Only an Ensign: A Tale of the Retreat from Cabul, Volume 2 (of 3)

CHAPTER VII.

"THE BAND PLAYS AT TWO."

Young though he was, Denzil made a careful toilet next day; mufti was not much worn at Cabul; but he was unusually particular about the fitting of his blue surtout with its gold shoulder-scales, the adjustment of his crimson sash and sword-belt, forgetting that these were no novelties to the eyes of Rose, and that the black livery of the Civil Service finds more favour with ladies than military uniform in India, where the Redcoats are frequently at a discount, with mammas especially; and he was on the large circular parade ground, where the bands usually played, in the centre of the cantonments (which were an oblong enclosure measuring a thousand yards by six hundred, with a circular bastion at each corner) long before the general promenaders began to assemble, or the European musicians of the 54th Native Infantry had assorted their music, and performed those preliminary grunts on the trombone and ophicleide, which excited the astonishment of the natives, who were present in considerable numbers, by their aspect and costume, enhancing in piquancy a very remarkable scene.

For the first time since they had met, Rose Trecarrel had made a regular appointment with him. It was in a very public place, however, and though it seemed simple enough to her, to Denzil the idea that he had established a secret understanding with her, was in itself happiness; and for the first time he wished to avoid his friend Waller, and was pleased to find that he was detailed for guard that day at an old tomb and temple where we had a post, at the foot of the Behmaru Hills.

The day was one of great beauty, and the air was delightfully cool. Overhead spread the blue and unclouded vault of Heaven, and in the rarified atmosphere, even the remote details of the vast landscape and of the city were rendered visible. Viewed from the cantonments, the plains of Lombardy do not exceed in beauty and brilliance of colour those of Cabul, which moreover, in lieu of the Apennines (amid which Denzil and his parents had often resided) are overshadowed by the stupendous mountains of Kohistan.

Crowning two lofty ridges in the foreground rose Cabul within its walls of stone, and towering high above them, rose the Chola or citadel of the Bala Hissar. The city is picturesque, each house having, as in Spain, an open court-yard, though the streets of unburnt-brick are so narrow as to be frequently blocked up by one laden camel, or to prevent two horsemen riding abreast. Thus the great chiefs and nobles have always footmen running in front to prepare or clear the way for them. There all the different races live apart, and the Persians or fierce Kussilbashes have their own quarter fortified against all the rest.

The groups that gathered round the band were a sample of all the various tribes that resided in and about Cabul, for though many murderous outrages had been perpetrated on our people they were still anxious, if possible, to conciliate the natives.

Each type of humanity varied from the other in visage and in costume; the fair-faced and ruddy-looking Englishman; the lean, dark Hindoo sepoy, seeming intensely uncomfortable in his tight red coat and stiff shako; the sturdier Afghan; the wild Beloochee, the Dooranee, the Kussilbash and Arab, all of whom were admitted in limited number by the quarter-guard; some cruel and sly in expression; some lofty, proud and refined, with patriarchal beards that floated to their waists, and a solemnity of bearing that made one think of the days of Abraham; and many of them armed with ancient weapons made long anterior to the adoption of our villanous saltpetre; in their dresses and manners looking like the figures at a fancy-ball, so quiet and so brilliant in colour and variety, were their flowing Oriental robes.

Numbers of officers and ladies from the different compounds and villas in the vicinity were present; and the "chimney-pot hat of civilization," might be seen amid the white turbans of the Mussulmen, the yellow of the Khyberrees and abhorred Jews, and the scarlet loonghee of the Kussilbash, for Khan Shireen Khan, chief of that warlike tribe, appeared mounted on a slow-paced, lank, patient and submissive-looking camel. Perched high up, he sat on a lofty saddle, with a tall tasselled lance slung behind him, and in front a small armoury of knives and pistols stuck in his girdle, which was a magnificent Cashmere shawl, that many a belle might have envied. Nor were veiled Afghan ladies wanting, and these surveyed with wonder their European sisters, as they openly laughed, chatted and—Bismillah!—shook hands with the Feringhee officers.

Shahzadeh Timour, who commanded the King's forces, was there, mounted on a beautiful horse, wearing a polished shirt of mail and a plumed steel cap, looking not unlike a Circassian chief; and Taj Mahommed Khan, still intent on warning the Europeans of coming evil, rode by his side.

There, too, was Osman Abdallah, an Arab faquir or dervish, who had accompanied the troops from Bengal, a clamorous half-naked fellow, with hair unshorn and shaggy, his lean attenuated limbs smeared with ashes and ghee, thus compelling all to keep to windward of him, as his person was odorous neither of Inde nor Araby the Blest, while he begged for alms to send him on his pilgrimage to the three pools of Sacred Fish, kept by a holy Suyd (or Santon) among the mountains of Sirichussa; and to him, as a riddance, Denzil threw a handful of silver shahi's (petty coins indeed) but of great value in Afghanistan, where cowrie shells pass current at about the tenth of a penny.

Amid all this motley and increasing crowd, he looked anxiously for Rose Trecarrel; already the brass band of the Native Infantry burst upon the air with a crash of music as they began a melody from an opera; and something of disappointment and pique at her protracted absence began to steal into Denzil's heart, for her eagerness seemed by no means equal to his own.

Near him were a group of young officers like himself, but belonging principally to the 5th Cavalry and Horse Artillery. Unlike him, they were neither silent nor thoughtful, but were staring—some through their eye-glasses—at the Afghan women, and amusing themselves with sarcastic criticisms on the quaint figures about them, especially the Khan of the Kussilbashes on his camel and "Timour the Tartar," as they called the Shahzadeh, in his steel cap and steel shirt of the middle ages.

"There goes Rose Trecarrel!" cried one.

"Do you know her?" asked another.

"Know her—who doesn't? Why, man alive, she's as well known as Mechi's razor strop, or Warren's blacking, or anything you may see staring you in the face in the Strand or Regent Street," was the heedless and not very ceremonious response; and if a glance could have slain the speaker, Denzil would certainly have left a vacant cornetcy in the 5th Cavalry.

He turned away in anger, which, however, was somewhat soothed when he heard Shireen Khan, who was gazing after her, say to Shahzadeh Timour, that she was "beautiful as a Peri," which in his language is expressive of a race constituting a link between women and angels.

In a moment Denzil was by her side. She was in a little phaeton drawn by two pretty Cabul ponies and was alone. To avoid being joined by anyone, before she caught the eye of Denzil, she had driven them round the crowd about the band, managing her whip and ribbons very prettily, her hands being cased in dainty buff gauntlet gloves. She was tastefully dressed and wore a bonnet of that shade of blue which she knew was most suitable to her pure complexion and rich bright auburn hair; for Rose was one of those who thought it "was woman's business to be beautiful."

Dropping her whip into the socket, she pulled up and presented her hand to Denzil, who, we fear, held it in his somewhat long, and it did not seem that Miss Rose Trecarrel was very much inconvenienced by the proceeding; but he forgot who might be looking on—he thought only of the brilliant hazel eyes—the ever smiling mouth.

"And you are here alone?" said he.

"As you see. Papa is busy with the General—a move of all the troops down-country is spoken of as imminent soon; and Mabel is with Lady Macnaghten at the Residency, where I am to pick her up at the gate. Will you accompany us for a drive outside the cantonments?"

"With pleasure," said Denzil, though this party of three was not exactly what he had schemed out in his own mind—for he had contemplated nothing less than a solitary ramble with Rose amid the lovely and secluded alleys of the Shah Bagh, or Royal Garden, close by; but it was necessary to quit the crowd unnoticed, a movement not very easily achieved by a girl so showy and so well known as Rose Trecarrel; so they were compelled to linger a little, as if listening to the band.

In the small circle of European society at Cabul, great circumspection was necessary—greater still before the natives, who, under the ideas inculcated by their race and religion, were apt to suspect the most innocent action permitted by the usages of society at home, and to misconstrue that which they could not understand—the perfect freedom and equality, the high position, honour and character, accorded to the English lady or the Christian woman, whether as maid, wife, or mother.

Denzil was too inexperienced and too much in love to be otherwise than shy and nervous. He hesitated in speech, and actually blushed or grew pale like a girl who heard, rather than a youth who had a tale of love to tell. His voice became low, earnest, and tremulous. He could scarcely tell why the momentary touch of that graceful little hand, ungloved—for it was ungloved now—made his heart thrill, for the presence, the sense, the language, and the glances of passion, were all new and confusing to him; while the brilliant girl—the lovely spider in whose net he found himself so hopelessly meshed—knew how to wear her armour of proof and shoot her love-shafts to perfection.

The band now struck up a lively air, and dancing to its measure, through the crowd, which parted and made way for them, there came a group of some twenty Nautch girls, in their graceful Indian dress (all so unlike the swathed-up women of the Mussulmen), a single robe folded artistically about them, leaving one bosom and their supple, tapered limbs quite free. The leading Bayadere, though dark as copper, was indeed a lovely girl; but her jetty hair was all glittering with missee and silver dust.

The jewels which loaded their necks, wrists, and ankles, proclaimed them attendants on the court of the Shah,* and were flashing like their own bright eyes in the sunshine, while the coils of their hair of purple blackness, were interwoven with the white flowers of the wild jasmine. Some had vinas, or rude guitars fashioned of half-gourds; and others had tom-toms or little Indian drums, to the sound of which they sung.

* Now, as in the time of the "Arabian Nights," Nautch girls are attached to all Eastern Courts.

As all Nautch dancing borders a little on the indelicate, Rose had now a fair excuse for leaving the vicinity of the band. Denzil sprang into the little seat behind her, as she still insisted on driving, and they quitted the cantonments by the west-gate, opposite the musjeed, where Bob Waller was listening to the distant strains of the music and killing the hours of his duty as best he could; and thus they escaped Polwhele and a few others who had been waiting to pounce upon her or Mabel, for they were especial favourites with the officers, nathless the ungallant banter to which their names were subjected at times.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DRIVE.

Mabel was not at the Residency, as the sentinels of the Queen's 44th, at the gate, informed them, she having driven away with the Lady of the Envoy to visit Lady Sale, about half an hour before. Denzil perhaps might have foreseen that the sisters would miss each other, had he known more of the inner nature of Rose Trecarrel, or more of the science of flirtation.

"How excessively provoking!" she exclaimed; "shall we return to the band, or—drive without her? Besides we might perhaps meet or overtake them."

The idea of a solitary drive was somewhat perilous at that juncture of our affairs, as the district was much disturbed, and patrols of the 5th Cavalry and 1st Local Horse of the Shah, were on all the roads leading to Cabul. All the people were in arms, and since the murder of Sir Alexander Burnes, more than one officer had been waylaid and seriously wounded. But the temptation was too great, and Denzil "supposed that they might take a little drive together;" so turning the phaeton from the Residency gate, Rose drove along the Kohistan road, in a direction from Cabul.

A wretched Hindoo Kulassy, or tent-pitcher—just such a creature as one may see shivering in the Strand, singing in a nasal monotone to the beating of his dusky fingers on a tom-tom—cried something in mockery after them—a sign of the times—but they heard him not. The Shah Bagh, amid the luxuriant shrubberies of which the voices of the dove and nightingale were heard at certain seasons; the quaint, old musjeed, where Waller was on guard; the village of Behmaru; a pile of stones marking where an English lady had been thrown out of her palanquin and murdered by some wild Belooches, who fled, leaving her unplundered, as they deem the blood of a woman bodes disaster to those who shed it, were each and all soon left behind, and they drew near the long and narrow lake of Istaliff, which is about four miles in length, and where Sinclair's boat lay now neglected among the weeds and sedges.

The vicinity of this lake, the only one in Afghanistan, was lonely, and the hills of Behmaru bordered it on the east. There the shaggy goat, bearded like his Afghan master, and the graceful little antelope leaped from rock to rock; there the long-haired cat and the jabbering ape sprang from branch to branch of the plane and poplar trees, and the beautiful little bird known as the Greek partridge, the hill-chuckore of the natives, whirred up from among the long grass; but save these, and once when a solitary Afghan shepherd peeped forth from his tent of coarse black camlet, pitched on the green mountain slope, there seemed no living thing on their now sequestered path.

Waller, Burgoyne, and others, were older and more showy officers than Denzil, as yet; but it pleased the caprice of Rose Trecarrel to attach him for a time, if not hopelessly, to the train of her admirers; though there was a double risk in the little expedition of that day—the exciting comment among her friends, and the more perilous and equally probable advent of some plundering natives or armed fanatics; yet, heedless of all, the rash girl drove on, looking laughingly back from time to time, with her bright smiling face and alluring eyes, at the lover who sat behind her, striving to speak on passing objects or common-place events, while his soul was full of her, and her only.

Fortunately, no deadly or perilous adventure marked that day's expedition; yet Denzil was fated never to forget it.

Rose certainly was fond of Denzil; but her love affair had, to her, much of the phase of amusement in it. In him, it was mingled with intense and delicate respect; and every fibre seemed to thrill, when she turned half round and showed her face so beautiful in its animation, while, blown back by the soft breeze and their progress against it, her veil, and sometimes one loose tress of her silky, auburn hair, were swept across his mouth and eyes.

Denzil's hand rested on the back of her seat, and as she reclined against it, he knew that there was little more than a silk dress between it and a neck of snowy whiteness; and as the sunlight fell on her brilliant hair, it shone like floss silk, or satin, rather, while her eyes were ever beaming with pleasure, fun, excitement, and something of fondness, too; for he who sat near her was handsome, winning, dazzled by her, and, as she well knew, loved her dearly.

"Do you believe in animal magnetism?" she asked abruptly.

"I don't know—never thought about it, though I have heard old What's-his-name lecture on it at Sandhurst; but what do you mean?"

"The strange sympathy and attraction that are created between two persons who meet each other for the first time—love at first sight, in fact."

Denzil's heart beat very fast, and he was about to make a suitable response, when Rose resumed.

"I am so glad to have the pleasure of driving you, Mr. Devereaux," said she; "but see how those reins have reddened my poor fingers!" she added, holding up a plump, little white hand, ungloved, most temptingly before him. The ponies were proceeding at a walk now, and for Denzil to resist taking that hand in his, caressingly, was impossible; the next moment he had bent his lips to it, and still retained it, for Rose made no effort to withdraw it; and this seemed rather encouraging.

"And you never were in love till you came to Cabul?" she asked, deliberately.

"Never, till I saw you, Rose—dear, dear Rose—ah, permit me to call you so?" replied Denzil, with his eyes so full of tender emotion that her dark lashes drooped for a moment.

"You must not talk in this way, Mr. Devereaux; but how is one to know true love—for there is only one love, though a hundred imitations of it?" she asked, laughing—she was always laughing.

"Some one says so, or writes so, I think."

"De La Rochefoucauld."

"And De La Rochefoucauld is right," replied Denzil, covering with kisses her velvety and unresisting hand.

"I never thought you cared so much for me, Mr. Devereaux," said she after a pause.

"Cared—Oh, Rose, can you use a phrase so tame as that?"

"Well, I mean—good Heavens, I don't know what I mean! I never thought you loved me. I had some idea that you preferred Mabel—she is so statuesque."

Rose had never thought this; but it suited her to say so, and gain a little time. She half closed her clear brown eyes, and smiling most archly and seductively under their long lashes at him, said in a low voice,—

"And you love me—actually love me?"

"I have dared to say so—Rose."

"But you are so young, Denzil—dare I say Denzil?"

"Only a year perhaps younger than you."

"But then you are only an Ensign—and people would so laugh!"

"Let them do so—he who laughs wins; one day I shall be something more," said he earnestly.

"Sit beside me, please, and not behind; I shall have quite a crick in my poor little neck by the way I have to turn—and I shall give you the reins too."

In a moment Denzil was seated by her side.

"And now," said she, "let us talk of something else than love; we have had quite enough of it for one day, my poor Denzil."

How his heart thrilled again, at the sound of his own name on her lips.

"Of what shall we speak—of what else can one think or speak when with you?"

"Oh, anything; how do you like this dress, for instance—my ayah trimmed it?" and while speaking she opened her soft cashmere shawl and showed her waist and the breast of her dress trimmed with—Denzil knew not what—for to resist putting an arm round that adorable waist (a movement which we dare not quite say Miss Rose Trecarrel perhaps expected) was impossible.

"Denzil—Mr. Devereaux!" she exclaimed—"oh good Heavens! if you—if we are seen by any one."

"Pardon me—but permit me," he sighed.

"Listen for a moment and do be reasonable. I can scarcely admit or realise the idea that you are the one who is to give a tone, a colour, to all my future life. No, Denzil; you have paid me the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman; but it may not be. Let us be friends—oh yes! dear, dear friends, who shall never forget each other; but not lovers" (here she held up her ruddy lips to the bewildered Denzil) "not lovers—oh,no—not lovers!"

Kisses stifled all that might have followed.

What art or madness was this?

Denzil felt as if the landscape swam around him, and he was rather fond and fatuous in his proceedings, we must admit; but his earnestness impressed at last the coquette by his side. She began to think she had gone rather too far, so she became grave, and a sadness almost stole over her face.

She began to consider that this love-making was all very well and pleasant so long as it lasted, but where was it to end? As others have ended, thought Rose. There were moments when she could not help yielding to the calm delight with which the pure passion of Denzil was apt to inspire her, for there was a genuine freshness in it. Many had flattered her; many had pressed and kissed her hands, toyed with her beautiful hair, aye, and not a few had kissed her cheek too; but beyond all those, he seemed so happy, so intensely enchanted with her—seeming to drink in her accents—to live upon her smiles!

In short, he thoroughly believed in her, and she tried for the time to believe in herself; and yet—and yet—with the impassioned kisses of her young lover on her lips, she felt that it was all folly—folly in him, folly in her—a folly that must soon have a painful, perhaps a mortifying end.

Did it never occur to her, that young though he was, those caresses and kisses—those words half sighed, and thoughts half-uttered, might never be forgotten by him; but be recalled in time to come with sadness as "the delight of remembered days."

"Now do let us be rational, dearest Denzil," said she smoothing her hair and quickly adjusting her shawl, collar, and gloves, as a turn of the road brought them in sight of the cantonments and a patrol of the 5th Cavalry under a Duifodar riding slowly along; and on their drawing a little nearer her father's house prudence on Rose's part led her to suggest that Denzil should leave her.

"Good-bye till to-morrow—you will call and see us, of course," said she, as he alighted from the phaeton; "dear Denzil," she added, her eyes beaming with their usual witchery and waggery the while, "have we not enjoyed the band to-day?"

He knew not what he replied as she drove off and once or twice turned to kiss her hand to him, while lingeringly and with his heart swelling with all that had passed, he turned from the Kohistan road towards his somewhat squalid quarters in the old Afghan fort.

The secret understanding between them seemed to be growing deeper! What was to be the sequel, and what would the General say? But, as yet, prudence had suggested neither one idea nor the other to Denzil.

It was well for him, as after mess, he lay on his charpoy, or camp-bed, indulging in a quiet cigar and plunged in happy reverie, dreaming over all the events of that delightful drive by the Lake of Istaliff, that he did not overhear a few words of a conversation regarding him, and taking place at that precise time in a corner of General Trecarrel's drawing-room.

"Take care, Rose," Mabel was saying; "I have heard of your solitary drive to-day from Polwhele, though papa has not—a drive in defiance of the dreadfully disturbed state of the people hereabout—nearly all in insurrection, in fact. Mr. Devereaux is only a very junior subaltern, and the Civil Service are scarce enough up here certainly; but remember that cloudy story about his family which we heard at Porthellick."

"I care not," replied Rose, looking up from a fauteuil on which she was languidly reclining, her whole occupation being the opening and shutting of a beautiful fan given to her by some forgotten sub of Sale's Light Infantry; "the poor fellow loves me——"

"He has told you so?"

"Yes—so I shan't betray his home secret, if there is one."

"Yet you would betray himself?"

"Don't say so, Mab?"

"Why?"

"It sounds so horrid."

"But when Audley Trevelyan—the heir to a peerage comes——"

"Audley seems to find attraction enough in Bombay," said Rose, with an air of pique; "so please attend to Waller and his long fair whiskers, my dear sister, I am quite able to take care of myself. Besides, Mab, this lad Devereaux is only one among many."

"But to him you may be one—the one—one only Rose."

"I know it," was the pitiless reply.

CHAPTER IX.

ADVENTURE IN CABUL.

To his intense mortification, regimental duty detained Denzil in the cantonments all the following day, thus precluding his visiting the General's house at the time he intended; but as a natural sequence to their pleasant little airing by the shores of the Lake of Istaliff, it occurred to him that at their next interview he must beg Rose Trecarrel's acceptance of some suitable love-token; and for this purpose he resolved to visit the great bazaar while it was yet safe for a European to traverse the streets of the Shah's capital, as the dreaded Ackbar Khan was not as yet known to be within its walls at that precise juncture; and evening parade being over, he hastened along the road to the Kohistan gate, and turning to the left after entering it, proceeded at once towards the Char Chouk, the aforesaid great bazaar, with his mind intent on his proposed purchase, and so full of the tender memories of yesterday, that he was quite oblivious of the manner in which the armed Afghans, the red-capped Kussilbashes, and others who were thronging the narrow thoroughfares in unwonted numbers, regarded him; how they scowled ominously, handled their weapons, and muttered curses under their thick flowing mustaches.

He was thinking only of Rose, when there were those hovering about him who required but the precept, or example, of one bolder or more cruel than the rest, to cut him to pieces and elevate his head on some conspicuous pole in the market-place; for the Afghans almost invariably slice off the heads of those they slay.

It never occurred to him, that in her own laughing way, her manner yesterday had been somewhat forward, over-confident, or "flirtatious" as Polwhele would have phrased it. He had but one idea and conviction; "How fond she is of me?" and thus a few gold pieces which he had once intended to invest in a present for his mother—alas! he knew not all that had happened at home—or for Sybil, his gentle sister, were now to be spent in a suitable love-gift for Rose Trecarrel.

"She loves me—and she is so beautiful!" he whispered to himself again and again; for there is much truth in the old Roman maxim, that "what we wish should be, we readily believe;" and what reason had he to doubt her? Doubtless, she had flirted with many—but she loved him.

Followed and alternately mocked, reviled or importuned insolently for alms, by Osman Abdallah, the Arab Dervish, to be rid of whose inodorous presence, he thrice gave him a rupee, Denzil reached the great bazaar, the largest in all the East (and once famed as the emporium of Asia), which was built in the days of Aurungzebe; but which exists no longer, as it was subsequently destroyed by our troops.

Like other Oriental bazaars, it was formed of stone, like a long double gallery, arched in with wood elaborately painted, gilded, and carved, and having to the right and left bezetzeins or shops opening off it; and in these, merchants displayed their various goods for sale. The true Afghans never engage in trade; but despise it. All their shopkeepers, merchants and artizans are generally men of other nations—Tadjiks, Hindoos, or Persians; and through a scowling and well armed crowd of idle men and veiled women, Denzil wandered amid a maze of shops, some of their windows being ablaze with jewels, gold and silver work, rich draperies, divans, Persian carpets, Cashmere shawls; shops where iced sherbet and luscious fruits were vended in summer; shops where chupatties and sweet confectionery were sold; others where silver-mounted saddles, gold-handled sabres, silks, muslins and riches of all kinds were displayed, a more picturesque aspect being imparted to the whole scene by the variously-coloured lamps of perfumed oil which hung from the ceilings, and which, as the dusk of evening was now stealing into the bazaar, were being lighted here and there.

At last he stood before the booth of a jeweller, who was seated cross-legged behind the trays whereon female ornaments of every conceivable kind for the neck, ankles and wrists, for the hair and the girdle, rings for the ears, the fingers and nose were displayed, all fashioned of that bright-coloured gold and delicate workmanship for which the East, but more especially the city of Delhi is so famed. The prices of these were marked on labels in Afghan money, from the rupee and gold mohur upwards.

While Denzil was looking over these gems of art for a ring of some value as a suitable present for Rose Trecarrel, he did not perceive that the cross-legged and remarkably cross-visaged proprietor—a huge Asiatic, who wore a green turban, declaring thereby his descent from the prophet, and who sat smoking on a piece of carpet within his shopboard, his beard of intense blackness, flowing almost to his knees—was eyeing him with a deepening scowl, and seeming to shoot towards him with fierce and insulting energy the pale blue smoke wreaths that issued from his lips and the nostrils of his hooked nose—a veritable eagle's beak.

At last Denzil selected a ring, the price of which was marked as eight gold mohurs, and was about to proffer the money therefor, when the merchant snatched the jewel from his hand, and saying, with savage energy, the single epithet, "Kaffir!" spat full in his face. At the same moment Osman Abdallah, the filthy, greasy and unshorn Arab Hadi, who had been watching closely, uttered a shrill and hostile yell.

Startled and justly enraged by an insult so sudden and so foul, Denzil drew back with his hand on his sword. As his assailant was quite unarmed, he had no intention of drawing it unless farther molested. He looked round in vain for a choukeydar (or policeman) and saw only a gathering crowd with black-gleaming eyes and swarthy malevolent visages closing round him. How the affair might have ended there is little difficulty in foreseeing. He must have been slaughtered on the spot, but for the intervention of a splendidly equipped horseman, who at that critical moment rode up, and seizing him by the arm waved the people back by his sabre, and assisted by his followers, six juzailchees, half led half dragged Denzil from the bazaar into the open street.

"Are you mad or weary of your life, Sahib, that you venture into Cabul in the present state of the city, and, more than all, to-day?" asked his protector, sternly.

"Why particularly to-day, Mohammed Khan?" said Denzil, greatly ruffled, and now recognising the tall, thin and yellow visaged Wuzeer of the Shah.

"Alas! ye are but as swine!" was the complimentary reply. "Know you not that it is Friday—a day set apart by the devout for solemn fast and prayer, in commemoration of the holy prophet's arrival at Medina; and because on that day God finished the great work of creation?"

"I never thought of all this, Khan," replied Denzil, whose heart was yet furious against the fanatical jeweller; and he might with truth have added, that so far from thinking of the prophet he thought only of Rose Trecarrel.

The narrow streets were nearly involved in darkness now. They were destitute of all lamps; and thus, provided the Wuzeer could elude the crowd that followed clamorously from the bazaar, he would not have much difficulty in effecting the escape of Denzil, whose blood they fiercely and furiously demanded, crying aloud that one of the faithful had been assaulted, robbed and half murdered by a Kaffir, a Feringhee, and so forth.

The six juzailchees who formed the escort of Taj Mohammed Khan, and who were soldiers of the Shah's 6th regiment (a portion of the same force that General Trecarrel had come up country to command) now fixed their long bayonets and kept back the pressure of the crowd, many of whom had now drawn their swords. The high, narrow thoroughfare re-echoed with barbarous yells, and Denzil felt that he was in a very awkward scrape.

Dismounting, the Wuzeer quitted his horse, and seizing the somewhat bewildered Denzil by the hand conducted him down a narrow, dark and steep alley, under the very ramparts of the towering Bala Hissar; and thence, by a steeper open slope to the lower wall of the city, through a kirkee, or wicket, in a gate of which they issued, and the fugitive found himself free. Before him stretched, far away in the starlight, the extensive and beautifully cultivated valley, amid which the Cabul flows till it passes through the city, the ramparts, royal citadel, domes and castles of which rose in sombre masses skyward behind him.

Mohammed drew a long breath, as if of relief. So did Denzil. He had been thinking of the emotions of Rose on the morrow, if she heard that he had been massacred in the streets of Cabul, helplessly, pitilessly, barbarously, and of those who were so dear at home, and were so far, far away.

"As yet you are safe," said his guide.

"I thank you gratefully; but how far am I from the cantonments?"

"About two kroes."

This was fully four miles English from that angle of the city, and Denzil heard him with anxiety.

"Know you the way, Sahib?"

"I do not. Moreover, it may be beset."

"Then I must conduct you; but see! yonder are horsemen coming straight from the Candahar road. I know not who they may be. Some Belooches are expected with Ackbar Khan on the morrow; so, quick, let us conceal ourselves here."

And hurrying—running, indeed—with all the speed they could exert, they sought the shelter of a grove, wherein, as Denzil knew, stood the mosque and tomb of the once mighty Emperor Baber, in quieter times the object of many a ride and visit, and the scene of many a pleasant pic-nic for the ladies and officers of the garrison. All was still here—still as death—save the plashing of a sacred fountain and the cooing of the wild pigeons, disturbed by their approach. The grove and cornices of the mosque were full of those birds, which are deemed holy by the Mohammedans, because as the Wuzzer, who, like a true Afghan, never omitted to interlard his discourse with religious topics and allusions, a pigeon had built its nest in front of a cavern in which the prophet lay concealed, and thus favoured an escape from his enemies.

"These horsemen draw near us," said Denzil, as hoofs now rang on the pathway to the shrine.

"Az burai Kodar—silence!" (for the love of God) whispered Taj Mohammed, as he placed a hand on the mouth of the speaker and drew him under the shadow of the trees, only in time to escape the eye of a tall and well-armed man, who suddenly appeared at the door of the mosque, in which one or two more lamps were now being lighted.

The horsemen, twelve in number, were all Afghans, and armed to the teeth. They carried juzails slung over their poshteens. Each had a double brace of pistols in his girdle as well as a pair at his saddle bow; and all, save one, who appeared to be a chief, had a lance in his right hand, and an elaborately-gilded shield of rhinoceros hide strapped to his back. They were all stately, strong and resolute-looking fellows. Linking their horses together, they dismounted with one accord, and their figures seemed remarkably picturesque in the strong light which now streamed through the door—a horse-shoe arch—of the illuminated mosque, as they entered it in succession, each making a low salaam to the armed man, who was evidently standing there to receive and welcome them.

Denzil turned to Taj Mohammed and was about to make some inquiry, when that personage, whose eyes were sparkling like those of a hyæna in the clear starlight, and whose teeth were set with rage, said in a low and hissing voice,

"Silence, Sahib, silence, for your life! These are Ghilzies and Kussilbashes; and he who received them is the Sirdir, Ackbar Khan! Now, by the soul of the prophet, the dark spirit of the devil is in Baber's tomb to-night!"

A political or military conference—perhaps a conspiracy—was evidently on the tapis; and great though the risk of discovery—a cruel and immediate death—Taj Mohammed, in his dread and hatred of a powerful and hereditary foe and would-be supplanter, crept forward that he might overhear; and following his example, Denzil was rash enough to climb, by the rich carvings of the mosque, to one of the openings, which, for religious purposes, were left in its eastern wall; and peeping in, he saw a somewhat remarkable scene—one which, so far as regarded character, costume and spirit, resembled one in the middle ages, rather than in her present Majesty's reign.

CHAPTER X.

THE MOSQUE OF BABER.

Under the dome or centre of this edifice was formed a lofty hall of circular shape, rising from horse-shoe arches that sprang from slender pillars of white marble. In the centre of each arch hung a silver lamp, but only two were lighted. On one side stood a pulpit of the purest white marble, and on the other, a gilded gallery for the Shah, when it pleased him to come hither and pray at the tomb of his remote predecessor. Opposite this stood an altar, where the name of the Deity was painted in brilliant arabesques, and two enormous candles, each a foot in diameter, stood at each end of it on gilded pedestals.

In the middle of this place, and amid a group of armed Afghan chiefs, stood one whom Taj Mohammed indicated by a sign, to be the Prince, Ackbar Khan, our most bitter enemy in that half-barbarous land; and it was not without some emotions of interest and excitement that Denzil looked upon this son of Dost Mohammed—one whose character for cruelty and recklessness of human suffering and human life was so notorious.

Fairer than Afghans usually are, he was a man of distinguished hearing, with a magnificent black beard: but, for the purpose of disguise, was clad as yet in the humble attire of a shepherd; thus it contrasted strongly with the brilliant colours worn by Shireen Khan of the Kussilbashes, Ameen Oollah Khan, the Ghazee chiefs, and others, to whom he was now speaking with animation, ever and anon, while he did so, grinding those teeth of which Rose Trecarrel had spoken so disparagingly.

This Ackbar Khan was simply a monster in cruelty; he had been known to have a man flayed alive in his presence, "commencing at the feet and continuing upwards, till the sufferer was relieved by death." A favourite and brave follower of his own, named Pesh Khedmut—one who had been with him in all his defeats, flights, and varieties of fortune, was once assisting him to mount his horse, when some portion of his loose flowing dress caught the lock of a pistol. It exploded, and the terrible Ackbar was slightly wounded. In vain did the luckless Khedmut swear upon the Koran that it was the result of an accident over which he had no control; in vain, we say; for the pitiless Sirdir had him burned alive; and he is alleged to have tortured to death more than one British officer, whom the fortune of war had left in his hands.

Ackbar, however, excelled in all the higher branches of Afghan education; thus he rode well, shot with precision, and handled his sabre with an expertness few could equal.

"Some conspiracy is afoot," thought Denzil; "and there is Shireen Khan, the old Kussilbash brute whom I saw airing himself on a camel at the band-stand; and now, here comes my friend, the Arab Hadji, who loves his Prophet so much, but loathes soap and water more," he added, mentally, as his late tormentor now stole in, and creeping, almost crawling, on his hands and knees, up to Ackbar, delivered a letter, which he drew from his tattered cummerbund, the cloth which girt his loins.

Ackbar read it, and his eyes flashed fire as he turned to grim old Shireen Khan, and said,—

"Sale, the Kaffir Sirdir (i.e. infidel general) has actually cut his way through the Ghilzie tribes, and is now safe in Jellalabad! Well; the unbelievers who remain in Cabul shall be destroyed, root and branch, ere he can return to succour them; that I have sworn on the Kulma, unless the Envoy of their Queen ransoms their accursed heads to-morrow."

"And their women shall be our slaves," said one.

"Or exchanged for horses with the chiefs of Toorkistan," added another.

Then, said Shireen Khan, his eyes, too, blazing like carbuncles, as the hatred of race and religion boiled up within him,

"The Feringhees, those dogs of covetousness, are among us, and for what? What seek they here? To put over us a king whom we loathe—a king who will be subservient to the Lord Bahadur at Calcutta; dethroning Dost Mohammed!"

"Solomon, as we may read, knew three thousand proverbs, and the songs that he sang were a hundred and five; yet what was Solomon when compared with Shah Sujah?" sneered Ackbar, as his white teeth glistened under his coal-black mustache.

"You will ask this Envoy on the morrow, if it was really his intention to send me, Ameen Oollah Khan, Shireen Khan, and others, bound as slaves, to the feet of his Queen, in her Island of the Sea?" said one with sombre fury.

"I shall, without fail."

"And the white-faced dog will deny it!"

"Perhaps; but it shall be the last lie of the unbeliever's tongue," replied Ackbar, with a grim smile as he touched the hilt of his Afghan dagger.

"Slay him, even as I slew Burnes Sahib!" added that pleasant personage who rejoiced in the name of Ameen Oolah Khan. "Ha! what said the Khan of Khelat-i-Ghilzie to him, when he heard of the Feringhees first coming hither by the Khyber and the Khoord Cabul passes? 'Ye have brought an army into the land of the Pushtaneh; but how do you propose to take it back again?'"*

* These were almost the words of the Duke of Wellington (by a singular coincidence) when intimation was first made in Parliament of our advance into Afghanistan.—Macfarlane's Hist. of British India, p. 537.

"Had we killed Burnes Sahib when first he came among us alone, he had not returned with all those Kaffirs who are now cantoned between yonder hills of Siah Sung and Behmaru," said another chief, who wore the sword of Sir Alexander Burnes in his girdle; "so now, that we have the opportunity, let us slay the dogs ere they can escape us."

"Nay, let us get the ransom first," suggested Shireen Khan.

"Yes; and then let them march and be in the Passes, we know by which they must depart; and remember," added Ackbar, with a tone and face of indescribable ferocity, "the old Arab proverb—Al harbu Khudatun!"—(All war is fraud).

"Moreover," said Ameen Oollah, "the Prophet tells us, that promise as we may, no faith is to be kept with heretics."

"I came to retake my father's rights; the rights he sold to the Feringhees. It was written that I should do so; for who that could sit on a lofty throne in yonder Bala Hissar, would content him with a carpet in a tent? Those Feringhees—those Anglo-Indians are the most presumptuous dogs in the world," continued Ackbar, "they are accustomed to see their servile sipahees, their effeminate Hindoos, and others cower before them; but did they expect the same homage from us—the free men of Afghanistan?"

A fierce laugh answered the question, and those who had lances, made their iron-shod butts to crash on the marble floor.

Much more to the same purpose passed. Many of the arguments used and impulses given, were nearly the same as those which excited the terrible mutiny of a subsequent year; but what plan those conspirators meant to adopt—whether to take a bribe, and let our troops retreat in peace; or take the bribe, and lure them to destruction in those terrible passes by which alone they could return to India; in either case, to make slaves of the white women, neither Mohammed, who translated much of what we have written, nor the other listener, could determine; but the farewell words of Ackbar, ere they departed, were ominous of much evil to come.

"To your castles and tents," said he; "let every Khan and tribe be prepared, for to-morrow may determine all. You, Shireen Khan, shall dispatch tchoppers* to the chiefs of the Ghilzies, and those of the Khyberrees, to guard the passes to the death, promise what we may—for remember all war is fraud!"

* Mounted couriers.

With a low salaam to Ackbar, after all turning their faces in the direction of Mecca, they now separated, and in a few minutes, the sound of their horses' hoofs died away, some in the direction of the city, and others on the Candahar road.

"Sahib," said Mohammed Khan, greatly disturbed, "you have heard?"

"More than I quite understand," replied Denzil; "however, I shall report the affair to the General in the morning; those fellows are evidently up to something more than either he or the Envoy quite calculate upon. I only wish that I were nearer my quarters."

"I have promised to guide you."

"Thanks, Khan; you are most kind."

All around the tomb and mosque of Baber was still and silent again; the cooing of the pigeons and the gurgle of the sacred fountain alone were heard. The quiet stars, and their queen, the vast round silver moon, were shining now in peace and calmness over Cabul; over city, plain, and flowing river; and in floods of liquid light, the picturesque towers and masses of the Bala Hissar stood forth pale and grey, while the curtain walls between, were sunk in shadow or obscurity.

Glad to befriend in any way an English officer, the Wuzeer guided Denzil between the Armenian and the Mussulman burying-grounds, where the shadows of the tall and ghost-like cypresses fell on the white headstones and the little square chambers or cupolas that covered the graves of those of rank.

"Listen," said Denzil, pausing, as he suspected the Arab Hadji might still be following; "surely I hear a sound."

"You hear only the night wind sighing through yonder cypresses," replied Taj Mohammed, solemnly; "sadly it goes past us bearing some weary soul, perhaps, to the bridge of Al-sirat—some soul whose earthly tabernacle may yet lie there, where five of my children are laid, each with its fair face turned towards Mecca."

Paler and sad grew the face of the Wuzeer as he spoke, for the Afghans greatly reverence all burial-places, which, in their own language, they term "the cities of the silent;" and in fancy they love to people with the ghosts of the departed, sitting each unseen at the head of his or her own grave, enjoying the fragrance of the wreaths and garlands hung there by sorrowing relatives.

Almost in the centre of the plain, midway between where the burial-grounds lie and where the cantonments were, flowed the Cabul river; and a mile or two brought Denzil and his guide within hail of an advanced picquet of the 54th Native Infantry, now posted at the bridge. There the former was safe, and with many expressions of thanks and gratitude, he parted from the Wuzeer.

He was informed by the officer in command of the post, that spies had told the General of Ackbar Khan being in the vicinity of the city; and that in consequence, all European residents had been ordered to repair for safety, within the shelter of the cantonments.

White in the moonbeams he could see the walls of General Trecarrel's villa, which, being under the guns of our fortified Camp was, as yet pretty safe; and he looked towards it with such emotion as a lover who is young and ardent, alone can feel; for Rose he knew was there; and after all he had heard at the Mosque of Baber, his heart swelled with anxiety, and a longing desire that she and Mabel, and all their friends, were elsewhere, in some place of greater peace and security.

"To-morrow I shall tell her of my narrow escape," thought he; "my darling—my darling—how I love you! and how nearly you were losing me!"

CHAPTER XI.

"ONLY AN ENSIGN."

Providentially for us, none in this world know what a day, or even an hour may bring forth; so Denzil, when next morning he dressed and accoutred himself, could little foresee the many stirring events that were to crowd the next twelve hours, and in which he was to bear a part; as little could he foresee the sorrows that were in store for him, ere for the last time, as the event proved, he laid his head on the pillow in the Afghan fort; for next day was to see the whole forces concentrated in the cantonments. Polwhele was absent on patrol duty, and Bob Waller had gone abroad unusually early.

Denzil's intense longing to see Rose Trecarrel and to revive the memories of yesterday was mingled with a conviction of the necessity to see her father, that he might take him to General Elphinstone or the envoy, to whom he was most anxious to report all that he had heard and seen overnight in the Mosque of Baber; but Trecarrel was absent (as a sepoy on duty at the gate of the villa informed him), having gone to the Bala Hissar with a strong cavalry escort, as the turbulence of the people rendered all the roads and streets unsafe—a state of affairs sufficiently proved to Denzil already.

He recalled the threat, or proposal he had overheard, to sell the European ladies as slaves in Toorkistan, or to exchange them for horses;—Rose Trecarrel sent to Toorkistan! He felt that he could cheerfully shed his heart's blood in defence of her—of Mabel and the old General too; that he could die for them—for her more than all; and all that a young, loving and enthusiastic spirit could suggest were in his head and heart, with a hope that his narrow escape overnight would invest him with additional interest in her estimation.

He entered the house with somewhat of the confidence felt only by a privileged dangler, and by chance on this occasion his arrival was not proclaimed by a stroke on the gong. He gave his name to a native servant of the Trecarrels, who ushered him into the drawing-room, announcing his presence as "Deveroo Sahib," but in a tone so low that it seemed to be unheard by those who were there, and for a full minute Denzil stood irresolute and did not advance.

The apartment was spacious, and at a remote end of it, almost out on the verandah, in fact, were Bob Waller and Mabel Trecarrel, very much occupied with each other. She was seated in an easy chair looking up at him, with an arch yet confident expression. They were conversing in whispers, while Waller leaned over her, stooping his tall and handsome figure so much that his face was close to hers—so close indeed that his long curly whisker, the left one, was caught by her right-ear earing, from which it was with difficulty extricated.

"Do you know what I've been thinking, Mabel?" asked Waller, at that juncture.

"How should I guess?"

"Try."

"What is it?"

"How have I ever been able to get on for those seven-and-twenty years—I am just twenty-seven—without you!"

Denzil might have laughed at all this but for the other two who made up a quartette.

Nearer him in the foreground sat Rose, the glory of the morning sun streaming full upon her, and imparting fresh radiance to her beauty. Her rich auburn hair glittered in the sheen, half like gold and half like dusky bronze, while her smiling eyes were full of liquid light as she looked upward from a book of coloured prints which lay open on her knee, to the face of a staff officer who hung somewhat familiarly over her. His face was fine, well browned by the sun, and closely shaven, all save a smart black mustache; his eyes were soft in expression, and his whole air was decidedly distinguished.

"Now, who the deuce is this fellow? who seems such an ami de la maison—in staff uniform, too—never saw his face before," were the surmises that flashed on Denzil's mind.

"And what is all this Miss Trecarrel has told me?" asked the stranger, in a low voice.

"A foolish flirtation with a boy," replied Rose, laughing. "It was all a joke. Be assured that he never asked me to favour him with my agreeable society for the term of his natural life."

"By Jove! I should think not," was the rather dubious response of the visitor.

"And some bread-and-butter Miss now a-bed, perhaps, in England will console him in the future, if the memory of me survive so long."

"Mabel says you are over head and ears in love with him."

"Psha! how can you talk so? I am out of my teens, and the time has gone by for me falling over head and ears for anybody. Come, don't be foolish, friend Audley," she continued, gazing into the same eyes which looked so softly into those of Sybil by the lonely moorland tarn. "Do you think," she added, laughing, "I have been writing 'Mrs. and Ensign Devereaux' in my blotting-pad, just to see how the conjunction looked; for Denzil, you know, poor fellow, is very young and only an ensign."

Denzil felt as if petrified; and but last night he had risked his life to procure a bauble for her!

"But you certainly have been letting him make love to you," resumed the stranger, in a tone of combined reproval and banter.

"Well, it is rather pleasant to have a nice foolish boy to make love to one, to tease and to laugh at."

"Oh, indeed!" His tone was almost contemptuous; but in her vanity Rose failed to perceive this.

It was not eavesdropping, hearing all this, which passed rapidly, for the Hindoo had formally announced Denzil; but so absorbed were the quartette in themselves that they neither saw nor heard him. Then as he paused irresolutely with cap and pipe-clayed gloves in hand, he heard more than certainly even Rose, in her most rantipole mood, ever meant he should hear. To say truth, she had been grievously piqued that Audley had come out overland, instead of with her and Mabel in the Indiaman; and hence she was disposed to exert the full power of her charms, and use all her arts to lure him into flirting with—if not of absolutely loving—her; and for the time poor Denzil seemed to be already forgotten or only remembered as a subject for merriment.

But as yet, at least, Audley Trevelyan was proof against all her wiles and smiles. He thought only of the little girl at home now—she whose brother he was certain might abhor and shun him for his somewhat selfish treatment of her; for he knew not that Denzil had heard nothing of the little love scenes that had passed at Porthellick.

Suddenly Denzil caught the eye of Rose as he drew nearer, and starting and growing rather pale in the fear of what he might have heard, she exclaimed, nervously,

"Oh! Mr. Devereaux, welcome! Allow me to introduce you—Mr. Devereaux, Cornish Light Infantry,—Mr. Trevelyan, one of yours, just arrived—papa's new aide-de-camp, you know."

Denzil bowed with anything but a satisfied air to "papa's new aide-de-camp," who presented his hand with more than polite cordiality, and muttered something about "the sincere pleasure" it gave him, et cetera.

"Hallo, Denzil, my boy! what was that shindy we hear you got into in Cabul last night?" asked Waller, looking up. "Hope you were not poking your nose under the veil of some bride of the Faithful, eh? Here is Trevelyan of ours, has had a narrow escape, too. He and his escort were pursued by the Ghilzies as he came up country; but he sabred one, shot five or six and got clear off. Then I suppose you know all about this devilish business of Sale and the 13th Light Infantry in the pass?"

Waller running on this, caused a diversion, and saved both Rose and Denzil some pain by giving them breathing time.

So this was Audley Trevelyan, his cousin, the Audley to whom Sybil owed her life in the Pixies' Hole, was the first thought of Denzil, and his heart seemed to harden. He had come thinking to create an interest in a very tender bosom by an account of "the shindy," as Waller styled it, in the great bazaar; and here was a fellow bronzed and mustachioed already in possession of the situation—master of the position—an intensely good-looking beast, who had actually crossed swords and exchanged shots with the wild and untamable Ghilzies!

To Denzil it was bitter mortification, all—yet he was compelled to dissemble. Could it be possible that he found himself de trop? That words of mockery had fallen on his ear? That Mabel and this man, too, knew alike of that delightful drive by the lake?

There was a nervous flutter and laughing air of confusion about Rose that were neither flattering nor assuring; but the confirmed tidings of the attack, by the insurrectionary tribes upon Sir Robert Sale's regiment in its downward march to Jellalabad, luckily afforded a ready topic—a neutral ground—on which all could talk with ease; for now they were aware that Sir Robert Sale's little brigade, including the Queen's 13th Light Infantry and 35th Native Infantry, armed with flint muskets, though the stores were full of percussion fire-arms, had been attacked by the mountain tribes, and that after clearing the stupendous Khoord Cabul Pass and enduring eighteen days of incessant fighting as far as a place called Gundamuck, had succeeded in reaching Jellalabad on the 12th of November; and that now on Sir Robert's retention of that city depended all the hope of General Elphinstone's slender army having a place of refuge—a point on which to fall back—if compelled to retire from Cabul (leaving the unpopular Shah to the mercy of his own subjects), even with the knowledge that a great amount of fighting awaited them in the savage mountain passes (through which their homeward route must lie,) amid the land of the Ghilzies, a race of hereditary robbers.

Many officers and men had been killed and wounded; among the latter were Sir Robert Sale, who received a ball in his left leg, and Lieutenant O'Brien, of the 13th, whose skull was fractured by a shot as he attempted to storm the rocks at the head of his company. Such was the story of that protracted fight as it reached Cabul, and reference to it now shed somewhat of gravity over even the lively Rose Trecarrel; for among the officers of the two regiments attacked—especially of the dashing 13th, Prince Albert's Own Light Infantry—many were known to her, and had deemed her the chief attraction of the band-stand and the daily promenade.

But regrets were short, for something of the off-hand recklessness to danger and even death, incident to military society in such a place as Cabul, pervaded even the tenor of female life there; and the subject was soon dismissed.

"A mounted tchopper accompanied Mr. Audley," said Mabel to Denzil, whose saddened face interested her; "and so we have had quite a bale of newspapers from England."

"A bale?" repeated Denzil, mechanically, his eyes seeking those of Rose.

"Yes, positively. Three months' newspapers at least, though not one letter; and thus the obituaries and marriages in the Times become so perplexing to us here."

"I brought some letters for the army up with me from Bombay," said Audley Trevelyan, "and among them, Devereaux, I observed one for you—the name had, somehow, an attraction for me."

"From home!" exclaimed Denzil, starting, for only those who are so far from Europe as he was then can know how much is concentrated in that single word, "home."

"I trust so."

"Then I must go to my quarters at once."

"Nay, Devereaux," said Waller, "moderate your impatience, if the letter is from some fair one——"

"I have no correspondent but my—my sister Sybil," said Denzil, with a flash in his eyes and a quiver of the lip.

"But you must wait, my good fellow," said Waller, patting him kindly on the shoulder; "you remember that we promised to ride on the Staff of the Envoy, to make up a gallant show, and to impress, if possible, the Sirdir."

"My horse is not here."