“This is strange and startling news, Haidee,” cried Harper, in astonishment, “and doubly justifies my journey to Cawnpore. The division is commanded by one of the Company’s Generals, Sir Hugh Wheeler, and I shall consider it my duty to apprise him of the treacherous nature of the Nana. I appeal to you, comrade,” he said, turning to Martin, “and shall be glad of your advice.”
Martin was a man of few words. He had proved his reticence by refraining from taking any part in the conversation between Haidee and Harper.
“Go,” was the monosyllabic answer.
“Good. And you?”
“I will, when once outside of these walls, make my way to Meerut.”
“Excellent idea,” cried Harper, as a new thought struck him. “You can not only report me, but render me a personal service. My wife is stationed there; visit her, and inform her of my safety.”
“I will make that a duty. But what is your name?”
“Charles Harper, lieutenant in the Queen’s —— regiment. And yours?”
“James Martin, late engineer in the Delhi Arsenal, now a homeless, penniless waif, saved from an appalling storm of fire, but everything I possessed in the world lost through the destruction of the magazine.”
“But you yourself saved for some good end, Mr. Martin,” Harper replied, as he took his hand and shook it warmly.
“Saved so far,” joined in Haidee; “but there are terrible risks yet to run before you are safe. When darkness has fallen I will endeavour to guide you clear of the city—till then, farewell. I must hurry away now, or I may be missed.”
She caught the hand of Harper and pressed it to her lips, and, bidding Martin adieu, was soon speeding through the avenue of banyan trees towards the Palace, and the two men were left to discuss the situation alone.
To Harper and Martin it was weary waiting through that long day. They dozed occasionally, but suspense and anxiety kept them from enjoying any lengthened or sound sleep.
Occasionally sounds of firing, and yells of riotous mobs reached them, but nothing to indicate that an action was being sustained in the city.
In fact, with the massacre of the Europeans, and the destruction of the magazine, there was nothing for the mutineers to do but to quarrel amongst themselves and to bury their dead.
The city was in their hands. Its almost exhaustless treasures, its priceless works of art, its fabulous wealth, were all at the disposal of the murderous mob.
And never, in the annals of history, was city sacked with such ruthless vandalism, or such ferocious barbarity. Some of the most beautiful buildings were levelled to the ground from sheer wantonness. Costly fabrics were brought out and trampled in the dust, and the streets ran red with wine.
All the gates were closed, the guards were set. And for a time the hypocritical and treacherous old King believed that his power was supreme, and that the English were verily driven out of India.
But he did not look beyond the walls of his city. Had he and his hordes of murderers cared to have turned their eyes towards the horizon of the future, they might have seen the mailed hand of the English conqueror, which, although it could be warded off for a little while, would ultimately come down with crushing effect on the black races.
Perhaps they did see this, and, knowing that their power was short-lived, they made the most of it.
As the day waned, Harper and his companion began to gaze anxiously in the direction of the avenue, along which they expected Haidee to come.
The narrow limits of their hiding-place, and the enforced confinement, were irksome in the extreme, and they were both willing to run many risks for the sake of gaining their liberty.
“That is a strange woman,” said Martin, as he sat on a stone, and gazed thoughtfully up to the waving palm boughs.
“Who?” asked Harper abruptly, for he had been engaged in cogitations, but Haidee had formed no part of them.
“Who? why, Haidee,” was the equally abrupt answer.
“In what way do you consider she is strange?” Harper queried, somewhat pointedly.
“Well, it is not often an Oriental woman will risk her life for a foreigner, as she is doing for you.”
“But she has personal interests to serve in so doing.”
“Possibly; but they are of secondary consideration.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. There is a feeling in her breast strongerand more powerful than her hatred for the King or Moghul Singh.”
“What feeling is that?”
“Love.”
“Love! For whom?”
“For you.”
“Well, I must confess that she plainly told me so,” laughed Harper; “but I thought very little about the matter, although at the time I was rather astonished.”
“I can understand that. But, however lightly you may treat the matter, it is a very serious affair with her.”
“But what authority, my friend, have you for speaking so definitely?”
“The authority of personal experience. I spent some years in Cashmere, attached to the corps of a surveying expedition. The women there are full of romantic notions. They live in a land that is poetry itself. They talk in poetry. They draw it in with every breath they take. Their idiosyncrasies are peculiar to themselves, for I never found the same characteristics in any other nation’s women. They are strangely impetuous, strong in their attachments, true to their promises. And the one theme which seems to be the burden of their lives is love.”
“And a very pretty theme too,” Harper remarked.
“When once they have placed their affections,” Martin went on, without seeming to notice the interruption, “they are true to the death. And if the object dies, it is seldom a Cashmere woman loves again. But when they do, the passion springs up, or rather, is instantly re-awakened. There are some people who affect to sneer at what is called ‘love atfirst sight.’ Well, I don’t pretend to understand much about the mysterious laws of affinity, but the women of Cashmere are highly-charged electrical machines. The latent power may lie dormant for a long time, until the proper contact is made—then there is a flash immediately; and, from that moment, their hearts thrill, and throb, and yearn for the being who has set the power in motion.”
“But you don’t mean to say that I have aroused such a feeling in Haidee’s breast?”
“I do mean to say so.”
“Poor girl!” sighed Harper, “that is most unfortunate for her.”
“She is worthy of your sympathy, as she is of your love.”
“But you forget that I have a wife.”
“No, I do not forget that. I mean, that if you were free, she is a worthy object.”
“But even if I were single, I could not marry this woman.”
“Could not; why not?”
“What! marry a Cashmere woman?”
“Yes; is there anything sooutréin that? You would not be the first Englishman who has done such a thing. Why, I have known Britishers mate with North American Indian women before now.”
“True; but still the idea of Haidee being my wife is such a novel one that I cannot realise it.”
“The heart is a riddle; and human affections are governed by no fixed laws.”
“But really, Martin, we are discussing this matter to no purpose. If Haidee entertains any such passion as that you speak of, it is unfortunate.”
“It is, indeed, unfortunate for her, because if her love is unreciprocated she will languish and die.”
“What do you mean?” asked Harper sharply, and with a touch of indignation. “Surely you would not counsel me to be dishonourable to my wife?”
“God forbid. You misjudge me if you think so. I speak pityingly of Haidee. It is no fault of yours if she has made you the star that must henceforth be her only light. What I have told you are facts, and you may live to prove them so!”
Harper did not reply. His companion’s words had set him pondering. There was silence between the two men, as if they had exhausted the subject, and none other suggested itself to them. The short twilight had faded over the land, the dark robe of night had fallen. It was moonless, even the stars were few, for the queen of night appeared in sullen humour. There were heavy masses of clouds drifting through the heavens, and fitful gusts of wind seemed to presage a storm. The boughs of the overhanging palms rustled savagely, and the child-like cry of the flying foxes sounded weirdly. There was that in the air which told that nature meant war. And sitting there with the many strange sounds around them, and only the glimmer of the stars to relieve the otherwise perfect darkness, what wonder that these two men should dream even as they watched and waited.
Martin had bowed his head in his hands again. Possibly his nerves had not recovered from the shock of the awful fiery storm that had swept over his head but a short time before; and he felt, even as he had said, that he was a waif. Like unto the lonely mariner who rises to the surface after his ship has gone downinto the depths beneath him, and as he gazes mournfully around, he sees nothing but the wild waters, which in their savage cruelty had beaten the lives out of friends and companions, but left him, his destiny not being yet completed—left him for some strange purpose.
Harper was gazing upward—upward to where those jewels of the night glittered. He had fixed his eye upon one brighter than the rest. Martin’s words seemed to ring in his ears—“It is no fault of yours if she has made you the star that must henceforth be her only light.” And that star appeared to him, not as a star, but as Haidee’s face, with its many changing expressions. Her eyes, wonderful in their shifting lights, seemed to burn into his very soul. And a deep and true pity for this beautiful woman took possession of him; poets have said that “pity is akin to love.” If no barrier had stood between him and her, what course would he have pursued? was a question that suggested itself to him. Martin had spoken of the mysterious laws of affinity; they were problems too abstruse to be dwelt upon then. But Harper knew that they existed; he felt that they did. How could he alter them? Could he stay the motes from dancing in the sunbeam? He might shut out the beam, but the motes would still be there. So with this woman; though he might fly from her to the farthest ends of the earth, her haunting presence would still be with him. Heknewthat; but why should it be so? He dare not answer the question; for when an answer would have shaped itself in his brain, there came up another face and stood between him and Haidee’s. It was his wife’s face. He saw it as itappeared on the night when he left Meerut on his journey to Delhi—full of sorrow, anxiety, and terror on his account; and he remembered how she clung to him, hung around his neck, and would not let him go until—remembering she was a soldier’s wife—she released him with a blessing, and bade him go where duty called. And as he remembered this he put up a silent prayer to the Great Reader of the secrets of all hearts that he might be strengthened in his purpose, and never swerve from the narrow way of duty and honour.
The dreams of the dreamers were broken. The visionary was displaced by the reality, and Haidee stood before them. She had come up so stealthily that they had not heard her approach. Nor would they have been conscious that she was there if she had not spoken, for the darkness revealed nothing, and even the stars were getting fewer as the clouds gathered.
“Are you ready?” she asked, in a low tone.
“Yes, yes,” they both answered, springing from their seats, and waking once more to a sense of their true position.
“Take this,” she said, as she handed Harper a large cloak to hide his white shirt, for it will be remembered that his uniform had been stripped from him. “And here is a weapon—the best I could procure.” She placed in his hand a horse-pistol and some cartridges. “Let us go; but remember that the keenest vigilance is needed. The enemy is legion, and death threatens us at every step.”
Harper wrapped the cloak round him, and, loading the pistol, thrust it into his belt.
“I am ready,” he said.
She drew close to him. She took his hand, and bringing her face near to his, murmured—
“Haidee lives or dies for you.”
The silent trio went out into the darkness of the night. Heavy rain-drops were beginning to patter down. The wind was gaining the strength of a hurricane. Then the curtain of the sky seemed to be suddenly rent by a jagged streak of blue flame, that leapt from horizon to horizon, and was followed by a crashing peal of thunder that reverberated with startling distinctness.
“Fortune is kind,” whispered Haidee; “and the storm will favour our escape.”
Scarcely had the words left her lips than a shrill cry of alarm sounded close to their ears, and Harper suddenly found himself held in a vice-like grip.
The cry of alarm that startled the fugitives came from a powerful Sepoy, and it was his arms that encircled Harper.
“Traitorous wretch!” said the man, addressing Haidee; “you shall die for this. I saw you leave the Palace, and, suspecting treachery, followed you.” And again the man gave tongue, with a view of calling up his comrades.
He had evidently miscalculated the odds arrayed against him. Martin was a few yards in front, but realising the position in an instant, sprang back to the assistance of his companion. Then ensued a fierce struggle. The man was a herculean fellow, and retained his hold of Harper. Martin was also powerful, but he could not get a grip of the Sepoy, who rolled over and over with the officer, all the while giving vent to loud cries.
“We are lost, we are lost, unless that man’s cry is stopped!” Haidee moaned, wringing her hands distractedly; then getting near to Martin, she whispered—
“In your comrade’s belt is a dagger; get it—quick.”
The Sepoy heard these words, and tightened his grasp, if that were possible, on Harper’s arms, androlled over and over with him, crying the while with a stentorian voice.
Not a moment was to be lost. There was no time for false sentiment or considerations of mercy. Martin, urged to desperation, flung himself on the struggling men, and getting his hand on the throat of the Sepoy, pressed his fingers into the windpipe, while with the other hand he sought for Harper’s belt. He felt the dagger. He drew it out with some difficulty. He got on his knees, his left hand on the fellow’s throat. As the three struggled, the Sepoy’s back came uppermost.
It was Martin’s chance. He raised his hand, the next moment the dagger was buried between the shoulders of the native, who, with a gurgling cry, released his grip, and Harper was free.
As he rose to his feet, breathless with the struggle, Haidee seized his hand, and kissing it with frantic delight, whispered—“The Houris are good. The light of my eyes is not darkened. You live. Life of my life. Come, we may yet escape.” She made known her thanks to Martin by a pressure of the hand.
Another brilliant flash of lightning showed them the stilled form of the Sepoy. A deafening crash of thunder followed, and the rain came down in a perfect deluge.
The storm was a friend indeed, and a friend in need. It no doubt prevented the cry of the now dead man from reaching those for whom it was intended, as, in such a downpour, no one would be from under a shelter who could avoid it.
The howling of the wind, and the heavy rattle of the rain, drowned the noise of their footsteps.
Drenched with the rain, her long hair streaming in the wind, Haidee sped along, followed by the two men. She led them down the avenue of banyans, and then turning off into a patch of jungle, struck into a narrow path. The lightning played about the trees—the rain rattled with a metallic sound on the foliage—heaven’s artillery thundered with deafening peals.
Presently she came to a small gateway. She had the key; the lock yielded.
“There is a guard stationed close to here,” she whispered: “we must be wary.”
They passed through the gateway. The gate was closed. They were in a large, open, treeless space. Across this they sped. The lightning was against them here, for it rendered them visible to any eyes that might be watching.
But the beating rain and the drifting wind befriended them. The open space was crossed in safety.
“We are clear of the Palace grounds,” Haidee said, as she led the way down a narrow passage; and in a few minutes they had gained the walls of the city.
“We must stop here,” whispered the guide, as she drew Harper and Martin into the shadow of a buttress. “A few yards farther on is a gate, but we can only hope to get through it by stratagem. I am unknown to the guard. This dress will not betray me. I will tell them that I live on the other side of the river, and that I have been detained in the city. I will beg of them to let me out. You must creep up in the shadow of this wall, ready to rush out in case I succeed. The signal for you to do so shall be a whistle.” She displayed a small silver whistle as she spoke, which hung around her neck by a gold chain.
She walked out boldly now, and was followed by the two men, who, however, crept along stealthily in the shadow of the wall. They stopped as they saw that she had reached the gate. They heard the challenge given, and answered by Haidee. In a few minutes a flash of lightning revealed the presence of two Sepoys only. Haidee was parleying with them. At first they did not seem inclined to let her go. They bandied coarse jokes with her, and one of them tried to kiss her. There was an inner and an outer gate. In the former was a door that was already opened. Through this the two soldiers and Haidee passed, and were lost sight of by the watchers, who waited in anxious suspense. Then they commenced to creep nearer to the gateway, until they stood in the very shadow of the arch; but they could hear nothing but the wind and rain, and the occasional thunder. The moments hung heavily now. Could Haidee have failed? they asked themselves. Scarcely so, for she would have re-appeared by this time. As the two men stood close together, each might have heard the beating of the other’s heart. It was a terrible moment. They knew that their lives hung upon a thread, and that if this devoted woman failed, nothing could save them. Still they did not lose hope, though the suspense was almost unendurable. Each grasped his pistol firmly, to be used as a club if occasion required. The termination of what had verily seemed an hour to them, but in reality only five minutes, brought the welcome signal—the whistle was blown.
“You first, Harper,” said Martin.
They darted from their hiding-place and rushed through the door; a Sepoy tried to bar the passage,but was felled by a blow from Harper’s pistol; in another moment they were outside the walls—Haidee was waiting for them.
“Speed!” she cried, leading the way.
The alarm was already being spread. A deep-toned gong, that could be heard even above the howling wind, was warning the sentries that something had happened.
From gate to gate, from guard to guard, the signal passed, and soon a hundred torches were flaring in the wind; there were confusion and commotion, and much rushing to and fro, but nobody exactly seemed to know what it was all about, only that someone had escaped. A few shots were fired—why, was a mystery—and even a big gun vomited forth a volume of flame and sent a round shot whizzing through space, only to fall harmlessly in a far-off paddy-field. In the meantime the fugitives, favoured by the darkness and the wind, sped along, keeping under the shadow of the wall, until the bridge of boats was passed.
“We cannot cross the bridge,” said Haidee, “for on the other side there is a piquet stationed.”
“How, then, shall we gain the opposite bank?” asked Harper.
“By swimming,” she answered.
When they had proceeded about a quarter of a mile farther, Haidee stopped.
“This is a good part; the river is narrow here, but the current is strong.”
“But will it not be dangerous for you to trust yourself to the stream?” Martin remarked, as he divested himself of his jacket.
“Dangerous? No,” she answered; “I am an excellent swimmer.”
She unwound a long silken sash from her waist, and, tying one end round her body and the other round Harper, she said—
“I am ready. Swim against the current as much as possible, and you will gain a bend almost opposite to us.”
Martin walked to the water’s edge, and, quietly slipping in, struck out boldly. Haidee and Harper followed, and as they floated out into the stream she whispered—
“We are bound together. Where you go I go; we cannot separate.”
It was hard work breasting that rapid current, but the swimmers swam well, and the bank was gained. Emerging, somewhat exhausted, and with the muddy waters of the Jumna dripping from them, they stood for some minutes to recover their breath.
Haidee was the first to speak.
“We are safe so far,” she said. “Before us lies the Meerut road. The way to Cawnpore is to the left.”
“Then I suppose we must part,” Martin observed.
“Yes,” she answered. “You have but thirty miles to go; travel as far as possible during the night, and in the morning you will be safe.”
Martin took her hand.
“You are as brave as beautiful, and I am too poor in words to thank you. But in my heart I have a silent gratitude that time can never wear away.”
“God speed you,” joined in Harper. “Tell my wife that you left me well and hopeful. Bid her wait patiently for my coming.”
“You may depend upon me.”
Martin shook the hands of his friends, and, turning away, was soon lost in the darkness.
When his retreating footsteps had died out, Haidee grasped Harper’s hand, for he stood musingly, his thoughts preceding his friend to Meerut; he felt not a little sad as he pictured his wife waiting and weeping for him, and he wondered if he would ever see her again.
“Come,” said Haidee softly. “Come,” she repeated, as he did not seem to notice her at first, “time flies, and we are surrounded with danger.”
He turned towards her with a sigh.
“Why do you sigh?” she asked.
“I scarcely know.”
“Is it for one who is absent?”
“Perhaps so.”
Shesighed now, inaudibly, and she pressed her hand on her heart; but he did not notice the movement.
“Cawnpore is distant,” she said, in a low tone, “and the night is already far spent. Let us go.”
And so they went on, side by side, into the darkness, on to the unknown future. And the wind moaned around them like a warning voice, and beat in their faces as if it would drive them back.
For many years, up to eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, Cawnpore had been one of the greatest Indian military stations. In the palmy days of the Honourable East India Company all the officers invariably spent some period of their service there. As a consequence, there were wealth and beauty and fashion to be found in the British quarters; there were luxury and ease, and their concomitants, profligacy and vice—and yet withal it was perhaps neither better nor worse than all great military centres—while for rollicking gaiety and “life” it stood at the head, even Calcutta being behind it in this respect. But when the mutiny broke out, Cawnpore’s sun was declining,—not but what it was still a station of importance, but the coming end of the “Company’s” power had brought about many changes in this as well as in most other Indian cities.
It was an irregularly built place, some eight miles in extent. Squalor and wealth seemed to fraternise; for in many parts the lordly mansion raised its head beside some tumble-down, reeking native den. There was no pretension to anything like mathematical precision in the streets. They had been laid out in the most promiscuous manner. In fact, it might notinaptly be said that if you wanted to construct a Cawnpore such as it was at the time of our story, you must take a big plain with lots of cocoa-palms about, and a broad river running through it. Then get many hundreds of bamboo and mud huts; a few marble palaces, some temples with gilded minarets, a few big public buildings, a hospital or two, a gaol, and a quantity of miscellaneous structures, such as an arsenal, barracks, etc., shake them all up together, and toss them out on the plain, and there you have your Cawnpore.
To be accurate in the description, which is necessary to the better understanding and interest of this history, the city is built on the banks of the Ganges. The British lines were on the southern bank, and in the centre of the cantonment, and leading from a point opposite the city, was a bridge of boats to the Lucknow road on the other bank. Lying between the roads to Bhitoor and Delhi were many of the principal civilians’ houses. Beyond the lines were the gaol, the treasury, and churches; while squeezed up in the north-west corner was the magazine. In the centre, between the city and the river, were the assembly-rooms—made notorious by subsequent events—a theatre, a church, and the telegraph office. The place was well provided with entertainments. There were splendid shops, and they were well stocked with goods of every description, from almost every country in the world. Western civilisation and Indian primitiveness were linked.
In this terrible “57” Cawnpore was commanded by a General of Division, Sir Hugh Wheeler, who resided there with the Division staff. But although there wasan immense strength of native soldiery, not a single European regiment was garrisoned in the place, the only white troops being about fifty men of her Majesty’s Eighty-fourth and a few Madras Fusiliers. Sir Hugh was a gallant officer, who had served the “Company” long and honourably, and was covered with scars and glory. But the sands of life were running low, for upwards of seventy summers and winters had passed over his head. A short time before, the only regiment that had been stationed in Cawnpore for a long time had been sent to Lucknow. This was the Thirty-second Queen’s. But they left behind them all theimpedimenta, in the shape of wives, children, and invalids; and the awful responsibility of protecting these helpless beings devolved upon the time-worn veteran. Some little distance out on the Bhitoor road, there stood a magnificent dwelling, a veritable palace, with numberless outbuildings, courtyards, and retainers’ quarters. It was the home of the Rajah of Bhitoor, Dundoo Pant, otherwise Nana Sahib. His wealth at this time was almost boundless. He had troops of horses, and elephants, and quite a regiment of private soldiers. Many a time had his roof rang with the hearty laughter of English ladies and gentlemen. He was the trusted friend of the Feringhees, was this Mahratta prince. They loaded him with wealth, with favours, with honour, did all but one thing—recognise his right to succession. And their refusal to do this transformed the man, who, although a courteous gentleman outwardly, was a tyrant in his home life, and this failure to gratify his ambition turned his heart to flint, and developed in him thesanguinary nature of the tiger, without the tiger’s honesty. Well indeed had he concealed his disappointment since “52,” when Azimoolah, who had gone to England to plead the prince’s cause, returned to report his failure. To speak of Azimoolah as a tiger would be a libel on the so-called royal brute. He might fittingly be described as representing in disposition the fiends of the nether world, whose mission is to destroy all good, to develop all evil, to drag down the souls of human beings to perdition. He was the bad tool of a bad master, if he did not absolutely lead that master to some extent. Allied to the twain was Teeka Singh, soubahdar of the Second Cavalry. The trio were as cowardly a set of villains as ever made common cause in a bad case.
Between the King of Delhi and the Nana there had been numberless communications and frequent interviews, spreading over a period of some years. The imbecile puppet of Delhi fondly imagined that he could be a king in power as well as name, and he looked to Nana of Bhitoor as a man who could help him to gain this end. Actuated by similar motives, Nana Sahib fraternised with the King for the sake of the influence he would command. But between the two men there was an intense hatred and jealousy. Each hoped to make the other a tool. It was the old fable of the monkey and the cat realised over again. Both wanted the nuts, but each feared to burn his fingers. In one thing they were unanimous—they hated the English. They writhed under the power of the Great White Hand, and wished to subdue it. But although the King betrayed this so that he incurred the mistrust of the English, the Nana was a perfectmaster in the art of dissembling, and all that was passing in his mind was a sealed book to his white friends.
When the revolt broke out in Meerut, old Sir Hugh Wheeler fondly believed that the storm could not possibly spread to Cawnpore. But as the days wore on, signs were manifested that caused the General considerable uneasiness. Some of the native soldiers became insubordinate and insolent. Still he felt no great alarm, for in an emergency he had his trusted and respected friend the Rajah to fly to for assistance. The General, iron-willed and dauntless himself, showed no outward signs of mistrust. He had passed his life amongst the natives. He loved them with a love equalling a father’s. He respected their traditions, honoured their institutions, venerated their antiquity; and while the storm, distant as yet, was desolating other parts of the fair land, he betrayed no doubts about the fidelity of his troops. Morning after morning he rode fearlessly amongst them, his genial face and cheery voice being seen and heard in all quarters. But as the mutterings of the storm grew louder and more threatening, anxiety for the hundreds of helpless people on his hands filled him. He could no longer shut his eyes to the fact that there was danger—a terrible danger—in the air. It was his duty to use every endeavour to guard against it, and he felt that the time had come to appeal to his friend the Rajah.
He rode over to the Bhitoor Palace, and was received by the Nana with studied courtesy and respect.
“I have come to solicit aid from your Highness,”the old General began, as he seated himself on a luxurious lounge in what was known as the “Room of Light,” so called from its princely magnificence. The roof was vaulted, and, in a cerulean ground, jewels, to represent stars, were inserted, and, by a peculiar arrangement, a soft, violet light was thrown over them, so that they scintillated with dazzling brightness. The walls were hung with the most gorgeous coloured and richest silks from Indian looms. The senses were gratified with mingled perfumes, which arose from dozens of hidden censers. The most exquisite marble statues were arranged about with the utmost taste. Mechanical birds poured forth melodious floods of song. The sound of splashing water, as it fell gently into basins of purest Carrara marble, rose dreamily on the air. Soft and plaintive music, from unseen sources, floated and flowed around. The floor was covered with cloth of spotless silver; a profusion of most costly and rare furs were scattered about. Articles of vertu, priceless china, gilded time-pieces, gorgeous flowers, and magnificent fruits were there to add to the bewilderment of richness and beauty. While over all, through delicately-tinted violet and crimson glass, there streamed a mellow light, the effect of which was the veryacméof perfection. It was verily a bower of dreams, a fairy boudoir. A confused medley of colour, of beauty, and sweet sounds, that was absolutely intoxicating and bewildering.[4]
It was here that the Rajah, attired in all the gorgeousness of a wealthy Mahratta prince, andattended by a brilliant suite, received Sir Hugh Wheeler.
“My services are at your command, General,” was the Nana’s soft answer. But his dusky cheeks burned with the joy that animated his cruel heart as he thought that his day-star was rising; that the stream of time was bringing him his revenge; that the great nation which had been the arbiter of others’ fate, had become a suppliant for its own. “In what way can I render you assistance?” he asked after a pause.
“Your Highness is aware,” the General answered, “that there rests upon my shoulders a very grave responsibility, and I may be pardoned if I confess to some anxiety for the safety of the large number of women and children who are under my care.”
“But what is the danger you apprehend, General?” and the Nana laughed loudly, coarsely, and it might have been gloatingly; for he stood there, in that paradise of beauty, a spirit of evil, and in his soul there was but one feeling—it was the feeling of revenge. His heart throbbed revenge; in his ears a voice cried revenge. It was his only music, night and day it went on ceaselessly; he listened to it; he bowed down and worshipped before the god of destruction and cruelty. For years he had prayed for the gratification of but one desire—the desire to have these Feringhees in his power; and the answer to that prayer was coming now. Neither wealth nor the luxury that wealth could purchase could give him one jot of the pleasure that he would experience in seeing the streets of Cawnpore knee-deep in English blood. He felt himself capable of performing deeds that a Robespierre, a Danton, a Marat, ay, even aNero himself, would have shuddered at, for the barbarities of the Roman tyrant were the inventions of a brain that beyond doubt was deeply tainted with insanity. But no such excuse as this could ever be pleaded for the Rajah of Bhitoor. It would be impossible for the pen of fiction to make this man’s nature blacker than it was; he was a human problem, beyond the hope of human solution; one of those monstrosities that occasionally start up in the world of men to appal us with their awfulness, and seemingly to substantiate the old belief that in the garb of humanity fiends of darkness dwell upon the earth. And yet, with a wonderful power of self-control, he betrayed nothing of what he felt.
“Objectionable as it is for me to have to think so,” answered the General to the Nana’s question, “there is a fire smouldering in the breasts of the native regiments here stationed; they have caught the taint which is in the air, and a passing breath may fan the fire into a blaze, or the most trivial circumstance develop the disease. After what has been done at Meerut and Delhi, we know to what length the Demon of Discord can go when once it breaks loose!”
“I think you are alarming yourself unnecessarily, General; but, since you desire it, pray tell me in what way my services can be utilised?”
“Firstly, then, I must ask you to post a strong body of your retainers, with a couple of guns, at the Newab-gung. This place commands the treasury and the magazine, both exposed places, and the first places that will be attacked in case of a revolt.”
“You English look well after your money stores, Sir Hugh,” jocularly remarked Azimoolah, who hadbeen examining a large portfolio of water-colour drawings of English “beauty spots.” And as he stepped forward a few paces, he rubbed his hands, and his face was contorted with a sardonic smile. I say contorted, for it was a singular characteristic of this man that he could not laugh; the hearty cachinnation of honest men became in this one a mere contortion of the facial muscles; and his eyes, cold and snake-like, glittered with a deadly light. “I noted, as the result of close observation when in England,” he continued, “that this same money was a very much worshipped god; and those who had it were flattered and fawned upon, and those who had it not were the despised and rejected.”
“But is that not a principle unfortunately common to every people?” Sir Hugh remarked.
“Possibly; but I think nowhere is it so conspicuous as in England. And, after all, I think that there is a good deal of emptiness in the boasted freedom of the English; for the poor are slaves in all but name, and the task-masters of Southern America are not more grinding or exacting than are your English lords and capitalists. The dogs and horses of your wealthy squires are housed and fed infinitely better than are your poor.”
“I think you are prejudiced against my nation,” said the General.
“Possibly so,” was the pointed answer, “and, perhaps, not without cause; for I found that the English are much given to preaching what they never think of practising; and the boasted liberality of John Bull is a pleasant fiction, like many more of the virtues of that much vaunted personage.”
“But to return to the subject of our conversation,” joined in the Nana, as if fearing that Azimoolah’s feelings would betray him into some indiscretion; and so he was anxious to put an end to the discussion. “You wish me to place a guard over your arsenal and treasury?”
“That is my desire,” said Wheeler.
“Good; orders shall at once be given for two hundred of my retainers to march to the Newab-gung. That point being settled satisfactorily, what is your next request, General?”
“That you will hold your troops in instant readiness to join my little body of men, and suppress the insurrection, should it unfortunately break out.”
“That also shall be complied with,” smiled the Nana. “Anything further to request?”
“I think not; but I cannot allow the opportunity to pass without thanking your Highness for your ready acquiescence to my wishes, and in the name of my country I further tender you thanks for your devotion and loyalty.”
The Nana smiled again and bowed, and Azimoolah adjusted his gold eye-glasses, and pretended to be busy in his examination of the portfolio; but into his face came back the expression of ferocious joy, and it was with difficulty he suppressed an audible chuckle.
The business upon which he had come being ended, the General took his departure.
“Inflated fool!” muttered the Rajah, when his guest had gone. “Loyalty and devotion forsooth! Umph! bitterness and hatred methinks.”
“The brow of your Highness is clouded,” saidAzimoolah fawningly, as he closed the portfolio and came forward.
“Clouded?” laughed the Nana; “no, no, Azi, clouds sit not there. It is joy. Joy, my faithful. Ah, ah, ah, ah! Clouds, indeed! By our sacred writings, I should be unworthy of my sire if I allowed a cloud to darken the joy I feel. Ah, ah, ah! the confidence of these English is amazing. They think they can put their heads into the lion’s jaw with impunity. Well, well, let them do it. The lion knows when to close his jaws at the right moment.”
“Say rather, your Highness, that the tiger, having scented quarry, knows how to track it to the death with downy tread, and spring as light as air.”
“Aptly said, Azi, and so it shall be. They shall say Iamthe tiger before I’ve done. Come,” linking his arm in Azimoolah’s, “let us walk in the grounds. Order the dance for to-night, and let there be a display of fireworks. By the beard of Mahomet, we will make merry. ‘With downy tread, and spring as light as air.’ Ah, ah, ah! So it shall be.”
The mechanical birds were warbling sweetly, and unseen censers were making the air balmy with delicious perfume, the silken curtains rustled pleasantly, the falling water plashed musically. There was peace and beauty around, above, below; but in the hearts of these two men, as they went out, laughing sardonically, there was the deadly poison of human hatred, and no shadow of the Great White Hand disturbed them in the hour of their supposed triumph. Indeed the Nana believed that the power of the British in India was fast waning, never to be restored.
[3]Nana Sahib was first referred to as “The Tiger of Cawnpore” by theTimes.
[4]This is no exaggerated description. The room was exactly as described.
At the end of a block of buildings attached to the Rajah of Bhitoor’s Palace was a lofty, square tower, rising to the height of sixty feet, and crowned with a gilded cupola. It was a massive stone structure, and contained many apartments, used as the lodgings of the Nana’s retainers. From the basement to the roof there straggled, in wild profusion, a tough rope-like Indian parasite, a species of ivy, with reddish leaves. The beauty of the whole building was materially enhanced by this plat, that insinuated itself into every crevice, and twined gracefully round every angle. It was a conspicuous mark in the landscape, was this ivy-covered tower. It asserted its presence over all other erections; it rose up with a sort of braggadocio air, like unto a tall bully, and as if it said, “I am here. Who is as great as I?”
It had been witness to many a strange scene. If its time-stained stones could have spoken, many and curious would have been the tales they would have had to tell.
Quarrels deadly and bloody had taken place beneath its roof. There, too, had the Indian maid listened to the voice of the charmer. English officers had made it their quarters in the balmy days of theH.E.I.C., and its walls had given back the echo of the shouts of many a Bacchanalian revel. Life and death, laughter and tears, storm and calm, had it seen. But it was doomed to witness one scene yet such as it had never witnessed before.
In the topmost room of all, up next to the stars, and from the windows of which one looked from a dizzy height on to the roofs of many buildings that rose on all sides, and away over the city to the plains and the broken jungles, and followed the course of the “sacred Gunga,” that, like a silver thread, ran tortuously through the landscape, sat a maid, an English lady. It was Flora Meredith. It was the night of the day upon which Sir Hugh Wheeler had had an interview with Nana Sahib, and she was watching the fireworks that were being let off in the Palace grounds. That is, if one might be said to be watching who looked but saw not; whose eyes, while fixedthere, were looking beyond, from the past—the happy, bright, and sunny past—to the future, the unknown, the dark, the awful future.
Her face was pale, and it seemed as if years had passed over her head since we last saw her, instead of brief, but terrible, days.
The rush of events, the sudden changes, the magical transformations, as it were, of those days, had literally bewildered her, and what she did see she saw through a kind of mental haze. Her mother dead, her lover gone, her home destroyed, and she herself forcibly kept away from kith and kin! Surely these things were enough to make sick the boldest heart, and to daze the strongest brain. The journey from Delhi had been a hurried one. The drug administered toher by Jewan Bukht had been merciful in its effects, since it had deprived her of the power of thought for a long time; and since Jewan had conveyed her to this place she had only seen him once. Her wants had been attended to by an old woman—a hag in appearance, a thing of evil in disposition. Her name was Wanna Ranu. She was little, and ancient, and bent; her skin was shrivelled, like unto old parchment; her nose was hooked, her chin beaked. She had long, bony arms, that were encircled with many brass rings; brass bands were fastened round her ankles, and large brass rings were pendant from her ears. She was one of the strange characters to be found in almost every Indian city. Her hatred for the Feringhee was undying. She had drawn it in with her mother’s milk. A hanger-on at the Palace, an unrecognised waif, a casteless outcast, living literally, it might be said, on the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table, if grains of rice could be so designated.
When Jewan Bukht had arrived at the Bhitoor Palace, he was at first at a loss where to convey Flora to, and into whose charge to give her. He could not let it be known that he had brought an Englishwoman with him, and he dare not neglect the business of his master, the Nana Sahib, by whom he was employed as the bearer of secret messages, and to stir up the smouldering fires of insubordination in the native regiments. When, in his mad infatuation for the white girl, he had decided to carry her away, he had not counted upon the costs of so doing, nor the difficulties that would beset him. But, being so far advanced, he could not turn back; he must make the best of circumstances.It was night when he reached the Palace. Flora was ill and semi-unconscious, and as he stood deliberating what course to pursue with reference to her, Wanna Ranu crossed his path. He knew the woman from previous visits to Cawnpore, and he immediately secured her as a custodian for his captive. For although she hated the white people she loved pice more; and pice would enable her to obtain ghee, a luxury to such as she that was worth doing much for.
She knew the Palace well, particularly the tower. She was aware that the upper part of this Palace was untenanted; that the doors were strong, the locks good. And when Jewan had queried the possibility of Flora escaping, the hag had grinned maliciously, and exclaimed—
“Escape? No, no, my son; unless she has wings and can fly.”
And so to this room Flora was taken, and the witch-like janitor was bound in promises such as the most depraved Indian will respect, to guard her well and secretly.
Flora sat alone, gazing, as has been said, vacantly out into the night. Wanna had left her for a little while to cook her evening meal.
The poor girl’s heart was heavy. It was as if a hand, cold and hard, was gripping it and squeezing out its life. She had been plunged with cruel suddenness into moral gloom; but the last thing in life to leave a person is hope; and although the brightness of this star had diminished to a feeble ray, it yet shone in her darkness and gave her courage. She trusted in the Giver of Life for a way out of her tribulation. She prayed, silently, fervently, to Himto shield her with His mighty arm; to beat down her enemies, to raise up a deliverer, to break the bonds that ensnared her. And yet withal it was weary waiting, and what wonder that her soul was heavily charged.
She remembered the promise of Zeemit Mehal, and she knew that if Walter Gordon lived, he would follow her. If they went to Delhi, she thought, Zeemit would soon learn of Jewan’s departure, and Walter would still follow, if that was possible, even as the faithful Evangeline followed Gabriel.
There was comfort in that thought, at least. It might be but a sorry reed to lean upon, but will not a man in his extremest need clutch even at a straw? And so this poor, suffering woman took hope of heart even at this, remote though the probabilities were of its fulfilment.
The only light in her apartment was a small, swinging cocoa-nut lamp. It was like her hope, faint, and barely did it make the darkness more than visible. But its melancholy and flickering rays served, at least, to reveal to her the cheerlessness of her apartment. The only furniture was a native wooden bedstead, covered with matting; a bench fixed to the wall to serve as a table, and two massive, wooden chairs. The walls themselves were plasterless, for the plaster had fallen away with damp and age; and the only decoration, if worthy of the name, was a large native drawing of a hideous idol. It had a dozen arms on each side, and in each hand it held a sort of club. Flora’s eyes had wandered to this picture: she had gazed at it, until somehow it took shape in her thoughts as the “Retributive God” that would arisewith its piercing eyes to discover, and its many hands to smite down the cruel and relentless enemy of her country, and the slayer of her kindred. She felt sure that the horrid mutiny could not go on for long. The Great White Hand was mighty in its strength. There were British soldiers who had never yet been conquered; would they not speedily come and destroy the foe, whose triumph could be but short-lived?
Her meditations were suddenly interrupted by the opening of the door, and turning her eyes in that direction, she uttered an involuntary cry of alarm, as they fell upon the dusky form of Jewan Bukht.
“Why do you cry as if a cobra had stung you?” he asked, angrily.
“A cobra would be more welcome than you!” she answered with a shudder; “for it kills only through an instinct of self-preservation, and does not wilfully torture its victims.”
“Umph, you are complimentary,” as he locked the door, and moved near to the shrinking girl. “I have not tortured you.”
“Your very presence is torture to me.”
“Indeed! If your heart and mine were taken from our bodies, and laid side by side, would there be any perceptible difference in their construction? Why, then, should my presence torture you, since my heart is similar to your own? It is because my skin is dark. Were it of the same sickly hue as your own, you would have no scruples.”
“Your words are false,” she answered, quivering with indignation. “An honourable woman, when once she has given her love, is true to death.”
The man sneered scornfully, as he seated himself in one of the chairs.
“Why should I not gain your love? I made an honourable proposal to you. I offered to marry you. You rejected that offer. Why?”
“How can you ask such a question? You are well aware that I was the affianced wife of Mr. Gordon.”
Jewan’s brows contracted, and he ground his teeth, and clutched at the air with his hands, by reason of the passion which moved him.
“If I had a cobra’s poison,” he answered, after a pause, “I would spit it at you every time you mention that name. Between you and him lies a gulf that can never be bridged. You looked your last upon him the evening he left you in Meerut. Even supposing that he still lives, which is doubtful, seeing that a hundred bullets waited for him alone by my orders, he could never rescue you, because I have everywhere spies and tools who would hack him to pieces on a look from me.”
Flora staggered a little, and her face grew pallid; she grasped at the chair with her right hand, and the left she pressed hard against her breast, as if trying to still the throbbing of her wildly beating heart.
The man jumped up and caught her in his arms, for she seemed as if about to fall. His face came close to hers, his hot breath was on her cheek, his glittering eyes looked into hers, and seemed to chill her. She struggled and writhed, but was powerless to free herself from his strong grasp.
“You are mine!” he almost hissed. “You are mine,” he repeated with ferocious glee. “You aremine!” he reiterated for the third time, as he tightened his arm around her waist. “There are moments in our lives when we feel that we have attained something that were worth whatever years in the future may be reserved for us. Such a moment do I experience now; and, for the sake of a victory like this, I could almost die.”
It was an unequal strife. It was muscle, as opposed to virtue and womanly indignation. He might still further tighten his arm until he had squeezed the breath from her body. He might torture her with his words until her heart cracked, and she became a stiffened corpse in his arms; but where would be the triumph? He might as well have tried to grasp a soap bubble and retain its prismatic glory, as to penetrate the invulnerable armour of virtue and honesty in which this woman was shielded.
She drew herself back from him as far as she could. She kept him off with her outstretched arms, and, with an energy that positively startled him for the time, she exclaimed—
“Jewan Bukht, life is a precious thing; we cling to it while there is the faintest glimmer of hope. But sooner than be yours—sooner than be false to the vows made to Walter Gordon—my finger nails shall tear open the veins and let my life flow away. If I had twenty lives, I would yield every one, sooner than be yours even in thought.”
Her determined air made him wince—her words stung him; and coward and craven that he was, he felt strongly tempted to put forth his man’s strength and dash her to the earth. He felt that he was beaten, and though he might kill the body he couldnot bend her will. He still retained his hold of her. Her hands were still on his shoulders, and she was keeping him off; but by a sudden twist he freed himself, and suddenly pressed her close to his breast.
“You see how thoroughly you are mine,” he said, exultantly.
Her answer was a piercing scream, again and again renewed, as she struggled to free herself.
He had not counted upon this. It was a woman’s weapon, and served her in this case. He was fearful that her cries might be heard, and draw attention to his prisoner. He was puzzled for a moment how to act. She still screamed, and he dragged her towards the bed with the intention of trying to smother her cries. He was frustrated, however, by a knocking at the door. A pause. Flora heard the knock, and uttered a piercing shriek. The rapping was repeated. He literally threw her from him, so that she reeled and fell to the floor.
“You infernal fool!” he hissed, “I will take your life inch by inch sooner than you shall escape me.”
He inserted the key in the lock, and threw open the door.
Wanna Ranu entered. She grinned unpleasantly and twisted her scraggy hands one about the other.
“The white-faced cat yells,” she said; “why do you not gag her?”
Wanna was not alone; there entered with her another woman—a native. It was Zeemit Mehal.
With a cry of joy, Flora sprang to her feet, and, darting forward, threw her arms round Zeemit’s neck, exclaiming—
“Oh, Zeemit, save me! save me!”
But Zeemit shook her off, as it seemed, savagely; and with an Indian grunt of contempt, said—
“As well might you appeal to the stones. Zeemit knows no pity for the Feringhee woman.”
With a wail of pain, wrung from a heart filled almost to bursting, Flora sank to the floor; and Jewan’s joy found vent in loud laughter.
“Your arrival is well-timed,” said Jewan, turning to Zeemit.
“I see that it is so,” she answered. “I soon discovered in Delhi that you had left, and I determined to follow you, for poor old Zeemit is alone in the world now. I was lucky in meeting with Wanna. Some years ago I was in Cawnpore, and I knew her then. When she learnt that I had followed you, she lost no time in conducting me here.”
“I am glad of it,” said Jewan. “My prize will be safely kept now. Guard her well, Zeemit; and you, Wanna, if you value your life, look to her! You understand? She has dared to defy me, and I swear to subdue her!”
He crossed the room to where Flora still trembled, and crouched upon the floor. He stooped over, and said, with bitterness—
“I leave you now. Business calls me hence, but I shall return to-night, and then we will see who conquers.”
He passed out of the room, and Wanna locked the door after him. It was an inexpressible relief to Flora when he had gone. But when she raised her head, and her eyes fell upon Wanna’s face, she shuddered.It was a face scarcely human in its expression of hate. She turned to Zeemit—she had given her hope in Meerut—why had she failed her now? She could read little or nothing in the dusky features. Her heart sank, for the glimmering ray that had supported her hitherto seemed to fade entirely.
“Come,” said Wanna, spurning the trembling girl with her foot, “here is food for you; I suppose I must keep life in you until Jewan has sucked your sweetness. What he can see in you I know not. It is a mad infatuation, and he will get the better of it; but if I had my way I would torture you. I would spoil your beauty—I would pluck your eyes out—I would lop off a limb from your body every day—I would burn you with hot irons. Ah, ah, ah! it would be sport! Eh, Zeemit, what say you? We have been ground as corn in a mill by these accursed Feringhees; and now that our day has come, have we not a right to be glad?”
She hummed the air of an Indian ditty, and fairly danced about the room with fiendish glee.
“Oh, woman!” moaned the unhappy Flora, “if you are not altogether inhuman, have pity, and kill me.”
“Ugh, bah, pish! pity indeed,” cried Wanna, moving about backwards and forwards in that restless and strange manner peculiar to caged, wild animals. “Have we ever had pity from your countrymen? Have you not crushed us into the earth?—subdued us with fire and sword? And now that our power is coming back we know well how to retaliate.”
As she spoke she spat upon the floor twice, and made a sort of hissing sound with her lips.[5]
“Why do you not get up?” asked Zeemit, in a tone that contrasted strangely with the savageness and cruelty of Wanna.
The ray brightened again for Flora. She caught comfort from that voice; but when she looked into the face she saw nothing to justify the inference she had drawn. The kindliness displayed in Zeemit’s voice did not escape Wanna, who turned sharply upon her country-woman and cried—
“How is this? You speak to the white-faced cat as if she were your pet dove, instead of an enemy.”
“Scarcely an enemy, Wanna. Her only crime seems to be that she is a Feringhee.”
“She is a beast.”
“She is a woman, and I feel as a woman should do for her.”
Zeemit’s words were to Flora like water to the parched earth. They gave her hope, they gave her joy; she drank them in with avidity, and gained strength. She rose up and would have clung around the neck of her ayah, had not the attitude of Wanna appalled her.
The hag stood facing Zeemit. The bangles on her legs and arms chinked as she shook with passion. Shewas clawing the air, and almost foaming at the mouth. She struggled to speak, but her passion well-nigh choked her. Words came at last.
“You sympathise with this Feringhee woman. I see through you—you are an enemy to us, a friend to her. But, if you thought to liberate her, you have set up a trap into which you yourself have blindly walked. I go for Jewan.”
She made a movement towards the door. To let her go would frustrate every plan. Zeemit knew that it was no time for reflection. It was woman to woman—age to age; for on both the years pressed heavily. With a lithe and agile spring she fastened upon Wanna, who, with the sudden instinct of self-preservation and the ferocity of the jungle cat, twisted her bony fingers round and dug her nails deep into the flesh of the other’s arms.
It was a strange scene. From the wall the picture of the idol seemed to grin hideously. Speechless with terror, poor Flora stood wringing her hands. The two women, panting with the first shock of attack, glared at each other, and over all there fell the weird, flickering light of the swinging cocoa-lamp.
As in all Indian buildings of this kind, there was a long window in the room opening on to a verandah. The jalousies were thrown back. The stars in the heavens were shining, and from below came up the sounds of the voices of the natives, who were beating their tom-toms and making merry.
Miss Meredith moved to this verandah. She peered over. She could see groups of people below. Her first impulse was to call for assistance, but in an instant she was convinced of the madness of such aproceeding. On the issue of the struggle her life depended. She might go free if Zeemit conquered—die if the triumph was Wanna’s.
“Give me the key of that door,” demanded Zeemit, when she had recovered breath enough for speech.
“Never while my heart beats,” answered the other.
“Then I will take it from you when your heart has done beating,” said Zeemit.
Mehal was slightly the taller of the two women, and her arms were longer. In this respect she, perhaps, had an advantage.
The women struggled furiously. Now they were locked in a deadly embrace, now parted, only to spring together again with increased ferocity. Never did wild animals grip and tear, and hiss, and struggle more savagely than did these two women. But the springs which moved them both to action were of a totally different nature. A kindly desire to render assistance to one in distress was Mehal’s motive—a deadly hatred for the Englishwoman was the other’s.
They dragged each other round the room; they panted with the extraordinary exertion which each made to gain the victory; their muslin garments were encrimsoned with blood and rent to shreds. Now they dashed against the stone walls, then reeled and tottered to the floor, writhing in the agony of the terrible grip which each had of the other. Rising again, covered with dust and blood, and their limbs locked together like snakes—their faces contorted with pain and passion, and their breath coming thick and fast.
It was an awful moment for Flora. She would have rendered assistance to Mehal, but that was impracticable, as she found, for Wanna twisted herselfabout so rapidly as to frustrate the attempts which Flora made to grasp her.
It was truly a struggle for life; for, ere it ceased, one of the strugglers must die. They knew that, and so they fought with the desperate energy which nerves a human being when dear life is at stake.
The efforts of Wanna were growing gradually weaker. Mehal had worked one of her hands up to the other’s throat, and she was pressing her thumb and fingers together, until Wanna’s eyes started.
The hag knew now that only by a desperate effort could she free herself, and save her life. But even if that were impossible, she was determined that her antagonist should not live to enjoy her triumph.
She put forth what little strength remained in her withered frame. It was an upleaping of the dying fire again, and for a moment the battle raged fiercer than ever. They spun round, and reeled, and staggered.
The end was coming. Wanna felt that. With an almost superhuman effort, she managed to drag her foe to the verandah, and, with a quick and sudden movement, drew the key from her girdle, and, uttering a cry of ferocious joy, was about to hurl it over the railings. But a counter-movement of Mehal’s broke the force of the jerk, and the key fell on the extreme edge.
Flora darted forward, but she could not pass the combatants.
Wanna saw that her chance had gone. But nerving herself for one final struggle, she dragged Mehal round. They lost their balance—they fell to the floor—they rolled against the wooden railings, which, old and rotten with age, broke down with a crash.Away went the key into space. The two women were on the extreme edge of the verandah!
Flora rushed forward once more. She made a frantic clutch at their garments, with a view of dragging them back.
It was too late!
Death let fall his spear, and took the stakes. The fighters rolled over, and Flora stood petrified with horror, still holding in her hands some remnants of blood-stained garments.
The wind moaned amongst the ivy on the walls. In its wailing she seemed to hear a prophetic voice that told her the struggle she had been an unwilling witness to between the two women, but represented the greater struggle between two races that had just commenced; and, before it could end, the soil of India should be drenched with blood.