The
 Advanced-Guard

 BY
 SYDNEY C. GRIER

 AUTHOR OF ‘HIS EXCELLENCY’S ENGLISH GOVERNESS,’
 ‘THE WARDEN OF THE MARCHES,’
 ETC., ETC.


 (_Third in the Modern East series_)


 _SHILLING EDITION_


 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 MCMXII
 _All Rights reserved_




 CONTENTS.

 I. LADY HAIGH’S KIND INTENTIONS
 II. THE AUTOCRAT
 III. A BLANK SHEET
 IV. UNSTABLE
 V. COLIN AS AMBASSADOR
 VI. MOUNTING IN HOT HASTE
 VII. EYE-WITNESS
 VIII. SEEING AND BELIEVING
 IX. COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION
 X. ARRAIGNED
 XI. JUSTIFIED
 XII. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
 XIII. THE DIE IS CAST
 XIV. INTO THE TERRIBLE LAND
 XV. A LAND OF DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW OF DEATH
 XVI. “ENGLAND’S FAR, AND HONOUR A NAME”
 XVII. THE STRENGTH OF TEN
 XVIII. THE ALLOTTED FIELD
 XIX. A WOUNDED SPIRIT
 XX. THE ISLE OF AVILION
 XXI. FIRE AND SWORD
 XXII. TAKEN BY SURPRISE
 XXIII. PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES
 XXIV. RAHMAT-ULLAH
 XXV. THE RIGHT PREVAILS
 XXVI. “FOR THINE AND THEE”
 XXVII. AFTER TOIL--TOIL STILL
 FOOTNOTES




 THE ADVANCED-GUARD.

 CHAPTER I.
 LADY HAIGH’S KIND INTENTIONS.

Fifty years ago the great port of Bab-us-Sahel was in its infancy.
The modern ranges of wharfs and breakwaters were represented by a
single half-finished pier, and vessels still discharged their
passengers and cargo a mile from shore, to the imminent peril of life
and property. The province of Khemistan had only recently come under
British rule, by an operation which was variously described as “the
most shameless piece of iniquity ever perpetrated,” and “the
inevitable working of the laws of right and justice”; and the
iron-willed, iron-handed old soldier who had perpetrated the iniquity
and superintended the working of the laws was determined to open up
the country from the river to the desert and beyond. His enemies were
numerous and loud-voiced and near at hand; his friends, with the
exception of his own subordinates, few and far away; but he had one
advantage more common in those days than these, a practically free
hand. Under “the execrable tyranny of a military despotism,” the
labour of pacification and the construction of public works went on
simultaneously, and although the Bombay papers shrieked themselves
hoarse in denouncing Sir Henry Lennox, and danced war-dances over his
presumably prostrate form, no one in Khemistan was a penny the
worse--a fact which did not tend to mollify the angry passions
concerned.

The wand of the Eastern enchanter was not in the possession of the
nineteenth-century empire-builder, even though he might be the great
little man whom the natives called the Padishah, and (under their
breath) the Brother of Satan; and despite the efforts of a small army
of engineers, the growth of the new seaport was but slow. Yet, though
the native town was still obnoxious to sight and smell, and the broad
roads of the symmetrically planned cantonments were ankle-deep in dust
and sometimes knee-deep in sand, there was one improvement to which
General Lennox had been obliged to postpone even his beloved
harbour-works, and this was the seaside drive, where his little colony
of exiles might meet and condole with one another in the cooler hours
of the day. Every one rode or drove there morning and evening,
exchanging the latest local gossip on ordinary occasions, and news
from home on the rare mail-days. It was most unusual to see a man not
in uniform in the drive, for mufti was a word which had no place in
the General’s vocabulary; and it was even whispered that his
well-known detestation of civilians sprang from the fact that he could
not arbitrarily clap them into scarlet tunics. As for the ladies,
their skirts were of a generous amplitude, although the crinoline
proper had not yet made its appearance; but instead of the close
bonnets universal in fashionable Europe, they wore lace and muslin
caps, as their ancestresses had done since the first Englishwoman
stepped ashore in India. The more thrifty-minded guarded their
complexions with native umbrellas of painted calico; but there were
few who did not exhibit one of the miniature parasols, very long in
the handle and very small in the circumference, which were usual at
home.

The one interest which all the promenaders had in common was the daily
recurring uncertainty whether General Lennox would take his ride late
or early. He never failed to put in an appearance and bestow paternal
greetings on his flock, who all knew him and each other, keeping a
vigilant eye open the while for any newly arrived subaltern who might
have broken his unwritten law; but when he was in good time he made a
kind of royal progress, saying a word or two to a man here and there,
and saluting each lady in turn with the noble courtesy which went out
with the last of the Peninsular heroes. He was specially early one
evening, able even to notice absentees, and he asked more than once
with some anxiety why Lady Haigh was not there--a question which
excited the wrathful contempt of ladies of higher official rank. Lady
Haigh was only a subaltern’s wife, in spite of her title; but she was
amusing, a quality which has its attractions for a grizzled warrior
burdened with many responsibilities. However, one lady was able to
tell him that Sir Dugald Haigh had only just come in with Major
Keeling from their trip up-country, and another added that she
believed a friend of Lady Haigh’s had arrived that morning by the
steamer,--there was only one steamer that plied between Bombay and
Bab-us-Sahel,--and the General was satisfied. Life and death were not
so widely separated in Bab-us-Sahel as in more favoured places; and it
happened not unfrequently that a man might be riding in the drive one
evening, and be carried to his grave the next.

The Haighs’ house stood on the outskirts of the cantonments. It was a
small white-washed bungalow, remarkable for the extreme neatness of
its compound, and the pathetic attempts at gardening which were
evident wherever any shade might be hoped for. Very widely did it
differ from its nearest neighbour, a rambling, tumble-down cluster of
buildings inhabited by a riotous colony of bachelors, who were
popularly alleged to ride all day and drink all night. In view of the
amount of work exacted by Sir Henry Lennox from all his subordinates,
this was obviously an exaggeration; but the patch of unreclaimed
desert which surrounded Bachelors’ Hall, its broken fences, and the
jagged heaps of empty bottles here and there, distinguished it
sufficiently from the little domain where Sir Dugald and Lady Haigh
were conducting what their friends considered a very risky matrimonial
experiment. The festive young gentlemen next door lavished a good deal
of wonder and pity (as upon a harmless lunatic) upon Sir Dugald. That
a man who was hampered by a title and an unproductive Scotch estate
should let the latter and carry the former into the Indian army, where
it would array all his superiors against him as one man, instead of
remaining at home and using title and estate as a bait for an heiress,
was strange enough. But that he should proceed further to defy the
opinion of those in authority by bringing out a wife--and a plain
wife, without money and with a tongue (the bachelors had learnt
through an indiscreet lady friend that the bride had dubbed their
cheerful establishment “Beer and Skittles”)--seemed to show that he
must be absolutely mad. Lady Haigh’s relations, on the other hand,
regarded her marriage with trembling joy. Girls with aspirations after
higher education were fewer in those days than these, and perplexed
families did not know how to deal with them. By sheer hard fighting
Elma Wargrave had won leave to study at the newly founded Queen’s
College, but her family breathed a sigh of relief when, after less
than a year’s work, she announced that she was going to marry Sir
Dugald Haigh, whom she had met on a vacation visit. Whatever Elma
might take it into her head to do in the future, her husband and not
her parents would be responsible, and it would happen at a distance of
some thousands of miles. The baronetcy was an undeniable fact, and
there was no need to obtrude on people’s attention the other fact that
the bridegroom was merely a subaltern in the Company’s artillery.
Hence, when the wedding had safely taken place, the parents allowed
themselves to rejoice more and tremble less, only hoping that poor Sir
Dugald would not find he had undertaken more than he could manage. It
would have surprised them a good deal to learn that never until this
particular evening had the Haighs known even the semblance of a
serious disagreement. Lady Haigh had taken her young husband’s
measure, and adapted herself to it with a cleverness which was really
heroic in the case of a high-spirited, quick-tempered girl; and since
her arrival in Khemistan had been wont to assure herself that “after
the voyage, one could be angelic anywhere.”

Perhaps she saw reason to repent of this hasty assurance just now, as
she sat facing her husband across a table littered with letters and
papers which had formed part of the mail brought that morning by the
steamer. Sir Dugald, a small fair man, with the colourless skin which
becomes parchment-like instead of red under the influence of an
Eastern sun, was still buttoned up in his uniform,--a fact of itself
not calculated to improve his temper,--and punctuated his remarks by
swinging one spurred heel rhythmically to and fro as he leaned back in
his chair. His wife had rushed out to welcome him and pour her story
into his ear in the same breath the moment that he dismounted after a
long and dusty march; and he could not but be conscious that her
muslin gown was tumbled and not of the freshest, her neck-ribbon awry,
and her ringlets in disorder. Those ringlets were in themselves a
cause for irritation. Elma Wargrave had worn her hair in severe bands
of unassuming hideousness, but soon after her marriage Elma Haigh had
horrified her husband by adopting ringlets, which were singularly
unbecoming to her pleasant, homely face, under the delusion that he
liked them. It cost Sir Dugald a good deal to refrain from proclaiming
his abhorrence of the change which had been made for his sake; but he
was a just man, and even at this moment of tension did his best not to
allow his mind to be prejudiced by the obnoxious curls.

“Surely you must see,” he was saying with studied moderation, “that
you have placed me in a most unpleasant position? What if Ferrers
should call me out?”

“I should like to see him do it!” was the uncompromising reply. “I
should just go and tell the General, and get him arrested.”

Sir Dugald sighed patiently. “But look at it for a moment from
Ferrers’ point of view, Elma. He is engaged to this friend of yours,
Miss Andromache--what’s her name? Penelope?--and waiting for her to
come out. She comes out quite ready to marry him,--trousseau and
wedding-cake and all,--and you meet her at the steamer and tell her
such things about him that she breaks off the whole thing on the spot,
without so much as giving him a chance to clear himself.”

“He drinks, he gambles, he is in the hands of the money-lenders,” said
Lady Haigh tersely. “Was she to marry him in ignorance?”

“I don’t for a moment say it isn’t true. But if a man had done such a
thing he would have been called a brute and a low cad. I suppose a
woman can go and dash all a poor girl’s hopes, and separate her from
her lover, and still be considered a friend to her?”

“But he wasn’t her lover, and it was her fears, not her hopes, that I
put an end to.”

“My dear Elma!” Sir Dugald’s eyebrows went up.

“She didn’t love him,” persisted Lady Haigh. “Of course it sounds
horrid as you put it, but when you know the circumstances you will say
that I couldn’t possibly have let it go on. Penelope and Colin used to
know Captain Ferrers when they were children. He lived near them, and
their father was very kind to him, and used to get him out of scrapes
about once a-week. Ferrers was fond of the children, and they adored
him. When he went to India, Penelope can’t have been more than
fourteen, but he asked her if she would marry him when he came home. I
can’t imagine that he took it seriously, but she did; at any rate, she
felt bound by it. A romantic child of that age, with a brother as
romantic as herself to keep her up to it--of course she dreamed of him
continually. But he scarcely ever wrote to her father, and never to
her, and as she grew older she left off thinking about him. Then her
father died, and she went to live with her uncle in London while Colin
was at Addiscombe. That was when I used to meet her at the College.
Why, she never even told me she was engaged! Of course, I didn’t know
her very well, but well enough to have heard that. And since we came
out her uncle died, and her aunt and cousins didn’t want her. She’s
too handsome, you know. And Colin wanted her to come out with him--did
I tell you they were twins, and absolutely devoted?--but the aunt said
it wasn’t proper, until Colin remembered that old foolishness with
Ferrers, and at once--oh, it was the most delightful and suitable and
convenient plan that could possibly be devised! They had the grace not
to thrust her on Ferrers unprepared, but Colin wrote to him to say he
was bringing her out by the Overland, and poor Pen wrote to me--and
both letters were lost when the _Nuncomar_ went down! It was only with
dreadful misgivings that Penelope had consented to the plan, and she
got more and more miserable when they found no letters at Alexandria
or Aden or Bombay. When they arrived here this morning, and still
there were no letters and no Ferrers, she made Colin come to me,
though he wanted to go and hunt up Ferrers, and I brought her up here
at once, and settled matters.”

“And may I ask how you managed that?”

“I told her the sort of reputation Ferrers bears here, and how, after
the way they were keeping it up next door last night, he could not
have been down at the steamer even if he had got the letter, and then
I sent to ask him to come and see me.”

“Slightly high-handed. But go on.”

“You needn’t pity him. I am sure in his heart he regards me as his
dearest friend. I never saw a man so horrified in my life as when I
told him that Miss Ross was here. He was positively relieved when I
said that from what Miss Ross had learnt of his circumstances, she was
sure he had no intention of claiming the promise she gave him in her
childhood, and she hoped they would meet as friends, nothing more. He
was really thankful, Dugald.”

Sir Dugald allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “Possibly. But
surely the right thing would have been to help the poor wretch to pull
himself together, and reform him generally, and let her marry him and
keep him straight? That would have been a triumph.”

“Let him reform first, and then get her to marry him if he can,”
snapped Lady Haigh. “Would you have let a sister of yours marry him?”

“Not if I could help it. But you will allow me to remark that a sister
of mine would have had a home open to her here, instead of being
thrown upon a brother as young as herself who knows nothing of the
place and its ways, and who is coming up-country with us next month.”

“Oh, of course I offered her a home with us,” said Lady Haigh, with
outward calmness, but inward trepidation.

Sir Dugald’s eyebrows were slowly raised again. “You offered her a
home with us? Then of course there is no more to be said.”

He drew his chair nearer the table, and from the mass of papers
selected a book-packet from the ends of which a familiar green wrapper
protruded. Opening the parcel carefully with the paper-knife, he threw
away the cover, and settled down with an anticipatory smile to enjoy
his monthly instalment of Dickens. But he had gone too far. Anger Lady
Haigh had expected, to his deliberate movements she was slowly growing
accustomed, but that smile was intolerable. She leaned across the
table, and snatched the serial from his hand.

“Dugald, I will not have you so rude! Of course I want to talk things
over with you.”

“My dear Elma, what is there to talk over? In some miraculous way you
have overcome the Chief’s objections to ladies on the frontier, and
got leave to bring Miss Ross up with you. Anything that I could say
would only spoil your excellent arrangements.”

“But I haven’t seen Major Keeling. How could I, when he only came back
with you? And I haven’t got his leave. I want you to do that.”

“No,” said Sir Dugald resolutely. “I had enough to do with getting
leave for you to come to Alibad, and I am not going to presume upon
it. The Chief will think I want to cry off.”

“Then I’ll ask him myself,” recklessly. “I’m not in abject terror of
your great Major Keeling. He’s only a good man spoilt for want of a
wife.”

Lady Haigh meant to be irritating, and she succeeded, for her husband
had told her over and over again that such a view was purely and
hopelessly feminine. Sir Dugald threw down the paper-knife with a
clatter, and drew back his chair as if to leave the room.

“If I can’t get him to do it,” she pursued meditatively, “I’ll--let me
see----”

“Appeal to Cæsar--otherwise the General, I suppose? That seems to be
your favourite plan.”

“Oh dear, no; certainly not. I shall make Penelope ask Major Keeling
herself.”

“Now, Elma!” Sir Dugald detected something dangerous in the tone of
his wife’s remark. “That’s no good. Just let the Chief alone. He isn’t
the man to give in to anything of the kind.”

Lady Haigh seemed impressed, though perhaps she was only thinking
deeply, and her husband, instead of resting on his prophetic laurels,
unwisely descended to argument.

“He’s not a marrying man; and to go throwing your friend at his head
is merely lowering her in his eyes. He would see it in a moment.”

“My dear Dugald!”--Lady Haigh awoke from a brown study--“what
extraordinary things you are saying! I haven’t the slightest intention
of throwing Penelope at any one’s head. It’s really vulgar to suspect
every woman that comes near him of designs on Major Keeling.”

“Then why do you want to take Miss Ross up with us?”

“Because I am her only friend in India, of course. I wish you wouldn’t
put such thoughts into my head, Dugald,” plaintively. “Now if anything
should come to pass, I shall always feel that I have helped in
bringing it on, and I do hate match-making.”

“But you said she was handsome,” objected the discomfited husband.

“Well, and is Major Keeling the only unmarried man in the world? Why,
Captain Ferrers is coming up to Alibad too.”

“So he is. By the bye, didn’t you say he hadn’t seen her since she was
a child? My word, Elma, he will have a crow to pluck with you when he
finds what you have robbed him of.”

“I haven’t robbed him,” said Lady Haigh serenely. “I have only kept
him from taking an unfair advantage of Penelope’s inexperience. He may
win her yet. He shall have a fair field and no favour. He is coming
here to-night.”

“Oh, that’s your idea of a fair field, is it? No favour, certainly.”

“Of course I want them to meet under my eye, until I see whether there
is any hope of his reforming.”

“Well, we shall be a nice little family party on the frontier.”

“Shan’t we? Let me see, Major Keeling is going because he is the
heaven-sent leader, and you because you fought your guns so well at
Umarganj, and I because you got leave for me. Colin Ross is going
because his father was an old friend of Major Keeling’s, Ferrers
because the General begged Major Keeling to take him as the only
chance of keeping him out of mischief, and Penelope is going because I
am going to ask leave for her.”

“Don’t you hope you may get it? Well, if you have no more thunderbolts
to launch, I’ll go and get into some cooler things.”




 CHAPTER II.
 THE AUTOCRAT.

There was a little informal gathering at the Haighs’ that evening.
People often dropped in after dinner for some music, for Lady Haigh
had actually brought her piano (without which no self-respecting bride
then left her native land) up to Bab-us-Sahel with her. True, it had
been necessary to float it ashore in its case; but it was unanimously
agreed that its tone had not suffered in the very least. To-night
there was the additional attraction that Lady Haigh had staying with
her a handsome girl just out from home, who was understood, from the
report of the other passengers on the steamer, to play the guitar and
sing like an angel. Lady Haigh herself had no love for music whatever,
and in these days public opinion would have forbidden her to touch an
instrument; but she did her duty as hostess by rattling off one of the
dashing, crashing compositions of the day, and then thankfully left
her guest to bear the burden of the entertainment. The ring of eager
listeners that surrounded Penelope Ross, demanding one song after
another, made her feel that she was justified in so doing; and after
she had seen the obnoxious Captain Ferrers enter, and satisfied
herself that he perceived too late what a treasure he had lightly
thrown away, she slipped out on the verandah to think over the task
she had rashly set herself in her contest with her husband. How was
Major Keeling, who hated women, and had merely been induced to condone
Lady Haigh’s own existence because he had asked for Sir Dugald’s
services without knowing he was married, to be persuaded to allow
Penelope to accompany her to Alibad?

“I know he is dining at Government House to-night,” she reflected
forlornly, “or I might have asked him to come in for some music. But
then he would have been just as likely to send a _chit_ to say that he
disliked music. Men who hate women are such bears! And if I ask him to
dinner another night, he will see through it as soon as he finds
Penelope is here. And yet I must get things settled at once, or
Penelope will think she is unwelcome, and Colin will persuade her to
do something quixotic and detestable--marry Ferrers, or go out as a
governess, or---- Why, surely----”

She ran to the edge of the verandah, and peered across the parched
compound to the road. Above the feeble hedge of milk-bush she could
see the head and shoulders of a horseman, of the very man with whom
her thoughts were busy. The shock of black hair and short full beard
made Major Keeling unmistakable at a time when beards were few,
although there was no “regulation” military cut or arrangement of the
hair. The fiercest-looking officer in Lady Haigh’s drawing-room at
this moment, whose heavy moustache and truculent whiskers gave him the
air of a swashbuckler, or at least of a member of Queen Cristina’s
Foreign Legion, was a blameless Engineer of strong Evangelical
principles. Lady Haigh saw at once the state of the case. The
gathering at Government House had broken up at the early hour exacted
by Lady Lennox, who was a vigilant guardian of her warrior’s health,
and Major Keeling was whiling away the time by a moonlight ride before
returning to his quarters. To summon one of the servants, and send him
flying to stop the Major Sahib and ask him to come and speak to Lady
Haigh, was the work of a moment; for though Major Keeling might be a
woman-hater, he had never yet rebelled against the sway which his
subordinate’s wife established as by right over all the men around
her, for their good. Lady Haigh disliked the idea of putting her
influence to the test in this way, for if Major Keeling refused to
yield there could be nothing but war between them in future; but the
matter was urgent.

“You wanted to speak to me, Lady Haigh?” Major Keeling had dismounted,
and was coming up the steps, looking almost gigantic in the
picturesque full-dress uniform of the Khemistan Horse.

“I want you to do a kindness,” she responded, rather breathlessly.

“I know what that means. I am to break a rule, or relax an order, or
in some other way go against my better judgment.”

“I--I want you to let me bring a friend of mine to Alibad with me.”

Major Keeling’s brow darkened. “I knew this would come. You assured me
you could stand the isolation, but I knew better. Of course you want
female society; it is quite natural you should. But you professed to
understand that on the frontier you couldn’t have it.”

“Not society--just this one girl,” pleaded Lady Haigh.

“Who is she? a sister of yours or Haigh’s?”

“No relation to either of us. She is Mr Ross’s sister--your old
friend’s daughter--an orphan, and all alone.”

“Engaged to any one who is going with me?”

“No--o.” The negative, doubtful at first, became definite. “I won’t
say a word about Ferrers, even to get him to let her come,” was Lady
Haigh’s resolute determination.

“Then she can’t come.”

“Oh, Major Keeling! And if I had said she was engaged, you would have
said that the man would be always wasting his time dangling round
her.”

“But as she isn’t, the whole force would waste their time dangling
round her,” was the crushing reply. “No, Lady Haigh, we have no use
for young ladies on the frontier. It will be work, not play.”

“Play! Do you think a girl with that face wants to spend her life in
playing?” demanded Lady Haigh, very much in the tone with which she
had once been wont to crush her family. “Look there!”

She drew him to the open window of the drawing-room and made him look
through the reed curtain. The light fell full on Penelope’s face as
she sang, and Lady Haigh felt that the beholder was impressed.

“What’s that she’s singing?” he growled. “‘County Guy’? Scott? There’s
some good in her, at any rate.”

Lady Haigh forbore to resent the slighting imputation, and Major
Keeling remained watching the singer through the curtain. Penelope’s
contemporaries considered her tall and queenly, though she would now
be thought decidedly under middle height. Her dark hair was dressed in
a graceful old fashion which had almost gone out before the combined
assault of bands and ringlets,--raised high on the head, divided in
front, and slightly waved on the temples,--a style which by rights
demanded an oval face and classical features as its complement. Judged
by this standard, Penelope might have been found wanting, for her
features were at once stronger and less regular than the classical
ideal; but the grey eyes beneath the broad low brow disarmed
criticism, they were so large and deep and calm, save when they were
lighted, as now, by the fire of the ballad she was singing. Those were
days when a white dress and coloured ribbons were considered the only
evening wear for a young girl; and Penelope wore a vivid scarlet sash,
with knots of scarlet catching up her airy white draperies, and a
scarlet flower in her hair. As Major Keeling stood looking at her,
Lady Haigh caught a murmur which at once astonished and delighted her.

“That is a woman who would help a man--not drag him back.” Then,
apparently realising that he had spoken aloud, he added hastily, “Yes,
yes, as you say. But who’s the man with the unlucky face?”

His finger indicated a tall thin youth who stood behind the singer.
The face was a remarkable one, thin and hawklike, with a high forehead
and closely compressed lips. The hair and small moustache were fair
and reddish in tint, the eyes grey, with a curious look of aloofness
instead of the keenness that would have seemed to accord with the rest
of the features.

“That? Why, that’s Colin Ross, Penelope’s brother. What is there
unlucky about him?”

“Oh, nothing--merely a look. Her brother, do you say?”

“Yes, her twin brother. But what look do you mean? Oh, you must tell
me, Major Keeling, or I shall tell Penelope that you say her brother
has an unlucky face.”

“You will do nothing of the kind. Hush! don’t attract their attention.
I can’t explain it: I have seen it in several men--not many,
fortunately--and it has always meant an early and violent death.”

“But this is pure superstition!” cried Lady Haigh. “And, after all, he
is a soldier.”

“Call it superstition if you like: I only speak of what I know, and I
would not have spoken if you had not compelled me. And there are worse
deaths than a soldier’s. One of the men I speak of was poisoned, one
was murdered in Ethiopia, one was lost in the _Nuncomar_. That’s how
it goes. What sort of man is young Ross?”

“Very serious, I believe,” answered Lady Haigh. The word still had its
cant meaning, which would now be expressed by “religious.”

“So much the better for him. I can trust you to say nothing to his
sister about this?”

“Now, is it likely? But the least you can do now is to let her come
with us. His twin sister! you couldn’t have the heart to separate them
when he may have such dreadful things before him?”

“How would it be better if she were there?” he asked gloomily; but, as
if by a sudden impulse, parted the curtain and advanced into the room.
Penelope, her song ended, was toying with the knot of scarlet ribbons
attached to the guitar, while her hearers were trying to decide upon
the next song, when the group was divided by the abrupt entrance of a
huge man, as it seemed to her, in extraordinary clothes. It struck her
as remarkable that every man in the room seemed to stiffen into
attention at the moment, and she rose hesitatingly, wondering whether
this could possibly be Sir Henry Lennox.

“Do me the honour to present me, Lady Haigh,” said the stranger, in a
deep voice which seemed to be subdued for the occasion.

“Major Keeling, Miss Ross,” said Lady Haigh promptly. She was enjoying
herself.

“I hear you wish to come up to Alibad with us,” said Major Keeling
abruptly. “Can you ride?”

“Yes, I am very fond of it.”

“I don’t mean trotting along an English road. Can you ride on through
the sand hour after hour, so as to keep up with the column, and not
complain? Complaints would mean that you would go no farther.”

“I can promise I won’t complain. If I feel I can’t stick on my horse
any longer, I will get some one to tie me into the saddle.” Penelope
smiled slightly. This catechism was not without its humorous side.

“Can you cut down your baggage to regulation limits? Let me see, what
did I promise you, Lady Haigh? A camel? Well, half that. Can you do
with a camel between you?”

“I think so.” Penelope was conscious of Lady Haigh’s face of agony.

“You must, if you come. Can you do what you are told?”

“I--I believe so. I generally do.”

“If you get orders to leave Alibad in an hour, can you forsake
everything, and be ready for the march? That’s what I mean. If I find
it necessary to send you down, go you must. Can you make yourself
useful? Oh, I daresay you can do pretty things like most young ladies,
but can you put yourself at the surgeon’s disposal after a fight, and
be some good?”

“I would try,” said Penelope humbly. It was before Miss Nightingale’s
days, and the suggestion sounded very strange to her. Major Keeling
stood looking at her, until his black brows relaxed suddenly.

“All right, you can come,” he said. “And,” he added, as he left the
room, “I’ll allow you a camel apiece after all.”



“What an interesting-looking man Major Keeling is!” said Penelope to
her friend the next morning.

“Some people think so. I don’t particularly admire that kind of
swarthy picturesqueness myself,” was the meditative answer. “I won’t
praise him to her on any account,” said Lady Haigh to herself.

“It’s not that so much as his look and his voice. Don’t you know----”

“Why, you are as bad as the girls at Bombay. One of them told me they
all perfectly doated on dear Major Keeling; he was just like a dear
delightful bandit in an opera.”

“Really, Elma!” Penelope’s graceful head was lifted with dignity, and
Lady Haigh, foreseeing a coolness, hastened to make amends.

“I was only in fun. We don’t doat, do we, Pen? or gush, or anything of
that sort. But it was only the happiest chance his letting you come
with us. If he had caught you singing Tennyson, or your dear Miss
Barrett--Mrs Browning, is it? what does it signify?--there would have
been no hope for you. But it happened to be Scott, and that conquered
him at once. They say he knows all the poems by heart, and recites
them before a battle. Dugald heard him doing it at Umarganj, at any
rate. The troopers like it, because they think he is muttering spells
to discomfit the enemy. Isn’t it romantic?”

“How funny!” was Penelope’s disappointing comment.

“He was very fond of Byron once, but he has given him up for
conscience’ sake,” pursued Lady Haigh.

“For conscience’ sake?”

“Yes; Byron was a man of immoral life, and his works are not fit for a
Christian’s reading.”

“He must be a very good man, I suppose. I shouldn’t have guessed----”

“That he was good? No; he might be mysteriously wicked, from his
looks, mightn’t he? But I believe he is really good, and he has the
most extraordinary influence over the natives. Dugald was telling me
last night that at Alibad they seemed inclined to receive him as a
saint--as if his reputation had gone before him, you know. He never
drinks anything but water, for one thing; and he doesn’t dance, and he
never speaks to a lady if he can help it---- Oh, Pen, were you very
much astonished by the catechism he put you through last night?”

“Yes,” admitted Penelope. “He asked me such strange things, and in
such a solemn voice. I should have liked time to think before
answering.”

“Well, it was nothing to what he asked me. I had to promise never to
keep Dugald back--or even to try to--from anything he was ordered to
do. Wasn’t it barbarous? You see, in that fight at Umarganj Dugald had
got his guns up just in time to take part, and they decided the
battle. Major Keeling was so pleased that he said at once, ‘We must
have you at Alibad,’ and of course Dugald was delighted. But when the
Chief found out he was married he almost refused to take him, for he
had sworn he would have no ladies on the frontier. And there was I,
who had said over and over again that I would never stand between
Dugald and his chances! It really looked like a romantic suicide,
leaving pathetic letters to break the cruel Major’s heart, didn’t it?
But Sir Henry Lennox interceded for me, and I told Major Keeling I
would promise anything if he would only let us both go. And now I wake
up at night dreaming that the Chief has ordered Dugald to certain
death, and I mustn’t say a word, and I lie there sobbing, or shaking
with terror, until Dugald hears me, and asks me why I don’t control my
imagination. That’s what husbands are. What with keeping them in a
good temper when they are there, and missing them when they are away,
one has no peace. Don’t invest in one, Pen.”

“I have no intention of doing it--at any rate at present. But,
Elma----”

“Of course I mean it all depends on your getting the right man.” Lady
Haigh was uncomfortably conscious that she might one day wish to
explain away her last remark. “Only find him, and he shall have you
with my blessing. Pen, did you notice anything about Major Keeling’s
eyes? I mean”--she went on, talking quickly to cover her sudden
realisation that the transition must have appeared somewhat abrupt to
Penelope--“did he seem to be able to read your mind? The natives
believe that he can, and say that he can tell when a man is a spy
simply by looking at him. He seems to have funny ideas, too, about
being able to foretell a person’s fate from his face. He was very much
struck by--at least”--she blundered on, conscious that she was getting
deeper and deeper into the mire--“he said something last night about
Colin’s having a very remarkable face.”

“Oh dear, I hope he hasn’t second-sight! Colin has it sometimes, and
if two of them get together they’ll encourage one another in it,” said
Penelope wearily. “Colin is not quite sure about its being right, so
he never tries to use it, but sometimes---- Oh, Elma, I must tell you,
and I’m afraid you won’t like it at all. Colin was here before
breakfast, and talked to me a long time about George Ferrers. I think
they had been having a ride together.”

“Colin ought to know better than to have anything to do with Ferrers.
He will get no good from him.”

“Why, Elma, he has always been so devoted to him, and George used to
seem quite different when he was with us. Colin is terribly grieved
about what you--I--did yesterday. He says it was very wrong to break
off the engagement altogether, that I was quite right not to marry
George at once, but that I ought to have put him on probation, giving
him every possible hope for the future.”

“I think I see you putting Captain Ferrers on probation,” said Lady
Haigh grimly, recalling her brief interview with the gentleman in
question. “He would be the last person to stand it, however much he
might wish to marry you----” She broke off suddenly.

“But, Elma, he does,” said Penelope piteously, understanding the “But
he doesn’t” which her friend suppressed for the sake of her feelings.
“That’s the worst of it. He told Colin that he was so taken aback, and
felt himself so utterly unworthy, when you told him I was here, that
he felt the best thing for my happiness was to break off the
engagement at once. But when he came in in the evening, and saw us
both again, and heard the old songs, he felt he had thrown away his
only chance of doing better. Colin always seems to bring out the best
in him, you know, and----”

“Do you know what happened as soon as he had said good night to you?”
asked Lady Haigh coldly. “He was beating one of his servants, who had
made a mistake about bringing his horse, so frightfully that Dugald
had to go and interfere. He said to me when he came back that it was a
comfort to think Ferrers would get a knife into him if he tried that
sort of thing on the frontier.”

“But doesn’t that show what a terrible temper poor George has, and how
hard it must be for him to control it?” cried Penelope. “He says he
feels he should just go straight to the dogs if we took away all hope
from him. I know it’s very wrong of him to say it, but I dare not take
the responsibility, Elma. And Colin says he has always had such a very
strong feeling that in some way or other George’s eternal welfare was
bound up with him or me, or both of us, and so----”

“Now I call that profane,” was the crushing reply. “Oh, I know Colin
would cheerfully sacrifice you or himself, or both of you, as you say,
for the sake of saving any one, and much more George Ferrers, but it
doesn’t lie with him. What if he sacrifices you and doesn’t save
Ferrers? But I know it’s no good talking. Colin will take his own
course in his own meek unbending way, and drag you after him. But I
won’t countenance it, at any rate. What has he got you to do?”

“I know it’s my fault,” sobbed Penelope, “and I must seem dreadfully
ungrateful after all your kindness. I had been so miserable about
George’s silence, that when you told me about him yesterday I felt I
had known it all along, and that it was really a relief the blow had
fallen. And when you said he quite agreed that it was best to break
off the engagement, a weight seemed to be taken off my mind. Of course
I ought to have seen him myself--not shuffled off my responsibilities
on you, and found out what he really felt, so as to keep him from
sacrificing himself for me, and----”

“Stuff and nonsense!” ejaculated Lady Haigh, very loudly and firmly.
“Penelope, will you kindly leave off reproaching yourself and me, and
tell me what the state of affairs is at present between you and George
Ferrers? You don’t care a rap for him; but because he says he can’t
take care of himself without a woman to help him, you are afraid to
tell him that he is a coward to try to thrust his burden off on you.
Are you engaged?”

“No,” explained Penelope; “Colin did not wish that. It is only--only
if he keeps straight, as he calls it, at Alibad, we are to be engaged
again.”

“And suppose you fall in love with some one else?”

“Elma! how could I? We are practically engaged, of course.”

“Not at all,” said Lady Haigh briskly. “You are under my charge, and I
refuse to recognise anything of the kind. Until you’re engaged again
Ferrers is no more to you than any of the other men, and I won’t have
him hanging about. Why”--reading a protest in Penelope’s face--“what
good would it be putting him on probation if he had all the privileges
of a _fiancé_? And nothing is to be said about it, Penelope. I simply
will not have it.”

“I only want to do what is right,” said Penelope, subdued by her
friend’s authoritative tone. “As you say, it will be a truer test for
him if he does not come here often.”

“Trust me to see to that. And Master Colin shall have a good piece of
my mind,” said Lady Haigh resolutely.




 CHAPTER III.
 A BLANK SHEET.

A description in detail of the journey from Bab-us-Sahel to the
frontier would be as wearisome to the reader as the journey itself was
to the travellers. Lady Haigh and Penelope learned to remain
resolutely in the saddle for hours after they had determined that
human nature could do no more than slip off helplessly on the sand,
and they discovered also how remarkably little in the way of luxuries
one camel could carry when it was already loaded with bedding and
camp-furniture. They found that there was not much to choose, so far
as comfort was concerned, between the acknowledged desert, diversified
by sand-storms and mirages, and the so-called forests, where trees
above and bushes below were alike as dry as tinder, and a spark
carelessly dropped might have meant death to the whole party. An
interlude in the shape of a river-voyage might have seemed to promise
better things, but the small flat-bottomed steamers were cramped and
hot, incredibly destitute of conveniences, and perversely given to
running aground in spots where they had to remain until a levy had
been made on the neighbouring population to drag them off. Scenery
there was none, save banks of mud, for the river ran high above the
level of the country through which it flowed; and it was with positive
relief that the travellers disembarked at a little mud settlement
embowered in date-palms, and prepared for a further ride. A fresh
trial was awaiting Lady Haigh here in the shape of a peremptory order
to Sir Dugald to push on at once to Alibad by forced marches, leaving
the ladies to follow quietly under the care of the regimental surgeon.
Major Keeling, with a portion of his regiment and the little band of
picked men he had gathered together to help him administer his
district, had preceded the Haighs’ party, travelling as fast as
possible; and now it seemed as if his restless energy had involved him
already in hostilities with the wild tribes. Lady Haigh turned very
white as she bade her husband farewell; but she made no attempt to
hold him back, and he rode away into the sand-clouds with his two or
three horsemen. She would have liked to follow him as fast as
possible; but Dr Tarleton, a dark taciturn man, remarkable for nothing
but an absolute devotion to Major Keeling, had his orders, and meant
to obey them. He had been told to conduct the ladies quietly to
Alibad, and quietly they should go, taking proper rest, and not
pushing on faster than his medical judgment allowed. The desert was
even drier, hotter, and less inhabited than that between Bab-us-Sahel
and the river, and to the travellers it seemed unending. Of course
they suffered torments from prickly heat, and became unrecognisable
through the attacks of mosquitoes; and Lady Haigh’s ringlets worried
her so much that nothing but the thought of her husband’s
disappointment restrained her from cutting them off altogether. As the
distance from Alibad became less, however, her spirits seemed to
revive, though this was not due to any special charm in the locality.
Even Penelope was astonished at the interest and vivacity with which
her friend contemplated and remarked upon a stretch of desert which
looked like nothing so much as a sea of shifting mud, with a small
group of mud-built huts clustering round a mud-built fort, like shoals
about a sandbank, and a range of mud-coloured hills rising above it on
the left. No trees, no water, no European buildings: decidedly Alibad,
sweltering in the glaring sun, did not look a promising abode. Sir
Dugald must be very delightful indeed if his presence could render
such a place even tolerable. And why had he not come to meet his wife?

“Look there!” cried Lady Haigh suddenly. “What’s that?”

She pointed with her whip to the desert on the right of the town. A
cloud of dust, followed by another somewhat smaller, seemed to be
leaving the neighbourhood of the fort and the huts at a tremendous
pace, crossing the route of the travellers at right angles.

“I think it must be one man chasing another,” suggested Penelope,
whose eyes had by this time become accustomed to the huge dust-clouds
raised by even a single horseman.

“Not quite, Miss Ross,” said Dr Tarleton, with a grim chuckle. “That’s
the Chief taking his constitutional, with his orderly trying to keep
up with him. There!”--as a patch of harder ground made a break in the
cloud of dust--“you can see him now. Look there, though! something is
wrong. He’s riding without any cap or helmet, and that means things
are very contrary indeed. It would kill any other man, but he can
stand it in these moods, though I got him to promise not to run such
risks. Look out!”

He checked his horse sharply, for the two riders came thundering
across the path, evidently without seeing those who were so near
them--Major Keeling with his hair blowing out on the wind and his face
distorted with anger, the orderly urging his pony to its utmost speed
to keep up with the Commandant’s great black horse.

“Don’t be frightened. He’ll work it off in that way,” said the doctor
soothingly to his two charges. “When you see him next, he’ll be as
mild as milk, but it’s as well not to come in his way just now. Look,
Lady Haigh! isn’t that your husband coming?”

It was indeed Sir Dugald who rode up, spick and span in a cool white
suit, but with a worried look about his eyes which did not fade for
some time. “You look rather subdued,” he remarked, when the first
greetings had been exchanged. “I am afraid Alibad isn’t all you
expected it?”

“Why, it’s perfectly charming!” cried Lady Haigh hurriedly. “So--so
unique!”

Sir Dugald turned to Penelope. “I shall get the truth from you, Miss
Ross. Has Elma been horribly depressed?”

“Not at all. In fact, I wondered what made her so cheerful.”

“Ah, I thought so. Sort of place that there’s some credit in being
jolly in--eh, Mrs Mark Tapley? Whenever I find Elma in uproariously
good spirits, I know she is utterly miserable, and trying to spare my
feelings. Wish I had the gift of cheerfulness. The Chief has been
biting our heads off all round this morning.”

“Yes, we saw him. What is the matter with him?” cried Lady Haigh and
Penelope together.

“Well, it’s a good thing you ladies didn’t run across him just now.
You’ve defeated one of his most cherished schemes. He meant to blow up
the fort and use the materials for housebuilding, but he was kind
enough to remember that either tents or mud huts would be fairly
uncomfortable for you, so he spared the old place until we could get a
roof over our heads. But meanwhile the Government heard of his
intention, and forbade him to destroy such an interesting relic, so
the new canal has to make a big bend, and all his plans are thrown
out. And as if that wasn’t enough, in comes a _cossid_ [messenger]
this morning with letters from Sir Henry, hinting that his differences
with the Government are so acute that he feels he’ll be forced to
resign, and then we are safe to have a wretched civilian over us. Of
course the Chief feels it, and we’ve felt it too.”

“Poor Major Keeling! I feel quite guilty,” said Lady Haigh.

“Oh, you needn’t. You’ll have a crow to pluck with him when I tell you
why he sent me that order to hurry on from the river. It was simply
and solely to test you--to see if you would keep your promise. If you
had protested and raised a storm, Tarleton had orders to pack you both
down-stream again immediately.”

“Really! To lay traps for one in that way!” Indignation choked Lady
Haigh’s utterance, and she rode on in wrathful silence while her
husband pointed out to Penelope the line of the projected roads and
canals, now only indicated by rows of stakes, the young trees just
planted in sheltered spots, and carefully fenced in against goats and
firewood-seekers, and the rising walls or mere foundations of various
large buildings. Crossing an open space, dotted with the dark tents
and squabbling children of a wandering tribe of gipsy origin, they
rode in at the gateway of the fort, where the great doors hung idly
against the wall, unguarded even by a sentry. Sir Dugald helped the
ladies to dismount, and led them into the first of a range of lofty,
thick-walled rooms, freshly white-washed.

“You’ll be in clover here,” he said. “The heat in the tents is like
nothing on earth. The Chief is a perfect salamander; but your brother,
Miss Ross, has been living under his table with a wet quilt over it,
and I have scooped out a burrow for myself in the ground under my
tent. Porter” (the Engineer officer already mentioned) “makes his boy
pour water over him every night when he goes to bed, so as to get an
hour or so of coolness. By the bye, Elma, the Chief and Ross and
Tarleton are coming to dine with us to-night.”

“Dugald!” cried Lady Haigh, in justifiable indignation. “That man will
be the death of me! To dine, when there is no time to get any food,
and the servants haven’t come up, and there isn’t any furniture!”

“Well, perhaps I ought to say that we are to dine with him up here. He
provides the food, and we are to have it in the durbar-room over
there. It’s a sort of festivity to celebrate your coming up. He really
means it well, you know.”

Lady Haigh was perceptibly mollified, but she took time to thaw.

“It is a pretty idea of Major Keeling’s,” she said, in a less chilly
tone. “At least, if---- Dugald, tell me: he hasn’t asked Ferrers?”

“Why should he? And he couldn’t, in any case. Ferrers is in charge of
our outpost at Shah Nawaz, miles away.”

“And Major Keeling knows nothing--about Penelope?”

“How could he? I haven’t told him, and I shouldn’t imagine Ferrers
has. Besides, I thought there was nothing to tell? But there are
complications ahead. If the General goes home we are bound to have
Ferrers’ uncle, old Crayne, sent to Bab-us-Sahel, and then I don’t
think his aspiring nephew will stay long up here.”

“Well, Penelope shan’t go down with him. Did you call me, Pen?” and
Lady Haigh rose from the box on which she and her husband had seated
themselves to enjoy a brief _tête-à-tête_, and hurried after
Penelope, who was exploring the new domain.



However troubled Major Keeling’s mind may have been when he started on
his ride, he seemed to have left all care behind him when he appeared
in Lady Haigh’s dining-room--as he insisted on calling it, although he
himself was responsible for both the dinner and the furniture. He laid
himself out to be amiable with such success that Sir Dugald averred
afterwards he had sat trembling through the whole meal, feeling
certain that the Chief could not keep it up, and dreading some fearful
explosion. The ladies and Colin Ross, who were less accustomed to meet
the guest officially, saw nothing remarkable in his courteous
cheerfulness; and though Penelope’s heart warmed towards the man who
could so completely lay aside his own worries for the sake of his
friends, Lady Haigh, whose mind had recurred to her wrongs, could
barely bring herself to be civil to him. He turned upon her at last.

“Lady Haigh, I am in disgrace; I know it. I have felt a chill of
disapproval radiating from you the whole time I have been sitting
beside you. What have I done? Ah, I know! Haigh has let the cat out of
the bag. How dare you betray official secrets, sir? Well, Lady Haigh,
am I never to be forgiven?”

“I could forgive your sending for my husband,” said Lady Haigh, with
dignity, “especially as there was no danger; but to doubt my word,
after I had promised----”

“I had no doubt whatever of your intention of keeping your word. What
I was not quite sure about was your power. I expect heroism from you
two ladies as a matter of course. Every British commander has a right
to expect it from Englishwomen, hasn’t he? But I want something
more,--I want common-sense. I want you, when your husband, Lady Haigh,
and your brother, Miss Ross, and the rest of us, are all away on an
expedition, and perhaps there’s not a man in the station but Tarleton,
to go on just as usual--to sew and read, and go out for your rides as
if you hadn’t the faintest anxiety to trouble you. While we are away
doing the work, you’ll have to represent us here, and impress the
natives.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that you only wanted people without any
natural feelings?” demanded Lady Haigh.

“I did, didn’t I? You seemed to think so when I gave you leave to come
up. At any rate, if you bring natural feelings up here, you must be
able to control them. Whatever the trouble is, you must keep up before
the natives, or our friends will be discouraged, and our enemies
emboldened. Did you think I could allow the greatest chance that has
ever come to this district to be jeopardised for the sake of natural
feelings?” He emphasised the words with an almost savage sneer. “Think
what our position is here. Alibad is an outpost of British India, not
merely of Khemistan; we are the advanced-guard of civilisation--not a
European beyond until you come to the Scythian frontier. We hold one
of the keys of India; any enemy attacking from this side must pass
over our bodies. And how do we expect to maintain the position? Not by
virtue of stone walls. When I came up here first I found a wretched
garrison shut in--locked in--in this very fort, with the tribes
plundering up to the gates. I turned them out, and gave orders that
the gates were never to be fastened again. Out on the open plain we
are and we shall be, if we have to sleep in our boots to the end of
our lives. Peace and security for the ryot, endless harrying for the
raider until he gives up his evil ways. There shall not be a spot on
this border where the ruffians shall be able to pause for a sip of
water without looking to see if the Khemistan Horse are behind them,
and before long their own people will give them up when they go back
to their tribes. Teach the whole country that we have come to stay,
that it pays better to be on our side than against us--there is the
beginning.”

“And then?” asked Penelope breathlessly.

“And then--you know the old saying in Eastern Europe, ‘The grass never
grows where the Turk’s hoof has trod’? Here it shall be, ‘Where the
Englishman’s hoof has trod, the grass grows doubly green.’ Down by the
river they called all this part Yagistan, you know--the country of the
wild men,” he explained for Penelope’s benefit, “but now the name has
retreated over the frontier. That’s not enough, though. We have the
district before us like a blank sheet--a sea of sand, without
cultivation or trade, and precious little of either to hope for from
the inhabitants. What is our business? To cover that blank sheet.
Canals, then cultivation; roads, then travel; fairs, then trade. The
thing will be an object-lesson all the way into Central Asia. Only
give me the time, and it shall be done. I have the men and the free
hand, and----” He broke off suddenly, and laughed with some
embarrassment. “No wonder you are all looking at me as if you thought
me mad,” he said; “I seem to have been forcing my personal aspirations
on you in the most unwarranted way. But as I have burdened you with
such a rodomontade, I can’t well do less than ask whether any one has
any suggestions that would help in making it a reality.”

“I have,” said Lady Haigh promptly. “If you want the natives to think
we mean to stay here, Major Keeling, we ought to have a club, and
public gardens.”

“So we ought, and it struck me only to-day that this old fort might
serve as a club-house when your house is built, Lady Haigh, and you
turn out of it. I won’t have it used for anything remotely connected
with defence or administration, but to turn it over to the station as
a place of amusement ought to produce an excellent effect. But as to
the gardens----”

“Why, that space in front!” cried Lady Haigh. “Turn those gipsies off,
and you have the very place, with the club on this side, and the
church and your new house and all the government buildings opposite.”

“Excellent!” said Major Keeling. “The gipsies have already had notice
to quit, and a new camping-ground appointed them, but I meant to use
the space for godowns until my plans were thrown out. Really I begin
to think I made a mistake in not welcoming ladies up here. Their
advice seems likely to be distinctly useful.”

“What an admission!” said Lady Haigh, with exaggerated gratitude. “But
don’t be deceived by Major Keeling’s flattery, Pen. Very soon you’ll
find that he has set a trap to see whether you have any natural
feelings.”

“How could I subject another lady to such a test when you have
objected so strongly, pray? Miss Ross need fear nothing at my hands.”

“Well, I call that most unfair. Come, Pen. Why!”--Lady Haigh broke off
with a little laugh--“we have no drawing-room in which to give you
gentlemen tea.”

“Have you visited the ramparts yet?” asked Major Keeling. “You will
find them a pleasant place in the evenings, and even in the daytime
there will sometimes be shade and a breeze there. I had one of the
tower staircases cleaned and made safe for your benefit, and if you
will honour me by considering the ramparts as your drawing-room this
evening, the servants shall bring the tea there.”

The suggestion was gladly accepted, and a move was made at once. The
rampart, when reached, proved to afford a pleasant promenade, and the
diners separated naturally into couples. Lady Haigh had much to say to
her husband, while the doctor and Colin Ross gravitated together,
rather by the wish of the older man than the younger, it appeared, and
Penelope found herself in Major Keeling’s charge. They stood beside
the parapet after a time, and he pointed out to her the watchfires of
the camp below, the stretch of desert beyond, white in the moonlight,
and beyond that again the distant hills, the portals of unexplored
Central Asia.

“Do you hear anything?” he asked her suddenly.

She strained her ears, but beyond the faint sounds of the camp, the
stamping of an impatient horse, the clink of a bridle, or the clank of
a sentry’s weapon, she could hear nothing.

“I knew it,” he said. “It is only fancy, but I wondered whether this
night-stillness would affect you as it does me. You know what it is to
stand alone at night and look into the darkness, and listen to the
silence? Whenever I do that on this frontier I hear
footsteps--hurrying steps, the steps of a multitude, passing on and on
for ever. I pray God I may never hear them turn aside and come this
way!”

“Why?” asked Penelope, awed by his tone.

“Because they are the footsteps of the wild tribes of Central Asia,
whose fathers poured down through these passes to the conquest of
India. They wander from place to place, owning no master, obeying
their chiefs when it suits them, always ready for plunder and rapine.
And to the south, spread out before them, is the wealth of the
idolater and the Kaffir. Of course, it would take something to move
them--a cattle-plague, perhaps, leading to famine--and a leader to
unite them sufficiently to utilise their vast numbers to advantage;
but who is to know what is going on beyond those hills? There are men
who have gone there and returned--that splendid young fellow Whybrow
is there now--but they see only what they are allowed to see. I tell
you, sometimes at night the thought of those wandering millions comes
upon me with such force that I cannot rest. I get up and ride--ride
along the border, even across it into Nalapur, to make sure that the
tribes are not at our very doors.”

“You ride alone at night? But that must be very dangerous!”

“Dangerous? If I was afraid of danger, I should not be here.”

“But your life is so valuable. Has no one begged you to be prudent?”

“My officers used to preach to me, but I have broken them of it--all
but the doctor. Poor Tarleton! he is a very faithful fellow. But will
you think me quite mad, Miss Ross, if I tell you that there is another
sound as well? It is as if the warder of a fortress should listen
across a valley, and hear the tread of the sentry on the ramparts of a
hostile fortress opposite. And the tread comes nearer.”

“Major Keeling, you frighten me. Who--what do you mean?”

He laughed. “Oh, the tread is a good thousand miles away yet. But it
is coming nearer, all the same. Nominally it is stopped by the Araxes,
but it is already pressing on to the Jaxartes. The Khanates will be
absorbed, and then--will the two warders meet face to face then, I
wonder? It may not be in my day, or even yours, but it will come.”

“You mean Scythia? But is she advancing? Why----?”

“Is it for me to say? She explains it as the trend of her manifest
destiny; we say it is her hunger for territory. But she advances, and
we remain stationary, or worse, advance and retreat again. But retreat
from this point we will not while the breath of life is in me,” he
cried passionately; “and when I die, I mean to be buried here, if
there is any burial for me at all, that at least the bones of an
Englishman may hold the frontier for England.”

“But,” hesitated Penelope, “if we don’t want to advance, why shouldn’t
she?--up to our frontier, I mean, not beyond.”

“Because she wouldn’t stop there. How could she, after sweeping over
all the barren worthless regions, pause when a rich fertile country
lay before her? I couldn’t myself. Otherwise, one would say that at
any rate her rule could not be worse than the present state of things.
There are plague-spots in Central Asia, like Gamara, which ought to be
swept from the face of the earth. But we ought to do it, not they.
It’s our men who have been done to death there--not spies, but
regularly accredited representatives of the Government--and we don’t
stir a finger to avenge them. Whybrow takes his life in his hand when
he enters Central Asia, and so will any man who follows him.”

“But why don’t we do anything?” asked Penelope, wondering at his
impassioned tone, and little dreaming of the sinister influence which
the wicked city of Gamara was to exercise over her own life.

“Because we are too lazy, too meek, too much afraid of
responsibility--anything! Old Harry--I beg your pardon--Sir Henry
Lennox would do it. I heard him say so once to the troops at a
review--that he would like nothing better than to conquer Central Asia
at their head, plundering all the way to Gamara. He got pulled up for
it, of course. He isn’t exempt from official recognition of that kind
any more than meaner people, though I really think I am particularly
unfortunate. Just now I am in trouble with Church as well as State. I
was so ill-advised as to write to a bishop about sending missionaries
here.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” said Penelope. “Colin--my brother--is so
disappointed that you haven’t asked for any.”

“Ah, but wait. I want to pick the men. To let the wrong man loose up
here would be to destroy all my hopes for the frontier. There’s a
fellow at the Cape named Livingstone--the man who made a long
waggon-journey a year or two ago to look for some great lake the
natives talked of, but found nothing, and means to try again--if I
could get him I should be happy. He’s a doctor--physics the people as
well as preaches to them, you see, and that’s the kind of Christianity
that appeals to untutored savages like his flock and mine. Well, I
asked the bishop if he could send us up a man like that, and his
chaplain answered that I was evidently not aware that the Church’s
care was for men’s souls, not their bodies. I wrote back that the
Church must be very different from her Master if that was the case;
and the answer came that in consequence of the unbecoming tone of my
last communication, his lordship must decline any further
correspondence with me. But that’s nothing. When I have fought for
months to bring some exploit of the regiment’s to the notice of the
authorities, and got an official commendation at last, I have had to
insert in regimental orders a scathing rebuke of the insubordinate and
unsuitable letters from me which had extorted it. But why am I telling
you all this? It must have bored you horribly.”

“Oh no!” cried Penelope. “I have been so much interested. And even if
not, I am so glad to listen, if it is any help to you----”

“Help?” he asked sharply. “Why on earth should it be a help?”

“I don’t know,” answered Penelope, with some surprise. “I only
thought--perhaps you don’t care to talk things over with your
officers--it might be a relief to say what you think sometimes----”

“I believe that’s it,” he answered; “and therefore I pour out the
bottled-up nonsense of years on your devoted head, without any thought
of your feelings. You should have checked me, Miss Ross. I ought to
have been asking you if you adored dancing, or what the latest fashion
in albums was, instead of keeping you standing while I discoursed on
things as they are and should not be. Another time you must pull me up
short.”




 CHAPTER IV.
 UNSTABLE.

Captain Ferrers was jogging gloomily across the desert from Fort
Shah Nawaz to Alibad, and his face was only the index to his thoughts.
At the moment he did not know whether he hated more the outpost of
which he was in command or the errand that was taking him to Alibad,
and as he rode he cursed his luck. There was no denying that
everything seemed to go wrong with him. Harassed by debts and awkward
acquaintances at Bab-us-Sahel, he had acquiesced with something like
relief in Sir Henry Lennox’s suggestion, which was practically a
command, that he should sever himself altogether from his old
associates by taking service on the frontier. But, knowing as he did
that he was sent there partly as a punishment and partly in hope of
saving him for better things, he felt it quite unnecessary to
conciliate his gaoler, as he persisted in considering Major Keeling.
The two men were conscious of that strong mutual antipathy which
sometimes exists without any obvious or even imagined reason, and
Major Keeling was not sorry when Ferrers showed an inclination to
claim the command at Shah Nawaz as his right. It was not an ideal post
for a man who needed chiefly to be saved from himself; but Ferrers was
senior to all the other men save Porter the Engineer, who could not be
spared from the head station. Therefore Ferrers had his desire, and
loathed it continuously from the day he obtained it. The place was no
fort in reality, merely a cluster of mud-brick buildings, standing
round a courtyard in which the live stock of the garrison was gathered
for safety at night, and possessing a gateway which could be blocked
up with thorn-bushes. On every side of it spread the desert, with some
signs of cultivation towards the south, and in the north the dark
hills which guarded the Akrab Pass, the door into Central Asia. To
Ferrers and his detachment fell the carrying out in this neighbourhood
of the policy outlined by Major Keeling in his conversation at the
dinner-table--the protection of the peaceable inhabitants of the
district, and the incessant harrying of all disturbers of the peace,
whether from the British or the Nalapuri side of the frontier. At
first the life was fairly exciting, though Ferrers’ one big fight was
spoilt by the necessity of sending to Alibad for reinforcements; but
now that things were settling down, it was irksome in the extreme to
patrol the country unceasingly without ever catching sight of an
enemy. Ferrers panted against the quietness which Major Keeling’s
rigorous rule was already establishing on both sides of the border. He
would have preferred the system prevailing in the neighbouring
province, where a raid on the part of the tribes was answered by a
British counter-raid, when villages were burnt, crops destroyed, and
women and children dismissed homeless to the hills, the troops
retiring again immediately to their base of operations until the
tribes had recovered strength sufficiently for the whole thing to be
gone through again. It was a poor thing to nip raids in the bud, or
arrest them when they were only just begun: a big raid, followed by
big reprisals, was the sort of thing that lent zest to frontier-life
and stimulated promotion. However, Major Keeling’s whole soul was set
against thrilling experiences of this kind, and Ferrers was forced to
submit. But his love of fighting was as strong as ever, and had led to
the very awkward and unfortunate incident which he was now to do his
best to explain at Alibad, whither he had been called by a peremptory
summons.

The root, occasion, or opportunity of all crime on the border at this
time was the practice of carrying arms, which had grown up among the
inhabitants during many years of oppression from above and incursions
from without. Now that protection was assured them, the custom was
unnecessary and dangerous, and any man appearing with weapons was
liable to have them confiscated--the people grumbling, but submitting.
Hence, when word was brought to Ferrers that a company of armed men
had been seen traversing the lands of one of the villages in his
charge, it was natural to conclude that they were raiders from beyond
the border, who had escaped the vigilance of the patrols, and hoped to
harry the countryside. Ferrers at once started in pursuit, and the
armed men, their weapons laid aside, were discovered in the village
cornfields, busily engaged in gathering in the crop. The impudence
displayed fired Ferrers, and he ordered his men to charge. His
_daffadar_, a veteran soldier, ventured to advise delay and a parley,
but he refused to listen. He meant to make an example of this party of
robbers, not to offer them terms, and a moment later his troopers were
riding down the startled reapers. These made no attempt to resist,
though they filled the air with protests, and before the troop could
wheel and ride through them again, a voice reached Ferrers’ ear which
turned him sick with horror.

“Sahib! sahib!” it cried, “we are the Sarkar’s poor ryots! Why do you
kill us?”

This time the parley was granted, and Ferrers learned too late that
the men he had attacked were the inhabitants of the village to which
the field belonged, that they had brought their weapons with them
owing to a warning that the people of another village intended to
attack them and carry off their harvest, and that the second village
had revenged itself for its disappointment by sending Ferrers the
information which had led him wrong. There was nothing to be done but
to rebuke the village elders severely for not warning him of the
intended attack instead of taking the law into their own hands,
assuage the sufferings of the wounded by distributing among them all
the money he had about him, and return drearily to Shah Nawaz to draw
up a report of the occurrence. It was his luck all over, he told
himself, ignoring the reminder that he had not attempted to avert the
fight--in fact, that he had hurried it on for the mere sake of
fighting. It was all the fault of the life at this wretched outpost,
where there was nothing a man could do but fight, and that was
forbidden him. It was little comfort to remember that Major Keeling,
in his place, would have found the day all too short for the
innumerable things to be done. He would have been in the saddle from
morning till night, visiting the villages, holding impromptu courts of
justice, looking for traces of old irrigation-works or planning new
ones, and filling up any odds and ends of time by instituting
shooting-competitions among his troopers, or making experiments in
gardening. Ferrers was a very different man from his Commandant,
though he could be brave enough when there was fighting to be done,
and owed his captaincy to his gallantry on a hard-won field. Without
the stimulus of excitement he was prone to fits of indolence, when the
monotonous round of daily duty was intolerably irksome; and he was
further handicapped by the fact that whereas the change to the
frontier had been intended to cut him off from his old life, he had,
unknown to the older men who were trying to direct his course anew,
succeeded in bringing a portion of his past with him.

The fashion among the young officers at Bab-us-Sahel at this time
might be said to run in the direction of slumming. The example had
been set a year or two before by a young man of brilliant talents and
unscrupulous audacity, whose delight it was to escape from
civilisation and live among the natives as one of themselves. This man
was the despair of his seniors, but in the course of his escapades he
contrived to pick up much curious and some useful information. To
follow in his footsteps meant to defy the authorities now and possibly
gain credit later, and this was sufficiently good reason for doing so.
In the case of men of less brilliance or less audacity the natural
result was merely to lead them into places they had much better have
shunned, and acquaint them with persons whom it would have been wiser
not to know. Ferrers was one of those who had followed the pioneer’s
example without gaining the slightest advantage, and he knew this; so
that when the chance of freeing himself came to him, he was almost
ready to welcome it. Almost, but not quite. It so happened that a rule
had lately been introduced requiring a literary knowledge of the local
language from officers employed in the province. Major Keeling, while
remarking to Ferrers, with his usual contempt for the actions of his
official superiors, that in his opinion a colloquial acquaintance with
it was all that was really needed, advised him to take a munshi with
him to Shah Nawaz, and employ his leisure there in study. No sooner
had the advice been given than the munshi presented himself in the
person of one of Ferrers’ disreputable associates, the Mirza
Fazl-ul-Hacq. Originally a Mohammedan religious teacher, this man was
in some way under a cloud, and was regarded by his co-religionists
much as an unfrocked clergyman would be in England. This fact was in
itself an attraction to Ferrers and the young men of his stamp, to
whom there was an actual delight in finding that one who ought to be
holy had gone wrong, and the Mirza professed a strong attachment to
him in return. Now he begged to be allowed to accompany him to the
frontier as his munshi, asserting, with perfect truth, that he was
well acquainted with all the dialects in use there. Ferrers, who had
begun to look back regretfully at the pleasures from which he was to
be torn, closed with the offer, and the Mirza was duly enrolled in his
retinue. The two were closeted together in all Ferrers’ hours of
leisure at Shah Nawaz, but remarkably little study was accomplished.
The Mirza was an adept at various games of chance, he brewed delicious
sherbets (not without the assistance of beverages forbidden by his
religion), and he was a fascinating story-teller. Thoroughly worthless
as Ferrers knew him to be, the man had made himself necessary to him,
and he half hated, half condoned, the fact. When a fellow led such a
dog’s life, how could he refuse any chance of congenial companionship
that offered itself?

It might have been objected that Ferrers was within riding distance of
Alibad, and that there was no law cutting him off from his friends
there; but since Colin and Penelope Ross had come up-country he had
avoided the place as if it were plague-stricken. Lady Haigh had been
quite right in her interpretation of his feelings, and though he had
succeeded in winning over Colin to plead his cause with Penelope, he
now wondered gloomily why he could not have let well alone. He was
always acting on impulse, he told himself, in a way that his cooler
judgment disapproved, and it did not occur to him that he had to thank
the Mirza’s influence over him for this fresh change. In fact, he was
not conscious of it, for the subject was never mentioned between them;
but in the Mirza’s society he felt no desire for that of his old
friends. He had a real fondness for Colin, the one man of his
acquaintance who believed in him, though he found it terribly
fatiguing to keep up in his company the pretence of being so much
better than he was. Colin had no idea of his real tastes and pursuits,
and, curious though it may seem, Ferrers was prepared to take a good
deal of trouble to prevent his becoming aware of them. The thought
that Colin’s eyes would never rest upon him in kindness again was
intolerable; and if Colin alone had been concerned, his mind would
have been at ease. But if he married Penelope, he must either give up
the Mirza, or she must know, and therefore Colin would know, a good
many things he would prefer to keep secret--and what counterbalancing
advantage would there be? Though he had felt his interest in her
revive when he saw her admired and courted, she was not the type of
woman who could keep him in thrall: she would suffer in silence, and
look at him reproachfully with eyes that were like Colin’s, and there
would be little pleasure in that.

At this point Ferrers’ meditations were suddenly interrupted. Intent
upon his mental problem, it was with a shock that he found himself
confronted by a trooper of the Khemistan Horse. He tried to discover
what emergency could have dictated the posting of vedettes at this
distance from the town, but learned only that it was the Doctor
Sahib’s order. Wondering vaguely whether there was plague in the
district, and the doctor was establishing a sanitary cordon, he rode
on, to see more vedettes in the distance, and to be sharply challenged
by a sentry as he entered the town. The squalid streets seemed wholly
destitute of the military element which usually gave them brightness;
but in the courtyard of the mud building which served as a hospital Dr
Tarleton was hard at work drilling a motley band of convalescents and
hospital assistants, with a stiffening of dismounted troopers, who
appeared to be bored to extinction by the proceedings.

“What’s up, Tarleton?” cried Ferrers, after watching in bewilderment
the strange evolutions of the corps and their instructor’s energetic
endeavours to get them straight.

Hearing the voice, Dr Tarleton turned round and hurried to the wall,
wiping his face as he came. “Oh, the Chief and all the rest are away,
and I’m in charge. Nothing like being prepared for the worst, you
know. This is my volunteer force--the Alibad Fencibles. I say, tell me
the right word, there’s a good fellow! I’ve got ’em all massed in that
corner, and I can’t get ’em out without going back to the beginning.”

Ferrers whispered two or three words into the doctor’s ear, watched
him write them down, and rode on towards the fort, taking some comfort
in the thought that his unpleasant interview with Major Keeling must
necessarily be postponed. It was clear that it was his duty to pay his
respects to the ladies, and by good luck it was just calling-time.

Lady Haigh and Penelope had now been two or three months at Alibad,
and the heat and burning winds of the shadeless desert were leaving
their mark upon them. Both had lost their colour, and even Lady Haigh
moved languidly, while Penelope was propped up with cushions in a long
chair. She had had a sharp attack of fever, and Ferrers, with an
inward shudder, wondered how he could have thought her handsome when
she landed. But both ladies were unfeignedly pleased to see him,
principally because they were glad of anything that would divert their
thoughts; and he experienced a pleasant sense of contentment and
wellbeing on finding himself established in the dark cool room, with
two women to talk to him. He found that the station had been bereft of
almost the whole of its defenders for nearly twenty-four hours. Two
nights ago Sir Dugald had started with a small force in pursuit of a
band of Nalapuri raiders who were reported to be ravaging the most
fertile part of the border, and yesterday an urgent message had come
from him asking for reinforcements and Major Keeling’s presence.

“But if Haigh and his guns are gone out, it must be a big affair,”
said Ferrers.

“Oh no, the guns are left at home,” said Lady Haigh. “All of us are
people of all work here. Sir Dugald digs canals, and Captain Porter
conducts cavalry reconnaissances, and Major Keeling works the
guns----”

“And the doctor drills the awkward squad,” supplied Ferrers. “What a
lively time you seem to have!”

“Oh well, that was more at first. Then there was scarcely a night
without an alarm, and we used to hear the troops clattering out of the
town at all hours after bands of raiders. There are plenty of alarms
still, but generally in the daytime. Two villages have quarrelled over
their lands, or some ryots have objected to the survey or resisted the
digging of the canal, and Major Keeling is wanted to put things
right.”

“But how calmly you speak of it! You and Pen--Miss Ross--must be
perfect heroines,” said Ferrers. It was clear that Lady Haigh did not
intend to leave him alone with Penelope, and with a resentment which
had in it more than a touch of relief, he set himself to tease her.
“How pleased Haigh must be to know that, whatever is happening to him,
you are just as quiet and happy as if you were at home!”

The malice in his tone was evident, and Lady Haigh knew that he
guessed at the terrors of those broken nights, when Sir Dugald was
summoned away on dangerous duties, and she brought her bed into
Penelope’s room, and they trembled and prayed together till daylight.
But she had no intention of confessing her weakness, and answered
quickly--

“Of course he is. How clever of you to have gauged him so well!”

“And do tell me what you find to do,” asked Ferrers lazily. “At
Bab-us-Sahel you used to be great at gardening.”

“Yes, until you rode across my flower-beds and ruined them,” retorted
Lady Haigh. “You won’t find any opportunity of doing that here. Oh, we
have only poor silly little things to do compared with the constant
activity and splendid exploits of you gentlemen. We look after the
servants, of course, and try to invent food enough to keep the
household from starvation; and we get out the back numbers of the
‘Ladies’ Repository’ and the ‘Family Friend,’ and follow the
fancy-work patterns; and we read all the books and papers that come to
the station, and sometimes try very hard to improve our minds with the
standard works Miss Ross brought out with her; and in the evening we
go out in our _palkis_ to inspect the progress of the building and
road-making, and offer any foolish suggestions that may occur to us. I
think that’s all.”

“But what a life! and in the hot weather, too! Why don’t you go to the
Hills, as the Punjab ladies do?”

“The Punjab ladies may, if their husbands can afford it. Have you any
idea what it would cost to go to the Hills, or even down to
Bab-us-Sahel, from here?”

“But why come here, then? What good does it do? Of course”--for Lady
Haigh was beginning to look dangerous--“it’s delightful for Haigh to
have you, and all that; but you won’t tell me he’s such a selfish chap
that he wouldn’t rather know you were comparatively cool and
comfortable down by the sea? You can’t make me believe it’s his
doing.”

“No,” snapped Lady Haigh, “it’s ours. We are here for the good of the
station. We are civilisation, society--refinement, if you like. We
keep the gentlemen from getting into nasty jungly ways. You are
looking rather jungly yourself.” She delivered this home-thrust
suddenly, and Ferrers realised that his aspect was somewhat careless
and unkempt for the place in which he found himself. “We keep things
up to the standard, you see.”

“Ah, but I have no one to keep me up to the standard,” he pleaded.
“Out at my place there’s no one to speak to and nothing to do.”

“Then I wonder you chose to go there,” was the sharp retort.

“There was plenty to do just at first, but my rascals are quiet enough
now. A good many of them are dead, for one thing. You heard of our big
fight before you came up--with a raiding-party six hundred strong? I
had to send here for help, worse luck! but even when the
reinforcements came up we were so few that the fellows actually stood
to receive us. We charged through them again and again--I never
remember a finer fight--and there were very few of them left
afterwards.”

“You speak as if you liked it!” said Penelope, with a shudder.

“Like it? it’s the finest thing in life--the only thing worth living
for. You see a great big brute of a Malik coming at you with a curved
tulwar just sweeping down. You try to parry, or fire your Colt
point-blank into his face, and for the moment you can’t quite decide
whether you are dead or the Malik, until you suddenly realise that
your horse is carrying you on towards another fellow, and the Malik is
down. Splendid is no word for it!”

“Don’t!” said Lady Haigh sharply. “You’ll make Miss Ross ill again.
What’s that?” as a long-drawn, quavering cry seemed to descend from
the upper air, “Mem Sahib, the regiment returns!”

Lady Haigh sprang up, and was rushing out of the room, when she
suddenly remembered Penelope, and ran back to her. “Yes, I’ll help
you, Pen--how selfish of me! It’s our _chaprasi_,” she explained
hurriedly to Ferrers. “I stationed him on the tower above this to
watch for any one who might be coming. He was horribly frightened, and
said he knew he should fall down and be killed; but of course I was
not going to give in to that. Carry this cushion up for Miss Ross,
please. There’s a doorway on the ramparts where she can sit in the
shade.”

Ferrers followed obediently, as Lady Haigh half helped, half dragged
her friend up the narrow stairs, and, after allowing her one look at
the moving cloud of dust, which was all that could be seen in the
distance, established her in the doorway on the cushion, taking her
own place at a telescope which was fixed on a stand.

“This is my own idea,” she said to Ferrers. “Now, why don’t you say I
may justly be proud of it? I am as good as a sentry, I spend so much
time up here scanning the desert. I’m glad they’re coming from that
direction, for we shall be able to distinguish them so much sooner.
They must pass us before getting into the town. Now I begin to see
them. They have prisoners with them, Pen, and there are certainly
fewer of them than started, but somehow they don’t look as if they had
been fighting. No, I see what it is. There’s a whole squadron gone!”

“What!” cried Ferrers, who was standing by, unable to get a single
glance through the telescope, which was monopolised by his hostess.
“Clean gone, Lady Haigh? Must have been detached on special duty,
surely? It couldn’t have been wiped out.”

“No, no, of course,” and Lady Haigh withdrew from the glass, and
allowed him to look through it; “that must be it, but it gave me such
a fright. But I saw Dugald and Colin, Pen, and the Chief. Muhabat
Khan!” she called to the _chaprasi_, who descended slowly from the top
of the tower, and stood before her in a submissive attitude but with
an injured expression, “go and meet the regiment as it comes, and say
to the Major Sahib that Ferrers Sahib is here, and that I should be
glad if he and Ross Sahib will come in to tiffin with us. Now, Pen, I
shall take you down again,” as the messenger departed. “Captain
Ferrers will bring the cushion.”

Deposited in her chair once more, Penelope looked very white and
exhausted, and Lady Haigh reproached herself loudly in the intervals
of exchanging mysterious confidences with various servants.

“I ought never to have taken you up to the rampart,” she said; “but I
knew you would like to see them ride in; and besides----” She checked
herself, but Ferrers guessed that she had been afraid to leave
Penelope alone lest he should try to speak to her, and he smiled as he
thought how unnecessary her precautions were. But by this time there
was a clatter of horses’ feet and accoutrements in the courtyard, and
Sir Dugald ran up the steps and kissed his wife, who had sprung to the
door to meet him.

“The Chief and Ross are here,” he said. “Glad you sent that message,
Elma. You all right, Ferrers? Didn’t know you were coming in.”

Major Keeling and Colin Ross were mounting the steps with much
clanking of spurs and scabbards; but it struck Ferrers, as he stood in
the doorway, that his Commandant seemed suddenly to have remembered
something, for as he reached the verandah he lifted his sword and held
it in his hand, and walked with extreme care. After greeting Lady
Haigh, he passed on into the room, and Ferrers observed with
astonishment that the big man was evidently trying to step softly and
speak low. It was not until Major Keeling bent over Penelope’s chair,
and, taking her hand very gently, asked her how she was, that the
watcher realised for whose sake these precautions were taken.

“I felt obliged to come in when I received the order from our
beneficent tyrant over there,” said Major Keeling, in a voice which
seemed to fill the room in spite of his best endeavours; “but if our
presence disturbs you in the least, we will all go and tiffin at my
quarters, and take Haigh off with us too.”

“Oh no, please!” entreated Penelope. “It will do me good, really. It
is so nice to see you all back.”

There was a faint flush in her cheeks, which deepened when Major
Keeling remarked upon it approvingly; and Ferrers remembered, with
unreasonable anger, that her colour had not risen for him. It made her
look pretty again at once, and that great lout the Chief (thus
unflatteringly did he characterise his commanding officer) evidently
thought so too. Once again the younger man was a prey to the curious
form of jealousy which had led him into the impulsive action that he
now regretted. Penelope, for her own sake, had little or no charm for
him, but Penelope, admired by other men, became at once a prize worth
claiming. Ferrers regretted his impulsive action no longer. His appeal
to Colin had at any rate placed him in a position of superiority over
any other man who might approach Penelope.




 CHAPTER V.
 COLIN AS AMBASSADOR.

“The curious thing was that we had no fighting,” said Major Keeling.
They were seated at the luncheon-table, and Lady Haigh had imperiously
demanded an account of the doings of the force since its departure.

“No fighting!” she cried reproachfully. “And you have kept us in agony
two whole days while you went out for a picnic!”

“It was more than a picnic,” said her guest seriously. “It is one of
the most mysterious things I have ever come across--a complete
success, and yet not a matchlock fired, though every one and
everything was ready for a big fight.”

“I must get to the bottom of this,” said Lady Haigh, with the little
air of importance to which Major Keeling always yielded indulgently.
“Let me hear about it from the beginning. Dugald, you don’t mean to
say that you started out under false pretences when you told me you
were going after a band of raiders?”

“Not at all,” answered Sir Dugald, with imperturbable good-humour. “We
found the raiders, sure enough, at the village which gave the alarm.
They had plundered the granaries, got the cattle together ready to
drive off, and were just going to fire the place when we came up. It
was rather fine when they realised it was the Khemistan Horse they had
to deal with, and not a scratch lot of villagers, for they left the
cattle and decamped promptly. Our only casualty was a trooper who came
upon two laggards at bay in a corner, and tried to take them both
prisoners. Of course we went after them, and several of the villagers,
who had appeared miraculously from their hiding-places, came too. It
was a long chase, and we stuck to them right up to the frontier. Well,
we guessed that this was the band which has made its headquarters at
Khudâdad Khan’s fortress, Dera Gul. The Amir of Nalapur has always
protested his inability to catch and punish them, so, as we had caught
them red-handed on our ground, I thought we would run them to earth.
The raiding must be stopped somehow, and if the Amir can’t do it, he
ought to be grateful to us for doing it for him.”

Major Keeling nodded emphatically. “If he doesn’t show proper
gratitude, I’ll teach it him,” he said.

“They rode, and we rode,” Sir Dugald went on; “and as they had the
start and travelled lighter, we had the pleasure of seeing them ride
into Dera Gul and shut the door in our faces. When we summoned
Khudâdad Khan to give them up, he told us to come and take them, and
they jeered at us from the walls and bade us be thankful they let us
go home safe. The place is abominably strong, and they had several
cannon ready mounted, and plenty of men, so I thought the best thing I
could do was to take up a position of observation, and send for
reinforcements and the guns. But as I was writing my message, one of
our friendly ryots advised me to send for Kīlin Sahib, and not
trouble about the guns. ‘You will see that they’ll surrender to him,’
he said. I didn’t believe it, but he stuck to his text, and my
ressaldar, Bakr Ali, agreed with him, though neither of them would
give me any reason; so I added to my _chit_ an entreaty that the Major
would accompany the reinforcements if possible. And he came, saw, and
conquered.”

“No thanks to myself,” said Major Keeling. “I summoned Khudâdad Khan
to surrender, and he did so at once, with the worst possible grace,
merely stipulating that he and his men should be considered our
prisoners, and not handed over to Nalapur. I knew the Amir would be
precious glad to get rid of them, so I consented. And after
that--Haigh, you will agree with me that it was a queer sensation--we
rode up into the fortress between the rows of scowling outlaws, spiked
the five guns, took stock of the provisions, and left Harris and a
squadron in charge of the place until we can hand it over to the Amir.
The outlaws we brought back with us, and I mean to plant them out on
the newly irrigated land to the west after they have served their
sentences. ‘It was a famous victory.’”

“Yes, but how?--why?” cried Lady Haigh. “What made them surrender when
they saw you?”

“If you could tell me that I should be much obliged. There’s a mystery
somewhere, which is always cropping up, and this is part of it. Why,
almost wherever I go, the Maliks and elders meet me as an old
friend--no, not quite that, as a sort of superior being--and inform me
with unction that all my orders are fulfilled already, and that they
are ready to join me with all their fighting men as soon as I want
them. It’s the same with the wild tribes, even those from over the
frontier. Sometimes I have thought there must be a mistake somewhere,
and asked them if they know who I am, and they say, ‘Oh yes, you are
Sinjāj Kīlin Sahib, the ruler of the border for the Honourable
Company,’ with a sort of foolish smirk, as if they expected me to be
pleased. I can’t help thinking they are mistaking me for some one
else.”

“Or some one supernatural--some one of whom they have heard
prophecies,” suggested Lady Haigh breathlessly.

“But you can’t very well ask them that--whether they take you for
Rustam come to life again--lest they should say they never thought of
comparing you to any one of the kind,” said Ferrers. The tone, rather
than the words, was offensive, but Major Keeling ignored it.

“But they do think something of the sort, I believe,” he said. “At
least, when I was present at a tribal _jirgah_ the other day, an old
Malik from a distance remarked that as he had not seen me before, it
would be very consoling to him if I would give a slight exhibition of
my powers. He would not ask for anything elaborate--if I would just
breathe fire for a minute or two, or something of that kind, it would
be enough. I told him I wasn’t a mountebank, and the rest hustled and
scolded him into silence. But after that very meeting another old
fellow, who had been most forward in nudging the first one, and had
looked tremendously knowing as he told him that fire-breathing was not
a custom of the English, got hold of me alone, and whispered, ‘You
won’t forget, Highness, that on the night of which I may not speak you
promised I should ride at your right hand when the time comes?’
Without thinking, I said, ‘If the night is not to be spoken of, why do
you speak of it?’ and the old fellow stammered, ‘Between you and me, I
thought it was no harm, Heaven-born,’ and after that I could get no
more out of him. Whatever I asked him, he thought I was trying to test
him, and took a pride in keeping his mouth shut.”

“It really is most mysterious,” said Lady Haigh, “and might be most
embarrassing. Do you think you go about paying visits to Maliks in
your sleep, Major Keeling? Because, you see, you might do all sorts of
queer things as well.”

“I know nothing whatever about it--it is totally inexplicable,” said
Major Keeling shortly, rising as he spoke. “I am sorry to break up
your party, Lady Haigh, but Captain Ferrers and I have some business
together, and he ought to be on the way back to his station before
very long.”

Seeing that he was not to escape, Ferrers followed the Commandant, and
passed a highly unpleasant half-hour in his company. From a scathing
rebuke of the criminal carelessness which had led to the late
regrettable incident, Major Keeling passed to personalities.

“What have you been doing to yourself?” he asked sharply. “You ought
to be as hard as nails with the life you lead at Shah Nawaz. But
perhaps you don’t lead it. You look like a Bengal writer.”

“With this examination in view----” began Ferrers with dignity.

“Hang these examinations! They spoil the good men and make the bad
ones worse. I’ll have no one up here who would sacrifice his real work
to them. If you can’t keep your studies to the hot hours, when you
young fellows think it’ll kill you to go out, better give them up.
Your munshi must be a queer sort if he’s willing to work all day with
you. Who is he, by the bye? Fazl-ul-Hacq?--not one of the regular
Bab-us-Sahel munshis, surely? Next time you come in, make some excuse
to bring him with you, and I’ll have a look at him. He never seems to
be forthcoming when I hunt you up at Shah Nawaz, and when a man keeps
out of sight in that way it doesn’t look well. You think he’s all
right, I suppose?”

Now was Ferrers’ chance. With one effort he might break with his old
life and throw off the Mirza’s yoke, exchanging his solitary indolence
at Shah Nawaz for the incessant activity which was the portion of all
who worked under Major Keeling’s own eye. But to do this he must
confess to the man he disliked that he felt himself unfit for
responsibility, and that he had practically betrayed the trust reposed
in him. Moreover, not a man in the province but would believe he had
been deprived of his command as a punishment. This thought was
decisive, and he answered quickly--

“Yes, sir; I believe he is an excellent teacher, and he makes himself
useful as a clerk when I want one.”

“Well, don’t let him become indispensable. That plays the very
mischief with these fellows. They think they’ve got the Sahib under
their thumb, and can do as they like, and very often, when it’s too
late, the Sahib finds out that it’s true. Give your man his _rukhsat_
[leave to depart] in double quick time if you see that he’s inclined
to presume.”

Wondering savagely what Major Keeling would think of the actual terms
which prevailed between Fazl-ul-Hacq and his employer, Ferrers
acquiesced with outward meekness, and took his leave. Colin Ross had
promised to accompany him part of the way back, and with a couple of
troopers as escort they rode out into the desert. As they passed the
hospital, Dr Tarleton appeared on the verandah, and shook his fist at
Ferrers.

“You rascal!” he cried. “Those words of command you gave me were all
humbug. Just wait until I get you in hospital!”

“What does he mean?” asked Colin, as Ferrers rode on laughing.

“Oh, he was trying to drill a lot of non-combatants this morning, and
asked me how to get them out of a corner. Of course I favoured him
with a few directions, with the result that his squad got more
gloriously mixed up than ever. Only wish I had seen them!”

“Tarleton is a good fellow,” said Colin, with apparent irrelevance.

“Don’t be a prig, young ’un. Must have a bit of fun sometimes. What is
a man to do, stuck down in a desert under a commandant who’s either a
scoundrel or silly?”

“You mean what the Major was telling us at tiffin? But it’s perfectly
true: they did surrender the moment they saw him.”

“I daresay. He has carefully circulated all these rumours about his
miraculous powers, and then pretends to be surprised that the niggers
believe them. He’s a blatant theatrical egotist--a regular old
Crummles. ‘I can’t think who puts these things in the papers. _I_
don’t.’ Oh no, of course not!”

“If you mean that Major Keeling is a hypocrite, I don’t agree with
you.”

“Now don’t get white-hot. If he isn’t, then he has read Scott till his
brain is turned. You’re such an innocent that you don’t see the man
does everything for effect. His appearance, his perpetual squabbles
with headquarters, his popularity-hunting up here, the idiotic things
he does--they’re all calculated to produce an impression, to make the
unsophisticated stare, in fact. Why, one of my patrols came across him
riding alone at midnight not long ago, miles away from here. The man
must be either mad or a fool.”

“I think you are wrong,” said Colin seriously. “I believe him to be
sincere, though mistaken on some points.”

“What! he’s in your black books too? How has he managed that?”

“He has forbidden me to preach publicly to the men,” was the answer,
given in a low voice, but with strong feeling--“said it would lead
either to religious persecution or the suspicion of it, and that I
must be satisfied with showing them a Christian life, and teaching any
one who might come to me privately of his own accord. But that isn’t
enough. They don’t come, and how can I reach them?”

“Poor old Colin!” said Ferrers, much amused. “What a Crusader you are,
far too good to live nowadays. Fancy finding you in rebellion against
constituted authority! I’ll back you to get more and more stubborn the
worse he bullies you.”

Colin’s face flushed. “No, I was wrong to speak as I did,” he said.
“It is possible the Major may be right, though I cannot see it. In any
case, it is my duty to submit for the present.”

“Which means that you won’t accept my sympathy against the great
Keeling. You always were a staunch little chap, Colin. Bet anything
you stick up for me behind my back just as you do for him.”

“Of course,” said Colin simply; “you are our oldest friend.”

“That’s all very well, but your sister doesn’t feel as you do. It was
pretty clearly intimated to me to-day that I was not to call her
Penelope, by the bye. She’s done with me, I see. She scarcely spoke a
word to me the whole time I was there.”

“No, no; indeed you are wrong,” said Colin eagerly. “She is ill, and
can’t talk much. She knows your wishes perfectly. Why, you can’t think
I would ever let her disappoint you?”

“You wouldn’t, perhaps, but Lady Haigh would be precious glad to see
her do it. Look here, Colin, give your sister a message from me. Put
it properly--that while I accept her ruling, and won’t venture to
address her at present--you know the sort of thing?--yet I fully
intend to claim her promise some day, and I regard her as belonging to
me, and I trust she does the same. Make it as strong as you like.”

“I will. I didn’t know you took it to heart so much, and Penelope will
be glad to know it too. I’m sure she has an idea that you don’t--well,
care for her as you once did. But now I can put that right. You know
that there’s no one I would sooner have as a brother-in-law if--if all
was well with you.”

“Yes, yes, all in good time. There is one of my patrols over there, so
you had better turn back now. All right!”

Colin turned back with the escort, and Ferrers pursued his way, fuming
inwardly. He did not wish to deceive his friend. Was it his fault if
Colin was so ridiculously easy to deceive, and persisted in believing
the best of him in spite of all evidence to the contrary? Ferrers knew
what his last sentence had meant. There were certain books with which
Colin had provided him, entreating him to read them, when he went to
Shah Nawaz, and which he was always anxious to discuss with him when
they met. Since the only form of religious study to which Ferrers had
given any attention of late was the convenient philosophy expounded by
the Mirza, which proved right and wrong to be much the same thing, and
man to be equally irresponsible for either, he congratulated himself
on having so skilfully evaded cross-examination.

As for Colin, he rode back to Alibad with a serious face, and, instead
of stopping at his quarters, went on to the fort to find Penelope. He
was full of generous indignation over the treatment Ferrers had
received, and he was glad Lady Haigh was out of the way. Penelope
raised her tired head from her cushions in surprise as he entered.

“Why, Colin! Is there anything the matter, dear?”

“I am disappointed in you, Pen,” he returned gently, sitting down
beside her. “You have treated poor George very unkindly to-day.”

Reproof from Colin, though he was only her own age, was very grievous
to Penelope. “Oh no,” she cried, trying to defend herself; “I scarcely
spoke to him, and I’m sure I said nothing unkind.”

“That was just it. You said nothing to him, and he is deeply hurt.”

“But he was so rough and noisy, Colin, and talked so loud. I could
scarcely bear him to be in the room.”

“It is not like you to be selfish. He wants a helping hand just now,
and you think only of his voice and manners. It is a terrible
responsibility to push a man back when he is trying to climb up.”

“If that was all,” said Penelope, rather warmly, “I would give him any
help I could. But you know you said he wanted more than that.”

“Of course he does.” Colin drew back and looked at her in
astonishment. “Why, Pen, he has your promise.”

“No, no,” she said restlessly, “not quite a promise. I--I don’t like
him, Colin. He is quite different from what he used to be. Even his
face has changed.”

“Your promise,” he repeated. “I know you took advantage of his
generosity to withdraw it for a moment, but you renewed it again
immediately when I pointed out to you what you had done. Penelope, is
it possible that you--my sister--wish to break a solemn promise? What
reason can you possibly have for such a thing?”

Penelope writhed. She had no reason to give, even to herself. All she
knew was that she had felt to-day as never before the incubus of
George Ferrers’ presence, the utter lack of sympathy between herself
and him. If she contrasted him with any one else, it was done
unconsciously.

“I don’t believe he wishes it himself,” she said. “He doesn’t care for
me. He doesn’t behave as if he did.”

“He told me himself,” returned Colin’s solemn, accusing voice, “that
while he would not venture to appeal to you at present, it was his
dearest hope to claim your promise some day. It is your privilege to
help him to raise himself again to the position he has lost. What can
be a more noble task for a woman?”

Penelope could not say. Alone with Lady Haigh, it was easy to agree
that woman was an independent being, with a life and rights of her
own; but she would never have dreamt of asserting this to Colin, to
whom a woman was a more or less necessary complement to a man. Ferrers
needed her, therefore she would naturally accept the charge--that was
his view.

“Would you wish me to marry him as he is now?” she asked desperately.

“No,” he answered, after a moment’s consideration: “I am not quite
happy about him, and that is why I am most anxious you should be kind
to him. With your sympathy to help him on, and the hope of claiming
you at last, he will find the path much easier to climb. Surely this
is not too much to ask?”

It sounded eminently fair and reasonable, but Penelope felt that it
was not. There was a flaw somewhere which Colin did not see, and she
could not point out to him, even if she could be sure that she saw it
herself. Ferrers did not care for her, she was convinced, even in the
careless, patronising style of his early days, and yet he insisted on
keeping her bound. But perhaps he loved her in some strange fashion of
his own, of which she could have no experience or conception. And
Colin thought that the sacrifice was called for. She turned to him.

“I--I will try to like him, and help him--and do as he wishes,” she
said, finding a strange difficulty in speaking.

“Of course. I knew you couldn’t do anything else,” said Colin, with
such utter unconsciousness of the mental struggle she had just gone
through that Penelope found his calm acquiescence almost maddening.
She was glad to be saved the necessity of answering by the sudden
entrance of Lady Haigh, who turned back to rebuke a servant for not
having drawn up the blinds, and then discovered Colin.

“You here?” she cried. “Why, an orderly came up ten minutes ago to ask
if you had come back, and I said you hadn’t. That old wretch Gobind
Chand, the Nalapur Vizier, is to come here to-morrow instead of next
week, and every one is as busy as possible. And you have been making
Penelope cry! Well, I hope Major Keeling will give you the worst
scolding you ever had in your life--for being so late, I mean, of
course.”




 CHAPTER VI.
 MOUNTING IN HOT HASTE.

Gobind Chand, to whom Lady Haigh had alluded, was the Hindu Vizier
of the Mohammedan state of Nalapur, the boundary of which marched with
that of Khemistan on the north. It was no secret to the rulers of
Khemistan that the consolidation of their power, of which Major
Keeling’s settlement on the frontier was only one of the signs, could
not be particularly welcome to the Amir Wilayat Ali. Formerly the
country beyond his own border had been a happy hunting-ground, whither
he could despatch any inconvenient Sardar or too successful soldier to
raid and plunder until he was tired, reserving to himself the right of
demanding a percentage of the spoil when the exile wished to return
home. There were also pleasant little pickings derivable from the
passage of caravans through the Akrab Pass, and the payment by weak
tribes or unwarlike villages of what one side called tribute and the
other blackmail, as the price of peace. These things gave the Amir a
distinct pecuniary interest in the frontier district, and during Major
Keeling’s first sojourn on the border, every effort had been made by
the Nalapuris, short of actual war, to convince him that his presence
was both undesired and useless. The lapse of time, however, and the
activity of the Khemistan Horse, proved to the Amir that his unwelcome
neighbour had come to stay, and whereas at first any raider had only
to cross the border to receive asylum, Wilayat Ali now persisted in
regarding the regiment as his private police. It was quite unnecessary
for him to take any trouble to secure marauders when the Khemistan
Horse had merely to come and seize them, and would do so whether he
liked it or not, and he announced that he left the task of keeping
order on both sides of the frontier to them, though this was not at
all Major Keeling’s intention, which had been to secure the Amir’s
active co-operation for the good of both states. To the English the
ruler posed as an obliging friend, but when he wished to demand
support or subsidies from his Sardars, he became a helpless victim
coerced by superior force; and as he could play both parts without
disturbing his own tranquillity by taking any steps whatever, he
opposed a passive resistance to all projects of reform. Major Keeling
had visions of a time when he would have leisure to arrange a
conference at which various outstanding questions might be discussed,
and the Amir brought to see what was expected of him; but in view of
the Amir’s obvious preference for the present state of things, there
seemed little prospect of this.

Apparently, then, the Khemistan authorities should have been pleased
when Wilayat Ali suddenly despatched his Vizier, Gobind Chand, to bear
his somewhat belated congratulations to Sir Henry Lennox on becoming a
K.C.B. To the more suspicious-minded it appeared, however, that the
Amir had heard rumours of the General’s approaching departure, and
wished to inquire as to their truth. This suspicion was confirmed when
Gobind Chand, after postponing his departure from Bab-us-Sahel on
endless pretexts connected with his own health and that of every
member of his suite, suddenly took a house at the port and announced
that he was going to learn English, and would remain until his studies
were completed. As this would at the lowest computation allow ample
time for Sir Henry to depart and his successor to arrive, the pretext
was a little too transparent, and it was politely intimated to Gobind
Chand that his own state must be in need of his valuable services, and
he was set on his homeward way. In advance went a message to Major
Keeling, ordering him to receive the distinguished traveller with all
due attention, but to see him over the frontier without delay, and
this caused a good deal of bustle and excitement at Alibad.

In spite of the activity with which building operations had been
carried on, the gaol and the hospital were still the only edifices
actually completed, and as Major Keeling refused hotly even to
consider the possibility of receiving the envoy in the fort, it was
necessary to erect a large tent in the space which had been set apart
for public gardens, but which could not be laid out until the hot
weather was over. Gobind Chand and his retinue would encamp outside
the town for the night, be received by the Commandant in the morning,
and resume their homeward journey in the afternoon--this was the
programme. There were various ceremonies to be gone through, gifts had
to be presented and accepted, and provision was made for a private
interview between the two great men, to which only their respective
secretaries were to be admitted. But when the time came for the
interview, Gobind Chand surprised his host by requesting that even the
secretaries might be excluded; and for more than an hour the officers
of the Khemistan Horse kicked their heels in the anteroom, and gazed
resentfully at the contented immobility of the Vizier’s attendants
opposite them, wondering what secrets the old sinner could have to
tell the Chief. Their waiting-time came to an end suddenly. Raised
voices were heard in the inner room, Major Keeling’s storming in
Hindustani, Gobind Chand’s, shrill with fear, trying to urge some
consideration upon him. Then the heavy curtain over the doorway was
pulled aside with such force that it was torn from its fastenings, and
the cringing form of the Vizier appeared on the threshold, with hands
upraised in deprecation. He seemed to be in fear of a blow, but Major
Keeling, who towered over him, gripping the torn curtain fiercely,
made no attempt to proceed to personal chastisement.

“Go!” he said, and the monosyllable came from his lips with the force
of an explosive. Gobind Chand’s attendants were on their feet in a
moment, and hurried their master out of the tent, Captain Porter, in
obedience to a gesture from the Commandant, following them to
superintend their departure.

“Haigh!” said Major Keeling, and Sir Dugald detached himself from the
rest. “In my office--at once,” and he led the way, Sir Dugald
following. For a moment or two Major Keeling’s indignation seemed to
deprive him of speech, as he tramped up and down the little room; then
he turned suddenly on his subordinate.

“What are you waiting there for? You will take twenty sowars and ride
to Nalapur with a letter for the Amir. Go and change your things,”
with a withering glance at Sir Dugald’s full-dress uniform, “and the
despatches will be ready when you are. Or before,” he added savagely.

It was fortunate that Sir Dugald was a man of even temper, and had
some experience of his leader’s peculiarities, for Major Keeling’s
manner was unpleasant in the extreme. But as he was leaving the room
he was recalled--

“You must get a guide from Shah Nawaz. Ferrers has several Nalapuris
in his detachment. I will ride with you part of the way myself, and
post you in the state of affairs. Send Ross to me for orders.”

The tone was quite different, and Sir Dugald had no longer reason to
fear that he might unwittingly have excited his Commandant’s
displeasure. He hastened to his quarters, sent a hurried message to
his wife, and reappeared in undress uniform before the letter was
finished, or the twenty horsemen, picked and duly equipped by Colin,
had ridden into the compound before Major Keeling’s quarters. Each man
carried, as was the rule on these expeditions, three days’ rations for
himself and fodder for his horse, with a skin of water. When Sir
Dugald had been summoned into the inner office to receive the letter,
Major Keeling’s black horse Miani was brought up, and presently the
little troop clattered out into the desert, the two Englishmen riding
ahead, out of earshot of the sowars.

“Now!” said Major Keeling, when they had settled into the pace which
experience had shown was the best for a long march, “I suppose you
would like to hear what the row is about. I’m glad I kept my hands off
that fellow, though I don’t know how I managed it. He wanted me to
help him to murder his master and make himself Amir.”

“And what inducement did he offer?” Sir Dugald’s frigid calm in asking
the question was intentional, for Major Keeling’s wrath was evidently
bubbling up again.

“Half the contents of the treasury, whatever that might prove to be.
But is that all you think about? Do you mean to say you don’t see the
insult involved in the offer--the fellow’s opinion of us who wear the
British uniform? Good heavens! are you made of stone?”

Sir Dugald smiled with some difficulty, for his face had grown tense.
“You are the only man who would say such things to me, Major Keeling,
and the only man I would allow to do it. With you I have no choice.”

“No, no; I beg your pardon. That abominable coolness of yours--but I
shall be insulting you again if I don’t look out. But if you had sat
listening to that villain for an hour, while he depicted Nalapur as a
perfect hell on earth, and Wilayat Ali as a wholly suitable ruler for
it, and then at last brought things round to the point he had been
aiming at all along, but which I had never seen, you’d know something
of what I feel. Why, the fellow had the inconceivable impudence to say
that he thought I understood all the time what he was driving at, and
only held back so as to make certain that he put himself completely in
my power!”

“But he could never have thought we should set a Hindu over a
Mohammedan state.”

“What have we done in Kashmir?”

“But Nalapur is outside our borders. We don’t claim any right to
interfere in their choice of a ruler.”

“Whether we claim it or not, we have interfered already. It was before
your time, of course, just after that wretched expedition to Ethiopia,
where we ought never to have gone, but having gone, we should have
stayed. Nasr Ali was Amir then, and his behaviour throughout was most
correct, even when our fortunes were at the lowest. Unfortunately for
him, it was thought well that the General and he should meet, so that
he might be thanked for his loyalty, and a halt was made for the
purpose. Things went wrong from that moment. The General and his
escort were attacked by tribesmen in one of the passes, and when they
got through, with some loss, the news came that Nasr Ali was ill, and
not able to meet them. You know what Old Harry is, and how he was
likely to receive such a message after the impudence of the tribes;
and just as he was working himself up into a fine fury there came to
his camp in disguise these two scoundrels, Gobind Chand and Wilayat
Ali, the Amir’s brother. They made out that they had stolen away at
the risk of their lives to warn the General that Nasr Ali meant to
murder him and the whole escort. Sir Henry didn’t wait to inquire why
Nasr Ali should choose the time when a victorious army was within call
to assassinate its leader, for the fugitives’ news just fitted in with
his own suspicions. They gave him a sign by which he was to judge of
their good faith. Nasr Ali had promised to receive the mission at the
gate of the city the following day: if he did not appear, that would
be proof of his treachery. Sir Henry sent an order back to the army
for a brigade to be in readiness, and waited. Sure enough, before they
reached the city gate Wilayat Ali, in his own person this time, came
to meet them and say that his brother was too ill to come out, but
would receive them in the _killa_ [palace] if they would enter the
city. To Sir Henry, and all who remembered the Ethiopian business, it
was simply an invitation to come and be murdered; so he rode back to
camp, sent another messenger to order up the brigade, and passed a
horribly uncomfortable night, expecting to be attacked at every
moment. Much to his astonishment, he was not attacked, though bands of
Nalapuris were said to be circling round, hoping to catch him off his
guard, and then the brigade arrived after a forced march. Old Harry
allowed the men two or three hours’ rest, occupied the hills
overlooking the city in the night, and sent in a demand for its
surrender in the morning. Nasr Ali, posing, so the General thought, as
an injured innocent, protested against the whole thing as a piece of
the blackest treachery, carried out under the mask of friendship, and
refused to surrender. I don’t want to go into the whole sickening
business; the place was stormed, and Nasr Ali killed in the fighting.
Wilayat Ali opened the gates of the _killa_, and allowed the treasury
(there was remarkably little in it) to be looted. He was the natural
heir, for Nasr Ali’s women and children had all been massacred. Of
course Wilayat Ali gave us to understand that our troops had done it,
but that is absolutely untrue. The first man that broke into the
zenana found it looted, and dead bodies everywhere--a shocking sight.
I haven’t the slightest doubt that Wilayat Ali had admitted a set of
_badmashes_ to wipe out his unfortunate brother’s family, and intended
to charge it on us, but there’s no proving it. Well, he was placed on
the _gadi_ with Gobind Chand as his Vizier, and we marched home again.
Little by little things came out which made me think a horrible
miscarriage of justice had occurred, and when I laid them before Sir
Henry he had to believe it too. That Wilayat Ali deliberately traduced
and betrayed his brother in order to obtain his kingdom I am as
certain as that I am here, and now I have to interfere to save him
from being murdered by his fellow-scoundrel!”

“There is no chance of putting things right,” said Sir Dugald, in the
tone of one stating a fact rather than asking a question.

“None. If any of poor Nasr Ali’s children survived, we might do
something, but the fiends took good care of that. There were two boys,
certainly, and I believe some daughters as well, but they are beyond
reach of any atonement we can make. And since no good could come of
it, it would look rather bad for the paramount Power to have to
confess how easily it had been hoodwinked; so we let ill alone.”

“Poetic justice would suggest that you should allow Gobind Chand to
murder Wilayat Ali, and to be murdered in his turn by the Sardars.”

“And put young Hasrat Ali, Wilayat’s son, who by all accounts is a
regular chip of the old block, on the _gadi_? That wouldn’t better
things much, and would mean a nice crop of revolutions and tumults.
Nalapur is too close to our borders for that sort of thing. I don’t
say that I wouldn’t have welcomed poetic justice if it had had the
sense to take its course without consulting me; but as it is, I can’t
connive at the removal of an ally, even an unsatisfactory one. Your
business is to see the Amir as soon as you arrive, if bribes or
threats will do it, so as to forestall Gobind Chand; but don’t leave
without delivering the despatch into his hands, if you have to wait
for a week. Even if Gobind Chand succeeds in getting round him and
persuading him of his innocence, the warning will make him keep his
eyes wide open. And--I am not a particularly nervous man, but this is
a wicked world--see that your men mount guard properly day and night
while you are in Nalapur, and go the rounds yourself at irregular
intervals. Since you know something now of Wilayat Ali, I needn’t
remind you not to trust a word that he says. Well, I’ll turn back
here. Take care of yourself.”

Sir Dugald saluted and rode on with his detachment, and Major Keeling,
putting spurs to his horse, galloped back to Alibad, still in the
gold-laced uniform and plumed helmet he had donned for his interview
with the Vizier. He had never many minutes to waste, and Gobind Chand
had robbed him of half a working day already, but he made time to
pause at the fort and send Lady Haigh a message that he had seen her
husband on his way.

“As if that was any consolation!” cried Lady Haigh when she received
it. “If he had seen him coming back, now----! The way he keeps poor
Dugald running about all day and every day is really shameful. I do
believe”--with gloomy triumph--“that he picks him out for all the
dangerous and awkward bits of work on purpose. If anything happened to
any of the other men, their sweethearts or mothers or sisters might
reproach the Major, and so he sends Dugald, knowing that I have sworn
not to say a word, whatever happens.”

Penelope smiled feebly. She was very long in recovering from her
attack of fever, and Lady Haigh was anxious about her, even throwing
out hints as to the possibility of emulating the despicable conduct of
the Punjab ladies, and taking a trip to the Hills or the sea. But
Penelope only shook her head, and said she should be better when the
cool weather came. No change of scene could alter the fact that she
had finally and deliberately taken upon herself the responsibility of
Ferrers and his failings, or relieve her from the haunting feeling
that henceforward there would be a blank in her life. What caused the
blank she had not courage to ask herself. People were not so fond of
analysing their sensations in those days as in these; it was enough to
be conscious of an ever-present sense of loss, to know that she had
put away from her something that it would have been a joy to possess.

Three days passed without news of any kind, dreary days to the two
ladies, who devoted themselves, as in honour bound, to their
unsatisfactory pursuits, and only emerged from the fort for their
evening ride. The “gardens”--for the name which sounded ironical had
by general consent been adopted as prophetic--boasted a nondescript
erection of masonry which did duty as a band-stand; and here a band in
process of making struggled painfully through various easy exercises
and a mutilated edition of “God Save the Queen.” Lady Haigh and
Penelope always halted their _palkis_ dutifully in the neighbourhood
of the band, and stepped out to walk and talk a little with Major
Keeling and the other men. It was as necessary to appear here once
a-day as on the sea-drive at Bab-us-Sahel, and if Major Keeling was in
the town he never failed to show himself. Riding, fighting, building,
surveying, planting, exercising his men, administering his district,
he had ten men’s work in hand, and his only moment of leisure in the
whole day was this brief evening promenade. Lady Haigh told him once
that it was very good of him to devote it to social purposes. He
replied gravely that it was his duty, the least he could do--then
hesitated, and confessed that he did not dislike it, nay, that the
thought of it sometimes occurred to him pleasantly in the intervals of
his day’s labours, and Lady Haigh received the information with
suitable surprise and gratitude.

When the watchman on the fort tower announced at last that Sir
Dugald’s detachment was in sight, Major Keeling broke up abruptly the
court he was holding, and rode out to meet him. As soon as details
could be discerned through the haze of sand, he assured himself that
the numbers were complete, and that no fighting had taken place; but
Sir Dugald’s face, as he met him, did not bear any look of triumph.

“Well?” asked the older man sharply.

“The Amir absolutely refused to receive me until the morning after we
arrived, and by that time Gobind Chand had turned up, of course. They
make out that Gobind Chand’s proposal to you was inspired by his
master, and intended to test your friendship.”

“I hope they were satisfied that it had stood the test?”

“Well, hardly. They said that if you were really friendly you would
hand over to them some fugitive called the Sheikh-ul-Jabal.”

Major Keeling nodded his head slowly two or three times. “So that’s
it, is it? Rather a neat plan, if my righteous indignation hadn’t
knocked it on the head. But somehow I don’t fancy Wilayat Ali would
care to suggest to Gobind Chand the idea of murdering him. And yet, if
you got to Nalapur before Gobind Chand, how could he have managed to
delay the audience until he had put things right with the Amir? Of
course he may have anticipated my action, and left directions, but----
Who was your guide, after all?”

“Ferrers’ munshi, Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq.”

“What!” Major Keeling smote his hand upon his knee. “That man, of all
men? The very last---- How in the world----?”

“Is there any objection to him? Ferrers did not want to weaken his
garrison, for the outlaw Shir Hussein is in the neighbourhood again,
and he hopes to catch him. This man knows Nalapur well, and has
friends in the city. Ferrers trusts him implicitly--with all that he
has in the world, if you are to believe the Mirza himself.”

“I can quite believe it. Well, no matter. I ought to have warned you.
No, I know nothing against the man; but why does he always keep out of
my way, if it isn’t that he’s afraid to meet me? And he has friends in
Nalapur, has he? Did he go to see them as soon as you arrived?”

“Fairly soon after. I thought it as well to let him trot off, so that
he might bring us warning if there was any talk of attacking us.”

“Quite so. But I hardly think he’d have done it. So they want the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal given up? I’ll see them hanged first!”

“Is there anything peculiar about the man, Major,--any mystery----?”

“None that I know of. Why?”

“Both the Amir and Gobind Chand looked at me very hard when they made
the demand, almost as if they expected to stare me out of countenance.
And there was a sort of uneasiness about the whole interview, as if
either they knew more than I did, or suspected me of knowing more than
they did--I couldn’t make out which. And perhaps you didn’t notice,
sir, that when Gobind Chand met you first he gave a great start? I
noticed it, and so did Porter.”

“No, I didn’t see it. That wretched mystery cropping up again, I
suppose! I wish I could get to the bottom of it. But there’s nothing
mysterious about the Sheikh-ul-Jabal. He was a great friend of our
unfortunate victim, Nasr Ali, who married his sister, and he managed
to escape into our territory, with a few followers, when the trouble
came. He had done us good service in the Ethiopian war, and Sir Henry,
whose conscience was pricking him pretty badly, was glad to promise
him protection, though Wilayat Ali has never ceased to press for his
being given up. He is a heretic of some sort, and the orthodox
Nalapuri Mullahs hate him like poison.”

“A Sufi, I suppose?” said Sir Dugald.

“No; he is the head of a sect of his own--the remnant of some
organisation which was very powerful at the time of the Crusades, I
believe. Even now he seems to have adherents all over Asia, and
several times he has given us valuable information. But Wilayat Ali
swears that he is perpetually intriguing against him, and so the
Government have rewarded him rather scurvily--forbidden him to quit
Khemistan. The poor man laid it so much to heart that he took a vow
never to leave his house again as long as the sun shone upon the
earth.”

“Then he is a state prisoner somewhere? Is he down at the coast?”

“No, he has furbished up a ruined fort which he found in the
mountains, and calls it Sheikhgarh. He has an allowance from us, and
he could range all over the province if he liked. It is only his vow
that prevents him, and, curiously enough, I have reason to know that
it’s not as alarming as it sounds.”

“Why, have you ever seen him?”

“I have, and I have not. I met him out in the desert one night--saw a
troop of men riding, and challenged them. When he heard who I was, he
came forward to explain that for a person of such sanctity it was easy
to dispense himself partially from his vow--so as to let him take his
rides abroad at night. He was muffled up to the eyes, and it was dark,
besides, so I can’t say I saw him, but I liked his voice. I told him
he need fear no molestation from me, that I considered both he and
Nasr Ali had been treated scandalously, and that I was on his side if
the Government troubled him any more.”

Sir Dugald hid a smile. Major Keeling’s opinion of any government he
might happen to serve was never a matter of doubt, and no prudential
motives would be likely to induce him to keep it secret.




 CHAPTER VII.
 EYE-WITNESS.

Sir Henry Lennox had resigned his post, and the military despotism
in Khemistan proper was at an end. The Europeans at Alibad journeyed
in two detachments to the port on the river to bid farewell to the old
warrior, who was making his last triumphal progress amid the tears and
lamentations of the people to whom, according to his enemies and their
newspapers, his name was a signal for universal execration. The
General and his flotilla of steamers passed on, and Major Keeling
returned to Alibad, refusing to be comforted. The epoch of the soldier
was over, that of the civilian had begun, and, like his old commander,
he detested civilians as a class, without prejudice to certain
favoured individuals, with a furious hatred. Mr Crayne, the newly
appointed Commissioner, was not only a civilian but a man of such an
awkward temper that it was said his superiors and contemporaries at
Bombay had united to thrust the post upon him. It was not his by
seniority, but they would have been willing to see him made
Governor-General if it would remove him from their immediate
neighbourhood. In him Major Keeling perceived a foeman worthy of his
steel, and before the new ruler had fairly arrived in the province,
they were embarked upon a fierce paper warfare over almost every point
of Mr Crayne’s inaugural utterance. After a hard day’s work, it was a
positive refreshment to the soldier to sit down and compose a fiery
letter to his obnoxious superior; and since he was one of those to
whom experience brings little wisdom, he repeated with zest the old
mistake which had made him a by-word in official circles. More than
once in former years, when he thought he had made a specially good
point in a controversy of this kind, or forced his opponent into a
particularly untenable corner, he had sent the correspondence to the
Bombay papers, which were ready enough to print it, salving their
consciences by printing also scathing remarks on the sender. They gave
him no sympathy, and the military authorities sent him stinging
rebukes; but as if by a kind of fatality he did the same thing over
again as often as circumstances made it possible. His friends and
subordinates looked on with fear and trembling, and whispered that the
only reason he was still in the service was the fact that no one else
could keep the frontier quiet: his enemies chuckled while they
writhed, and said that the man was hard at work twisting the rope to
hang himself, and it must be long enough soon.

It was unfortunate that Ferrers should have chosen this particular
time to ask for leave in order to pay a visit to his uncle. He was
heartily sick of the frontier, and the prospect of the Christmas
festivities at Bab-us-Sahel was very pleasant. Moreover, he was
anxious to bring himself to Mr Crayne’s remembrance. These months of
hard service in a detestable spot like Alibad ought to have quite
wiped out the memory of his past follies, and the uncle who had
refused a request for money with unkind remarks such as made his
nephew’s ears tingle still, might be willing to help him in other ways
now that he could do so without cost to himself. By dint of studiously
respectful and persistent letters congratulating Mr Crayne on his
appointment, Ferrers had succeeded in eliciting a sufficiently cordial
invitation to spend Christmas at Government House, provided he could
obtain leave. His uncle did not offer to pay his expenses; but for the
provision of the heavy cost of the journey he relied, in his usual
fashion, on the trustfulness of the regimental _shroff_--an elastic
term for an official whose functions included both banking and
money-lending. The obstacle came just where he had not expected it,
for Major Keeling refused to grant him leave. It was true that Ferrers
had already had the full leave to which he was entitled, and had spent
it in hunting, but a more prudent man than the Commandant might have
felt inclined to stretch a point, with the view of conciliating the
ruling power. Not so Major Keeling. If he had felt the slightest
inclination to grant Ferrers’ request, the fact that he was Mr
Crayne’s nephew would have kept him from doing so; but as it was, he
rated Ferrers severely for asking for leave at all when the freebooter
Shir Hussein was still at large in his district and foiling all
attempts to lay him by the heels. Exasperated alike by the refusal and
the rebuke, Ferrers rode back to Shah Nawaz in a towering passion, and
casting aside the restraint which he had hitherto maintained, gave
vent to his feelings by inveighing furiously against the Commandant in
the presence of Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq. The Mirza listened calmly, and
with something like amusement, saying little, but the few words he
uttered were calculated to inflame his employer’s rage rather than to
allay it.

“Keeling has made up his mind to persecute me for being my uncle’s
nephew!” cried Ferrers at last. “I won’t stand it. I’ll appeal to the
Commissioner. He can’t refuse to take my side when he sees how I’m
treated.”

“It may be he will remove you to another post, sahib,” suggested the
Mirza.

“I only wish he would! I’d go like a shot.”

“It may be that Kīlin Sahib wishes it also.” The suggestion was made
in a meditative tone, and Ferrers turned and looked at the Mirza.

“What do you mean? Hasn’t he just refused to let me go?”

“It is one thing to go for a while and return, and another to depart
permanently, sahib,” was the answer.

“You mean that he hopes to make me throw up the frontier altogether?
What business has he to try and turn me out?”

“Nay, sahib, it is not for me to say. But it may be he has no desire
that there should always be one near him who might carry tales to your
honour’s uncle.”

“What tales could I carry? The man’s straight enough. He does himself
more harm by one of his own letters that I could do him in a year.”

“Even if your honour told all that you know?”

“Why, of course. What are you driving at, Mirza? I wish you wouldn’t
be so abominably mysterious.”

“If Firoz Sahib knows nothing now that his honoured uncle would care
to hear, it may be he might learn something.”

“There you go again! What is it? Do you know anything?”

“Is it for the dust of the earth, the poor servant of Firoz Sahib, to
utter words against the great Kīlin Sahib, the lord of the border?
The lips of my lord’s slave are sealed.”

“That they’re not. You’ve gone too far to draw back now. If you don’t
tell me what you mean, I’ll have it out of you one way or another.”

“Nay, my lord will not so far forget himself as to utter threats to
his servant?” said the Mirza, in a silky tone which nevertheless
reminded Ferrers that his dependant could make things very unpleasant
for him if he liked. “As I have said, I may not bear testimony against
Kīlin Sahib; but who shall blame me if I enable my lord to see with
his own eyes the things of which I speak?”

“By all means. Splendid idea!” said Ferrers, divided between the
desire of conciliating the Mirza and a certain reluctance to spy upon
the Commandant. But this quickly gave place to excitement. What could
he be going to discover? “When can you do this?” he asked. “And how
can you manage about me?”

“If my lord will deign to put on once more, as often in the past, the
garments of the faithful, and will pledge himself to say nothing of
what he sees save what I may give him leave to reveal, I will lead him
this very night to a certain place where he shall see things that will
surprise him.”

“Oh, all right!” said Ferrers, forgetting that he was putting himself
once more into the Mirza’s power. “The _daffadar_ must know we are
going out in disguise, in case of an alarm in the night, but he had
better think we are going to try and track Shir Hussein. You look
after the clothes, of course. Do we ride or walk?”

“We will ride the first part of the way, sahib, and two ponies shall
be in readiness; but the place to which we go is a _pir_’s tomb in the
hills this side of the Akrab Pass, and there we must walk. But we
shall return to the ponies, and be here again by dawn.”

The Mirza bowed himself out, and Ferrers whiled away the rest of the
day in vain speculations. Was he about to discover that Major Keeling
amused himself with such adventures as he and his friends at
Bab-us-Sahel had been wont to undertake? He thought not, for, though
born and partly brought up in India, the Major had always spoken with
contemptuous dislike of Europeans who aped the natives, or tried to
live a double life. Of course that might be only to throw his hearers
off the scent, but still--and Ferrers went over the ground again, with
the same result. He had not come to any decision as to what he was to
expect to see by the time the Mirza thought it was safe to start, and
he could get no satisfaction from him. He was to judge with his own
eyes, and not be prepared beforehand for what he was to be shown.

It was a long ride over the desert, which shone faintly white in the
starlight. There was no wind, and the whirling sand which made
travelling so unpleasant in the daytime was momentarily still. The
distant cry of a wild animal was to be heard at times, but no human
beings seemed to be abroad save the two riders. It was different,
however, when they had reached the mountains, and, picketing the
ponies in a convenient hollow, began to climb a rocky path, for here
and there in front of them was to be seen a muffled figure. Once or
twice they passed or were overtaken by one of these, with whom the
Mirza exchanged a low-toned greeting, the words of which Ferrers could
not distinguish. Sooner than he expected they found themselves
entering a village of rough mud-huts, which had evidently grown up
around and under the protection of a larger building, a Moslem
sanctuary of some sort. This must be the tomb of the _pir_, or holy
man, of whom the Mirza had spoken, thought Ferrers; and he noticed
that muffled figures like those he had seen on the way up seemed to be
thronging into it. The place was built of rough mud-brick, but there
were rude traces of decoration about the walls, and some architectural
features in the form of a bulb-shaped dome and two rather squat
minarets. Ferrers and his guide joined the crowd at the entrance, and
were pressing into the building with them, when Ferrers felt the Mirza
grasp his arm, and impel him aside. They seemed to have turned into a
dark passage between two walls, while the rest of the crowd had gone
straight on, and a man with whom the Mirza spoke for a moment, and who
was apparently one of the keepers of the tomb, closed a door behind
them as soon as they had entered. Still guided by the Mirza, Ferrers
stumbled along the passage until a faint gleam of starlight through a
loop-hole showed him that there was a spiral staircase in front. The
steps were choked with sand and much decayed, but the two men made
shift to climb them, and came out at last on a fairly smooth mud
platform, which was evidently the roof of the tomb. The Mirza walked
noiselessly across it until he came to the dark mass which represented
the bulging dome, and Ferrers, following, found that rude steps had
been devised in the mouldering brickwork, so that it was possible to
mount to the top. Once there, a sudden rush of oil-fumes and mingled
odours reached him, and he would have coughed but for the Mirza’s
imperative whisper ordering silence. Following his guide’s example, he
lay down on the slope of the dome, supporting himself by gripping with
his fingers the edge of the brickwork, over which he looked. He had
noticed that although from the ground the top of the dome appeared
roughly spherical, it was in reality flattened, and now he found that
this flat effect was caused by the absence of the concluding courses
of brickwork, which would answer to a key-stone, so that a round hole
was left for the admission of light and air. They could thus look
right down into the building, upon the actual tomb, marked by an
oblong slab of rough stone, immediately below them, and upon the men
whom they had seen entering, now seated on the floor in reverential,
expectant silence. The place was lighted by a number of smoking
oil-lamps, which revealed the rude arabesques in blue and crimson
decorating the walls, and brought out a gleam of shining turquoise and
white higher up, where were the remains of a frieze of glazed tiles,
and which were also accountable for the fumes which obliged Ferrers to
turn his head away every now and then for a breath of fresh air.

After one of these interruptions, he became aware that a service of
some kind had begun. A voice was droning out what sounded like a
liturgy, and the congregation were kneeling with their foreheads to
the floor, and performing the proper genuflexions at suitable
intervals. Presently the Mirza grasped his arm again, and directed his
attention to the officiating reader. Ferrers could only discern him
dimly, and saw him, moreover, from behind; but presently it began to
dawn upon him that the figure was in some way familiar. The man was
very tall, and, for an Oriental, of an extraordinarily powerful build.
His flowing robes were of purest white, but his girdle was scarlet;
and round a pointed cap of bright steel, in shape like the fighting
headgear of the Khemistan Horse, he wore a scarlet turban. After a
time he had occasion to turn round, and Ferrers, with a thrill for
which he could not at first account, saw his face. Again there was
that impression of familiarity. The thick black hair, the bushy beard,
the strongly marked features, the keen eyes--Ferrers knew them all;
and when he realised what this meant, he was only prevented by the
Mirza’s arm from slipping off the dome. To find Major Keeling reading
Arabic prayers in a Mohammedan place of worship was a shock for which
nothing he had hitherto seen had prepared him.

Presently the service came to an end, and the reader disappeared from
view. From the movements of the audience, it seemed that they were
grouping themselves round him at one end of the building; and, at the
Mirza’s suggestion, Ferrers slipped and shuffled round the dome until
he reached a point opposite to his former position. Here he could
again obtain a glimpse of the white and scarlet figure, seated now in
a niche in the end wall, with the congregation sitting before him like
disciples in the presence of a teacher. What followed was more or less
of a mystery to Ferrers, for it was difficult to see clearly, and
almost impossible to hear. All spoke in low voices, and the mingled
sounds rose confusedly to the opening in the dome. But it seemed
evident that reports of some kind were given in by certain of the
audience, whose attire showed them to belong to various tribes, or
even to different regions of Central Asia; that orders were issued,
and small strips torn from the teacher’s white robe blessed and
distributed among those present. All this was highly interesting; but
from what followed, Ferrers, whose religious sense was by no means
keen, drew back revolted. To see his Commandant breathing on the eager
hearers who crowded round him as he rose, or laying his hands on their
heads, according as they entreated a blessing or the favour of his
holy breath, was bad enough. But there were some who suffered from
bodily ailments, and the teacher must needs lay his hand upon the spot
affected and mutter a prayer; and for those who had sick friends at
home he must write charms on scraps of paper and mutter incantations
over them. Then, just as he was about to leave the place, a very old
man pushed forward and grasped his robe.

“O my lord!” he cried, and his high quavering voice reached Ferrers
clearly, “strengthen the faith of thy servant. Months ago I disobeyed
thy commands, and sought a sign from thee in the daytime and in the
presence of the ignorant and the infidel. Thou didst pour scorn upon
me, such as I well deserved, but pardon me now. All those that are
here have seen thy power, save only thy servant. Only a little sign, O
my lord--to behold fire breathed from thy lips, or a light shining
round thee----”

The teacher held up his hand for silence, and answered in the same low
voice as before. Though Ferrers strained his ears, he could not hear
what was said, but the Mirza was at his side.

“The Sheikh says that he will show the faithful a new miracle,” he
whispered. “Many of them have seen him breathe fire, but now a sweet
odour, as of roses, shall suddenly encompass him, that they may know
the worth of his prayers.”

“The odour of sanctity!” chuckled Ferrers, in mingled amusement and
disgust; and presently, rather to his astonishment, a faint but
distinct perfume of attar of roses made itself felt among the
oil-fumes which rose through the opening. To the crowd below the scent
must have been much more evident, and their expressions of joy and
wonder broke out loudly. The old man who had asked for a miracle flung
himself down in transports of delight, and kissed the ground before
the Sheikh’s feet, and there were urgent entreaties to be led forth at
once against the enemy, which were promptly refused. When the teacher
had disappeared from view, the Mirza touched Ferrers’ arm, and they
scrambled down the dome and crept to the side of the roof, where,
sheltered by the minaret, they looked over the edge. The red and white
of the Sheikh’s dress were clearly discernible, but it was not easy to
see what was going on among his supporters. As Ferrers’ eyes became
accustomed to the darkness, however, he perceived that a shallow grave
had been dug, and that a coffin was ready to be committed to it. He
looked round at the Mirza with horror. Were these men about to dispose
of the body of some member of their mysterious association who had
been false to his vows, and suffered for it? But the Mirza’s whisper
was reassuring--

“It is the body of a man of Gamara, who died here yesterday. The
Sheikh will utter spells which will preserve it from decay, that when
the friends are about to return home they may take up the body and
bury it in the burial-place of his fathers in his own land.”

The Sheikh’s incantations were lengthy, and before they were over the
Mirza and Ferrers descended the staircase again. As they passed the
loophole at its foot, the Mirza directed Ferrers’ attention to a
brazier filled with glowing charcoal which stood in a recess in the
opposite wall.

“The Sheikh had smeared the wooden walls of the niche in which he sat
with attar of roses before the service began, and placed this brazier
here,” he said. “He knew that as the heat penetrated through the wall,
the perfume would make itself felt.”

“Wily beggar! he leaves nothing to chance,” said Ferrers, and stopped
suddenly with sick disgust. The successful charlatan of whom he spoke
was a British officer, a man whose hand he had grasped in friendship.

They groped along the passage, and slipped out noiselessly by the door
into the crowd of disciples. When the funeral was over the Sheikh bade
farewell to his followers, and mounted a black horse which had been
brought forward in readiness. Ferrers restrained himself with
difficulty from whistling to the horse.

“If it was Miani, he might know my whistle,” he said to himself; “but
I can’t believe Keeling would use him on such a business as this.”

The Sheikh rode off alone, and the assembly melted away quickly.
Ferrers and the Mirza picked their way down the path in silence, found
their ponies, and said nothing until they were at a safe distance from
the hills. Then Ferrers turned to his companion.

“What does it mean?” he said.

“He that you have seen is the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, sahib. Whether he is
also any one else is for you to say.”

“But is it possible that the man can be a British officer all day and
a Mohammedan fanatic at night? Who is the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, by the
way--not the old joker who lives in the hills to the west?”

“The same, sahib.”

“But what is he driving at? Who is he going to war with?”

“It is not for me to say, sahib; but it may be that he designs to
conquer the nations even as far as Gamara.”

Ferrers reflected. To Major Keeling, as to many British officers at
the time, the name of Gamara was like a red rag to a bull, and it was
one of their favourite dreams that one day a British Indian army would
sweep the accursed spot from the face of the earth. It was not
inherently impossible that, despairing of seeing the dream ever
fulfilled by constituted authority, Major Keeling should proceed to
make it a reality by methods of his own. But the means--the mummery,
trickery, dissimulation that were necessary,--how could he stoop to
them, and yet pose as an honourable man?

“Have you ever spied there before?” asked Ferrers of the Mirza.

“Often, sahib.”

“And what have you seen at other times?”

“Always the same sort of things, sahib--plannings and pretended
miracles. But I can show you more than this in another place, only it
may not be yet for a time.”

“Let it be as soon as possible.” Ferrers rode on silently. It did not
occur to him to inquire what had suggested to the Mirza the idea of
spying on Major Keeling, or what result he hoped to gain from it. He
scarcely heard Fazl-ul-Hacq’s voice adjuring him not to breathe a
syllable about what he had seen until he gave him leave, for he was
asking himself a question. Next week he must go into Alibad for
Christmas, and meet Major Keeling at every turn. How could he treat
him as if he knew nothing of his proceedings?




 CHAPTER VIII.
 SEEING AND BELIEVING.

When Ferrers rode into Alibad next week, to spend his Christmas
there, his excitement had died down. He had not received the
additional evidence against Major Keeling which the Mirza had promised
him, and he understood that he must be content to wait for it. But he
had schooled himself into quietness since that eventful night by dint
of dwelling chiefly on the ridiculous side of what he had seen, and
found the recollection rather amusing than otherwise. He felt that he
could meet the delinquent without any inconvenient display of wrath,
and was prepared to enjoy to the full such Christmas festivities as
the resources of the station might provide. He wondered, with
something very like mirth, on what sort of footing he would find
himself with Penelope this time. Hitherto it had seemed as if he could
not remain in the same mind about her for two days together. But
surely it must be her fault, if she could not keep him faithful. No
doubt if he found her looking well and bright, more especially if the
other men seemed inclined to pay court to her, his suspended affection
would revive; but if she looked pale, and was too dull for any one to
care to talk to her, it was not likely he would wish to seek her out.
If she was no longer interesting, how could he possibly be interested
in her, and was he to blame that this was the case?

Thoughts of this kind were vaguely forming themselves in his mind as
he rode, when a cloud of dust in front announced the approach of
another horseman, and presently resolved itself into Colin, his face
wearing a determined expression which told that, as his Covenanting
forefathers would have said, something was “laid upon his mind.”
Ferrers wondered what was the matter, but Colin said nothing until he
had turned his horse and they were riding side by side. Then he
inquired with startling suddenness--

“Are you still in the same mind about Penelope as when we last talked
about her?”

“Why, Colin, have you come out to ask me my intentions?” asked
Ferrers, much amused.

“I’m not joking. If you feel as you did when you sent her that message
by me, I think the time is come to announce it openly. Do you feel
inclined to speak to her yourself on the subject?”

Ferrers shrugged his shoulders, and yielded, in his usual fashion, to
the influence of the moment. “I should be delighted, but how is it to
be managed? Lady Haigh watches over her like a dragon when I am
there.”

“I will undertake Lady Haigh if you will seize your opportunity.
Penelope is unhappy in her present anomalous position, I am certain.
She distinctly gave me the impression that she had thought you unkind
and neglectful. Of course I defended you as best I could, but you
should have been there to speak for yourself.”

“But I thought it was Penelope’s own wish that I should keep my
distance?”

“So I thought,” was the troubled answer; “but now I think it might
have been better if you had not held aloof quite so much. I may have
mistaken her--I was so anxious to bring you together again that I
would have agreed to almost any terms.” Ferrers laughed involuntarily,
but Colin’s forehead was puckered with anxiety. “Perhaps you should
have refused to take her at her word----”

“Or at your word,” suggested Ferrers.

“Well, perhaps if you had been more eager, refused to be kept at a
distance in this way, she might have liked it better. Women seem to
find some moral support in an engagement, somehow----”

“What a young Solon you are, Colin! Well, give me a lead at the right
moment, and I’ll play up to it. So poor little Pen is miserable, is
she?”

“She is not happy, and she won’t talk about you. She must think you
have treated her badly--don’t you agree with me? I daresay she has the
idea that I might have helped her more. I hope it will be all right
now, and that I am not wrong in----”

“Oh, look here, Colin, don’t trot out that conscience of yours,” said
Ferrers, with rough good-nature. “We’re going to put things right, at
any rate, and you can’t quarrel with what you’ve done yourself,” and
Colin consented to leave the subject. He was honestly anxious to do
what was best for his sister, with an unconscious mental reservation
in favour of what he thought was best; and the barrier which the last
few months had raised between Penelope and himself was a real grief to
him. Penelope had learnt to carry her burden alone. Colin could not
understand why it should be a burden at all, and she could not confide
in Lady Haigh without seeming to accuse Colin. Her sole comfort
hitherto had been that Ferrers made no attempt to enforce what she
regarded as his threats in the message sent by Colin, and she looked
forward to Christmas-week with absolute dread. She hoped desperately
that he might still hold aloof; but this hope was destined to be
shattered as soon as he reached Alibad.

Colin brought him up immediately to pay his respects to Lady Haigh,
who still held her court in the fort, for at the very beginning of the
rains one of the newly built houses had subsided by slow degrees into
its original mud, and Major Keeling would not allow the ladies to move
until the others had been tested and strengthened. Lady Haigh’s policy
was unchanged, it was evident. She kept the conversation general, and
made it clear that she would remain on guard over Penelope until
Ferrers was safely off the premises. But Colin had come prepared to
throw himself heroically into the breach.

“I think Captain Ferrers and my sister have something to say to each
other,” he said, and offered his arm to Lady Haigh with formal
courtesy. “Perhaps you would not mind showing me the view from the
ramparts again?”

No one was more astonished than Lady Haigh herself at her compliance
with the invitation; but, as she said later, when she was politely
handed out of her own drawing-room, what could she do but go? The one
glimpse she had of Penelope reassured her. The girl’s colour had
risen, and it was evident she resented her brother’s action, and was
not inclined to accept his ruling tamely. For the moment Ferrers was
the more embarrassed of the two. He fidgeted from one chair to
another, and then took up a book on the table near Penelope and played
with it, not noticing the start with which she half rose to rescue it
from his hands. It was a battered copy of Scott’s Poems, the pages
everywhere decorated with underlining and marginal notes.

“Why, I believe you have got hold of the Chief’s beloved Scott!” he
cried. “He might have found a respectable copy to lend you.”

“I should not have cared for that,” she replied. “It is his notes that
interest me.”

“Oh, you find the Chief an object of interest?” Ferrers looked up
sharply. “Do you see much of him?”

“He comes in fairly often.” Penelope’s tone was curiously repressed.
“I think he likes to talk to--us.”

“And what may you and he find to talk about?”

“The province, chiefly. Sometimes the battles he has been in.”

Ferrers laughed forbearingly. There was little need to fear a rival in
a man who could see a girl constantly for six months, and still talk
to her on military and civil themes at the end of the time. “And you
find that enlivening?” he asked. “Well, there’s no harm in it, but I
wouldn’t advise you to become too confidential with him. He’s not the
man you think him.”

“I did not know I had asked your advice on the subject,” said Penelope
coldly.

“Oh, didn’t you? but you see I have a right to give it; and I tell you
plainly I don’t wish you to make an intimate friend of Keeling.”

“Even supposing that you had such a right, I should never think of
bowing to it unless I knew your reasons.”

“Do you really wish me to give them? I thought you might prefer to go
on believing in your friend.”

“I wish to hear the worst you can say of him, and I shall go on
believing in him just the same.”

“Will you? I think not. What would you say if I told you I had seen
him, a week ago last night, playing _imam_ at a _pir_’s tomb out near
the Akrab--reciting prayers, writing charms, pretending to work
miracles, and all the rest of it?”

“A week ago last night?” said Penelope faintly. Then she pulled
herself together. “I should say you had been mistaken.”

“Mistaken? Am I not to believe the witness of my own eyes?”

“I would not believe the witness of my own eyes in such a case.”

Ferrers wondered at the decision with which she spoke, not knowing
what was in her mind. On the night he mentioned, she had remembered,
while lying awake, that she had left the book she was reading--one of
Sir Dugald’s--on the ramparts. Fearing it would be spoilt by the dew,
she roused her ayah and told her to go and fetch it, but the woman
whimpered that she was afraid--there were always ghosts in these old
forts--and hung back even when Penelope said she would come too. They
reached the rampart safely, however, the clear starlight making a lamp
unnecessary, and rescued the book. As they turned to descend the steps
again, the pad of a horse’s feet upon the sand reached their ears, and
looking over the parapet, they saw Major Keeling ride past on Miani.
There was no possibility of mistake, and Penelope had never dreamt of
imagining that the rider in undress uniform and curtained forage-cap
could be any one but the Commandant. He was bound on one of his
restless wanderings over the desert, and her heart sent forth a silent
entreaty to him to be prudent. But now, as she said, she was willing
to disbelieve the evidence of her own eyes if it gave support to this
story of Ferrers’.

“I suppose you think I am a liar?” he demanded resentfully.

“I think you have either made a mistake or been deceived. Do you
believe it yourself? What are you going to do.”

Ferrers was nonplussed. He had disobeyed the Mirza’s injunction, and
spoken without waiting for the further evidence promised him. He might
have put himself into a very awkward position if Penelope should tell
any one of what he had said, and he decided to temporise.

“Of course I should never think of saying anything about it. As you
say, it’s a case in which one can’t take seeing as believing. You
won’t say anything about it, of course?”

“Is it likely?” demanded Penelope indignantly. Ferrers surveyed her
with growing interest, and became suddenly sorry for himself.

“You flare up if any one says a word against the Chief, and yet you
believed a whole string of accusations against me, simply on Lady
Haigh’s word,” he said.

“I thought you acknowledged they were true? At any rate, you did not
value my opinion of you sufficiently to take a single step to justify
yourself.”

“What was the good? You were prejudiced against me. If you had cared
for me enough to give me a chance, it would have been different, but I
saw you didn’t, so I set you free.”

“And bound me again the next morning.”

“I had seen you by that time, and I couldn’t let you go. But what sort
of life have you led me since--keeping me at arm’s-length all these
months? Surely you might have been a little kinder----” Ferrers
stopped abruptly, for there was something like scorn in Penelope’s
eyes. “The fact is, you don’t care a scrap for me,” he broke out
angrily.

“Why should I?” asked Penelope.

For the moment he was too much astonished to answer, and she spoke
again, quietly, but with an under-current of indignation which drove
her charges home. “Why should I care for you, when you have never
shown the slightest consideration for me? Have you ever thought what a
position I should have been in, but for Lady Haigh’s kindness, when I
landed at Bab-us-Sahel? No, I know it was not your fault that the
letters miscarried; but you know you had no wish to see me when you
heard I had arrived. You were glad--glad--to be rid of the bond, and
so was I. And then you got Colin on your side--why, I don’t know--and
made him persuade me to renew my promise, because it would be a help
and comfort to you, and you could work better if you saw me now and
then. You have never been near me if you could possibly help it, and
for all the help and comfort I have been to you I might as well have
been at home. You may say I don’t care for you if you like, but I know
very well that you don’t care for me.”

“But I do!” cried Ferrers involuntarily. “On my honour, Pen, I never
knew what there was in you before. You are the girl for me. I always
felt you could keep me straight, but it never struck me till now how
sharply you could pull a fellow up.”

“You seem not to understand that I don’t want the task. I wish you to
give me back my promise.”

“I won’t, then. Come, Pen, we shall have a week together now, and I’ll
show you I do care for you. Let’s forget all that’s gone by, and begin
again. I have fallen in love with you this moment--yes, by Jove! I
have”--he spoke with pleased surprise--“and we’ll be as happy as the
day is long.”

“You don’t seem to see----” began Penelope, in a scared tone.

“Oh well, if you are going to bear malice----” he spoke huffily. “I
hadn’t thought it of you. Why shouldn’t you let bygones be bygones, as
I do? Of course I haven’t been exactly what you might call attentive,
but I’m going to begin fresh, as I said, and you needn’t think I’m
going to let you go. My uncle will get me a post in Lower Khemistan,
in a nice lively station, with plenty going on; and I’ll cut the
Mirza, and you shall have a jolly big bungalow, and horses and
carriages, and get your dresses out from home. When shall we be
married?”

Penelope’s eyes gathered a look almost of terror as she listened in
mingled perplexity and alarm. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said,
forcing her lips to utter the words.

“Then you must want to marry some one else. Who is it?”

For a moment she hesitated. Could she, did she dare, confess to him
the secret which she had only lately acknowledged even to
herself--that she had given her heart unasked to the keen-eyed swarthy
man who never talked to her of anything but war and work? To some men
it would have been possible to confide even this, but she felt,
rightly or wrongly, that with Ferrers it was not possible. She could
never feel sure that he would not in time to come fling her sorrowful
confession in her face, and use it to taunt her. She answered him with
desperate hopelessness, and, as she told herself, with perfect truth.
She had never had any thought of marrying Major Keeling. It would be
enough for her if their present friendship continued to the end of
their lives, or so she believed.

“There is no one,” she said. “Can’t you understand that--that----”

“That you don’t want to marry me?” cried Ferrers, laughing, his
good-humour quite restored. “No, Pen, I can’t. You’re feeling a little
sore now, because you think I’ve neglected you, but you shan’t
complain of that in future. I shall make furious love to you all this
week, and before I go back to that wretched hole we’ll announce the
engagement.”

He was so gay, so well satisfied with himself, so utterly incapable of
understanding what she felt, that Penelope’s heart sank. She made a
final effort. “Please listen to me,” she faltered. “I ask you
definitely to release me from my promise.”

“And I definitely refuse to do anything of the kind. There! is honour
satisfied now? You’ve made a brave fight--enough to please even Lady
Haigh, I should think--but it’s no good. The fortress has surrendered.
I’ll allow you the honours of war, but you mustn’t think you are going
to escape scot-free. Come!”

She allowed him passively to kiss her, and then sat down again at the
table, utterly exhausted. “Please go away now,” she said. “I will tell
Lady Haigh of--what you wish, and no doubt she will arrange for you to
come here when you like. I will try--to be a good wife to you.”

“You’d better!” said Ferrers gaily, as he departed. He was conscious
of a new and wholly unaccustomed glow of feeling--a highly creditable
feeling, too. He was actually in love, and with the very person who
would make him the best and most suitable wife he could choose. He had
not the slightest faith in the seriousness of Penelope’s resistance,
and felt genuinely proud of having overcome what he regarded as her
grudge against him. If she had only shown herself capable of
indignation and resentment earlier, he would have fallen in love with
her long ago. As it was, she might make their engagement as lively as
she pleased, and then settle down into an adoring fondness like
Colin’s, which would suit him admirably. Meeting Colin, he told him
the good news, adding that they had decided not to announce the
engagement for a week, as Penelope was still rather sore about their
past misunderstandings, and Colin hurried back to the fort, to find
Penelope with her head bowed on her arms on the table.

“Why, Pen!” he said in astonishment, “I hoped I should find you so
happy.”

Penelope raised her head, and looked at him despairingly. “Oh, Colin!”
was all she said. It seemed incredible to her that, after the long
years in which they had been all in all to each other, he could be as
blind as Ferrers to her real feelings.

“But, Pen, is it right to imagine slights in this way? I know he may
have seemed cold, but he thought it his duty to hold aloof. And he has
worked so hard and so steadily at Shah Nawaz, looking forward to the
time when he might speak to you again. I am sure the thought of you
has helped him; I know it. And now you turn against him, when he needs
your help as much as ever.”

“I can’t help any one, I am too weak,” moaned Penelope. “I want some
one strong, who can help me.”

“A strong man would not need your help,” said Colin, in the slightly
didactic tone with which he was wont, all unconsciously, to chill his
sister’s feelings. Her heart protested wildly. She could help the
strong man of whom she was thinking, she knew, but the opportunity was
denied her. “George does need you,” Colin went on, “and will you
refuse to help him because he has wounded your self-love?”

“You don’t understand. We should never be happy.”

“One must not think too much of happiness in this world--only of what
one can do for others.”

“I know that, but still---- Colin, do you mean to tell me that if you
were married you wouldn’t want your wife to be happy?”

“That is different,” said Colin, flushing. “If she was not, I should
fear it was my fault; but what has George done that you should not be
happy with him? He is a splendid fellow--his good temper and rough
kindness often make me ashamed of myself. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I suppose not, if he thought about it,” said Penelope doubtfully.
“But oh, Colin, he doesn’t know when he hurts. You think only of him,
and he thinks only of himself, and no one thinks of me--except Elma.
I wish I had listened to her all along!”

“If you are determined to be so uncharitable,” said Colin gravely,
“you had better break your promise, and send Ferrers about his
business. I could not advise you to do such a thing, but I quite allow
that my conscience is not a law for yours. I see no prospect of
happiness for you, certainly, while you are in your present frame of
mind. I think you have met with too much attention since you came to
India, Pen, and it has warped your judgment. But, as I said, don’t let
my opinion influence you.”

He stood before her in his unbending rectitude, rigid and sorrowful,
and Penelope gave way. She could not add alienation from Colin to her
other troubles, and how could she tell him that in addition to her
personal distaste for Ferrers there was against him the insuperable
bar that he was the wrong man?

“I can’t but be influenced by your opinion, Colin,” she said. “And I
never meant to say all this. Don’t let us refer to it again, please; I
shall not break my promise.”




 CHAPTER IX.
 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION.

Ferrers was very well pleased with himself. He had done his duty,
which had turned out, in a most unwonted manner, to be also his
pleasure, and he felt justly entitled to enjoy his Christmas holiday
to the full. It amused him immensely to see Lady Haigh forced to
countenance his constant presence at the fort, and his attendance on
Penelope whenever she went out. On learning the state of affairs, Sir
Dugald had absolutely and categorically forbidden his wife to do
anything that might lead to a second rupture of the engagement. Once
was enough, he said grimly; and, fume as she might, Lady Haigh judged
it well to obey. It could not be expected that the fact should improve
her temper, but Ferrers was in too complacent a state of mind to be
affected by her sharp speeches. He did not even fear that she would
succeed in prejudicing Penelope against him a second time, guessing
shrewdly that after one irrepressible outburst of disgust, she would
prefer to maintain silence on the subject, and in this he judged
correctly. Penelope’s anxious endeavours to do as he wished flattered
him pleasantly, and he reciprocated her efforts with a kindness which
had something of condescension in it. “Feeble as they are,” it seemed
to say, “you want to please me, and I will be pleased,” and Penelope
was too much broken in spirit to resent his attitude. She was not
altogether unhappy. Even in Khemistan there were at this season bright
bracing days, when a gallop over the desert could not but be a joy,
even though an unwelcome lover and an uncomprehending brother were
riding on either side of her. If at night she dedicated a few tears to
the memory of that vain dream of hers, it was only because it returned
to her in spite of her strenuous efforts to bury it. There was a kind
of restfulness in feeling that her fate was fixed without reference to
her own desires, and she was fervently anxious to be loyal to the two
young men who were both so willing for her to be absolutely happy in
their way.

In his abounding self-satisfaction Ferrers thought less of Major
Keeling’s delinquencies than before, and as the days passed on without
any fresh instance of them, became inclined to let the matter drop. If
the poor beggar found any fun in dressing up as a native and
pretending to work miracles, why in the world shouldn’t he? It would
not affect Ferrers when he got transferred to another district, and
this might happen at any moment. Keeling must be a perfect fool to
have spent his time in Penelope’s society to such little purpose, and
might really be left to his folly. But in coming to this conclusion
Ferrers was reckoning without the Mirza, whom he had not brought with
him to Alibad. After what had passed, he could quite understand the
man’s desire to keep out of Major Keeling’s sight, and he accepted the
responsibility of turning aside any questions that might be asked
about him. But on the last evening of his stay, when he was in his
room at Colin Ross’s quarters, whistling gaily as he tried on the
emerald ring with which he intended to clinch his formal engagement to
Penelope on the morrow, a low tapping reached his ears from the back
verandah, and it flashed upon him at once that the Mirza was there.
With a muttered curse on the man for disturbing him, he put away the
ring and went out softly, to find his follower standing in deep shadow
by a pillar.

“_Salaam_, sahib!” was the Mirza’s breathless greeting. “Now is the
moment of which I spoke to you. I have watched and spied around
Sheikhgarh night after night, until at last I can show you the full
measure of Kīlin Sahib’s treachery.”

“Oh, hang it all! I don’t want to go pottering about the desert
to-night,” said Ferrers angrily. “Why can’t you tell me what you’ve
found out?”

“Nay, sahib, it is for you to see it with your own eyes. So far it is
only the sahibs who will turn their backs on the man. After to-night,
the Memsahibs also will draw away their garments from touching him.”

The idea sounded promising. It would be good policy to be able to
prove to Penelope the reasonableness of the warning he had given her,
and which she had scouted, and he beckoned the Mirza in.

“You have brought my disguise, I suppose?” he said.

“Yes, sahib, and I have the ponies waiting outside the town. The moon
will not ride till late, so that we may hope not to run across Kīlin
Sahib on his way to Sheikhgarh.”

“Defend me from ever leading a double life! It’s too much trouble,”
said Ferrers, with a yawn, for he was sleepy. What an immense amount
of riding Major Keeling must get through night after night, if he went
first westwards to Sheikhgarh and then eastwards to the Akrab! And how
in the world did he manage to cram so much activity into the daytime?
He must be able to do almost without sleep. It was really a pity such
a fine soldier and ingenious plotter should be such a rascal! “Why
don’t you go into partnership with Keeling Sahib, Mirza, instead of
showing him up?” he asked. “You two might rule Asia, he as Padishah
and you as Vizier.”

“Am I a dog, to work with perjured men and those false to their salt?”
snarled the Mirza. Ferrers laughed unkindly.

“Oh, don’t try to come the righteous indignation dodge over me: I know
you a little too well for that. Now just touch up my face a bit. If
there’s a moon, it’ll be harder for me to pass muster if we meet any
one than it was by starlight.”

The toilet completed, they slipped out, and, by dint of traversing
unsavoury alleys and skulking close under walls, managed to evade
various sentries and reach the desert unchallenged. The Mirza made
straight for the spot where he had picketed the ponies, and directed
their course rather to the south of the hill which commanded the town
on the west. The route on this occasion did not lead through the open
desert, but up and down hill-paths and dry nullahs, and Ferrers
wondered where they would find themselves at last. When they reached a
kind of cave in which the Mirza remarked that they must leave the
ponies, they were in a part of the hills with which he was totally
unacquainted, so far as he could tell in the darkness. The Mirza
seemed to know the way well, however; and warning him that the
slightest noise would be dangerous, as the Sheikh-ul-Jabal’s servants
kept the neighbourhood closely patrolled, led him up what seemed a
goat-track in the rocks. He would not allow any loitering for rest,
saying that the moon would soon rise, and they must be in shelter
first, and by dint of great exertions they reached their goal in time.
It was a kind of ledge or shelf on the side of the cliff, overlooking
what seemed to be a pile of huge rocks below; but as the moon rose,
Ferrers perceived that the apparently shapeless masses were the rude
towers and buildings of a hill-fort. The site had been well chosen,
for, with the short range of the native matchlocks, it could not be
commanded from any of the surrounding hills. From his position Ferrers
could see between two of the towers down into the courtyard, and he
was startled to perceive a black horse standing saddled in front of
the building which represented the keep or chief apartments of the
place. The horse was held by a servant, and presently another servant
appeared with a torch, and a third brought a bag of food and a skin of
water, and fastened them to the saddle. Then, as Ferrers watched,
there appeared on the threshold the majestic figure in white and
scarlet which he had last seen at the _pir_’s tomb. The Sheikh turned
for a moment, apparently to give directions to several women, the
flutter of whose robes could be seen by the torchlight, and then came
out upon the steps, followed by three children, two boys and a girl,
whose ages might run from ten to twelve. All three kissed the Sheikh’s
hand, the boys holding his stirrup while he mounted, and he gave them
his blessing as he rode away. In the clear mountain air the opening of
the gate in the entrance-tower was plainly audible, and presently a
gleam of white and scarlet and steel beyond the fort showed that the
Sheikh was riding down the path. Ferrers stood up, in a state of anger
which surprised himself.

“What does it mean?” he demanded. “Who are those children?”

“It is for you to say, sahib. As for me, I have no doubt. They are the
children of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal.”

“Which means that Keeling is married to a native woman, and they are
his children,” said Ferrers. “Is it conceivable that a man can be such
a traitor? False to his country and his race! I say, Mirza, let us go
after him and put an end to his treachery.”

But the Mirza held him back. “Nay, sahib, it must not be. Has it not
often been told me that the way of the English is to do all things
slowly and according to forms of law? You know how the traitor can be
punished after the English manner; then do not act as would one of the
hill-people, which can only harm yourself.”

Ferrers saw the force of the reasoning, and followed his guide slowly
down the dangerous path. His mind was in a whirl. Marriages between
Englishmen and native women were far more common in those days than in
these, but Major Keeling was the last man he would have expected to
contract one. This, then, was the explanation of his insensibility
with regard to Penelope! But he had sat beside her, talked to her,
touched her hand, behaved like an honourable man who was free to seek
her if he chose, while only a few miles off his unacknowledged wife
and children were leading a secluded existence within stone walls. It
occurred to Ferrers that it would be a good idea to arrest them and
bring them to Alibad, there to confront Major Keeling with them
suddenly; and he asked the Mirza whether the fort was well defended.
The Mirza assured him that not only was the garrison ample for
defence, but watchmen were posted on all the hill-tops round, and it
was only by bribing one of these, over whom he had obtained some hold
in the past, that he had been able to reach the point of vantage they
had occupied. It was practically impossible to approach the place
undetected, he said, and before long there came a startling proof of
the truth of his words. Just before they reached the cave where the
horses had been left, Ferrers trod on a loose stone, which rolled down
the hillside with a terrifying clatter. Instantly a hail from the hill
on their left was answered by another from the right, and followed by
one from the fort itself.

“Mount and ride for your life,” panted the Mirza to Ferrers, as they
stumbled into the cave. “There is no hope of escaping unnoticed now.”

They had the ponies outside the cave in a twinkling, and were mounted
and riding down the path in another second. Stones rolled down under
the ponies’ feet, voices ran from hill to hill, and presently, when
the forms of the intruders were perceived, bullets began to fly around
them. Fortunately for Ferrers and the Mirza, the ponies were
sure-footed, and none of the Sheikh’s matchlockmen waited to take good
aim. They dashed out on the plain at last, unhurt, and from the nullah
behind them there rang out a last shot and a sharp cry, a man’s
death-cry.

“The sentry who suffered us to pass,” remarked the Mirza casually.
“They have a short way with brethren who have been false to their
oaths, as I should know.”

He seemed to feel he had said too much, and refused to answer Ferrers’
eager questions as to when he had been a member of the brotherhood,
and why he had left it. They rode briskly back to the outskirts of the
town, and dismounted. The Mirza guided Ferrers through the byways to
Colin’s quarters, and left him there, carrying off his disguise for
safety’s sake, and Ferrers tumbled into bed and slept heavily.

He did not wake till late, when he found the whole place in excitement
over the arrival of the mail. There were letters for him, but he
disregarded them all in favour of a telegram which had been forwarded
by boat and messenger from the point where the wires ended. It was
dated from Government House, Bab-us-Sahel, and came from his uncle,
announcing curtly that Mr Crayne was cutting short his Christmas
festivities on account of some complication which had arisen over the
affairs of a deposed native prince up the river. He considered that
his presence on the spot would enable the difficulty to be more easily
settled, and he was coming up the river by steamer as far as the
station which was the window by which the Alibad colony looked into
the larger world. He would be glad to see his nephew during his stay
there, and he was requesting Major Keeling to grant him a week’s
leave, which would be ample for the purpose.

Ferrers’ feelings when he read the missive were mixed. Much depended
on this interview, and the impression he might make on his uncle. But
should he go to meet him as an engaged man or not? It was impossible
to tell what Mr Crayne’s mood at the moment would be, but the
probability was that he would find grounds for a grievance in either
alternative. On the whole, thought Ferrers, it would be better to
suppress all mention of Penelope until he had fathomed his uncle’s
intentions towards him. If he had no benevolent design in view, his
prejudices need not be considered; but if he had anything good in
store, it might be necessary to proceed with caution, and not reveal
the truth until Mr Crayne had seen Penelope and honoured her with his
approval. Ignoring his own former changes of feeling, Ferrers was now
sufficiently in love to feel certain that his uncle must approve of
her.

With this in his mind he left the emerald ring in Colin’s charge, and
prepared for his journey, receiving a curt notice from Major Keeling
that the leave requested by his uncle was granted, riding out to Shah
Nawaz to inform the man who was taking his place that another week’s
exile was in store for him, and bidding farewell to Penelope and Lady
Haigh. Penelope was too much relieved to see him go to take any
offence at the postponement of the engagement, and Lady Haigh hailed
his departure in private as offering an opening for the “something
that might happen,” much longed for by herself, to prevent matters
going any further. Ferrers saw through her at a glance, and rode away
laughing. He had an idea that he might be able to induce his uncle to
pay a flying visit to Alibad and make Penelope’s acquaintance, and
then he remembered suddenly that he had in his possession information
that would bring Mr Crayne to Alibad if nothing else would. He had
given up the idea of extending mercy to Major Keeling by this time. He
wanted to see him disgraced, driven from the army and from the society
of Europeans, and forced to herd with the natives whose company it was
clear that he preferred. He had not a doubt that his uncle’s feelings
would accord with his, and he devoted a good deal of time while on his
journey to going over the different points of his evidence, and
deciding on the form in which he would present it.

It was not until his second evening at Mr Crayne’s camp on the river
that he found his opportunity. The secretary and other officials who
were dragged in the Commissioner’s train, gathering that he would like
a talk with his nephew, had gladly effaced themselves on various
pretexts, and Ferrers and his uncle were left alone together. For some
time, while they smoked, Ferrers endured a bombardment of short snappy
questions, delivered in tones expressive of the deepest contempt, as
to his past career and his financial position, and heard his answers
received with undisguised sniffs. Then his chance came.

“What d’ye think of that man of yours--Keeling?” demanded Mr Crayne.

“He is--a fine soldier,” responded Ferrers guardedly.

“What d’ye hum and haw like that for, sir?” Mr Crayne added a strong
expression. “I won’t be put off by puppies like you.”

“I have no wish to put you off, sir,” said Ferrers with dignity; “but
you will understand it is difficult to give a candid opinion of one’s
commanding officer.”

“I’ll give you a candid opinion of him, if you like!” cried Mr Crayne.
“He’s the most arrogant, hot-headed, interfering, cantankerous fool
that ever wrote insubordinate letters to his superiors!”

“Oh, is that all?” The nephew’s face wore a pitying smile.

“All? What more d’ye want, sir? And what d’ye mean by grinning at me
like that, sir? I won’t stand impudence.”

“And yet you have to stand Keeling’s? He is indispensable, isn’t he?”

Another volley of strong language, which Ferrers understood to convey
the information that Mr Crayne would feel deeply indebted to any one
who would enable him to bundle Major Keeling out of the province for
good and all. When the flow of vituperation ceased for a moment, he
spoke--

“I have been anxious to ask your advice for some time, sir.
Circumstances have come to my knowledge about Major Keeling----”

“That would break him--smash him--if they came out?” gasped Mr Crayne,
becoming purple in the face. “Go on, boy; go on.”

Ferrers began his tale, at first interrupted continually by what he
considered impertinent questions as to his relations with the Mirza,
his grounds for accepting evidence from him against Major Keeling, and
so on; but by degrees the interruptions ceased, and he was allowed to
finish what he had to say in peace. Then Mr Crayne chuckled.

“I knew the man was a hot-headed fool, but I never thought he was a
double-dyed ass!” he cried triumphantly. “He’s set a trap for himself,
and walked into it. He might have written insubordinate letters till
he died, and not given me such a handle against him as this. What are
you looking horrified about, sir, eh?”

Ferrers disavowed the charge stoutly, though his uncle’s glee had set
his teeth on edge. “I don’t quite see----” he began.

“Eh? What? Don’t see it? Don’t see that the fellow has personated this
Sheikh-ul-Jabal for ten years, and made away with the allowance he was
supposed to pay over to him? Used it to support his precious
black-and-tan family, of course. No, there’s no law against a man’s
marrying a black woman, or a dozen, if he wants ’em, and he’s at
liberty to become a heathen, for all I know, if he doesn’t force his
notions down other people’s throats; but embezzlement--that’s a
different thing.”

“Oh, but--by Jove! this is disgusting,” said Ferrers. “I really don’t
think----”

“Oh, you’re young, and innocent, and romantic,” said his uncle,
drawling out the epithets, which Ferrers felt were quite undeserved,
with immense relish. “What does it matter if the man chooses to live
like a nigger when he’s off duty? Plenty of ’em do. But giving false
receipts for government money--that’s where we have him.”

“But how can he have managed it?”

“Oh, it’s been cleverly done. I allow that. It must have begun with
that Nalapur affair ten years ago. Of course the real Sheikh-ul-Jabal
was killed with his brother-in-law Nasr Ali, and old Harry Lennox, in
his eagerness to get his conscience whitewashed for what he had done,
never took the trouble to see whether he was alive or dead, but
granted the allowance when it was asked for. And your fine Commandant
has simply pocketed it from that day to this!”

“But how did he impose himself on the brotherhood and the Sheikh’s
followers?”

“Why d’ye ask me? I wasn’t there. But we’ll call my secretary, and ask
him about the Mountain sect. It’s his business to get ’em all up, and
he’s a dab at finding out facts. Not that I let him think so. Here,
you sir, Hazeldean!” he raised his voice, “Come here!”

The secretary came hurrying up, in evident perturbation. He was a
nervous-looking youth, with the round shoulders and hesitating manners
of the student, and gave the impression of having been waked from a
dream by a rough shock.

“Why are you never at hand when you’re wanted, sir?” demanded Mr
Crayne. “It’s scarcely worth while asking you, but perhaps among all
the perfectly useless information you manage to stow away you may have
picked up something about the Sheikh-ul-Jabal and his sect?”

“Indeed I have, sir. The subject has interested me very much since I
came to Khemistan, and learned----”

“Then let’s hear what you know about it,” snapped Mr Crayne.

“The Mountain brotherhood claims to be the direct survival of a
terrible secret society formed in Crusading times,” began the
secretary, as if he were repeating a lesson, “which furthered its
objects by the murder of any one who stood in its way. There were
seven stages of initiation, and in the lower the brethren professed
the most rigid Mohammedanism, but in the higher the initiates were
taught that good and evil were merely names, and all religions alike
false. Absolute obedience to the rule of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal was the
chief point in the vows taken, and when he ordered the removal of any
one, it took place at once. Some of the Crusading leaders were accused
of having entered the brotherhood, and this accusation was especially
brought against the Templars. The order seems to have existed in
secret ever since it was supposed to be stamped out, and the present
Sheikh-ul-Jabal is actually a pensioner of the Company’s, living
somewhere near Alibad, which was what attracted my attention to the
sect at first. Some writers think that the Druses----”

“That’ll do,” said Mr Crayne curtly, interrupting the hurried
monologue. “I didn’t ask you for a lecture. Can you tell me the exact
membership of the order at the present time, or anything else that is
practical?”

“I--I’m afraid not, sir. There are no means of ascertaining such facts
as that, I fear. But I believe an important book has been published in
Germany dealing with the sect, if you would permit me to order it for
you----”

“No, I won’t. What good is a German book to any civilised man? You are
always ready to stock my library with books you want to read. You can
go back to your grinding, sir.”

The secretary departed with alacrity, and Mr Crayne turned to his
nephew--

“We see that the sect has always been willing to accept European
recruits, at any rate, which looks promising. The murder part of the
business has been dropped, apparently, or I should scarcely be sitting
here, after Keeling’s letters to me. Well, I shall pay a flying visit
to Alibad, and thresh the matter out. Must give the man a chance to
justify himself, though he’ll be clever to do it. If he offers to pay
back the money, I may have to let him retire and lose himself. If not,
there must be an inquiry. You’ll be prepared to give evidence, of
course?”

“It’s an awkward thing to witness against one’s commanding officer,
sir.”

“What, trying to back out of it, eh? What d’ye mean, sir? I’ll have
your blood if you fail me.”

“I could not remain in the regiment after it, sir.”

“Oho, you want to get something out of me, eh? Well, other regiments
won’t exactly compete for your services, either. It must be something
extra-regimental, then. What about the languages? I hear you used to
knock about among the niggers when you were down at the coast. Do any
good with it? Like to go to Gamara?”

“In what capacity, sir?”

“Governor-General’s agent, I suppose. They’re talking of sending an
envoy to hunt up that fool Whybrow. You know he’s disappeared? If you
come well through the business, you’re a made man.”

Ferrers did not hesitate. Whybrow was not the only man who had entered
the Central Asian city and been seen no more. It was the dream of
every generous mind in India to force an entrance into the dungeons
there, and set the captives free. How proud Penelope would be of him
if he accepted and performed the coveted task!

“I should like nothing better, sir,” he said.

“Well, I think I have influence enough to get you the appointment. But
you’ve got to do your work first, or I’ll break you.”




 CHAPTER X.
 ARRAIGNED.

“What can it be? Who is coming?” cried Lady Haigh, running out on
the verandah, as a horse galloped into the courtyard of the fort.

“There’s only one man who would come to pay a call in that style,”
said Sir Dugald, following her more slowly. Before he reached the
verandah, Major Keeling had thrown himself from the saddle, flinging
Miani’s bridle to a servant who ran up, and was at the top of the
steps.

“I want your help, both of you,” cried the Commandant. “Was anything
ever more unlucky? There’s Crayne taken it into his head to come on
here from the river, and we’ve never exchanged a civil word in our
lives. I can’t even put him up, either. The only room I have that’s
big enough to hold his magnificence is full of saddlery--that new
cavalry equipment, you know--and he’ll be here to-night, so there’s no
time to cart it away. Can you take him in, Lady Haigh? There are those
unoccupied rooms, if you don’t mind, and we could dine him in the
durbar-hall. Of course I’ll send up every stick of furniture I have,
for the Parsee’s stock is precious limited--I looked in as I came
along. We must do our best for him, for the credit of the frontier,
though he is such an unpromising brute.”

“Of course,” said Lady Haigh eagerly, “and we must try to put him into
a good temper, for the sake of the frontier. We’ll do everything we
can. You will send up what servants you can spare, won’t you? and I’ll
set them to work. And you will act as host at the dinner?--oh, you
must. Your position and his demands it. We can pretend that the
durbar-hall is our recognised room for dinner-parties.”

“Very well, but this reminds me that I must build some sort of place
to lodge strangers in when I have time. One never expects
distinguished visitors up here now, somehow. A quiet dinner to-night,
I suppose, as he’ll only just have ridden in, and a regular _burra
khana_ to-morrow? He’ll scarcely stay more than the two nights. Well,
I’ll send up my servants and household goods. I’m really tremendously
obliged to you, but I knew I could count on you and Haigh.”

He galloped away, and Lady Haigh proceeded to plunge her household
into chaos, and thence into a whirl of reconstruction and
rearrangement. She was in her element on occasions of this kind, and
such servants as averred that their caste did not permit them to do
anything they were told found it advisable to keep out of her way. Sir
Dugald retired to the ramparts with the work he had in hand, thus
escaping from the turmoil; but Penelope was kept as busy as her
hostess, and, like her, had only time for a brief rest before it was
necessary to welcome the distinguished visitor. Wonders had been done
in the few hours at their disposal, if only Mr Crayne had had eyes to
recognise the fact, and the sole _contretemps_ that marred the evening
was not Lady Haigh’s fault. Major Keeling was summoned away to inquire
into a complicated case of _dacoity_ and murder at a village some
miles off, and it was impossible for him to return in time to join the
party.

To those present it seemed, however, as if this was not altogether a
misfortune. Mr Crayne had a playful habit of jerking out unpleasant
remarks in the interval between two mouthfuls of food, without even
lifting his eyes, and continuing his meal without regarding any
protest or disclaimer. Before dinner was half over he had told Lady
Haigh that her cook did not know how to make curry, criticised
adversely the gun-horses, which were the pride of Sir Dugald’s life,
and dear to him as children, and sent Ferrers’ heart into his mouth by
the announcement that things seemed to have got precious slack at
Alibad, but that he was come to pull the reins tighter, thanks to a
warning from his nephew. Soon afterwards he told Colin that he ought
to have been a parson instead of a soldier, and Penelope that if she
came down to Bab-us-Sahel she would see how far behind the fashion her
clothes were--which is a thing no self-respecting girl cares to hear
said of her, however hopelessly crossed in love she may be. But the
climax was reached when he frowned malevolently at his plate, and
observed--

“Fine state of things up here. For years Keeling has blazoned himself
throughout India as the only man who could get this frontier quiet and
keep it so, and yet he can’t make time to eat his dinner or show
proper respect, but has to go and hunt murderers.”

Every one was thunderstruck by this outburst, but to the general
astonishment it was Penelope who responded to the challenge.

“That is not fair, Mr Crayne,” she cried indignantly. “If you knew the
frontier as we know it, you would wonder that it’s as quiet as it is.
The settled inhabitants are perfectly good, and so are the tribes
close at hand that know Major Keeling. But fresh tribes are always
wandering down here, who haven’t heard of the new state of things.
They were always accustomed to raid the villages, and rob and murder
as they liked, and they don’t know that they can’t do it now. In time
they will all have learnt their lesson, but it may not be for a long
while yet.”

“Upon my word, young lady!” said Mr Crayne, actually pausing to look
at her. “Has Major Keeling engaged you as his official advocate? He
ought to be thankful to have found such a champion.”

“Miss Ross has only said what we all know and feel,” said Lady Haigh,
coming to Penelope’s rescue as she sat silent, flushed but undaunted.
“We are all Keelingolaters here, Mr Crayne; and don’t you know it’s
very rude to say things against your hostess’s friends at her own
table?”

Mr Crayne accepted the rebuke with remarkable meekness. “I bow to your
ruling, ma’am,” he said, with something like a twinkle in his eye. “At
your table, and in your hearing, I am a Keelingolater too. Sir Dugald,
a glass of wine with you, if you please.”

“You have conquered that old bear, Elma!” said Penelope afterwards to
her friend. “I could never have made a joke of what he said.”

“My dear, it was what you said that gave me courage to do it. I wanted
to throw the plates at him, or box his ears, or something of that
kind; and while I was trying to repress the impulse you answered him,
and I was in such abject terror as to what he might go on to say that
I spoke in desperation.”

“Nice little girl that--fine eyes,” said Mr Crayne to his nephew
later. “The one who stood up for Keeling, I mean. Anything between
them?”

“Certainly not, sir,” replied Ferrers with decision. “Quite the
contrary.”

“Oho, that’s the way the wind blows, eh? Well, sir, understand me.
There’s to be no talk of anything of the sort until you’re back from
Gamara, d’ye hear? The Government won’t send a married man, and for
once they’re right. If you do anything foolish, I’ll ruin you. No, it
won’t be necessary--you’ll ruin yourself. Be off.”

Ferrers returned to his room at Colin’s quarters in a somewhat subdued
frame of mind. He had fully intended to get Penelope to marry him
before he started for Gamara, not so much, it must be confessed, with
the idea of providing for her as of precluding any possibility of a
change of feeling on her part. This was now out of the question; but
it occurred to him as a consolation that the nature of his errand
would appeal to her so strongly that he might feel quite secure. The
future looked very promising as he mounted Colin’s steps; but even as
he did so, his past rose up to greet him. A beggar was crouching in
the shadow of one of the pillars of the verandah, and held up his hand
in warning as Ferrers was about to shout angrily for the watchman to
come and turn him off.

“It is I, sahib. The business is urgent. To-morrow you will see your
desires fulfilled, but there is still one thing to be done. Give me an
order to Jones Sahib at Shah Nawaz for two sowars, whom I shall
choose, to accompany me on the track of a notorious marauder.”

“But what has this to do with our affair? Who’s the fellow?”

“Nay, sahib; have you not yet learnt that there are questions it were
better not to ask? Fear not; the man shall be duly tracked and
followed, but he shall not be brought in alive, nor shall his body be
found. On this all depends.”

“Look here,” said Ferrers; “do you mean to tell me you are proposing
to murder Major Keeling in cold blood, and hide his body in the sand?
Give me a straight answer.”

“Nay, sahib,” said the Mirza unwillingly, “not Kīlin Sahib--it is the
other. He must not be found to-morrow.”

“The other? What other?”

“Him that you know of. Why make this pretence? The man must die, or
all our work goes for naught.”

“I don’t know of any one of the kind, and I’m hanged if I know what
you’re driving at. But it seems you’re trying to get me to countenance
a murder, and I’m going to have you put in prison.”

“Nay, sahib, not so,” said the Mirza softly. “There are many things I
could tell Kīlin Sahib and Haigh Sahib’s Mem which they would like to
know. And they would tell the Miss Sahib, and what then?”

Ferrers hesitated for a moment. Could he allow the facts to which the
Mirza alluded to become public? His uncle might laugh at them, though
there were details by which even he would be disgusted, but Colin and
Penelope would never speak to him again--of that he was certain. He
moved away from the steps.

“Go,” he said. “I will not give you the order you ask for, but if you
keep secret what you know, I will allow you to escape.”

“Then you will let Kīlin Sahib go free?”

“Most certainly, if I can only convict him with the help of murder.”

“And all that I have done--my services, my duty to those who sent me
forth--am I to have no satisfaction?”

“You shall have a halter if you don’t take yourself off. Never let me
see your face again.”

“Nay, sahib, think not you can cast me off; our fates are joined
together. Rāss Sahib and his sister may seem to have gained
possession of you for a time, but it is not so. The contest is yet to
come, and the victory will be mine. We shall meet, and before very
long, and you will know the full extent of the power I have over you.”
The confidence of the man’s tone made Ferrers’ blood run cold. He took
a step towards him, but the Mirza seemed to vanish into the darkness,
and, search as he would, he could find no trace of him.

Ferrers’ sleep was disturbed that night. He had often puzzled over the
difficulty of breaking off his intercourse with the Mirza, but now
that the Gordian knot had been cut for him he did not feel happy. It
was clear that, for some reason or other, he could not imagine why,
the evidence against Major Keeling was destined to break down, and
this made it seem probable that he had been duped all along. And yet,
as he had said to Penelope, how could he disbelieve the witness of his
own eyes? He tossed and tumbled upon his bed, turning things over in
his mind involuntarily and as if of necessity, as often happens in the
wakeful hours of night. When at length he fell asleep, he woke again
in horror, with a cold sweat breaking out all over him. What a
detestable dream that had been! and yet it seemed to have no sense in
it. There was a snake, and in some way or other the snake was also the
Mirza, and Penelope was standing between him and it, trying to defend
him. He himself seemed unable to move, and only wondered stupidly how
it was that the snake did not attack Penelope. Then she stood aside
for a moment, and he felt that the snake was beckoning to him--but how
could it, when it was a snake?--and he slipped past Penelope, only to
find that the snake was coiling itself round him. It was cold and
clammy and stifling; its head was close to his face; it was just about
to strike its murderous fangs into his temple, when not Penelope but
Colin seized it by the neck and dragged it away, calling out, “George!
George! get up!” With a vague idea that the snake had bitten Colin he
sat up, to find that it was morning, and Colin was standing in the
doorway of his room, and shouting to him to wake. For a moment he
stared at him with eyes of horror, then looked round for the snake,
and, realising that it was all a dream, smiled feebly.

“You must have been having frightful nightmare,” said Colin. “You were
lying on your back and groaning shockingly, and the mosquito-net has
fallen down, and you’ve got it all twisted round you. Your boy must
have fastened it very carelessly.”

“Oh, I’ll blow him up about it. Enough to give one bad dreams, isn’t
it? with this horrible row going on as well. Of course it’s the
eclipse to-day.”

An eclipse had been predicted, to begin in the course of the morning,
and all the Hindus in the town were doing their heroic best to rescue
the sun from the clutches of the black monster which was intending to
devour it. Tom-toms, gongs, and fireworks were among the remedies
tried, apparently with the idea of frightening away the monster before
he came near enough to do the sun any harm, and every native appeared
also to think it his duty to howl, groan, or shriek with all his
might. Ferrers and Colin took their _choti haziri_ to the
accompaniment of deafening uproar, and when one of the Haighs’
servants appeared to say that Mr Crayne desired his nephew’s presence
at once at the fort, they could scarcely hear his message.

Ferrers was in no uncertainty as to the reason for this summons, for
Colin had mentioned having seen Major Keeling riding by in the
direction of the fort, doubtless to apologise to the Commissioner for
his absence the evening before. The moment had come, and he mounted
his horse and rode soberly through the town, feeling confident of the
strength of his evidence, and yet nervous as to the result of the
trial. On the verandah before the Haighs’ quarters Lady Haigh and
Penelope were wandering restlessly with anxious faces, exchanging
frightened whispers now and then, and starting whenever the sound of
raised voices reached them from the drawing-room.

“What can it be?” asked Lady Haigh breathlessly, forgetting her
dislike of Ferrers. “It must be something dreadful. They have been
quarrelling frightfully.”

Ferrers made some excuse, he did not know what, and hurried indoors.
In the drawing-room Mr Crayne was seated magisterially in the largest
chair, Major Keeling was striding up and down with spurs and sword
clanking, and Sir Dugald was leaning against the window-frame, looking
unutterably worried and disgusted.

“So this,” said Major Keeling, pausing in his walk as Ferrers entered,
and speaking in a voice hoarse with passion,--“this is the spy you
employ to bring false accusations against me?”

“My nephew is no spy, sir, and it is for you to prove that the
accusations are false,” said Mr Crayne, quailing a little under the
fire of the other’s eyes.

“Oh, pardon me. When I find one of my own officers set to watch and
report upon my movements---- Why, he doesn’t even do that. He invents
movements for me, and founds lies upon them. Spy is not the word----”

“Keep cool, Major,” interjected Sir Dugald.

“You will not improve your cause by this violence, sir,” said Mr
Crayne, relieved from his imminent fear of a personal assault. “I
understand that Captain Ferrers’ attention was first drawn to your
proceedings when he was following your advice and paying visits at
night to different parts of his district to see that the patrols
worked properly. It is for him to say what he has seen, and for you
then to justify yourself. Captain Ferrers, you will be good enough to
repeat what you told me some nights ago.”

Ferrers told his story, Major Keeling gathering up his sword and
creeping to and fro with noiseless steps and set face, in a way which
reminded the Commissioner unpleasantly of a tiger stalking its prey.
When Ferrers ceased speaking, he turned upon Mr Crayne.

“I fancy I could shed a little light on the beginning of that story,”
he said, with restrained fury, “but I won’t ask any questions now. You
accuse me of personating the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, and applying his
allowance from the Company to my own use. Perhaps you accuse me of
murdering him as well?”

“No,” murmured Sir Dugald, as no one answered, “they ‘don’t believe
there’s no sich a person.’”

“Well, there is only one way of clearing myself, and that is to
produce the Sheikh-ul-Jabal. I’ll have him here, dead or alive, before
sunset, if I have to pull Sheikhgarh stone from stone to get him.”

“By all means,” said Mr Crayne. “The course you suggest would be far
more effective than any amount of shouting.”

“Wait until you are accused as I am before you talk of shouting,” was
the explosive answer. “Haigh, come with me.”

“Oh, what is it? what is it?” cried Lady Haigh and Penelope together
as the two men emerged from the room.

“It’s a fiendish plot,” said Major Keeling. “Don’t come near me, Lady
Haigh. If I have done what they say, I have no business to breathe the
same air with you and Miss Ross.”

“But you haven’t! We know you haven’t--don’t we, Pen? Whatever it is,
we know you didn’t do it. And you’re going to prove it, and make them
ashamed of themselves! Don’t say you mayn’t be able to. You must.”

“Thanks, thanks!” He held out one hand to her and the other to
Penelope. “While you two ladies and Haigh believe in me, there’s
something to live for still. Haigh, you and I are going to make
straight for Sheikhgarh, and try fair means first. I am glad I didn’t
ride Miani this morning, in case I don’t come back. We will leave
orders with Porter to march to our support if he gets a message.”

They rode out of the gateway, followed by Major Keeling’s two
orderlies, gave Captain Porter his orders, and struck off across the
desert to the south-west, in the direction taken by Ferrers and the
Mirza a week before. By the time they reached the hills the eclipse
was just beginning, and in the ghastly half-light, which seemed to be
destitute of all warmth and to suck the colour from the rocks and
sand, they pushed on towards the fortress. It was not long before they
were challenged and their path barred by a patrol wearing the white
and scarlet dress of the brotherhood. Major Keeling bade the orderlies
remain where they were, taking precautions against surprise, and if
neither Sir Dugald nor himself had returned in an hour, to ride for
their lives to Alibad and Captain Porter.

“Tell the Sheikh-ul-Jabal,” he said to the men who had stopped him,
“that his friend Keeling Sahib is here, and desires to see him on a
matter of great importance to them both.”

One of the men was sent with the message, and presently returned to
say that the Sheikh was willing to give audience to the visitors if
they would consent to be blindfolded until they reached his presence.
Sir Dugald demurred, whereupon his leader told him to stay with the
orderlies if he liked, but not to cavil about trifles, and he
submitted. Their horses led by a man on either side, they rode on,
able only to distinguish that the path wound uphill and downhill a
good deal, and was sometimes pebbly and sometimes rocky. Then they
passed under an echoing gateway, where their guides warned Major
Keeling to stoop, and across a paved courtyard, and were told they
must dismount. Sir Dugald felt to make sure that his sword was loose
in the scabbard and his pistols untouched, and allowed himself to be
guided up a flight of steps. They entered some building, and the
bandages were removed from the eyes of the two Englishmen. The light
was very imperfect, for the eclipse was approaching totality, but they
were able to distinguish a majestic bearded figure in white and
scarlet facing them.

“Sheikh Sahib,” began Major Keeling impulsively; but he was
interrupted by an involuntary exclamation from Sir Dugald--

“Why, the beggar’s the living image of you, Major!”

A smile passed over the features of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, and he
ordered the attendants to bring lights. Torches arrived, and Major
Keeling gazed in astonishment into a face which was bewilderingly
reminiscent of his own, while Sir Dugald compared the two feature by
feature, and could find no difference.

“This explains the mystery, then!” he said.

“Why, so it does!” said Major Keeling, “and Ferrers is not quite the
hound we thought him. Did you know of this likeness?” he asked of the
Sheikh.

“I discovered it the night we met in the desert,” was the answer, “and
the reports of my disciples would have informed me of it if I had not.
It has had advantages for both of us,” and he smiled again.

“It will have very grievous disadvantages for both of us,” cried Major
Keeling, “unless you will go to Alibad at once and see the
Commissioner. He thinks I have personated you to get your allowance,
and he is determined to thresh the matter out.”

The Sheikh considered the request gravely. “Will the Commissioner
Sahib come here if I do not go to him?” he asked.

“If he doesn’t, Captain Porter will come, and the Khemistan Horse with
him. The Commissioner means to satisfy himself about this, and he is
not one to be turned aside.”

“I have heard of him. But what if he should keep me a prisoner?”

“I have thought of that. I will remain here as a hostage, while you go
to Alibad with Lieutenant Haigh here. Never mind about your vow. It’s
the best day you could have in the year, for the sun isn’t shining,
and if it was, it would be better to dispense yourself from your vow
than have your fort destroyed.”

“Kīlin Sahib speaks wisely,” said the Sheikh, stroking his beard.
“Let the children be called,” he said to a servant. The two Englishmen
waited in some perplexity while the three children whom Ferrers had
seen were summoned from behind a curtain. The boys came forward with
eager interest; but the girl, who drew her head-shawl across her
mouth, eyed the visitors with unconcealed hostility.

“Ashraf Ali,” said the Sheikh to the eldest boy, “this Sahib will
remain here as a hostage while I ride to Alibad with his friend. You
will deal with him as the Sahibs there deal with me. If they kill me,
you will kill him, and defend the fort to the last. Take your post in
the gate-tower, and keep good watch, while your brother remains to
watch the Sahib.”

The boy seemed perturbed, and drew the Sheikh aside. “He is armed,”
they heard him say, looking askance at Major Keeling’s sword, “and
while I am keeping watch he may frighten the women, and make them help
him to escape.”

“I won’t give up my sword to any man on earth!” cried Major Keeling
hotly, anticipating the demand which would follow; but after a pause,
as the Sheikh looked round at him doubtfully, he added, regardless of
Sir Dugald’s muttered expostulations, “I see your difficulty, and I’ll
take a leaf out of your book, and dispense myself from part of my vow.
I will intrust my sword to your daughter, if she will honour me by
taking charge of it.”

“Wazira Begum,” said the Sheikh, “take the Sahib’s sword, and keep it
safely until I ask for it again.”

The girl came forward reluctantly, and, darting a look of hatred at
the Englishmen, took the sword as if it defiled her fingers, and
retreated with it behind the curtain. Sir Dugald’s protests against
Major Keeling’s remaining were met by a peremptory order to be off at
once, and he unwillingly allowed himself to be blindfolded again. The
Sheikh’s horse was brought round, and he rode away with Sir Dugald and
a dozen followers. Major Keeling sat down on the divan, and prepared
to wait with what patience he might. Suddenly a thought struck him.

“What a fool I am!” he cried. “It proves nothing to produce the Sheikh
alone. If they don’t see us together, they may still make out that I
am personating him. Haigh would be considered a biassed witness, I
suppose. But it’s too late to change now, and I could never have left
him here as the hostage.”




 CHAPTER XI.
 JUSTIFIED.

“They’re coming back!” cried Lady Haigh. She and Penelope had taken
up a position upon the western rampart, and were straining their eyes
in the direction of Sheikhgarh. To their extreme disgust Mr Crayne had
followed them, and wishing to make himself agreeable, sent for his
secretary to deliver an impromptu lecture on the subject of eclipses,
being apparently under the impression that they had come up to get a
good view of the sun. It was this lecture that Lady Haigh interrupted
by her sudden exclamation.

“You must have wonderful sight, ma’am,” said Mr Crayne politely; “but
you are accustomed to this sandy atmosphere, ain’t you?” The
Commissioner’s manner of speech was not vulgar, only old-fashioned.
Forty years before, when he had sailed for India, every one in polite
society said “ain’t.”

“Oh dear, I wish it wasn’t so dark!” sighed Lady Haigh, disregarding
the compliment. “I can only see that there are four riders in front,
and some more behind. No, I caught a glimpse of Dugald that moment,
and I saw the turbans of two troopers--no, three. Why, it is Major
Keeling in native dress!”

“He throws up the sponge, then!” chuckled Mr Crayne grimly.

“Elma, what can you mean?” cried Penelope. “Major Keeling is not there
at all.”

“My dear young lady”--Mr Crayne was decidedly shocked--“the warmth of
your partisanship does you credit, but allow me to say that you are
carrying it to extremes. Perhaps you observe that the guard is turning
out and presenting arms?”

“Oh, but that shows it must be a distinguished stranger--doesn’t it?”
said Lady Haigh, in rather a shaky voice. “Major Keeling does not go
about turning out guards all day long.”

“Lend me your field-glass, please,” said Penelope sharply to the
secretary, and when he complied she looked through it steadily at the
approaching party. Then she thrust the glass into Lady Haigh’s hand
with a gasp that was almost a sob. “There, Elma, look! I knew it
wasn’t. It’s not in the least like him.”

“My dear Pen, I’m quite ready to agree that it isn’t Major Keeling if
you say so, but it’s the image of him.”

“Oh, there may be a slight surface likeness, but there isn’t the least
look of him really. The expression is absolutely different,” said
Penelope calmly. “Let Mr Crayne look.”

“I can’t pretend to judge of expressions at this distance,” said Mr
Crayne drily; “but it strikes me you are fighting in a lost cause,
Miss Ross. Here is one of the troopers riding on first with a message,
which will no doubt show you your mistake.”

But when the message was delivered, Mr Crayne’s face hardened. It was
from Sir Dugald, to the effect that the Sheikh-ul-Jabal desired an
audience of the Commissioner, and it would be well to receive him in
the durbar-hall with the formalities due to his rank.

“So he means to brazen it out!” said Mr Crayne. “Well, see to it,
Hazeldean. I don’t know what good it can do, though.”

The secretary descended the steps in a great hurry to beat up the
Commissioner’s escort, and Mr Crayne followed more slowly. Lady Haigh
and Penelope moved to the inside of the rampart, and awaited
feverishly the appearance of Sir Dugald and his companion. At last
they came, and riding up to the steps of the durbar-room, dismounted.

“You see, Elma?” whispered Penelope triumphantly.

“Look at the dogs!” was Lady Haigh’s only answer. Two terriers had
rushed tumultuously from the Haighs’ verandah opposite, and were
barking and jumping round Sir Dugald. One of them was his own dog, the
other belonged to Major Keeling, who had left it at the fort lest the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal should be offended if it approached the sacred
precincts of Sheikhgarh. Even now the Sheikh withdrew himself
ostentatiously from the demonstrations of the unclean animals, and as
Sir Dugald ordered them to be quiet they sniffed suspiciously round
the stranger at a respectful distance.

“Pen, an idea! I’ll send a _chit_ down to the Major’s quarters to have
Miani brought up here,” cried Lady Haigh. “He will never let a native
ride him. It’ll be another proof,” and she called a servant to take
the note.

Meanwhile Mr Crayne and his little court had received the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal with due ceremony, and were now plunged in the most
hopeless perplexity. The face before them was Major Keeling’s, but the
voice differed very decidedly from his, and the visitor’s gestures and
turns of speech served alternately to settle and to disturb their
minds. The conversation, which was conducted in proper form through an
interpreter, dealt first with the flowery compliments suitable to the
occasion, and then with the momentous question of the health of Mr
Crayne, the Governor-General, and Sir Henry Lennox on one side, and of
the Sheikh and his household on the other. In all this there was
nothing to decide the matter at issue. Then the Sheikh remarked that
he had long desired to express his gratitude to the Company, which had
provided him with an asylum and maintenance, and Mr Crayne seized the
opportunity.

“And how long have you been the Company’s pensioner?” he asked.

“I have eaten the Honourable Company’s salt for ten years, more or
less.”

“And in all that time you have never presented yourself before the
Company’s representatives to express your gratitude?”

“It is true. Nevertheless I have served the Company in many ways.”

“But why have you never appeared at any of Major Keeling’s durbars?”

“By reason of the vow which I swore. If the sun were shining on the
earth I should not be here now.”

“And yet you take long rides at night?”

“True. But is the sun shining then? Are durbars held at night?”

“What object have you in these rides of yours?”

“I am a _murshid_ [religious leader], as the Commissioner Sahib knows.
I gather my disciples together and exhort them to good deeds.”

“Are all the tribes of the desert your disciples?”

“Nay, they follow but at a distance, in hope of the rewards of
discipleship.”

“And you have promised them the plunder of Nalapur? Complaints reach
me continually of your intrigues.”

“Why should I intrigue against Wilayat Ali and his accomplice? They
will receive from Allah the reward of their evil deeds in due time.
What good would Nalapur be to me? I would not sit on the _gadi_ were
it offered me. My disciples are many and faithful, I have a shelter
for my head and bread to eat, I can sometimes help my friends. What
more do I need?”

“You must understand that in no case will you be permitted to invade
Nalapur from British territory.”

“Why should I invade Nalapur? The Commissioner Sahib may be assured
that I will make no war without the consent of Sinjāj Kīlin Sahib.”

Mr Crayne was baffled. “If you wish to please the Company,” he said,
“you will leave your fort in the hills and settle down to cultivate a
piece of irrigated land. You shall be allotted sufficient for your
servants, according to their number, and rank as one of the nobles of
the province shall be granted you.”

“And I and my servants shall become subject to the ordinance that
forbids the carrying of arms? Nay, if that were so, the Company would
soon be seeking a new tenant for the land. When one of the
Commissioner Sahib’s own house helps a Nalapuri spy to plot against
me, am I a lamb or a dove that I should refuse to defend myself?” He
pointed fiercely at Ferrers, who was dumb with astonishment.

“What does this mean, sir?” sputtered Mr Crayne, turning on his
nephew. “How dare you accuse a British officer of plotting against
you?” he demanded of the Sheikh.

“Because it is true,” was the calm answer. “Last night, as I returned
from one of my journeys, I was attacked among the hills, not far from
my fortress, by three men. The two in front I cut down with my sword;
but the third, watching his opportunity while I was engaged with them,
leaped upon me from behind, thinking to stab me in the back. But he
knew not that I wear always under my garments a shirt of iron links,
which has descended from one Sheikh-ul-Jabal to another since the
founding of the brotherhood, and though the blow left a mark upon the
mail, yet the dagger broke, and I took no hurt. I saw the man’s face
in the moonlight as I turned round, and knew him to be one who had
once been of the number of my disciples, but had broken his vows and
stolen away. I would have slain him, but he was swift of foot, and my
horse had been wounded by one of those who attacked in front, so that
he escaped me, though I set the servants who came to my help to scour
the neighbourhood for him. But one of the other men yet lived, and
confessed to me before he died that he had been hired in the Alibad
bazar by the Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq, who was in the employ of Firoz Sahib
at Shah Nawaz, to assassinate me, and upon him and his fellow both we
found five gold _mohurs_ of the Company’s money. Have I not need of
protection, then?”

“What d’ye make of this, sir?” demanded Mr Crayne furiously of his
nephew, and Ferrers pulled himself together.

“All I can say is, sir, that the Mirza came to me last night, and
asked me to let him have two troopers. I understood he wanted to put
some one out of the way, though I couldn’t make out who it was, and I
threatened him with punishment, and told him to go to Jericho.”

“You let him go?” Mr Crayne’s voice was terrific. “And why, sir--why?”

Alas! Ferrers knew only too well why it was, but he could not disclose
the reason. “Well, sir, he had not done anything, and I never thought
of his going to work on his own account.”

“Yet you knew he was the kind of man who would commit a treacherous
murder of the sort? You will do well to send to Shah Nawaz and have
him arrested immediately, for your own sake.”

“I will go myself at once, if you will allow me, sir.” Ferrers spoke
calmly; but as he left the durbar-room he saw ruin before him. He
could only hope that the Mirza would not allow his desire for revenge
to weigh against his personal safety, and would have made his escape
before he arrived. If he had not, what was to be done? To connive at
his getting away would be to confess himself an accomplice, to bring
him to justice meant a full disclosure. If only the Mirza would have
the sense to escape when he might!

Having disposed of this side-issue, Mr Crayne returned to the charge.
He was not yet fully satisfied, although he was fairly convinced by
this time that it was not Major Keeling who sat in front of him,
baffling his inquiries so calmly.

“You appear to have a great regard for Major Keeling?” he said
brusquely. “Why?”

The Sheikh permitted a look of surprise to become evident. “Why not?
Does not the Commissioner Sahib know that Kīlin Sahib has changed the
face of the border, making peace where once was war, and plenty where
there was perpetual famine? The name of Kīlin Sahib and his regiment
is known wherever the Khemistan Horse can go--and where is it that
they cannot go?”

“And do I understand that you have been of assistance to Major Keeling
in this work of his?”

“Surely. Is not Kīlin Sahib the channel through which the Company’s
bounty flows to me? Has he not treated me as a friend, and shown
himself a friend to me?”

“Then in what way have you helped him?”

The Sheikh stroked his beard, perhaps to conceal a smile. “I have
bidden my disciples obey him in all things as though he were myself.”

“Oh--ah”--Mr Crayne was baffled again--“is it or is it not a fact that
there is a great personal likeness between Major Keeling and
yourself?”

“It may be. I have heard as much,” was the indifferent answer.

“Is there--are you aware of any relationship that would account for
it?”

The Sheikh’s eyes blazed. “My house is of the pure blood of the sons
of Salih, from the mountains above Es Shams [Damascus], and of Ali the
Lion of God; and all men know the descent of Kīlin Sahib. Was not his
father the great Jān Kīlin Bahadar of the regiment called Kīlin
Zarss [Keeling’s Horse], who, after the death of his Mem vowed never
to speak a word to a woman again, and kept his vow, as all men bear
witness? It has pleased Allah to make two men--one from the East and
one from the West--as like one another as though they were brothers
born at one time of the same mother, and who shall presume to account
for His will?”

“Quite so, quite so,” agreed Mr Crayne. “No insult was intended. Then
you imply that a considerable amount of Major Keeling’s success on
this frontier is due to you?”

“No; the Commissioner Sahib wrests my words. Kīlin Sahib would have
done his work without my help, though not so quickly. But when I saw
the manner of man he was, and how he dealt with those that resisted
him, could I see my followers--even those among them that were
ignorant, and not true disciples--slaughtered, and their land
remaining desert? So I spoke with Kīlin Sahib, and found him not like
the rest of the English, for he said, ‘We were wrong when we stormed
Nalapur and slew Nasr Ali, thy friend and brother; I myself was wrong
also. What is past is past, and the future is not ours, but thou and
thine shall dwell safely while I am on the border.’ Then I knew he was
a true man, and what I could do to help him I have done.”

“It is well,” said Mr Crayne, and gave the signal for the conclusion
of the audience. When the closing ceremonies were over, and the Sheikh
was escorted out into the grey light of the reappearing sun in the
courtyard, he uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

“Surely that is Kīlin Sahib’s horse? He is heavier than mine, but
save for that, they might be brothers.”

“Would you like to try him?” suggested Sir Dugald, to whom a note had
been handed from his wife. He spoke in obedience to her imperious
suggestion, but with misgivings. “I don’t know what the Major will
think of my inviting a native to mount his beloved Miani,” he said to
himself. “And I shall have the fellow’s blood upon my head in another
minute!” springing forward to assist the Sheikh as Miani backed and
plunged, resisting all attempts to calm him. “Let him alone, Sheikh,”
he advised. “He is never ridden by any one but his master.”

“Nay,” was the indignant answer, “shall the Sheikh-ul-Jabal be beaten
by a horse?” and forcing Miani into a corner, the Sheikh whispered
into his ear. The horse stood stock-still at once, eyeing the stranger
uneasily, and the Sheikh followed up his victory by stooping down and
breathing into his nostrils. There was a sensation among the natives
round. “Kīlin Sahib’s horse has received the blessing of the holy
breath!” went from one to the other. “Now he will be doubly the devil
he was before!” lamented the groom who had brought him to the fort.
But at present Miani seemed completely subdued. There was a look of
terror in his eye and his ears were laid back; but though he swerved
away, as if with invincible repugnance, when the Sheikh led him out of
the corner, he allowed himself to be mounted, and cantered obediently
round the courtyard. The Sheikh laughed as he dismounted.

“He would come home with me if I bade him, and Kīlin Sahib would bear
a grudge against me,” he said. “I will reverse the spell,” and he
slapped the horse smartly on the muzzle, then whispered into his ear
again, and retreated precipitately from the storm of kicks with which
Miani sought to avenge his temporary subjugation. Sir Dugald and the
groom caught the bridle in time to prevent a catastrophe, and Miani
was led away in custody, his behaviour fully justifying the groom’s
unfavourable prediction.

 * * * * * * *

In the meantime Major Keeling, seated on an uncomfortably low divan in
the Sheikh’s hall of reception at Sheikhgarh, was enduring the
unwinking stare of the boy who had been left in charge of him, and who
had curled himself up happily among the cushions. He seemed to find
the stranger full of interest, and Major Keeling felt that he was
anxious to pour forth a flood of questions, but conversation
languished, for whenever the hostage made a remark the boy entreated
silence, with an alarmed glance in the direction of the curtain. At
last, under cover of a loud rasping metallic noise, which seemed to
come from behind the curtain, he edged nearer to Major Keeling, and
said in a low voice--

“The women are sharpening knives.”

“So I hear,” replied the visitor.

“It is to kill you,” the boy went on.

“Very kind of them to make sure the knives are sharp,” replied Major
Keeling, smiling, and wondering whether the ladies thought so highly
of his chivalry as to imagine he would sit still to be murdered.

“Then you are not afraid?” pursued the boy. “I thought Englishmen were
all cowards. Wazira Begum says so.”

“I fear your sister is prejudiced. Where did she pick up her
unfavourable idea of the English?”

“Oh, don’t you know? It is your fault that we have to live in the
desert, and old Zulika says Wazira Begum ought to be married; but how
can a proper marriage be made for her here, where no one ever comes?”

“If I were you, I think I should leave that to your parents,” said
Major Keeling, much amused by this original reason for hatred. “Your
father will make a suitable marriage for your sister when the right
time arrives.”

“But it is my brother Ashraf Ali who would have to do it. The
Sheikh-ul-Jabal is not----”

“O Maadat Ali! O my brother!” came from behind the curtain, and the
boy realised that the knife-sharpening had ceased, and that his last
remark had been audible. He tumbled off the divan, and evidently
received urgent advice behind the curtain, to judge by the whispering
that went on there, and returning, seated himself in an attitude of
rigid sternness, with a frown on his youthful brow, and his eyes fixed
threateningly upon the hostage. Major Keeling gave up the attempt to
make him talk, and yielded himself to his own thoughts, which were
coloured somewhat gloomily by the surroundings and by the absence of
daylight. It seemed to him that many hours must have passed, although
the shadow had not fully withdrawn from the sun, before the welcome
sound of horses’ feet and of opening gates heralded the return of the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal. Sir Dugald, who was led in after him by the boy
Ashraf Ali, was blindfolded as before; but as soon as he was inside
the house, he tore off the handkerchief and sprang at the Commandant.

“Thank God you’re all right, Major! I’ve been perfectly tormented with
fear lest that little vixen should have attempted some treachery. But
the whole matter is cleared up, and the Sheikh will ride down with us
to the spot where we were first challenged, that the Commissioner, who
has ridden out, may see you and him together, and be able to feel
quite certain. Do let us get out of this place!”

“Why, Haigh, I never heard you say so much in a breath before. I
should like to recover my sword first, if you are not in too great a
hurry.” He turned to the Sheikh and repeated the request.

“Let Wazira Begum bring the Sahib’s sword,” said the Sheikh, but there
was no response. He called again, raising his voice, and this time the
curtain was pulled slightly aside and the sword flung through the
opening, so that it fell clanging on the floor at Major Keeling’s
feet. The Sheikh turned pale with anger, and took a step towards the
curtain, but changed his mind suddenly.

“Ashraf Ali, kneel and restore Kīlin Sahib his sword,” he said, in
imperious tones. The boy looked at him incredulously, but durst not
disobey, and picking up the sword, knelt to give it into Major
Keeling’s hands. In an instant his sister had sprung from behind the
curtain and snatched the sword from him.

“Get up, get up!” she cried fiercely. “I am the dust of the earth in
the presence of Kīlin Sahib Bahadar, but not thou,” and to Major
Keeling’s horror she fell down before him, and tried to lift his foot
to set it upon her head.

“Stand up, Wazira Begum,” said the Sheikh, and she obeyed, and stood
glaring defiantly at the Englishmen, her whole form shaking with
passion. “Now give the Sahib his sword, and remember that if evil
befalls me, it is to him I commend you all. He is your friend. Go!”

The girl vanished immediately, and the Sheikh led the way down the
hall. At the door he stopped. “Swear to me,” he said, “that you will
not betray the secrets of this place, nor that these children dwell
here with me. I will not blindfold you again.”

“We promise, by all means,” said Major Keeling; “but it is only fair
to tell you that Captain Ferrers and the spy who guided him here saw
the children a week ago. Ferrers I can silence, but the other----”

“It is destiny,” said the Sheikh, mounting his horse. “The man has
long sought my life, and I knew not that he dwelt almost at my doors.
Long ago, having fallen into disgrace in Nalapur, he was promised his
life by the other Mullahs if he could avenge them on me, and he became
one of my disciples by means of false oaths. But when he should have
been advanced to the next stage of discipleship, he was refused, for
I suspected him and desired to prove him further, whereupon, thinking
he was discovered, he made his escape. What did he tell Firoz Sahib
concerning the children?”

“Nothing, so far as I know. But perhaps I ought to tell you that from
something the younger boy let drop, I gathered that they were not
yours.”

“It is true, but I will not tell you whose they are; and I beseech you
not to inquire into the matter, that if you are asked you may not be
able to answer. Their lives, as well as mine, will be in jeopardy if
Fazl-ul-Hacq succeeds in discovering anything about them.”

“Bring them in to Alibad,” suggested Major Keeling.

“No, they are safer here, where no one is admitted without my orders.
But if evil should befall me----”

“Then bring or send them in to Alibad, or send a message to me for
help,” said Major Keeling. “I owe you a good turn for to-day.”




 CHAPTER XII.
 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

“Come! all’s well that ends well,” said Major Keeling to Sir Dugald,
as they rode into the town after escorting Mr Crayne back to the fort.
“I don’t remember ever feeling so happy before.”

“I don’t wonder,” was the laconic reply.

“But I do. After all, Ferrers’ charge was a preposterous one. Why
should I feel so extraordinarily glad to have cleared myself? The
relief seems out of all proportion to the trouble.”

“I hope you are not fey, Major, as we say in Scotland?”

“If you are asking whether I have a presentiment of approaching
misfortune, I never was freer from it in my life.”

“No, it’s just the other way. You feel particularly happy, and you
can’t see any reason for it. Then you know that misfortune is on its
way.”

“Oh, that’s what it is to be fey? Haigh, I’ll tell you what would have
been a misfortune--if your wife and Miss Ross had turned against me.”

“Do you think they’re fools?” growled Sir Dugald.

“No; but the charge must have seemed very serious to them. By the way,
I don’t think they ever asked what the charge was, though!” He
laughed, a great ringing laugh. “They acquitted me on trust. On my
honour, Haigh, if those two women had believed me guilty, I should
have been ready to blow out my brains!”

“The ladies ought to be flattered,” said Sir Dugald soberly. Major
Keeling gave him a sharp look, but he was gazing straight between his
horse’s ears, with an absolutely impassive face. No one looking at him
would have guessed that he was trying to break through his natural
reserve so far as to inform the Commandant of Penelope’s engagement.
What instinct impelled him to the effort he could not have told, and
the fear of committing a breach of confidence combined with his
Scottish prudence to keep his mouth shut. Major Keeling leaned over
from his tall horse and slapped him on the back.

“Don’t look so doleful, Haigh!” he commanded. “We shall see better
things for the frontier from to-day. The old man’s apology was really
handsome, and I like him better than I should ever have thought I
could like a civilian. I can even forgive Ferrers, if he doesn’t do
anything to put my back up again before I see him next.”

Sir Dugald turned and looked at him in silence--a look which Major
Keeling remembered afterwards; but if he had at last made up his mind
to speak, his opportunity was gone, for Dr Tarleton came flying out of
his surgery to demand whether all was right. In spite of the secrecy
Mr Crayne had honestly tried to preserve, some rumour of the crisis
had got about through the gossip of the servants at the fort, and
every white man in Alibad felt that he was standing his trial at the
side of the Commandant. One after another dropped in at Major
Keeling’s office, all with colourable excuses, but really to learn the
news, and were received and sent on their way again with a geniality
that astonished and delighted them. Better days must indeed be in
store for the frontier if the Chief had time not to be curt.

Sir Dugald had gone round to the artillery lines after leaving the
office, and returned thither in the course of an hour or two,
expecting to find Major Keeling still at work; but the room was empty,
save for the presence of young Bigg, the European clerk, and the
native writers. Bigg looked up and grinned when Sir Dugald entered.

“Want the Chief? He’s gone up to the fort.”

“Already? Why, dinner isn’t for two hours yet.”

“I didn’t say he had gone to dinner, did I? If you asked me, I should
say he had gone for something quite different. I heard him giving his
boy _gali_ [a scolding] because his spurs were not bright. What does
that look like, eh?”

“Looks to me as if you wanted your head punched. It’s like your
impudence to go spying on the Chief,” said Sir Dugald gloomily, but
Bigg chuckled unabashed.

At the fort Lady Haigh, immersed in preparations for the dinner-party,
found herself suddenly addressed by Major Keeling.

“Miss Ross is not helping you?” he said.

“No, she was worn out after all the excitement this morning, so I made
her go and rest in the drawing-room with a book. I wanted her to be
fresh for to-night.”

“Then I will go and find her.” There was repressed excitement in his
manner, and Lady Haigh, looking after him, found herself confronted
with the question her husband had already faced. Ought she to tell
him?

“No,” she said to herself, setting her teeth with a snap. “Dugald
forbade me to interfere in the matter in any way, and I won’t. And I
only hope the Major will be able to persuade her to have him and give
up Ferrers.”

Penelope, in the shaded drawing-room, lifted her heavy eyes from the
book she had obediently chosen, and saw Major Keeling’s tall figure
framed in the doorway. She had heard him ride up, had heard his voice
speaking to Lady Haigh, and had assured herself, with what she thought
was relief, that he would come no further. Mr Crayne had brought him
in, when he returned to the fort, and demanded the congratulations of
the ladies on his behalf, and what more could he have to say? But here
he was, entering the room with the care which had aroused Ferrers’
derision months before, and trying to lower his voice lest it should
be too loud for her.

“Shall I worry you, Miss Ross, or may I come and talk to you a little?
I feel as if I couldn’t work this afternoon.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Penelope, surprising herself in a sudden pang
as she thought how splendid he looked. “Won’t you sit down?”

To her surprise he took a chair at some distance from her, and seated
himself thoughtfully. “I am going to ask you to let me talk about
myself,” he said--“unless it would bore you?”

“Oh no!” she answered quickly. “I should like to hear it very much.”

He looked at her with a questioning smile. “You know they call me a
woman-hater?” he said. “I wonder whether you agree with them? Don’t
believe it, please; it is not true. A woman-worshipper--at a
distance--would be nearer the truth. But I see you think I must be off
my head to begin in this way. Well, it was thinking of the way I was
brought up that made me do it. My mother died when I was barely three
years old: I can just remember her. When she died my father simply
withdrew from society altogether. It was said he had vowed never to
speak to a woman again: I don’t know whether that was true, but he
never did. It was easier for him than for most men to drop out of the
usual run of life, for he was not in the regular army. He had raised a
body of horse towards the end of the Mahratta Wars, and done such good
service that when they were over his commission was continued, and his
regiment recognised as irregular cavalry. But Keeling’s Horse was
never brigaded with other regiments. He had a _jaghir_ [fief] of his
own from the Emperor of Delhi, and lived there among his men and their
relations, with only one other white man, his second in command. They
both fell in love with the same woman, the daughter of a King’s
officer, and agreed to draw lots who should speak to her first, the
loser to abide loyally by the lady’s choice. My father won, and was
accepted--though how it happened I don’t know, for my mother’s friends
swore to cast her off if she married him, and did it, too. The two of
them lived perfectly happily away from other Europeans, except poor
old Franks, whose friendship with my father was not a bit interrupted,
and when my mother died, those two chummed together again as they had
done before the marriage. They both kept a sharp eye on me, and
brought me up something like the Persian boys--to ride and shoot and
to speak the truth. I shall never forget the day when I came out with
something I had picked up from the servants--of course I was a
restless little beggar, always about where I had no business to be. My
father gave me the worst thrashing I ever had in my life, and he and
Franks rubbed it into me that I had disgraced my colour and my dead
mother. I feel rather sorry for myself when I remember that night, for
I knew my father’s high standard, and I felt as if I could never look
a fellow-creature in the face again. After that the two were always
consulting together, and at last they announced to me that Franks was
going to take me home and put me to school. That was how they settled
it: my father could not leave his people and his regiment, but Franks
took the business upon himself without a murmur, and he did his duty
like a man. The funny thing was, that we were almost as solitary on
the voyage and in England as we had been in India. Franks must have
grown out of the society of his kind,--I had never known it. We took
lodgings in a little country town; there was a school there
recommended by the captain of the Indiaman we came home in. I think
the country-people looked on us as a set of wizards, Franks and I with
our brown faces and queer nankeen clothes, and his boy who couldn’t
speak English. The boy cooked for us, and we managed to get along
somehow. I went to school, and hated the place, the lessons, the
usher, and the boys about equally. My only happy time was when I could
get home to Franks and talk Hindustani again. I suppose there must
have been kind people who would have been good to us if we had let
them, but we were both as wild and shy as jungly ponies, and they
seemed to give it up in despair. I think the general opinion was that
Franks had sold himself to the devil, and was bringing me up to follow
in his footsteps, and yet, except my father, I never knew a more
honourable, simple soul. Well, the years passed on, and we began to
feel that the end of our exile was at hand. When I was fifteen we
might come back to India, my father had said. And so I did go back,
but not poor Franks. Our last winter was a frightfully severe one, and
he fell ill. He gave me full directions about going back, sent
messages to my father, and died. The clergyman of the place was kind,
and it was only by piecing together what the people said as they
whispered and nudged one another when I passed that I learned they
grudged my dear old friend a grave in consecrated ground. However, the
parson put that right, and found some one who would take me up to
London and secure a passage back to India for me. This time I was so
desperately lonely that I made friends among the youths of my own age
on board as much as they would let me. They thought me rather a swell,
travelling with a boy of my own, and only a few of them turned up
their noses at me because my father was nothing but a commandant of
black irregulars, and lived away among the natives. There were several
ladies on board, but I never attempted to go near them. I should as
soon have thought of trying to make the acquaintance of so many
angels. When we reached Calcutta, I spent only a few days in the town,
and hurried up-country as fast as I could, for I heard tales of my
father that made me anxious. He had resigned the command of his
regiment two or three years before, on learning that it was to be
assimilated with the rest of the irregular cavalry, and people said
that he had become quite a native in his way of living. Very few had
ever seen him, for when travellers came in his direction, he had a way
of leaving his house and servants at their disposal, and retiring to a
garden-house at some distance, where he shut himself up till they were
gone. Well, I found him, and the pleasure of seeing me seemed to give
him new life for a while. He took me out shooting, and taught me all I
know of _shikar_. But he was not satisfied; he would not have me live
on among natives when he was gone, and suddenly he astonished me by
saying he had managed to get me attached as a volunteer to the --th
Bombay Cavalry. The Commander-in-chief was an old friend of his, and
had promised to nominate me for a commission on the first opportunity,
and meanwhile I was to pick up my drill and any other knowledge that
might be useful to me. This time I was fairly thrown out to sink or
swim, for I had no Franks to take refuge with when I was off duty, and
a pretty tough fight I found it. I got on well enough with my
comrades, though there has always been a prejudice against me for
entering the army by a backdoor, as they say, and it has been against
me with my superiors too. And then I was not the kind of chap who
makes himself pleasant and gets liked. I have always been a sort of
Ishmael, and I suppose I always shall be. As for the ladies--well, I
tried hard to get in with them at first to please my dear old father,
who had no idea that he and poor Franks between them had made me a
regular wild man of the woods. But I couldn’t do it. I could never
talk of things that interested them, or pay them compliments, or do
the things that it seemed natural to them to expect. One or two kind
creatures did take me in hand, but they dropped me like a hot coal,
and at last I gave it up. I got my commission in the end, and I told
my father I meant to marry my regiment. He agreed with me, I am glad
to say, for it was the last time I saw him. His _jaghir_ lapsed to the
Emperor, for I was on the frontier by that time, and never meant to go
back to the jungle. My chance came when it fell to me to raise the
Khemistan Horse, and I knew I had found my place in the world. Sir
Henry Lennox put me here, and I have given all my thoughts and every
rupee I could lay my hands on to the frontier ever since. I made up my
mind almost at once that I would have no married men up here. A wife
was a drag to a man in such a service as this, I said, and even if she
was content to endure it, it was not fair to her. Then--you know the
way I was taken in about Haigh and his wife?” Penelope smiled. “Then
you came,” he went on, “and you were different from any woman I had
ever met. When I saw you first, I knew that you would help a man, not
hinder him, in his work, and you have helped me all these months. I
could talk to you of what I was doing and hoped to do, and you would
understand and sympathise. You can never guess what it has been to me,
and until this morning I thought there was nothing more I could want.
But it is not enough. I want more.”

“Don’t! don’t! oh, please don’t!” entreated Penelope, covering her
eyes with her hands as he rose and stood over her.

“You must let me finish what I have to say. I will speak very quietly;
I don’t want to frighten you. See, I will sit down again, quite at the
other side of the room. This morning it struck me like a blow, What
should I have done if you had believed me guilty? If it had been Lady
Haigh I could have stood it, though it would have cut me to the heart;
but it was not Lady Haigh whose sympathy had made Alibad a different
place to me. Then I remembered that the Haighs can’t remain here
always, and if they went away, you would go with them, and I should be
left here without you. But you have spoilt me for my old solitary
life. You have drawn my soul out to talk to you--I know it was not
your fault, you never meant to do it,” as Penelope tried to speak,
“but you can’t give it me back. I know I have nothing to offer you. I
am unpopular with my superiors and with the civil government; my life
is devoted to the frontier. I don’t know how I have the face to ask
you to think whether you could possibly marry me, but I only ask you
to think about it. Tell me when you have decided. I can wait. The only
thing I cannot bear is to lose you.”

Utter misery and pent-up feeling combined to give Penelope’s words a
thrill of bitterness. “If you have only felt this since the morning,
it cannot hurt you much to lose me,” she said.

He rose and came towards her again. “I think I have felt it all along
without knowing it,” he said. “It is as if I had been looking for
something all my life, and had found it to-day.”

“Oh, if you had only spoken sooner, I might have stood out against
them!” The words were wrung from Penelope, but she crushed down her
pain fiercely. “No, no, I did not mean that,” she said hastily. “It is
too late, Major Keeling. There is some one else.”

“Some one to whom you are engaged?” She bowed her head. “Forgive me
for boring you so long, but I had no means of knowing. It is Porter,
I suppose? He is a fine fellow. I hope you will be very happy; I
believe you will.”

“It is not Captain Porter,” said Penelope. She must tell him the
truth, or he might congratulate Porter--poor Porter, who had proposed
to her and been refused three months ago. Her voice fell guiltily. “It
is Captain Ferrers.”

“Ferrers! Not Ferrers?” He repeated the name, as if the idea was
incredible. “It cannot be Ferrers. Why, you can’t know----”

“Yes, I know; but he is different, he has given it all up. He says I
can help him, and I have promised to try.”

“But it is not fit. He is no more worthy of you---- Of course I am not
worthy either, but still---- I must speak to your brother. Who am I to
say that I am better than Ferrers? But I can’t see you sacrificed.
Your life would be one long misery.”

“Please, please say nothing. Oh, forgive me, but don’t you see you are
the one person who ought not to interfere?”

He looked at her with something of reproach. “If it set up an eternal
barrier between you and myself, I would still try to save you.”

“But indeed, it is no use speaking to Colin. I have promised----”

“Do you care for this man?” he interrupted her.

“I have promised to marry him in the hope of helping him, and I shall
keep my promise.”

“You don’t care for him. You have not even that hold over him, and how
do you think you can do him any good?”

“He thinks I can, and I have promised. I am bound by that promise
unless George Ferrers himself gives me release, and he won’t.”

“I’ll wring it out of him.”

The growl, like that of an angry lion, terrified Penelope. She laid
her hand on her champion’s arm.

“Major Keeling, I ask you--I entreat you--to do nothing. It is my own
fault. Elma Haigh warned me against Captain Ferrers, and if I had
listened to her, I should never have renewed my promise. But it is
given, and I must keep it. One can’t wriggle out of a promise because
it turns out to be hard to keep. You would not do it yourself; why
should you think I would?”

He took her hand and held it between his. “Do you ask me,” he said
slowly, “to stand by, and see you give yourself to a man who at his
best is well meaning, but generally isn’t even that? It’s not as if
you cared for him. You might manage to be happy somehow if you did,
but as it is----”

“Don’t make it harder for me,” entreated Penelope.

“Am I doing that? Heaven knows I don’t want to, unless I could make it
so hard you couldn’t do it. Why, it’s preposterous!” he broke out
again. “That you should feel bound to sacrifice yourself----”

“Is a promise a sacred thing to you? You know it is. So it is to me. I
must keep it, but you can make it much harder to do.”

“I will do anything in the world that will help you.”

“Then please go away, and never speak of this again.” Penelope’s
strength was exhausted. In another moment she must break down, she
knew, and if he pleaded with her again, how could she resist him? He
seemed about to protest, but after one look at her face, he dropped
her hand and went out. She moved to the window, and watched him
between the slats of the blind as he mounted Miani and rode away.
Would he ride out into the desert, she wondered, and try to rid
himself of his grief in the old way? But no, he turned in that
direction at first, but almost immediately took the road to the town
again. If he were absent from the dinner-party that night, she might
be questioned, as the person who had seen him last, and he must do
nothing that might reflect on her. He rode to his own house, and going
into his private office, sat down resolutely at his desk and pulled
out paper and ink. He had been promising himself a controversy with no
less a person than the Governor-General, a fiery, indomitable little
man of a type of character not unlike his own. Lord Blairgowrie had
observed, in a moment of irritation, that every frontier officer in
India was a Governor-General in his own estimation, and would have to
be taught his mistake, whether he were Major Keeling, C.B., or the
latest arrived subaltern. An injudicious friend--he possessed a good
many of these--had passed on the remark to Major Keeling, who had been
prepared to resent it in his usual style. But on this occasion he got
no further than writing, “To the Right Honourable the Earl of
Blairgowrie. My Lord----” It was no use. The caustic words he had been
turning over in his mind would not come. His thoughts were running on
a very different subject, and he pushed away the pen and paper, and
buried his face in his hands.




 CHAPTER XIII.
 THE DIE IS CAST.

How long Penelope sat in the drawing-room, staring with stony eyes
straight before her, after Major Keeling had gone out, she did not
know, but she was roused at last by hearing another horseman ride into
the courtyard, and walk across the verandah with clinking spurs. She
could not face any one just now, whoever it might be, and she ran to
the door, intending to take refuge in her own room, but found herself
confronted by Ferrers, who broke into a cheerful laugh.

“Just the person I wanted!” he cried. “Now, don’t run away.”

“I--I must,” she faltered. “It’s time to dress for dinner.”

“Oh no, it isn’t, not even for me, and I have to go to my quarters and
get back here. I want to speak to you.”

“But have you arrested that man--your munshi?”

“No; he knew better. Went back and collected his belongings, and made
himself scarce. We shan’t see any more of him, so it’s all right.”

“All right, when he brought false charges against Major Keeling, and
tried to support them by murder? How can you say so?”

“Well, the poor wretch was very useful to me, and I never had any
reason to complain of him. Of course he’s done for himself now, but
I’m glad I haven’t got to hunt him to earth. Why shouldn’t he get away
if he can? Now, don’t look horror-struck and reproachful. It isn’t as
if I had helped him off, even. He was gone long before I got there,
and I left orders that he should be arrested at once if he showed his
nose about the place. What more could I do? You women are so
vindictive. You’re as bad as my uncle. He rode out to meet me with
Colin, and his language was quite disgraceful when he heard the Mirza
had decamped. I knew Colin would feel called upon to testify in
another minute, so I told him to ride ahead with the escort, while I
had it out with my respected relative.”

“But I don’t understand. What made him so angry?”

“Why, of course he wants the Mirza caught and punished, lest people
should say he had employed him to trump up a false charge against
Keeling. And so he turned regularly nasty to me, and said I had got
him into a most unpleasant position, and in future I might go to the
dogs in my own way, for he washed his hands of me. When he became
offensive like that, I thought it was time to open his eyes a bit, and
I did. I told him he had ruined my prospects here by coming and trying
to make a tool of me to satisfy his grudge against the Chief, and I
wasn’t going to be thrown aside now. It was all very well for him to
fall into Keeling’s arms and swear eternal friendship; but if that
friendship was to remain unbroken, my mouth would have to be shut. He
had got me to bring charges against my commanding officer, promising
me protection, and if I chose, I could show up a very pretty little
conspiracy for getting Keeling out of the province----”

“But surely”--gasped Penelope--“you believed in the charges yourself?
and Mr Crayne too?”

“Of course we did. It was the Mirza who played us false, but that has
nothing to do with it. It’s my uncle’s business to cover the retreat
of his own forces, and so I told him, and he swore he’d never lift a
finger to save me from being hanged. So then I tried him with you.
He’s taken rather a fancy to you, you know, and I gave him a hint last
night how things were. So I told him I knew you’d never drop me,
whatever happened, and asked him how he’d like to see you sticking to
a disgraced man, and marrying him upon nothing but debts. Of course he
said if you were such a silly fool as to do it you’d deserve what you
got, but I could see he was a bit waked up. He cooled down by degrees,
and at last we came to an agreement. He’s to put matters right with
Keeling, so that I can stay on here for the present, and as soon as
possible he’ll put me into an extra-regimental appointment of some
kind. He may be able to get me sent as envoy to Gamara. What do you
think of that?”

“Gamara--that dreadful place? Oh no!”

He laughed, with some condescension. “Why, of course it’s the danger
that makes the post such a splendid thing to get, little Pen.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the danger. It is the frightful wickedness of
the place.”

“And you couldn’t trust me there! What a flattering opinion you have
of me! But that doesn’t signify. Look here, Pen, I want our engagement
announced to-night. My uncle will do it at the dinner-party; he was
quite pleased with the idea. Here’s the ring I’ve been keeping for
you. Let me put it on.”

But Penelope drew back from him. She had endured much, but this was
impossible. To sit at dinner between Major Keeling and Ferrers, and be
the subject of the congratulations, toasts, and jests which the
suggested announcement would involve, conscious all the time that the
heart supposed to belong to the one man had been given to the
other--how could she stand it? She spoke with indignant decision. “No,
you must wait till to-morrow. You may make your announcement to-night
if you like, but I shall not appear.”

“Nonsense, Pen! What do you mean? What would the fellows say?”

“They may say and think what they please, but if the slightest
allusion is made to anything of the kind, I will never speak to you
again. I won’t wear your ring. Take it back, or I will throw it away.”

“Well, of all the----!” Ferrers was puzzled and slightly alarmed.
“There’s no need to fly out at me like a little fury, Pen. If you
don’t want the engagement announced to-night--why, it shan’t be, of
course. But what am I to say to my uncle?”

“Anything you like. Say I don’t feel well. Tell him it was the
eclipse, if you want an excuse.” She laughed mirthlessly.

“Oh, very well; but I hope you’re not going to take up fancies, and go
on like this----”

“If you are not satisfied, you have only to release me from my
promise.”

“Not I. If you said you hated me I’d marry you just the same, and you
don’t quite do that, do you?”

Her gleam of hope had vanished. Ferrers’ smile showed he had no
intention of releasing her, and she wished with impotent rage that she
could give him the faintest idea of the utter repulsion, the loathing
dislike, with which he inspired her. But he would not see it for
himself, and she would not stoop to entreat her freedom again. With a
laughing recommendation to get a little colour into her cheeks before
the evening, he left her, and she was thankful to be allowed to
escape.

The evening was a terrible one to her, although she had foreseen that
it would naturally fall to Major Keeling to take her in, as the only
lady in the place besides Lady Haigh. The Chief was in one of his
black moods, so the other men whispered to one another; and Penelope
sat beside him through the stages of that interminable dinner, and
waxed desperate. He could do much for her sake, but he could not speak
and act as if the interview of that afternoon had never taken place,
and he said barely a word during the meal, while the settled gloom in
his eye when it rested upon Ferrers terrified Penelope. She threw
herself into the breach, talked nonsense with the other men, as if
despairing of getting a word from him, tried manfully to cover his
silence, and knew all the time that she was wounding him afresh with
every word she spoke. As soon as she and Lady Haigh were in the
drawing-room she went straight to her guitar-case, and, getting out
the instrument, tuned it to the utmost pitch of perfection. Presently
Lady Haigh, who had been watching her anxiously, came and tried to
take the guitar out of her hands.

“You mustn’t sing to-night, Pen,” she said; “I’m going to make you
rest quietly in a corner.” But Penelope resisted her efforts.

“No, Elma,” she said. “I am going to sing the whole evening. If you
want to help me, ask for another song whenever I stop--only not sad
ones. Otherwise----”

The entrance of the men prevented the rest of the sentence, and Lady
Haigh could do nothing but obey. She was conscious of the thundercloud
on Major Keeling’s brow, and thought she could guess at its cause; but
she seconded Penelope’s efforts nobly, scouted any sad songs that were
suggested, and made the gentlemen agree with acclamation that Miss
Ross had never sung with such archness and expression in her life. In
her mind was running a line from one of the songs which Penelope had
laid down with a shudder,--

  “Go, weep for those whose hearts have bled
   What time their eyes were dry,”--

and she knew that the only chance was to leave her not a moment for
thought. It did not surprise her when, after the guests were gone,
Penelope took up the guitar once more, and deliberately snapped the
strings one after the other. It would be long before she could touch
it again without living through that evening’s agony afresh.

Morning came, and with it Ferrers, but by no means in a lover-like
frame of mind. His feelings were deeply injured, and he was full of
grievances. After leaving the fort the night before, his comrades,
taking their cue, as they considered, from Major Keeling, had all but
cut him. It had been understood that Ferrers had made a full apology,
and expressed his deep regret for the charges he had brought, and that
Mr Crayne’s mediation had induced the Commandant to overlook the
matter. But Major Keeling’s attitude at the dinner-party, his apparent
inability to address a single word to Ferrers, had given the other
officers a welcome opportunity of marking their sense of the younger
man’s conduct. Ignorant as they were, and as Ferrers himself was, of
the new cause of quarrel between the two, they came to the conclusion
that his behaviour had been so unpardonable that only the strongest
pressure from Mr Crayne had prevailed upon Major Keeling to overlook
it even officially, and in their loyalty to their Chief they hailed
the chance of copying his demeanour. The faithful Colin, who was much
perplexed by Major Keeling’s uncharitable behaviour, and almost felt
impelled to remonstrate with him, was the only exception, and managed,
quite unintentionally, to fan the flame of Ferrers’ indignation by the
fulness of his sympathy. Fortunately for Penelope, Ferrers had not
time to recount his ill-treatment at length, and was only concerned to
have the engagement fully recognised before he started to escort his
uncle back to the river.

“Now, Pen,” he said as he came in, without troubling himself to bid
her good morning, “I must have this thing settled. My uncle wants to
see you before he goes, so don’t try and play fast and loose with me
any more.”

Silently Penelope held out her hand, and he put the ring on her
finger, only to find that it would not stay on.

“Why, your hand must have got thinner since I had the ring made!” he
cried, taking the fact as a personal injury. “And I wish you wouldn’t
look so white and washed-out. It was quite unnecessary for you to sing
so much last night--though of course it was just as well to try to
cover Keeling’s bearish behaviour as much as possible--and naturally
you’re tired after it. This place doesn’t suit you, I’m certain.”

“I will wind some silk round the ring to keep it on,” said Penelope
wearily; “and I shan’t sing any more, George.”

“While I’m away, do you mean? How fearfully touching! Well, you won’t
see much of me for some time now. I mean to go back to Shah Nawaz and
see if I can’t do something to cut the ground from under the feet of
these fellows who think they’re too good to speak to me. Then I shall
be off to Gamara, and when I come back we’ll be married, and my uncle
will find me a berth somewhere. Hang it, Penelope! can’t you look
pleased? I never saw such a girl for throwing cold water on
everything. You know how fond I am of you, and how I want to have a
good position to give you, and you don’t care a scrap! I might as well
be going to marry a statue.”

“I am very sorry,” she said, screwing up her courage for the effort,
“but you know how it is. I have asked you to release me, and you
refuse.”

“Oh, it’s that again, is it? You’re trying to work on my feelings by
looking pathetic? Then just understand, once for all, that I won’t
release you, and it’s no good trying to drive me to it. You haven’t
the least idea what it means to a fellow to be really in love with a
girl; but I can tell you this, that I won’t give you up to any man
alive--do you hear?--to any man on earth. So you may as well make up
your mind to it.”

Did he suspect? Penelope could not decide, but she resigned her hope
of freedom once more, and allowed him to take her to his uncle, who
received her very kindly, and promptly despatched Ferrers to see
whether things were nearly ready for the start.

“I wanted to say this to you, my dear,” he said, with obvious
embarrassment, “that you’ll be wanting to send for pretty things from
home, and I should like you to look upon me as your father for the
occasion. Young brothers don’t know anything about gowns and fallals,
do they?”

Penelope looked at him, unable to speak. Pretty things from home for a
wedding at which sackcloth and ashes, or the deepest mourning, would
be the only wear that could accord with her feelings! The old man
misunderstood her look.

“There, there! don’t thank me, my dear. I’ll settle it with your
friend Lady Haigh, but I thought you might like to know. Pretty gowns
for pretty girls, eh? And I’m doing it with an eye to my own
advantage, too. Don’t stint yourself in frocks, Miss Pen. I rather
want a lady to do the honours down there at Government House. What if
I gave George some post that would keep him at Bab-us-Sahel, and you
two set up housekeeping with the old man, eh? How would you like that,
my dear? Better than the frontier, eh?”

Penelope owned to herself frankly that it was. Latterly the
possibility of finding herself alone with Ferrers in some isolated
station, with no other Europeans within reach, had weighed upon her
day and night. In Mr Crayne’s house, eccentric as he might be, she
would find protection if she needed it. She did not ask herself from
what she would need protection, or renew the useless reflection that
the prospect in which she expected to need it was hardly a hopeful
one. She looked up at Mr Crayne again.

“I should like it much better,” she said; “and it is very, very kind
of you to think of it.”

Mr Crayne did not seem wholly satisfied. Perhaps it struck him as
strange that his company should be welcome in the circumstances. He
pushed back Penelope’s hair, and kissed her forehead.

“My dear,” he said, “the pleasure will be wholly mine. And if George
beats you--why, I shall be at hand to interfere, you see.” He looked
for a laughing, indignant denial, but Penelope started guiltily, and
flushed crimson. For the moment she felt as if he had read her secret
thoughts. “My dear,” he cried, in real alarm, “I don’t think you are
quite happy about this. What is it?”

But Penelope had regained her self-possession. Bad as the state of
affairs might be, she had too much loyalty to discuss it with Ferrers’
uncle. “I am going to try to be happy,” she said, looking him straight
in the face. “And Captain Ferrers is satisfied.”

“Yes, George is satisfied, and so he ought to be, lucky young dog!
Found a wife much too good for him, eh? I don’t mind saying that
George has disappointed me in the past; but with you to help him, my
dear, he must do well. And you mean to keep him in order, eh? So much
the better! Why, there he is clinking his spurs outside. Thinks I’m
encroaching on his privileges, eh?”

Bestowing a second kiss on Penelope, Mr Crayne left her to his nephew,
and went out to see the camels loaded, and incidentally to wrestle
with his misgivings, which were difficult to banish.

“It’s Keeling if it’s any one. I thought so from the first, and his
face last night makes it almost certain. And the girl ain’t happy
either. But why should I look after Keeling? He’s old enough to manage
his own affairs. No one could expect me to take his side against
George. Besides, this is George’s one chance. If any one can keep him
straight it’ll be a woman. Keeling can get on all right by himself.
Daresay the girl sees it. She seems to have made up her mind--wouldn’t
thank me for interfering. Hang it all! I’m not going to interfere, if
she’s willing to take George in hand. Must think first of one’s own
flesh and blood.”

And his meditations having thus led him, by a somewhat different
route, to much the same conclusion as that which Colin had long ago
reached, Mr Crayne bade his scruples trouble him no more.



Four days later Ferrers dropped in at the fort again, on his way back
to Shah Nawaz, after leaving his uncle at the river, and was asked to
stay to tiffin. The invitation was given, with impressive solemnity,
by Sir Dugald, Lady Haigh having flatly refused to offer Ferrers any
hospitality. She would have liked to see him forbidden the house, and
urged that Penelope would be much happier if he were, to which Sir
Dugald replied that in that case it was a pity she had promised to
marry him, but that it was not her hostess’s business to keep them
apart. The Chief had accepted the man’s apology, considering that he
had acted in good faith, and it was impossible to go behind his
decision. Nothing could have been more correct than Sir Dugald’s
attitude, nothing more heroic than his efforts to treat Ferrers as he
might have done any other comrade; but the old frank friendliness was
gone. Come what might, Ferrers had put himself out of the circle of
those who loved to call themselves “Keeling’s men.” It was not merely
the charges he had brought, but the attitude of mind that they
revealed--the readiness to admit the possibility of a stain on Major
Keeling’s honour--which had made the difference. Sir Dugald’s anxious
cordiality and laborious attempts to make conversation on indifferent
topics confirmed the impression produced by the scarcely veiled
aversion of the other men the night of the dinner-party, and showed
Ferrers that he had committed the unpardonable sin of the frontier.
Many things could be forgiven, but not a want of loyalty to the
leader. From henceforth he was an outsider.

Out of sheer pity for Penelope, Lady Haigh softened so far as to
second her husband’s efforts, and do her best to make the meal less
uncomfortable, but the harm was done. Ferrers had come in excited,
brimful of some news which he was anxious to tell, but withheld in
order that he might be pressed to tell it, until the constraint by
which he found himself surrounded sealed his lips. It was no better
when he was alone with Penelope afterwards. She did all in her power
to make him feel himself welcome, and questioned him on every point of
his journey, with the double object of convincing him of her interest
in him, and of keeping Major Keeling’s name out of the conversation.
It was far easier not to mention him at all than to hear him
belittled, and she knew Ferrers’ opinion of him by this time. But her
efforts to please her lover were vain, perhaps because of this very
reservation, and Ferrers expressed his disappointment to Colin as they
rode out of the town together.

“It’s pleasant to feel that there’s some one who cares for one’s
news,” he remarked. “You could guess I had something to tell, couldn’t
you?”

“I was sure you had news of some sort. Well, what is it?”

“I gave Penelope a hint of it the other day, but she didn’t seem to
take any interest,” Ferrers grumbled on; “and to-day again--I said I’d
tell her about it if she’d ask me nicely, but she wouldn’t. There’s no
meeting you half-way with Pen; one has to make all the running
oneself. She doesn’t care what happens to me; but when I said that as
soon as we were married we would drop that fellow Haigh and his ugly
wife, she looked ready to cry.”

“She and Lady Haigh are great friends,” said Colin, anxious to make
peace, “and they have both been very kind to her. You would not wish
her to be ungrateful, surely? But I haven’t heard your news yet.”

“Ride as close to me as you can, then. I don’t want those sowars of
yours to hear. Well, then, my chance is in sight at last. I know where
to find Shir Hussein!”

“The outlaw?” asked Colin, rather disappointed.

“Of course. And I mean to catch him and his gang, and so leave
Khemistan in a blaze of glory. You shall have a share in it, because
you’re the only fellow that has treated me decently over this
business. The rest will look pretty blue when they hear about it.”

“But where is he? Is his band a large one?”

Ferrers looked round mysteriously. “A good deal bigger than most
people think. No wonder he has given us so much trouble! But he makes
his headquarters in one of the ruined forts in my district, not so far
from Shah Nawaz. The fact is, that’s why he has gone free so long--I
never thought of looking for him there. But one of my spies met me on
my way back from the river with the news, and the joke of it is that I
know the place. I camped there for a week once, trying to get some
shooting. Well, you see, since I know my way about there, we can do
with a much smaller force than would otherwise be needed. I shall have
to ask for some help from here, which I should hate if Porter or
Haigh, or Keeling himself, had to come too, but I shall only ask for a
small detachment with you in charge. Then we’ll astonish them all.”

“But why don’t you want the Chief or any one to know about it?”

“They’ll have to know that I want help to capture Shir Hussein,
unfortunately, but I don’t want them to know what a stiff job it is
until it’s over. Don’t you see that they would do me out of the credit
of it if they could? They’re jealous of me--horribly jealous--because
I happen to be the Commissioner’s nephew. Can I help it? Is it my
doing if he gets me a post somewhere else? I didn’t come here because
I liked the frontier--merely as a sort of favour to Old Harry--and if
I’m offered a chance of leaving it I won’t refuse, but I don’t want to
go as if I had been kicked out. Of course they would do anything
rather than let me end up with a blaze of fireworks, but I think we
can manage it in this way. Only mind you keep things dark, and make a
point of coming when I send for help.”

“Am I to tell the Chief what you think of doing?”

“Certainly not. He’s as bad as any of them, now that I’ve managed to
put his back up. It’s all his own fault, too. If he had been like some
men, one could have asked him long ago in a chaffing sort of way about
the suspicious facts that had come to one’s knowledge, and we should
have been saved a lot of trouble. You stand by me, and keep your mouth
shut, and we shall do it.”




 CHAPTER XIV.
 INTO THE TERRIBLE LAND.

It was not long before Ferrers’ request for an accession of force
reached Major Keeling, but it came at an unfortunate moment, for the
Commandant was just setting out in the opposite direction, taking with
him every man he could muster except those needed to guard the town.
News had arrived that a band of Nalapuri raiders had crossed the
frontier to the westward two days before, and as nothing more had been
heard of them, it was evident they were hiding in the hills and
waiting for an opportunity to swoop down and attack the labourers
engaged upon the new canal works. The various raids of the kind which
had occurred hitherto had been dealt with by the native police, but
having received timely warning of this organised and more formidable
incursion, Major Keeling meant to make an example of its promoters.
They should not cut up his coolies in future, however tempting and
defenceless the prey might appear. The matter was urgent, for delay
would enable the raiders either to accomplish their object, or, on
learning his intention, to make good their retreat over the frontier.
Once in their own country they need only separate and mingle among
their fellow-countrymen, who were all as villainous in looks and
character as themselves, and there would be no hope of tracking them.
Hence Major Keeling’s face was perturbed when he sent for Colin to his
office shortly before the hour fixed for starting.

“I have just had a _chit_ from Ferrers, asking for a small
reinforcement in order to effect the capture of Shir Hussein, and
suggesting that you should be sent in charge of it,” he said. “Had you
any idea that he had found out where he was?”

“He mentioned to me that he had reason to believe Shir Hussein had
taken refuge in a fort which he knew very well, sir.”

“And that was when he was here the other day? Most extraordinary of
him not to have said anything to me.”

“I think he meant to reconnoitre the place, sir, and see how large a
force would be needed, before he said anything about it.”

“Lest I should rush in and carry off the honour, I suppose? And he
promised to ask for you--and you are wild to go? It won’t do, Ross. He
can’t have reconnoitred the place to much purpose, I fear, from his
letter. He talks about Shir Hussein’s ‘sheltering in a ruined fort,’
and ‘hopes to turn him out of it.’ Curiously enough, independent
information on the subject reached me only this morning, from which it
appears that Shir Hussein has between two and three hundred men with
him, and that he has repaired his ‘ruined fort’ in a very workmanlike
way.”

“Perhaps his strength is exaggerated, sir?” pleaded Colin, seeing
Ferrers’ chance of distinction fading away; but Major Keeling shook
his head.

“The information comes from one of my most trusted spies. No; I should
certainly have dealt with Shir Hussein myself if I had not been
starting on this business. How he can have managed to support such a
following in that district is most mysterious, and argues a good deal
of slackness on Ferrers’ part.”

“I--I think perhaps he was outwitted, sir. I mean that he seems to
have looked for the man everywhere except comparatively near at hand.”

“Possibly; but he ought not to have been outwitted. Well, Ross, you
see that it’s out of the question for you to go. Shir Hussein and his
fort won’t fly away, and I’ll take them in hand when this
raiding-party is disposed of, Ferrers co-operating from Shah Nawaz.
No; it’s his discovery, after all, and he shall have the credit of it
and be in command. If I go, it will be as a spectator.”

“But they might escape first, sir--when they know they are discovered,
and that messengers are going backwards and forwards between here and
Shah Nawaz, I mean--and Ferrers will lose his chance.”

“I can’t sacrifice my coolies that Ferrers may distinguish himself.
But look here. I will call out the doctor and his Hospital Fencibles
to guard the town again, and you shall take the detachment I was
intending to leave here, and join Ferrers. Then he will be strong
enough to keep the fellows from breaking away as you suggest. It’s
really important that they should not vanish and give us all the
trouble of looking for them over again. But mind, there is to be no
fighting. The troops--your detachment and Ferrers’ own--are to be used
purely for keeping guard over the approaches to Shir Hussein’s fort
and preventing his escape. My orders are stringent--I will send them
in writing as well as by word of mouth--that no attack is to be made
on the fort until I come up with the reinforcements. I know Ferrers
would be perfectly ready to run his head against a stone wall,
expecting to batter it down. Perhaps he might, but I distrust his
prudence, and I won’t have the town left open to an attack from Shir
Hussein. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Colin dolefully. He knew by intuition that not even
Major Keeling’s chivalrous offer of self-suppression would make his
orders palatable to Ferrers, and his foresight was justified when he
arrived at Shah Nawaz with his small detachment, and found the whole
place in a turmoil of preparation. Ferrers was first incredulous, then
wrathful.

“Didn’t I tell you how it would be?” he cried furiously. “Keeling is
determined that I shan’t leave the frontier with flying colours. It’s
nothing but mean, miserable jealousy on his part--and you side with
him. I expected it of the others, but you----!”

“But your force is not large enough. Major Keeling believes that Shir
Hussein has over two hundred men with him.”

“As if I didn’t know that! A surprise would make it all right.”

“But he has repaired his fort, so the Chief says.”

“He has made a new gate, which I am going to blow in, and piled up a
few of the stones which had fallen down. Do you think I don’t know
more about it than Keeling, when I reconnoitred up to the very gate
two nights ago, and not a soul stirred?”

“If you had only said so in your letter! He thought you underrated the
difficulties.”

“You fool! If I had told him all I knew about the strength of the
place, would he ever have sanctioned my attacking it? I thought I had
made that right, at any rate, and then this cursed spy of his turns
up! What business has he sending spies into my district?--to spy upon
me, I suppose, and make sure I get no chance of distinguishing
myself.”

“You are unjust, George. He will let you have all the credit when he
brings up the reinforcements. You are to be in command, and he will
only be a spectator.”

“You are too green. Don’t you know his dodge of getting these chaps to
surrender by the magic of his name? Where should I be then? If they
surrender, he gets the credit; if they don’t, he’ll get the fighting.
You don’t catch him sitting still and looking on, or joining as a
volunteer under me.”

“I really think that was what he meant, and you couldn’t expect it of
any one else,” said Colin thoughtfully.

“And I don’t expect it of him, you may be sure. I am going to carry
out my original plan, and surprise the fort to-night.”

“But that would be disobeying orders!”

“What do I care for orders? It’s a plot to rob me of my last chance of
distinction while I’m here. Dare you look me in the face and say it
isn’t? Porter and Haigh and the rest hate me like poison, and all
toady the Chief, so it’s no wonder that he tries to push them on, and
not me. But I won’t stand it.”

“Then you must attack with only your own men--not mine.”

“What! are you afraid?” There was an unpleasant smile on Ferrers’
face. “Then you shall stay in command here, and I’ll take over your
men for the occasion.”

“No, you won’t. They are under my orders, not yours.”

Ferrers flung an ugly word at him, but could not alter his
determination, and all might have been well if Colin had not felt
moved to improve the occasion. “Don’t think I don’t sympathise with
you,” he said. “I know how hard it must be, but I can assure you
Keeling means well by you. After all, it is only keeping our men on
outpost duty for a day or two, and having the fight then.”

“No,” said Ferrers earnestly--his mood seemed to have changed--“that’s
not all. I know the place too well to think we can guard all its
outlets. Shir Hussein and his men will simply make themselves scarce,
and we shall lose them. Colin, I’m going to put the glass to my blind
eye.” Colin moved uneasily. “Isn’t it Keeling’s boast that he commands
men, not machines--that he can trust his officers to disobey an order
if circumstances make it desirable?” Colin gave a doubtful assent, and
Ferrers went on, “I call upon you to second me. If you are afraid of
the responsibility, stay behind here; but unless you are bent upon my
death, you will let me have your men. We shall never have such an
opportunity again. By to-morrow morning Shir Hussein will have heard
you are here, and the chance of a surprise will be over. To-night he
knows nothing; there is no watch kept. I have the powder and the fuse
all ready for blowing in the gate, and once inside, we shall have them
at our mercy. Dare you risk the responsibility and come?”

“I do. We will come,” said Colin, carried away by his friend’s unusual
earnestness, and Ferrers went out well pleased. His preparations were
in such a forward state that they had not suffered from his temporary
withdrawal, and at the appointed time all was ready for the
night-march. It was his intention to reach the fort about an hour
before dawn, and this part of his plans was carried out admirably.
After posting Colin and the larger portion of his force in readiness
to rush forward as soon as the smoke cleared away, Ferrers himself
went forward with one of the native officers to place the powder-bag
against the gate. It was impossible to follow their movements with the
eye, but as Colin gazed into the darkness, there came a crash, a
glare, a blinding explosion, shouts of dismay. He gave the word to the
eager men behind him, and they rushed forward with a cheer. But before
they were half-way across the space which separated them from the fort
gate, Colin became aware that bullets were whistling round him, that
men behind him were falling. Could it be that the men left in reserve
with their carbines loaded to keep down any fire that might be opened
from the wall were firing too low? No, the bullets came from before,
not from behind. As Colin realised this, he tripped over something and
fell into a hole, and was followed by several of his men. Before they
could extricate themselves, there was a tremendous rush from in front,
and a band of swordsmen, cutting and slashing with their heavy
tulwars, threw themselves upon the disordered force. The men behind
durst not fire, for fear of hitting their comrades; Colin, struggling
vehemently to his feet at last, was cut down and trampled upon; and if
a wild figure, with face streaming with blood, and hair partially
burnt off, had not burst into the fray, scarcely one of the
storming-party would have escaped. But Ferrers, who had been flung
senseless to a distance when the burst of firing from the wall--which
proved that it was he and not Shir Hussein who was surprised--had
exploded the gunpowder he was carrying and killed his companion, was
able to rally his force, and even press the enemy’s swordsmen back to
the gate. There was no prospect now of pushing in after them; all he
could do was to send orders to the men held in reserve to fire at any
flash of a matchlock from the wall, while he extricated Colin’s body
from the hole torn in the ground by the explosion, and his men carried
off their wounded comrades. The dead must be left behind--disgrace
unprecedented in the history of the Khemistan Horse. To retire on the
reserve, then to retreat slowly, with frequent halts to drive back the
pursuers, to the spot where the horses had been left, and to return
with sorely diminished numbers to Shah Nawaz, was all that could be
done. Had Shir Hussein chosen to follow up his advantage there would
have been little hope of defending the place successfully; but the
tradition of the invincibility of the regiment stood it in good stead
in this dark hour, and Ferrers was able to despatch a messenger to
Alibad, and then turn to and help the native hospital assistant who
was doing his best for Colin’s ghastly wounds.

The news of the repulse created great excitement at Alibad; and as
soon as Dr Tarleton had sent off another messenger to Major Keeling,
he summoned Lady Haigh and Penelope and as many other non-combatants
as could be accommodated there to take refuge in the gaol, while he
armed his volunteers and appointed them their stations. But all fear
of an attack was at an end on the following morning, when Major
Keeling and his force swept like a tornado through the town, flushed
with victory over the Nalapuri invaders, and burning to avenge the
most serious check which the Khemistan Horse had met with since its
first formation. Kīlin Sahib had roared like a bull, the messenger
said, when he heard the news, and his face was black towards the
officers who sought to dissuade him from setting out at once for Shah
Nawaz. The men had had a severe fight and a long march, they reminded
him; to which he replied that the Khemistan Horse had often met with
hard knocks before, but had never retired. He was prevailed upon at
last to allow the force a night’s rest; but before daylight he was
parading the men, and selecting the freshest and best mounted to
accompany him, while the others were to escort the prisoners and spoil
to Alibad, and remain to guard the town. Sir Dugald was sent on ahead
to pick up two of his field-pieces, and he rejoined the force with
them as it passed through Alibad, bound first for Shah Nawaz, and then
for Shir Hussein’s stronghold.

Shir Hussein was a man who knew when he was beaten. His first
overwhelming success was entirely unexpected, for, once run to earth,
he had only hoped to make his fortress a hard nut to crack, and keep
the Shah Nawaz detachment occupied with it for some time, while he
stood out for better terms. When he found all his approaches commanded
by marksmen posted among the rocks, and learned that it was the height
of folly for a man to show so much as his head above the parapet, he
congratulated himself on having made such an impression upon the foe
that they had decided upon a blockade rather than an assault, and made
up his mind that he could hold out for weeks. But when a small group
of men and two disagreeable-looking objects made their appearance at
the top of a precipitous cliff, the steepness of which seemed to
suggest that wings would be needed to get guns up there, and a far
from charming variety of round-shot, shell, and grape began to fall
inside his enclosure, Shir Hussein followed the example of the
historic coon, and intimated that he would surrender without further
persuasion. The resistance had been much too brief to satisfy the
outraged feelings of the regiment and its Commandant, but it afforded
these some relief to blow up the fort, and tumble the shattered
fragments down into the valley. Major Keeling ordered a halt at Shah
Nawaz on the way back, that he might install Lieutenant Jones there a
second time in place of Ferrers, whom he had already suspended; but
found to his disgust that there was no punishment involved in this,
since Ferrers had just received his appointment as envoy to Gamara.
The only thing to be done was to cold-shoulder him out of the province
as quickly as possible.

“Envoy or no envoy,” said Major Keeling savagely to Lady Haigh in a
rare moment of confidence, “I’d have court-martialled him if it hadn’t
been for the private grudge between us. You can’t go persecuting the
man who’s cut you out.”



Ferrers’ departure from Alibad, hurried and almost ignominious as it
was, was not wholly without its compensations, for Penelope and he
were drawn nearer together than ever before by their common anxiety
about Colin. Ferrers was so genuinely anxious and distressed for his
friend that he could think of nothing else, and his farewells to
Penelope consisted almost entirely of charges to take care of Colin,
and to let him know exactly how he was getting on. Penelope was not
likely to resent this preoccupation--indeed, she caught herself
reflecting what a sympathising friend she might have been to Ferrers
if he had not insisted upon being regarded as a lover,--and she parted
from him with kinder feelings than she would have thought possible
before. Thus he started on his journey to the river, whence he was to
cross the desert to the eastward and to travel to Calcutta, so as to
receive his orders and credentials from the Government before he
betook himself beyond the bounds of civilisation. Major Keeling saw
him depart with unconcealed pleasure, and promptly ordered up from the
river to replace him a young officer on whom he had had his eye for
some time, sowing the seeds of future trouble by seconding him from
his regiment and appointing him to the Khemistan Horse on his own
authority.

As for Ferrers, he discovered very soon that his mission was not
likely to be either an easy or a particularly glorious one. When the
unfortunate Lieutenant Whybrow had disappeared, the Government
expressed its official regret at his probable fate, and seemed to
think it had done all that could be expected of it. But Whybrow had
possessed relations and many friends, and these were so unreasonable
as to hold the opinion that the Government was responsible for the
lives of its accredited agents. They induced a section of the home
press to take up the subject, and there was something like an
agitation about it in London. Finding that it was not to be left
alone, the Government decided on a compromise. Nothing but
overwhelming physical force could bring the fanatics of Gamara to
their knees, and this could only have been applied by an army, under
the command of Sir Henry Lennox or an officer of his calibre, whose
calculated rashness might, like Faith, “laugh at impossibilities, and
say, It shall be done.” But no one would have ventured to propose such
an expedition at this time, and it was therefore determined to try
moral suasion once more. Ferrers was supplied with the means of
obtaining abundance of money (which was to be rigorously accounted
for), but denied an escort; instructed to obtain the release of
Whybrow, if he was still alive, by all possible means, but strictly
forbidden to indulge in threats which might seem to pledge the
Government to take action. To most people the affair seemed hopeless
from the first; but Ferrers’ failing was not a lack of
self-confidence, and he felt that he had it in him to secure success
where other men would only suffer signal defeat.

His journey to Gamara seemed to justify him in this opinion, for it
was a triumph of what a later age has learnt to call bluff. Taking
with him only his personal servants, he attached himself, for the
greater part of the way, to a trading caravan, and speedily made
himself the chief person in it. It could only be some very important
man, with unlimited power behind him, who would dare to adopt such an
insolent demeanour, and bully his travelling companions so
unconcernedly, thought the merchants. Somewhat sulkily they accepted
him at his own valuation, and the marches and halting-places came to
be settled by reference to him. He it was also who rebuked the guides
when it was necessary, bringing those haughty mountaineers to reason
by displaying a proficiency in many-tongued abuse which astonished
them, and who forced the headmen of inhospitable villages to turn out
of their own houses for his accommodation. True, the merchants
sometimes looked forward with misgiving to the next time they would
traverse these regions, when there would be no champion to help them;
but such a splendid opportunity of paying off old grudges was not to
be let slip, and the caravan led by the overbearing Farangi was long a
proverb on the route.

When the mountains had been crossed, and the irrigated plains of
Gamara were in view, the caravan broke up into several portions, and
Ferrers pursued his way to the city in company with one of these. His
heart was high, for his reputation had preceded him, and the villagers
received him with marked respect. It was clear, he thought, that the
men who went before him had failed by going to work too gently, and
truckling to the prejudices of the people. The right thing was to go
on one’s way regardless of opposition, to browbeat the haughty and
meet the insolent with an insolence greater than their own, and in
general to act as no sane man, alone and without support in a hostile
country, could be expected to act. The natives, like his
fellow-travellers, would conclude that he had some mysterious reserve
of strength, or he could never be so bold. Thus he saw without
misgiving the distant masses of green which marked the neighbourhood
of the city, and rode calmly along the narrow dikes, which were the
only roads between the sunken fields, without a thought of turning
back while there was time. Dimly seen through their screen of trees,
the brick towers and earthen ramparts of Gamara had nothing very
terrible about them, and was not Ferrers entering the place as an
accredited envoy, with permission from the Khan to reside there until
the business on which he came was done? Even the contemptible little
dispute into which he was forced by the action of the officials at the
gate, who wished to make him dismount from his horse, did not trouble
him. What did it signify that the law of Gamara forbade a Christian to
ride in her streets? He, at least, was going to ride where he liked,
and ride he did. It was when he had passed triumphantly through the
gate that he was first conscious of a sense of uneasiness, of a
feeling that a net was closing round him. The city boasted flourishing
bazaars, and streets bordered by canals of clear water and shaded by
trees, but his way did not lie through them. Possibly by reason of his
self-assertion at the gate, or merely in order to avoid the crowds
which thronged the business part of the town, he was led through the
dullest bylanes of the residential quarter. The narrow alleys through
which he passed looked absolutely blank, the houses on either side
presenting nothing but high bare walls to the public eye. Their roofs
were flat, and such windows as there were looked into the inner
courtyards. It was like passing a never-ending succession of
prison-walls with occasional doors. Where the line was broken by a
mosque, which generally served also as a college, there was some
little relief in the shape of stately dome and lofty minaret, and
occasional dashes of colour produced by the use of enamelled tiles;
but it gave forth a throng of young fanatics clad in black, who made
outrageous remarks about the Kafir, which were as audible to their
object as they were intended to be. For convenience’ sake, and to
avoid attracting a crowd round him by his mere presence, Ferrers had
made the journey in native dress; but he had not attempted to alter
his appearance in any other respect, and his fair colouring rendered
him distinguishable at once.

Having presented his credentials to the favourite who occupied the
position of the Khan’s foreign minister for the nonce, he was received
with suitable compliments, and assured that his arrival had been
expected, and a house and servants prepared for him. He was half
afraid that this house might prove to be within the circuit of the
inner wall enclosing the hill on which the Khan’s palace and the
public offices stood, in which case he would have anticipated the
possibility of foul play, but it turned out to be one of the ordinary
houses of the town. It was furnished sufficiently, according to
oriental ideas, with carpets and cushions; the servants in it accepted
with remarkably little friction the direction of those he had brought
with him; and when he had seen to the securing of the door opening
into the street, he felt that what looked like a prison from without
might be a fortress from within.




 CHAPTER XV.
 A LAND OF DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

After a night’s rest Ferrers prepared to pursue the inquiry on which
he had come, but he found that the blank walls of the city were only a
type of the passive opposition to be offered to his efforts. The mob
of the place was so fanatical and so threatening that, as he persisted
in maintaining his right to ride, he found it advisable to comply with
the request of the Khan’s advisers, and only show himself when he was
to be granted an audience at the palace or the house of one of the
ministers. Visitors he had none--none at least of the type that in
most oriental cities delights in calling upon a new-comer and spending
long hours in eliciting all manner of useless information. Gamara was
the scene of a perpetual reign of terror, exercised from above by the
Khan, and from below by the mob, reinforced by the hordes of
theological students, and between these two forces the mere moderate
man was crushed out of existence or frightened into silence. A whisper
against the orthodoxy of even a high official would send a raging
crowd to attack his house or to tear him limb from limb in the public
street, and the truth of the rumour would only be inquired into
afterwards, if at all. The Khan maintained his unquestioned ascendancy
by outdoing all his subjects in their zeal for orthodoxy, which had no
connection with morals, and by repressing that zeal with atrocious
severity when it clashed with his own wishes. Mob-law offered a very
useful means of getting rid of undesirable persons; but one or two
stern examples had been needed to teach the mob not to proceed to
extremities unless they were smiled upon by the palace. The presence
of a Christian in the sacred city was a standing defiance of its
inhabitants, and it was only the drawn scimitars of the Khan’s
bodyguard that protected Ferrers from certain death as he rode to and
from the palace in full uniform.

There was a community of Jews in the place, and it was from this that
his unofficial visitors were drawn--scared, furtive men, distinguished
from the true believers by their dress, who skulked along back-lanes,
and entered the house by a private door in terror of their lives, but
emboldened to the enterprise by the hope of turning a more or less
honest penny. They were anxious to be Ferrers’ agents in communicating
secretly with personages whom he could not directly approach, and, in
general, to do any dirty work that might be requisite. One of them,
more courageous than the rest, actually offered to disguise Ferrers
and take him about the city, but he felt compelled to refuse the
offer, much against his will. The man was only too probably a spy, and
what could be easier than to lead the stranger, ignorant of his
whereabouts, into the precincts of one of the mosques, and raise the
cry of “Kafir!” after which the Indian Government would have to lament
the loss of another envoy who had mysteriously disappeared. It was
very likely that the missing Whybrow had been trapped in some such
way, but Ferrers was beginning to doubt whether exact information as
to his fate would ever be obtained. The one indisputable fact was that
he had disappeared, and not he alone, but his servants, horses, arms,
and equipment, as completely as if they had never existed. The last of
his written reports which had reached Calcutta was dated half a day’s
march from the city, and in it he said that in view of his projected
entry thither he thought it well to send off beforehand the results of
his explorations up to this point. From inquiries made on the spot,
Ferrers was certain that he had left this camping-ground and gone
towards the city, but there his information stopped. No one could or
would testify to the lost man’s having passed the gates, though rumour
was rife on the subject of his doings and his fate. Ferrers’
emissaries brought him a different report every day. Whybrow had been
turned back at the gates and had returned to India; he had been
arrested on entering; he had been honourably received by the Khan and
provided with a house and escort; he had performed his business and
gone away in peace; he had been arrested during an audience at the
palace and straightway beheaded; he had been torn to pieces in the
streets; he had turned Mohammedan and been admitted to the Khan’s
bodyguard; a mutilated body alleged to be his had been subjected to
disgusting indignities at the place of execution,--all these mutually
contradictory reports were submitted, apparently in perfect good
faith, by the very same men, but they shed no certain light on the
fact of Whybrow’s disappearance.

Ferrers had recourse to bribery. Presents judiciously distributed, by
means of his Jewish agents, among the Khan’s chief officers, brought
him the honour of an audience of each of the gentlemen so favoured,
and various interesting confidences. Whybrow Sahib had never entered
the city; he had died in it from natural causes; he had left it and
started safely on his return journey to India,--it seemed a pity that
the worshipful hypocrites had not taken counsel together beforehand to
tell one story and stick to it. Ferrers gathered only one more grain
of fact after all his expenditure, namely, that Whybrow had actually
been in Gamara. If he had not, there would not have been such anxiety
to assert that he had left it in safety. But nothing of this sort was
officially acknowledged. At each successive audience the Khan inquired
blandly whether Firoz Sahib had yet been able to learn anything as to
his friend’s fate, and even condescended to remark further that it was
most extraordinary a stranger should be able to disappear so
completely just outside Gamara, and leave no trace.

Thus time went on, and Ferrers began to feel that he might remain in
Gamara for the rest of his days and get no further. Meanwhile, the
failure of his efforts and the restricted life he led were telling
upon his nerves and temper, and he began to say to himself that if
there was much more prevarication he would beard the Khan in his very
palace, and give him the lie to his face. When he had reached this
point, an excuse for the outburst was not long in offering itself. One
of his agents came to him one day with even more than the usual
secrecy, and produced from the inmost recesses of his garments
something small and heavy, wrapped up many times in a piece of cotton
cloth. It was a miniature Colt’s revolver--then a comparatively new
invention--beautifully finished and mounted in silver, and bearing on
a small silver plate the letters L. W., the initials of Leonard
Whybrow. Questioned fiercely as to where he had found it, the man
confessed by degrees that he had stolen it from the palace--“borrowed
it” was his way of expressing the fact. It had been in the charge of
the keeper of the Khan’s armoury, with whom he had some acquaintance,
and recognising from its make that it was a Bilati (European) pistol
of a new kind, he had secured it when the keeper’s back was turned,
intending to return it to its place at the earliest opportunity after
Ferrers had seen it. He further put in a claim for the repayment of a
sum of money which had been needed to induce the keeper to turn his
back at the right moment, and urged that the pistol should be given
back to him at once, or both the keeper and he would lose their heads,
since the Khan often amused himself by firing away the ammunition
which had come into his possession at the same time as the weapon. To
this, however, Ferrers refused to accede, paying the money with an
alacrity which made the agent wish he had asked double the sum, but
refusing to surrender the pistol. He was to have an audience of the
Khan on the morrow, and he would confront him with this proof of his
treachery.

The next day came, and Ferrers rode to the palace with his usual
escort. The audience proceeded on the ordinary lines; but when the
Khan asked the stereotyped question as to the envoy’s success in his
mission, he did not receive the usual answer. Ferrers took the
revolver from his sash, held it up to the light, pointed out the
significance of the letters, and threw it on the floor at the Khan’s
feet. Then, without another word, he went back to his place and sat
down, but not in the cramped position prescribed by Eastern etiquette,
for instead of sitting on his heels, he turned the soles of his feet
towards the Khan--thus offering him the worst insult that could be
devised--and waited calmly for the result. The court was in an uproar
immediately; but the Khan, pale with anger, contented himself with
announcing that the audience was at an end, and dismissed the
assembly. Perfectly satisfied with the result of his _coup_,
purposeless though it was, Ferrers rode home with much elation. The
news of his action had quickly spread from the palace into the town,
and his path was beset by an angry mob, who threw stones until they
were charged by the escort; but he felt an absolute pleasure in facing
them. The long succession of insults heaped upon him had been more
than revenged at last.

As he neared the house, it occurred to him for the first time that it
would have been prudent to be prepared to take his departure
immediately after defying the Khan. His servants should have been
warned to pack up as soon as he started for the palace, and to await
him with the laden horses at the gate nearest to the house. Even now
it was not too late. He might ride straight to the gate himself,
sending word to the servants to bring whatever they could snatch up
and follow him, or he might go to the house and fetch them. This was
the best plan, for he did not like the thought of abandoning all his
possessions, and he almost decided to adopt it. It was vexatious to
appear to run away, of course, but he could scarcely doubt there was
danger in remaining. He had just turned to the officer in command of
the escort, intending to request his company as far as the gate, when
a messenger from the palace clattered along the street and dashed up,
shouting his message as he came. In the most insulting terms Firoz
Sahib was bidden take his servants and depart from Gamara immediately.
The Khan’s safe-conduct would protect him to the gates, and no
farther. The effect on Ferrers was instantaneous. Submit to be ordered
out of the city--driven forth with insults--never!

“Tell his Highness that I leave Gamara to-morrow, and at my own time,”
he said to the messenger, in tones quite audible to the crowd which
had collected. “Am I a beggar to be driven forth with words?”

The crowd listened with something like awe, and the messenger,
apparently impressed, made answer that he would return to the palace
and represent to the Khan that the envoy had had no time to make
preparation for the journey, and could not, therefore, start at once.
The officer of the escort, seeming to be satisfied that the plea would
be allowed, asked whether Firoz Sahib would like a guard left in the
house for the night, in case of an attack by the mob; but Ferrers
declined, with a shrewd idea that the danger might be as great from
the one as from the other. Remarking that he would be ready to start
on the following afternoon, he was about to enter the house, when an
elderly woman, not of the best character, with whom he had several
times exchanged a smile and a jest, looked out at her doorway on the
opposite side of the narrow street.

“When the wolf sees the trap closing upon him, he does not wait to
escape till it is down,” she cried, with a shrill burst of laughter,
and Ferrers recognised that a timely warning was intended. But he set
his teeth hard. Depart in obedience to the Khan’s insulting mandate he
would not, even though he had been prepared to start at once before
receiving it. It seemed to him, however, that it would not materially
compromise his dignity if he stole a march on the authorities, and
made a dash for the gate with his servants as soon as it was opened in
the morning. They would not expect him to start until the time he had
mentioned, and the mob would not have opportunity to collect in
sufficient numbers to bar the passage of several resolute, well-armed
men. He gave his orders accordingly; but the process of packing up was
interrupted by the servants belonging to the house, who collected in
an angry group, and demanded loudly to be given their wages and
allowed to depart. The house and all in it were marked for
destruction, they said, and why should they be sacrificed to the
madness of the Kafir?

“The rats desert the sinking ship,” said Ferrers grimly; but he paid
the men their wages, and allowed them to steal out separately by the
private door, each hoping to lose himself in the labyrinth of narrow
lanes, and so elude the vengeance of the authorities until he could
find refuge with his friends. One of the men Ferrers had brought from
India also petitioned to be allowed to take his chance in this way,
and lest his presence in the house should be an element of weakness,
he was suffered to depart. The rest obeyed in silence the orders they
received. They could not understand their master’s proceedings, but
they knew well that all Sahibs were mad, and that it was expedient to
humour them even at their maddest. Moreover, this particular Sahib had
brought them through so many dangers already, apparently by virtue of
his very madness, that they felt a kind of confidence in him, and
provisions were prepared and loads made ready for an early start on
the morrow--the morrow which, for all but one in the house, was never
to come.

The street was quiet when Ferrers went his rounds before going to bed,
but he posted a sentry at the door and another at the postern, lest an
attempt should be made to break in. He had little fear of an attack
while he was behind stone walls, however; it was the ride through the
city to the gate which he really dreaded. But in the night he was
roused by the clank of metal: some one had dropped a weapon of some
sort on a stone floor. Hastily catching up his sword, he seized his
revolver and rushed out into the courtyard, to descry dimly against
the starry sky a man climbing over the wall which separated his roof
from that of the next house, and dropping down. Before he had time to
wonder whether the man was alone or had been preceded by others, he
was borne down by a sudden rush from the dark corners of the
courtyard. The revolver was struck from his hand, his sword was
wrenched away, and though he fought valiantly with his fists, he was
tripped up by a cunning wrestler and thrown to the ground, and there
bound hand and foot with marvellous celerity. Without a moment’s pause
his assailants lifted him and carried him to the door, where they tied
him upon a horse which was waiting. Hitherto he had been absolutely
dazed. Not a word had been uttered, not a sound made since that first
clang which had awakened him; and while the men were evidently armed,
they had been careful not to wound him, though he had caught sight of
more than one dead body in the courtyard and the passage. The very
stillness roused him at last to coherent thought. There was not a soul
in the street, not a ray of light nor the creak of a cautiously opened
door from the blank houses on either side. He knew the truth now. As
Whybrow had disappeared, so he was to disappear, without a sound or
cry to attract the attention of the prudent dwellers in the
neighbourhood. The bodies of his servants and all traces of their fate
would be removed, his horses and possessions conveyed away before
daybreak, and only the empty house would be left, and the usual
sickening uncertainty as to one more envoy’s fate. And what would that
fate be? His blood ran cold at the thought, but it nerved him to one
supreme effort. This street, after many windings, ended at the city
wall; if he could once reach that point, he might scale the sloping
earthen rampart and succeed in escaping, destitute of everything and
in a country swarming with enemies, but with life and honour left him.
Gathering all his strength, he burst one of the cords that held him,
and flung himself upon the men nearest him, fighting hopelessly with
his bound hands. For a moment astonishment made the group give way;
but before he could free himself further, one of them, grasping the
situation, struck him on the head with a club, and he dropped
senseless on the horse’s neck.

When he recovered consciousness he was lying on a stone floor. His
hands were free, but heavy fetters were round his ankles, and these
were connected by a chain to which was attached a heavy weight. He
could drag himself slowly about, but to move fast or far was
impossible. He felt about his prison; it was all of stone, small and
filthy, but dry, and from this, and the fact that a gleam of light
came through an aperture near the top of one of the walls, he gathered
that he was what might be considered a favoured prisoner. He was in
the dungeons of Gamara, which were a name of terror throughout Asia,
but not in one of the horrible underground cells. Not that this
softened his feelings towards the gaolers. Escape was out of the
question, but failing that, his mind fastened itself on the
possibility of a speedy death, accompanied preferably by as much
damage to his captors as he could succeed in effecting. What was
needed was a weapon of some sort. He did not expect to find furniture
in the dungeon, but he hunted about for some time in the hope of
lighting upon a loose stone, or even a bone from some predecessor’s
rations. Nothing of the kind offering itself, he felt about for a
jagged edge in the wall, and at last found one, not too far from the
floor. Crouching beside it, he lifted the chain attached to the
weight, and began to use the rough stone as a file. He worked away
with frenzied eagerness, though his hands were soon streaming with
blood, and the cramped position caused him intense agony. His mind had
no room for anything but the one idea, the obtaining of a weapon. At
last his task was accomplished--the link gave way. He was free from
the weight, though his feet were still fastened together by a chain
only some eight inches long. He tried to work on this next, but in
vain, as he could not get the chain into such a position as to reach
his file with it. But he had his weapon, and he lifted it with
difficulty and placed it where he thought it would be most useful.
Then he took up a position behind the door and waited.

At last there were sounds outside, and the door creaked slowly open. A
man’s head appeared, looking round in surprise and alarm for the
prisoner. By a tremendous effort, Ferrers raised the weight as the
gaoler advanced into the cell, and brought it down on his head. He
fell with a crash, and an earthen vessel of water which he had been
carrying was shivered on the floor. Ferrers had formed some vague plan
of dressing himself in the gaoler’s clothes and taking possession of
his keys, but this was now out of the question, for there was a sound
of voices and a rush of steps towards his cell. He drew back into the
shadow, intending to knock down the first man that entered as he had
done the gaoler, but his temporary strength was gone. His arms refused
to raise the weight more than an inch or two. With a cry of rage he
dropped it, and charged furiously into the group of men who had been
attracted by the noise, and were trying to screw up one another’s
courage to enter the cell. One or two of them went down before his
blows, others fled at the sight of the apparition, but there remained
two who flung themselves upon Ferrers and grappled with him. Weakened
by fasting and the blow he had received, he yet fought manfully, but
they were slowly and surely forcing him back towards the cell, when
one of them caught his foot in the chain. All three went down, Ferrers
undermost, and once more he lost consciousness, the last thing he
heard being a warning cry, “Do not kill him: it is his Highness’s
order.”

When he awoke next he was again in his cell, but now his hands were
also fettered, and he was chained to a ring in the wall. The death he
desired had eluded him, and he was worse off than before. He was stiff
and sore all over after his fight, and his head gave him excruciating
pain. At his side were a cake of rough bread and a very moderate
allowance of water, and he seized upon them greedily, then lapsed into
semi-consciousness. For an unknown length of time after this he lived
in a kind of delirium, in which past, present, and future were
inextricably mingled in his mind, and his only clear feeling was a
vehement hatred of any one who came near him. When his brain became
less confused he gave himself up to imagining means of gratifying this
hatred, walking ceaselessly backwards and forwards in the semicircle
of two or three paces’ radius, which was all that his chains would
allow. His new gaoler never ventured within his reach, and put his
food where he could only touch it by dint of strenuous efforts, and
the difficulty was to induce him to come closer. But the words he had
heard recurred to Ferrers’ half-maddened brain, and when the gaoler
entered the cell one day, expecting to find the prisoner walking about
and muttering to himself as usual, he saw only a confused heap by the
wall. He called, but received no answer, and in terror lest the Khan
should have been baulked of his revenge by the death of his captive,
ventured near enough to touch him. The moment he came within reach
Ferrers sprang up with a howl like that of a wild beast, and, joining
his two fettered hands, smote him on the head with all his strength.
The man fell; but the authorities had learnt wisdom from the fate of
his predecessor, and Ferrers’ triumph was shortlived. Several men
rushed in from the passage, dragged out the gaoler, and, turning upon
the prisoner, beat him so cruelly with whips of hide that he sank on
the ground bleeding and exhausted. When they left him at last, it was
with a promise that he should taste the bastinado on the morrow, and,
unhappily for him, his mind was now sufficiently clear to understand
all that this implied.

All day he lay more dead than alive, and when the door of his cell
opened gently, hours before the usual time, he had not strength to
look up, even when a light was flashed in his eyes. It was not until a
leathern bottle was held to his lips, and a voice said, “Drink this,
sahib,” that he awoke from his lethargy, to see a well-known face
bending over him.

“What, is it you, Mirza?” he asked feebly.

“Hush, sahib; I am come to save you,” was the whispered answer. “Only
do what I tell you, or both our lives will pay for it.”

Ferrers drank obediently, and as he drank his strength seemed to
return. He sat passive while the Mirza unlocked the fetters from his
ankles, and filed through the chain which fastened him to the wall,
but the thought in his mind was that now he would run through the
prison and kill any one he met. He felt strong enough to face an army.
But the Mirza’s hand was on his arm as he sprang up.

“Nay, sahib, we must go quietly. Put on the turban and garments I have
here, and hide your hands in the sleeves, for it would take too long
to file the fetters from your wrists now. Then follow me without a
word. You are my disciple, and under a vow of silence. If we meet any
one, I will speak for both.”

The authoritative tone had its effect in calming Ferrers, and he
obeyed, putting on the clothes as best he could with his trembling,
fettered hands, assisted by the Mirza, and pulling the loose sleeves
down to hide his wrists. Then the Mirza took up his lantern and
beckoned him to follow, fastening the door of the cell noiselessly as
soon as they were both outside. They passed along a corridor with
cell-doors on either side, and then through a kind of guardroom, where
several men were lounging, either asleep or only half-awake. These
saluted the Mirza, and looked with something like curiosity at his
disciple, making no objection to their passing. Then came a courtyard
which was evidently that of the common prison, for from a high-walled
building on one side came shouts and groans and cries and wild
laughter, making night more hideous even than day, and the ground was
strewn thickly with bones and all kinds of filth. The Mirza did not
turn towards the gateway, but to a corner near it, where he opened a
small door and secured it carefully again when Ferrers had passed
through. Then he led the way up a flight of stone steps and through
various passages, and finally brought his guest into a room fairly
furnished and--joy of joys!--clean.

“This house is yours, sahib,” he said, turning to him. “There are
slaves at your orders, a bath, food, clothes. I myself will dress your
wounds, since there might be danger in calling in a physician from the
town, but here for the present you are safe.”

Ferrers looked round him like one in a dream. The thing was absolutely
incredible after the squalor and brutality, the ineffectual struggles,
of the days and nights since he had been captured. “I--I don’t
understand,” he said feebly. “I thought you and I had quarrelled.”

“Am I one to forget the kindness of years in the hasty words of a
night?” asked the Mirza reproachfully. “Nay, sahib; now the time is
come for me to repay all I have ever received from you.”

“I don’t understand,” murmured Ferrers again, and reeled against the
Mirza, who laid him on a divan, and called for the servants. Still
half unconscious, the prisoner was stripped of the horrible rags he
had worn in the prison, and clothed afresh in rich native garments.
His wounds were dressed, food and cooling drinks were brought him, and
he was left to rest in comfort and security.




 CHAPTER XVI.
 “ENGLAND’S FAR, AND HONOUR A NAME.”

His arrival at the Mirza’s house was the beginning of what appeared,
in contrast with the days that had gone before it, a period of perfect
bliss to Ferrers. The extreme peril of his position, and the danger
which would face him if he wished to leave the city, occurred to him
only as considerations that enhanced the comfort of the present
moment. He had nothing to do but to enjoy life within somewhat
circumscribed limits, and to feel his strength returning day by day
under the care of the Mirza and his household of obsequious slaves.
From time to time the Mirza would appear perturbed, and a question
would elicit the admission that a rigorous search was being made, now
in one part of the city and now in another, for the escaped prisoner.
But Ferrers thought this an excellent joke; and under its influence
the gloomy brow of his host would also relax, for was not the Mirza
the keeper of the prison, and was not his house the last place where
the fugitive would be sought? Still, there were certain precautions to
be taken, and for gratitude’s sake Ferrers was careful to observe
them. He found that the Mirza was far more strict in the performance
of his religious duties than he had ever known him--in fact, the man
who had posed at Shah Nawaz as a freethinker was here the most
orthodox of Moslems, and Ferrers, as became a disciple, also reformed
his earlier heterodox behaviour. In the course of his adventures in
disguise at Bab-us-Sahel he had gained a fair working knowledge of the
points of Mohammedan ritual; now he became acquainted with its
extremest minutiæ, even to the incessant use of the Fattha, or first
verse of the Koran, with which, in the contracted form of “Allahu!”
the devout Gamaris were wont to preface most of the actions of life.
Even had any of the slaves been ill-disposed, they could have alleged
nothing against the orthodoxy of their master and his disciple; but
they seemed to vie with one another in showing a deference to Ferrers
only second to the veneration with which they regarded the Mirza.

It was but to be expected that as Ferrers grew strong again he would
begin to chafe against the close confinement which his host assured
him was necessary, and even to hint that it was time he made some
attempt to escape from the city. These hints were always turned aside
by the Mirza, however, and it was impossible to know whether he had
understood them or not; but he was more accommodating in the direction
of providing for his guest a certain amount of recreation. At the
beginning, when visitors appeared, Ferrers was always smuggled out of
the way in good time; but by degrees he was allowed to remain, at one
time only hovering on the outskirts of the circle, ready to do the
Mirza’s commands like a dutiful disciple, then, keeping in the shadow,
to lean against a pillar and listen to the words of wisdom that fell
from his teacher, and at last to make one of the group. He had grown a
beard by that time, and this, with the aid of various skilful touches
from the Mirza, altered his appearance completely, while his earlier
practice in behaving as an Oriental stood him in good stead. At length
the Mirza considered that it was safe to take him out of doors, and
they entered afresh on their old course of adventures, the zest of
which was heightened now to Ferrers by the imminent presence of
extreme peril. The scenes which they passed through were many and
various, showing under-currents of life in the sacred city which it
would be by no means profitable to describe. Ferrers was wont at first
to salve his conscience by assuring himself that this all formed part
of an exhaustive inquiry which would have important results when he
returned to civilisation; but he soon began to feel a fascination in
the life he was leading,--to feel that he was being gripped by
something to which one side of his nature, and that not the highest,
responded with fatal facility.

It was one night that this idea came to him, bringing with it the
unpleasant conviction that he was a great deal happier in Gamara than
he had any business to be; and in the morning he was moody and
troubled, almost making up his mind to speak plainly to the Mirza and
demand the means of escape, then deciding that it was better not to
touch on a subject which his host so pointedly avoided. They were
bidden to an entertainment that day at the house of Ghulam Nabi, one
of the Mirza’s friends, an old and trusted servant of the Khan, and
renowned even in Gamara for the strictness of his orthodoxy. The
company was a very small one, for only a few could be trusted with the
secret that besides the invariable tea and sherbets, fruit and
sweetmeats, Ghulam Nabi was wont to amuse his confidential friends
with entertainments of a more questionable character; but among them
was a nephew of the old man’s who was a student at a neighbouring
mosque, and who threatened to be a disturbing element. Ferrers had
become by this time so used to his assumed character that he no longer
took the precaution of seating himself with his back to the light
under the pretence that his eyes were weak, as he had done at first,
and he found the student’s gaze fastened on him almost continuously.
Aware that to show agitation would be the worst possible policy, he
nerved himself to maintain his usual calmness, and succeeded, as he
believed, in dispelling the youth’s suspicions. But presently, as the
guests rose to accompany their host to a pavilion in the garden, the
student flung himself forward with a shout.

“That man is a Kafir!” he cried, pointing at Ferrers. “I have been to
India, and seen the Sahibs, and he is one. He does not eat like us, he
rises from his seat differently. He is here in the holy city to spy
upon us!”

There was a stir among the guests, and they fell away from Ferrers as
if he had been denounced as plague-stricken. He himself, as if by a
sudden inspiration, attempted no defence. He looked at the Mirza, then
bowed his head, and stood in a submissive attitude. The Mirza came to
his rescue at once.

“The man is my disciple, and no Sahib,” he said. “Is this the way that
the Sahibs receive an accusation, O far-travelled one? Nay, but I have
been training this disciple of mine in patience and submission, until
I verily believe he thinks I have devised this scene to test him.
Truly he has learnt his lesson, and when I go hence, my mantle shall
be his. Is he not a worthy successor, brethren?”

“He is no true believer,” protested the student, but less confidently
than before. The rest of the company were evidently coming over to
Ferrers’ side, and Ghulam Nabi clinched the matter.

“It can easily be proved,” he said. “I am not wont to put tests to
those who come under my roof; but in order to quiet the foolish tongue
of this low-born nephew of mine, let the Mirza’s disciple repeat the
_Kalima_, that the ill-spoken boy may bow down in the dust before
him.”

Much relieved by so easy a solution of the difficulty, Ferrers
repeated promptly the Moslem creed, without hurry and with the proper
intonation. The confusion of the student was complete, and his uncle
and the other elders heaped reproaches upon him, while the Mirza’s
face beamed. No further incident disturbed the harmony of the evening,
and Ferrers returned home with his host in good spirits. His nerve, at
any rate, must be untouched by the trials through which he had passed,
since he could confront such an emergency without a single tremor. He
had forgotten all about the remonstrance he had intended to address to
the Mirza, and was going straight to his own room, when he was called
back.

“A load has been removed from my mind to-day,” said the Mirza. “I had
not looked to hear Firoz Sahib confess himself of his own free will a
follower of Islam, and it has often grieved me to think of his
returning to the dungeons whence I took him.”

“It was merely a joke, of course,” said Ferrers lightly, “but it
served its purpose. Good thing I remembered the words all right!”

“There can be no jest in repeating the _Kalima_ in the presence of
witnesses,” was the reply. “It saved Firoz Sahib’s life to-day.”

“And will save it a good many times yet, I daresay; but of course it’s
nothing but a joke. Hang it, Mirza! you don’t expect me to go on
pretending to be a Mussulman when I get back to India?”

“You will never get back to India, sahib. Those that have seen the
things that have been shown to you do not leave Gamara.”

“What in the world do you mean? I shall leave Gamara as soon as I
can--in a few days, I suppose.”

“When you leave this house you will either leave it as a Mussulman, in
which case honour and riches await you, or as a Christian, when you
will return to the dungeon from which I brought you. Or rather, as one
who has once professed the faith of Islam and afterwards denied it,
you will pass to such tortures as are reserved for renegades. But you
will never leave Gamara.”

Ferrers stood gazing at him, unable to utter a word, and the Mirza
went on, speaking in a meditative tone--

“Yet is there no cause for sorrow in this, for there is greater honour
for you here than you would ever have attained in India. And when the
alternative is death---- Nay, is it not better to command the Khan’s
bodyguard, and to receive at his Highness’s hand houses, and riches,
and fair women, and all marks of favour, than to be roasted alive, or
flung headlong from the minaret of the Great Mosque, only to fall upon
the sharp hooks set midway in the wall, there to hang in torture until
you die?”

“You don’t seem to think it worth while to enter upon the religious
side of the question,” sneered Ferrers savagely.

“Nay, Firoz Sahib and I have lived and talked together too long for
that. He knows that among unbelievers I am even as they, among Sufis I
am a Sufi, among the Brotherhood of the Mountains I am one of
themselves. To Rāss Sahib I have even presented myself as an inquirer
into Christianity. In Persia I should be a Shiah, here in Gamara I am
the most orthodox of Sunnis. To the wise man all creeds are the same,
and he adopts that one which is most expedient for the moment. And as
it is with me, so is it with Firoz Sahib, my disciple. To no man is it
pleasant to change the customs in which he has grown up. When Firoz
Sahib came to Gamara he put on the garments of this land; when he came
into this house he shaved his head, according to the custom of the
people, and these things he did of his own free will for a protection.
But had any man ordered him to do them with threats, he would have
stiffened his neck and refused with curses. So is it with this matter
of creeds. Christianity is to Firoz Sahib as the garments of his own
land, which he will lay aside of his own free will, for the sake of
his own safety. He is too wise a man to see in the change anything but
a matter of expediency.”

“And faith? and honour? and my friends?” demanded Ferrers fiercely,
with bloodless lips.

“To your friends you died the day you entered Gamara. Nothing that now
happens to you can reach their ears. Whether you live long and enjoy
his Highness’s favour, or brave his wrath and die the deaths of a
hundred men, they will know nothing of it. The matter is one for
yourself; they can have no part in it.”

“This is your doing!” burst from Ferrers.

“And why not? When you destroyed in a moment all my labours, refusing
me the means of justifying myself to those that had employed me in
Nalapur, so that having failed to slay the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, the
accursed, it was needful for me to flee from their wrath also, I said
to you that we should meet again. I thought to journey at some future
time to Khemistan, and finding you in high place and established with
a wife, trouble your tranquillity by whispers of what I might tell if
I chose. I did not expect you to come to me here, where all was at
hand for a vengeance of which I had not dreamt. But when I heard you
were coming to Gamara, I knew that destiny had delivered you into my
hand. You are here, and being such as you are, you will choose life
and happiness, having only lately been very close to Death, and gladly
turned your back on him. So that my vengeance has nothing in it that
is cruel, but the truest kindness, for your life will be saved in this
world, and your soul in the world to come, if there be such a thing.”

“I won’t do it!” cried Ferrers. “Call in your slaves and denounce me.
Then you will have your precious vengeance after all.”

“Nay,” said the Mirza musingly, “it would be long in coming. Death is
not all that is in store for the renegade, nor is it swift. Moreover,
his Highness desires a Farangi to train his guard in the manner of
Europe, and I would not willingly disappoint a second master. You are
young, and life is sweet, and before you are war and wealth and the
love of women on the one side. On the other--nay, but I will show you
what is on the other. Come with me, but utter no word, for your own
sake.”

The Mirza took up a lantern and a long cord, and led the way towards
the door by which he had first brought Ferrers into his house.

“To the prison?” asked Ferrers, with a shudder which he could not
repress at the thought of entering again the place where he had
suffered so much.

“To the prison. But fear not, you shall return hither. After that, it
will be for you to do as you choose.”

Once more they passed through the low doorway, crossed the filthy
courtyard, received the salutations of the sleepy watchers in the
guardroom, and entered the dark passage, Ferrers trembling from head
to foot as the full recollection of what he had suffered there
returned to him. But instead of opening the door of his cell, the
Mirza turned aside into a second passage, and led the way through a
labyrinth of narrow corridors and winding staircases, the trend of the
route being always downwards. The air grew thick and damp, and the
lantern burned dimly. There was a smell of mould, and where the light
fell on the walls, they seemed to move. Ferrers stumbled on after the
Mirza, who appeared to know his way perfectly. At last their nostrils
were assailed by a horrible stench, and the Mirza, moving the lantern
from side to side, showed that they were in a cave or room of some
size, hollowed in the rock. In the middle of the floor was a hole or
well, from which the stench seemed to come, and above it in the roof
was another hole.

“Not a word!” whispered the Mirza, leading the way to what looked like
a doorway on the farther side of the place. He lifted the lantern and
threw the light inside. Horrible things wriggled and ran along the
floor and crept upon the walls as he did so. He put one foot inside
the doorway, and there was a kind of stampede. Small bright eyes and
sharp teeth shone in every corner. But Ferrers’ gaze was fixed upon a
crouching heap, which might have been a wild animal, at the very back
of the cell. It moved, and disclosed the face of a man, gaunt, wasted,
fever-stricken, with bleached unkempt hair and beard.

“Be off! I won’t do it!” The words were uttered with difficulty, but
they were in English. Ferrers started violently, and the Mirza threw
him a menacing look. The captive, seeming to recollect himself,
repeated the words in Persian, but the Mirza made no reply. After
turning the light of the lantern once more on the man and his
surroundings, he motioned Ferrers back. Ferrers obeyed. The moment
before, it had been in his mind to say some word of cheer to the
prisoner, at whatever risk to himself, if only to let him know that
there was another Englishman--another Christian--within those terrible
walls. But the words remained unspoken, and with a clank of chains the
prisoner sank back into his former position, his chin supported on his
knees.

Meanwhile the Mirza had been fastening to the lantern the cord he had
brought with him, and now he let it down into the well, ordering
Ferrers to look over the edge, but not to go too near. Once more he
obeyed, to behold a sickening chaos of human bones and dead bodies in
all stages of decomposition, among which moved and scampered obscene
creatures such as he had seen on the walls and floor of the cell.

“All that die in the prison are cast here,” said the Mirza, and
Ferrers realised that the hole in the roof must communicate with the
courtyard above-ground.

“And who was--that?” he asked fearfully, as they began to retrace
their steps. The Mirza gave him a glance full of satisfied malignity.

“That,” he said slowly, and as if enjoying each word, “is Whybrow
Sahib.”

“Whybrow, whom I came here to----?”

“Whom you came to save. He is not a wise man, like Firoz Sahib. He
will neither embrace the faith of Islam nor enter his Highness’s army.
Therefore he lives here, with the rats and the scorpions.”

“And what--what will become of him?”

“Who can say? Perhaps he will die--the rats are often hungry--or he
might be forgotten. Or it may be his cell will be needed for some
other prisoner,--then he will be thrown into the well and left there.
But that may not be for years.”

Years--years of such captivity as that! Ferrers laughed harshly. “You
should have brought him up into your house and made life mean as much
to him as you have done to me,” he said.

“We have,” was the answer; “and even into the very palace of his
Highness, where one of the dancing-girls, pitying him, pleaded for his
life with her lord and with him, but he would not yield. He returned
hither, and she died, as a warning to her companions.”

Again they made their way through the passages and up the stairs,
again crossed the courtyard and entered the Mirza’s house. Ferrers
turned aside to the steps which led up to the roof.

“Take counsel with yourself,” the Mirza called after him. “To-morrow
you must decide.”

Take counsel! Ferrers had meant to do it; but even as he began to pace
to and fro, with the sleeping city outspread all around him, he knew
that the matter was decided already--had been decided from the moment
when he withheld the words he had tried to utter to Whybrow. The test
was more than flesh and blood could stand. In open day, Ferrers could
have charged alone into an overwhelming host of enemies, and died
gloriously. Had he lived in earlier days, he could have faced the
lions in the amphitheatre, unarmed, and not have flinched, or have
fought as a gladiator and received his death-blow by command of the
audience without a sign of fear. But die slowly by inches underground,
submit to be eaten alive by vermin, perish unknown, unhonoured, this
he could not do. If only he had had companions in misfortune, if even
Whybrow and he could have stood shoulder to shoulder from the first,
and encouraged one another, it would have been different, but there
was not a creature within hundreds of miles to whom steadfastness on
his part would seem anything but foolishness. As the Mirza had said,
no one in the world he had left would ever know whether he had died a
hero or lived a craven; and if they did, what good would it do him?
Penelope, who ought to care, would expect him to hold out. He felt
angrily that if Penelope had loved him better he might have been a
better man, even able to hold out, perhaps. It would have been
something, on the other hand, to be able to assure himself that she
would wish him to yield, but he could not take this comfort. And,
after all, what was he giving up? To trample on the cross, to curse
the claims of Christ--these were disagreeable things to do, but, as
the Mirza had said, they had no particular poignancy for him. With
Colin it would have been different, of course. Christ was more than a
name to him, Christianity other than a mere set of formulæ. But how
could it be expected of Ferrers--could any one in his senses ask
it--that he should die for Colin’s faith?




 CHAPTER XVII.
 THE STRENGTH OF TEN.

For some months after Ferrers’ departure for Gamara, Colin was kept
a prisoner by the wounds received in the unsuccessful first attack on
Shir Hussein’s stronghold. Lady Haigh had insisted that he should be
brought to the fort, and she and Penelope nursed him unweariedly. His
convalescence was long and tedious, and complicated by attacks of
fever; but he exhibited a constant patience which, as Lady Haigh said,
was nothing but a reproach to ordinary mortals, and only showed what
terrible people the Martyrs must have been to live with. From the
first return to consciousness, his question was always for news of
Ferrers; and when he was at last promoted from his bedroom to a couch
in the drawing-room, he was still eager on the subject.

“Have you had many letters from George, Pen?” he asked his sister the
very first day.

“Two, I think. No, there must have been three,” she answered
indifferently.

“Do you mean to say you’re not sure? If poor George only knew what an
affectionate sweetheart he has!”

“They came when you were very ill. How could I think of them then?”

“I don’t know. It seems the proper thing, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t they be
generally supposed to be a comfort to you?”

“Possibly, by people who didn’t know the circumstances.”

“Why, Pen!” Colin gave her a puzzled look. “Couldn’t you read me a bit
here and there?” he asked coaxingly. “I should like to hear how the
old fellow is getting on.”

“I’m not sure that I can find them. I’ll look.”

She went into her own room, and returned presently with some crumpled
papers in her hand.

“There must have been three, but I can only find two. I remember the
_dhobi_ sent some message about a paper in the pocket of a dress that
went to the wash. I must have thrust it away and forgotten all about
it. Don’t look at me with huge reproachful eyes in that way, Colin. I
suppose you think I ought to work an embroidered case for George’s
letters, and keep them next my heart, don’t you?”

“I thought that was the sort of thing girls did generally. Of course I
mightn’t be allowed to see them, Pen?” He spoke in jest; but his eyes
were fastened hungrily on the letters.

“Oh dear, yes! I don’t mind. Why shouldn’t you?”

Colin was taken aback. He had no experience in love-affairs, but it
struck him that this was not quite as it should be. He smoothed out
the crushed sheets as she handed them to him.

“Why, they look just as if you had crumpled them up and thrown them
across the room!” he said.

“Well, if you are anxious to know, that is exactly what I did do, and
the ayah picked them up and put them carefully into a drawer.”

“Pen!” Colin was shocked. “What could you have been thinking about?”

“Oh, I happened to be in a bad temper, that was all, of course. Don’t
worry your head about it, dear. Now that you are better, I don’t so
much mind all the other things. I oughtn’t to be cross and horrid,
when I’m so thankful about you, ought I? but I’m tired, and we’ve been
anxious about you for so long.”

She bent over him and kissed his forehead, and Colin, though
perplexed, acquiesced in her evident desire to change the subject. But
he watched her anxiously, noticing the irritability which was so new
in her voice, and the restless unhappiness of her face when she
thought herself alone.

“Pen,” he said suddenly one day, “has anything gone wrong between you
and George?”

“Oh, nothing particular,” she answered listlessly. “It’s only that if
I knew I should never see him again, I should be perfectly happy.”

“Penelope!” he cried, aghast. “You would like him to disappear,
perhaps to be killed, like poor Whybrow?”

“No, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. But if he would only
fall in love with some one else, and never come back here!”

“I don’t think you are at all in a right state of mind, Penelope.”
Colin’s didactic instincts were roused by this heartless speech.

“Nor do I,” she answered promptly. “I have known it for a long time.
The best that can be said of it is that I am forcing myself to do evil
that good may come--or that you are forcing me.”

“I?” cried Colin indignantly. “You know I want nothing but your
happiness.”

“You don’t think of my happiness at all. You think of me merely as a
means of reclaiming George, not as a person to be considered
separately.”

“I hope you are not going to adopt Lady Haigh’s jargon, Pen. It
doesn’t sound nice from a young lady’s lips.”

“Do you think that what I have gone through since Christmas has been
nice to feel?” she demanded hotly, then broke down and fell upon her
knees by his couch in tears. “Oh, Colin, I am very miserable. I can’t
bear it. Help me. Be kind as you used to be. Think of me a little, not
only of George. He has come between us ever since we came to India. I
can’t marry him--I can’t!”

Colin put out a shaking hand to touch hers. He had honestly thought he
was doing the best both for his sister and his friend in bringing
about a marriage between them, and the sudden revelation of Penelope’s
state of feeling came upon him with a shock. “Don’t, Pen,” he said
feebly. “I didn’t know you felt like this about it. I’ll speak to
George--awful blow--poor fellow----” his voice failed, and Penelope
sprang up in alarm.

“Oh, I have made you ill again! You are faint!” she cried in terror.
“Oh, Colin, don’t. I will marry him--it was always to please you.”

“No, no.” He lifted his hand with difficulty. “We will talk of this
again--not just now. I will think about it. Poor George! poor fellow!”
and as she fetched him a restorative Penelope felt, with a renewal of
the old bitterness, that his first thought was still for Ferrers, not
for her.

It was not until the next day that he returned to the subject; but in
the interval she caught his eyes following her wistfully, as though he
was trying to discover the reason for such hardness of heart. But his
voice was gentle as he held out his hand to her when they found
themselves alone, and said, “Now, Pen, come and sit here, and let us
talk things over.” It did not occur to her to resent this fatherly
attitude on the part of a brother no older than herself. He had always
stood somewhat apart, and taken the lead, and until the last few
months she had never admitted a doubt of his insight or his wisdom. He
looked at her searchingly as she sat down beside him. “There is one
thing I must ask first,” he said. “Is there any one else?”

The blood rushed to Penelope’s face, but she looked him straight in
the eyes. “There is,” she said. “But don’t look at me in that way,
Colin, as if I had been encouraging some one else while I was engaged
to George. I think you might know me better than that.”

“You should have told me about it.”

“How could I? There was nothing to tell. He didn’t speak until it was
too late.”

“But when he spoke, you came at once to the conclusion that you
preferred him to George?”

“Not quite that. It wasn’t so sudden. I--I liked him before, but
because he said nothing I thought he--didn’t care.”

“And now you wish George to release you that you may become engaged to
him?”

“It’s not that! He promised never to speak of that sort of thing
again. How dare you say such things to me, Colin? It’s not just--you
know it isn’t. If you knew anything about love--but you don’t---- It
is simply that I can’t promise to love and obey one man when I know in
my heart that I don’t love him, but some one else.”

She had sprung up from her low seat and confronted him with flushed
cheeks and grey eyes flashing. Colin hardly knew his quiet sister, and
he felt abashed before her indignation. “Forgive me, Pen,” he said. “I
only wanted to know all the ins and outs of the matter. Why didn’t you
tell me about it before?”

“Do you think you are an encouraging person to tell things to?”
demanded Penelope, still unreconciled. “No, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean
to say that. It was my promise, Colin. You were so shocked at the idea
of my breaking it, I thought I would sooner die. And so I tried to
forget the--the other, and to like George, but I couldn’t make myself
feel as I ought. I don’t want to hurt you--I know how fond you are of
George--but it was the difference, the dreadful difference between the
two men. I couldn’t help seeing it more and more.”

“And so you were very miserable?” She was beside him again now, with
her face buried in his cushions, and his tone was tender.

“So miserable. And I have felt so wicked, Colin. It was almost a
relief when you were so ill, and I couldn’t think of any one but you.
When Elma came and made me go and rest, I couldn’t sleep, because the
thought of George used to seize me like a terror. It was horrible to
think of his coming back.”

Colin was stroking her hair, but there was a little bitterness in his
voice as he said, “I seem to have been making a mistake all along. If
I had guessed there was another man it would have been different; but
I thought a girl could not want anything more than a kind husband,
whom she might hope to help by her companionship. I knew Lady Haigh
had prejudiced you against poor George----”

“No, that is not fair. I was quite willing to believe in George again
on your word, but he never took the slightest trouble to show me that
he cared for me. Even when I told him that before Christmas, he only
made a kind of pretence, as if he knew I should have to marry him
whether I liked him or not. I know I have been very wrong, Colin, but
it was in listening to George at all, when I knew I didn’t care for
him. It isn’t fickleness, really. I have tried hard to like him.”

“And now I must tell him that you prefer some one else, and want him
to release you?”

“No, tell him that I can’t marry him.”

“That is not enough. Do you think it is a pleasant thing for me to
have to confess that my sister has made a promise she cannot keep, and
that I must throw myself on his mercy to set her free? And poor George
himself! You may tell me I know nothing about this sort of thing, but
it will be a terrible blow to him. No, it is not your fault,
Pen--altogether. You should have spoken before, but I am to blame too.
I will undertake to settle the matter with George, and I only trust
that I may be mistaken in thinking how much he will feel it.”

“He won’t release me,” she said hopelessly. “I asked him myself.”

“Without giving any reason? Of course he thought it was merely girlish
fickleness or a love of teasing.” Penelope moved her head
unrepentantly. “Pen, you talk of my being unjust to you, but you are
frightfully unjust to George. As if any gentleman would keep a girl
bound when he knew she cared for some one else! You try to excuse
yourself by making him out a blackguard.”

“I can only judge him as I have found him,” she said, wondering
whether Colin’s firm faith in his friend had really a power to bring
out the best side of Ferrers’ character. Colin looked for good in him,
and found it; she expected nothing better than lack of sympathy and
consideration, and duly met with it. Was she herself in part to blame
for the unsatisfactory features of his conduct? If she had been able
to love him and believe in him with the whole-hearted confidence he
had inspired in her as a child, if she could have continued to regard
him as an ideal hero, accepting his careless favours with rapture, and
never dreaming of demanding more affection than he chose to give, he
might possibly have developed into the being she believed him.
Possibly, but not probably. An unreasoning devotion would in all
likelihood have wearied him, even if her sharp eyes had not beheld the
flaws in his armour; but it was not possible to Penelope to go about
with her eyes shut. Perfection she did not expect, but Ferrers could
never have satisfied her now that she was no longer a child, even had
his deficiencies, not been accentuated by the contrast with that other
lover of whom she strove conscientiously not to think, but whose very
faults she owned to herself that she loved.

For some time after her explanation with Colin, the subject of Ferrers
was not mentioned between them. Colin had discarded the idea of
writing to him, lest the letter should be lost or fall into the wrong
hands; but there was a tacit understanding that he was to meet him as
soon as he returned to India, and tell him everything. Even this
unsettled state of affairs brought comfort to Penelope. Her
cheerfulness returned, and she was uneasily conscious that Colin must
think her absolutely heartless when he heard her talking and laughing
with Lady Haigh, who was quite aware that he was inclined to consider
her Penelope’s evil genius. But one day there came news that put an
effectual end to all cheerfulness for the time. Penelope was crossing
the hall when she heard Sir Dugald, who was just coming out of the
drawing-room, talking to Colin.

“After all,” he was saying, “it’s much too soon to give up hope. Many
things might happen to interrupt communications. He may even be on his
way back already.”

A groan from Colin was the only answer, and Penelope asked anxiously,
“What is it, Sir Dugald? Is anything the matter?”

He looked at her before answering, and the look convinced her that
Lady Haigh kept him informed, possibly against his will, of the course
of affairs. “We are anxious for news of Ferrers,” he said. “Since the
letter which told of his arrival at Gamara, neither the Government nor
any one else has had a word from him.”

“And they think----?”

“They think--but we trust they are beginning to despond too soon--that
he may have shared poor Whybrow’s fate, whatever it was.”

For a moment--a moment for which she could never forgive
herself--Penelope was conscious of an involuntary feeling of relief.
No more of those letters, which had caused her such indignant misery
at first, with their calm assumption of the writer’s authority over
her, and their wealth of affectionate epithets (mentally repudiated by
the recipient), and which she had felt as a constant reproach since
her talk with Colin. Then came a quick revulsion of feeling. To what
horrors was she willing to doom this man who had loved her, merely to
save herself humiliation and discomfort? She ran into the
drawing-room, where Colin was lying on his couch with his face to the
wall.

“Colin, he must be saved!” she cried. “Don’t let us lose time. They
waited so long after the news of poor Mr Whybrow’s disappearance
before doing anything. Can’t he be ransomed? There is Saadullah
Kermani, the trader--he travels to Gamara, and would arrange it. I
will give all my money--it isn’t much in the year, but we could
realise the investments, couldn’t we?--and my pearl necklace is worth
a good deal, and there are my brooches and things. You would give what
you could, wouldn’t you? and I know Elma would help. Oh, and there is
Mr Crayne. We can get quite enough money together, surely?”

“It’s not a question of money.” Colin turned a white, drawn face
towards his sister. “If we knew that he, or Whybrow either, was in
prison, there might be some hope. Whether he was seized in order to
extort money or political concessions, we might come to terms. But if
he disappears, as Whybrow did, without leaving a trace, and the Khan’s
government deny that they know anything about him, what can we say?
The only thing is for some one to go and search for him, and it must
be done.”

“Oh, not you, Colin! not you!” cried Penelope, almost frantically.

“I shall not decide in a hurry. I mean to wait a week, in case the
letters have been delayed by snow in the mountains, or by fighting
among the tribes. If we hear nothing then, I shall write to the
Government of India, asking to be sent to look for him.”

“Oh, Colin, you mustn’t go!” she wailed. “You are all I have now.”

“It may not be necessary,” he said. “I can’t say more than that.”

Penelope thought afterwards that she had never spent such a long week
in her life. In terrible contrast to her former wish that Ferrers
might not return was her feverish anxiety to be assured that he was
actually on his way back. But no news came, and telegrams from
Calcutta told that the authorities there had very little hope. They
pointed out that they had agreed most reluctantly to send Ferrers to
Gamara, and their forebodings seemed in a fair way of being justified.
Nothing had been heard of Ferrers or from him by the end of the week,
and Colin wrote at once to offer his services to go in search of his
friend. The reply was prompt and decisive. The Government had no
intention of sending any further mission to Gamara.

“I must get leave of absence, and travel as a private individual,” was
all the comment Colin vouchsafed when he saw the joy which Penelope
could not hide. “It will make things a little more difficult, but
Government aid really doesn’t seem to do much good.”

“Oh, I wish I could speak to Major Keeling before he does, and beg him
not to grant him leave!” thought Penelope, as she saw him mount his
pony--he was allowed to ride a little by this time--and take the
direction of the town; but it seemed as though Major Keeling had
divined her wishes without hearing them. He was in his office,
digesting an acrimonious rebuke from headquarters on the subject of
the young officer upon whom he had seized to replace Ferrers, and his
refusal of Colin’s request was sharp and short.

“Go to Gamara--six months’ leave? Certainly not. We are short-handed
already. I wonder you have the face to ask it.”

“You can’t expect me to leave my friend to be tortured to death, sir.”

“What does it signify to you what I expect? You won’t get leave from
me to go on such a wild-goose chase.”

“Major Keeling, I earnestly entreat you to grant me this six months. I
cannot leave Ferrers to his fate.”

“What are you standing there talking for--taking up my time? You won’t
do any good if you stay till to-morrow.”

“He is my friend. I must try to save him.”

“And your brother-in-law that is to be? It makes no difference.”

“No, sir, that is not my reason. In fact, my sister has determined to
break off her engagement, and I shall have to tell him so, but----”

Major Keeling sprang up furiously. “What do you mean by coming here
and trying to tempt me, sir? You shall not go to your death for
Ferrers or any one else, unless it’s in the way of duty. Be off!”

Nothing but the enlightenment which broke suddenly upon Colin would
have sufficed to make him leave the office without irritating the
Commandant by further argument, but for a moment the discovery
overshadowed in his mind even the thought of Ferrers. He had felt some
natural curiosity as to the identity of the man whom Penelope
preferred to his friend; but as she did not offer to gratify it he had
not pressed her, thinking that Porter was almost certainly the person
in question. Now it occurred to him that Penelope might be of use in
asking for the leave which Major Keeling was so determined not to
grant, but he repressed the thought sternly. He would do nothing that
would allow Penelope or any one else to think that he recognised the
slightest bond between her and the man who had supplanted Ferrers.

Leaving the office, he saw Sir Dugald riding past, and joined him,
telling him of the unsuccessful issue of his application. Sir Dugald,
who may have been primed beforehand by Penelope, was much rejoiced,
and inwardly blessed Major Keeling’s wisdom, but was careful not to
hurt Colin’s feelings.

“It would mean certain death for you, after all,” he said; “and you
have your sister to think of, you know. Why not see what money can do?
Let us go and see that old sinner Saadullah. He might be able to make
inquiries for you, and he starts for Gamara in a week or two.”

They rode out to the piece of land on the north of the town which had
been set apart as a camping-ground for traders and small bands of
nomads, and threaded their way between the lines of squalid tents and
through the confusion of camels, horses, and human beings, towards the
encampment of Saadullah Kermani, which was somewhat withdrawn from the
rest. Most of the men who were hanging about saluted the two officers
with more or less goodwill, but a hulking fellow who was lounging
against a pile of merchandise stared at them open-mouthed, and on
being hastily prompted by a neighbour as to his duty, burst into an
insolent laugh. Sir Dugald turned his pony sharply aside, and seizing
the man by some portion of his ragged garments, shook him until his
teeth chattered, then released him and ordered him to beg pardon
unless he wanted a thrashing. Forced to his knees by his companions,
the man stuttered out some kind of apology, adding in a sulky murmur
something that the Englishmen could not hear.

“What does he say?” asked Sir Dugald of the trader himself, who had
come up by this time.

“Nothing, sahib, nothing; he is the son of a pig, one who cannot speak
truth. He utters lies as the serpent spits forth venom.”

“He said something about Gamara, and I wish to know what it was.”

“I said,” interrupted the cause of the discussion, “that the Sahibs
who ride here so proudly, and ill-treat true believers, would find
things rather different in Gamara, like their friend Firoz Sahib.”

“What do you know about Firoz Sahib?” demanded Sir Dugald.

“Only that he has turned Mussulman to save his life,” grinned the man.
“Oh, mercy, Heaven-born, mercy!” as Saadullah and his servants fell
upon him, all trying to beat him at once.

“No, let him speak,” commanded Sir Dugald. “Is this true that you
say?” he asked the man.

“I know only that one morning Firoz Sahib was not to be found in the
house that had been appointed for him, and it was said that he had
insulted his Highness, and had been given his choice of Islam or
death,” was the sulky answer.

“Did you hear anything of this?” asked Sir Dugald of Saadullah.

“It was talked of in the bazars, sahib; but many things are spoken
that have no truth in them,” replied the trader deferentially.

“Well, we will see you again. I would advise you to teach that fellow
of yours to keep his mouth shut.”

“It shall be done, sahib. He is a fool, and the grandson of a fool,”
and Saadullah pursued the two officers out of his camp with profound
bows. As soon as they were clear of the tents, Colin turned to Sir
Dugald.

“This settles it,” he said. “I shall throw up my commission and go to
Gamara.”




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 THE ALLOTTED FIELD.

From this determination Colin could not be moved. He wrote off
immediately to Mr Crayne, asking him to obtain leave for him to resign
his commission without delay, since Major Keeling remained obdurate,
and join Saadullah Kermani’s caravan when it left Alibad for Gamara.
Mr Crayne, whose anxiety for his nephew’s safety was embittered by the
remembrance that it was he himself who had obtained him his perilous
post, made a flying journey to the river station, and summoned Colin
to meet him there, that they might talk things over. The old man was
aghast when he heard Colin’s plans. He would attempt no disguise, seek
no credentials from the Government, invoke no protection if danger
threatened. Bible and Koran in hand, he would go to the wicked city
simply as a friend in search of a friend, proving to the orthodox of
Gamara from the books they held sacred their abuse of the duties of
hospitality. Eager as he was that some definite step should be taken,
Mr Crayne recoiled from sending Colin to what seemed certain death,
and could hardly be dissuaded from dismissing the project as summarily
as Major Keeling had done. But at last Colin’s entreaties induced him
to send for Saadullah from Alibad, and after long and anxious
consultations with the trader he began to see a glimmering of hope in
the scheme. During the short time he had been on the border, Colin had
acquired a high reputation for sanctity among the natives. His austere
life, the ascetic qualities which made him unpopular among his
comrades, his willingness for religious discussion, were so many
causes for pride to the men of his troop, from whom his fame spread
first to the bazar-people of Alibad and then to the tribes. He was not
credited with the possession of miraculous powers, like Major Keeling,
but it was very commonly believed that he was divinely inspired. The
discussions which took place in his verandah might have bred
ill-feeling but for the courtesy and tact with which he conducted
them, and the bigoted Mussulmans who came to confound him and went
away defeated took with them a feeling almost of affection for their
antagonist. He might be a Kafir and a smooth-faced boy, but he could
argue against the wisest Mullahs and send them away with a lurking
doubt that what they had heard and rejected might in reality be a
message from God communicated by an angel.

Since this was the case, Saadullah thought there was good reason to
hope that Colin might be able to visit Gamara in safety. The
undertaking was fraught with peril, of course, but it was significant
that the only European who had in the course of many years been
allowed to leave the city uninjured was an eccentric missionary who
had followed much the same plan. There was little likelihood of
rescuing Ferrers, the trader admitted; but if Rāss Sahib obtained the
Khan’s ear, he might at any rate be able to ascertain his fate,
perhaps even bring back his bones for burial. It was from Saadullah
that Mr Crayne learned the unpalatable fact that Ferrers was the last
man who should have been sent to Gamara, that his self-assertion and
absence of tact would be a standing irritation to the Khan and his
people, and that the sporting characters of the Alibad bazar had only
disagreed as to the shortness of the time in which he would offer
deadly insult to the prince or his religion, and duly disappear. With
Rāss Sahib it was different, for he cared nothing for slights to
himself, only to his faith, and his courage in opening discussion at
the very seat of Moslem culture, coupled with his kindly and courteous
bearing, ought to win him friends enough to ensure his safety.

Thus urged, Mr Crayne consented, with many misgivings, to further the
project. He obtained leave for Colin to resign his commission, and
persuaded the Government not to veto the journey. He saw that he had
ample command of money, and intrusted Saadullah with a further supply,
to be used in case his charge found himself in any difficulty or
danger, and also authorised them to draw upon him should more be
needed. Colin’s way was rendered as smooth as possible, and the
resulting conviction that he was right in undertaking the journey made
it easy for him to bear the contemptuous coldness of Major Keeling and
the wondering remonstrances of his friends. He was very kind to
Penelope, who could hardly bear him out of her sight, clinging to him,
as it were, in a desperate endeavour to hold him back, while he put
her gently aside, pressing on towards the goal he had in view. Her
unavailing misery angered Lady Haigh to the point of fiery
indignation, and at last she determined deliberately that she would at
least make an attempt to bring Colin to a sense of the error of his
ways. She gave Sir Dugald orders to take Penelope for a ride one
morning, and fairly hunted them both out of the place, promising to
overtake them before long, then pounced upon Colin as he rode up, and
informed him that he was to have the honour of escorting her. It gave
her a malign pleasure to note his evident unwillingness, though he
could not well refuse to ride with her, and she wasted no more words
until they were out in the desert.

“You are determined to take this journey to Gamara?” she asked him,
slackening pace suddenly.

He looked at her in surprise. “Yes,” he answered simply.

“And not even the thought of your sister will make you change your
mind? You are leaving her absolutely alone in the world.”

“She is not without friends. You and Haigh will always look after her.
Poor George Ferrers has no one. Moreover, I feel that to some extent I
am taking the journey in Penelope’s place.”

“You don’t mean to say that you expected her to go?”

“No, no, though she did cry out at first that she ought to go, not I.
What I mean is that it was for her sake Ferrers went to Gamara, hoping
the mission would lead to some appointment on which he might marry,
and as soon as he is gone she turns round and declares that nothing
will induce her to marry him.”

“If you asked my opinion, I should say that he went to Gamara because
he had made Alibad too hot to hold him; but if you prefer the other
view, I can’t help it. Mr Ross, tell me, what is there about Captain
Ferrers which captivates you? You are not generally a lenient judge,
but you condone in him things which you would rebuke unsparingly in
your other comrades, and you can’t forgive your sister for refusing to
marry him, though it’s clear it would mean lifelong misery to her if
she did. Why is it?”

Colin looked at her in unfeigned perplexity. “He is my friend, Lady
Haigh. When I was a little chap, and he a big fellow always getting
into scrapes, we were like Steerforth and Copperfield,--no, I don’t
mean that”--perceiving that the comparison might be interpreted
unfavourably to Ferrers--“like David and Jonathan--he was David, of
course. In those days Pen was as fond of him as I was. I may be unjust
to her, as you seem to imply, but I can’t get over her fickleness. It
was settled so long ago that he was to marry her and I was to live
with them--what better arrangement could there have been? George has
never changed, I have never changed, but Penelope has. What led to the
change, you know best.”

“Not I,” returned Lady Haigh warmly; “except that it was a very
natural repugnance to a lover who seemed to take everything for
granted, and who, as we now know, never thought of her at all.”

“Lady Haigh,” said Colin earnestly, “you are doing him an injustice.
He did not know of her arrival in India, was not expecting her; but if
he had been allowed to meet her, and she had met him on the old
footing, without interference, this sad alienation would never have
taken place. You meant well when you warned her against him, but----”

“Mr Ross,” said Lady Haigh, settling herself firmly in the saddle, and
punctuating her sentences by little taps of her whip on the pommel, “I
meant well, and I did well. You would have sacrificed your sister to a
man who was not worthy to black her shoes. I saved her.”

“You have always misjudged him, and I fear you always will. I know he
has done many wrong and foolish things--he has told me so himself,
with bitter regret. But he had cast them behind him; all he needed to
help him to rise was the love of a good woman, and he and I both hoped
he had found it. I begin to fear now that even before he started on
his mission he must have felt some misgivings about Penelope’s
affection for him----”

“Probably,” said Lady Haigh savagely. “Oh, go on.”

“Some fear that her heart was not really his. What is the result? This
terrible, miserable rumour which is taking me to Gamara.”

“Then you actually hold your sister accountable for Captain Ferrers’
becoming a Mohammedan? Now will you kindly tell me what you think a
man’s Christianity is worth if it depends on a girl’s feelings?”

“A girl’s actions, rather,” said Colin sorrowfully. “Think, he has met
with a terrible shock. All his ideas of woman’s truth and
steadfastness are destroyed. I know that ought not to destroy his
faith; but he has always been one who depended upon the visible for
his grasp of the invisible. And that is why I am going to Gamara, in
the hope that he may yet be saved.”

“Do you really expect to bring him back with you?” she asked, awed.

“No. I feel that I shall not return,” he answered. “But I have also
the feeling that in some way, even if it is only by my death, George
will be brought back.”

“After this”--Lady Haigh spoke brusquely, that he might not see how
much she was moved--“I quite understand that it is no use asking you
to consider Penelope. She doesn’t count in such a case.”

“I have done what I can for her,” he replied. “I have left her all I
have. And I suppose”--he spoke with evident distaste--“that some day
she will marry the Chief.”

“Ah, I thought even you would scarcely venture to think she was still
bound to Captain Ferrers. Well, Mr Ross, since you have got so far,
you must do something more. You must leave a message with me that I
can give her if that ever comes about. If I have to persecute you
unceasingly till the day you start, I will have it.”

“No; that is too much. I may foresee such a marriage, I cannot prevent
it, but I will not encourage it.”

“You will give me leave to tell your sister that you thought such a
thing might possibly happen, and that you wished her all happiness in
it. She has gone through agonies in trying to keep the promise which
you imposed upon her, and she did keep it till it nearly killed her. I
believe you think you are the only person who has a right to quote
texts, but I ask you what good it will do if you are willing to give
yourself up to be killed at Gamara, and yet can’t show common charity
to your own sister?”

Colin rode on in silence with a rigid face, and Lady Haigh wondered
whether he would refuse to speak to her again. She had caught sight of
Sir Dugald and Penelope coming towards them, and felt that her chance
was nearly over. Would he speak? She held her breath with anxiety.
Suddenly he turned to her with a smile which transfigured his whole
face.

“You are right, Lady Haigh, and I am wrong. I have judged poor Pen
hardly, and she must have thought me unkind. If it--this marriage
should ever come off, tell her that from my heart I prayed for her
happiness and Keeling’s. And I thank you heartily for showing me what
a Pharisee I have been.”

Lady Haigh scarcely dared to believe in her success, but she noticed a
new tone of tenderness in Colin’s voice when he spoke to his sister
presently, and the look of incredulous joy in Penelope’s grey eyes
showed that she saw it too. “I have done a good morning’s work,” said
Lady Haigh to herself.



For the few days that remained before Colin’s departure, Penelope was
happy. The barrier which had existed between her brother and herself
since their arrival in India seemed to have suddenly disappeared, and
she felt she was forgiven. Ferrers’ name was not mentioned between
them, but Colin was able to allude to the object of his journey
without unconsciously reproving his sister by the sternness of his
voice. Lady Haigh could not discover whether he had told her of his
presentiment that he would not return, though she guessed that
Penelope must have divined it, for the girl was clearly hoping against
hope, unable to believe that the renewed confidence between Colin and
herself could be brought to an end so quickly.

All too soon, as it seemed to Penelope, Colin started in the train of
Saadullah Kermani, and life at Alibad resumed its ordinary course,
sadly flat, stale, and unprofitable in the estimation of one at least
of the inhabitants. Penelope’s occupation was gone. She had joyfully
resigned her interest in Ferrers, she could do nothing for Colin but
pray for him, and she missed daily, almost hourly, the interest which
Major Keeling had been wont to bring into her life. He never tried to
see her alone now--in fact, his visits to the fort had ceased, and all
her information as to the affairs of the border was derived from the
stray pieces of news extorted from Sir Dugald by Lady Haigh, who was
bent on educating him up to the belief that she and Penelope took an
intelligent interest in public affairs. Not that these were exciting
at this time. The young officer whose services Major Keeling had
requisitioned was peremptorily restored to his original regiment, much
against his will, and the usual heated correspondence followed. The
border was quiet--in the case of Nalapur much too quiet, Major Keeling
considered, and his demand for two additional European officers was
finally refused by the authorities. The Haighs moved into their new
house, which was at last pronounced safe, and Major Keeling took up
his quarters in the imposing but gloomy building he had erected for
himself. He abjured punkahs and every other kind of device for
modifying the heat of the place, but he had laid aside his heroic
views in planning the Haighs’ house. The lofty rooms were fitted with
every appliance that had yet been discovered for making a Khemistan
summer less intolerable, and there was a large _tai-khana_, or
underground room, for refuge in the daytime, and a spacious roof for
sleeping on at night. Lady Haigh and Penelope found plenty to do in
making the bare rooms habitable with the small means at their
disposal. Those were the days when anything of “country” make was
regarded by the English in India as beyond the pale of toleration; but
Lady Haigh, looking round upon the remnant of her belongings which had
survived the journey up-country and the hands of the native servants,
came to a heroic decision. It was all very well for people down at the
coast, or generals’ wives and other _burra mems_, to have things out
from home, but the subaltern’s wife must do her best with country
goods; and she and Penelope worked wonders with native cottons and
embroidered draperies, and the curious rugs which were brought by the
caravans from Central Asia. Perhaps, as she herself confessed, she
might not have been so courageous had it not been practically certain
that none of the great ladies from the coast would ever see and
criticise her arrangements, but for her part she did not think the
native designs were so very hideous after all, or their colouring as
barbaric as it appeared to most English people in those far-off days
of the Fifties--devotees as they were of grass green and royal blue.

Into the midst of these domestic labours came the thunderbolt which
Penelope told herself she had been expecting, but which was no less
appalling. Saadullah Kermani’s caravan returned, without Colin. There
had been no remissness on Saadullah’s part, no rashness on Colin’s;
but there was a factor in the case the presence of which they had not
suspected. Colin had entered Gamara in the humble and distinctive
attire prescribed for Christians approaching the holy city, and had
behaved with the utmost prudence, making no attempt to penetrate where
he should not, or attack the usages of the place. His
travelling-companions bore unanimous testimony to his gentleness when
he was engaged in controversy by different Mullahs, and to the absence
of bitterness when these took leave of him. Many came to visit him at
the Sarai, and some even invited him to their houses. There was every
hope that his presence would come to the Khan’s ears, so that he might
be commanded to the palace as a guest, and have a chance of attaining
the object of his journey, when one day some of his first
acquaintances brought with them to the Sarai no less a person than the
Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq. He had been one of those who had held
controversies with Colin during flying visits to Alibad, and he had
expressed his determination to vanquish the Kafir at last. His
language had been violent in the extreme, his taunts and provocations
almost unbearable; but Colin had kept his temper, and discomfited his
opponent by appealing to the audience to contrast the tone of their
respective arguments. The Mirza had departed in a rage, and the very
next day, in passing one of the colleges, Colin had been assailed by a
tumultuous throng of students, who poured out upon him, and, seizing
him, demanded that he should abjure Christianity. Upon his refusal to
repeat the _Kalima_ they had set upon him with sticks and stones, and
he was only rescued by a body of the city police, who arrested him and
carried him off to the palace, the precincts of which included the
prison. Since then nothing had been heard of him. Saadullah had made
tentative and cautious inquiries in every possible direction, but the
only result was to bring upon himself a warning from the head of the
police that he also was suspected, as having brought the Kafir into
the city, and would do well to keep his mouth shut and finish his
business in Gamara as quickly as he could. By inquiry from the friends
of other prisoners, it was ascertained that Colin was not in the
common prison; but this only lent fresh horror to his fate, for to the
awful regions beyond no one penetrated. And nothing had been heard of
Ferrers, either good or bad.

When Penelope heard the news she fainted, and recovered only to beg
Lady Haigh piteously to ask Major Keeling to come to her. She must see
him, she said, when her friend demurred; and Lady Haigh, with some
misgivings, sent off the note. She felt that she would like to warn
Major Keeling when he arrived, and yet she did not know exactly what
she feared, but there had been a wild look in Penelope’s eyes which
frightened her.

“She is not herself. You will make allowances?” she said eagerly, as
she took him into the drawing-room.

“Make allowances--I, for her?” he said, with such an accent of
reproach that Lady Haigh was too much flurried to explain that she was
anxious he should not be drawn into doing anything rash. It was some
comfort to her to notice how big and strong he looked, not the kind of
man who would allow himself to be hurried into unwisdom, and she could
not wonder that Penelope felt him a tower of strength. But the words
which reached her as she left the room made her stop her ears and
hurry away in despair. She knew exactly how Penelope had run to meet
him, white-faced, trembling, with dilated eyes, and seized his hand in
both hers as she cried, “Oh, Major Keeling, save him, save him!”

“What is it you want me to do?” he asked her, the laborious speeches
of condolence he had prepared all forgotten.

“I thought--oh, surely, you will go to Gamara, won’t you? You are so
well known, and the natives have such a regard for you--you could make
them give him up.”

He shook his head. The childlike simplicity of the appeal was almost
irresistible, but he knew better than she did how hopeless such an
attempt would be made by the very fame of which she spoke.

“Oh, don’t say you won’t do it!” she entreated. “He is all I have.”

“Listen,” he said. “You know I thought the journey so dangerous that I
refused to the last to let your brother go. Yet there was a chance for
him. For me there would be none, the moment I set foot beyond our own
border. You will do me the justice to believe that I would not grudge
my life if losing it could do any good, but it could do none. And even
if it would, I could not go. I am in command here, and I cannot desert
my post.”

She looked at him as though she had not heard him. “It is Colin,” she
said; “all I have. And you said--you cared.”

“And you say I don’t if I won’t go?” he asked sharply. “Then you are
talking of what you don’t understand. I could not leave Khemistan
if--even if it was your life, and not your brother’s, that was at
stake--even if it tore my heart out.”

Penelope passed her hand over her brow. “No,” she said feebly, “it
would not signify then. But for Colin!”

“Sit down and listen to me quietly. I have pacified this frontier, and
I am the only man who can keep it quiet. Nalapur is only looking for a
pretext to break with us; if my back was turned they would invade us
without one. My post is here; it is my duty to remain; I will
not--dare not leave it. Penelope, do you ask me to leave it? If you
do, I am mistaken in you. Look up, and tell me.”

Penelope raised her head as if compelled by his tone, and her eyes met
his. “No,” she said helplessly, “it would be wrong. You must not go.
But oh, Colin, Colin!”

She bowed her head again and broke into a passion of sobs, for her
last hope was gone. She heard Major Keeling get up and walk up and
down the room, and knew that her sobs were agonising to him, but she
could not restrain them. At last she found him close to her again, his
hand on her shoulder.

“Dear,” he said, “let us bear it together. When you are in the
doctor’s hands after a fight, it helps if there’s a friend beside you,
whose hand you can grip hard. Take mine, Penelope.”

Her sobs ceased, and she looked at him wonderingly through her tears.
He went on speaking in the same low, deeply moved voice--

“I can’t bear to leave you to go through it alone. Let me help. You
know I know what trouble is. Give me the right to share yours.”

“Now--when Colin may be tortured, starving, dying? Oh, how can you?”
cried Penelope. “Oh, go, go away, and never talk like this again. I
don’t want my trouble to be less. Why should I? Share it! how can you
share it? you won’t even--no, I don’t mean that. I have only Colin,
and he has only me.”

He looked down hopelessly at her bowed head. “I cannot desert my
post,” he said, and turned to leave her.

“Oh no, no!” cried Penelope, following him. “It was wicked of me to
say what I did. Only, please don’t talk like that again. Let me feel
you are a real friend. Oh, you will help him if you can, won’t you?”

“I dare not encourage you to hope for your brother’s safety, but it
might be possible to obtain news of him. If it can be done, it shall
be. Trust me--and forgive me.”




 CHAPTER XIX.
 A WOUNDED SPIRIT.

Instead of appearing in the gardens that evening, Major Keeling rode
out, accompanied only by an orderly, to Sheikhgarh. He had never met
the Sheikh-ul-Jabal face to face since the day of the eclipse and of
his triumphant vindication, but important pieces of information had
come to him several times by strange messengers, testifying to the
friendliness of the recluse. Curious to relate, the destruction of the
marvellous legend which had grown up about the supposed identity of
the two men seemed to have had little or no effect. The dwellers on
the border and the tribesmen alike possessed a strong love of the
miraculous, and resented the attempt to deprive them of a wonder.
Taking refuge in the fact that only a very few people, and most of
those Europeans, had seen Major Keeling and the Sheikh side by side,
they maintained with obstinate pertinacity their original theory that
the one man led a double existence--as British commandant by day and
head of the Brotherhood of the Mountains by night. From this belief
nothing could move them, and as the result tended to the peace of the
border, their rulers had left off trying to convince them against
their will. It is to be feared that Ismail Bakhsh, the orderly,
foresaw a large increase of credit to himself from this journey, by
the unconcealed joy with which he entered upon it; and yet, marvellous
as were the tales he told on his return, his experiences were confined
to remaining with his horse at the point where visitors to the
fortress were first challenged. To Major Keeling’s astonishment, no
attempt was made to blindfold him on this occasion, the guards saying
that they had orders from the Sheikh to admit Kīlin Sahib freely
whenever he might come, and he rode with them to the gate of the
fortress, noticing the care with which the place was defended. This
time the Sheikh came to meet him at the entrance, and taking him up to
the room over the gateway, possibly from fear of eavesdroppers in the
great hall, sent away all his attendants as soon as the proper
salutations had passed. He seemed anxious, and was evidently expecting
news of importance.

“There is no message from Nalapur--no outbreak?” he asked eagerly, as
soon as they were alone.

“I have heard nothing,” answered Major Keeling in surprise. “What news
should there be?”

“It is well. Yet there must be news soon. The Amir and Gobind Chand
are, as it were, crossing a gulf by a rope-bridge--one false step
means destruction. But they will not return to firm ground.”

“But you sent me word that the Sardars refused to stand their
exactions and oppression any longer, and that they had been obliged to
promise to meet them, and inquire into their grievances.”

“True, and the assembly is to meet this week; but what will follow?
Are Wilayat Ali and the Vizier men who will render back the gains they
have extorted? Not so; they will divert the minds of the Sardars by
making war upon one of their neighbours. And which neighbour will that
be?”

“All right. Let them come!” laughed Major Keeling. “If they are fools
enough to hurl themselves on our guns they must. I have done all I
could to keep the peace. When is it to be--at the end of the week?”

“Nay, not so soon. They will but inflame the minds of the Sardars, and
send them home to prepare for war. It cannot begin yet.”

“Then what were you afraid of? You seemed to expect danger of some
sort.”

“I feared one of those false steps of which I spoke. The Amir and
Gobind Chand might have acted foolishly in trying to seize or murder
some of the Sardars, or the Sardars might have sought to avenge their
wrongs by killing them. Then the country would have fallen into such
confusion that I must needs act, and the time is not come.”

“Then you have an axe of your own to grind!” cried Major Keeling. “It
can’t be allowed, Sheikh. You must not plot against a neighbouring
power while you are on British territory.”

The Sheikh looked at him with something like contempt. “Why does
Kīlin Sahib thus allow his wrath to bubble up? To what purpose should
I plot against the Nalapur usurper? For myself I need no more than I
have here.”

“But what do you mean? Why should you take action?”

“Does not Kīlin Sahib see that it might fall to me to use all
possible efforts to restore peace if there should be civil war in
Nalapur? I am known to all parties, but attached to none of them, and
I am near of kin to the royal house.”

“I don’t believe that was what you meant, but you look honest enough,”
muttered Major Keeling in English. Aloud he said, “Well, Sheikh,
understand that you must not undertake anything of the kind on your
own account. I am responsible for this frontier, and I may be very
glad to make use of your good offices, but I can’t have you forcing my
hand.”

“Fear not,” said the Sheikh. “For another month I can do nothing, and
it is my strongest hope that Nalapur will remain peaceful at least as
long. If there is opportunity, I will send word to Alibad before
taking any step, but if Wilayat Ali and Gobind Chand move first, do
not blame me.”

“I don’t like all these mysteries, Sheikh. What is it that holds you
back for a month, and also keeps Nalapur quiet?”

“They are two different things, sahib. The lapse of time will set me
free to act, but the Amir and Gobind Chand will not go to war until
their embassy has returned from Gamara.”

“From Gamara? Why, that was the very---- What are they doing there?”

“Their embassy to the Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq,” said the Sheikh, evidently
enjoying his visitor’s astonishment.

“But I came to speak to you about that very man. What in the world
have they got to do with him at Nalapur?”

“Has Kīlin Sahib forgotten that the man was employed by Gobind Chand
and his master as a spy upon me, and that after attempting to slay me
he escaped? Disowned by Firoz Sahib, in whose service he had been, he
durst not remain in Khemistan, and he feared to return to Nalapur,
having failed in his mission. But both at Bab-us-Sahel and at Shah
Nawaz he had gained much information as to the plans and methods of
the English, and he knew that the Khan of Gamara would rejoice to
obtain this. Therefore he fled thither, and by reason of the news he
brought, and his own art and cleverness in making himself useful to
the Khan, was speedily raised to be one of his councillors and keeper
of the prison.” Major Keeling nodded assent. “But now the Amir and
Gobind Chand need his services again, for he knows many things about
the Brotherhood--of which he is a perjured member--and this stronghold
of mine, and some months ago it came to my knowledge that they had
sent messengers with rich gifts and great promises, to desire him to
return to Nalapur. That he dares not do, for if he sought to leave
Gamara after the favours he has received, the Khan would kill him; but
if the gifts were large enough, doubtless he would tell the messengers
all, or nearly all, that he knows. Therefore I say that Wilayat Ali
and the Vizier will not make war until the messengers return.”

“But you may not hear of their return. They may come back secretly.
They may have returned now.”

Again the Sheikh smiled pityingly. “Nay, sahib; was the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal born in the town of fools? Following close upon the
Nalapuri embassy went a messenger of mine in the garb of a holy
dervish, who entered Gamara only very shortly after them, and was
bound to remain in the city, performing the proper rites at each
mosque and holy place in turn, as long as they were there, and then to
attach himself to their caravan for the return journey. Having gone
with them as far as Nalapur, he will change his disguise and return
hither.”

“Then he has not returned yet?” asked Major Keeling meditatively.

“Have I not said it? Moreover, a secret word was brought me from him
by one in Saadullah Kermani’s caravan to the effect that he thought
the messengers would not leave Gamara for three or four weeks.”

“Three or four weeks after Saadullah? Then he may bring later news.
This is the very matter on which I came to speak to you, Sheikh. You
know that two of my officers have gone to Gamara and disappeared?”

“Firoz Sahib, who has adopted the faith of Islam, and Rāss Sahib,
whom the people call the Father of a Book,” said the Sheikh calmly.

“Those two; and we--I--want to know the truth about them, not simply
bazar gossip. When your man comes back, ask him if he has learnt
anything. If he has been keeping watch on Fazl-ul-Hacq, he ought to
have found out something, surely. If there is no news, it may mean
that they are both in prison still, and you might be able to suggest
some way of getting them liberated.”

The Sheikh stroked his beard slowly. “It may be so,” he said.
“Nevertheless, you may be well assured, sahib, that the bazar talk is
true so far as relates to Firoz Sahib. As to Rāss Sahib, they say he
is dead, and I am ready to believe it. But when my messenger returns I
will send him to you, and you shall ask him any questions you will.
But when he returns, then will be the time to keep good watch along
the Nalapur border.”

Quite agreeing with this opinion, Major Keeling took his leave, and as
he rode home, thought over what he had heard. The still unexplained
reason which kept the Sheikh from taking any active part in the
affairs of Nalapur must be in some way connected with his vow of
seclusion, he thought. Perhaps it had been taken for a term of years,
which would end in a month. He was more disappointed than surprised by
the Sheikh’s evident reluctance to help in taking any steps for
Colin’s rescue, but he could not help feeling that there was a change
in the man. Had he worn a mask hitherto, and was he now letting it
fall; or were his feelings towards the English altering, and his
friendship turning to hostility? Major Keeling had hoped that by means
of the host of agents who kept the Sheikh in touch with all parts of
Central Asia he would have been able to arrange at least that Colin
should be ransomed; but he could realise the risk involved in any step
that might reveal to the orthodox supporters of tyranny the presence
in their midst of members of the heretical brotherhood. However, if
the dervish brought no news, it might be possible to engage him to
undertake another journey to Gamara for the express purpose of
inquiring into Colin’s fate, and this was all that could be hoped for
at present.

To this conclusion Major Keeling came reluctantly just as he reached
the point from which Alibad could first be seen as he emerged from the
hills. The sun had already set, but the desert was lighted up by a
gorgeous after-glow, which was equally kind in bringing out the best
points of the view and in hiding its defects. Alibad was no longer the
cluster of mud huts which its ruler had found it. The white and buff
and pink walls of the new houses shone out brilliantly over their
screen of young trees, and the dun mass of the fort, with its squat
turrets, seemed to brood protectingly above the lower buildings. The
native town was a formless blur in the gathering darkness to the left,
and on the right, along the line of the temporary canal which supplied
the place until the great works already in progress should be
completed, were blots and splashes of green, marking the patches of
irrigated land where cultivation was in full swing. The programme
which Major Keeling had drawn up when he came to Khemistan was in
process of realisation, and that very fact chained him to the soil. He
had not allowed Penelope to see how much he was tempted to undertake
the mission she had proposed to him. It was the kind of thing that
appealed to him most strongly--to throw off the burden of routine,
have done with office-work, and plunge into the desert, where his hand
would be against every man’s, and his life would depend alternately on
his sword and his tongue. The proposal fascinated him even now; but
before him lay the town which was at once the sign and the result of
his labours. He shook the reins, roused Miani from a blissful
contemplation of nothing, and trotted briskly home across the plain,
followed by Ismail Bakhsh.

After this visit to Sheikhgarh there was another month of waiting.
Major Keeling warned all his officers to be on the look-out for a
fakir or dervish who might come with a message; but although several
members of the fraternity presented themselves as usual in search of
alms, and were given every opportunity to speak if they would, none of
them had anything particular to say. The month had more than elapsed
when one day a respectable elderly man, dressed like an attendant of
some great family, and with a scribe’s inkhorn at his girdle, asked
leave to present a petition to Kīlin Sahib. Applicants of this sort
were always plentiful, owing to the breaking-up of the huge households
maintained by all the native princes before the annexation; and it was
Major Keeling’s policy to find employment for as many of them as
possible, lest they should seek to obtain a precarious livelihood by
going up and down among the ignorant peasantry and agitating against
British rule. The man was admitted into the office, and Sir Dugald,
who was sitting at a little distance, saw him put his hands together
in a submissive attitude, and heard him begin to pour out a long
rigmarole in low tones. But almost as Sir Dugald distinguished the
words “dervish” and “Gamara,” Major Keeling rose from his chair.

“Come in here,” he said, opening the door of his private office.
“Haigh, you come too. Now, Kutb-ud-Din, let us have your story.”

“The servant of my lord has little to tell him, but it is that which
he is anxious to know. For when my lord’s servant was at Gamara
disguised as a most holy dervish, so that he wore no clothes but a
rough mantle, and painted his body blue, and left his hair and beard
wild and long, he heard one day of a great sight that was to be seen
in the square before the palace. And forasmuch as his religious
meditation was interrupted by the passing to and fro and the loud
speaking of those that hurried to see this sight, he asked them what
it might be. And one told him one thing and one another, but all
agreed that it was such a sight as would rejoice the heart of a holy
man, and therefore my lord’s servant determined to go thither. And
coming to the square, the people made way for him, so that he stood at
last in a good place, and saw the Khan and a great company of soldiers
and counsellors come out of the palace. And at the head of the Khan’s
bodyguard he saw the Farangi, Firoz Sahib, of whose conversion all the
city had been talking, so great were the festivities at his
initiation----”

“Stop!” said Major Keeling hoarsely. “Are you certain it was Ferrers
Sahib?”

“My lord’s servant will swear it, if my lord so wills. Has he not
often beheld Firoz Sahib, both here and at Shah Nawaz? Moreover, his
history was known to all in Gamara. It seemed to my lord’s servant
that Firoz Sahib had been drinking _bang_, for his eyes were bright
and his face flushed, and Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq, the renegade, rode at
his bridle-rein, as though to restrain him. And afterwards, when the
people were slow to disperse, he ordered the soldiers to charge the
crowd, and escaping from his friend the Mirza, rode down a Jew who
stood in his way, so that all who saw him fled. But that was not until
after----”

“After what? Go on,” said Major Keeling impatiently, as the man
hesitated.

“Let my lord pardon his servant, if that which he has to say is not
pleasing to his ears, for the dust under my lord’s feet can but tell
what he saw. There was led out into the square, before the Khan and
his court and army, another Farangi, wearing chains that would not
suffer him to walk upright, and clothed in shameful rags; and a
whisper went about among the people that it was the young sahib whom
they called the Father of a Book.”

“And was it?” demanded Major Keeling.

“How can the servant of my lord say? It so chances that his eyes never
rested upon the young sahib while he was among his own people. But
this sahib was young and tall and lean, and white like a wall--yea,
even his hair was white, yet reddish-white like that of the sahibs,
not pure white like that of the people of this land----”

“White--in those few weeks!” breathed Sir Dugald.

“Yes, yes, go on,” said Major Keeling to the narrator.

“And when the Farangi was brought out, proclamation was made by a
herald that his Highness, in his clemency, would offer the Kafir his
life on certain conditions, and that questions should be put to him in
Persian, and translated into Turki, so that the people might hear.
Then came forward Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq, the accursed, and by command of
his Highness, asked the Farangi, ‘Wilt thou adopt the creed of Islam
and enter my army, like thy countryman yonder?’ But the Farangi,
drawing himself up in spite of his chains, made answer, ‘I am an
Englishman and a Christian, and I will neither enter thine army nor
become a Mohammedan. I choose rather to die.’ Then his Highness, in
great wrath, cried, ‘And die thou shalt!’ and the Farangi’s head was
struck off by an executioner with a great sword.”

“And did he never look at Ferrers Sahib, or speak to him?” asked Major
Keeling.

“Nay, sahib; he kept his eyes turned away from him.”

“That was not like Ross,” said Major Keeling to Sir Dugald.

“But suppose Ferrers had visited poor Ross in prison, sir--tried to
get him to abjure Christianity?” suggested Sir Dugald. “He could not
have much to say to him after that.”

“I don’t know. I should have expected Ross to think of him to the end.
And that was all?” asked Major Keeling of the messenger.

“That was all, sahib; except that the Farangi’s body was exposed at
the place of execution, with the insults customary when a Kafir has
been executed, and that among the crowd there were some who said, in
the hearing of my lord’s servant, that in slaying the young Sahib the
Khan had certainly invited judgments, for there was a spirit in him.”

“And that is all!” said Major Keeling heavily. “You have done well, O
Kutb-ud-Din, in bringing us this news. Here!” he scribbled an order
hastily, “take this to the pay-clerk without, and receive the rupees
he will give you. You may go. Now, Haigh,” he turned to Sir Dugald as
the old man bowed himself out with profuse thanks, “you must go home
and get your wife to break this to Miss Ross--and God help them both!”

Once more there had come to Penelope, who thought she had given up all
hope, a blow which showed her that she had been unconsciously
cherishing a belief in Colin’s safety. He might escape from prison,
might be ransomed, his captors might even relent and release
him--there was always the chance of one of these; but now hope was
definitely taken away. And one terrible thought was in Penelope’s mind
day and night--it was her fault that he had gone to Gamara. At present
she could not even remember for her comfort the happier days which had
preceded his departure; she could only look back upon the past and
judge herself more harshly than Colin had ever judged her. Day after
day and night after night she tormented herself with that most
unprofitable of mental exercises--unprofitable, because the same
circumstances are never likely to recur in the experience of the same
person--of going over the events of the last two or three years, and
noting where she might have acted differently, with how much happier
results! If she had only been altogether different! If she had never
allowed herself to lose faith in Ferrers, if she had refused to
believe in the revelations which met her at Bab-us-Sahel, if she had
been willing to marry him before coming to Alibad, instead of putting
him on probation! If she had only loved him better--so that he would
not have had the heart to leave her to go to Gamara, or, having gone
there, would have found her love such a shield to him that he could
not have denied his faith! Her reason told her that it was impossible,
that Ferrers and she had grown so far apart that the woman could not
have given him the enthusiastic devotion which had been showered upon
him by the romantic little girl; but she blamed herself for the
change. Colin had never altered--why should she? It must have been
something wrong in herself that had made her first fail Ferrers when
he needed her, and at last draw upon herself Colin’s stern rebuke by
declaring that she could not keep her promise. If it had not been for
her Ferrers would not have gone to Gamara, and, but for him, Colin
would not have gone either. She was morally guilty of Colin’s death
and Ferrers’ abjuration of Christianity. And thus the awful round went
on, every variation in argument or recollection bringing her to the
same terrible conclusion, until Penelope almost persuaded herself that
she was as guilty in the sight of others as in her own. Every one must
know that she had those two lost lives on her conscience. They were
sorry for her, but how could they help blaming her? and she withdrew
herself from their pitying eyes. Lady Haigh humoured her at first,
when she insisted on taking her rides at a time when no one else was
about; but when Penelope refused to go out at all, and sat all day in
a sheltered corner of the house-top, looking northward to the
mountains, she became seriously alarmed.

“Miss Ross not coming again?” asked Sir Dugald when the horses were
brought round one evening, and he had helped his wife to mount.

“No, I can’t get her to come. The very thought seems to frighten her.”

“Must be frightfully bad for her to mope indoors like this,” was Sir
Dugald’s prosaic comment. “Can’t you get her to exert herself a
little?”

“Really, Dugald, one would think I was Mrs Chick. Why don’t you tell
me to get her to make an effort? She and I are so different, you see.
If I was in dreadful trouble I should work as hard as I could--at
anything, and entreat my friends, if they loved me, to find me
something to do. But Pen has left off even the things she usually
does, and simply sits and cries all day. I can’t very well suggest to
her that it’s rather selfish, can I?--though I know it must make the
house dreadfully dull for you.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Sir Dugald kindly. “I have my consolations.
You are not a pale image of despair, at any rate.”

“And the way she refuses to see people! Of course, no one would dream
of expecting her even to appear at a dinner-party, but to rush away if
poor little Mr Harris comes in, or any of them! Dugald”--her voice was
lowered--“do you remember that poor Mrs Wyndham at Bab-us-Sahel, whose
husband died of cholera on their honeymoon? She went mad, you know.”

“My dear Elma, pray don’t suggest such horrors. Why not get Tarleton
to come up and see Miss Ross?”

“She won’t see him; that’s just it. But I have asked him to seize the
first opportunity he can of dropping in and taking her by surprise.
Then we shall know better what to do. Dugald!--I have an idea. Are you
ready to make a sacrifice?”

“When I know what it is, I’ll tell you.”

“Oh, but it would be better for you not to know, you see.”

“Thanks. I would rather not find myself pledged to throw up the
service, or get leave home, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s nothing of that sort--merely a way of spending the next two or
three months. No, it’s not expensive--not like going down to the coast
or to the Hills. But it will be very quiet and dull, and no chance of
fighting. Oh, don’t guess. I want to be able to tell the Chief that
you know nothing about it, so that if he is angry he mayn’t scold you.
You would sacrifice yourself to help Penelope, wouldn’t you?”

“H’m, well--within limits,” said Sir Dugald.




 CHAPTER XX.
 THE ISLE OF AVILION.

“Miss Sahib, the Doctor Sahib!”

“The door is shut,” said Penelope hastily; but Dr Tarleton had
followed the servant up the stairs, and now stood on the house-top
confronting her. She glanced wildly round for a way of escape, but
there was none, and she was obliged to go forward and hold out a
nerveless hand to him. He looked her steadily in the face.

“It’s no good trying to run away from me, Miss Ross. I was determined
to see you.”

“Thank you, but there is nothing the matter with me,” wilfully
misunderstanding him.

“Not with you, perhaps, but with other people.” He sat down,
uninvited.

“Oh, if I can be of any use----” but she spoke listlessly, and her
eyes had sought the mountains again.

The doctor regarded her with a kind of restrained fury. “It makes
one’s blood boil,” he burst out, “to see a man--old enough to know
better, too--breaking his heart over a girl’s silly whims, and then to
find the girl absolutely wrapped up in herself and her own selfish
sorrow!”

“Are you speaking of me?” asked Penelope, turning to him in
astonishment. She could scarcely believe her ears.

“I am, and of the Chief. How dare you treat him in this way? Isn’t it
enough for a man to have the whole military and civil charge of the
district, and the burden of keeping the peace all along this frontier,
upon his shoulders, without his work being made harder by the woman
who ought to help him? Do you know that he worries himself about you
to such an extent that it interferes with his work?”

“I didn’t know---- What do you mean? Did he tell you?” stammered
Penelope, utterly confounded by this attack.

“Tell me? Do you know him no better than that? Of course not. But I
have eyes, and Keeling and I have been friends for five-and-twenty
years. Do you expect me to be blind when I know he can’t settle to
anything, and snaps at every one who comes near him, and contradicts
his own orders, and rides all night instead of taking proper rest?
Don’t pretend it’s not your fault. You know it is. For some reason or
other he does you the honour to care for you, and you won’t see him or
speak to him or send him a message, until he takes it into his head
that he has mortally offended you--how or why, you know best.”

“I didn’t know,” murmured Penelope again. “Oh, but you must be
mistaken. It isn’t like him. Why should he care so much--all because
of me?”

“Don’t know, I’m sure. Some men are made that way,” said the doctor
grimly. “But there it is. And you, who ought to be on your knees
thanking God for the love of such a man, are doing your best to drive
him mad. What is a woman’s heart made of? Don’t you see what an honour
it is for you that he should even have thought of you? Don’t let me
see you laugh. Don’t dare.”

“I--I’m not laughing,” she faltered hysterically. “But--but--oh, why
didn’t he come himself instead of sending you? I never thought----”

“I should imagine he didn’t come because you have never allowed him to
see you for weeks. But as for his sending me----!” the doctor laughed
stormily. “If you want to punish me for what I have said to you, all
you have to do is to tell him I have been here, and what I came for. I
don’t think the province would hold me. But I don’t care, if it meant
that you would treat him properly. Do you know what Keeling did for
me? You mayn’t think it to look at me now, but I was as wild as the
best of them when I knew him first. He was a queer, long-legged
youngster when he joined the old --th, as dark as a native, pretty
nearly--‘fifteen annas’ was what they generally called him--and the
greenest, most innocent creature you can imagine. He must have had a
terrible time, for there was scarcely a single thing he did like other
people--I know I took my share in making his life a burden to him.
Well, we had been having a big _tamasha_ of some sort one night, when
I was called to a bad case in hospital. An operation was needed, and
I insisted on doing it at once. It was a thing that demanded a steady
hand--and my hand was not steady--you can guess why. Something
slipped--and the man died. An inquiry was called for, and I knew that
I was ruined. There was only one thing to be done that I could see--to
blow out my brains--and I was just going to do it when Keeling came
in. None of the other men had come near me, though they must have
guessed, as he had done, what I was up to, but I suppose they thought
it was the best way out of it for me. He stopped me, though I fought
him for the pistol--vowed I should not do it, and talked to me until I
gave in. Of his own free will he offered never to touch wine or
spirits again if I would do the same, and actually entreated me to
accept the offer. He came and chummed with me in my bungalow--the
other men had cleared out; I daresay I was as savage as a bear--and
stood by me all through the inquiry. I lost my post--had to begin
again at the bottom of the list of assistant-surgeons--but he stood by
me. We were through the Ethiopian War together, and when Old Harry
picked him out to come up here and raise the Khemistan Horse, he got
leave for me to come too. Now you see what I owe to him; but he may
kick me out of Khemistan, and welcome, if it means that you will only
treat him decently.”

“Indeed, indeed I have tried,” cried Penelope, with tears in her eyes,
“but I cannot meet him. It is like that with the others--I make up my
mind that I will see them, and try to talk, but as soon as I hear them
in the verandah I feel that I cannot meet their eyes, and I rush out
of the room.”

“Pure nervousness. You must get over it, Miss Ross. No one expects you
not to grieve for your brother, but this sort of thing can do the poor
fellow no good, and it is very hard on those who are left.”

“I know they must feel it is my fault----”

“What?” shouted the doctor. “Your fault that your brother was
murdered? Come, come, this is arrant nonsense. You don’t mean to say
that you are making Keeling miserable on account of this delusion?”

“No, it is worse with him.” She spoke very low. “I have never told
even Lady Haigh; but whenever I see Major Keeling, or even think of
him, Colin’s face seems to rise up before me--not dead, but as the
dervish described it, white and thin, and his hair white too. And I
can’t help feeling that it may be a--warning.”

“A fiddlestick! Oh, you Scotch people, with your portents and your
visions! A warning of what?”

“You don’t know--perhaps I ought not to tell you--but I am sure Colin
would have disapproved of my--caring for Major Keeling. And we were
twins, you know--what if he comes to show me that he disapproves of it
still?” She looked at him with wide eyes of terror.

“Then you don’t know that in talking to Lady Haigh he gave her to
understand that he had no objection to your marrying the Chief--excuse
me if I speak plainly--and even looked forward to it? She told me as
much when she was confiding to me her anxiety about you.”

“Colin said that to Elma, and she told you--and never told me!”

“Why, how could she? Of course she felt the time hadn’t come--that you
would think her brutal, or horrid, or whatever young ladies call it.
She mentioned it to me in confidence, and I had no business to repeat
it; but I’m the sort of person that rushes in where angels fear to
tread--am I not? Having once opened my attack, I couldn’t keep my
biggest gun idle, could I? What! you won’t condescend to answer me?”

“I am trying to understand,” she said in a low voice. “It ought to
make such a difference, and yet--there is Colin’s face.”

“My dear Miss Ross,” he spoke earnestly, as her eyes questioned his,
“this illusion of yours is purely physical. You have been brooding
over your brother’s fate for months, and living a most unhealthy
life--eating only enough to keep body and soul together, and refusing
to take exercise or accept any distraction. The wonder would have been
if you had not seen visions after it. Now that you know the truth
about your brother’s feelings, don’t you agree with me that nothing
would have grieved him more than to know you had made such a bugbear
of him? At any rate, let us put the illusion to the test. You must
have a thorough change--Lady Haigh and I will arrange it--and see
nothing for a time of any of the people here. You don’t mind the
Haighs, I suppose? Very well; then the illusion will disappear, if I
am right. If not, you must see Keeling once, and definitely bring
things to an end. He is not the man to break his heart for a woman who
hasn’t courage to accept him”--he saw that Penelope winced--“but it is
this undecided state of affairs that is the trouble. And if you have
any heart at all, you will let him know that it is not his fault, and
that you hope things will be different in future.”

“But how can I?” cried Penelope, following him as he took up his
_topi_ and went towards the stairs.

“How can I tell you? I only know what you ought to do; surely you can
devise a way of doing it. I wouldn’t have wasted my trouble on most
women, but it seemed to me that the woman Keeling cared for ought to
have more sense than the general run, and you’ve taken it better than
I expected. Put all that nonsense about warnings out of your head, and
leave the dead alone and think of the living. That’s all I have to
say,” and he was gone.

It seemed as if Penelope was to have no reason for refusing to follow
Dr Tarleton’s advice, for Lady Haigh found an opportunity of unfolding
her plan to Major Keeling that very evening. He had invited her to
dismount and walk up and down with him while listening to the band,
and she gathered her long habit over her arm and seized her chance
joyfully.

“You will think I am always asking for favours, Major Keeling, but I
want this one very much. Will you send my husband to inspect the
south-western district instead of Captain Porter?”

“But Porter has his orders, and is making preparations,” he said,
looking at her in astonishment. “Have you quarrelled with Haigh, that
you are so anxious to banish him?”

“Quarrelled? banish him? Oh, I see what you mean. How absurd! Of
course Miss Ross and I are going too.”

“Are you, indeed? And may I ask whether the idea is Haigh’s or yours?”

“Oh, mine. He doesn’t know anything about it.”

“So I imagined.” He was looking at her rather doubtfully. “And have
you any particular reason for wishing to go?”

“I think it will do Miss Ross good--to take her away from old
associations, and people that she knows, I means.”

“And from me especially?” he asked bitterly. Lady Haigh answered him
with unexpected frankness.

“Exactly--from you especially,” she said. “I really believe she will
appreciate you better at a distance--no, not quite that. I want her to
miss you. At present it is a kind of religious duty to Colin’s memory
not to have anything to do with you; but when you are not there I
think she will see that she has been turning her back on what ought to
be her greatest blessing and comfort.”

Major Keeling looked as if he could have blushed. “Very well,” he said
meekly. “If you can bring Haigh round to it, you shall go.”

“And shall I put it right with Captain Porter?” asked Lady Haigh, with
an easy assurance born of success. “I know he’ll be quite willing to
stay here if I tell him it’s for Pen’s sake,” she added to herself.

“Thank you, I think I am the best person to do that,” he replied, and
again Lady Haigh caught the doubtful look in his eyes, of which she
was reminded later when she found that the change of plan had put her
husband into a very bad temper, though he would not give her any
reason for it. The fact was that, as the Sheikh-ul-Jabal had
predicted, the return from Gamara of the envoys sent to consult Mirza
Fazl-ul-Hacq, with whom his dervish follower had travelled, seemed to
have been the signal for the Nalapuri authorities to begin a series of
hostile acts. Troops--or rather the ragged levies of the various
Sardars--were being massed in threatening proximity to the frontier,
fugitive criminals were sheltered and their surrender refused, and a
preposterous claim was put forward to the exclusive ownership of all
the wells within a certain distance of the border-line. The Amir was
undoubtedly aiming at provoking hostilities, and war might begin at
any moment. To Major Keeling it was a most comforting thought that the
European ladies could so easily be placed in safety without alarming
them, for the south-western district was protected against any attack
from Nalapur by a natural bulwark, the hills in which Sheikhgarh was
situated; and the obvious course for an invading army was to pour
across the frontier by way of the plains, with the undefended Alibad
as its first objective. But to Sir Dugald, who knew the state of
affairs as well as the Commandant, the case was different. He was the
natural protector of his wife and Penelope, and it was only to be
expected that he should remain to guard them, even in the place of
safety to which Major Keeling was so glad to consign them--and this
while there would be fighting going on round Alibad, and his beloved
guns would be delivered over to the tender mercies of little Harris or
any other subaltern who might choose to turn artilleryman for the
nonce! Sir Dugald registered a solemn vow that when the news of
hostilities came, he would leave his wife and Penelope in the nearest
fortified village, and make all speed back to Alibad himself. Elma
could not protest, after all she had said, and he would miss only the
very beginning of the fight. The thought consoled him, and he was even
able to take pleasure in withholding the reasons for anxiety from Lady
Haigh, who would have refused point-blank to leave Alibad if she had
guessed that fighting was imminent in its neighbourhood. Accordingly
he interposed no obstacles in the way of an immediate start, and as
Lady Haigh was as anxious to be gone as Major Keeling was to hurry her
off, the necessary preparations were soon made. Penelope was roused
perforce from her lethargy, and set to work, and she responded the
more readily to the stimulus that Dr Tarleton’s vigorous expostulation
seemed already to have waked her to something like hope again.
Nevertheless, she still felt unable to face Major Keeling; and it was
with a shock that on the afternoon of the start from Alibad she saw
him riding up the street, with the evident design of seeing the
travellers on their way. He made no attempt to attach himself to her,
however, apologising for his presence by saying that he had some last
directions to give Sir Dugald, and the two men rode on together. They
had nearly reached the hills before Major Keeling turned back, and
Lady Haigh at once claimed her husband’s attention.

“Dugald, do you think my horse has a shoe loose? There seems to be
something queer about his foot, but I didn’t like to interrupt you
before.”

Calling up one of the grooms, Sir Dugald dismounted and went to his
wife’s assistance, and in the hum of excited talk which ensued, Major
Keeling had a momentary opportunity of speaking to Penelope.

“Am I to hope that this change will do you good, and enable you to
come back here?” he asked, bending towards her from his tall horse.

“Oh, I--I hope so,” she stammered. “Why?”

“Do you hope so? Wouldn’t you rather be ordered home?”

His tone, restrained though it was, told Penelope that the question
was a crucial one. With a great effort she raised her eyes to his. “I
hope with all my heart to come back to Alibad quite well,” she said.
“Because”--voice and eyes alike fell--“Khemistan holds all that I care
for--now.”

She felt his hand on hers for a moment as she played with her pony’s
mane, and heard him say, “Thank you, thank you!” in a voice as low as
hers had been; but she knew that she had removed a load from his mind,
and she was glad she had conquered the shrinking repugnance which had
held her. The vision of Colin’s face had floated between them when she
looked at him; but she had taken her first step towards breaking the
spell, and he could not know the effort it had cost her to defy her
brother’s fancied wish as she had only once defied him in his life. As
for Major Keeling, he rode back to Alibad in a frame of mind which
made his progress a kind of steeplechase. He put Miani at every
obstacle that presented itself, and drove his orderly to despair by
leaping the temporary canal instead of going round by the bridge. As
in duty bound, Ismail Bakhsh did his best to follow; and it was only
when he had helped him and his pony out of the water, and explained
matters to a justly indignant canal official, that Major Keeling
realised the unconventional nature of his proceedings. He made the
rest of the journey more soberly, planning in his own mind the last
steps to be taken to make Alibad impregnable to a Nalapuri army. The
Amir thought the place was defenceless, not knowing that in a few
moments any street could be swept from end to end by guns mounted in
improvised batteries. It was not for nothing that Major Keeling’s own
house and the various administrative buildings were so gloomy and
massive in appearance, or that the labyrinth of lanes in the native
town could be blocked at any number of points by the simple expedient
of knocking down a few garden walls. The Commandant had no misgivings
as to the fate of the town, but he was much exercised in mind by the
necessity of waiting to be attacked. The Nalapuri Sardars knew better
than to let a single man put his foot over the border until they were
quite ready, while in the absence of an actual declaration of war
Major Keeling could not cross it to attack them, and his only fear was
that they might succeed in dashing upon Alibad and spreading panic
among the inhabitants (though they could do no more), without giving
him time to intercept them and cut them up in the open desert. He
could only rely upon the efficiency of his system of patrols, and wait
for the enemy to make the first move.



Beyond the hills there was no rumour of war. The agricultural
colonies, so to speak, planted by Major Keeling on the land reclaimed
from the desert by irrigation, were prosperous and contented, and the
reformed bandits, of whom a large proportion of the colonists
consisted, were even more industrious and energetic than the
hereditary cultivators. This part of the district was kept in good
order by a European police-officer with a force composed of the
boldest spirits among the colonists, so that Sir Dugald had little to
do in the way of dispensing justice, and he passed on rapidly to the
wooded country nearer the hills. This was a kind of New Forest,
constructed by the former rulers of Khemistan as a _shikargah_ or
pleasance for hunting purposes, regardless of the objections of the
ryots, who saw their villages destroyed and their lands given over to
wild beasts. On the expulsion of their tyrants, the people had begun
to creep back to their confiscated homes; and it was one of Major
Keeling’s anxieties to ensure the proper control of this
re-immigration. The forests were valuable government property, and as
such must be protected; but where a clear title could be shown to land
on the outskirts, and the claimants were willing to face the wild
animals, he was inclined to let them return, under due supervision.
But no European officer could be spared to undertake the task; and Sir
Dugald, as he moved from place to place, found little colonies
springing up in most unpromising spots. To organise the people into
communities with some form of self-government, appoint elders who
would be responsible for the behaviour of the rest and prevent wanton
destruction of the forests, and devise the rude beginnings of a legal
and fiscal system, was his work. Nothing could be satisfactorily done
while there was no permanent official in charge; but at least the
people understood that the Sahibs meant well to them, and they were in
a measure prepared for a more formal rule when it could be
established.

Lady Haigh and Penelope, who had not the cares of government upon
their shoulders, were much more free to enjoy themselves. They made
advances to the shy women and children of these sequestered hamlets,
who fled in terror from the white ladies, never having seen such an
alarming sight before. Sweetmeats and gaily coloured cloths were the
bribes that attracted them most readily, and after a time they would
become quite friendly, listening with uncomprehending patience while
Lady Haigh, who was a true child of her generation, tried to teach
them to adopt Western instead of Eastern ways. Those were the days in
which much stress was laid by reformers on the importance of
anglicising the native, and Lady Haigh was a good deal disheartened by
the slight result of her efforts. The women listened to her with
apparent docility, sometimes even did what she told them, under her
eye, and then went home and made their tasteless _chapatis_, or put
charms instead of eye-lotion on their babies, just as they had always
done. She gave up trying to teach them at last, and vied with Penelope
in making botanical collections, which were also a hobby of the day.
Penelope collected grasses, of which there were many varieties; and
Lady Haigh, not to be behindhand, began to collect wild-flowers, which
were much less abundant. Sir Dugald, whose tastes were not botanical,
collected skins and horns, for he managed to get a good deal of sport
in his leisure hours, and when there was nothing to shoot, he
inspected his wife’s and Penelope’s sketches, and sternly corrected
mistakes in drawing. It was a happy, healthy life, and the colour
began to return to Penelope’s cheeks and the light to her eyes. She
could think of Major Keeling now without the vision of Colin’s
anguished face rising between them, and the morbid feelings which had
preyed upon her so long had become by degrees less acute. She and Lady
Haigh called the district “the island-valley of Avilion,” rather to
the mystification of Sir Dugald, who knew his Dickens better than his
Tennyson. He was far too prudent, however, to show his bewilderment
further than by pointing out mildly that the district was neither an
island nor a valley--and besides, how could a valley be an island?

“Dugald,” said Lady Haigh one evening, when Penelope happened to be
out of earshot, “don’t you think Major Keeling would like to pay us a
visit here?”

“It’s not a bad place,” returned her husband, glancing round at the
tents pitched among the trees. “But who ever heard of a sub inviting
his chief out into camp to stay with him?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that exactly. He might come without being
definitely asked. He would be sure to like to hear how we are getting
on, wouldn’t he? Well, if I mentioned that you have had five tigers
already, and were going after another soon----”

“You won’t mention anything of the kind,” growled Sir Dugald. “I’m
going to bag that man-eater, if any one does.”

Lady Haigh laughed gently. “Well, perhaps I might find other
attractions as strong,” she said. “But I mean to get him here.”

But circumstances over which she had no control were destined to
intervene.




 CHAPTER XXI.
 FIRE AND SWORD.

“Why, Dugald, where are you off to so early?” cried Lady Haigh,
coming out of her tent at breakfast-time, and finding her husband and
his boy busy selecting guns, filling powder-flasks, and laying in a
store of bullets, flints, percussion-caps, and other necessaries
unknown to the sportsman of to-day.

“After the man-eater. They’ve sent me _khubber_ of him at last. It’s
right out at Rajkot, so I shall be gone all day, even if I don’t have
to wait over to-night. You needn’t get nervous if I do.”

“You might just as well let us come,” she sighed argumentatively.

“I have far too much respect for your life--and mine. If you came you
wouldn’t be satisfied without a gun, which would go off of its own
accord, like poor Mr Winkle’s, and then--well, I would rather be the
tiger than any human being in your neighbourhood.”

“Isn’t he horribly rude, Pen? We don’t want to go pushing through
jungle-grass after an old mangy tiger, do we? We are going to engage
in light and elegant employments suited to our sex. He knows quite
well that if I can’t shoot straight it’s his fault for not having
taught me. If only I had had the sense to learn before I came out, I
would slip away and get to Rajkot before him, and the first thing he
saw when he got there would be a dead tiger.”

“More likely that I should find myself a sorrowing widower,” said Sir
Dugald, who was in high good humour at the prospect of getting a sixth
tiger. “No, no, stick to your weeds and straws, ladies, and don’t get
into mischief while I’m gone. You talked of going out to that dry
_jheel_ to the eastward, and you can’t do much harm there. Take
Murtiza Khan with you, of course.”

“He’s insufferably proud because he thinks he’s going to bag the
man-eater,” said Lady Haigh. “What he will be when he comes back I
really can’t imagine. I wish I could bewitch tigers, as that old man
in the village says he can. Then I would give this one something that
would keep it miles away from Dugald, however far he went.”

Sir Dugald laughed pleasantly over this uncharitable wish as he handed
his second gun to the _shikari_ who was to accompany him. The ponies
were already saddled, and he had only time for a mouthful of food
before starting, his last counsel to his wife being not to venture
farther from the camp than the _jheel_ he had mentioned, as the sky
was curiously hazy, and he thought the weather was going to break up.
The winter rains had been unusually slight this year, so that the
country was already beginning to look parched, and the forest foliage,
which should still have been soft and fresh, was becoming quite stiff,
and what Lady Haigh called “rattly,” though the heat was not yet too
great for camping. The climate of Khemistan is so uncertain that a
thunderstorm was at least possible; but after Sir Dugald had ridden
away to the southward, his wife decided that the haze portended heat
rather than thunder, and that it would be perfectly safe to undertake
the expedition to the _jheel_. She and Penelope started soon after
breakfast, attended only by their two grooms and Murtiza Khan, a
stalwart trooper who was Sir Dugald’s orderly on occasions like the
present, when he was in separate command. The _jheel_ proved a
disappointment, for it was so dry that the delicate bog-plants Lady
Haigh had hoped to secure were all dead, and the grasses were the
ordinary coarse varieties to be found all over the country. Lady Haigh
and Penelope soon tired of the fruitless search, and sat down to rest
on a bank pleasantly scented with sweet basil before taking to the
saddle again. They were conscious of a strong disinclination for the
ride back, the air was so hot, the track so dusty, and the forest so
shadeless.

“It really is more like smoke than cloud,” said Lady Haigh, looking up
at the lowering sky, “and whenever there is the least breeze one
almost seems to smell smoke. I wish it wasn’t coming from the
direction of the camp. It’s horrid to leave the clear sky behind, and
ride straight into twilight. I wonder how far Dugald has got--whether
he will be out of the storm. He is sure to have fever if he gets wet.
I think I will send one of the servants after him with fresh clothes.
They would keep dry if I packed them in a tin box----”

“What can that boy be saying?” interrupted Penelope, pointing across
the swamp to the belt of forest on the opposite side. A native boy,
unkempt and lightly clad, had appeared from among the trees, and
paused in apparent astonishment on catching sight of the two ladies
sitting in the shade, and the horses feeding quietly close at hand
under the charge of their grooms. Now he was shouting and
gesticulating wildly, and Murtiza Khan had hurried to the brink of the
reed-beds to hear what he was saying.

“He must be warning us that the storm is coming on,” said Lady Haigh,
as the boy pointed first at the darkening sky, and then back in the
direction of the camp. “Pen! I am sure I smelt smoke at that moment.
Did you notice it?”

Murtiza Khan turned his head for a second and shouted a sharp order to
the grooms, which made them bestir themselves to get the horses ready,
then asked some other question of the boy, who answered with more
frenzied gesticulations than ever. When the trooper seemed to persist,
he ran to a convenient tree and climbed up it like a monkey, and from
a lofty branch shouted and pointed wildly, then slid down, and
abandoning any further attempt at conversation, took to his heels and
ran at his utmost speed along the edge of the swamp towards the east,
where the sky was still clear.

“What is it, Murtiza Khan?” asked Lady Haigh breathlessly, as the
trooper hurried up the bank towards her.

“Highness, the forest is on fire. Will the Presences be graciously
pleased to mount at once? We must ride eastwards.”

“But the camp? the servants? We must warn them!” cried Lady Haigh.

“They will have seen the fire coming, Highness, for they are nearer it
than we. They will stand in the lake, and let the flames sweep over
them, and so save themselves. But we cannot go back, for we should
meet the fire before we reached the lake.”

“But the Sahib!” cried Lady Haigh frantically. “He will be cut off. I
will not go on and leave him. We must go back.”

“Highness, the Sahib is wise, and has with him the _shikari_
Baha-ud-Din, who knows the forest well. He will protect himself, but
the care of the Presences falls to me.”

“I tell you I won’t go,” cried Lady Haigh. “Take the Miss Sahib on,
and I will go back alone.”

“It must not be, Highness. The Sahib gave me a charge, and I swore to
carry it out at the risk of my own life. ‘Guard the Mem Sahib and the
Miss Sahib,’ he said; and I will do it. Be pleased to mount,
Highness,” as she still hesitated.

“Sir Dugald would tell you to come, Elma,” urged Penelope. “If we
could do anything, I would say go back at once; but we don’t even know
exactly where he is, and delay now will sacrifice the men’s lives as
well as ours.”

Lady Haigh looked round desperately, but found no remedy. Reluctantly
she allowed herself to be helped into the saddle, and the ponies
started off at once. For some time the grooms had found it difficult
to hold them, for they were turning their heads uneasily towards the
west, snuffing the air, and pricking their ears as though to listen
for sounds. Now they needed no urging to fly along the strip of sward
between the forest and the _jheel_; and it was with difficulty that
their riders pulled up sufficiently to allow Murtiza Khan to get in
front when the end of the swamp was reached, and a way had to be found
through the jungle. The trooper, on his heavier horse, rode first,
crashing through the underwood which had overgrown the almost
invisible track, then came the two ladies, and the grooms panted
behind, holding on to the ponies’ tails when the forest was
sufficiently open to allow of a canter. From time to time Murtiza Khan
looked back to urge his charges to greater speed, and on all sides the
voices of the forest proclaimed the imminence of the danger. Flights
of birds hovered distressfully over the riders’ heads, unwilling to
leave their homes, but taking the eastward course at last; and through
the undergrowth could be seen the timid heads of deer, all seeking
safety in the same direction. When a more open space was reached the
scene was very curious, for antelopes, wild pig, and jungle-rats,
regardless alike of the presence of human beings and of each other,
were all rushing eastwards, driven by the same panic. One of the
grooms even shrieked to Murtiza Khan that he saw a tiger, but the
trooper dismissed the information contemptuously. The tiger would have
enough to do to save himself, and would not pause in his flight to
attack his companions in misfortune.

By this time there was no mistaking the smoke-clouds which travelled
in advance of the fire, and brought with them the smell of burning
wood and a confusion of sounds. The roar of the advancing flames, the
crackling of branches, with an occasional crash when a large tree
fell, filled the air with noise. The dry jungle burned like tinder, so
that a solid wall of fire seemed to be sweeping over it. Underfoot
were the dry weeds and sedges and jungle-grass, then a tangled mass of
brushwood, above which reared themselves the taller trees, poplar or
mimosa or acacia, all of them parched from root to topmost twig, an
easy prey. Presently one of the grooms jerked out an inquiry whether
it would not be better to abandon the ponies and climb trees, but the
trooper flung back a contemptuous negative.

“There were three Sahibs did that,” he said, “and when the trees were
burnt through at the root, they fell down into the fire. Stay and be
roasted if ye will, sons of swine. The Memsahibs and I will go on.”

They went on, the roar of the flames coming nearer and nearer, the hot
breath of the fire on their necks, the crash of falling trees sounding
so close at hand that they bent forward involuntarily to escape being
crushed, the frenzied pack of wild creatures running beside and among
the horses, forgetting the lesser fear in the greater. Suddenly in
front of them loomed up a bare hillside, steep like a wall. Murtiza
Khan gave a shout.

“To the left! to the left!” he cried. “We cannot climb up here.”

They turned the horses, noticing now that the stream of wild animals
had already divided, part going to the left and part to the right. One
side of their faces was scorched by the hot air; a sudden leap, as it
seemed, of the flames seized a tamarisk standing in their very path.
Murtiza Khan caught the ladies’ bridles and dragged the ponies past
it, then lashed them on furiously. The fire was running along the
ground, licking up the parched grasses. He forced the ponies through
it, then pulled them sharply to the right. A barren nullah faced them,
with roughly sloping sides, bleak and dry, but it was salvation. On
those naked rocks there was no food for the flames. Murtiza Khan was
off his horse in a moment, and seizing Lady Haigh’s bridle, led her
pony up the steep slope to a bare ledge. His own horse followed him
like a dog, and one of the grooms summoned up sufficient presence of
mind, under the influence of the trooper’s angry shout, to lead up
Penelope’s pony. They spread a horsecloth on the ground, and Lady
Haigh and Penelope dropped thankfully out of their saddles. They were
trembling from head to foot, their hair and habits singed, but they
were safe. On a barren hillside, without food or water, in a desolate
region, but safe.

For some time they could do nothing but sit helplessly where they
were, watching with dull eyes what seemed the persistent efforts of
the fire to reach them. Tongues of flame shot out of the burning mass
and licked the bare hillside, then sank back thwarted, only to make a
further attempt to pursue the fugitives and drive them from their
refuge. The fire was no longer inanimate; it was a sentient and malign
creature, determined that its prey should not escape. Its efforts
ceased at last for lack of fuel, and the castaways on the ledge were
able to think of other things. Murtiza Khan began to improvise a sling
with a strip torn from his turban, and Lady Haigh, wondering what he
could intend to aim at, saw that a little higher up the nullah one of
the forest antelopes had taken refuge on a ledge similar to their own.
She turned on the trooper angrily--

“What, Murtiza Khan! so lately saved and so soon anxious to destroy?
Let the creature escape, as God has allowed us.”

“As the Presence wills,” said Murtiza Khan, with resignation, while
the antelope, catching the sound of human voices, took alarm and
bounded away. “I was but desirous of providing food, for we have here
only some broken _chapatis_. Is it the will of the Presence that we
should leave this place, and seek to find some dwelling of men in
these mountains?”

“No,” said Lady Haigh shortly, “we wait here for the Sahib. If he is
alive he will seek us; if not, we will seek him.”

The trooper did not venture to offer any opposition, and Lady Haigh
returned to her former attitude, gazing over the smoky waste, from
which the blackened trunk of a tall tree protruded here and there. She
had some biscuits in her plant-case, which she shared with Penelope,
and Murtiza Khan and the grooms made a meal of the fragments
discovered in the trooper’s saddle-bags, after which the three men
went to sleep, having duly asked and received permission. Lady Haigh
and Penelope scarcely spoke at all through the long hot thirsty hours
that followed. The sun beat down on them, reflected from the steep
walls of the nullah; but if they moved into the shade lower down, they
would lose the view. The fire had long burned itself out, and the
smoke-clouds lifted gradually, disclosing a gloomy expanse of black
ashes. The ground had been cleared so thoroughly that it seemed as if
it ought to be possible to see as far as the spot where the camp had
been, but the air was still too hazy, a dull grey taking the place of
the ordinary intense blue of the sky. There was no sign of life
anywhere on the plain which had been forest, but as the afternoon wore
on Penelope started suddenly.

“Did you see, Elma?” she cried. “I am sure I saw a man’s face. He was
looking at us over those rocks,” and she pointed to the crest of the
cliff on the opposite side of the nullah.

“It can’t be one of our men, for why should they want to hide?” said
Lady Haigh gloomily, returning to her watch. “I don’t see anything.”

“But it must be one of the tribesmen, then, and they will attack us.
Do wake up Murtiza Khan, and let him go and look. Elma! you don’t want
to be taken prisoner, do you?”

Thus adjured, Lady Haigh aroused the trooper, who descended into the
dry bed of the nullah and scaled the opposite height with due
precaution, but found no one, and reported that he could see nothing
but more rocks and barren hills. In returning, he ventured out on the
plain, at Lady Haigh’s order, that he might see whether it was yet
possible to traverse it. But when he turned up the black ashes with
the toe of his boot, they showed red and fiery underneath.

“It may not be, Highness,” he said. “Neither man nor horse can cross
the forest to-day. Is it permitted to us to leave this spot?” Lady
Haigh’s gesture of dissent was sufficient answer. “Then have I the
Presence’s leave to send the grooms, one each way, along the edge of
these cliffs? It may be that the Sahib is looking for us round about
the place of the fire, and one of them may meet him.”

To this Lady Haigh consented, and the two men started, rather
unwillingly, since both were afraid of going alone. The one who had
gone to the right returned very quickly, saying that he had seen a
man’s face in a bush, which turned out, however, to be perfectly
normal when he reconnoitred cautiously behind it, and that he was
going no farther, since the place was evidently the haunt of _afrit_.
The other was longer absent, and when he appeared he was accompanied
by another man, who was rapturously recognised by the fugitives as one
of the grass-cutters from the camp, who had gone with Sir Dugald to
Rajkot. Carefully hidden in his turban he bore a note, very dirty and
much crumpled, and evidently written on the upper margin of a piece of
newspaper which Sir Dugald had taken with him to provide wadding for
his guns. Lady Haigh read it eagerly, but as she did so her face
changed.

“What happened when the Sahib had given you this _chit_?” she asked
imperiously of the grass-cutter.

“The Sahib started with the _shikari_ Baha-ud-Din in the direction of
Alibad, Highness, leaving his groom behind to tell any of the servants
that might have escaped from the camp to follow him.”

“Bid them make ready the horses,” said Lady Haigh shortly to Murtiza
Khan, then read the note again with renewed disapproval.

“Elma, what is it?” asked Penelope anxiously.

“It’s nothing. I am a fool,” was the laconic answer. “Only--well, I
suppose one doesn’t care to have one’s heroism taken for granted,
however much one has tried to be heroic.”

“But Sir Dugald is safe? He must be, from what Jagro said.”

“Yes, I’m thankful for that. But this is what he says: ‘News just
brought by a villager that a Nullahpooree army under Govind Chund has
crossed the frontier through the mountains behind Sheykhgur, intending
to surprise Ulleebad from the south-west. They were guided by some one
who knows the country well, but must have fired the _shikargah_
accidentally in their march. I am sending this by Juggro, in the
earnest hope that he may fall in with you. I dare not delay; Ulleebad
must be warned. I join Keeling immediately; do you take refuge at
Sheykhgur. Moorteza Khaun knows where it is; he went there with the
Chief and me when Crayne was here. Tell the Sheykh of the invasion,
and ask him to give you shelter till I can come for you.’ Really
Dugald might be issuing general orders! The rest is to me--that he
feels it a mockery to write when he doesn’t know whether I am alive or
dead, and so on.”

“But if he durst not lose any time----?” hesitated Penelope.

“My dear, I know that perfectly well. If we were dead he could do
nothing more for us; if we were alive we could look after ourselves.
His attitude is absolutely common-sensible. But he might have asked me
whether I minded before levanting in this way. No, he couldn’t very
well have done that. It’s a fine thing to have a Roman husband, Pen.”

“Of course it is, and you are proud of him for doing it.”

“Well, perhaps I am; but all the same, I wish he hadn’t! There’s
consistency for you. And now to try and make Murtiza Khan understand
what is required of him.”

The task set before the trooper was not a light one. He could have
found his way to Sheikhgarh with tolerable ease from the direction of
Alibad, but from this side of the hills he had only the vaguest idea
of its position. It must lie somewhere in the maze of rocks and
ravines to the north-east, that was all he knew, and he led his party
up the nullah, which appeared to lead roughly in the desired
direction. It turned and twisted and wound in the most perplexing
manner, however, and it seemed a godsend when the figure of a man was
discernible for an instant on the summit of the cliff. He disappeared
as soon as he caught sight of the travellers; but the stentorian
shouts of Murtiza Khan, promising safety and reward, brought him out
of his hiding-place again, to peer timidly over the rocks. He belonged
to a distant village, he said, and was seeking among the hills for
three sheep that had been lost, and he could guide the party as far as
the Sheikh-ul-Jabal’s outposts, beyond which he durst not go. Even
with reward in view, he would not come down into the nullah, but took
his way along the top of the cliff, often lost to view, and guiding
the trooper by shouts. When at length he stopped short, demanding the
promised coin, evening was coming on, and still there was no sign of
human habitation to be seen, but only dry torrent-beds and frowning
rocks. It chanced that Lady Haigh had a rupee about her--a most
unusual thing in camp-life--and this was duly laid upon a rock
indicated by the guide, who would not come down to secure it while the
travellers were in sight.

It was not without some trepidation that Lady Haigh and Penelope saw
that their path now dipped down into a deep ravine, bordered by dark
overhanging cliffs; but they would not betray their fears before the
natives, and went on boldly. As soon as they had set foot in the
ravine, however, their ears were suddenly assailed by a tumult of
sound. Shouts ran from cliff to cliff, and were taken up and returned
and multiplied by the echoes until the air was filled with noise. Even
Murtiza Khan was startled, and the grooms seized the ponies’ bridles
and tried to turn them round. The ponies kicked and plunged, the
trooper stormed, and his subordinates jabbered, while Lady Haigh tried
in vain to make herself heard above the din. In vain did Murtiza Khan
assure the grooms that what they heard was only the voices of the
Sheikh’s sentinels, posted on the rocks above them; they swore that
the place was bewitched, and that legions of evil spirits were holding
revel there. Murtiza Khan was obliged to lay about him with the flat
of his tulwar before they would let go the reins, and allow the
ladies, whose position on the steep hillside had been precarious in
the extreme, to follow him farther into the darkness. They yielded
with the worst possible grace; and when the trooper, a few steps
farther on, shouted back some question to them, only the dispirited
voice of the grass-cutter answered him. The other two had fled. A
little later, and even the grass-cutter’s heart failed him, as the
twilight became more and more gloomy, and he slipped behind a
projecting rock until the cavalcade had passed on, then ran back to
the entrance of the ravine as fast as his legs could carry him. Lady
Haigh suggested going back to find the deserters, but the trooper
scouted the idea. The light was going fast, and to spend the night in
this wilderness of rocks was not to be thought of. They must press on
into the resounding gloom.




 CHAPTER XXII.
 TAKEN BY SURPRISE.

At last the ravine broadened a little, and almost at the moment when
this became evident, voices were heard ordering a halt. It was
difficult to tell where the voices came from, but presently the
travellers distinguished a steel cap and a scarlet turban, and the
barrel of a matchlock, among the rocks on either side of the path.
Halting at the prescribed spot, Murtiza Khan entered into conversation
with the sentries, requesting that word might be sent to the Sheikh of
the arrival of the two ladies, who asked shelter for the night. A
third man who was within hearing was summoned and despatched with the
message, and the travellers resigned themselves to wait. The answer
which was returned after a quarter of an hour had elapsed was not a
gracious one. The Memsahibs and their attendant might enter if they
pleased, but they must put up with things as they found them, and
conform to the rules of the place. As the alternative was a night in
the open, Lady Haigh accepted the offer, with considerable reluctance,
and whispered to Penelope that if they were to be blindfolded on the
way up to the fortress, they must go on talking to one another until
the bandages were removed, to guard against any attempt to separate
them. But this precaution was not called for. It was now quite dark,
and three of the Sheikh’s men took the bridles of the ponies, and
began to lead them along, without the assistance of any light
whatever. The ladies and Murtiza Khan strained their eyes, but could
not distinguish anything in their surroundings beyond varying degrees
of blackness. Nevertheless, their guides seemed to have no difficulty
in keeping to the path, although in some places, judging by the sound
of the stones which rolled from under the ponies’ feet, it led along
the verge of a tremendous precipice. After what seemed hours of this
kind of travelling, the creaking of bars and bolts just in front
announced that a door was being opened, and Murtiza Khan was warned to
stoop. The gateway passed, they were led across the courtyard, and up
to the steps of the keep, where two old women were holding flaring
torches. Between them stood a boy of twelve or so, who came forward
and salaamed with the greatest politeness.

“The Memsahibs are more welcome than the breaking of the rains in a
thirsty season. This house is at their disposal. Let them say what
they wish and it is already done. In the absence of the lord of the
place, let them behold their slave in me.”

“Then the Sheikh-ul-Jabal is away?” said Lady Haigh, interrupting the
flow of compliment. “And you are his son, I suppose?”

The boy answered as though he had not heard the second question. “The
Sheikh-ul-Jabal and my brother Ashraf Ali rode away last night with
thirty horsemen, to attend a sacred feast. My sister Wazira Begum and
I are left in charge of the fortress, and I bid the Memsahibs welcome
in her name.”

Accepting the assurance, the ladies dismounted, and the boy bustled
about with great self-importance, sending one of the old
women-servants to hasten the preparations for the guests’ comfort,
giving the ponies into the charge of the men who had led them to be
taken to the stables, and arranging that Murtiza Khan should be
allowed to sleep in the great hall, so that his mistresses might feel
he was not far off in case they needed protection. He had so much to
do, and so many orders to give, that it almost seemed as if he was
waiting as long as possible before introducing the visitors to his
sister; but at last he appeared to feel that there was no help for it,
and led the way resolutely behind the curtain, guided by the second
old woman with her torch. In the first room to which they came, a girl
was sitting on a charpoy. She had evidently put on her richest
clothes, and her fingers and wrists were loaded with jewels; but her
toilet was not complete, for she was so busy plaiting her hair that
she had no leisure even to look at the visitors. An old woman who
stood behind her was assisting in the hair-dressing, but apparently
under protest, for her young mistress was scolding her energetically.

“O my sister, here are the Memsahibs,” said the boy, with considerable
misgiving in his tone, when he could make himself heard.

“Oh, these are the women?” Wazira Begum vouchsafed them a casual
glance. “This is the first time that Farangi beggars have come to our
door, but Zulika will find them a quilt to sleep on, and there are
plenty of scraps.”

“O my sister, the Memsahibs are our guests,” began the boy
distressfully, but Lady Haigh interrupted him.

“It strikes me you are making a mistake, young lady,” she said,
marching across the room, and taking, uninvited, the place of honour
on the charpoy, at the hostess’s right hand. “Penelope, sit down
here,” indicating the next seat. “When the Sheikh-ul-Jabal returns,
will he be pleased to hear that his daughter has insulted two English
ladies who sought his hospitality? The English are his friends, and he
is theirs.”

The girl had sprung from the charpoy as Lady Haigh sat down beside
her. “The English are pigs!” she exclaimed. “O Maadat Ali! O Zulika!
who is lady here, I or this Farangi woman? Will ye see her thrust me
from my own place?”

“Nay, my sister, it is thou who art wrong,” returned the boy boldly.
“The women are great ladies among the English, and friends of Kīlin
Sahib, for so their servant told me. Thou art not wise.”

“Then be thou wise for both! I will not stay here with these shameless
ones. Zulika may look to them.”

“You are going to bed?” asked Lady Haigh placidly. “I think you are
wise, after all. And let me advise you to think things over. I don’t
want to get you into trouble, but the Sheikh must hear of it if we are
not properly treated.”

Wazira Begum vouchsafed no reply, quitting the room in such haste that
she dropped one of her slippers by the way, and Maadat Ali, taking the
responsibility upon himself, ordered the old women to bring in supper.
While he was out of hearing for a moment Penelope turned to Lady
Haigh--

“You know much more about it than I do, Elma, but we are quite alone
here. Is it prudent to make an enemy of the Sheikh’s daughter? She has
us in her power.”

“That she hasn’t, I’m thankful to say. She is the little fury that
Dugald and Major Keeling fell in with when they were here, and the
Sheikh made short work of her then. She has some grudge of her own
against the English, evidently, and she thinks this is a good time to
gratify it. Why, Pen, to be prudent, as you call it, now, would make
every native in the place think that the day of the English was over
in Khemistan, and that we knew it, and were trying to curry favour
with them in view of the future. You must be more punctilious than
ever in exacting respect--in fact, I would say bully the people, if I
thought you had it in you to do it. It’s one of the ways in which we
can help the men at Alibad.”

Penelope laughed, not quite convinced, and the conversation was
interrupted by the reappearance of Maadat Ali, heading a procession of
women-servants bearing dishes. These were duly arranged on a small low
table, and the guests were invited to partake, the boy watching over
their comfort most assiduously. When the meal was over he delivered
them solemnly into the charge of old Zulika, adjuring her to see that
they wanted for nothing, as she dreaded the Sheikh’s anger. The old
woman, on her part, seemed genuinely anxious to efface the impression
of Wazira Begum’s rudeness, and bustled about with a will, dragging in
another charpoy, and bringing rolls of bedding. She apologised to Lady
Haigh for not coming herself to sleep at the door of the room; but her
place was always with her young mistress, and she would send Hafiza,
the servant next in seniority to herself, to wait upon the visitors.
Her excuses were graciously accepted, for Lady Haigh and Penelope were
both feeling that after the exertions and anxieties of this exciting
day, tired nature stood much in need of restoration. They tried to
talk for a moment when they had settled themselves in their unfamiliar
beds, but both fell asleep with half-finished sentences on their lips.

They were roused in the morning by the voice of Maadat Ali, in the
passage outside their room, eagerly inquiring of old Hafiza whether
the Memsahibs were not awake yet; and as he gave them little chance of
going to sleep again, they thought it better to get up. Tired and
stiff as they were, it was a little disconcerting to remember that
riding-habits were perforce their only wear. Happily these were not
the brief and skimpy garments of to-day, but richly flowing robes,
long enough almost to reach the ground when the wearer was in the
saddle, and their straw hats and blue gauze veils were also devised
with a view to comfort rather than smartness. Clothes-brushes and
hair-brushes were alike unknown at Sheikhgarh, so that dressing was a
work of some difficulty; and it was rather a shock to find that the
frugal breakfast of _chapatis_ and hard-boiled eggs, which was brought
in when they asked for food, was regarded as a piece of incredible
luxury. After breakfast they went to the curtain which separated the
zenana from the great hall to speak to Murtiza Khan, who had already
been out with some of the Sheikh’s men to look for the deserters of
the night before, but had not been able to find any trace of them. He
brought the news that the Nalapuri army had been seen on its march
round the southern extremity of the hills, moving towards
Alibad--which showed that Sir Dugald had not been wrong in thinking
there was no time to waste. The trooper also desired permission to
reconnoitre in the direction of the town by the usual route, in case
it might prove possible to get through with the news of the ladies’
safety, and this Lady Haigh granted before she turned back into the
zenana with Penelope.

The women’s apartments were built round a small inner courtyard,
gloomy in the extreme from its want of outlook, but possessing a tank
of rather stagnant water which was called a fountain, and some shrubs
in pots. In the verandahs round this court the whole life of the place
was carried on, the servants--all of them women of a discreet
age--performing all their duties in the open, to the accompaniment of
much chattering. Among them moved, or rather flashed, Maadat Ali,
questioning, meddling, calling down endless explosions of wrath on his
devoted head, but undoubtedly brightening the days of the old ladies
whom he alternately coaxed and defied. When he saw the visitors he
left the servants at once, and after ordering a carpet to be spread
for the Memsahibs, seated himself cross-legged on the ground, with his
back against the coping of the tank, and began to ask questions. His
subject was Major Keeling, whose brief visit more than a year before
seemed to have left a vivid impression. Was it true that Kīlin Sahib
was invulnerable to bullets, that he could make water flow uphill or
rise from the ground at his word, that he could read all the thoughts
of a man by merely looking him in the face? These inquiries and many
others had been answered, when a peculiar look on the boy’s face made
Lady Haigh turn round. Behind her, leaning against the wall of the
house, stood Wazira Begum, twisting a spray of mimosa in her fingers,
and trying to look as if she had not been listening to what had
passed. Lady Haigh rose and saluted her politely, prompting Penelope
to do the same, and after a moment’s hesitation the girl returned the
salutation courteously, if a little sulkily. It was evident that the
meeting of the night before was to be ignored, and Maadat Ali made
room for his sister joyfully at his side.

“I knew she would come when she heard us talking about Kīlin Sahib,”
he said. “She hates him very much.”

“Yes, very much,” echoed Wazira Begum.

“When he came here,” pursued the boy, “she tried very hard to make him
afraid; but he would not be afraid, and therefore she hated him even
more than before. She has part of a tassel that she cut from his
sword----”

“From his sword? Oh, from the sword-knot,” said Lady Haigh.

“And she keeps it wrapped up in linen, like an amulet----”

“Thou liest!” burst forth Wazira Begum furiously.

“But I saw it, O my sister, and thou didst tell me it was to make a
great charm against him, to destroy him.”

“Thou wilt spoil the charm by talking of it,” pouted the girl, but the
angry crimson faded from her face.

“Ask her why she hates him so much,” said Penelope to Lady Haigh,
preferring to rely, as she usually did, on her friend rather than try
to make herself understood in the native dialect.

“I hate all the English,” said Wazira Begum proudly, when the question
was translated to her; “and he is a chief man among them.”

“But what have the English done to you?” asked Lady Haigh.

“Have they not driven us here?” with a wave of her hand round the
courtyard. “Are not my brothers and the Sheikh-ul-Jabal deprived of
their just rights?”

“And no marriage can be made for her,” put in Maadat Ali
sympathetically. “What go-between would come to Sheikhgarh to seek a
bride?”

“You should persuade your father to settle in Alibad,” said Lady
Haigh.

“I am not a sweeper girl, to wed with the scum of towns!” cried Wazira
Begum.

“Isn’t your sister inclined to be a little difficult to please?” asked
Lady Haigh of Maadat Ali. “You are Khojas, of course, but we have
plenty of Khojas, and even Syads,[1] living in the plains.”

“If that were all!” cried the girl contemptuously. “But for a princess
of Nalapur, as I am----”

“O my sister!” gasped Maadat Ali.

“Nay, I have said it, and these unbelievers shall be convinced.” She
sprang up and stood before the visitors, drawing herself to her full
height. “My father was the Amir Nasr Ali Khan, not the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal, and my brother Ashraf Ali should now be sitting in
his father’s place. But the English took the side of the murderer and
usurper, and we are banished to this desert.”

“You three are Nasr Ali’s children!” cried Lady Haigh. Then, regret
succeeding astonishment, “Why in the world didn’t your father--the
Sheikh, I mean--let Major Keeling know this before? He would have had
you back at Nalapur long ago.”

“These are words!” said Wazira Begum. “My uncle judges the English by
their deeds. His own wife and sons and our mother were among the dead
in the Killa at Nalapur, and he would not have us murdered also.”

“But, dear me! he ought to know Major Keeling by this time,” said Lady
Haigh impatiently. “He had no share in the massacre, and has been most
anxious to right the injustice ever since it happened. But he thought
there was no heir of Nasr Ali left, so he could do nothing.” She
stopped, for a curious smile was playing about Wazira Begum’s mouth.

“My uncle has found a way of doing something,” she said. “Even now he
has taken my brother Ashraf Ali, who was fourteen years old six weeks
ago, to show him to the faithful followers of our father’s house, that
they may raise an insurrection in his favour in Nalapur.”

“Then your uncle has acted very unwisely--to say no more--in not
confiding in Major Keeling,” was the warm response. “I suppose he
means to reach the capital while the Amir Wilayat Ali is with his army
on the frontier? And so he has weakened his garrison, and withdrawn
his distant patrols, and allowed Gobind Chand’s army to get past him
and threaten Alibad. There must be spies all round you, for it’s clear
his movements have been watched--I suppose the men we saw in the
mountains were there to keep an eye on him--and he will never be
allowed to reach Nalapur. And if he was, it wouldn’t be much good to
proclaim your brother Amir if the enemy cut him off both from this
place and from Alibad.”

“I cannot tell,” said Wazira Begum sullenly. “My uncle is a wise man,
and will do according to his wisdom. As to Kīlin Sahib and the
English, I will trust them when I see a reason for it,” and she
marched away with great dignity.

Maadat Ali remained, obviously ill at ease on account of his sister’s
revelation, but relieved that his true dignity need no longer be
concealed; and from him Lady Haigh learned that the wife of the Amir
Nasr Ali, suspecting treachery on the part of her brother-in-law, had
intrusted her three children to the two nurses, Zulika and Hafiza, the
night before the storming of the city. In the disguise of peasants the
women had contrived to escape from the palace, and on the arrival of
the English had been suffered to depart. They made their way to the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal, who had succeeded in crossing the frontier into
safety, and he had conceived the idea of bringing up the children as
his own, knowing that, much as he himself was hated by Wilayat Ali and
his Vizier, nothing could protect the heirs of Nasr Ali if they were
known to be living.

The day passed slowly to Lady Haigh and Penelope. Maadat Ali was their
constant companion, but his never-ceasing flow of questions became
rather wearisome after a time. Wazira Begum seemed unable to make up
her mind how to treat the visitors. She would come and engage in
friendly conversation, then suddenly turn sullen or flare up at some
imagined slight, and depart in dudgeon. Lady Haigh decided that she
was ill at ease about her uncle and her elder brother, whose plans had
been so signally deranged by Gobind Chand’s move, and that she would
like to discuss future possibilities, but was too proud to do so.
Murtiza Khan came back from his reconnaissance, and announced that the
Nalapuri army had emerged from the hills in the early morning and
threatened Alibad, but had been driven back in confusion by a small
force with two field-pieces posted on the canal embankment. In spite
of their numbers, Gobind Chand’s men refused to remain in the plain,
and had retreated into the hills. They were now occupying the broken
country extending from the frontier to the track on the south by which
they had made their circuitous march, and were in force between
Sheikhgarh and Alibad; but the trooper thought it might be possible
for him to get through to the town, and relieve Sir Dugald’s mind, by
using by-paths only known to the men of the Mountains. Lady Haigh was
very much averse from the idea, but Murtiza Khan was so anxious to be
allowed to try that she consented to his making the attempt after
dark, guided by one of the brotherhood.

The evening seemed very long in coming, not only to the eager trooper,
but to the two ladies, who could scarcely keep their eyes open after
the fatigues of the day before. They sat side by side on a charpoy in
the room in which Wazira Begum had first received them, with Maadat
Ali cross-legged on a carpet opposite, pouring forth a flood of
questions which still seemed inexhaustible. A brazier of glowing
charcoal supplied warmth and a dim religious light, and Wazira Begum
wandered restlessly in and out. The day had been hot, for the sun beat
down with great force on the unshaded walls and courtyards of
Sheikhgarh; but the evening was cold and even frosty. Suddenly through
the chill air came the sound of a horn, and Maadat Ali leaped up as if
he had been shot.

“Some one comes!” he cried. “I will bring thee news, O my sister.”

He rushed out and under the curtain, and was lost to sight. The
women-servants came crowding into the passage, and listened to the
confused sounds which reached them from the gateway. Presently Maadat
Ali came rushing back.

“O my sister,” he gasped forth, “it is our uncle, sorely wounded. He
and his troop were attacked by the accursed one, the usurper.”

“And our brother--Ashraf Ali?” shrieked Wazira Begum.

“They said nothing of him, but they are bringing the Sheikh in a
litter, and those that have returned with him are relieving the men on
guard, that they may gather in the great hall and receive his
commands. I must go back.”

“Won’t you send the servants to light the hall with torches?” asked
Lady Haigh of Wazira Begum, as the boy ran away; but she shook her
head.

“Nay, no woman must be present when the Sheikh gives his commands to
the brotherhood. They will bring their own torches. We should not even
be here; but I cannot go back into the zenana without knowing what has
befallen my brother. It is forbidden, but I cannot.”

The women were all gathered at the curtain now, peering through holes
which long experience had shown them where to find, and Lady Haigh
laid an encouraging hand on Wazira Begum’s shoulder. To her surprise,
it was not shaken off. The girl was trembling with anxiety, and her
breath came in sharp gasps. Outside the curtain Murtiza Khan stood
rigid, partially concealed by the recess in which it hung. With
admirable good-breeding, he feigned to be absolutely unconscious of
the crowd of women who were pressing and whispering so close to him.

At last the sound of feet was heard, and the gleam of white and
scarlet was revealed by the light of a smoky torch at the doorway of
the hall. Eight men in the dress of the brotherhood carried in a rude
litter, and were followed by others, all bearing marks of fighting.
Behind them came the men who had been guarding the walls, and with
them Maadat Ali; but a sob broke from Wazira Begum as she realised
that her elder brother was not there. The litter, still covered with
the mantles of the men who had carried it, was placed in the middle of
the hall, and the members of the brotherhood proceeded to arrange
themselves in their proper ranks; but there was some confusion, as if
all did not know their places. Lady Haigh’s hand gripped Penelope’s,
and she directed her attention to the back of the hall. Behind the men
in scarlet and white crept a silent crowd of figures in ordinary
native dress, and these were dividing in the semi-darkness so as to
line both sides of the hall. Almost at the same moment two cries broke
the stillness. Wazira Begum sprang up from her crouching position, and
shrieked with all her strength, “Treachery! treachery! sons of the
Mountains!” and Maadat Ali, who had contrived to make his way
unobserved to the side of the litter and lift the covering, dropped it
in amazement, and cried shrilly, “It is not the Sheikh-ul-Jabal at
all!”




 CHAPTER XXIII.
 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES.

In a moment all was confusion. Behind the curtain, Zulika and Hafiza
threw themselves upon Wazira Begum, and carried her off by main force,
regardless of her struggles, locking her into a small room where
jewels and best clothes were kept. They had seen the man in the litter
raise himself and deal Maadat Ali a blow that stretched him senseless
on the floor, and their sudden action had only just prevented the girl
from rushing unveiled into the turmoil of armed men. The hall was
ringing with battle-cries: “Jabal! Jabal!” from the brotherhood,
“Dīn! Dīn!” from the men who had carried the litter and those who
had dogged their steps. Swords were flashing; but such was the
confusion that the garrison of Sheikhgarh did not know who was friend
or who foe. The dark-clothed strangers, who had almost succeeded in
surrounding them, were obviously enemies; but mingled among themselves
were the litter-bearers in their own distinctive dress, headed by the
man who had been carried in the litter, and who had now sprung to his
feet and unsheathed a sword. Beset and outnumbered, the men of the
Mountains turned furiously upon the nearest foe each could
distinguish, and a wild turmoil raged, which swayed for a moment
towards the entrance of the hall, leaving clear the remains of the
litter and the form of Maadat Ali lying beside it. Lady Haigh put a
hand round the curtain and gripped the arm of Murtiza Khan, who still
stood motionless in his niche. These bewildering changes were nothing
to him; his duty began and ended with the defence of his Memsahibs.

“Fetch in the boy, Murtiza Khan!” said Lady Haigh sharply. The trooper
hesitated for a moment, then assured himself that the archway was not
threatened, and dashed across the hall, returning with the motionless
body of the boy.

“Bring him inside--quick!” said Lady Haigh authoritatively, moving the
curtain aside; and with horrible reluctance Murtiza Khan obeyed, to
the accompaniment of a chorus of shrieks from the old women within,
who improvised hastily makeshifts for veils. He looked anxiously round
for a bed on which to lay the boy, preparatory to an immediate
retreat.

“Hold him! You are not to go outside again,” cried Lady Haigh,
stamping her foot. “Unlock that door!” she commanded the two old
women, pointing to the room where Wazira Begum could be heard beating
the woodwork with her fists and demanding furiously to be let out.
Hafiza seemed inclined to remonstrate, but Zulika obeyed promptly, and
the girl dashed out, with dishevelled hair and bleeding knuckles,
bestowing a furious blow on the old nurse as she passed, and nearly
knocking her down. Catching sight of her brother, she tore him from
the trooper’s arms and pressed him to her breast, crouching in a
corner and moaning over him. Lady Haigh laid a firm hand on her
shoulder.

“Listen to me, Wazira Begum. Is there any door or gate at the back by
which you can let a messenger out?”

“Take thy hand away!” shrieked the girl. “How dost thou dare touch me?
It is thou who hast brought all this evil upon us. O my brother, my
little brother, do I behold thee dead in my arms?”

“Answer me,” said Lady Haigh, giving her a slight shake. “You can do
your brother no good by crying over him.”

“There is a secret door, but the Sheikh alone can enter or depart by
it,” was the unwilling reply. “Now leave me to bewail my dead.”

“Then we must let Murtiza Khan down over the wall. Wazira Begum, you
must come and show us the best place, and give orders to your women.
Your brother is not dead. I saw him move just now.”

“I will not leave him, O accursed Farangi! Why should I desire to save
the life of thy servant, who has profaned the very zenana?”

“To save your own life and your brother’s, to say nothing of ours.
Murtiza Khan must bear the news of this treachery to Alibad, and bring
help, if it can be managed. Come! leave the boy with Hafiza.”

Sullenly and reluctantly Wazira Begum obeyed, and wrapping herself in
the veil which Zulika brought her, led the way through the passage.
Lady Haigh paused to speak to the old woman--

“Stay at the curtain, and parley with any who may desire to enter.
Keep them back at any cost until we return.”

Hurrying after the rest she caught up Murtiza Khan, who was following
the women in intense misery, with his eyes on the ground.

“Do you understand, Murtiza Khan? You are to get through to Alibad at
any cost, and tell Keeling Sahib that the enemy have surprised
Sheikhgarh.”

“How is this?” asked Murtiza Khan. “Does not the Presence know that I
was charged to protect her and the Miss Sahib, and how dare I leave
them defenceless to the enemy?”

“What could one man do? You could only fight till you were killed.”

“Nay, I could slay both the Presences before the enemy broke in.”

“Thanks, we can do that for ourselves if necessary. There are knives
here, at any rate, whatever there may not be. But if the Sahibs are
not warned, they will come to Sheikhgarh thinking it is in friendly
hands, and will be ambushed in the mountains. That must be prevented.”

“It is the will of the Presence,” said Murtiza Khan, with a
resignation as sulky in its way as Wazira Begum’s. The girl had led
the way up to the roofs of the buildings surrounding the zenana
courtyard, which formed a terrace from which the defence of the place
could be carried on. She sprang up on the parapet, and looked over the
wall.

“Here is the place,” she said. “My brother Ashraf Ali once dropped a
jewel from his turban over the wall, and we let him down to recover
it. Bring ropes, O women.”

The servants ran wildly in all directions, and produced a
heterogeneous collection of cords, which were knotted together and
pieced out with strips torn from sheets. The trooper tested them
carefully, and expressed himself as satisfied, only entreating that
Lady Haigh would herself hold the cord and give the orders. Then he
let himself down over the parapet, hung for a moment to the edge by
his fingers, and loosed his hold. Lady Haigh restrained the eagerness
of the women who held the rope, insisting that they should pay it out
slowly and steadily; and after what seemed an age, the trooper’s voice
was heard, telling them to slacken it a little, that he might unfasten
it. Then the rope came up again free, and not daring to wait on the
wall, Lady Haigh and Wazira Begum left the servants to untie and hide
the separate parts, and fled back into the house. Wazira Begum was
madly anxious about her brother, and Lady Haigh now remembered that
Penelope had not accompanied them to the wall. They both caught sight
of her at the same moment, and Wazira Begum sprang forward with a cry
of rage, for Penelope was kneeling by the charpoy on which Maadat Ali
lay, and binding up his head. The fierce jealousy which made the
native girl rush to drive her away did not even occur to her, and she
looked up at her with a smile.

“He is only stunned, and he is beginning to come round. Take my place,
so that he may see you when he opens his eyes, but don’t startle him.
I’m sure he ought to be kept very quiet.”

Her anger disarmed by Penelope’s unsuspiciousness, Wazira Begum obeyed
meekly, and kneeling down by the charpoy, murmured endearing epithets
as she pressed her lips passionately to her brother’s hands. But Lady
Haigh had moved to the curtain, beyond which Zulika had just been
summoned by an imperious voice which demanded that some one from the
zenana should come forth and speak. The contest in the hall had ended
in the triumph of the invaders. The bodies of the dead and dying which
cumbered the floor showed that the men of the Mountains had fought
hard for their stronghold; but they were much outnumbered, and utterly
taken by surprise. Their assailants were evidently kept well in hand
by their leader, the man who had been carried in the litter, for
instead of dispersing through the fortress in search of loot, they
were methodically removing the dead and caring for their own wounded.
The wounded among the defenders were promptly despatched. It was the
leader who now stood before the curtain, and before whom Zulika
grovelled abjectly, her forehead on the ground.

“Who is within?” asked the leader.

“My lord’s servants the daughter and the young son of my master, the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal, and the women of the household.”

“No one else? What of the two Farangi ladies who took shelter here
last night, and their servant?”

“Truly the wisdom of my lord is as that of Solomon the son of David!
The Farangi ladies are indeed within, the guests of my master’s
house.”

“And their servant--is he also within?”

“Nay, my lord! A man behind the curtain! Truly the fellow was in this
hall before the entrance of my lord, but seeing that there was
fighting on foot, doubtless he stole away to hide himself, or it may
be he is even among the slain,” lied Zulika glibly.

“I will have search made and a watch kept, and if I find thou hast
deceived me----” he laid his sheathed sword lightly across Zulika’s
neck, so that she cowered nearer to the floor. “Thou and the children
of the impostor may remain here for the present, until the will of his
Highness be known; only see to it that ye make no attempt to escape or
to send warning to those who are away. But the Farangi women bid to be
ready to start on a journey an hour before dawn, for they must go
elsewhere.”

“My lord would not slay the women?” ventured the trembling Zulika,
with unexpected courage.

“What is that to thee? Enough that they must be kept in safety until
it may be seen of what use they are.”

“My lord’s handmaid will carry his commands,” responded Zulika, and
returned with her alarming message behind the curtain, where the other
servants filled the air with wailing on hearing it. Lady Haigh bade
them peremptorily to be still, and turned to Wazira Begum, who was
still kneeling beside her brother, assiduously keeping the cloths on
his forehead wet, in the way Penelope had shown her.

“Let us talk this over as friends,” she said, “for we are in much the
same position. We are to be kept as hostages in order to extract
concessions from Major Keeling, and you and your brother, Wazira
Begum, as a means of bringing pressure upon the Sheikh-ul-Jabal. At
least that shows that he has not been killed or defeated, but I
suppose he might return here and be lured into an ambush at any
moment. Now think; Murtiza Khan cannot possibly reach Alibad before
daylight to-morrow, even if he is not seen and wounded or captured.
Major Keeling would never attack a place like this by daylight, so
that even if he sent a force to our help at once, we could not be
relieved until to-morrow night. Is there any chance of barricading
ourselves in the zenana, and holding out for all those hours?”

“Nay,” said Wazira Begum wearily; “we might block up the door with
charpoys, and ye might refuse to go out; but they would only need to
set fire to the barricade, and then they would break in and slay us
all. Do as thou wilt. Who am I to give commands, when thou art
present? It shall be done as thou sayest, and my brother and I, and
these women, can but die in the hope of saving thee and thy sister.”

“Nonsense!” said Lady Haigh. “If there’s no chance of defending
ourselves successfully, of course we won’t attempt it. You know that
perfectly well, Wazira Begum, or you wouldn’t have put your lives into
my hands in that despairingly confiding way.”

The girl looked slightly ashamed. “Thou art better to me than I
deserve, better than I thought thee,” she said. “Were it not for my
brother, I would refuse to give you up; but how can I bring death upon
him? I will send my handmaid Hafiza with you, to wait upon you and to
be your interpreter with the men sent to guard you, for ye are great
ladies, and must not speak with them face to face. Also ye shall have
bedding, and such other things as this place can supply and ye may
desire. And forgive me that I can do no more, for truly woe is come
upon this house, and the shadow of death.”

She broke into loud wailing again, in which the other women followed
her, and Lady Haigh grew angry.

“Penelope, lie down here and try and get some rest. Wazira Begum, as
you are good enough to lend us bedding, please let Hafiza get it out
and have it ready to strap on the horses. And tell me, had we better
wear veils like yours instead of our hats?”

“Nay, ye would be known everywhere as Farangis by your tight garments,
and your manner of sitting on one side of your horses,” said Wazira
Begum. “But this is what ye must do.” She unfastened the gauze veil
from Lady Haigh’s hat and doubled it. “Now no man can see clearly what
manner of woman is beneath.”

This settled, Lady Haigh sat down on the floor, and leaning against
the wall, prepared to get a few hours’ uncomfortable and more or less
broken sleep, while Hafiza was assisted in her preparations by the
other women, who were all much relieved that they had not been chosen
to attend the visitors, and were anxious to administer the kind of
comfort which is easier to give than to receive. The disturbed night
seemed extraordinarily long, but at last the summons came from behind
the curtain. Wazira Begum bade farewell to her guests with something
of compunction, and pressed upon them a string of pearls, which might
serve as currency in case of need. The old women carried out the
bundles of bedding, which were tied on a horse in such a way that
Hafiza could perch herself on the summit of the load. Then Lady Haigh
and Penelope, disguised in their double veils, walked down the hall,
and found, to their delight, their own ponies awaiting them. Lady
Haigh looked over the harness critically before mounting from the
steps, and ordered one or two straps to be tightened--orders which
were obeyed, apparently with some amusement, by the men who stood by.
The leader of the enemy, who stood on the steps watching the start,
gave his final instructions to a man named Nizam-ul-Mulk, who was, it
seemed, to escort the ladies with ten men under him, and the gate was
opened. Lady Haigh, who was looking about for any chance of escape,
saw that every precaution was to be taken for the safe-keeping of the
prisoners. On the narrow mountain paths, where it was necessary to
ride in single file, there was always one of the guards between
herself and Penelope, and when the valley widened, the whole of the
escort closed up at once. Several small encampments were passed, from
which startled Nalapuris looked out as they heard the horses’ feet to
ask if Sinjāj Kīlin was coming; and it was clear that though the
enemy might be said to be occupying the hills, there would be no great
difficulty in dislodging them. Cowardly though they might be, however,
they had the upper hand at present, and Lady Haigh and Penelope felt
this bitterly when their party debouched from the hills about dawn,
and struck off across the desert towards the north-east, leaving the
great mass of the Alibad fort, touched with the sunrise, well to the
south.

“If they only knew!” sighed Lady Haigh. “Just across there, and we
here! How they would ride if they knew!”

“What is going to happen to us?” asked Penelope. They were riding side
by side now, in the midst of their guards.

“Well, the worst that could happen would be that we might be carried
right up into Central Asia, which all but happened to the captives in
the Ethiopian disaster,” said Lady Haigh, ignoring decisively
possibilities even darker, “and I suppose the best that could happen
would be that Major Keeling should make terms for us almost at once.”

“But if he had to make concessions, as you said? Ought we to want him
to do it?”

“Of course we oughtn’t to, and I don’t--but yet I do. Perhaps he
won’t. You see I know already how high-minded my husband can be where
I am concerned, but I don’t know what Major Keeling would be willing
to do for you.”

“I know. He would refuse, even if it tore his heart out.”

Lady Haigh looked at her curiously. “You seem to know him pretty
well,” she said. “Well, it’s something to feel that our poor little
fates won’t be permitted to weigh against the safety of the frontier.
But what nonsense we are talking!” as Penelope shuddered. “My dear,
don’t we know that those two men would invade Central Asia on their
own account if we were taken there, and bring us back in triumph?
Don’t let us pretend they’re Romans. They’re good Englishmen, and
would no more leave us to perish than turn Mohammedan!”

This robust faith, if a little unfortunate in the mode of its
expression, was very cheering, and Penelope withdrew her eyes from the
fast diminishing fort, and set her face sternly forward. But if there
was no sign of a force riding out from Alibad to the rescue, there was
a cloud of dust in front which showed that some one was approaching,
and the escort were visibly nervous. Seizing the bridles of the
ladies’ ponies they urged them aside behind a sandhill, and there
waited, gathered in a close group. It was a large company that was
coming, and the dust it made was sufficient to have prevented its
noticing the smaller party, so that it passed the sandhill without
turning aside. A sudden lull in the wind revealed the white mantles
and scarlet turbans of the men who composed it when they had gone some
distance.

“The Sheikh and his followers!” gasped Penelope. “They will go back to
Sheikhgarh and be captured.”

“Not if Murtiza Khan got through,” said Lady Haigh, trying to hide the
anxiety in her tone, “for Major Keeling would be certain to send some
one to intercept the Sheikh before he could reach the hills. No,” she
added acidly, in response to the gesture of Nizam-ul-Mulk, who had
tapped a pistol in his girdle significantly as he saw her gazing after
the riders, “we are not quite idiots, thank you. It wouldn’t be much
good to signal to the Sheikh, who doesn’t know anything about us, and
would never think of going out of his way on the chance of helping
some one in distress.”

“But he might have told them at Alibad, and they would have known
where we were,” suggested Penelope.

“And have come out to find us shot, which wouldn’t be much good,” said
Lady Haigh.

They rode on again after this brief halt, taking the direction of Fort
Shah Nawaz, but leaving it out of sight on the right hand. The dark
rocks which marked the mouth of the Akrab Pass were visible in the
distance on the left, and Lady Haigh expected that Nizam-ul-Mulk would
lead the way thither. But to her surprise, they still rode straight
on, leaving the pass on one side.

“Where are you taking us?” she could not refrain from asking him at
last.

“To Kubbet-ul-Haj. There is safe-keeping in Ethiopia for any Farangi
prisoner,” answered the man with an insolent laugh, and Lady Haigh
grew white under her veil.

“Ethiopia! That means Central Asia, then!” she said. “Never mind, Pen.
They’ll catch us up before we get there. We can’t possibly get farther
than the Ethiopian frontier to-night, if as far.”

Although she spoke rather to encourage Penelope than because she
believed what she said, Lady Haigh proved to be right. The discipline
of the guards seemed to disappear as they were farther removed from
their leader at Sheikhgarh; and at noon, thinking that all danger was
past, they insisted on a rest of two or three hours, despite the
remonstrances of Nizam-ul-Mulk. Hence, when evening came on, the
Ethiopian frontier was still an hour’s ride away, and they positively
refused to attempt to reach it that night, demanding that a camp
should be formed on a low hill covered with brushwood--an excellent
position both for concealment and for discerning the approach of an
enemy. Nizam-ul-Mulk was forced to yield. The horses were picketed in
a hollow on the Ethiopian side of the hill, a rude tent was pitched
for the ladies, and a due portion of the rough food of the escort sent
them through Hafiza. When the comfortless meal was over, they were
thankful to lie down, without undressing, on the _resais_ with which
Wazira Begum had supplied them; and Hafiza, at any rate, was soon
audibly, as well as visibly, asleep. But presently Penelope sat up and
said softly, “Elma, are you awake?”

“Ye-es,” responded Lady Haigh sleepily. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, do let us talk a little. I can’t sleep. Elma, if they should
separate us--if they are only pretending to go to sleep----”

“Nonsense! after such a day of riding they are as tired as I am, and
that’s saying a good deal. Don’t conjure up horrors.”

“But if they took us to different places! Oh, Elma, if I was alone
among these people I should die!”

“Oh no, you wouldn’t. You’d get on much better than you think.”

“I couldn’t do anything. You can say what you like to these people and
they obey you. No one would obey me.”

“Well, you conquered Wazira Begum, at any rate. I only made her hate
me, though she did what I told her.”

“But as long as you’re there, I feel safe--as if you were a man.”

“What a testimony! But, Pen, you’re horribly old-fashioned. You
shouldn’t be such a honeysuckle kind of girl--always leaning on some
one and clinging to them--and yet you are so obstinate in some ways. I
suppose it’s no good telling you to stand up for yourself, though. You
seem born to cling. Colin was your prop for a long time, and you let
him drag you out to India to marry Ferrers, whom you didn’t want, and
he very nearly succeeded. I suppose I’m the support just at present,
until Major Keeling comes to the front. He will be a good stout prop,
at any rate. I couldn’t stand his domineering ways, but I suppose you
like them.”

“Oh yes,” said Penelope thankfully. “You don’t know him. Elma----”

“I know you,” interjected her friend.

“Elma, doesn’t it seem extraordinary that it is only a few weeks since
I really wanted to die? It felt as if it was the only way of settling
things--as if I ought not to marry him, and yet couldn’t bear not
to--and now the only thing I care for is to see him again. I should be
perfectly happy----”

“It isn’t extraordinary at all--merely that you’ve come to your
senses. My dear, I was in love with Dugald once, you know----”

“But if we should never see them again, either of them! Oh, Elma, if
they should never find us! What do you think----?”

“I think you’ll have a touch of fever if you don’t try to go to sleep.
Listen to Hafiza. She is going among strangers, just like you and me,
but she doesn’t sit up and talk. Say your prayers, and lie down.”

“She can sleep because she has so little to lose, whatever happens. So
long as she was kindly treated, I suppose she could make herself happy
anywhere.”

“Well, I have about as much to lose as you have,” with a terrific
yawn, “and I should very much like to go to sleep.”

“I oughtn’t to be so selfish. But listen, Elma. We’ll take turns to
sleep, and then they can’t separate us. I will watch first.”

“Oh, very well. Wake me when you feel drowsy,” and Lady Haigh turned
over on her hard couch, and composed herself to sleep. When Penelope
roused her, however, it was not to take her turn at watching. She was
kneeling beside her, with her lips very close to her ear.

“Elma, wake up! Don’t say anything, but listen. Don’t you hear noises?
I’m sure something is going to happen.”




 CHAPTER XXIV.
 RAHMAT-ULLAH.

Lady Haigh sat up, and listened attentively. “It may be only the
sentries moving about,” she whispered at last.

“No, there are none. I peeped out to see. They are sleeping all round
the tent, so that we could not pass, but they have no one on the
watch. There it is again! Listen!”

But this time there was no difficulty in distinguishing the sounds,
for a tremendous voice, so close at hand that Lady Haigh stopped her
ears involuntarily, shouted, “At them, boys! Cold steel! Don’t let one
of them escape!” and immediately the wildest tumult arose outside the
tent. It aroused even Hafiza, who sat up and with great presence of
mind opened her mouth to scream, but was forestalled by Lady Haigh,
who flew at her like a wild cat, and gagged her with a corner of the
_resai_.

“Do you want us all to be killed?” she demanded fiercely. “Our only
chance is that they may not remember us.”

“Elma, are you there?” said a voice outside the tent at the back, and
Lady Haigh released Hafiza and turned in the direction of the sound.

“Is it you, Dugald?” she cried joyfully, trying to tear up the edge of
the tent-cloth from the ground, but it was well pegged down.

“Stand aside!” said the voice, and there was a rending sound as a
sword cut a long slit in the cloth, revealing Sir Dugald dimly against
the starry sky. “Out with you!” he said, “and stoop till I tell you to
stand up.”

Determined to obey to the very letter, Lady Haigh and Penelope crawled
out through the slit on their hands and knees, followed by Hafiza, who
was so anxious not to be left behind that she kept a firm hold on
Penelope’s riding-habit. Sir Dugald led the way through the brushwood,
away from the clash of swords and the wild confusion of shouts and
yells in front of the tent, and when they had passed the brow of the
hill, he gave them leave to stand up.

“We are to make for the horses,” he said. “I only hope they won’t have
run away, or we shall find ourselves in a hole. But Miani has the
sense of a dozen, and wouldn’t go without his master.”

They ran and stumbled down the hill, Sir Dugald assisting any one of
the three who happened to be nearest, and a little way back on the
road they had come, found Miani and four other horses waiting in a
hollow, secured to a lance driven into the ground.

“But where are the rest?” cried Lady Haigh. “The men can’t have walked
from Alibad here.”

“There’s a horse for each man,” was the grim reply. “Keeling and I,
his two orderlies, and Murtiza Khan--there’s our rescue party.”

“It’s perfect madness!” she cried piteously, collapsing on a heap of
stones. “There was no need to risk your lives in this way.”

“All that could be spared. This is a little jaunt undertaken when we
are supposed to be asleep. No one knows about it.”

“It’s just the sort of mad thing Major Keeling would do, but you--oh,
Dugald! if anything happens to you I shall never forgive myself,” and
Lady Haigh sat on her stone-heap and wept ignominiously.

“Good heavens, Elma! you’ll call together all the enemies in the
neighbourhood if you make that noise. I’m all right at present. Why
don’t you weep over the Chief? He’s in danger, if you like.”

“Yes, and why aren’t you with him?” she demanded, with what might have
appeared a certain measure of inconsistency.

“Orders,” he replied tersely. “I have to see you home. Hope we shall
be able to collar your ponies. Where did you manage to pick up an
ayah? Not one of your captors’ people, is she?”

“No, she must go back with us. She belongs to Sheikhgarh. Oh,
Dugald----”

“Hush! I believe I hear the Chief coming. Here, Major! we’ve got them
all right.”

“Good!” returned Major Keeling, hurling himself into the group after a
run down the hillside. “How are you, Lady Haigh? Pretty fit, Miss
Ross? Got a good ride before us still. We must have an outpost here
some day--splendid place for stopping the smuggling of arms into
Ethiopia.”

“And call it after you,” suggested Lady Haigh, now quite herself
again. “What shall we say--Kīlinabad? or Kīlingarh? or Kīlinkôt?”

“Has this hill any name, Kasim?” asked Major Keeling, turning abruptly
to one of the orderlies who had come up.

“It is called Rahmat-Ullah, sahib, from one who was saved from death
by a pool of water that he found here.”

“Then there is its name still. Rahmat-Ullah, the Compassion of
God--what could be more appropriate? But now to think of present
needs. Surviving enemy has escaped with the horses, unfortunately. We
didn’t venture to fire after him for fear of rousing the
neighbourhood, so we must ride double.” As he spoke, he was
unstrapping and rearranging the greatcoat which was rolled in front of
Miani’s saddle. “Haigh, take your wife.” He unfastened the black’s
bridle from the lance, and was in the saddle in a moment. “Miss Ross,
give me your hands. Put your foot on mine. Now, jump!” and as Penelope
obeyed, she found herself seated before him on the horse, the
greatcoat serving as a cushion. “Don’t be afraid of falling. I shall
hold you,” he said. “Besides, Miani is too much of a gentleman to try
any tricks with a lady on his back. You all right, Lady Haigh? Ismail
Bakhsh, you are the lightest weight; pick up the old woman, and fall
in behind. Murtiza Khan may lead; he has deserved well for this three
days’ work. Kasim-ud-Daulat, bring up the rear, and keep your ears
open for any sounds of pursuit. Now, forward!”

They were in motion at once, Miani making no objection to his double
burden. Penelope smiled to herself, realising the strangeness of her
position, and also Major Keeling’s anxiety that she should not realise
it. His left arm was round her, the sword which must have dripped with
blood only a few minutes ago hung almost within reach of her hand; but
he was careful not to say a word that could make her feel that there
was anything odd in the situation.

“He is determined to behave as if he was a stranger,” she said to
herself. “No, not quite. A stranger would have asked me if I was quite
comfortable before starting. But why doesn’t he let me ride behind
him, so as to leave his arms free? I know! it is from behind that he
expects to be attacked. Oh, I hope, I hope, if there is an attack, it
will be in front. Then the bullets must reach me first, and he might
escape.”

As if in answer to her thought, Major Keeling’s deep voice remarked
casually at this moment, “If we are attacked in front, Miss Ross, I
shall drop you on the ground. It sounds rude, but you will be safer
there than in the way of bullets. Keep out of the way of the horses as
best you can, and we will pick you up again when we have driven the
rascals off.”

“Ye-es,” said Penelope faintly, with the feeling very strong upon her
that there were some seasons at which women had no business to exist.
Again, as if to comfort her, Major Keeling laughed happily.

“Never felt so jolly in my life!” he cried. “This is the sort of
adventure that’s worth five years of office and drill.”

The assurance was so cheering, though entirely impersonal, that
Penelope accepted the comfort perforce. They rode on steadily, and the
regular beat of the horses’ hoofs was pleasant in its monotony. A
continuous low murmur from Lady Haigh, punctuated by an occasional
word or two from Sir Dugald, showed that she, at any rate, had no
doubt of her right to exist and to demand a welcome. Penelope’s
thoughts became somewhat confused. Scenes and images from the exciting
panorama of the last three days danced before her eyes. She knew that
they were unreal, but could not remember where she actually was.
Suddenly they ceased, and she knew nothing more until a deep voice
broke upon her slumbers--

“You would make a good cavalryman, Miss Ross. You can sleep in the
saddle!”

Bewildered, she gazed round her. The silvery light of the false dawn
was spreading itself over the sky, and the familiar front of the
Haighs’ house at Alibad looked weird and cold. They were actually
inside the compound, riding up to the door, and startled servants were
running out from their quarters to receive them. Lady Haigh dismounted
with much agility, and came running to assist Penelope, who was still
too much confused to allow herself to drop to the ground, but Major
Keeling and Sir Dugald both remained in the saddle.

“Don’t expect me till you see me,” said Sir Dugald to his wife. “I’ll
send you a message when I can.”

“And he shall have an hour’s leave when it can be managed,” said Major
Keeling, turning his horse’s head. Then he looked back at the two
ladies standing forlorn on the steps. “Now my advice to you is, go to
bed and get a thorough rest. You needn’t be afraid. Tarleton and the
Fencibles have the town in charge, though we are out on the plains.”

“Oh, Elma, and we never thanked them!” cried Penelope, horror-struck,
as the two officers and their escort disappeared.

“_Thanked_ them! My dear Penelope, what good would thanks be? If we
thanked those two men on our bended knees for ever, it wouldn’t come
anywhere near proper gratitude for what they have done for us
to-night. But come indoors, and let us hunt up some bedding. It’s all
very well to advise us to go to bed; but every single thing we took
into camp is burnt, so we must do the best we can.”

“But the servants?” cried Penelope.

“Oh, they stood in the water and escaped, and made the best of their
way back to Alibad when the fire was over, but they didn’t save
anything. Now I must give Hafiza into the charge of the _malli’s_
wife, and then we will go indoors.”

The gardener’s wife was a Nalapuri woman, and quite willing to give
shelter to her compatriot, who had been eyeing the European house with
much disfavour; and Lady Haigh called up the two ayahs, and set them
to work at making up some sort of beds, while she and Penelope had
some tea. The moment they were alone she turned to Penelope and said,
“Well?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Penelope.

“Oh, nonsense! Did he say anything?”

“He said he should drop me on the sand if we were attacked in front.”

“Of course, Dugald said that to me. But what else?”

“Nothing, really. I--I went to sleep, Elma.”

“Penelope, you are perfectly hopeless! I should dearly like to beat
you. You haven’t one scrap of romance in your whole composition. You
went to sleep!”

“I was so dreadfully tired--and I felt so safe, so wonderfully safe.”

“I suppose you expect him to take that as a compliment. But I am
disgusted. Oh, Pen, I didn’t think it of you!”

“I couldn’t help it,” pleaded Penelope, “and he didn’t mean to say
anything then, I’m sure.” But Lady Haigh refused to be mollified.

“You gave him no chance. And, as you say, you never even thanked him.
My dear, it was touch and go, as Dugald says. By the greatest mercy,
one of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal’s men caught sight of our party just before
the guards made us hide behind that sandhill. They thought it was an
ambush, and were all prepared, so that it was rather a surprise when
they were allowed to pass. When they were crossing the plain towards
Sheikhgarh, they were met by a patrol which Major Keeling had sent out
to try and intercept the Sheikh as soon as ever he had heard Murtiza
Khan’s news----”

“But that must have been in broad daylight.”

“So it was. The Sheikh’s vow expired, it seems, as soon as his nephew
Ashraf Ali was fourteen. He couldn’t afford to be handicapped when it
was a question of putting the boy on the throne, you see. Well, Major
Keeling had guessed that the enemy would probably send us away
somewhere, lest Sheikhgarh should be retaken; but the only thing he
could do when he heard what the Sheikh had seen was to send out the
_shikari_ Baha-ud-Din, who most happily went back to Alibad with
Dugald, you know, to examine the trail, and he found the marks of our
ponies’ shoes, quite distinct among the native ones. And as soon as it
was dark, he and Dugald and the orderlies started after us. But it was
a near thing.”

“Very,” agreed Penelope, with a shudder. “If they had taken us just
that one hour’s journey farther, Elma--into Ethiopia!”

“Well, if you ask me, I am not sure that it would have made very much
difference. A frontier has no peculiar sacredness for Major Keeling,
unless it’s his own. But of course there might have been an Ethiopian
fort, and five men could scarcely have attacked that. Yes, Pen, we
ought to be very thankful. And now here is Dulya to say that our rooms
are ready. I needn’t tell you to sleep well. You seem to have quite a
talent for it!”



After behaving with sufficient heroism during their three days’ trial,
Lady Haigh and Penelope collapsed most unheroically after it. Two
whole days in bed was the smallest allowance they could accept, and
they slept away, peacefully enough, hours in which the fate of the
province might have been hanging in jeopardy, with a culpable
indifference to the interests of civilisation and their race. The
military situation was curious enough, and to the eyes of any one not
trained in the topsy-turvy school of the Khemistan frontier, eminently
disquieting. Gobind Chand’s army still remained in occupation of the
whole hill-district on the west, a potential menace, if not an active
one. The Sheikh-ul-Jabal and his troop of horsemen had left Alibad by
night, intending to make an attempt to regain possession of Sheikhgarh
by means of the secret door to which Wazira Begum had alluded; but as
this necessitated a very wide flanking movement, in order to approach
the place from behind, it was not surprising that nothing had been
heard as yet as to their success. Just across the frontier was Wilayat
Ali’s army, which had let slip its opportunity of combining with
Gobind Chand by attacking Alibad from the desert while he moved out
from the mountains, but still remained willing to wound, if afraid to
strike. Between the two was Major Keeling, with the whole of his small
force mobilised, so to speak, and holding the positions he had devised
to cover the town, while the town itself was inadequately garrisoned
by Dr Tarleton and his volunteers. The dangers of the position were
perceptible to the least skilled eye. In the possession of artillery
alone lay Major Keeling’s advantage; for the fact that the rest of his
force consisted wholly of cavalry, though advantageous in ordinary
cases of frontier warfare, was a drawback when the operations were of
necessity altogether defensive. It was not until four days after their
return to Alibad that the ladies obtained a coherent idea of Major
Keeling’s plan of action, and this was due to a visit from Sir Dugald,
who had come in with orders for Dr Tarleton.

“I suppose you’re able to take an intelligent interest in all that
goes on, with the help of that telescope of yours?” he asked lazily,
while Lady Haigh and Penelope plied him assiduously with tea and cake
in the few minutes he had to spare.

“Oh, we see the guns plodding about from place to place, and firing
one or two shots and then stopping, but we can’t make out what you are
doing,” said his wife.

“We are shepherding Gobind Chand’s men back into the hills whenever
they try to break out. In a day or two more we ought to have them
fairly cornered, unless some utterly unexpected gleam of common-sense
on Wilayat Ali’s part throws us out; but just at present we can do
nothing but ‘wait for something to turn up.’”

“But how will things be better in a day or two?” asked Penelope.

“Because the enemy’s supplies must be exhausted by then. These border
armies never carry much food with them, expecting to live on the
country. We are preventing that. There is no food to be got in the
hills, and when they burned the forest they destroyed any chances in
that direction. We have sent Harris with one of the guns to make a
flank march to the south and take up a strong position with Vidal and
his police across the road by which the enemy came, and the Sheikh
will take good care that no stragglers get past him. So far as we can
see, they must either fight or surrender.”

“But isn’t it rather cruel--starving them out in this way?”

“Cruel! If you talk of cruelty, wasn’t it cruel of them to fire the
best _shikargah_ in Khemistan? Isn’t it cruel of them now to be
keeping us grilling out on the plains, without time even for a change
of clothes? Why, until I managed to get a bath just now, I hadn’t
taken off my things since the night we rode out to find you!”

“You looked it, when you rode in two hours ago,” said Lady Haigh, with
such fervent sympathy that her husband requested her indignantly not
to be personal.

“And if we’re not to starve them out, what are we to do?” he demanded,
still smarting under the accusation of cruelty. “Of course, when an
enemy takes up his quarters in broken country inside your borders, any
fool will tell you you ought to clear him out; but what are you to do
with one weak regiment against an army? Perhaps they will let the
Chief raise another regiment after this--if we come through it--and
give him the two more European officers he’s been asking for so long.
Wilayat Ali might have swept us from the face of the earth if he had a
grain of generalship about him, and Gobind Chand’s army might have
rushed the guns a dozen times over if he could have got them to stand
fire.”

“But what is it that paralyses them?” asked Lady Haigh.

“Mutual antipathy, so far as we can make out. It seems that Wilayat
Ali carefully picked out the most disloyal Sardars to serve under
Gobind Chand, evidently in the hope that either we or they would
remove him from his path, and that the Sardars would also get their
ranks thinned. He hasn’t forgotten Gobind Chand’s attempt to get the
Chief’s help in deposing him, after all. But Gobind Chand is not eager
to take the chances of war, and the Sardars don’t quite see hurling
themselves against our guns that Wilayat Ali may have a walk-over;
and, moreover, they see through his scheme now. It’s really as good as
a play, the way the two chief villains are trying to betray one
another to us.”

“But have they actually tried to open negotiations?”

“Not formally, of course; but venerable Mullahs and frowsy _fakirs_
toddle casually into our lines, or try to, and unfold their respective
employers’ latest ideas. Wilayat Ali offers us the contents of his
treasury if we will allow him to join us and help to wipe out Gobind
Chand and the disaffected Sardars. Gobind Chand is rather more
liberal, and offers us the help of his army to annihilate Wilayat Ali
and his supporters, after which he will take the contents of the
treasury and retire into private life, and we may keep Nalapur. No
doubt he wishes us joy of it.”

“But surely they can’t have started the war with these schemes in
their minds?”

“Wilayat Ali did, I think; but Gobind Chand seems to have been
overreached for once. His eyes must have been opened when Wilayat Ali
failed to support him in his attack on the town; and he didn’t need a
second warning. The assiduity with which the two villains are playing
Codlin and Short for our benefit is really funny, but I rather think
there’s a surprise in store for each of them.”

“Something that will punish them both? Oh, do tell us!”

“Well, there seems some indication that the Sardars are as tired of
one as the other, and will shunt Gobind Chand of their own accord; and
if the Sheikh-ul-Jabal’s tales are true, he has worked up a strong
party among Wilayat Ali’s supporters in favour of his nephew Ashraf.
If so, we may expect some startling developments. The pity is, we
can’t force them on, only sit and wait for them to happen.”




 CHAPTER XXV.
 THE RIGHT PREVAILS.

Quite contrary to his expectation, Sir Dugald was able to ride into
the town again the very next evening, and was received with unfeigned
joy by the two ladies, to whom, through the medium of the talk in the
bazar as reported by the servants, all sorts of hopeful and
disquieting rumours had filtered during the interval. Was it true that
Gobind Chand was dead and the Sardars had surrendered, they demanded
eagerly, or was Wilayat Ali marching upon the town?

“Not that, at any rate,” said Sir Dugald. “In fact, barring accidents,
things are going on pretty well. A deputation from the Sardars came in
last night, bringing a gruesome object tied up in a bundle, which they
said was Gobind Chand’s head, sent in as a guarantee of their good
faith in offering to surrender. Their appearance would have been
sufficient proof, for it was clear they were very hard up; but the
evidence they preferred was distinctly unfortunate, for as soon as the
Chief saw it, he said, ‘It’s not Gobind Chand’s head at all. They have
killed some other Hindu of about the same age, and either they intend
treachery, or the rascal has escaped.’ We had the deputation in, and
put it to them, and in an awful fright they confessed he was right.
Gobind Chand, seeing how matters were going, had managed to get away
some hours before they found it out; but they caught one of his
hangers-on, and thought they would make use of him instead. It was a
very pretty little plan, but they hadn’t counted on the Chief’s memory
for faces.”

“Served them right!” said Lady Haigh fervently.

“Well,” Sir Dugald went on, “it was arranged that the chief Sardars
should come in this morning, as suppliants, and hear what terms the
Chief would allow them. But when they came, they were prepared with a
plan of their own. They were on the point of dethroning Wilayat Ali
before the war began, you know, and his ingenious scheme for employing
us to kill them off hasn’t increased their affection for him, so they
proposed quite frankly to proclaim Keeling Amir, and then help him to
get rid of his predecessor. They seemed to fancy the idea a good deal,
and he had quite a long argument with them about it. He would govern
them justly, as he had done Khemistan, they said, and they would be
quite willing to take service under him and fight any one he chose. He
asked them how they ventured to offer the throne to a Christian, and
they were very much amused. They had known he was a good Mussulman
ever since he came to the frontier, they said, and they were sure he
would be glad to be able to give up pretending to be a Kafir. He
assured them they were mistaken, and one after another got up and said
they had heard him read prayers in a mosque, or seen him do miracles.
Of course we knew then what they were driving at; but the trouble was,
that the more he denied it the more they were convinced it was true,
and that he was afraid of _us_. We had never known of his proceedings,
it seemed, and might make trouble for him with the Company. They
adjured him pathetically to let them see him alone, and promised that
not one of the rest of us should leave the tent alive to say what had
happened. If he would only trust himself to them, they would escort
him safely to Nalapur, and, once there, the Company might whistle for
him.”

“Dugald! you don’t mean to say they would have murdered you?”

“Like a shot, at a word from Keeling. Things were really beginning to
look rather unpleasant, when the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, in a towering rage,
burst into the conference. It seems that he is back in possession of
Sheikhgarh, having summarily wiped out the Nalapuri garrison. Some of
Gobind Chand’s men tried to make their escape through the hills, and
lost their way and fell into his hands, so he learned something of
what was going on from them. He is not exactly the mirror of chivalry,
you know, in spite of his saintly pretensions; and having so often
traded on his likeness to the Chief, he was seized with a fear that
the Chief was returning the compliment, to the prejudice of young
Ashraf Ali. He brought the youth with him into the conference, and it
was confusion worse confounded when he declared who he was, and
demanded that he should be recognised as Amir. Everybody talked at
once at the top of his voice, and at last, when they had all shouted
themselves hoarse, the Chief had a chance of making himself heard. He
made the Sheikh come and stand beside him, so that the Sardars could
see how the mistake had arisen; and horribly disgusted they were. Then
he invited them to join with us in putting Ashraf Ali on the _gadi_,
with proper guarantees as to the powers to be granted him; and they
were all inclined to agree to that until a Mullah put in his oar, and
said that the youth had been brought up by a heretic, and was no true
Mussulman. Thereupon the Sheikh swore solemnly that his sect were
rather better Mussulmans than other people, and invited any number of
Mullahs to examine into his nephew’s orthodoxy. As they had been
willing to accept Keeling, whose orthodoxy, on their own showing, must
have been extremely shaky, they could not well refuse, and they are
hard at it now, collecting all the Mullahs within reach to badger the
unfortunate boy. If he survives the ordeal creditably, messengers are
to be sent in his name to-morrow to Wilayat Ali, inviting him to
recognise his nephew’s rights, and surrender, when his life and a
suitable maintenance will be granted him. I wouldn’t give much for his
chance of either when the Sheikh is in authority at Nalapur; and if
he’s wise he will prefer to cross the border and take the Sheikh’s
place as the Company’s pensioner.”

“And if he isn’t wise?” asked Lady Haigh.

“Well, he’ll scarcely be such a fool as to fight us and the Sardars
together. But if he wants to be nasty, he’ll retreat into Nalapur, and
hold one place after another till he’s turned out, and then wage a
guerilla warfare until he’s hunted down, which would mean unlimited
bloodshed and years of turmoil. That’s his only chance; and as he will
be desperate and at bay, there’s every reason to fear he’ll take it.
Well, I can tell you more next time I see you.”

The next occasion again arrived unexpectedly soon. It was on the
morning of the second day--rumour, good and bad, having run riot in
the interval--that Sir Dugald galloped up to the verandah, and before
coming indoors, shouted for his bearer and gave him hasty orders,
sending off also a messenger to Major Keeling’s house.

“We’re off to Nalapur,” he announced hastily, walking in and taking
his seat at the breakfast-table, “to set the king on the throne of the
kingdom, otherwise to put Ashraf Ali on the _gadi_.”

“Then has Wilayat Ali surrendered, after all?” cried Lady Haigh.

“Not voluntarily, exactly, but he has been removed. Sounds bad,
doesn’t it? and I’m free to confess that the Sheikh-ul-Jabal has
managed the affair with a cleverness worthy of a worse cause. We have
been simply made use of, all along.”

“Oh, tell us what has happened! How can you think of breakfast just
now?”

“How can I? Easily, when you remember that we start in half an hour.
But I’ll do my best to combine breakfast and information. Well, when
the messengers went to invite Wilayat Ali to abdicate in favour of his
nephew, he very naturally sent back an answer breathing defiance, and
containing libellous remarks about the Sheikh’s ancestors and female
relations. The Sheikh promptly despatched a challenge to Wilayat Ali
to meet him in single combat and decide things by the result. Of
course Wilayat Ali returned a refusal, as any man in his senses would,
who had everything to lose by such a combat, and nothing to gain but
the removal of a single adversary. But here came in the Sheikh’s
sharpness. As he told us before, the Amir’s camp was full of his
adherents, and when they heard that Wilayat Ali meant to refuse the
challenge, they raised such a to-do that they nearly brought the place
about his ears. His soldiers became openly mutinous, and the
camp-followers shrieked abuse after him. He must have seen then that
he was cornered, for if he had tried to get back to his capital, he
would pretty certainly have been murdered on the road, so he accepted
the challenge as giving him his one chance. The Sheikh had laid his
plans with such deadly dexterity that there was actually nothing else
to do, for the Sardars were only too pleased to see him in a hole,
after the way he had treated them. So the lists were set--that’s how
the Chief put it--and we all stood to watch. The Sheikh left Ashraf
Ali in Keeling’s charge, and rode out. They were to fight with
javelins first, then with swords. The javelin part was rather a
farce--they threw from such a safe distance, and I don’t think one of
them hit, though one of the Sheikh’s javelins went through Wilayat
Ali’s cloak. When they had thrown all they had, they drew their swords
and really rode at each other. We couldn’t see very clearly what
happened in the first round, but it looked as if something turned the
edge of Wilayat Ali’s sword, and the Chief dashed forward and yelled,
‘It’s murder, absolute murder! Our man wears chain-armour under his
clothes. It’s not a fair fight.’ He wanted to ride in between them and
stop it; but we weren’t going to have him killed, whoever else was, so
we simply hung on to him, and pointed out that as none of us had a
spare suit of chain-armour we could offer to lend the Amir, and the
Sheikh was probably proud of his foresight in wearing his, and would
certainly refuse to take it off, things must settle themselves. He
talked about Ivanhoe and the Templar, but we kept him quiet while they
rode at one another again. This time we saw that, putting the armour
out of the question, the Sheikh was the better man, quicker, more
active, in better training--thanks to the desert life, I suppose. He
avoided Wilayat Ali’s rush in the neatest way--the sword just shaved
his shoulder as it came down--and turned upon him like King Richard in
some book or other, standing in his stirrups and bringing down his
sword with both hands. It’s a regular Crusader’s sword, by the way,
with a cross hilt, and it cut through turban and head both, and the
Amir dropped from the saddle as his horse rushed by. Then came the
finest thing of all. The Chief was boiling over with rage--wanted to
make the Sheikh fight him next, and so on; but on examining Wilayat
Ali’s body we found that he had armour on too. They both wore armour,
each trusting that the other didn’t know it, but each suspecting that
the other wore it too, and that was why they both struck for the head,
so that it was a fair fight after all--from an Oriental point of view.
The Sheikh was proclaimed victor with acclamations, and Ashraf Ali’s
right was acknowledged by most of those present; those who didn’t
acknowledge it thought it best to slink away as unobtrusively as
possible. Then the Sheikh turned to Keeling, and with the utmost
politeness invited him to come to Nalapur as his guest, with an
escort--not a force--to witness the youth’s enthronement. No British
bayonets to put him on the _gadi_, you see. And we are going.”

“But hasn’t Wilayat Ali a son?” asked Lady Haigh.

“Yes, Hasrat Ali, who is officiating as governor of the city while his
father is away. I imagine he would meet with an early death if we were
not going to Nalapur; but as it is, the Sheikh intends to marry him to
his niece, Ashraf Ali’s sister.”

“Oh, poor Wazira Begum!” cried Penelope. “Is the young man nice?”

“Very far from it, I should say; but when it’s a choice between
marriage and murder, he will probably look at the matter
philosophically.”

“I wasn’t thinking of him,” said Penelope indignantly, “but of the
poor girl. How can they want her to marry him?”

“They want to have a check upon him if he takes kindly to the new
state of affairs, and a spy upon him if he turns rusty, and they seem
to think they can trust the young lady to be both.”

“Well, I call it infamous!” cried Lady Haigh; “and I only hope that
Wazira Begum will refuse and run away. If she comes here, I’ll give
her shelter.”

“You shouldn’t say that sort of thing in my hearing,” said Sir Dugald,
as he rose from the table. “It might become my duty to insist upon
your giving her up, and what would happen then?”

“Why, I shouldn’t, of course!” cried Lady Haigh defiantly.

 * * * * * * *

It was a fortnight before Major Keeling and his escort returned from
Nalapur, but messengers were constantly coming and going between the
city and Alibad, so that there was little scope for anxiety. Sir
Dugald came home late one night, and was instantly seized upon by his
wife and Penelope, and ordered to satisfy their curiosity as to the
course of events, which turned out not to be altogether satisfactory.

“The Sheikh has no notion of yielding an inch to make things pleasant
on the frontier,” he said. “He will give up criminals of ours who take
refuge in Nalapur, but merely as an act of grace, and he won’t enter
into any regular treaty. No doubt it’s a piece of wisdom on his
part,--for he is regarded with a good deal of suspicion as having
lived so long on British soil,--and his attitude will tend to disarm
the suspicions of the Sardars and the Mullahs.”

“But how ungrateful!” cried Lady Haigh. “I thought he professed to be
so friendly to Major Keeling?”

“While he was under his protection, perhaps--not when he can treat
with him as an independent power. And, after all, it has been clear
all along that he was an old fox--what with his vows and
dispensations, and his steady pursuit of a policy of his own when he
persisted he had nothing of the kind in view. He was not exactly our
willing guest from the first, you see, only driven to take refuge with
us as the result of what he considers our treachery. He can’t forget
that old grudge, and really one doesn’t wonder. It gives him a
dreadful pull over us that he can always say he has seen the
consequences of admitting a British force within his borders in time
of peace, and doesn’t wish to see them again.”

“Then the Nalapuris will be as troublesome as ever?”

“Pretty nearly, I’m afraid; but as the Chief says, all he can do is to
go on his own way, combining fairness with perfect good faith, and
trust that Ashraf Ali may be induced to enter into a treaty when he is
freed from his uncle’s influence. The worst part of the business at
the present moment is that Gobind Chand has managed to escape into the
mountains between Nalapur and Ethiopia, and has been joined by all who
had reason to think their lives might not last long under the new
state of affairs; and of course any discontented Sardar or rebellious
Mullah will know where to find friends whenever he wants them. Keeling
tried hard to induce the Sheikh to let a force from our side of the
frontier co-operate with him in hunting the fellows down, so as to
stamp out the rebel colony before it can become the nucleus of
mischief; but he utterly refused, and professed to see the thin end of
the wedge in the proposal. They’ll never be able to do it by
themselves, and it’s bound to give us no end of trouble when we have
to take the business in hand at last. But he won’t see reason.”

“Then has Wilayat Ali’s son joined Gobind Chand?” asked Penelope.

“Ah, you are thinking of your young lady friend. No; he was caught in
time, and accepted the proposed marriage with resignation. So did the
bride--if she didn’t even suggest it herself as a means of
strengthening her brother’s position. Hasrat Ali is a Syad through his
mother, so it is a very good match, and the Sheikh seems quite
satisfied; but I rather think Ashraf Ali has some qualms. At any rate,
he is giving her the finest wedding ever seen in Nalapur, and emptying
the treasury to buy jewels for her. He has given her the title of
Moti-ul-Nissa, and has had inserted in the marriage-contract a proviso
that neither Hasrat Ali nor his household are ever to quit the city
without his leave. That is to guard against his taking her away into
some country place and ill-treating her, of course, so he has really
done all he can.”

“Oh, poor girl! poor Wazira Begum!” cried Penelope, with tears in her
eyes. “What a prospect--to marry with such a life before her!”

“They’re used to it--these native women,” said Sir Dugald, wishing to
be consolatory.

“Does that make it any better? And you--all of you--acquiesce, and
make no effort to save her!”

“My dear Miss Ross, what can we do? You know what these fellows are by
this time. If one of us so much as mentioned the young lady, it could
only be wiped out by his blood or hers, or both.”

“It feels wrong to be happy when such things are going on,” said
Penelope, pursuing a train of thought of her own, apparently. “Can
nothing be done?”

“Ask the Chief, if you care to,” said Sir Dugald. “He’s coming to
dinner to-morrow.”

“It really is most unfortunate,” said Lady Haigh, on housewifely
thoughts intent, “that if there is any difficulty with the servants
some one is sure to come to dinner. I know this new cook will lose his
head and do something dreadful. I think you ought to warn Major
Keeling, Dugald.”

“The Chief never cares much what he eats or drinks,” was the reply;
“and he certainly won’t to-morrow,” added Sir Dugald, too low for
Penelope to hear.

Lady Haigh’s fears were justified. A few minutes before the dinner
hour she ran into Penelope’s room, looking worried and hot.

“Oh, Pen, you’re ready! What a good thing! That wretched cook has
ruined the soup, and we can’t have dinner for half an hour. I’ve been
scolding him and trying to suggest improvements all this time, and I’m
not dressed. Go and talk to Major Keeling till I come. Dugald won’t be
in for twenty minutes. Such a chapter of accidents!”

Nevertheless, Lady Haigh’s voice had not the despairing tone which
might have been expected in the circumstances, and she ran out of the
room again with a haste which seemed calculated to conceal a smile. So
Penelope imagined, and the suspicion was confirmed when Major Keeling
came to meet her as she entered the drawing-room--he had been tramping
up and down in his impatient way--and remarked innocently--

“At last! Lady Haigh promised to let me see you alone, but I was
beginning to be afraid she had not been able to manage it. I have been
waiting for hours.”

“Oh no, only ten minutes. I saw you ride up,” said Penelope, and
turned crimson because she had confessed to the heinous crime of
watching him through the venetians.

“You knew I was here, and you left me alone--and the time seemed so
short to you! Well, it only confirms what I had been thinking----
Don’t let me keep you standing. May I sit here? Do you remember, that
evening at Bab-us-Sahel, when I saw you first, you promised to leave
Alibad at the shortest possible notice if I considered it advisable?”

“Leave Alibad?” faltered Penelope. “I--I know you made me promise, but
I never thought----”

“I have come to the conclusion that it may be necessary.”

“But why?” she cried, roused to defend herself. “What have I done?”

“You are spoiling my work. I can’t tell you how many times to-day I
have had to keep myself from devising ridiculous excuses for taking a
ride in this direction. I had a fortnight’s arrears of writing to make
up, and yet I have spent the day between my desk and the corner of the
verandah where I can get a glimpse of this house. Now, I know you are
too anxious for the welfare of the province to wish me to go on
risking it in this way, and there is only one remedy that I can think
of.”

“Only one?” Penelope was bewildered and pained.

“Only one--that you should keep your promise and leave Alibad.”

“If you wish it I will go, by all means,” she said proudly.

“But only as far as Bab-us-Sahel, and I shall come after you. And then
I shall bring you back.”

“Oh!” said Penelope; then, as his meaning dawned upon her. “I didn’t
think you could have been so cruel!” she cried reproachfully.
Realising that she had betrayed herself, she tried to rise, but he was
kneeling beside her chair.

“Cruel? to a little tender thing like you! No, no; you know I couldn’t
mean that,” he said.

“It was cruel,” said Penelope, still unreconciled, and venting on him
the anger she felt for herself. “It was unkind,” she repeated feebly.

“What a blundering fool I am!” he cried furiously. “Why, you are
trembling all over. Dear girl, don’t cry; I shall never forgive
myself. It was only a--a sort of joke. The fact was, I have asked you
to marry me twice already, you see, and I was so unlucky each time
that it made me rather shy of doing it again. I thought I’d see if I
couldn’t get it settled without exactly saying the words, you know.
Tell me I’m a fool, Penelope; call me anything you like--but not
cruel. Cruel to you! I deserve to be shot. Yes, I was cruel; I must
have been, if you say so.”

“You weren’t. I was silly,” came in a muffled voice. “I only
thought--it would break my heart--to leave--Alibad.”

“Only Alibad? Is it the bricks and mortar you are so fond of?”

“I love every brick in the place, because you built it.”



Thus it happened that the journey to Bab-us-Sahel, the suggestion of
which had caused so much distress to Penelope, was duly undertaken,
and Mr Crayne insisted that the wedding should take place from
Government House. He said it was because there was some hope now that
Keeling might get a little common-sense knocked into him at last,
which might have sounded alarming to any one who did not know that the
bride’s head barely reached the bridegroom’s shoulder. But Penelope
had a secret conviction that the old man had not forgotten the morning
at Alibad when he welcomed her as his future niece, and that he had
penetrated her true feelings more nearly than she knew at the time.
Held under such auspices, the wedding was graced by the presence of
all the rank and fashion of Bab-us-Sahel; but Lady Haigh, who had
received a box from home just in time, raised evil passions in the
heart of every lady there by displaying the first crinoline ever seen
in Khemistan. The bride was quite a secondary figure, for not only had
she refused the loan of the coveted garment, but she defied public
opinion by wearing an embroidered “country muslin” instead of the
stiff white watered silk which her aunt and Colin had insisted she
should take out with her three years before.

It must be confessed that Penelope was not a success when she returned
to Alibad as the Commandant’s wife, and therefore the _burra memsahib_
of the place. The town is still famous in legend as the only station
in India where the ladies squabble over giving, instead of taking,
precedence. Long afterwards Lady Haigh congratulated herself on having
been the means of averting bloodshed on one occasion, when a visiting
official, finding himself placed between two ladies of equally
retiring disposition, decided to offer his arm to the baronet’s wife.
“I saw thunder in Colonel Keeling’s eye,” said Lady Haigh (Major
Keeling had received the news of his promotion shortly before the
wedding), “so I just curtsied to the General, and said, ‘Mrs Keeling
is the chief lady present, sir,’ and he accepted the hint like a
lamb.” But at the time, or rather, in the privacy of a call the next
morning, she had taken Penelope to task.

“You don’t put yourself forward enough, Pen,” she said. “Do you think
that if I had been _burra mem_, the poor General would have had a
moment’s doubt as to the person he was to take in to dinner? You make
yourself a sort of shadow of your husband--never do anything on your
own responsibility, in fact. Why, when the history of the province
comes to be written, people will dispute whether Colonel Keeling ever
had a wife at all!”

“Will they?” said Penelope, momentarily distressed. “Oh, I hope not,
Elma. I should like them to say that there was one part of his life
when he got on better with the Government, and left off writing
furious letters even when he was unjustly treated, and was more
patient with people who were stupid. Then if they ask what made the
difference, I should like to think that they will say, ‘Oh, that was
when his wife was alive.’”

“My dear Pen, you are not allowing yourself a very long life.”

Penelope coloured. “I daresay it’s silly,” she said; “but that is how
I feel.”




 CHAPTER XXVI.
 “FOR THINE AND THEE.”

About a year after Colonel Keeling’s marriage, there came a time
when troubles crowded thick and fast upon the Alibad colony. An
earthquake did terrible damage to the great irrigation-works, which
were fast approaching completion; and when this was followed by
unusually heavy winter rains, the result was a disastrous inundation.
It was a new thing for Khemistan, and especially its northern portion,
to be afflicted with too much rain instead of too little; but the
change seemed to have the effect of making the climate even more
unhealthy than usual. The European officers who rode from village to
village distributing medicines and food, and encouraging the people to
rebuild their houses and cultivate their spoilt fields afresh, fell
ill one after the other; and there was almost as much sickness among
the troopers of the Khemistan Horse, most of whom came from another
part of India, and found the salt desert a land of exile. The alarm
caused by the Nalapuri invasion had at last drawn the attention of the
Government to Colonel Keeling’s reiterated requests for a larger
force; and he had been allowed to raise a second regiment, which he
was moulding vigorously into shape when the troubles began. It was
these new men and their unacclimatised officers who went down so
quickly, and must needs be invalided to the coast; and the Commandant
found himself left with little more than his original force and
European staff when the news came that Gobind Chand was threatening
the frontier anew. From Gobind Chand’s point of view the move was a
timely one, if not the only one possible to him, for the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal, at the head of the young Amir’s troops, was
shouldering him mercilessly out of Nalapur, quite content to leave to
Colonel Keeling the task of dealing with him finally. By dint of
avoiding a pitched battle, and presenting a resolute front to his
pursuers, the ex-Vizier had contrived to keep his force almost intact,
and a golden opportunity seemed to be presenting itself for dealing a
blow at one of his chief enemies while he was already in difficulties.

So black was the outlook that Colonel Keeling thought it would be well
to send the ladies down as far as the river, at any rate; but they
rebelled, pointing out that such a step would cause the natives to
despair of the British cause. Lady Haigh flatly refused to go;
Penelope said she would go if her husband wished it, but entreated so
piteously to be allowed to stay that he, dreading the journey for her,
and little able to spare an escort, consented on the condition that
she left off visiting the native town to take help to the sufferers
there. After all, it was Lady Haigh who was seized with fever and had
to be nursed by Penelope, and she was scarcely convalescent when the
two husbands were obliged to leave Alibad once more under the
protection of the ever-useful Fencibles, and march to the north-east
to repel Gobind Chand. The old Hindu had developed a remarkable power
of generalship at this stage in his career. He refused steadily to
come out on the plains, or even to show his full strength in the
hills. His plan was to lead the small British force a weary dance
through broken country, eluding capture when it seemed inevitable that
he must be caught, and watching for an opportunity of surprising the
weary and dispirited troops.

But it was such an emergency as this that brought out the strongest
points in Colonel Keeling’s character. To find in the ex-Vizier a
foeman worthy of his steel sent his spirits up with a rush; and, as he
had no intention of playing into Gobind Chand’s hands, a very short
experience determined him to strike out tactics of his own. Somehow or
other it became known in the British camp that Colonel Keeling felt
considerable anxiety as to the good faith of Nalapur, now that he was
so far from Alibad. What could be easier than for the Sheikh-ul-Jabal
to swoop down on the practically defenceless town and level it with
the ground? Hence it was very natural that the Commandant should
divide his force, sending back the larger portion, under Major Porter,
for the defence of the town, and retaining only one gun and a small
number of troops for the pursuit of Gobind Chand. Whether Colonel
Keeling had exercised his reputed powers, and actually detected spies
among his camp-followers, or was merely making a bold guess, certain
it is that two or three individuals who had attached themselves to the
British force in order to assure the Commandant that the number of
Gobind Chand’s adherents had been grossly exaggerated, contrived to
become separated from it in the darkness, and by inadvertence, no
doubt, to fall in with the enemy’s scouts, and relate what Kīlin
Sahib was doing. Therefore, as Porter marched away with his force, and
the dust of their passage was seen vanishing in the direction of
Alibad, Gobind Chand was able to concentrate his men round the hollow
in which the British camp lay. Incautious as Colonel Keeling might
have been, he was not the man to be taken by surprise, and he broke
camp in some haste, and effected a safe retreat. But this retreat was
in itself an encouragement to the enemy--especially since the British
force did not make for the plains, but seemed fated to wander farther
into the hills--and Gobind Chand followed close upon its heels. At
evening things looked very black for Colonel Keeling. He and his small
body of men were holding a low hill which was commanded on all sides
by higher hills. The valley surrounding it had only one opening, that
to the north, by which he had entered, and across which Gobind Chand
was now encamped, and it seemed quite clear that he had been caught in
a _cul-de-sac_. He was clearly determined to fight to the last,
however, for his men kept up a perfect pandemonium of noise at
intervals all night. They fired volleys at imaginary enemies,
performed trumpet fantasias at unseemly hours, and dragged their
solitary gun, with much difficulty and noise, from place to place on
the crest of the hill, apparently to find out where it would be of
most service. In the morning Colonel Keeling looked at Sir Dugald and
laughed.

“It’s Gobind Chand or me to-day,” he said. “If he doesn’t advance into
the valley in half an hour, we are done.”

Before the specified time had elapsed, however, the vanguard of Gobind
Chand’s force was pouring into the valley, the besieged keeping their
gun for use later. Taking advantage of the cover afforded by the rocks
with which the valley was strewn, the enemy, cautious in spite of
their superiority of numbers, settled down to “snipe” at the hill-top.
Colonel Keeling was radiant, and his men needed nothing to complete
their happiness when they heard him muttering concerning “stainless
Tunstall’s banner white,” “priests slain on the altar-stone,”
“Fontarabian echoes,” and other things outside their ken. Suddenly, as
he was making the round of the hill-top, and pushing his men down into
cover, for the twentieth time, he found himself confronted by one of
his own _chaprasis_ from Alibad, who, with a respectfully immobile
face, held forth a letter. The Commandant turned it over as if he was
afraid to open it.

“How did you get here, Rahim Khan?” he asked.

“By a rope from the top of the cliff, sahib.”

“Fool! could the enemy see you?”

“Nay, sahib; I was hidden by this hill as I crossed the valley.”

No further reason for delay offering itself, Colonel Keeling turned
his back upon the man and opened the letter. As he drew out the
enclosure his hands shook and his dark face was white. As if by main
force he unfolded the paper and held it before his eyes, which refused
at first to convey any meaning to his mind:--


                                           “Alibad. 1 A.M.

 “Daughter born shortly before midnight; fine healthy child. Mrs
 Keeling doing well.

                                            “J. Tarleton.”



An exclamation of thankfulness broke from the Commandant, and he
brushed something from his eyes before turning again to the
_chaprasi_.

“There will be a hundred rupees for you when I return, Rahim Khan. You
had no message but this?”

“One that the Memsahib’s ayah brought me, from her mistress’s own
lips, sahib. It was this: Say to the Sahib, ‘Is it well with thee, as
it is well with me?’”

“Then say this to the ayah: Tell the Memsahib, ‘It is well with me,
since it is well with thee.’ Stay,” he wrote hastily on the back of
the doctor’s note two or three lines from what Penelope always told
him was the only one of Tennyson’s poems he could appreciate:--

  “‘Thy face across his fancy comes,
   And gives the battle to his hands.’
  ...
  ‘Like fire he meets the foe,
   And strikes him dead for thine and thee.’”

“If you deliver that safely, it will mean another hundred rupees,” he
said, giving the note to the _chaprasi_ with a smile. “You had better
be off at once. It will be pretty hot here presently.”

The man still lingered. “Is there going to be a battle, sahib?” he
asked.

“Doesn’t it look like it?” Bullets were flying round Colonel Keeling
as he spoke, and he laughed again.

“You are certain you are just going into battle, sahib?”

“Certain; but I am not asking you to go into it with me. Get out of
the way of the bullets as fast as you like.”

Rahim Khan retired, but with dragging steps, and made his way slowly
to Sir Dugald, who was in charge of the gun. To him he gave a second
note, which he took from his turban. Sir Dugald tore it open, and for
the moment his heart stood still, for he thought it referred to his
own wife; but on turning it over he saw that it also was addressed to
Colonel Keeling.


                                                           “2 A.M.

 “Symptoms less satisfactory. If you could ride over, it might be as
 well. I don’t say it is necessary, but it would please Mrs Keeling.

                                                     J. Tarleton.”


“How dare you give me this, when it is meant for the Colonel Sahib?”
demanded Sir Dugald.

“I must have given the wrong _chit_, sahib,” and a third note was
produced, this time addressed unmistakably to Sir Dugald.


 “Dear Haigh,--I am not at all satisfied about Mrs Keeling, and she
 knows it, but is most anxious that her husband’s mind should not be
 disturbed. I have had to give her my word of honour that if a battle
 is imminent he shall hear nothing until it is quite over, and the only
 way of managing this that I can see is to ask you to take charge of
 the second chit I have given Reheem Khaun, and hand it to Keeling at
 the proper time. Lady Haigh has been my right hand, and has stood the
 strain well. She is now resting for an hour or two.

                                                     J. Tarleton.”

“If the Karnal (Colonel) Sahib found that the dust of his feet had
hidden the _chit_ from him, he would be very angry,” murmured the
apologetic voice of Rahim Khan, “but seeing it is Haigh Sahib who does
it, his wrath will be appeased.”

“I see. You want to shift the responsibility from your shoulders to
mine. Well, be off!” said Sir Dugald, with an uneasy laugh. He could
scarcely meet Colonel Keeling’s eye when he hurried down to him a
minute or two later, brimful of his good news, and anxious to be
assured that Lady Haigh also was going on well; and he was grateful to
Gobind Chand for choosing this juncture to launch a detachment of his
men at the steepest, and therefore least defended, side of the hill.

“Now is our time!” cried Colonel Keeling, hurrying away. “You can fire
the signal-shot, Haigh.”

The gun boomed forth, and the shot fell in the very opening of the
valley, causing the rest of Gobind Chand’s men to rush forward, in the
belief that they would be safer within the range of fire than at its
limit, an idea which seemed to be justified by the fact that Sir
Dugald left the gun as it was, instead of depressing the muzzle to
cover the enemy actually in the valley. But as the besiegers, much
encouraged, rushed forward with shouts to scale the hill, there came a
sharp rattle of musketry from the cliffs which commanded it on both
sides. The dark uniform of the Khemistan Horse showed itself against
the grey and yellow of the rocks, and Porter on one side and Harris on
the other became clearly visible as they ran along the ranks pushing
down the muzzles of the carbines, and adjuring the men to fire low for
fear of hitting the Colonel’s party. Then also the defenders of the
hill, who had been lying hidden among the rocks, started up and poured
their fire into the disorderly ranks of the besiegers, so that only
one or two daring spirits survived to reach the summit and provoke a
hand-to-hand fight with tulwars. Outwitted, and conscious that they,
and not their opponents, were in a trap, Gobind Chand’s force
remembered only that there was still a way of escape; and the wave
which had surged three times halfway up the hill retreated sullenly,
then broke in wild confusion, and rushed for the opening of the
valley. But Sir Dugald was ready for them. His gun dropped shot after
shot in the narrowest part of the passage, until a barrier of dead and
dying barred those behind from attempting the deadly rush, and when
the boldest had been able to persuade their more timid comrades, who
stood huddled in a terrified mass, to make one last united effort to
burst through, they found themselves confronted by a force composed of
every alternate man of Porter and Harris’s commands. The heights were
still occupied, the defenders of the hill had deployed and were
advancing on them from behind, in front were stern faces and levelled
carbines. There were no Ghazis with Gobind Chand, and the bulk of his
followers were not particularly heroic by nature. They knew that their
leader was wounded, and they threw down their arms and yelled for
quarter. A narrow pathway was cleared beside the ghastly heap in the
entrance of the valley, and they were made to step out man by man, and
carefully searched, for notwithstanding their losses, they were still
more than thrice as numerous as Colonel Keeling’s force. There was no
question of letting them go, for this would have meant for them either
a slow death by hunger or a swift one at the hands of the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal; they were to be planted out, under strict
supervision, in small colonies in different parts of Upper Khemistan,
and they rather welcomed the prospect than otherwise.

It was long before the prisoners were all disarmed, their spoil
collected, a meal provided for them, and the different bands set on
the march, duly guarded, for their various destinations; and not until
then did Sir Dugald venture to give Colonel Keeling the letter which
was burning in his pocket. He saw the sudden fury in the Commandant’s
eyes as he realised the truth, and braced himself to meet it.

“You--you dared to keep this from me all these hours?”

“It was her wish. She made Tarleton promise.”

Colonel Keeling turned and shouted for his horse. “I will never
forgive you if anything goes wrong!” He flung the words at Sir Dugald
as he mounted, then clattered furiously down the rocky track, followed
by his orderlies. One of them fell from his saddle exhausted before
half the distance was covered, the horse of the other broke down when
Alibad was barely in sight; but about sunset a desperate man rode a
black horse white with foam at breakneck speed through the streets,
and reined up precipitately in the compound of Government House. The
servants, gathered in whispering groups, fell away from him as he
sprang up the steps, but the old _khansaman_ ventured to speak as he
saw his master pause to unbuckle the sword which clanked behind him.

“It is not necessary, sahib,” he murmured humbly; but Colonel Keeling
looked straight through him, laid the sword noiselessly on a chair,
and went on, to be met by Dr Tarleton, who caught him by the arm.

“Keeling, wait! There were bad symptoms, you know----”

His friend brushed him aside as if he had been a feather, stepped past
the weeping ayah, who threw herself on her knees before him and tried
to sob out something, swept back the curtain from the doorway and
crossed the room at a stride, then fell as one dead beside the dead
form of his wife, in whose hand was still clenched the note he had
scribbled on the battlefield.

There he remained for hours, his arms outstretched across the bed, no
one venturing to disturb him, until Lady Haigh, her eyes bright with
fever, tottered into the room, and laid a hot hand on his shoulder.

“Come!” she said. “Colonel Keeling, you must. She would have wished
it. You must change your clothes and have something to eat, and then
you must see the baby--Penelope’s baby.”

She could hardly bring her trembling lips to utter the name, but it
disarmed the angry protest she had read in his face. The child which
had cost Penelope’s life! how could he regard it with anything but
aversion? but how she had loved to think of it, planned for it, worked
for it! He turned to Lady Haigh.

“I will see the--the child at once, if you please, that you may feel
more at ease. Then Tarleton must take you in hand. Haigh must not be
left alone, as I am.”

The ayah stood in the doorway, with a curiously wrapped-up bundle in
her arms. Lady Haigh took it from her, and started in surprise, for on
the child’s forehead was a large black smudge, something in the shape
of a cross.

“Who did this?” she asked sharply. “Please take her, Colonel Keeling.
My arms are so weak.”

“My Memsahib did it herself,” whimpered the ayah sullenly, with a
frightened glance towards the bed.

“Nonsense, Dulya! Make her say what it is,” she appealed to Colonel
Keeling.

“Speak!” he said, in the tone which no native ever disobeyed.

“It was shortly before the--the end, sahib, and Haigh Sahib’s Mem had
swooned, so that the Doctor Sahib was busy with her, and my Memsahib,
who had the _baba_ lying beside her, asked me for water. Then I
brought it, and she made that mark which the Sahib sees, on the
_baba’s_ forehead, and uttered a spell in the language of the Sahibs,
saying ‘Jājia! Jājia!’ very loud. Then I saw that she was making a
charm to avert the evil eye from the _baba_, but that her soul was
even then departing, so that she used water instead of something that
could be seen. Therefore, when she was dead, I made the mark afresh
with lamp-black, saying ‘Jājia! Jājia!’ as my Memsahib had done,
that her wish might be fulfilled. But the English words I knew not.
Perhaps the Sahib can say them?” she added anxiously.

“What can it mean?” asked Lady Haigh, who had dropped into a chair.

“She was baptising her,” said Colonel Keeling simply. “Poor little
Georgia--Penelope’s baby!”

“Surely she must have meant Georgiana or Georgina?” suggested Lady
Haigh, delighted to see him interested in the child.

“No, it was a fancy of hers, she told me so once. She wanted to name
it after me, but she didn’t wish people to think my name was George.”
He spoke with a laugh which was more like a sob.

“I know. She had a dislike to the name.” Lady Haigh knew well why this
was. “She would never even call you St George, I noticed.”

He bent over the child to hide the working of his face, and kissed its
forehead. “It’s not even like her,” he said, as he gave it back to
Lady Haigh.

“No; she was so pleased it was like you. Colonel Keeling, don’t steel
your heart against the poor little thing! Think how Penelope loved it.
I know she hoped it would comfort you.”

“Nothing can comfort me,” he answered; then added quickly, “Lady
Haigh, do me one more kindness. Keep the servants, Tarleton, every
one--away from me to-night. They will want to take her away from me in
the morning, I know. I must stay beside her to-night.”

The strong man’s humble entreaty touched Lady Haigh inexpressibly. She
offered no further remonstrance, but signed to the ayah to depart, and
drawing the curtain behind her, left him alone with his dead. She gave
the servants their orders, which they obeyed thankfully enough,
induced even Dr Tarleton to retire, sorely against his will, to his
own quarters, and crept wearily into her _palki_ to go home. She had
risen from her sick-bed to return to the house of mourning, drawn
thither by a horrified whisper from her own ayah to the effect that
“the Karnal Sahib had fallen dead on beholding the body of the
Memsahib,” and she knew that she would pay dearly for the imprudence.
But unutterable pity for the desolate man and the motherless child
quenched all thought of self.

Silence reigned throughout the great house, whence the servants had
departed to their quarters. Even the watchman had been forbidden to
occupy his accustomed post on the verandah, and in the absence of the
regiment and the general disorganisation, no one had thought of
posting any sentries about the compound. The sounds in the town died
out by degrees, until only the occasional distant howl of a jackal
broke the stillness. Colonel Keeling did not hear it, any more than he
did a stealthy footfall which crossed the compound. The old
_khansaman_, crouching, contrary to orders, in a corner of the side
verandah, heard the step, and covered his head in an agony of terror.
Was not the Sahib seeking to recall the Memsahib’s soul to her body?
and was it not returning? But Colonel Keeling heard nothing, until the
curtain was drawn aside by a hasty hand, and a man stood in the
doorway looking at him, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
For a moment both men gazed at each other, then a change passed over
Colonel Keeling’s face which was terrible to see. Deliberately he drew
the sheet over his wife’s face, then crossed the room and hurled
himself upon the intruder.

“You--you!” he snarled, forcing him back into the hall. “Was there no
grave in Gamara deep enough to hide your shame that you must bring it
back here?”

The other man struggled in his grasp a moment, then, realising that
his adversary was endowed with a mad strength before which his efforts
were like those of a child, submitted to be forced down upon the
floor. Colonel Keeling stooped over him with murder in his eyes.

“What have you to say before I kill you as you deserve--traitor,
renegade, _Judas_?” he hissed.

“Nothing--except to thank you for saving me the job,” was the reply,
spoken with difficulty, for a hand was on the prostrate man’s throat.
The grip was loosed, and Colonel Keeling rose to his feet and stood
glaring at him, his fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re right. The job is not one I care for. You can go, and relieve
the earth of your presence yourself.”

“Don’t be afraid. Life is not so delightful as to make me cling to it.
Yes; I’m down. Kick me again if you like.”

“Go, while I can keep my hands off you, will you?”

“Tell me where to find Colin Ross, and I will. He’s not at his old
quarters, and I don’t think he would turn his back--even on me.”

“You miserable hypocrite! At his old quarters? when you stood by to
see him martyred in the palace square at Gamara! Don’t try to throw
dust in my eyes. I know the whole story.”

But the man sat up with a look of genuine horror. “On my honour,
Keeling--good God! what can I swear by to make you believe me?--I know
nothing of this. Tell me what you mean. When did it happen?”

“Less than a year after you disappeared. Colin went to find
you--rescue you----” In spite of himself, Colonel Keeling was moved by
the terror on the man’s face. “He was denounced by your friend Mirza
Fazl-ul-Hacq, imprisoned and tortured, then beheaded because he would
not turn Mussulman and enter the Khan’s army. You were present, in
command of the troops. You saw it all.”

“That was not Colin. That was Whybrow. Now I know what you mean.”

“Whybrow--whom you went to save?”

“And did not. Yes. But where is Colin?” he broke out fiercely. “You
say he arrived at Gamara, was imprisoned--you know this? It is not
merely a rumour of Whybrow’s fate? Then he must be there now--in the
dungeon where I saw Whybrow----” his voice fell.

“No, no, he could not have lived so long--if all they say is true.”

“How do you know what a man can bear and live? You despise me, and
abuse me, but you have never had the choice given you between Islam
and being eaten alive by rats in an infernal hole underground. That is
where Colin is--and that’s what Fazl-ul-Hacq meant when he was dying.
There was some order he wished to give, and did not want me to hear,
but he couldn’t get it out--curse him! If Colin had died or been
killed, I should have heard of it. And that is where I shall be if I
can live to get back there.”

“You mean to save him?” Colonel Keeling’s voice had taken a different
tone.

“There is no saving any one from the dungeons of Gamara. But I can die
with him. Was there no one”--with sudden fierceness--“who had common
humanity enough to put that fellow in irons, or send him home as a
lunatic, instead of letting him come after me? He was bound to be a
martyr, but to let him rush upon his death in that--that way!”

He stopped in shuddering disgust, then laughed wildly.

“And how has the world gone with you, Keeling? Got your promotion, I
see, but not exempt from trouble any more than the rest of us! But
what mild, milk-and-water, bread-and-butter lives you lead down here!
You should come to Gamara to see what primitive human passions are
like.”

“Will you go?” asked Colonel Keeling, putting a strong constraint upon
himself.

“You might let me have a word or two with the only Englishman I shall
see till Colin and I meet among the rats in the well! Any messages for
Colin? I suppose Penelope has forgotten us both long ago?”

“If you mention her name again I will kill you.” Colonel Keeling’s
grip was on his throat once more. “She is lying there dead--dead, do
you hear? and all the trouble in her life was due to you. Go!” and he
released him with a thrust which sent him reeling against one of the
pillars of the hall. But the shock seemed to have calmed him.

“Dead--just now? She married you, then? I found all the place
deserted--I didn’t know. Sometimes I think my mind is going. If you
knew what my life has been in that hell----! Forgive me, Keeling. I am
going. Wish me good luck!”

“God help you!” said Colonel Keeling fervently.




 CHAPTER XXVII.
 AFTER TOIL--TOIL STILL.

Nearly three years after Penelope’s death, Sir Dugald rode into
Alibad as a stranger. The long illness which followed on Lady Haigh’s
exertions on behalf of her friend so exhausted her strength that she
was ordered a voyage to the Cape as the only hope of saving her life,
and despite her frantic protests, her husband applied for two years’
leave and took her there, much as an unrelenting warder might convey a
reluctant prisoner to his doom. He was rewarded by an opportunity of
seeing service in one of the perennial Kaffir Wars of the period as
galloper to the general commanding, which served also to mitigate his
disappointment at being absent when a little war, outside the borders
of Khemistan, gave to Colonel Keeling the local rank of
Brigadier-General, and to the Khemistan Horse the chance of
distinguishing themselves beyond the bounds of their own district. Mr
Crayne had retired, and his successor proved to be that rare being, a
civilian who could make himself liked and trusted by his military
subordinates--one, moreover, who knew and appreciated the work which
had been done on the Khemistan frontier, and was anxious for its
continuance. The development of the resources of the country, at which
Major Keeling had so long laboured single-handed, was now pressed
forward in every possible way; and Sir Dugald, as he rode, noted the
handsome bazars which had replaced some, at least, of the old rows of
mud huts, and the growth of the cantonments, which testified to an
increase in the European population. The trees which he had seen
planted were now full grown, the public gardens were worthy of their
name, and there was nothing warlike in the aspect of the
weather-beaten old fort, which seemed as if the passage of years would
reduce it by slow degrees to a heap of mud grown over with bushes.

Fronting the fort, but almost hidden by the trees with which it was
surrounded, stood General Keeling’s house, and Sir Dugald rode into
the compound, to be saluted with evident pleasure by several of the
servants, who came to ask after the Memsahib. As he entered the
well-known office, he had a momentary glimpse of a grey-haired man in
shirt-sleeves, writing as if for dear life, and then General Keeling
jumped up and welcomed him joyfully.

“How are you, Haigh? Delighted to see you, but never thought of
expecting you till to-morrow. You haven’t dragged Lady Haigh
up-country at this pace, I hope?”

“No, sir; I left her at the river. The fact is, Mr Pater wants me to
go on with the steamer.”

“And not come here at all? Why, man, your house is all ready for you.”
The bright look of welcome had gone from General Keeling’s face,
leaving it painfully old and worn. “But I know what it is. King
John”--alluding to the imperious ruler of a neighbouring
province--“wants more men.”

“He does, and he asks specially for gunners. It’s by no wish of mine,
General; but the Commissioner is anxious to send every man we can
spare. The news doesn’t improve.”

“No, of course not. How could it? Haven’t I been telling them for
thirty years that we should have to reconquer India if they didn’t
mend their ways, and they only called me croaker and prophet of evil?
Well, time brings about its revenges. For the last ten years John
would cheerfully have seen me hanged on the nearest tree of my own
planting, and now he steals my officers to keep his province quiet.
Go, Haigh, certainly; and every man I can spare shall go, as Pater
says. We have got lazy and luxurious up here of late. It’ll do some of
these youngsters good to go back to the old days, when a man’s life
and the fate of the province depended on his eye and his sword. Not
but that I have a fine set of young fellows just now. They all want to
come up here--flattering, isn’t it?--and I have to thin ’em out.” He
laughed, and so did Sir Dugald, who had heard strange tales of the
General’s methods of weeding out the recruits who offered themselves
to him. “But how long can you stay, Haigh? Only to-night? Oh,
nonsense! Where are your things?”

“I left them at Porter’s, sir.”

“How dare you? I’ll have them fetched away at once. Send a _chit_ to
Porter, and say I’ll break him if he tries to detain them. But tell
him to come to dinner, and we’ll have Tarleton and Harris and Jones,
and yarn about the old times--all of us that are left of the old lot.”

He broke off with an involuntary sigh, and Sir Dugald wrote his note.
Presently General Keeling turned to him with a twinkle in his eye.
“Don’t tell Lady Haigh on any account, but I can’t help feeling
relieved that she isn’t coming up just yet. I know she’ll want to give
me good advice about my little Missy there, and Tarleton and I are so
sinfully proud of the way we have brought her up that we won’t stand
any advice on the subject.”

Surprised, Sir Dugald followed the direction of his eyes, to see in a
corner, almost hidden by a huge despatch-box, a small girl with a
curious pink-and-white frock and a shock of dark hair.

“She would play there quietly all day, never coming out unless I call
her,” said General Keeling. “If she isn’t with me, she’s with
Tarleton, watching him at his work. He gives her an old
medicine-bottle or two, and some sand and water, and she’s as happy as
possible, pretending to make up pills and mixtures. Or she begs a bit
of paper from me, and writes for ever so long, and brings it to me to
be sealed up in an official envelope--making up returns, you see.
Missy,” raising his voice, “come here and speak to Captain Haigh. He
held you in his arms when you were only two or three days old, and you
have often heard about him in your Godmamma’s letters.”

The child obeyed at once, disclosing the fact that her embroidered
muslin frock (which Sir Dugald had a vague recollection had been sent
her by his wife) had been lengthened and adorned by the tailor at his
own discretion by the addition of three flounces of common pink
English print. She held out a little brown hand to the stranger in
silence.

“Does us credit, doesn’t she?” asked her father, smoothing back the
elf-locks from her forehead. Sir Dugald’s domestic instincts were in
revolt at the idea of the child’s being brought up by two men, without
a woman at hand even to give advice; but there was such anxiety in
General Keeling’s voice that he crushed down his feelings and ventured
on the remark that Missy was a very fine girl for her age.

“We are not very successful with her hair,” the father went on. “The
ayah tries to curl it, but either Missy is too restless, or Dulya
doesn’t know quite the right way to set about it. It never looks
smooth and shiny like children’s hair in pictures.”

Sir Dugald wisely waived the question, feeling that he was not an
authority on the subject. “Can she--isn’t she--er--old enough to
talk?” he asked, with becoming diffidence.

“Talk! you should hear her chattering to Tarleton and me, or to her
favourites in the regiment. But she doesn’t wear her heart upon her
sleeve with strangers. If she takes a liking to you, it’ll be
different presently.”

“Do you let her run about among the men?”

“She runs nowhere out of my sight or Tarleton’s or Dulya’s. But the
whole regiment are her humble slaves, and the man she deigns to favour
is set up for life, in his own opinion. What would happen if she took
a dislike to a man I don’t know, but I hardly think his skin would be
safe. Commendation from me is nothing compared with the honour
conferred by the Missy Baba when she allows a stiff-necked old
Ressaldar to take her up in his arms, and is good enough to pull his
beard.”

“She is absurdly like you, General,” said Sir Dugald, disapproval of
what he had just heard making itself felt in his tone, in spite of
himself, while Missy rubbed her rough head against her father’s sleeve
like a young colt.

“Horribly like me,” returned General Keeling emphatically. “Run away
and play, Missy. I can scarcely see a trace of her mother in her,” he
went on, with something of apology in his voice. “You know what my
wife was--that she couldn’t bear me out of her sight. I changed the
arrangement of this room, you remember, because she liked to be able
to see me through the open doors from where she sat, so that I could
look up and nod to her now and then. But Missy is almost like a doll,
that you can put away when you don’t want it, she’s so quiet in that
corner of hers. No; there is one thing in which she is like her
mother. If you say a hasty word to her, she will go away and break her
heart over it in her corner, instead of flaring up as I should do----”

“Or writing furious letters?” suggested Sir Dugald slily.

General Keeling smiled, but refused to be turned from his own train of
thought. “Haigh,” he said earnestly, “take care of your wife while you
have her. Mine took half my life with her when she went. If you could
imagine for one moment the difference--the awful difference--it makes,
you would go down on your knees and implore your wife’s pardon for
everything you had ever done or said that could possibly have hurt
her, and beg her not to leave you.”

“Oh, we rub along all right,” said Sir Dugald hastily, in mortal fear
that the Chief was going to be sentimental. “Elma takes everything in
good part. She understands things almost as well as a man.”

General Keeling smiled again, rather pityingly. Perhaps he had some
idea of the lofty tolerance with which Lady Haigh would have heard the
utterance of this handsome testimony. “My little Missy and I
understand one another better than that,” he said.

“Do you think of taking her home soon?” asked Sir Dugald.

“Not of taking her home. My home is here. I suppose I must send her
home some day--not yet, happily. If there was only her present
happiness and mine to consider, I would never part from her, but dress
her in boy’s clothes and take her about with me wherever I went.”

“Heaven forbid!” said Sir Dugald devoutly.

“Don’t be an old woman, Haigh,” was the crushing rejoinder. “What harm
could come to her where I was--and when the whole regiment would die
before a hair of her head should be touched? But Tarleton thinks it
would tell against the girl when she grew up, and I remember my own
youth too well to subject her to the same sort of thing. No, I shall
get your wife or some other good woman to take her home and hand her
over to her mother’s friend, Miss Marian Arbuthnot. You must have
heard Lady Haigh speak of her? They all studied together at that
College of theirs, and now Miss Arbuthnot has a school or seminary, or
whatever they call it, of her own.”

“Surely her views are very advanced?” Sir Dugald ventured to suggest.

“I am glad they are. I hope they are. If it should turn out, when
Missy grows up, that she has a turn for doctoring, I shall beg Miss
Arbuthnot to cultivate it, if it can be done. There’s a lady doctor in
America, you know, and I hope there’ll be another here.”

Sir Dugald looked the dismay he felt. “So unwomanly--so unbefitting a
lady!” he murmured.

“Do you mean to tell me that her mother’s daughter could be anything
but a perfect lady?”

“Considering that she will have been brought up by Tarleton and
yourself, sir, I should say she would be more likely to turn out a
perfect gentleman,” said Sir Dugald gravely, and General Keeling
laughed aloud.

“Well,” he said, “there’s no need to settle Missy’s future as yet, and
she will choose for herself, of course. After all, my motives are
purely selfish. Do you know that our only trustworthy friend in
Nalapur is that excellent woman, the Moti-ul-Nissa, young Ashraf Ali’s
sister? Well, you remember what a little spitfire she was as a girl,
when you and I saw her. Her friendliness dates entirely from the time
when your wife and mine took refuge at Sheikhgarh, and my wife won the
young lady’s heart by showing her what to do for her sick brother.
Think what a prop it would be to our influence here if there was a
properly trained lady who could win the hearts of other women in the
same way!”

“You want to see Missy a female politician, then?”

“I want to see her able to get at these unfortunate secluded women and
find out what their real views and wishes are. The Moti-ul-Nissa has
about the wisest head in Nalapur, but her wisdom might as well be in
the moon for all I hear of it until after the event. Her brother is
altogether under the influence of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, and the old man
can’t forgive me because I pointed out to him that the same person
could not be head of his sect and Amir of Nalapur. He has had to adopt
the younger brother as his spiritual successor instead of the elder,
and he would like to pay me out; but the Moti-ul-Nissa does all she
can for us. That rascal Hasrat Ali leads her a life. Her children have
died one after the other, and the brute would divorce her if he dared.
The poor woman always sends to inquire after Missy when I am at
Nalapur, and I should like to send her to see her, but I daren’t. You
never know whose agents may be among the crowds of women in those big
zenanas, and I can’t run any risks with Missy. But think what it will
be when she grows up, if she cares enough for the poor creatures to do
what she can to help them!”

“I shall think more of her if she does what she can to help you, sir,”
said Sir Dugald obstinately. “But I suppose this grudge of the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal’s means that there is no hope of a treaty with Nalapur
for the present?”

“None, so far as I can see, which is a bore, just when our authorities
have been wrought up to the proper pitch. Pater will back me at the
right moment, and we can offer the Amir a handsome subsidy if he will
keep the passes open and let caravans pass freely, and allow us to
station a resident at his capital. Of course that means practically
that we guarantee his frontiers, but have power to move troops through
his territory in case of a land invasion; and the increased stability
it would give to his throne would make it well worth his while. The
Sheikh and I are trying to tire each other out; but I mean to have
that treaty if I live long enough, and the Moti-ul-Nissa will throw
her influence on my side. When one has served one’s apprenticeship one
begins to understand the ins and outs of these Asian mysteries.”

“Talking of mysteries,” said Sir Dugald, “have you ever heard anything
more as to Ferrers’ fate after--the night you saw him?”

General Keeling’s face changed. “Strangely enough, I have,” he said;
“but whether the story is true we shall probably never know for
certain. I had it from a Gamari Jew who came to me in secret, and was
divided between fear of his life if it ever became known what he had
done, and anxiety to wring the uttermost _pie_ out of me for his
information. I took down the account from his own lips, and have it
here.” He unlocked a drawer and took out a paper, glanced across at
the corner to make sure that Missy was engrossed in her own affairs,
and leaning towards Sir Dugald, began to read in a low voice:--

“‘I was in the city of Gamara a year ago, when there was much talk
concerning Firoz Khan, the Farangi chief of his Highness’s bodyguard,
who had disappeared. Some said he had been secretly slain, others that
he had been sent on a private errand by his Highness. One day there
was proclamation made throughout the city that two men were to be put
to death in the palace square,--one a Christian, the other one who had
embraced Islam and relapsed into his idolatry. Many desired to see the
sight, and among those that found standing-room in the square was I.
Now when the prisoners were led forth there was much astonishment
among the people, for one of them was Firoz Khan; and those that
looked upon him said that he bore the marks of torture. And the other
was an old man and bent, blind also, and walking with difficulty, who
they said had dwelt in the dungeons for many years. It was noticed
that no offer of life was made to these prisoners, nor were any
questions put to them; moreover, his Highness’s face was black towards
every one on whom his eye lighted. But the prisoners spoke to one
another in English,--which tongue I understand, having studied it in
India,--and the one said, “I am a Christian, and a Christian I die,”
and the other, kissing him upon the forehead, said, “George, we shall
meet in Paradise, in the presence of God,” and turning to the people
he cried, in a voice of extraordinary strength: “Tell the English that
this man, who for his life’s sake gave up Christ, now for Christ’s
sake gives up his life.” And when his voice was heard there fell a
terror on the people, for they said it was a young Farangi that had
long ago disappeared, whom they counted to be inspired of God, and
there arose murmurings, so that his Highness commanded the
executioners to do their duty at once; and the heads of the two men
were struck off with a great sword, and their bodies foully dealt
with, as is the wont in Gamara. I know no more concerning them.’”

General Keeling ceased reading, and his eyes and Sir Dugald’s met. For
a moment neither spoke.

“I suppose there can’t be much doubt that it’s true?” said Sir Dugald
at last.

“None, I should say; but we can’t expect positive proof.”

“It’s a curious thing,” said Sir Dugald, with some hesitation, “but
when I told my wife, on the voyage to the Cape, what you had told me
about Ferrers’ turning up again, she said at once that she believed
poor Ross was alive still. She meant to tell you herself--it didn’t
seem quite the sort of thing to write about--but when she was watching
beside Mrs Keeling the day she died, she saw her smile when they
thought she was insensible, and heard her say quite strongly, ‘They
are all there, my father and mother, and my little sister who
died--all waiting for me, but not Colin. Elma, where is Colin?’ My
wife said something--you know the sort of thing women would say in
answer to a thing of the kind--but when she thought it over, it
occurred to her that it must mean Ross was not dead. That again is no
proof, of course, but it’s curious.”

“Very strange,” agreed General Keeling. “Haigh, the more I think of
it, the more I feel certain the Jew’s story was true. What conceivable
motive could the man have for inventing it? He didn’t know that I had
any particular interest in the poor fellows. Poor fellows! it’s
blasphemy to call them that. Colin was a true martyr, if ever man was,
and as for Ferrers----”

“Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it,” supplied Sir
Dugald.

“Nothing; but what a miracle it seems that he was able to seize the
chance! I sometimes ask myself whether I could have done what either
of them did--lived out those years of martyrdom like Colin, or gone
back to certain torture and death like Ferrers. We are poor creatures,
Haigh, the best of us, and those of whom we expect least sometimes
shame us by what they do. Well, they have seen the end of it now, I
suppose--‘in Paradise, in the presence of God.’ As for me,” he added
with a half-laugh, as he turned to lock up the paper again, “I’m
afraid I shouldn’t be happy, even in Paradise, if I couldn’t take a
look at the frontier now and then, and make sure it was getting on all
right. Why, Missy, what do you want?”

The little girl had crept up to them as they talked, and was standing
with something clasped to her breast, looking in wonder at their moved
faces. As her father spoke, she held out shyly to Sir Dugald a large
octagonal tile, covered with a beautiful iridescent glaze, in a
peculiarly delicate shade of turquoise. “For Godmamma,” she said, and
retreated promptly.

“Why, Missy, isn’t that the slab on which you mix your medicines?”
asked her father, capturing her. A nod was the only answer. “It’s one
of her greatest treasures,” he explained to Sir Dugald. “The men find
them sometimes in the ruined forts round here, but it’s very seldom
they come on one unbroken, and the man who found this one brought it
to her. You really want your Godmamma to have it, Missy?” Another nod.
“Well, Haigh, I wouldn’t burden you with it if I didn’t think Lady
Haigh would really like it. These things are thought a good deal of.”

“Certainly I will take it to her,” answered Sir Dugald. “I am sure she
will like it because Missy sent it.”

The response was unexpected, for Missy wriggled away from her father’s
arm, and held up her face to Sir Dugald to be kissed.

“That ought to be gratifying,” said General Keeling, laughing. Both
men were perhaps not ungrateful to the child for diverting their
thoughts from the tragedy with which they had been busied.

“Gratifying, sir? It’s better than millions of the brightest diamonds
to be kissed by Miss Georgia Keeling.”

“As fond of Dickens as ever, I see. What should we do without him? But
you and Missy certainly ought to be friends, for she knew all about
Paul Dombey long ago. The doll your wife sent her is called Little
Paul, and drags out a harrowing existence of all kinds of diseases
complicated with gunshot-wounds, according to the cases Tarleton has
in hospital. Sometimes I am cheered by hearing that he ‘ought to pull
through,’ but generally he is following his namesake to an early
grave. But I see your things have come, and you will like to see your
quarters. This visit is a great pleasure, believe me, and I only wish
it was going to be longer.”

There was no further word of regret, but Sir Dugald realised keenly
the disappointment that his friend was feeling. When they were
breakfasting together the next day, just before his departure, he
essayed a word of comfort.

“If things get much worse, General, we shall have you fetched down
with the regiment to help in putting them right.”

General Keeling’s eye kindled, but he shook his head. “No, Haigh, my
work lies up here. It would be too much to ride with the regiment
through a mob of those cowardly, pampered Bengalis--too much luck for
me, I mean. I have made out a list for Pater of the men I can afford
to send on by the next steamer, and I must stay and do their work. I’m
glad you will get your chance at last. John is a just man--like most
of us when our prejudices don’t stand in the way--and his
recommendations will be attended to. His is the show province, not
left out in the cold like poor Khemistan. I only wish you and all the
rest could have got your steps for the work you have done here; but at
least I can keep the frontier quiet while you have the chance of
getting them elsewhere.”



He stood on the verandah a little later, tall and bronzed and
grey-headed, as Sir Dugald rode out at the gate. Beside him Missy,
raised high on the shoulder of Ismail Bakhsh, with one hand clenched
firmly in his beard, waved the other frantically in farewell. Reduced
in numbers, the Advanced-Guard held the frontier still.

 [The End]




 FOOTNOTES.

 [1]
 _Syads_ are descendants of the Khalif Ali by the daughter of Mohammed,
 _Khojas_ his descendants by other wives.




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.

This book is part of the author’s “Modern East” series. The full
series, in order, being:

 The Flag of the Adventurer
 Two Strong Men
 The Advanced-Guard
 His Excellency’s English Governess
 Peace With Honour
 The Warden of the Marches

Alterations to the text:

A few minor punctuation corrections--mostly involving the pairing of
quotation marks.

Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies have been left
as is.

[Title Page]

Add brief note indicating this novel’s position in the series. See
above.

[Footnotes]

Relabel the footnote marker, relocate to end of text, and add entry to
TOC. Note: the author has placed the shorter footnotes in square
brackets inline with the text.

[Chapter XXI]

“to be sweeping over it, Underfoot were the...” change comma to
period.

[Chapter XXII]

Change “I bid the _Mensahibs_ welcome in her name.” to _Memsahibs_.

[Chapter XXIII]

“it was necessary to _rid_ in single file” to _ride_.

[End of Text]