The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Path to Honour, by Sydney C. Grier


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Title: The Path to Honour


Author: Sydney C. Grier



Release Date: February 6, 2008  [eBook #24535]

Language: English

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***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PATH TO HONOUR***


E-text prepared by Al Haines



Transcriber's note:

   The name "Lena" appears several times in this book.
   In the original book, the "e" in "Lena" was e-macron.





THE PATH TO HONOUR

by

SYDNEY C. GRIER

Author of
  'The Power of the Keys,' 'A Young Man Married,'
  Etc., Etc.







William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1909


      *      *      *      *      *      *


NOVELS by SYDNEY C. GRIER


Modern East Series.

  The Advanced Guard
  His Excellency's English Governess
  Peace with Honour
  The Warden of the Marches


Balkan Series.

  An Uncrowned King
  A Crowned Queen
  The Kings of the East
  The Prince of Captivity


Indian Historical Series.

  In Furthest Ind
  Like Another Helen
  The Great Proconsul


Balkan Series. II.

  The Heir
  The Heritage


The Power of the Keys


A Young Man Married



Edited by Sydney C. Grier

The Letters of Warren Hastings to his Wife.

      *      *      *      *      *      *



CONTENTS.


CHAP.

     I. "IF IT BE A SIN TO COVET HONOUR----"
    II. HER SIDE OF THE CASE
   III. THE OLD ORDER AND THE NEW
    IV. "A-HUNTING WE WILL GO"
     V. GERRARD FINDS FAVOUR
    VI. THE CROWNING PROOF
   VII. ON GUARD
  VIII. THE SUPERFLUOUS CHARTERIS
    IX. IN SLIPPERY PLACES
     X. THE DOOR IS SHUT
    XI. MURDER MOST FOUL
   XII. THE ONE WHO WAS TAKEN
  XIII. THE ONE WHO WAS LEFT
   XIV. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL
    XV. MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM
   XVI. THE MILD CONCERNS OF ORDINARY LIFE
  XVII. THE ISSUES OF AN AWFUL MOMENT
 XVIII. THE CAMPAIGN OF VENGEANCE
   XIX. AS OTHERS SEE US
    XX. A DAY OF VICTORY
   XXI. FAINT HEART AND FAIR LADY
  XXII. THE TRIUMPH OF THE DEAD
 XXIII. RUN TO EARTH
  XXIV. HONOUR AND HONOURS




THE PATH TO HONOUR.


CHAPTER I.

"IF IT BE A SIN TO COVET HONOUR----"

The time was towards the close of the 'forties of the nineteenth
century, and the place the city of Ranjitgarh, capital of the great
native state of Granthistan, which was not yet a British possession,
but well on the way to becoming one.  This ultimate destiny was
entirely undesired by the powers that were, who had just appointed
Colonel Edmund Antony--a fanatical upholder of native rights, according
to his enemies--as British Resident and protector of the infant prince
occupying the uneasy throne.  The task of regenerating Granthi society
from the top, much against its will, and welding its discordant
elements into a peaceful, prosperous, and contented buffer state (the
thing was known, though not as yet the name) against encroaching
Ethiopia on the north, promised to be no easy one, but Colonel Antony
was undertaking it confidently, with the support of two or three of his
brothers and a picked band of assistants drawn from the army and Civil
Service.  That moral suasion might be duly backed up by physical force,
ten thousand British and Indian troops, under the command of a
Peninsular veteran, General Sir Arthur Cinnamond, were garrisoning the
citadel of Ranjitgarh and holding the lines of Tej Singh in the
suburbs.  The city thus overawed Colonel Antony was wont to call the
wickedest place in Asia, in blissful ignorance of the sins not only of
distant Gamara, but of towns much nearer home.  Its streets were filled
with a swaggering disbanded soldiery that had faced the might of
England and the Company in four pitched battles during the last decade,
shameless women peered from its every lattice, and its defence of
religion took the form of frequent bloodthirsty "cow rows," but he saw
in its wickedness no insuperable bar to the success of his policy.  In
twelve years or so the British would retire, leaving a reformed nation
to govern itself.  Meanwhile, in order to emphasise the transient
nature of the occupation, a Mohammedan tomb served as the English
church, and a single house of moderate size was made to accommodate the
Resident and all his assistants, becoming the scene of as much hard
work and high endeavour as might have sufficed to redeem an empire.

On an inner courtyard of the Residency there looked out a number of
small rooms, each of which was shared by two young men, who had much
ado to bestow themselves and their possessions in the limited space and
the section of verandah that appertained to it.  One room was much like
another, with its camp-beds and table, and its miscellaneous assortment
of camel-trunks and tin cases piled up at the back or serving as seats;
and each verandah was graced by two long chairs, usually to be found in
sociable proximity, with a view to the better enjoyment of the
occupants' brief periods of leisure.  On one particular verandah,
however, the chairs were placed as far apart as space would permit, and
turned away from each other, so that Lieutenant Robert Charteris and
Lieutenant Henry Gerrard, of the Bengal Fusiliers and the Company's
Engineers respectively, might each delude himself into the thought that
he was alone in his glory.  This arrangement was of the newest, but it
was already causing keen delight in the circles which had known the two
young men as inseparable friends.  Born no farther apart than the
Rectory and Hall of a country village, they had learnt together under
Gerrard's father, the Rector, entered Addiscombe together, and passed
out at the same time, Gerrard with an array of medals which secured him
one of the coveted commissions in the Engineers, and Charteris,
undistinguished save by proficiency in games and universal popularity,
slipping contentedly into the Infantry.  Appointed to the same station,
they had seen a certain amount of active service in company, and
continuing to gain the good opinion of those in high places, Gerrard as
a promising scientific soldier and Charteris as a born leader of men,
had both enjoyed the distinction of being selected by Colonel Antony as
his assistants at Ranjitgarh.  But here discord stepped between them in
the fair form of Miss Honour Cinnamond, the youngest daughter of the
General commanding the Division, and after edifying the station for
some time by their ardent rivalry, Charteris and Gerrard were no longer
on speaking terms.  The station regarded it as an excellent joke, but
to Colonel Antony, who took life seriously, it was a scandal and a sin,
to be ended at once and peremptorily.  Knowing his man, he had on this
particular day announced his ultimatum to Gerrard.

"When is this foolishness going to end?" he asked impatiently, after
the two young men had passed each other in his presence without a sign
of recognition--"this breach between you and Charteris, I mean?"

"I don't know, sir.  Perhaps when we get to our districts----"

"I would advise you not to reckon upon that.  I am thinking strongly of
sending Charteris back to his regiment."

"But the disgrace, sir!"  Gerrard was thunder-struck.  "You said
yourself that he was so well fitted for this work.  It suits him too,
and no mistake."

Colonel Antony frowned at the slang.  "Is it possible that you perceive
any good in him?" he asked coldly.

"Why, sir,"--Gerrard was too much perturbed in mind to attempt to
answer the question,--"he could never go back contentedly to ordinary
subaltern's work after this.  He will do something desperate--perhaps
even get transferred to the Bombay side, and volunteer for Khemistan."

He spoke with bated breath, for to the Antony brothers and all their
circle the neighbouring province of Khemistan was a region of outer
darkness, ruled by two fallen angels bearing the names of General Sir
Henry Lennox and Major St George Keeling.  It was a point of honour to
assist their labours by harrying them with a constant dropping fire of
minutes and remonstrances, with an occasional round-shot in the shape
of interference on the part of the Supreme Government, deftly
engineered from Ranjitgarh.  And the pity of it was that the men thus
thwarted with the purest possible motives were carrying on a similar
work, and in the same spirit, as their opponents, but--and here came
the line of cleavage--on different methods.  Colonel Antony's grave
dark face was immovable.

"It is for you to save him if you choose, Gerrard.  What! do you think
that I will allow the work here--the regeneration of the Granthi
state--to be endangered by petty, miserable squabbles between my
assistants?  I have seen too much of support withheld at critical
moments because one man had a grudge against another.  Here we are all
brothers.  If Charteris intends to keep up this enmity, he must go."

"But if he is to blame, sir, so am I," confessed Gerrard reluctantly.

"I am glad to hear you say so.  There can be no difficulty, then, in
your admitting as much to him.  I own I had thought that since you were
more likely to be soon in a position to marry, he was probably the
trespasser on your ground.  The young lady favours him, then?"

"No, sir, neither of us."  Gerrard spoke bitterly, but Colonel Antony
brought his fist down upon the table with a resounding thud.

"What! you stand on the same footing, neither has cause for jealousy of
the other, and yet this miserable alienation continues?  You are indeed
to blame, Gerrard.  Go and ask your comrade's pardon, appeal to the
memories of your youth and his, engage with him to bear this common
disappointment as gentlemen, as Christians!  No man living has more
cause to be grateful for the blessing of a good wife than I, but I
trust I should have been granted sufficient resolution to live solitary
for ever had I perceived that my happiness was likely to mean a
brother's misery, and imperil the hopes of a nation.  You are not
called even to make such a renunciation, since the matter is taken out
of your hands--merely to acquiesce in a decision not your own."

"But if I am to blame, sir, so must Charteris be," protested Gerrard,
feeling, as the Resident's associates not infrequently did, that
Colonel Antony's standard was too high for this wicked world.

"That is quite possible.  He believes that you have injured him?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"And he is conscious that he has injured you?"

"I can't say, sir.  How should I know?"

"Then your duty is clear.  Whether his conscience is awakened or not is
uncertain, but you feel that you have, though unwittingly, done him an
injury.  Go and repair it, leaving him to find out his part in the
matter for himself."

It was this conversation that Gerrard was uncomfortably turning over in
his mind on the verandah.  The natural man in him rebelled, very
naturally, against humbling himself to Charteris, who was at least as
much to blame as he was, and had made his resentment offensively
evident.  But it was Charteris who would suffer if a reconciliation was
not effected in some way.  The argument was conclusive, as Colonel
Antony had foreseen it would be.  Gerrard looked round the corner of
his chair, and rather sheepishly said, "Bob!"

There was no answer from Charteris, but his legs, the only part of him
that was visible, seemed to take on an air of indignant protest.
Gerrard tried again.  "Bob, look here!  I want to tell you something."

This time Charteris sat up, exhibiting an angry countenance and a rough
head.  "Don't want to hear it," he growled.  "Hang it! can't a man be
left in peace in his own quarters?"

"No, but--I say, Bob," repeated Gerrard, feverishly anxious to
anticipate the impending move, "the Colonel has been speaking to
me--pitched it uncommon strong, he did.  Do wait and hear what I have
to say!  Why should we go on making asses of ourselves over a girl who
hasn't a civil word for either of us?"

"What?" cried Charteris, pausing on the edge of the verandah.  "She's
given you a _pucka jawab_[1] too?"

"Last night," said Gerrard laconically.  Charteris came a step nearer.

"Will you kindly tell me," he said, addressing creation generally,
"exactly what that girl wants?  Hal, I could have sworn it was you when
she refused me."

"And until she refused me, I could have sworn it was you.  Pretty clear
she don't want either of us, ain't it?  In fact, I may as well tell
you, as she doesn't seem to have done it, that she said she had no
intention of marrying at all."

"Fudge!" cried Charteris, quite in the vein of the immortal Mr
Burchell.  "Then she's here on false pretences.  What does a spin. come
out for but to get a husband?  No, you mark my words, my boy; she's
waiting for a bachelor Governor-General!"

Gerrard opened his lips to protest, but not feeling called upon to
repeat the whole of his conversation with Miss Cinnamond, closed them
again.  "Anyhow," he said at last, rather awkwardly, "as we're in the
same boat, don't you think we might come to an agreement of some sort,
and do people out of a little of the fun they're having over us?  'Our
Mr James' told the Colonel to-day that we wanted our heads knocking
together."

"James Antony is a coarse brute, and I should uncommonly like to see
him try it!" said Charteris, with concentrated fury.  Then he came and
stood over Gerrard, and looked at him curiously.  "Were you going to
suggest that we should come to an agreement to give up all thoughts of
her?" he asked with extreme calmness.

"No, not for a moment."

"I'm glad to hear that, because I shouldn't think of doing it.  I mean
to go on asking her, over and over again, until she accepts me."

"And so do I," cried Gerrard, starting up, stung out of his usual
quietness of manner.  They glared at each other angrily for a moment,
then Charteris laughed rather unsteadily.

"Basis for an agreement is rather wanting, ain't it?  I regard you as a
person of ordinary sanity, so I don't imagine you were going to propose
either that I should nobly resign her in your favour, or you in mine.
Then what on earth is there left to do?"

"We have to think of her as well as ourselves," said Gerrard, trying to
steady his voice.  "She may not marry at all, as she said"--Charteris
snorted--"or she may marry some one else, neither of us.  And I am sure
we should both rather see her married to some one else, and happy, than
marry her ourselves and know that she wasn't happy."

The construction of the sentence was involved, but its meaning was
clear.  Charteris flung up his head contemptuously.  "You're wrong
there," he said.  "Speak for yourself.  I want to see her married to
me, and I'd undertake to make her happy.  I shall be an uncommon good
husband, I can tell you.  What are you laughing at, pray?"

"I'm not laughing--at least, not exactly," gasped Gerrard, restraining
himself with difficulty.  "Forgive me, old fellow.  It was the picture
of you saying to the future Mrs Charteris, 'Be happy, or I'll know the
reason why,' that overcame me."

Charteris looked deeply offended, but after a moment joined in the
laugh.  "Of course I know I can't put it pretty, as you could," he
admitted grudgingly.  "But I mean to marry her, and make her happy too."

"And so do I," said Gerrard again.  "But it's quite clear she can't
marry both of us, and mayn't marry either of us, ain't it?   Well, what
I say is, let us carry the affair through decently, so that the best
man may win, if either of us wins at all.  That appeals to you, doesn't
it?"

"Not a bit," said Charteris promptly.  "You are the best man."

"Oh, don't be an ass.  What do medals for mathematics matter here?  You
are bigger than I am, and heaps better to look at.  In fact, my dear
Bob, I might even say of you that you were the least little bit showy."
Gerrard was falling back insensibly into the old chaffing tone, but a
look on his friend's face warned him that the time was not yet quite
ripe for this, and he went on hastily.  "At any rate, each of us has
advantages on his side, we'll say.  Then let us fight fair.  You
weren't thinking of proposing again every time you see her?  In that
case, it would soon be _darwaza band_[2] when you called, I'm afraid.
Let us agree not to make any move, either of us, for a year--or six
months, if you insist upon it," as he read protest in Charteris's eye,
"and then draw lots which shall speak first.  If she accepts that one,
the matter is settled--it's the fortune of war; if not, then the other
has his turn.  If she refuses both, then ditto ditto at the end of
another six months."

Charteris, leaning against a pillar of the verandah, looked down at him
and laughed.  "If I didn't know you for a cunning old weasel, I should
put you down as jolly green, Hal.  Suppose she should meanwhile
intimate, in the most unimaginably proper and delicate way, a
preference for either of us?"

"For the present one or the absent one?" asked Gerrard drily.  "Well,
in either case, I think the present one ought to let the absent one
know, before taking any action.  But don't look so blue.  You forget
that we shall both be in our districts, at a safe distance from
Ranjitgarh, for six months at least."

"And in the meantime she may marry some one else."

"Then we shan't have lost our friendship as well as her."

Charteris clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh.  "I believe you, my
boy!  You don't know what a bore it has been this last fortnight,
remembering what was between us whenever I wanted to tell you anything.
Done with you, then, subject to necessary modifications to be agreed
upon from time to time by mutual consent, and to the approval of the
lady."

"But you wouldn't tell her?" cried Gerrard, aghast.

"Wouldn't I, just?  Why, how is she to keep our joint memory green
against the assaults of eligible subcommissioners and fat Commissariat
colonels, unless she has this to remember us by?  Hang suffering in
silence!  Let her know what fine fellows she has got waiting on her
nod."

"Well, you can tell her," unwillingly.

"Not I.  Be carried away into proposing again, and lose my turn? no,
thank you.  We will tell her together, my young friend, and keep a
jolly keen eye on each other the whole time.  And we'll do it at the
ball.  Come, this is something like life!"

"But she may not choose to grant us an opportunity."

Charteris winked in the most vulgar manner.  "What'll you take on it?
Do you think she don't know she has set you and me by the ears?  If
not, old Mother Jardine will soon enlighten her.  And then--oh, my
revered Hal, can you doubt what her first move will be?  To reconcile
us, my boy, as if we were two dirty little snivelling urchins in her
village school at home!  Will she make us shake hands?  Oh, ain't it
glorious!"

He dropped into his chair, helpless with laughter, while Gerrard
surveyed him with distaste.  It was some consolation to feel that Bob
could not possibly be properly in love, if he could thus contemplate
the likelihood of the object of his affections making herself
ridiculous.  But as if he had read his friend's thoughts, Charteris sat
up suddenly, and spoke with perfect gravity.

"Mind you, Hal, all this don't signify that I forgive you in the least
for coming between her and me.  I'm willing to call a truce because
falling out is horrid inconvenient, and looks silly.  But your
intrusive existence has turned love's young dream into a farce, and
this suggestion of yours can only make things worse.  I never bargained
for being a sort of Siamese twin, but that's how it comes out.  The
unfortunate girl will never be able to think of one of us without the
other.  If she is dwelling affectionately on your modest merit, what
you call, I believe, my swaggering dare-devilry will force itself into
her mind, and if any of my encounters with tigers or dacoits should
reach her ears, they will only recall your powers of discussing
theology or reeling off poetry by the yard.  Make no mistake.  You
intrude, sir; and I resent it."

"And words can't express the depth of my resentment that you should
have poked your nose into my affairs," returned Gerrard heartily.



[1] Definite refusal.

[2] Not at home, lit. the door is shut.




CHAPTER II.

HER SIDE OF THE CASE.

"I feared so much that you might consider me intrusive," said Mrs
Jardine.

"On the contrary, I consider you most kind," replied Lady Cinnamond.
She sat very erect, a beautiful woman still, with her dark eyes and
white hair.  Mrs Jardine was not an imaginative person, but the
outlines of the Cinnamonds' family history had reached her, and her
thoughts wandered involuntarily to the storming of Badajoz and the
beautiful Spanish girl who had sought refuge in the British camp, and
she found excuse for that infatuation on Sir Arthur Cinnamond's part
which she had denounced bitterly when she first heard that "the new
General's" wife was a foreigner.  Not that she felt as yet quite at her
ease with Lady Cinnamond.  There was something that seemed to baffle
her, a kind of regal willingness to hear all she had to say with
courtesy, but with no promise to follow her advice.

"You see, dear Lady Cinnamond," she went on, "how I am placed.  As the
chaplain's wife one has a real duty--one can't doubt it, can one?--to
promote peace, and one is so sorry to see what dear Colonel Antony
calls his noble band of brothers disturbed by strife.  And you
being--may I say it?--a stranger here, and your sweet girl so young----"

"I have other daughters, and they have not been entirely without
lovers."  There was a slight quiver of amusement about the lips of the
General's wife.

"Oh, dear Lady Cinnamond, how could you imagine that I would suggest
such a thing?  We all know how well you have married your girls, down
to dear Mrs Cowper herself.  And of course, if you are satisfied, I
have _nothing_ more to say.  Only it seemed that as a true friend, if I
may say so----"

"Indeed I should be very grieved if you might not.  But perhaps I ought
to tell you that Sir Arthur and I have a great idea of leaving young
people to settle their own affairs as much as possible.  It has always
answered well hitherto, but Honour is, as you say, very young, and she
has been brought up differently from the rest----"

"Yes?" said Mrs Jardine, with such breathless interest that her hostess
had not the heart to baulk her curiosity.

"We were living at Boulogne before my husband was sent to the Cape,"
she said, choosing her words with care--"for the advantages of
education, of course, and--well, dear Mrs Jardine, you know what
half-pay means as well as I do, and I need not apologize, need I?  Two
elderly cousins of Sir Arthur's happened to pass through, and we were
able to offer them hospitality when the packet was prevented crossing
by a storm.  They took the greatest fancy to little Honour, and wished
to adopt her, but we refused.  Then came the Cape appointment--to the
Eastern Province, where the climate is so dangerous to young children
born elsewhere, and they renewed their offer.  And we consented to let
them have Honour until she was seventeen.  They were most kind to her,
I am sure."

"Yes?" breathed Mrs Jardine softly again.

"Really, there is little more to say.  Naturally your child becomes
something of a stranger when you do not see her for fifteen years.  But
pray don't imagine that I blame the Miss Cinnamonds.  Honour has been
well educated, and taught to be a companion to her elders--rather too
much so, perhaps.  She has visited the poor, and taught a class in the
village school, and practised all the good works which Sir Arthur says
are new in England since his day, and I believe her aunts hoped to see
her married to the curate.  But unfortunately he went over to Rome."

"How truly terrible!" cried Mrs Jardine, then stopped in pitiable
confusion, remembering that the lady before her had been almost
certainly born and bred a Roman Catholic, though she now attended the
tomb-church Sunday by Sunday with Sir Arthur, and betrayed far less
impatience than he did when Mr Jardine's discourses exceeded the
regulation length.

"It might have been much worse," said Lady Cinnamond innocently.  "I
cannot discover that Honour's heart was at all touched.  But as you may
imagine, her aunts were much distressed, and it was almost a relief to
them to send her out to us as soon as an escort could be found."

"Yes?" said Mrs Jardine for the third time, but as it was evident no
further information was forthcoming, she covered her disappointment
with a little gush of friendly interest.  "And do tell me, dear Lady
Cinnamond, what is the dear girl's real name?  As I said to Mr Jardine
only two days ago, 'You may take my word for it, Samuel, Miss Cinnamond
was baptized Honora or Honoria.  Honour is merely a sweet little family
name.'"

"I suppose it may sound foolish to strangers," said Lady Cinnamond,
with a calmness that suggested she did not care whether it did or not.
"It was a kind of joke of Sir Arthur's.  I was playing with her one day
when she was a baby, and calling her in Spanish the dearest thing in
the world, and he pounced on me at once.  'I thought honour was the
dearest thing in the world?' he said--I had told him so long
before--and after that he would not hear of calling the baby anything
but Honour."

She paused--with a definiteness which suggested that Mrs Jardine's call
had lasted long enough, but the visitor was by this time aware that she
had been guided dexterously away from her main object, and was
determined to repair the omission.

"Then you are satisfied that nothing dreadful will occur at the ball
to-night, dear Lady Cinnamond?" she asked anxiously.  "Young men are so
uncontrolled nowadays, you know, and Mr Charteris, I believe, is
extremely passionate.  I have heard that he makes use of the most
frightful language to his servants----"

The slightest possible gesture from the great lady stopped her.

"I have no fear whatever that either my daughter or any gentleman who
may be among the guests will transgress the laws of propriety," said
Lady Cinnamond icily.

"Oh, I am so glad you think all will be well.  I may tell my husband
so?  He was so troubled about it, and I ventured to take the liberty of
calling upon you, just that I might relieve his mind.  You _must_ know
best, of course."

"But what course were you intending to propose?" asked the hostess,
with natural curiosity.

Mrs Jardine looked, as she felt, confused.  "Oh, well," she murmured,
"if Miss Cinnamond had remained away this evening----?"

"But would not that have been a little marked?  I think we have all
been making too much of a rather foolish affair, Mrs Jardine.  After
all, now that Honour has refused both of the young men, there is no
reason----"

"Refused them both?" cried the visitor incredulously.

"Of course.  I thought you would have been sure to know," said Lady
Cinnamond sweetly.  She rose as she spoke, and Mrs Jardine found it
well to take her leave.  Her hostess watched her depart, with a rather
worried little smile, and then passed along the verandah to the
dressing-room where her two daughters were arranging their dresses for
the evening.  Marian, the elder, had married her father's aide-de-camp
soon after the move to Ranjitgarh, and the return from the honeymoon
was the occasion for the ball to be given by the army in their honour.
Vivid scarlet geraniums were to loop up Mrs Cowper's pale amber
draperies, blush-roses to nestle in the airy folds of Honour's white
tarlatan, and the bride claimed her mother's attention at once.

"Dear Mamma, I want your opinion.  You have such excellent taste.
Where ought this spray to go?  Honour says _here_, and I say _here_,"
illustrating each position with the aid of a pin.

"Here," said Lady Cinnamond without hesitation, indicating a third
place, and both girls cried out in admiration.  That was just right.
They knew it went awkwardly before, but they could not quite see where
it should be.  Their mother threw herself into their occupation,
altering a fold here and pulling out a puff there, apparently engrossed
in what she was doing, but conscious, through all Marian's
light-hearted chatter, of the shade on Honour's brow.  Her heart ached
to see it, but she would not force the girl's confidence.  There was
not between her and her youngest-born the sympathy which had made those
other handsome, capable daughters, whose married homes were landmarks
of the wanderings of Sir Arthur and his wife, regard their mother
almost in the light of an elder sister--only fifteen years older,
indeed, than Charlotte, the eldest--and bring their joys and sorrows
naturally to her.  Honour was disappointed in her parents, her mother
felt; it might almost be said that she disapproved of them, and though
the feeling was not new to Lady Cinnamond in her own case, since she
was obliged in every new station to live down the disadvantage of being
a foreigner, it raised in her a tumult of indignation that any one, and
most of all his own daughter, should presume to disapprove of Sir
Arthur.  But Honour was very young, and even if time did not soften her
views, closer acquaintance must.

"Come to my room when you are dressed, Honour, and I will lend you my
pearl necklace," said Lady Cinnamond, laying her hand on the girl's
shoulder.  Honour's response was drowned in the noise of horse-hoofs
and clanking that announced an arrival in front of the bungalow.

"Dear Papa and Charles returned already!" cried Mrs Cowper, peering
through the Venetians.  "Fly, Mamma!  Charley, Charley, come and see
whether you approve of my gown!"

Lady Cinnamond fled, in answer to the sonorous shout of "Rosa!  Rosita!
Sita!" which pealed through the house, and Captain Cowper entered from
the verandah.

"Stunning!" he breathed fervently.  "Horrid shame to waste it all on a
handful of politicals up in No Man's Land instead of exhibiting it at
Government House.  You wear this fallal on your head, I suppose?"

"Oh, Charley, you careless fellow!"  Mrs Cowper rescued the broad strip
of lace with indignation.  "My beautiful berthe!  It goes on the
bodice--_so_, don't you know?  On my head, indeed!"

"But it would look ravishing wherever you wore it," averred her
husband, dodging the geranium-spray she threw at him, and there
followed a brisk engagement with the flowers left in the box, to which
Honour listened with some secret contempt but considerable interest, as
she sewed on her roses where her mother had pinned them.  Honour was
learning lessons which ran counter to every maxim that had influenced
her hitherto, and baffled all her efforts to reconstruct her vanished
world.  Those were the days when phrenology was considered an
indispensable aid to instructors of youth, and a professor of the
science had duly felt Honour's bumps, and recorded, for the guidance of
her cousins, his mature opinion that, "though this young lady will not
find it easy to apply herself to fresh subjects of study, yet she will
never lose what she has once mastered."  But in this case the mastering
was the difficulty.  To her, life had hitherto meant a round of
recurring duties, to be performed conscientiously as they came, and
love a blinding illumination revealing to a humble worshipper the form
of a hero and a saint, but ending preferably in renunciation--if
voluntary and wholly unnecessary so much the nobler and better.  To
think of love in connection with an ordinary, average man was something
very like sacrilege, and poor Honour fairly shuddered when Mrs Jardine,
who bore her a grudge for unsettling Mr Jardine's mind with the new
views she had brought from home, broke to her the horrible fact that
she had made two ordinary young men fall in love with her.  It was of a
piece with the disturbing discovery that whereas she had come out, as
she understood, to soothe the declining years of her aged parents,
those parents, though grey-haired, were disconcertingly hale and
hearty, and asked only that she would be happy and make herself
agreeable--two tasks of which Honour found the first impossible, and
the second extremely difficult.

Her daughters took a very secondary place in Lady Cinnamond's mind when
her husband was in question, and it was seldom that Sir Arthur had to
complain of his wife's not being present to receive him when he
returned from his duties.  She ran into his snuggery now like a girl,
and broke into the liquid Spanish which formed such an effective
defence against the ears of aides-de-camp or English-speaking servants.

"You are tired, my Arturo.  The sitting has been very long.  Were the
Durbar open to reason?"

"My dearest, they have no thought but to procrastinate and obstruct
business, and our excellent Colonel indulges them far too tenderly.
Every form of ceremony must be observed, and all the long-drawn
compliments duly inserted, until a whole morning is wasted over one
small matter."

"And my poor Arturo must sit and listen to it?"

"For his sins he must."  Sir Arthur smiled whimsically at his wife.
"Judge for yourself how contentedly he did it to-day, my sweet one.
The Durbar knew that the home mail had come in, and scented a glorious
opportunity.  Every man had to be satisfied of the health of her
Majesty, Prince Albert, all the little princes and princesses, the Duke
of Wellington, and the Chairman of the Court of Directors.  When the
memory or ingenuity of one failed, his neighbour took up the tale.
Then some genius remembered a precious piece of _gup_, and asked with
all solemnity whether it was true that a new Governor-General had been
appointed, which led to a canvass of the merits of all possible
candidates.  There sits poor Antony with agony in his eyes, seeing his
time wasted to no purpose, and all the business left undone, while he
can't bring himself to check the Sirdars in their loquacity.  I saw
James Antony fuming behind him.  Rose of my heart, your Arthur will be
indiscreet enough to confide to you a profound secret.  If the Resident
goes up to the hills, and his brother takes his place, the Sirdars will
be taught the meaning of despatch."

"So much the better for the conduct of business, then.  But they will
not love him as they do the Colonel."

Sir Arthur laughed.  "I fancy James can dispense with their affection
if he secures their obedience.  The Colonel desired his compliments to
you, my love, and begged that you would not consider his absence this
evening in any way a slight, since his principles demand it of him.
The furbelows all ready, eh?"

"Nearly.  But, Arturo, I have been entertaining Mrs Jardine the greater
part of the morning."

"Some nice new piece of scandal, eh?  What was the 'real duty' that
brought her out in the heat?"

"An earnest desire to promote peace.  She thought it might be better if
Honour did not appear to-night.  No, my Arturo,"--as Sir Arthur moved
explosively,--"it was a warning given out of pure kindness to me, a
foreigner.  I told her what had happened, and she went away, I trust,
satisfied.  She thought me cold, I fear, for I restrained both voice
and words."

"Better, much better.  But that a woman of that kind should have it in
her power to----  That Honour should contrive to get herself talked
about!"

"She is so young, Arturo; she did not understand.  And it was not all
her fault."

"Which means that it was her father's.  Well, but how was I to know
that a daughter of yours and mine would turn out a fool?  When she
overwhelms me with a cool proposal to set up schools and I don't know
what for the European women and children, what could I do but tell her
it was the chaplain's business?  You won't say that I ought to have
encouraged her?  Think of all the unpleasantness it would have caused
in the regiments!  And surely it was only natural to turn aside the
matter by pointing out a sphere where her efforts would be more
acceptable?  Why, if I had said such a thing to Charlotte, or Eliza, or
Marian, they would have blushed prettily and said, 'Oh, Papa!' and
Marian might have giggled, but would any of them ever have thought of
actually carrying it out?"

For this was the unfortunate result of Sir Arthur's ill-timed
jocularity in advising his daughter to turn her enthusiasm for humanity
to account in reforming some of Colonel Antony's assistants, instancing
Gerrard and Charteris as standing in special need of her services.
Young ladies were scarce, Honour was handsome and had inherited a touch
of her mother's dignity, and when she unbent and displayed a flattering
interest in the moral and spiritual welfare of each young man, the
mischief was done.

"And then, to improve matters, she refuses both of them!" went on Sir
Arthur despairingly.  "What does she want?  No one seems to please her."

"If we were in Spain, it would be very simple," mused Lady Cinnamond.
"She would go into religion."

Sir Arthur bristled up at once.  "What, ma'am! a convent for my
daughter?  I'd have you remember----"

His wife laughed, and patted his hand.  "Calm yourself, my Arturo.  No
well-regulated convent would keep a daughter of yours within its walls
for a day, nor would she care to stay there.  Even Honour's romance
would not survive the actual experience.  But since we are not in
Spain, we cannot hope to cure her fancies so quickly.  Still----"

"Aye, romance--all romance!" growled Sir Arthur.  "For your sake and
mine, my dear, I trust it may wear off soon, but I doubt it.  What hope
is there of a girl who wears King Charles the First's hair in a locket?"

Sir Arthur's pessimism did not keep him from paying Honour a fatherly
compliment on her appearance that evening--a compliment accompanied,
however, as the jam by the powder, with the reminder that she might be
thankful if she ever arrived within measurable distance of her mother
in looks.  Lady Cinnamond, in pink satin, with a black lace shawl
depending from a high jewelled comb at the back of her head in a manner
reminiscent of the mantilla of her youth, laughed at the assurance, and
hurried her party out to the elephant which was in waiting.  The bridal
pair were inclined to be pensive, privately lamenting the waste of a
whole evening in public which might have been spent in a sweet
_solitude � deux_ on the verandah.  Ostensibly out of consideration for
the ladies' dresses, Captain Cowper had suggested that he and his wife
should follow on a second elephant, but this was vetoed by his
father-in-law, who declared that they would, in pure absence of mind,
go for a moonlight ride through the city, and never arrive at the ball.
Thus, with jests and counter-jests, they reached the great _shamiana_,
erected for the occasion, and were swallowed up in an overwhelming
flood of scarlet and dark blue uniforms.  When Honour took off her
wrap, her mother observed with vexation that they had both forgotten
the pearl necklace, but it did not occur to her that the girl's absence
of mind was due to the fact that she was nerving herself to a desperate
deed.

With the laudable idea of discouraging gossip by behaving as if nothing
unpleasant had happened, Gerrard secured a dance, and sheer pity for
his embarrassed partner impelled him to make conversation while they
waited for the music to begin.  Colonel Antony disapproved of dancing,
especially in India, on account of the effect on the natives, but his
brother James had just passed them, with Marian Cowper, a radiant
vision, on his arm, and Gerrard ventured a remark on the contrast
between the stern-featured civilian and his partner.  Receiving nothing
but an almost inaudible murmur of assent, he observed how well and
happy Mrs Cowper was looking.

"Oh yes.  Of course, she likes India."  The sigh which accompanied the
words told more than Honour had intended, and she went on hastily.
"She has a sort of natural connection with it, you know, for Mrs
Hastings was her godmother."

"Mrs Hastings?  Not----?"

"Yes, the widow of Warren Hastings.  Doesn't it carry one back into
history?"  Honour had forgotten her embarrassment, for things of this
kind had a way of making links between Gerrard and herself.

"I should have thought it was impossible."

"Oh, she only died about ten years ago--yes, the year the Queen came to
the throne.  So I am not making poor Marian out to be terribly old."

The minds of both were wandering back to Westminster Hall filled with
serried rows of faces, with all eyes turned upon a small pale man in
the midst, when they were suddenly recalled to the present by the
indignant approach of Bob Charteris.

"Pardon me--my dance, I think?" he said, glaring at Gerrard.

"No, excuse me--my dance," returned Gerrard, maintaining his position,
and suspecting his friend unjustly of having supped early and too well.

"I really must appeal to Miss Cinnamond," said Charteris, with barely
veiled hostility.  "You promised me this dance, didn't you?"

"I was under the impression that Miss Cinnamond had promised it to me,"
said Gerrard, more sternly than he realised.

"Oh, please," stammered Honour, not at all in the dignified way in
which the beautiful and stately ladies of her favourite German stories
were wont to intervene between knights contending for their favours--"I
am afraid I have behaved very badly again.  I--I wanted to speak to you
both, and--and I did not know how to do it except by giving you the
same dance."

"We are only too much honoured," said Gerrard, with overwhelming
courtesy.  He was inwardly furious, but the girl looked ready to cry,
and a burst of tears in public was above all things to be avoided in
the circumstances.  "You find the tent too crowded?  Let us look for a
quieter place, then.  If you could get hold of a shawl or something,
Bob?"

Charteris obeyed, with exemplary outward meekness, and joined them
immediately in a smaller tent arranged as a card-room, but not yet put
to its intended use.  Disregarding Gerrard's movement, he put the shawl
round Honour himself, and they stood waiting her pleasure in silence,
while she gripped her fan so hard in both hands that it broke in two.
She raised a crimson face at last.

"I wanted to speak to you together," she began again.  "You both think
I have treated you badly, but indeed I did not mean it.  But that was
not what I wished to say.  I hear--some one--a friend--tells me that
you are angry with one another on my account.  It makes me so unhappy,
and I don't see why----"

Her voice failed, and Charteris and Gerrard remained awkwardly silent,
each intensely conscious of the extreme superfluity of the other's
presence.  Alone, either might have made shift to say something, but
with his rival there, whatever was said would only make things worse.
Looking up despairingly, Honour saw in their faces what made her cry
out in terror.

"Oh, you wouldn't! you wouldn't!  Don't make me feel that I have done
such a dreadful thing!  If you fought a duel about me I should die.
There is no need.  I will promise never to marry any one--ever.  I will
do it willingly, gladly.  Isn't that enough?  What more can I do?  Only
tell me, and don't do such a wicked, unchristian thing."

"For pity's sake, Hal--you have the gift of the gab," growled Charteris
in Gerrard's ear, as she turned agonized eyes upon them.

"Play up to me, then," muttered Gerrard in response, and spoke aloud
and cheerfully.  "My dear Miss Cinnamond, pray don't distress yourself.
My friend Charteris and I have no intention whatever of fighting a
duel.  There has been a--a temporary misunderstanding between us, but
it is absolutely cleared up, I assure you."

"And as for the promise which you are good enough to offer to make, we
should regret it more than any one else, because, you see, we both hope
you will marry one of us," said Charteris, almost with levity.

"I shall never marry any one," said Honour remorsefully.  "I have done
too much harm already."

"Harm? oh, nonsense!--if you'll forgive me for saying so," returned
Charteris.  "It's done Gerrard and me a lot of good, hasn't it, my boy?
(Why don't you back me up, surly?)  We shall thank you for it yet--like
eels getting used to being skinned, you know----"

"On my honour, Miss Cinnamond," said Gerrard, fearing the heights of
metaphor to which his friend's ardour might carry him, "we are both
quite prepared to abide by your decision for the present, but we think
we may fairly claim the right of trying to induce you to change it,
after a proper interval----"

("Couldn't have put it better myself," said Charteris, with enthusiasm.
"Fire away, Hal.")

"But nothing is farther from our thoughts than to cause pain or anxiety
to a lady whom we both admire and respect so highly," went on Gerrard,
in his best manner.  "We have made up our minds not to suffer our
friendship to be broken by attempts to supplant each other secretly,
and if at length one of us is so happy as to win your regard, the other
will bow absolutely to your decision."

"Question!" said Charteris sharply, but at the sight of returning
anxiety in Honour's eyes, he capitulated.  "And if it would give you
any pleasure to see us shake hands, Miss Cinnamond, the word is with
you."

"It would, indeed," she said, smiling gratefully--and they did it,
Charteris with a wicked twinkle in his eye.  Honour stood up, tears
contending with smiles in her face.

"Thank you both so much," she said.  "But I think I ought to tell you
that your friendship will never be put to the test.  I could never,
never choose."

"Cheerful!" said Charteris.  "But we will hope on."

"Please take me back to my mother," said Honour, in some confusion, as
a party of elderly officers invaded the room, eager to enjoy their
hookahs, the bearers of which were waiting outside.

"You might bring Miss Cinnamond's fan, Hal," said Charteris,
dexterously offering his arm first, and thus they returned to Lady
Cinnamond, who had been a prey to grievous anxiety, disguised with an
iron will lest public attention should be attracted to Honour's absence.

"Oh, Hal, my hated r-r-rival!" breathed Charteris, slapping his friend
on the back when they got out into the open air.  "Ain't it as good as
a play?  But what a monster of iniquity a man feels beside a girl like
that!" he added sentimentally.  "Do you wonder that I fell in love with
her?"

"No, I don't," said Gerrard savagely.  "But I wish with all my heart
you hadn't!"

"The same to you, my boy!" laughed Charteris.




CHAPTER III.

THE OLD ORDER AND THE NEW.

In little more than a week after the ball, Charteris and Gerrard had
shaken from their feet the dust of Ranjitgarh with its Occidental
influences, and were journeying, though westward, towards the pure
unadulterated East in their respective districts.  Charteris' sphere of
influence was reached first, a land of prevailing sand-colour with
oases of almost painful green, over which the Granthi sovereignty had
never been more than merely nominal.  A Granthi army had made periodic
inroads into Darwan, sweeping off all the cattle it could find, by way
of collecting the revenue, and the Darwanis retorted by incursions
across the Granthi border, designed to assert their independence.
Charteris was at the head of a strong force of Granthis, to emphasize
the fact that he represented the Ranjitgarh Durbar, not the British
Crown nor the Company, and his duties were extensive, if simple.  He
was to bring down the oppressor and relieve the oppressed, destroy the
towers of robber chiefs and induce the occupants to turn their
unaccustomed hands to honest labour, establish order in place of
confusion, and generally to make it known and felt that there now
existed, and must be obeyed, a law superior to the sweet will of the
strongest.

Gerrard, passing on towards the south-west, would be faced with quite a
different problem, in the solution of which the velvet glove would play
a more important part, ostensibly at least, than the iron hand.  The
province of Agpur formed an indisputable part of the Granthi dominions,
but it was ruled by a feudatory prince, who was faithful to his
obligations during the lifetime of the great conqueror Ajit Singh,
under whose banners he had often ridden to victory, but had seen his
opportunity in the feeble rule of Ajit Singh's successors.  One
concession after another had been wrung by his diplomacy from the hands
of weakling or child, the right to raise troops in his own name, to
fortify the city of Agpur, and--though this was still contested by
certain Ranjitgarh stalwarts--the power of nominating his successor
instead of merely recommending his eldest son to the favour of his
suzerain.  Only a very few steps, a distance that might be bridged by a
single resolute advance, had separated Partab Singh from the dignity of
a full-blown independent prince, when the nerveless hands of the
Ranjitgarh ruler were suddenly reinforced by the strong grasp of a
British Resident upon the reins.  For a short time it was doubtful
whether the stiff-necked old Rajah would not put his fate to the touch,
and come to death-grips with British power acting in the name of the
Durbar, but wiser counsels prevailed.  Partab Singh paid his tribute,
with no more deduction than could be accounted for by the ever-ready
plea of a bad harvest, and gave no excuse for marching troops into his
territory.  But he would not swell the triumph of the upstart Durbar by
showing himself at Ranjitgarh, nor would he lower his dignity by making
any response to Colonel Antony's overtures.  He remained in
self-imposed seclusion within the borders of his province, declining
either to move or to be moved in anything relating to the welfare of
his subjects.

Agpur, then, was the scene of Gerrard's future labours.  For his own
sake, Partab Singh would have done well to pay up his tribute in full,
and not plume himself on the slight saving effected in the name of the
bad harvest, for the plea afforded an opening for extending the
influence of the central government.  Colonel Antony sent word that he
was despatching one of his most trusted officers to examine the system
of irrigation pursued in the province, and to offer the Rajah any
advice his experience might suggest that would tend to mitigate the
suffering and loss consequent on bad seasons.  Following his usual
tactics, Partab Singh returned no answer to the communication, and
Gerrard was therefore proceeding under orders which left him with a
curious combination of strict instructions and wide discretion.  He was
to observe many other things besides the irrigation system in the
course of his journeys--Partab Singh's military dispositions, the
attitude of the people towards him, and also towards Ranjitgarh and the
British, and the amount of union or disunion visible between the
Mohammedan and Granthi elements in the population.  If possible, he was
to obtain supplies in the usual way from the village headmen as he
passed, but should they be withheld, he was to make arrangements to be
supplied from Darwan, rather than be forced to an ignominious retreat.
The city of Agpur he was not to enter without an express invitation
from its ruler, nor in any way to force himself upon his attention; but
should accident, or any faint glimmerings of a conciliatory spirit on
the part of Partab Singh, bring them together, he was to leave no means
untried to win the Rajah's friendship.  The probabilities were that the
old ruler would either continue in his attitude of sullen withdrawal,
or advertise his intention of maintaining the integrity of his
dominions by wiping out the intruders, but that could not be helped.
Gerrard took his life in his hand, and no one thought very much of the
risk.  Colonel Antony had a way of casting forth his subordinates into
troubled waters, to sink or swim as best they might, and being picked
men after his own heart, they had a way of returning triumphant,
bringing with them treasures snatched from the deep.

It pleased Charteris to emphasize the dark side of the case as he and
Gerrard shook hands and parted, half a day's journey beyond the spot
fixed upon for the scene of the former's first steps in the art of
government.

"There's something jolly dramatic about all your chances depending on
me," he said.  "I might hold back your reports, or send on forged ones
instead, or ruin you in about a hundred different ways."  All Gerrard's
communications with Ranjitgarh were to pass through Darwan, lest Partab
Singh should intercept them on the shorter route.  "When I am inclined
to feel hipped, I shall spend a happy hour or so in devising
uncomfortableness for you, my boy."

"And how you would enjoy explaining to Miss Cinnamond the way in which
you had eliminated your hated rival!" said Gerrard.

"Well, why not?  All the old fellows in the Ages of Chivalry, that she
talks of, did that sort of thing all day long, so why should she blame
in a poor beggar of a Bengali what she would pass over in a baron bold?"

"Her age of chivalry is about as near the truth as the idyllic pictures
of blameless Hindus that they hold up in Parliament, I fancy.  Well,
Bob, we can't say you haven't told me what to expect.  If I do call
upon you for help, you'll know it's a mere matter of form."

"Of course.  It's quite impossible that I should get to you in time,
you realise that?  But I'll tell you what I will do for you, with the
greatest pleasure.  When you are safely dead, I'll avenge you in style.
The smoking ruins of Agpur shall be your funeral pyre, as the old
fellow said to the Dey of Algiers."

"Most consoling to me.  Well, good-bye, Bob!"

"Good-bye, Hal, and good luck to you!" and they rode upon their
separate ways.

For a time Gerrard's progress through Agpur territory was uneventful.
It was not necessary to obtain provisions from Darwan, for they were
forthcoming from the country traversed, though with accompaniments of
vexatious delay and unfulfilled promises that showed the headmen had no
fear of being taken to task for not making the traveller's way easy.
The Granthi escort required ruling with a rod of iron, for they were
prone, after their usual fashion, to prey upon the people, and it was
no part of Colonel Antony's plan to provide Partab Singh with a
colourable grievance.  A few severe examples were necessary before the
half-trained troopers realised that their new commander was in earnest,
but when once the idea had been fixed in their minds that to seize the
property of even the poorest cultivator without payment meant dismissal
in disgrace, they began to take a pride in his very severity.

As for the people of the country, they regarded this new-fangled
behaviour with suspicion at first, as probably a cloak for deeper
designs of plunder on the part of Gerrard himself, but learned
gradually to regard him as well-meaning, though certainly mad.  Here
and there a farmer or headman would open his heart to him, letting in
light on many dark places in Partab Singh's administration, while from
the elders who gathered round his tent-door at night when he was
encamped near a village he learned what was the popular estimate of the
ruler himself.  One story was told with bated breath again and again,
establishing Partab Singh's character in the minds of his people as a
man of the nicest honour.  A few years before, the Rajah had slain with
his own hand every woman and girl in his zenana, as the result of some
discovery, the nature of which no one durst even conjecture, and had
since brought home to his blood-stained halls a young bride of purest
Rajput descent from beyond Nanakpur, who had borne him a son, commonly
reported to be the apple of his eye.  There had been an elder son, but
no one knew whether he was alive or dead, though a gruesome tale was
whispered of his father's having ordered his eyes to be torn out.  A
faithful foster-brother was said to have sacrificed himself to save
him, and to have died in the prison after his eyes had been duly
exhibited to the Rajah as those of his son, while the prince made his
escape in the servant's clothes, but the truth of this was not vouched
for.  Altogether, life seemed to be rather lightly regarded in the
Agpur royal family, though Gerrard gathered that Partab Singh was held
by connoisseurs to have failed to vindicate to the utmost his insulted
honour.  If the occasion were grave enough to warrant the massacre of
every living thing in the zenana, it called also for the death of the
avenger by his own hand as a finishing touch, but it was universally
allowed that this could hardly be expected in the case of a man who had
left himself no heir.  Much was said also as to Partab Singh's lavish
treatment of his soldiers and his presumable intention in training
them, his encouragement of merchants and crusade against large
landholders, who were either persecuted out of existence or compelled
to reside in Agpur under his own eye, and the fortune he was heaping up
for his one precious son.  Thus the voluminous reports forwarded to
Darwan for transmission to Ranjitgarh were by no means deficient either
in detail or interest.

In the natural course of his leisurely progress, equally unhasting and
unresting, Gerrard was now approaching the neighbourhood of the city of
Agpur, not without experiencing an occasional constricted feeling about
his throat, as though he was walking into a trap the entrance into
which had obligingly been made easy for him.  He was surprised to find
that he was entering upon a scene of desolation.  The half-ripe harvest
had been roughly reaped in part, but was elsewhere trampled down, and
the villages were deserted by their inhabitants; or if by chance a man
or two were seen, they fled with the utmost speed.  It seemed as if an
army had been passing through the country, and presumably it was Partab
Singh's own army, since no one was known to be invading him.  But why
should he be moving his army about at this particular season, and in
the absence of any outside enemy?  That the answer to this question
might prove to have an unpleasant effect upon his own fortunes Gerrard
was aware, and his thoughts were not altogether agreeable as he sat in
his tent during the heat of the day.  It seemed prudent to put his
papers in order--perhaps to destroy one or two which might be liable to
misinterpretation in unfriendly hands, and this he was proceeding to do
when an orderly came to say that a local Sirdar and his son, who had
become separated from their attendants in a hunting expedition, asked
if they might take shelter in the Sahib's camp until the sun was a
little cooler.  The idea of a hunting expedition was strange in the
desolate state of; the district, but Gerrard hoped to gain some
information from the strangers, and ordered that they should be brought
to his tent.  As he rose to go forward and welcome them, a low
voice--that of the _munshi_ sitting on the ground at his side--arrested
him.

"Sahib, I cannot be sure, but I think that old man is the Rajah Partab
Singh, whom I have seen once at Nanakpur.  Do not betray that you
suspect him, but look at the mark of the _kalgi_ on the turbans of the
two."

The words were so quickly spoken that Gerrard's pause was barely
perceptible, and he went out to meet the newcomers without hesitation.
They were an elderly bearded man and a boy of five or six, dressed in
ordinary country stuffs, but on the turbans of both there was
distinguishable to one who looked for it a slight discoloration, as
though an aigrette or other token of distinction had recently been
removed, and their horses were very fine.  Gerrard welcomed them
courteously, and the old man introduced himself as Sirdar Hari Ram, and
the boy as his grandson, Narayan Lal.  A carpet was already spread in
Gerrard's tent, and he motioned them to it, while he gave an order or
two respecting refreshments, and other things.  The hookah kept for
occasions of this sort was brought in, and Gerrard took a whiff
himself, then passed the mouthpiece to his guests, but it was politely
refused, with a sanctimonious glance at the servants.  The boy soon
tired of sitting still, and began to investigate the tent, attracted by
the European furniture and weapons.  In response to his inquiries,
Gerrard exhibited and explained his watch, his tin despatch-box, (which
aroused disappointment as not being filled with treasure,) and his
Colt's revolver, at that time a surprising novelty.  The old man was as
fascinated with it as the child, and remarked gloomily that it was no
wonder the English had so much power, when one of them could carry six
men's lives in his hand.  He seemed inclined to talk, so Gerrard looked
out an illustrated paper which had lately reached him from home, and
opened it for the boy at the picture of the opening of a new railway by
the Queen and Prince Albert.

"Sit down here, little one, and look at this," he said kindly.

The child drew himself up with great dignity.  "I am a prince, and I
sit at no man's feet save my father's, O bearer of many deaths."

Here was a confirmation of the Munshi's suspicions, and Gerrard could
not forbear a glance at the old man to see how he took it.  But no
discomfiture was visible.

"The women spoil him and puff him up.  But 'tis a fine spirit!" said
the Sirdar, beaming even while he made the sign to avert the evil eye.
"Nevertheless, delight of my heart, sit thou at the foot of the Sahib,
for verily that is where all Granthistan must now sit."

The boy obeyed, and the old man took his turn at putting questions.
Many of them were trivial enough, but Gerrard soon became conscious
that there was something behind, that attempts were continually being
made to entrap him.  The inexhaustible theme of the relations between
the Crown and the Company was freely discussed without seeming to
become much clearer to the Sirdar, and Gerrard realised by degrees that
his guest was seeking for a weak point, a jealousy between the two
governing bodies, or between two rulers, such as a bold diplomatist
might exploit to his own advantage.  His answers must therefore be
guarded, and yet apparently frank, lest the old man should read into
them what he desired, and it seemed that the inquirer had been baffled
successfully when he flew off at a tangent to Colonel Antony and his
administration.

"We hear strange things of the Ranjitgarh Durbar," he remarked
sarcastically, "how the due compliments are always offered, and any man
may lift up his voice and be heard with mildness--the wretch who was a
slave but yesterday as readily as a prince of the house of Ajit Singh."

"It is true," said Gerrard.  "Our religion bids us be courteous to all
men, and the Resident follows its precepts."

The old man smiled unpleasantly.  "This Antni Sahib--he is one to be
wondered at, is he not?  Men say that when certain would have had the
English take possession of Granthistan for themselves, he withstood
them."  A meaning pause.  "And they say also that when any Englishman
would override the rights of a Granthi, be he Sirdar or peasant, Antni
Sahib is on the side of the Granthi."

"Quite true," said Gerrard again.

The Sirdar bent towards him.  "Then, since he betrays his own masters
thus, from whom does he look for reward?" he asked triumphantly.

"The Resident desires no reward but the gratitude of the Granthis, if
that may be had, Sirdar Sahib."

"And the gratitude of the Granthis is to place him on the _gaddi_ as
King of Granthistan?"  The old man's self-satisfaction was so evident
as he displayed his acumen in detecting this deep-laid plot that
Gerrard almost laughed in his face.

"Nay, Sirdar Sahib, he trusts to see young Lena Singh on his father's
throne, ruling as an upright king, when he himself has returned an old
man to England.  But excuse me a moment."

The Eurasian apothecary, the only man in the camp who could speak
English, had entered deprecatingly, with a visage of alarm.  Gerrard
spoke sharply.

"Don't look so frightened, Mr Moraes.  What is it?"

"Zere are soldiers approaching, sar--a whole armee.  What is to be
done?"

"Bid Sirdar Badan Hazari send the men to their posts, and challenge the
strangers before they get within musket-shot."  He turned again to the
old man.  "You think that Colonel Antony might wish to make himself
King of Granthistan, but which of all the English has ever done such a
thing?"

"Nay, but they conquered for their masters.  This man who resists his
masters must surely have some advantage for himself in view?"

"Sahib!"  It was the little boy who spoke eagerly before Gerrard could
answer; "who are these men with guns and swords, and why do they come
before the tent?"

Gerrard cast a careless glance at  his twelve troopers, noticing that
the old Sirdar did not move a muscle.  "They are to protect my guests,
little prince," he answered.

"But why are their guns pointed this way?"

"That my guests may see them, and know themselves safe."

"Your guests are much indebted to your thoughtfulness, sahib," said the
old man, with something of mockery in his tone.  Gerrard would have
given much to know what was passing behind those inscrutable eyes.  Was
that long curved dagger, with the handle of which the Sirdar's fingers
were continually playing, destined to be sheathed in his heart at the
moment that an attack was made upon the camp from without?  It almost
looked like it, and yet why had the old man given such a hostage to
fortune as the child he had brought with him?  To prevent a flagging in
the conversation, which might have been attributed to nervousness,
Gerrard brought out his sketch-book, and requested the honour of taking
the portraits of Sirdar Hari Ram and his grandson.  The request was
granted, but before the water for which he called had been brought
Moraes appeared again.

"Ze strange officer desire to see you, sar.  He say he Rajah Partab
Singh's _Komadan_." [1]

"Tell him to send a message, since I am engaged with guests."

"He say you must give up zose persons, sar.  Old man and leetle boy, he
come to look for zem."

"Then tell him to come and take them.  And you can promise him in my
name a pretty tough job if he does."  He turned from Moraes with noble
disdain, and bestowed a reassuring smile upon his guests.

"Sahib," said the old man, "the wise lingers not where his presence is
an inconvenience.  The youth who has just left us appeared to desire
our departure."

"His desires are of no moment, Sirdar Sahib, even were he so unmannerly
as to express them."

"But it is the part of a churl to bring danger upon a host, sahib, and
I have many enemies.  Is it possible that there are those without who
demand that I should be yielded up to them?"

"Since you ask, it is so, but you need have no fear that I shall
comply," said Gerrard, more puzzled than ever.

"Nay, sahib, but I myself will depart with the child, so that neither
your honour nor your safety will be menaced."

"You will do nothing of the kind, Sirdar Sahib.  What! shall I suffer a
guest to step from my very carpet into the hands of his foes?  You
would cover me with disgrace from the mountains to the sea."

"I will not bring trouble upon you, sahib.  Suffer us to go."

"Certainly not.  I will rather use violence to keep you.  A word to
these men of mine----"

The veins on the old man's forehead swelled, and his eyes flamed.  "By
the Guru! if the slaves of Lena Singh and the English dare to lay a
finger on me----!" he cried.  "Foolish young man, will you keep me from
my own troops?  I am the Rajah Partab Singh."

Gerrald stepped back with a bow.  "Maharaj-ji, you are free to depart.
I had not thought that the man whom I welcomed to my tent designed to
pick a quarrel with me.  Depart freely, and your son with you, but bear
me witness that I did not fail in hospitality."

"Nor shall you find Partab Singh deficient in hospitality, O son of
noble parents!" cried the old man, softening suddenly.  "Know this, my
friend.  I designed to put you to a test, to prove your courtesy, your
courage, your good faith, that I might see whether the English were
indeed to be trusted.  Well has Antni Sahib done in sending one like
you, since he could not come himself!"



[1] Commandant.




CHAPTER IV.

"A-HUNTING WE WILL GO."

"Here are ten rupees for you, Somwar Mal.  You did me good service
to-day," said Gerrard to his Munshi, who salaamed to the very ground.

"May the Protector of the Poor continue to be as a spreading tree,
under whose branches this slave and all his house may find shelter!" he
said devoutly.  Gerrard thought he had departed, but looking up
presently, saw him still standing humbly with folded hands.

"What is it, Munshi-ji?" he asked him.

"Sahib, among the attendants who accompanied the Rajah Partab Singh
when he departed was a certain scribe, who made himself known to this
slave as the grandson of his father's cousin, and asked leave to visit
him this evening."

"Well, what of that?  You may be able to get some useful information
out of him.  Ah, I see; you think he may be coming as a spy?"

"This slave has no doubt, sahib, that the young man will be
commissioned to discover whether the Protector of the Poor was aware of
the identity of the Rajah and his son when he received them, or not.
What answer does the Presence desire should be given?"

"Why, the truth, of course!" said Gerrard impatiently.

"It is an order," said Somwar Mal, and salaamed himself out.  His
employer thought no more about him until just before bedtime, when the
Munshi, his face beaming with modest gratification, sought another
interview.

"This slave was not mistaken, sahib.  The young man did his errand with
a dexterity that would have deceived many, but not the humble one who
watches over the interests of the Presence.  The question came as
though unpremeditated, as he had expected, and in accordance with the
will of the Presence, he gave a true answer, saying that on the first
appearance of the strangers on the horizon your honour cried out,
'Behold, some great one cometh!  It is in my mind that the Rajah Partab
Singh and his son are about to visit the camp.'  And very great was the
wonder of the young man that your honour could so well have hoodwinked
his master."

"O Somwar Mal, you are a spoil-sport!" cried Gerrard.  "Do you not see
that all the hospitality I showed to the Rajah--all my faithfulness to
my guests--now goes for nothing?"

The Munshi regarded him with mild reproach.  "Nay, sahib, the meanest
of men may not fail in hospitality--it is a duty incumbent upon all;
but the power of foreseeing events is a direct gift from Heaven, and
will move the Rajah to desire greatly the linking of his fortunes with
your honour's.  There is also another small matter in which this slave
has to-night done what he could to add a stone to the pillar of your
honour's prosperity."

"I wish you had asked me first.  But let me know what obligations you
have undertaken for me."

"The youth, the son of shame, dared to inquire in confidence what were
the weaknesses of the Protector of the Poor!" said the Munshi, in an
awful whisper.  Gerrard fell in with the humour of the occasion.

"And of course you swore that I had none?"

Somwar Mal hung his head.  "Alas, sahib! your honour bade me tell him
the truth."

"You are right, Munshi-ji.  Truth is great, and shall prevail.  And
which of my hidden faults have you discovered to the eyes of the world?"

"Sahib, your honour's credit is safe in the hands of your slave.  He
bade the youth name one after the other such things as have brought to
ruin many wise men, and then assured him that not one of all these had
ever touched your honour.  But of that one thing which he has
observed----"

"This becomes interesting," said Gerrard.  "Speak."

"Nay, sahib, it is for this slave to lay the hand of respect upon the
mouth of discretion."

"Not when the mouth of command issues an order.  Say on."

"If it is an order, sahib----?"  An inexorable nod answered him, and he
went on.  "Sahib, it has sometimes seemed to the humblest of your
servants, who asks forgiveness for presuming to raise his eyes above
your feet, that your honour was more occupied in seeking the right way
to do a thing than in doing at once what required doing."

"Lack of decision?  I see, and you told the youth this?"

Grieved surprise was in Somwar Mal's tone.  "I, sahib?  I told him that
the besetting sin of the Protector of the Poor was a hasty judgment in
sometimes acting without thought!"

"Oh, go away, you old humbug!" shouted Gerrard violently, and Somwar
Mal retired proudly smiling, while his employer laughed undisturbed.


"Whether it is due to Soomwar Mull's original notions of truth, or to
old Pertaub Sing's own favourable impressions, it seems to be certain
that I have _made a conquest_!" he wrote to Charteris the next evening.
"I have given up attempting to unravel the Rajah's motives in visiting
me incog., and will only hint that if I were told the whole thing was
_got up_ with a view to burking the momentous question who should pay
the first call I should not be surprised.  Do you _twig_?  Pertaub Sing
has visited my camp, which is one to me; but the visit was not
official, and that's one to him.  In any case, I thought I should be
carrying out Antony's wishes if I paid an official visit to-day, which
I did, and was entertained regardless of expense, garlands, ottar,
_paun_ and all.  The old boy is a _regular brick_, for--now grow green
with envy--he has invited me to go a-hunting with him to-morrow.
Hawking, he said--by the way, what would not a certain lady give to be
a spectator of that most chivalrous of sports?--but oh, my beloved Bob,
there's a _jheel_ which I strongly suspect to be the intended scene of
our exploits, and if there ain't pig there, call me a Dutchman.
Conceive my feelings.  If we sight pig, will it be my duty to turn
delicately away, with a pained expression of countenance, or would it
be better style to affect to have seen nothing whatever?  Or will
there, will there be spears in reserve, and the chance of some glorious
fun?  After all, my boy, envy me not till you hear how the day ends."


The day began uneventfully enough, though the spectacle of the Rajah's
hunt delighted Gerrard's eyes.  The old ruler himself and his
councillors and Komadans seemed to have donned their brightest garb for
the occasion, and the little prince, now known by his proper name of
Kharrak Singh, was resplendent in emerald-green velvet, with a blue and
silver turban and a broad folded girdle of stiff gold tissue, in which
was stuck a huge dagger, large enough for a sword for him.  He rode a
white pony with a pink nose and a long tail, and on either side of him
was an ancient armed retainer, charged to keep him out of any possible
danger.  The hawking was pretty to watch, but not particularly
exciting, and Gerrard found it much more interesting when the
innumerable dogs of indescribable breed which accompanied the party
started something larger than birds in the brushwood surrounding the
swamp.  Partab Singh looked at his guest, and read the expression of
his face aright.  With a smile the old Rajah called up a man who
carried a number of spears, and bade Gerrard take his choice.  The
beaters were wildly excited, declaring that the dogs had roused an old
and very cunning boar which had long baffled the hunters of the
neighbourhood, and after a brief council of war it was decided that the
Rajah should take his stand at one side of the _jhil_ and Gerrard at
the other, the beaters keeping watch to prevent the quarry's breaking
out across the open ground at the back, and the court officials going
to the end of the swamp in case he should take to the water.

Rather to his annoyance, Gerrard found that the little prince, instead
of accompanying his father, preferred to remain with him, in dangerous
proximity to the track through the underwood along which the boar would
probably come.  Horribly afraid that the quarry would break out in his
absence, he seized the white pony's bridle, and in spite of Kharrak
Singh's vehement opposition, led him back to his guardians and bade him
stay with them.  As he cantered back to his post, the child's shrill
voice made him look round, and he saw him striking furiously with his
sheathed dagger at the hands of the two servants, who held the pony on
either side.  Satisfied that the boy was in safety, Gerrard waited,
spear in hand, watching the movements of the bushes, which showed that
some heavy body was making its way through them.  From the yapping and
yelping of the dogs at a discreet distance behind, he felt certain that
this was the boar, and listened eagerly for the crackling of the
brushwood as it came towards him.  Then it burst into the open--the
finest tusker he had ever seen--and made for him as fiercely as he rode
at it.  But to his utter astonishment, just as it met the iron it
swerved violently--so that the spear merely inflicted a long gash from
shoulder to flank--and charged on at something behind him.

Nearly thrown from the saddle by the absence of the expected
resistance, Gerrard recovered himself and wrenched his horse round, to
behold a sight which made his heart stand still.  A white pony, with
streaming mane and tail, was in full flight, and on the ground lay a
vivid green and gold bundle, with two small feet kicking in the air.
Kharrak Singh had evidently been thrown sideways from the saddle as the
pony turned tail, and the boar's rush had carried it beyond him, but it
had already transferred its attention from the terrified horse to the
nearer foe.  The two retainers, uttering cries of horror as they rode
towards the fray, were hopelessly distant, and there was no one else at
hand.  Two things associated themselves in Gerrard's mind, without any
volition on his part--the blood-stained spear in his hand and Kharrak
Singh's broad golden belt, and some vague association with Somwar Mal
was present as well.  He and the boar charged simultaneously for the
prostrate child, but before the cruel tusks could reach him, the spear
had passed under the stiff golden folds and swung Kharrak Singh
ignominiously into the air and across Gerrard's saddle.  The astonished
horse, accustomed to pig-sticking, but not to having the prey placed on
his back, took the bit between his teeth and dashed furiously away,
with the boar in full pursuit--so Gerrard gathered from the chorus of
yells and shrieks that arose.  One hand was fully occupied with the
reins, the other with holding the child, and it was impossible to
disengage his spear while going at this pace, though the handle
collided with half the trees they passed, and threatened to jerk
Kharrak Singh from his grasp.

"Hold fast, little brother!" he called out.

"Not your little brother!"  The words reached him faintly, and he
smiled, for at least the child was not much hurt.  Venturing to glance
round to see whether the boar was continuing the chase, he found that
it had given up, but to his astonishment all the hunt, mounted and on
foot, were pursuing him with wild cries.  "Maro! maro!" [1] they
yelled, and two of the Komadans, who were drawing ahead of the others,
had one of them a spear in rest, and the other his sword drawn.  Like a
flash of lightning it broke upon Gerrard that to a distant observer his
action must have had all the appearance of a peculiarly cold-blooded
murder, and that before he could explain to these avengers that his
spear had merely lifted the child by his girdle, they would have cut
him down from behind.  To check his horse was impossible, for the
sounds of pursuit stimulated it continually to fresh efforts, and he
had no means of defending himself while he explained matters, since his
spear was still entangled in Kharrak Singh's golden waistbelt.

A second time the pleasing sense of proving Somwar Mat a false prophet
came over Gerrard as he jerked his horse violently to the right, where
an irrigation channel, leading from the swamp, crossed his course.  The
pursuers evidently thought it would prove an insurmountable barrier,
for he could hear by their shouts that the two foremost were separating
so as to ride against him from either side, when he would be caught
between them and the main body behind.  But his horse was a noted
jumper, and that fact saved him.  He felt it rise to the leap, and
though the channel was too broad, and it fell on its knees on the slope
of crumbling earth at the farther side, he contrived to twitch himself
and Kharrak Singh out of the saddle in time to prevent its slipping
back into the muddy water.  Once on his feet, he was able to disengage
the spear without difficulty, and as the horse also struggled up he
caught it and set Kharrak Singh in the saddle, then turned to confront
his astonished pursuers.  They had halted in sheer amazement, and were
gazing at him with various expressions of stupefaction, old Partab
Singh himself, the spear in his iron hand shaking like a leaf; at their
head.  Kharrak Singh hailed their astonishment as a tribute to himself,
for some reason or other, and clapped his hands and cried "Shabash!"
until he was tired.

"Is the child unhurt?" the foremost Komadan ventured at last to ask,
rather unnecessarily.

"Fool! who should have hurt me?" cried Kharrak Singh.

"The Feringhee," answered every one together.

"Surely ye are all mad, O people.  I would have killed him with my
dagger!" and the boy clapped his hand to his girdle, only to discover
that the precious dagger had dropped by the way.  Turning immediately
upon Gerrard, he began to beat him with his fists.  "Where is my
dagger, O fair man?  Hast thou stolen it?  Give it back!"

"_Choop!_" said Gerrard unceremoniously, for Partab Singh had ridden to
the edge of the bank opposite.

"O my friend, was this well done--to endanger your own life and the
child's, and cause all my people to believe you a murderer, for the
sake of a moment's jest?" asked the old man.

"Maharaj-ji, there was no jest.  The child lay on the ground, in the
path of the charging boar, and I could save him in no other way----"

"He caught me up on his spear, as a kite snatches up a kitten!" cried
Kharrak Singh proudly.  "I felt the breath of the unclean beast on my
leg!"

Partab Singh turned to his guards.  "Bring hither the heads of the
liars who spake evil of my friend Jirad Sahib, and lay them before
him."  Then to Gerrard, "My face is black, O my friend.  When justice
has been done, I shall be less abashed, and able to speak to you."

"I entreat your Highness to pardon the men.  Their eyes deceived them,
and they thought they spoke the truth.  If I am indeed your friend----"

"They shall live.  Their eyes alone shall pay the forfeit, for I have
no use for eyes that deceive their owners."

"Nay, let them go free.  I ask nothing else of your Highness."

"This is in very deed my friend's will?"

"In very deed."

"I had sooner you had asked for half my treasury, but the wretches
shall go free," grumbled Partab Singh, and two very badly frightened
men were ignominiously sped with kicks and cuffs to the rear.  The
nearest cultivators were then summoned, and forced to break down the
canal-banks, and make a temporary causeway for Gerrard to cross, in the
midst of which the Rajah met him and embraced him, and insisted that he
should forthwith mount his own splendid horse, with its gold-encrusted
trappings, and saddle-cloth flashing with gems.  Thus they rode back,
the Rajah on a humble pony, with Gerrard on the great horse on his
right, and Kharrak Singh, extremely discontented with Gerrard's plain
saddle, relegated to his left.  In the course of the ride, Gerrard
learned that he was immediately to visit the Rajah at the city of
Agpur, that the inestimable service he had rendered the state might be
properly acknowledged and proclaimed, and that if he desired the life
or property of any man in the province, he had only to ask for it.
Colonel Antony's ambassador could have desired no better proof of the
complete success of his mission.

The evening was spent in Partab Singh's camp, where all his officers
and officials came by command to pay their respects to Gerrard and
congratulate him upon his exploit.  It seemed absurd, as he rode back
to his own camp at night, to realise by what a chain of accidents he
had been led to his present position of favour, and he reflected sagely
that accidents might as easily dethrone him, so that it would be well
to report the state of affairs at once, in case Colonel Antony should
wish to take immediate advantage of it.  He had got rid of his
full-dress uniform and the garlands with which he had been decorated,
and was writing busily by the light of a smoky lantern, when the
Granthi commander of his escort came to say that they had caught a man
trying to make his way unperceived into the camp, who said that he was
a Sirdar who had urgent business with the Sahib.

"Tell him to come in the morning," said Gerrard.

"He comes from one of the states newly included in the Company's
territory, sahib, and has a petition to present.  Moreover he dares not
come by day, for fear of the Rajah here."

"A British subject?  I suppose I must see him, though why he should be
skulking in Agpur territory----  Bring him in, Badan Hazari."

A tall man much muffled in a large cloak was ushered in, and at
Gerrard's invitation, sat down on the floor.  When Badan Hazari was
gone, he lowered the cloak a little, and looked at Gerrard as though he
expected recognition, but there was none.

"I place my life in your hands, sahib.  I am Sher Singh."

"There are many of that name," said Gerrard, puzzled.

"Not many who are also princes of Agpur."

"You are a relation of the Rajah's, then?"

"Merely his eldest son, sahib."  The man glanced round fearfully as he
spoke, as though listeners were to be dreaded.

"What! the son who was sentenced----?"

"The discernment of the Sahib is wonderful.  Yes, these are the eyes
that were to be presented on a golden plate for my father to gloat
over."

"But why are you here?  You must know that your life-----"

"Is in danger?  True, but I seek for justice from the Protector of the
Poor."

"If you have a claim against your father, you must lay it before
Colonel Antony and the Ranjitgarh Durbar."

"And be stabbed or poisoned by emissaries from Agpur?  Nay, sahib, I
want nothing for the present--merely a promise of justice in future.
Who is to sit upon the _gaddi_ when the pyre has been built for Rajah
Partab Singh?"

"I understand that the Rajah has the right to nominate his own
successor.  It is no affair of mine," said Gerrard coldly.  Sher
Singh's eyes blazed.

"Not though he nominates the young upstart he has raised up to the
prejudice of me, his rightful heir?"

"Ah, by the bye, why were you sentenced to death and cut out of the
succession?" asked Gerrard casually.  Sher Singh blinked once or twice
before answering.

"What father does not hate his heir?" he asked at last.

"And the hatred was groundless?"

"What heir does not consider his father's life unduly prolonged?  Say
that he is tempted to anticipate the enjoyment of what will be all his
one day----"

"Enough!" said Gerrard sharply.  "You wish me to intercede with the
Rajah for you?"

"Nay, sahib, since then my life would end before his.  But you are high
in the favour of the great Antni Sahib, the fountain of justice, who is
all-powerful in Granthistan, save in this little corner.  Does he
desire to add to his present cares another infant-ruled kingdom, with
another shameless Rani and more headstrong Sirdars to tear it in
pieces?  Partab Singh's days cannot now be long.  Were it not well that
he should be succeeded by a man of full age, who has travelled among
the English and seen their power, and can be trusted to act towards
them as a loyal ally?"

Gerrard considered the suggestion a moment, aware that Colonel Antony
would give much to prevent the duplication of his present anxieties,
and at the same time settle satisfactorily the affairs of this
troublesome province.  But unfortunately Sher Singh, in his eagerness
to clinch matters, went too far.

"Sahib," he said, leaning forward confidentially, "in the treasury at
Agpur there is wealth for many men.  What if it were divided between
Antni Sahib, you, and me--and Antni Sahib need not know what was the
sum you and I found there?"

Gerrard started up.  "Badan Hazari!" he shouted, and the soldier came
running.  "Turn this man out.  He has dared to offer me a bribe.  You
have made a mistake, nephew of a foolish aunt.  Leave to live, and a
decent maintenance, you may obtain through Colonel Antony Sahib, but
after to-night, nothing more."

"This slave is indeed foolish as the beasts," lamented Sher Singh.
"Let the Sahib in his mercy obtain for him even now what he has
promised, and for the present he will dwell quietly, and aim no more at
a dignity that is clearly above his capacity."

The reason for this change of front Gerrard had not time to puzzle over
at the moment, for as Sher Singh left the tent under the escort of
Badan Hazari, the Rajah's minister, Diwan Dwarika Nath, appeared out of
the darkness with his attendants, and cast a keen glance at the
departing figure.  Dismissing his servants to a distance, and
apologising for the lateness of his visit, Dwarika Nath proceeded to
make various arrangements on his master's behalf with regard to the
journey to Agpur, all in a very friendly and polite spirit.  But as he
rose to take his leave, he turned suddenly on Gerrard.

"His Highness might be interested to learn what visitors his _friend_
Jirad Sahib entertains in secret at night," he said.

"My visitors come without any wish of mine, but they go when I choose,"
retorted Gerrard warningly.

Dwarika Nath held up a deprecating hand.  "There is no need for his
Highness to know who the visitor was.  I alone recognised him."

"It might certainly be safer for you not to bring that recognition to
the knowledge of his Highness," mused Gerrard.

Dwarika Nath's face grew avaricious.  "But there is my duty to his
Highness.  How could I consent to keep silent on a matter that affects
him so nearly?"

"I really don't know.  Your conscience ain't in my keeping.  Settle it
for yourself," said Gerrard carelessly.  "Now I suppose I have made two
enemies to-night!" he remarked to himself as Dwarika Nath turned away
with baffled greed in his eyes.



[1] Kill! kill!




CHAPTER V.

GERRARD FINDS FAVOUR.

_From Lieut. Robert Charteris, Darwan, to Lieut. Henry Gerrard_:--

"DEAR HAL,--I have not had long to wait for a _billet doux_ from you.
I _had_ thought you would draw the line at assassination, but we live
and learn.  Last night, as I was returning to the shelter of my humble
roof, a dirty hairy fellow--but why should I describe him to
_you_?--leapt out and fired at me point-blank with a huge old-fashioned
horse-pistol, and _missed_.  I give you my word he singed half an inch
off my left whisker.  Of course they _say_ he was a ruffianly suitor
offended by my just decision in favour of his opponent, but I know
better.  'Sweet Hal, by my faith!' thinks I to myself, says I, and what
I says I sticks to.  I know he ought to have been taken alive, and
returned to you postage-paid, with an insulting message inviting you to
try again and do your worst.  Unfortunately my honest fellows, not
being versed in these niceties of behaviour, fell on him in a body and
incontinently despatched him.  But bring on your minions.  Come one,
come all, this rock shall fly from its firm base as soon as

Sir, your most humble and obedient servant,

    R. C."


_From Lieut. Henry Gerrard, Agpur City, to Lieut. Robert Charteris_:--

"DEAR BOB,--I grieve to find that you answered what you are good enough
to call my _billet doux_ even before receiving it.  Had your miserable
tool's fortune not failed him when your plot was on the verge of
success, you would now be rid of a rival.  I own I should not have
believed you fallen so low as to resort to poison--a nasty
ungentlemanly weapon, if you will pardon my natural warmth.  The wretch
declared himself to have been employed by a villainous Dewan lately
dismissed, 'tis true, but my apprehensive heart framed, though my lips
refrained from uttering, your name.  Powdered glass, too!  Let me ask
you as a favour to choose a less revolting form of death next time, or
I swear to you that my expiring lips shall murmur '_Et tu, Roberte!_'
with sufficient reiteration to excite remark.  And pray how had poor
old Pertaub Sing injured you, that your vengeance should include him?
Avaunt, traitor!  I pities and despises you.         H. G."


_From Lieut. Robert Charteris to Lieut. Henry Gerrard_:--

"Ha, most noble Hal, and have the little god's arrows but just failed
to prove fatal in your case also?  _Honour_, what crimes are committed
in thy name!  But none shall say Bob Charteris don't fight fair.
Please receive herewith a buffalo horn, the trophy of my bow and spear.
You remember how Mithridates, or some old classical fellow, used it as
an antidote to poisons?[1]  The exact method of application has slipped
my memory, but I fancy the horn should be ground small and mixed in all
you eat and drink.  If I am wrong, send me word when it begins to take
effect, and I will make a point of arriving in time to give you a
thumping big funeral.  But by the horn, (not now, alas! by the
buffalo,) there hangs a _tale_.  The animal charged me in the most
ferocious manner when I was passing peaceably upon my lawful occasions,
and had I not snatched my gun from my boy, who promptly bolted, your
dearest wish would now be fulfilled.  But the trusty weapon did not
play me false, and on mature reflection, I have decided not to lay the
beast's malice to your account, for lack of evidence.  To all
appearances it was the wildest wild beast in Asia, but hardly were my
escort come up to view the spoil and acclaim my prowess, than there
arrived also a wretched cultivator, swearing with tears and howls that
I had wantonly destroyed the friend of his family, the mainstay of his
lowly cot.  I held a court on the spot, and desired to know what sum
would compensate him for this cruel loss.  The opportunity of taking in
the stranger was too promising to resist, and he requested leave to
retire and consult with his friends--an interval I employed in making
inquiry as to the market price of buffaloes in that neighbourhood.
Returning, the honest man named a sum that would have bought him a
dozen, at the lowest computation.  Remembering Colonel A.'s maxims
regarding kindness to the people, I was in some doubts whether to pay
the demand and put it down to office expenses, but reflected in time
that my appearance in public would in that case be the signal for
loosing against me droves of charging buffaloes wherever I went.  I
brought the fellow down, therefore, to something like two and a half
times the value of the very best bull ever bred in Granthistan, but as
he was retiring, with difficulty concealing his smiles over the Sahib's
_gullibility_, I called him smartly back, and fined him one and a half
times the value of the said ideal bull for damage to my person and
dignity by allowing his ill-conditioned beast to roam at large and
uncontrolled.  If the judgment of Solomon was received with one-half
the applause and admiration that greeted mine, then Solomon must have
been an insufferable person to converse with for at least a twelvemonth
after.  If you are flush of cash, then, I can recommend
buffalo-shooting as a tolerable amusement, but if not, let me suggest
that you obtain _khubber_ of a tiger--of course a man-eater--in the
direction of my boundary, when I will lay aside the cares of _office_
and join you in the chase, and the resulting skin, should there be one,
shall be laid, with our united respectful compliments, at the feet of a
lady who shall be nameless.  We hear marvellous tales of your having
tamed a certain old bear, and leading him about with a silken string,
but ain't there something of over-confidence in accompanying him into
his very den?  Even a tame bear is treacherous at times, and when
_riled_, an awkward customer to tackle.  Why not guide your bear gently
in this direction, and settle the disputed boundary between Augpore and
Durwan while I am on this side of my kingdom?  Give me open country and
room to move rather than the finest bear-pit ever built, says

    R. C."


Gerrard read this second letter in the quarters assigned to him in
Partab Singh's fortified palace at Agpur, and appreciated the motive
which had led Charteris both to send the warning and to couch it in
veiled and sportive language.  A kind of envy of his friend, whose
problems, if difficult, were comparatively simple, and whose enemies
attacked in front, seized upon him, for he also preferred open country
and room to move.  Nothing was simple at Agpur; it seemed as though
there was a malign influence about the place which brought hints of
tragedy into the most ordinary sights and sounds.  Even as Gerrard
approached the city, to which the Rajah had preceded him the day
before, the gay procession of soldiers and dancing-girls that escorted
him was interrupted by a very different crowd.  Followed by a jeering
rabble, there hurried forth from the gate a portly Hindu, whose
spotless muslins were rapidly being converted into filthy rags by the
attentions of his pursuers, and whose shaven head glistened bare under
the sun's rays.  Glancing hither and thither like a hunted animal for
some place of refuge, the wretched man missed his footing and fell,
with a red gash across his brow where a stone had struck him.  Smiles
and sarcasms passed among the soldiery, and one of the dancing-girls
introduced into her song a verse inspired by the occasion, to judge by
the cruel laughter it evoked.  Fearing that the victim would be done to
death as soon as his back was turned, Gerrard dismounted and went to
help him up, intending to send one of his own men a little way back
with him, to see him clear of the mob.  To his astonishment, he
recognised the distorted face which glared into his as that of the
Diwan Dwarika Nath, and found his help refused with a venomous curse.
The commander of the escort smiled.

"He has eaten the great shoe," he said, as though in explanation.

"But was the Rajah's sentence death?" demanded Gerrard.

"No," was the reluctant answer.  "Whip back these dogs--it is the
Sahib's will," he said to his men.  "And now, sahib, be persuaded to
remount.  Our lord loves not to be kept waiting."

"But what has Dwarika Nath done?" asked Gerrard, as he complied,
leaving the fallen minister freed at any rate from the mob that had
persecuted him.

"He has doubtless been found out," was the cynical reply.  "The word
went forth from our lord this morning that the fellow was to be beaten
with the great shoe immediately before the Sahib's arrival, and to be
driven forth from the city to meet him as he came."

Gerrard pondered vainly the connection between the two events.  Did the
expulsion of Dwarika Nath synchronize with his own entrance as a
warning to him, or as an assurance of safety?  Partab Singh, receiving
him in the utmost state, and leading him by the hand into the palace
between rows of salaaming courtiers, made no allusion to it, and the
attempted poisoning that very evening tended to overshadow the affair
in his mind.  Gerrard never knew whether the Rajah had become aware of
the intended assassination beforehand, or whether he regarded it as so
extremely probable as to be practically a certainty.  However this
might be, upon the appearance of a curry of which he was particularly
fond, and of which he had signified his intention of sending a portion,
as a special mark of favour, to Gerrard at his separate table, the old
ruler called the attention of all present to the exquisite appearance
of the dish, and ordered the cook to be fetched, that he might be
suitably complimented upon his handiwork.  Gerrard discerned in the
man's aspect no more than the natural awkwardness of a rough fellow
brought into a position of unaccustomed prominence, but no sooner did
the cook present himself before him than Partab Singh rose with one
fierce word, and drawing his jewelled tulwar, cut off his head at a
single blow.  The horror of the scene, the severed head rolling on the
ground, the blood sprinkled upon the food, affected the Englishman so
powerfully that he did not perceive at first that the dead man's son
and assistant, was also being dragged before the Rajah.  There was no
need even to question him, for on his knees, with piteous lamentation,
he confessed that in the spiced sauce accompanying the curry a quantity
of very finely powdered glass had been mingled, which would ensure an
agonising death to any one who partook of it.  This had been done at
the instigation of the disgraced Dwarika Nath, whose bribe for the
purpose would be found hidden in the thatch of the cook-house.  Gerrard
retained only a vague recollection of the issue of certain orders, of
the informers being dragged shrieking away, and the departure of a
troop of horsemen with orders to bring back Dwarika Nath dead or alive,
or of the hastily prepared food he forced himself to eat, and the
unruffled conversation of Partab Singh after supper.  Dwarika Nath was
not brought back, for he seemed to have disappeared from the face of
the earth, but the bodies of the two cooks were an eyesore on the
ground outside the palace until the dogs and kites had done their work.

Another trial to Gerrard was the supervision maintained over his
movements.  In order to carry out Colonel Antony's instructions, he
wished to move about the city and talk with the traders and others in
the bazars, but no matter how skilfully he thought he had eluded his
guardians, he had no sooner slipped out of the palace than a panting
escort was at his heels, insisting on his mounting the horse presented
to him by the Rajah--which at once put an end to any chance of
unfettered conversation.  So tiresome did this surveillance become that
at last he determined to take advantage of Partab Singh's continued
friendliness to relieve himself of it.  They were sitting one evening
in the covered balcony of a tower looking over the palace garden, oddly
assorted companions, Gerrard on the watch, as usual, against being
morally taken by surprise, the Rajah puffing at his hookah--for in
private he was the veriest free-thinker--in silence, the gleaming of
his fierce eyes the only sign that he was not asleep.  He took the
mouthpiece from his lips when Gerrard broke into his complaint.

"My soldiers have been lacking in respect--have hesitated to attend my
friend whither he desires?"

"No, no!" answered Gerrard hastily, fearing a sudden holocaust.  "They
are most courteous.  It is merely that they are always there."

With a swift movement Partab Singh bent forward, and lightly touched
the ground at Gerrard's feet.  "O my friend, what have I done, that you
would bring the guilt of your death upon me?"

"Maharaj-ji," protested Gerrard indignantly, "I am not a griffin, to
try to penetrate into mosques or zenanas.  I would but walk about--of
course with a servant or two."

"Has my friend not perceived yet that this city is in the eyes of its
inhabitants sacred even as a mosque or a zenana?  He sees only eyes
beaming with affection as he rides through the streets?"

"Not exactly," admitted Gerrard.  "But I thought that the people were
irritated by the action of the escort in clearing the way--and perhaps
also by seeing me riding your Highness's horse.  On foot, and
unattended----"

"You would be slain before you had left the palace square.  Listen, my
friend--who knows Agpur best, I who have spent my life here, or you who
see it now for the first time?"

"Your Highness, undoubtedly."

"Then let my friend listen to me.  These Moslem notables, who would
dispute the city itself with my Granthis, but for the firm hand I keep
over both, think you that they love the English?  Abd-ur-Rashid Khan of
Ethiopia is the master they would choose to serve if they had their
way.  Say that they gratify their hatred by slaying a British officer,
Antni Sahib's envoy.  On whose head lies the guilt?  Is it not on that
of Rajah Partab Singh?  The English come to punish him, and the whole
of Granthistan is in a blaze again.  Granthi sides with Granthi against
the English, but these dogs of Mohammedans, who shall tell which side
they will take?  This only I can say, that it will be the side of their
own advantage."

"Forgive me, Maharaj-ji.  I had not thought----"

"No, my friend.  You uttered hastily the words of an impatient mind,
not having studied from your youth the art of playing off Granthi
against Moslem, and both against Ranjitgarh.  But it is a study that
you will do well to take in hand now."

"I could have no better teacher than your Highness," said Gerrard
politely.  The Rajah looked at him almost with affection.

"Would that these were as the days of old, before the English crossed
the Ghara!  Then should Jirad Sahib have been my Englishman, and I
would have given him a wife out of my own house, and he should have
dwelt always in my city, and trained my soldiers.  Verily we would have
put Ranjitgarh itself to tribute when the fool sat on the _gaddi_ in
the place of Ajit Singh, and when death approached I would have put my
son Kharrak Singh into my friend's arms and died content, knowing that
he would serve the child even as he had served the father.  But now who
shall protect the boy from a thousand dangers?"

"If peril threatens him when I am at hand, your Highness can count upon
my protecting him with my life."

"Of that I am certain."  Partah Singh paused, and his eyes wandered
over the dark gardens, with their gleaming white colonnades and kiosks
and graceful towers rising into the blue-black sky.  He traced the
starlight down to its reflection in the great tank before he spoke
again.  "If I should place my son and my kingdom under the protection
of the English, what would happen in Agpur?" he asked at last.

"Your Highness knows whether the army is to be trusted.  There would be
intense indignation on the part both of the Granthi and the Moslem
notables, I presume?  Whether they would proceed to active
opposition----"

"If they saw a hope of success they would.  But with the army faithful
to an Englishman already established in charge here--and the English at
Ranjitgarh ready to march to his assistance?"

"But you forget one thing, Maharaj-ji.  That the days of your Highness
may yet be prolonged for many years is a thing not only to be hoped for
but confidently expected, and the English are at Ranjitgarh only for a
certain time, until Ajit Singh's son comes of age."

The Rajah laughed impatiently.  "Away with this foolishness between
friends!" he said.  "Where the English come, they stay.  If young Lena
Singh survives the quarrels of his mother and the Sirdars, how can he
be left to rule Granthistan with all English help withdrawn?  The
Resident and the army must stay, or the day the youth mounts the
_gaddi_ will also be that of his death."

"So I have heard many say among ourselves," said Gerrard; "but it is
not the view of Colonel Antony.  Nothing would induce him to be a party
to annexing Granthistan."

Partab Singh threw up one hand slightly.  "Said I not that things might
yet remain as they are?  The English may go on ruling Granthistan while
pretending that they do nothing of the kind, but it is in my mind that
before many years are past they will be rulers in name also.  If, then,
I should place myself under the protection of the English"--he dropped
his voice--"would they maintain my son in his kingdom under the regents
that I should appoint?"

"I cannot possibly enter into any agreement that would bind Colonel
Antony or the Government, but it sounds the kind of arrangement that
they would be likely to sanction," replied Gerrard, in the same
cautious tone.  "But has your Highness considered the opposition that
would be aroused in Agpur if it became known?"

"It is for that very reason I have broached the plan to you.  Whether I
die soon or not for years to come, there must be at hand a man who will
take command of the army, with wealth in his power sufficient to ensure
its allegiance, and use it boldly to maintain my son's title against
all opposition, from whatever quarter it may arise."

Gerrard gave a start of dismay, for the last words brought back to his
mind something he had forgotten.  "Maharaj-ji, if I err bid me be
silent, but it is in my mind to utter that which I fear is forbidden.
Is there not one whose right to the throne is greater than that of
Kharrak Singh?"

The Rajah betrayed no surprise, but extreme bitterness was in his voice
as he answered, "There is one at whose evil deeds the sun would grow
black, were they published abroad.  His death was decreed, but I
suffered him to elude my vengeance, saying, 'Surely he will hide his
shame at the ends of the earth, mindful that one has died to save him
from the reward of his deeds.'  But since he has returned, and dared to
put forth claims to the throne he forfeited, there is no mercy for him.
Was it well done in you, O my friend, to listen favourably to his
petition, and not drive him from you?"

"I knew not the man, Maharaj-ji, and he gained access to me with a
lying tale.  When I learned who he was, it was my duty to hear what he
had to say, but I drove him from me when he sought to influence me by a
bribe."

"True, but your anger was kindled by the attack on your own integrity,
not by the man's evil designs."

"I am here to report all things to Colonel Antony, Maharaj-ji, not one
side of the case only."  The Rajah's eyes were flashing, and Gerrard
waited for an outburst of anger, but none came.  "But how did your
Highness learn of the man's visit?" he asked.

"From whom but from Dwarika Nath?  I looked to hear of it from my
friend, but I waited in vain."

"I did not desire to be the means of the man's death," said Gerrard,
rather lamely.

"And why does not my friend tell me that Dwarika Nath offered to
conceal the matter in return for a gift?"

"Your Highness does not mean to say that Dwarika Nath confessed that?"
cried Gerrard.  Partab Singh enjoyed his astonishment for a moment.

"Nay," he said softly, "the whole matter was recounted to me by one
whom I can trust, who was on the watch from the beginning to the end,
so that when Dwarika Nath, with many protestations of fidelity and
condolence, made known to me the treachery of my friend, I was able to
remind him that he had been willing to cover that treachery for money.
For this he has received due punishment."

Gerrard remained silent a moment, Dwarika Nath's interview with him in
his tent, and the expulsion of the disgraced Diwan from the city,
jostling one another in his mind.  Then quite another thought came
upper-most.  "So you set spies on me in my own tent, Maharaj-ji!" he
cried indignantly.  "And you call me your friend!"

"The wise man calls no one friend whom he has not tested when they are
apart as well as when they are together," was the calm reply.  "Do I
not honour my friend by enabling the lustre of his character to shine
forth even when he believes himself alone?"

"I said these walls seemed to have eyes!" muttered Gerrard.  "I suppose
your Highness's spies are here also?"

"You are watched from morning to night, and again from night to
morning," said the Rajah with pride.  "Even on your sacred day, when
you worshipped your God in the company of the half-breed physician, my
eyes were upon you."

Gerrard moved angrily.  Among the verbal counsels with which Colonel
Antony supplemented his official instructions to his assistants, there
was one which invariably occurred; "I make no suggestion as to your
action when alone, though you are acquainted with my own practice.  But
when there is even one other Christian within reach, it is my earnest
entreaty that you will invite him to join with you on Sundays in the
worship of God.  Believe me, this will bring you no discredit among the
heathen, but rather the contrary."  The "one other Christian" in this
case was Moraes, who regarded compliance with the invitation as an
additional sin to be confessed and expiated on his return home, and
Gerrard felt a natural resentment at the thought of the curious eyes
that had watched the proceedings.  He rose abruptly.

"Since you trust me so little, Maharaj-ji, I had better go.  Have I
your leave to depart?"

The Rajah made no movement.  "O my friend, why this impatience?  Said I
not that all I had seen had only served to justify my confidence?  Had
I taxed you with treachery as the result of my watching, there might
have been cause for anger.  What is this? you cannot pardon my not
trusting you untried?  Know then that I had reason for my hesitation,
for I design to admit you wholly to my confidence.  You, O my friend,
are the man I intend to appoint as regent, together with the mother of
Kharrak Singh, should I die while he is still a child."

"I am grateful for the honour, Maharaj-ji, but I could not accept it
without leave from my superiors."

"That leave will undoubtedly be given when they know that you alone
have power to keep the troops in good humour.  With them on your side
you can laugh at the notables and the common people alike.  I am about
to show you what no living eyes but mine have seen, the secret store I
have laid up to safeguard my son.  And I will do more than that, for
the mother of Kharrak Singh shall be bidden to look to you for help and
guidance in all things.  At my command she has already sworn not to
become suttee on my decease, but to live and shield her son from the
plots laid against him within the palace, as you will from those
without.  Here are turban, robe and slippers of mine.  Put them on,
lest the guardians of the treasure should refuse to let you pass, and
come."



[1] Readers of the classics will perceive that Mr Charteris's memory
played him false here.




CHAPTER VI.

THE CROWNING PROOF.

To put on the Rajah's robe over his clothes, and don the turban and
slippers, was the work of a moment for Gerrard, and he was ready before
Partab Singh had even raised himself from his cushions.  The spirit of
adventure had laid hold of the young man, and the hint of peril
suggested by his host's last words was thrilling his blood, but he was
sufficiently master of himself to insist upon uttering one more warning.

"Your Highness will believe that I appreciate to the full the
confidence you are prepared to repose in me, but I must remind you that
outside Granthistan I am merely a junior officer in the Company's army.
If it should unfortunately happen that the guardianship of Kharrak
Singh and of the state devolved upon Colonel Antony by your
arrangement, it is almost certain that he would make choice of an older
man to represent him and act as regent."

"So that the army might rise against him in a week, and having slain
him and Kharrak Singh and his mother, invade British territory and
bring about a second Granthi war?" asked Partab Singh drily.  "I have
made my choice of a regent, O my friend, and by reason of the power I
shall put into his hands, he will be the only man that Antni Sahib can
choose."

Recollections of Colonel Antony's heroic disregard of commonplace
safeguards in various outstanding cases made Gerrard persist.  "Colonel
Antony will choose the man he thinks best fitted for the post, as in
the sight of God, Maharaj-ji, and it will be my duty to acquiesce in
his decision."

"So be it," said the Rajah, with resignation.  "Only swear to me that
you will not betray the secret I am about to disclose to you to any
living being, man or woman, priest or ruler, save to my son Kharrak
Singh when he is of age and seated on the _gaddi_."

"Does it concern the state, Maharaj-ji?"

"The state might continue to endure were the secret lost, but on it
depends the safety of Kharrak Singh and the existence of my house.  At
present I alone know it."

"But if any evil should befall your Highness and myself, the secret
will be lost.  Suffer me to reveal it to Colonel Antony, who will hold
it sacred, and not permit the knowledge of it to influence his action."

"Nay, that were beyond the power of mortal man!" cried Partab Singh.
"To Antni Sahib least of all must the secret be revealed.  But this it
is permitted you to do.  Choose out an honourable man, lower than
yourself in rank--or at least not likely to be preferred before you by
your masters--and confide the secret to him under the conditions on
which I reveal it to you.  Let him be one that you can trust as
yourself."

"Bob, of course!" said Gerrard in his own mind, with humorous dismay.
"It is well, Maharaj-ji.  I choose my friend the officer in charge of
Darwan," he added aloud.

"And he is near at hand?  It is well.  Reveal the secret to him as soon
as may be.  I have your promise?"

"To keep your Highness's secret?  Yes.  But anything further must
depend upon the will of my superiors."

"That I understand.  Come, my friend."

They went down the spiral marble staircase of the tower, the Rajah
leading, and passed the guards at the foot without a word.  Gerrard
noticed that they did not leave the tower by the carved marble gateway
through which they had entered, but by a smaller door at the back,
which gave access to a shaded terrace looking over the great tank.  In
the shadows a boat was waiting, with one man in it, leaning on a long
pole, and when the Rajah and Gerrard had stepped in, this man punted
them out into the starlight in perfect silence, and across the lake
into a kind of backwater, covered thick with the flat leaves of the
lotus, in an opposite corner.  Gerrard expected to see the boat held
fast among the twining roots, but it was evident that a channel was
kept clear, for they slid through without difficulty.  The boatman
helped them to shore, still in silence, and Partab Singh touched his
own ears and mouth lightly, explaining to Gerrard that the man was deaf
and dumb, as he brought a lantern from the boat and preceded them
through a thicket of bamboos and similar plants.  The place suggested
snakes, and Gerrard trod with caution, wondering what the great wall in
front, over which the sound of clanking chains came faintly, might
enclose.  A small door was disclosed by the boatman's moving aside the
bushes, and the Rajah brought out a key from his girdle, and taking the
lantern from the man's hand, waved him back to the boat.  The opening
of the door disclosed only darkness, but the sound of the clanking of
chains grew louder, mixed with growls and wild cries.

"Smells like a wild beast show!" mused Gerrard.  "Where can we be
coming to?"

Even as he spoke, the Rajah, who had shut the door, advanced a few
steps and waved the lantern round, and the flickering light, with the
chorus of snarls that arose, showed the Englishman that they were in a
passage leading to the bottom of the great pit in which the palace
menagerie was kept.  He had often looked over the parapet at the top,
generally in Kharrak Singh's company, and had the fighting animals
pointed out to him, and been promised a grand display if he was present
on the boy's next birthday, but now he was descending into the arena,
with fierce eyes glaring at the intruders from all the surrounding
cages.

"If only old Bob were here now!" he thought, as Partab Singh crossed
the sanded space, and began deliberately to unfasten the gate of one of
the largest cages.

"Enter, my friend, and fear not!" said the old man, in a tone in which
Gerrard detected a design upon the nerves.  The darkness was not
reassuring, but he stepped in, to be aware immediately of a huge body
hurling itself at him through the air, with an awe-inspiring roar.  A
wicked snarl from behind him at the same moment warned him against
stepping back, and he braced himself unconsciously to meet the impact.
But the animal, whatever it was, fell short of him in its spring, and
to his utter bewilderment he stood unharmed.

"They scent the stranger," said Partab Singh, turning the lantern to
show first the huge lioness, almost black in colour, which had betrayed
her presence by snarling, and then her mate, looking indescribably
sulky and wounded in his self-esteem owing to the failure of his leap.
"The gate is open; does my friend wish to return?"

It is no discredit to Gerrard that he was obliged to pull himself
together before he could reply with suitable unconcern, "Is this the
secret, then, Maharaj-ji?  If not, let us go on," and the Rajah smiled
grimly.

"Keep to the middle of the den, then," he said, as he fastened the
gate.  "The beasts are chained, and cannot touch you there."

That the honour of the Rajah's friendship was not without its drawbacks
was a fact that had already forced itself upon Gerrard's mind that
evening, and he now began to wonder whether its value was altogether
correspondent to the severe tests it seemed to demand.  The lions might
be chained, but their chains were quite unnecessarily long, and they
walked about in a highly disquieting manner while the Rajah was busy at
the back of the den.  Gerrard held the lantern, and hoped fervently
that his hand did not shake--he was too much shaken himself to know
whether it did or not.  In the rear wall of the cage were several iron
rings fixed to staples, to which chains might be attached, and through
one of these Partab Singh passed his sheathed dagger, and gave it a
sharp twist.  Then, removing the dagger, he began to turn the ring the
other way with his hands.  When he had done this apparently an
interminable number of times, Gerrard ventured to ask if he might help.
An angry gesture of negation answered him, and he resigned himself to
wait, while the lions strained at their chains.  At last a great stone
moved out like a door, and the Rajah entered, and motioned Gerrard to
follow.  Closing the door with a movement of his finger, he turned to
his companion.

"The ring must be turned nine-and-twenty times, no more and no less,"
he said.  "If you turn it less, no effect will follow, but if more, a
great stone descends and blocks the entrance."

He led the way along a passage lined with masonry, which turned and
twisted bewilderingly.  At one point there was a deep recess,
apparently intended for a window, but unfinished.  Partab Singh
motioned Gerrard to place his eye at a particular spot.  There was a
hole there, and to his surprise light came through.  He looked into a
great room or vault in which a lamp was burning.  The rays fell upon
elephant-trappings glittering with gold, jewelled bridles and
saddlecloths, robes of gold tissue or priceless shawl-fabric, and a
number of gaily painted boxes, such as the native goldsmiths used to
contain their wares, and money-changers their stock of cash.

"That is the treasury of which all men know, the entrance to which is
in the zenana," said the Rajah.  "But though that were looted, and an
army glutted with the spoil, the greater treasure beyond would remain
safe and unknown."

Again he went on, until another stone moved on the pressure of a secret
spring, the action of which he explained to Gerrard, and gave entrance
to a small unlighted vault, piled with gold in ingots, bars and bricks,
and in one corner a heap of tiny skin bags containing, as he pointed
out, fine pearls and other precious stones.  That the value of what was
stored here must far exceed the more obvious wealth assembled in the
larger treasury, Gerrard saw at a glance.

"You see now, O my friend, my secret store," said Partab Singh, "and by
its means you may secure my son's succeeding me in peace.  When I am
dead, give large presents immediately in his name to all my Sirdars and
Komadans, at the same time distributing a largess of ten rupees per man
to the army.  For this there is sufficient silver in the other
treasury, but you will do well to assemble the money-changers and
bargain with them to supply you with rupees against a portion of this
gold.  The tale of the riches at your command will go abroad, and the
army will remain faithful in the hope of receiving more.  Without it--I
do not deceive myself--they would sell their swords to the highest
bidder in the state or outside it, and it will also be necessary to use
it with discretion, lest their minds should be so much inflamed by the
thought of it that they should combine to seize and plunder the palace.
They would never discover the hiding-place, but my son and his mother
would meet with violence in the search.  My friend sees, then, that I
look to him to act with as much wisdom as courage, and he understands
why I name him regent, since the only power that can keep my son on the
throne is in his hands."

"Pardon the question, Maharaj-ji, but is not he who must not be named
acquainted with this treasury?" asked Gerrard suddenly.

"Doubtless rumour has made him aware of its existence, but where it is
he knows no more than the talkers in the city who swear by their lord's
treasure.  You and I are the sole living beings who know the secret."

Gerrard remembered a certain grim tale he had heard, according to which
every man who had taken part in the construction of the treasury had
been put to death on the completion of the work, and the piled gold
before him became hateful.  "Is there any other entrance to this
labyrinth, Maharaj-ji?" he asked abruptly.

"Surely, my friend.  The passage continues until it reaches the old
outer wall of the palace, and there ends with another turning stone,
concealed from those without by a tree that has struck its roots into
the masonry."

"But if that tree should be destroyed, the entrance would become
visible."

"It must not be destroyed.  You must see to that, as I have done.  I
gave large gifts to a fakir of great sanctity to declare that a spirit
had taken up his abode in the tree, and must on no account be
disturbed, though the people might bring offerings and venerate it from
below.  Should it fall, or be thrown down by a storm, you must at once
plant a seedling or a shoot from it in the same place, sheltering the
tender plant by mats let down from the top of the wall until it has
grown sufficiently to conceal the stone.  And now let us return.  Stay!
my friend has refused all the gifts that I would fain have heaped upon
him, until I offer him no more in the sight of men for fear of courting
further rebuffs.  Here no man sees us.  Will he then take with him one
of these bags of pearls, such as any prince might desire in vain to
buy, and any queen might wear?  What!  I have offended him again?  Say
no more, my friend; your ways are not as ours.  Even to my friend I
will not offer twice what he is too proud to take.  But come, for there
is more to be done to-night."

Gerrard rather wished it was not so as they retraced their steps
through the long passage and the lions' den back to the quiet garden
and the lotus-covered tank.  The deaf and dumb man was waiting, and
ferried them over, and on the terrace below the tower the Rajah bade
Gerrard leave the turban and robe he had been wearing, which he did
thankfully, for the night was hot.  Then, as he stood erect in his
white mess uniform in the moonlight, the old man laid his hands upon
his shoulders.

"O my friend, I have tried you with gold and with fear and with the
lust of power, and you have stood the test.  Now I am about to repose
such confidence in you as hardly one man of your race has known since
the world began.  You will come with me into the zenana, that the
mother of Kharrak Singh may know whom she is to trust.  This I do now,
that when I am dead, you may demand admittance as by right--the right I
confer upon you--and talk with her through the curtain, thus avoiding
the danger and delay of go-betweens."

Gerrard had felt a lurking fear more than once that this crowning proof
of confidence was to be conferred upon him, but had silenced his
uneasiness by reminding himself that such a thing was almost unheard
of.  One or two of those orientalised Europeans to whom the Rajah had
referred earlier in the evening had enjoyed the honour, as had one or
two British