Ted assured the men that their idol still lived; but they shook their heads, crying that the English were merely trying to keep the death a secret, and the wailing recommenced still more noisily. A loud voice from the other side of the canvas thundered:

“Budmashes! Why do ye disturb my peace with that unseemly noise? Wali Khan, drive the rascals away and thrash them well! Know ye then that Jan Nikkulseyn is still very much alive!”

At the sound of the well-known voice a cry of joy went up, and Wali Khan, the old subadar-major, at once proceeded to carry out his order with vigour. So he mercilessly thrashed those whose chorus he had just been leading, scattering them in all directions.

“Allah be praised!” yelled the men of Bannu, as they jumped out of reach of Wali Khan’s stick. “Allah be praised! Nicholson Sahib is indeed alive!”

He only lingered, however, for a very short time. On the 23rd September, 1857, John Nicholson died at the early age of thirty-five, having done his duty to God and to his country. Heavy were all British hearts that day, not only with the Delhi army but throughout the Punjab. May our country never lack such a son in time of trouble!

The tidings of his death were soon proclaimed along the border, and men went about heavily as though mourning for a father. Many a villainous fellow, whose evil ways and dark deeds had incurred the displeasure of the commissioner, felt a sense of personal loss now that Jan Nikkulseyn—his father and mother and hero—was no more.

Shortly after the arrival of the news, a number of his devotees in Bannu (a place which has been described as a “hell upon earth”, because of its wickedness, before Nicholson was made commissioner thereof) gathered together to mourn their beloved chief. A malik, or headman, rising, spoke of the general’s virtues, his love of truth and justice; then, suddenly ending, cried:

“Oh, my brothers, what good is there in life now that our sahib is dead?”

As he uttered the last word, the malik drew a knife quickly across his throat, and fell in their midst—a corpse.

“He speaks truly! What is there to live for now?” cried others. But a pious man of great influence arose, and, stretching forth his hands to restrain them, spoke:

“My children, think ye that our dead master would approve of this? Our brother was mistaken; that is not the way to honour him. Let us rather seek to learn something of the God who was worshipped by Nicholson Sahib.”

The listeners considered and approved this idea, and forthwith a number set out for Peshawur. From that town a visit was paid to the nearest missionary, with the result that several were converted to the Christian faith.

To this day, when the wind blows strongly between the mountains, men along that frontier declare that they hear the tramp of Nicholson’s war-horse.

The heroes of the Siege of Delhi were without number, but of all the regiments engaged, the Sirmur Battalion had carried off the highest honours. With tooth and nail had they defended their post, by day and by night, for more than three months. No fewer than twenty-six distinct and determined attacks (one lasting all day and all night) had been made on them by overwhelming hordes of the enemy, by brave men bent on obtaining possession of that all-important post, and twenty-six times had they been hurled back by the handful of loyal, steadfast little highlanders.

Their dogged achievements were not passed by unnoticed.

Twenty years later, when the Prince of Wales paid his visit to India, he held a review of British and Native troops on the historic Ridge, and the 2nd Gurkhas (the old Sirmur Battalion) were given the place of honour in front of Hindu Rao’s house, the post with which the corps will ever be associated.

On that spot the prince spoke to them of the heroic deeds of their predecessors, and conferred upon the regiment the title of “The Prince of Wales’ Own Gurkhas”; and you can imagine how the little men, listening on that spot to the words of the great Queen’s son, would feel their hearts stirred within them, and would resolve that they would play their part as their fathers had done, that the regiment might never suffer disgrace.

The Guide Corps was also awarded a special recognition of their services (though not at the same date), the queen granting them the title of “The Queen’s Own Corps of Guides”, a compliment of which they are justly proud. The king is now the colonel of both the “Guides” and the 2nd Gurkhas, the latter being the corps that distinguished itself so greatly with the Gordon Highlanders at the storming of Dargai a few years ago.

To return to our story. The capture of Delhi broke the back of the mutiny. By that feat the British gained the upper hand and kept it, and thenceforward their part was to attack and hunt the rebels from one place to another, instead of being constantly attacked and pressed themselves. The regiments that had taken part in the siege of the Mogul capital were despatched to various points, to join the different forces engaged in subduing the revolt.

Charlie Dorricot was too seriously injured to take any further part in the campaign, and he had left for England before Lucknow was finally relieved. Alec Paterson had been less seriously injured, and was on his feet again within a fortnight.

Captain Russell and the Guides returned to the Punjab, for that corps, as well as the Sirmur Battalion, had suffered terribly during the three-months’ fighting, and they were not employed in Sir Colin Campbell’s campaign along the Ganges. Jim, however, succeeded in obtaining his majority towards the conclusion of the Sepoy war, and not very long afterwards he was given the command of one of the newly-raised Punjab infantry regiments.

Ted, with his usual good luck—as his brother did not forget to inform him,—was remembered by General Wilson, and was attached to one of the regiments that was now ordered to reinforce the Lucknow Relief Force.

But before he could join his new regiment an order came for him to proceed to Lahore, where a court of enquiry would decide whether he or Tynan was unfit to wear Her Majesty’s uniform. The court consisted of Colonel Bratherton and two captains. Tynan, Pir Baksh, and Dwarika Rai swore on oath to the truth of the statements made before their officers at Aurungpore. Colonels Woodburn and Munro gave evidence as to the character borne by the two ensigns, and related all they had gathered from Ambar Singh. Ethel Woodburn and Sir Arthur Fletcher corroborated.

Unfortunately for Ted, Ambar Singh, the havildar, could not be traced. He had evidently been restored to health, for all that could be discovered pointed to the fact that he had re-enlisted in one of the newly-enrolled regiments, and was probably with Sir Colin Campbell.

In his evidence Ted flatly denied all Tynan’s statements, one by one.

First, he swore that he was positive Tynan had pointed out Pir Baksh by name as the man who shot Colonel Woodburn; secondly, that Tynan had cursed Pir Baksh more than once as a ringleader; and thirdly, that Tynan had never suggested blowing up the arsenal, nor indeed had any idea that such a step was contemplated. Fourthly, that Tynan had tried to prevent him from lighting the train, and that there could have been no possible doubt of his intention when struggling for possession of the light.

Ted’s evidence and the manner in which it was given impressed the court favourably. Tynan’s did not. His manner was not convincing, and it was evident that he shrank from the gaze of the other ensign. Still, there were three witnesses for him, and Ted’s word stood alone.

Then came new evidence to spring a surprise upon Ted’s party. Two sepoys of the Rajputs deposed that Ambar Singh had confessed to them that his conscience upbraided him for having taken money from Russell Sahib to blacken the character of the dead ensign—meaning Tynan Sahib.

The feeling in court at once swung round in Tynan’s favour, and the officers of the 193rd looked at one another aghast. Sir Arthur Fletcher smiled. He knew something about native witnesses. Ethel quietly whispered to Lieutenant Leigh, who was acting as counsel for Ted, and his face brightened.

“Admitting the probability of bribery,” he said, “what, then, is the evidence of these two men worth? Mr. Tynan has had better opportunities and more time than Mr. Russell to resort to such means—and, I may say, a far greater supply of the wherewithal to bribe.”

But in reply to questions of the opposing counsel, Munro admitted that when Dwarika Rai first gave evidence there was practically no possibility of collusion with Tynan. Dwarika Rai had at that moment heard that he was alive, and Tynan was evidently greatly surprised to see Dwarika Rai.

The court retired to consider their judgment. The evidence was in favour of one—the bearing and character in favour of the other. They reported to Sir John Lawrence that they could arrive at no decision in the matter. The great man listened attentively, and proceeded to give the matter his consideration. Something must be settled without delay, he resolved, for the position was intolerable for that one of the two ensigns who had right and justice on his side.

Sir John requested the senior of the three officers to remain when the others retired. Colonel Bratherton was a power in the district, with an excellent reputation among the Sikhs and an unusually intimate knowledge of the men he commanded.

“Tell me your private opinion about this affair, Bratherton?” asked the chief commissioner.

Colonel Bratherton was silent and thoughtful for some time.

“Well, Sir John, the evidence is against young Russell, but somehow I’m convinced that he’s straight and that the other is not.”

“Um!”

A look of annoyance came over those masterful eyes, and the broad brow was knit in perplexity. But not for long. A humorous twinkle took the place of the frown, and the ruler of the Punjab presently whispered to the soldier, whose expression of deep concern gradually resolved itself into a smile in sympathy with his chief. They conferred for at least ten minutes before the colonel rose to take his leave.

“I’ll arrange it all, Sir John,” said he. “There will be little difficulty, for I have the very men we want. Kendal will do it admirably, and he can make up to the life. Where shall we be, though, if they both hold out?”

“Both?” Sir John’s eyes sparkled as he added: “You forget there will be a third—Pir Baksh. But of the ensigns one is evidently quite unscrupulous, and will no doubt give himself away.”

CHAPTER XXIV
Pir Baksh renders Tynan a Service

This conversation with the chief commissioner took place one morning in late September. In the afternoon of the same day, Ted Russell was ordered to attend upon Sir John Lawrence. The great man looked at the boy with a keen penetrating glance, which, though it seemed to pierce him through and through, yet brought with it an assurance of confidence and kindness.

Sir John seem pleased by the inspection.

“So you are the lad who blew up the arsenal?” he asked, a wonderfully pleasant smile lighting up the rugged face.

“It’s still in dispute, sir,” said Ted, smiling in spite of his trepidation.

“What do you suppose has caused Ensign Tynan to make this claim?”

“I wish I knew, sir. Whilst watching them in court yesterday the idea struck me that Pir Baksh, the mutineer, had somehow got a hold over him.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, sir. He was watching Tynan as a cat watches a mouse, and it struck me that he had made some sort of a bargain with Tynan to save him from death at the hands of the rebels if Tynan would whitewash his character. And it struck me that Tynan was sorry he’d ever been trapped into such a bargain.”

Sir John’s elbow was on the table and his head rested on the palm of his hand. Ted felt that he was reading his inmost thoughts.

“And perhaps,” he remarked at length, “perhaps Pir Baksh considered that such whitewashing would be of little avail if it could be shown that Tynan had been guilty of cowardice, and so the lad has to pose as a hero? ... Um! It’s just possible.”

“I never thought of that, sir,” said Ted with obvious admiration.

“I do not doubt your honour, Ensign Russell, and I mean to employ you upon an errand needing strength of character. Take this sealed letter to the officer in command at Amritsar. It is in cipher, and the key is found by reading every sixth word beginning at the end. The road, though safe enough for large bodies, is perilous for a small number; but Colonel Bratherton can only send two troopers with you. Go to him at once for horse and escort.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And understand, Ensign Russell, that should you be captured and have no time to destroy the letter, you must on no account disclose the key—on no account!”

“I will not, sir.”

Ted saluted and withdrew, greatly pleased by this signal mark of the confidence reposed in him. An hour after he had started, Ensign Tynan in his turn was standing before Sir John Lawrence.

“And so you believe that Russell meant to ruin your reputation out of spite? That is a very grave accusation, young man.”

“I can’t help it, sir. It’s a fact, and my word is as good as his, and I have witnesses whilst he has none.”

“Native evidence, I must remind you, Mr. Tynan, is not difficult to obtain. However, I cannot decide between you, and I have not sent for you to discuss that affair.”

He proceeded to give Tynan a similar letter and precisely the same instructions and warning as those given to Ted. Tynan repaired to Colonel Bratherton, who supplied him with an escort consisting of Pir Baksh and two troopers, and with these he set out for Amritsar.

Night closed in with Indian abruptness before Tynan had covered half the distance. Suddenly a body of horsemen blocked the way. Tynan drew a pistol, but before he could take aim his arms were seized by the troopers of the escort, and he was roughly dragged to the ground. A search was made, and the letter was quickly brought to light.

Pir Baksh had been seized in like manner and was dropped beside Tynan, bound hand and foot. Tynan recognized the uniform of his assailants as that of the 60th Native Cavalry, and he remembered hearing that this rebel corps had been hovering about this stretch of the Grand Trunk Road for some days. The two troopers of his escort declared for the rebels at the first hint of danger. Somehow Harry Tynan was much more cool and collected than on the last occasion of a similar experience, and he was not nearly so frightened. Perhaps the explanation can be found in the fact that his present state of existence was so miserable that no change could be greatly for the worse.

The sowars took little notice of their prisoner. Two native officers, who seemed to have some knowledge of English, were eagerly scrutinizing Sir John’s communication, the rest looking on. But the missive was evidently a poser, and the expressions of triumph changed to annoyance and chagrin as they shook their heads and gave up the puzzle.

“They will understand it,” said one. “Make them explain.”

The speaker nodded towards the prostrate captives, who were quickly kicked into a sitting posture and ordered to supply the key to the cipher. Pir Baksh was eagerness itself. He hastened to assure them that nothing would delight him more.

“This pig beside me,” said he, “he knows the secret, and will quickly inform if you threaten him. As for me, I hate the Feringhis, having been their prisoner. Set free my hands, and I myself will question this cur and make him confess. Ugh! the very sight of him makes me ill. Coward, liar, and traitor is he!”

“If thou dost hate him so,” asked a Mohammedan ressaidar, “why wert thou riding by his side as a friend? Thou canst not take us in so easily.”

“Because my own safety obliged me to call him friend. This fellow blew up the Aurungpore magazine—he says he did so. Of course we must believe him, though I myself saw him trembling like a leaf begging for mercy. By me was he saved from the debris, saved that I might have the better revenge; and first I humbugged him into giving me a chit, saying I was loyal—I, Pir Baksh, leader of the rebels in Aurungpore!”

The subadar related the whole of the miserable business.

“It is true,” said Tynan with quiet despair. “Save his life, for he is the blackest villain in Asia, and I had rather die alone than with him as comrade. Kill me and I shall be glad to get away from him.”

A native officer cut the bonds, and bade Pir Baksh get up.

“Get the key from the cub, then. If he gives it willingly his life shall be spared. If not, do as thou wilt.”

Pir Baksh smiled in pleasant anticipation, and humbly addressed his quondam officer.

“Will the protector of the poor deign to supply his slave with the explanation of that letter?”

Harry Tynan looked him straight between the eyes and said never a word. The poor lad had suffered much during the past three months, and again and again his own vileness had been laid bare to him. He had enough of good in his nature to shudder at the prospect. The lies he had told, the public whitewashing for his own ends of the villain Pir Baksh, the bribing of Dwarika Rai and the other Rajputs, all these had gone against the grain, but never had he seen his own meanness so clearly, until now that he knew that even this most contemptible scoundrel regarded him with far greater contempt.

Pir Baksh had rendered Tynan a service at last, for he had made a man of him. Then and there the ensign resolved that nothing should drag from him the secret of the cypher—that Pir Baksh should understand he was not wholly a coward. The rascal poised his sword above the boy’s head.

“First I am going to slice off the right ear, then the left. If that is not enough, Ensign Sahib, I fear that the nose must go. After that—” Here he smiled and added: “But I think the sahib will not be so discourteous as to refuse his slave’s request. Speak quickly or thine ear goes!”

Tynan turned a few shades paler, but he bit his lip and answered not a word. Amazed at this unlooked-for defiance the subadar hesitated—and someone sprang in front of Tynan, a fist shot out and was stopped by the nose of the Mussulman, who toppled over, and was instantly disarmed by two sowars, who knelt upon the traitor’s chest and mocked his cries of rage.

“It’s all serene, Tynan, old chap!” cried the voice of Ted Russell. “We’re going to scrag that brute!”

He cut Tynan’s bonds, whilst others trussed up the rebel, and I fear that no trouble was taken to spare him discomfort.

“It’s all been a put-up job,” Ted went on. “They collared me in the same way, meaning to test us by threats, to find out if either would betray the cipher. This is Lieutenant Kendal who’s in command.”

A short and rather “tubby” figure, arrayed in a rebel garb, came forward from the background and apologized for having been compelled to treat them roughly. He was obeying instructions, and assured them of his pleasure that neither had betrayed the trust.

“Yes, but you know everything now,” said Tynan sullenly. “It was mean of you, Russell, to play this trick.”

“I had no hand in it, Tynan, and was treated in much the same way an hour ago, except that they only threatened me with death, not torture; so you came out of the ordeal better than I, and I respect you for it.”

“That’s all very well. You come out with flying colours and I’m ruined. I say, Lieutenant Kendal, let me clear away. I don’t care what happens to me, but I simply can’t face the fellows who knew me. Only let me go, and I’ll disappear completely.”

“Sorry I can’t do that, Mr. Tynan, but I have orders to take you back before Sir John. By Jove, I’ll say all I can for you, though, and though Jan Larens can be stern he’s really kindness itself. Make a clean breast of it, youngster.”

They rode back in silence, and the pretended rebels repaired to their comrades of the Sikh Cavalry to relate a marvellous story of the wisdom of Jan Larens, from whom nothing could remain hidden. The great statesman was still hard at work at his unending task, but when he heard the lieutenant’s tale he bade him send Tynan in. He greeted the boy with mingled kindness and sadness.

“This is a pitiable tale, youngster,” he said, “though you have done your best to redeem it to-night, I am told. Tell me all about it, and keep nothing back. Regard me as one who wishes to help you.”

Tynan broke down under the prolonged strain, and, bursting into tears, sobbed like a child. Bit by bit the grim though kindly ruler drew forth the whole story of temptation, hesitation, and fall, of misery and of lie upon lie that had gradually sunk the boy deeper in the morass.

“Sit down,” he said. “You have been punished. Are you sorry it has all come to light?”

“Indeed I am not, sir. I feel as though a great weight had been taken away. I suppose I shall be hounded from the service at least, sir.”

“I hardly think you would wish to remain in the army?” said Sir John gravely.

“I want to get away from everyone, sir, and I know I don’t deserve any consideration. But I never meant to do it, sir. He led me on, and got me in his power.”

“You have been punished—and you may be thankful for it, my lad, for you will have a better chance of a happy useful life than had your claim proved successful. This evening you acted like a man, and I will take upon myself to accept your resignation.”

“Thank you, sir!” said Tynan joyfully, for he had never expected this. “Oh, thank you, sir! I will try to do better.”

“You may set out again for Amritsar this night, and join Green’s column at Umballa as a volunteer under an assumed name, if you can overtake them. I will give you credentials, and when the mutiny is crushed you may leave the country as you think best. My advice is to do your duty like a man as long as there is fighting to be done, and then return at once to England.”

“Thank you, sir! I could wish for nothing better, and it’s more than I deserve. I’ll be a different man after this lesson. Indeed I will, sir.”

“God help you to keep that resolution, my lad! Good-night!”

Breakfast was just over when the summons came for Ted. Sir John motioned him to take a seat.

“You have been thoroughly vindicated, Mr. Russell. Tynan has told me everything, and I congratulate you on having done your duty. You have suffered great anxiety and disappointment, but there is no doubt that you will obtain the reward you so highly deserve.”

This virtual promise that the former recommendation would hold good, and that the Victoria Cross—most coveted of honours—would be his, dazzled our hero for a space. To Ted’s credit be it said that his next thought was for poor Tynan.

“Thank you, sir! I—I hope Tynan won’t be disgraced, sir. It was not altogether his fault.”

“It will be necessary,” said Sir John gravely, “to make public sufficient to clear your character. I have allowed him to resign, and he clears out to-night. I am glad, my lad, that you should have considered him.”

“Wait a moment,” said the ruler of the Punjab as Ted rose to go. “How would you like a commission in a corps of Irregular Horse?”

“Punjabis, sir?”

“Yes. Colonel Boldre, whose regiment has mutinied, is raising a corps in the Balandghar district, and he has written to ask me if you may join him. I think it would be a good thing, and should advise you to jump at the chance.”

“Is there any likelihood of seeing active service with them, sir?”

The great statesman burst into one of his hearty laughs. He remembered the days when he was the age of Ted Russell—how he had longed to be a soldier like his father, who had led the forlorn hope at Seringapatam, or like his hero-brother Henry. The chuckles ceased, giving place to a sad smile as he thought of those past days. “A soldier I was born, and a soldier I will be!” he had declared as a lad, for all his family were soldiers. But the Lawrences were poor, and the civil service gave better remuneration than the military, and for his mother’s and sisters’ sakes John Lawrence had put aside the dream of his boyhood that he might earn enough to keep them from want. He knit his great brows and looked Ted up and down, and the boy did not know whether the grim administrator was pleased or displeased with him.

“So you have not smelt enough powder, eh?” he asked at length.

“I want to do my share, sir.”

“Boldre’s Horse are going to Cawnpore to join Sir Colin Campbell at once. The colonel will be setting out from Balandghar in a day or two, with perhaps a couple of hundred sowars, Sikhs, Pathans, and Punjabi Mohammedans. Mr. Jackson is raising a few score Sikhs and Dogras for him in the Jalandar district, and you are to set out at once to take charge of them, joining your commandant at Delhi.”

“Thank you, sir! it’s just what I should have chosen.”

“Very good! but remember this. Do your duty with just as much thoroughness whether it seem attractive or the reverse. Should your fate tie you to duties of an uneventful nature, should you be out of the fighting and excitement, and have little chance of distinguishing yourself, remember that your work may be quite as necessary and useful, if not so showy. So, whatever you may be called upon to do, do it gladly. I will write to Jackson.—— Oh! I forgot—I am sending Colonel Boldre a couple of Sikh native officers for his regiment, tried men who have been proved and found faithful. They will go with you. They are good men; remember that. Good-day!”

Delighted with the turn of events Ted hastened to call upon the two Sikh officers. “Jim was right,” he said to himself as he swung his leg over the saddle, “I am a lucky beggar. It’s better being in a British regiment than in a poorbeah lot, but better still to be with Sikh and Pathan cavalry or Gurkha infantry, because Tommy has to be taken such care of, or he’ll have sunstroke or cholera, or he’ll wander away and get his throat cut, or else walk into an ambush. But these Cossacks of the Punjab are in at most of the fun, and they catch Pandy in snares instead of being caught by him.”

Colonel Bratherton presented him to the two Sikhs. They were brothers, and in spite of a few years’ difference in age, he could hardly tell one from the other. Each was dressed in white—no colour being more popular among the Sikhs—the snowy turbans setting off the triangle of dark face left visible, with piercing eyes, deep-set and determined, the well-shaped nose, tight mouth, and long beard and moustache twisted and turned upwards over the ears. They were tall and strong, with thin but sinewy legs—in fact, all that Sikhs should be.

Ted asked their names. Govind Singh was the elder, named after the last of the Sikh high-priests; Hira Singh the younger. He told them who he was, and that they must set out for Jalandar that night; and they looked him up and down with doubtful eyes, evidently not too favourably impressed by his youthful appearance. Ted found himself somewhat afraid of those eyes; they seemed to hold so much in reserve. But he felt that in a tight place he would be glad to be backed by men with eyes like theirs.

“When will you be ready?” he asked.

“Now,” said Govind Singh.

“Then we set out after sundown.”

“Very good, sahib! We go to Lucknow to help Henry Larens.”

“But he is dead,” Ted informed him.

Govind Singh shook his head.

“That is a poorbeah lie,” said he. “As if those jackals of Oudh could kill the great chief!”

Astounded by the Sikh’s incredulity, Ted asked if he had seen Sir Henry Lawrence.

“I? I knew him well, and so did Hira Singh, my brother. When the English fought the Afghans, nearly twenty years ago, we were at Peshawur in the Sikh army under Avitabile. The Sikh government had granted you Feringhis a passage through the Punjab, but we Sikh soldiers preferred our old enemies the Afghans, and we refused to fight on your side. We were ready to eat up your Khyber column in those days, and would have done it too, but for Henry Larens Sahib, who won our hearts, so that we fought for him, aye, even to Kabul. Then when we challenged you to war six years later and were beaten, he ruled the Punjab justly and with righteous dealing, as his brother does to-day. Jan Larens is a good and great man likewise, but Henry we loved most. We knew him well.”

“It is true,” echoed Hira Singh. “If all the Feringhis were like unto Henry Larens there would have been no mutiny. Just is he, and he understands us and knows our ways of thinking as no other white man has ever done. He loved us, yet was he firm—firm as is his brother, and never was there a braver man. How he defied us all at Peshawur, though at our mercy! And so great was his ikbal (prestige), that he forced us to aid him even against our will. Jan Larens is a just and good man, but for Henry Larens we would gladly lay down our lives. I know that he is dead, but my brother will not believe it.”

“We will be ready before sundown, sahib,” Govind Singh assured Ted as he left them, greatly impressed by this evidence of the influence of one good man, who had so won over his former enemies that they had become his staunchest friends.

Ensign Russell’s kit was not extensive. He was now quite an old campaigner, having learned at Delhi how to do without many luxuries that he had formerly considered necessities. He gave his Mohammedan servant instructions to prepare for a long journey, and Kasim Ali received the news as a matter of course. Strange must be the lives of these Indian servants, who are ready to change their place of abode at a moment’s notice for another hundreds of miles away. At Delhi, after the capture of the town, Ted had picked up a bargain in the shape of a nice Arab, good-tempered, robust, and speedy. But he also needed an animal for Kasim Ali, and another for his kit and supplies, so he now called upon an Afghan dealer whose horses he had previously noticed. The Afghan brought out one sorry brute after another and tried to pass them off as veritable treasures, such as Aurungzebe himself might have envied. Ted looked guileless, and the Afghan was pained to hear him remark:

“I’m in a hurry. If you have no horses, say so, and I’ll go elsewhere.”

The wily coper began to see that his customer was no ignorant griffin, so he changed his tone, dropped his protestations, and finally brought out a couple of serviceable beasts, not showy, but strong and in good condition. Ted at once declared that they would suit, and named the sum he was prepared to give; and the Afghan, seeing that it was “take or leave”, ceased to haggle, and closed the bargain, not dissatisfied with the profit he had made. Kasim Ali led the steeds away.

“Must go and say good-bye to Ethel and the colonel next,” said the ensign to himself.

Colonel Woodburn and his daughter had remained in Lahore after the unsatisfactory conclusion of the trial, in order to be able to give the lad any advice or assistance within their power. They were staying with a civilian friend of the colonel, towards whose bungalow Ted turned his horse’s steps. The news that he had been cleared was already out, and Ethel waved her hand joyously as he hove in sight. Sending a servant to take the horse, she motioned the ensign to join her in the verandah.

“I am delighted, Ted!” she began. “Do you feel like a free man again?”

Ted sank luxuriously into the easy-chair.

“Ethel,” he said with unwonted seriousness, “I feel like the man in the Pilgrim’s Progress, whose burden has rolled from his shoulders. I suppose you have heard how the truth came out?”

“Yes; Lieutenant Kendal has told us the whole story this morning. But what has become of Tynan? What is to be done with him? Poor lad! he’s had a harder time than you, Ted.”

“Yes,” Ted slowly answered, “I know he has. I’m sorry for him, and I don’t know what has become of him. I don’t think that Sir John has been hard upon him. Perhaps he’s been able in some way to give him another chance. Sir John was very kind to me.”

“They say he is stern, but I’ve never found him so.—— Well, father, here’s the innocent victim of conspiracy, righted at last, and let off on condition that he won’t do it again.”

Colonel Woodburn and his host had entered the verandah. They congratulated Ted, and Mr. Moncrief added:

“You’ll have tiffin with us, Mr. Russell? Make yourself at home here while you stay in Lahore.”

“You’re very good, Mr. Moncrief, but I’m leaving in a few hours. I’ll stay to lunch, though, thanks!”

“That’s right. Where are you going, then?”

Ted related the offer made to him by Sir John, and expressed his delight at the prospect. He had come to say good-bye.

“Colonel Boldre is a very nice man,” Ethel said meditatively. “Father knows him well. I suppose you’re an ensign no longer, then? I am glad to meet you, Lieutenant Russell.”

Ted laughed.

“It’s a promotion in a way, I suppose,” said he, “but I’m not gazetted lieutenant yet.”

“You soon will be, though,” Colonel Woodburn assured him. “Your appointment is practically equal to promotion. Boldre is a good soldier. I wish I were equal to it.”

“Do you still suffer any pain from the wound, colonel?” Ted asked.

“Hardly now, Ted. Still, I’m not fit for active service, only for garrison and depot.”

“Tiffin is ready,” Mr. Moncrief announced. “Lead the way, Miss Woodburn.”

By seven o’clock Lieutenant Edward Russell, Risaldar[1] Govind Singh, Ressaidar Hira Singh, and Kasim Ali were on their way to Amritsar by the very road along which Ted had journeyed twenty-four hours ago. Jalandar was reached on the second day without mishap, and without any incident more exciting than a half-hour’s alarm occasioned by the approach of a body of Native Horse. They turned out to be a detachment of the force maintained by the Sikh Raja of Kapurthala, a loyal prince who, in response to John Lawrence’s invitation, had assisted the British at Delhi, and whose men were now engaged in keeping a portion of the great highway clear of budmashes and guerrilla mutineers.

Ted was hospitably received by Mr. Jackson, a civilian official of the Cis-Sutlej States, who had enlisted some forty or fifty horsemen—Sikhs from the Jalandar Doab and Dogras from Kangra. A few days were needed in order to give the levies a little polish and complete their equipment, and during this period Ted stayed with Mr. Jackson. Then they set out for Delhi, through Ludhiana and Amballa.

Five months before a certain ensign had ridden along that road with the Corps of Guides, a lad in the highest of spirits. “Glory of youth glowed in his soul”, as he rode by his brother’s side and surveyed that splendid regiment, the pride of the Punjab, and, engrossed in the splendour of the martial array, he had given little thought to the horrors.

Five months ago! At times it seemed as many years, and yet again, as they passed some landmark, and a vivid recollection of some chance remark flashed across his brain, at such a time it seemed but yesterday. His spirits were still high, but experience had somewhat sobered him. He thought of the great events of that fateful period, of the scenes of carnage, of the lost friends and comrades, of the great Nicholson, of the plucky little Gurkhas, and those days at the house of Hindu Rao. How many of those grand men of the Guides, with whom he had ridden across the Punjab, had gone back to their depot at Hoti Mardan? How many of the little Gurkhas, whose arrival in the British camp he had witnessed, had marched back to their station in the hills of Dehra Dun? What months those had been for India and for himself! Then the rebels were winning at every point, except in the Punjab. Now the Mogul capital was once more in the hands of the British, the emperor was a captive, and though much remained to be done, the end of the great mutiny was in sight.

In the towns along the Ganges and its tributaries the sepoy hordes still held the upper hand, and their numbers were daily increasing. Gallant Havelock and chivalrous Outram had at length broken their way through and relieved the intrepid garrison of Lucknow, but the mutineers had closed behind them, and they in their turn were shut up in the Residency, and Henry Lawrence, the best-loved Englishman who had ever set foot in India, was dead. Hardly a big town along the Ganges but had its tale of murder and black treachery to unfold.

Delhi had been captured, but its swarms of mutineers had gone to augment the ranks of the sepoys who were holding a reign of terror in Oudh; and though Sir Colin Campbell was at the head of a fine army, there were still threescore rebels against each white man.

Arrived at the Mogul capital, Ted learned that Colonel Boldre had gone on to Agra, whither he was to proceed with all speed. The route thus far was open, for the Delhi column under Hope Grant and Greathed had cleared the way, and fifty mounted Irregulars had little to fear from undisciplined and cowardly budmashes.

CHAPTER XXV
To the Rescue

The sun had just risen when Hira Singh, riding fifty paces ahead of the cavalcade, suddenly waved his hand as a signal to halt, leapt from his horse, and led it behind the bushes that bordered the road. His companions reined in their steeds and awaited the explanation.

The Englishman threw his reins to the nearest sowar and stealthily joined the ressaidar, who was peering through the bushes. They were passing through a well-wooded tract, abounding with mango, pipal, tamarind, and other trees, with plenty of tropical undergrowth, giving good cover.

“What is it?” Ted asked.

“I don’t know,” said the Sikh. “The dust hides everything.”

About half a mile away dense clouds of dust were rising in the air and falling again to the rear, concealing all traces of the makers of the disturbance, except that a few armed horsemen in front were partially visible.

“I thought at first it might be a body of rebel horse,” observed Hira Singh, “but it moves too slowly for that.”

“Bullock-carts, I should say,” suggested the young officer, as he trained his glasses on the spot.

“That is what I think. There is an escort, so perhaps they carry the poorbeahs’ stores or ammunition or loot. Anyhow, we had better mount and capture it.”

They were now within about thirty miles of Agra, and the sun’s rays were darting through the foliage, the golden light playing upon the flashing sabres and glittering lance-points as the troop swept forward. Ted’s men were curiously equipped, some with shields, a number with carbines; some had sabres, others lances, and many had both; and all were seated upon native saddles of felt. Yet Ted was a proud boy that morning, for, motley as was the collection, they were fine-looking men, and were they not acting under his orders! He would have been less proud had he known what his men were charging.

The fine dust deadened the drumming of the hoofs, and until half the intervening distance had been covered the cloud in front moved forward, and rose and fell with regular cadence. Then the procession halted; they had been seen or heard.

Hira Singh laughed, and, lowering his lance-point, tightened the grip of his knees on the saddle.

“Only a rebel escaping with his goods and family,” said he; “but we may as well slay them, sahib, for without doubt they deserve it.”

“Not so, Hira Singh. Let us speak them fair. We cannot tell who they are.”

There were two curtained gharris or carts, each drawn by two soft-eyed bullocks. Protecting these rode three horsemen, who now stood awaiting the onslaught, two with levelled muskets, the third with drawn sword. It was evident that the gharris contained their womenfolk, as for nothing less would they have stood their ground against fifty.

Crack! Crack! At two hundred yards’ distance they had fired into the cloud of dust, and a bullet struck Ted just below the heart. He doubled forward with the pain, nearly losing his grip, and the bullet quietly dropped upon the saddle. He glanced at his tunic; there was not a tear, and he slowly realized that he was still alive. The bullet was spent, and it had struck him with no more force than a thrown stone of the same size. He was hurt, but not injured.

Hira Singh’s lance was couched again, and the horses were at the gallop. The shots had roused the fierce Sikh blood, and it would have gone hard with the horsemen had not Ted sufficiently recovered his wits, and, spurring his Arab to the front, had called upon the ressaidar to pull up his horse to a walk.

He was puzzled that the three should have stood their ground so valiantly when escape would have been easy, and he did not mean to suffer friends to be slain. Besides, the carts probably contained women, who would not be safe from the fury of his wild levies once they had tasted blood. He caught Hira Singh’s bridle and shouted the command to halt, and the troop pulled up about thirty paces from the daring wayfarers. Ted rode out in front of his men.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Instantly the strangers lowered their loaded muskets, and the handsome old man in the centre took his sword by the blade and held the hilt towards the Englishman.

“Allah give you victory, sahib!” said the old man, stroking his gray beard with nervous fingers. “I thought ye were budmashes who had cut us off. I did not see that thou wast a Feringhi until this moment.”

“We hope that no man was hurt by our shots,” added the youngest of the three, a slight but muscular and well-made man, twenty years of age perhaps. There was something in his appearance that took Ted’s fancy—a dignified bearing and demeanour.

“But what do ye here?” asked our lieutenant, “and why should ye fire at strangers?”

“I am Yusuf Khan of Paniwar, and these are my sons. In the bullock-gharris are our womenfolk. We have fled from our home through fear of the anger of the rebels. Know then, young sahib, that I have raised my voice on the side of our alien rulers, warning and advising our young men to abstain from acts of madness. The stain of blood is not on my hands.”

He stretched out his open palms as he spoke. There was an honest ring in the old man’s voice, and his eye was open and steady.

“It is true,” said Ramzan Khan, the younger son. “We have remained loyal to the Sirkar.”

“I am from Paniwar,” continued the old Mohammedan, “but for years I was surveyor with Henry Lawrence Sahib, from Gorakhpur to Allahabad, and I swore that his people should be as my people, and that for his sake would I help any Feringhis who might be in need. He was my master and my true friend, and I loved him.”

The fierce-eyed Govind Singh walked his horse to the side of Yusuf Khan and looked him between the eyes.

“So thou art also Larens Sahib’s man?” he chuckled. “I also. Thou art an eater of beef and I an accursed infidel, yet for that we are bound by the same ties to the same master—we are brothers. Dost thou believe that he is dead?”

“Aye, I know that he is dead, alas!”

“Thou art a faint-hearted disciple, old man. He lives, I say.... Well, tell me thy story.”

The Mohammedan turned once more to the English officer and continued:

“The men, and the women also—and their abuse was the harder to bear—taunted me, called me an unbeliever and a renegade, a taker of English gold, because that I opposed the hot-heads. And then it came to pass that I did that which caused all my neighbours to hate me. We found—I and my sons—a small party of English men and women wandering about the jungle, having escaped the fate of their murdered countrymen, and we guided them safely into Agra Fort. All would have been well had I not foolishly given my name to an Englishman who asked for it, and their gratitude led them to recommend me to government for a reward. But for that my neighbours would never have known.

“And this is the reward, that we have been stoned and our lives threatened, and to save ourselves from worse we left home last night with what valuables we could bring away, and set forth for Agra.”

“But,” objected Ted, “you are going towards Delhi, not Agra.”

The old man turned and pointed backwards.

“Over there,” said he, “half an hour’s walk away, our road from Paniwar joins the Agra-Delhi road, and we turned to the right instead of to the left in order to escape our pursuers. For my son, Ramzan Khan, had lingered near the village to see if we should be followed. We had a few hours’ start before we were missed, and, guessing whither we were journeying, a number of the rascals followed, some on horseback, others on foot. With bullocks we cannot travel at more than a snail’s pace, and we were unable to procure horses for the carts, so capture was certain. But Ramzan Khan, having a very swift horse, overtook us just after we had turned into the Agra road. Hearing the news that he brought, we tried to throw them off the scent by facing about towards Delhi instead of going on to Agra.”

“I came much quicker than the budmashes,” put in Ramzan Khan. “Some of them were on foot, and the horsemen were trotting slowly to allow the runners to keep up with them, thinking that they could not fail to overtake the bullocks.”

“What, then, do ye intend to do?” asked Govind Singh. A trooper to whom he had been whispering dismounted, and, leaving the dusty road, stole forward under cover of the trees and undergrowth.

“Allah knows,” replied Yusuf Khan. “Perchance, having picked up our trail, they will ride on in their haste towards Agra without taking further notice of the tracks we leave in the dust. If so, we may hide until the danger is past. If, however, they notice that we have doubled back, all will soon be over unless ye choose to help us. When we fired we thought ye were the very sons of Shitan themselves, who had worked round and cut us off.”

“Ah!” said Hira Singh reprovingly, “that was not a soldierly thing to do, to fire before making sure.”

“But,” said the stranger, “did we not see you charging upon us with spears and swords?”

“He is right,” said Ted, with a laugh at Hira Singh’s expense. “Why, ressaidar, didst thou not wish to slay them all without stopping to make sure?”

Rishan Chand, a Dogra, stepped forward with a suggestion.

“Let the women descend from the carts,” said he, “and place some of us inside, and let the bullocks retrace their steps. The troopers and you, sahib, keep out of sight, but near enough to aid. Then when the budmashes come, the zamindar (farmer or yeoman) and his sons, and the drivers, can pretend to run away and leave the women at the mercy of the rebels. Then shall we surprise them when they peer in through the curtains, and before they can escape ye should be upon them.”

“The Dogra has sense,” said Hira Singh. “Let it be so, sahib.”

“If the zamindar approve, it shall be done. What sayest thou, Yusuf Khan?”

“It is good; all except that we should run away, I and my sons. We do not run from jackals.”

“Nay, but they will suspect otherwise,” Ted explained. “And if ye resist they will fire at you and at the carts, and all will be spoiled. Ye must consent to play the coward.”

“Sahib, it is for me to obey you,” said the zamindar.

The three refugees walked their horses to the side of the conveyances, from behind whose curtains veiled faces were already peeping in anxious bewilderment; and presently an elderly dame and three younger ones descended and were led by the elder son—a married man—into the shelter of the bushes. Sikhs and Dogras began to peer inside the vehicles, and two of the former jumped in. But Govind Singh was too quick for them.

“Outside, dogs!” he shrilled. “Put back that which ye have stolen. Are there not enough enemies from whom to steal that ye must rob friends, and one who has served with Larens Sahib? Outside, I say!”

Inside the carts was strewn in confusion as much of the old Mohammedan’s portable property as could be put together in their haste. Abashed, the Sikhs dropped the few ornaments they had seized, and came out with sullen, crest-fallen expressions.

“Ho, zamindar!” called the risaldar. “Wilt thou or one of thy sons go in this cart to see that naught is stolen? Our men are thieves; they are but recruits who know no better.”

“Nay,” replied the old man, with simple dignity. “Ye are my friends. If they save my honour, I do not grudge them my goods.”

“If so much as the value of an anna is taken,” said Ted sternly, “the thief shall answer it. Let three or four of the Dogras get in each cart; they ate smaller than ye Sikhs, and will have more room to aim. Tumble in!”

“Hide, you rascals, hide!” broke in Govind Singh abruptly. He pointed eastward, whence the scout was running towards them, in and out among the tree-trunks, gesticulating as he ran.

“He is signalling us to take cover,” continued the risaldar. “Sons of owls, disappear among the bushes before ye are seen! Inside the carts, ye Dogras! Quick!”

The Dogras squeezed inside and drew the curtains across; and in a moment all the troopers had disappeared, leaving Ted, Govind Singh, and the two Mohammedans beside the carts to await the scout.

“They are within sight from up there,” he informed them. “I climbed a tree and saw the dust they raised. They come at a trot, and will soon be here.”

“What shall we do, sahib?” asked the zamindar. “We obey thy orders.”

“Go forward as before, thou and thy sons,” said Ted. “We shall hide on both sides of the road. When the budmashes come close, fire at them, and then set spurs to your steeds, keeping straight along the road, not into the bushes where we hide. We can see to the rest, can we not, risaldar?”

Govind Singh grunted acquiescence, and with Ted left the glaring road for the shade of the trees, and the little caravan went on.

“Will they not mark the track of our horses?” Ted asked, being apprehensive lest the plot should fail.

“Once they see their prey they will take no further heed to the trail. Dismount here, sahib; we can see without being seen.”

A view-halloo from the distance, faint yet savagely exultant, told that the pursuers were within sight of the slowly-trudging bullock-carts. A moment or two of suspense, then a shot rang out. A second report, and two horsemen flashed round the bend and galloped past the watching officers. Ted and Govind Singh were less than a hundred yards from the road; the rest of the troop, dispersed over a large area, were rather farther back on either side, hidden in groups behind clumps of trees and patches of bush.

“There’s the cart,” whispered Ted, as the zamindar and his son dashed past them.

With a twist of the bullocks’ tails to urge them forward, Yusuf Khan’s two servants left their charges and scuttled into the woods. The stolid bullocks, unmoved as ever, went forward snail-like, and the foremost pursuers ranged alongside.

Lieutenant Russell trembled with excitement. The Dogras were at the mercy of the blackguards, should they have courage enough to take revenge for the trick played upon them, rather than seek first to make good their escape.

The first four or five leapt from their horses, jabbering something that the watchers could not make out. Their actions, however, were easy to understand. They tore aside the curtains, laughing noisily; a silver streak flashed forth from each window, and a couple of the scoundrels staggered aside and rolled over heavily. Their comrades jumped back as though stung, and the expression of blended terror and amazement depicted on their faces caused Govind Singh to give utterance to a low pleased chuckle. Said he:

“It is the story of the hunter who chased the sambhur deer, and when he was close upon her, and sure of his prey, she vanished amid the bushes, and lo! he was face to face with a tiger.—— Ha!—— badly aimed! They have shot but two of the curs.”

As their assailants recoiled the Dogras had fired. Some of the budmashes, their courage quickly cooled by unexpected resistance, seemed anxious to leave the scene without striking a blow, but the handful of revolted sepoys who were with them were less cowardly, and they who had muskets were already loading their weapons. Meanwhile Hira Singh and a dozen troopers were rapidly skirting round to the rear, and Ted knew that the time had come. He gave a clear whistle, and the rebels turned abruptly round.

Wild and shrill were the yells of those troopers as they sprang to the saddle and converged from various points upon the mutineers, spoiling their aim, so that not a Dogra was touched. The budmashes had no mind for further lingering. But they had hesitated too long. The lances were already couched and sabres bared, and the Sikhs close upon them, and the troopers’ horses were fresher than were theirs, and better animals withal. Down the Agra road clattered the would-be murderers, Ted, Govind Singh, and Ramzan Khan at their heels. Round the bend they went, and, behold, the road was blocked by Hira Singh and his dozen Sikhs, who awaited the mob with levelled carbines.

The terrified rascals tried to turn aside, and the carbines cracked and the lance-points fell and rose again, and Ramzan Khan’s tulwar was merciless. There was no fight left in these rebels. They had set out to murder and despoil those weaker than themselves; they had hunted the deer, as Govind Singh had said, and had caught the tiger.

“Have mercy! Have mercy!” they whined, throwing down weapons and holding their hands aloft, and Ted commanded that the fight should cease. He was obliged to repeat the order more sternly and accompany it by a threat, and even then the command might have availed little with the fierce Sikhs had the young lieutenant not been backed up by the veteran brothers. As for Yusuf Khan, the zamindar, the moment Ted had spoken, he had wiped his blade and thrust it back into the wooden sheath. His were the wrongs, but, thought he, it was not for him to disobey the countryman of Henry Lawrence, who had come to his help in time of sorest need.

The prisoners numbered sixteen; eight or ten were slain, barely half a dozen escaping. The mounted men were ordered down from their seats and tied in fours, right wrist to left wrist, and bade march in front. The women were replaced in the carriages, and the procession moved forward at a walk, three or four sowars scouting in advance.

“Sahib,” said the old Mohammedan, “we are grateful. You have saved us from a great evil.”

“Ye also saved the lives of my countrymen,” Ted replied, “so ye owe me naught. Indeed, ye have lost by your deed of kindness; I have lost nothing. Believe me, I will tell your story at Agra, and the government will not forget you when the rebellion is over.”

The zamindar engaged his sons in a whispered conversation. After a few moments he said:

“Your servant is not a fighter, sahib,—that much I have seen. Take my son, Ramzan Khan, as orderly, to fight by your side. He is a good swordsman, and not without courage.”

Ted jumped at the offer. Ramzan Khan met his gaze and said:

“I am your servant, sahib. I cannot forget what you have done for us.”

And so it was settled that Ramzan Khan should accompany Lieutenant Russell to Lucknow.

Next day they crossed the Jumna by the bridge of boats, and Ted landed his convoy and his prisoners safely in Agra Fort, where he was warmly welcomed by Colonel Boldre, who was introduced by no less a person than Claude himself. Ted’s new colonel was a little man, of slight build, and of rather insignificant appearance, until one noted his eyes and mouth. Ted soon perceived that he was active and alert, with an air of decision, and the lieutenant took to his commandant at once. Colonel Boldre listened to the youngster’s narrative, and laughed at the story of the trick played upon the rebels. He inspected his new troops, and was particularly pleased with the look of Govind and Hira Singh, whose hearts he quickly won. Colonel Boldre had a thorough knowledge of Sikh character, and understood their ways, and when his poorbeah regiment had mutined, the Sikhs had remained loyal, and had saved their colonel’s life.

Ted made a good meal of salt beef and pickles, and when tiffin was over he and Claude left the colonel and strolled outside the rambling building.

“I never expected to see you here,” said Ted as they quitted the room.

“I suppose not. As soon as I heard that the pater had been given permission to raise a corps I asked him to apply for my exchange. He did so, and here I am. Knowing that you would prefer this sort of work to being in the regulars, I asked him to put in a word for you also. I cracked you up no end as a horseman and soldier.”

“You’re a brick! It was jolly good of you to think of it. I suppose you didn’t much care to be under Hodson after what’s happened?”

Claude Boldre turned on Ted with a queer expression in his eyes—half vexation, half amusement.

“You’re alluding to the shooting of the old emperor’s sons, I suppose?” said he.

Ted nodded. “Hodson’s a brave man—there’s no one who risks his own life more; but one can hardly respect an English officer who could deliberately shoot his prisoners in cold blood.”

“Cold blood be hanged, Russell! Your blood wouldn’t be very cold if you were faced by ten times your own number, clamouring for the rescue of your prisoners.”

“Perhaps not, but they were not resisting. They were not showing fight, and he ought not to have killed them. They were men like himself, but he showed no more compunction than if they’d been wolves or tigers.”

“Those prisoners were a jolly sight worse than wolves or tigers, Russell, a jolly sight more wicked. I don’t think you can know the whole story. Hodson has a number of enemies because he’s been so prominent, and he is rather arrogant and zubberdusty (high-handed) at times. He has trodden on other people’s corns, and they’ve been too ready to believe the worst without taking all the circumstances into account.”

“But, you know, he got into trouble over the Guides,” Ted interrupted. “Falsified the accounts and collared the money, or something of the sort.”

“Not a bit of it. He had a row with one of the Pathan officers, and he was rather zubberdusty; but as for the dishonesty, that was only a tale set afloat by busybodies. The affair was investigated by Reynell Taylor, and you’ll admit that he would never condone anything wrong.”

“Yes,” Ted agreed, “if he absolved Hodson it’s all right.”

“Well, he did so. He said there was not an anna not accounted for, and that the books were badly kept, because Hodson wasn’t cut out for a clerk, being always in the saddle, doing police and soldier work. Now, as to this other business. It was Hodson who captured the old Mogul when perhaps no other man could have done it, and he didn’t put him to death. Then he offered to go and bring in the princes—the vicious brutes who’d murdered the English men and women in Delhi. With a handful of his troopers he set out for the tiger’s lair and captured them. They begged him to spare their lives when they surrendered, but he resolutely refused to give any promise. On the way back he was cut off by a mob of armed fanatics, who were keen on rescuing the princes. Hodson’s own account, and that of his sowars, is that if he had hesitated a moment he would have been overwhelmed and killed and they would have escaped, and he was determined that the vile murderers should be punished and made an example of. Without hesitation he answered the clamour of the mob by shooting the princes himself; and his promptness cowed the fanatics. They melted away, and not one of his men was hurt.”

“Yes; but was he not exaggerating the danger?” contended Ted.

“He’s the only one who can judge of that,” Boldre replied. “And with all his faults, I believe Hodson to be an honourable man. The prisoners were bound to be hanged. No one even attempted to deny their guilt, and their lives being forfeit, I don’t suppose Hodson considered it wrong to anticipate their fate by a day or two, when by so doing he could save the lives of his own men.

“It was a big responsibility,” Claude continued as Ted remained thoughtful, “and he had the courage to take it, believing it to be the right course. He may have been wrong. I admit I don’t like the thought of it, but it was done from no motive of cruelty.”

“You’ve put the affair in a new light,” Ted confessed; “but all the same, I wish he had not done it.”

“So do I,” agreed Boldre. “But look here, Russell, suppose the princes had been rescued to spread rebellion by the magic of their name as the descendants of the Grand Mogul. Would not those who are now decrying him most have been the first to attack him for having allowed them to escape?”

“Well, perhaps they would,” said Ted.

“No, I did not exchange because of that,” Claude went on, reverting to Ted’s earlier question, “but because I wished to serve under the pater. I’ve seen so little of him for years, and he’s a good soldier, everyone say so. Very few of the Company’s colonels have been given new commands, you may have noticed, and the pater is one of the few.”

“Yes, it’s rather marked that the newly-raised regiments are mostly commanded by lieutenants and captains.”

A hand tapped Ted’s shoulder. Turning, he perceived his new orderly, Ramzan Khan. In reply to the look of enquiry the Mohammedan said:

“It is not safe to go so far from the fort, sahibs. The people of Agra do not love the English.”

“He’s right,” said Claude. “We’d better get back.”

“Is there any—” Ted stopped short with a little gasp. He stood staring with wide-open eyes, and his companions followed his gaze.

“Is that the famous Taj Mahal?” he asked in a tone of awe; and Claude nodded.

Our lieutenant of Irregular Horse having become accustomed to the wonders of the East was not easily moved to admiration thereby. But now he was spell-bound by the beauty, the exquisite perfection of that lovely dream-palace, perhaps the most awe-inspiring work of men’s hands. In the ardour of argument he had not noticed the wonder, and now he could not take his eyes from that central dome, white and ethereal against the deep blue of the Indian sky, with its cluster of smaller pearly domes, the whole great and grand and yet unreal, as if the vision must shortly fade away. Men have attempted to depict the Taj Mahal in prose and poetry and painting, and have all admitted the feat impossible. “Go to India,” Lord Roberts has said; “the Taj alone is worth the journey.”

This vast tomb, known as the Taj Mahal, was built by the Emperor Shah Jehan in memory of his wife, and finished about the year 1640, when the Moslems were the great architects of the world. Forbidden by their religion to make images of men by painting or sculpture, they devoted their genius to architecture; and the mosques and tombs of Hindustan, and the Alhambra and other Moorish buildings in Spain, bear witness to their surpassing power.

Ramzan Khan looked downcast as they turned away.

“Ah!” said he sadly, “in those days were the true believers the leaders of mankind. We are unworthy children of our great fathers.”