Chapter Nineteen

When Bimala perceived that the cunning Osman had gone elsewhere, she took heart that she might by some stratagem win her freedom, and began at once to cast about for the means.

After the sentry had stood for a little while, Bimala entered into conversation with him. Be he sentry or very messenger of death — what man willingly forgoes conversation with a beautiful woman? Bimala began with light and trivial matters of every sort. By degrees she began to enquire after the sentry's name, his home, his household, his joys and his griefs. The sentry was greatly pleased to find Bimala so solicitous in his behalf. And Bimala, seeing her opportunity, began one by one to draw the keen arrows from her quiver. Between the honeyed sweetness of her discourse and the unerring glances of those great eyes that accompanied every word, the sentry melted altogether. When Bimala observed from his manner and deportment that the moment of his utter ruin was drawing near, she said in a soft, low voice, "I am so frightened, Sheikhji — wilt thou not sit by me?"

The sentry, in perfect bliss, sat down beside her. After a little further conversation, Bimala saw that the medicine had taken effect. From the time he had seated himself near her, he had been casting glances at her again and again. Then she said, "Sheikhji, thou art sweating greatly — if thou wilt loosen my bonds, I will fan thee, and thou canst bind me again afterwards."

There was not a drop of sweat upon Sheikhji's brow — but could Bimala have said so if she had not seen it? And when would a man of his fortune ever be fanned by such a hand? So reasoning, the sentry forthwith undid the bonds.

Bimala fanned the sentry for a little while with the veil and then quietly put the veil on again. Not a syllable of re-binding passed the sentry's lips. And there was a particular reason for that: when the veil, which had served as a fetter, ceased to be a fetter and came to adorn Bimala's person, her beauty shone out the more brilliantly; and the very beauty which Bimala had herself smiled at in the mirror — that beauty now struck the sentry dumb.

Bimala said, "Sheikhji, does thy wife not love thee?"

The sentry asked, somewhat surprised, "Why?"

Bimala said, "If she did, how could she have the heart to part from such a husband as thee in this season of flowers?" (It was, in truth, the height of summer, with the rains close at hand.)

Sheikhji heaved a long sigh.

Arrow after arrow flew forth from Bimala's quiver without pause. "Sheikhji, I am ashamed to say it — but if thou wert my husband, I would never suffer thee to go to war."

The sentry sighed again. Bimala continued, "Ah, if thou wert but my husband!"

Bimala herself gave a little sigh at these words, and with it sent forth one of her sharp, sidelong glances. The sentry's head swam. He edged gradually nearer and nearer to her, and Bimala moved a little toward him in return.

Bimala laid the soft petal of her hand upon the sentry's hand. The sentry was bereft of all his senses.

Bimala went on, "I am ashamed to speak of it — but if thou goest forth and conquerest in battle, wilt thou still remember me?"

Sentry. Remember thee? How could I forget thee?

Bimala. Shall I tell thee what is in my heart?

Sentry. Tell me — tell me, pray.

Bimala. No, I will not — wilt thou say first?

Sentry. No, no — thou tell me; count me thine own servant.

Bimala. My heart is sorely tempted to shame this wicked husband of mine and go away with thee.

Again that glance. The sentry leapt up with delight.

Sentry. Wilt thou go?

There are many scholars as learned as Diggaj — but there is only one of this kind!

Bimala said, "Take me with thee, and I will go."

Sentry. Shall I not take thee? I will be thy slave forever.

"What reward shall I give thee for this love? Accept this, then."

So saying, Bimala took the golden chain from her own neck and placed it about the sentry's. The sentry ascended bodily to paradise. Bimala continued, "Our scriptures say that when one person's garland is placed upon another's neck, they are wed."

The sentry's teeth appeared from the darkness of his black beard as he laughed and said, "Then thou and I are married."

"Married indeed, what else!" Bimala was silent for a moment, as one deep in thought. The sentry asked, "What art thou thinking of?"

Bimala. I think that happiness is not written in my fate — thou wilt not be able to take the fort and go from here in safety.

The sentry said proudly, "There can be no doubt of that — it should have fallen by now."

Bimala said, "Nay — there is a secret to this matter."

Sentry. What secret?

Bimala. I will reveal it to thee — if thou canst but contrive to help take the fort.

The sentry listened with open mouth; Bimala affected to hesitate before speaking. The sentry pressed her eagerly, "What is it? What is the matter?"

Bimala said, "You do not know — Jagatsingh lies not far from this fort with ten thousand men. He knew that you would come secretly this night, and has placed himself in readiness beforehand; he will do nothing now — he will wait until you have taken the fort and think yourselves secure, and then he will come and surround you."

The sentry was silent a moment in astonishment; then he said, "Is that so?"

Bimala. This is the truth; all within the fort know it; we too have heard it.

The sentry, filled to overflowing with excitement, cried, "By God! Tonight thou hast made my fortune. I will go this very instant and tell the general — such urgent intelligence will earn me a robe of honour. Sit thee here; I shall return in a moment."

The sentry had not so much as a grain of suspicion of Bimala.

Bimala said, "Thou wilt come back, wilt thou not?"

Sentry. Of course I will — here I come already.

Bimala. Thou wilt not forget me?

Sentry. No — no.

Bimala. Mind now — swear upon thy head.

"Have no fear," said the sentry, and ran off at full speed.

The moment the sentry vanished from sight, Bimala too rose and fled. Osman had been right: "It is her glances alone that one has to fear."