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The last rays of the setting sun shot through the sky in crimson light, and were reflected back by the snows of Badari-natha1 and the sharp peaks of the Himálaya, while a soft south wind wafted to the mountain tops the perfume of trees and flowers which all day had hung over the valleys. For centuries and centuries had the rays of the same sun lit up the same heights, and the perfume of flowers had risen to the mountains, with no change and no disturbance; while far in the distance men fought and struggled, mighty kingdoms rose and fell, and thoughtful minds vainly sought the aim and reason of the existence of the universe.

Towards the end of the sixteenth century of our era, when Jelalu-dín-Muhammad, surnamed Akbar the Great, had raised the empire of the Moghuls to the highest point of power and glory, the lofty Himálaya, once the scarcely accessible abode of the Devas,2 still remained wild and inhospitable. These solitudes were scarcely ever trodden by human foot, and seldom even did the cry of some passing bird of prey, or the hum of dancing insects, break the intense and almost audible silence.

Still the place was not so entirely deserted as a careless observer might imagine. Nearly hidden in the long grass a tiger lay stretched out, his coat flecked with black, dreaming in philosophical rest, sometimes gazing upwards at the snow-crowned peaks, and then half closing his eyes before the still vivid light. He looked down on the lovely green valleys far below, stretching away until they met other mountains rising into the clear sky, losing themselves and seeming to melt and blend into the brilliant colours of the horizon. Of what did he think? sometimes gazing upwards, sometimes looking down into the depths below, perhaps in misty remembrance of the times when, in another form, he reigned—a mighty rajah over luxurious Kashmir, with vassals bowing before him and lovely women vieing with one another for the honour of his notice. Or was, indeed, the royal beast nothing more than a gigantic cat? a monster of the jungle? and not the lost soul of some former proud and haughty ruler. He was now, in truth, the king of the wilderness, where no rival dared to challenge his rights. That he well knew his power, could be seen in the proud glance he cast around him. But, suddenly waking from these day-dreams, he sprang to his feet and listened. A noise, the sound of men’s voices, had fallen on his quick ear.

Though still at some little distance, a group of riders was descending by the only accessible path in the mountains towards the valley. A young and handsome man, whose proud carriage and rich clothing showed that he was of noble birth, accompanied by another, older in years and more gravely clad, and followed by two servants, formed the party. The youth was mounted on a white Arab, small but powerfully built, and of great speed. The older man rode a larger horse of dark colour, while the servants bestrode rough but strong mountain ponies. The youth wore a blue silk jacket ornamented with golden buttons, wide trousers and red shoes, and a light cap with a long feather fastened by a diamond. A short sabre hung at his side, and a jewelled dagger was stuck into his richly ornamented girdle. In his right hand he held a long spear. He was tall and well formed, and his complexion was fair, being scarcely tanned by the sun’s rays. His eyes and hair were dark, and a brown moustache betokened, unmistakeably, that he sprang from the Aryan race. His companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered man of dark complexion, yet showing by his finely cut features that Aryan blood also flowed through his veins. A thick curling beard nearly hid his face, which was shaded by a white turban. His person was enveloped in a long robe of dark but fine material, which reached nearly to his feet, and was secured round his waist by a golden belt. He, also, was armed with sabre and spear, and from his shoulder hung a small round shield. The only clothing of the servants was a cloak thrown round their dusky limbs, and many bright copper rings on their wrists and ancles clanked against each other as they rode along. Short spears and small shields were their only weapons.

It was easy to discover from their conversation who these travellers were, whence they came, and the reason of their journey. The young nobleman, Siddha3 Rama4, was the son of the First Minister of Kashmir, entrusted by his father with important letters to the court of the Emperor Akbar at Agra, where he was to take command of a division of Rajput cavalry belonging to the imperial army. He was accompanied by Kulluka,5 his tutor, a Brahman of high descent, a man of learning and a warrior, one who knew as well how to instruct his pupil in the arts of war and martial exercises, as in the sacred language with its classic and holy writings.

But before reaching Agra they had to visit a hermit in the mountains, and then to make their way to Allahabad, where Siddha’s uncle, in the Emperor’s name, commanded the fort at the junction of the Ganges and Jamuna. There too was Iravati, his daughter, and the betrothed of Siddha, counting the days to their coming and the meeting with her future husband.

“But, honoured Kulluka,” said Siddha, after having ridden for a time silently by the side of his tutor, “you, who know the way, tell me that we are close to the abode of Gurupada.6 It may be so, but I can see nothing that is at all like a cell. Is it possible that the holy man has departed?”

“A little more patience,” answered the Brahman, “and we shall soon come to the turning, whence you will see the little wood in the valley where Gurupada has built his solitary dwelling. But it seems to me you might speak with more respect of one so venerable. You will, however, learn that when you meet him.”

“I intended no harm and no disrespect,” rejoined Siddha. “But what is that?” cried he, suddenly pointing with his spear towards the tall grass on the mountain side, which was waving gently, though unstirred by the wind.

Before his calmer companion could restrain him, the impatient hunter had turned his horse into the long grass, and was hurrying towards the spot where the movement had been seen. But before either Kulluka or the servants could hasten after him, they saw him draw rein and remain motionless, gazing before him.

All movement in the grass had ceased, not one blade stirred, and not a sound was to be heard. Then again the grass moved and bent, but much farther off, betraying the presence of a large glossy tiger bounding away.

Siddha put spurs to his horse, and the next moment lay full length on the ground. A hole, thickly covered with vegetation, had thrown horse and rider. But both instantly recovered their footing.

“It is nothing, Vatsa,”7 he said to his servant, who had flung himself from his pony and hurried to his master. “I have fallen softly enough; nor, it is to be hoped, has any harm come to my horse.”

On examination they found that the noble grey was as uninjured as his headlong rider; but no sign of the tiger was any longer visible.

There was nothing left to be done but to spring into the saddle and continue the interrupted journey.

Siddha rode silently by the side of his guru, not a little ashamed of his foolish adventure, but the latter broke the silence by saying, “That was but a childish trick, dear lad.”

“Yes,” replied Siddha, in a shamefaced tone, “I must have indeed appeared ridiculous, rolling over in such a way.”

“But,” continued Kulluka, “that you could not help.”

“No one can see concealed holes.”

“What I mean is something quite different.”

“What then?”

“That you will soon learn, if what I suspect is the case.”

The smile that played round Kulluka’s mouth at these words only increased Siddha’s curiosity; but his questions were interrupted by their reaching a turn in the road where, spread out before them, bathed in golden sunshine, lay another part of the valley.

“See there,” said Kulluka, pointing with his lance to a thick clump of trees below them, near which, like a silver thread, flowed a little stream; “there lives Gurupada!” And, without more words, the riders descended a steep declivity, following a path partly formed by nature and partly by the labour of men, that led towards the plain.

Under the dense shade of trees stood a low building roofed with reeds, and built with slight bamboos overgrown with creepers, more like some resort of pleasure than the poor cell of a holy man passing his life in penance. Behind was the dark jungle, in front an emerald lake, reflecting back a hundred different tints, and bordered by blue and white lotus flowers. The clear silver stream entered at one end and, flowing out at the other side, continued its course to the lower valleys just seen in the haze of the distance. Far away the ranges of mountains rose like rocky giants to the heavens, their summits never trodden by the foot of man.

For a moment our travellers remained still, lost in admiration of a view at once so magnificent and so lovely. But quickly remembering that they had reached the end of their journey, they dismounted and entrusted the horses to their servants, while Kulluka advanced to the dwelling, meaning to give notice of their arrival. But he might have saved himself the trouble, for he had scarcely reached the door when the hermit appeared in the threshold, followed by a servant who, at a sign from his master, took charge of the visitors’ horses.

Extraordinary was the impression which the sight of this recluse made on Siddha. In his own country, among his mountains and forests, he had seen penitents, self-denying holy men, wandering mendicants, in numbers and of all kinds—some in foul and sordid rags, with long bamboo staves in their hands and rosaries at their sides, some with a cloth made of the bark of trees, others with no clothing, shaven, and covered with ashes, their foreheads and breasts smeared with white chalk: all supported by the strength of a boundless fanaticism. No wonder that the young man, used to the most polished civilisation, should have looked with the deepest contempt on such people; and in spite of his respect for his tutor, who had always named the hermit of Badrinath with veneration, he had expected but little from the man who now stood ready at his door to receive them. All the greater was the impression now made upon him by the tall and stately figure advancing to them, with dignity but at the same time with an air of friendly welcome.

He was an old man, in a dazzling white garment, with a few fine locks on the otherwise bald head, and a heavy silvery beard, but not in the least bent by the weight of years. His friendly though proud expression showed plainly that he had been accustomed to give, rather than to receive and obey, commands.

“You are welcome friends,” he said, taking his two visitors by the hand, who bent respectfully before him. “Welcome to my solitude. It is indeed a pleasure to hear again of”—here he seemed to hesitate, but proceeded in a firm voice, “of you and my country and people.”

Before either Kulluka and Siddha could reply, their attention was drawn to a low growl close to them, and in another instant, from behind the building, a magnificent tiger appeared with slow and stately tread, and drew near the three men, waving its heavy tail from side to side. Instantly Siddha drew back a step, and laid his hand on the dagger in his belt.

“Leave that plaything in its place,” said Gurupada, laughing. “Do not injure Hara.”8 Then, turning to the tiger, he called him in a commanding tone, and instantly the powerful animal laid himself down at his master’s feet.

“Did I not tell you?” said Kulluka to Siddha, pointing to the tiger. “Do you now understand why it was a foolish trick you played?”

“Pardon, honoured lord, pardon!” said Siddha, turning with clasped hands to Gurupada, understanding that it was the tiger of the hermit that he had given chase to. “Indeed I did not know.”

“I understand,” interrupted Gurupada, “you have been hunting Hara. That has happened before, but has not always ended so well for the hunter as for my four-footed friend here. For he can become angry, though he has never harmed those who leave him alone. I have had him, as Kulluka knows, ever since he was a small cub, and we are now well accustomed to each other. Is it not so, Hara?” he said, bending towards the tiger, that, half raising itself up, rubbed its broad head against its master’s hand. “And my friends,” continued he, “are also his. See now!” And Siddha, drawing near, laid his hand gently on its shoulder, on which the tiger, looking alternately at both, laid down at Siddha’s feet, and leant its head against his hand. This time the young man did not step back, but stroked the animal’s head; nor was he startled when, yawning, it opened its mighty jaws, showing rows of white sharp teeth.

“That is right,” said Gurupada, as Hara returned to him. “I have seen many older than you who would not have remained so calm. But now let us think of other things. Travellers, after so long a journey through a wilderness where there is not much to be found, must need refreshment. Follow me.” And, going before them, the hermit entered his dwelling.

The interior contained nothing beyond necessaries, but all in most perfect order, and arranged with elegance.

After the guests had rested themselves with him, on fine mats spread on the floor, the servant, who had taken charge of the horses, brought in some dishes of food.

The simple and easy tone in which the otherwise dignified hermit spoke, showed that he was a man of the world, and soon gave confidence to the Minister’s son. Siddha answered Gurupada’s questions respecting his father, his betrothed Iravati, and his life in Kashmir, with frankness mingled with respect. To his astonishment the hermit appeared to know all that had happened in earlier days in Kashmir, and showed himself acquainted with circumstances that must have been a secret to all excepting those who had access to the most private parts of the royal palace. Without doubt, in earlier years, Gurupada must have been a trusted councillor of one of the princes. But Siddha dared venture no indiscreet questions touching the hermit’s former rank. He remarked that Gurupada’s conversation was cheerful, and that he appeared perfectly content with his present station. Yet at times, in talking over political events in the north, a dark cloud momentarily crossed his noble countenance, as though the strong will of the philosopher could not hinder a passing emotion from being visible.

It had become late, and night was drawing on, the moon throwing her silvery light over the landscape which was visible through the open bamboos.

“Now,” said Gurupada, rising, “pardon me, noble Siddha, if with your tutor and my friend I withdraw from the pleasure of your company. I have much to say to him which for the present must be a secret, and in which you probably would have but little interest. If you wish to refresh yourself there is the lake, and to a bath in the open air you are doubtless well accustomed.”

The two elder men left the room together, and for long after Siddha saw them arm-in-arm, walking up and down, deep in earnest converse. When they returned it was time to go to rest, and the travellers were well pleased to stretch their weary limbs on the sleeping-places prepared for them.

Early the next morning, after a fresh bath and hearty breakfast, our travellers were ready to continue their journey. While the horses were being saddled, Gurupada drew Siddha on one side, out of hearing of Kulluka, and said—

“Holy hermits, when young men visit them, are not accustomed to let them depart without some instruction and advice. You expect, perhaps, the same from me; but you are mistaken. I can add nothing to what Kulluka, your wise and learned guru has doubtless already taught you. The world you are going to seek, and life itself, must teach you what remains. Still, one word, to which I will add a request. Do not fear, when you enter the luxurious and magnificent court at Agra, to take your part in all lawful diversions and amusements; and thus you will learn to distinguish the real from the unreal. Think always of what doubtless your tutor has often taught you, keep your conscience pure, and take good care that no deed of yours shall ever give cause of shame either to others or to yourself. But should it happen that, in spite of your earnest striving to keep these precepts, the repose of your conscience should be disturbed, and you wish for some friend to whom you could open your heart, think then of an old friend of your father and your tutor, and come to the Hermit of Badrinath. Will you promise me this?”

“I promise it,” answered Siddha, simply, but with manly earnestness, as he folded his arms respectfully on his breast. With greater friendliness than before, Gurupada took him by both hands, and pressed them heartily.

The horses were soon brought forward, and the riders, after taking leave of the hermit, sprang into their saddles, and, followed by the servants, took their way from the jungle to the mountain path.

More than once Siddha looked back, casting a glance to where the figure of the wise man was still visible between the trunks of the tall trees, standing at the threshold of his dwelling, with the tiger by his side, and then rode silently by his companion, buried in thought.

Suddenly, as though waking from a day-dream, he drew in his horse with such force as almost to throw it upon its haunches.

“Kulluka,” he exclaimed, “I never saw such a man as Gurupada.” But at the same time he coloured to the ears, thinking, but too late, that this exclamation might not be very pleasing to his friend and teacher.

But he had needlessly alarmed himself. Kulluka’s countenance expressed unfeigned pleasure at the admiration of his pupil for his old friend.

“Indeed,” he said, “it gives me great pleasure that you should so think of him, and it speaks well for you.”

“But,” Siddha said, after a moment of silence, “who then is Gurupada?”

“Well,” was the answer, “that you have seen for yourself—a hermit of the Himálaya.”

“Yes,” replied Siddha, impatiently, “that I know well; but what was he first, before he came here and tamed tigers?”

“He attempted to tame men,” answered Kulluka, “but in that he did not always succeed. But why did you not ask him yourself who he was?”

“Would that have been discreet—should you have approved of that?”

“Certainly not, and you acted rightly in not violating the rights of hospitality by indiscreet curiosity, even if it arose from real interest and for that you deserve that your curiosity should be set at rest. Gurupada gave me permission to recount his former life and tell you his name. So listen!

“He was once a king.”

“How now,” said Siddha, a little disturbed, “are you going to tell me a tale from Somadeva,9 like those I heard so often from you when I was a little boy?”

“Listen or not, as you will, to my tale,” answered Kulluka, calmly. “He was, I say, once a king, who, supported by good councillors, governed his kingdom with wisdom and prudence. He had no children, only a younger brother, a young man of great ability, to whom he was warmly attached, and whom he had chosen as his successor when death should take him, or when the weight of affairs of state should become too heavy for him to bear. But the brother was ambitious, and, in spite of some good qualities, he had not patience to wait his time. He allowed himself to be led away by parties in the state inimical to the existing government. First he intrigued secretly, and in the end he took up arms against his brother and lawful prince. But he and his followers were defeated, and brought prisoners to the capital. However, this did not put an end to the insurrection. Disturbances still continued, and the only means that remained to the king to suppress them was by the death of his ambitious and dangerous brother, however dearly he loved him, and by subjecting his followers to the same fate. But by so doing his throne would be founded on the blood of his brother and others; which might call endless feuds into life, to which there could be no other end but the utter exhaustion of the kingdom. Yet hardly anyone doubted that the king would, in the end, have recourse to this now unavoidable measure. Suddenly, a rumour spread that he had disappeared from the palace, and in all probability, though not certainly, had fallen a victim to treachery. Since that time he has never been heard of, and his brother, released from prison, ascended the throne as the lawful heir, and has reigned ever since, wisely retaining his brother’s councillors at his side. Though not ruling with equal wisdom, yet his reign has been fortunate, and peace has been restored to his country.”

Here, for a moment, Kulluka broke off his tale to look at his companion and pupil, but his countenance showed neither astonishment nor special interest.

“What you tell me,” he said, “is simply the history of our present king and his predecessor and elder brother Nandigupta,10 which is known to all, to me as well as to every other Kashmiri.”

“Certainly,” replied Kulluka, “the history of which I remind you is well known. What is not known to every one, only to a few, is that King Nandigupta did not fall through treachery, is not dead, nor was he driven away. Of his own accord, and without the knowledge of his brother, nor of any but a few most trusty friends, he took refuge in a distant retreat, where by spreading a report that he had been slain, he saved his brother from a shameful death and his country from probable destruction.”

“And so Nandigupta still lives,” cried Siddha, “and he is——”

“As you doubtless have already guessed,” answered Kulluka, “the hermit we have just left; but you must hold his secret sacred. The secret of his kingdom and his race is entrusted to your honour. The son of his most faithful servant and friend should know it, and will know well how to guard it.”

“Why,” asked Siddha, half dissatisfied, “did you not tell me this while we were still there? I might then have thanked the prince for all the benefits which, in the days of his greatness, my father and all our race received at his hands. But, it is true, you had no right to speak as long as he himself did not do so. But I still have an opportunity; for Gurupada, if he will be so called, made me promise to seek him if ever I should find myself in circumstances of difficulty and need good advice.”

“And you have done well in giving your promise,” said Kulluka. “Keep your word. Gurupada is better and wiser than any of us.”

But Siddha scarcely heard. He was again immersed in thought. The meeting with the hermit, and the discovery of his secret, made a deep impression on him: that in the beginning of his journey he should have met with a princely philosopher, who, possessing almost unlimited power, and living in luxury, had willingly sacrificed all for love of his brother and his country; and who, happy in the consciousness of having done well, showed himself cheerful and contented with his simple life in the wilderness, with no other companions than a faithful servant and a beast of prey. Now he was on his road to the court of the fortunate and far-famed ruler of a great empire, who ruled his people more by wisdom than by the power of the sword; who had at his disposal enormous revenues; and who might call himself the ally of mighty princes in most distant countries, and protector of all known religions in the world.

The good Siddha, who had been accustomed to pride himself somewhat on his nobility and consequence, suddenly felt how small he was in comparison with two such men. It was indeed difficult to decide which was the greater of the two, and he wisely determined to suspend his judgment until he should have seen the Emperor Akbar himself.

This decision brought him back to the next goal of their journey, a visit to Allahabad, where his dearly loved bride—the beautiful Iravati—awaited his coming. His countenance, which for some minutes had been grave and earnest, brightened up, and striking spurs into his horse, as a long flat piece of country stretched out before them, he cried, joyfully, “Come, now for a gallop!” and darting forward, Kulluka saw brandishing his light spear, and shouting the name that carried off the victory in his thoughts—“Iravati!”

“Forward! forward, then!” muttered the Brahman to himself, setting his horse to a gallop, “until the end is reached; for me it is almost done, but for him the journey of life is only beginning. Oh that he may always find it smooth as this! but he also must meet with rocks and slippery precipices, and perhaps also—abysses. But may they only,” he added, smiling to himself, as he thought of the adventure of the preceding evening, “be harmless precipices.”

1 Badari-natha is a place sacred to Vishnu in the Himálayas. The Badari-natha peaks, in British Gurwhal, form a group of 6 summits from 22,000 to 23,400 feet above the sea. The town of Badari-natha is 55 miles N.E. of Srinagar, on the right bank of the Vishnu-ganga, a feeder of the Alakananda. The temple of Badari-natha is situated in the highest part of the town, and below it a tank, supplied from a sulphureous thermal spring, is frequented by thousands of pilgrims. The temple is 10,294 feet above the sea.

2 Deva, in Sanscrit, is a god, a divinity.

3 Siddha, in Sanscrit, means perfected, hence an adept. Siddhanta, a final conclusion, or any scientific work. The Siddhas are a class of semi-divine beings, who dwell in the regions of the sky.

4 Rama is a name in common use. Rama was the hero of the Ramayana epic, and the form taken by Vishnu in two of his Avataras.

5 Sanscrit name. Kulluka Bhatta was the famous commentator whose gloss was used by Sir W. Jones in making his translation of Manu.

6 Guru, a teacher. Pada, a word.

7 A common Sanscrit name.

8 Hara is the name of a branch of the Chuhan Rajpúts. It is also a name of Siva.

9 The most popular of the collections of old Hindu tales was the Kathâ-Sarit-Sâgara, or, “Ocean of the Streams of Narrative.” It originated in the desire of a queen of Kashmir to provide amusement and instruction for her grandson. Somadeva, the Prime Minister, produced, in consequence, this collection of tales in verse.

10 Nandi is the bull of Siva usually placed in front of temples. Gupta is a concealed ascetic. The Guptas were a dynasty of kings reigning at Magadha.