Chapter Twenty Two.
At Mazaran.
Cynthia Daintree had heard of Raynier’s transfer immediately on landing, and had lost no time in proceeding to Mazaran, which move was facilitated by the fact that the friends with whom she had come out had relatives in the frontier station, to whom they duly passed her on, and with whom she was now staying.
She had received Raynier’s telegram at Aden. Her father had forwarded it, without comment, and although its burden caused her a little temporary annoyance it neither surprised nor disconcerted her, for of it she there and then resolved to take no notice at all. More than ever now she congratulated herself that the angry letter she had been on the point of sending him after he had left her so brutally—as she put it—had remained unsent; more than ever did she rejoice that no further communication had passed between them, and that therefore he could claim no formal release. What had passed between them she would choose to regard as a mere tiff, which the magnanimity of her disposition moved her unconditionally to condone, and this she would give out if necessary. For the rest, she reckoned on his easy-going nature, which, by reason of his extraordinary forbearance as regarded herself, she had come to regard as weak, and despised accordingly. There was no other woman in the case, she was sure of that, otherwise he might have turned restive. As it was, she would have things all her own way, and he would yield unconditionally.
Another point in her favour was that she would take him more or less by surprise, for she had carefully arranged that the letter which we have seen him receive, should only reach him a few days before her own arrival. But when she arrived, only to learn that the border war had blazed forth in the very neighbourhood of Mazaran itself, and that the man she had come to find was missing, her wrath and chagrin knew no bounds. The first she was forced to conceal, the second she passed off in concern and anxiety on behalf of her fiancé’s peril. Attempts on all sides were made to reassure her. The missing official would have thrown himself on the protection of someone or other of the chiefs who had not joined in the jihad—Sarbaland Khan, for instance, who would certainly remain loyal—and to whose interest it would be to ensure the safety of so high a representative of the Sirkar. But if she allowed herself to be reassured on that point, there was a new and wholly unlooked-for aspect of the situation, which in her heart of hearts was fraught with possibilities. With the missing man was the Tarletons’ girl guest. Only to think how they would be thrown together, and that day after day, in their wanderings and possible dangers! What was the girl like? She set herself to find out.
It happened that the Tarletons had no portrait of Hilda Clive, but on the subject of the latter’s attractions Cynthia was in a great measure reassured. When, apparently in pursuance of a natural interest in the missing girl, she inquired on the point, the answer was never more enthusiastic than “Oh, so-so,” with a sort of covert implication that she was not in it with the inquirer herself. For Hilda had made no impression upon the male side of the station, to whom she conveyed an idea of coldness and reserve even when not, as Haslam put it, one of uncanniness. So Cynthia was reassured, and managed to get through time fairly contentedly; and while ever manifesting a becoming degree of anxiety on behalf of her fiancé—as she gave him out to be—on the whole the station regarded her as a decided acquisition. And then Hilda Clive had reappeared, alone.
Among the first to visit her was naturally Cynthia, and the consequent reassurance as to Raynier’s temporary safety hardly rejoiced her so much as the first glance at his fellow refugee. Why, the girl was downright plain—if not hideous, she decided. She had green eyes, to begin with; large and well-lashed certainly, but—green; green and uncanny, like a cat’s. Then, she was white and haggard looking. As for her dress, Cynthia could not judge, for Hilda had only agreed to see her under protest and had appeared in a tea-gown; for she was suffering from lassitude and nervous reaction, following upon physical hardship and the immense mental strain she had undergone. Small wonder indeed if she were not looking her best. Wherefore, Cynthia decided that here was no possibility of rivalry, and having so decided she set to work to make the best of the situation.
Mazaran was practically in a state of siege, yet a matter of twenty-four hours sufficed to accustom its social side to that state of things; and, if it was unsafe to venture beyond the lines, the social side aforesaid took care to amuse itself to the best of its ability within them. And here Cynthia Daintree was in great request. She was a novelty, she was stylish and well dressed, and well looking. She kept up a certain modicum of carefully regulated concern for her missing fiancé, but she allowed herself to be drawn, albeit under protest into all that went on. The general consensus of opinion was—especially among the garrison—that the missing Raynier was a deuced lucky fellow, but why the mischief had he kept his engagement so dark?
Not quite all, however, were so minded. Haslam, the Forest Officer, for instance, was not so sure on the point; possibly, because Cynthia had not thought it worth while laying herself out to captivate him, possibly not. Anyway, he remarked at the Tarletons’ one day,—
“I wonder if Raynier will weep for joy when he gets back or not?”
“Why, what do you mean, Mr Haslam?” said his hostess.
“Nothing. Only that I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”
“Sour grapes, Mr Haslam,” laughed Mrs Tarleton, not meaning it, for she happened to be one of those who did not take the new arrival at her own valuation.
Haslam chuckled.
“That’s just it. You’ve hit it, Mrs Tarleton. There will be found a good deal of acidity about that particular bunch, and that’s why I don’t envy Raynier.”
“Well, you can’t expect anyone to be perfect, can you?” struck in Tarleton, inconsequently oppositious as usual.
“Never said I could,” answered Haslam, lighting another cheroot. “What do you think about her, Miss Clive?”
“How can I give an opinion on a ‘brother woman,’ Mr Haslam, especially to a man?” laughed Hilda. “If I don’t say she’s perfect, you’ll go away and tell everybody I’m jealous. If I do you won’t believe me.”
“Hallo. That’s rather good,” said the Forest Officer, who liked Hilda Clive, and resented the fact of the other coming there to cut her out, as he persisted on looking at it. “But, I say. Talking of—er—who we were talking about—it’s my belief she’s hedging.”
“What the doose do you mean by that Haslam?” said Tarleton. The other cackled.
“Why, she’s making running up there in the garrison. Supposing Raynier never came back, poor chap—eh? Or supposing he was hauled over the coals for not foreseeing this tumasha, as it’s not impossible he may be, and sent back to some beastly Plains station—what then? Young Beecher for instance—they say he has no end of expectations. Eh? They do a good deal together.”
“Now, really, Mr Haslam, you are a regular scandalmonger,” laughed Mrs Tarleton, who was thoroughly enjoying the Forest Officer’s strictures. “I’m sure Miss Daintree is a very nice, sweet, affectionate girl, and Mr Raynier is to be congratulated.”
“Affectionate dev— h’m, h’m. She’s got a cold eye.”
“A what?”
“A cold eye. Look at it next time. It’s the eye of a fish—a shark for choice.”
“Well, you couldn’t expect her to have a warm one, could you?” drowsed Tarleton, who was half asleep. Whereat they all roared.
Now in all of this there was more than a little, for, apart from her natural inclination to have as good a time as possible, here amid entirely new conditions of life, and forming as they did a marked contrast to those of a country vicarage, Cynthia had kept her ears open as well as her eyes. Even station gup had not as yet linked Raynier’s name with that of Hilda Clive. But it had speculated as to the view that would be taken at headquarters of the Political Agent allowing himself to be lulled into a state of absolute blindness on the subject of the ill-affectedness of the Gularzai; the most important and powerful tribe within his jurisdiction. All of which Cynthia had not been slow to take in; and Captain Beecher, who was always on hand with his dogcart, or a very sleek and serviceable Waler—of which she was secretly afraid—if she preferred riding, was very devoted, and substantially sound, and Cynthia was verging on thirty. And a live and frisky dog was very much better than a dead and reduced lion, and Haslam was an abominable cynic who knew his India, and the dominant population thereof, thoroughly.
Hilda Clive, watching this state of things, said nothing, only thought. So completely did she say nothing in fact, that the station decided that in view of the circumstances of the case, she was singularly lacking in appreciation, not to say gratitude. She and Raynier had been together through the winnowing of a common danger. She had come out of it safe and sound, he had not. Yet she seemed to give him no further thought.
Did she not?
“All are forgetting him,” she said to herself, in the bitterness of her intense self-concentration. “All are forgetting him—even decrying him, and there are those hungrily ready to step into his shoes. All the more reason to show him that here is one who is not.”
She thanked Heaven she was well off; indeed, for a single woman, almost rich. Nothing can be done in this world without filthy lucre. She had been endowed with this if not with the art of drawing men round her like flies around a jar of stale marmalade. Money can buy anything within certain limits, even life. Yet how many there would have expended say one thousand rupees to purchase that of Herbert Raynier’s?
But she? She shut herself up in her own room a good deal just then, shut herself up with business papers—which, by the way, she thoroughly understood. And running through all her calculations and correspondence were certainly recollections of a time spent in a free al fresco life; and subsequently, in an al fresco life which was anything but free, and hedged round with hardship at every turn, and somehow it seemed that that time was not the least enjoyable period of her existence. Then she would push away all the business matter in front of her, and pass her hands over her brows, and if anyone had broken in upon her at that time it would have been to see upon Hilda Clive’s face a look that rendered it wondrously soft and lovable and attractive.
But through it all there mingled a puzzled and half-distressed state of mind. Her strange powers of foresight seemed to hover around, and yet refuse to be called into definite action. There was something to be done, they told her, and she was the one to do it; yet what, and how? Ah, now it was clear. Money would purchase anything—even life.
The first thing she had done on her return to Mazaran was to present Mehrab Khan with such a substantial sum in rupees as to cause that faithful Mussulman to stare. Then she had set to work to obtain for him a sort of indefinite furlough, so that he could attach himself wholly and entirely to her service, which he was by no means loth to do. It had not been difficult, because, as it happened, his term of enlistment had all but expired, and Mehrab Khan was far too valuable a jemadar of Levy Sowars to part with at that juncture; wherefore, through Haslam, who, as we have seen, stood her friend, and others, she contrived that the authorities should allow her the use of him pro tem. To what she would turn that use we shall see anon.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Of the Sirdar’s Oath.
The unhappy prisoner, forced along by strong and ruthless hands, recognised that he was in the alley way upon which he had looked down from the parapet, what time the shrieks of the tortured man had forced him to stop his ears. Heaven help him! To what death of lingering torment were these barbarians going to put him? There was the very door, and through it he was now dragged.
The horrible greasy fumes which had sickened him before hung about the place, which, entering as he did from the light, seemed to lie in a semi-gloom, suggestive of all sorts of hideous imaginings. At the further end was something that looked like a long iron coffin, raised about eighteen inches from the floor. To this he was forced forward.
Raynier’s blood curdled within him as the full horror of this awful object broke upon him. No coffin was it, but a bath—and the iron rings and chains let into its sides, two at each end, told their own tale. So too, did the ashes of a dead fire underneath. The upper end was padded. The sufferer might not dash out his own brains; might not seek relief from his frightful torment that way.
Faint and sick, his senses in a whirl, he gazed stupidly at the horrid thing. Was his brain giving way? It seemed so. Hardly knowing how he got there he was outside in the air again.
“Our bathroom does not please thee, Feringhi,” said a voice. Looking up, his eyes met the baleful sneering ones of Murad Afzul.
“I have been ill with fever of late. You forget,” he answered, instinctively striving to disguise the despair and terror which the sight of the horrid place had stamped upon his countenance. Then he fainted.
When he came to himself again he was in semi-darkness. A man was bending over him, and seemed to be trying to revive him. He recognised the Hakim.
“Where am I? Oh!”
He had tried to rise, only to discover that he was chained by the ankles to an iron ring in the stone floor. His hands, however, were free. He saw further that he was in a damp and gloomy apartment akin to a dungeon, a grating above the door serving to let in air and light.
“Take away your remedies, Hakim Sahib,” he said, bitterly. “I have no wish to be revived for the purpose of being tortured, and I suppose it was for that reason I was taken care of before?”
“It is the Nawab’s orders,” answered the other. “Ill would it fare with me did I not carry them out.”
“Well, I will not help you, then.”
“You will not be helping yourself in that case, Sahib,” said the Hakim, “for then they would work their will on you at once. See—there is food. Bethink. Is there no object in gaining time?”
“If so, I know not what it can be,” answered Raynier. And then an idea seized him. This man might help him to escape, of course, for a large reward. But when it was put to him the Hakim shook his head. It was impossible. Besides, what would be his own fate were it suspected he had even thought of such a thing! And as though terrified at the idea he went out, leaving the prisoner alone.
Raynier pondered over the Hakim’s words. Was there significance in them? It might be so. But why should he renew his strength in order the longer to endure the tortures which Mushîm Khan, whom he had thought his friend but now proved to be a most bitter and vindictive enemy, had in store for him? There was the food beside him, within his reach. There, too, was wine, which struck him as a strange circumstance, remembering that he was in the midst of rigid Mahomedans. Clearly he was to be fatted up for the sacrifice, and yet—and yet—Nature was strong. He needed the stimulant badly, and—took it.
Immediately thereafter he fell asleep. Sleep, too, he needed badly. In spite of his constrained attitude he slumbered hard and soundly. Once more he was with Hilda, and now it seemed that his whole being was bound up with hers. The horrors he had gone through, the privations and perils they had both gone through, were far behind. They knew each other now, and heart and mind were laid bare to each other as they stood, the world outside, they two, alone. The strong, sweet dream-wave rolled over his soul, and all was forgotten save that they two were together—together for all time.
The harsh creaking of the door, flung open, aroused him. The delusion sped in demoniacal mockery. The prison, the chains, the impending torture were realities.
Three persons had entered—Mushîm Khan, his brother, and a third. Raynier sat up to confront them with what dignity he was able. The Nawab spoke.
“I will not waste words on thee, Feringhi. Know, then, that as our brother, the Sirdar Allahyar Khan, was put to death by thy father at the time of the great rising, so must thy father’s son suffer death at the hands of the brothers of Allahyar Khan, even ourselves, a life for a life, for thus is it written in the Holy Koran. Moreover, I have sworn it.”
The words were uttered deliberately, almost with a judicial solemnity, but the savage hatred upon the face of the speaker seemed to be struggling with the solemnity of their utterance.
“What proof have ye of this, O Chief of the Gularzai, whom I had reckoned my friend?” answered Raynier, “for the Prophet likewise orders that none be condemned without proof.”
“Here is proof.” And the speaker handed him the parchment he had received from Hadji Haroun.
Raynier took it, studying it long and earnestly. He was conversant with Pushtu, and could write it almost as well as he could speak it: and the perusal of the document only served to convince him that its substance was, in all probability, correct; and that his father had, in his capacity of commanding officer, sanctioned the execution of the Gularzai sirdar as described. As to the circumstances of ignominy attendant upon the execution, well, he knew that such things had been done in the Mutiny. Moreover, his recollections of his father were such as to convince him that at such a time the latter was not likely to have erred on the side of leniency. Then an idea struck him.
“It may be as you say, Chief of the Gularzai. It is long ago, and who can say for certain what happened then? If it be so, I deplore it. But you have cited the Koran. Hear now the words of the sacred revelation: ‘O true believers, the law of retaliation is ordained for the slain: the free shall die for the free, and the servant for the servant, and a woman for a woman: but he whom his brother shall forgive may be obliged to make satisfaction for what is just, and a fine shall be set on him, with humanity. This is indulgence from your Lord, and mercy.’ Will ye not, therefore, forgive me, my brothers?”
There was nothing abject in his tone, no suspicion of cringing. For a few moments his listeners stood as though thunderstruck. This unbeliever quoted glibly from the holy volume. Then the third of the trio, who had kept somewhat in the background and of whom Raynier had not taken much notice, spoke.
“Feringhi, thou hast evidently studied the revelations of Mahomed—the blessed of Allah. Wilt thou not now make profession of the faith?”
Here was a loophole. Raynier thought of what he had undergone, of how completely he was in the power of this unsparing and vengeful people; of the horrors he had witnessed, and of what might be in store for himself. He thought of Hilda Clive, and how life might hold out for him a long vista of its fairest and brightest, and the temptation was great. But he thought, too, on the opinions he had more than once expressed when discussing such “conversions,” and how they were dishonouring to the British name. He was not an ostentatiously religious man, but when it came to forswearing Christianity, the line had to be drawn. So he answered,—
“I could not do that, for it would be to forswear myself. I honour your religion, but were I to profess it I should be speaking a lie.”
Now, while he said this, Raynier’s eye had rested on something—something that was in the hand of the man who had spoken last. It was a malacca cane.
The blood rushed wildly through his being. He stared at the thing. There it was, a stout, silver-topped malacca cane—a very unwonted article in the hand of a white-clad, turbaned Gularzai. Heavens! what did it mean? He stared at the man who carried it—a tall, handsome, commanding-looking representative of his race—and then his mind rushed back from the stronghold of the Chief of the Gularzai, to the shouting, roaring, riotous mob in the heart of the city of London. And this was the man he had rescued from its uproarious violence.
“Do you not remember me, brother?” he said, in English, his heart seeming to burst in the revulsion of returning hope. “That is the stick I armed you with when you were beset by numbers. Look! In the middle of it is the dent made by the falling iron which would otherwise have crushed your head in.”
He stopped short. No flash of recognition lit up the features of the Gularzai, not the faintest sign even of having understood. He paused. Then he said, in Pushtu,—“Who is yon sirdar, Nawab Sahib?”
“Shere Dil Khan. He is my son.” The answer was curt and cold. Raynier went on,—
“If my father put thy brother to death, Nawab Sahib, I saved the life of thy son, Shere Dil Khan. The dent in that stick was made by the iron which would have crushed his head. Upon the knob are the letters of my name. May I handle it for a moment? It is not a weapon—and, am I not chained?”
The man who held it stepped forward and placed it in his hand. As he did so, with his face close to the prisoner, Raynier recognised him completely. It was the man he had rescued in the midst of the rough and exasperated crowd. But for all the recognition on the face of the other it might have been a mask.
Raynier took the stick. One glance at it was sufficient. There, on the massive silver head, were intertwined the letters H.R.—his initials.
Somehow, hope died again within him. It might be that Shere Dil Khan had forgotten his English, or he might be under some vow not to use it—and, acting on this idea, Raynier told the whole story in their own tongue. Still no sign of recognition, of corroboration lit up that impassive countenance. He could see that the story was aiding him not in the smallest degree, even if it were believed at all.
“Well,” he concluded, realising this, “there is no gratitude in the world. If you save a man’s life, he is the one to seek out your own.”
“Thou hast appealed to our mercy, Feringhi,” said Mushîm Khan, “and not in vain. Thou hast been shown some small glimpse of the torments we had designed for thee, but Allah is merciful and shall we be less so? Wherefore, these we remit and thou shalt only suffer death—death by the sword, at the rising of to-morrow’s sun, in the presence of the warriors of the Gularzai assembled here. For it has been sworn, and who may break an oath?”
And the three chiefs went forth, leaving the prisoner alone. This, then, was how he next saw the silver-mounted stick which had saved the life of a man—and that man the son of his executioner. Was there such a thing as gratitude in the world?
Chapter Twenty Four.
On the Grave’s Dark Brink.
When, immediately on leaving his prisoner, Mushîm Khan was informed that a believer had been brought in, escorting a woman, veiled, who had come far to communicate with him upon a matter of importance, the Nawab betrayed no surprise, nor did the statement that the woman, although dressed as one of their own women, was a Feringhi, elicit any, either. He coldly directed that they should be conducted to his durbar hall, and, accompanied by his son and Kuhandil Khan, he proceeded thither.
Hilda Clive dropped her veil as she came into the presence of the chiefs. They returned her salaam gravely, eyeing her with the same furtive curiosity as that which she felt with regard to them. What stately men they were, she thought. The very simplicity of their snowy garments and beautifully-folded turbans added a dignity from which any barbaric splendour of jewels and colours would have detracted. So this was Mushîm Khan, she thought, instinctively recognising the Nawab. He was indeed a noble-looking man—and, although cold and stern at that moment, his face was not a cruel one—and the same held good of the others. Surely she would obtain that for which she was here.
And how came it that she was here? Simply one of those strange impressions of prévoyance to which she was at times given. It had been borne in upon her with a vivid and startling suddenness that the missing man was in great peril; so incisive and convincing indeed was this impression as to dispel forthwith the idea that he was a courteously-treated prisoner of war in the hands of a generous and honourable enemy. She, and she alone, had power to save him. All Orientals were fond of money, she had heard—fortunately, she had plenty. She would literally redeem him, would buy his release, even though it cost her every farthing she had in the world.
The plan once conceived, she lost no time in carrying it out. She said no word about it to anybody, for fear of being interfered with, but, leaving a note for the Tarletons, she started off with Mehrab Khan for the Nawab’s stronghold.
The Baluchi had raised no objection. He took it as quite a matter of course that she should require him to accompany her alone into the midst of a hostile tribe. So, having adopted the Gularzai attire and being well armed, he had brought her in safety hither.
But now poor Hilda found herself in a quandary at the off-set. Her knowledge of Hindustani was of the slightest, and Mehrab Khan’s knowledge of English nil. She could make him understand her in ordinary matters, but as an interpreter she feared he might prove of little use. But here aid came from an unlooked-for quarter.
“If you will allow me to be your interpreter, madam, I will strive to convey to my father what you wish to say.”
Hilda stared. It was Shere Dil Khan who had spoken, and his English was well-nigh faultless. She thanked him, and then without waste of words set forward the object of her visit. But it was hardly necessary for him to interpret the Nawab’s reply. She knew that it was a stern and emphatic refusal.
“Who is this woman, and what is she to the prisoner?” asked Mushîm Khan. “Is she his wife?”
This, though more courteously rendered, brought the colour to Hilda’s face, and she replied that she was not—but only a distant relation. She thought it was time delicately to hint at the question of ransom.
Delicately—yes—because there was that about these stately chiefs that seemed to render the subject as difficult of approach as though they were Europeans of social equality.
“I know that it is not unusual, Sirdar Sahib, to ransom prisoners of war,” she said. “This I am prepared with. Will a lakh of rupees satisfy the Nawab?”
“I cannot put that to my father,” said Shere Dil Khan.
“Is it not enough? Well, name your own price.” Her colour came and went, and she spoke eagerly and quickly.
“It is not that, but—”
“Well, put it, put it!” returned Hilda, unable to restrain an impatient stamp of the foot. “Put it, I entreat you.”
He looked at her hesitatingly for a moment, then complied. A change came over the features of Mushîm Khan as he listened, and his eyes fairly blazed with wrath.
“Am I a vile Hindu trader to be approached with such an offer?” he said. “Is the blood of my brother—the ignominy of his death—a mere question of rupees, of a lakh more or less? Tell this woman that all the rupees in the treasury of the Sirkar for a hundred years would not redeem the man whose father put to death with ignominy one of our house. He dies at sunrise to-morrow. As for her, she came alone and trusting to my protection. Praised be Allah, it shall be extended to her, and to her attendant. Let refreshment be given her, and with my safe conduct let her depart.”
This Shere Dil Khan duly rendered. But Hilda did not move. Great tears rose to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“He must not die, ah—he must not die,” she said. “Listen, Sirdar Sahib. Tell the Nawab I offer him all I have in the world, five lakhs of rupees, in redemption of this life. See, I have braved all and every danger, and travelled alone here to save it. He is brave, he must be generous. Oh, make him relent.”
Animation made all the difference in the world to Hilda Clive’s appearance. When she was animated to this extent she was beautiful—moreover, the Gularzai dress became her well. Shere Dil Khan looked at her with pity and concern. But the faces of the other two remained hard as granite.
“I have said and I have no more to say,” answered the Nawab, when this had been translated to him. “He dies at sunrise. I have sworn it. And now, let her depart.”
Hilda stood for a few moments in silence, her great eyes fixed upon the Nawab’s face. Then she said,—
“May I not see him? May I not bid him farewell? That will not break the chief’s oath.”
Mushîm Khan pondered for a moment and frowned. The terrible vendetta spirit had entirely warped his nature, which was not naturally a harsh or cruel one, rendering him utterly merciless. But he answered,—
“She can see him until the hour of prayer. Then she must depart as she came.”
Hilda thanked the Nawab, then, having directed her Baluchi escort to wait for her there, without the loss of a moment, turned to follow Shere Dil Khan, who had been chosen to accompany her. As they drew near the place of Raynier’s confinement he said,—
“I have been ordered to be present throughout your interview, but I will not carry out that literally. You shall see your relation alone. This is the place.”
She entered the door he held open, then closed it behind her. She and Herbert Raynier were alone together.
“Great Heavens!” cried the latter, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with amazement. “Great Heavens! Hilda!”
“Yes, Hilda,” she answered, her eyes brimming again.
He had never seen her like this, and down went every barrier of conventionality. He had risen to his shackled feet, and now without further words she was locked in his close embrace.
“How and when did they capture you?” he asked at length.
“They did not capture me: I am free.”
“Free?” And his glance rested on her Gularzai attire, and seemed to freeze.
“I am a thought reader, remember,” she said, with a wan smile, as she followed his glance. “No, it is not as you think. I put on this disguise for safety’s sake.” And then, in as few words as possible, for time was valuable, she told him of her plan, and how it had failed.
“But it has not failed,” he answered emphatically. “It has given me the sight of your dear self once more. Oh, darling, to think that you should have undertaken such a thing—and for me. There is no other woman under the sun who would have done it.”
“Not if she—”
“Say it, say it,” he urged, holding her more closely.
“Loved you. There. I will say it. I would say anything now. Listen, Herbert, can nothing be done? Can we not bribe some of them? I have money—plenty of it. Think quickly—time is so short. This one who speaks English so well, the Nawab’s son. Is he to be bought?”
“Oh, then he does speak English?”
“Yes. Shall I offer him what his father refused? Shall I? Shall I?”
“What did his father refuse?”
“All I am worth—five lakhs of rupees. He said a million would be equally useless.”
“Hilda! You did not do this?”
“I did. I would not have told you at any other time. But now—nothing seems to matter. Nothing—nothing.”
Words failed him, failed them both—but their understanding was complete; even as it had been during their wanderings together. Then nothing had been said, but every tone, every glance, had been an understanding in itself. And time was so precious.
“Listen, Herbert. I have a plan. You shall put on my clothes, and pass out instead of me. By stooping a little you can diminish your height. And the veil will do the rest.”
“And these?” he said, clinking his fetters.
“Ah, I forgot. Heaven help me, I forgot,” she cried.
“Do you think, in any case, I would have agreed to save my precious skin at the price of leaving you in their power? Why, Hilda, I wonder you thought me worth stirring a finger for, at all.”
She looked at him, long and earnestly and hopelessly, as though to photograph his image in her brain. How ill he looked, pale and haggard, and hollow cheeked. It was not much of a time for thinking of appearances, but he felt thankful that the advantages of the Mahomedan injunctions of cleanliness had been extended to him—a prisoner.
“Sweetheart, God bless you for coming to me at the last,” he went on. “It was grand—intrepid. Tell me, Hilda. You have known all the time that I loved you?”
“Yes, I knew,” she answered chokingly. Then, with forced gaiety, “You did not on the voyage, though.”
“Was I not a born fool? Oh, my darling, what happiness might have been ours. What might not our lives have been but for this?”
A thought of Cynthia Daintree crossed her mind, of Cynthia Daintree amusing herself at Mazaran, while claiming this man’s bond. An impulse came upon her to ask about that affair, but she forebore. Nothing of a disturbing nature must come between them now. And time was so short, so precious.
Then for a short sacred half hour they talked—and their words, uttered on the brink of the grave of one of them, were so deep, so sacred as not to bear intrusion. And then Shere Dil Khan’s voice was heard outside, proclaiming that the time had come for the interview to end.
“We have found our happiness only to lose it,” whispered Raynier. “But that is better than never having known it. Is it not?”
“Yes, yes—a thousand times. God bless you, O my love, my love!”
To the end of her life Hilda will never know how she tore herself from the last close embrace. And Heaven was deaf to the cry of her widowed soul, deaf as the polite but impassive Oriental who conducted her forth from that chamber of heartbreak and despair.
Chapter Twenty Five.
De Talione.
“There is gratitude left in the world.”
Herbert Raynier was lying in the damp and pitchy gloom of his dungeon, sleeping as soundly and as peacefully as though he were not to be led forth and beheaded with the rising of the morrow’s sun. That last interview had calmed and soothed him, and now his slumbers were bright—for he was amid beautiful scenes, far away, and Hilda was beside him. Then he started up—and with the first flash of awaking consciousness came the thought that the time had come, and the hand that had dropped on his shoulder in the darkness was that which should lead him forth to his doom.
“There is gratitude left in the world.”
The words were uttered softly, and—in good English. Was he dreaming? But immediately a shaded light rendered things visible. Hands were busy about his shackles, and lo! they fettered his ankles no more.
“I have come to save you, brother,” went on the whispered voice. “If you obey me implicitly you will be free immediately. Put on these, and until I give leave, do not speak so much as one little word.”
Raynier obeyed him in both particulars. In a moment or two he was arrayed in the white loose garments and turban of the border tribes. For the other injunction, he whispered but one name,—
“Shere Dil Khan?”
“Yes. Now—silence.” Following his guide, to Raynier it seemed they were traversing endless and labyrinthine passages. With something of a shudder he recognised that horrible door through which he had passed during those acute moments of living death, then the Sirdar opened another door, and the cool free air of the desert, blowing upon them, told that they were outside the walls.
Still preserving the most rigid silence, they held on, downward, by a steep path. Turning his head, Raynier could make out the loom of the great mountain mass against the stars, and was conjecturing on the ease and absence of obstacle which had characterised his deliverance at the hands of the Nawab’s son, for not a soul did they encounter, no guard challenged them; and it occurred to him that, in the strength of his fetters, his safe keeping had lain, wherefore no watch was placed over him; and this was the real meaning of it.
For about half an hour they had been walking swiftly and in silence, when Shere Dil Khan stopped. Before them was a rude herdsman’s shelter, and from within came a sound.
They entered this, and, was it imagination? but Raynier thought to perceive a human figure dart out at the other end. But here stood two horses, saddled and bridled.
“Mount,” said Shere Dil Khan, breaking the silence. And he thrust a rifle into the other’s hand. “It is a Lee-Metford, and the magazine is fully loaded, but here are other cartridges.”
“You might well have thought that gratitude was dead in the world, my brother,” resumed the Sirdar, as they rode on through the night. “But had I shown any recognition of you then, you would not be here now, for, the Nawab’s suspicions once aroused, you would have been strongly guarded. Even to the lady I dared not give the slightest encouragement to hope.”
“I misjudged you, brother, forgive me. But would not the Nawab have reckoned what I was able to do for you as a set-off against what my father is supposed to have done.”
“He would not, for he had sworn, and an oath is binding. Now that you have escaped he will not be sorry, when he learns how you saved me from the murderous rabble in your country. But, brother, get your Government to remove you from this border, because now it is the duty of every Gularzai to take your life.”
Raynier thought that his Government would not require much “getting” under all the circumstances, and perhaps it was as well.
“But you, brother? Will not you have to suffer for this?”
“No. My father will be displeased, but although he would not have spared you, at heart he will be glad you have escaped, having saved the life of his son.”
It had been midnight when they started. Towards daybreak they paused to rest their horses, then on again.
“Yonder is she who would have redeemed you, brother,” said Shere Dil Khan.
In front were discernible two mounted figures. Raynier’s heart leaped, and he well-nigh blessed his peril, by reason of that which it had drawn forth. But the meeting between the two was subdued, for there were others present Shere Dil Khan and the Baluchi were deep in earnest conference.
“Farewell now, brother,” said the former. “I can go no further. Allah be with ye! I think the way is open, yet do not delay, and avoid others if possible.” And with a farewell handclasp the Sirdar turned his horse and cantered swiftly away.
Twice they sighted parties of Gularzai, but these were distant and unmounted, moreover, they themselves being in native attire attracted no attention. The sun rose over the chaos of jagged peaks, and to those wanderers it seemed that he never rose upon a fairer and brighter world—yet they were in a desert of arid plain, and cliff, and hump-like hills streaked white with gypsum. Mehrab Khan thought that by swift travelling they might reach Mazaran by the middle of the next night. All seemed fair and promising.
On the right front rose a great mountain range, broken and rugged, and now they were crossing a long narrow plain. Then, at the end of this they became aware of something moving.
“Horsemen—and Gularzai,” pronounced Mehrab Khan.
Were they pursued? was the first thought of his hearers. For they made out that this was a party four or five dozen strong perhaps. Yet, why should they attract the attention of these any more than of other groups they had passed? They forgot one thing. Hilda, though in native costume, was riding European fashion, side saddle.
Further scrutiny did not tend to reassure. The horsemen were heading in their direction, and riding rapidly. It began to wear an ugly look of pursuit. This might prove to be a stray wandering band, but even that did not seem to mend matters.
Raynier and Mehrab Khan held rapid consultation. It would look less suspicious to ride on if they had been seen, they decided, and there was nowhere to hide, if they had not. But soon a glimpse behind placed the question beyond all doubt. The distance between themselves and the horsemen had diminished perceptibly. The latter, strung out over the plain, were coming for them at a gallop.
As they put their steeds to a corresponding pace, it seemed to Raynier that all he had gone through was as nothing to that moment. They would be captured, for, bearing in mind the pace at which they had hitherto travelled, their steeds were urgently in need of a blow. Just as they had reckoned on having gained safety at last, and now—all was lost.
On, on, swept this wild chase, and now the pursuers were near enough to shout to them to halt Hilda’s steed was beginning to show signs of giving in. Then its rider uttered breathlessly,—
“Herbert, I see a chance. That bend of rock just ahead. Beyond it—the tangi—the Syyed’s tangi.”
“A chance, indeed,” he answered, all athrill at the discovery. “The only thing is will they fight shy of it now, as they did in cold blood?”
“They will—they will,” she panted.
Now they had gained the rock portal—towering up grim and frowning overhead, and the pursuers had nearly gained it too. But these last, the foremost of them, drew up a little way from the entrance. So did others who came up. It was evident they recognised the place, and the force of superstition was strong.
Crouched among the boulders the three fugitives could just see what was going on. One who seemed a leader was evidently urging them forward—riding up and down their line haranguing and gesticulating vehemently. At last six or seven men broke from the others, and, followed by these, the chief advanced towards the mouth of the chasm.
“Murad Afzul, Huzoor,” whispered Mehrab Khan.
“It is his last quarter of an hour,” grimly answered Raynier, sighting his rifle. And then an inspiration came to him, and he whispered some hurried instructions to Mehrab Khan. The Baluchi immediately left his side, and retired further into the chasm.
“Hilda, dearest, do you think you could hold the horses, in case they get a bit of a scare?” he said. “I have a plan which will save us, if anything will. Stand behind that elbow of rock with them.”
Without a word she obeyed, and now the Gularzai were already within the mouth of the tangi, Murad Afzul leading. What followed was weirdly startling. The whole of the grim and gloomy chasm roared with the most appalling sounds, mingled with shriekings and wailings. To and fro—tossed along those gigantic cliff walls the echoes bellowed, giving forth strange mouthings, and then, over all, from the dim inner recesses of the cavernous rift spake an awful voice.
“O unbelievers, violators of my sanctuary, retire, or ye die—die even as those three now lying here, whom none may find until the ending of the world. He who makes one step forward, that moment he dies. In the name of the Great, the Terrible One.”
The suddenness of it, the awful appalling din, the sombre repute of the place, and the consciousness that they were knowingly venturing on sacrilege, had an effect upon the intruders which was akin to panic. They stopped short, reining in their horses cruelly, lest they should accidentally make that one step forward, and their fierce shaggy visages seemed petrified with the terror that was in them. But Murad Afzul’s horse at that moment, wildly plunging, half stumbled on a round stone, and the jerk of the bit, and the savage sting of the hide whip, instinctively administered, caused it to take a bound forward. Then it stopped dead still, and its rider half stood up in his stirrups with a quick jerk, then, throwing up his arms, toppled heavily, and with a crash, on to the stones.
One terrified glance at the set face and glazing eyes, and the whole half-dozen venturesome ones turned and stampeded wildly from the terrible spot, muttering citations from the Koran to avert further evil. What could be clearer? Their leader had made a forbidden step forward and—and he had died, even as the ghost of the holy one whose sanctuary it was, had threatened. He had died, stricken by the powers of the air at the bidding of the Syyed.
Raynier, his nerves all athrill with this passing of the crisis, withdrew his rifle, feeling something of savage satisfaction and pride in his successful shot. But it did not at once occur to him that the wild and deafening din of the reverberations had so completely drowned the report of his piece that no shadow of a suspicion lay upon the minds of the now discomfited pursuers that their leader had met his death by mortal agency, or by any other than that of the powers of the unseen. It was left to Hilda to suggest, and the idea was a reassuring one, because it meant that no further pursuit would be undertaken. Her he found struggling with the bridles of the scared and refractory horses, and at the same time convulsively laughing.
“It was so comical,” she explained. “Fancy our being able to turn that echo to such account. It was clever of you to hit upon that idea.” Then gravely, “Do you remember what I said that night, Herbert, the second time we were in here together? ‘Something warns me there will come a day when our knowledge of this place will make all the difference between life and death.’ Well, has it made that difference?”
“I should rather think so. But what puzzles me is how on earth you knew we were anywhere near the place. We entered it now, mind you, by the end furthest from the camp, and we never went outside that on either of those occasions.”
“I knew it by that split rock and the little one beside it, rising up out of the nullah down there. I noticed them opposite this entrance the first time we were here.”
“Wonderful! Do you know, Hilda, Haslam says there’s something uncanny about you, and I begin to believe there is.”
“Only begin to believe?” And she laughed gaily, happily.
The comedy side of what had come near being tragedy did not appeal to Mehrab Khan in the least. They found that estimable Baluchi in a serious and gloomy vein. In the first place he had penetrated here and had thus incurred the consequent penalty; in the next by taking the voice of the dead Syyed he had committed an act of sacrilege. Raynier strove to reassure him.
“If Allah used this place as a means of saving our lives,” he said, “he does not intend that it shall be the means of our losing them, and it was written that they should be saved here. Besides, O believer, it was upon the people of this country that the dead Syyed laid the curse, not upon us, who are not of this country.”
And this, perhaps, was what went furthest towards reassuring Mehrab Khan. He repeated sententiously,—
“It was written.”