India -- History -- 1000-1526 -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Reincarnation -- Fiction
These captives were greeted by the onlookers with shouts of triumph,
but with no insults or even unfriendly remarks. The followers of the
Prophet were still rather mythical enemies to these dwellers of the
Dekhan. Mahmoud of Ghazni was a name they recognized; but Aybek, the
great slave, who had just mounted the throne of Delhi, was as unreal to
them as their own kings who had died three thousand years ago, in the
first conquest of India. These captives now among them were tangible
enough, but they presented too abject an appearance to give any idea
of their force in battle. The chagrin of captivity, the many days of
riding and walking, the intolerable suffering occasioned by their
bonds, had broken the spirit of all save one, who rode at the head of
the pitiable procession. He was young, this man, good to look on even
in his unkempt state, and his clothes, through the stains of war and
woe, showed their richness. He sat straight on his unsaddled mule, and
his head was not bent down. He seemed to notice nothing of what passed
around him, but kept his eyes fixed far ahead on the long, curving
range of blackened mountains, lighted by the glow of the sunset sky
that blazed behind them. His dignity and his unconsciousness made him
a continual object of interest to the crowd, and the slave-master was
under a running fire of questions which he was not slow to answer.
“He is a prince, a son of the enemy’s leader. He will bring a great
ransom,” he repeated again and again, proudly.
Cheers never failed to follow the explanation; and, after some twenty
minutes of this trial, the Arab’s head for the first time drooped, and
a deep sigh broke from him.
“Let not my lord grieve,” whispered the person riding next behind
him, a boy, scarcely more than fifteen years in age. “My lord will be
ransomed.”
But the Mohammedan sighed again, making no answer; and the
slave-master, overhearing the whisper, cut off the conversation with
a quick stroke of his whip on the back of the boy, who bore it, as he
bore all things for his Prince, without a sound.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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