Part 22 (1/2)

Hus.h.!.+ a voice from outside, a reply from the bald-headed watcher within. More questions, more replies, both growing in urgency in appeal. Then a pause and retreating footsteps.

”What is it, Iman Khan?” she questioned dully, as the old man stole over to her and laid his forehead in the dust.

”What this slave has feared, has waited for all the hours,” he whispered, whimperingly. ”They know--Huzoor----” he pointed to the bed.

”Or, at least, they have suspicion that a man is here. And they must search--they will search--or kill. I have sent them to await the Huzoor's decision.”

She stood up, still clasping her babe, the boy slipping, half-asleep, to the ground, and looked round at those other women--those other children who had lost their all. And hers lay here....

”They must come,” she said in a m.u.f.fled voice. Then she bent over her husband. ”Will!” she whispered, bringing him back from confused, half-restful dreams, ”the Sepoys say they must search--or--or kill--them all. We will hide you--if we can.”

If we can! Was it possible, she wondered, feeling dead, dead at heart, as the door opened wide, letting in the sunlight and showing a group of tense womanhood, a bed whereon, huddled up asleep or awake, lay the children deftly disposed to hide all betraying contours.

”Huzoor! salaam!” said the tall _subahdar_, drawing himself up to attention, and the search party of four followed suit.

How long that minute seemed. How interminable the sunlight. Ah! would no one shut out the light, and why did Sonnie move his hand?...

”Huzoor! Salaam!”

Oh! G.o.d in heaven! were they going? Was the door closing? Was the blessed darkness coming?...

It was utter darkness, as, her strength giving way, she fell on her knees beside the bed, burying her face upon her children, her husband.

”Will! Will!” she whispered.

A faint sigh came from the watching women. So Fate had been kind to her--her only....

One who had seen her husband shot down before her very eyes rose slowly, and taking her baby from the bed, moved away, rocking it in her arms almost fiercely. So, in the grim intensity of those first seconds, the sound of further parley at the door escaped them.

Then, in the ensuing pause, old Iman Khan's bald head was in the dust once more, his voice, scarce audible, seemed to fill the room.

”Huzoor! They have seen. He must go forth or they will kill--all.”

The words, half-heard, seemed to rouse the wounded man to his manhood.

He raised himself in bed, he staggered to his feet; so stood, swaying unsteady, yet still a man. ”All right--I'll go--Let me out, quick--quick----”

But someone stood between him and the door. It was Ensign Hector Clive.

His face was pale as death, his hands twitched nervously, but in the semi-darkness his eyes blazed, his chin looked square and set.

”No, sir,” he said quietly, ”this is my chance. Look here! I ran and hid in the pa.s.sage-way when the others--died like men--I couldn't help it--perhaps if they had had the chance I had--but that's nothing!--nothing! I heard--I understand their lingo. They don't know you're here, sir--only a man--let me be a man--for once. It is my chance----”

His eyes sought the Colonel's wife in bitter appeal.

Swift as thought she answered it. Her hand was on her husband's shoulder to hold him back, for she saw in a flash what others might not see--a martyrdom of life, soul warring with frail flesh, for this boy.

”Let him go, Will,” she whispered hoa.r.s.ely. ”As he says, it is his chance.”

There was a faint stir amongst the listeners. The Colonel shook himself free from his wife's detaining hand. The code of conventional honour was his, in all its maddening lack of comprehension.