'It is all over! Not for me, for my task is not done; yet, sad and hopeless as I feel, there is in my soul a certain wild springing up of exultation which prevents me from being utterly cast down. It is for them—for the torturers of women and the slaughterers of unarmed men and helpless children—that the end has come. Fifty rebel sepoys with their leader lie slain in the narrow streets of this quiet village. Their prisoners—two young English officers, fearfully attenuated, who had been walking under the sun of this August day with chains on their limbs, and a lady in a cart whose face I have not seen, though I know to my sorrow that she is not Grace—are under the care of my excellent Hoosanee in the house of the headman of the village.
'How did it all come about? This I must try to remember and put down. That we—the assailants of this valiant fifty—were only about twelve men all told I know, for Hoosanee counted them out before me. It was a fortunate circumstance for us that we had anyone at all to help us, for the villagers, though sympathetic and willing to earn the large reward I offered, had no wish to put their skins in jeopardy by trying conclusions with armed and disciplined soldiers. But, as it happened, a little band of Bheels, on their way to fill up the gaps made daily by sword and pestilence in one of the newly formed native regiments, were halting in the village, and some of these were ready to flesh their swords on the persons of the hated Poorbeahs to whom, as Hoosanee had represented, the English prisoners' escort belonged.
'They marched in early in the evening. The village was complaisant, and an enormous quantity of food, with good liquor to wash it down, was brought to them, while the serai which I had vacated was allotted to them for the long rest that would be sure to follow their heavy meal. They entered and disposed themselves for sleep, sentinels being posted at every entrance to give notice of danger. Night fell. My few men and I were close by, watching. The sentinels, who had feasted as luxuriously as their comrades, kept on the alert for a short time, and then, seeing that everything was quiet, addressed themselves to sleep. Some of our friends amongst the villagers slipped in softly, set the prisoners free and brought them out, whereupon our little body of sturdy hill-men ran into the serai with shouts and the fierce clattering of arms. From outside these shouts were echoed by the villagers, and the unhappy wretches in the serai, thinking, no doubt, that an army was upon them, were completely paralysed. Numbers were slain. The remainder rushed out. It was deep night now, and they could not see the number of their assailants. I stood at the entrance alone, and I cut them down one after the other. God forgive me if I sinned, not in killing, but in the awful spirit of exultation which possessed me as I plied my fearful task. Ten men must have fallen to my sword. Some who had caught up their weapons in their abject flight tried to resist me, but I was too swift for them. I was not a man, I was an avenging fate. Those who escaped me fell into the hands of the villagers, and they, with yells of derision, drove them back into the serai, so that in a brief hour it was all over. Every one of the rebel escort was slain, and their prisoners—who, we hear, were to have been taken to Lucknow and there most foully put to death—are safe in our hands.'
'The exultation which followed my easy victory did not last long. What does the slaughter of one or two matter in this great saturnalia of blood and wretchedness? Grace has not been found, and till my hair turns grey, and my limbs wither from age and disappointment, I will search for her. So we—Hoosanee, Ganesh, and I—are on the march again. The little party of prisoners is left in the village. I was surprised and deeply touched to find that the lady in the cart was Mrs. Lyster, my travelling friend of the "Patagonia." She and her companions, supposing me to be a native potentate who had interfered in their behalf, sent as soon as the struggle was over to thank me for their rescue, and to beg for the favour of an interview. I sent back word by Hoosanee, who was their messenger, that I would wait upon them, and, dressed as usual in my Indian disguise, I entered the inner court of the headman's house where they were resting.
'I had resolved not to make myself known as an Englishman, but the sight of Mrs. Lyster's sorrowful face and neglected dress—she who had always been so gay and trim!—was almost too much for my resolution. It gave me a little pang to find that she had not the least suspicion of my being anything but what I gave myself out to be; and how strange it was to me to receive her humble thanks! Evidently she had been chosen to speak, for the young fellows with her were too much exhausted to be capable of carrying on a conversation. Sad as it all was, I could have smiled at her careful speech. She had never been very strong in Hindostani, and she was fearful of not speaking to the great Indian lord in a sufficiently respectful manner. Over and over again I longed to turn everyone out, and to speak to her in our own English tongue. But this I knew would have been the height of imprudence.
'I hope I replied becomingly to her thanks.
'And now came the question of what they were to do next. They wished to reach, as soon as possible, a place where they could feel themselves secure, and I was anxious to have them in Gumilcund with my other fugitives; but I could not, even for their sakes, give up my search, and I was afraid of allowing them to travel alone. The two young men, moreover, who as I presently found out were subalterns in the army, and mere boys, were so much prostrated by the hardships they had undergone that to take them on at once might have endangered their lives. Mrs. Lyster told with tears that one of them had been tied to a tree in a village through which they had passed, and flogged in the presence of a hooting crowd of villagers, and that both of them had been put in irons and forced to walk for miles under the burning sun. Taking all these things into consideration, we thought it best that they should run the risk of staying where they were for a few days. I, in the meantime, would send messengers to Gumilcund, which was within three days' march of the village, and an escort strong enough to take them there safely would be sent out.
'Mrs. Lyster showed some animation when Gumilcund was mentioned.
'"I have heard of the little State as one of the happiest and quite the most wisely governed in India. Are you," looking at me doubtfully, "the Rajah?"
'I drew back from the light and put on all my dignity. "Madam," I said, bowing low, "I have at least great influence in Gumilcund, and that, with everything else I possess, is at your service."
'"Everything, except your Excellency's time," said Mrs. Lyster, with a touch of her old spirit which enchanted me.
'Keeping myself well in hand, I made another ceremonious reverence. "My gracious lady must know," I said, "that my time is not my own. If it were, she would be welcome to it."
'"To whom does your Highness's time belong?" she asked.
'"To the God whom I have worshipped from my birth," I answered. "I will speak to you frankly, for you are of those who can understand. I have bound myself under a solemn vow to find and rescue an English lady from whom I have received many kindnesses."
'"Is she in danger?" asked Mrs. Lyster.
'"I have reason to believe so," I answered.
'"A prisoner? English?" she asked eagerly.
'For an instant I forgot everything, and if Hoosanee, who was always on the watch for these mistakes, had not interposed, I should certainly have betrayed myself by dashing into English. Bowing himself almost to the ground, he stepped forward.
'"Will my master pardon me?" he said. "I have a question to ask the Mem Sahib."
'"Say on, Hoosanee," I said, withdrawing into the shadow, and letting him continue the conversation. I did not, in fact, speak again—a circumstance which annoyed Mrs. Lyster, for when, Hoosanee having obtained all the information she could give us, we retreated to the courtyard, I heard her say, in English, "He is the nicest native I ever met. But what a pity to see him so completely in the power of that deceitful-looking servant!" I thought, as I crossed the court, how, if God spares us to see some of this dreadful tangle straight, Mrs. Lyster and I will laugh over it by-and-by.
'We saw our host, who was perfectly agreeable, vowing, by all he held sacred, that the fugitives whom the courage of his lords had rescued should be well treated while they were in the village.
'Ganesh now came in, and informed us before him that my letters had been sent to Gumilcund. These were to Chunder Singh and Lutfullah, requesting that men and money should be sent to the village at once. The money was to reward those who had stood by us. The men were to escort Mrs. Lyster and her companions to Gumilcund. When he heard of soldiers and treasure, the headman became more and more abject. I believe he will be loyal. Fortunately, no one of the prisoners' escort is left to tell the tale of their destruction to the rebel army.
'This over, we retired to the hut that had been allotted to me, and discussed our further proceedings, which were to be moulded on the information given to Hoosanee by Mrs. Lyster, and which, with the object of seeing things more clearly, for I am still like one wandering in a maze, I shall write down here.
'It was by the merest chance that it all happened. For the latter part of their miserable journey—it had lasted a week when we rescued them—she had been given a small covered bullock-cart, such as native women travel in. At the last stage, when a halt was called, the cart was drawn into what seemed to her to be a large market-place. It was mid-day, she said, and their escort and the people of the village where they were halting appeared to be asleep, for there was no noise. She tried to sleep too. She thinks she did drop into a doze; but she always slept with one ear open, and the sound of low whispering close under the cart aroused her. One of the side curtains was lifted, and a face peered in. It was not an angry face. It was an inquisitive face. The face withdrew, and another took its place. This one gazed at her with considerably more attention. But it, too, withdrew. She was now thoroughly awake, and a little startled. She crept to the side of the cart where she had seen the faces, and laid her ear against the curtain. An altercation was going on. Words that might be rendered in English as, "She is!" "She is not!" "I'm certain," "So am I;" "You are a fool!" "I'm not: you are!" were being bandied from mouth to mouth. All she could gather at first was that both of the men had thought they recognised her, and that they did not take her to be the same person. But why this interest? She continued to listen, and it seemed to her presently that the man who spoke in negatives had convinced his companion. His name was Tikaram. When they settled down to confidential talk, she heard him say distinctly that he was in search of an English girl and a fair-haired boy, who, he was led to believe, had been taken prisoners by Dost Ali Khan. A third man joined the conference, who, from the way in which he spoke, she judged to be a disarmed and fugitive sepoy. He was working his way into Nepaul, and appeared to be in great dread of the swamps that have to be crossed before the mountain kingdom is reached. In the course of conversation he mentioned having heard of English fugitives going that way.
'I can write of it calmly now—too calmly—for I am becoming accustomed to cruel shocks, and my heart, I think, is growing callous; but, when I heard it first, when I tried to realise that my tender and delicate Grace might be entangled in the meshes of the pestilential, tiger-haunted district which I had crossed in the winter, my heart, I confess, nearly failed me.
'But to return. On hearing of fugitives, Tikaram roused himself and asked for particulars. The conversation became very swift now, so that Mrs. Lyster could not quite follow it; but she is certain that the sepoy convinced Tikaram of the identity of the fugitives of whom he had heard with those he was seeking. He went off presently in search of an ekka with a swift pony, and returned to bid his friends good-bye. Mrs. Lyster thinks that the sepoy joined him, but of this she cannot be quite sure. She believes, however, that their designs were friendly.
'Now this, it will be said, was not much to go upon, but we have to make the best we can of it, for we have no other clue. Hoosanee builds much, I find, on Tikaram's name. This Tikaram, if he is the same man, was a servant in the house where Grace was staying at Nowgong, and seems to have been deeply attached to her. There was besides some whisper of a reward if he could bring her safely out of Nowgong. The mystery lies in his knowing that she is not with the other fugitives at Gumilcund. Hoosanee says that he advised him not to follow them out of Nowgong, but it is quite possible that he may have been upon their heels and have witnessed the capture of Grace and Kit. Conjecture, however, is of little use. We have determined in any case to follow Tikaram, and early in the morning of the day after the rescue we made a forced march to the village where Mrs. Lyster and her friends halted last. There, Hoosanee being as clever as usual in picking up news, we heard that Tikaram had been heard of at Ghazeapore. That district is comparatively quiet, as my good friends the Ghoorkas, under their gallant captain, Gambier Singh, are holding Azimgurh in force. It would be curious if Grace could have wandered so far, but Hoosanee says it is not at all impossible. Since the day when she was said to have been put out of the fort held by Dost Ali Khan more than three weeks have gone by. I tremble as I write the words. I scarcely dare to credit them. Three weeks! She may have died long since. If she is alive still—Ah! I cannot write! I cannot think! God help me! Let me preserve my reason, at least until I know! Then do with me as Thou wilt. I will be dumb!'
'Three more days of rapid travelling have gone by. We are going night and day. When our horses are knocked up Hoosanee, by some miraculous means only known to himself, gets us fresh ones. He tells me that he is drawing largely upon the future. Let him! So long as we are moving—so long as I have still this little ray of hope to carry me on—I care for nothing else.
'We are resting in a small dak bungalow on the banks of a canal, which was occupied I suppose formerly by an English engineer, and which is within a few hours' ride of Azimgurh. I wished to ride on without drawing rein, but our horses gave in altogether, and we find that we must let them rest for a few hours. I write because I dare not think. Every day my love and agony seem to increase, and I feel sometimes as if I could not bear it much longer. In spite of the fatigue we are undergoing, I am afraid to sleep, for the dreams that haunt me are worse than my waking thoughts. Oh, what horror! What misery! Talk of the hideous visions of a maniac! They can be nothing to mine. Time after time my good Hoosanee has come with tears and cried out to me to awake, for he could not bear to hear my sobs.
'We have heard of Tikaram again. I trust indeed that we are almost on his heels. He seems to have visited Azimgurh. Some one heard that he was given a little band of Ghoorka soldiers to help him in his search. If that is so, he must have made Gambier Singh very sure of his good will. I shall hear all about it presently from himself.'
'I feel as if I ought to have been far from this hours ago. It is Gambier Singh's fault that I am not. He has beguiled me to remain by the promise of such help as it would not be prudent of me to refuse. I have slept for two good hours: such a sleep as I have not known since I left Gumilcund: and now, while the last preparations for our march are being made, I will write down in my book the strange events of yesterday.
'I had no difficulty in finding the head-quarters of the fine little Ghoorka army; my difficulty was in having speech of their captain. Fortunately, however, while I was standing at one of the outposts begging that a note from me might be taken in to him, there passed by a man who had often seen me during my visit to Jung Bahadour at Katmandoo. He ran in with my note, and in ten minutes' time Gambier Singh himself appeared upon the scene. I shall never forget the warmth of his welcome, or the passionate sympathy and interest with which he threw himself into the history of my misfortunes. I really think he almost regretted for a moment the responsible position he occupied, which prevented him from joining me in my search.
'We held a long and earnest consultation. I find that the rumour concerning Tikaram is true. He came to the camp with his story, which was that he was in search of a young Englishwoman and a child with long fair hair, travelling as it was supposed alone, who had been heard of last in these districts, and were said to be making for Nepaul. He wished to follow and help her; but his resources were completely exhausted, he had no arms, and he feared to penetrate the jungle alone. So Gambier Singh gave him a body of trusty men to accompany him. This happened yesterday only, so we shall soon be on their track.'
This part of my friend's diary ends abruptly. During the next few days it was impossible for him to write a line, and afterwards he only mentioned briefly the incidents of his further adventures. But Hoosanee, Gambier Singh and others, with whom I have spoken since, have given me the details so fully that I can almost see the story passing before my eyes.
I take it up from the point where the diary breaks off. The writing was interrupted by Gambier Singh, who came in to tell him that everything was ready for a start. The Ghoorka captain had not much hope himself of a happy issue to the enterprise. He had lost too many men in the deadly Terai not to know its perils, and he did not for one moment imagine that a tender woman and delicate child would have been able to cross it safely. But he was too chivalrous and kind of nature to be able to quench his friend's hopes by expressing his own conviction. He expended his sympathy in taking care that nothing which he could supply should be wanting to the success of the enterprise.
Tom was attended now as befitted a person of rank. He rode in front on a splendid little Arab horse—the gift of Gambier Singh—a small body of Ghoorka soldiers, armed to the teeth, followed him, and close in the rear came camels and bullock-carts, laden with camp equipage.
For two days and nights they plodded on. As the jungle closed round them, and the air grew dark and pestilential, the despondency of the young rajah increased. Day after day, to the imminent peril of his life, he left the beaten tracks and made great circuits in the bush. Now and then, at such times, he came upon sights that would make his blood run cold—human bones bleaching in the sun, the bodies of men, who seemed to be sepoys, half gnawed away by wild beasts, and arms and utensils flung down in the bush. Once, emerging from a close thicket, he came upon a huge tiger, mumbling over its horrid feast. His blood was up, and, while the restless fire of the brute's fierce eyes was upon him, it fell, mortally wounded, over the corpse it had been devouring. His men, several of whom were close by, were triumphant, and the beautiful monster was carried off to camp. As for the conqueror, he turned away groaning—penetrated to the heart by a sickness for which earth holds no remedy.
It was a sickness of the soul, for his bodily health did not suffer. While one after another of his attendants sickened, and had to be sent back, he held on. Even Ganesh, desperately anxious as he was to keep up, was compelled to give in at last. Hoosanee, although his superb devotion prevented him from acknowledging it, showed, by the wild look in his eyes, that he was suffering from fever. Tom saw it all; but he would not give in. 'Let us at least find Tikaram!' he said to Hoosanee. 'We know that he has gone into this place. Sooner or later we must come upon his track. He is not alone as they are.'
One day, as they were plodding slowly on, a little cavalcade of men and camels and Ghoorka soldiers, coming from the opposite direction, met them. On both sides a halt was immediately called. Tom, who was in front, saw, as the party opened out, that a litter was being carried between them. His pulses had begun to beat so furiously that he could scarcely breathe or speak, and he motioned that Hoosanee should speak for him. A few words were exchanged. He could not hear them for the tumult of his senses. Then Hoosanee came up. 'Well!' he said fiercely.
'My master, it is Tikaram. He is dying.'
'If he isdead, he must speak to me,' cried Tom.
In the next instant he had sprung from his horse, and was standing beside the litter. He set aside the curtains and looked in. At the sight of him, the fever-stricken wretch within, who had been lying in a kind of trance, seemed to be galvanised into new life.
'Are you the rajah?' he said feebly. 'You—promised—a lakh of rupees.'
'A lakh!' echoed Tom. 'I tell you that if you have found them—if you can guide us to where they are—I will make you rich beyond the dreams of avarice.'
The man gave a deep sigh. 'A lakh!' he said slowly.
'But tell me! tell me!' said Tom.
'A lakh!' he repeated. 'I could win it yet. But I am dying.'
'You shall not die. I have medicines with me and nourishing food. Good God!' He broke into English in his agitation. 'The man is going, and he knows something. I read it in his eyes. Hoosanee, bring me wine or spirits.'
A strong restorative was brought in a cup, which Hoosanee put to the lips of the stricken man. He swallowed a few drops, and his eyes, which had been closing, opened once more. Tom was going to speak again; but Hoosanee stopped him.
'Let me speak, my master,' he said. 'The life is nearly gone, and flutters like a spent flame. A breath may put it out.'
'Right!' said Tom. 'Take my place!'
Then, in the silence of both cavalcades, Hoosanee stooped over the litter. 'Do you know me, O brother?' he whispered.
'You are the seller of garnets,' answered Tikaram. 'You came to Nowgong, and the lotus-eyed trusted you, and you carried her away.'
'She was taken from me, Tikaram.'
'She was taken from you. I saw it all. I followed her to the fort, and when the evil-hearted Soubahdar took her out of the gates——'
He paused. 'Let my brother go on,' said Hoosanee gently. 'There is no enemy here. Why did the Soubahdar take the lotus-eyed forth?'
'The White Ranee commanded him. She was black of heart and evil. I saw her at the gate, and she saw me, and her servants, whom she commanded, caught me by the girdle and would have slain me, only that the God whom I serve was my friend. For a night and a day I lay like one dead, suffering grievously. My strength came back and I set out in search of her.'
Again his breath failed him; but a few drops of Hoosanee's potion made him strong enough to go on with his tale.
'There were two—the Miss Sahib and the child. What the Soubahdar would have with them I knew not. He was known in the villages about, and I tracked him from place to place; but was never swift enough to come up with him. Then I lost him. He had gone out of a village in the morning, and his prisoners, who were still alive, were with him. It was thought that he was taking them to the hill-countries of the north. But of this I know nothing, save that they were going north, and that they travelled by unfrequented ways. After that village, O brother, I lost him. Some said he was dead; but his body was not found. Miss Sahib and the child I lost too; but I went on, seeking everywhere.'
'Courage!' whispered Hoosanee. 'My master will make your family rich.'
'I thought I heard of them at last,' he went on. 'But they were alone, and how could that be? Where was the Soubahdar who had taken them from the fort?'
'Could he have deserted them?' said Hoosanee—'left them in some jungly place to be fallen upon by the wild beasts.'
'Why should he do so, O brother, when he could take them out himself and kill them with the sword? He is not of my religion. He is a Moslem. This I said to myself, and my trouble was great. But the lakh of rupees and the eyes of the Miss Sahib, who, as my brother knows, will sometimes smile graciously on her servants, kept me from going back. I travelled on till I reached the camp of the Ghoorkas, where I told my story, and where I was given men and food to take me on.'
'Is that all?' said Hoosanee, very sadly. 'Has my brother come back unsuccessful?'
'Am I going back?' cried the poor creature, starting up and locking round with a fierce glitter in his bloodshot eyes. Pain conquered him, and he lay back groaning. 'I could stand and walk no longer,' he moaned, 'and they put me in this. But they said, "We are going on, we camp in new ground every day," and I believed them—I believed them.'
'Perhaps youaregoing on,' said Hoosanee soothingly. 'This country is strange to me. But tell me, if you can, why you think that Missy Grace is here.'
'Have you ever seen Miss Sahib's writing?' said Tikaram.
'My master knows it well. If you have found anything, show it to me,' cried Hoosanee eagerly.
Tikaram was too weak to move. 'My right hand,' he murmured. 'Open it!'
Pulling aside the light covering that was over him, Hoosanee saw one of his hands rigid, as it seemed, and firmly closed. He forced it open as gently as he could, the man's eager eyes following him wistfully. Tom was close by. He had heard the last words, and he was trembling from head to foot with impatience. But he had to wait while the fingers, cramped with the awful sickness of the jungle, were slowly and painfully unclenched. The hand was nearly open at last. They saw a scrap of paper, and Tom made a dash to seize it; but, with the onslaught, the hand, as if moved by a will of its own, closed again. Then a convulsive shudder ran through the man's wasted frame, and a long, long sigh broke from his heart.
'He dies,' said one of the Ghoorka soldiers, falling back. 'Give room for his spirit to pass out of him!'
Space was made round the litter; but Tom stood there still, with blazing eyes looking down upon the clenched hand, which might, for all he knew, hold a message for him.
'A moment, master—a little moment,' whispered Hoosanee.
'Try him with your drink!' said Tom.
It was put to his lips; but he could not swallow. Stooping over him, Hoosanee heard him murmuring the name of his God. 'It is very near,' he said.
In the next instant the poor creature started up. 'Missy Grace!' he cried out. 'Missy Grace!'
Tom groaned. 'He knows something. Make him speak. The secret will die with him!' he sobbed.
'Master,' said Hoosanee solemnly, 'the secret is at your feet.'
For, with the sudden movement, the clenched hand had relaxed, the fingers had fallen open, and the paper they contained had rolled out upon the ground.
Tikaram was dead. His was an instance, and not a solitary one, of the devotion of which the sons of the soil were capable, both to the children under their charge, and to the men and women who in the days of their power had treated them with consistent kindness. While his co-religionists covered his face and built hastily a pyre of dead wood to consume his body, Tom went apart and, with a beating heart, undid the many foldings of the paper.
The writing within was in Grace's hand. He saw this at a glance, but the words were so faintly traced that he had great difficulty in deciphering them. He did not, in fact, make it all out at once. But for us it has been transcribed, and we are able to give it as it was written down.
'This is for Tom. I know he is looking for me. When I have an opportunity I shall throw it down, addressed to him in his Indian name, and some one, perhaps hoping for reward, will take it to him——' A break, and then, 'I cannot write. I am watched day and night. What will the end be? I dare not even imagine. But I must not die while Kit is living.' Another short break, and then in tremulous, very minute characters, 'I am afraid of this man. There is a wicked look in his face. I think he is vindictive; but what can I have done to offend him? To-day he threatened to separate me from Kit. If he does I know what I will do. Don't fear for me, my beloved ones. My peace-bringer is still at my heart. When the occasion comes I know how to use it——' After this last entry a considerable interval must have elapsed. To those who read it afterwards it seemed as if some mental shock had passed over the poor girl, shattering her nerves. When she wrote again it was with a sort of surprise. 'I forgot about my plan—' so the next entry runs—'but did I have a plan? My mind goes from me. Everything is confused. I feel as if I had been dead, and had come to life again. Perhaps I have. But here is my darling Kit sleeping sweetly beside me in the hut where we have been resting all day. Is he dead too? Or who is dead? Everything is confused, and I cannot understand. But I think he and I are alive. What we are doing here I don't know in the least. Some one somewhere, who seemed kind, dressed us in native dresses and stained our faces, and some one else gave us a cart and a bullock, and so we go on, day after day, day after day. Kit says we are going into Nepaul, for the people there are kind to the English. The poor English! I wonder how many of them have been killed! Kit says we are English, too. I wonder if that is true. I thought I was English once. I thought I was a woman and a lady, but that must have been in another life——' Ah! how strange and pitiful it was! Spelling it out with pain and difficulty, Tom felt now and then as if his heart would break. If he could only weep as Bertie Liston had done! But he could not. His eyes were dry and hot, and a fire seemed to be burning within him, and his breath came and went in panting sobs like one in the agonies of death.
The last words were more clearly written, and the collected way in which they were put together, contrasting vividly with the incoherence of what went before, gave him a little glimmer of hope.
'I have slept, and I am better, and I remember now what I intended to do when I first began to write this. There is a good man here—a hermit or holy man, who has penetrated our disguise, and who pities us. He has heard from those who have heard it from others that fugitives have been inquired for in the villages hereabouts. He advises us, however, not to linger here. The Ghoorka army are on their march southwards, and the people are excited. But he will try that my scroll may reach those who are trying to find me. I think Tom is one. If he finds me—but I remember that he may see this. I thank him with all my heart for what he has done, for what, as I believe, he is still doing for us. To-morrow we go into the jungle. The good hermit will guide us. We go towards the mountains, and we hope to succeed in crossing them. If this is found let those who find it look for us in the jungle or on the hills. There may yet be time to save Kit. He is the noblest and bravest little fellow that ever lived.'
That was all. The suspicion which had led Tikaram first, and later the young rajah, to search for them in the jungle was confirmed, but there was no further clue. These might be the last words of the heroic girl before darkness swallowed her up. And yet it was with a strange rapture—a sense of exultation such as he had not known since he fleshed his maiden sword on the slaughterers of women and children—that Tom pressed the dear missive to his heart. She was hoping for his help, counting on him as her defender. And since she had lived through so much, was it not possible that still, even at this eleventh hour, he might find her? He dared not think of it. It was too good, too joyful. Yet for a few instants the warm blood welled to his heart, and his pulses beat a triumphant measure, and it seemed as if all—all he had suffered, his toil, his depression, his despair, his horror, was as nothing. Found! Brought back in safety; cared for with so deep a tenderness that the terrors of the way she had gone, and the misery and humiliation of her capture, would be forgotten. His heart swelled. The love it contained made it fit to break. 'It is too much, too much,' he said to himself. 'I cannot bear it.'
And then he remembered suddenly that his task was not done, nay, that the hardest part of it was to come, and he tried to be stern, and to brace up his energies to do what lay before him.
They had halted in a small open glade. The pyre on which the body of Tikaram had been placed was already kindled, and the smoke was rising into the still air and floating away in tremulous waves, like heat made visible. The birds of prey that had been hovering over the litter were sailing away sullenly, uttering harsh cries. The men of both cavalcades, taking advantage of the rest, had tethered their horses and, gathered together in little groups, were lighting small fires to cook their evening meal. On all sides they were hemmed in by the jungle, and, as the shades of evening gathered, strange noises as of shrieks and sobbings echoed and re-echoed through the dense and matted underwood.
Tom had gone apart to read the paper. When the strong determination to act at once came upon him, he called up the chief of his little escort and Hoosanee. The latter, at his request, fetched two or three of those who had been with Tikaram. When they were all together Tom addressed them in Hindoostani. He told them as much as he could of the paper that had fallen into his hands, expressed it as his conviction that those he sought were still wandering in the jungle, and asked their advice.
Not one of them, not even Hoosanee, but gave it as his opinion that the fugitives were long since dead. If they had crossed the Terai, which was unlikely, they could never have crossed the mountains. The Ghoorkas were for giving up the search in despair. Hoosanee said nothing; his eyes followed those of his master. Tom asked temperately if, in their opinion, there was any fear to be entertained of their encountering detachments of the rebels here. They believed not. Later there would, no doubt, be many fugitives from the revolted troops, but there had not as yet been any English victory of sufficient importance to cause the rebels to despair. If they fled from one place they would join their comrades in another. But jungle-fever was a worse enemy than revolted sepoys.
Tom said he knew this, and he therefore proposed that the greater number of those who had come with him and Tikaram as escorts should return to their respective regiments. Two or three of the strongest he would like to retain in case of accident. But even as regarded this he would wish them to judge for themselves. The coolies must go with him to take on the carts with provision for the way and camp equipage, and if his Ghoorka friends would do him a kindness they would take back with them his friend and servant Hoosanee, recommending him to the kindness of the Captain Sahib, Gambier Singh, until such time as he could himself return.
He was interrupted by the sound of sobbing, and, looking down, saw Hoosanee at his feet. 'Have I offended my master?' said the poor fellow. 'Have I been indifferent in this search, or does he reproach me with failing in my service to him? If I have, let him speak to me! Nay, let him strike me! I will take punishment from his hands. But let him not send me away from him!'
'My good Hoosanee,' said Tom very gently. 'Do you not see that it is of you I am thinking? You are ill. You cannot deny it.'
'If that is all,' said Hoosanee rising, 'I will venture to disobey your Excellency's command.'
'How? you will be rebellious!' said Tom smiling.
'I will do what I know is for the best. Does my master think that he could go on without me?'
'But consider, Hoosanee—if you were really ill——!
'Master, if I die, I die. I will never be burdensome to you. Let me go on!'
'If you must, there is no more to be said. But the responsibility is your own,' said Tom gravely.
The Ghoorkas meanwhile had been discussing their plans. When, looking radiant, Hoosanee stood aside, one of them stepped forward, and spoke. The rajah, he said, had spoken well. If some of them must die, there was no reason why all should meet with the same fate, and, in the province whence they had come, good men were wanted. They proposed that six of the strongest from the two escorts should be chosen to attend the rajah on his farther journey, and that the rest should return to their captain.
Tom thanked them, and gave orders that all arrangements should be made for the breaking up of the party.
When they had withdrawn he held a further consultation with Hoosanee and the cleverest of his Ghoorka guides. This man had felt the curious magnetic power which Tom generally exercised over Orientals, and had become almost as much devoted to him as his own servants. Uninvited, he had joined the conference, and he now threw himself at his feet and, having begged that he might be one of those whose services he would retain, answered, with readiness and perfect knowledge, his questions about the country. No one, as it happened, could have been better acquainted with the low country that lies at the foot of the hills which separate the Nepaul valley from the plains of North-West India. The jungle-fever had no power over him. He breathed more freely on this pestilential plain than in the high mountain valleys. Moreover, the wild tribes, or Aswalias, as they are generally called, who inhabited the jungle of the Terai, knew and respected him. Had he not again and again brought down great Shikaris, or hunters from the hills, who slew the tigers that devastated their fields and carried off their little ones? The great reptiles themselves that, like malignant spirits, shuddered through the long grass of the jungle, had no terror for Bâl Narîn, and he carried with him potions and unguents that could steal the poison from the deadliest snake-bites. Though a Ghoorka, therefore, and, as such, a natural enemy of the wild Aswalias, he had long been counted their friend. Bâl Narîn shared his countrymen's admiration for Europeans, of whom he had been frequently the companion and guide. It was to fit himself for their service that he had practised Hindoostani, which he spoke with quite sufficient ease to carry on a conversation, and, as this was a rare art amongst the Ghoorkas, it made him all the more valuable. His European friends called him Billy—a trick into which Tom fell with a readiness that betrayed him at once to the keen perception of Bâl Narîn, who had made up his mind long since that he was far more English than Indian. The discovery, however, had rather increased than diminished his reverence for his new lord, to whom he was now almost as much devoted as Hoosanee himself.
These three, then, set themselves to discuss their plans.
Bâl Narîn stated that they were one day's direct march from the foot of the hills. The road was not, at that time, nearly so good as it has since become; but he was able to speak of it as comparatively safe and easy. With the ascent of the hills, the difficulties would begin. Exceedingly precipitous, choked with low underwood and haunted with wild beasts, the belt of country which lay between the pestilential swamp they were now crossing and the middle slopes of Sisagarhi was almost as dangerous as the Terai, and far more exhausting to the traveller. The question was, could a woman and child have crossed it alone? Bâl Narîn thought not. He inclined to the opinion that if they were living—a point concerning which Tom would admit no doubt—they were still on the plain. Hoosanee, on the other hand, who had witnessed the heroism of which Grace was capable when she had others than herself to defend, was loud in his belief that she had set herself to face the perils of Sisagarhi, and that she had succeeded in her attempt.
Above the lower belt of which I have spoken, and on the middle slopes of the first range of mountains, there are glorious forests and delicious pastures. In this favoured region, where the temperature is that of southern Europe at its best, the oak and the chestnut, the ash and the elm, the laurel and the magnolia, are to be found in company with the pipul, the banyan and the acacia. In the midst of this wealth of vegetation there are pretty little villages inhabited by quiet cultivators of the Magar and Newar tribes—Buddhist for the most part, and people of gentle life, over whom the Ghoorka warriors exercise lordship, in return for a protectorate that is gratefully welcomed. There are posts here and there, along the road over the pass, in which soldiers are stationed, to drive back the savage and predatory tribes from the south, who, since the settlement of the country early in the century, have been able to do little mischief besides such as might arise from an occasional cattle raid. It was the fear that these wild tribes, held in check on one side by the British and on the other by his own stout little soldiers, might become powerful and overrun the country that had induced Jung Bahadoor to originate the policy, which he carried through with such consistency and success throughout the year of the rebellion. Hoosanee, then, gave it as his opinion that the fugitives had reached this middle region, and found a temporary resting-place in one of the villages. He proposed that they should press forward without an hour's delay, make for the foot of the hills, and set themselves to climb them. As for Tom, he wished to go both ways. If they had reached the further side of the jungle, he could not bear that they should remain without help one moment longer than was absolutely necessary, while, on the other hand, if they were here on the plain hiding, it might be, in some miserable hut, how terrible it would be to leave them to their fate!
'Hoosanee,' he said at last. 'Do you really wish to please me?'
'Do I wish to please my master?' cried Hoosanee. 'How can he ask me?'
'I ask you, Hoosanee, because I must put your affection to the severest test. It has come to this. We must divide our party. You must go one way and I another. Listen, and do not speak until I tell you! I would divide myself if I could. I would climb Sisagarhi to search for Miss Grace there, and I would hunt this jungle through and through, in case she should be hiding here still. How can I do it? In one way only. You are my second self, my good friend, and you must take part of my duty from me.'
'I will stay then. My master shall climb Sisagarhi.'
'No, Hoosanee. It is you who shall go on. Be silent! I cannot allow you to decide this. I have my reasons for what I am doing. Listen again! You shall take three of the Ghoorkas, and a runner to send back with intelligence as soon as you have gained it. I will take the others, and Billy who knows the people shall go with me. Come at once! I will divide provisions and send you on.'
And so it was settled to Hoosanee's distress, for, although he saw at once that it was necessary to the success of his enterprise that he and his master should separate, he would have preferred to reserve to himself the more dangerous part. As for Tom, while he felt that the arrangement he had proposed was the only one which offered any hope of a good issue to their task, he was thankful to have succeeded in sending off Hoosanee to the higher latitudes. In the meantime, Bâl Narîn was far more useful to himself than even his own servant could have been.
Very early the next morning the cavalcade divided. The released Ghoorka escorts returned to their regiments. Hoosanee, with good store of provisions and three mounted soldiers, went off in the direction of the pass, and Tom, accompanied by Bâl Narîn, turned off the main road to seek a byway through the jungle, which was known to his guide as having been used by criminals and fugitives, but which was little frequented by travellers.
It is the fortunes of this last detachment that I propose to follow, my chief authority being Bâl Narîn, whom I met a few years ago—an old man then, but wonderfully clear as to intellect and memory—in his native city, Katmandoo.
That it was a forlorn hope he had felt from the beginning, and nothing but his extraordinary regard for the young rajah, who, as he expressed it, 'held him by his eye,' would have induced him to go on with it.
I find that he and others looked upon Tom as perfectly mad at the time. Many Orientals, however, and Bâl Narîn was fortunately amongst their number, look upon madness as men of a later time have looked upon inspiration. The man himself, they think, is helpless, and the Divine speaks and acts through him. This, no doubt, in addition to his peculiar fascinating power, was the cause of the faithfulness with which Tom was followed more than once in his desperate enterprises. Having been prevailed upon to go forward, Bâl Narîn acted as Subdul Khan and Hoosanee and Ganesh, and even Gambier Singh, so far as possible, had done. He gave himself heart and soul to the task before him.
He spent the night before they started, not in resting, but in drawing out a plan of the Terai, as it was known to him, and making various imaginary routes to and fro, so that, in the future, he might be able to say that every spot within a certain area—the limits of which he did not think any fugitives from the Doab could have crossed—had been thoroughly explored. These he proposed to traverse, penetrating by the way into the solitary haunts of the half-savage Aswalias, whose language he knew, and of whose friendship he was sure. For if such travellers as the English girl and boy had passed through the more unfrequented ways, they would most certainly have been heard of. Even in the jungle and amongst half-naked savages, extraordinary pieces of news, as Bâl Narîn knew from experience, are apt to spread.
The following morning he detailed his plan to Tom, who listened with hope, and said that he would be guided by him entirely. That was a terrible day's march. To cross from the main road to the bypath that Bâl Narîn knew, it was necessary to plunge into the jungle, and the coolies had here and there literally to hack a way through it for the horses and camels. Comparatively open spaces, which Tom would have set himself to canter over gaily, were carefully avoided by the Ghoorkas, and Bâl Narîn told him that they were dangerous morasses, into which he might have disappeared without hope of rescue. It was still worse when they reached tracts where the vegetation was larger, for now giant creepers flung down from the trees sinuous arms, with thorny leaves that cut into the flesh of the coolies who hacked them away, and that, when they touched the flanks of the horses, made the poor creatures plunge and snort with pain. The closeness of the atmosphere, the dank vegetable smells, and the effluvium from decaying growths, were almost unendurable. There was danger, too, from the dwellers in the jungle. A man-eating tiger, had one been abroad that evening, would have made short work of these weary men. So, when the darkness began to gather, they set torches flaring to frighten all evil things away, and far off in the cavernous recesses of the jungle-kingdom they could hear the dull roaring of the disappointed beasts of prey. That night they rested as best they could, for Bâl Narîn refused to accept the responsibility of going on. With the first break of day, Tom, who was quivering through every nerve with fierce impatience, stirred them up. He found the Ghoorka soldiers, who believed themselves lost beyond hope of redemption, deeply depressed; but Bâl Narîn was in excellent spirits. He informed Tom that he had discovered some of his own traces—the marks he had set upon certain trees in one of his latest hunting-frays; and he knew that his instinct, by which alone he had been moving on the previous day, had not deceived him. He was making straight for the point he wished to reach. This was encouraging, even to the soldiers.
They set forward again, and went on for many hours at a rate of progress terribly slow to the young rajah's excited nerves. He was on the strain of expectation. Over and over again he would pull Bâl Narîn up short and make him listen to the mysterious whisperings and flutterings that he had heard himself. But the experienced guide could explain them all. He said, moreover, that it was impossible they could be found here. Not even an Aswalia could have his dwelling in the midst of such a region. And Tom tried to control himself. It was immeasurably hard. All day long—and never so much as now—he was haunted by a sick dread of that failure at the very moment of what might, with a little foresight, have been transcendent success which makes uncertain enterprises so nerve-harrowing. If she were near him and he passed her by—if, from her hiding-place, she could hear the very tramp of their horses, and, thinking they were enemies, plunge more deeply into the jungle!
For so it might be. There was no argument of Bâl Narîn, to whom he poured out his fears, which could persuade him that he was cherishing a phantom fear. Then sometimes, as I have heard, it would come over him with sharp throbbing of pain that he was wrong, and that these were right. It was madness—nay, it was the very insanity of folly—to imagine that, wandering in this haphazard way without chart or compass, he would ever succeed in finding her. She was dead! dead! dead! And if he were near her, or if he were far away, what could it matter? The dead hold no commune with the living. By day and by night the awful word rang in his ears. Bâl Narîn heard him repeating it. Dead! Grace was dead—all her loveliness and sweetness—all her heroism and patience—with the love and passion and tenderness unutterable that she had inspired in the hearts of others—gone!—lost to the earth for ever and ever and ever! There were moments in those awful days when his soul went out beyond the limits of its own despair, and when abysses of sorrow—fathomless as the graves in which our beloved be buried—would seem to open out before his feet. Mad! Was he mad? No, he would say to himself: it was the world—dull of eye and ear—insensible—suffering itself to be shrouded with the veil of spiritual blindness which nature throws round her human children, as she woos them softly to fulfil her behests—the world was mad—he was sane. To him, in his anguish, the anguish of the universe had been revealed—a pandemonium of woe that made him sicken and tremble and cry out for Death, even the Death of eternity, to release him from the torturing memory.
But, miserable as his thoughts were, they did not delay his steps. Guided by Bâl Narîn he plodded on quietly hour after hour.
On the evening of the second day, they emerged from the jungle, and, to the great contentment of the whole party, came to opener ground. On the banks of a sluggish stream, whose course they had been following for some time, the weeds and shrub had been cleared away to give place to scanty herbage and lush green paddy-fields. An Aswalia village—a melancholy little group of tiny bark huts—had been planted in the clearing. It was a landmark for which Bâl Narîn had been looking. As soon as he caught sight of it, he made his party halt, and cantered on to make inquiries, and to prepare the villagers, who were exceedingly jealous of their rights, for the passage of strangers.
He was away long enough to make Tom impatient; but when he returned, his radiant face showed that he brought good news with him.
'Are they in the village?' cried Tom, leaping at once to the conclusion which, a moment before, had seemed too rapturous, even for a vision.
'No,' said Bâl Narîn, drawing rein. 'But they have been heard of.'
'Where? where? Let us set off at once! You are our saviour, our good genius,' cried Tom.
'The Sahib must be pleased to have patience still,' said Bâl Narîn, with dignity. 'I will tell him what I have heard, and then he shall decide what we are to do. Two days ago——'
'Two days—only two days—you are sure——'
'I am telling my tale to the Sahib as it was told to me. Two days ago a woman and a little girl, who said that they were servants of the English, came into the village. A holy man was with them. He was from the Doab, he said. He had met the woman flying from murderers, and he had vowed to carry her safely across the mountains with her child. They were afraid to go by the main road, and they were seeking the pass known as the "robbers' road." The headman is quiet and good when he sees no chance of plunder. I know him well. There was nothing about the travellers to tempt him, and perhaps he would have been afraid to hurt the holy man. They were given shelter and provisions, for which the woman and child gave the bangles of silver that they still wore. The headman pitied them, and he would not take all. He directed them to the next village, let them rest for a night, and sent them on. I asked how they were travelling, and he said they had a bullock-cart.'
'But how do you know——' began Tom.
'Patience, Sahib! I am coming to that. The child, they tell me, wore a little embroidered cap under her muslin veil. The cap was of a pretty red colour, and one of the women in the village took a fancy to it. She came behind the child and lifted it off. Then, Sahib, all who stood round were speechless with surprise, for the child gave a cry, and the woman caught it to her arms, and long yellow curls fell down about its shoulders. What does the Sahib say to that?'
'It was Kit,' said Tom. 'But go on, for heaven's sake. Did the villagers show them any unkindness?'
'No, Sahib, none. I think, from what I hear, that they were more friendly than before. Perhaps they thought they would gain a reward by-and-by. The headman begged them to remain, offering to keep them till the war was over. But the woman would not hear of it. She said, for the child's sake, she must go on to the mountains. But, Sahib, they could not travel fast, and I know the way they have gone——'
'You think it a miracle that they should have lived so long, Bâl Narîn?'
'Sahib, it is the strangest thing I have ever heard. The gods have cared for their own.'
'And since they have got so far, am I mad in thinking they may go farther?'
'Who said that his Excellency was mad?'
'No one said so. I have read it in your eyes, Billy. But we are both sane now. Yes—it is no question of madness. Two days. What could they have done in that time? They could not travel day and night as we will.'
'If we travel at night we may miss them, Sahib.'
'True; I had not thought of that. But, come on now. There are two good hours of light before us. Then you shall rest, and I will watch. Have you been able to get any fresh provisions?'
'They are bringing in bags of dal and rice, which will last us for six more days. By that time we shall have reached the further boundaries of the Terai.'
And so they went on once more.
I try to imagine it all sometimes, but I confess I find it hard, although Bâl Narîn and the rajah himself, in the moments of confidence that come to him on rare occasions, have again and again given me narratives of their experiences.
They went on for two more days. This part of the jungle was haunted by tigers. At night, when they made up their camp-fires, they could hear them howling about the sluggish streams that crept through the jungle. There were serpents, too. Tom slew one monster that reared itself up in his path by striking its head with the butt-end of his musket. But to him the most appalling feature of all this march was the swooping down of the foul birds of prey that came from their eyrie in the hills in search of such meat as the jungle would always yield. The creatures had not the least fear; they came so near, sometimes, that he could have struck at them with his cane. It seemed as if they were waiting for the death that might presently fall upon their victims.
He shot down two of these mighty birds in one day, glorying over them as he had gloried over the sepoys whom he had destroyed.
His mind, in the meantime, was oscillating between hope and despair. Every hour increased his impatience, and added to his horror and uncertainty. It was true that, only a few days before, they had been seen living, and still, so far as he could gather, in good health; but would not the difficulties and dangers of this further journey, which taxed their own resources to the utmost, break these tender wanderers down? And to fail at the last moment, when help was actually within reach—how infinitely pitiful it would be! He had one comfort, meanwhile—Bâl Narîn was with him. The news heard at the Aswalia village had completely won over the wily Ghoorka guide. Hitherto he had gone on with the enterprise to indulge his employer, and humour the mad caprice of an Englishman who had cast his spell over him. While the European rajah 'held him with his eye,' he could not refuse to follow him. Now, first, he began to believe in a happy issue. He would not say much about it, for he was fearful, if he gave an encouragement which turned out to be unfounded, the young rajah would sicken and die of despair; but Tom, who could read the minds of his people, knew that he was going forward with renewed energy.
It was on the second day after they left the village behind them that Bâl Narîn's experienced eye began to detect marks which led him to believe that they were actually, at last, on the fugitives' track.
They were in the path known in this region as the robbers' road—a path which, though distinct enough to the experienced, was difficult to pass over, being much choked with vegetation. Kutcha-grass, growing to an immense height, made dense walls on either side of the road. They were in their usual marching order—the coolies in front beating down obstructions, Tom riding behind them, and peering anxiously into the recesses of the jungle, behind him the Ghoorka soldiers mounted on camels, and Bâl Narîn bringing up the rear.
The guide was on foot, and studying the ground. He saw something shining, and, stooping to pick it up, found that it was a silver bead such as the women of these parts often wear in their bangles. He has told me that the excitement caused by this apparently simple discovery was so great that he could scarcely refrain from shouting it aloud. But, in the next moment, he realised that it might not mean anything—that, in any case, it would be unwise to place too much reliance upon it. This was the robbers' road, and it was more than possible that the bit of silver might have dropped from one of their bags of spoil. He went on examining the ground, and carefully scrutinising the walls of kutcha-grass. Presently he made another discovery; but it was so small a thing that no eyes save those of an experienced hunter of beasts and men, like Bâl Narîn, could have discerned it. Low down, where a weed, whose fleshy leaves are armed with spiked thorns, grew among the grass, he thought he saw a single white thread. Eagerly he swooped upon it, and picked it up, and now he could scarcely restrain his excitement, for the thread told the same tale as the bead. A muslin saree, such as those worn by women of the plains, had certainly swept those thorny weeds. It was probable that the bead had been dropped by the woman who wore the muslin veil. Taking them together, there could be little doubt that women dressed in the Indian fashion had passed this way. But, if so, there would be other signs that he could read—signs that might, perhaps, lead him straight to their hiding-place.
So, with bent head and beating heart, he proceeded on his search.
About a hundred yards further on he picked up another bead, which matched the first. He judged from its position—it was poised, as it were, on a little blade of grass, and the least agitation of the air would have dislodged it—that it had been only recently dropped.
Meanwhile, these narrow investigations had seriously delayed his progress. When he made this last discovery, he looked up and found himself alone. Those he was leading had gone on in front of him. The sound of the whistle, with which the rajah was accustomed to keep his little party together, came ringing down the lane at this moment. Bâl Narîn answered it with a peculiar call of his own, and a few instants later he heard the hoofs of his chief's horse, as Tom cantered back to find him.
'Rajah Sahib!' he cried out, waving him back. 'I cannot come on yet. You must have patience with me, and I may bring you news.'
'News here! You are dreaming, Billy,' answered Tom very sadly. 'Who could bring us news in this wilderness?'
'That is my concern, master. Leave me, I entreat of you, and, as you cannot go forward alone, let the men rest and eat! I will join you by-and-by.'
Mournfully the rajah turned his horse's head. This, of course, was one of Bâl Narîn's whims; but it would have to be indulged, for he was completely in his hands.
It was now late in the afternoon, and the men, who had been riding hard all day, were glad of rest and food. Languidly, for the air of these pestilential regions has a numbing effect upon the energies of men, the soldiers unsaddled and lighted a fire, round which they crouched, while one of their number cooked the dal and chupatties that served them for their meal. Tom dismounted, tethered his horse to a stake which his men had driven into the ground, and, feeling it unwise to join Bâl Narîn, who never liked to be disturbed when he was working out a fresh idea, strolled about aimlessly. The camels and bullock-carts, carrying their larger supplies, were coming up behind them, so he could not take his own meal; but, in fact, he did not want to eat. The excitement that had been working within him since Bâl Narîn sent him away made him feel that food would choke him.
His restlessness, meanwhile, was terrible. He was possessed with those miserable, impossible longings which come to most of us at the great crises of our lives—when our senses and the faculties bestowed upon us by Heaven seem too little for our need; when we crave madly for some indefinite power—some loosening of the bonds of our humanity—some super-sensuous divine knowledge and strength to carry us, at one leap, to the bourne where our restless hearts would be. Secrets, deep as the grave, and high as the infinite azure, are weighing down upon our little lives. In the level light of every-day life we forget them. They circle about us, and we see them not. It is when the light departs—when the little life with its little interests becomes tragic, that they come—this grey host of shadows—and mock us with our impotence. Sometimes we strike out blindly, as children strike at tables. We must know; we will know. It cannot be that we have reached thus far, and that never, through all the infinite ages that must be, we can reach any farther. That would be hideous—revolting to our moral sense. 'Give us light, give us light!' we cry out to the Power which, as God, or Nature, or blind Force, holds our destinies in its hand. 'Give us light, or kill us!' And only the awful silence answers us, 'Neither light nor death, poor soul; only a blind going forward to an unknown goal!'
Such was Tom's condition that evening. As he looked round on this desolate land, given up to monstrous growths and fierce animals, with his hopes dwindling every moment, he felt a terror of his own littleness that almost maddened him. Devoured by impatience, he could do nothing. If he moved a few yards from his party he would be lost, and without Bâl Narîn he would be more helpless and hopeless than ever. The necessities of his humanity; the grossness and opacity of his senses; his weakness and his ignorance, were such that, if the dear prize for which he would willingly have laid down his life were in his grasp, he might not be able to seize it. Many men in his position would have cried out to their God. He could not. What he did actually believe was not very clear, even to himself, at that time. The strange mysticism, so fascinating to a high intelligence, that animates some of the older Oriental philosophies had become curiously blended in his mind with the cut-and-dried orthodoxy in which he had been brought up. But he knew what he did not believe, and special providences, miracles worked benevolently for favoured mortals, were amongst the things that he had renounced long ago.
So, with neither hope nor help, only a vague determination to go on until he died, he went to and fro, like a restless wild creature. When he was out of his men's sight he would clench his fists and strike out at an imaginary foe, and mutter fiercely; when he returned to them he would be as they had always seen him—quiet and stern.
An hour passed by. A sickly evening dimness was creeping over the desolate land; he fancied he could hear the animal-world of the jungle rising up to meet the night, and his impatience grew to such a pitch that he could scarcely restrain himself. Presently the camels and bullock-carts came up. He asked the coolies if they had met Bâl Narîn. They shook their heads. He had not certainly been seen on the road. This made the young rajah exceedingly uneasy; but the Ghoorkas, whom he consulted, did not share in his fear. Bâl Narîn, they said, knew what he was about. Most likely he did not care to go any farther that night, and he had laid down where he was, so as not to be ordered on. If he did not join them in the evening, they would certainly see him at daybreak. With this Tom tried to be satisfied, for it was quite evident that he could do nothing. The men would not stir without Bâl Narîn, and for him to do so alone would be as useless as it was dangerous.
They made him up his usual evening meal, a mess of rice and fried vegetables; but he could not eat a morsel. Mounting his horse, he rode slowly back to the point where he had seen Bâl Narîn last. Here he whistled, cried out, tried to ride through the kutcha-grass; but was driven back by the venomous tribes of insects that had come out with the dying down of the day; then realising that these spasmodic efforts were perfectly useless, he returned to the road, and paced back sadly and slowly, seeing no signs of Bâl Narîn anywhere.
The camp was illuminated by gleaming brands set high on poles, and the little cooking-fires were smouldering in its midst. It made a spot of glowing red in the spectral darkness; where everything but it was being slowly obliterated. Tom would have preferred the darkness; but he knew very well that in the jungle he was surrounded with nameless dangers. If he did not wish to give his body for a meal to the beasts of prey that were ranging it, he must keep in the neighbourhood of his companions. So, trying to still his fiery impatience, he lay down where they had spread his canvas sheets, drew a gauze net over his face, and lighted a pastile to keep the cloud of insects at a distance.
I have spoken of Tom's gift of sleeping at will. Even in this terrible emergency it did not desert him. He had learned a few lessons, however, in his life of adventure, and it would not have been so easy now as on his first expedition to steal a march upon him.
The sleep, light and brief as it was, refreshed and invigorated him. When, having indulged in it for about two hours, he sprang up and looked round, he found that the feverish madness of excitement which, if given place to, would have unfitted him for work that needed decision and readiness, had gone. His brain was clear, and his limbs had lost their languor.
In the encampment everything was as it had been. The fires were smouldering and the torches flamed. Two Ghoorkas were on guard. The rest slept, while the camel-drivers, syces, and coolies sat doubled up together, their knees touching their noses, near the beasts of burden which were tethered in the centre of the encampment.
It was dead night; but the darkness was not such as it had been earlier, for a three-quarter moon had come up from her bed of snows behind awful Himâla and was shedding over the desolate land a pale light, which, defective as it was, Tom hailed with pleasure.
'You have often been my friend, Lady Moon,' he said, as he gazed up into the vapour-veiled sky, 'and though you don't shine as you do in the plains, I think you will give me light enough to see what I am doing.'
One of the Ghoorka sentinels, in the meantime, seeing him on his feet, had approached him. 'Does the Rajah Sahib require anything?' he asked.
'I want to know if Bâl Narîn has been seen,' said Tom.
'Bâl Narîn has not come back to camp,' answered the man.
'Then, of course, he has not been seen,' said Tom impatiently. 'Have you heard anything?'
'We have heard nothing but the beasts of the jungle. Purtab killed a serpent. It would have stung him. The gods grant that it may not bring misfortune!'
'The gods have brought Purtab good fortune, my friend. His life is better than a snake's—to himself at least.'
'That is as it may be, Sahib,' said the man enigmatically.
'Settle it your own way, but, in the meantime, listen to me! I don't like this lengthened absence of Bâl Narîn's, and I fear some evil has come to him. I will go and look round.'
'If you go far, Sahib, you will never return. This is the devil's hunting-ground. Men in company they spare. Solitary men they destroy.'
'Then how about Bâl Narîn?'
'Even the devil will not slay his own offspring,' said the man with a chuckle. 'Bâl Narîn is safe, wherever he goes.'
'Is he?' said Tom laughing. 'I wish I had such distinguished ancestry; however, I am not afraid. I have my revolver and my sword. If I whistle, try and find me.'
'Right, Sahib!' said the man, falling back.
We return to Bâl Narîn, whom we left pondering deeply on the significance that might belong to a muslin thread and two little silver beads.
To make this part of my narrative clear, I must explain, having received the information from this cleverest of Ghoorka guides, that besides the robbers' path, as it was called, there were other narrow tracks running in every direction through the jungle. These were due to the animals that at this season make the kutcha-grass their haunt. Wild beasts, like civilised men, are the creatures of habit. They love their old lairs and their daily walks, and are given to ranging certain circumscribed areas, which, no doubt, are to them what our village, city, or club is to us. These animal highways, then, had, through repeated use, become widened and trodden down, so that it would have been easy for the inexperienced to mistake them for paths frequented by men. When Bâl Narîn so impetuously waved Tom away, the notion that thus it might have happened to the fugitives of whom he was in search had suddenly come to him. It was a terrible thought, for in such case they would probably have walked right into a wild beast's lair, and nothing could save them from destruction. The idea, however, having occurred to Bâl Narîn, he could not cast it off.
His mind was of that dogged type which often distinguishes men of his profession. From his boyhood it had been his meat and drink to struggle with difficulties and overcome them. The more arduous the task the better it pleased him, and the mere fact of his having entertained the possibility of undertaking it was stimulus sufficient to make him carry it through. By sympathy in the first place and severe personal effort crowned by partial success in the second, he had worked himself up to strong interest in this work of rescue, and passionate determination that nothing should be wanting on his part to bring it to a successful issue. All the force, all the dogged resolution of his nature was aroused. Working for the master whose kindliness and grace had won his attachment, he was also working for himself, that no man in the future might relate how Bâl Narîn had failed in the task he took in hand.
It was in this mood that the new idea met him, and he set himself immediately to work it out. On the robbers' road, where he had been told he might find the fugitives, he had seen indications which led him to believe that he was on their track. If these indications continued he would know, as far as it was possible to know anything, that the fugitives were on ahead of him. If, on the other hand, they stopped at any particular point, there would be every reason to suppose that the road had been abandoned, in which case he saw that there would be nothing for him to do but to try the likeliest of the jungle paths.