Chapter Eighteen

Bimala returned to her own chamber and seated herself upon the couch. Her countenance was radiant with satisfaction, for she had accomplished the design she had set herself. A lamp burned within the room; before her hung a mirror; her dress and ornaments remained as they had been at dusk. For a moment she regarded her own reflection in the glass. The elaborate coils of her hair, dressed as they had been at nightfall, still swayed against her ear-ornaments, brushing the fullness of her shoulders. Bimala reclined in a posture half-lying, half-seated, resting her back against the bolster; and gazing upon her own beauty in the mirror, she smiled to herself — she smiled at the thought that so learned and celebrated a scholar as her husband had not wished, without very good reason, to quit his own house.

Bimala was awaiting the return of Jagatsingh, when all at once a deep blast of trumpets rang through the mango-grove. She started and was seized with alarm; trumpets were never sounded within the grove save at the great gate — why then should they sound at so late an hour of night? Moreover, everything she had witnessed on her way to the temple and on her return came flooding back to her mind. She was convinced in an instant that this trumpeting was the foretoken of some calamity. With an anxious heart she went to the window and looked out towards the mango-grove. She could distinguish nothing particular within it. Troubled in spirit, she quitted her chamber; beyond the range of apartments where her room lay stretched a courtyard, and beyond that a second range of rooms, in which stood the stairway leading to the roof of the palace. Bimala left her chamber, ascended those stairs, and came out upon the roof, where she looked about her on every side; yet the dense shadow that filled the grove concealed all things from her. She went, doubly agitated, to the parapet of the roof, leaned her breast upon it, bent her face downward, and strained her eyes to see as far as the base of the fort; but she could discern nothing. The dark and lustrous boughs and leaves were bathed in the soft radiance of the moon; from time to time a gentle breeze stirred them and they showed a tawny hue in the shifting light; at the foot of the grove lay deep darkness, broken here and there where moonlight fell through gaps in the foliage; in the still waters of the Amodara the blue sky, the moon, and the stars were all reflected together; and in the distance, beyond the farther bank, rose the sky-touching forms of buildings, with here and there the dim outline of a sentry upon the palace walls. Beyond these things she could make out nothing at all. Bimala was on the point of turning back with a heavy heart, when she suddenly felt as though someone behind her had touched her back with a finger. She started, turned her face, and beheld an armed stranger standing before her. Bimala became still as a painted figure.

The armed man said, "Cry not out. A scream becomes not the lips of a fair woman."

He who had thus thrown Bimala into confusion was clad after the manner of a Pathan soldier. The richness and elegance of his attire would have satisfied any observer at a glance that the man was one of high station. He was not yet thirty years of age; his bearing was singularly handsome; upon his broad brow sat a turban wherein blazed a fragment of a diamond of great price. Had Bimala's mind been at that moment composed, she might have perceived that this man was by no means inferior even to Jagatsingh himself in personal comeliness; he was not so tall, nor so broad of chest, but he possessed the same gallant and beautiful presence — indeed a frame more delicately made. At his richly-adorned waist-belt hung, in a coral-studded scabbard, a Damascus dagger; in his hand was a drawn sword. He wore no other weapon.

The soldier said, "Cry not out. If thou criest out, harm will befall thee."

Bimala, who was never long without her wits, had been unnerved for but a moment; from his repetition of the warning she understood his purpose. Behind her lay the very edge of the roof; before her stood an armed warrior; to fling Bimala down from the roof would have been no difficult matter. Comprehending this, she said composedly, "Who art thou?"

The soldier replied, "What shall my name profit thee?"

Bimala said, "What is thy business within this fort? Thieves are impaled upon a stake — hast thou not heard as much?"

Soldier. Fair lady, I am no thief.

Bimala. How didst thou enter the fort?

Soldier. By thy courtesy. When thou didst leave the window unfastened, I entered; and I followed thee hither to this roof.

Bimala struck her hand against her forehead. Then she asked again, "Who art thou?"

The soldier said, "What harm in telling thee now? I am a Pathan."

Bimala. That is no introduction; I learn only that thou art Pathan by race — but who art thou?

Soldier. By God's will, this humble one is named Osman Khan.

Bimala. Osman Khan? I do not know the name.

Soldier. Osman Khan — the general of Katlu Khan.

Bimala's body began to tremble. Her one desire was to escape by some means and carry the news to Birendrasingh; but there was no way whatsoever. The general stood before her and blocked her path. Having no other resource, Bimala resolved that so long as she could keep the general occupied in conversation, that much time was gained. A sentry from the fort might even come that way — and accordingly she renewed the exchange: "Wherefore hast thou entered this fort?"

Osman Khan answered, "We sent an envoy to Birendrasingh with an earnest request. His answer was: 'You are welcome — come to the fort in arms.'"

Bimala said, "I understand. The lord of this fort has refused alliance with you and cast his lot with the Moghul — and therefore thou art come to seize the fort. Yet I observe that thou art alone."

Osman. For the present, I am alone.

Bimala said, "And that, I presume, is the reason — from caution — that thou wilt not let me go."

It was in the hope that he might, stung by the imputation of cowardice, open her way and prove his courage, that Bimala spoke these words.

Osman Khan smiled faintly and said, "Fair lady, I have to fear naught from thee save thine own glances — and even that fear is not great upon me. I have a petition to make of thee."

Bimala looked at Osman Khan's face with curiosity. He said, "In the corner of thy veil is the key of the window — do me the favour of giving it to me. I shrink from the discourtesy of touching thy person."

That the key of the window was indispensable to the accomplishment of the general's design was a thing which a woman of Bimala's quickness did not need long to perceive. Perceiving it, she saw that there was no escape from the matter. To ask of one who could take by force was mere mockery. Were she to refuse the key, the general would take it by force at once. Another woman would doubtless have surrendered the key on the instant — but the shrewd Bimala said, "Sir, if I will not give thee the key of my own accord, how wilt thou take it?"

As she spoke, she drew her veil from her person and held it in her hand. Osman's eyes were upon the veil; he answered, "If thou wilt not give it willingly, I shall have the pleasure of touching thy person."

"Do so, then," said Bimala, and flung the garment she held into the mango-grove below. Osman's eyes had been upon the veil; the instant Bimala cast it from her, he at once stretched out his hand and caught the flying cloth.

Osman Khan, the veil now in his grasp, seized Bimala's wrist with one hand in an iron grip, held the veil with his teeth, and with his other hand detached the key and placed it at his own belt. What he did next made Bimala's face grow pale. Osman made her a hundred salutations, joined his palms together, and said, "I crave your pardon" — and therewith took the veil and bound Bimala's two hands fast to the parapet with it. Bimala cried, "What is this?"

Osman said, "The knot of love."

Bimala. The fruit of this villainy thou shalt taste ere long.

Osman left Bimala in that condition and went his way. Bimala began to cry out. But no good came of it. No one heard her.

Osman descended by the way he had come and went again to the chamber below Bimala's room. There, as Bimala had done, he turned the key and threw the window open into the wall. The way being clear, Osman began to whistle, soft and low. At the very sound of it, a warrior who had stood shoeless among the trees came to the window and entered the building. As that man entered, another came after him. In this manner a great number of Pathan soldiers crept noiselessly into the fort one by one. When the last man came to the window, Osman said to him, "No more — the rest of you remain without. When you hear the signal I have named, attack the fort from outside. Tell this to Taj Khan."

That man turned back. Osman, with the soldiers who had gained entrance, once again mounted the palace in silence; passing along the roof where Bimala sat bound, he said, "This woman is exceedingly clever; she is never to be trusted. Rahim Sheikh — remain here as her guard. If she attempt to escape, or seek to speak with anyone, or raise her voice above a whisper, let not the slaying of a woman trouble thee."

"As you command," said Rahim, and remained as sentinel on the spot. The Pathan soldiers passed from roof to roof toward the other quarter of the fort.