For many hours did Walter Gordon remain in his hiding-place behind the clump of trees, in company with the faithful ayah, Zeemit Mehal. He watched with sickened heart the flames wreathe themselves around the pretty bungalow, where he had known so many happy hours, until, in a little while, a heap of smouldering and blackened ruins was all that marked the spot where had once stood the peaceful home of his beloved. Many times did he narrowly escape being discovered by the howling demons, as they rushed about in frenzied excitement. His horse, used to scenes of commotion, remained quietly grazing where it had been tethered. Out on the compound, with the red flames flushing the white face, as if in mockery, was the dead body of Mrs. Meredith. It was an awful sight, and Walter would have jeopardised his life to have gone out and placed the body in some spot where it might remain until a chance of burial presented itself. But Mehal restrained him.
“To expose yourself is to court instant death,” she said. “Be quiet.”
Presently a gang of ruffians entered the compound, led by a well-known butcher of the town, named Mezza Korash. The man had long been notorious for his undisguised hatred for the British, and had on several occasions been imprisoned for robbery, and for offering insult to Her Majesty’s subjects. Their object was plunder, and some of the gang entered the smoking ruins of the bungalow in search of any valuables that might have escaped the flames.
As Mezza reached the spot where poor Mrs. Meredith was lying he suddenly stopped, and, spurning the corpse with his foot, burst into a coarse laugh.
“Ah, ah, comrades! look at this dog’s flesh,” he cried. “It was my hand that slew her. I was the first to fire a shot, and that shot was into the heart of this Feringhee woman. Glory to the Prophet, and death to the British!”
He hurried away, followed by his brutal companions, whose laughter made the night hideous.
As Gordon heard the words of the self-confessed murderer, his blood boiled; and if Zeemit had not forcibly held him back, he would have rushed out. But when the cowardly crew had gone away, he said—
“Zeemit, summary retribution must be meted out to that villain, and mine shall be the hand to strike him down. If he escapes me, I shall never be able to look Miss Meredith in the face again.”
“But what would you do?” asked the woman, in alarm.
“Drag him from his den, and shoot him like a dog.”
“But surely you will not throw your life away for a worthless purpose?”
“To bring down just punishment on the head of a double-dyed murderer is not a worthless purpose. I know the man well. His shop is in the bazaar, near the Nullah. At all hazards I go. If I return alive, I shall come back to Lieutenant Harper’s bungalow, in the lines. You hurry there without delay.”
As Mehal saw that further opposition to the will of the “fiery Englishman” would be useless, she allowed him to go forth. He loosed his horse from the tree, and sprang into the saddle; and, drawing his revolver, gripped it firmly in his hand. The city was comparatively quiet as he rode out of the compound. The lurid flames from the burning bungalows were paling before the dawning light of day. Dead bodies of natives were lying about the streets, where they had fallen before the resistless charge of the British soldiers, who, in obedience to the bugle-call, were straggling back to their barracks.
Gordon rode hurriedly forward, never drawing rein until he reached the bazaar. The ruffians of the gaols and the Goojur villages were slinking back to their homes with the coming of the morning light. The sudden presence of this dauntless white man appalled them; their cowardly natures caused them to crouch away like whipped curs, for it was only when banded together in large numbers that anything like courage animated their craven hearts.
With lips compressed, brows knit, and chest thrown back, Walter threaded his way through the tortuous streets of the bazaar until he reached the shop of the butcher, Mezza Korash, who, wearied with the night’s work, had thrown himself down on a matting before his door.
Without a moment’s hesitation Gordon jumped from his horse, and, seizing the murderer—who was a little thin man—in his powerful grip, he threw him, almost before he could realise his position, across his horse’s neck, and, springing up behind, galloped away amidst the shouts of the astonished natives, a few of whom sent random shots after the flying horseman, but without effect.
Mezza struggled frantically to free himself from his captor; but he was like a pigmy in the hands of a Goliath. Gordon had twisted his hand in the man’s body-cloth, and held him in a vice-like grasp. When he reached the Mall he met a body of artillerymen, who were returning from the Delhi road, after having chased the mutineers for some miles.
“I have captured a murderer,” cried Gordon, as he hurried up. “His hands are yet red with the blood of his victim. Shooting were too good for such a cur. A rope, men—a rope!”
When the cowardly Mezza heard this he whined for mercy, begging that he might be shot instead of hanged; for death by the rope precludes a Mohammedan from all hope of heaven. But his prayer was unheeded. A rope was speedily produced, and thrown over the limb of a banyan tree; a running noose was placed round the neck of the villain Mezza, who rent the air with his howls. A dozen hands grasped the slack of the rope, and instantly the coward’s body was dangling in the morning breeze. It was a summary act of vengeance, as daring as it was just.[2]
Walter rode back to the barracks in company with the men, who were enthusiastic in their praise of Gordon’s bold deed. When he reached Harper’s bungalow, he was shocked to hear that Mrs. Harper was very ill.
“If I fall, you will be a brother to my wife?” were the last words of his friend, as he parted from him the previous night on the Delhi road.
And, with these words ringing in his ears, he sought the presence of Mrs. Harper. She was deathly pale, and terribly ill, but she sprang towards him, and clutched his hand.
“God be praised, Walter, that you have come!” she cried. “But my husband, my sister, my mother—where are they?”
“You must not distress yourself like this,” he answered evasively, and trying to lead her back to the couch.
“Do not keep the news, however bad it is, from me. Better to know the worst at once, than suffer the nameless agony of suspense, when the fate of one’s dearest relatives is in question. My husband—what of him?”
“When I parted from him last night, I left him in perfect health. I have no doubt he would reach Delhi in safety.”
“Bless you for that news! And my sister—what of her?”
Gordon grew pale; strong man as he was, the tears gathered in his eyes, into his throat came a sensation as if a ball had suddenly been placed there, and was choking him; for his love for Flora Meredith was as strong as it was honourable.
And as he thought of what her fate might be, his emotion overpowered him.
“You do not answer,” cried Mrs. Harper, excitedly, as she noticed the red fade from his face, and a pallor spread over it. “Does she live? Speak, I conjure you.”
“She lives,” he answered, sorrowfully.
“Lives! and yet she is not with you!” Mrs. Harper almost shrieked, as a terrible thought flitted through her brain.
“Do not excite yourself, Emily, I beg, for you are endangering your life. Your sister lives, but has been abducted by Jewan Bukht.”
With a cry of despair, Mrs. Harper fell upon her knees on the floor. Gordon raised her gently, and carried her to the couch. He then procured smelling-salts and water.
“You are better now,” he remarked, as he saw the ashen paleness give place to a faint flush.
“Yes, yes. I can bear the worst. Go on; my, my poor mother—does she live?”
“Alas, no! A quick and merciful death has spared her all misery.”
Mrs. Harper bowed her head upon her hands and wept.
The weight of sorrow that had so suddenly fallen upon her young head was almost unbearable, and the frail thread of life threatened to snap.
She grew calmer presently. She brushed away her tears and stood up before him.
“At such an awful time as this,” she said, “the dead are to be envied. I cannot hope that my poor husband and I will ever meet again. He went to Delhi. He is a soldier—a brave one—and will do his duty. But behind him are the mutineers. When they reach the Imperial City, few, if any, white men will escape the carnage that will ensue after their arrival. But even if he should be fortunate enough to come safely through the chances of war, my end is near. I have not been well for a long time. The terribly hot season of this awful climate has fearfully enervated me; and it had been arranged between my husband and me that I was to return to Europe. But it is all over now. This shock is too much for an already shattered constitution to bear, and in a very short time my sorrows will end, and I shall join my mother. Give me your hands, Walter; the other one as well. Look into my eyes, brother—for so I may call you—and listen to my words, as the words of a dying woman. My sister is in robust health; she is young and beautiful. She is your betrothed. She would, in a short time, have been your wife. Her honour, which is dearer to her than life, is imperilled. Let your mission be to save her—if that is possible. With your eyes looking into mine—with both your hands placed in mine—promise me, I, who stand on the very verge of the grave, that you will rescue my sister, or perish in the attempt. Remember she is your affianced wife, and her honour is yours.”
“I need no such reminder,” he answered with closed teeth; “my course is clear—my mind made up. In a few hours, whatever the hazards—whatever the peril—I shall be on the road to Delhi, and I will save your sister, or perish in the attempt!”
“Some good angel will surely hear your words,” Emily replied, “and will write them in the book where the deeds of brave men are recorded, and a just Heaven will reward your efforts.”
She had spoken as if she had been inspired, but the great effort had exhausted her, and she sank back upon the couch, pallid and trembling.
And Gordon knew too well that in the Indian climate such extreme prostration was an almost certain sign of coming death.
A few hours had served to bring about terrible changes in each of their lives; and what the end might be, no man could tell. But he braced himself up to do his duty, and mentally vowed never to cease his search for the lost Flora while he had reason to believe that she lived, and while health and strength were his.
“You must remain very quiet now, and get rest,” he said, as he placed a pillow under the head of Mrs. Harper. “Your sister’s ayah, Zeemit Mehal, promised to meet me here; I must go and seek her, and arrange my plans with her; for she has promised to go with me.”
“That is good,” Emily murmured; “if this woman remains faithful, her services will be invaluable.”
“I will answer for her fidelity. She might have betrayed me into the hands of her savage countrymen, but she has been true.”
Walter soon found Zeemit. She was waiting for him in the verandah of the bungalow. She had brought with her some powder for staining the skin, and a native dress—that of a religious mendicant.
“With this disguise,” she said, “you may penetrate into any part of India, free from molestation. This staff, carried by none but religious pilgrims, will be a passport of safety.”
“This idea is excellent,” he answered; “but there is one great difficulty which seems to me to be insurmountable. I have but a very slight knowledge of the language of the country, and this will betray me.”
“Yes, it would, if you let it be known.”
“But how am I to avoid letting it be known?”
“You must be dumb.”
“Dumb?”
“Yes, loss of speech and hearing must be the afflictions under which you suffer. This will ensure you sympathy. I shall be your aged mother conducting you to our sacred shrines. So long as your disguise is not penetrated, no one will dare to offer us harm.”
“This arrangement is capital, Zeemit, and no reward will be too great for you to demand if my mission is successful.”
The powder was made into a paste, and with the assistance of Mehal, Gordon proceeded to stain the skin until it appeared of the dark copper colour peculiar to the Bengalees. His black hair and eyes were favourable to the disguise, and when he had donned the native cloth, and fastened on a pair of sandals, it would have been a keen penetration indeed that would have recognised the Englishman in the garb of the Hindoo pilgrim. To test the completeness of his disguise, he presented himself before Mrs. Harper, who immediately asked him in Hindoostanee what he meant by intruding on her privacy. And not until he spoke did she recognise him.
“This is a splendid device,” she said, when Walter had made known the old woman’s plan; “and if you are discreet you may yet save poor Flora. Let me see Zeemit and personally thank her.”
When the old ayah entered, Mrs. Harper took her hand and kissed her.
“You are a faithful creature, Zeemit, and my brave countryman shall reward you amply.”
“I need no reward, mem-sahib; I wish only to rescue missy, whom I love. For has she not always been good and kind to poor old Zeemit? And Zeemit is grateful, and will save her if she can.”
Mrs. Harper shook the woman’s hands heartily.
“There is no time to lose,” she said, addressing Gordon. “May Heaven watch over you. We shall never meet again. I feel sure of that, for I am so very, very ill. But if you see my husband, tell him that the last words the lips of his poor wife uttered were his name, and a prayer for his safety and happiness.”
As Gordon looked into the speaker’s face, he felt the full force of what she said, for death seemed to have already settled upon her; and the enervating nature of the climate precluded all hope when once the fearful prostration had seized one. He knew that, and yet it was very awful to think that he must speak the last words that ever he would have a chance of speaking to her in this world. But it was a time for action, not useless regret. However poignant the grief for the dying or the dead might be, the safety of the healthful and the living was a matter calling for the first consideration.
His parting with Mrs. Harper was affecting in the extreme, and he was glad to hurry away. When he had secured a pair of loaded revolvers beneath his clothes, he took his staff, and uttering a final adieu, left the apartment in company with Zeemit.
As the two walked through the city, and gained the great high-road, none of the many hundred natives they passed suspected they were anything but what they seemed to be—a decrepid old woman, and an afflicted, half-witted beggar son, hurrying away to pursue their calling in some more peaceful district. And not a few pice were tossed to them by those who had pity for the beggars, but none for the Christians.
The sun was pouring down his fiery beams; the Goomtee was rippling on like a stream of living fire; the air was heavy with dust, and all things were hushed to silence by the great heat, as Walter Gordon started upon his perilous mission, acting his part as if to the manner born, for a great purpose nerved him, and there is not much a true and brave man will not do for the woman he loves.
[2] The incident here related actually occurred.
Haidee led Lieutenant Harper up the flight of stone steps, and then along a dimly lighted passage that appeared to be built between the walls. On reaching the end of this passage another door presented itself, but his beautiful guide took a key from her girdle and unlocked it. Another flight of steps were descended, and then not a single gleam of light could be seen. Haidee caught his hand and led him along. It was a tortuous way, but she was well acquainted with it. Presently a faint glimmering light was discernible, and, as they drew nearer, Harper perceived that it came from a small window let in a door. More steps had to be ascended to reach this door, which opened to Haidee’s key, and in an instant the lieutenant’s eyes were dazzled with a bright burst of sunshine.
A broad walk, running between an avenue of noble banyan trees, was before them. Except the noise of the moving branches, as they swayed in a light breeze, not a sound broke the stillness.
“This is the King’s private ground,” said Haidee, in a whisper. “It is here he walks with his agents, and his favourite wives, free from all intrusion. Once across this ground, and we are safe. But caution is necessary.”
She closed the door behind her, and, motioning Harper to follow, cautiously led the way, keeping as much as possible in the shadow of the banyans. The avenue was passed through without adventure, and a large iron gate, let into a stone wall, reached. Haidee produced the key, and inserting it in the lock, gave access to a sort of plantation. She peered cautiously out to see that the way was clear, and, motioning Harper to follow, closed the gate again.
After a short walk, they arrived at a small ruined building. It stood on an eminence, and commanded a view of the surrounding country. It had formerly been used as a temple, but was now fallen into decay, and was overrun with luxuriant vegetation. A small flight of slippery, moss-covered steps led to the doorway.
“This will be a place of safety,” said Haidee, as she pushed open the door, that creaked on its rusty hinges as if uttering a complaint.
It was a circular building, and contained one room below that was in a tolerable state of preservation. A broken idol lay upon the floor, where it had tumbled from a niche in the wall, and some stone benches still remained. Above this was another room, reached by a stairway built in the thickness of the wall. From this room a look-out was obtained, and Harper saw that the building was within half-a-mile of the magazine, of which it commanded an uninterrupted view. The roof was entirely gone, but the broad leaves of some palms which grew on the hill had spread themselves over the walls in such a manner as to form a screen from the scorching rays of the sun.
“You are safe for a time,” said Haidee, as she stood facing the man she had delivered from death, and presented to his gaze a combination of beauty, grace, and resolution, until his heart beat quicker, and he felt as if he could fall upon his knees at her feet and pour out his thanks in passionate language. “This was formerly a private temple, and here Moghul Singh has often come to pray to the god of his faith. One night the diamond eyes of the idol which lies on the floor below, were stolen, and the King ordered the temple to be closed, and never more used. It is shunned now—nobody ever comes here. It is to this place that I would draw Moghul Singh, that you may slay him—slay him like a dog in the place that is cursed, and leave his carrion as food for the foul things that creep and crawl.”
She spoke passionately. The fire in her eyes burnt brilliantly, and she drew her breath quickly. She was no longer the mild, gentle woman, but looked like a fury panting for revenge. Harper noticed this, and said, soothingly:
“Don’t agitate yourself, Haidee. Have patience, and your day will dawn.”
In an instant she had changed. The love-light came into her eyes again, and the stern expression of her face softened.
“Ah, forgive me,” she murmured, taking his hand and drooping her head; “my wrongs are great, my desire for vengeance uncontrollable. But to you, my lord, my master, I would be gentle as the dove. Could I but see this villain writhing in the throes of death, I should watch him with joy in my heart, and when he was dead, I should feel that my mission was ended, and henceforth it was poor Haidee’s duty to be only your loving slave.”
“Not slave, Haidee, but sister; though you should remember that you are a woman, and this terrible feeling which you are nursing is not good—it is unwomanly. Leave this wretch to the retribution that is sure, sooner or later, to overtake him.”
She let his hand fall, and recoiled with a cry of mingled pain and rage, and was the fury again.
“Would you play me false, now that I have saved you? Is it not out of my very womanhood that my desire for vengeance comes? Does not the mad cry of my father still ring in my ears? Does not the blood of my murdered sister, and brother, and lover, cry aloud for vengeance? Let my heart turn to steel, let my own blood become a burning poison that shall gall and canker me night and day if I allow my slaughtered kin to go unavenged. You have promised to right my wrongs—you dare not break that promise. Your life is mine, since I gave it back to you. I snatch you from the jaws of death—have I not a right to demand something in return? Remember that in my veins runs the hot blood of an Eastern woman; my country people are not as yours are. We can melt with love, or rise to a passion of wrath which you English people know nothing of.”
Her stern energy startled Harper. It was like the sudden bursting of a thunder-cloud, where, a moment before, all was serenity. Yet even in her passion she looked beautiful, if dangerous; and her nature, strange as it was, aroused in the young officer a feeling of enthusiastic admiration.
“You mistake me, Haidee,” he said, softly. “I acknowledge freely that to you I owe my escape from a cruel end, and therefore you have a right to demand any service from me that is not absolutely dishonourable; and such service I will freely render. You said, a little while ago, when you first entered my prison, that you were a woman. I may answer you now in similar language, and say I am a man. And in my heart lives all that feeling which it would be impossible not to feel for a lovely and much-wronged lady.”
His words touched the springs of her nature, and her long lashes dripped with tears. In an instant she was on her knees at his feet, and her soft and burning cheek was laid against his hand.
“Oh, forgive me, if I have hurt you; but Haidee’s sorrows are great. I know now that your heart is true, and your hand strong to strike in cause of sullied honour. You thrill me with your words, and my pulse throbs for you alone.”
They were suddenly startled by the cry of a multitude, and the sullen boom of the guns. Harper rushed to the window, and exclaimed—
“The insurgents have attacked the magazine.”
“There is no time to lose,” she answered, rising quickly to her feet; “I must away, and return to you as soon as possible with weapons and food. You must not stir from here unless you wish to sacrifice your life. I shall seek out Moghul Singh. I shall tell him that I have you here, where I have enticed you on the pretext of saving your life, having discovered you affecting your escape through the King’s grounds. He will come. As soon as he enters, you will strike him down; but leave enough life in him that he may hear from my lips that Haidee avenges the cruel death of her kindred. Farewell until we meet again.”
“Stay a moment, Haidee. How many Europeans are in charge of that magazine?”
“I know not; but they are few in number.”
“Heaven protect them. Would that I could render them my poor assistance. That, however, is impossible. But promise me one thing, Haidee. Let it be a promise as sacred as that I have given to you. Wherever and whenever you can render succour to my countrymen or women, you will do so; and you will, if you have it in your power, rescue any of them from death?”
“I promise you by my hopes of paradise.”
She pressed her moist lips to his hand, and with a light step, hurried away.
It was a strange position for Harper to be placed in, but he was as powerless as a reed that is swayed in the storm-wind. His breath came thick and fast, and his heart beat violently as he watched the heaving sea of black humanity surge against the walls of the magazine, only to be driven back again by the storm of fire. He knew that the defenders were few, for it had long been a standing complaint that the great and valuable arsenal of Delhi had such a weak European guard. But he little dreamt that the number was as low as nine. He panted to be behind those walls, to exert the strength of his youth and the energy of his nature in helping to defend the treasures of his country and the lives of his countrymen who were battling so heroically against such tremendous odds. But he could only wait and watch. To have gone forth into that savage crowd would have been like casting a boat into a maelström; he would have been torn to pieces.
The roar of the guns, as they belched forth their iron hail, was deafening, while the disappointed cry of the insurgents rose like the howling of a hurricane. Hour after hour he watched there, but the time seemed short, for he was fascinated. Now his hopes rose high, and he felt as if it was almost impossible to suppress a cheer as he saw the craven multitude beaten back before the fire of the defenders. Then his hopes would sink again as the walls were reached by the raging sea. Presently his heart almost stood still, as the guns of the magazine were silenced, and he saw the natives swarm over the walls.
“They have conquered,” he thought.
But the thought was scarcely formed, when the air became darkened. Even at the distance he was, it seemed as if a mighty whirlwind was sweeping over. He saw the stupendous sheet of fire leap into the air, and he knew that the arsenal had been blown up. The terrific shock shook the ground, and some of the crumbling masonry of his retreat tottered and fell with a crash. He buried his face in his hands to hide the awfulness of the scene, and an unutterable sorrow took possession of him, for he could not hope that any one of the noble defenders could escape from that fiery storm.
Slowly the time passed now, as he sat on a fallen stone and thought over the fortunes of war, and of the strange chance that had placed him in the position to be a witness of that terrible drama. Soldier he was, it was true, and though he yearned to be up and doing, how could he hope to prevail against a multitude? He felt that he was a victim to circumstances which it would be as useless for him to try and control as it would be to attempt to stay the wind. If he wished to live he must yield himself unconditionally to his fate. Those were the only terms, for what others could he make?
Two faces came before him.
They were those of Haidee and his wife. He could not serve them both. He must be false to one and true to the other. Haidee meant life; his wife—death. For without Haidee’s assistance he felt convinced that there was not the remotest possibility of escape. But would it not be better to die, conscious of having done his duty, rather than live to dishonour?
He grew bewildered with the conflicting emotions that tortured him, and, overcome with weariness, slept. When he awoke the day was declining. Down sank the sun, and night closed in quickly on the short Indian twilight. Alas! he thought how many a blackened corpse, a few hours before full of hope and energy—how many an agonised heart, that had beaten that morning with happiness and joy, did the curtain of the night cover?
Slowly and wearily the time passed, and Haidee came not. From all parts of the city lurid flames from incendiary fires were reddening the sky, and sounds of musketry and drums reached him. The unequal fight was still being carried on somewhere. Could he, bird-like, have hovered o’er the city, he would have seen sights that would have appalled the stoutest heart. In one of the strongest houses the Europeans and Eurasians from the Daraogung, or English quarter, had barricaded themselves—a little band selling their lives as dearly as possible. But all was fruitless. The barricades were carried and the people slaughtered. In the Flag-Staff Tower, on the Delhi Ridge, the women and children were gathered for protection, while a few officers and men, from the cantonment, were trying to keep off the black demons, in the hope that succour would come from Meerut, but it never came. Later on these helpless women and children were to escape, but only to meet with subsequent massacre at the hands of the brutal mutineers. Again a little body of white people, women and children, a few soldiers, officers and men, were gathered at the main guard of the Palace, holding their ground for a little while, with the fierceness of lions at bay. The European troops stationed in the cantonment when the mutiny broke out in Delhi, could have been counted by dozens, and these few dozens were scattered on this awful night. There was an embrasure in the bastion that skirted the court-yard of the main guard. Through the embrasure egress was obtained. Beneath, at a distance of thirty feet, was a dry ditch. By dropping into this ditch, crossing over, and descending the opposite scarp, the slope and the glacis could be mounted. Beyond was some jungle that offered cover to the fugitives. When defence was no longer possible, these brave officers and men made ropes of their clothing and lowered the women and children into the ditch, dropping themselves afterwards—many falling never to rise again, killed and maimed by the tremendous drop. And those who did escape dragged the weak ones up the slopes, and into the jungle. But it was only a prolongation of the agony, for the murderers reached them ultimately. All these things, and others that pen can never write, nor tongue tell, would Harper have seen, had he been, as I say, suspended, bird-like, in the air.
But though he could not see, every shot, every cry, told him, in language not to be misinterpreted, that an awful carnage was going on. And the nameless horror of such knowledge, such suspense, made him wish that he were dead.
Slowly the weary night passed on,—still Haidee came not. Had she deserted him, or had she fallen? were questions he asked.
To the first he soon framed an answer. He would not believe she had proved false.
As the night grew old, the guns ceased, the fires died out, the cries were hushed, and stillness fell upon all things. There was no light, neither moon nor stars. He could see nothing. But occasionally he heard a lizard dart out to seize its prey, or the squeal of a rat as it was caught in the jaws of a snake, and he thought that—mystery of mysteries—even amongst the lowest order of created things, there was endless war, there was bitter pain, there was cruel death. Why should such things be?
Amongst the overhanging palms and the surrounding foliage, the flying foxes, huge bats, and grey-owls flapped their wings and gibbered and hooted, like evil spirits gloating over the harvest of blood and the awful work of the reaper Death.
The man’s soul was heavy, his breast was tortured with pain. The darkness, and solitude, and suspense, were all but unendurable. He felt as if he was going mad. Why did not Haidee come? Over and over again he was strongly tempted to trust himself to the darkness of the night and endeavour to find his way out of the city. But, alas! he was soon convinced of the utter hopelessness of such a course. Besides, he could not desert this woman, until he was sure she would not return. His manhood rebelled against that.
He strained his eyes in all directions, but nothing met his gaze. The darkness was impenetrable. Worn out with his long watching, and fasting, and excitement, nature once more asserted her supremacy, and he fell asleep.
How long he slept he knew not, but he was suddenly startled by the sound of footsteps. She comes at last, he thought. The first faint streaks of dawn were in the sky, and they enabled him to make out closely surrounding objects. His heart palpitated, and his face burned. The sounds had died away again, and there was silence unbroken. He listened, and listened, and listened until the strain became painful. It was but a few minutes’ pause, but it seemed almost like hours. Then footsteps again, and whispering voices beneath. One was a woman’s, Haidee’s, he believed. But whose was the other? Had the time come for him to do the deed he had promised her to do? Had she brought Moghul Singh? He held his breath. He could hear the hard beating of his own heart. However brave a man may be, a sense of unknown and undefinable danger produces a feeling akin to fear. And this is increased when he is situated as Harper was. He drew the dagger from his belt, and held it firmly. It was a formidable weapon, and, in the hands of a determined man, at close quarters, there would have been little chance for an antagonist escaping its poisoned point.
The footsteps drew nearer. Two people were ascending the stairs—a woman and a man; the difference in the tread betrayed that. They reached the top. Two persons stood in the room—one was a woman and one a man. The woman was Haidee; but, in the dim light, Harper saw that the man was not Moghul Singh.
When Walter Gordon and Zeemit Mehal had got clear of Meerut, and fairly on the great highway, they turned into a paddy (rice) field, where there was a small bamboo hut. Into this they crept, for the heat of the sun was so terrific, and walking was almost impossible. Suffering from extreme fatigue, Walter threw himself into a heap of straw, and thought over the terrible events of the last two hours, and as he remembered that Flora Meredith was in the hands of the enemy, he felt distracted, and inclined to continue his journey without a moment’s delay. But, however strong his energy, his physical powers were not equal to it, for even the natives themselves felt prostrated by the intense heat of the Indian summer. And yet it was awful to have to remain there while she who was dearer to him than life itself was surrounded with deadly peril.
He wondered what had become of his friend Harper. Had he escaped death? and if so, would he be able to return to Meerut to comfort his dying wife? for Walter had no doubt in his own mind that Mrs. Harper was stricken down never more to rise. Even if he were fortunate enough to discover his friend and his affianced, he would have sorry news to convey to them. But it was the time of sorry news. Nay, it was but the very commencement of a long period, during which there would be no other news but that of suffering, of sorrow, and death. The storm had indeed burst, with a fury undreamt of—unparalleled; and through the darkness scarcely one gleam of hope shone. From mouth to mouth, amongst the natives, the terrible words had passed—“Death to the beef-devouring, swine-eating Feringhees!” They were truly awful words, well calculated to inflame the minds of the black races, who had for years been taught by their leaders and their priests to cherish in their hearts an undying hatred for the British; to look upon the Great White Hand as a hard and grinding one, that should be crushed into the dust, and its power for ever destroyed. The dogs of war had been slipped, and Havoc and Destruction stalked hand in hand through the land. And though the “lightning posts” might flash the news to the great towns, it was doubtful if succour could be sent in time to prevent the spread of the awful desolation.
As these and similar thoughts flitted through the restless brain of Walter Gordon, he realised that the position of himself and his friends called for the most decisive action. In a few brief hours his own little circle had been broken. His friend Harper had gone, and, in all probability, would be one of the early victims. That friend’s wife was drawing near the end of her earthly troubles. Mrs. Meredith was already dead, and what the fate of Flora might be he shuddered to contemplate. This latter thought distracted him, and he seemed to be suddenly endowed with superhuman strength.
“I must go!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Zeemit, Zeemit, do you hear?” for the old woman had fallen asleep. “Zeemit, I say, let us continue our journey. This inaction is maddening, and it were better to dare the sun’s rays than fall a victim to one’s own thoughts.”
Zeemit started from her slumber. His excited looks and tone for a moment bewildered her. But she speedily grasped the purport of his words.
“Sahib, sahib!” she cried, “you will betray yourself if you have not more discretion. Remember you are supposed to be dumb, and the moment you use your voice the very walls may have ears to catch your words.”
“But, Zeemit, I cannot endure to remain here, knowing the awful peril in which Miss Flora stands; and that the slightest delay on my part may be fatal to her.”
“If you would be of service, sahib, you must reserve your strength. To attempt to continue the journey under this noon-day heat, would be to court your own destruction. Rest and have patience.”
“You reason well, Zeemit, but how can I have patience under such circumstances? Succour must reach Miss Meredith immediately if she is to be saved.”
“But you cannot quicken the wind or chain the lightning, sahib, nor can you cool the sun’s rays. These things must be endured. When night closes in, and the fresh breezes blow, then is your time for action. But you must have caution. If you speak, let your words be uttered in whispers, for there is danger in the very air.”
Suddenly she uttered a suppressed cry of alarm. Her eyes had been fixed on a small window at the end of the hut, which was covered with a bamboo flap; but this flap had been broken away on one side, and through the opening a face was grinning. It was withdrawn the moment its owner was aware that it had been discovered.
“Sahib, we are betrayed!” she exclaimed, as she hurried to the door in time to see a Coolie moving quickly away.
Gordon followed her, and, drawing one of his revolvers, levelled it at the retreating figure of the native, and fired. But the shot missed its mark, and, with the fleetness of a deer, the man sped away, and was soon beyond range.
“This is unfortunate, Zeemit,” said Walter, as he restored the revolver to his belt.
“It is even as I say,” answered Mehal; “there is danger in the very air. That Coolie, no doubt, lives in this hut. He was returning here, when he heard your voice. He will quickly spread the news, and we shall be followed. There is no time to be lost. We stand in imminent danger; and, at all hazards now, must quit the place. Remember, from this moment, you are dumb.”
Gordon felt the full force of the old woman’s words, but he made no answer, though he mentally blamed himself for his indiscretion. But the mischief was done, and there was no helping it now.
He silently followed his companion, and they went out into the glare of the sun. The heat was still terrific, for it was only a little past mid-day. For a time, Walter kept bravely on, but his strength soon began to fail him.
Even old Indians never thought of walking at such times, and he, a new-comer, was not yet inured to the climate. A feeling of oppression seized him, and he could scarcely resist the desire to lie down by the road-side. But, encouraged by Mehal, and buoyed up with the thought that every mile brought him nearer to Delhi, where he hoped to meet the object of his search, he struggled bravely on. The dusty road, treeless and shelterless, seemed to quiver in the heat. His mouth was parched with thirst, and his limbs tottered beneath him. But, with the resolution of despair, he kept up for yet a little while longer.
“Zeemit,” he said at last, “I can go no farther; I am sinking.”
“No, no; you must not stop here, or you will die. See; look ahead! To the left there, there is a clump of jungle. In that jungle is a dawk-house, where the palanquin bearers rest when travelling backwards and forwards. It is but half-a-mile, and you will there find shelter, for it is almost sure to be deserted now. Come, sahib. Courage!”
Thus cheered by his faithful companion, he struggled on, his eyes almost blinded with the glare, his brain in a whirl, his limbs trembling as if he had been stricken with an ague. Had he not been a strong man, he would have fallen by the wayside, and then death must have speedily ensued. But he held up. The welcome goal was reached at last, and he tottered in.
The place was one of the small, square, flat-roofed, stuccoed bungalows to be found on the high roads in all parts of India at that period. They were generally erected at the Government expense, and were used as shelters for travellers, and as places where change of horses could be had for the mail-dawks. It was two storeys high, and contained four rooms, with a circular stairway at one corner leading to the upper storey and the roof. At the back of the bungalow was a compound and a stable, and beyond a patch of jungle. Round the building ran the indispensable verandah; and a small doorway, screened by a portico, gave entrance to the house.
Utterly exhausted, Gordon struggled into one of the lower rooms. It contained a cane-bottom lounge fixed to the wall; on to this he threw himself; and in a very few minutes nature succumbed, and he was asleep.
Zeemit did not follow him, for two Coolies were lying on a bamboo-matting in the verandah, and they rose up as the travellers reached the house.
“Peace be with you, countrymen,” said the old woman, addressing them. “Sorrow is mine, for my poor son is stricken with illness, and we have far to go.”
“Where are you journeying to, mother?” asked one of the men, when he had returned Zeemit’s greeting.
“Alas, my son, where should we journey to but to that great city where the King dwells, and where we hope to find rest and plenty.”
“Allah guide you!” the man answered. “The Moghul will be restored, the Feringhees will be exterminated, and our race will be raised to power again. But come you from Meerut?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know the latest news. Are the Europeans going to follow our friends to Delhi?”
“No. They have, to a man, returned to Meerut.”
“Allah be praised!” cried the Coolie, springing to his feet. “That is news indeed. I and my companion then will accompany you to Delhi, and we will serve these foreigners no more. Fearing that the Europeans would follow our friends out of Meerut, we have remained at our posts here, dreading to be overtaken. But the news you bring is good, and we will seek better fortune than is to be gained by attending to the Feringhee travellers who stop here.”
“When my son is refreshed, we will continue our journey in company,” answered Zeemit, as she passed into the house; and the two Coolies coiled themselves upon their matting again.
The unexpected meeting with these two men was a source of trouble to her; for if their suspicions should be aroused, the object of the journey might be frustrated. Moreover, she feared that the man she had seen at the hut in the paddy field would give pursuit as soon as he had armed himself, and got some of his comrades to join him; for he would know that the Englishman could not go very far, and could soon be overtaken. She looked at Gordon; he was steeped in a death-like sleep, and even if she had been inclined, she could not have aroused him until rest had somewhat restored him.
She made a survey of the house. The windows were only guarded with jalousies, which offered no protection; so that, if the place should be attacked, escape would be almost impossible.
Some hours passed, and nothing occurred to justify her suspicions. Many an anxious glance did she cast back to the white road along which they had travelled.
The cool breeze was commencing to blow, the sun was declining, and she began to hope that the danger she feared would be averted. With the departing heat of day the Coolies aroused themselves from their lethargy, and commenced to cook their evening meal of curry and rice. Zeemit also lit a fire of charcoal, and taking some rice from her waist-cloth, and begging a small fish from the Coolies, she made some supper in a lotah, or brass dish, and commenced to eat, having set aside a portion for Gordon, who still slept. As the shadows lengthened and the twilight came on, she was startled by seeing, far away down the road, in the direction from whence they had come, a cloud of dust arise. She knew in a moment that it was a signal of danger; that it was caused by a body of natives. In a few minutes this was confirmed. About two dozen men, as near as she could judge, were coming up, three or four of them being on horseback. They could have but one object, she thought, and that was pursuit of the Englishman, unless they were a band of fugitives flying to Delhi; but that did not seem probable, since, if it had been so, they would have been accompanied by women.
She hurried into the house. Gordon was still sleeping. She shook him; he turned over, and groaned. She shook him again, but he did not wake. There was not a moment to lose, for she could now hear faintly the ring of the advancing horses’ hoofs, as they rattled along the road. She grasped Gordon tightly in her arms, and, by a great effort of strength, dragged him off the lounge on to the floor. It had the desired effect, and he awoke. At this moment one of the Coolies entered. He had observed the advancing body, and exclaimed—
“We shall have goodly company on our way to Delhi.”
Gordon had raised himself on his elbow, and being dazed with the heavy sleep, and not realising his position, cried out in English—
“What does this mean? Who has thrown me down?”
The Coolie stood like one who had been suddenly transformed to stone. Then, with a cry, he bounded out of the room exclaiming—
“A Feringhee in disguise, and a treacherous country-woman. Death to them.”
“We are lost,” Zeemit murmured, still shaking Gordon.
But he needed no further shaking; that warning cry had aroused him into full activity again, and he sprang to his feet. And though he did not comprehend the full extent of the danger, he realised that his disguise had been penetrated.
The body of natives were quite close now. The Coolies were flying down the road to meet them; and Zeemit heard the foremost horseman ask if they had seen a Feringhee in disguise. Then the answer was given—“Yes, yes; he is here.”
She seized Gordon by the arm, and fairly dragged him towards the door.
“Come,” she said; “the roof is our only place of safety.”
They hurried out of the door and gained the small round tower, common to Indian bungalows, and which contained the winding flight of steps used by the Bheestee Wallas, or water-carriers. By these steps the roof was gained. The entrance from this tower on to the roof was by a very narrow doorway. The door was of stout teak. On the roof were some bamboo poles. He seized one of these, and used it as a lever to dislodge a portion of the brick parapet. The débris he piled up against the small door, thus forming a most effectual barricade. He had two breech-loading revolvers and ample ammunition, and he did not doubt he would be able to hold his own for a considerable time.
“Do you know how to load these pistols, Zeemit?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, with sadness in her tone, for she knew that they must be levelled at her own countrymen. But love for her English mistress was strong in her heart, and it overcame all scruples.
Gordon glanced over the parapet. The crowd, numbering eighteen or nineteen, and several of them armed with guns, were close now. He was determined not to be the first to fire.
“What do you seek?” he cried, as the natives swarmed into the verandah.
“Death to the Feringhee,” was the only answer; and with a wild cry they sought the tower and rushed up the stairs, but they were unable to force the door. Down they went again, yelling and howling like infuriated demons, and they fired a volley at the roof—the bullets sending the cement flying in all directions, but otherwise doing no harm. Gordon no longer hesitated in the course to pursue, but levelling his revolver, fired the six shots in rapid succession, and with such good aim that five men rolled over. It was an unexpected reception, and the survivors were furious—some firing wildly at the roof, and others rushing off in search of combustibles wherewith to burn down the house. Gordon had little chance of picking any of them off now, for, taking warning by the fate of their comrades, they sheltered under the portico and behind trees.
It was almost too dark to see; night was closing in fast. Gordon recognised that his position was critical in the extreme, and, unless he could escape, death was certain. He peered over the parapet on all sides. At the back were the stables, and the roof was about ten feet from the parapet. It was the only chance. A yell of delight at this moment greeted him, and he could discern some of the natives rushing towards the house with a long ladder, which they had discovered in the compound.
He hesitated for a moment. If he remained on the roof he could keep his assailants at bay as long as the ammunition held out; but if he should be discovered when on the ground, all hope would be gone. His mind, however, was soon made up, as he saw other natives bearing heaps of wood and undergrowth, with the intention of burning him out. There was no time to be lost. If once they lighted that fire, its glare would discover to them his whereabouts. He must take advantage of the darkness. He speedily made known his plan to Zeemit. She acquiesced immediately, and, getting over the parapet, dropped lightly on to the roof. Gordon followed, just as the ladder was reared against the other side of the house.
From the roof of the stable to the ground the descent was easy, and in a few minutes Gordon and his faithful companion had gained the jungle. As they did so, they heard the cry of rage which their foes gave vent to as they reached the roof and found that those whom they sought had flown.
The man who appeared in the ruined temple, in company with Haidee, and to the astonishment of Lieutenant Harper, was no other than James Martin, who had escaped the terrific explosion of the magazine. But for his dress he might have been taken for a native, as his face was black with smoke and powder.
“I am fulfilling my promise,” said Haidee, “and I have rescued this man, your countryman. You may be of service to each other.”
“We meet under strange circumstances,” Harper said, as he held out his hand to Martin, “but I am none the less thankful. We both stand in imminent peril, and our lives may not be worth many hours’ purchase; but two determined Britishers are a match for an army of these cowardly wretches.”
“That is so,” answered Martin. “But I do not think my time has come yet, seeing that I have escaped from twenty deaths already. I was one of the defenders of the magazine until our lion-hearted commander ordered it to be blown up. I managed to escape the fiery storm, and crept into a cavernous hollow formed by a mass of fallen masonry. I must have been there some hours, for, when I awoke from a sound sleep, I was ravenously hungry, and, at all hazards, determined to creep out of my hole and seek for food. It was quite dark, and I groped about amongst the ruins until I reached the road leading to the Palace. I walked for some distance, until a voice asked where I was going to. The voice belonged to this woman, who had just emerged from one of the private gates leading to the Palace grounds. At first I thought she was an enemy, and I drew my revolver, which I had been fortunate enough to retain, although it was unloaded. Still, an unloaded weapon, I thought, was quite enough for a woman. ‘Who are you?’ I asked, ‘and why do you stop my way?’ ‘I am a friend, and I wish to save you,’ she answered. I could not be mistaken in those tones, I thought. They were too gentle, too kind, to belong to an enemy. And so, returning my weapon to my belt, I extended my hand to her, and said, ‘I trust myself entirely to you; lead me where you like.’ ‘I will lead you to safety, and to a countryman of yours, who is dear to me,’ she answered. And here I am.”
Haidee had remained silent during Martin’s speech. Her head was bent and her arms folded. Harper crossed to where she stood, and took her hands. The scarlet flush of morn was in the sky, and as it tinged her beautiful face, he saw that her brows were knit, and her teeth set, as if in anger.
“Haidee,” he said gently, “words cannot thank you for what you have done; I am already heavily indebted to you. How can I discharge that debt?”
“I need no thanks,” she answered. “Haidee is true to her promise; but my heart is heavy, for he who should have come with me now is gone.”
“Do you refer to Moghul Singh?” asked Harper, in some astonishment, and not without a slight feeling of pleasure. For, though Singh was a double-dyed traitor, Harper did not like the thought of having to act the part of a private assassin.
“To whom else should I refer?”
“How comes it then that he has gone?”
“He has gone by order of the King.”
“Ah! is that so? Where has he gone to?” Harper queried in alarm, for the thought occurred to him that the man had departed to convey the signal for a rising in some other place.
“He has gone to Cawnpore.”
“To Cawnpore!”
“Yes, and for Haidee’s sake you must follow him.”
“Nay, that cannot be,” Harper answered, with ill-concealed alarm.
“Cannot be—cannot be!” she repeated, in astonishment, and drawing herself up until their eyes met. “Are my wrongs, then, so soon forgotten?”
“Not so, Haidee; but you forget that I am a soldier. My first duty is to my Queen and country, and that duty must not be neglected in my desire to redress private wrongs. I bear for you all the feeling a man of honour should have for an injured woman; but I cannot—dare not—go to Cawnpore.”
“Cannot—dare not!” she echoed, in astonishment, letting his hands fall; “and is ‘dare not’ part of a soldier’s creed? Sits there a craven fear in your heart?”
“No,” he cried, his face burning at the suggestion. “For I have none; but I hold that my honour should be the paramount consideration. I can die, but I cannot sacrifice that which is dearer than life to a true soldier—honour.”
“You wrong me,” she answered passionately. “I have made no such request; but I have saved your life—I have given you liberty. You have my heart; I ask but one service in return.”
“And that service I would have rendered if Moghul Singh had been here, for he is a traitor, and an enemy to my race and country. Moreover, I have a personal wrong to settle, because he betrayed me, subjected me to gross indignity, and would have slain me. But for a time he escapes retribution. I cannot follow him. The moment I stand outside of these city walls a free man again, I must hurry back to my regiment. Failing to do that, I should be branded as a deserter.”
“I comprehend now,” she cried, throwing herself at his feet. “I had forgotten that, and you must forgive me. Never more can happiness be mine. Into the dust I bow my head, for the light of my eyes will go with you. Poor Haidee will set you free. When night closes in again she will lead you and your countryman clear of the city; then we must part—never, never to meet again.”
He raised her up gently, and passed his arm soothingly around her waist, for she was terribly agitated, and shook like a wind-tossed reed.
“Do not say that we shall never meet again, Haidee. Chance may bring me back here, and if I escape the many deaths which encompass a soldier at a time like this, we shall meet. But even though I may not come to you, you can at least come to me.”
“Haidee would gladly live in the light of your eyes; but if I can hold no place in your heart, we must part for ever.”
Harper struggled with his feelings. He was on the horns of a dilemma, and the way out of the difficulty did not seem straight. His arm was still around Haidee. He felt her warm breath on his cheek, and heard the throbbing of her heart. Her upturned eyes were full of an ineffable expression of love, of trust, of hope—hope in him. How could he wither that hope—misplace that trust? How could he leave her in the city at the mercy of the treacherous King? As he thought of these things, he wished that she had never opened his prison door, but had left him to meet death alone. For cold, indeed, would have been his nature, and stony his heart, if he had not felt the influence of her great beauty. To look into her face was to feel sorely tempted to cast his fortunes on the hazard of the die, and sacrifice all for this woman’s sake. But the inward voice of conscience kept him back. Wife, country, honour, were in the scale, and they must have weight against all other considerations. “No,” he thought, “rather than I would be branded with the name of traitor, I will walk boldly forth into the heart of the city, and bare my breast to the insurgents’ bullets.”
A deep sigh from Haidee called him back to a sense of his position.
He led her to the stone seat, and said kindly—
“Why do you sigh? I know it is the language of the heart, when the heart is sad; but, have hope; brighter days may be dawning, and in your own lovely valleys you may yet know happiness and peace.”
She turned upon him almost fiercely, and her eyes flashed with passion.
“Do you mock me? Why do you speak to me of peace and happiness? Would you tear the panther from its young, and tell it to pine not? Would you torture the sightless by stories of the beautiful flowers, of the glittering stars, of the bright sun? Would you bid the dove be gay when its mate was killed? If you would not do these things, why bid my heart rejoice when it is sad? why talk to me of peace, when peace is for ever flown? But why should I speak of my wrongs? Even now, Moghul Singh is on his way to Cawnpore, to bring back one of your own countrywomen.”
“To bring back one of my countrywomen!” cried Harper in astonishment. “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, there came from Meerut, a man by the name of Jewan Bukht. He brought with him, as captive, an Englishwoman—young and beautiful.”
Harper’s nerves thrilled as the thought flashed through his brain that this Englishwoman could be no other than Miss Meredith; for Walter Gordon had told him what he had learnt from Flora with reference to Jewan Bukht. He almost feared to ask the question that rose to his lips, and not without a struggle did he do so.
“Her name—did you learn her name—Haidee?”
“No.”
“What was Bukht’s object in bringing her here?”
“He is in the pay of Nana Sahib, but is also an agent for the King. He thought to remain here, in the Palace, where he has relations; but, on arrival, an imperative order was waiting him, that he was instantly to depart for Cawnpore: and he lost no time in hurrying away. When he had gone, the King heard of Jewan’s captive, and of her beauty, and he commanded Singh to follow, with a band of retainers, and bring the woman back. Long before Singh can overtake him, Bukht will have arrived in Cawnpore; and when Singh gets there, it is doubtful if he can return, owing to the vigilance of the English.”
When Haidee had finished her revelations, Harper entertained no doubt that Jewan Bukht’s unfortunate captive was Flora Meredith, and that being so, the first question that suggested itself to him was, whether he was not justified in attempting her rescue.
“Haidee!” he said, “from what you state, I have every reason to believe that the lady carried off by Jewan is a relation of mine, and that it is my duty to follow her.”
“Your duty to follow her?” Haidee repeated mournfully. “When I spoke of your following the craven-hearted Moghul Singh, you replied that it could not be, and yet this man is an enemy to your race, and has slaughtered with exultant ferocity many of your countrymen! But now you proclaim your readiness to throw to the wind all those scruples which applied to him in favour of the woman! You speak in parables, and poor Haidee in her ignorance understands you not. Only her heart tells her this: she holds but little place in your thoughts.”
“Ah, Haidee, how you wrong me! Your reproaches are undeserved. However great the number of my faults, ingratitude is certainly not one of them. How can I forget the services you have rendered to me? how forget the great wrongs that you yourself have suffered? But the laws of our two nations are different. Society in my country is governed by a code of rules, that no man must depart from who would not have his reputation blasted. I hold a commission in the service of my Queen. Would you have me sully my name by an act that I could never justify to my superiors?”
“To what do you refer?” she asked with startling energy. “Sooner than I would counsel you to dishonour, sooner than I would bring shame upon you, this little weapon should be stained with my own heart’s blood!”
As she spoke she drew quickly, from the folds of her dress, a small, glittering stiletto, and held it aloft, so that the glow of the now rising sun made red its gleaming blade. Fearing that she meant mischief, Martin, who had been a silent witness of the scene, darted forward and caught her hand. She turned upon him with a look of sorrow, and said—
“Do not fear. The women of my country hold honour as dear as those of your own. I said the weapon should find my heart sooner than I would bring shame on the head of your countryman, and that I will never do.”
Martin released his hold and drew back respectfully, for there was something so touchingly sorrowful in her tone, and yet so majestic, that both her listeners were deeply impressed.
“Yours is a noble nature,” said Harper. “It is that of a true woman’s, and it is the differences in our nationalities only that cause us to misunderstand each other.”
“Why should there be any misunderstanding? A Cashmere woman never forgets a kindness, she never forgives an injury; and there is one wrong, which, when once inflicted upon her, only the death of the wronger can atone for. Were I back amongst my own people, those of them in whose veins runs my family’s blood would band themselves together to avenge me, and they would never rest until they had tracked down and smitten the foul reptile who found me as a lily, fair and bright, who plucked me with a ruthless hand, who befouled me, and robbed me of treasures that have no price, and then flung me away, a broken, friendless woman.”
“You can never say with truth,” answered Harper, “that you are friendless while the life-blood warms my veins. By everything that I hold dear, I pledge myself to use every endeavour to protect you, and set you right again.”
His words were like magic to her. They touched her and sank to those hidden springs whence flowed gentleness, love, and truth. As she stood there before him, the very embodiment of womanly grace and beauty, it would have been hard indeed for a stranger to have imagined that in her breast rankled one feeling of hatred. How could he stay the invisible electric fire which passed from him to her, and from her to him, and drew both together, even as the needle is drawn to the magnet? Human nature is the same now as it was when time began, as it will be until time ends. Each of these two beings felt the influence of the other. She was taken captive, bound with chains that galled not, and filled with the ineffable sense of adoration for one who had suddenly risen before her as a worldly god, from whom she would draw hope, peace, happiness, and life, and that being so, she was willing to bow down and yield herself as his slave. And he, deeply sensible to her great beauty, and pitying her for her sorrows, felt like a knight of old would have done, whose watchword was “Chivalry,”—that he must champion her for the all-sufficient reason that she was a woman, defenceless and alone.
Whatever scruples he might have entertained at first, he felt now that he was justified in using every endeavour to rescue Flora Meredith, and that he would be serving his country loyally in following Moghul Singh with a view of bringing him to justice.
“Haidee,” he said, after a pause, “I will go to Cawnpore.”
“That is bravely spoken,” she answered, her face beaming with a look of joy; “and you may be able to render good service there by putting your countrymen on their guard? for I know that the Nana Sahib but waits a fitting opportunity to give the signal for a rising.”
“But are you not wrong in supposing that the Nana Sahib is false? He has ever proved himself a courteous and kindly gentleman to the English, and I am impressed with the idea that at the present moment Cawnpore is a safe refuge.”
“Dismiss all such ideas,” she answered, with energy. “Do you judge the nature of a leopard by the beauty of his spots? I tell you, that in all the Indian jungles there stalks not a tiger whose instincts are more savage, or whose thirst for blood is more intense, than this smooth-faced, smiling Nana Sahib. Ever since the return of his agent, Azimoolah, from England, whose mission to your Queen failed, the Nana has cherished in his heart an undying hatred for your race. Often has he visited this city in disguise to confer with the King, and for years they have been organising this revolt. I tell you that Nana Sahib is a demon, capable of performing deeds that the world would shudder at.”