“Is he dead?” asked the Colonel, hoarsely.
“Not yet,” replied Dr. Warner, his hand on Allison’s heart; “but he is dying.”
“Where did you find him, Dirrag?” asked the Khan, in a quiet voice.
“In the vizier’s garden, your Highness. He was attacked by Agahr’s slaves, who likewise slew their master’s own daughter, Maie.”
The wounded man groaned, slightly moving his head.
“Stand back, all of you!” commanded the Colonel, with a sudden accession of his old brave spirit. And as they obeyed he himself approached the couch, a look of stern resolution upon his face. “Allison must speak, he must clear up this mystery before he dies.”
The Persian motioned all the warriors save Dirrag to leave the room. Then he drew from his robe a small phial and forced its contents between Allison’s set lips.
In a moment the young man groaned again, and then slowly opening his eyes, gazed vacantly upon the group around him.
“Allison,” said his father — firmly, but in a tone less harsh than before — ”here is Howard Osborne, whom I always have accused of forging, seven years ago, my check for twenty thousand dollars. He claims that he is innocent.”
Allison moved restlessly, his eyes wandering from face to face as if in search of some one who was not present.
“I — I believe Howard is innocent,” he answered, with much difficulty.
“Who was the culprit, then?”
The wôunded man stared back into his eyes, but made no reply.
“They say you are dying, my son,” continued the old man, gently, “and if you have done wrong — if you have ever deceived me — now is the time to confess all, and clear the name of an innocent man.”
Allison made a motion with his hand, wearily.
“Where is Maie?” he asked, “and why do you keep the place so cursed dark?”
The doctor placed an arm under his head, raising it slightly.
“Tell me, Allison,” pleaded the Colonel, “who forged that paper? Who was it, my son?”
“Why, — I did it, father — It’s all over, now — only twenty thousand — not worth — fussing about Maie! Are you there, my Maie?”
With the words he made an effort to rise, and a crimson stream gushed from his mouth and nostrils. The doctor laid him back upon the cushions, while the Persian sought to stay the hemorrhage with his handkerchief. But Allison was spent His limbs twitched nervously once or twice, and after that he lay still.
The harem of the Khan had become a chamber of death.
CHAPTER XXII.
BY THE HAND OF ALLAH
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 cour-teously, 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 wan-dered 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 A
llison’s crime was known to him. His youth and inexpe-rience 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.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE VENGEANCE OF MAIE
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.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SPIRIT OF UNREST
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.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 758