India -- History -- 1526-1765 -- Fiction; Maratha (Indic people) -- History -- Fiction
We must, however, return to our travellers, whose progress since night
set in had been anything but agreeable, considering the state of the
road; for though the light-footed men traversed it easily, poor Motee,
weary enough, stopped fairly where the mud was deepest, and quivered
in every limb in the intervals of stony ground. Indeed, he would have
given up long ago but for Lukshmun, whose cheery voice and hand, now
soothing, now encouraging, now remonstrating, urged him to put forth
his whole power; and as if the promises of a good stable, the sweetest
fodder, the best grain, which were repeated with every endearing
variation that Mahratta and Canarese, oddly intermixed with scraps of
Oordoo ballads, could supply, seemed to be understood by the gallant
beast as he toiled on. His master, since he had been swathed up in the
sheet, and had found it impossible to help himself, had fallen into
what might be called a passive frame of mind. Nothing was clear to him,
neither where he was, nor with whom or where he was going.
As before, villages were avoided, and it was evident that his guides
knew the country perfectly--threading lanes, then emerging into open
fields, again crossing waste ground, but still preserving, as nearly as
possible, the same direction, as the Lalla could see by the moon which,
struggling through masses of watery clouds that had risen since sunset,
threw a misty and indistinct light upon the path and what lay in its
immediate vicinity. Now and then they approached so near a village
that the watch-dogs within its walls bayed and howled, and they could
hear the hum of voices, or see lights high up in the ghurry, or the
watch-towers at the gates; but they did not stop. All the Lalla asked
occasionally was, "How far yet?" and received but one answer--"Coss
bur." The trees of village after village, and the dark square forms of
their ghurries, or castles, stood out against the moon in succession,
and each one he hoped might be the last; but still they went on,
through the same apparently endless succession of muddy lanes, and over
open fields and waste lands,--faster if the ground were firm, slower if
it were muddy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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