The patrols of Pahluwán Jamál, who at that time was police-ma­gistrate, came up, and a great hubbub ensued. The fugitive fair-one was handed over to her relatives, and her companion in flight was sent to prison. (P. 115) When he had from the close confine­ment suffered long in misery and hardships, he managed somehow or other to effect his escape. News of these events was brought to the camp to the hapless and wandering Sayyid. Then he, who through sickness caused by separation had become as thin as a new moon, or a ghost, on hearing this news became desperate, and turned his thoughts to death, and even made preparation for self-destruction; but he came to the conclusion that Death could not at any time be very pleasant, so rending the collar of patience he desired to go to Ágrah. His affectionate brothers, and sincere friends kept an eye on him, whether he would or no, restraining him sometimes by good advice, sometimes by force and threats and reproaches and abuse. At last, when the Imperial camp arrived at the Capital, and Sayyid Músá, who had before been merely wounded, was now consumed [by love], and however much he strove was unable to catch a sight of his beloved, because they kept her guarded in a strong place, one Qází Jamál by name, a Hindí poet of Sivakanpúr, one of the dependencies of Kálpí, between whom and the Sayyid there existed a bond of the closest friendship, took his case very much to heart. So one evening at the hour of prayer he extricated that sitter in a corner of the hall of chastity* from the dark cell, and set her beside him on a charger head-tossing like the piebald steed of Fate, and wind-footed and prancing like the racer of the inconstant World, and along the bank of the river Jumna galloped as hard as he could up stream. The relatives of the woman came after him, and the inhabitants of the city who were spectators of the scene shouted in front of him. The horse stuck fast, like an ass in the mud, in the pits and canals, which had been made for purposes of irrigation, and like a chess-man he knew not how to move in stale-mate. Then the beautiful lady fell into despair, and throwing herself out of the saddle on the ground said to Qází: “Save your own life by flight, and take my greeting to my lover, and say to him this impromptu:—(P. 116).

I have made every effort; but Fate says:
The business, which is another's, is out of thy power.”

When Sayyid Músá received this message, he shut himself up in a place which he had within the fortress of Ágrah, and his spirit melted by vexation and despair, and his soul, like a heavenly bird, went forth in flight, and escaped from the four-walled prison of temperament, and was freed from the bond of friend and of enemy, while with his tongue he uttered thrice the following:—

“From the Beloved my heart has found a thousand lives,
A friend better than that it is impossible to find.

O God! turn this sorrow to the profit of my broken and desolate heart.

Strike the dagger on my breast,
Cast also my head far from the body.
Throw open the door of this dark house,
Throw open the window also.”

When he had despatched his baggage from the temporary lodging to the permanent habitation, they carried his empty corpse with its empty hands to its resting place in order to commit it to the earth. Both men and women made great lamentation: and it so happened that they bore his bier under the very window of that fair one. She, since at this time she was kept a prisoner, with a chain like her tangled tresses on her foot, remained bewildered and stricken on the roof of the house from morning till evening, and setting the seal of silence on her ruby lip, gazed on the bier of that martyr to love. Afterwards being powerless and restless, she uttered a cry, and threw herself just as she was from the lofty roof, and the chain broke from her foot. Like a mad person, with arms and feet naked she ran direct to the resting place of that traveller, who never tasted the joy of union. Her demeanour changed from time to time, sometimes silent, at others crazy, she dropped the head of bewilderment on the collar of sadness, and symptoms of decline became manifest in her:—(P. 117).

“Awake! with a view to the last sleep,
Like a camel at ‘Íd,’* or a butcher's bullock.
The apple of her chin became through destiny
Withered like an apple of last year.”

Her father and mother seeing her in this case at once despaired of her life, and forgave her delinquencies:—

“No one takes tribute from a ruined village”.

And after that a total derangement, such as takes place in the pulse of persons on the point of death, became apparent in her whether in motion or at rest, every moment like one mad, and at war with herself, she would sit in a corner disconsolate, and beat her breast with a stone. Then making the pronunciation of the name of Sayyid Músá the practice of her lips and the amulet of her life, in the pre­sence of the pious Mír Sayyid Jalál, who was the religious leader of the day, she recited the confession of Islám, and cast herself on the dust of her pure lover, and surrendered her soul to her beloved,* as Sayyid Sháhí the author of that poem points out:—

“When the moon heard of this event,
She came suddenly towards us in her wandering:
She took upon her lips the confession of faith,
She became a Musalmán before a congregation.
When she obtained dignity from the religion of Islám,
She put on the Iḥrám* for the pilgrimage of eternity.
When love became conjoined with her beauty,
It burnt that taper as though it were a moth.
She uttered a cry through affection and love,
She took ‘Músá’ on her lips, and gave up her life.
In one moment those two princes of love
Became martyrs of the dagger of love.
So that in the midst of the garden of paradise
They might be hidden from all mankind.
Those two spiritual companions
Went away from this transitory world.
From the pain and grief of separation they were freed,
Concealed from all they sat together.
O Sayyid why dost thou weep?
Why dost give up thy heart to mourning?
Forget all this misadventure,
Strive after fortitnde, and be still.”

(P. 118) Praise be to God for the gift of Doctrine, and Faith! The author begs leave to observe, that although in strict accordance with his promise of conciseness, there was no room in this story for indulgence in high-flown language, still what could he do! For the language of love carried the reins of my pen irresistibly out of the grasp of my control, and prolixity has been the result. For­give me!

“Listen O ear to the story of love,
The melody of love from the scratching of the pen.
My business is love, and my friend is love,
The sum-total of my days is love.
What can I do? this is in my temperament,
From eternity my Destiny is this.
For this purpose have they created me,
For this purpose have they drawn me forth.”

My hope from Court of the Creator, who pities his creatures, is that he will not make me a liar in this my boast; but that he will make me live in the pain of love, and in that same pain make me to die:—

“The man, who but for one day has his heart-pain,
To him and to me alike may there be good fortune!”

A somewhat similar event had taken place prior to this. It was as follows: One of the sons of a Shaikh of Gwályár, who was related to Shaikh Muḥammad Ghous, and was renowned for his remarkable equity and purity, became enamoured of a singing girl in Ágra:—

“In the darkling west of her tresses she mustered
A hundred caravans of moons, and of planets.
In the skirt of union and separation she bound
The ill-fated and the happy-starred alike.
In the circle of her tresses she hid
The turban of the circling sphere.”

This came to the ears of the Emperor, and he gave that singing girl to Muqbil Khán, who was one of his courtiers. Then the son of the Shaikh having lost the desire of his heart, went one night to the guarded castle, whither his rival had carried his beloved and imprisoned her, and throwing the lasso of determination, climbed up and carried her off. The Emperor commanded Shaikh (P. 119) Ziyá'uddín, son of Shaikh Muhammaud Ghous, who now has suc­ceeded to his father on the pathway of spiritual direction and guidance, to bring back that relative of his and that house-devastat­ing woman by means of persuasive advice and friendly counsel. When they came into his presence, the Emperor requested that they would unite them in marriage, but Shaikh Ziyá'uddín and the others forbade. So the disconsolate lover, being unable to endure his grief, killed himself with a stroke of the dagger, and obliterated his name from the register of existence. And a great dispute arose among the learned men with respect to his interment and burial. Shaikh Ziyá'uddín said that in accordance with the tradition: “He who loves and is chaste, and conceals his love and dies, dies a martyr”, he was a martyr to love, and he ought to be committed to the dust just as he was:—