and resembled the hustle and commotion of a boisterous sea—the sky was enveloped with sulphurous smoke. So unexpected was this outburst of warlike fury, that it seemed, as if, during the dead of night, when the whole universe is lulled to sleep by the fostering care of nature, the angry ocean, swollen with rage, rushed forward and encircled the camp, quite unawares.
All on a sudden, the officers and the attendants of the Nawab rushed out of the tent, in all haste—some to go to the field of battle and some to make ignominious escape. Kulsam, Shaibalini, Chandra Shekhar and Foster also came out; only the Nawab and the captive, Taki Khan, remained within the tent.
After a while, the enemy’s shells began to fall on the Nawab’s tent. Thereupon, the Nawab rose up and unsheathing his sword, thrusted it, with his own hand, into the heart of his treacherous prisoner. Taki Khan fell on the ground dead, and the Nawab walked out of the tent.
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