The night wind moaned. It sounded in her ears like a requiem for her slaughtered friends. It seemed like an agonised cry of pain, wrung from hearts suffering almost more than mortal sorrow.
The night wind moaned—a dirge-like moan, that told that the Angel of Peace had been beaten, broken-winged, into the dust; and through the Orient land were stalking the grim demons, War and Woe.
The night wind spoke. It told her that the catastrophe she had just witnessed destroyed every hope of escape she might have had, for with Zeemit her best friend had gone.
She heard Jewan Bukht’s voice in the wind—a voice malignant and cruel.
“I will return to-night, and then we will see who conquers!”
Those were his parting words. As the windrepeated them to her, it called her back to a sense of her awful danger. Her almost stilled heart sprang into life again. It throbbed with the wildness of fear and horror at what the consequences might be if he returned.
She could foil him yet; in her hands she held her own life. An effort of will, and she could snap the “silver thread” and break the “golden bowl.” Three paces forward, and a plunge down into the dark depth, whence had rolled the bodies of Zeemit and Wanna.
Were it not better to die than to live to shame and misery?
When all hope has fled, when everything that can make life endurable has gone, has not the time come to die? She thought this. And the moaning wind answered her, and said “Yes.”
A plunge, a rapid descent, a terrific shock, and then the end.
She looked up to the silent stars. They seemed to look down pityingly on her. Mentally her gaze wandered beyond the stars, to the plains of peace, to the White Throne of Mercy and Justice, and she put up a prayer for forgiveness.
Be still, wild heart! cease, oh, throbbing brain! death is merciful.
She took a step forward—she closed her eyes—she threw up her arms; and, bending her body, she was about to take the fatal leap, when a voice reached her.
Not of the wind this time, but a human voice, that cried for help, that told of pain.
She went down on her knees. She peered over the broken verandah into the darkness. She could see nothing. The voice had ceased, and there was silence again, save that the “ivy rustled and the wind moaned.”
[5]When the Hindoos wish to express a thorough loathing and contempt for anything, they spit upon the ground, and make a peculiar movement with the lips. During the mutiny, and for long afterwards, it was common for the native servants in the European houses, when ordered to do anything, to spit upon the ground when they thought their masters were not looking. The language put into the mouth of Wanna, and the ferocity depicted, are by no means an exaggeration. In fact, words would almost fail to accurately express the inhuman hatred for the English, which the natives—men and women—took every opportunity of displaying during the revolt.
The cry that came up out of the darkness, and stayed Flora Meredith in the very act of self murder, was uttered by one who had been miraculously saved from an awful death.
For some minutes Flora continued to strain her eyes before she could make anything out. Then she became conscious that the figure of a woman was lying on a verandah about fifteen feet below, and which projected considerably beyond the lines of the upper one on which Flora stood. That it was one of the women who had rolled over, Miss Meredith had no doubt; but which one was a question difficult to answer. But presently the cry was repeated. Flora fancied she detected Mehal’s voice, but could not be certain. Everything was quiet below in the grounds, for the hour was late, and nobody was about. She bent over the verandah as far as possible, and, in a low tone, called—
“Mehal—Zeemit—Zeemit.”
She waited with palpitating heart for any reply, for on that reply it might truly be said her life hung. But the reply did not come—only a half-stifled moan telling of acute suffering.
Again she called—a little louder, this time; againshe waited in expectancy, to be disappointed once more. She rose to her feet, and considered what was best to be done. There was little time to lose, little time for thought.
Hope rose again. If she could manage to reach the lower balcony, she might be saved. But how was that to be accomplished? Even if she had been in possession of a rope, she doubted her ability either to make it fast, or, having succeeded in that, to lower herself down; for easy as such a thing seems to the uninitiated, it is practically a task fraught with the utmost danger, and requiring an exertion of physical strength severe for a man, and ten times more so for a woman. But though she had possessed the acrobatic skill to have performed the feat, the rope was not there, nor was there anything in the room that would have answered as a substitute. What, then, was to be done?
She stood irresolute, almost distracted by the painful tensity to which her mental powers were stretched. But as she stood, hovering, as it were, between life and death, the rustling creepers whispered to her—
“Here is a way down.”
As the idea flashed upon her, she could have cried out with joy.
She moved to the end of the verandah. The great rope-like stems were twined and twisted together, and spread out in all directions. She looked at her hands, delicate and soft, and mentally asked herself if she had strength of arm and wrist sufficient for the task.
Fear lends strength, as it gives wings, and even a woman, situated as Flora was, will perform deedsthat, under ordinary circumstances, would seem impossible.
It was the sole chance, and she must avail herself of it. She hesitated no longer; but mounting the railing of the verandah, grasped firmly a thick stem of the ivy, and swung herself over.
It was an awful moment. The failure of the power of the arms, the slightest giddiness, and a fall of fifty feet would close the book of life for ever. But after the first nervous dread had passed, she found that the descent was far easier than she had imagined.
The rough angles of the walls, and the thick ivy, gave her tolerable foothold. But now and again her weight dragged the stems from their hold of the wall, and she would slip down a little way with a jerk that sent the blood back upon her heart with a rush.
It was hard work; it was a struggle for life—a life that, a few minutes ago, she would have sacrificed, for then all hope seemed to have gone. But since then the star had risen a little once more, by reason of the pain-wrung cry of a human sufferer.
She struggled with desperate energy to save that life. Lower and lower she went. It seemed as if she would never reach the goal.
The ivy ripped and gave way, painfully straining and jerking her arms, and the rough stones lacerated and tore her hands. But there was no giving up until she reached the wished-for point.
She clung desperately—she struggled bravely, and the reward came at last—she was abreast of the lower verandah! She got a foothold, then clutched the railing, and, in a few moments, stood on the floor, breathless and exhausted, but safe so far.
The figure of the prostrate woman was a few feet off. She moved to her, bent down, turned her over, and then uttered a silent prayer of thankfulness, as she recognised the well-known features of her faithful ayah.
But it was evident that Zeemit was wounded grievously. She was unconscious, and lay in a pool of blood, which flowed from a deep wound in the forehead. In her descent she had struck her head on the railing of the verandah; but this probably saved her life, as it caused her to roll inward, instead of outward.
Flora endeavoured to staunch the blood. She chafed the hands, and raised the body to a sitting posture. Her efforts were at length rewarded, for consciousness slowly returned to the old woman. It was some time before she could realise her exact position. But, as the truth dawned upon her, she grasped the hand of Flora, and cried—
“Allah be praised, missy, you are still safe!”
“We both live,” answered Flora; “but we both stand in deadly peril. How are we to save ourselves?”
“You must not think of me. You must endeavour to get free of this place, and save your own life.”
“And leave you here!” cried Flora; “never!”
“You are a brave girl, and Zeemit thanks you; but you must go. Wanna is, no doubt, dead. If she fell to the ground, which seems probable, it would have been impossible to have survived such a fall. Dead people tell no tales; therefore we have nothing to fear from her. I feel that I cannot rise. For me to go with you would but impede your flight. Leave me. I shall be discovered. I shall tell Jewan thatWanna intended to set you free, tempted by a heavy bribe you offered. I endeavoured to prevent her—we struggled, and fell over the verandah—and then all is blank to me. This will give me an opportunity of rendering you still further assistance, because, however angry Jewan may be, he would scarcely dare to offer me violence.”
“It is much against my will to have to leave you here, Zeemit, and I can scarcely reconcile myself to such a course.”
“But it is the only chance there is for me to render you aid. Besides, there is one below who waits anxiously for you.”
“Ah! tell me, tell me, where he is?” cried Flora, the opportunity occurring for the first time to speak of him since Zeemit’s appearance.
“He was safe when I left him,” answered the old woman. “Soon after leaving Meerut we were attacked in a bungalow, where we had sought shelter; but we managed to escape, and continue our journey to Delhi. We gained entrance to the city, and I soon learned from some of the Palace servants that Jewan had gone to Cawnpore. We lost no time in following him, and we arrived here last night. In yonder clump of trees,”—as the old woman spoke, she slightly raised her head, and pointed with her finger across the compound—“is a disused bullock-shed. There, on a heap of straw, you will find Mr. Gordon. He was to remain secreted until I had learned tidings of you. He was weary and footsore, and sleeping soundly when I came away.”
“But how am I to reach there unobserved?” asked Flora, scarcely able to restrain her impatience.
“I think that will be comparatively easy. Go through the room here till you gain the landing, then down the stairs until you come to the entrance-hall. The night is dark, and you may easily make your way to the bullock-shed. Once there, you and Mr. Gordon must lose no time in hurrying to the protection of the English quarters; but, if possible, fly from Cawnpore without delay, for there is an awful time coming for the place. The native troops are pledged to rise, and the Nana Sahib is thirsting for revenge.”
“God help us all out of our tribulation,” murmured Flora. “I will endeavour to carry out your directions, Zeemit, but be sure that you join us. It is against my will to leave you here, but we must bow to the circumstances that we cannot alter.”
“Go—go,” murmured Mehal; “I am old, and you are young. Join your lover, and seek safety in flight. I have no doubt we shall meet again; but be discreet. Jewan is wary, and the moment he discovers your escape, he will use every endeavour to recapture you.”
“Farewell, Zeemit,” said Flora, as she stooped and kissed the old woman, “we part in sorrow, but I trust when next we meet, it will be under happier circumstances. You have been miraculously preserved from death, and no doubt it is for some wise purpose. When we reach our English friends, I shall lose no time in sending for you.”
A hurried shake of the hands, a few final whispered words of parting, and Zeemit Mehal was left wounded and sick, lying alone under the stars; and Flora Meredith, like a timid hare, was descending the stairs.
On the various landings the natives were lying aboutasleep, a custom common to the servants in India, who coil themselves up anywhere. With noiseless tread, and rapidly beating heart, the fugitive picked her way amongst the sleepers, turning pale with alarm, as one moved here, and another groaned there, almost entirely holding her breath, lest even the act of breathing should awaken those whom she had such cause to dread. But after nearly half-an-hour of the most painful and intense anxiety, she stood at the main entrance of the building.
Day was commencing to break; there was sufficient light in the sky to enable her to see across the compound. Not a soul was in sight. Without a moment’s delay, she sped towards the clump of trees. The bullock-shed indicated by Zeemit was soon reached. It was a very dilapidated structure, built of bamboo and mud. She entered through the doorway, and advanced cautiously for some paces; then listened, for there was scarcely sufficient light in the hut to distinguish anything plainly. The sound of heavy breathing fell upon her ears. It came from the extreme end, where she could make out a heap of straw. She went a little farther, and stood again.
“Walter!” she called softly; “Walter!” she repeated, a little louder.
But there was no reply. The sleeper slept, and the heavy breathing was her only answer. She went nearer. The rustling of her own dress alarmed her, for her nerves were unstrung.
“Walter!” she whispered again, as she reached the straw. Still no reply. “He is worn and weary, and he sleeps heavily,” she murmured to herself.
The light had considerably increased, for the daybreaks in India as suddenly as the night closes in. She was close to the sleeping form. She stooped down until she knelt on the straw. She stretched forward to waken the sleeper, but instinctively drew back as she noticed the muslin garments of a native. She rose to her feet again, advanced a little, bent down and peered into the face, the dusky face of, as she thought, a Hindoo. She had come expecting to find her lover—in his place was a native. She uttered an involuntary cry of alarm, and, turning round, sped quickly away.
The cry penetrated to the sleeper’s brain. He turned uneasily, then assumed a sitting posture, and, as Walter Gordon rubbed his eyes, he muttered—
“Bless my life, how soundly I have been sleeping. I could have sworn, though, I heard a woman’s cry. It must have been fancy.”
He stretched himself out once more on the straw; for many weary miles had he travelled, without being able to obtain a moment’s rest, and nature was thoroughly exhausted.
“Poor Flo,” he thought, as sleep commenced to steal over him again, “I hope she will come soon. Zeemit is a faithful creature, and I have no doubt will succeed. God grant it.”
Walter Gordon slept once more, and she for whom he sighed was speeding from him on the wings of terror, into the very jaws of death.
The signs of dissatisfaction which had alarmed General Wheeler for the safety of his community gradually increased. The smothered fire was gaining strength. It muttered and rumbled, and gave evidence that a tremendous outbreak was imminent.
Sir Hugh was loath to believe in the infidelity of his troops, and hesitated about taking steps for self-protection. But there were those about him who had less of the optimist in their natures than he, and who were loud in their condemnation of his supineness. They urged him in every possible manner to take instant steps to place the cantonments in a state of defence, until he could no longer turn a deaf ear to their entreaties.
But though he had been slow to take this step, it must not be assumed that Sir Hugh Wheeler was unmindful of the awful responsibility that rested upon his shoulders. His was as brave a heart as ever beat in human breast, but out of his very bravery arose the danger to those under his charge.
He knew the character of the natives well. He knew that they writhed under a sense of supposed wrong, and that the slightest touch will cause an open wound to smart. He was, therefore, fearful ofletting them see that the English mistrusted them. He acted upon the old principle that confidence begets confidence. Moreover, he had firm faith in Nana Sahib. He knew that as a native the Rajah had infinitely greater power over the native mind than an European could possibly have had.
Sir Hugh’s confidence, too, seemed fully justified, for the Nana had readily complied with the request made to him, and had posted two hundred of his troops at the Newab-gung. This was a slightly elevated position, and fully commanded the arsenal and treasury.
A couple of guns on the spot, served by determined and faithful soldiers, could have kept a regiment at bay; but the fact of the Nana’s assassins—for no other term is applicable to them—being placed there was the very irony of fate. Into their hands had been given a wealthy treasury, and a well-stocked arsenal. All they had to do when the right moment came was to walk into these places, and slay the English with their own weapons.
Listening at last—though reluctantly—to the entreaties of his people General Wheeler looked about for the best means of securing his position; and it occurred to him, in the emergency, that the only way of defending the precious lives of the Christians was by throwing up some defensive works, within which he might gather his people, so that with their guns they could keep the enemy at bay.
He selected a spot for this purpose about six miles down the river to the south-east, not far from the Sepoys’ huts, and about a mile from the banks of the river. He was guided in this choice, to a greatextent, by the fact that on the spot were two long hospital barracks that would make good quarters for the people. One of the buildings was a substantial structure built wholly of masonry; but the other had a heavy thatched roof.
Here, again, the cruel hand of Fate seemed to be, for a time, against the English, for to the circumstance of the thatched roof some of the most awful suffering endured by the besieged was due, as will be hereafter shown. Both buildings were single-storied, and verandahs ran all round them; they stood in an open and perfectly flat compound. In the centre of the compound was a well, the only place from which supplies of water could be drawn; and as will be disclosed in the subsequent unfoldings of the story, this well was the scene of almost unparalleled heroic deeds.
Having selected his place, Sir Hugh began to entrench it, and supply it with a stock of provisions capable of feeding his people for several weeks.
The so-called fortifications were paltry in the extreme, for the means were not at hand to render them worthy the name. The earth-works were only four feet high, and were not even proof against bullets at the crest. The apertures for the artillery exposed both guns and gunners; whilst, on all sides, adjacent buildings offered splendid cover for the enemy. The excessive heat and dryness of the weather had rendered the ground so hard that it could only be turned with the greatest amount of difficulty, and by patient labour; and when it was dug it was so friable that the cohesion necessary for solidity could not be attained.
The month of May wore on; the expected mutinydid not occur. June came in, and Sir Hugh then felt confident that all danger had passed; and Lucknow being threatened, the General sent to the relief of the neighbouring station a portion of his own little company of soldiers.
As these white troops crossed the bridge of boats, and set their faces towards Lucknow, the natives fairly shook with suppressed laughter as they thought what fools the English were. And at this very time, Jewan Bukht and other agents of the Nana were visiting the bazaars and the native lines, and fanning the smouldering fire to flame.
Towards the latter end of May, there entered Cawnpore by the pontoon bridge, two strangers. It was the close of a more than usually sultry day, and the travellers, who were on foot, were dust-stained and worn.
These travellers were Lieutenant Harper and Haidee. They had come from Delhi—a long weary march; and along their line of route they had experienced the greatest difficulty in procuring necessary food and rest.
Nerved by the one all-powerful motive, Haidee had kept up, and exhibited extraordinary powers of endurance. When her companion sank exhausted from heat and thirst, this brave and beautiful woman watched over him, encouraged him, and gave him hope. Her gentle hand wiped his brow, her soft bosom pillowed his head. Her love for him grew stronger each day. To lie at his feet, to pillow his head, to watch him when he slept, was joy inexpressible to her. And yet during this journey she never by a single word betrayed aught of the strong passionwhich filled her heart; but every action, every deed proclaimed it.
On his part he tried to think of her only as one who had befriended him, and to whom it was his duty to offer such protection as lay in his power. But on the road from Delhi he proved the weaker vessel of the two, for the awful heat, aided by the want of proper rest and sustenance, sorely tired him. She, on the other hand, inured from birth to the heat, and strengthened by her great love for him, kept up when he faltered, and exhibited, comparatively speaking, but little weariness.
Hers was the devotion of a true woman; it was self-sacrificing, all-absorbing, undying. Truly she had made him her star that gave her only light. She had no selfish thought, except such selfishness as is begotten by true love—for all love is selfish; it is its very nature to be so. And yet this faithfulness made the man sad. He felt that he could not return her love, however much he might admire her. However much he might feel grateful, however great his worship for her nobleness of nature might be, he must shut his eyes to her charms, close his senses to her silent outpourings of love, for he was another’s, and to that one he must be true, or feel that for evermore the honour which was so very dear to him was sullied, and time could never wipe out the stain again.
Often as he dragged his weary steps along, with the loving Haidee by his side, he mentally asked himself if he was not pursuing a phantom that was luring him to unknown danger. Had he done right in setting his face towards Cawnpore, and could he justify the course he had taken by any amount oflogical reasoning? He was striving to do his duty. If he failed, it would be through error of judgment, and not through want of heart.
As the two travellers stood upon the Cawnpore bank of the river Ganges, Harper gave vent to a sigh of relief. But Haidee seemed to be pressed with a weight of sorrow.
“You do not seem well, Haidee,” Harper remarked casually, as he observed the depressed look of his companion. “Your eyes are dull, and your cheek is pale. What is the cause?”
She looked at him almost reproachfully, and her only answer was a long-drawn sigh.
“What is the matter with you?” he asked again, with a good deal of indifference in his tone; for, to confess the truth, his thoughts were far away. He was racked with doubts and fears, and half-regretted that he had yielded consent to come to Cawnpore, instead of returning to his quarters at Meerut.
Her eyes glowed, and her face and neck crimsoned, as she struggled to conceal the emotion which almost choked her, and which his words had caused. Her sensitive nature was wounded by his indifference, and she shrank away, as it were, like a startled fawn.
“Why do you sting me?” she exclaimed, when she could speak.
“Sting you, Haidee! What do you mean?” as he turned upon her quickly, and coming back again to a sense of his true position.
“Why do you ask me what is the matter, in a tone that betrays too plainly that you take no interest in the question?”
“Nay, Haidee, there you wrong me.”
“Sooner would I wrong myself than you; but your words remain with Haidee while your heart is far away.”
“My heart is divided, Haidee, and I give you all of it that I dare. You are my friend. Every sacrifice I can make I will make for you, if it is necessary. I will protect you with my life. I cannot do more.”
“Ah!” she sighed; “and yet you can ask me what it is that makes me sad? There is sorrow at my heart; sorrow at the thought our journey is ended, and you and I must probably part never to meet again. That is what is the matter with me.”
“Forgive me, Haidee, if I have hurt you by my seeming thoughtlessness. I assure you I had no intention of doing so. And though our journey is for the present ended, do not say we shall part for ever. You have grown precious to me as a noble, generous, devoted woman; and I vow, by all that I hold sacred, that I will endeavour never to lose sight of you as long as I live.”
She trembled with a nameless, pleasurable emotion; her nerves vibrated like unto the strings of a harp that are swept with a strong wind; for this man’s words were music to her. “I will endeavour not to lose sight of you as long as I live.” Had he not spoken them? And they sank to the deeper depths of her nature. They were like an elixir of life, given to one whose strength was ebbing away. She yearned for sympathy, and this man gave it to her. Her soul cried out for kindredship, and it found it in him. What wonder then that she should be taken captive?—that beat for beat her heart should answer his? It is given to human beings to feel the burning rapture of love, but not to solve its mystery; for it is amystery as strange as the Sphinx of old; as unsolvable as the cosmical problems which have puzzled philosophers of all ages.
She loved him. Every look, every action, every tone betrayed that she loved him with a true woman’s pure love. If it had sprung up suddenly, it was none the less genuine or strong. She would have been content to follow him, even if he, like the fabled “Wandering Jew,” had been doomed to go on and on, restlessly and for evermore. Still would she have followed, living in his shadow, drawing her very life from his look and voice, sorrowing when he sorrowed, laughing when he laughed. Nay, more; she would have taken upon herself all the pains, however fearful, he might have had to endure. She would have rendered that last and greatest sacrifice that one human being can make for another—she would have laid down her life to save his.
It was a grand love, this love of hers—not the sickly sentiment of a wayward girl, but the strong, powerful, absorbing passion of a woman; a love as heroic as any that Homer ever sang of, or that moved the Roman women of old to follow the youths to the battle-fields, and die when they died.
Harper was a stranger in Cawnpore, but he knew that the numerical strength of the garrison was ridiculously low, and, knowing this, his heart sank as he observed unmistakable signs of coming mischief. During the journey he had been astonished at the large number of mounted natives he had met speeding along to and from Delhi, and he had no doubt that these men were spies and agents, passing backwards and forwards with news; so that he was notsurprised when he found that information of his coming had preceded him to Cawnpore; and as he passed through the streets he was frequently met with the ironical question, put by some insolent native, “Holloa! how fares it with the English in Delhi?”
His companion, too, was also subjected to considerable attention. Her appearance belied the idea that she belonged to the lower order, although she was dressed in the commonest of native dresses; but there was an air of refinement and bearing about her totally out of keeping with her costume. This did not escape the keen scrutiny of hundreds of eyes, and many were the ominous whispers that fell upon the ears of Harper, and he frequently detected the words—“She is from the Palace. She is one of the King’s slaves.”
He lost no time in proceeding to the English quarters; he found them deserted; and he soon ascertained that the Europeans were congregated with General Wheeler behind the earth-works. This place was some distance from where he then was, and both he and Haidee were greatly exhausted. But food and shelter were not to be had, so he set his face boldly towards the fortifications.
It was quite dark now; even the stars were obscured. The travellers held on their way; no words passed between them, for each was occupied with his and her thoughts. They drew near to their destination; they could see the lights in the barrack windows, but they had yet about a quarter of a mile to go. The road was through some clustering trees, and past a number of straggling native huts; these places all seemed deserted—at least, none of the natives showed themselves. In a little while Harperstopped suddenly, and drawing Haidee to him, whispered—“I believe that we are being followed. I am certain that I have discerned figures moving quickly about, as if dodging us. Do not be alarmed,” as he passed his arm round her and drew his pistol. “We have not far to go, and if we can reach the barracks we shall be safe. See,” he exclaimed, in a low tone, and pointing to a small mound upon which grew two or three palms, “I am convinced that there are some men there moving about suspiciously. Do you not see them?”
“Yes, yes,” she murmured, clinging to him—not from fear for herself, but rather as a mother would cling to her child when she knows that danger threatened it. “Let us proceed cautiously.”
They went on for a few yards, until they were nearly abreast of the mound; then Harper stopped again, and he placed himself before Haidee, for a sound had come to him that was terribly ominous. He had heard the sharp “click, click,” of a rifle. His soldier’s ear detected it in a moment.
“Crouch down, Haidee. Crouch down. They are going to fire,” he said, quickly.
But the words had scarcely left his lips when there rang out on the still night air a startling report, and a tongue of fire darted from the clump of trees. Then instantly another report, and another tongue. It was certain that two rifles had been fired, and one of the bullets had found its billet. Harper tossed up his arms, and, with a gurgling gasp, sank to the ground. With a shrill scream Haidee threw herself beside him. She passed her arm round his neck; she bent over and kissed him frantically.
“Oh, my beloved!” she moaned, “speak to me.Do not die! Do not leave Haidee alone in the world! Oh, ye Houris of goodness!” she prayed, as she turned her eyes up to heaven, “ye who observe human sorrow from the gates of Paradise, pity me, and spare this mortal.”
Perhaps her prayer was heard—perhaps some pitying angel did carry it up, and lay it before the throne of mercy.
The wounded man heard it, and he managed to clutch her hand, and press it to the left side of his breast. The blood was gushing out—his warm blood—and it flowed over her hand and arm. In an instant she had bared his breast; and, tearing off her muslin skirt, she stanched the wound. He could not speak, but a faint pressure of the hand gave her hope.
“My beloved, live—live!” she murmured. “Oh, for some assistance! But you must not lie here; it were death to do so. Oh, that I had a man’s strength but for a brief half-hour.”
She had passed her arm still further under his neck, and, getting a firm hold with her other hand round the lower part of his body, she raised him up. She staggered beneath the load for a moment, but planting her feet firmly, and drawing a deep breath, she started forward, bearing the almost lifeless body of the man for whom she had risked so much. Her burden called for the utmost physical strength to support; but what will love not do? She struggled along, resting now and again, but never putting down her precious load, never for a moment shifting his position, and trying to avoid the slightest jerk, for she was fearful of the wound bursting out afresh, and sheknew that to let that precious life-current flow was to let the life, so dear to her, drift away.
Harper was quite unconscious now. His arms hung down powerless. It almost seemed to her that he was already dead; and she grew cold with fear as she thought every moment she would find the beloved form stiffening in her arms.
Word-painting would fail to adequately depict the woman’s feelings as she staggered along in the darkness. The welcome lights were before her eyes—would she reach them? Even if the life was not already gone out of the body she bore so tenderly in her arms, a few minutes’ delay might prove fatal. Never did shipwrecked mariner, floating on a solitary plank in the midst of a wild ocean, turn his eyes more eagerly, imploringly, prayerfully, to the distant sail, as she turned hers towards those lights. Her heart throbbed wildly, her brain burned, her muscles quivered with the great exertion; but she would not be conquered. Love was her motive-power; it kept her up, it lent her strength, it braced her nerves. And she would have defended the helpless being in her arms, even as a tigress would defend its wounded young.
On—step after step—yard after yard—nearer and nearer the goal.
“Who goes there? Stand and answer.”
It was the challenge of an outlying English sentry.
She uttered a cry of joy, for the man was within a few paces of her.
Never did words sound more welcome in human ear than did that challenge to the devoted Haidee.
“A friend,” she answered quickly, in English.“Help me!—quick—I bear a wounded officer in my arms.”
The man gave vent to an expression of profound surprise as he hurried forward to meet her. In a moment he had raised the alarm. The signal flew from post to post. A few minutes only passed, but it seemed an age. Then she saw a body of men advancing with lanterns. Gently and tenderly they took the insensible form of Harper from Haidee. She walked beside him, or rather staggered, for nature was thoroughly exhausted, and only strength of will kept her up.
The guard was passed, and the barrack was reached. Harper was laid upon a mattress on the floor, and two doctors were speedily bending over him; and while one administered a powerful stimulant, the other made a critical examination of the wound.
Haidee’s eyes wandered from the one face to the other. She noted every expression, she tried to read the thoughts of the doctors, but she did not worry them with useless questioning. But when the examination was completed and lint had been applied to the wound, she grasped the arm of the nearest medical man, and whispered—
“Tell me truly—will he live?”
“It is possible,” the doctor answered tenderly.
Hope shone again, and, with the words still ringing in her ears, she sank down beside the wounded man, and in an instant was steeped in a death-like sleep.
Then loving hands—women’s hands—raised her tenderly and bore her to a couch, and the doctors proceeded to make a more minute examination of their patient’s condition.
In one of the outbuildings attached to the Rajah of Bhitoor’s dwelling, four natives are seated. It is night. From a smoke-blackened beam, a long, rusty chain swings. Attached to this is one of the primitive cocoa-nut lamps, the sickly light from which scarcely does more than make the darkness visible. At one end of the apartment is a charcoal fire, on which a brass lotah, filled with boiling rice, hisses. The men are sitting, Indian fashion, upon their haunches; they smoke in turns a hubble-bubble, which they pass from one to another.
It is a weirdly picturesque scene. The blackened mud walls of the building have a funereal aspect, heightened by the swinging lamp as at the door of a tomb.
But the four dusky figures seated round the fire, and reddened by the glow from the charcoal, slightly relieve the sombreness. They would not inaptly represent spirits of evil, holding counsel at the entrance to Tartarus. Their eyes are bleared by the opium they smoke, and, as they converse, the shifting expression of their faces betrays that there is joy at their hearts. But it is not a good joy. It is rather a gloating as they think of the sorrow and sufferingof those whom they are pleased to consider their enemies. They are—or so they like to believe—self-constituted avengers of their country’s wrongs, and they would, if it were in their power, write “Death” across the “Book of Life” of every one indiscriminately, whose misfortune it was to have a white skin.
To destroy the power of the Great White Hand—in other words, to exterminate the British—is the souls’ desire of these men, as it is possibly of every, or nearly every, native in India on this eventful night.
As it is given to man to love, so it is given to man to hate, and the hate of the human heart is beyond human understanding; it has no parallel in anything that draws the breath of life. The savage animals of the forest may rend and tear, but in their nature there can be none of the deadly poison of resentment and hatred which a man can cherish.
But in the hearts of these four men there is that which predominates even over the hatred. There is lust, there is the greed of gain, and the cringing, fawning servility which ignoble natures ever display towards those higher in the social scale than themselves, and upon whom the goddess of wealth has showered her favours lavishly. Two of the men we have seen before—they are Moghul Singh and Jewan Bukht. The other two are retainers of the King of Delhi. An hour ago, when Jewan had come down from Miss Meredith’s chamber up in the tower, he was surprised, not to say annoyed, to find Moghul Singh waiting for him.
When the first greetings were passed, Jewan invited his visitor to this place, although he did not know the errand upon which he had come. But there was thatin Singh’s manner and laugh which told Jewan that Flora Meredith was in some way, if not the sole cause of Moghul’s visit to Cawnpore. And this idea was very soon to be confirmed; for as the men gathered round the fire, and the hubble-bubble had been filled and passed, Jewan ventured to inquire the nature of his visitor’s business.
Singh laughed, or rather grinned, and his eyes sparkled maliciously as the question was put.
“To take back the Feringhee woman of yours, Jewan,” was the answer, an unpleasant one enough to Jewan; for, apart from the risks he had run on her account, he bore some sort of feeling for her; certainly not love, because that is a holy passion, and so, for the want of a better word, it must be called an infatuation. Well, bearing this feeling, being dazed by her beauty, and above all, having a strong desire to subdue her will, he could not reconcile himself to the thought of parting with her, nor was he altogether prepared to do so.
“If that is the only object that has brought you here, methinks you will go back again empty handed,” he replied.
Moghul grinned again—grinned with the self-assurance of a man who knows that he holds the winning trump card, that he can play at any moment to the discomfiture of his opponent.
“I think not so, Jewan, my faithful one. Come, fill the pipe again; it need not be put out, even if you do not like my errand. Ah, ah, ah! By my faith, one would think by the look on your face that you had been called upon to disgorge a lac of rupees, insteadof to give up possession of a woman that can only cause you a world of trouble.”
“I am not so sure of that. At any rate, having caged the bird, I mean to keep her. She shall pipe for me alone.”
“Oh, oh!—ah, ah! Pass the pipe; this smoke is comforting. You mean to keep her, eh? By the Prophet’s beard, Master Jewan, they are big words. Blow the charcoal, Hadjee,” turning to one of his companions, “that rice does not boil fast enough, and it is not good to laugh much on an empty stomach. You mean to keep her? Ah, ah! That is a good joke. Methinks you will need a strong cage then, and a good keeper.”
“I have both.”
“Have you so? But you forget, my friend, that bars may be broken and keepers bribed.”
“Neither of which you will dare to do.”
“And why, my faithful Jewan?”
“For two reasons.”
“And they are—”
“That I would denounce you sooner than you should have her, and kill you if you attempted to take her.”
“Oh, oh! Jewan Bukht, the good days that are coming for us are making you bold indeed. Have a care, my youth. I have performed some deeds of daring in my time, and brook not insolence from one who has passed his days in scribbling for the English dogs.”
“You will find that I can wield something more formidable than a pen if you taunt me,” returned Jewan, the passion glow rising in his dusky face.
“May be so,” answered Moghul sarcastically; “but in spite of your threats I tell you I shall take this woman back.”
“You speak authoritatively. By what right will you take her back?”
“By the King’s command. Ah, ah, ah!—oh, oh! There I have you, Jewan.”
Jewan’s brows contracted, for he felt that he was beaten, and dare not disobey that command.
“Come, come,” continued the other; “don’t look as if a jungle cat had bitten you. After all, you are not called upon to give up much, and you cannot afford to quarrel with the King. He heard of this woman almost directly after you left, and he despatched me instantly to bring her back. So give me the key of your cage, and let me get the work done, for I don’t like these jobs. Besides, I am anxious to get back to Delhi, for there are rare times there now, and rupees are plentiful.”
“Well, as there is no help for it,” said Jewan, “I suppose I must. But I should like to have broken this woman’s spirit, for she has defied me.”
“Pshaw! there is higher game to fly at than that. Besides, there are good times dawning for Cawnpore, and you will come in for a share of the spoil. But let us have our supper, for I am hungered.”
Hadjee had already turned the rice on to a large brass dish, and added to it the indispensable mess of curry, and having procured some water from a neighbouring well, the four men seated themselves round the rice, and commenced to eat.
When the meal was ended, Moghul rose.
At the same moment, a tall, powerful, and savage-lookingman entered; his name was Haffe Beg, and he was employed by Jewan Bukht, on behalf of Nana Sahib, as a spy.
Jewan rose as the man entered.
“Ah, Haffe! what news? You have been absent for some days.”
“Yes,” answered the man gruffly; “I have had business.”
“Important, I suppose, since it has detained you?” said Jewan.
“Yes; word was brought to me a few days ago that a woman and an Englishman were travelling from Delhi towards Cawnpore.”
“Indeed!” cried Moghul Singh; “who were they?”
“I don’t know; but evidently fugitives, and of importance. The woman came from the Palace; she was a Cashmere woman, I believe. The man was an English officer.”
Moghul Singh’s brow contracted, and he bit his lip. “My prisoner Harper, by the beard of Allah!” he exclaimed, wrathfully, “and the woman Haidee, or may my eyes never see daylight again. I have long suspected her of treachery. But they do not livenow!” he added, significantly.
The man grinned as he replied—
“I am not certain.”
“Not certain!” repeated Bukht, angrily. “By the Prophet! rupee of thy master’s shall never again find its way to thy pouch if you failed.”
“You do not mean to say they escaped?” added Moghul menacingly.
“Keep your threats for your slaves,” answered Beg, with a defiant air. “As soon as I heard that thesepeople were on the road, I set out to meet them; but they evidently did not follow the main road. I learned that they had entered the city. I returned. They made for the English quarters, and from there to the defences at the barracks. No opportunity presented itself until they were near the English guard; for the night was dark. But, as soon as I could, I sent two bullets after them, with as true an aim as was possible under the circumstances.”
“And you hit your mark, of course?” chimed in Moghul and Bukht together.
“One, at least, fell,” answered Beg; “but afraid that the report of the gun had alarmed the sentries, I retired. Later on I sought the spot; the bodies were not there, but there was a pool of blood. Whether the English, guided by the report, had come out and carried the bodies away, or whether only one of the two fell and the survivor carried the other off, I don’t know; but I believe one of my bullets for certain found the woman’s heart.”
“If that is so, I can forgive you for your bungling,” Moghul remarked between his set teeth. “I would not let her escape for a lac of rupees.”
“I think you may console yourself, then,” said Beg. “I was guided by her white dress, and I feel sure she fell.”
“So far that is satisfactory, but take further steps to learn,” replied Moghul. Then, turning to Bukht, he said—
“I cannot waste more time—I must go.”
“How do you travel?” asked Bukht, moving towards the door.
“By gharry. It stands there in the compound, andI have a pair of splendid horses, provided for the return journey by the Nana’s head syce (groom).”
Bukht led the way, followed by Moghul and the other men. The building in which they had been sitting was about a hundred yards from the tower. As Jewan reached the foot of the tower he stumbled over something. It was a woman. He stooped down and looked in her face, then uttered a cry of surprise. The face was Wanna Ranu’s. But the woman was stone dead, and there was scarcely a whole bone in her emaciated body.
“This smacks of treason!” Jewan exclaimed, as he hurried to the door of the tower.
He had soon gained the top storey. He had a key of the door of the room in which he had imprisoned Flora. As he entered he gave vent to an imprecation, for she whom he sought was not there. He hurried to the balcony. The broken railings told the tale.
“There has been foul play!” he said, as he turned hurriedly to Moghul, who stood with a look of consternation on his face; for he could not hope to make the King believe that the girl had escaped, and, if he returned without her, he knew he would fall into disgrace.
At this moment there came up a cry from Zeemit Mehal—purposely uttered, for she had heard Jewan’s voice.
“That cry comes from Mehal,” he said, “or I am much mistaken. We shall soon know how the girl has escaped.”
He hurried down, followed by the others.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, as he bent over the wounded Zeemit.
“Alas! it means that I have well-nigh lost my life in your cause. But Wanna, where is she?” she suddenly exclaimed, for she was anxious to know whether her foe lived, and had told Jewan anything.
“The hag is dead,” he answered; “she lies almost pounded to a jelly at the foot of the tower.”
“That is good,” Zeemit cried, with unfeigned joy. “She deserved it—she deserved it. Tempted by a heavy bribe offered by the girl, she was going to set her free; but I interfered to prevent it. We struggled, and both fell over.”
“But the girl—where is she?”
“Alas, she must have escaped! but I have no recollection of anything after I fell.”
Jewan bit his lip. He felt that he was foiled, and it galled him almost beyond endurance.
“How long is it since you saw her?” asked Moghul of Jewan.
“Scarcely two hours.”
“Then she cannot be far off; and we will find her if she has not got to the English quarters.”
“Thou art a faithful servant,” said Jewan to Zeemit; “and shall have attention and ample reward. But you must wait until I return, for we shall have to recapture this woman.”
As they went away Mehal smiled with satisfaction, in spite of the pain she was enduring; for she scarcely doubted that Flora had by this time discovered Walter Gordon, and the two were safe within the British lines. But fate had willed it otherwise. The men scarcely reached the compound, when the first thing that met their gaze was the bewildered Flora,flying unconsciously from the devoted lover who had perilled his life to save her.
A stranger to the place, and almost blinded with terror, she was rushing frantically about to endeavour to find a way out of the grounds into the city. But her chance had passed. With a diabolical cry of glee, Jewan rushed forward, followed by Singh.
Miss Meredith knew that she was pursued, though she was too confused to tell by whom. She darted away in the direction of some buildings that seemed to offer her a chance of hiding; but she was deceived. On she sped again, followed closely by the cowardly ruffians. She knew not where she was going to, she scarcely cared, so long as she could escape them. She would have thrown herself into a well, or dashed her brains out against a wall, if either had been at hand.
The grounds were extensive, and, to an uninitiated person, little better than a maze. The farther she went, the more hopelessly confused she became. Now darting here, now there, until with a wail of pain she fell upon the grass in a swoon. Nature was merciful, and came to her relief.
It might have seemed better had she fallen dead. But, in the mysterious workings of Providence, it was not so ordained. Her destiny was not fulfilled—her book of life not yet completed, so that the Angel of Death could write “Finis” on the last page. She must live to the end, whatever of sorrow, whatever of agony was in reserve for her.
“We’ve run the cat down,” said Moghul, as, breathless, he stooped over the prostrate girl, and lifted her in his strong arms.
Jewan laughed—laughed joyously, ferociously; he would gladly yield her up to the King twenty times over, rather than she should escape. In a few minutes they had placed her in the gharry, which was driven through a private entrance, and was soon on the other side of the Ganges, and speeding along the road to Delhi.
Within a hundred yards of where the unfortunate Flora had fallen, Walter Gordon slept soundly, and when the sound of the wheels of the departing vehicle had died out, the silence of the night remained unbroken.
As the sounds of the wheels died away, Jewan Bukht half-regretted that he had given his consent for Flora to go with Moghul Singh. He blamed himself now for being so indiscreet as to take her to Delhi in the first instance; but there was no help for it. He had lost her, he believed, beyond all hope of recovery; and if he wished to retain his position, he was bound to acknowledge the supremacy of the King. He knew that. And so, consoling himself as best he could, he turned towards the tower, with the intention of rendering some aid to Zeemit Mehal.
He found that the old woman had managed to drag herself into the room. She was terribly shaken, and weakened from loss of blood, but it was evident that she yet had a good deal of vitality left in her frame.
“How fares it now?” he asked, as he entered.
“Better,” she answered. “Strength is returning to me. But what of the Englishwoman?” she added eagerly.
Jewan laughed.
“She is safe. The bird thought to escape me, but her wings were not strong enough. We brought her down again; and I warrant she will be caged securely enough now.”
Mehal groaned with sorrow.
“What is the matter?” asked Bukht, quickly taking the exclamation as an expression of sympathy.
“My wound pains me,” she answered.
“Or have you sympathy with the Feringhee woman?” asked Bukht, eyeing the other suspiciously.
“Sympathy forsooth!—no. Have I not risked my life in your service? Why then suspect me of sympathy? But after what I have suffered, I regret that you have lost possession of her.”
“You do not regret it more than I; but it was the King’s command, and I could not disobey.”
“But how did the King know that she was here?”
“Some meddling fool, I suppose, in Delhi, informed him.”
“That is bad. You cannot hope to regain her?”
“No.”
“Without she was to escape.”
“Escape! What do you mean?”
“You are dull. Supposing she were to escape, and you to re-capture her.”
“But how should she escape.”
“If bars and bolts were withdrawn, and doors and gates thrown open, why could she not walk out?”
“I do not understand you.”
“Supposing somebody was near her, who would offer her liberty.”
“But who dare do this in defiance of the King?”
“I.”
“You!”
“Yes.”
“So, so,” Jewan muttered musingly. “I think Igather your meaning now. And yet I am not quite clear what you would propose to do, after she had escaped.”
“The plan is simple. I go to Delhi. I seek out this woman. I pretend to be touched with some feeling of pity. I offer to aid her in escaping. She accepts that offer. She walks out of one trap into another. Once free from Delhi, she can be re-captured by you, and secretly conveyed away, so that the King shall no more find her.”
“I like your plan,” Jewan added, after a pause; “but there is danger in it.”
“Danger! How so?”
“If the King were to get to know that I had had a hand in this, it would be my ruin.”
“But how would he get to know? I should not tell him, and the Feringhee woman could not.”
“True. If I can depend upon you, the plan might work.”
“If you can! Why can you not? Have I not proved myself faithful?”
“Yes.”
“Then why these suspicions? They are unjust.”
“Because there is so much danger in the plan that extreme caution is needed.”
“I do not blame you for being cautious; but since you have been to so much trouble, and risked so much to gain this prize, it is worth some effort to try and retain her.”
“That is so,” said Jewan, for he saw that the plan was quite possible, and the chances of once more getting Flora into his power was too strong a temptation to be resisted. “I think you reason well,” hecontinued; “and if you are cautious, we may succeed. At any rate, let us make the attempt. If you are true to me, I will pay you five hundred rupees the moment this woman is once more mine; but if you play me false, your life shall be forfeited.”
“You need not threaten. I have served you well; I will serve you better. Get me assistance, so that my hurt may be attended to; and, when I have regained a little strength, I start for Delhi. Time shall prove how well I will serve you.”
This was said significantly, but Jewan failed to catch its meaning.
The old woman felt that she was leading him into a pitfall, and she could scarcely restrain the pleasure she experienced. Her love for Flora was unmistakable, and it was a fact strangely at variance with the demoniacal-like hatred exhibited by the majority of the natives, that, during the mutiny, the truest friends to the whites were the ayahs or nurses. It is certain that many of these women—and there was one in every house in India, where there were children or ladies—paid for their fidelity with their lives.
“You know the reward and the penalty which attaches to your errand,” Jewan remarked. “Death or riches. I depend upon you, and you shall go. To-morrow we will confer further on the subject. For the present, good-night.”
When he had gone, Mehal gave utterance to a sigh of relief. She had made up her mind either to save Flora, or die in the attempt. She had no doubt that if she could but get near Miss Meredith—and this she knew would not be difficult—some plan of escape might be easily arranged, and the young Englishwoman couldbe restored to the arms of Walter Gordon. As Mehal thought of him, she felt inclined to seek him at once, and make known her plans. But she must wait until somebody had attended to her. She had not to wait long.
Jewan’s first act was to have the mangled corpse of Wanna Ranu conveyed away, and it was soon floating towards the sea on the bosom of the Ganges. Then he sought out a native doctor, and despatched him to render aid to the wounded Mehal. Her wound was dressed, and a restorative administered; and in a little while she sank into a deep sleep.
In the meantime, Walter Gordon, refreshed and strengthened by his long rest, had awoke, and ventured to look out from his hiding-place. He knew that many hours had passed since he had entered, and he began to grow exceedingly anxious about the success of Mehal’s plans. She had promised, if possible, to bring Flora to him.
The reader is already aware how that plan had failed; but little did Walter dream that the woman for whom he would willingly have died to serve had been near him, and fled away in alarm, as she observed his disguise.
It will be remembered that on leaving Meerut he had adopted the garb of a religious mendicant, and so complete was this disguise that no wonder Miss Meredith had been deceived. And it had not occurred to Mehal to tell Flora that her lover would be found dressed as a native. Thus by an omission, apparently trifling in itself, the troubles of the lovers had been complicated, and the two were separated probably never to meet again.
As morning commenced to break, Zeemit Mehal awoke, considerably strengthened by the medicine she had taken, and the sleep she had secured. Her first thoughts were of Walter. She must endeavour to see him and to arrange some plans for their future guidance.
With difficulty she arose, for she was very ill, and the loss of blood had been great. Having assured herself that all was quiet, and that there was no one stirring, she commenced to descend, and soon gained the compound. This she quickly crossed, and stood in the shed where Walter waited, burning with anxiety and suspense almost unbearable. In the uncertain light, he did not recognise for some moments who his visitor was; but as soon as he discovered it was Mehal, he sprang towards her, and in a voice, rendered tremulous by his excessive anxiety, cried—
“What of Miss Meredith—where is she?”
“Hush!” Mehal answered, clutching his arm and leaning upon him, for she was terribly weak.
Then for the first time, Walter noticed the bandage round the old woman’s head, and that something was the matter. His heart sank within him, for Mehal’s appearance in such a plight augured a disaster—so he thought—that might annihilate his hopes.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked eagerly, as he led the woman to the heap of straw.
“Our plans have miscarried,” she said, as she seated herself with difficulty, and the pain from her wound caused her to utter an involuntary groan.
The strong man staggered as the words were uttered, for it sounded like the death-knell of Flora. In an instant he remembered the promise he hadmade to Mrs. Harper the night before he had left Meerut. “I will either save Flora, or perish in the attempt.” That promise should be fulfilled one way or the other. He mentally pledged himself again to that.
When he had recovered from the first effects of the startling news, he said—
“But how is it the plans have miscarried? and where is Miss Meredith?”
“I liberated her. She must have been near you.”
Gordon uttered a cry of agony, and pressed his hand to his head, as there flashed through his brain the remembrance of the cry which had startled him in his sleep, and which he believed to be a delusion, but he now knew was a reality. He moaned, fairly moaned, with the unutterable sense of sickness which was at his heart, as he realised that, by some accident, Flora had been near, without discovering him.
“Tell me all,” he said, when he was able to speak.
Mehal related the circumstances of her struggle with Wanna, of Flora’s descent to the balcony, of her starting off for the shed, and the other particulars which have already been chronicled.
“Answer me one question,” Walter gasped, for his breath came so thick and fast that he could scarcely speak. “Did you tell Miss Meredith of my disguise?”
“No; it did not occur to me to do so.”
“I see it now clear enough,” he continued. “She has been here. The voice I heard was hers. She did not recognise me in this disguise, and fled.”
“I think there can be no doubt that these are the true facts,” Mehal remarked. “And it must have been on leaving the shed that she was recaptured.”
Walter was bowed with grief. He felt that incalculable misery had been brought upon all by one of the merest chances imaginable.
Flora might have been saved; but in the very moment of her extremest peril he had been sleeping; and to that circumstance was due the fact that she was again lost to him. It was a terrible reflection. But useless wailings could avail nothing; action—prompt action—was required.
“Zeemit,” he cried, “at all hazards I will follow Miss Meredith. To rescue her is the mission of my life. I must accomplish it or perish!”
“Were you to follow her, you would most certainly perish. It would be a useless sacrifice of your life, and you would not be able to render her the slightest aid. At a time like this, when the power of your countrymen is set at defiance, and anarchy prevails, stratagem only can succeed. To that we must resort!”
“But what do you propose?” he exclaimed, interrupting her in his eagerness.
“I propose to follow her myself. I, and I alone, can save her now.”
“But what shall I do?” he asked, scarcely able to restrain his impatience.
“You must remain quiet. I go to Delhi ostensibly on Jewan Bukht’s behalf. I have told him that I shall endeavour to liberate Miss Meredith, so that she may again fall into his hands. Your presence would endanger my plans, and you would run the risk of being detected. Make your way to the English defences in this town. I will find means of communicating with you in a few days; and, should I succeedin setting the lady free, we will instantly proceed to Meerut, where you can rejoin us, or we will come on here.”
“I am in your hands, Mehal; I will be guided by you. But remember, if I do not hear from you in about a week I shall endeavour to make my way to Delhi, whatever the consequences may be. To remain inactive when her honour and safety are imperilled, would be a living death. Therefore I will face any danger, so that I can feel that I am doing something in her behalf.”
“You can best aid her by doing what I suggest. On reaching Delhi, if I find it practicable to set her free, I will return here immediately to let you know; the rest must depend upon circumstances. Jewan will be able to get me a conveyance back to Delhi, so that I will soon be with Miss Meredith once again. I cannot remain longer with you, for if Jewan should miss me all our plans would be frustrated, and he would kill me.”
Walter saw the necessity of strictly complying with the old woman’s wishes. He recognised that in her rested every hope of future happiness. It was a slender reed, but the only one upon which he could lean.