A litter was now made, in which the prince was laid, and carried slowly towards his fathers capital. The faithful Mahmood walked by his side, anticipating all his wants, and attending upon him with affectionate earnestness. In spite of the styptic, his wounds bled so copiously that when he reached the end of his journey he was in a state of extreme exhaustion. For some weeks he was in considerable danger, which spread a general gloom through the city, but, after a severe struggle, his constitution triumphed, and he at length completely recovered. CHAPTER V. When Mujahid had recovered from his wounds he renewed his addresses to the sister of Musaood, who, finding that she could no longer delay the gratification of the prince’s desires without a direct breach of promise, determined to bring the thing to an immediate issue. She had for some time encouraged his proposals of dishonourable love; she had done this for a sinister purpose, and was still loth to give up the hope of seeing the slayer of her father meet with that retribution in this world which she thought he deserved. She cared not how her own reputation was endangered so long as she could see the man punished by whom she had been deprived of a parent she tenderly loved. She did not forget, too, that his hand was stained with the blood of her lover, and although this was done in self-defence, it nevertheless did not abate in her judgment the odiousness of the deed. Toghluk Beg had been long attached to her, and it was this attachment which urged him to risk his life against the valour and personal strength of a man notorious through his father’s kingdom for the invincible force of his arm. The daughter of Moobarik could not forgive the double injury which she had received at the hands of the king’s son, and in order the more securely to effect the purpose so long entertained by herself and her brother she finally came to the resolution of admitting Mujahid to the enjoyment which he sought, indifferent to consequences, save the accomplishment of her revenge. When next she saw her brother, “Musaood,” she said, “the enemy seems to have a charmed life; no sword can reach him, and he is even proof against the claws of the lion.” “My sister, his time will come yet.” “So you have said for years, and yet he is abroad in his might, and the world appears to fall prostrate before him. How is this colossus to be upheaved?” “By constant dripping water will wear down the mountain to a level with the valley.” “But we cannot wait so slow a process, brother. Can you suggest no means of a speedier vengeance?” “He loves you, my sister.” “Well, that won’t kill him.” “No; but you return his love with hatred, and that may.” “Hatred is of itself passive.” “Still it may instigate the hand to urge the dagger home.” “Then I must yield to his passions, an act against which my soul recoils.”