The events of this fateful night, numerous though they had been, were not yet ended.
Leaving the women to care for the dead man the Khan had withdrawn to his state apartment, taking with him the Persian, Dr. Warner and Colonel Moore, as well as David the Jew.
“It is best that all mysteries and misunderstandings be cleared up at once,” said the young ruler, when his guests had been seated. “The hour is late, but I believe you will prefer not to rest until you have become acquainted with the facts that explain my presence here as the Khan of Mekran. But there are others in the palace who are entitled to hear the story, and with your permission I will ask them to join us.”
The Colonel nodded consent. He was yet too dazed by the appalling tragedy of the hour to command more than a listless interest in these consequent proceedings. Dr. Warner was grave and thoughtful, but seemed to realize intuitively that fate had been kind to his old friend in removing Allison from his life. After the first shock of grief had passed the Colonel himself would acknowledge this. The boy had been a thorn in his side for many years.
“Dirrag,” said the Khan, “tell Captain Beni-Bouraz to unbind his prisoners; and do you lead them here to me.”
They sat in silence until the command was obeyed, and Kasam and the aged vizier entered the room.
The Prince carried himself rather better in misfortune than when free to direct his own actions. He appeared composed and dignified, accepting his fate with a stout heart and seemingly without desire to bemoan the triumph of his enemy. Agahr’s face was sternly set. What his thoughts might be none could tell.
The Khan greeted his prisoners courteously, and waited until they had seated themselves before he began to speak.
“Gentlemen,” said he, addressing the entire group, “events have occurred this night which render it necessary that you be made acquainted with some portions of my life history that you are now ignorant of. A few minutes ago Colonel Moore accused me of being an impostor, because seven years ago he knew me in America as Howard Osborne.”
Kasam gave a start at these words.
“I have never believed you were a Baluch,” he said, scornfully. “You were foisted upon us by that false mufti of Mehmet, Salaman, to further some interest of his own.”
“It is true that I am not the son of Burah Khan,” responded the other, in even tones. “My father is Dr. Merad Osborne, known to the people of Mekran as a Persian physician, and now here to verify my statement.”
All eyes were turned upon the dark visage of the tall physician, seeking in vain a resemblance between the two men that would lend truth to the astonishing assertion.
Merad smiled.
“I will tell you my story,” he said, “and then you will understand us better.”
“I, for one, do not care to hear it,” exclaimed Kasam, with scarcely suppressed eagerness. “If this man is no son of Burah Khan, he stands before us a fraudulent usurper, and the throne of Mekran belongs to me!”
“Not so,” answered a clear voice, speaking in English, and the white-robed priest of Takkatu pressed through the group and stood before the Prince. “Ahmed Khan sits upon his throne by a better right than you can ever boast, Prince Kasam of Raab!”
Kasam was about to retort angrily, but he marked the jewelled star upon Salaman’s breast and controlled himself to bow low before the emblem. England had not wholly driven out of the young Baluch’s heart the faith of his fathers.
“Your words are strange, my father,” he murmured, still somewhat rebelliously. “Is not this man acknowledged to be the son of Merad?”
“And who is Merad?” asked the priest, gravely.
“I do not know, my father.”
“Tell him, Merad.”
“I am the son of Keedar Khan,” said the physician, proudly.
A cry of surprise burst from his hearers. Even the vizier, who knew no English, caught the name of Keedar Khan and looked upon the Persian with curious eyes.
“I believe,” said Kasam, brokenly, “it will be best to hear your story.”
The priest stepped back, giving place to the physician.
“Keedar Khan had two legitimate sons,” began Merad, “of whom I was the younger by several years. My brother Burah was fierce and warlike, and realizing that I might at some time stand in the way of his ambition and so meet destruction, I fled as a youth to Teheran, where I was educated as a physician by the aid of secret funds furnished by my father. When Keedar died and Burah ascended the throne I wandered through many lands until I finally came to America, where I met and loved Howard’s mother, the daughter of a modest New York merchant named Osborne. In wedding her I took her name, my own being difficult for the English-speaking tongue to pronounce, and from that time I became known as Dr. Merad Osborne, a physician fairly skilled in the science of medicines.
“Our son grew to manhood and became the private secretary of Colonel Moore. In appearance he favored his mother, rather than me, having her eyes and hair as well as the sturdy physique of the Osbornes. Seven years ago, or a little more, the catastrophy that wrecked our happiness occurred. Howard disappeared, self-accused of forging his employer’s name for a large amount. He left behind, for the eyes of his mother and me alone, a confession of his innocence, together with the startling information that he had secretly married Colonel Moore’s daughter before the knowledge of Allison’s crime was known to him. His youth and inexperience led him to believe that his sacrifice would shield his wife’s brother and father from public exposure and disgrace, failing to take into consideration the wrong done to his girl-wife and to his own parents.
“I at once suspected that my boy had fled to the Orient, for he had always maintained an eager interest in my tales of Persia and Baluchistan, and knew I was a native of this country, although he was ignorant of the fact that he was the grandson of the great Keedar Khan. So his mother and I left New York, searching throughout the East in a vain endeavor to trace our lost son. At last we were reluctantly compelled to abandon the quest, and I settled in Kelat, where my fame as a Persian physician soon became a matter of note.
“It was in this capacity that I was sent for to minister to my dying brother, Burah Khan, who knew not that I was his brother. But I strove faithfully to carry out his will, and to preserve his life until the arrival of his heir. Then came from the monastery of Takkatu, where he had secluded himself, my own son, appointed by the Grand Mufti of the Sunnites to represent the successor of Burah Khan upon the throne of Mekran. To the great priest of our Faith,” bowing low to Salaman, “no knowledge is barred, and from Howard’s story of his father’s life the Mufti knew the truth, and that he had a greater right, according to the laws of the tribes, to rule this country than the son of Burah Khan, who, also an inmate of the monastery, pleaded to be left to pursue his sacred studies at Takkatu.
“Of the strange coming of the Americans, through whom my son had been exiled from the land of his birth, I need not speak. The ways of Allah are indeed inscrutable, and Ahmed Khan has acted, during these past days of trial, by the advice of the great Salaman himself.”
A silence followed this terse relation, which had sufficed to explain many things both to Kasam and to the Americans. David, also, shrinking back into his corner, listened eagerly, wondering if there was any part of the strange story that he could at some future time sell to his advantage.
“There is little that I can add,” said the Khan, musingly, “to my good father’s words. That he has always remained a faithful Moslem you can easily guess, and it was but natural I should embrace the creed of my forefathers. I found much comfort in the religious seclusion of the monastery, but it is nevertheless a great relief to me to be freed at last from the taint of guilt that has clung to my name. The only wrong I did in America was to secretly marry the girl I loved and then leave her to mourn a lover whom she might well consider faithless and unworthy. My only excuse is that I was young and impulsive, and my dear wife, who had never ceased to have faith in my honor, has generously forgiven me the fault.”
As the Khan paused, Kasam the prince strode forward and held out his hand.
“Forgive me, my cousin,” he said, bravely, “that I have been led to misjudge and oppose you. From this time forth Ahmed Khan shall boast no more faithful follower than Kasam of Raab.”
Howard pressed the proffered hand gratefully. Then he walked over to the aged vizier, who had been a silent and puzzled witness of the scene, and touched him gently upon his shoulder.
“You are forgiven, and you are free, Agahr,” he said in Baluch. “Go to your home, and may the Prophet shield your heart from the bitterness of the blow that there awaits you.”
Agahr looked into his eyes.
“Is it Maie?” he whispered.
The Khan nodded.
“The hand of Allah,” said he in kindly tones, “spares neither the high nor the lowly.”
Agahr threw up his arms with a wild scream.
“The hand of Allah!” he cried; “no, no! not that! It was the hand of him that loved her best—the hand of her father!”
And muffling his head in his cloak he tottered slowly from the room.
To those who looked after Agahr with pitying eyes a slave entered, announcing a messenger for David the Jew.
The little man hurried away to the next chamber, where, dimly lighted by a swinging lantern, stood the form of a girl whose face was concealed to the eyes by the folds of a dark mantle. But the eyes were enough for David. He knew her at once.
“Halima!” he exclaimed. “Vy do you seek Davit?”
The girl drew a small box from her cloak.
“The gift of Maie,” she said.
“Maie! Bud, dey tell me Maie iss dead.”
“Of that I know nothing,” answered the slave girl, all unmoved. “It is nevertheless her gift. I have been seeking you since before midnight, and but now discovered you were at the palace. Take the casket; and, mark me: here is the spring that opens it.”
She drew the cloak around her again and with quiet, cat-like steps left the room.
David gazed after her with joy sparkling in his eyes.
“Id iss my luck!” he muttered, hugging the casket in an ecstasy of delight. “Id iss de luck of cleffer Davit! Efen de dead adds to my riches. Led me see—led me see if Maie iss generous.”
With trembling fingers he touched the spring, and as the lid flew back he leaned over and feasted his eyes upon the gems and gold that sparkled so beautifully in the dim light.
Then the silken purse attracted his attention. He drew it out, loosened the string, and thrust in his thumb and finger.
Next moment an agonized yell rang through the palace. With a jerk that sent the gold and jewels flying in every direction the Jew withdrew his finger, glaring wildly at an object that curled about it and clung fast. Then he dashed the thing to the floor, set his heel upon it and screamed again and again in mad terror.
The cries aroused those in the next room; the draperies were torn aside and the Khan entered, followed by Merad, Kasam and the Americans.
David lay writhing upon the floor, and even as they gazed upon him his screams died away and his fat body rolled over with a last convulsive shudder.
“What has happened?” asked Kasam, bewildered—as, indeed, they all were.
The physician bent over and cautiously examined the crushed thing that had proved to be David’s bane.
“It is a mountain scorpion,” he said, “the most venomous creature in existence.”
Maie’s vengeance had survived her; but perhaps it mattered little to the dead girl that David’s punishment had been swift and sure.
Two weeks had passed since the events just narrated, and peace seemed to have again settled over the isolated town of Mekran. Kasam remained at the palace, declaring himself a faithful adherent of Ahmed Khan, but although he had sent word to Zarig, the sirdar of Raab, who yet remained encamped with his warriors in the west valley, that peace was declared, the rebellious sirdar had refused to come into the city and make obeisance to Ahmed of Ugg.
All the Americans were now housed within the palace, and Aunt Lucy had come to revise and reconstruct her opinion of that whilom den of iniquity, the harem. But Allison’s tragic death had sobered the good lady, as it had all of their little band, and checked for a time at least her garrulity and desire to criticise. There was no doubt of Aunt Lucy’s democracy, yet it was amusing to note her pride in the fact that Janet was the wife of an Eastern potentate of the importance of Ahmed Khan. It would be a splendid tale to carry back to New York, and she had already decided to leave an envelope always carelessly lying upon her table addressed to “Her Imperial Majesty the Khanum of Mekran and Empress of Baluchistan.” It would serve to amuse visitors while she arranged her hair at the mirror before coming down.
Kasam’s wild passion for Janet had quickly evaporated with the news that she was wedded to Ahmed. The young prince was greatly subdued in spirit, and made no objections to Bessie’s kindly efforts to console him. His position in the palace was necessarily an uncomfortable one, for he held no clearly defined rank in the household and there was no gift within the power of the Khan that it would be dignified in him to accept. Reared from childhood with the ambition of sometime becoming the ruler of Mekran by virtue of his royal blood, it was naturally difficult for Kasam to realize that this brilliant dream was past and he must be content to abandon it forever.
So he wandered restlessly in the gardens, with Bessie by his side, and accompanied the girl on long rides through the pleasant valleys, and might have been as happy as in the old days had he allowed himself to forget his disappointment.
Meantime Salaman, the Grand Mufti of the realm, remained the chosen companion of the Khan, who, notwithstanding the deference he paid to his illustrious father, leaned more upon the aged priest than any other of his friends. And thus it was that one bright morning they walked together upon a high roof of the palace, where none might interrupt their earnest communion.
“I have thought well upon your words, my son,” said Salaman, “and examined critically your desires, striving honestly to quell my own inclination to oppose you. But I fear I cannot understand you wholly. What is there in this favored country—the land of your famous forefathers—that repels you, and inclines you to leave it?”
Ahmed paced up and down, thoughtfully weighing his words e’er he replied.
“It is, as you well say, my father, a land favored of Allah; yet the life here is the life of the lotus-eaters; or one of holy concentration; or even of idle dreams. Time has no wings in Baluchistan. We live, and lo, we die, while the sun shines fair as ever, the breezes rustle through the palms, the fountains still splash in their marble basins, and the endless chain of humanity creeps on from the cradle to the grave with uneventful languor. As it was a hundred years ago, so it is today; as it is now it will be found in future ages—merely Baluchistan, the home of a million contented souls, all faithful to Allah, all indifferent to earthly conditions outside their narrow limits.”
“Truly, a paradise on earth!” said Salaman, nodding approval.
“In the West,” said the Khan, a stronger note creeping into his voice, “a spirit of unrest is ever abroad. It impels men to do and to dare, feeding upon their brain and brawn rather than upbuilding them. They strive—strive ever, though erring or misdirected—putting their shoulders all together to the wheel of the juggernaut chariot of Progress and sweating mightily that some thing may be accomplished that was never known before. And in this they find content.”
“Poor souls!” murmured the priest.
“Father, I am of these—my mother’s people—rather than of those who rest satisfied with Allah’s gifts. Here I may never be at peace. As Khan of Mekran I would overturn all existing conditions. I would plunge my people into reckless wars of conquest, build rails for iron chariots to speed upon—shrieking the cry of Progress throughout the land. Merchants from all nations would gather here to rouse the tribesmen to barter and sale, teaching them lies and deceptions now all unknown to their simple hearts. My father, I would be as dangerous to your people as a firebrand in a thatch. Let me go. Send me back to that country whence I came: the country that taught me unrest; the country where alone I shall find employment for an earnest heart and a strong right arm! Put Kasam in my place.”
“It may be that you are right; that you know what is best for us all,” replied the priest, sadly. “But you demand that I perform a difficult task. You are Khan of Mekran, acknowledged legally by the sirdars and—”
“Not by Burah Khan,” interrupted the other, with a smile. “It was my faithful Dirrag who, dressed in the dead Burah’s robes, enacted the Khan’s part and acknowledged me before the sirdars.”
Salaman gave a sigh of regret.
“True, dear Hafiz,” he said, unconsciously adopting the old affectionate appellation. “But you are grandson of the great Keedar. You rule justly and by right of inheritance. And in the beginning you accepted the throne readily enough. What has caused your inclinations to so change?”
“I have found a wife,” said the young man, proudly; “and she is an American. Without her I was content to merely exist. With her by my side I am roused to action. Hear me, father. Kasam will rule you better than ever I could do. His heart is here—where he was born. He will forget, as I never could do, the urgent prompting of that western civilization we have both known. Let Kasam be khan!”
Salaman came close to Ahmed, placed both hands upon his shoulders, and laid his aged head against the strong young breast.
“We have been friends, my Hafiz, and I have loved you. It grieves my very heart to let you go. But if I can compass the thing and bring the people to consent, it shall be according to your will. For life is brief, as you say, and Allah waits above for us both. And wherein would the charm of friendship lie if the selfishness of one should steal the other’s heart’s desire?”
For reply Ahmed gathered the speaker into his steadfast embrace; and so they stood silent and alone upon the housetop, with Allah’s sun lovingly caressing the brown locks of the Khan and the silvery beard of the high priest.{3
In the great throne room of the palace at Mekran were assembled all the dignitaries of the nation—sirdars, captains, kaids; muftis and mueddens from the mosques; civil officers and judges from the towns; high and lowly officials of the royal household. Even the obstinate and unbridled Zirag had yielded to Kasam’s demand and, doubtless more through curiosity than obedience, had left his camp to enter the city and witness the day’s event.
Of the nature or character of this event all were alike ignorant. They merely knew they were commanded to assemble, and the authority of the khan, backed by that of the Grand Mufti Salaman, ranking next to him, was sufficient to bring them to a man at the appointed hour.
The press was truly great, even in this spacious hall of audience. Upon a raised dais sat Ahmed Khan, arrayed in his most magnificent robe of state. At one side, but upon a lower platform, sat Prince Kasam, and at the Khan’s right hand stood the Grand Mufti, wearing his decoration of the jewelled star.
A silence bred of intense curiosity pervaded the assemblage. Even Zarig, who, clad in his well-worn riding dress, had pressed close to the platform, was awed by the dignity of the proceedings and glanced nervously from Kasam to Ahmed and then upon the stately form of the priest.
Presently the great Salaman stepped forward, offering a brief prayer imploring the guidance of Moses, of Jesus, of Mahomet and of Allah the All-Wise upon their deliberations. Then, drawing himself erect, he addressed the people in these words:
“My friends and brothers, it is my duty to declare to you, as representatives of all the people, that a great wrong has been done you. It was not an intentional wrong, nor one which, having been discovered, may not be fully redressed; nevertheless, you must hear the truth and act upon it as you deem just and right.”
He paused, and a thrill of excitement swept over the throng. In all their history no such thing as this had been known before.
“The man who sits before you as Ahmed Khan,” resumed the priest, in a cold voice, “came to you purporting to be the grandson of Keedar Khan and the son of Burah Khan, and thus entitled to rule over you. He is, indeed, the legitimate grandson of the great Keedar; but he is no son of Burah, being the offspring of Keedar’s younger brother Merad, who fled to Persia an exile in his youth.”
Notwithstanding the astonishing nature of this intelligence the assemblage maintained its silent, curious attitude. Many eyes were turned upon the calm and dignified countenance of Ahmed Khan, but no mark or token of unfriendliness was manifested in these glances.
The priest continued:
“Those among you who heard the dying Burah acknowledge this man to be his son,before all the sirdars, will marvel that my statement can be true. You must now know that at that time Burah had really been dead for two days, and that another falsely took his place. It was this lawless one who, masquerading as the khan, made the formal acknowledgment. For this reason Ahmed has never legally been your khan. He is not your khan now.”
At last a murmur burst from the throng; but to the listening ears of the priest it seemed more a sound of amazement than of protest or indignation. Ahmed arose from the throne, drew off his splendid robe of office and laid it over the arm of the chair, disclosing to all eyes the simple inner garb of a tribesman of Ugg. With dignified mien he stepped from the dais to the lower platform and held up a hand to command silence. Instantly every voice was hushed as if by magic.
“Brothers,” said he, “if I have wronged you I beg your forgiveness. Most willingly I now resign the throne to which I am not entitled, and ask you to choose for yourselves one more worthy than I to rule over you.”
As he paused a cry arose that quickly swelled to a clamorous shout:
“Ahmed! Give us Ahmed for our Khan! None shall rule us but Ahmed, the grandson of Keedar Khan!”
Salaman turned pale at this unexpected denouement, which threatened to wreck all his plans. He strode forward and seized Ahmed’s arm, dragging him into the background and then returning himself to confront the multitude.
Higher and higher the shouts arose, while the priest waved his hands to subdue the excitement that he might again be heard.
Zarig, scowling fiercely as the crowd pressed him against the edge of the platform, fingered his dagger as if longing to still this unwelcome homage to one of the hated tribe of Ugg; but so far as Salaman could determine there were few others who did not join the enthusiastic tribute to Ahmed.
But gradually the dignitaries tired of their unusual demonstration, and remembering their official characters subsided to their accustomed calm. The priest took advantage of the first moment that he could be plainly heard.
“Listen well, chieftains and friends!” he cried. “It is clear to me that your loyalty and admiration for Keedar’s grandson have clouded your clearer judgment. Not that I denounce Ahmed as unworthy to rule, but that before your eyes sits one entitled above all others to occupy the throne of his forefathers—the descendant of seven generations of just and worthy rulers of this land. Brothers, I present to you one who is a native-born Baluch—the noblest of you all—Prince Kasam of Raab!”
Kasam, who until now had been ignorant of the purposes of Salaman, and was therefore as greatly astonished as any man present, obeyed the beckoning finger of the priest and arose to face his people with that air of proud dignity he knew so well how to assume.
Zarig shouted his name wildly: “Kasam! Kasam Khan!” and a few others, carried away by the priest’s words, followed the sirdar’s lead. But the shouts for Kasam were soon drowned by more lusty acclaims for Ahmed, and Salaman hesitated, at a loss how to act, while Kasam shrank back as if he keenly felt the humiliation of his rejection.
Driven to frenzy by the wild scene about him, Zarig sprang with one bound to the platform.
“No Ahmed Khan for me!” he shouted, and drawing a slender dagger from his belt he threw himself upon the American with the ferocity of a tiger.
But Kasam was even quicker. Before the multitude realized the tragic nature of the scene being enacted, the Prince had fallen upon his sirdar and plunged his knife twice into Zarig’s breast. The man fell to the floor in a death agony, dragging Ahmed with him, while above them Kasam stood grasping the weapon that had so promptly saved the life of the man whom his people had preferred before him.
Then, indeed, a shout of admiration burst from the Baluchi, their impulsive natures quick to respond to the generosity of such an act. Ahmed, freeing himself from the dead sirdar, rose up and seizing the royal robe he had discarded flung its brilliant folds over Kasam’s shoulders. Then he knelt before his preserver, and Salaman, prompt to take advantage of the diversion which was likely to turn the tide of popular enthusiasm his way, knelt also at Kasam’s feet as if saluting him as kahn.
Zarig had accomplished by his mad act all that he had once longed for in life. The cries for Kasam grew stronger and more spontaneous, and Ahmed was able to quietly withdraw from the platform without his absence being observed.
Soon the people were as eager in shouting for Kasam as they had been for Ahmed, and Salaman lost no time in completing the ceremony that established the heir of seven generations of rulers firmly upon the throne.
Janet met her husband at the entrance to the harem, where he had hurried as soon as he could escape from the hall.
“Well, how did it end?” she asked. “They terrified me, at first, with their cries for Ahmed Khan.”
“They terrified me, too, sweetheart,” he answered lightly. “But my cousin Kasam is truly made of the right stuff, and turned the tide in the nick of time. Now then, join me—all together, dear one!—hurrah for Kasam Khan!”
And as their voices died away an answering shout, grave and stern, came like an echo from the great audience chamber:
“Kasam Khan!”
Never had a better equipped caravan left the gates of Mekran to cross the Gedrusian Desert in the direction of Kelat and civilization. The palanquins of the dromedaries were so comfortable that Aunt Lucy declared she felt as if on shipboard. The horses were the finest the famous monastery of Mehmet had ever bred; the pack animals bore tents and material for the nightly camp that would have been worthy the great Alexander himself, and everything that might contribute to the comfort and even luxury of the travellers had been provided with a liberal hand. Here were the twenty Afghans, too, glad of the chance to return to their own country again; but of the former party some were missing and some had been added.
Dirrag was the guide, this time, and the faithful fellow lost no opportunity to implore Howard Osborne to take him along to America. “Your Highness will need a bodyguard,” he argued, “so why not take me, whom you may trust?”
“We don’t use body guards in America, Dirrag,” was the laughing answer.
“But we have such things as true friends—when we can get them,” said Janet, brightly; “so I shall insist upon having my old warrior by my side, wherever we may go.”
“That settles it, Dirrag,” announced the doctor; “you’re half an American already. Heigh-ho! I wish I could go with you. But Bessie says I must return to her just as soon as I’ve bought the new furnishings for the palace and seen Lucy well on her way home. You may expect me to end my days in this jumping-off place, my dear Colonel.”
“It’s really a very fine country,” declared Aunt Lucy, with an air of proud proprietorship; “and it’s only natural, Luther, you should wish to live with Her Serene Highness the Khanum of Mekran and Empress of Baluchistan, who is your only daughter and my niece.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said the doctor, laughing. “I really believe the only reason Lucy is anxious to get back to New York,” he remarked to Dr. and Mrs. Osborne in a loud aside, “is to air her relationship with the Khanum. Oh, by the way, Colonel,” turning to his old friend, “how about that railroad?”
“Bother the railroad!” growled the Colonel. “I’d forgotten all about it.”