Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan, or the Central and Western Rajput States of India v1.c20.s8.t1.92

v1.c20.s8.t1.92

But the deed was left for women to accomplish—the hand of man refused it. The Rawala¹ of an Eastern prince is a world within itself; it is the labyrinth containing the strings that move the puppets which alarm mankind. Here intrigue sits enthroned, and hence its influence radiates to the world, always at a loss to trace effects to their causes. Maharaja Daulat Singh,¹ descended four generations ago from one common ancestor with the Rana, was first sounded ‘to save the honour of Udaipur’; but, horror-struck, he exclaimed, “Accursed the tongue that commands it! Dust on my allegiance, if thus to be preserved!” The Maharaja Jawandas, a natural brother, was then called upon; the dire necessity was explained, and it was urged that no common hand could be armed for the purpose. He accepted the poniard, but when in youthful loveliness Krishna appeared before him, the dagger fell from his hand, and he returned more wretched than the victim. The fatal purpose thus revealed, the shrieks of the frantic mother reverberated through the palace, as she implored mercy, or execrated the murderers of her child, who alone was resigned to her fate. But death was arrested, not averted [465]. To use the phrase of the narrator, “she was excused the steel—the cup was prepared,”—and prepared by female hands! As the messenger presented it in the name of her father, she bowed and drank it, sending up a prayer for his life and prosperity. The raving mother poured imprecations on his head, while the lovely victim, who shed not a tear, thus endeavoured to console her: “Why afflict yourself, my mother, at this shortening of the sorrows of life? I fear not to die! Am I not your daughter? Why should I fear death? We are marked out for sacrifice² from our birth; we scarcely enter the world but to be sent out again; let me thank my father that I have lived so long!”³ Thus she conversed till the nauseating draught refused to assimilate with her blood. Again the bitter potion was prepared. She drained it off, and again it was rejected; but, as if to try the extreme of human fortitude, a third was administered; and, for the third time, Nature refused to aid the horrid purpose. It seemed as if the fabled charm, which guarded the life of the founder of her race,¹ was inherited by the Virgin Krishna. But the blood-hounds, the Pathan and Ajit, were impatient till their victim was at rest; and cruelty, as if gathering strength from defeat, made another and a fatal attempt. A powerful opiate was presented—the *kusumbha* draught.² She received it with a smile, wished the scene over, and drank it. The desires [466] of barbarity were accomplished. ‘She slept!’³ a sleep from which she never awoke.