Ahmed found himself in a small square chamber, dimly lit by an oil-lamp. The air was close, and pervaded by an odour new to him: the pungent odour that salutes one at the entrance of a chemist's shop. The room was naturally lofty, but its height was artificially diminished now by a large blanket spread from corner to corner.
Against the further wall stood a charpoy, and on it lay a tall grey-bearded man clad in the customary garments of a respectable Mohammedan. A table was at his side, with a tray holding a dish and a phial or two. The khansaman was standing at the foot of the bed. At the entrance of Ahmed he uttered a cry, and seized a knife from the table. There was a silence, in the tenseness of which time seemed to be abolished. The khansaman stared with eyes that spoke his fear. Then Ahmed held up his hand and spoke: "Be at peace, good khansaman," he said; "I have news of the sahib's daughter."
The man's overcharged feelings found relief in a sob, and the recumbent figure started up.
"Is it true? You do not mock me?" he cried. "Who are you?"
"I am Ahmed Khan, of Lumsden Sahib's Guides, and I am sent into this city by Hodson Sahib, to say that the hazur's daughter is safe at Karnal."
The shock of this good news rendered the doctor speechless. He was seized with a violent trembling, and the khansaman hastily poured a little liquid into a glass and gave it to his master. When he had recovered he asked Ahmed many questions: whether he had seen the missy sahib, how she looked, whether she had received his note, why the messenger had not returned. To these Ahmed replied as well as he could, but he said nothing of the part he had himself played in the saving of the girl.
Then he himself asked questions, and learnt from the khansaman the simple story of the doctor's rescue. He had been left for dead by the mutinous sepoys a few yards from his door, and had there been found by Kaluja Dass, who had conveyed him by night to the secret underground chamber. It was situated immediately below the fountain in the garden, and was ventilated and dimly lit in the daytime through an ingenious series of openings in the ornamental stonework at the base of the fountain. What appeared to an observer in the garden as a delicate pattern of tracery was really the ventilating system of the room below. There he had remained ever since. The healing of his wounds had been slow, and his anxieties and the deprivation of fresh air had retarded the full recovery of his strength. No one but the khansaman knew of the secret entrance through the surgery wall, and it had been a happy thought of his to place the almirah against it, and to make the sliding panel. The blanket was stretched across the ceiling so as to prevent a stray beam of light from the oil-lamp from filtering through the apertures to the garden.
The doctor was much gratified that Ahmed had been allowed to enter the city to search for him. He inquired for his old friend General Barnard, to learn with sorrow of his death. He asked eagerly what steps had been taken to capture the city, and sighed heavily when he heard how the little army on the Ridge was waiting until the reinforcements and the siege-train which Sir John Lawrence was collecting in the Panjab should arrive. Again he pleaded with the khansaman to take him from the city, but Ahmed supported the good servant's contention that to attempt to escape now would be to court innumerable perils, and that it was better to remain in hiding until the city should be retaken. Ahmed promised to acquaint General Wilson—who had succeeded General Reed in the command—of the doctor's safety, and to send word to his daughter in Karnal. The khansaman asked very anxiously how the information was to be conveyed to the British lines. He was greatly disinclined to trust any messenger whom he did not know.
"I will take it myself," replied Ahmed.
During the conversation Dr. Craddock kept his eyes fixed on Ahmed's face, in the manner of a man seeking to recall something.
"Surely I have seen you before!" he said at length. "Have you been in Delhi before?"
"Never, sahib."
"Perhaps it was in Lahore?"
"No, sahib; I have never been there."
"I must be mistaken, then, but it seemed to me that I knew your face."
And now he was eager to get away. He did not forget the double duty he had to fulfil: news must be conveyed to the Ridge of the great assault intended for the morrow. He would have been content to inform Fazl Hak of this, and trust him to send it by one of his messengers; but the discovery of the doctor was a matter so personal to him that he was disinclined to entrust it to any one. Accordingly, he took leave of the doctor, receiving from him an affectionate message for his daughter, and then, accompanied by the khansaman, he returned by the narrow winding stair to the upper room. The two crept silently through the passage to the back staircase, and passed the servants' quarters, and came to the door leading to the garden. The khansaman noiselessly drew the bolt, and Ahmed stepped out. There was a sudden rush in the darkness. In a moment he was overwhelmed and thrown to the ground. Struggle as he might, he could not prevent the two men who had seized him from binding his arms, and then he was dragged back into the house and up the stairs, being finally deposited at the door of Minghal Khan's room.
The great man was very ill-tempered at being roused from sleep by the loud calls of his darwan. He cried out to know why his sleep was thus disturbed.
"Hazur, I have done a great deed!" cried the darwan; "even caught a dog of a robber. Open, O Great One, and see what thy servant has accomplished in his great zeal."
Minghal Khan came to the door and called for the khansaman to bring a light. Several minutes passed, and the khansaman did not appear. Growing impatient, Minghal dispatched the khitmutgar—the second of Ahmed's captors—to fetch a lamp from the kitchen. Meanwhile the darwan explained.
"Hazur, my eyes were heavy with sleep, but before seeking my charpoy I went, as is my wont, to see that all was safe for the night. In that I am not as other darwans, that eat and drink and take no thought for their masters. And lo, beneath the portico, I found a lathi and a rope with a hook at the end, and I wondered with a great wonderment. And I called the khansaman, but he came not; peradventure he has gone out on some evil work this night. And then I called Said the khitmutgar, and together we talked of what this thing might be. And even as we talked we heard the gentle drawing of the bolt, and we stood at the door, and when this son of perdition came out we seized on him, and have even now brought him before thee; surely no punishment can be too great for him."
The khitmutgar returned with a light. Minghal and the darwan recognized at the same moment that the prisoner was no other than the deferential trader whom they had seen in the morning. Of the two the darwan was the more amazed.
"Dog, what is this?" cried Minghal. "Comest thou in the night to rob me? What hast thou to say, rogue?"
Being a robber by profession himself, Minghal felt no moral indignation, and no great personal rancour against this trader who had broken into his house. It was his chief thought to turn the incident in some way to account.
"Hazur," began Ahmed, "I am the most unworthy of thy servants. I did but come to visit my good friend the darwan."
"Hazur, he has a lying tongue," interrupted the scandalized darwan. "A friend! Allah slay me if I would ever speak two comfortable words to such a dog."
"Chup!" cried Minghal. "Say on, banijara."
"The darwan has even eaten of my sweetmeats——"
"Perdition light on him!" cried the darwan. "Verily I should choke if——"
"Chup, I say! Make thy story short, dog."
"And when I found him not at the door I made bold to enter. But bethinking me then that the hazur, not knowing of my great friendship with the darwan, might see me and conceive ill thoughts, I feared, and was seeking to slip out when this pig, who has eaten my sweetmeats, set upon me most vilely, as the hazur sees."
"Verily thou art a monstrous liar, banijara," said Minghal. "What of the rope and the hook, and the lathi? What hast thou to say of them, dog?"
"Hazur, what should I know of them; is thy servant a camel-driver?"
Minghal laughed. The trader's explanation was too glib. He wondered what the truth was. Had the man heard of his recent present of rupees and come to rob him? or was there more in it? He looked keenly at Ahmed, and suddenly noticed something strange about his beard. He stepped up to him and, taking it in his hand, began to pull, not too gently. Ahmed protested; it is an insult to a Mohammedan to pluck his beard; but Minghal laughed again, and continued pulling. In the struggle at the door a small portion of the false beard had become detached, and Minghal scented a disguise. He pulled, the beard came away gradually, with no little pain to Ahmed, for the adhesive was a strong one.
"Hold thy light nearer, khitmutgar," said Minghal.
The beard came off, and there was the banijara revealed as a smooth-faced youth. The darwan uttered cries of amazement and reproach. Minghal gave a chuckle of satisfaction.
"Wah! I know thee who thou art," he said. "Did not my heart kindle when I beheld thee? As Asadullah that old dog Rahmut Khan comes to Delhi to trouble me; as a mean banijara the puppy comes to spy upon me that he may carry away the scent to the old dog. Verily it is a good day for thee, darwan, and thou shalt have five rupees—no, that is too much—two rupees, for bakshish. Go find that khansaman."
"I have sought for him, hazur, but found him not," said the khitmutgar.
"Go seek again."
The khitmutgar departed, and returned in a minute with Kaluja Dass, grave and imperturbable as ever.
"Where hast thou been?" demanded Minghal.
"Hazur, where could I be but in my own little place, sleeping the sleep of a just servant when his work is done?"
"Bring me the keys of the strong rooms below."
In these strong rooms the princes of Delhi, who had once owned the house, had kept their valuables, and on occasion their prisoners. They were now empty. The khansaman brought the keys. Ahmed was taken down by a narrow staircase like that which led to Dr. Craddock's hiding-place. A door was opened. He was pushed in, Minghal and the servants entered after him. The room was stone-walled, stone-flagged, and bare. There was no window, but a small grating high up in one of the walls; below it was an iron staple.
"I know thy wiles," said Minghal. "Thou hast escaped me twice; thrice thou shall not. Bring a chain," he added to the khansaman. "Verily Allah is good," he continued, when the man was gone. "Thou art a Feringhi, and when all the Feringhis are ground between the upper and the nether mill-stone, there will be one among them whom they know not. But that will be when I have had my profit of thee."
The chain was brought, and Ahmed was firmly fettered to the staple.
"Give me the key, khansaman; I will keep it," said Minghal. "And know, all of you, that if this dog slips his leash, I will not only dismiss you all that moment from my service, but I will even have you flogged very thoroughly, so that you will groan for many days. That is my word; take heed to it."
And then they all went out, Minghal turned the key in the door, and Ahmed was left alone.
It was Bakr-Id, the great day of Mohammedan sacrifice. Before dawn the maulavis and mullahs were busy with their preparations for the ceremonies of their religion. From early morning the streets were thronged with the faithful; green turbans and green flags were everywhere seen; long-bearded preachers, in the mosques and the bazars, and at the corners of the streets, harangued the people, promising the supreme joys of Paradise for all who should celebrate this great day by wielding the sword against the infidel; and hundreds of fanatics ranged the town, shrieking their battle-cry, "Din! Din!" Even the king's edict that, in deference to the prejudices of the Brahmins and Rajputs who formed a large proportion of the sepoy army, no bulls should be slain on this day, but only goats—even this was but a trifling check upon the enthusiasm; for the Feringhis would be utterly annihilated, and then good Mohammedans could work their will on the Hindus, whom they hated little less.
The king held his usual darbar, and then went in solemn procession with his courtiers to the Idgah, where with his own hands he sacrificed a goat. And having distributed new suits of clothing and strings of jewels to the maulavis of the mosque, he returned to the palace, where he employed himself in composing verses for the encouragement of Bakht Khan:
"This day may all the foes of the Holy Faith be slain;Cut the Feringhis down, as the woodman fells the tree:Smite with the edge of the sword; spare not, nor refrain;And celebrate this festal day with martial ecstasy."
"This day may all the foes of the Holy Faith be slain;Cut the Feringhis down, as the woodman fells the tree:Smite with the edge of the sword; spare not, nor refrain;And celebrate this festal day with martial ecstasy."
While the doddering old king was wrestling with his metres, the commander-in-chief, true to the compact made the previous night, was having an interview with Rahmut Khan. He had summoned the old chief to his presence, and found the conversation more amusing than he had expected. He began by complimenting Rahmut on his well-known prowess, and went on to say that in some quarters doubt had been thrown both upon his military skill and his loyalty—doubt which, Bakht Khan was careful to explain, he did not share. But since it was well to silence these sceptics, and since, moreover, Rahmut Khan had not yet proved himself in fight with the English, he was required to take part in the great assault that was arranged for the coming night, and to lead his men against the breastworks of the Ridge. The particular duty assigned to him was to drive the English from a position they had newly taken up less than half-a-mile from the Mori gate.
Now Rahmut Khan, though he had not the cunning and capacity for intrigue of his rival, the whilom chief of Mandan, was not at all lacking in mother wit. He knew the source of this suspicion of which Bakht Khan spoke, and was prepared to meet it.
"I am thy servant, Bakht Khan," he said. "No one is more ready than I to fight the Feringhis; have I not suffered at their hands? But, if the favour may with humility be asked, I would beg two boons."
"Say on. Thy humility is no less than thy valour."
"The first of these boons is this. As thou knowest, my band of men is of new growth: they are all valiant fighters, but men I have gathered here and there, as Allah gave me means. Wherefore they are not skilled in the warfare of the sepoys, and in their ignorance may fall into error unless they have the fellowship of some who know the discipline of the Feringhis. I ask, then, that trained men may be sent with me—such men, to wit, as are commanded by my countryman, Minghal Khan. He burns, I doubt not, as I myself, to strike a blow against the English; for, if report speak truly, fortune has given him few opportunities hitherto. That is my boon."
Bakht Khan laughed heartily. The suggestion tickled his sense of humour. He was in no doubt as to the intention underlying it, and was not disinclined to play off one Pathan against the other. He did not admire Minghal Khan, but he had found him useful in many ways, especially through his connection with the great Maulavi. As time went on, he had grown more and more impatient of the drones in Delhi. With half the courage andesprit de corpsthat animated the English, his force could have carried the Ridge long ago. And among these drones Minghal Khan was one of the worst. He had always some ingenious way of shirking active service. Rahmut Khan's suggestion offered him a chance too good to be missed.
"Thou art great in wisdom," he said. "It shall be even as thou dost desire. And thy second boon—what is it?"
"It is simply, excellent one, that while I am absent fighting the English, thou wilt set a guard over the little serai where we dwell. Our goods are but scanty and of little worth; but they are our all, and it would be hard indeed if, when we return from our glorious service, we find them gone. Thou knowest well there are badmashes in the city."
Again the commander-in-chief laughed.
"Why, friend Asadullah," he said; "did I not hear that in that little serai of yours there is much treasure—gotten, moreover, from others besides the Feringhis? Surely I will set a guard over it: thou shalt not be robbed of the little thou hast. Better were it if thou had nothing; for is it not the empty traveller that dances before robbers?"
Rahmut went away well satisfied. Minghal was in a very different case when he too had had an interview with the commander-in-chief. Not a word was said by Bakht Khan to show that the duty he laid upon Minghal had been suggested by his enemy and rival; he rather hinted that his design was to learn from Minghal how the old chief comported himself in the fight. Minghal had, perforce, to acquiesce in the arrangement; his position was not so secure that he could afford to show open reluctance to meet the enemy. Their orders were to lead an attack on the breastwork before the Mori gate, and then, having succeeded in that task, to work round on two sides to the ruined mosque that stood a little nearer the Ridge, and slaughter all the enemy they found there.
The attack was to be made after nightfall. Rahmut knew nothing of the ground between the city walls and the breastwork, and in the afternoon he went out with one of his men to reconnoitre. Both were mounted, and since the ground was covered with gardens which would give them cover, they ventured to ride a good distance in the direction of the goal of the night's operations.
All at once Rahmut caught sight of a man a little ahead of them, dodging among the trees in a stealthy manner, that suggested a keen desire to avoid observation. Rahmut was a born scout, and, without appearing to see the man, he kept him well in view, until convinced that he was making for the British lines. Then he gave chase suddenly, and the man, though he ran hard, was soon overtaken. Hauling him to the shade of some trees, Rahmut questioned his trembling captive, and was not long in wresting from him a confession that he was indeed on his way to the Ridge to give warning of the night attack.
Rahmut had been rendered suspicious by his recent experiences in Delhi. He was not satisfied with a general statement, but pressed the man for a precise account of his errand, and he was not greatly surprised when it came out that the informer had been sent by Minghal Khan himself, and that the important part of his message was the disclosure of the exact quarter on which Rahmut's attack was to be made. It was just what might have been expected of Minghal, as indeed of any other Pathan who happened to bear a grudge against a fellow-countryman.
Rahmut lost little time in arranging to counter this cunning move of his enemy. He took the messenger back into Delhi, the man believing that he would be handed over to the Kotwal for hanging. But Rahmut made the man take him to his own house, and he set a guard over it, and swore to the wretch that the house and all within it should be destroyed unless he did what was bidden him. And the bidding was, to go to the British lines and give the warning as Minghal had commanded, with one little change: the point of attack was to be, not that which had been assigned to Rahmut, but that which had been assigned to Minghal. Holding the informer's house and family as hostages, Rahmut had no doubt that the man would obey, and he went back to his serai satisfied with his afternoon's work.
During the day the excitement in the city had risen to fever heat. News had come in that Nana Sahib, on the approach of the British to Cawnpore, had massacred the two hundred women and children who had remained in his hands since that fatal day when their fathers and husbands had been shot down on the boats. The wiser residents of Delhi were aghast: they knew the dreadful story of that other tragedy, at Calcutta, a century before, when a hundred of the sahibs perished in the Black Hole. They knew what retribution had fallen on Siraj-uddaula then; what would happen now, after this far more horrible butchery of women and children? But the fanatics rejoiced in the tale of blood. The greater the excesses, the more impossible to draw back. The greater the vengeance to be feared, the more imperative to strain every nerve to crush these obstinate Feringhis on the Ridge. The protraction of the siege was already doing them harm. Risings were taking place in many scattered districts; and even in the Panjab, which Jan Larrens had hitherto kept quiet, there were ominous mutterings. If the English on the Ridge could but be routed, all Northern India would be ablaze.
And so the sepoys at sunset marched in their thousands from the gates. Amid the blare of bugles, the thunder of artillery from the walls, the strident calls of the muezzins from the minarets of the mosques, proclaiming eternal glory for all who bled in the holy cause, the rebels flocked out, maddened with fanatical fury and with bang, aglow with the resolve to conquer or die.
But behind the breastworks waited British officers, cool, unemotional, with their men, British and native, seasoned warriors, disciplined, the best soldiers in the world. They watched the advancing horde as it came among the gardens, the moonbeams making a strange play of light and shade. On they came, and the great guns thundered, and the muskets crackled, and shouts and yells mingled with the brazen blare of bugles. Time after time the dusky warriors hurled themselves against the low breastworks that defended the circuit of the Ridge, coming within a score paces of them. Hour after hour the din continued, the sky blazing with the constant discharge of artillery, a shifting wall of smoke making strange patterns in the moonlight. The moon sank, and still the firing did not cease; it was not until next day's sun was mounting the sky that the survivors of the night shambled back, a discomfited mob, to the rose-red walls of the city.
What had they gained by this tremendous fusillade and bombardment? Nothing. Their ammunition had been expended by cart-loads; thousands upon thousands of rounds had been fired; but all the time they had never seen their enemy, who, behind their entrenchments, waited until they saw the whites of the rebels' eyes, and then sent them reeling back with withering volleys. Hundreds of forms lay motionless in the eye of the rising sun, some in red coats, some in white dhotis, some in the chogahs of hill-men, with turbans of many colours, amid muskets and swords and bugles, and everywhere the green flag of the Prophet. And on the Ridge there was great rejoicing; for this bitter lesson to the Pandies had cost their masters no more than a dozen men.
Nowhere did the fight rage more fiercely on that night than at the breastworks before the Flagstaff Tower. But though fierce, the fight was short, for Rahmut Khan was no fanatic; and when he found, after a brief trial, that he was opposed, not by warriors with whom his men could contend in equal fight, but by solid ramparts which burst into flame, though behind it no men were seen, he concluded that this was fighting he did not understand, and drew off his men. And Minghal Khan, approaching with his regiment the spot from which, as he fondly hoped, most of the Feringhis had been withdrawn to meet the attack against which he had warned them, was met by a crashing volley so terrible that a third of his men were stricken down, and he himself barely escaped with his life. A bullet grazed his cheek, ploughing a red furrow through it, and carrying away the lobe of his ear; a spent bullet struck his brow, and he staggered half-unconscious to the ground. And when he regained the city, and learnt that his enemy, Rahmut, had come unscathed through the battle, and, moreover, that the men he had left to raid Rahmut's serai during his absence had been beaten off with great loss by a guard posted there, for some incomprehensible reason, by Bakht Khan himself, he boiled with insensate fury, heaping curses on the heads of those who had betrayed him.
Nor was his rage abated when he was summoned to the palace to answer the charge of instigating the attack on Rahmut's quarters. The king was seated in the hall of public audience, surrounded by a glittering company. The total failure of the night's operations had not yet been fully reported; Bakht Khan was not in attendance; and when the king recited the verses he had composed the day before, the courtiers acclaimed him as the Pearl of Poets and declared that nothing more was wanted to ensure success. But then the commander-in-chief came with his pitiful tale, and the king, with the petulance of dotage, flew into a rage and cried, "You will never take the Ridge; all my treasure is expended; the Royal Treasury is without a pice. And men tell me now that the soldiers are day by day departing to their homes. I have no hope of victory. My desire is that you all leave the city and make some other place the heart of the struggle. If you do not, then will I take such steps as may seem to me advisable."
And while the officers were trying to cheer the miserable old man, declaring that by Allah's help they would yet take the Ridge, Minghal Khan came in answer to the summons. Upon him the king poured out the vials of his wrath, demanding that he should instantly restore to the treasury the money he had been granted two days before, and ordering Bakht Khan once more to proclaim that heavy penalties should be inflicted on any who broke the peace of the city. And when Minghal began to protest, Mirza Akbar Sultan, the prince who was party to the scheme, plucked him by the sleeve and in a whisper bade him be silent. The king was beside himself with rage, he said, and it was not a propitious moment for appeals. The prince accompanied him home, and, over a bottle of spirits sent for in haste from one of the merchants, they laid their heads together, devising a plan by which they might still achieve their designs against Rahmut Khan.
The underground chamber in which Ahmed was confined was perfectly dark. The floor was damp; the air stuffy. He leant for a while against the wall, ruminating on this sudden check in his fortunes. That Minghal Khan had not killed him at once showed that he was reserved for a worse fate. And what had Minghal meant by the reference to Rahmut Khan? His words seemed to imply that he supposed father and son to have entered Delhi together, and to be engaged in some scheme against him. Ahmed was for a time at a loss to understand what had given rise to this belief. Was Minghal unaware that Rahmut was a prisoner of the English? But then he remembered the conversation he had overheard in the room above. This "old rogue," this Asadullah, of whom the officers had spoken—could it be that he was Rahmut Khan? He was a Pathan—so much all Delhi knew; was it possible that the old chief had been released, or had escaped from prison, and had come into the city to wreak vengeance on the sahibs? This was a course he was very likely to follow: yet Ahmed hoped that it was not so; he did not like to think of his adoptive father and himself being on opposite sides.
Then he fell a-wondering how long he was to remain thus mewed up. And remembering the talk of a great onslaught to be made on the British lines on the morrow, he was dismayed. If Minghal Khan went out to fight he might remain absent for a whole day or more; he might, indeed, never come back; and then, unless a way could be found out of this dungeon, or some one came to release him, he might starve to death. The thought made his blood run cold, and in a sudden frenzy he began to strain at his bonds, trying to tear the staple from the wall and to snap the links of the chain. But from this he soon desisted; his struggles were useless; he only bruised himself. His exertions and the stuffiness of the room had made him hot; he was parched with thirst.
He sank down upon the floor, and squatted there, trying to calm himself. There was perfect silence. By and by he fell into a doze, and woke with a start in confusion of mind, from which he was roused by the clank of his chain as he moved. How long had he been asleep? Was it night or day? The profound stillness oppressed him; if he could but have heard some slight sound he would not have felt so utterly desolate. Schooling himself to patience, he tried to kill time by repeating aloud all the words of English he could remember, attempting to copy the accent of Hodson Sahib. He was surprised to find how many words came to his tongue with the effort. But speech was difficult to a dry throat. He lay down and slept again: maybe presently Minghal would relent so far as to bring him food.
Thus between sleeping and waking he passed the long hours—he knew not how many; and was vividly conscious of his discomforts, when at last he heard the light shuffling of feet in the corridor outside the room. Then a light shone through the thin crack at the bottom of the door; the key turned in the lock, and three figures entered. The first was Minghal Khan; then came the darwan with a lamp; the other was a stranger. And even Minghal wore a different look. His eyes were haggard; a huge bandage swathed his head; one arm was in a sling.
"Thou art yet alive, thou son of a dog," said Minghal. "It is well."
He bade the darwan hold the light nearer to Ahmed.
"Now hearken to me, and do my bidding," said Minghal again. "I have here a munshi, who will write the words thou sayest. Thou wilt send a message to Rahmut Khan, the rogue that calls himself thy father, and say to him that thou art in the hands of enemies. The bearer of thy letter is a man to be trusted, and if thy father will accompany him, he will bring him to the place where thou art, so that a plan of escape may be devised."
"And how shall my father know that this is a true letter from me, seeing that it will be written by a hand he knows not?" said Ahmed. It was well, he thought, that Minghal should still believe him to have come to the city with his father.
"Thou canst at least write thy name, or make some mark that he will know."
"I can do so much, it is true. And what if I do this thing?"
"I will set thee free before another sunrise."
"And dost thou think I do not see through thy wile, nor know the naughtiness of thy heart? Let thy munshi write; I will set no hand to it."
"Dog, dost thou deny me? Knowest thou not that I can slay thee where thou standest, or keep thee without bread to eat and water to drink until thou diest?"
"I know; but I have said."
"Thou fool! I will bring thee to a better mind; aye, or so serve thee that thy mind will utterly go from thee. Shall a whelp defy me? Go, darwan, bring bread and water."
The darwan set his lamp on the floor and went out. When he returned with the bread and water, Minghal bade him put them down just beyond Ahmed's reach with his chain at full length.
"See!" cried the furious man. "There is bread, but thou canst not eat it; water, but thou canst not drink it. Chew thy thoughts, for thou wilt have nought else to chew until thou dost bend thy stubborn neck and do even as I have commanded. I will come again in the morning; perchance thy rumination in the dark will give thee counsel."
And having struck Ahmed across the face, he went away with the two men, and locked the door after him.
For a time Ahmed was so much enraged at the indignity he had suffered that he could think of nothing else. But when calmness returned he reflected on what had happened. Minghal must be mad to suppose that he would lend himself to so transparent a trap. And yet could he endure? He strained towards the food, but stretching his full length on the floor he could not touch it; yes, the tips of his fingers just touched the jar of water. He scratched at it, hoping that it would turn and come a little nearer; but his movements had the opposite effect, and soon his longest finger could not even feel the vessel.
He drew back, and huddled on the damp stones. The torture in store terrified him; could he withstand it? His tongue was parched; he felt gnawing pains; his brow was damp with fear. He closed his eyes, perhaps death would come in sleep. But now he could not even sleep; there seemed to be a hammering at his brow; wild thoughts chased one another through his brain. He got up and walked about at the utmost tether of his chain until the clank of the metal became itself a torture. Then he moved his arms in the motions of drill; he felt that only by action could he ward off madness.
So the hours dragged on. Surely the sun had now risen. Why had not Minghal returned? When he did return Ahmed would beg as a boon to be slain at once. He listened for footsteps. There was none. He walked about again; then stopped, fancying he heard another sound besides the clanking of the chain. But the stillness was as of the grave. He lay down, covering his head with his arms; if he could but sleep! And he was at last falling into the slumber of exhaustion when a slight sound struck upon his ear. Or was it a dream sound? Every sense was strung to the highest tension. He strained his ears; he must have been mistaken. But no; that was a sound, a creak. Minghal was returning. He got up, and his chain clanked. He stood motionless. Why did not the door open? There was another creak, and another interval of silence; and then he felt a sudden slight gust of fresher air strike his cheek; surely the door was open. Next moment there was a click, a spark, and in the sudden flash he thought he saw a figure in the room. Another spark, followed by a red glow, that grew brighter, and then a low bluish flame. It was the kindling of a lamp, and behind it he saw Kaluja Dass.
"Hush!" said the khansaman in a whisper. "Here is food and drink."
Ahmed seized upon the jar of water and drank his fill, then upon the bread covered with honey, and ate ravenously.
"I cannot set you free," said the khansaman, still in a whisper. "The tyrant has sworn he will dismiss us all if you escape, and I have to think of the master. I took the vile one's keys from his raiment as he slept. I must go back lest he wakes. I will come again. The sahib knows: we will try to think of some plan."
"What is doing?" whispered Ahmed. "Why is Minghal swathed?"
"He fought and was wounded. And, moreover, he is shamed before the king. His men assailed the serai of Asadullah, and the king is wroth with him."
"This Asadullah—who is he?"
"A warrior that serves the king, with three hundred men."
"What manner of man?"
"An old man with white beard, of good stature and noble presence. He wears a red turban; he is from the hills."
"He is my father."
"Sayest thou? Then will I go to him and acquaint him with thy plight. Verily he will know how to deal with the evil man."
Ahmed was tempted to agree; but with second thoughts he saw that the khansaman must not do what he had said. Rahmut Khan was among the mutineers: he could not assist Ahmed without compromising them both. Only if Ahmed threw in his lot with the rebels would it be fair to ask the old chief to intervene in his behalf. And Ahmed was one of Lumsden's Guides; he had eaten the sahibs' salt; he was of the sahibs himself: the Guides were true to their allegiance.
"It may not be, good khansaman," he said. "Presently, thou wilt understand."
"Allah be with thee!" said the khansaman.
"And with thee, khansaman."
The servant took away the vessels in which he had brought the food, and went out with stealth as he had entered. There was left no trace of the meal. Ahmed laid himself down again; his body was comforted, the light of hope soothed his mind, and at last he slept.
Some hours later he was wakened by the entrance of Minghal. The same proposition was put to him: he rejected it with scorn. Minghal was amazed to find him still obdurate. The food was untouched on the floor. Would nothing quell the spirit of this youth? He tried to beat down his captive's resolution, and failing, went away in a rage, declaring that he would yet starve him into submission.
Ahmed found it easier to endure the slow-dragging hours of the long day. In the dead of night the khansaman again came to him with food. He said that the doctor sahib had bidden him release the prisoner, even at the risk of compromising his own safety. But Ahmed refused to allow it. He had been sent into Delhi to help the doctor, and could not consent to anything that would endanger him. His refusal gave the khansaman evident relief. Once more the servant offered to inform Asadullah of his son's plight, and Ahmed, in declining, thought it well to explain his reasons. The khansaman scoffed at them; he did not understand such scruples; and though he did not say so, he went away with the determination to seek out the old chief the next day when he went to market.
He left with Ahmed a file with which he might so far cut his fetters as to be able to break loose if occasion offered, and he advised him to feign exhaustion at Minghal Khan's next visit. After so many hours without food even the strongest must collapse, and if the captive were still found unaltered Minghal's suspicion would certainly be aroused.
Meanwhile Minghal had been occupied with his own concerns. He had no intention of paying the fine inflicted on him, and at a private interview with the king, with the assistance of Mirza Akbar Sultan and the eloquent testimony of his own wounds, he talked the old man over, and the sentence was remitted. When this reached the ears of Rahmut Khan, the old chief was furious, and resolved to take matters into his own hands. He had not only his old quarrel with Minghal to settle: there were the two fierce attacks made upon him during the short time he had been in Delhi; there was also the attempt to betray him to the enemy. It was not Rahmut Khan's way to instigate attacks which he was not himself prepared to carry through. His men were incensed against Minghal's regiment, and that Minghal feared reprisals was shown by the fact that he had now garrisoned his house with a score of men.
Rahmut planned an attack on the house after sunset with a hundred of his followers. Their approach was spied by the darwan before they actually reached the house. He promptly bolted the gates and ran to give the alarm. Minghal took advantage of the breathing space to beat a hasty retreat through the back entrance, and hurried to Bakht Khan with the news.
It was some time before Rahmut's men forced an entrance, so solid were the doors. They had scarcely broken in when the commander-in-chief arrived on the spot at the head of a considerable body of picked men. There was a stormy scene between him and Rahmut, who, however, could not but yield to superior force. He was more enraged than ever, especially because during the short time they had been in the house his men had gained little plunder, all the valuables having been sold to supply the wants of Minghal Khan. The old chief was led away under arrest, and carried straight to the palace. The king was in no mood to overlook this direct transgression. All day he had been harassed by reports of the ill-treatment of residents by the sepoys. It was intolerable, he cried, that his peaceable subjects should be harassed and threatened by soldiers who had come to the city with the avowed object of destroying the English. Still more intolerable was it that the soldiers should attack one another.
"I see clearly," said the wretched monarch, "that the English will take the city, and kill me."
"Be of good cheer, illustrious one," said one of his officers. "Do thou put thy hand on our heads, and without doubt we shall be victorious."
And then, to the number of a hundred and fifty, they filed past him, and as he placed his hand on the head of each he said, "Go thou with haste and win victory on the Ridge." And they begged him to lay a severe penalty on this Pathan stranger, Asadullah, who had come to trouble the city. Then up spoke Bakht Khan, ever blunt of address.
"Punish Asadullah," he said, "it is but right; but punish Minghal also. They are arrows of one quiver. The Arab horse gets whipped and the Tartar is fondled. I am weary of Minghal Khan."
But the covetous officials knew that Minghal was poor, whereas rumour ascribed to Asadullah the possession of great treasures of plunder. The treasury was empty. That very day a message came from Gwalior to the effect that the whole army there was willing to place itself at the king's service, and he petulantly made answer: "I say there is no money for their support. We have here in the city 60,000 men, but they have not been able to win one clod of dirt from the English." The opportunity of gaining something for the treasury was too good to be thrown away. At the instance of his sycophants the king demanded a heavy fine from Rahmut. The chief, curbing his wrath, begged until morning to get the money. Before morning dawned, he had his men saddled up, and the moment the gates were opened he dashed through the streets at the head of his force, rode out by the Ajmir gate, and fled away into the open country. Before the news reached the palace, before any one could think of pursuit, the old Pathan was out of sight.
Night being as day to Ahmed in his dungeon, he set to work at once with the file the khansaman had given him. The links of his chain were of soft iron, and with ready wit he thought of a way by which he might for a time disguise the fact that his fetters were loosed. He filed through one of the links, and then a portion of the next one, until he was able to pass this thinned portion through the gap he had made in the first. If, therefore, he should be suddenly disturbed, he could at once replace the links, and, by turning one of them round so that the portion yet unfiled was brought against the part that was cut, the chain might appear to be still unbroken.
As soon as he was free he made a tour around his dungeon, rather by way of distraction and to stretch his legs than with any idea of making a discovery that would further his escape.
The vault was pitch dark. He had seen it by the light of the oil-lamp during the visits of Minghal and the khansaman, but taken no particular note of it. He now went round it, feeling the walls with his hands. They were of rough-hewn stones; there was no variation except at the door. He shook that: it was locked fast. He went back to the staple and sat down; after a time, having nothing better to do, he started again, and examined the door by touch more carefully. There was no handle, not even a keyhole on the inside. Thinking he heard footsteps, he retreated so hastily that he narrowly escaped overturning the pitcher of water. It was a false alarm. Once more he went round the walls, this time in the opposite direction.
And now, as he drew his hand along the wall, he fancied that one of the slabs of stone protruded a little further into the room than the others. All the stones were rough and ill-fitting, but this protuberance awoke his curiosity. Had he detected a slight movement as he first pressed it? He pushed hard at it—upwards, downwards, sideways, but without result. Surely he had been mistaken. He would try again. This time he pushed gently, and thrilled all through when he felt an indubitable movement, though very slight. Now, instead of pushing, he pulled outward. The stone yielded. He pulled harder; it moved reluctantly, but it did move, and by and by he was able to get his fingers round the edge of the slab. Another pull, and it came a few inches from the wall, then stopped.
He was puzzled. He pushed at the stonework immediately around the slab. There was no result. He tried a few feet to the right—in vain; then to the left. Something seemed to give slightly. A harder push, and the slab moved inward, slowly revolving on a vertical axis until it stood perpendicular to the surface of the wall.
With beating heart he crawled through the opening, and found himself in a stone passage, so low that he had to stoop, so narrow that there was not an inch to spare on either side. In a dozen paces he reached the end—a dead stone wall. There must be an outlet, but where? He felt over the wall and discovered a protuberance similar to that in the room he had left. He pushed and pulled in the same way; the slab moved; a light shone through the crack between it and the wall. He peeped through. There was Craddock Sahib reading at his little table by the light of a lamp.
The doctor was amazed, delighted, perplexed, at once. Ahmed rapidly explained the discovery he had made, then hurried back through the passage, closed the slab opening into his cell, and returned. He learnt from the doctor of the recent attack on the house by Asadullah, and that the khansaman, in spite of his wishes to the contrary, had gone off that morning to find the old chief, and inform him of his son's plight. Ahmed seized on the attack as affording an explanation of his escape. Minghal would believe readily enough that the prisoner had been rescued by his father, even though the fact that the door was still locked should savour of mystery. Thus the khansaman would be in no danger of dismissal.
The question was: how was Ahmed to escape from the house and the city? There was no longer any safety in his disguise, even if the khansaman could procure a beard to replace that of which Minghal had stripped him. It was the khansaman himself who, when he returned, suggested a way. Sepoys' uniforms were easily to be got; he would obtain one at his next visit to the bazar; clad in that and provided with arms, Ahmed must march out with a mutinous regiment and take an opportunity of escaping from them. He would, it was true, run the risk of being shot himself as a rebel; but among risks there was little to choose. The khansaman would acquaint him with a favourable time for making the attempt.
Ahmed remained for several days in the doctor's company. They heard from the khansaman of Minghal's fury when he discovered the disappearance of his prisoner. As Ahmed had guessed, he imputed it to the agency of Rahmut Khan, and regarded the locked door merely as an additional proof of the malicious cunning of the old chief. At last the uniform and the arms were provided, and one morning very early, before the household was astir, Ahmed was cautiously let out of the house by the khansaman. A few hours later he joined himself unquestioned to a body of troops made up of many different components, ordered to reinforce the mutineers holding the suburb of Kishenganj. There was some delay as they marched past the Mosque. Some one had told the king that the sepoys, clamorous for pay, were about to attack him in his palace, and orders were sent through the city that not a soldier should move until the report had been investigated.
While the soldiers stood at ease near the Mosque, Ahmed noticed Fazl Hak moving leisurely among the onlookers, occasionally addressing a word or two to the sepoys he passed. As he came near, Ahmed accosted him.
"Salaam, worthy maulavi, what is the news?"
Fazl Hak stopped; he looked surprised, then took Ahmed a little apart.
"There is no news, sepoy," he said in a low tone, "later than this command of the king."
"Hast thou not heard of the fifteen elephants taken from the English yesterday?"
"Nay, I had not heard of that."
"Hai! that is strange. Nor that a fakir departed from the city yesterday to travel to Peshawar, and cut the throat of Jan Larrens?"
"Sayest thou?"
"Nor that a black-bearded banijara selling shawls was lately stripped of his beard and shown to be as smooth of cheek as I myself—a wretched spy of the Feringhis?"
"Hai! I know of such a banijara, and I could have said he would prove but a broken reed as a spy."
"And dost thou not know that our great Bakht Khan has driven a hundred mines beneath the Ridge, and when the moon is full the Feringhis will all be blown to little pieces?"
Fazl Hak threw a keen sidelong look at this informative sepoy.
"Though I would not counsel thee to write word of that on thy little scrolls to Hodson Sahib," added Ahmed, lowering his voice to a whisper.
The maulavi started; an angry flush suffused his cheeks.
"Thou misbegotten son of——!" he exclaimed; but Ahmed interrupted him.
"Let it be peace, good maulavi," he said. "There is little thou dost not know; thou knowest now that the Pathan trader was not such a sorry spy, since I am he. It is pardonable for a man to prove himself, to one of such honoured merit as thou."
"Thou sayest well," said the maulavi, somewhat mollified. "When the troubles are over, come to me; I will pay thee well."
"Nay, I have other service. But if thou hast aught now that thou wouldst send to Hodson Sahib, deliver it to me; I go to him."
Without hesitation Fazl Hak took from beneath his thumbnail a tiny scroll of paper, which he handed secretly to Ahmed, and then with a negligent salutation he walked slowly away.
Ahmed's conversation with the maulavi attracted little attention among the sepoys. And when, after a delay of two hours, the order came to march, he went with them out from the Ajmir gate, and into Kishenganj.
At dead of night he crept out very stealthily, stole along the tree-shaded road until he reached the Jumna canal, then stripped off his tell-tale red coat, and swam across. Hastening along the further bank for half-a-mile, he struck northward through the gardens on the outskirts of Sabzi Mandi, and just before dawn reached a picket of Irregular Native Cavalry. Half-an-hour later he was in Hodson's tent, relating his discovery of Craddock Sahib, and much more that Hodson regarded as of greater importance.
Ahmed's return to the corps set his comrades' tongues wagging.
"Why, where hast thou been, Ahmed-ji?" cried Sherdil, when they met. "Verily the sight of thee is as ointment to sore eyes."
There was now no reason why the men should not know the errand on which he had been, saving such particulars as were confidential with Hodson Sahib. So Ahmed related to Sherdil and a group of Guides his adventures since he had first left them. Two facts he omitted: his disguise, and his share in the fight with the rebels as they returned from Alipur. The men listened with amazement, and Sherdil frankly declared his envy.
"Though Allah has been good to me too," he added; "am I not now a dafadar? He who has patience wins. Thou canst not now be a dafadar before me."
Ahmed congratulated him warmly on his promotion. Then he asked what the Guides had been doing during his absence, and heard of almost daily encounters with the enemy. He learnt also that Hodson Sahib was no longer in command of the corps. He had raised a new body of horsemen, of whom the Guides were somewhat jealous.
"There goes one of them," cried Sherdil, pointing to a tall figure in khaki, with a scarlet sash over the shoulder and a huge scarlet turban. "We call them flamingoes, for they are very like. Thou shouldst see them on horseback, some of them who have ridden little; it is a sight to make you crack your sides."
"And who is now our commander, then?"
"Shebbeare Sahib, a good man: has he not been twice wounded? But it seems as though our commanders change with the moon, so short a time do they abide with us."
And then he told of what men had been killed, and what wounded. He himself had been incapacitated for a week through a sabre cut. Ahmed asked if any new men had joined the corps.
"None, though there was a man of good promise who came with us into that fight I told you of towards Alipur; a silent man, with a noble beard. Some of us thought he was a candidate; some, a sahib—thou knowest how the sahibs love strange adventures; but I have never looked upon him since."
"Of what sort was he, Sherdil?"
"A straight man, with a grave face, and a good seat on horseback."
"Was he anything like me?"
"Hai! Thou art a stripling: he was aman, I say. Maybe if thou live long enough thou wilt have a beard like his. Truly thou wouldst have rejoiced to see him that day. Did he not smite, Rasul? Did he not cleave his way through the Purbiyas with clean thrust and stroke? I would fain look on him again."
"Thou hast seen him this day, Sherdil."
"Sayest thou? Where? I knew it not."
"Thou seest him now."
Sherdil stared.
"Dost thou not remember how thou didst thyself give me a moustache that day we went as traders to Mandan? Even so I got for myself the beard, in Karnal."
The men laughed, and chaffed Sherdil uproariously on his failure to recognize his prize pupil.
"Wah!" cried the new dafadar; "but those who said the man was a sahib——"
He stopped, checked by a look from Ahmed. Then they talked of the prospects of the siege, and the merits of the new general, Archdale Wilson, who had succeeded General Reed. In common with the rest of the little force on the Ridge, they were restive under the long delay in assaulting the rebel city.
"But we shall see something soon," said Sherdil. "Nikalsain is here."
"Who is Nikalsain?"
"Dost thou not know Nikalsain? Wah! He is a man! There is not one in the hills that does not shiver in his pyjamas when he hears the name of Nikalsain. Thou couldst hear the ring of his grey mare's hoofs from Attock even to the Khaibar, and the folk of Rawal Pindi wake in the night and tremble, saying they hear the tramp of Nikalsain's war-horse. There are many sahibs, but only one Nikalsain."
"Hast thou not heard of what he did to Alladad Khan?" asked one of the men.
"Tell it, good Rasul," said Ahmed.
"Why, Alladad Khan, being guardian to his nephew—a boy—seized upon his inheritance and drove him from the village. By and by, when the boy's beard was grown, he went to Nikalsain and besought him that he would do him right. But Alladad was a great man, and mightily feared, so that when Nikalsain sent to his village to seek witnesses of the truth of the matter, no man durst for his life speak for the boy. One morn, ere the sun was up, a man of the village went forth to his fields, and lo! there was Nikalsain's grey mare grazing just beyond the gate. The man shook with amaze and fear, and when his trembling had ceased, ran back again to tell Alladad Khan. And soon all the men of the village flocked to the gate to see the sight, and they marvelled greatly. Alladad also was in dread, for his conscience pricked him, and he bade some to drive the mare to the grass of some other village, lest evil should come upon them. And as they went forth to do his bidding, in a little space they came to a tree, and lo! tied to it, was Nikalsain himself. Some fled away in great fear; others, thinking to win favour with the hazur, went forward to loose him. But Nikalsain cried to them in a loud voice—verily his voice is like thunder—and bade them stand and say on whose land they were. In their fear none could speak, but they lifted their fingers and pointed to Alladad Khan, and he came out from among them with trembling knees and said in haste: 'Nay, hazur, the land is not mine, but my nephew's.' Then Nikalsain bade him swear by the Prophet that what he said was true, and when Alladad had sworn, the hazur permitted the cords to be loosed. And next day in his court he decreed that the nephew should receive his inheritance, since his uncle had sworn it was his; and Alladad, shamefaced at the manner of his discomfiture, and at the laughter of the people, went straightway on a pilgrimage to Mecca, and the place knew him no more."
"Nikalsain is just, and very terrible," said Sherdil.
"Is he not like one of the heroes of old? A tall man, with a face as grave as a mullah's, and a black beard thicker than mine, and he holds his head high in the air as if he scorned to see the ground. Jan Larrens sent him to us; his troops are yet on the way; and when they come there will be hot work in the gates of Delhi."
A few days later Nicholson rode out to meet the movable column of which he was in command, and which had been raised by the energy of John Lawrence in the Panjab. It was an inspiriting sight when, on the fourteenth of August, the column, 3,000 strong, British and natives, marched into camp behind their stately leader, amid the blare of bands and the cheers of the weary holders of the Ridge. Their arrival infused the hearts of the besiegers with new courage and cheerfulness; every man, from the general down to the meanest bhisti, hailed Nicholson's coming as the beginning of the end.
About three weeks before, the siege-train for which General Wilson had been for weeks anxiously waiting, left Firozpur. It stretched for five miles along the Great Trunk Road, and was furnished with an inconsiderable escort. On the twenty-fourth of August, General Wilson learnt that a large force of rebels, with sixteen guns, had left Delhi for Najafgarh, with the object of intercepting the siege-train and cutting off supplies from the Ridge. Nicholson, ever eager for active work, was given the task of dealing with the mutineers.
Early on the morning of August 25, in pouring rain, Nicholson left camp at the head of two thousand five hundred men, consisting of horse and foot, British and native, and three troops of horse artillery under Major Tombs. To their great delight, Sherdil and Ahmed were among the squadron of Guides that formed part of the force. The march reminded them of the former expedition to Alipur. For nine miles they struggled through swamp and quagmire, the mud so deep that the guns often sank up to the axles and stuck fast, the rain falling in torrents all the time. Some of the artillery officers despaired of getting their guns through, but when they saw Nicholson's great form riding steadily on as if nothing was the matter, they took courage, feeling sure that all was right. A short halt was made at the village of Nanghir, and while the troops were resting, two officers rode forward to reconnoitre a nullah that crossed the road about five miles away. They found that a crossing was practicable, and from its bank they descried the enemy's outposts.
It was five o'clock before the column had forded the nullah, under fire of the rebels. Darkness would soon fall, and if the enemy was to be routed no time could be lost. Nicholson himself rode forward to reconnoitre their position. It extended for two miles, from the town of Najafgarh on the left to the bridge over the Najafgarh canal on the right. The strongest point was an old serai at their left centre, where they had four guns; nine other guns lay between this and the bridge. This serai he resolved to attack with his infantry, the guns covering the flanks, and the 9th Lancers and Guides to support the line.
As soon as the line was formed, Nicholson ordered the infantry to lie down while the guns made an attempt to silence those of the enemy. He rode along the line, addressing each regiment in turn, aptly suiting his words to what he knew of their previous achievements in war. One order he gave to them all: to reserve their fire until they came within forty yards of the serai, then to pour in one volley and charge home.
The bugles sounded the advance. The eager men—British riflemen, Bengal fusiliers, Panjab infantry—sprang to their feet with a cheer, and followed Nicholson amid a storm of shot over the oozy swamp that divided them from the enemy. They reached the serai, dashed into it, swept the defenders away, and seized the guns, the sepoys resisting with the desperate bravery they almost always displayed behind defences. The serai cleared, the cheering infantry formed up on the left, and with irresistible dash fell on the rebels as they fled toward the canal bridge in mad haste to save their guns.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Lumsden, brother of Lumsden of the Guides, had driven the enemy out of Najafgarh itself. But just as the sun was setting on the brief battle, Nicholson learnt that a band of mutineers had halted in a cluster of houses between the serai and the canal. Determined not to leave his victory incomplete, he ordered Lumsden to drive them out at the point of the bayonet. The Panjabis followed their gallant leader into the hamlet; but the rebels were well defended, and fought with the stubborn valour of despair. Lumsden fell, shot through the heart; many of his men were killed with him; and it was not until the 61st Foot came up that the last position was won.
This was the only shadow on the brilliance of the victory. Nicholson had routed a force of trained sepoys, double the number of his own men, after a long day's march in the worst of conditions. He had captured twelve of their sixteen guns, and all their stores and baggage. Their slaughter had been great; the demoralized survivors were in full flight for Delhi. On the British side, the casualties were less than a hundred killed and wounded.
The troops bivouacked on the field. Sherdil, lying that night beside Ahmed on a horse-rug, said—
"What will happen to thee, Ahmed-ji, when the city is taken?"
"What indeed, save that I go back with thee and the Guides to Hoti-Mardan!"
"But that cannot be the end of things for thee. Thou art of the sahibs: the secret cannot be kept for ever. The Guides notice something in thee that is different from the rest, and they ask me about it, and I tell them thou art the son of a chief; but they are not satisfied. Dost thou not yearn to be among thy true people?"
"What wouldst thou, Sherdil? I have had such thoughts, but now that I have seen the sahibs, who am I that I should claim kinship with them? I cannot speak their speech; I know nothing of their learning. It were better, maybe, to remain a Guide and in due time become a dafadar like thee; and then some day go back to Shagpur, and do unto that fat Dilasah as he deserves. I came thence to win freedom for my father; and he is now free, and needs not my help. Him I know, and his people; among the sahibs I am but as an ignorant little child."
"Thou sayest true; yet a stone does not rot in water, and though thou remain among Pathans a thousand years thou wilt never be other than a sahib. Well, what must be, will be. Small rain fills a pond: peradventure when thou hast been a little longer with the sahibs the cup of thy desire will run over."