Part 37 (2/2)

”Ha!” he laughed. ”Here comes Zynool. He's not going to be cowed by the Collector. Now we shall have some fun!”

The Mahomedan was mounted on a huge horse, which Rayner at once recognised as one of his own Australians. It was a powerful animal and stood higher than the Collector's Arab, and was evidently too fresh from want of exercise. It champed at its foam-bespattered bit, and tossed its head, seeming to resent Zynool's tight rein.

”Didn't think a native could have managed Abdul so well!” thought Rayner, as he looked with admiration on the portentous rider, who was made more colossal in size by reason of the padded green coat he had donned in spite of the heat.

He was flanked by a following of his own people. Someone behind him rode the other Australian, and it was evident that neither Zynool nor his party were in a mood to receive any check from the Collector.

Owing to the pressure in front, the riders were forced back, so that quite unexpectedly Rayner found himself in closer proximity to his enemy than he quite relished. He began to push back, trying to disappear round the corner into the street at right angles to the one in which he stood, when a terrified Hindu, seeking to clear a pa.s.sage for himself, all at once thrust him forward, till he almost fell against the Australian horse and its rider.

”Out of my way, you old Hindu sow,” growled Zynool, kicking the supposed ayah.

”Have a care, sahib,” said a more kindly bystander, ”she's only an old ayah. Go home, old woman, this is no place for you!”

Zynool cast a glance on the cowering form, thinking he had done it more injury than he had meant. The light from one of the oil-lamps fell sheer on Rayner's face. In a moment the plethoric voice of the Mahomedan changed to a low, hissing sound.

”Thou! Thou! Trapped, by Allah! This is a prize better than any Hindu!”

For an instant, Rayner gazed on the man he had wronged with terror-stricken eyes, then he made a desperate plunge to strike away.

Zynool saw the movement, and determining his prey should not escape, he urged his horse forward and deliberately set it to trample down his enemy, who fell before the onset and made no attempt to rise.

”Seize him! Seize him!” cried Zynool to the men on foot behind him, though indeed he had already made sure his enemy could not escape. ”It's no ayah, 'tis mine enemy, La'yer Rayner!”

In spite of his disguise, the face of the fugitive was not difficult to recognise, for the heat of the day had partially erased the stain which Hester's fingers had so cleverly applied.

There was, however, one witness of the scene unsuspected by Zynool. The a.s.sistant-Collector's eye had been upon the Mahomedan ever since he appeared in the fray, knowing him to be one of the most dangerous of the agitators, and fearing lest he should approach the Collector. His attention had been attracted some minutes previously by the old ayah in the red saree standing at the street corner; he wondered what she did there at such a time. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw the Mahomedan on his great horse deliberately charge her, knock her down, and ruthlessly trample on her prostrate form.

He did not hesitate a moment. Forcing his way through, he seized the horse's bridle.

”Zynool Sahib, dismount,” he commanded, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. ”I am witness to your felling down that old woman. I put you under arrest.

Dismount, I say.”

To his surprise, Zynool meekly prepared to obey, and with the a.s.sistance of one of his party reached the ground. The man who had been ordered to drag away the unconscious form of the ayah stood riveted to the spot on the appearance of the English sahib.

”I would speak one word,” said Zynool, coming close to Mark Cheveril's ear. ”'Tis no ayah, 'tis La'yer Rayner, a forger, flying from justice in a woman's petticoats. See, sahib, if I speak not the truth!”

Mark felt impelled to draw a step nearer the prostrate form while Zynool stood watching his every movement with a sardonic expression. He bent over the huddled heap in the red saree, and recognised the face of Hester's husband. Almost at the same moment, one of the natives caught sight of the white knees under the disordered draperies and burst into a loud laugh.

”A _feringhi_, by the holy Prophet! Not an ayah at all!”

A dozen voices around echoed in amazement, ”A _feringhi_?” Zynool looked on with silent contempt.

It was a terrible moment for Mark Cheveril, but his presence of mind did not forsake him. He felt the call to be paramount even when so much else was at stake. He raised his voice and shouted: ”Samptor!”

The Jailer heard the call above the discordant yells around him. Fearing that the a.s.sistant was in danger, he forced his way to him, his stalwart limbs standing him in good stead.

<script>