The Adventures of Kathlyn by Harold MacGrath (best novel books to read .txt) 📕

She leaned back and beat her breast and wailed. Ramabai was vastly puzzled over this demonstration. That a handsome young woman should wail over the corpse of an old man who had never been anything to her might have an interpretation far removed from sorrow. Always in sympathy, however, with those bowed with grief, Ramabai stooped and attempted to raise her.

She shrank from his touch, looked up and for the first time seemed to be aware of his presence. Like a bubble under water, that which had been striving for utterance came to the surface. She snatched one of Ramabai's hands.

"Ai, ai! I am wretched. Lord, wretched! There is hot lead in my heart and poison in my brain! I will confess, confess!"

Ramabai and Pundita gazed at each other, astonished.

"What is it? What do you wish to confess?" cried Ramabai quickly. "Perhaps …"

She clung to his hand. "They will order my death by the silken cord. I am afraid. Krishna fend for me!"

"What do you know?"

"His majesty was murdered!" she whispered.

"I know that," replied Ramabai. "But who murdered him? Who built that cage in the palanquin? Who put the tiger there? Who beat and overpowered the real bearers and confiscated their turbans? Speak, girl; and if you can prove these things, there will be no silken cord."

"But who will believe a poor woman of the zenana?"

"I will."

"But you can not save men from the cord. They have taken away your power."

"And you shall give it back to me!"

"I?"

"Even so. Come with me now, to the temple."

"The temple?"

"Aye; where all the soldiers are, the priests … and Durga Ram!"

"Ai, ai! Durga Ram; it was he! And I helped him, thus: I secured permission to go into the bazaars. There an assault took place under the command of Durga Ram, and my bearers were made prisoners. Durga Ram, disguised as a bearer, himself freed the tiger which killed the king. Yes! To the temple! She who confesses in the temple, her person is sacred. It is the law, the law! I had forgot! To the temple, my Lord!"

Before the high tribunal of priests, before the unhappy Kathlyn, before the astonished Umballa, appeared Ramabai and Pundita, between them the young woman of the zenana, now almost dead with terror.

"Hold!" cried Ramabai when the soldiers started toward him to eject him from the temple.

"What!" said Umballa; "will you recant?"

"No, Durga Ram. I stand here before you all, an accuser! I know the law. Will you, wise and venerable priests, you men of Allaha, you soldiers, serve a murderer? Will you," with a wave of his hand toward the priests, "stand sponsor to the man who deliberately planned and executed the miserable death of our king? Shall it fly to Benares, this news that Allaha permits itself to be ruled and bullied by a common murderer; a man without family, a liar and a cheat? Durga Ram, who slew the king; you turned upon the hand that had fed and clothed you and raised you to power.… Wait! Let this woman speak!"

A dramatic moment followed; a silence so tense that the fluttering wings of the doves in the high arches could be heard distinctly. Ramabai was a great politician. He had struck not only wisely but swiftly before his public. Had he come before the priests and Umballa alone, he would have died on the spot. But there was no way of covering up this accusation, so bold, direct; it would have to be investigated.

Upon her knees, her arms outstretched toward the scowling priests, the woman of the zenana tremblingly told her tale: how she had saved Umballa during the revolt; how she had secured him shelter with her sister, who was a dancer; how she had visited Umballa in his secret chamber; how he had confided to her his plans; how she had seen him with her own eyes become one of the fake bearers of the palanquin.

"The woman lies because I spurned her!" roared Umballa.

"Away with her!" cried the chief priest, inwardly cursing Umballa for having permitted this woman to live when she knew so much. "Away with her!"

"The law!" the woman wailed. "The sanctity of the temple is mine!"

"Hold!" said Kathlyn, standing up. In her halting Hindustani she spoke: "I have something to say to you all. This woman tells the truth. Let her go unafraid. You, grave priests, have thrown your lot with Umballa. Listen. Have you not learned by this time that I am not a weak woman, but a strong one? You have harried me and injured me and wronged me and set tortures for me, but here I stand, unharmed. This day I will have my revenge. My servant Ahmed has departed for the walled city of Bala Khan. He will return with Bala Khan and an army such as will flatten the city of Allaha to the ground, and crows and vultures and tigers and jackals shall make these temples their abiding-places, and men will forget Allaha as they now forget the mighty Chitor." She swung round toward the priests. "You have yourselves to thank. At a word from me, Bala Khan enters or stops at the outer walls. I have tried to escape you by what means I had at my command. Now it shall be war! War, famine, plague!"

Her young voice rang out sharp and clear, sending terror to all cowardly hearts, not least among these being those beating in the breasts of the priests.

"Now," speaking to the soldiers, "go liberate my father, my sister and my husband-to-be; and woe to any who disobey me! For while I stand here I shall be a queen indeed! Peace; or war, famine and the plague. Summon the executioner. Arrest Durga Ram. Strip him before my eyes of his every insignia of rank. He is a murderer. He shall go to the tread-mill, there to slave till death. I have said it!"

Far in the rear of the cowed assemblage, near the doors, stood Ahmed, in his old guise of bheestee, or water carrier. When he heard that beloved voice he felt the blood rush into his throat. Aye, they were right. Who but a goddess would have had at such a time an inspiration so great? But it gave him an idea, and he slipped away to complete it. Bala Khan should come in fact.

So he did not see Umballa upon his knees, whining for mercy, making futile promises, begging for liberty. The soldiers spat contemptuously as they seized him and dragged him off.

The priests conferred hastily. Bala Khan was a fierce Mohammedan, a ruthless soldier; his followers were without fear. The men of Allaha might put up a good defense, but in the end they would be whelmed; and the gods of Hind would be cast out to make way for the prophet of Allah. This young woman with the white skin had for the nonce beaten them. Durga Ram had played the fool: between the two women, he had fallen. They had given him power, and he had let it slip through his fingers for the sake of reprisal where it was not needed. Let him go, then, to the treadmill; they were through with him. He had played his game like a tyro. They must placate this young woman whom the people believed was their queen, but who they knew was the plaything of politics and expediencies.

The chief or high priest salaamed, and Kathlyn eyed him calmly, though her knees threatened to refuse support.

"Majesty, we bow to your will. Allaha can not hope to cope with Bala Khan's fierce hillmen. All we ask is that you abide with us till you have legally selected your successor."

"Who shall be Pundita," said Kathlyn resolutely.

The chief priest salaamed again. The movement cost him nothing. Once Bala Khan was back in his city and this white woman out of the country, he would undertake to deal with Ramabai and Pundita. He doubted Bala Khan would stir from his impregnable city on behalf of Ramabai.

The frail woman who loved Umballa raised her hands in supplication.

Kathlyn understood. She shook her head. Umballa should end his days in the treadmill; he should grind the people's corn. Nothing should stir her from this determination.

"Majesty, and what of me?" cried the unhappy woman, now filled with another kind of remorse.

"You shall return to the zenana for the present."

"Then I am not to die, Majesty?"

"No."

"And Bala Khan?" inquired the priest.

"He shall stand prepared; that is all."

The people, crowding in the temple and in the square before it, salaamed deeply as Kathlyn left and returned to the palace. She was rather dizzy over the success of her inspiration. A few days might pass without harm; but sooner or later they would discover that she had tricked them; and then, the end. But before that hour arrived they would doubtless find some way of leaving the city secretly.

That it would be many days ere Pundita wore the crown—trust the priests to spread the meshes of red tape!—Kathlyn was reasonably certain.

"My girl," said the colonel, "you are a queen, if ever there was one. And that you should think of such a simple thing when we had all given up! They would not have touched Umballa. Kit, Kit, whatever will you do when you return to the humdrum life at home?"

"Thank God on my knees, dad!" she said fervently. "But we are not safe yet, by any means. We must form our plans quickly. We have perhaps three days' grace. After that, woe to all of us who are found here. Ah, I am tired, tired!"

"Kit," whispered Bruce, "I intend this night to seek Bala Khan!"

"John!"

"Yes. What the deuce is Allaha to me? Ramabai must fight it out alone. But don't worry about me; I can take care of myself."

"But I don't want you to go. I need you."

"It is your life, Kit, I am certain. Everything depends upon their finding out that Bala Khan will strike if you call upon him. At most, all he'll do will be to levy a tribute which Ramabai, once Pundita is on the throne, can very well pay. Those priests are devils incarnate. They will leave no stone unturned to do you injury, after to-day's work. You have humiliated and outplayed them."

"It is best he should go, Kit," her father declared. "We'll not tell Ramabai. He has been a man all the way through; but we mustn't sacrifice our chances for the sake of a bit of sentiment. John must seek Bala Khan's aid."

Kathlyn became resigned to the inevitable.

Umballa. He tried to bribe the soldiers. They laughed and taunted him. He took his rings from his fingers and offered them. The soldiers snatched them out of his palm and thrust him along the path which led to the mill. In Allaha political malefactors and murderers were made to serve the state; not a bad law if it had always been a just one. But many a poor devil had died at the wrist bar for no other reason than that he had offended some high official, disturbed the serenity of some priest.

When the prisoners saw Umballa a shout went up. There were some there who had Umballa to thank for their miseries. They hailed him and jeered him and mocked him.

"Here is the gutter rat!"

"May his feet be tender!"

"Robber of the poor, where is my home, my wife and children?"

"May he rot in the grave with a pig!"

"Hast ever been thirsty, Highness?"

"Drink thy sweat, then!"

"Give the 'heaven born' irons that are rusted!"

The keepers enjoyed this raillery. Umballa was going to afford them much amusement. They forced him to the wrist bar, snapped the irons on his wrist, and shouted to the men to tread. Ah, well they knew the game! They trotted with gusto, forcing Umballa to keep pace with them, a frightful ordeal for a beginner. Presently he slipped and fell, and hung by his wrists while his legs and thighs bumped cruelly. The lash fell upon his shoulders, and he shrieked