Part 50 (1/2)

”Huzoor!” came the familiar creak, as Tiddu, attracted by the sudden light, stole in from the yard beyond. ”Quick! there is no time to lose. Give me the bundle and go back.”

”Go back!” echoed Jim Douglas amazed.

”Huzoor! take off the Bunjarah's dress. I have a green turban and shawl here. The Huzoor must go back to the mem at once. There is treachery.”

Jim Douglas swore under his breath as he obeyed.

”I know not what, but the mem must not stay there. I heard him boasting before, and just now I caught him prying.”

”Who, Jhungi?”

Even at such a moment Tiddu demurred.

”The Huzoor mistakes. It is the miscreant Bhungi--Jhungi is virtuous----”

”You killed him then?” interrupted the hearer, putting the last touch to his disguise.

”What else could I do, Huzoor? I had only my knife. And it is not as if it were--Jhungi----”

But Jim Douglas was already out of the door, running through the dark, deserted lanes while he dared, since he must walk through the bazaar.

And as he ran he told himself that he was a fool to be so anxious.

What could go wrong in half an hour?

What indeed!

As he stood five minutes after, staring into the dark emptiness of the roof, he asked himself again and again what could have happened? There had been no answer to his knock; the door had been hasped on the outside, yet the first glance as he entered made him realize that the place was empty of life. And though he had lit the cresset, with a fierce fear at what it might reveal, he could find no trace, even of a struggle. Kate had disappeared! Had she gone out? Impossible. Had Tara heard of the danger, returned, and taken her elsewhere? Possible, but improbable. He pa.s.sed rapidly down the stairs again. The story below the roof, being reserved for the owner's use on his occasional visits to Delhi, was empty; the occupants of the second floor, pious folk, had fled from the city a day or two before; and when he paused to inquire on the ground floor to know if there had been any disturbance he found the door padlocked outside--sure sign that everyone was out.

Oh! why, he thought, had he not padlocked that other door upstairs? He pa.s.sed out into the street, beginning to realize that his task was over just as he had ceased to gird at it. There was nothing unusual to be seen. The G.o.dly folk about were beginning to close their gates for the night, and some paused to listen with an outraged air to the thrummings and drummings from the Princess Farkhoonda's roof. And that was Abool Bukr's voice singing:

”Oh, mistress rare, divine!”

Then it could scarcely be he, and Kate might have found friends in that quarter, where so many learned folk deemed the slaughter of women unlawful. But there was no use in speculating. He must find Tara first. He paused, however, to inquire from the cobbler at the corner.

”Disturbance?” echoed the man. Not much more than usual; the Prince, who had pa.s.sed in half an hour agone, being perhaps a bit wilder after his wildgoose-chase. Had not the Agha-sahib heard? The wags of the bazaar had taken up the offer made by the Prince, and his servants had sworn they were glad to get him to the Princess', since they had been whacked out of half a dozen houses. He was safe now, however, since when he was of that humor Newasi Begum never let him go till he was too drunk for mischief.

Then, thought Jim Douglas, it was possible that Jhungi might have given real information; still but one thing was certain--the roof was empty; the dream had vanished into thin air.

He did not know as he pa.s.sed through the dim streets that their dream was over also, and that John Nicholson stood looking down from the Ridge on the shadowy ma.s.s of the town. He had posted in a hundred and twenty miles that day, arriving in time to hear the explosion of the magazine. The city's salute of welcome, as it were, to the man who was to take it.

He had been dining at the Headquarters mess, taciturn and grave, a wet blanket on the jollity, and the Moselle cup, and the fresh cut of cheese from the new Europe shop; and now, when others were calling cheery goodnights as they pa.s.sed to their tents, he was off to wander alone round the walls, measuring them with his keen, kindly eyes. A giant of a man, biting his lips beneath his heavy brown beard, making his way over the rocks, sheltering in the shadow, doggedly, moodily, lost in thought. He was parceling out his world for conquest? settling already where to p.r.i.c.k the bubble.

But, in a way, it was p.r.i.c.ked already. For, as he prowled about the Palace walls, a miserable old man, minus even the solace of pulse-feeling and cooling draughts, was dictating a letter to Hafzan, the woman scribe. A miserable letter, to be sent duly the next day to the Commanders-in-Chief, and forwarded by them to the volunteers of Delhi. A disjointed rambling effusion worthy of the shrunken mind and body which held but a rambling disjointed memory even of the advice given it.

”Have I not done all in my power to please the soldiery?” it ran. ”But it is to be deplored that you have, notwithstanding, shown no concern for my life, no consideration for my old age. The care of my health was in the hands of Ahsan-Oolah, who kept himself constantly informed of the changes it underwent. Now there is none to care for me but G.o.d, while the changes in my health are such as may not be imagined; therefore the soldiers and officers ought to gratify me and release the physician, so that he may come whenever he thinks it necessary to examine my pulse. Furthermore, the property plundered from his house belonged to the King, therefore it should be traced and collected and conveyed to our presence. If you are not disposed to comply, let me be conveyed to the Kutb shrine and employ myself as a sweeper of the Mosque. And if even this be not acceded I will still relinquish every concern and jump up from my seat. Not having been killed by the English I will be killed by you; for I shall swallow a diamond and go to sleep. Moreover, in the plunder of the physician's house, a small box containing our seal was carried away. No paper, therefore, of a date subsequent to the 7th of August, 1857, bearing our seal, will be valid.”

A miserable letter indeed. The dream of sovereignty had come to an end with that salute of welcome to John Nicholson.

BOOK V.