’
‘I said before that I thought I knew thee; but what has that to do
with death?’ said Herbert. ‘I am ready to die; bid thy people do their
office.’
 ‘That will not be for many days,’ he replied; ‘I have a long
reckoning to settle with thee.’
‘For what? I have never harmed thee.’
‘When Mathews was in Bednore, and there was alarm of the
Sultaun’s coming, thou didst suspect me, thou and another. Thou
didst insult and threaten to hang me. We are even now,—dost thou
understand?’
‘What! Jaffar Sahib, the guide, the man who betrayed the salt he
ate?’
‘Even so. Ye were owls, fools, and fell into the snare laid for you.’
‘Has thy resentment slumbered so long then?’ said Herbert. ‘I pity
thee: thy own heart must be a hell to thee.’
‘Kafir! dare to speak so again, and I will spit on thee.’
‘It would befit thee to do so; but I am silent,’ was Herbert’s reply.
‘Where is the money that thou and that old fool, who is now in
perdition, buried in Bednore? Lead me to it, and I will save thy life.
The coast is near, and thou canst escape. Fear not to speak,—those
around do not understand us.’
‘Thy master has been told by me, by Mathews, who lost his life in
that cause, and by every one, that there was none but what he
found. We hid no money—thou well knowest this: why dost thou
torment me?’
‘Thou wilt remember it in three or four days, perhaps,’ said the
man; ‘till then I shall not ask thee again. Go to the company of thy
people.’
Herbert’s mind had been strung up to its purpose, and he coveted
death at that moment as the dearest boon which could have been
granted. But it was denied him; and he could only gather from the
leader of the party that further suffering was in store for him. In
spite of his utmost exertions to repel the feeling, despondence came
over him,—a sickening and sinking of his heart, which his utmost
exertion of mind could not repel.
The day passed away, and the night fell. As the gloom spread over
their narrow chamber, the men, whom the light had kept silent or
cheering each other, now gave way to superstitious terrors; and, as
they huddled together in a group, some cried out that there were
hideous spectres about them; others prayed aloud; and those who
were hard of heart blasphemed, and made no repentance. As night
advanced, some yelled in mental agony and terror, and the thought
of those who were to die on the morrow appalled every heart. None
slept.
Four days passed thus; on every morning a new victim was taken,
while the rest were forced to look on. Sometimes he went gladly and
rejoicing, sometimes he had to be torn from his companions, who in
vain strove to protect him: two suffered passively—two made
desperate resistance, and their parting shrieks long rang in the ears
of the survivors. On the fourth day the Jemadar arrived. ‘Come
forth,’ he said to Herbert, ‘I would speak to thee. Wilt thou be
obdurate, O fool? wilt thou longer refuse to tell of the money, and
the Sultaun’s benevolence? Bethink thee.’
‘Thou couldst not grant me a greater favour than death,’ said
Herbert; ‘therefore why are these things urged? If there was money
hidden thou shouldst have it; I know it is thy god. But there is none,
therefore let me die. I tell thee once for all, I spurn thy master’s
offers with loathing.’
‘Dost thou know what this death is?’ said the Jemadar; ‘thou shalt
see,’ And he called to several of the guards who stood around.
Herbert thought, as they led him to the brink, that his time was
come. ‘I come, I come, Amy!’ he cried aloud—‘at length I come! O
God, be merciful to me!’
They led him passively to the brink; the Jemadar stood there
already; it was a dizzy place, and Herbert’s eyes swam as he
surveyed it.
‘Thou art not to die, Feringhee,’ said the Jemadar; ‘but look over.
Behold what will be thy fate!’
Herbert obeyed mechanically, and the men held him fast on the
very verge, or the temptation would have been strong to have
ridden himself of life. He looked down: the hot and glaring sunlight
fell full on the mangled remains of his comrades, which lay in a
confused heap at the bottom: a hundred vultures were scrambling
over each other to get at them, and the bodies were snatched to
and fro by their united efforts. The Jemadar heaved a fragment of
rock over, which, rebounding from the side, crashed among the
brushwood and the obscene birds; they arose screaming at being
disturbed, and two or three jackals skulked away through the
brushwood. But Herbert saw not these; the first glance and the
putrid smell which came up had sickened him, weak and excited as
he was, and he fainted.
 CHAPTER XXIV.

‘He has fainted, or is dead,’ cried the men who held him, to the
Jemadar, who was busied in heaving over another fragment of rock.
‘He has fainted; shall we fling him over?’
‘For your lives do not!’ cried the Jemadar; ‘draw back from thence
—let us see what is the matter.’
They obeyed him, and laid Herbert down softly upon the rock,
while the Jemadar stood over him. His hand was powerless and cold,
his face quite pale, and he looked as though he were dead.
‘He has cheated us,’ said the Jemadar to those around; ‘surely he
is dead. Who prates now of the valour of the Feringhees? Even this
leader among them could not look on a few dead bodies without
fainting like a woman: Thooh! I spit on the kafirs: I marvel that the
Sultaun so desires him to enter the service, and is at such trouble
about him.’
‘He will die,’ said one of the men; ‘his hand grows colder and
colder.’
‘He must not die yet, Pochul,’ said Jaffar Sahib; ‘what would the
Sultaun say to us? Away! get some water; he may revive. This is
only a faint, the effect of terror; he will soon speak again.’
The man obeyed the order, and brought water. They dashed some
on Herbert’s face, and opening his lips, poured some between his
tightly closed teeth. But it was in vain; he moved not, nor showed
signs of life for a long while; and was it not that his body continued
warm, they would have thought him dead. At length he sighed, and
opening his eyes, gazed wildly around him. The effort was greeted
with a shout from those about him, which he appeared not to hear,
but sank back again insensible. Again they essayed to revive him as
they best could; and after a long time partially succeeded as before;
but it was only to see him relapse again and again. Once or twice he
spoke, but incoherently.
For some hours he continued thus. At last a violent shivering
commenced; and seeing him so affected (for the Jemadar had left
them for a while, having given the men strict orders to look carefully
to Herbert, and to remove him to their guardhouse), as they were
aware he was a person of more than ordinary consequence, they
used what means they could to alleviate his sufferings. One lent him
his rozaee, or quilted counterpane; another kneaded his limbs or
chafed his hands; a third heated cloths and applied them to his back
and head. But it was in vain: the shivering continued, accompanied
at times with dreadful sickness. After being in this state for awhile,
he broke into a violent heat—a burning, exhausting heat—which
excited him furiously. Now he raved wildly: he spoke sometimes in
English, sometimes in Hindostanee; and as none of the men around
him understood either, they held a hurried consultation among
themselves, and came to the resolution of selecting one of the
prisoners to remain with him, and minister to his wants. The office
was gladly accepted by the man they chose, whose name was
Bolton, and whom they fixed on because he had been seen in
conversation with Herbert more than the rest, and could speak a few
words of their language, Canarese, which he had learned where he
had been last confined.
All that night was passed by the unfortunate young man in violent
raving, the consequence of the raging fever which consumed him.
He tossed incessantly to and fro in the small corded bed upon which
he had been laid; now yelling forth, in the agony he suffered from
his head, which he held with both his hands; and now moaning
piteously, so that even the rough guards felt compassion for the
young and helpless Englishman. ‘Water!’ was the only coherent word
he could utter; the rest was a continued unintelligible muttering, in
which some English words and names were sometimes faintly
discernible.
Poor Bolton did what he could, but it was in vain; and when the
Jemadar returned in the morning for the purpose of adding another
victim to his last, he found Herbert in such a state as to alarm him;
for the Sultaun had sworn he would have life for life if aught
happened to him.
‘He must be removed instantly,’ he said. ‘Away, one of ye, for a
dooly! Bring it to the foot of the rock—we will carry him down
thither, and he must be removed to the town.’
In the end too he was merciful, for he took Bolton with him to
attend on Herbert while he should live; it could not be long, he
thought, for he raved incessantly, until exhaustion ensued, and he
gained fresh strength for further frantic efforts.
And they left the fatal rock soon afterwards, the only two of that
numerous company alive; nor was the fate of the rest long
protracted. They were murdered as the rest had been; and the
bleached bones and skulls, and fragments of clothes which had no
shape to tell to whom they had belonged—for they had been
stripped from the dead by the beaks of vultures and teeth of jackals
—proved to those who long afterwards looked on the place, that the
tales they had heard of the horrors of that fatal rock, and which they
had in part disbelieved, were not unfounded.
It was on a mild and balmy evening that Herbert awoke to
consciousness, about a week after he had been removed. He looked
languidly around him, for he was so weak that even the effort he
made to raise himself caused a giddy faintness; and for an instant
the remembrance of his last conscious moment upon the brink of the
precipice flashed across his mind, and he shuddered at the
recollection of what he had seen. Again he looked around, but he
was not upon the rock; the fatal and wretched abode in which he
had passed five days—such days of enduring agony as he could not
have believed it possible to sustain—with its bare walls scrawled all
over with the names of its miserable inhabitants, and their care-
worn, despairing, and almost maniac faces, were around him no
longer. He lay in the open air, under the shade of a wide-spreading
peepul-tree, upon a mound of earth surrounding a tomb; which,
from its clean white-washed state, and the garlands of flowers which
hung upon it, was evidently that of a Mahomedan saint or holy
martyr. At a short distance was a small mosque, exquisitely white
and clean, behind which rose some noble tamarind-trees, and with
them cocoa-nut and plantains, which formed an appropriate
background to the pureness of the building, their foliage partly
shaded and intermingled with the minarets and ornamented
pinnacles of the mosque. Before it was a little garden, where
flourished luxuriantly a pomegranate-tree or two, covered with their
bright scarlet blossoms—a few marigolds and cockscombs,
intermixed with mint and other sweet herbs, which appeared to be
cultivated with care. The space around the tomb and before the
mosque, and for a considerable extent all round, was carefully
swept; and the branches of the peepul and tamarind-trees, which
met and interweaved high above, formed a cover impenetrable by
the rays of the fiercest sun at noon-day; but it was now evening,
and the red light streamed in a flood between the stems of the
trees, lighting up the gnarled branches of the peepul and the thick
foliage beyond. Innumerable parroquets and minas screamed and
twittered in the branches above him, and flew from place to place
restlessly: but the only sound of man was from one drawing water
for the garden, by the aid of the lever and bucket common to
Mysore, whose monotonous yet not unmusical song and mellow
voice ceased only to allow the delicious sound of the rush of water
to reach Herbert’s ear, as the bucket was emptied from time to time
into the reservoir which supplied the garden.
He lay in a half unconscious state, in that dreamy languor, which,
when fierce fever has subsided, is almost painful from its vagueness;
when the mind, striving to recall the past, wanders away into
thoughts which have no reference to it, but which lose themselves in
a maze of unreal illusions too subtle and shifting to be followed, and
yet too pleasant to excite aught but tranquil images and soothing
effects.
The sun sank in glory,—in such glory behind the mountains
beyond as Herbert had never before witnessed, save once, when he
was at sea, and the land which held him a prisoner, and was his
living grave, appeared in sight. As the evening fell, and the golden
tints of the west faded, giving place to the rich hues of crimson and
purple which spread over it, the sonorous voice of the Muezzin, from
a corner of the enclosure, proclaimed the evening worship; and in
the melancholy yet melodious tone of the invitation, called the
Believers to prayer. A few devout answered to it, and advancing from
one side, performed their ablutions at a little fountain which cast up
a tiny thread of spray into the air; this done, they entered the
mosque, and, marshalled in a row, went through, with apparent
fervour, the various forms and genuflexions prescribed by their
belief.
Afterwards two advanced towards Herbert,—one, a venerable man
in the garb of a Fakeer, the other a gentleman of respectable
appearance, who, from the sword he carried under his arm, might
be an officer.
Herbert heard one say, ‘Most likely he is dead now; he was dying
when we last saw him, and his attendant went with Jaffar Sahib to
purchase his winding-sheet; poor fellow, he was unwilling to go, but
the Jemadar forced him away.’
‘I have hope,’ said the old Fakeer, ‘the medicine I gave him
(praised be the power of Alla!) has rarely failed in such cases, and if
the paroxysm is past he will recover.’
Herbert heard this and strove to speak; his lips moved, but no
words followed above a whisper: he was weaker than an infant. But
now the Fakeer advanced to him and felt his hand and head; they
were cool and moist, and Herbert turned to look on them with a
heart full of gratitude at the kindness and interest which their words
and looks expressed.
‘Ya Ruhman! ya Salaam! Oh he lives! he is free from the disease
(blessed be the power of Alla!)—he is once more among the living.
Therefore rejoice, O Feringhee,’ exclaimed the Fakeer, ‘and bless Alla
that thou livest! for He hath been merciful to thee. Six days hast
thou lain in yonder serai, and the breath was in thy nostrils, but it
hath now returned to thy heart, so be thankful.’
‘I am grateful for thy kindness, Shah Sahib,’ said Herbert, speaking
very faintly,—for he had learned the usual appellation of all
respectable Fakeers long before—‘Alla will reward thee; I pray thee
tell me who thou art, and where I am. Methinks I was—’
 ‘Trouble not thyself to think on the past,’ he replied; ‘it was not
destined to be, and thy life is for the present safe; thou art in the
garden of the poor slave of Alla and the apostle, Sheikh Furreed, of
Balapoor.’
‘A worthy Fakeer, and one on whom the power to work miracles
hath descended in this degenerate time,’ said his companion; ‘one
who may well be called “Wullee,” and who will be honoured in
death.’
‘I have an indifferent skill in medicine,’ said the Fakeer; ‘but to the
rest I have no pretensions, Khan Sahib; but we should not speak to
the youth; let him be quiet; the air will revive him; and when they
return he shall be carried back to the serai.’
They left him; and ere long he heard footsteps approaching; a
figure was running towards him—he could not surely be mistaken—it
was an English face: he came nearer—it was Bolton.
The poor fellow sobbed with very joy when he saw his officer
released, as it were, from the jaws of death; he hung over him, and
bathed his hand with tears; he little expected ever to have heard
him speak again. Now his officer lived, and while a load of sorrow
was removed from his heart, he blessed God that He had been so
merciful.
‘I have carried you forth day by day in my arms, and laid you
yonder,’ said the faithful fellow, as he lifted him up like a child: ‘they
said you would die, and I thought if you were sensible before that
time came, you would like to be in this shady cool place, where the
light would not be too strong for you, the fresh air would play over
you, and you could look around upon the green trees and gardens
ere you went hence.’
Herbert could only press his hand in silence, for his heart was too
full to speak; indeed he was too weak also; for in being carried to
the serai once more, he fainted, and it was long ere he recovered.
But that night a few mouthfuls of rice-milk were given him, and he
slept peacefully,—that noiseless, almost breathless sleep, which is
attendant on extreme weakness, when dreams and pleasant
phantasies flit before the imagination like shadows chasing each
other over beautiful prospects, when the day is bright and soft.
Herbert’s visions were of home, of walks in the twilight with Amy, of
her soft words, of the plashing of the river in their well-known
haunts, sacred to him by the dearest and holiest ties,—and he woke
in the morning refreshed and strengthened.
He could now speak; he could converse with the soldier who had
watched over him so devotedly, and he learned from him all that had
occurred.
‘You were delirious, sir,’ he said; ‘and I was sent for from among
the rest; poor fellows! I hear they are all murdered. I thought you
had been struck by the sun, for you were bareheaded; perhaps it
was so, for you were quite mad and very violent. They brought you
here in the dooly, which was sent for by the Jemadar, and at first no
one would receive you. You lay raving in the bazaar, and people
avoided you as they would have done a devil,—they even called you
one. But the good Fakeer who lives here saw you by chance, and
took you away from them, and he has watched you and given you
various medicines, which have made you, I fear, very weak, sir; but
you are better now.’
‘So they were all murdered?’ said Herbert, his thoughts reverting
to the past.
‘They were, sir; but why think of that now? it will distress you—
you should not; there are brighter things in store for you, depend on
it.’
‘Alas!’ said Herbert, ‘I fear not, Bolton; but since God has spared
me from that death, and protected me through this dreadful illness,
of which I have a confused remembrance, surely it is not too much
to hope.’
And he did hope, and from his soul he breathed a fervent prayer;
for through the future there appeared a glimmering ray of hope on
which his mind loved to rest, though clouds and dark vapours of
doubt and uncertainty would rise up occasionally and obscure it. Day
by day, however, he recovered strength, and the old Fakeer sate by
him often, and beguiled the time with tales and legends of the
mighty of the earth who were dead and gone. It was a dreamy
existence, to live weak and helpless among those shady groves, to
lie for hours listening to the ever-sighing trees, as the wind rustled
through their thick foliage, watching the birds of varied plumage as
they flitted among their branches, while his ear was filled with wild
legends of love, of war, of crime, or of revenge.
But this had an end—it was too bright, too peaceful to last. When
a week had elapsed, the Jemadar who had avoided him studiously
during his recovery, came to him with the Fakeer; for knowing
Herbert’s detestation of him, he had not dared to venture alone.
‘The Jemadar hath news for thee, my son,’ said the old man; ‘fear
not, he will not harm thee—I would not let him do so. He hath
shown me the Sultaun’s letter to him, which arrived a short time ago
by an express.’
‘Listen, Feringhee!’ said Jaffar Sahib; ‘the Shah Sahib will bear me
witness that there is no wrong intended thee; my royal master doth
but seek his own, and still asketh thee for the treasure.’
‘Shah Sahib,’ said Herbert, ‘hear me say, and be witness, that as
Alla, whom we both worship, sees my heart, that it is pure of deceit,
—I know nought of it. Unlike those who loaded themselves with
money, and plundered the treasury at Bednore, I and a few others
never touched it. Canst thou not believe that, to save my life, I
would have told if I had known aught of it?’
‘I believe that thou wouldst, my son, but—’
‘There must have been lakhs of money and jewels buried there or
destroyed,’ said the Jemadar; ‘else, where is the treasure? Every one
was searched, and yet not half was found that I myself saw there
before—’
‘Before what?’ asked the Fakeer, whose curiosity was raised.
‘Let him tell his own tale of shame if he can,’ said Herbert; ‘I
would not so humble him, though he is my enemy, for some reason
that I know not of.’
‘Thou knowest well I have cause to be so,’ said the Jemadar, with
bitter rancour in his tone; ‘but this is foolishness; here is the
Sultaun’s letter; thou must either tell of the treasure, or go again
into confinement;—tell of it, and thou wilt be freed and sent on an
embassy to thine own people,—refuse, and the alternative is thy
doom. Choose then—in this at least there is no tyranny.’
 ‘Alas! I am but mocked,’ said Herbert sadly; ‘I have given thee my
answer so many times, that this is but torment, exciting hope that
makes me dream of joy I can never realise. My own people—alas! to
them I am dead long ago, and— But why speculate? I tell thee,
before this holy witness, my kind and benevolent friend, that I have
no other reply to give than that thou knowest.’
‘It is well, Sahib,—thy fate is cast; the old prison at Bangalore
awaits thee, where, if Alla give thee long life, thou art fortunate, but
where speedy death will be thy most probable fate.’
‘It will be welcome,’ said Herbert; ‘but while I have life, I will
remember thee, O Fakeer, who hast been to me a friend in bitter
adversity, when to all others I was accursed. When am I to travel?’
‘To-morrow,’ replied the Jemadar; ‘the letter is peremptory, if thou
art strong enough to bear the journey.’
‘He is not,’ said the Fakeer, ‘he is still weak. On my head be the
blame of his remaining longer.’
‘No,’ said Herbert, ‘I am feeble, it is true, but let it be as the
Sultaun wills. I am too long accustomed to hardship to resist or
object, and thou, my friend, wouldst only bring down his wrath upon
thee by keeping me here: yet think, when I am gone, from this our
short acquaintance, that our race can be grateful, and when thou
hearest us reviled, say that we are not as our slanderers speak of
us. For myself, while I have life, I will remember thee as a kind and
dear friend; and if Alla wills it, we may meet again.’
‘If Alla wills it?—Ya Moojeeb![35] ya Kubeer![36] ya Moota-alee![37]
grant that it may be that we may meet again.’

35. O answerer of prayer!

36. O Lord of power!

37. O most sublime!

And, full of regret, of pain at parting with his old and true friend,—
even shedding tears, for he was weak in body and in mind, as he
left those quiet, peaceful groves and green shades,—with the
memory of his fearful illness, his kind nursing, and the devotion of
their possessor fresh and vivid in his thoughts,—Herbert left the
place the next day, accompanied by his comrade in captivity, whose
only hope now was, that they should never again be separated. In
the secrecy of friendship, he had procured a pen and paper from the
old Fakeer, and had written a few lines to the Governor of Madras,
stating who he was, and that he still lived; this the old man
promised to send whenever an opportunity occurred; but he was
over-cautious, Herbert thought, and there was but little hope that it
would ever reach its destination.
The journey did not fatigue him as he had expected; in contrast to
the hurried travel in coming, they returned to Bangalore in three
days, and Herbert was even stronger and better for the exertion. He
expected once more his old cell, and the company of books, even
sometimes a word with his kind friend the Killadar; but there was
another trial in store for him, of which he could have had no idea—it
was terrible in contemplation.
It would seem as if the capricious mind of the Sultaun was never
settled to one point about Herbert; order after order was revoked,
and others substituted; the last, which met him at Bangalore, was
that Herbert should be taken to a solitary mountain fortress beyond
Mysore, in a region which was known to be inclement, and from
whence tidings of his existence could never find their way. He had
been passive in the hands of his captors now for years, and this
fresh mark of tyranny was nothing new, nor the changes in the
Sultaun’s designs for him to be wondered at. A few days’ delay
occurred at Bangalore, where some suits of coarse but thickly
quilted clothes were given to him, two or three blankets, a
counterpane, and a few other necessaries; and he once more
journeyed onwards. A bitter pang to him was the loss of his faithful
friend and attendant Bolton, who was not permitted to accompany
him. They separated in sorrow, but they exchanged written
memoranda of each other’s history, to be made known to their
countrymen in case either had ever an opportunity.
 Herbert travelled many days; following at first the road to
Seringapatam, the party struck off to the left when near the city;
there he was rid of the hateful presence of the Jemadar, who to the
last urged him to confess the existence of the treasure, and
repeated his offers of conniving at his flight, should he disclose it.
At length a blue wall of mountains appeared in the far distance;
their bases were wreathed with vapours, which rolled along their
sides but never appeared to reach the summit. Day after day, as
they approached them nearer, their giant forms displayed
themselves in grander and more majestic beauty. What had
appeared chasms and rents in their sides, when the light rested on
them, now revealed valleys and thickly wooded glens, into which
imagination strove to penetrate, in speculation of their real
loveliness.
At length they reached the pass, which from the table-land of
Mysore descends into the plain of Coimbatoor; and from thence the
boundless prospect which met Herbert’s eye filled his mind with
delight and rapture. The blue distance melted into the sky, by a
succession of the tenderest tints: away through the plains rolled the
Bhowanee, a silver thread glittering amidst the most exquisite
colours. The huge mountains were on his right,—blue and vast—
their rugged sides, here hewn into deep chasms, and again clothed
with woods of a luxuriance which he had never before seen
equalled. In the distance of the lofty chain, one mountain of peculiar
form, whose sides were naked precipices, stood out boldly against
the blue plain. The soldiers pointed to it exultingly, and when he
asked them the reason, he was told that it was his destination.
They descended; everywhere the same noble views, the same
glory of the works of Heaven, which Herbert worshipped in his heart,
met his gaze. Having passed along the foot of the mountains for two
days, and approached them nearer and nearer, they began to
ascend. Below the rugged pass, the mighty forests, the huge
bamboos, the giant creepers, and their lovely flowers, had filled
Herbert’s mind with wonder and awe; as he ascended, this gave
place to feelings of delight. The path was rugged and stony, and the
pony he rode (for which the dooly had been exchanged beneath the
pass) climbed but slowly, and he was obliged to rest him
occasionally, while he turned round to enjoy the mighty prospect.
How grand it was to see the high table-land of Mysore breaking into
the plain in mountains of four thousand feet high, of every
conceivable form, and bathed in the bright light of an Indian sun,
while the boundless plains stretched away from their feet!
As he ascended, the air blew cooler and cooler, and plants and
beautiful flowers new to him grew profusely by the wayside; at last
he saw—he could not be mistaken—some fern! How his heart
bounded as he plucked it, and kissed its well-remembered form. A
little higher there was a bed of blue flowers peering from among the
luxuriant shrubs; they had familiar faces,—he stopped, and
dismounting ran to them. They were violets,—the same as those
with which he had a thousand times filled his Amy’s lap in summer
time, when they were children;—how full his heart was!
Further on, a brake of brambles met his eye; the ripe black fruit
was a luxury to him, such as he had not dreamed of; and below
them a bed of wild strawberries, the same as they had grown in the
Beechwood groves and round the Hermitage. He was now near the
summit; the air was cold and fresh like that of England, the sky was
bluer than below, and a few light fleecy clouds floated about the
mountain-top, veiling its beauty. They still advanced, and he was in
rapture: he could not speak, his thoughts could only find vent in
thanksgiving. A familiar flower caught his eye in a bush above his
head; it was woodbine—the same, and as fragrant, as in England.
Herbert’s heart was already full to overflowing, and thoughts of the
past increased by these simple objects were too powerful for him to
bear calmly; he could resist nature’s best relief no longer, and wept
—tears which soothed him as they flowed; and while he sate down,
and with dim and streaming eyes gazed over the almost boundless
prospect, he felt that if he could have passed away to another
existence with those feelings, it would have been bliss.
 CHAPTER XXV.

Some years have now elapsed since Philip Dalton parted from his
friend Herbert at Bednore, upon the mission of the unfortunate
Mathews; and it becomes necessary to revert to him for a while, in
order to present successively the various events which belong to our
history, in such a manner as may best serve to fix them upon the
reader’s attention, and which from their connection, though at
considerable distances of time, it is needful to follow to the end in
their true order.
Philip’s journey to the coast was rapid, but he had time once more
to tread the ground which was the scene of that spirited conflict,
once more to visit the grave of his young companion, which was
undisturbed; and he saw with satisfaction that the simple monument
which they had ordered to be erected over it, to preserve it from
being molested as well as to mark the place, was in a state of
forwardness and would soon be finished. In a few days more the
party were at the coast, and finding vessels there belonging to the
Government, they embarked, and with the soft and favourable
breezes of the season, soon reached their destination in safety.
Here now ensued a scene of bitter contention among the friends
of both parties, and opinions ran high on both sides. While the one
urged the incompetency, the neglect of orders and caution, and the
obstinacy of Mathews, in not listening to the advice of those well
calculated by their rank and experience to give it, there were also
those who argued, that in all his acts Mathews was fully justified,—
that, should disaster come, the Government of the island was alone
to blame, in having directed him to undertake operations of such
magnitude with means so insignificant, which, though they had been
eminently successful, he could not be expected to maintain without
large and speedy reinforcements.
Before the council, however, the affairs were argued with
calmness and temper; the letters of Mathews certainly threw no light
upon his position, his means of defence or intelligence of the enemy;
and though Philip Dalton defended his commander with zeal and
temper, he was forced to acknowledge that there were many points
on which he, in common with others, had offered advice that had
been disregarded—points, the neglect of which could not be
otherwise than injurious to the discipline of the army, which had
already suffered in a great degree.
The arguments against Mathews finally prevailed, and the orders
for his supercession in the command were given to Macleod, who,
with Shaw and Humberstone, already mentioned, took a speedy
departure from Bombay. A severe indisposition prevented Philip’s
accompanying them, as he had intended; for Macleod, aware of his
talent, zeal, and military skill, had offered him the same office on his
own staff which he had filled with Mathews, and he had accepted it;
and as the Government had promised a reinforcement, which the
commanders represented as absolutely necessary to enable them to
hold the ground they had acquired, there was an opportunity for
proceeding with troops. This, besides being more agreeable to Philip,
would enable him to be of use to the officer who was nominated to
the command, from his knowledge of the road and of the country.
But he was destined never to proceed: the three commanders,
who had sailed from Bombay in a small armed vessel belonging to
the Government, were attacked off the Mahratta fort of Gheriah by
some heavy Mahratta vessels, for which they were no match. The
officers defended themselves and their charge bravely, and made a
determined though ineffectual resistance, in which one of their
number, the gallant Humberstone, lost his life; the others, with the
crew and vessel, were carried into Gheriah, and it was not until after
a long lapse of time that their release was effected. When the news
of this disaster reached Bombay, it retarded the preparations for
embarkation which were being made for the troops; and ere many
weeks had passed, the sad intelligence of the disaster at Bednore
completed the distress and consternation of the Presidency.
From the few that escaped, who magnified the terrors of the
event, and described in fearful terms the miseries endured by the
prisoners,—and from the reports of the cruelties exercised upon
them, which had long been prevalent, and were known to be well
founded—Philip had despaired of ever gaining intelligence of his
friend Herbert; and while he wrote to his family, whose direction he
was in possession of, to inform them of the sad event, and to tell
them that Herbert was known to have been in good health when he
was taken with the rest, he could give them but little hope as to the
final issue; indeed upon this point he was quite silent, as, having no
hope himself, he was unable to impart any to them.
He did not, however, write for several months after the intelligence
had been received at Bombay; for the letters he had dispatched for
Herbert immediately on his arrival would, he hoped, prevent his
family from being over anxious; and he thought that perhaps news
might arrive of the prisoners, of their health and condition, which
would be acceptable, or that some treaty might be arranged
between the English and Mysore Governments which would put an
end to their captivity; indeed it was in the latter confident hope that
he wrote, when all prospect of an immediate release was out of the
question.
The letters which Herbert had dispatched had reached England,
and by them his family were informed of the issue of the war as far
as the capture of Bednore; and he then wrote in the highest spirits,
like a young and gallant soldier, of the prospects of the campaign,
made light of his wound, and was eagerly looking for fresh
encounters with the enemy, in which distinction and promotion were
to be won. This account greatly soothed his parents and Amy, who
was especially tormented by agonising fears and apprehensions
regarding him, in spite of his often repeated but playful assurances
that he was safe and well.
‘He cannot be safe,’ she used to argue to herself, ‘when there are
such desperate engagements as that of which he writes us word,
and where he has too the baneful climate to contend against; but
God is over all, and to Him I commit the future in hope and
confidence.’
And so she continued—a vague dread of future misery striving for
mastery in her heart with deep religious reliance; and during this
struggle her parents became, from her altered appearance, so
anxious for her, that they would fain have removed her to one of the
watering-places for change of air and scene.
She firmly opposed the proposal, for she clung with increasing
attachment to her home, and apparently to the pursuits which
Herbert had shared with her. But if they looked at her sketches,
there used to be little advance made from day to day; she would sit
for hours seemingly engaged on them, whilst her eye was fixed upon
vacancy, or gazing upon the familiar spots she was delineating,
where she had often watched his figure, or realising to her tenacious
memory all the words she had heard him speak there.
And thus the time passed; her companionship with the family of
Herbert increased, and she would spend days in conversing with
them, especially with Mrs. Compton, about him, listening to every
tale of his life,—to every incident even of his childhood with delight,
and an interest which appeared to increase in their repetition. But
the suspense after the receipt of his last letter—the one dispatched
by Philip Dalton—grew day by day more insupportable; several
vessels arrived, but there was no intelligence from Herbert. Many of
the newspapers of the day mentioned the expedition, with some
criticisms upon its object, and prophesied an ill termination to its
exertions: and at length, when the ship arrived by which she had
expected a long despatch, and there was none, and the letter was
read from Mr. Herbert’s agent, as we have before recorded, wherein
he stated broadly that there was bad news from India—the poor
girl’s brain reeled under the shock of having her worst fears
confirmed. Her active and already excited mind in an instant
presented to her the being in whose existence her own was wrapped
up, as if in death, ghastly, with disfiguring wounds; and the thought,
suddenly as it had come into her mind, for the time paralyzed her
faculties; her body was not strong enough to resist its influence,
and, yielding at once, she had fainted under the overpowering
weight of her misery. News, however, there was of Herbert, which in
some measure relieved their worst fears and gave room for hope;
although sickening in its uncertainty, it gave room for hope, to which
every member of both families clung with the tenacity naturally
inspired by their affection.
The newspapers gave such accounts as could be gained of the
disaster, and the name of Herbert was mentioned among those who
were known to be in captivity. But they nowhere saw that of Dalton,
whom Herbert had so constantly mentioned in his letters, and they
concluded that he had been killed in one of the engagements: this
was an additional source of pain to them, that Herbert had lost his
dearest friend.
However in a few months after, the first letter from Philip arrived
at the rectory, and despite its melancholy tone, it gave the family
good reason to hope. Philip was one who could not believe implicitly
in the constant ill-treatment said to be exercised by the Sultaun
upon his prisoners, and he could plainly see that such statements
were encouraged by the Government, in order to induce those
favourable to their cause to lend their aid in the struggle. And
perceiving this, he wrote that he hoped the treaties about to be
drawn up between the two nations would be productive not only of
Herbert’s release, but of that of his fellow-captives;—he undeceived
them, too (which was necessary), as to the natives of the country
being savage, assuring them, on the contrary, that they were polite
and courteous; and as the hopes of peace continued to be confirmed
from time to time by Philip, who wrote by every opportunity, as well
as by the papers, they remained in a most pitiable state of
excitement, which was doomed to be bitterly disappointed.
The peace of 1784 came. Many a man whose existence had been
despaired of by his long-expecting and wretched family reappeared,
and that of the rectory now looked forward with intense eagerness
to the receipt of letters from Herbert or from Philip Dalton,
announcing their reunion, and the prospect of their speedy return
home.
Alas! while others rejoiced, they were plunged into deeper despair
than ever; for, as Herbert’s name did not appear in the lists of those
who had been given up, Philip did not immediately write his bitter
disappointment that his dear friend was not among their number.
Who could paint the withering effect of this miserable intelligence
upon the unhappy Amy? She had striven, and successfully, against
her own despairing heart; whilst a ray of hope broke in upon her
gloomy future, she cherished it, and strove to dispel the clouds
which doubt would, in spite of her exertions, accumulate before her.
She was cheerful, and when Mrs. Compton mourned her son’s early
fate in bitter grief, and almost refused comfort, Amy would soothe
her, and raise her to hope again. But from the last news there was
no comfort to be gained. Had Herbert been alive, he would have
been given up like the rest; and though it was suspected at the time
that many prisoners were retained by Tippoo in defiance of the
articles of treaty, still that was so uncertain, so vague and wretched
a hope, that it was abandoned as even sinful to indulge in, and
Herbert was mourned as dead.
It was happy perhaps for Amy that her own grief was in a
measure diverted by the long illness of Mrs. Compton, whom the
violence of the affliction brought to the very verge of the grave. For
many months did the gentle and patient girl minister to her who was
to have been her mother, with a devotion of affection which hardly
found its equal in that of her own daughter. From no one’s hand did
the sufferer take the remedies prescribed so readily as from Amy’s;
none could smooth the pillow of the languid invalid like Amy—none
read to her so sweetly, none conversed with her upon their favourite
subject—him who was lost to them both—so eloquently and so
devotedly as Amy. And her beauty, which had grown up with her
years, until it was now surpassingly bright—her meek and cheerful
resignation, after the first pang of sorrow was over—her unceasing
and untiring benevolence—made her an object of peculiar interest to
the neighbourhood of all ranks, to whom her sad story and early
trials were known.
Calm and cheerful as she usually was in the society of her family
and at the rectory, no one but her mother knew the bitter bursts of
grief to which nature would force her sometimes, when the memory
of him they thought dead was more prominently excited. Herbert
was constantly the subject of their conversation; for this Amy loved,
and it often soothed her to hear him spoken of or alluded to. But it
was not this that affected her; it was often the merest trifle and
sudden thought, the sight of a flower, a word or tone from Charles,
who now strongly resembled his brother, that caused these
paroxysms, which, violent as they were, prostrated her for the time,
only to rise with renewed cheerfulness, resignation, and affection for
those she loved.
They continued to hear from Philip Dalton, who, restless under the
belief that Herbert still lived, spared neither money nor pains to get
information. As time flew on, it became known that some Europeans
were in confinement, and Philip had dispatched one or two trusty
emissaries to endeavour to discover Herbert. All had, however,
ended in disappointment, and he was baffled in every inquiry. He did
not assert to Herbert’s family that he lived, but from time to time he
renewed the supposition. After the lapse of nearly four years, they
heard from him that he was about to return home on leave, and that
he would take the earliest opportunity of visiting the rectory. His
coming was earnestly and impatiently expected for many months;
for how much should they not have to hear of their long-lost Herbert
from his most devoted friend! how many particulars of their short
service together and its fatal result, which, though the themes of
many letters, were incomplete in comparison with what they should
hear from him in person!
At length his arrival in England was announced by him, and
though he could not say when he should be at liberty, he declared it
would not be long ere he performed his promise. Philip had thought
it better thus to leave them in uncertainty, lest, having their
attention fixed upon any particular day, the contemplation of the
excitement which would necessarily follow would be more than the
female part of the families could endure.
But he did not, he could not delay long; he was impatient to
communicate his suspicions, his hopes that Herbert existed, which
every day’s experience and reflection told him were reasonable; and
hardly a fortnight had elapsed, ere he took the mail to the town of
——, where the regiment had been quartered, and where he had
now a friend. Leaving his portmanteau at the barracks, he took with
him a change of linen, and late in the afternoon rode his friend’s
horse over to the rectory.
It was a lovely autumn evening; the twilight had begun to deepen
the shadows of the luxuriant woods of the park, and the rectory
groves appeared dark and solemn at that hour. A few leaves had
already fallen upon the smooth and beautifully kept entrance
avenue, which passed under some huge elms, on whose tops the
noisy rooks still sat cawing, or rising suddenly with eccentric and
rapid flights large bodies of the colony sailed through the air,
alighting only to dispossess others of a more favoured place or one
more coveted. Beyond a turning in the avenue, the house opened
upon his view—an old edifice of red brick, of the age of Elizabeth;
the large oblong windows of the drawing-room, with their diamond
panes, were a blaze of light; and even as he rode along he could
distinguish the forms of many within, and the cheerful notes of
music came to him through the open casement.
A pale elderly lady lay on the sofa working—he felt sure it was
Herbert’s mother. There were several standing round a pianoforte:
he listened for a while with deep pleasure, as the sounds of music
now rose, now fell upon the evening air, and affected him the more
powerfully as the air was one he well remembered Herbert to have
often sung, and now the place he had occupied there was vacant,
perhaps for ever.
As he listened, the voice of a female arose in a solo part, so liquid,
so melodious, so exquisitely modulated, that he drew closer to hear
it better. Could it be that of Amy? he thought, or one of Herbert’s
sisters, of whom he had heard him speak so often that he fancied he
almost knew them?—Ellen perhaps, his favourite; but it was useless
to speculate—he should soon know all. The solo ceased; again arose
a full swell of voices, attuned by constant practice, and assisted by
the instrument and a bass violin, which was played by an elderly
gentleman. It lasted for a while, then ceased entirely—the party
broke up cheerfully, and the sound of their merry voices caught his
ear—a change, perhaps an abrupt one, from the melody he had
heard, which he would have wished had been followed by silence,
for his feelings were mournful, and the image of his lost friend was
painfully vivid to his imagination; they might have arrived together
he thought.
Again he cast his eyes around him; the house, with its deeply
embayed windows and quaint projections, was covered with roses
and creepers, which entwined thickly around the drawing-room;
beside there were a pear-tree and a large fig-tree which were
trained over the wall, and almost hid it with their luxuriant foliage,
showing here and there the large black crossbeams which appeared
through the masonry of the wall, and added to its venerable
appearance. Before the house there was a flower-garden, which
bloomed with a profusion of flowers, whose rich perfume arose in
the evening air. On one side a long conservatory, and beyond it a
thick and closely kept hedge that partly screened a wall which led to
other gardens. On the other side was a lawn, close and mossy-
looking, which stretched a short distance to a sunken fence, beyond
which was a field with a few single trees, and the deep woods of the
park made up the distance. The hall-door was low and deeply
screened by a porch, around which roses and clematis flourished in
luxuriance.
Dismounting from his horse he rang the bell, which was quickly
answered; and desiring the servant to inform Mr. Compton that a
gentleman wished to speak to him, he remained in the porch.
‘Who can it be?’ said some, as the servant announced the
message. In another instant it had flashed into the minds of all that
it might be Captain Dalton; and with him came the memory of poor
Herbert, now to be so freely awakened.
‘If it should be he, Maria,’ said Mr. Compton to his lady, who at the
announcement had risen from the sofa, ‘can you bear to see him?’
‘Yes, love—yes, here—but with you only. Go into the dining-room,
my children, we will call you after a while.’
They obeyed instantly, and Mr. Compton hurried into the hall to
receive the stranger, while his lady prayed fervently for support in
the coming interview; for she trembled exceedingly, and her
conflicting emotions almost overpowered her.
 The servant was holding Philip’s horse, and he himself was pacing
slowly up and down the narrow porch. As Mr. Compton advanced,
Philip turned to meet him; and his first glance assured him that the
friend of his lost son was before him.
‘You need not mention your name, my dear sir,’ said the old
gentleman, as he clasped his hand most warmly and affectionately in
his own, while his trembling voice showed how deeply he was
agitated; ‘I am convinced that I now welcome our long-expected
and already very dear Captain Dalton. We have been long expecting
you and I need hardly say how anxiously we have looked for the
arrival of one who was so dear to—’ and he hesitated for an instant;
but mastering his emotion, he continued—‘to our poor Herbert, from
whom we heard so much of you. God bless you, sir! that you have
come to us so soon, when you must have had so many claims upon
you from your own family.’
‘I thank you, sir, heartily, for this warm welcome,’ said Philip. ‘But
before I proceed further, tell me candidly whether Mrs. Compton is
able to see me. That I have seen you, will be a comfort to me, and
for the present I will leave you, and give her time for any
preparation she may wish to make.’
‘By no means: she is already aware that this visit could be from no
other but yourself, and she will be better when she has seen you.
You must make some allowances for a mother’s grief—a fond
mother’s too—Captain Dalton.’
‘I know all, sir,’ said Philip, pressing his hand; ‘and Miss Hayward?’
‘She is fortunately not with us to-night,’ replied Mr. Compton, ‘and
we will speak upon the subject with her parents before we tell her
that you are come.’
They were at the drawing-room door, and Philip’s heart beat faster
than he had ever remembered it to beat before. The suspense and
anxiety he was in, as to the issue of his meeting with Mrs. Compton,
almost overcame his habitual self-possession; and he would have
given worlds could he have ensured her equanimity, which was little
to be expected. She, too, was not less excited; and a feeling of
faintness came over her as she heard the hand of her husband upon