if there was to be no end, as if they were destined so to go on for
ever. Had they known what others were going through at that very time
they might have been more reconciled to their own hard lot. For their
strange guide was curiously regardful of their comfort. Every day and
every night he brought them as good food as he could procure, with
fresh warm water to wash in, and such fruit as could be found in the
markets, neither asking nor accepting payment, while in every possible
way he consulted their convenience. What his motive could be it was
difficult to imagine. One of the ladies may have had some idea, but she
chose to be mysterious. Nevertheless her confidence, which was apparent
from the first, gave confidence to the others, all of whom had followed
her lead when they decided to trust this man. They were beginning,
in fact, to live down their fears, and to believe that he did really
mean well towards them, when their confidence was shaken by the awful
occurrence which I must relate.

They had been travelling for nine days, and they were now only one
day's journey from their place of rest. This their guide, whose face
became more radiant as they advanced, assured them one morning. A day
of confinement, a night's jolting over the rough country ways, and
their trials would be over.

On the night that followed this announcement they set forth upon their
journey with lighter hearts than usual. The guide pressed their pace.
For two days past storms had been threatening, and he was anxious to
get in before the breaking of the monsoon season. He was not, however,
very uneasy, for there were now no formidable streams between them and
their goal, and the stout covering of the cart would protect the ladies
from the worst of the rain.

The awful blackness, which precedes a storm in India, fell upon the
little party two or three hours after they had started. There were then
in the ekka four ladies and two children. The guide, who was walking
at the bullocks' heads, stopped them for a moment to draw down the
curtains of the cart, when one of the ladies said she would faint if
she were kept so close, and another begged to be allowed to get down
and walk beside the bullocks. The guide demurred; but the darkness
was so great, and the place seemed so solitary, that he was easily
persuaded to give way to her wish. She alighted, and the elder of the
two children, in spite of the earnest entreaties of his mother, not,
however, reinforced by the other ladies, who were rather glad to be rid
of him for a few moments, followed her.

This change gave a little comfort in the cart, which went on quietly
for some time, the lady outside holding the guide's girdle to help
herself along, and the little boy clinging to her skirts.

The road along which they were moving was bounded by woods that made
walls of blackness on the right hand and on the left. The sky was
entirely covered. There was not a ray of light anywhere; but the
guide, who knew the road well, had not the least fear. He was, in
fact, congratulating himself on the darkness, which made a refuge for
them, when suddenly his heart was paralysed by a sound of terrible
significance. Even the poor beasts shivered as it rang through the
woods. 'Deen! Deen!' It came from the right hand and from the left,
filling the black spaces with its echoes. 'Deen! Deen!' It was the
Mussulman battle-cry, and it was coming nearer--nearer, enveloping
them, floating towards them on the wind.

A stifled scream came from those within the ekka. 'Silence, in
heaven's name!' hissed the guide. 'The darkness is our only hope.'

Then to the lady, who stood erect by his side: 'Missy Grace, it is all
over with them. The sepoys have lights. They will see the cart. But for
you and the child there is yet a chance. Stand where you are!'

She obeyed him without a sound. He felt about on hands and knees and
then came back to her. 'There is a nullah close by,' he whispered;
'hide!'

Scarcely knowing what she did, but hoping against hope that she might
save her darling Kit, Grace, following the directions of the guide,
leapt into a shallow ditch, and drew the long grass over herself and
the child. 'If they let me live, I will come back to you,' he
whispered; 'if not, go on straight to the next village and say that
Hoosanee, the servant of the Rajah of Gumilcund, has sent you to his
father. He will guard you till you reach the city. Farewell, noble
lady!' And he returned to the cart. In the next moment Grace saw the
flashing of torches and heard the trampling of armed men in the woods.
Kit began to whimper. She breathed in his ear that, if he wished to see
his mother again, he must be brave and good, and pressed him close
against her breast to stifle his sobs. Then, with a strange composure at
her heart, a feeling that the worst--the awful thing to which they had
been looking forward so long--had come, she lifted herself up on hands
and knees and looked out over the edge of the nullah.

Armed to the teeth, some of them riding, and others on foot carrying
torches, the sepoys came pouring out of the wood. The light fell on the
cart, and, with cries like those of wild creatures scenting their prey,
they gathered round it. A man taller and better dressed than the others
imposed silence by an authoritative word, and with a sweep of his naked
tulwar thrust them back, so that they made a wide circle, having the
cart in the midst of them.

The curtains were down, not a sound proceeded from within them, and the
gallant guide kept his place at the bullocks' heads.

Her heart throbbing with admiration and terror, Grace watched him
from her hiding-place. She heard his voice, clear and strong, as he
addressed the leader: 'We are peaceful travellers. What do you want
with us?'

'Draw open the curtains of that cart,' was the brutal answer. 'You have
Feringhees there.'

'_You_ may sin, for you have the power,' said the guide boldly. '_I_
dare not.'

'Do you deny that they are Feringhees?'

'They are holy women, bound under a vow to travel by night to the
sacred river. Touch them and you incur the guilt of sacrilege!'

The leader laughed out loudly. 'Tell a better tale next time, son of an
ass,' he said scornfully. 'We will run the risk and see the colour of
their faces for ourselves!'

Upon this the unhappy guide began to dance wildly round the cart. 'Let
my lord have pity!' he cried out. 'Feringhees or not, they are women
and children who have done no wrong----'

He was not allowed to finish. The leader pushed him aside, and, amid
the jeers of his men, began to feel along the sides of the cart. At his
touch the ladies screamed, sprang out, and fell on their knees.

How the poor girl in the nullah preserved her senses, how she kept back
the scream that was clutching at her throat, she never knew. Grace,
palpitating with horror, grasping with her one hand at the sides of the
nullah, and with the other pressing Kit's face to her bosom, so that he
could neither cry out nor see, she stood, yet never for one moment did
she lose her presence of mind.

Her friends rose, ran a few paces, saw by the flare of the torches that
they were surrounded, and then knelt again, and implored piteously for
mercy. For a few moments no one stirred. Then the voice of the leader
broke the silence. 'I want one of you. The rest may go on their way in
peace.'

Here the guide interposed with a shrill cry: 'What my lord wishes is
impossible. We go on together or not at all.'

'Be silent! Who spoke to you?' said the leader.

'Excellency, for the love of the Prophet--by your hopes of Paradise,
listen to me!'

'Do you hear?' roared the leader, making a dash at the poor man with
his sword. 'Silence! I have to put a question to these mem-sahibs. If
they answer it truly they are free. The daughter of that son of Satan,
who calls himself the General Elton, is here. I am sent to take her
prisoner. Let her give herself up and the rest are free!'

In the little group of trembling women there was neither sound nor
stir; but their guide sprang forward.

'She is not here,' he cried.

'You lie, infidel!'

'Nay, by the Prophet's beard. I speak the truth! To satisfy you, I will
give you the names of those here. Let them go on in peace, and----'

The leader broke in with an awful imprecation.

'That is enough,' he cried. 'If she has escaped me, all these shall
die.'

He advanced threateningly. Even as he did so there came from close at
hand a voice, so clear and still that it seemed to be ringing down from
the upper air. 'They shall not die,' it said, 'I am here.'

It was like a vision. Hoosanee told his master so, when, sobbing like a
child, he gave him an account of his stewardship. Pale as death; but,
moving proudly like a queen, her head thrown back, her eyes burning
under their lids; she stood suddenly amongst them--the young English
girl who knew how to die.

'I am here,' she said firmly. 'Let me speak a word to the kind friend
who has helped me so far, and then, if you have really any pity, kill
me.'

A moment of silence followed her bold words. No one cried out. No
hand was raised to touch her. Her heroism, it would almost seem, had
touched some chord of gentleness even in these wild hearts.

She moved forward quietly towards her terror-stricken countrywomen, and
whispered in English that they should get into the cart again. 'Kit
is close by,' she said. 'You will find him when these men have gone.
I have persuaded him to keep quiet.' Then, in a lower tone, 'I will
tell you for your comfort what I was afraid to tell you before. You are
going to an Englishman--a dear friend of mine. Give him my love, and
tell him that I thank him for what he has done, and that I thought of
him even to the last. Get in, dears. Cover yourselves up. Now kiss me,
and good-bye.'

'Oh, Grace! Grace! Why did you do it?' sobbed one. 'We can't go on
without you, and we could all have died.'

'Yes,' said the girl, with strange solemnity, 'we can all die. Thank
God for that! Lucy, you know what I have here--something swift and
sudden. Tell them at home and give them my dear love.'

'But we can't leave you so,' sobbed Lucy.

'You must! Get in, Lucy. Yes, if you love me. Would you kill all of
them?'

In the meantime the unhappy Hoosanee had prostrated himself at the feet
of the leader, and was pouring out entreaties and denials. 'She lies,
Excellency. Do not listen to her. It is to save the others that she has
spoken. She is not the child of the General. She is the sister of my
master, the Rajah of Gumilcund, whose servant I am. Let her go on with
us, and we will bless you all the days of our life.'

So and with many more words he pleaded, but they took no more notice of
his entreaties than of the blowing of the wind among the trees.

Then Grace, who had bade good-bye to her people, came forward again,
and touched him on the arm.

'It is useless, my poor Hoosanee,' she said. 'They are stronger than
we are. I must go with them, and you will, for my sake, take my poor
friends on. Remember Kit.'

At this moment there was a wild shriek, which made Grace wring her
hands and weep. 'Oh, God! have pity!' she moaned. 'Is it not enough?
That is his voice; I left him insensible.'

Maddened with terror at finding himself alone, the poor child had
sprung out of the nullah, and made blindly for where the torches were
shining. A sepoy seized him. Grace cried out frantically and covered
her face with her hands. The poor women in the cart, who thought that
it was her death-cry, gave a piteous wail. Hoosanee dashed forward
and seized the barbarian's arm. 'Shame! shame!' he cried, 'it is a
girl-child; give it to me!'

The light of the torches flashed on poor little Kit's long golden
curls and delicate face, and there was a murmur of pity. The child was
released, and he dashed headlong into Grace's arms. 'Go to Hoosanee,
darling!' she whispered. 'He will take you to your mother.'

'No, no, no. I'll go with you. Take me! take me!' sobbed poor little
Kit, the strain of his arms tightening.

'No, Kit, no; I can't. Oh God! It will kill me! Hoosanee, take him.
Take him by force if you must. There! there!'

'Enough! Take them both,' cried the leader. A litter had been brought
out. It was put down, and Grace was ordered to get into it. She made
one last effort to send away Kit; but he clung to her more convulsively
than ever. They got in together; the curtains were lowered; four stout
coolies lifted the pole to their shoulders; a body of torch-bearers
ranged themselves on either side; the horsemen and foot soldiers made a
compact mass round them; and, in a few moments, they were being swung
along at a swift pace--going they knew not whither.

Then Grace burst into tears, and Kit loosened his frantic grasp of her
neck. 'Why did you come, child?' she said. 'You would have been safe
with them. To-morrow they will be in Gumilcund.'

'But I'd much rather be with you,' said Kit, 'and it would be beastly
cowardly to let you go alone. Don't cry, Grace. I'll take care of you
now.'

CHAPTER XXIX

THE WELCOME OF A SORROWFUL SPIRIT

The rajah had returned from seeing off his troops, and he and Chunder
Singh were shut up together in close conclave. For the first time
since fate had so strangely thrown them together they had been having
a serious difference of opinion. The subject that divided them was the
written message which the rajah had received from Dost Ali Khan, and
which ran as follows:

 'To-morrow the Englishwoman you seek will be in my hands. Come to me
 for her. Ganesh will show you the way.'

After serious thought, Tom had come to the conclusion that it would be
wise at once to obey this summons--a conclusion justified no doubt by
the knowledge that rest and peace of mind would be perfectly impossible
to him until he had tested its truth. Chunder Singh, on the other
hand, who suspected a trap--he knew that Dost Ali Khan was anxious to
separate Gumilcund from the English alliance--wished him not to act
precipitately, but to endeavour, before putting himself in the power
of so desperate a rebel, to find out what had actually been done by
Hoosanee for the Nowgong fugitives.

The discussion waxed warm, and both men grew irritated. Tom insisted
on starting at once. Chunder Singh used the most cogent arguments to
stop him. Tom tore the arguments to shreds and tatters. Chunder Singh
produced others, of an even more telling character, which, in their
turn, were demolished by the ardent youth. At last Chunder Singh showed
mutinous symptoms. He couched his resistance, indeed, in the most
decorous language, being as prodigal as usual of submissive words and
high-sounding titles, but beneath the velvet glove the iron hand was
hidden. The rajah was made to understand that, having accepted the
raj, he belonged to the people over whom he ruled, and that they would
protect him, even against himself, if such a step was necessary. His
late expedition had caused much murmuring. Having received him back in
safety from the very jaws of death, the people did not feel disposed
to allow him to risk his life again. He, Chunder Singh, would, in such
case, be called to account. He besought his master, for all these
reasons, to be patient, hinting pretty broadly that impatience would
serve no good purpose, since he would not be allowed to thrust his head
into any robber's den, even for the sake of a charming young lady.

This was expressed with so much deference, and brought out in such a
roundabout manner, that it was some time before its actual significance
dawned upon Tom. When he did understand his wrath was extreme.
Forgetting, for a moment, the Oriental manners, in which he had taken
such pains to perfect himself, he stormed at his Indian counsellor in
the good old English fashion. What did the fellow take him for--a fool,
or an idiot? Did he really suppose that he would allow himself to be
dictated to? He strongly advised him to keep for the future to his
own department, and to understand that, as far as his personal action
was concerned, he intended to keep a free hand. He would exercise his
own judgment with regard to his movements, and come and go at his
own pleasure, without deigning to consult any of them. To all this
Chunder Singh listened with an unmoved countenance. His face was a
mask, behind which his irritated young master tried in vain to look.
If he was surprised, if he was angry, if he was determined, it was not
possible to say. They had reached this point--an uncomfortable sort of
deadlock--when Tom heard light, flying footsteps in the corridor, and,
looking out, saw his little friend, Aglaia, running breathless towards
his room.

'What is it, darling?' he said. 'Do you want me?'

She ran into his arms. 'Ganesh says they are coming,' she cried, 'and
ayah wants me to go to bed. Mayn't I stay up to see them?'

'Who are coming, dear? What does Ganesh say?'

Ganesh was close behind her. 'Excellency,' he said, bowing low, 'a
runner has come in with news from Hoosanee, his Honour's servant.'

'Well! well! go on, for heaven's sake!'

'He has already entered the city. He brings with him some of the
English sahib-log from Nowgong.'

'From Nowgong! Thank God! Chunder Singh, do you hear? They have come
in. Now we can lie down in peace and sleep. Ganesh--why do you look at
me so? Hoosanee, you said, from Nowgong?'

'Hoosanee, Excellency. He has come back safely.'

'And where are they?'

'The mem-sahibs are in a cart which travels slowly. The runner left
them within the gate of the Princes. He came at his full speed.'

'Have Snow-queen saddled at once, and I will ride out to meet them. No,
my little Aglaia, I cannot take you. It is too late, and the air is
heavy after yesterday's storm. They must have been out in it, Chunder.
Help him to have everything ready, Aglaia. Supper and sleeping rooms,
and fresh garments. Thank heaven that I took your advice, my good
friend! You always advise me well. Is Snow-queen ready, Ganesh?'

'The syces are bringing her round, Excellency. But----'

'Then don't stop me. I will listen to what you have to say presently.'

With a light and swinging step, as of one from whose mind a heavy
burden has been taken, the young rajah walked along the corridor, and
ran down the marble steps that led to the inner court of the palace.
The night was as dark as pitch; but torch-bearers were running by the
side of the horse, which had been saddled and was now being brought at
a quick trot across the paved court.

In a moment Tom was in his saddle.

Chunder Singh, who had been speaking to Ganesh, sprang forward.
'Excellency,' he said, in English. 'Listen to one word before you go.'

'Let it be short, then, Chunder. Snow-queen is as impatient as I am.
See how she is trembling,' and, he added under his breath, '_she_ shall
ride you to-morrow, little beauty!'

Chunder Singh, meantime, was faltering out his dreary warning, begging
him not to set his hopes too high, but to prepare for disappointment.

Disappointment! He laughed out merrily. He would not even answer the
well-meant, but foolish, words. He shook his bridle-rein, and touched
Snow-queen with his heel, and in a moment she was carrying him at
a quick trot through the arched gateway and out into the beautiful
market-place, which to-night was empty of people. The runners, carrying
torches, ran before them. The night air, heavily scented with the
breath of moist foliage and faded blossoms, swept by. He was madly,
fiercely, happy. This dark night-world was as a Paradise, in which
his trembling heart was uplifted till it moved in a heaven of bliss
for which words have no name. All his fine schemes, all his lofty
aspirations, with the curious mysticism which had become almost a part
of his being--where were they? Gone, as the vapours of morning go when
the full radiance of the day has come.

Disappointment! What fool's tongue spoke that word of ill-omen?
Hoosanee had come back--Hoosanee, who knew, who had read, the secret of
his heart--and Hoosanee had brought back fugitives. That she was not
amongst them would be impossible.

So terrible, so overpowering, was his joy, that there were moments
of that frantic ride when he felt as if he could not bear it--as if
it would kill him. Once, to the great solace of his light-carriers,
who, stalwart and swift as they were, could scarcely keep up with
him, he drew rein for a moment, and pressed his hand to his heart,
whose wild, passionate throbs seemed to be choking out his life. A
few moments--a few moments--and then--ah! there they are--a little
covered cart, stealing slowly down the road--men carrying lanterns
beside it--the guide, his noble Hoosanee, walking at the bullocks'
heads! Now, what an idiot he has been not to order out carriages!
She--they--should not thus make their entry into his palace. But it
is dark now, thank heaven! and storms are threatening, and no one is
abroad. To-morrow, when they are rested and refreshed, and clothed in
fine raiment--to-morrow they will drive in state through his city.

But surely Hoosanee has seen him--why does he not hasten forward? And
he is hanging his head, like one ashamed--he who has done this great
and noble deed. What does it mean?

He spurs on. The cart stops, and Hoosanee approaches him, bowing low.

'Is all well--is all well, Hoosanee?' cries the poor fellow.

'Excellency, your servant has done what he could.'

'I know it; but--my good fellow, don't torture me. She is safe?'

'Sahib, she is in the hands of the All-Merciful.'

'Dead?'

'Excellency, in a few moments I will tell you all. There are three
English ladies and a little child in the cart. They are fainting with
hunger and weariness. Will not your Honour speak to them?'

For a moment Tom's head sank upon his breast. He could not. Then,
making a fierce effort to recover himself, he dismounted, threw his
reins to one of the syces and went up to the cart.

A wild white face, set round with an aureole of yellow hair, looked
out at him. It was Lucy's.

'Oh!' she wailed. 'Where are we, and why are we stopping? Is this the
end?'

'It will be the end of your troubles, I hope, dearest lady,' said Tom
very gently.

'An English voice,' cried another lady hysterically. 'Thank God!'

'An English voice, and an English heart,' said the young rajah. 'I
am taking you to my house, dear ladies. Command me as if I were your
brother.'

He tried to go on, but he could not. The words choked him, and his
heart was like to burst. Motioning to Hoosanee to take the cart on, he
fell back behind it. As he went he heard the ladies' voices. They were
speaking joyfully one to the other, congratulating themselves on their
escape. Hungrily he listened, hoping still against hope that he might
have misinterpreted Hoosanee. He heard two voices--then a third, much
weaker than the other two, and, now and again, piercing his heart to a
pity that almost slew him, the feeble wailing of a little child; but
that voice, for the least of whose vibrations he would have given his
life, he heard not. And so, with a dull heart that had yet to realise
the fullness of its woe, he plodded on.

The syce brought up Snow-queen, but he refused to mount her. The
mechanical movement, the contact with the dull earth, seemed fittest
for him; now and then it would be to him even as if he were walking in
a funeral procession--as if his youth, and all the hope and gladness of
his life, were being carried out to be buried under fathoms of earth.

In the palace Chunder Singh and Aglaia had been busy, and everything
was ready for the reception of the ladies. Ah! how delightful it was
to the tired wanderers--all the little luxuries to which they were
accustomed, the deep baths filled with warm scented waters, and the
daintily spread meal, and the soft couches on which presently they
would rest their weary limbs, above all, the tender, the reverential
welcome. There was a solemnity--a sadness--about it that touched them
curiously. But none of them knew what it had cost their entertainer to
step forward as he did, and to hand them out of the cart, and to speak
those kind words of sympathy and welcome.

'I am thankful to God,' he said earnestly, 'that you have found your
way to me. You are safe here, for we are prepared for any number of
enemies. Do me the favour of treating my house as if it was your own.'

'Oh, thank you! thank you!' they cried in one breath. But poor little
Lucy, when the hand of the rajah touched hers, broke into a torrent of
tears. 'Can nothing be done for Grace?' she wailed.

'Is she alive?' said the rajah.

'Yes! Yes! Oh! she was carried away, and we let her go--she, who had
done so much for us! I shall never forgive myself that I did not go
with her. Couldn't I go now--couldn't some one?'

'I will see Hoosanee. I will try,' said Tom chokingly. 'I think--but
forgive me, I can't talk now, and you must rest. My people----'

From the corridor above a child's laugh rang out. Kit's mother, who was
one of the little company, so reduced in strength now that she could
scarcely speak, gave a little stifled cry, staggered forward, and would
have fallen had not Tom caught her in time. 'How foolish I am!' she
murmured. 'I thought it was Kit.'

'Your child,' said Tom tenderly, as, thinking of his own mother, he
took her up in his strong young arms.

'Yes, my little Kit,' she moaned. 'They took him away. They were going
to kill him; but they saw his beautiful curls, and they thought he was
a girl. I beg your pardon for being so foolish. I think I can walk.'

But he saw that she was weaker than she thought, and he would not put
her down until she was in the hands of Aglaia and her ayah.

Then he left them all to rest, sent a message to the Resident to let
him know that they had arrived safely, and, at last, when he was sure
that everything which hospitality demanded had been done, he sent for
Hoosanee.

CHAPTER XXX

CHUNDER SINGH'S PRECAUTIONS

'Tell me everything,' said the rajah.

'I will try,' replied the poor fellow; 'but my master must not blame me
more than he can help. I acted for the best.'

'Yes, yes; but--oh! Hoosanee, my servant, my friend,' cried Tom,
breaking down now at last, and for a few moments giving way to his
passionate grief. 'It is too terrible,' he went on, when the strangled
sobs and the shivering of his limbs would let him speak. 'God
knows I am glad to have rescued them; but I never thought--I never
imagined--that you, knowing my heart as you do, would bring back the
others and not her. How could it have been?'

Then Hoosanee told rapidly the story that we know.

'It was herself, master,' he cried. 'As your Honour lives, she was
safe. They would not have found her, for the night was as dark as the
jaws of hell, and to save the others I could have made a story, and the
ladies would have helped me. We would have said that she was dead. I
would have taken them on to my father's village and returned, when all
was still, for her and the child. We should all--all have come in; but
she is a daughter of Allah--too fine--too noble even to be paralysed by
fear. When she heard the Soubahdar use threatening words she came out
and they carried her away. I ask my master what could I do?'

'Nothing. You have done your best, my poor Hoosanee. And now it rests
with me.'

'Not so, master. You cannot go out as I have done. You know neither the
people nor their ways. If you can think who has taken her, tell me,
and I will at least find out if she is alive and what treatment she
is receiving. Master'--piteously--'do not deny me! It is not for your
Excellency's sake alone, although to serve you is dear to me. It is for
her. Ah! master, if you had seen her through all those nights. _They_
were impatient; they would blame me sometimes, and say that I had not
done my best; and sometimes, master, knowing a little English as I do,
I could hear that they were angry with one another and the child. But
_she_ was always the same--always a kind look and a gentle word. "My
good Hoosanee, my kind Hoosanee"--master, I hear her voice in my sleep,
and I spring up and say to myself that if I do not go to her, if I do
not try to save her, I am black of heart and degraded. Let me go then,
I beseech you!'

'Hoosanee, it is neither fair nor right. Twice--three times--you have
been in peril for me. You will become known. They will call you a
spy--a spy of the Feringhees--and then what treatment can you hope for?'

'I can die, master,' said Hoosanee, nobly. 'That has been the fate of
better men than I am in these last few days. But I do not think I shall
die. I have that within me which says that I shall live to see these
cruel days at an end. And does my master think that I will show the same
face as I have done to these men? He must know little of the resources
of the Indian. I will change myself so that my own father would not know
me. Did my master know Subdul Khan when he went into the midst of the
enemy's camp?'

'So you have heard of our adventure?' said Tom. Full of anguish as he
was, he smiled faintly at the memory of that strange evening. 'Subdul
was certainly sublime,' he went on. 'But you have only just come in,
and he has left. How did you hear?'

'My master's friends are everywhere,' replied Hoosanee tranquilly. 'In
all this region there is scarcely a village where they are not to be
found. Byrajee Pirtha Raj, our revered ruler, was well known and warmly
loved. Is not my master his true son?'

'If this is so,' said Tom, his voice trembling, 'if I have many friends
amongst this people, is not that the more reason that I should go
forth? I must, Hoosanee, I will. I tell you that if I stay I shall go
mad.'

For a few moments Hoosanee paused. Then he went nearer to his master
and threw himself at his feet. 'Will my lord pardon me?' he said in a
low and humble voice, 'if I speak the thing that is in my heart.'

'Say what you will, Hoosanee. After what you have done for me it would
be strange if I could be angry with you. But get up and speak quickly,'
said Tom. 'Before the night is over I must be gone.'

'Master, that is just it!' cried Hoosanee. 'Should my master go?
Listen! My lord who has gone--the mighty and excellent Byrajee Pirtha
Raj--was once in such a difficulty as this of my lord's. Duty to his
State and the good of his people drew him one way. On the other
side----'

'Hush, Hoosanee! I will not listen to you. I know what you would say.
Chunder Singh has said it before you; but it is useless. Nay, if the
voice----! Ah! Why did you recall it? I will be myself to-night. I
will not be another.' He had been talking in Hindostanee. Suddenly he
paused. The words of the language which in these last few weeks had
become to him almost as familiar as his own fled from his lips. It was
in English--the dear language that had been his from his infancy, the
language in which he had learned, and dreamed, and loved, and suffered,
in which he had fought his childish battles and won the praise of those
who were dearer to him than his life--that the thoughts welling up
hotly from his passionate heart found utterance.

'Is it not enough?' he cried--not to his servant, for he had forgotten
his presence--'is it not enough? Am I to be tortured for ever? I have
tried this double life, and I cannot live it; I must choose to be one,
and I choose to be myself. I am Tom Gregory. I am Grace's lover.'

There was a pause, during which he seemed to be listening to voices in
the air. Hoosanee threw himself on his face and lay like one dead.
Darkness gathered about them, and the silence in the great room was
as the silence of the grave. And then the rajah's voice, deep and
passionate, broke forth again.

'What are all these to me, cruel voice? Stay! Stay! For God's sake do
not answer me yet, for I must fight this thing out with myself! She is
one--an English girl, forsaken and distressed, and in danger of her
life, a life that has little value for anyone but me. And they are
many--thousands upon thousands. And, through them, I may influence
countless myriads more. Do I not know it well? On the one side all
these holding out their hands to me. On the other the little soft
trembling hand of my love.' His voice broke. There followed another few
moments of silence, and then he cried out again: 'Great heavens! why do
I stop? Grace in danger! Is this paralysis that is stealing over me? I
will shake it off. I will show them all, visible and invisible, that I
have a will, that I can choose and act. Hoosanee!'

The piercing voice acted like an electric shock. Hoosanee sprang to his
feet.

'I thought you were asleep,' said Tom in Hindostanee; 'as you are awake
I want you to answer me two or three questions. Answer directly, for
my stock of patience is nearly at an end.'

'Let my master speak,' said Hoosanee.

'If I confide in you,' said Tom, 'will you obey me blindly? Come, yes
or no? I have had enough of arguments.'

'I am, as I have always been, his Honour's servant,' said Hoosanee with
dignity.

'I suppose I must be contented with that,' said Tom, smiling grimly.
'Will you be silent?'

'As silent as the grave, my master.'

'Come, that at least has the merit of directness. You know Ganesh? Do
you consider that you know him well?'

'I have known him for many years, Excellency.'

'You have reason to believe that he is a faithful servant?'

'Why does my lord----?'

'We may come to that presently. Answer my question before you put
questions of your own.'

'Master, I have no wish and no reason to blacken the face of my
fellow-servant before your Highness, but if my lord looks for a
companion in this adventure it is not Ganesh that he should choose.'

'Why, Hoosanee?'

'He is a proud man, and a man of high caste. He could not change his
countenance or serve my lord with subtlety, as Hoosanee or Subdul Khan
could do.'

'Is this your only reason for thinking that he is not the man to go
with me?'

'What other reason----?'

'For Heaven's sake answer me directly. Have I not told you that my
stock of patience is nearly at an end?'

'I have no other reason,' said Hoosanee with dignity.

'Then go, my good Hoosanee, go at once, without asking me a single
question, and tell Ganesh that I want him.'

Casting a look of wonder, not unmixed with reproach, on his master,
Hoosanee obeyed. He was away some two or three minutes, for Ganesh, who
had been sleeping in one of the corridors, would not appear before his
master without carefully adjusting his turban and girdle. These minutes
were spent by Tom in pacing his room rapidly, trying by the strong
physical exercise to stifle thoughts.

'What a time you have been!' he said, when Ganesh, who looked as
dignified, watchful, and correct, as if sleep were an impossible
weakness, stood before him.

'And yet I have made haste,' he said humbly. 'His Excellency is surely
more impatient than usual?'

'You are right, Ganesh, I am impatient. But what is that to you? I sent
for you because I wish you to guide me at once to Dost Ali Khan's camp.'

'Dost Ali Khan, your Highness!' Ganesh's eyes were fixed on Hoosanee.

'Are you afraid that Hoosanee should hear the name of your friend?'
said Tom.

'Why should I fear?' answered Ganesh boldly. 'My heart is white. Does
his Highness wish that Hoosanee shall accompany us?'

'If it is his desire.'

'My lord knows,' said Hoosanee, 'what my desire is.'

'You would go without me, but that is impossible. And now, without any
more loss of time, to our arrangements. Ganesh, how far is the camp
from this?'

'It is not to a camp; it is to a fort that I am desired to take your
Highness.'

'Where is it situated?'

'My lord will forgive me. I am forbidden to say. This I may tell him,
that it is only one day's journey from the boundaries of Gumilcund.'

'So near? If we press our pace we may go and return before they miss
us here,' said Tom. 'But why not tell me where the fort is? If I go
with you I must certainly find out.'

'Will my lord pardon me? I am taking my instructions from others, and
it is only in this way that I can help him. When he leaves Gumilcund he
must go in a closed litter as a high-caste woman. If Hoosanee will go
with us, his eyes must be covered till he reaches the boundaries of the
forest.'

'But it is impossible! You are dreaming, Ganesh!'

'I wish I were dreaming, my lord. I wish I could take you to the
dwelling of Dost Ali Khan by a bolder and surer way. But I have sworn
by my God to show to no one the road thither. If my lord cannot give
himself blindly into my hands he must think of it no more.'

For a second or two Tom paused. His eyes, piercing as stars, were fixed
upon the face of Ganesh, who stood before him erect and proud, not so
much as an eyelid trembling. At last he held out his hand.

'I believe you,' he said; 'make your own arrangements. If you are false
to me----'

'If I am false, my lord, let death come upon me swiftly, and let my
soul go down into hell,' said Ganesh fervently. 'Will my lord pardon
me if I leave him for an hour? When I return I shall hope to tell him
that everything is ready for a start.'

There was a knock at the door of the room.

'One moment,' whispered Ganesh, as Hoosanee went towards it, 'I must
not be seen here.'

'True; Chunder Singh wants to stop me from leaving,' said Tom. 'Hide!'

Ganesh withdrew into the shadows--seemed literally to vanish into them,
for Tom, who thought that he had his eyes upon him, could not tell the
exact moment or the manner of his disappearing. There had been three in
the room. There were now only two. The knocking was repeated. 'Go and
see who it is,' said Tom to Hoosanee; 'whoever it may be, I must not
allow him to stay with me long.'

Hoosanee drew aside the purdah before the doors and threw them open,
and in the next moment Chunder Singh, followed by the English Resident,
entered the room.

The minister cast a rapid and searching glance round the apartment,
saw no one but Hoosanee and the young rajah, and, having made his
salutation, drew back.

The Resident came forward with outstretched hand. 'You will forgive
my intrusion, I am sure,' he said; 'but, when I heard that the poor
ladies from Nowgong had arrived safely, I felt that I must thank and
congratulate you.'

'Their safety is as dear to me as it is to you, sir,' answered Tom with
some reserve. He was meditating how, without giving offence, he could
get rid of his visitor.

The visitor, meanwhile, did not seem to be in any hurry. He was an
expansive person, and he had a fine flow of language at his command,
and having come across an Indian rajah who seemed to be as familiar
with English as he was himself, he rather enjoyed the prospect of
letting out some of his imprisoned ideas, the more so that Chunder
Singh, prime minister to this mysterious young prince, and evidently a
person of some insight, had begged him to impress certain views upon
him.

'It is very kind of you to feel so,' he said, in answer to Tom's last
remark. We should observe, in passing, that he had, as yet, only seen
the rajah in such a subdued light as the present, and that he knew
nothing of him, excepting that he was the adopted son of Byrajee Pirtha
Raj, and that Lord Dalhousie, in consideration of the long and close
alliance between the rulers of Gumilcund and the English, had pledged
himself to sanction his succession.

'May I stay with you for a short time?' he went on; 'you smoke, I
smoke too. If that would help talk----'

'I have made a vow not to smoke until an object very near my heart is
fulfilled,' said Tom gravely. 'But that need not debar you from smoking
if you will.'

He had neither sat down himself nor asked his visitor to take a seat.
This was so unusual a circumstance that Chunder Singh, who, in the
belief that his young master would speak more confidentially to his
countryman if he were absent, was retreating towards the door, could
not help pausing for a moment, and looking at him inquiringly.

'Join us if you will, Chunder Singh,' said Tom. 'I have nothing secret
to say to Mr. Montgomery. In fact,' passing his hand over his eyes,
'I am afraid I should not be able either to talk or to listen very
well to-night. It has been an exciting season, sir,' to the Resident,
'anxiety, labour, early and late hours, and I, you see, am new to this
sort of thing.'

'Ah! yes, yes. So I believe. The late rajah might have done more
wisely, perhaps, if he had accustomed you a little to the position.
I said so to him more than once. "Your heir," I said, "ought to be
with you. An English education is all very well in its way, and, up
to a certain point, nothing could be more advantageous. But there is
a limit." Well, that is all over. No doubt he expected to live much
longer. Ah! his death was a sad blow to us all. I look upon it now as
the beginning of all this misery. What do you think?'

'I am afraid I am not capable of any serious thoughts to-night,' said
Tom; 'my eyes are nearly closed.'

'Dear, dear! I am very sorry, and I had so much to say to you;
however, it will keep, no doubt. I will come to-morrow, with your kind
permission, and pay my respects to the ladies, who may be glad to see
the face of a fellow countryman, and you will allow me, then, perhaps,
to express my deep sense----'

'Thank you,' interrupted the rajah, 'there is no need. As I have before
had the honour of telling you, I look upon these English ladies as my
sisters and personal friends.'

It was a little, just a little, audacious, the Resident thought.
His sisters, indeed! Englishwomen! But those were not days when one
could afford to slight friends, and he made the ordinary polite
acknowledgments.

'As for to-morrow,' went on the young rajah, 'I am afraid that I shall
be engaged all day. I am under a vow, as I have told you. No business
connected with the State will require my presence, and I very much
doubt whether I shall leave these rooms. In a few days, however, I will
do myself the pleasure of calling upon you.'

It was a dismissal. The Resident bowed and withdrew, wondering over the
dignity and reasonableness of the young rajah. 'Only shows what English
education can do,' he said to himself.

Chunder Singh, in the meantime, lingered for a few moments. 'Your
Excellency will really try to rest?' he said anxiously.

'Of course I will, Chunder. Don't you see that my eyes are half shut
already?' answered Tom. 'Now pray leave me.'

'Will you promise me----'

'How dare you speak to me so?' cried the young fellow, lashing himself
into a rage which he was far from feeling. 'Promise you, indeed! I
will promise you nothing. Do you suppose that because I have accepted
you as my counsellor, and listened to your advice, I intend to give
myself up to you entirely? If you do, let me tell you that you are
extraordinarily mistaken. I will do what I think right.'

'Yes, yes; so long as my lord does not run into danger!' cried Chunder
Singh piteously.

'My dear friend,' said Tom, in his most English fashion, 'let me
entreat you not to be a fool. When I say that I decline to be dictated
to, that does not mean that I intend to assert myself by deliberately
thrusting my head into a lion's mouth, or doing anything else of the
same ridiculous nature. And now, for heaven's sake, go away! I like you
too well, and I respect you too much, to wish to quarrel with you; but
I tell you plainly that I am not quite answerable to myself to-night.
If you continue to stand there looking at me in that absurdly piteous
way I shall say or do something foolish.' Sighing deeply and making
a respectful salutation, Chunder Singh, to whom this new attitude of
his young master was deeply bewildering, not to say alarming, took his
leave.

In the corridor he paused. Hoosanee was still with the rajah. There
was no one else. The rest of the servants were scattered. Several of
them had been told off to attend upon the new inmates of the palace.
The corridor was empty and very silent. Between the entrance to the
rajah's apartment and the staircase lay the mattress which Hoosanee
had been formerly in the habit of using at night, and which on his
return had been spread for him again. Chunder Singh sat down upon it,
determining to remain where he was until the exit of Hoosanee, when
he would confer with him on the new danger that seemed to threaten the
State. He sat where he was for a long time, and at last, vigilant as
he had determined to be, his eyes grew dim. Again and again he tried
to arouse himself, and again and again he dropped off into a doze. He
felt persuaded, however, as he asserted later, that, if the door of
the rajah's apartment had opened once, he must have heard it. So in
ineffectual attempts to keep on the alert the hours of the night passed
by.

Towards morning, being now fully persuaded that, contrary to his usual
custom, the rajah had kept his servant in his room, he fell into a
deep sleep from which he was aroused finally by sounds of movement in
the palace. Then, a little ashamed of his want of dignity, sleeping at
his master's door--he, an old minister of the State, like a personal
servant--he crept off to his own house.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE ENGLISH LADIES IN THE RAJAH'S PALACE

Chunder Singh had been about an hour in his house, which was situated
only a few yards distant from the palace, whither, not feeling
perfectly easy about his master, he was thinking of returning, when he
heard a murmur as of many people running together in the market-square.
He went out and saw a large crowd round his house. As soon as he
appeared, its foremost members called out to him. 'Chunder Singh will
tell us the truth,' they said. 'Yes, yes,' cried others; 'Chunder Singh
has never deceived us.'

Wondering what this might mean, the minister closed the door of his
house and set his back against it. He saw now that the throng of people
were being reinforced every moment by streams from the avenues that
converged towards the market-place, which was already one unbroken sea
of turbaned heads and fluttering garments. 'Why is this?' he said.
'What has made you come together?'

There stepped out of the crowd one well known in the palace. He was
the chief of the merchant-caste--a man of large wealth and larger
patriotism, who had given with a free hand towards the defence of the
city and the equipment of the force that had just started for Delhi.

'Give them a word of comfort and assurance, Chunder Singh,' he said.
'Some foolish person has spread about the rumour that our young rajah
has left the city and joined Dost Ali Khan, who, they say, will win him
to his side by giving up into his hands an English captive. I have told
them that the rumour is false; but they will not believe me, and it is
true that I have spent the night in my own house. You, as they have
heard, were in the palace. You will know if anyone left it.'

'This is a strange story,' said Chunder Singh, gravely.

'Is it true?' asked the merchant.

'No; no. It is false. It is impossible.'

Chunder Singh drew back, and, mounting the little platform before his
house, looked the crowd proudly in the face. 'I wonder,' he said,
'that the citizens of Gumilcund should allow themselves to be moved
by so foolish a rumour. I spent the night in the rajah's palace. Being
too weary to move, I rested on a bed outside the door of his room. If
anyone had passed out, I should certainly have known it. Go to your
homes in peace. I will ask the rajah to ride through his city to-day.'

With loyal shouts, the easily satisfied crowd dispersed, and in a few
minutes the market-square resumed its ordinary aspect. Then Chunder
Singh, whose face was curiously contracted, turned to the merchant.
'There is a grain of truth in this, Lutfullah,' he said, in a subdued
voice. 'Dost Ali Khan has sent a tempting message to our rajah. He
would not betray us--I am too sure of him to fear that. But my dread
is that he will perversely run into danger, and that we shall lose the
succession promised to us.'

'You are certain that he did not leave last night,' said Lutfullah, who
looked serious.

'To that I would pledge my life,' answered the minister. 'And he cannot
have gone this morning. There were too many people about him.'

'We must set a watch on the palace,' said Lutfullah.

'Yes; we must set a watch. You will help me. We must save him, even
from himself if it must be,' said Chunder Singh.

They went to the palace together. Everything seemed as usual in the
outer and inner courts. Passing through an arched passage, they went
into the garden at the back of the palace. Since Aglaia had come, the
rajah was often to be found there in the early morning, either pacing
one of the shaded alleys, with the child beside him, or sharing a
breakfast of fruit and milk with her in the darkened and artificially
cooled summer-house. And, indeed, they had scarcely entered the rajah's
favourite walk before they saw the little figure of Aglaia, quaint
and lovely in a gauzy Indian dress. She was walking more sedately
than usual, for a creature still smaller than herself--a wizened,
white-faced baby, dressed in strange nondescript garments--was toddling
by her side.

'Isn't he a darling?' she said to Chunder Singh, whom she always
addressed in English. 'He's just had his breakfast, and I've brought
him out to see Daddy Tom.'

'And have you seen him yet, Missy?' said Chunder Singh, gravely.

'Why,' said Aglaia, looking up at her Indian friend, 'what a funny face
you have this morning, Mr. Chunder! Aren't you glad to see little
Dick? That's his name. He mustn't walk far, for his mother says his
legs have got cramped. Just think! He was ten days in a cart. Is 'oo
tired, little pet?' she said lispingly to the baby. 'Shall Aglaia----'

'No, no, Missy-sahib,' cried the ayah, running up. 'Too small, you!
Ayah, give poor baba.'

But the poor baba, who was a person, in an ordinary way, of
irrepressible activity, refused to be taken up. He seated himself on
the grass, struck out with his little fists, and looked up at them
with a delicious smile of baby contentment. Then Aglaia assailed him
with kisses, and Chunder Singh and Lutfullah, who, for all their grave
looks, were men of most tender disposition, smiled at one another and
passed on. It was quite evident that Aglaia had no thoughts even for
Daddy Tom that morning. She was wholly absorbed in little Dick.

The rajah was not in his summer-house, and the attendant in that
charming retreat, who was the daily purveyor of his Highness's little
breakfast, had not as yet received any orders from him.

Retracing their steps to the palace, which the rajah did not seem to
have quitted that morning, the two elderly men looked a little blue.

They made their way straight to Tom's sleeping apartment. Chunder
Singh knocked, but he received no answer. He knocked again, and, after
waiting for about a quarter of an hour, tried the handle cautiously. He
found that it was bolted on the inside, and turned a relieved face to
Lutfullah.

'He must be within,' he said. 'No one else would presume to draw the
bolt. No doubt he was awake all night, and fell asleep towards the
morning. We must have patience.'

They left Hussein Buksh, the second bearer, one of Chunder Singh's
own nominees, at the door, desiring him to let them know the moment
the rajah stirred, and went down themselves into the garden. There
they found the three English ladies who had arrived the night before
gathered together in a little group round the children. They wore,
with a curious awkwardness, lovely Indian dresses, some of which, as
being the best he could procure, Tom had laid in store to meet such an
emergency as this. Their faces were very pale, and the haggard anxiety,
the horror, remembered or expected, which gave so piteous an expression
to our countrywomen in these dreadful days, had not left their faces;
but the quiet night and the peaceful awakening had refreshed them, and
they were already very different from the wretched, bedraggled-looking
creatures who had driven through Gumilcund on the previous evening.

Chunder Singh and Lutfullah saluted the ladies reverently. Lucy, who
was talking to Aglaia, a little apart from the others, eyed them with
some curiosity. 'The major-domo of the palace,' she whispered, 'and
one of the chief citizens. How funny it all is! Something like the
middle ages.' The mother of the white-faced baby was, in the meantime,
answering Chunder Singh's inquiries, and expressing her satisfaction in
having reached so pleasant a haven of rest.

'Does the major-domo understand English?' asked Lucy.

Aglaia nodded. 'Oh! yes. He's a nice man. I like him,' said the child.

'Then I must speak to him,' said Lucy. With her white face and golden
hair, and large, childish-looking eyes, Lucy looked quaint and very
pretty that morning. She had been given her choice amongst a number
of dresses, and she had picked out a tunic of cherry-coloured silk
and a snow-white saree of the finest muslin, deeply trimmed with
gold embroideries. To put on these pretty fresh garments after her
copious bath of warm scented water had given poor Lucy a sense of
satisfaction, which, when she came to think of it seriously, seemed
curiously inappropriate, if not wicked. But she could not help herself;
she was happier than she had been, and the pretty dress, which suited
her to perfection, had something to say to her happiness. Pressing
forward she addressed Chunder Singh:

'Oh!' she cried, 'where is the rajah, the person, I mean, who received
us last night? He is the rajah, isn't he?'

'Yes, madam. It was our rajah--the ruler of Gumilcund--who had the
honour of welcoming you to his palace last night,' said Chunder Singh,
nearly paralysing the childish little creature with his dignity. She
fixed her limpid eyes upon him doubtingly; then recovering herself with
an effort:

'Oh, yes,' she said, 'I was told so. Could you tell him please--the
rajah, I mean--his Excellency--is that the way to speak to the great
people here, Aglaia--?'

Chunder Singh was waiting respectfully for the conclusion of her
sentence.

'I want particularly to speak to him,' went on Lucy more fluently.
'Perhaps you wouldn't mind saying that I have a message for him--I
suppose,' looking round at the other ladies with some bewilderment,
'that it is for him. You know he told us he was an Englishman; but
this isn't much like an English house. And how does he come to be a
rajah? Oh! dear, if Grace could only have come herself!'

'His Excellency was educated in England,' broke in the mellifluous
voice of Chunder Singh.

'And some of us think him more English than Indian,' added Lutfullah
pleasantly.

'You can speak English too, chief citizen!' cried Lucy. 'This is most
extraordinary. Really I begin to think that we must have died last
night, and that we are in a sort of half-English, half-Indian paradise.
But,' with a deep sigh, 'that can't be, for Grace would certainly have
been here before us. Oh, my poor Grace! my dear Grace! Can't anyone
tell me where you are?'

'Hush! Lucy. Hush! We shall never know how they went. She and my lovely
Kit,' cried Mrs. Durant, weeping bitterly. 'Little could I have thought
to what his love for her would have brought him----'

'Do you give them up?' cried Lucy, flashing round upon her friend
fiercely. '_I_ don't, and just because they are together! Oh! Mr.
Major-domo, if you have a heart--and you look as if you had--find this
mysterious prince, who is an Englishman and not an Englishman, and ask
him, for pity's sake, to speak to us.'

'No doubt his Highness will request the honour of speech with you
later,' said Chunder Singh. 'At present he must not be disturbed.'

'Did he say so? Oh! where is he?' sobbed Lucy. 'He can't know how
dreadful the danger is! I was ashamed of myself for being able to
sleep last night. If Grace dies'--clutching at her muslin robe after
a fashion that, to the grave Indian, was scarcely decorous. 'If Grace
dies, I shall never forgive myself.'

'I will see if his Highness is awake,' said Chunder Singh retreating,
while Lucy, now in a perfect paroxysm of grief, was led to the
summer-house by her companions.

There they waited for a long time. The sun rose high in the heavens,
and, outside the summer-house, the air was like that of a heated oven;
but here there were punkahs swinging slowly, and darkened windows,
and splashing water, so that they scarcely felt the heat. Meantime
attendants came and went, bringing them books and music and food and
drink, and toys and pictures for the children; but, ask as they would,
there came no message from the rajah.

'I cannot stand it,' cried Lucy at last. 'I had rather not be so
comfortable. I will go out and see what it all means.'

'Go out into that sun! Don't behave like a mad girl! Do you wish to
bring more trouble upon us? You think only of yourself,' said Kit's
mother reproachfully.

And so, being, as I have said, a childish little creature, and
accustomed to rebuke, Lucy sat on with red eyes and trembling fingers,
trying to amuse herself and feel comfortable; but possessed, all the
time, with a sense of sorrow and remorse that nearly crushed her.

At last, when the heat of the day was over, and the sky behind the
trees that sheltered their retreat was all ablaze with gold and
crimson, she saw Chunder Singh coming slowly towards them. His face
was covered, and his head had dropped upon his breast, and in the dark
eyes that looked out from the folds of his chuddah there was a strange
glitter. Lucy had been running out to meet him; but when she saw those
blazing eyes she withdrew.

'Something has happened,' she whispered to Aglaia. 'You know him better
than we do, child. Ask him what it is!'

Then Aglaia ran out, and Lucy, who was trembling from head to foot,
heard her little baby voice.

'Do bring Daddy-Tom,' she said. 'He hasn't been to see us all the day.'

'Missy,' said Chunder Singh, in grave, sad tones, 'ask Miss Sahib and
the Mem Sahibs where his Excellency is.'

He was at the door of the summer-house, and as he spoke these ominous
words, he looked round upon them searchingly.

'Ask _us_!' cried Lucy hysterically. 'What does the strange man mean?'

'Madam,' said Chunder Singh, bowing low, 'you must have the goodness to
come with me.'

'I?' shrieked Lucy. 'Why? What do you want with me? Oh!' falling on her
knees, 'have pity! If he has gone, I know nothing about it. I may have
meant to ask him; but I hadn't the chance. Ask the others. We saw him
for a few little moments last evening, and to-day we have been alone.
Indeed! indeed! no one has come to us. Oh! don't you believe me?'

'Let me assure you, before those here, who will remember my words,'
said Chunder Singh, 'that we mean you no harm. If you fear, let Missy
Sahib and her ayah come with you. Our rajah has gone. How he has gone,
or why, we cannot as yet find out; and as Hoosanee, the servant who
brought you to Gumilcund, has gone also, we would ask you the questions
which we would have asked him had he been here. Miss Sahib I ask to
come because she is most interested in what has happened. But if one
of the Mem Sahibs----'

'No, no, no. Take me! I will tell you all I can,' sobbed Lucy.

Terribly solemn and staggering beyond the power of language to
express were Lucy's next experiences. There was first a brief journey
in a litter, with Aglaia, to whom she had clung as her only hope
and consolation, for a companion. The litter was put down, and,
upon drawing its curtains aside, they found themselves in a small,
dimly-lighted hall, in the presence of four men, all of them as grave
and mysterious of aspect as Chunder Singh. They were seated on cushions
at the upper end of the hall; but when Lucy drew the curtains of her
litter aside, one of them rose to his feet and greeted her reverently.
There followed a few moments of silence, during which the poor little
creature, who could not imagine what all this solemnity meant, felt her
heart beating as if it would burst.

Aglaia had made the acquaintance of all these grave persons, and she
was not in the least awed. Yet they constituted the inner council
of the Gumilcund State. One was Chunder Singh, the prime minister,
and another--he who had risen--was Lutfullah, the representative
of the merchant class, and the third was Vishnugupta the priest, and
the fourth was the exalted citizen who headed the warrior caste and
directed the organisation of the rajah's little army.

These good persons wore their dresses of state, and the dignity of
their manners was fully equal to the grandeur of their appearance. When
Aglaia, who, as I have said, had no fear, ran up to the magnificent
Lutfullah, and began chattering to him in her baby Hindoostanee,
nodding gravely meanwhile to her other friends, Lucy felt half afraid
that the roof of the hall would drop down upon them.

But nothing happened, and she began presently to feel a little more
composed. Then Lutfullah, who, having a bland manner and reassuring
aspect, and being, moreover, well versed in the English tongue, had
been commissioned to ask the questions which the council had decided to
be necessary, said, in a soft voice, that he trusted she would not feel
the least alarm. It was true that a calamity had fallen upon the State,
and it was true also that they, into whose hands the direction of its
fortunes had come, were for the moment embarrassed and disheartened;
but that was no reason why the guests of the State should suffer. As
far as she was concerned, all they wished was an account of the events
that had intervened between the moment of their leaving the station
of Nowgong and the present, with special reference to the unfortunate
occurrence that, as he understood, had preceded their arrival.

It was a most stately preamble. Lucy, who was not without a sense of
the fitness of things, tried to still her beating heart and to answer
it with becoming dignity. And, in fact, she made a pretty fair start.
But, as she went on, as she tried to draw a picture of what Grace was
to her and to them all, as she entered upon a narration of the events
that led to their separation, her dignity evaporated in gasping,
spasmodic phrases; and tears, that not even the august presence of
these stately citizens could repress, poured from her eyes.

They listened in perfect silence. Aglaia, who did not fully understand
what was happening, crept up close to her, and whispered to her not
to cry. The poor little ayah sat in the background sobbing--like a
child. Lucy felt as if she could not go through with it. But at last
it was over. Now they would let her go, and she could cry her heart
out. Not yet, poor little Lucy! It is Chunder Singh who stands up, and
he has thrown back the chuddah from his face, which looks curiously
determined.

'We thank you, Miss Sahib,' he says in his grave and sonorous English.
'But there is yet one thing more that we would know. You spoke to me
this morning of a message.'

'Oh! yes. I had a message; but it was not for any of you,' cries Lucy,
starting up. 'It was for him.'

'If he is not here----'

'Then I must keep it for him until he comes back.'

'Will Miss Sahib pardon her servant----?'

'No, no, no. Oh! I cannot tell you. How can I? They were her last
words. I should be a traitor.'

'We thought that if we heard the message sent to his Excellency it
would help us to find him. That is all,' says Lutfullah gently.
'Chunder Singh, my good friend, it is enough,' he adds in a lower
voice. 'Let her go!'

'Yes, yes; let her go!' say the others. And Lucy--oh! so thankful to be
released--draws round her the silken curtains of the litter, and Aglaia
gives her hand to the ayah, and, while they go back to the palace, the
four ancients of Gumilcund hold a council as to what is to be done for
the State.

CHAPTER XXXII

NO NEWS

That was Lucy's last piece of excitement for some considerable time.
When, having been carried back to the palace, she fell weeping into
the arms of her friends, there began for her and the others a life of
the most bewildering monotony. A part of the palace, consisting of a
small pillared hall, and two or three sleeping apartments, with the
shaded alley in which Chunder Singh and Lutfullah had met them first,
and the rajah's summer-house were allotted to them. Day after day, with
clock-like regularity, a liberal provision of meats and drinks, water
to their hearts' desire, fresh garments, sweetmeats, and books were
brought to them. They had everything, in fact, but that for which they
craved the most--news.

Chunder Singh and Lutfullah went to see them occasionally, and sent
morning and night to inquire after their health. Mr. Montgomery, the
Resident, paid them periodical visits, but there was no word of the
rajah.

Mysterious to the ladies, to Aglaia, to whom her deliverer was
everything, this sudden disappearance was a shock as cruel as it was
inexplicable. Where had her Daddy-Tom gone? she would ask piteously.
Why hadn't he said good-bye to her? Couldn't he send her a letter if
he liked? Questions which no one, not even the wise Chunder Singh,
could answer. Had it not been for baby Dick, who was one of the most
restless of little persons, she would have suffered even more severely.
In the new healthy atmosphere that surrounded him, Dick had recovered
his vigour. The wizened little face was filling up. Roses and dimples
were asserting their rights. The long pent-up limbs were expanding
luxuriously in all sorts of joyous activities, which Aglaia, who had
begun by being his slave, was bound to share. Never was a merrier or a
more irrepressible little man than Dick.

Sometimes, worn out by games and laughter, he would fall asleep, and
then Aglaia would steal quietly to the lattice, and, the tears dropping
from her eyes, would watch and watch. 'Oh! if he would only come--if he
would only come!'

'Everyone goes away,' she said to Lucy one day. 'I wonder why?'

'I don't know, dear,' said Lucy, who was becoming more and more
melancholy. 'I suppose they must.'

'He needn't,' said Aglaia proudly. 'He is the master of everyone here.'

'Your Daddy-Tom, as you call him, is like the Good Shepherd in the
parable,' said Lucy. 'Do you remember?'

'Yes,' said Aglaia, in a low voice, her little face becoming strangely
set. 'He left all the others.'

'And he went after the one that was lost,' filled in Lucy with
a sigh. 'I always thought it was uninteresting to be one of the
ninety-and-nine. I am sure of it now.'

'I don't understand,' said Aglaia wearily.

'Of course you don't, and I am a goose--an ungrateful goose, too,' said
Lucy, her eyes filling with tears. 'If he only brings back Grace----'

'Is that her name?' said Aglaia.

'Yes; isn't it pretty? And it's just like herself. Dearest Grace! We
should never be dull or miserable if she were here.'

'Tell me what she is like,' said Aglaia.

'What Grace is like? Ah! that's not so easy,' said Lucy
enthusiastically. 'She is perfectly lovely to begin with, tall and
very slender--oh! my darling'--breaking into tears and sobs--'if
you are alive, you must be more than slender now. All these days
and nights! I can't bear to think of it. She was so gentle, too. I
never heard her complain once. And her temper was that of an angel.
Everyone--even the servants--adored her. It was through Tikaram's love
for her that we got away at all. As for the man who brought us here, he
simply worshipped her. Don't you hope she may come back safely, Aglaia?'

'Yes,' answered the child, briefly and sadly.

'But you don't seem a bit sorry for her, you funny little thing.'

Aglaia lifted her limpid eyes and fixed them on Lucy's face. 'I'm not,'
she said.

'Now why, you little barbarian?'

'Because----' began Aglaia, and then she turned away. 'I don't like to
talk of it,' she said, and went off to Dick, leaving Lucy to wonder
over her curious precocity.

But although the ladies heard nothing of what went on in the city,
there was considerable uneasiness and excitement abroad. When the
elders in the State found out as a certain fact that their young rajah
had given them the slip they tried to keep the uncomfortable knowledge
to themselves. In his room they found a slip of paper, written in
his hand, and addressed to Chunder Singh. It was his hope, he said,
that his friends would not discover his absence until his return,
when he would give them every explanation; but, in case of delay or
obstruction, he begged that the elders of Gumilcund would carry on the
business of the State as they had been accustomed to do. He did not
himself anticipate any inconvenience from his own enforced absence.
When he had accomplished the purpose upon which, as Chunder Singh knew,
his heart was set, he would return, and then it would rest with them
whether they would again accept him as their rajah, or choose rather to
be governed by one of themselves. In the meantime he begged to assure
them of his faithfulness to the principles which had been laid down by
his predecessors for his guidance.

This, to the elders of Gumilcund, while reassuring from one point of
view, was disappointing in another. Most, if not all, had given full
credence to the assurance of their late rajah that, in the person of
the successor he had chosen, he would himself return to them. To us
of the West such a belief may appear childish. But we must remember
the difference between our standpoint and that of the Asiatic. The
doctrine of the transmigration of souls from body to body, which to us
seems unreal and fantastic, has, from the earliest ages, formed a part
of the Eastern creeds. And, this granted, there could not surely be
anything extraordinarily unlikely in one of high spiritual rank being
permitted, if not to choose, at least to foresee, his next incarnation.
In any case this was their belief, a belief which the singular likeness
between their late rajah and his successor, with rumours which had
come to one and another of mysterious voices holding communion with
him, had served to confirm. But his departure at this critical moment,
an action at variance with what they knew would have been the will of
their late ruler, and his apparent readiness to sacrifice his State so
long as he could save a single English captive, somewhat shook them in
this view. Nevertheless they tried their hardest to hide the rajah's
flight from the people. Do what they would, however, it leaked out,
and with it came other distressing and alarming news. The surrender of
the Cawnpore entrenchments, and the awful massacres that followed: the
general rebellion in Oude, followed swiftly by the siege of the Lucknow
Residency, and the death of Sir Henry Lawrence: uneasy rumours from the
Punjaub, where the disaffected Poorbeahs were being held at bay like
savage animals, and the delay at Delhi--these and many other rumours
came pouring in as the month of July ran its course. It says much for
the loyalty and strength of Chunder Singh, who was now the ruling
spirit in the councils of the Gumilcund elders, that the terror and
despair which were beginning to be felt amongst the populace never once
touched them.

And yet there was much cause for uneasiness. Chunder Singh, indeed,
who had visited England twice, the first time with Byrajee Pirtha
Raj, his late master, and the second in obedience to his dying wish
to further the interests of his successor, believed profoundly in
the power of England; but he knew also how apt she is to try the
effect of small measures, little outbursts which, to the uninitiated,
seem nothing more than ebullitions of temper, before, armed with her
full strength, she stands out wrathfully to assert her will. Such
delay practised now would mean, if not the total subversion of the
English power in India, at least the temporary ruin of those who had
accepted her as the Paramount Power. It did not need the threatening
letters which, in spite of all their efforts, were continually poured
into Gumilcund to advertise them of what their fate would be if the
English forces--coming down from the Punjaub and up from Calcutta and
Bombay--met with any serious defeat. Chunder Singh and his friends
knew very well what assault and sack meant when a baffled Asiatic army
were inside the gates of a wealthy city. But with all this no thought
of compromise ever entered their minds. To the terror-stricken people,
merchants and handicraftsmen, who came flocking to them for advice they
had always the same answer: 'We have gone too far to retreat now. If
the worst comes to the worst we must defend our city to the last.'

The inquiries about the rajah were more difficult to answer. His
absence had considerably increased the alarm of the people. For the
belief held by the men of education and culture in Gumilcund, as
it filtered down to the lower strata of the populace, had lost its
vagueness, and had gained in strength. The curiously dramatic entry of
the young rajah into his city, and the effectiveness of his various
appearances, gave colour to the general superstition. He seemed to
many of them not a man at all, but a divine being whose presence was
a guarantee of the city's continuance in safety and prosperity. That
this God-given ruler should leave them at such a crisis as the present
was inexplicable save in one way--that the spiritual beings, who were
said to direct him, had warned him of the coming evil and helped him to
escape--a theory confirmed by the circumstance that no one could tell
them how their prince went. In spite of all Chunder Singh and Lutfullah
and Vishnugupta could say, the hearts of the people were heavy within
them, and their minds presaged evil.

CHAPTER XXXIII

CONTAINING EXTRACTS FROM THE RAJAH'S DIARY, WITH HOOSANEE'S
RECOLLECTIONS

The rajah, as it will have already been guessed, had discovered a
secret way of leaving his palace. Starting from a well, or small
chamber underneath his sleeping room, it led out through a long
subterranean gallery to another well, most secretly contrived beyond
the principal gate of the city. Ganesh, who had discovered it by
accident, had made use of it to open communications with Dost Ah Khan.
Believing that the rajah would accept the rebel chief's invitation
to a conference, he had set everything in readiness for a departure
this way. With regard to Tom's adventures on the perilous journey thus
initiated I have been fortunate in securing narratives both by himself
and his attendants. I have said that, in Gumilcund, he had given up
recording the events of his daily life in his diary. No sooner had he
left the State, regaining, as it seemed to him then, his old identity,
than the necessity, which in some natures is so strong, of completing
his life by throwing its incidents into a mental picture, reasserted
itself. He wrote hurriedly day after day, on the tablets he carried
with him, and as they, with the rest of his diary, have been confided
to my keeping, I am able to give some extracts from them here.

'_July_ 1857.--The die is cast. For better or for worse, and I cannot
now decide which it is. I have cast off the shackles which, for these
many days, have bound me. I am thinking, acting, living, in my own
person. And the strange part of it is that, with everything to make me
uneasy and miserable, I am happier far and more tranquil than I have
been for weeks. That is why I am writing now.

'It is deep night, and we are halting--Hoosanee and I--in the midst of
a forest, while Ganesh, our guide, goes on to make arrangements for our
admission into the fort, which is held, as I hear, by Dost Ali Khan. I
have his safe-conduct, presented to me at Delhi, on my person. Ganesh
tells me that it has already saved me from death once, that had I not
had it about me, the soldier Abdul--my gaoler on the White Ranee's
march--would certainly have killed me. Possibly it may save me again.
In any case I can do no other than I have done. Whatever the issue may
be, I must await it with fortitude. Grace, I believe, is in that fort.
I will leave it with her, or I vow before God that I will not leave it
at all. If she is dead, which I cannot and will not believe, then I
will return to Gumilcund, and give myself up to my people, letting them
do what they will with me.

'The night passes slowly. Ganesh is long away. I wonder if he really
means well by us, or if this is merely a trap laid out for our
destruction. It may be. Chunder Singh was sure of it. And he knows
the native character much better than I do; but as I cannot draw back
now, and would not if I could, I must not dream of failure. There are
other things to think of. In these quiet moments, solitary except
for Hoosanee, who crouches at my feet--the litter in which I have
been travelling at rest, and my little reading-lamp making a tent of
light in the dark forest--I have time and opportunity for thought.
In Gumilcund I could not think. That sense, half oppressive, half
exultant--ah! has it not been a great illusion? I feel so free, so
natural now: my life has become so simple--one thought in my mind--one
will animating me--one object at my heart--that I cannot but believe I
have been tormenting myself in vain. And, indeed, can it not be easily
explained? This idea of a double personality was the clever stroke of
policy of a clever and subtle brain that sought to project itself into
the future. And no doubt, having allowed myself to fall into it, I have
been able to do more for the people of Gumilcund and for my own people
also than would otherwise have been possible. So far it has been well.
But it cannot surely last for ever. It began--stay--did it begin here?
Did it even begin on board the "Patagonia"? Before ever I met Chunder
Singh--the very night after I received news of my inheritance, I had
my first vision. The next was when I opened the papers that were so
mysteriously lost. If then the others resulted from my intercourse
with Chunder Singh, what was the origin of them? Some solution of the
mystery may come to me by-and-by; it seems to me now as if there was
only one way in which that question could be answered.

'But I hear footsteps in the wood; I must put my pen down.'

The following entries are undated; but I know that they belong to this
period.

'What a terrible--what a bewildering day this has been! I have been
thinking--I have been talking--I have been pleading--I have been
protesting--till I scarcely know where I am or what I am doing, and--I
tremble as I write the words--I am no nearer the accomplishment of my
object than I was when I arrived.

'One thing, however, seems certain. Dost Ali Khan, though he would
give worlds to detach me and my State from the English alliance, has
no wish or intention of injuring me personally. I confess, after all I
have heard of the perfidy of Asiatics, I am a little astonished at the
gratitude I have met with for very small favours.

'But I must try to put it all down in detail. It may be useful for
future reference.

'Early this morning I was carried into the fort. Refreshments were
placed before me; I was allowed to adjust my dress, and then I was
led by Ganesh into the presence of the chief, in whom, although his
appearance was much changed, I at once recognised the high-caste youth
I had fed and sheltered in my tent at Delhi.

'He was alone, having dismissed his captains. The place in which he
received me was a court, open to the sky and surrounded by galleries,
in one of which I distinctly saw a veiled lady sitting. My heart leapt
into my mouth, for I thought it might be Grace; but I came to the
conclusion presently that it was not Grace but Vivien, who had, as I
knew, completely thrown in her lot with the rebels.

'The chief greeted me with perfect courtesy, saying that this was an
honour to which he had long been looking forward. I, feeling myself in
his power, answered after the same courteous fashion, and after this
little preliminary fencing he began to speak about the curious and
critical state of affairs in the country. I would not interrupt him,
being anxious to know precisely what his views were, and I confess it
was a little strange to me to hear views, set forth ably, and urged
with no little eloquence, diametrically opposed to those I have been
accustomed to hear and to support since I came to India. For, according
to him, the English overlordship has been a mistake from beginning to
end. It has failed in strength, in sympathy, in suitability to the
people of the land. That, sooner or later, it would be swept away, to
be replaced by a more congenial rule, he did not for one single moment
doubt; and he strongly advised me either to go back quietly to my own
country, or if, being an Englishman, I desired still to rule Asiatics,
to make up my mind frankly to throw in my lot with them. A countrywoman
of mine, and he smiled in a very strange way, had come prudently to
this latter determination; and he did not think she repented what she
had done.

'To all this I listened as quietly as I could, not attempting a word of
contradiction.

'He asked me straightly if I would join them. I answered that I could
do nothing without the consent of the elders of my people. Did I wish
them well? he went on to say. I said that I was not sufficiently
acquainted with their principles and aims to be able to answer such
a question. I was, as he very well knew, the faithful servant of the
Government to which I owed my advancement. Dost Ali Khan smiled at
this, and said my boldness pleased him. He said, further, contradicting
some of his previous assertions, that if the English had behaved to him
as they had behaved to me, he would never have taken part against them.
He then asked me if I had heard that the British army, on their way to
relieve Lucknow, had met with a serious defeat, and been forced to fall
back upon Cawnpore. I said boldly that no such rumour had come to me,
and that even if it had I should not have believed it. I knew indeed
that General Havelock was retreating; but his reason was insufficiency
of troops, and not defeat in battle.

'So, for a full hour, we fenced with one another, for I knew the
Oriental character, and while burning to speak of my beloved Grace, I
would not court defeat by rushing upon her name.

'Dost Ali Khan spoke of her first. As this is important, I am trying to
put down in my own language a perfect transcript of his words, and of
my own answers.

'"I am to understand, then," he said suddenly, "that my brother has
come hither in obedience to my message?"

'I answered briefly in the affirmative.

'He looked at me searchingly. "I gave you to understand," he went on,
"that the Englishwoman of whom you are in search was in my hands."

'I answered quietly, fighting down, as best I could, my fiery
impatience, "I trusted in Dost Ali Khan's honour. Have I done wrongly?"

'"Let us wait a moment," said the wily fellow, laughing after a fashion
that made my blood run cold. "I do not say that she is in my hands, and
into such a war as ours honour does not enter. Have your friends and
allies acted honourably with me?"

'"_I_ have sought to do so," I said.

'"You? That is true, and, if you stood alone, I would do what I could
to gratify your desires. But you belong to the cause for which you are
fighting. I must therefore use you as I would this weapon if I had it
in my hand and saw a deadly foe in front of me. Enough of preamble! Say
this fair Englishwoman is in my hands, what price would you give me for
her?"

'"My life," I cried passionately.

'He smiled grimly. "Well spoken!" he said; "but wide of the mark. My
brother's life is of no value to me. I prefer his friendship."

'I paused for a moment. It was difficult to think--difficult to
speak--with this terrible excitement at my heart. At last I said slowly:

'"My personal friendship is yours. Give her up--let us go away together
safely, or, if you prefer it, send her to Gumilcund under, a fitting
escort, and I give you my word that so long as I live I will be
grateful to you."

'"Those are fine words," said Dost Ali Khan, and the eyes that he fixed
upon my face seemed to glitter strangely. "But I care little for words.
How will my brother show his gratitude? Will he be on my side?"

'"You know I cannot," I answered. "But this I will promise. When this
mad attempt of yours ends, as end it must, in ruin to yourself, and the
dispersion of those who now call themselves your friends, I will stand
by you as a friend may, and plead your cause with our Government."

'Scarcely suffering me to finish, he sprang to his feet. "You are
bold," he said with a harsh laugh. "Failure? Ruin? Who dares to speak
of them here? Remember that you are not in your own encampment at
Delhi, sheltered by the English power. You are in my dominions."

'I looked him full in the face. "That," I said, "gives me courage to
speak what I believe to be the truth. Would my brother have me lie to
him because he is strong and I am weak?"

'The dull red which had overspread Dost Ali Khan's dark face died down,
and his fierce eyes fell. "My brother has spoken well," he said, "and I
apologise to him for my heat. But it is dangerous, let me tell him, to
browbeat a man in his own house."

'"I should prefer it," I answered, "to browbeating him in mine."

'"Come," he said, with a smile, "that is a good reproof. I have not
forgotten Delhi. Give me your hand and say what you will."

'Thus encouraged, I thanked him for his goodwill and kindly
remembrance, set forth my errand in a few simple words, and besought
him not to delay me any longer. By obeying his summons, I said, I had
risked everything with my friends at Gumilcund. Nothing but a swift
return would save my credit. If he had really any regard for me, let
him accept my assurances of personal friendship, bring me to where my
countrywoman was, and permit us to go.

'But it was not to be so easily done, for though courteous, even to
deference, in his manner, Dost Ali Khan had no intention of foregoing
the purpose with which he has brought me to this place. Instead of
answering my question, he begged my permission to relate a little
incident. I agreed, of course, though my heart was like to burst with
impatience, and he proceeded to tell me the following story.

'"A man came to me the other day, asking to join my force. He was
dressed as a peasant, but I knew at once that he was a soldier. He was
enrolled with two or three others whom he brought, all stalwart men.
I found soon that he had been Soubahdar in one of the finest of the
Company's regiments, and that he had a private vengeance to serve. His
colonel--one Sahib Elton--had insulted and wounded him, and he wished
to deal him a blow that he would feel. I do not encourage private
spites; but I am obliged to make the most of the only material that
comes to me, and before I heard this Soubahdar's story, I had judged
that he was a clever soldier, and that I would do well to keep him.
Let my brother listen well," said the rebel chieftain impressively,
"for the strange part of my story comes in here. The Soubahdar knew
that his enemy had a daughter in the European station of Nowgong. I had
heard, no matter how"--I thought that here he glanced up towards the
gallery, and my heart beat angrily--"that you had sent in search of
her. So I allowed my Soubahdar to take out a few horsemen and waylay
the Nowgong fugitives."

'He paused. It was with difficulty that I repressed a movement of
indignation; but remembering that I was entirely in his hands, I was
able to muster sufficient self-control to beg him to go on with his
story. "Did the Soubahdar succeed in his base attempt?" I asked.

'He would not answer me directly. Here, indeed, our conversation became
so swift and complicated that I cannot undertake to write it down
accurately. I remember that he pressed his alliance upon me, and I know
that I strenuously refused to pledge myself to anything more than the
personal friendship and exercise of influence in case of disaster which
I had already promised him.

'Again and again I tried to surprise him into making some admission as
to the safety of Grace and Kit, and again and again he evaded me. At
last, having travelled all night, and lived for some days previously in
a state of nerve-tension, which made rest impossible, I became so much
exhausted that I could scarcely raise my voice above a whisper.

'By this time the full day had come. It was a day of storms. As I was
led across the court to the mud-paved room on the ground-storey, which
I am to occupy, the rain beat upon us pitilessly and the wind howled
and tore about the corners of the fort, till one might have thought it
in danger of destruction.

'I felt that I must sleep if I was to preserve my senses: there seemed,
moreover, to be no imminent danger to anyone, so I flung myself on the
charpoy which was the only piece of furniture in the room and closed my
eyes.

'The next thing I knew--and it seemed to me as if only a moment had
gone by since I lay down--I was starting up, wide-awake and full of
energy, and Hoosanee was standing beside me with a strong cup of
coffee in one hand and a dish of chupatties in the other. I took the
little meal gladly. He watched me, looking sad and reproachful; but
when I begged him to give his opinion of the state of affairs, he put
his finger on his lip and shook his head. It was then late in the
afternoon. I sought and obtained another interview with Dost Ali Khan;
but with no better result, and now, night having come, I have returned
to my room, and, with Hoosanee watching beside me, am waiting for
those in the fort to go to rest, as we intend then to look round us
cautiously.

'Ganesh has kept away all day. This, I am afraid, augurs ill for his
faithfulness.'

A few words must be added here. I have them from Hoosanee, who was
faithful to his master throughout this adventure.

Everything was still that night, he said. He was dozing. His
master was keeping himself awake by writing in his book. They had
determined, towards the small hours of the morning, to go round the
fort themselves. He had made friends with one of the watchmen, whose
faithfulness had been corrupted by the present of a valuable trinket,
and the promise of still richer gifts, if he helped them to their will.
What they wished to do was to find out for certain if Grace and Kit
were in the fort, and, if so, putting off their deliverance until some
good plan could be devised, to encourage them by letting them know that
friends were at hand.

He, as I have said, had been dozing. Feeling sure that they ought to
be on the move, he aroused himself. His master put down his book, and
asked him in a whisper to go out and see if his friend was ready. He
crept to the door, which was ajar, and opened it. In the next moment he
had fallen back upon his master, dazed and trembling.

The doorway was blocked up by a slender figure in shining raiment with
the face covered, and naturally his first thought was that Dost Ali
Khan, repenting of his treachery, had sent them his captive. But Tom
knew better. The moment he saw the figure he sprang to his feet with
a wrathful expression. Hoosanee, thinking from the emotion in his
voice and manner that some new danger assailed them, looked to him for
directions; but Tom motioned him away. 'This is an Englishwoman, but
not the one we seek,' he said in Marathi. 'Remain in the room, but keep
at a little distance from us.'

Of the interview that followed no record remains. Tom could not be
prevailed upon to speak of it. It is not so much as mentioned in
his diary. Hoosanee, whose confidence in his master was perfect,
neither understood nor sought to understand what was going on.
Fearing treachery, however, he held himself on the alert, and when,
after having poured herself out in a torrent of impassioned words,
Vivien, for the figure could have been none other, rushed out into
the darkness, he was by his master's side in a moment. To his dismay
he found him weak and trembling. Twice, it seemed to him, that he was
trying to speak, but he said nothing.

Then Hoosanee told him that the night was passing, and urged him to
lose no time in setting forth upon their task. The friendly Watchman
was outside. He had won over all those who were watching with him. If
they did not at once seize their opportunity, it would pass out of
their hands for ever.

But if his master's manner had dismayed him, he was still more alarmed
by the way in which his advice was taken. For an instant Tom made as if
he would follow him, and then he sat down and burst into a passion of
tears.

Hoosanee was in an agony. What had happened? 'Is Missy Grace dead?' he
whispered, going quite close to his master.

'No, no; I hope to God she is alive still,' said Tom. 'And if I knew
that the Jezebel who has just gone was speaking the truth, I should not
be like this. I should know, at least, what to attempt. But how am I
to tell? She may be lying to me as she lied to her husband, as she is
lying every day to Dost Ali Khan.'

'What has she told my master?' asked Hoosanee.

'She says that they were here, and that they have gone. She heard I was
coming and she put them out. She had made up her mind that we should
not meet. Curses--a thousand curses--on her head!'

'Why did she tell my master this?' said Hoosanee.

'She did not tell me at first. It came out. That is why I think it may
be true. She was enraged that I would not do what she wished, and then
she threw it in my teeth. If I believed her, and escaped as I might do,
and if I found out afterwards that she had lied to me--or if, on the
other hand, I remained here while they were going through danger and
hardship outside--oh! Hoosanee--my brother, advise me! What shall I do?'

'Listen, my master,' said the good fellow, who, while his master
had been speaking, had taken his own measure of the situation. 'You
will stay here for an hour. Yes. I beseech you, do as I say! It will
be best. Alone no one will suspect me. I will join my friend, the
chowkedar, and go with him on his rounds. I will hear the last news of
the place. If the prisoners are still here, or if they have been put
out, as the White Ranee says, will soon be known to me. When I know, I
will return to my master, and he will decide what we had best do.'

It seemed the most feasible plan. In any case, so Hoosanee has told
me, it was adopted. He left his master, hoping that he would compose
himself in his absence, and went out into the court. The first
person he met was Ganesh. Ganesh looked wild and unnatural. Hoosanee
stopped for a moment to tax him with treachery. The Brahmin threw
back the word in his teeth, and they parted. Ganesh went to the door
of their master's room. Hoosanee joined the friendly chowkedar. They
were smoking a pipe together, and the bearer was gradually drawing
out the information he required, when in the courtyard there was a
sudden clamour. One of the sentinels, posted outside, came rushing in
breathless with the news that the Gora-log or European-folk were upon
them. The chowkedar sprang up and ran headlong to the quarter of the
fort where Dost Ali Khan and his captains were sleeping, and Hoosanee
made at full speed for his master's room. Ganesh was there before him,
so the young rajah had already heard of the panic. He was standing up
fully dressed, with a revolver in one hand and a sword in the other,
and Ganesh was beseeching him to remain where he was. 'We may escape,'
he said, 'if we remain where we are. If we go out amongst them we are
doomed.'

'But the prisoners!' cried Tom, who must have been nearly beside
himself.

'If they are in the fort--' began Ganesh.

'They are not--they are not,' shrieked Hoosanee.

'The chief thinks so, but he is mistaken. The Soubahdar Sufder Jung was
ordered yesterday by the White Ranee to take them away.'

'The Soubahdar Sufder Jung!' echoed Tom, and his arms dropped from his
hands, and his limbs seemed to fail under him. 'The Soubahdar Sufder
Jung!'

'Courage, Excellency!' said Ganesh. 'He has done it in the hope of
reward.'

'Reward? Vengeance!' cried the unfortunate young fellow. 'Here! For
God's sake let me out! I will kill that fiend with my own hands; I will
force her to tell me the truth. Ganesh--Hoosanee, wretches! what do
you mean? Have you turned against me too? Loose me, or I will slay you
both!'

'Let my lord have patience!' murmured Hoosanee.

'Patience?' echoed Tom, with a hoarse laugh. 'There! This is my
patience!'

With one mighty effort he had thrown them off. They lay on the
ground--stunned by the force with which they had fallen. Tom picked up
his weapons and bounded, like a wild creature escaped from captivity,
across the room. For a few moments they lost him.

When Hoosanee came to himself, the room was empty. He had fallen with
more force than Ganesh, who had already followed his master, and he had
not the least idea how long he had been insensible. It would have been
natural for the good fellow, who was conscious of nothing but devotion
and rectitude, to be indignant at the treatment he had received; but
it was not so. Sorrow and compassion for his master, with shame that
he could not hold him back from what, enlightened by a few awful words
from Ganesh, would, he believed, be his destruction, made up the whole
of his feeling. His head had struck violently against a corner of the
charpoy as he fell, and, with recovered consciousness, came violent
pain. He raised himself with difficulty to a sitting posture, crept to
the door and looked out.

The confusion had not ceased. From every hole and corner armed men
were hurrying out to man the walls, and there came, from a little
distance, the rattle of musketry. There was another sound--more awful
in its significance--the dull boom of cannon, and the crash of falling
masonry. But it was not for this that the unarmed, terror-stricken
man was listening. It was not to hear this that he laid his ear upon
the ground. Ha! what is that? He springs to his feet, gazes into the
lurid, torch-lit enclosure, and then, putting his hands to his mouth,
trumpet-wise, shrieks out, 'Fly! fly! The magazine is undermined.'
The words act like magic. In less than a moment the court is full of
flying figures. There is a subterranean exit. The Europeans will not
discover it in the darkness. Hundreds fling themselves into it, casting
away their weapons, and hundreds are crushed out of all similitude of
men. But, amongst the flying figures, Hoosanee does not see those whom
he seeks. There comes to his ear a low rumble, and he flings himself
down with his face to the ground. In the next instant the earth seems
to rock like a drunken man, and there is a sound mightier far than
the roll of artillery or the thunder of a storm. Crash! crash! A wild
shriek! a low, piteous wailing! Another crash as the masonry gives way,
hurling down those who had been defending it into the trenches, men no
longer now. A splinter strikes Hoosanee as he lies, and his lips part
in a groan. If he is not in safety here, what must _their_ fate be? And
is this--is this--to be the end of all his hopes? Has he been deceived
all along? Was the master he served as the true representative of him
who had gone but a simulacrum and no true man? Surely, if what he had
so fondly believed was true, _they_ would not have suffered him to
perish thus! Such were the ideas that were thronging his troubled brain
in those dreadful moments. How many they were he could never tell. He
plucked up courage to look up presently. The court was deserted. Where
the rebel chief's vast magazine and treasure-house of arms and gold
had been, a column of flame and smoke was rising into the air. The
buildings adjacent to it--one of which, as he knew, was Dost Ali Khan's
house--were beginning to burn. The boom of artillery had ceased--there
was no need for it now; but from outside he could hear the clatter of
arms, and he knew that, in a short time, the fort would be taken by
assault. In such case what would their fate be--his own--Ganesh's--his
master's--if he was still alive? Might they not be killed by the angry
English soldiers, before they could make themselves known?

Deeper and deeper grew the silence about him. Those who were not dead
or wounded had crowded into the subterranean exit. It would be strange,
thought Hoosanee, if the English soldiers were to come in presently and
find only him.

The torches that had lit the courtyard had died down. There was nothing
now to illuminate it but the fiery column. By its light he saw dimly
three figures, that seemed to come out miraculously from the very heart
of the burning mass. He ran forward with a cry. If this was his master,
then everything was true, for not Rama himself could boast such an
adventure! The Divine Ones had cared for their own.

'Hoosanee!' That was the rajah's voice.

'Master,' he cried piteously. 'Are you safe?'

'I am safe. Take this burden from me!'

It was the form, to all appearance lifeless, of a woman. Hoosanee
received it into his arms and, followed by Tom and Ganesh, who were
nearly exhausted, carried it into the hut and laid it down on the
charpoy.

'Light my lamp!' said Tom. 'Now,' he went on, 'go out, both of you, and
wait for me.'

They obeyed, and he was left alone with the lifeless form. The face
was covered with a veil. He lifted it and gazed down. Yes, it was
Vivien Doncaster. Vivien herself--the soft brow--the smiling lips--the
merry dimples! The horror of death, which had been swift and sudden,
had changed her no more than the horror of guilt in which she had
steeped herself. Fair, sweet, innocent, like a sleeping child, she lay
before him on the pillow.

With a shudder he dropped the veil. 'Farewell, beautiful witch,' he
murmured: 'we meet for the last time. That it was not left to me to
kill you, I thank God; but I would not, if I could, bring you back to
the life which you have so miserably abused. Farewell! As you lived, so
you die--a torment and a mystery.'

As he spoke, he took a letter from his pocket, twisted it into a match,
and, having kindled it at the lamp, deliberately set fire to the
charpoy in two or three places.

Looking up then, he saw Hoosanee beside him. 'What is it?' he said
angrily. 'I thought I told you to remain outside.'

'Master,' answered Hoosanee, 'the English soldiers are coming in
through the breach. If we do not wish to die, we must stand aside until
you can see the General.'

'You are right, as usual, my good Hoosanee,' said Tom, with his usual
mildness. 'Ganesh knows the place, he will hide us.'

As they left the hut the flames ran up, consuming the charpoy and the
dead body, and no one knew till much later that a human body had been
within the charred and ruined hut.

To the servants, who had been witnesses of the deed, it was a deed of
charity. Whatever the dead woman had been, the flames that made her
sepulchre were less cruel far than the hands of men would be.

CHAPTER XXXIV

GOING THROUGH THE LAND--FROM NORTH TO SOUTH, FROM EAST TO WEST

Morning dawned upon the ruin of the fort. Where Dost Ali Khan's
magazine, the storehouse from which he drew his supplies, had been,
there was a wide breach. Outside, English and Sikh soldiers--a
detachment from the main army, which was on its way to Cawnpore--were
under arms, waiting to rush in with the first rays of daylight. They
were exultant, for this stronghold of the rebel chieftain, which was so
cleverly hidden away that they had only discovered it by accident, was
a refuge and a tower of strength to the mutineers, and without it the
cleverest and most influential of their opponents, if he had escaped,
would be completely paralysed. It was more than probable, however, that
he would himself share in the destruction of the fort, in which case a
blow would have been struck whose effects were incalculable.

In the night, and before they were discovered, they had thrown a
cordon round the building, to cut off the escape of the garrison,
which they had reason to believe was numerous. Hundreds fell with the
magazine, while the guns, plied as they had been in the dark, had
doubtless done some execution; but they could not suppose that everyone
within the walls had been slain, and the complete silence puzzled them.

Fearing an ambush, they set to work cautiously. The officers were to
the front as usual, and Bertie Liston was one of the first to leap over
the mounds of rubbish that blocked up the breach and to alight within
the boundaries of the fort.

His presence at this critical moment must be explained.

When we saw him last he was leaving Gumilcund under the convoy of
Subdul Khan, to make the best of his way to Meerut, which, however,
he did not reach, having been met at a few leagues distance from the
station by a runner in disguise, carrying despatches from the General
at Meerut to the General of the army of relief, with a peremptory order
to himself to use his utmost diligence to find the army, and to offer
his services to the chiefs who, it was rumoured, had lost some of their
officers by fever and other casualties.

Nothing, as we shall imagine, could have been more congenial to
Bertie, who, ever since he heard the terrible news from Jhansi, had
been longing ardently for a brush with the rebels. Helped by Subdul
Khan, whose ability and devotion were beyond praise, he succeeded in
finding the head quarters of the army. On his way, through a series
of accidents, which there is not space to record here, he discovered
the whereabouts of Dost Ali Khan's fort, and when a body of troops of
all arms were detached to capture it, he was given the command of the
cavalry. And so it came about strangely that the first face Tom saw
that day was the face of a friend.

All need for disguise being, for the moment, over, he had thrown aside
the turban which he habitually wore, and washed the dye from his face,
which was fearfully haggard and as pale as death.

With his two servants behind him, he was standing in one of the covered
enclosures that still remained intact, when Bertie, walking in advance
of his soldiers, with his drawn sword in his right hand, and his left
grasping his revolver, marched by. He saw him, recognised him in an
instant, and, breaking into an exclamation of surprise, called upon his
men to halt.

Tom joined him, smiling sadly. 'I am afraid you will find nothing but
ruins here,' he said. 'The few who were left of the garrison escaped.'
Then he pointed to his two men. 'They are my servants. They will be
safe?'

'Perfectly. I will leave two or three men to guard them in case of
mistakes. We are fearfully savage.'

'God knows I can understand that. Come on! I will lead you,' said Tom.

'But how do you come to be here?'

'I came to find Miss Elton. She was taken prisoner.'

'Good God!' cried Bertie. 'You don't mean to tell me--Heavens,
man!--what a fright you gave me! A prisoner? Not here, surely?'

'I hope not. I hope not. And yet--good heavens! what am I saying? I
know for certain that she came here. I was told, only just before the
alarm, that she was sent away--sent away with a soubahdar, who had a
grudge against her father. It may be false--God in heaven grant that it
is.'

'His name?' said Bertie, his brow darkening.

'Sufder Jung. Do you know anything about him?'

'Only that he was one of General Elton's pets.'

'The General wounded him,' said Tom, 'and he came here, vowing
vengeance. I have it from Dost Ali Khan, who allowed him to seize Miss
Elton and bring her here. She was one of my Nowgong fugitives--my
servant had rescued them. They were within a day's march of Gumilcund.
The others came in----' His voice broke.

'Hold up, old man!' said Bertie huskily. 'Do you mean to tell me that
Dost Ali Khan gave her up?'

'No; I believe he meant well. He had sent for me. He was making her a
bait for my alliance. I could not have given in to that, of course; but
I don't think for a moment that he would have hurt her. I can't tell
you everything now. It was one of their fiendish intrigues.' As they
talked they were going round the fort, where not a soul was to be found
but these three men--the Rajah of Gumilcund and his two servants.

'Can the brutes have got away?' said Bertie.

Tom sent for Ganesh, who, he said, knew more of the events of the night
than either he or Hoosanee, and, after a little delay, the Brahmin led
them to a small inner courtyard, in the centre of which was a dry well.
Several of the men who were following them leapt down. They found
nothing but dead bodies. The entrance to the subterranean passage,
which made a secret exit from the fort, was here, and hundreds had
been smothered in their efforts to reach it. That some had escaped was
most probable; but whether the chief was amongst them or not could not
be determined. Search was made for his body, but it was not found.
This was the only damper on an enterprise which had been perfectly
successful, and accomplished without the loss of a single life.

The soldiers were now allowed to rest, cook their morning meal,
and ransack the ruins for such treasures as might have escaped the
destruction that had fallen upon the fort, and Tom, whose story had
run through the camp, was invited to the officers' mess. Ganesh and
Hoosanee, meanwhile, were taking what rest and refreshment they could,
and making arrangements for another start. It was well that they had
their wits about them, for Tom, for the moment, was like one dazed. The
colonel of the detachment, when he had benevolently tried to enter into
conversation with him, congratulating him on his escape, and asking
what measures he meant to take to ensure his safe return to Gumilcund,
and had received nothing but vague replies, took Bertie aside, and
said that something ought to be done for the poor fellow. His mind
was evidently a little astray. Bertie had the same fear; had his duty
permitted--I have this part of the story from him--he would willingly
have joined his unfortunate friend, giving him the benefit of what he
considered his own clearer judgment. But this he knew was impossible.

He led him away from the mess table. 'My dear fellow,' he said as
firmly as he could, 'you must really tell me what your plans are. Where
do you mean to go when you leave this place? To Gumilcund?'

'To Gumilcund! When Grace is wandering Heaven alone knows where!'

'Do you love her?' asked Bertie, hoping to rouse him.

'Love!' burst out the poor fellow, 'that is too poor a word! I--oh,
God! there is no word--no word I have ever heard that can tell what I
feel. She is everything to me--life, love, hope. I would give myself--I
would die in slow tortures in the presence of my enemies, to save
her--my darling--one moment's uneasiness. And to think--but I can't
think. Thinking kills. I must act, or I must die!'

'But have you any clue?' said Bertie. He was full of the most
passionate sympathy, and he dared not give it vent. His unhappy friend
must be brought to take a practical view of his position if he was to
be saved. 'Couldn't you tell me how you mean to set about the search?'
he went on.

'I don't know. Don't ask me. Light will come. My servants are looking
for horses. Give me money, like a good fellow--all the money you
have. I will return it to you when we meet in Gumilcund. We shall
meet'--with a strange smile. 'Yes; don't look at me in that incredulous
way. And she will be there, too; and, look here, Captain Liston: if
you see the others--the General, and Lady Elton, and Trixy--tell them
that I am going through the land--from east to west, from north to
south--deserts, jungles, forests. I will leave no stone of it all
untrodden, and, sooner or later, with God's good help, I will come upon
her--or'--in a terrible whisper--'her murderers!'

'Yes, yes,' said Bertie chokingly. 'But, my dear boy, you mustn't be
so vague--you mustn't, really. You won't find her by riding over the
country, and most likely you will get killed yourself, which wouldn't
suit the book of any of us just now. I have been putting your scheme
before the General, you know, and he quite falls in with it--says you
are a military genius. We shall want you to help us to work it. Take
my advice, and----' He paused. 'The poor fellow doesn't so much as hear
me,' he said to himself. 'I wonder----'

But at this moment Hoosanee interrupted them. 'May I have a word with
my master?' he said.

At the sound of his voice Tom started up, all his lethargy gone. 'Yes,
Hoosanee, I have done with the Sahib,' he said. 'Captain Liston,
good-bye. I trust we may meet in Gumilcund.'

And before Bertie could speak another word he had gone.

CHAPTER XXXV

A BRUSH WITH MUTINEERS AND A CLUE TO THE FUGITIVES

Again we must let the Rajah's Heir tell his story in his own words. The
exact date of the following extracts is not given; but, from internal
evidence, I judge that they were written in the month of August.

It was a critical time for the country, for rebellion was still at
large, and no decisive step had been taken to check it; but the
gathering of enormous masses of rebels in and about the great centres
of mutiny, such as Delhi, which was still in the hands of the disloyal
troops, and Lucknow, where the gallant little band of Europeans
were holding at bay untold hosts of enemies, and the marching down
into Central India of a Goorkha army from Nepaul, kept the country
districts, over most of which the wave of insurrection had swept,
comparatively free from disorder. In many places English magistrates
had actually resumed their ordinary jurisdiction, and, although the
mails were subject to interruptions, and had to travel by a more
circuitous route than formerly, while the robber tribes and vagrants
were more troublesome and insolent to travellers, it was still
possible, even for a European, with pluck and readiness of wit, to
pass safely through the land. The villagers, moreover, and scattered
peasantry, having seen what the rule of a disorderly army meant,
showed less animosity against the English. In some few cases they were
actually friendly, while there can be no doubt that in others they
magnified the difficulties of the road to fugitives to magnify the
reward which they hoped to earn by hiding them.

Tom travelled, as he had done before, in an Eastern disguise, and he
did not, therefore, undergo the same perils as his compatriots. But
that his journey was not without its perils this record will show.

'How many days and nights have gone by since I left the fort? I cannot
tell, and, in fact, it seems to me sometimes that I have lost the
power of recording time. One day is much the same as another. But this
morning something happened, and we have decided, in the little council
which we hold daily--Ganesh and Hoosanee and I--that it will be wise
to halt in this village for a few hours. So, to still my impatience,
and to regain, if I can, the balance of mind which deserted me so
strangely after my awful experiences at the fort, I am trying to put
down upon paper the things that have happened to us, and the things
that we expect. I do not despair yet. That seems strange, even to my
two devoted servants, who, I can see, though they do all they can to
help me, have themselves given up hope of anything but disaster. Ganesh
desires me to return to Gumilcund. The days at the fort have caused
him to change his politics, and he is very sorry now that he carried
Dost Ali Khan's message to me at all. If he only knew how fervently I
thank him in my heart! for, sad and dispiriting as this life is, I know
very well that at Gumilcund it would have been worse. Now I have hope,
at least. Every night, as we start on our journeys, I say to myself,
to-morrow morning we shall hear of them! And I feel that I am doing
something.

'It has come to our ears, through one of Hoosanee's many spies, that
a party of rebels, carrying with them English prisoners, will pass
through this village to-day, and we have reasons for thinking that
Grace and Kit may be amongst them. If they are--but I dare scarcely
think of it. The thought unnerves me.

'It has gone round that I am a great man--not a rajah--I dare not
give myself that title lest I should be detained--but an Ameer of
great wealth. How Hoosanee manages Heaven only knows: his resource and
readiness are marvellous: but he always keeps me provided with good
mounts, fine trappings for the horses, and fresh garments. I second
his efforts as well as I can by preserving, in my face and manner, the
dignity of a king's envoy, and we meet with respect everywhere. In this
large and populous village, I have been given the whole of the serai
to myself, and the chief men amongst the villagers have brought beds
and padded quilts, and water and food for my entertainment. We arrived
between night and morning. It is full noon now--the awful, burning noon
of this terrible season. I occupy a pavilion lifted high above the
court of the serai. Ever since early morning the people of the village
have been crowding in to see me; but, thank Heaven, the heat has driven
them away at last. While my good Hoosanee prowls about, picking up what
information he can, and Ganesh is making arrangements for our further
supplies, I can draw down my blinds and rest.

'I have slept--actually slept. I dreamt that we were together again
in England, Grace and I. Is this a good omen? God grant it. Hoosanee,
who has just been in, tells me that he has gained over the villagers.
They will not attempt to fight the rebel escort, but if the sepoys halt
here for a few hours, as it is supposed they will do, it is proposed to
take the prisoners from them by subtlety. He asked what I would promise
them, and I left him free to make any conditions he pleased. I think he
has been obliged to tell more than he intended, for I hear a great buzz
as of many voices in the serai, and I can see through my blinds that
the people are gathering together in their multitudes. If they will
have me as a leader I am ready to put myself at their head. Ah! how my
heart bounds as I think of it! Once--once to see myself face to face
with these villains! But we must be prudent. We must remember Cawnpore.
Subtlety first, till the captives are in our hands, and then force!'

'It is all over! Not for me, for my task is not done; yet, sad and
hopeless as I feel, there is in my soul a certain wild springing up of
exultation which prevents me from being utterly cast down. It is for
them--for the torturers of women and the slaughterers of unarmed men
and helpless children--that the end has come. Fifty rebel sepoys with
their leader lie slain in the narrow streets of this quiet village.
Their prisoners--two young English officers, fearfully attenuated, who
had been walking under the sun of this August day with chains on their
limbs, and a lady in a cart whose face I have not seen, though I know
to my sorrow that she is not Grace--are under the care of my excellent
Hoosanee in the house of the headman of the village.

'How did it all come about? This I must try to remember and put down.
That we--the assailants of this valiant fifty--were only about twelve
men all told I know, for Hoosanee counted them out before me. It was
a fortunate circumstance for us that we had anyone at all to help us,
for the villagers, though sympathetic and willing to earn the large
reward I offered, had no wish to put their skins in jeopardy by trying
conclusions with armed and disciplined soldiers. But, as it happened, a
little band of Bheels, on their way to fill up the gaps made daily by
sword and pestilence in one of the newly formed native regiments, were
halting in the village, and some of these were ready to flesh their
swords on the persons of the hated Poorbeahs to whom, as Hoosanee had
represented, the English prisoners' escort belonged.

'They marched in early in the evening. The village was complaisant,
and an enormous quantity of food, with good liquor to wash it down,
was brought to them, while the serai which I had vacated was allotted
to them for the long rest that would be sure to follow their heavy
meal. They entered and disposed themselves for sleep, sentinels being
posted at every entrance to give notice of danger. Night fell. My few
men and I were close by, watching. The sentinels, who had feasted as
luxuriously as their comrades, kept on the alert for a short time,
and then, seeing that everything was quiet, addressed themselves to
sleep. Some of our friends amongst the villagers slipped in softly,
set the prisoners free and brought them out, whereupon our little
body of sturdy hill-men ran into the serai with shouts and the fierce
clattering of arms. From outside these shouts were echoed by the
villagers, and the unhappy wretches in the serai, thinking, no doubt,
that an army was upon them, were completely paralysed. Numbers were
slain. The remainder rushed out. It was deep night now, and they
could not see the number of their assailants. I stood at the entrance
alone, and I cut them down one after the other. God forgive me if I
sinned, not in killing, but in the awful spirit of exultation which
possessed me as I plied my fearful task. Ten men must have fallen to
my sword. Some who had caught up their weapons in their abject flight
tried to resist me, but I was too swift for them. I was not a man, I
was an avenging fate. Those who escaped me fell into the hands of the
villagers, and they, with yells of derision, drove them back into the
serai, so that in a brief hour it was all over. Every one of the rebel
escort was slain, and their prisoners--who, we hear, were to have been
taken to Lucknow and there most foully put to death--are safe in our
hands.'

'The exultation which followed my easy victory did not last long. What
does the slaughter of one or two matter in this great saturnalia of
blood and wretchedness? Grace has not been found, and till my hair
turns grey, and my limbs wither from age and disappointment, I will
search for her. So we--Hoosanee, Ganesh, and I--are on the march again.
The little party of prisoners is left in the village. I was surprised
and deeply touched to find that the lady in the cart was Mrs. Lyster,
my travelling friend of the "Patagonia." She and her companions,
supposing me to be a native potentate who had interfered in their
behalf, sent as soon as the struggle was over to thank me for their
rescue, and to beg for the favour of an interview. I sent back word by
Hoosanee, who was their messenger, that I would wait upon them, and,
dressed as usual in my Indian disguise, I entered the inner court of
the headman's house where they were resting.

'I had resolved not to make myself known as an Englishman, but the
sight of Mrs. Lyster's sorrowful face and neglected dress--she who had
always been so gay and trim!--was almost too much for my resolution. It
gave me a little pang to find that she had not the least suspicion of
my being anything but what I gave myself out to be; and how strange it
was to me to receive her humble thanks! Evidently she had been chosen
to speak, for the young fellows with her were too much exhausted to
be capable of carrying on a conversation. Sad as it all was, I could
have smiled at her careful speech. She had never been very strong in
Hindostani, and she was fearful of not speaking to the great Indian
lord in a sufficiently respectful manner. Over and over again I longed
to turn everyone out, and to speak to her in our own English tongue.
But this I knew would have been the height of imprudence.

'I hope I replied becomingly to her thanks.

'And now came the question of what they were to do next. They wished to
reach, as soon as possible, a place where they could feel themselves
secure, and I was anxious to have them in Gumilcund with my other
fugitives; but I could not, even for their sakes, give up my search,
and I was afraid of allowing them to travel alone. The two young men,
moreover, who as I presently found out were subalterns in the army, and
mere boys, were so much prostrated by the hardships they had undergone
that to take them on at once might have endangered their lives. Mrs.
Lyster told with tears that one of them had been tied to a tree in a
village through which they had passed, and flogged in the presence of a
hooting crowd of villagers, and that both of them had been put in irons
and forced to walk for miles under the burning sun. Taking all these
things into consideration, we thought it best that they should run the
risk of staying where they were for a few days. I, in the meantime,
would send messengers to Gumilcund, which was within three days' march
of the village, and an escort strong enough to take them there safely
would be sent out.

'Mrs. Lyster showed some animation when Gumilcund was mentioned.

'"I have heard of the little State as one of the happiest and quite the
most wisely governed in India. Are you," looking at me doubtfully, "the
Rajah?"

'I drew back from the light and put on all my dignity. "Madam," I said,
bowing low, "I have at least great influence in Gumilcund, and that,
with everything else I possess, is at your service."

'"Everything, except your Excellency's time," said Mrs. Lyster, with a
touch of her old spirit which enchanted me.

'Keeping myself well in hand, I made another ceremonious reverence. "My
gracious lady must know," I said, "that my time is not my own. If it
were, she would be welcome to it."

'"To whom does your Highness's time belong?" she asked.

'"To the God whom I have worshipped from my birth," I answered. "I will
speak to you frankly, for you are of those who can understand. I have
bound myself under a solemn vow to find and rescue an English lady from
whom I have received many kindnesses."

'"Is she in danger?" asked Mrs. Lyster.

'"I have reason to believe so," I answered.

'"A prisoner? English?" she asked eagerly.

'For an instant I forgot everything, and if Hoosanee, who was always
on the watch for these mistakes, had not interposed, I should certainly
have betrayed myself by dashing into English. Bowing himself almost to
the ground, he stepped forward.

'"Will my master pardon me?" he said. "I have a question to ask the Mem
Sahib."

'"Say on, Hoosanee," I said, withdrawing into the shadow, and letting
him continue the conversation. I did not, in fact, speak again--a
circumstance which annoyed Mrs. Lyster, for when, Hoosanee having
obtained all the information she could give us, we retreated to the
courtyard, I heard her say, in English, "He is the nicest native I ever
met. But what a pity to see him so completely in the power of that
deceitful-looking servant!" I thought, as I crossed the court, how, if
God spares us to see some of this dreadful tangle straight, Mrs. Lyster
and I will laugh over it by-and-by.

'We saw our host, who was perfectly agreeable, vowing, by all he held
sacred, that the fugitives whom the courage of his lords had rescued
should be well treated while they were in the village.

'Ganesh now came in, and informed us before him that my letters had
been sent to Gumilcund. These were to Chunder Singh and Lutfullah,
requesting that men and money should be sent to the village at once.
The money was to reward those who had stood by us. The men were to
escort Mrs. Lyster and her companions to Gumilcund. When he heard of
soldiers and treasure, the headman became more and more abject. I
believe he will be loyal. Fortunately, no one of the prisoners' escort
is left to tell the tale of their destruction to the rebel army.

'This over, we retired to the hut that had been allotted to me, and
discussed our further proceedings, which were to be moulded on the
information given to Hoosanee by Mrs. Lyster, and which, with the
object of seeing things more clearly, for I am still like one wandering
in a maze, I shall write down here.

'It was by the merest chance that it all happened. For the latter
part of their miserable journey--it had lasted a week when we rescued
them--she had been given a small covered bullock-cart, such as native
women travel in. At the last stage, when a halt was called, the cart
was drawn into what seemed to her to be a large market-place. It was
mid-day, she said, and their escort and the people of the village
where they were halting appeared to be asleep, for there was no noise.