The Flag of the Adventurer, by Sydney C. Grier

“At last!” murmured Eveleen Ambrose with heartfelt relief, gaining the unsteady deck by dint of a frantic clutch at her husband’s arm, and cannoning helplessly against an unfortunate man who happened to be standing near the head of the ladder. “Oh, I beg your pardon!” as he staggered wildly and recovered himself, with a look of mortal offence on his face; “I am so sorry—I——”

“Steady!” said her husband sharply, retrieving her from an unintentional rush across the deck, and setting her up in a corner. “What’s the matter with you—eh?”

“The matter?” Eveleen’s Irish mind was so unhappily constituted that it saw humour where none was visible to others. She began to laugh weakly. “The matter? Oh, nothing at all, of course!”

“I am never hysterical!” indignantly. “But after four days and nights of being tossed about like a cork in that cabin down there, till I know the feel of every inch of the floor and ceiling of it—and hard enough they are, I can tell you!—mayn’t I have your gracious leave to be just a little weeshy bit shaky?”

“Exaggeration is not wit,” he growled. “You have my free leave to feel as you like, provided it don’t make you go about knocking people down.”

Tears—never very far from laughter in Irish eyes—rose rebelliously, and Eveleen turned quickly to gaze at the shore whose first appearance she had hailed with so much joy. There was nothing particularly attractive about the long line of mud-coloured coast backed by low mud-coloured hills, beyond a wide—still horribly wide—waste of tumbling waters; but it was land, blessed solid land! The man against whom she had cannoned spoke suddenly—she had the instant idea that he had been trying to make up his mind whether the circumstances warranted his addressing her without an introduction.

“The fact is, ma’am, ladies have no business in these steamboats. The cabin may have seemed uncommon incommodious to you, but in order that you and your companions might enjoy it, four of the gentlemen on board had no cabin at all.”

“Oh!” in dismay. “But ’twas not for you to tell me that!” she flashed out at him.

“My point precisely, ma’am.” He spoke under difficulties, swaying to and fro and holding fast to the rail. “Khemistan is no place for European females—nor will be for years to come. But when charming ladies take it into their pretty heads to go there, what is poor Hubby to do? ‘My dear, believe me, I can’t take you with me.’ ‘Oh, but you will, won’t you?’ ‘Quite impossible, my dear.’ ‘Ah, but you can do it if you like, I know. And you must.’ And he does—naturally.”

Richard Ambrose chuckled disagreeably, and the colour rose in his wife’s cheeks. “It’s a bachelor y’are, sir, by your own confession,” she said sweetly to the stranger. “No married man would dare to draw such a picture. The best I can wish you is that you may find how true it is!” She meant to end with a little contemptuous curtsey, but the moment she loosed her hold of the shawl over her head, the wind caught it and hurled it full in the stranger’s face. This time he did lose his footing, and went slipping and sliding across the deck till he was brought up by the bulwarks.

“One for you, Crosse!” cried Richard Ambrose loudly, and holding his wife with one hand, secured the loose end of shawl and tucked it in with the other. “Can’t you look after your own fallals?” he demanded. “It ain’t enough to make out that you wanted to come and I couldn’t do without you—eh?”

“I did want to come,” persisted Eveleen stoutly. “And pray would you have me tell people y’are bringing me here for a punishment because you can’t find a keeper in Bombay to look after me?”

“Pray remember you are not a child,” he said—so coldly that she grew red again, and moved as far from him as the necessity of submitting to his protecting arm would allow. But it was difficult to maintain an attitude of dignified displeasure in the circumstances.

“Why, we are anchoring already!” she cried in dismay a moment later. Her husband smiled superior.

“Precisely, my dear. Now you will have an opportunity of experiencing the full pleasure of landing at Bab-us-Sahel. It might be worse, however, for the tide is fairly high.”

Privately Eveleen wondered how low water could possibly make the landing worse, when the passengers and their luggage had been transferred from the rolling steamer to an equally unsteady tug, and thence into large open boats, in which the water seemed terribly near—and actually was, as she discovered on finding the wet mounting higher and higher up her skirts. They were to land at a pier, she knew, which was comforting, but alas! there was another transhipment before reaching it, this time into light canoes, since the boats drew too much water to enter the creek in which it stood. Dazed, shaken, and sea-sick, Eveleen had no pride left. With closed eyes, she leaned her swimming head against her husband’s shoulder as they came into smoother water, and told herself that this misery had lasted so long she would not be surprised if the tide had gone out. What would they do then? she speculated in a detached kind of way—change into some other kind of craft, or paddle up and down and dodge the rollers until the flow?

“There’s Bayard waiting to meet us!” said her husband sharply. She opened one eye weakly, and discerned figures on the pier.

“‘The celebrated Colonel Bayard!’” she quoted in a dreamy whisper, and shut it again.

“Perhaps—the sight of—this sea—makes her—ill. I would not—wonder,” murmured Eveleen.

“Nonsense, my dear! Considering my friendship with Bayard, and the kindness she professed towards you when she heard——”

“Her husband maybe teased her—to come—so she wouldn’t,” and even in her misery Eveleen was conscious of triumph. It was something to have reduced Richard to speechless indignation, were it but for a moment.

“Halloo, Ambrose! Glad to see you, my dear fellow!” The words sounded startlingly near, and looking up quickly, she saw a small stoutish dark-moustached officer hanging perilously on what looked like a ladder just above them. As the canoe rocked this way and that with the motion of the waves, he seemed to be performing the wildest acrobatic feats, as though it were the pier and not the boat that rose and fell. She closed her eyes again hopelessly.

“Your poor wife overcome by all this landing business? I don’t wonder. Lift her up, man. Now, ma’am, give me your hand, and we’ll have you on firm ground in no time.”

The deep commanding voice mastered even her helpless lassitude, and she looked up into the kindest eyes she had ever seen. Her hand was seized in a strong clasp, and somehow—between Richard and Colonel Bayard—she was hoisted up the ladder before she had time to notice with horror how very rickety it was.

“‘Firm ground!’” she said reproachfully when she reached the top, for the pier seemed to be swaying every way at once, and between its sun-warped timbers the water was disconcertingly visible.

“In a moment, in a moment!” said Colonel Bayard soothingly, as though speaking to a child. “I brought my wife’s palanquin for you, but I had not realised how bad the landing would be. Would you prefer to wait here while I have it fetched?”

“Indeed I would not—not here!” said Eveleen with a shudder, and supported by the two men, she stumbled uncertainly along the pier.

“You could answer that better than I, my good fellow, for you must have passed her on your way up from Bombay. I had to send her down by the next steamer after you had started. So end my hopes of making a home up here. Heigh-ho!”

He gave a great sigh, and Eveleen looked up at him sympathetically. Not noticing that they had come to the end of the pier, she stumbled wildly in the loose sand, and fell. The Resident had her up again in a moment.

“My dear lady, forgive me!” he cried, in deep contrition. “I fear Khemistan is giving you a sorry welcome.”

“Ah, but think how I’ll be adoring the place when I fall on my knees at the first sight of it!” she said, laughing feebly, while her husband—in awful silence—did his best to brush the wet sand from her gown.

“That’s the spirit!” said Colonel Bayard approvingly. “Mrs Ambrose is cut out for the frontier, Richard. Now, ma’am!”

He was handing her into the waiting palki, while she looked longingly at the ponies waiting for the two men. If only there were one for her! But Colonel Bayard would probably be scandalised, and Richard certainly would, if she proposed to ride through the town on a man’s saddle, with a stirrup thrown over to serve as pommel.

“The many times I’ve done it at home!” she lamented to herself. “And sure this place might be in Ireland, only that it’s brown instead of green.”

But she settled herself meekly on the cushions, and closed her eyes, that the swaying of the palki might not recall too vividly the motion of the steamer. She was not losing much, she told herself, for the inhabitants of Bab-us-Sahel appeared to live either in mud-heaps or within high mud walls, both windowless, and there was not a tree to be seen. She must have gone to sleep before very long, for she woke with a start when the reed blind was drawn aside, and Colonel Bayard’s face appeared in the doorway—a sepoy guard standing to attention behind him.

“Welcome to Government House, Mrs Ambrose! Let me say as the Spaniards do, ‘This house is yours, ma’am.’ Turn it upside down if you like, and do me the favour of chivying the servants as much as you please. My wife always declares I spoil ’em when she ain’t with me.”

“Ah, but tell me now—will you let me ride your horses?” demanded Eveleen, pausing as he helped her out. The mud-built town was below them now, for they were at the top of a long slope. An immensely wide road with ostentatiously white houses on either side, so rigidly spaced that they looked like tents in a camp, led down to a muddy swamp, and by a causeway across it to the mud-heap which was Bab-us-Sahel. Some attempt had been made by most of the householders to enclose their domains with a hedge, but the only available plant seemed to be a weak and straggly kind of cactus, which left more gaps than it filled. Government House was mud-built and white-washed like the rest, long and narrow and surrounded by verandahs, and boasted an imposing flagstaff in front, together with a circular enclosure, intended as a flower-bed, in which grew a few debilitated shrubs. Glaring sunshine and shadeless sand were the salient features of the scene from which Eveleen withdrew her eyes as she looked up at her host.

“With all my heart, if I had any,” he responded genially. “But I’ll confess I am a precious lazy fellow when there’s no hunting in question. Bring me khubber of a tiger, and I’ll ride all day and all night to get at him, but here——! My dear ma’am, this respectable elderly gentleman”—he indicated the pony from which he had just dismounted—“represents my whole stable, and you can see by his figure that he don’t get much to do.”

“And such a galloping country!” Deep commiseration was in Eveleen’s tone as she looked down the other side of the rise to the bare rolling sandy plain. “I’ll have to wait till my own horses are landed, then, before challenging you to a race.”

“Mrs Ambrose is going to wake us all up, I see, Richard!” Colonel Bayard beamed as he handed her into the house. He had to perfection the gift of doing little things greatly, and Queen Victoria herself could not have been ushered in with more empressement. “Now if anything is not as you like it, ma’am, command me and all I have, I beg of you. You won’t feel bound to show yourself at table if you ain’t equal to it? Ambrose and I will devour our grub in solitude, like a pair of uncivilised bachelors again.”

“As if I’d allow that! Sure I’ll be there!” and Eveleen nodded brightly as she disappeared under the curtain that hung before the doorway of her room. Her mercurial spirits were recovering fast from the gloom of the voyage. Everything was interesting, and therefore cheerful—the new country, the unfamiliar house, this dear chivalrous Colonel Bayard. What a shame it was that his wife had let herself be sent away! “Sure I’d have stuck to him with teeth and claws!” she said to herself, and broke into her ready laughter at the thought of the inconvenience of such a devotion to its object.

Several hours of healthy slumber left Eveleen almost restored to her usual self, though still a little languid and pale. Her luggage had arrived while she slept, and also her ayah, who was much less welcome. Ketty was an elderly Goanese woman of vast experience and monumental propriety, and Eveleen suspected that Richard Ambrose had chosen her out to keep his erratic wife in order. Her last mistress had been the lady of a Member of Council, and what Ketty did not know of the manners and customs proper to ladies in high places was not worth knowing. Mutely, but firmly, she indicated on all occasions what ought to be worn, and also the appropriate style of hair-dressing, quite regardless of the wishes of her Madam Sahib—the very word showed in what high society she had moved, for in all but very lofty households the English lady was still alluded to as the Beebee. But to-day Eveleen’s reviving spirits led her to trample ruthlessly on Ketty. The ayah had laid out a white gown, and it was summarily rejected. Eveleen had all the Irishwoman’s love of easy old clothes, and in the open trunk she caught sight of a beloved garment that had once been a rather bright blue, but was now faded to a soft dull shade, the proximity of which only a milky skin and Irish blue eyes could endure with impunity. That dress she would wear and no other.

“A stiff starchy thing like that white brilliant!” she was talking to herself again, as she often did, since Ketty’s lack of response tried her sorely after the companionable garrulity of Irish servants. “No, I’ll be comfortable to-night—haven’t I earned it? Sure I’d be a regular ghost in white, and why would I want to haunt poor Colonel Bayard’s house before I’m dead?” Then severely, “Ayah, I said the blue. So that’s done!” triumphantly. “And now what to wear with it? I know what I’d like,” turning over the trinkets which Ketty, with an aloof and reserved air—as of one who refused all responsibility for such doings—laid before her, “and that’s you, you beauty. Isn’t it a real match for my eyes y’are, as Uncle Tom said when he gave you to me?” She took up a disc of flawed turquoise, some two inches across, set in silver and hanging from a steel chain, and looked at it affectionately, but put it down again. “No, Ambrose would have too much to say about my childish taste for ‘something large and smooth and round,’ and why would I provoke him when I needn’t? So we’ll be quite proper and suitable, and wear his bracelet with his hair and his portrait in it. Ah, my dear, what has happened you that you’d be so changed since you gave me that?” This was added in a painful whisper, but in a moment Eveleen had brushed the tears hastily from her eyes and turned to the door, accepting impatiently the handkerchief with which Ketty hurried after her.

Colonel Bayard was the prince of hosts. He told Eveleen that were he only a younger man, he would have a dozen duels on his hands the next morning for depriving the rest of the European community, if only for one day, of the honour of meeting her at supper—and all owing to his thinking she might be fatigued, which he saw now was quite unnecessary. Perhaps the voyage had been better than he feared. It could have been worse, she assured him, and described its horrors dramatically for his amusement and sympathy.

“And there was a cross officer—oh, and his name was Crosse!” she laughed delightedly—“said that ladies had no business on board ship. There’s a nasty wretch for you!”

“Poor Crosse was uncommonly riled—had no cabin all the voyage,” explained her husband. “But he got precious little compassion from Mrs Ambrose.”

“And he deserved none—did he, ma’am?” said Colonel Bayard heartily. “Now I know why Crosse chose to go on at once and catch the steamer starting for Qadirabad to-morrow evening. He was afraid he’d be hooted out of decent society if it was known he had said such an atrocious thing. But talking of steamers, Mrs Ambrose, don’t use up all your adjectives too soon, or you’ll have none left for the river craft, and the Bombay boats are palaces to ’em!” Precise people still talked about “steamboats” in the early ’forties, but the word steamer had established itself in familiar use, and Eveleen took it up promptly.

“But what I want to know is, why wouldn’t you have better steamers, if that’s your only way of getting about?” she demanded. “And tell me, why wouldn’t you have a better landing-place here?”

“Why should we?” Colonel Bayard bristled up unaccountably. “The place ain’t ours.”

“Not a bit of it. It’s entirely our own fault that we are here, and if we set to work to improve the place, the people to whom it belongs would suspect us of wanting to land more troops and take possession of it—most naturally, in my opinion. Therefore I won’t have it touched. It’s the same with the steamers. The people here don’t want ’em—don’t share our craze for getting about quickly—and the landowners swear the wash damages the river banks.”

“That old codger Gul Ali Khan making bobbery about his shikargah again?” asked Richard Ambrose sympathetically, and thereafter the talk became local and technical in the extreme, while Eveleen listened fascinated. This was what she loved—and her husband would never talk to her about his work, and was chary of affording information even when she asked for it. Now he forgot her intrusive presence, and talked simply and naturally, while she sat with her head a little on one side and drank in admiringly what he said.

Presently they were speaking of public affairs, and of the Governor-General’s tardy permission to the punitive expedition against Ethiopia to take—at its commander’s pleasure and on his responsibility—a return route which might serve to bring home the abiding nature of British power to a people hugging delicious memories of a disaster which had shaken the white man’s prestige throughout Asia.

“They were saying at Bombay that Lord Maryport consulted old Lennox before he consented—or at any rate that Lennox had given him the advice,” said Richard.

“Much more likely!” said Colonel Bayard quickly. “Well, he will always have that to his credit, at any rate—that we were not left to be the laughing-stock of the East. Oh, I have nothing against the old fellow, provided he stays down where he is, and don’t come meddling up here.”

“But don’t you like Sir Harry Lennox, Colonel Bayard?” asked Eveleen—her tone suggesting that she did.

“Don’t I say I have nothing against him, my dear lady? But there’s no earthly reason for the Bombay C.-in-C. to come poking about in Khemistan. It ain’t his to poke about in, for one thing.”

“That little difficulty wouldn’t stop him,” said Ambrose drily. “You should hear the Bombay people talk. He’s fluttering their dovecots for ’em, and no mistake.”

“Oh, well, we all know there are plenty of dark corners that want sweeping out, and he’s welcome to do it. Did you get a sight of him when you were down there?”

“He happened to be in the town, so I went to pay my respects. The queerest old ruffian you ever saw—black as a nigger, with a beak like any old Jew in the bazar, and whiskers streaming every way at once.”

“It’s to hide the scar he got at Busaco he wears them long,” broke in Eveleen indignantly. “He has been severely wounded seven times—it’s covered with scars he is entirely.”

“And would feel himself amply repaid if he knew Mrs Ambrose kept count of ’em, I’ll be bound,” said Colonel Bayard gallantly. “Is the old General a friend of yours, ma’am?”

“He is, indeed. At least, I met him when I was at Mahabuleshwar, and he was very kind. He might have been an Irishman.”

“Really? Well, they say that, thanks to being born in Ireland, he has all the Irish vices without a drop of Irish blood in his veins.”

“Mrs Ambrose is Irish—you may not be aware——” broke in Major Ambrose hastily.

“My dear lady, forgive me!” Colonel Bayard’s gesture of contrition would have disarmed a heart of stone. “What have I said—anything to wound——?”

“Not a bit of it!” Eveleen flashed back at him. “We are not wild Irish, don’t you know—the tame kind. We were always taught to behave nicely and try to be English.”

“Mrs Ambrose would jest on her deathbed, I believe,” said her husband, rather uncomfortably.

“Absit omen!” Colonel Bayard looked quickly at Eveleen to see whether the words had hurt her, but she smiled back with twinkling eyes.

“Now you see what Ambrose is in private life—always talking about deathbeds and the poorhouse and cheerful things of that sort. There! I’ve forgotten again. The poorhouse is a solemn subject, and not to be mentioned in the same breath with a joke.”

She glanced with mock apology at her husband, but there was a touch of defiance in the tone, and Colonel Bayard hastened to smooth matters over. “Well, ma’am, I have forgot what it was I said—though I’m sure you remember it—but you’ll oblige me by considering it unsaid. I’ll swear Sir Harry Lennox is the greatest hero since Achilles if that will please you—provided he keeps away from Khemistan.”

“Ah, but why?” with poignant reproach. “If he comes, he’ll be bringing Brian with him—my brother.”

“My dear, what nonsense are you talking?” interjected her husband. She drew back a little.

“It was nonsense, of course. Why would he come at all? But if he did come—why, Sir Harry loves his Irishmen, as everybody knows.”

“Still I hope he won’t bring ’em here. We want no more British troops in Khemistan, Mrs Ambrose. When we came here three years ago it was doing one injustice in order to do another. We wanted to use Khemistan as a stepping-stone to get at Ethiopia, and when we had done it we refused to go away. We forced a treaty upon the Khans, and we kept this place. Do you wonder that the sight of more redcoats would convince ’em that we meant to take the whole country?”

“I’m crushed! I’m crushed!” she held up her hands suppliantly. “But please, I don’t want to take the whole country—nor any of it, except perhaps a paddock big enough to put up some jumps in.”

“How can you be so childish, my dear?” demanded her husband impatiently, but Colonel Bayard bent his head with a deferential gesture.

“No, my dear Ambrose, I am justly rebuked. As Mrs Ambrose sees, I am liable to grow improperly warm on this subject. But she will pardon me when she learns the nature of my charge here. I stand as guardian, ma’am, to the entire ruling family, and I swear I love ’em as if they were my own children.”

“The whole lot of ’em—from frowsy old Gul Ali down to little fat Hafiz-Ullah,” assented Richard.

“Your husband may laugh at me, ma’am, but I swear he values the friendship of my dear Khans as much as I do.”

“Do I? Well, you know my opinion,” said Ambrose dispassionately. “Good sportsmen, most of ’em, but precious tough customers.”

“Only where they have been wrongly handled——” and off the two men went again into a discussion of the character, public and private, of the Khans of Khemistan. The house seemed to present a bewildering complexity of uncles and brothers and nephews, but Eveleen gathered that Gul Ali Khan, the eldest brother—or uncle?—was the acknowledged head of a confederacy of rulers, though the position would not necessarily descend to his children, but to the eldest male member of the family who happened to be alive at his death. The arrangement seemed to have its temptations for enterprising young Khans not overburdened with scruples, and Colonel Bayard was persuaded that on Gul Ali’s death there would be a tussle for the chiefship between his brother, Shahbaz Khan, and his son, Karimdâd. But when he had reached this interesting point, he suddenly awoke again to Eveleen’s presence. “My dear Mrs Ambrose, you must be bored to death! Pardon me.”

“I love listening to it,” she assured him truthfully, but she rose and collected handkerchief and fan. If only he would disregard her presence as completely as he did that of the silent statuesque servants behind the chairs, how much she might learn of this new life to which she had come! There was a touch of reproach in her manner as she passed him, and he saw it. Mrs Ambrose interested him. What could be the reason of the evident coolness between her and her husband? he asked himself, as he looked after the graceful figure with its pale draperies, and the crown of dark hair, insecurely fastened, as it appeared, with a high Spanish comb.

“What can it be?” he wondered as he returned slowly to his place, remembering the obvious wrath and disquiet with which Richard Ambrose had asked for leave to Bombay on urgent private affairs, and the embarrassment with which he had requested permission to bring his wife back with him if necessary. “Quite a suitable age for Ambrose—I was afraid he might have got caught by a schoolgirl; and must have been uncommonly pretty a few years ago—is so now, indeed. Most elegant woman, and very agreeable—really charming manners—and fond of him——”

It had all passed through his mind while he turned from the door and the servants were withdrawing noiselessly, and in his impulsive way he stopped and laid his hand on Ambrose’s shoulder.

“You and I are old friends, my boy—let me say one word. I don’t know what tales you may have heard when you rushed off to Bombay, but believe me, they were lies. Your wife is a good woman—if ever I have met one—and she adores you.”

Ambrose laughed, not very pleasantly. “You are agitating yourself unnecessarily,” with some stiffness. “I am quite aware my wife adores me—worse luck! I mean she makes me a laughing-stock in company,” he added hastily.

“Many a man would give a good deal to be made a laughing-stock in that way,” a little sternly. “But why, then——?”

“Money, my good sir—nothing but money! She was ruining me. I swear to you, I should have been broke in another year of it.”

“The ladies must always be buying pretty clothes, bless ’em! And a fine creature like that——! But if you explained——”

“It was not clothes,” resentfully. “The difficulty with Mrs Ambrose is to induce her to wear clothes suited to her position. But what do you say to her paying the debts of the young scamp of a brother she mentioned, who is playing the fool with the best in an Irish regiment?”

“That I should have a word to say to the brother before visiting his sins on the sister.”

“I should like you to try it, and see how much Mrs Ambrose would allow you to say! And what do you think of her rebuilding the stables of the bungalow—a hired bungalow, mind you—I took for her? and saying that in Ireland they kept the horses warm and dry, however poorly they themselves were lodged?”

“Mere childishness, believe me. She has no more idea of the value of money than an infant in arms! When it’s there she spends it, and when it ain’t she writes chits! She would buy anything—a mangy starved pony, and vow it was an Arab, if you please!”

“Well,” reluctantly, “now that the beast’s bones ain’t coming through its skin, there’s a look of blood about it, I admit. But——”

“Trust an Irishwoman’s eye for a horse! But seriously, my dear fellow, to what better use can you put your money than allow your goodwife to make herself happy by spending it? I know if mine would do me the honour——”

“Ah, it’s the other way with you, I know. But for Mrs Bayard’s prudence, you would leave Khemistan a poorer man than you entered it.”

“She would tell you it will be so in any case,” said Colonel Bayard ruefully.

CHAPTER II.
THE RIFT IN THE LUTE.

But if a difference about money was the immediate cause of the strained relations between Major Ambrose and his wife, no one would have denied more vehemently than Eveleen herself that it was the beginning of their estrangement. That had happened long ago—even, so she sometimes thought, before their marriage. This might seem an Irish way of putting it, but at times she would tell herself that she must have been blind not to see there was something wrong with Richard then, though again the idea would look absolutely absurd. For why should he have married her unless he wanted her as she did him? She would never have lifted a finger to hold him had he wished to be free! She raged against him a little now as she stood solitary in the middle of the absent Mrs Bayard’s drawing-room, seeing nothing of her surroundings. If he must be sarcastic and cross, why try to humiliate her in the presence of a stranger, instead of keeping his horrid remarks till they were alone together, and she could answer them as they deserved? There was little of the patient Griselda about Eveleen Ambrose.

“Such an English room!” Her wrath was suddenly diverted—though rather to the general atmosphere of bleak tidiness than to poor Mrs Bayard’s treasured “Europe” furniture—and she shuddered. “Sure I’ll choke here!” She fled to the verandah. “Ah, now!” and she stood spellbound by the wonderful moonlight shining on a limitless sea that washed the very hill-top on which the house stood. A moment’s reflection assured her that the sea was a thick mist enshrouding the town and the low-lying land about it, and hiding the mud and dust and crudeness which had been so painfully evident by day, and she dropped into a chair to watch it, for there were little eddies which looked exactly like moving water. She had not meant to stay in the drawing-room; her intention had been to slip away to bed, leaving an excuse with the servants for her host’s benefit, but it was so peaceful here, and she needed a little mental refreshment before coping once more with Ketty. But her meditations hardly brought her the peace she desired, for almost at once she was involved again in the perpetual quest of When? and How? and Why?

It was twenty years since Richard Ambrose and Eveleen Delany had first met in the hunting-field—and parted almost as soon. She was a pretty girl riding as daringly as the conventions of the time and a fierce old uncle would allow her, he one of the junior officers of the regiment quartered in the neighbourhood. Two or three days’ hunting, a scrambled meal or two taken in common, sandwiches shared in the shelter of a deep lane—Richard’s fingers had actually trembled so that he could scarcely untie the string, she remembered,—such a brief and broken acquaintance to change the whole course of one life, if not two! He had nothing but his pay and his debts, she was an orphan adopted into an already overflowing and impoverished household in a spirit of mingled improvidence and charity. To do him justice, Richard had no hope of being allowed to marry her then, but he would pay his debts with the sale of his commission, and transfer to the Indian Service, and come or send for her as soon as he could see his way clear. Had he been an Irishman the engagement might have been allowed, but old General Delany discerned a calculating and parsimonious spirit in his anxious planning, and sent him about his business with slight sympathy. To this day Eveleen could not think calmly of their parting. Something of the old agony shook her again as she heard her own voice—hoarse with the strain of trying to speak bravely for her lover’s sake—assuring him again and again that she would wait any length of time, five years, a hundred years, for ever, for him to return and claim her. He had sworn to come back, sworn that her image would be ever before his eyes until that blessed moment arrived; had sobbed—Richard Ambrose sobbing!—as he tore him self away when they kissed for the last time. Thus they parted—the boy setting his face resolutely eastwards, with the safeguard of a high purpose in his soul, the girl taking up the harder task of doing nothing in particular.

Those many, many years of waiting! Eveleen could not look back on them dispassionately even now. She was again the girl who watched feverishly for the ramshackle “ass’s cart” which conveyed the rural post-woman on her rounds, who manœuvred for the privilege of asking for letters at the post-office when the family drove into town. And there never were any letters. Deeply in love as he was, Richard Ambrose had been cut to the quick by General Delany’s contemptuous dismissal, and registered a vow that he would never return until he could confront the old man with abundant proof that he could keep Eveleen in proper comfort. That time did not come. Things were bitterly hard for the Company’s Army in time of peace. Its officers were the unfailing victims of the constant demands from home for economy and retrenchment, until no man remained with his regiment who had influence to obtain civil employ. Richard Ambrose was uniformly unfortunate. He had no influence, and a malign fate seemed to shut him out of the little wars of the period—often lucrative enough. Once he had been mauled out tiger shooting, and was in hospital; once, after several unusually obstinate bouts of fever, he was an invalid in Australia. But his was not one of the crack regiments, and the greater part of his time was spent in one dull station or another, doing the work of two or three seconded men as well as his own. Faithful alike to his self-imposed vow and to General Delany’s commands, he never wrote to Eveleen.

Eveleen gave no sign of resenting his silence. When she refused one or two good matches, her relatives were loud in scorn of her folly, but by-and-by they arrived at the comfortable conviction that all was for the best. Her cousins were marrying off or setting up homes of their own, and the General was becoming increasingly difficult to live with. It was really providential that the niece who owed him so much should be available to ride with him, to keep house for him in the scrambling style from which neither of them dreamed of departing, and in the long evenings to take a hand at whist if other players were available, join him in chess or backgammon if they were not, and at all times turn away his wrath with cheerful—if not invariably soft—answers. If her recompense seemed inadequate, there was Brian to be thought of—the young brother for whose sake Eveleen would sometimes even attempt that hardest of all tasks, saving money. “I would rob the mail for Brian!” she declared once defiantly to her uncle, and thanks to her unceasing efforts, Brian was given—and, urged tearfully by her, submitted to receive—some sort of education, sufficient at any rate to enable him to take advantage of the offer of an old comrade of the General’s to attach him to his staff as a Volunteer, until he could obtain a commission. It was a difficult business to supply the young gentleman’s needs while he was expected to live as an officer on the pay of a private, and the habits he picked up on the staff were not exactly such as would conduce to his efficiency in a marching regiment, but the day she first saw her boy in the uniform of the 990th Foot, Eveleen felt she could die happy.

Perhaps the attainment of this ardent desire made her feel more like Brian’s mother or aunt than his sister, but it was about this time that Eveleen became aware she was growing old. Not in mind—she was one of those who, far from growing old, never even really grow up—nor in body, for she could last out a long day with the hounds as well as most men, and skin and hair and eyes showed slight trace of the process of time, but in the estimation of her little world. Nowadays she would have been considered a girl still, but in her day to pass the thirtieth birthday unmarried was to be stamped irrevocably as an old maid, and she had done this five years ago. Other girls were coming forward—real girls—and she found herself confronted with the choice of ceding her place to them or holding it by mingled assurance and main force, becoming in course of time “Old Miss Evie”—one of those determined middle aged sportswomen whom English people regarded as an eccentric and scandalous feature of Irish hunts. Eveleen laughed and withdrew. Her choice was made easier by the complication of diseases and old wounds which incapacitated the General, for ladies did not hunt without male escort, and she would not tack herself to any of his friends; but it was a bitter moment. Nor was it made easier by the discovery that she was becoming an object of suspicion—or at least mistrust—to her cousins and her cousins’ wives. To them, as to all their class, money as money was nothing, but family possessions were something to be clutched and held by fair means or foul. The idea that Eveleen might be providing for herself—or her uncle providing for her—at their future expense worked like poison in their brains, leading them to lay ingenious conversational traps in the hope of surprising the admission that the General had added a codicil to his will, and to conduct furtive searches for household treasures which they imagined to have disappeared. It was inevitable that when Eveleen realised what was in their minds, she should resent it violently, and for a whole day such a battle-royal raged as was spoken of with respect among the servants ever after. Alone against the cousinhood, she held her ground victoriously, swearing to leave the house there and then unless all imputations were withdrawn and an ample apology offered. Where she could have gone she knew no more than her cousins, but she would have done it; and they realised the fact, and having no desire to take up her burden, listened to the moderating counsels of brothers and husbands, hovering in the background with insistent murmurs of “Ah, well, then——” and “Sure, the creature——” But her future was still a cause for anxiety, if not for suspicion. “Sure I see ‘What’ll we do with poor Evie?’ in every eye that looks at me!” she said once.

And then Richard Ambrose came back. He had found his opportunity at last. The Ethiopian adventure, which was the grave of so many reputations, made his. He went into it an undistinguished captain, and he came out a major and a C.B., whose resolute defence early in the war of an all-important post on the line of communications had even been heard of at home. He was wounded—but the present generation would have hailed his wound as a “Blighty one”; it was just sufficiently severe to induce the surgeons to advise a voyage home and back before he took up the new post of Assistant Resident in Khemistan which Colonel Bayard promised to keep open for him. Eveleen could never quite decide whether she had been expecting him to return or not. So many years had passed, and he had never sent her word or sign. But one morning, as she sat in her saddle at the covert-side, a little removed from the throng of cheery riders, watching the meet in which she no longer took part, one figure detached itself from the rest. A gentleman dismounted, and throwing the bridle to his servant, approached her—a tall bronzed man, wearing the frogged blue coat which was the recognised dress of officers in mufti, or as they called it, “coloured clothes.” He raised his hat, and the years fell from Eveleen. She was the girl of seventeen again, glowing with youth.

“You have waited for me, Eveleen?” he asked, without any conventional greeting, and she dropped the reins on her horse’s neck and held out both hands to him.

“All these years. Ah, but I knew you’d come!” she answered. For that moment, at least, she had no doubt. Richard had justified himself, had come back, famous and successful, to the woman whose welcome would have been no less warm had he been broken and penniless, and to that woman earth was heaven from henceforth. That the Richard who had come back would not be the Richard who had gone forth was unlikely to occur to her at that moment, or to commend itself to her belief when it did occur. She had not changed; why should he?

Everything was so natural, so simple. Richard never even asked her again to marry him. Why should he? he had come back for nothing else. It was necessary to ask the General for her, of course, and the General resented the request so vehemently that all his children and their respective husbands and wives had to be summoned to bear down his opposition by sheer weight of eloquence. Such ingenuity was displayed in devising schemes for his future, such amazement lavished on his selfishness in wishing to retain poor Evie, who had given herself up to him for so long, that he was dinned at last into acquiescence. He gave his consent with tolerable grace, and presented his niece with the turquoise disc, which had come into his possession after the fall of Seringapatam. It was too large even for Early Victorian taste, which liked its jewellery to be of substantial size, but the daughters and daughters-in-law agreed that it was a very handsome present, and most appropriate, as Evie was going to India. Unfortunately, the first time she wished to wear it at Bombay she learned that to wear Indian ornaments in India was to incur irretrievably the stigma of being “country-born,” but the cousins did not know this. Some sort of outfit was got together for her, the cousinhood eking out an impossibly small sum of money with great goodwill and much contrivance, that she not disgrace the family; but the bride herself would have sailed for India cheerfully with what one plain-spoken “in-law” called cruelly her usual ragbag of clothes.

Had the shadow fallen even then? Eveleen asked herself the question this evening, as often before. One night—it was at a dance—she had surprised on Richard’s face, as he met her in a blaze of wax-lights, a look in which she read cold criticism, even dislike. It struck her to the heart, stripping her in one moment of her new found youth and joy. They thought she was going to faint, and it was Richard himself, all compunction and anxiety, who took her out and fussed about her with water and borrowed smelling-salts and a glass of wine; and when she sobbed out something of her sudden terror, admitted that his wound had been paining him horribly all day, and cursed himself for spoiling her evening by letting her see that he was suffering. He refused angrily to let her sit out the dances with him, and happy and satisfied, she entered the ballroom again on his arm, never dreaming of doubting his assurance. But now the doubts had crept in once more, and refused to be silenced.

If the shadow had not been there before, it had certainly made itself felt on the voyage. Eveleen was not shy—she did not know what shyness was,—and in the intervals of sea-sickness she enjoyed herself like a schoolgirl. She bobbed up and down like a cork; nothing could keep her under the weather long—such was the admiring dictum of one of the youths drawn to her by her delight in new experiences, and the unfailing gusto with which she found interest and excitement in things which other people considered deadly dull. The rest of the ladies on board eyed her askance. There was something not quite ladylike about “that Mrs Ambrose”; one did not wish to be uncharitable, but really one was almost afraid she might be called just a little bit fast. No one was more surprised both by her popularity and her unpopularity than her husband, and he resented both—or rather, the personality which was their common root. That, without any effort on her part, his wife could keep every one within sound of her voice amused and interested, gave him no pleasure—it was as though a modest violet had turned into a flaunting poppy on his hands. He had had little to do with women in his hard life, but the few ladies with whom he had come in contact did not trouble themselves to amuse the men around; they left it to the men to amuse them. Richard Ambrose had never been particularly successful in this respect, but he felt the attitude was the right one. As Eveleen told herself bitterly one day on catching sight of his disapproving face on the outskirts of the circle which her hunting stories had set in a roar, it really seemed that the only person who didn’t like Mrs Ambrose was Mrs Ambrose’s husband!

Far worse was the trouble that arose at Bombay. Eveleen had naturally taken it for granted that she would accompany her husband to the scene of his duties, but he told her curtly that Khemistan was not a place to which one could take ladies, and not knowing that Mrs Bayard was heroically attempting to defy the dangers of the climate, she accepted his dictum perforce. With Richard’s old butler to guide her inexperienced feet, she found herself established in a small hired bungalow—its ramshackle condition and shabby furniture made it feel really homelike,—mistress of what seemed to her huge sums of money, and pledged to keep accounts strictly. The result was what might have been expected. It was all very well for Ambrose to impress upon her that, apart from his political appointment, which might come to an end at any moment, he was still a poor man; her conception of poverty differed radically from his. He had inured himself to living on rice and chapatis in his comfortless bungalow—dinner at mess the one good meal of the day—that he might pay the subscriptions expected of him, and maintain a creditable appearance in public. The people of Eveleen’s world had cared nothing whatever about appearances, but had lived in a rude plenty, supported by contributions in kind from tenants whose rents were paid or not as the fancy took them—generally not. To Richard money was a regular institution, to be doled out with punctual care according to a plan carefully considered and rigidly fixed beforehand; to her it was a surprising windfall, affording delicious opportunities for the almost unknown joy of spending, and to be used accordingly. Her efforts at keeping accounts shared the fate of poor Dora Copperfield’s. The entries began by being rigorously minute, but they ceased with startling suddenness, unless the butler’s demands sent Eveleen flying to the book in horror, to put down what she could remember spending—which was very little in comparison with what she had spent. The extraordinary thing was that in these spasms of economy—which occurred periodically—she could find so dreadfully little to show for the vanished money. She might declare proudly that she had not bought a single thing for herself, and it was true, but the money was gone—how, she could not say. She was popular and hospitable, her possessions were all at the service of her friends and her friends’ servants, and her modest stable was a constant source of expense—even before she lit upon the half-starved, under-sized little Arab which she rescued from cruel treatment and named Bajazet because it sounded Eastern and imposing, and reconstructed her outbuildings to accommodate him properly. Then there was Brian, who was quartered at Poonah, and being a youth of keen affections, seized every opportunity of taking a little jaunt to Bombay to see his sister, who welcomed him on each occasion as if he were the Prodigal Son. Brian must be fed on the fat of the land—Eveleen had a wholly unjustified conviction that “sure the poor boys must be starved, without a woman to see after them,”—and his ever-recurring money troubles assuaged as far as possible. To do her justice—perhaps love made her clear-sighted, or in this one case she was able to see through Richard’s eyes—Eveleen did realise the danger of Brian’s living regularly beyond his income, and lecture him on the absolute need of pulling up. Brian listened meekly, promised to comply, accepted with almost tearful gratitude whatever his sister could scrape together to placate his most pressing creditors—and returned to duty, as often as not, to spend the money on something else.

Richard Ambrose was not left wholly ignorant of the Rake’s Progress on which his wife was embarked. Laborious epistles from the old butler betrayed anxiety lest Master’s interests should suffer, and friends coming up from Bombay brought amusing tales—amusing to them, that is—of Mrs Ambrose’s open-handedness. An opportune cholera scare enabled Ambrose to issue an edict of temporary banishment from the scene of temptation. Eveleen was to go up to Mahabuleshwar with the wife of one of her husband’s friends, to whom she was to pay a fixed sum monthly, and rusticate for awhile away from shops and entertainments. But temptation followed her even to the hills, though in a different guise. The place was the recognised summer headquarters of the Bombay Government, and the wife and daughters of the newly-arrived Commander-in-Chief were already in residence. To them came on flying visits Sir Henry Lennox himself, best loved and best hated of all the survivors of the Peninsula. Lady Lennox was what Eveleen characteristically called “aggressively motionless,” and her step-daughters were being painfully trained to follow in her decorous footsteps; but the veteran himself had a most appreciative eye for a pretty woman, and a ready enthusiasm for one who dared to ride wherever he did. Brian had wheedled a gullible commanding officer out of a week’s leave to see Eveleen comfortably settled, and the brother and sister and the scarred old soldier forgathered by some mysterious affinity, without any conventional presentation or introduction. The scandalised Military Secretary reported to the distressed Lady Lennox that it was all the fault of the Irish lady and her brother; but Lady Lennox—hearing hourly of break-neck gallops and impossible leaps—confessed in her heart of hearts that her susceptible warrior was in all probability just as much to blame. Her alarm extended merely to what Sir Harry was wont to call his “battered old carcass,” for he was too chivalrous an admirer of women in general to offer compromising attentions to one in particular. Imprudent he might be, but his imprudence confined itself to regaling Eveleen with scraps of autobiography of a startling character and moral deductions drawn from them, together with lurid denunciations of such of his many enemies as suggested themselves to his mind at the moment.

They became so friendly that Eveleen was emboldened at last to confess her anxiety about Brian, and ask the Commander-in-Chief’s advice. Brian was with his regiment again, and his last letter from Poonah had shown his sister that he was still taking his usual light-hearted way, undeterred by her exhortations. She did more than ask Sir Harry’s advice; in all innocence she did a thing of which she failed altogether to realise the heinousness. Remembering Brian’s past Staff experience, she asked the Commander-in-Chief to make him one of his aides-de-camp. Since that day she had heard such things talked of, and the recollection made her cheeks burn in her solitude to-night, but at the moment it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. It was obvious that Brian could not or would not live within his means in the regiment, and that neither public opinion there nor the influence of his commanding officer tended to urge him to do so; therefore what could be better for him than to pass his days under the eye of the stern economist whose worn blue uniform did not put to shame even Eveleen’s ancient habit? Sir Harry seemed a little taken aback at first—unaccountably, she thought, but she realised now that he had probably never been asked for a highly desirable appointment so simply and directly before. But he respected Eveleen, and he liked the careless, good-natured young fellow about whom she was so anxious—and with good reason, as a few short sharp questions assured him. Then he gave his answer. If Brian could liquidate his debts and present himself before him as a free man three months hence, when it was possible an additional aide-de-camp might be required, he should have the post.

Probably the last thought in Sir Harry’s mind was the first that occurred to Eveleen. Brian must realise his assets, and she would supply any deficiency. If Brian had never gone into his affairs thoroughly before, he did it the next time he saw his sister, when the details of what he could sell and which of his possessions could be returned to the vendors in lieu of paying for them were remorselessly threshed out. Eveleen declared that if it turned both their hairs grey they would do it, and rewarded him at the end with the sum which was to set him free—and incidentally to bring Richard Ambrose rushing down from Khemistan as fast as the primitive Bab-us-Sahel steamer could bring him, drawn by the alarming report of his Bombay agent. It was too late to reclaim the money—save at the cost of exposing Brian to the Commander-in-Chief, which Eveleen’s tears and entreaties withheld her husband from doing,—but Brian received by letter a few home truths, which he took, until he had time to think them over, in very bad part, though Richard felt he had been criminally lenient. It was Eveleen on whom the chief punishment fell—at least, her husband regarded it as a punishment. She had to face the ordeal she had imposed upon Brian, when all the unpaid bills, the empty pages of the account book, the chits so easily signed and forgotten, were brought to light. It had never occurred to her that there was anything wrong in being in debt—she had grown up in an atmosphere of it,—and she was half alarmed and half resentful when she saw the effect of his discoveries upon Richard. But the breaking-up of the Bombay household, and her removal to Khemistan, where she would have no opportunity for extravagance, did not strike her as a punishment at all, and it made her indignant that her husband should so regard it. The one thing she feared was that he should learn the secret of Brian’s sudden elevation—which he ascribed carelessly to an idle whim on the part of a man too old for his high post,—and while that remained unknown she was happy.

“Brian’s in good hands now, at any rate, and safe,” she said to herself as she took a last look at the sea of mist, knowing nothing of a distracted letter which was already on its way to her from Poonah; “and what’s more, I’m here with Ambrose.” The two men in the dining-room were moving, but it was so late they would not expect to find her still up, and she slipped noiselessly along the verandah to her own room.

CHAPTER III.
COLONEL BAYARD’S BURDEN.

The famous city of Qadirabad, the seat of such government as Khemistan possessed, was not reached from Bab-us-Sahel without difficulty. There was a ride across the desert first, which was so much to Eveleen’s taste that she begged they might go the whole way by land. But there was no camping equipment available, and Khemistan was destitute of rest-houses, and there at the Bunder lay the steamer, booked to make the journey in four days—what more could reasonable woman desire? But Colonel Bayard had been right in saying that if the steamers plying between Bombay and Bab-us-Sahel were small and uncomfortable, those on the river were worse. Owing to her light draught, the passenger accommodation of the Asteroid was limited to a single cabin, the berths in which—so a friendly subaltern confided to Mrs Ambrose—were constructed of a wood specially selected for its hardness. Had not Colonel Bayard come to the rescue by having a tent pitched for her on deck, Eveleen must have turned every one else out, and as it was, she felt guilty of grievously restricting the space available for exercise. The salient characteristic of the scenes through which they passed—as of all else that she had yet encountered in Khemistan—was mud. Sometimes they were steaming through a country so absolutely level that there seemed no reason why the river should remain where it was instead of overflowing on either side—and derelict channels and stretches of marsh showed that the river itself was of the same mind. More often they found themselves passing between banks of mud which formed a kind of natural aqueduct, confining the river in a course high above the general level of the country, and the wash of the steamer caused portions of these banks to dissolve and slide gently into the water. Sometimes one bank was high and the other low—looking for all the world as though the river were being softly tilted sideways to allow the water to run off, and in this case the higher bank was generally wooded, with tall spindly trees above and a mass of dense undergrowth below. These woods were the famous shikargahs of the Khans—their hunting paradises, formed artificially like the New Forest, and by similar methods, as the many remains of ruined and deserted villages showed. They were strictly preserved, and such villages as still existed were at a discreet distance from them—dismal collections of mud-heaps surrounded by a network of irrigation canals. The canals were shockingly kept up, but the crops were wonderful, and Colonel Bayard pointed out to Eveleen the obvious fertility of the soil, giving so much in return for so little. He sighed as he remarked that under a civilised government the whole land might be a garden, and then changed the subject by telling her droll anecdotes of his friends the Khans.

Despite the waste of a good deal of powder and shot on various crocodiles and aquatic birds—which invariably escaped unscathed—the four days passed in such hot and confined quarters were long and wearisome, and the passengers beheld joyfully the palms and greenery which marked the approach to Qadirabad. The place was surrounded by a belt of gardens, above which, as the steamer rounded a bend of the river, rose in the distance a vast battlemented wall and great round tower, bearing an absurd resemblance to Windsor Castle. This was the Fort—or rather, fortress—palace of the Khans, dominating the city proper, but the British Agency was closer at hand, in a garden overhanging the river. It was a settlement rather than a house, for besides the large block of buildings erected by Colonel Bayard—in which the humorous detected a resemblance to a champagne-case set on end, its divisions represented by the arches of the several tiers of verandahs—some of his subordinates had built bungalows for themselves, and the native servants and hangers-on had a village of their own. There were quarters for the guards, a bazar, gardens and orchards, and the whole was surrounded by a wall some five feet high, of the usual mud-brick. Eveleen was astonished by the size of the community, for the work of the Agency required the services of a large number of resident Europeans, while there were fifty or sixty more, employed at Sahar or other places higher up the river, who made it their headquarters on occasion. Some of the local white men were married, but mostly to country-born women, so that Eveleen was unquestionably the Burree Beebee. Had her claims needed support, it would have been supplied by the chivalry of Colonel Bayard, who insisted that the Ambroses should take up their quarters in his own house, and consider him as their guest while he was there. For the next few months, he said, he would be little in Qadirabad, as duty called him up the river, to look after the supply arrangements for the British forces returning—or more literally retreating—from Ethiopia, and he was sure his wife would like to think the rooms he had prepared for her were in the occupation of his friends. As Richard Ambrose acted as Resident in his chief’s absence, the arrangement seemed natural, but Eveleen had qualms when she saw the elaborate and expensive furniture—not lest she should spoil it, but lest Mrs Bayard should think it had not been treated with proper respect. One trial was spared her. Almost with tears in his eyes, her husband implored Colonel Bayard not to impose upon her the task of housekeeping on so large a scale, and she was saved from the certainty of disgracing herself by reducing the Resident to bankruptcy. It is true that she considered the arrangements of the responsible secretary to be at least as lavish as her own had been, but at any rate he was in the habit of keeping accounts.

It had not occurred to her that in the absence of all household duties time might hang a little heavy on her hands. There were plenty of people to ride with her morning and evening, but in office hours she was the only idle person in a hive of industry. That, at least, was her husband’s view, of which she was irreverently scornful. The native clerks might be hard worked, but she declined to believe it of the Europeans, who did nothing, so she declared, but sit and smoke, and now and then sign their names to the documents that were put before them. How much better for them to spend the pleasant hours of mid-morning and late afternoon—which would so soon become too hot for outdoor exercise—in healthful cross-country gallops! But the Indian official day was far too firmly established to be overthrown by one mutinous Irishwoman, and Eveleen had to make her own occupations. She was training the little horse Bajazet—to the mingled amazement and scandal of her neighbours, who pointed out unsparingly defects of form and action which betrayed his mixed blood. He had a horror of natives—probably due to ill-treatment in his youth—and his mistress went through stormy scenes with half a dozen syces, dismissing one after another before she found one who would do as he was told. This was a meek patriarch who was content to sit by, shrouded in the horse-blanket, while Bajazet was put through his paces and learned to follow Eveleen about like a dog. Once he came up the verandah steps after her, but he was ruthlessly ejected by the orders of her husband, who vowed he would not have the place turned into an Irish cabin, and she was obliged to content herself thereafter with teaching him to ask for dainties without coming in search of them.

The unwritten law which restricted her unescorted rides within the limits of the Agency was naturally a challenge to the Irish mind, and Eveleen never rested until it was abrogated in her favour. It was not as if she wanted to go into the town, she said—who would? And indeed, Qadirabad—for all its imposing appearance and historic renown—was a sadly uninteresting place. Very soon after her arrival, Eveleen was taken up to the Fort gate, to look thence down the long line of the Grand Bazar, and obtain a general view of the city. A wilderness of mud hovels, broken in places by the dome of a mosque or the blunted pyramidal tower of a Hindu temple, with a two-storied house within high walls here and there, but never a tree to relieve the monotony until the eye hailed the grateful greenery of the encircling gardens on the horizon—all was squalid, mean, miserable. The Bazars—famous throughout Asia for their manufactures—seemed to have fallen upon evil days, for such pottery and lacquered ware as was to be seen was of the poorest, and the gold and silver work and precious stuffs of old were hardly to be found nowadays. A reason might be discovered for this in the bands of armed men constantly to be seen in the narrow streets, eyeing the peaceable craftsmen as inferior beings permitted to exist in order to minister to the needs of their superiors, but by no means to lay up wealth for themselves. The Khans were not Khemis by race. A century ago they had come from Arabitistan, across the mountains to the north-west, swooping down resistlessly upon a people “quiet and secure” and practically defenceless. They had parcelled out the country among their rude retainers, who remained as feudal chiefs, and Khans and Sardars alike drew upon the inexhaustible reservoir of Arabitistan for warriors of their own race to maintain and extend their dominion. Without this continual reinforcement, the soft life of the plains and inter-marriage with the conquered people might have enfeebled the ruling caste, but with fresh hordes of wild Arabit horsemen to be summoned at need, they remained a power to be respected—if not particularly respectable. With tulwar and shield and lance, the wild men swaggered where they would, responsible only to the Khans—and not always very amenable to them—and caring nothing for anybody else. Eveleen admired their showy little active horses, the ease and grace of the riders, and the bright silks and embroidered shawls of their apparel, but she had sense enough to realise that they were not people it would be desirable to meet if she were riding alone.

But if the town was barred, the garden-belt outside it was surely a very different thing. The Arabit horsemen were seldom to be found in the neighbourhood of the Agency—unless one of the Khans should happen to be paying a state visit to Colonel Bayard—and the country was fairly open. What danger could there be for Eveleen if she did not go too far away, respected shikargahs, and avoided growing crops? Yes, she would take a mounted orderly—it would only be like a groom—but not—oh, please not!—an escort of the irregular force known as the Khemistan Horse, which had been enrolled as the Resident’s guard. How could she ride at her ease if she had always to tag about with an army behind her? Playing the part of the Importunate Widow, she succeeded at last in imposing her will on Colonel Bayard, and that unfortunate man, most unfairly cast for the part of the Unjust Judge, found that he had carefully cultivated a thorn for his own side.

He was in his office one day, discussing weightily with Richard Ambrose the various matters of importance which might arise during his absence, when sounds of dispute outside interrupted their deliberations. Some one was demanding to be allowed to enter, and was being respectfully but firmly repulsed by the scandalised attendants—and the voice left no doubt who the intruder was.

“Mrs Ambrose, as I live!” exclaimed Mrs Ambrose’s husband in unflattering disgust. “What bee has she got in her bonnet now? Excuse me one moment.”

“Mrs Ambrose appears to wish to see me,” said Colonel Bayard, with his unfailing kindness. “We can’t let an English lady be turned away by the chobdars. Come! Good morning, ma’am; is there something you want me to do for you? Good heavens! what has happened? Has any one dared——?” for Eveleen’s face was flushed and tearful, and her lips trembled too much to speak. She wrung her hands together wildly.

“You have been attacked? No?” as his eye ran quickly over her speckless habit. “What is it, then? Sit down and tell us about it.” He led her to a chair, and waved the attendants away. “You have had a shock? A glass of wine!” he signed to a waiting servant. “Now let us hear what it is.”

“Compose yourself, for Heaven’s sake!” growled Richard Ambrose—not encouragingly, but the harsh tone proved more effectual than the Resident’s kindness in enabling Eveleen to pull herself together. With her fingers tightly pressed against one another she sat upright and spoke jerkily.

“’Twas a poor woman—just a bit of a girl. Her father and her husband had quarrelled. The horrid wretch—the husband, I mean—went straight home—and called her out. The creature came—and stood before him trembling. He took hold of her hair—her beautiful long hair—and twisted it—into a rope—and strangled her with it—her own hair——” Her voice rose into a scream again.

“Yes, yes—very distressing,” Colonel Bayard patted her hand kindly. “These things will happen here, we know, but you are new to them. And you were passing, and saw it done?”

“Saw it?” she cried furiously. “D’ye think I would not have broke my whip over the brute’s head, and poked his eyes out with the bits after? No, I was passing, and heard the old women keening—her mother and her mother-in-law—and I went in there and saw—her poor face—and her hair—— And I made the syce ask them about it, and they told me, and I came straight back to you at once, that you might get the wretch found out and punished!”

“Not a bit of it! A man don’t go into hiding in Khemistan for little accidents like that. I dare be bound the fellow is now boasting to his friends of the revenge he has taken on his father-in-law, and every one of ’em is sympathising with him. That’s all.”

“My dear Mrs Ambrose, what could I do? Killing is no murder here, where a woman is concerned.”

“He would merely laugh at me. ‘Murder, you say, sahib? Who was killed? A woman? and the man’s wife? and he was angry with her father? Why, of course he killed her. It was the natural thing to do.’ And that’s precisely what it is—in Khemistan.”

“What could I say? And what good would it do? It ain’t as though the poor creature were alive, and I could save her by intervening. It’s too late—unfortunately.”

He added the last word in deference to the stormy look in Eveleen’s eyes as she rose from her chair, knocking down the untasted glass of wine at her elbow.

“You needn’t say any more. I see how it is—perfectly. If Ambrose killed me, ’twould merely be, ‘Only a woman—only his wife—and he was angry with her—and it served her right!’” defiantly.

“If Ambrose killed you, I would hang him with my own hands, and you know it very well!” said Colonel Bayard, between jest and earnest. Then his tone changed. “But you have no right even to associate such a thought with your husband, Mrs Ambrose. It is abominably unfair to him, and only to be excused because you are a little unstrung at this moment.”

“Just look at his face, then!” cried Eveleen recklessly. “Is there black murder in it, or is there not, I ask you?” and she departed—leaving two discomfited men behind her—to cry her eyes out in her own room, until her husband, really alarmed, insisted on a visit from the doctor, and—so near is bathos to tragedy!—the administration of a composing draught.

That incident was closed. Eveleen made numberless irrevocable resolutions that never, no, never! in any circumstances whatever would she attempt to appeal again to the compassion, or even the sense of justice, of those two stony-hearted men—but evidently she was one of the people to whom things are bound to happen. Colonel Bayard had gone to pay his farewell visit to the Khans, attended by Richard Ambrose and other subordinates, and preceded by chobdars bearing silver sticks and similar insignia of dignity, when the remaining occupants of the Residency became aware that Mrs Ambrose had another row on hand. They guessed it when she returned from her ride at a tearing gallop—the syce left behind somewhere on the horizon—and dashed up to the office verandah, demanding eagerly to see the Resident Sahib. It was clear she had forgotten all about his absence, for those who were peering at her through the tatties reported that she made a gesture of despair, and mounting again, rode round to her own quarters with a slow hopelessness very different from the ardour with which she had ridden in. She sent her horse away, but stayed walking up and down the verandah without going to change her habit, her sun hat thrown aside. The two men whose rooms were on the opposite side of the courtyard could see the white figure passing and repassing across the dark space left by the updrawn blind. Sometimes she came to the steps to call a servant, and sent him on some errand—evidently to see whether the Resident had returned without her hearing him, but in vain.

“If that woman tramps up and down much more, she’ll drive me distracted. What’s the matter with her?” demanded one of the watchers irritably at last.

“Well, you might risk a guess, anyhow. Tell you what, I’m going to see. Are you game to come too?”

The other reflected. “I suppose Ambrose ain’t likely to consider it an intrusion?”

Captain Crosse characterised Scottish caution in unsuitable language. “I always knew Ambrose would make trouble by bringing his wife up here, but since he has brought her, one can’t in common humanity leave the unfortunate creature to walk her feet off for want of some one to help her. I’m going, and you have got to come too. Here goes!”

They went across to the Ambroses’ verandah, and Eveleen turned a despairing face upon them at the sound of Captain Crosse’s hesitating greeting, “Can we do anything, Mrs Ambrose? We were afraid something must be wrong.”

“Sure I don’t know what to do!” she burst forth. “I’m in the most frightful trouble. Do come in, the two of you, and tell me is there anything you can do. But I don’t believe anybody but the Resident will be any good, and it seems as if he’d never be back!”

“Sit down and tell us about it, ma’am,” urged Captain Crosse, while the young Scotchman pulled a chair forward. “To fret yourself into a fever will do nobody any good, and be precious uncomfortable for you.”

Eveleen hesitated, pushed back the damp hair from her temples, and dropped into the chair. “It’s because there’s no time,” she said despairingly. “Colonel Bayard said it was too late before, because the poor creature was dead, but this time she could be saved, only there’s no one to do it—— I suppose,” with reviving energy, “you wouldn’t come with me and rescue her?”

A glance had passed between the two men over her head, and now, as she sat up eagerly and grasped the arms of the chair preparatory to rising, Lieutenant Haigh said, with discouraging slowness, “But who is it you want to rescue, Mrs Ambrose—and what from?”

“The poor girl—child, rather. They carried her off—I saw the dust of their horses in the distance——”

“Sure how would I know? A band of Arabit horsemen—they brought a palki, and forced her in——”

“But who was she? and where did they take her? Try and tell us exactly what has happened.”

Eveleen glanced upwards, as though in search of patience, and still holding the chair, as if to anchor herself to it, spoke with exaggerated deliberation. “She was a pretty little young girl—I have often seen her; she would peep out in a shy sort of way and smile at me. To-day she was not there, but the old father—he’s a poor sort of fellow, that—was crying fit to break his heart and throwing dust in the air, and the mother—that’s worth two of him—was all bleeding where the wretches had knocked her about when she tried to hold her daughter back, and the neighbours would all be sympathising with them—but they ran away like mice, every one of them, when they saw me.”

“But who had carried her off, and whither?” repeated Sir Dugald Haigh. He was a poverty-stricken soldier burdened with an inherited baronetcy.

“Sure I told you”—with some irritation. “A band of Arabit horsemen, and they would be taking her to the Fort. The parents were inconsolable—they said she was to have been married next week.”

“They would be—they’ll have to return the gifts,” said Sir Dugald drily. Then his tone changed. “Well, ma’am, that puts an end to the business. When a girl—or a woman either, for it would have made no difference if the marriage was a week ago instead of a week hence—is taken to the Fort, there she stays.”

Eveleen gazed at him, horror-stricken. “Any girl—and against her will—and no one minds?”

“You see, Mrs Ambrose”—Captain Crosse took up the parable—“it ain’t the same with these people as it is with us. The Arabits take a girl when they want her just as they take anything that pleases ’em from a shop in the Bazar. These women don’t mind that sort of thing—rather like it, in fact—think it a bit of an honour, as you might say.”

“If you had seen that poor old father and mother, you would never believe that!” indignantly.

“That’s just for to-day. It’ll be all right when they have got over it a bit. A ruler always exercises this power in the East—why, just as it was in the Bible, you know.” He spoke with increased confidence, feeling that the thing had been set on a proper footing. “I assure you there are thousands of these women in the Fort—place is swarming with ’em. So you see, it’s quite the right thing here.”

“But how can it be right just because it’s always done? And I am sure it’s not done in India.”

“Not in our districts, of course; but believe me, in some of the native states within our borders, not only would the girl have been taken, but the parents would have been killed for offering resistance, and the house set on fire—for a warning to others, you see.”

“I don’t see that makes it any better—horrid though it be. What is Colonel Bayard here for if it ain’t to stop things of this sort from happening?”

“’Pon my word, ma’am——!” began Captain Crosse, quite taken aback, but Lieutenant Haigh spoke slowly.

“You are making a mistake, ma’am. The Resident is here to seek to persuade the Khans to keep their treaties with us, so that we may be able to leave them in the enjoyment of their authority.”

“Authority to murder women and carry off girls? And he calls himself an Englishman and a Christian!”

This was high treason, but though Captain Crosse showed signs of flight, Sir Dugald argued patiently on. “You must know yourself, Mrs Ambrose, that there’s no better-hearted person in the world than the Resident. But he has enough to do with his proper business, and the Khans have no mind to make it easy for him. They choose to go on destroying villages to extend their shikargahs, and plundering traders, and intercepting the river traffic by demanding tolls, and they do it, never caring a pin about the difficulties they are making for him.”

“Then he ought just wash his hands of them!” declared Eveleen defiantly. “If I were in his place——”

“My dear Mrs Ambrose, what is the matter?” Colonel Bayard and Richard came up the verandah steps, to find her confronting the two men. She looked at him stormily.

“It’s a fool I am to expect anything——!” she began, and stopped, unable to speak.

“Mrs Ambrose was unfortunately a witness—or nearly so—of the carrying-off of a girl to the Fort, sir,” said Sir Dugald; “and the lamentations of the parents have affected her sadly.”

“Positively, my dear Richard,” said Colonel Bayard, “you must not allow Mrs Ambrose to distress herself in this way. She will make herself ill, and our little society here will lack its brightest ornament.”

Eveleen looked at him with absolute abhorrence. “And that’s all you have to say about it?” she demanded.

“My dear lady, what can I say? The custom of the country permits the rulers to recruit their zenanas in this way, and how is a stranger to prevent it?”

“Go to the Khans and get her back! Tell me now, what’s the use of their calling you their father and their mother if they’ll not do what you tell them?”

“I fear their confidence stops short on the threshold of the zenana,” said Colonel Bayard gravely. “But suppose, to gratify me, they consented to the release of this girl—do you think she would choose to be released? Nay, she would hug her chains, as you consider them, and entreat to remain in the Fort.”

“The worse for her, then, the wretched creature! But sure you’d have brought the Khans to book, and shown them the law was stronger than they are.”

“What law? They would have been constrained by friendship, nothing more. The English law don’t run here. The will of the ruler is the law—at least, it comes to that.”

“And Colonel Bayard can reconcile it with his conscience to use all his endeavours to prop up a system under which such things can happen!” she cried. Her husband glanced round aghast to see the effect of this blasphemy, but the other two men had discreetly faded away, Colonel Bayard looked at her sadly.

“What can I say? I do my best for these people, but they will do nothing to help me—to justify me. Yet to use force—to compel them to virtue—would be an outrage, an iniquity. Ain’t it better for them to govern themselves, even badly, than to be governed, however well, by us?”

“Ah!” cried Eveleen suddenly, “that’s it, that’s it! You think of them and of us—and not for one moment of the creatures they misgovern, the women and the poor.”

“As Heaven is my witness, I do think of them—and constantly,” he replied, with deep solemnity. “It is my earnest hope to ameliorate their condition by influencing the Khans—in time. But never will I be a party to seizing more territory under the pretext of seeing justice done.”

“In time!” echoed Eveleen scornfully, but her husband interposed with crushing effect.

“That will do, my dear. The Resident will think you are an advocate of Women’s Rights, if you don’t take care. You will find it advisable to rest a little after all this excitement, and it would not be amiss to change your gown.”

When Richard spoke in that tone, he could have shifted an iceberg, so Eveleen was wont to complain, with some confusion of thought. On the present occasion, he certainly shifted her. She found herself sitting on the couch in her bedroom, all the fight gone out of her, while he stood before her, his face wearing what she called its hatefullest expression.

“Now look here, my dear,” he said coldly, “there has been enough of these heroics. Twice over you have badgered Bayard in a way that would have made any other man on earth jawab [dismiss] me on the spot, and it is not to happen again. Why he don’t forbid you to set foot outside the compound I don’t know.”

Defiance revived. “I do,” said Eveleen. “Because he knows ’twould be no good.”

“Believe me, you would not find it easy to pass the gates in the teeth of the guard.”

He recognised the futility of argument. “At any rate, if he chooses to leave you full liberty, I am going to restrict it. You won’t be able to ride much longer in office hours, happily—the sun is getting too hot—but as long as you do, you will be good enough to avoid the villages. If you can’t ride past these people without interfering in their concerns, why—take another direction, if you please.”

“I don’t mind,” listlessly. “Sure it’s no pleasure to me to see such shocking things happening, and nobody with the heart to lift a finger to prevent them!”

“Do you mean to say that after what Bayard told you, you still expect——”

“Expect? I don’t expect anything of him at all. But will you tell me that if Sir Harry Lennox was here, there would nothing be done?”

“You may call him all the names you like, but I tell you he would have hanged that murderer the other day, if it had been a Khan upon his throne. And to-day he’d have ridden up to the Fort and broken the gates down, and let all the women out.”

“And a nice thing that would be! Try to borrow a little common-sense, my dear, even if you don’t possess any. The Fort is full of women, and you talk calmly of turning ’em all out of doors—penniless, homeless, accustomed to a luxurious existence! Take my word for it, they wouldn’t thank you! A few might be silly enough to accept the offer of freedom, but they would precious soon come begging to be let in again. They have everything women can want—at any rate, these women—good food, fine clothes——”

“I am the most miserable woman alive!” with tremendous emphasis and absolute—if transitory—conviction. For once Richard Ambrose was staggered. Astonishment, remorse, resentment, incredulity—she read them all in his face for one moment. Then he recovered himself.

CHAPTER IV.
A LUCKLESS DAY.

Morning brought—if not counsel—a considerable measure of cheerfulness to Eveleen. To her buoyant temperament protracted gloom was impossible, and her husband smiled to remember his momentary alarm. In her full enjoyment of the happiness she had for ever disclaimed, she was as shallow as any of the native women whose cause she had championed. Unfortunately he could not know what was the root of her pleasurable excitement this morning. His command to avoid the villages had reminded her of a plan for continuing Bajazet’s education that had occurred to her when riding with Sir Dugald Haigh one evening—but had been carefully concealed from that prudent young man. So far she had never ridden what she delighted to call “my Arab” when in company with others. She meant the accomplishments of her little steed to burst proudly on the men who had laughed at him and slandered his ancestry. Colonel Bayard had had some jumps put up for her in the compound, and encouraged her in many unsuccessful attempts to take Bajazet over them with the assurance that your true Arab was never a good jumper. Much practice had at length enabled her to get him over them after a fashion, and now she wished to try him over water. The Resident himself was her companion on the early morning ride—a parting compliment, since he was leaving by the up-river steamer later in the day; and as he was a sound, rather than an adventurous horseman, she found it decidedly dull, its decorum redeemed only by the romantic wildness of the escort of Khemistan Horse. Her time came when he and Richard were safely at work in the office, and she could start out again on Bajazet, attended by the meek syce and an orderly of satisfactorily brigandish appearance called Shab-ud-din. They rode out beyond the belt of gardens surrounding the city, so far that Shab-ud-din began to be anxious, and tried to warn her of something. He knew no English, the syce very little, and Eveleen about as little Persian, but their efforts towards mutual comprehension were assisted by the sound and vibration of heavy guns not far off, and she understood that the Khans’ artillery was practising somewhere in this direction. Her attendants were satisfied when she turned aside towards the river again, though they did not seem quite happy when she reached her goal. The country out here was a kind of chessboard, cut up in all directions by irrigation canals, and she had marked one which seemed exactly suited to her purpose. Deep and wide where it left the river, it parted with so much water to smaller canals on either side that at the point she had chosen it was a mere trickle between quite manageable banks. Bajazet did not appear to like it at first—perhaps to his desert-descended mind water was something to be respected rather than leapt over—but after she had dismounted and led him across once or twice, he began to enter into the idea, and his mistress flattered him with the assurance that he was a great little horse indeed.

There was only one drawback to her satisfaction, and that was Shab-ud-din’s inability to comprehend that he need not follow her backwards and forwards across the canal. He was very loyal and very dense, and evidently felt that wherever the Beebee went it was his duty to go too. His youth had not been spent in the hunting-field, and his horse was much heavier than Bajazet, so that when Eveleen increased the length of the jumps by moving farther down the canal, the results became rather alarming. Two or three falls in the soft sandy mud happily inflicted no serious injury, but the banks suffered a good deal, and so did the channel.

Engrossed in her sport, Eveleen did not realise how time was passing until the increasing heat of the sun began to make itself unpleasantly evident. It really would soon be too hot to go out in the daytime, she said to herself regretfully, finding the prospect of the long ride back to the Residency the reverse of attractive. She must be getting near a village, too—at least, there were people running across the fields; so droll for them to be coming out to work at this time of day! Well, just one more jump, to take her to the right side of the canal for home, and this would be really a good wide one. Turning to Shab-ud-din, she did her best, by word and gesture, to explain to him that he had better ride a little higher up, and not attempt to cross here, but as she rode towards the bank she heard him pounding after her. It was his own fault, the foolish fellow! she could not pull up now, but she hoped he would fall soft—the fragmentary thoughts passed through her mind as Bajazet rose to the leap. But this time he was not to sail lightly over the obstacle—“like a bird,” as she delighted to say,—for a man who must have been crouching unseen in the water-channel started up, waving his arms and shouting. Had Eveleen not been taken by surprise the good little horse might have cleared the interrupter, but involuntarily she deflected him ever so slightly from his course. He faltered, jumped short, and as he staggered among the stiff clods of the opposite bank Shab-ud-din and his big horse came thundering down upon the two. Shab-ud-din would probably have come off in any case, but in his horror at the scene in front of him he must have tried to pull up, and forthwith executed a complicated somersault sideways which left him groaning in the mud.

With an instinct born of long experience, Eveleen had freed her foot from the stirrup when she saw disaster imminent, but it was not necessary for her to roll from the saddle, nor was she thrown from it. What happened—to her exceeding wrath—was that the man whose interference had caused all the trouble seized the skirt of her long habit and deliberately dragged her to the ground while Bajazet was struggling for a foothold. The shock pulled the reins from her hands, and she saw her steed, freed from her weight, reach the top of the bank safely and dash off in one direction, while Shab-ud-din’s, struggling up with an energy which sent the clods flying every way at once, laboured heavily up the side and disappeared in the other. The syce was nowhere to be seen, and Eveleen found herself sitting in the damp mud of the channel, helplessly entangled in her habit, with Shab-ud-din lying motionless close at hand in an attitude that spoke to her experienced eye of broken bones, and an angry crowd, who seemed to have arrived on the scene by magic, yelling and dancing with rage all about her. She was absolutely defenceless, for she had even lost her whip in the fall, and every word of Persian she had ever known was gone completely out of her head—even if these Khemi cultivators could have understood it. The only thing she could do was to adjust her hat—which was half-way down her back—for the sun was blazing down upon her, and then to look as much as possible as if she was not in the least frightened, which was wholly untrue. If she could even have risen to her feet, she felt that she might have overawed the mob, but what could she do when it was impossible to free herself and stand up without assistance? The men were all armed—some with rusty but murderous-looking swords, all with heavy iron-shod sticks—and to judge by their attitude, they had every intention of using them on her. She found herself speculating which of them would strike the first blow—the signal for all the rest to fall on her—and decided in favour of a truculent person who was prancing about and swinging a huge tulwar in most unpleasant proximity to her head. Would Richard be sorry? the question presented itself irresistibly, and brought its own answer—— Undoubtedly, but it would be because his wife hadn’t had the sense to die decently in her bed!

It would not have been Eveleen not to laugh at the picture thus called up, and the sight of her amusement gave pause to her assailants. They did not shout quite so loud, and the tulwar came down a little farther off instead of actually upon her. In this moment of comparative relief she saw the stranger. He was riding along the bank towards them—as fast as the insecure footing would allow, dashing the clods this way and that—and he was leading Bajazet. He was richly dressed, with a gorgeous pagri striped with gold, but his complexion was not dark—rather the brick-red of a European burnt by tropical suns. He shouted angrily as he came near, and the mob gave one glance of terror and dissolved helter-skelter. He turned and shouted to some one out of sight, and the rush of horses’ feet and clank of accoutrements seemed to show that he was attended by a military escort, which he was directing to pursue the fugitives. He dismounted as he came near—Eveleen’s syce appeared out of space to take the horses’ bridles—and stumbled down the rough bank towards her.

“I trust you ain’t hurt, ma’am? Bless my soul, if it ain’t Miss Evie—Miss Delany, I should say!”

The voice, with its Cockney accent, brought back vague memories of misty mornings, of purpling copses and vivid turf, of battered stone walls and untrimmed hedges masking sunken lanes—all the accompaniments of a day’s hunting in the old life. But why not an Irish voice? With a sudden effort Eveleen found the clue—recalled a young man, not a gentleman, who had come into the neighbourhood on some legal business, and having been bitten by the prevailing mania, had afforded a rich feast of amusement to the members of the hunt.

“’Sh, miss! They call me Tamas Sahib here, and it’s safer. To think of comin’ across you!”

“And they call me Mrs Ambrose,” she laughed, as he helped her up. “But why would you be going about dressed up like this?”

“I ain’t one of your lot,” he avoided her eye. “Master-General of Ordnance to their Highnesses—that’s what I am. The Resident he don’t know nothin’ about me, and I’ll thank you, ma’am, not to tell him nothin’.”

“As you please,” she said, rather perplexed. “But you’ll not mind my telling Major Ambrose—in confidence——” as she surprised a look of something like alarm. “Sure you must see he’ll wish to thank you for coming to my help,” with a touch of hauteur. What was the man so mysterious about?

“As you please, ma’am. But you’ll remember I ain’t an Englishman here—just one of these people.” He had wrung most of the water out of her skirt by this time, and brushed off some of the mud—clumsily, but with evident goodwill. “You did better for me once,” as he looked disparagingly at his handiwork.

“The time I cot your horse for you when you were in the boghole? Ah no, nonsense! I didn’t even try to brush the mud off you, because you were all mud, every bit of you, were you not? But would you look at us, talking over old times like this, and leaving poor Shab-ud-din to lie and groan!”

“That it is, when he came by his fall trying to help me. What d’ye think now? his collar-bone. I’d say it was, and maybe an arm as well—and how in the wide world will we get him home?”

“If you’ll be good enough to leave it to me, ma’am—believe me, you must. It’s for my own sake——” shamefacedly. “It won’t do for my men to catch me talking privately with you. If you’ll mount and follow me, they shall bring the poor chap in.”

“If you don’t mind, ma’am. That’s the way here, you know, and as I was saying, I’m one of ’em now.”

With what she felt was exemplary meekness, Eveleen allowed the syce to mount her, and waited while her old acquaintance rode to meet the wild horsemen who formed his escort. They were returning in triumph, bringing with them several of the fugitive assailants, who bore every appearance of having been roughly handled. It occurred to her suddenly that to deliver over Khemi villagers to a band of Arabits was probably equivalent to sentencing them to death, and she called after Carthew—

“You were breakin’ down their canal, and they thought you meant destroyin’ it, ma’am. I’ll teach ’em to make a fuss about what their betters do in future.”

“Now, now, ’twas my fault,” said Eveleen. “They have got a good beating, by the look of them, so let them go, and please give them ten rupees from me, to pay for the damage.”

“They won’t get the chance, or I’m much mistaken—knowing Major Ambrose as I do,” with a sigh. “No, ’twas just to show them I wasn’t meaning to do any harm.” She watched Carthew as he met his followers, had the prisoners ranged in front of him and harangued them impressively, then received money from an attendant who produced it from some mysterious hiding-place in his girdle, and distributed it among them. It made her smile to see that he shepherded his troopers carefully back, evidently suspecting that otherwise they might follow the pardoned criminals and force them to disgorge. Leaving two men to look after Shab-ud-din, he led the way again towards Qadirabad, Eveleen following him, with the syce at her stirrup, and the escort bringing up the rear. The sun was very hot by this time, Bajazet was tired and stumbled more than once, and Eveleen drooped in her saddle, trying to nerve herself in advance for the ordeal of meeting a justly incensed Richard. She met him sooner than she expected, in a cloud of dust, with an escort of Khemistan Horse. Carthew drew aside, with an admirable air of contempt alike for the service he had rendered and for its object. Richard was angry.

“What have you been doing with yourself now?” he demanded of his muddy and dishevelled wife.

“I got a fall, and this—this gentleman—something in the Khans’ Artillery he is—helped me up.”

“Sardar Sahib”—Richard rode a little nearer the disdainful figure of the rescuer—“I am deeply indebted to you. Accept my acknowledgments.”

“Don’t let him go!” Eveleen whispered anxiously. “There were some villagers—I spoiled their canal or something—he paid ten rupees for me—we must give it him back.”

“I don’t carry piles of coin about with me, my dear, but I imagine he will trust me. Or have you already given him your whip in pledge?”

Horror-stricken, Eveleen realised that she had not recovered her gold-mounted whip—the gift of the hunt on her marriage. “It’s gone—lost!” she said despairingly. “I must go back—or another day, perhaps—and look for it.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. I understand, Sardar Sahib, there’s a small matter of money between us. It shall be sent to your quarters in an hour without fail. But I am still infinitely your debtor.”

“The obligation is on my side, sahib. May you be fortunate!” and with due interchange of compliments the two parties separated.

“This is the last time you’ll ride out without an escort, my dear!” said Richard pleasantly. “It’s clear you ain’t able to take care of yourself. That’s the Yankee chap who commands the Khans’ Artillery, I presume? How did he contrive to be on the spot so pat?”

“How would I know?” listlessly. “But it’s English he is—not American. I know him.”

“You have the most extraordinary set of acquaintances of any female I have ever met! He gives himself out as American—that’s all I know. Where have you seen him before?”

“He used to follow the hounds one season, a few years ago. ’Twas just when Pickwick was coming out, and everybody called him Mr Winkle, for he’d turn up on the most hopeless crocks you ever saw, and as often on the ground as in the saddle. Some sort of attorney’s clerk he was—hunting up evidence or something, but it wasn’t much he got, unless he found it in the mud.”

“His riding has improved since then, evidently—or he rides better horses,” drily. “What became of him?”

“My dear Ambrose, how would I know? I did hear a rumour that he had got into some trouble and enlisted, but ’twas likely nothing but scandal.”

“Sure y’are very ready to belittle the poor fellow!” Eveleen turned upon her husband. “I suppose that’s the measure of the value you set upon your wife—the way you treat the man who’s just saved her life?”

“You had not told me the extent of the obligation, my dear. But the greater it is, the more careful you had better be to maintain the distance he has fixed between himself and us. The fellow is undoubtedly a deserter from our artillery—whether from the Bengal side or this I don’t know; the native princes are always ready to entertain ’em to instruct their troops. I have told you he passes himself off as a Yankee—that’s to prevent our making enquiries, of course, and perhaps also to evade the suspicions of his present employers. They would smell a rat at once did he show any desire for intercourse with the Agency. There’s no manner of doubt he’s a deserter.”

“Ambrose, you wouldn’t contemplate laying information against him?” anxiously.

“What do you take me for, my dear? No doubt it’s my duty, but as you have reminded me, the fellow has placed me under a profound obligation. If you’ll remember the fact yourself, and be content to pass him without acknowledgment should you meet, so much the better for him.”

Eveleen did not agree with this at all. The tone in which Richard spoke of the “profound obligation” was disagreeable, and the thought of cutting her rescuer dead was more so. But she was too much subdued and dispirited to embark on further wordy warfare just now, though she made her own resolutions privately. Richard, observing her unwonted meekness, drew flattering deductions from it, and improved the occasion by intimating that she would do well to relieve the Resident’s mind by promising to confine her rides within orthodox limits in future. But this was too much to ask, and when Colonel Bayard came out anxiously to meet the rescue expedition and enquire how it had sped, his solicitude did not meet with the gratitude it deserved, since he incautiously expressed the same hope. What was to happen if she felt she must go out for a gallop when she was bound by a promise not to? Eveleen demanded indignantly; and thus faced by the old problem of the immovable object and the irresistible force, Colonel Bayard wisely confined himself to laying it down, in the hearing of his staff, that in no case was she to leave the compound in future without either an escort or European attendance. This was galling, and she sought her own rooms in much depression of spirit. But the misfortunes of this unfortunate day were not yet at an end. Richard, who had accompanied her in a considerate silence which she would certainly not have maintained had their cases been reversed, suddenly found his tongue.

“There was a letter for you in the dâk—here it is. That brother of yours is honouring you, I presume. Why don’t the fellow learn to write? Such a fist I never saw—nor anybody else neither. Here this letter has been up to Sahar and down to Bab-us-Sahel again—and all his fault.”

“The Delanys think more of fighting than of writing,” said Eveleen succinctly. It sounded so neat that she felt quite cheered.

“No doubt. I’ll wager anything the fellow wants more money, or he wouldn’t have written now. If he does, you had better leave it to me to answer him.”

“I’ll not do anything of the sort. He don’t want money, I’m certain, and if he did, he wouldn’t take yours.”

“I tell you he wouldn’t look at it—not if you offered him millions, and brought it to him on your bended knees!”

“That”—with the strict moderation she found so trying—“is hardly likely. Well, my dear, I’ll leave you to enjoy your letter.”

But Ketty had something to say first, and she said it at length, as she removed her mistress’s mud-stained garments and disclosed an extensive system of bruises. In vain did Eveleen assure her that she had been worse bruised many a time after a day’s hunting, the handmaid remained of opinion that “Madam-sahibs no done ride that way.” As a Parthian shot, even as she with drew by command, she expressed the hope that Master would stop these rides, but by this time Eveleen was established on her couch in a deliciously cool muslin wrapper, sipping a cup of tea, and preparing to break the seals of her letter.

Alas, alas! Brian was in trouble still. By the most unfortunate chance in the world, at this very last moment the brother officer on whom he had relied to relieve him—at a price—of an elaborate fowling-piece had been invalided home, and was selling his own guns, and no other purchaser could be found. The sum at issue was a paltry one—three hundred rupees would cover it, but without those three hundred rupees Brian could not appear before Sir Harry Lennox and proudly declare himself free of debt. Simply and naturally he applied to the helper who had never yet failed him. Surely Evie’s husband could not refuse to advance so small a sum if she asked it? He might cut up a bit rusty, but it would only be for a minute or two. Alas! Richard’s wont was not merely to let the sun go down upon his wrath, but to cover that wrath up carefully to keep it warm for the night—so Eveleen had once declared aghast, in her astonishment at a method so unlike the quickly passing tempests to which she was accustomed. And moreover, even if she could have appealed to him two hours ago, it was absolutely impossible after the last words that had passed between them. Even for Brian’s sake—rather, perhaps, especially for Brian’s sake—she could not expose herself and him to the certainty of a refusal couched as Richard Ambrose would couch it. But something must be done, for at the end of his letter Brian supplied an additional reason:—

But how? Eveleen’s first thought was to apply to Colonel Bayard, but the thought was relinquished as soon as formed. He would press upon her three thousand rupees instead of three hundred if he had it, but he would certainly make Richard a party to the transaction—and then it would be at an end. She became as despairing as Brian himself as she ran over the names of the various men with whom she came in contact. Some of them would be unable to raise the money, having solved the problem of existing on chits eked out by a judicious distribution of their pay as it came in; some would be so proper that they would tell Richard at once; others would hold over her the threat of telling him, and do so at last. Clearly there was nothing to be done in that way. She must sell something—or, at any rate, get an advance on something, and that not from the Soucars who acted as bankers to the Agency, but from some firm without official connections. The idea sounded hopeful. Her own simple rural life had known nothing of pawnbrokers, but she had relatives in Dublin who, in common with the rest of their circle, were wont to “deposit” their ancestral jewellery—at the bank, it was politely understood—save during the brief Castle season, while the family plate was “stored” in like manner except when required for a rare dinner-party. She must certainly pawn something, since the few odd coins in her own possession, if hunted up from all the nooks and corners where they somehow found hiding-places, might possibly amount to five rupees, but more probably would not.

But what could she pawn? She had so little jewellery that Richard would be sure to notice it if any particular ornament was not worn for some time, and none of it was very costly. She knew little about values, but she feared it might need all her trinkets to serve as security for three hundred rupees. All save one, that is. Impulsively she rose, and going to her jewel-case, took out the turquoise disc. To the Western eye it was not particularly attractive, but the Oriental mind attached to it a sentimental worth. She recalled the day when she had worn it at Bombay to show Brian, who was staying with her, and the awe and reverence with which his bearer, a Northern man, had viewed it. His eyes were glued to it from the moment he first distinguished it amid the laces on her breast, and when she took it off and handed it to Brian to examine, the servant retreated a little, as though either afraid or consciously unworthy to approach. When his master demanded what was the matter, the man explained that the stone was undoubtedly the Seal of Solomon, bearing the Name at which all the demons trembled, and endowing its owner with power to compel their services. Nothing more was needed to make the brother and sister waste the whole evening, and all the sealing-wax in the house, in trying to produce a satisfactory impression, entirely without success. The bearer, appealed to with ribaldry by his master, pointed out that the markings on the stone might by the eye of faith be interpreted as forming the required letters. It was the seal itself, not the impression, that signified, he said, and to cut it, as the sahib suggested, would be impious in the extreme, since it already bore all that was necessary. He ended by adjuring Eveleen to keep it safely, and pointed out the value which must have been attached to it by the former possessor who had suspended it from its strong steel chain.

“Well, it’s not much use to me!” said Eveleen. “Not being Solomon, I can’t wear a ring the size of a soup-plate, and Ambrose don’t like to see it round my neck. It may be very nice and magical, as your man says, but what good’s that when I don’t know how it works?”

“Ah, sure the thing will come in some time,” said Brian vaguely. “Let me have a try with it. Rubbing, now—that’s what it wants, ain’t it? I’ll give it a rubbing it won’t forget in a hurry!”

But no amount of rubbing produced any effective manifestation, and now the stone was to be made useful in another way. Any pawnbroker would surely be willing to advance three hundred rupees on such a treasure. But the difficulty was to find him. Eveleen could not quite imagine herself scouring the Qadirabad Bazar for a pawnbroker—especially with a mounted escort at her heels—and she did not like the idea of trusting any of the servants. Then came a happy thought.

“Tom Carthew, of course! A disreputable acquaintance, Ambrose may call him if he likes, but who better can there be to help me do a disreputable thing? Tom Carthew’s the man!”

CHAPTER V.
THE SEAL OF SOLOMON.

The escort must have formed a high idea of the courage of European ladies when Eveleen led the way the next morning in the direction of the very canal where, as they had learnt from the syce, she had barely escaped with her life from the hands of infuriated villagers. But this time she had no intention of continuing Bajazet’s education—so alarmingly interrupted. What she wanted was to come across Carthew again, on his way back from his artillery practice. She took great credit to herself for refraining from sending to him directly, since Richard had said that would injure him, but it is to be feared that at the back of her mind was the determination to do so if necessary. Time was pressing, and Brian must have his money. Happily, however, it was not necessary, for Tamas Sahib came in sight with his escort while she was still well on the Qadirabad side of the canal. Both parties stopped short, and while Eveleen was hesitating whether to ride on towards Carthew or send a messenger to summon him to speak to her, one of his men detached himself from the rest and rode towards her party. But he made no attempt to speak to her, addressing himself instead to the Daffadar in command of the escort, who went forward a pace or two to meet him. The messenger delivered over something long and thin, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, and when it was handed to Eveleen with the Topkhana Daroga’s salams, she found it was the lost whip. But there was no time to waste in rejoicing, and she turned boldly to the Daffadar.

“Let the messenger bear my salams to the Daroga Sahib, and say that I beg him to approach and receive my thanks.”

The man looked surprised and doubtful, but her tone and bearing were so carelessly assured that there was no room for misunderstanding. He repeated her words to the messenger, and when he had ridden back and reported them, Carthew came forward in his turn, with evident reluctance.

“Glad to have got you your whip, ma’am,” he said, with the bluffness that covers embarrassment. “The villagers had it hidden, but I made ’em give it up. And now, if you’ll excuse me goin’ back——”

“But I want you to do something for me first,” Eveleen broke in, anticipating a hasty withdrawal at the close of the sentence. “Can you tell me of a pawnbroker?”

“Yes, a pawnbroker—or a moneylender, at any rate. I want to raise some money—at once.”

“I don’t want Major Ambrose to know anything about it. It’s for my brother—you’ll have seen him at home?”

“And a fine young gentleman he was,” mechanically. “But you don’t understand, ma’am—it ain’t the thing——”

“I tell you I must have it. If you won’t help me I must ask the servants. But”—with the air of one making a huge concession—“I don’t mind handing the jewellery over to you, so that you can get the money as if for yourself.”

“But the look of it, ma’am! How could I put the money in your hands? The Major must become aware——”

“Very well, then—tell me where the man lives, or show me the way there, and I’ll do it myself.”

“I see what must be done, and that I’ll have to do it if you won’t. That’s plain, ain’t it?”

The unhappy Carthew pondered the matter. “There is a fellow,” he said reluctantly at last, “that has a garden somewhere this way. If he should so happen to be there to-day, it would be better than goin’ to his house in the Bazar. Have you the—the goods with you, ma’am?”

“That I have!” She handed him the little parcel from her saddle-pocket. “And it must be three hundred rupees, you’ll remember—no less, and I want to send it to Poonah.”

“A letter of credit,” he murmured vaguely. “And these—this is your own, ma’am?”

“Every bit my own—given me by the General. Major Ambrose has nothing to do with it. Then I’ll be riding about here, if you’ll bring me the money or the letter or whatever it is?”

“If I might send it to the Residency——?” feebly, but he was wax in her hands. The old tradition of the hunting-field was too strong. She scorned the suggestion.

“Didn’t you tell me yourself it wouldn’t do? No, just give it me here, and we’ll be done with it.”

What the Daffadar and his men thought when they saw the Daroga ride back to his escort, and found themselves following at a discreet distance, did not appear. Eveleen was determined to keep her emissary in sight, lest he should make use of the narrow lanes between the garden walls to take to his heels, and afterwards return the jewel with regrets. She had no particular confidence in him—merely a lordly feeling that since he was here, he must do what was required of him, and be well looked after while he did it. He had always been inclined to shirk his fences, and her kindness to him after the boghole disaster was a debt of honour, since it was purely at her incitement he had dared the leap. She saw him halt at a gateway and demand admittance, then ride in, and she began to walk Bajazet up and down, keeping a wary eye on the gate meanwhile, the escort following her movements faithfully. Sooner than she expected she saw Carthew emerging again, and rode forward to meet him.

“You won’t tell me you have not made him do it? You must think of somebody else, then.”

“It ain’t that. The old chap seems uncommon pleased, that’s a fact. But he wants to know how you got hold of the thing—afraid he might be accused of stealin’ it, I suppose”—as wrath flashed from Eveleen’s eyes—“and if it’s brought you good luck since you had it?”

“I don’t know, ma’am—unless he’s afraid of keepin’ it in his house if it’s been unlucky with you.”

“That it hasn’t, then. Why, didn’t I get married since it was given me?” If there was irony in her tone, it did not reach Carthew, who grasped eagerly at the idea.

“The very thing, and no mistake! And how did the General get the thing, do you know, ma’am?”

“’Twas at Seringapatam—that’s all I know. He may have killed the man that had it, or he may have bought it from some one that did.”

“That ought to be all right. You’ll get the money, ma’am, never fear! The letter to be in favour of Lieutenant Delany, I presume?” She nodded. “Oh, and I was forgettin’. The old fellow seems half inclined to make you an offer for the thing outright—so much money down. Would you choose to accept of it?”

“That I won’t! I wouldn’t part with it on any account. Tell him I’ll redeem it the first chance I get. Ah, and listen now. If it’s luck he’s thinking of, tell him the luck’s mine, because the seal belongs to me, and if he loses it—better say ‘loses,’ not ‘sells’—I’ll keep the luck, and he’ll have the thing without it. That’ll frighten him.”

“As you please, ma’am,” and off he went again, to return after a time with a document which was naturally quite unintelligible to Eveleen, but which he assured her was a letter of credit, drawn up in due form, on a Poonah firm with which her brother was sure to be well acquainted. “And I was to tell you, ma’am, that if you should wish to sell the trinket at any time, he made no doubt of being able to find you a purchaser at a very handsome price, but he would advise you not to let the chance go by, as the offer might not remain open long.”

“What does he mean? That sounds like a threat,” said Eveleen quickly. “Well, I’m not going to sell it, and I won’t be threatened by any old pawnbroker in Qadirabad. You told him that, I hope?”

“I warned him—that I did,” but there was something uneasy and yet helpless in Carthew’s voice which made her look at him. She waited a moment to see if he would say anything more, but in vain.

“Well, I am greatly obliged to you, Mr Carthew. I don’t know how I’d have ever managed by myself. I’ll tell my brother how much he’s indebted to you. Good morning!”

It was not an age when ladies shook hands with all and sundry, and Carthew did not expect it. He accepted his dismissal with something—it might almost seem—of relief, and the two parties separated.

As she made her way home with the precious document in the saddle-pocket, Eveleen realised the need of getting it to Brian as soon as possible. His letter to her had consumed so much time in its wanderings up and down the river that in any case he must run things very fine. If all her trouble was not to be in vain, she must send the letter of credit off by the steamer which left for Bab-us-Sahel that evening, and she groaned, for she was little more of a penman than Brian himself. But it was consoling to feel that he would make no complaint of brevity on her part so long as the enclosure was satisfactory, and the letter was duly despatched, with the assurance that not even for him could she ask Ambrose for more money, but her dear boy might be sure that for his sake she would sell, if necessary, anything but her wedding-ring. The letter once gone, she was quite happy, knowing nothing of the whirlwind of talk her proceedings had let loose in the servants’ quarters. As so often happens, Richard, the other person most concerned, knew nothing of it either, and being much engrossed in the duties of his new position as head of the Agency in Colonel Bayard’s absence, did not even notice the excitement that prevailed.

It was not until some weeks later that Eveleen heard of her pendant again. The hot weather was coming on, and her daylight rides had ceased perforce. Only in the early morning hours was exertion possible, and even then it cost her an effort that astonished her. The year before she had been at Mahabuleshwar, so that this was her first hot weather in the plains, and the blazing sun and relentless heat filled her with a kind of terror, enhanced by the suddenness of the transition from comparative coolness and night frosts. She was lying listlessly on a bamboo couch one day, unable to do anything—for the least exertion made her pant painfully—intent only on getting through the dreadful hours somehow until evening brought some relief, when Richard came in. It was an unusual hour for him to appear, for he stuck to the office as rigorously as his chief had done, and he took her by surprise. For once he beheld her without the innocent make-believe of wellbeing and energy—quite unconscious on her part—which had served hitherto to hide from him how much the heat was trying her, and she saw his face harden suddenly into decision. But he spoke of something quite different, with an assumption of bluff humour which did not suit him at all. Richard Ambrose was not a humorous person. Like the legendary Scotchman, he joked “wi’ deeficculty.”

“I fancy you won’t feel inclined to raise money on your jewellery again in a hurry, my dear!” Her eyes, accustomed to the dim light, could see him distinctly as he groped across the bare shaded room, whereas he was only able to distinguish the tell-tale inertness of the white figure on the couch. As always, his voice and presence acted as a tonic, and Eveleen sat up.

“Y’are greatly pleased with yourself about something, Ambrose! Will you tell me what it is?”

“Oh, you shall hear it, I promise you!” He dropped into a chair, but found it impossible to go on wearing the mask. “What possessed you to go and borrow money from one of these people here?” he demanded wrathfully, “And through that fellow the Daroga, too! Have you no sense of what is suitable in your position?”

A challenge to fight would never find Eveleen wanting. “My position?” she repeated slowly. “My position was that I wanted the money, and had to get it somehow.”

“Since you were ashamed to ask your husband for it. Oh, don’t be afraid; I can guess what it was for. That brother of yours again, of course! If he ain’t ruined, it won’t be his loving sister’s fault.”

“As it happens,” with great dignity, “’twas to save him from ruin, and I’m proud to have done it.”

“Of course! It don’t occur to you, I presume, that what the fellow wants is a regular hard time, under a commander who’ll keep his nose to the grindstone, instead of peacocking on the Staff? With you eternally helping him out of every scrape he may choose to get into, he hasn’t a chance. Well, don’t say I haven’t warned you!”

“But sure that’s the very thing I’m doing—helping him go where he’ll be well looked after. Helping him with the money, I mean,” she added in a panic, fearing she had betrayed herself. But Richard, to do him justice, was not suspicious.

“Have it your own way, my dear. You have your own way of doing things, and I suppose you’ll stick to it. Of course it was too much to expect you to consider me in your anxiety to serve your brother?”

“I did consider you,” bluntly. “Sure I’d have asked you for the money if I hadn’t.”

“I wonder you didn’t take that as a reason for robbing my desk! It don’t matter, of course, that every tongue in the Agency and in the Fort is buzzing over my wife and myself, and inventing new scandals every day?”

“Oh, people will talk!” with superb detachment. “If there’s nothing handy to talk about, they’ll make it up. The Agency people know there’s no harm about us, anyhow, and as for the Fort, I’d like to know what business it is of theirs?”

“That’s it, precisely. You have poked your nose into Khemistan politics, my dear. You may have discovered by this time that there are two parties among the Khans—old Gul Ali’s, which wants peace with the English, and the one headed by young Kamal-ud-din, which would like to turn us out neck and crop. It has worried me no end lately to find Kamal-ud-din and his set all so uncommonly cock-a-hoop, and I can tell by Bayard’s letters that he’s worried too. Well, to-day the reason came out, when I saw Kamal-ud-din in durbar wearing that blue dinner-plate of yours. I thought I couldn’t be mistaken, but I made up my mind to come home and ask you before saying anything, in case it was merely the fellow to it. I fancy they were rather disappointed that I didn’t kick up a dust, but afterwards they invited me into the garden to see a new pavilion they are building. All the young Khans and their hangers-on were there, and I saw they were egging on little Hafiz-Ullah to say something. Presently he burst out, with a nasty little giggle, ‘The Istunt Sahib has not congratulated my cousin on recovering the talisman of his house.’ Kamal-ud-din was smirking so vilely that I couldn’t doubt any longer the thing was yours, and that you had let me in for something unpleasant——”

“And then directed my attention to it, while you had said nothing of losing it? No, my dear, pardon me; I am beginning to know your ways by this time. I took a good look at the object, and said in a bored sort of voice, ‘Curious! I could almost believe it had a look of a jewel that belonged to my wife, and that I bade her get rid of, because English people don’t wear such things.’ They were a good bit taken aback at that, but one of the hangers-on put in, ‘Yes, it came from the Istunt Sahib’s house.’ I looked him down and said—precious sternly, I promise you,—‘You mean his Highness has bought it from the goldsmith Mrs Ambrose sold it to. I hope he didn’t let him make too much on the transaction.’ They saw there was no change to be had out of me—the Munshi told me afterwards they had their story all pat of your having sent the thing to Kamal-ud-din with your salams, and if I had shown any sign of anger or surprise, out it would have come—and began to offer explanations in a hurry. The talisman had been carried off fifty years ago by a captain of the guard who quarrelled with the Khans of that day, and contrived to escape with his life. He was heard of afterwards as a soldier of fortune in South India, but no one knew what became of him and the stone at last. I was able to supply the rest of the story, of course, and they were grateful, having a lurking doubt whether they had got the right thing after all. It seems the stone brings good luck to its possessor, which is the reason of all the secret jubilation that has been worrying me. When they had said all they had to say, I smiled superior, and remarked what a satisfaction it was to Mrs Ambrose and myself to have been the means of restoring such an interesting relic to his Highness’s family, and so came away.”

“But we have not restored it to them, and we won’t! I never sold it—only pawned it.”

“Precisely what I thought, my dear. That’s what I meant by saying that you wouldn’t pawn your jewellery again in a hurry.”

“Must I remind you, my dear, that what is yours is mine?” This was literally true in those days, but it was a sore point with almost every woman, and tactful husbands did not insist upon it overmuch. Richard Ambrose realised this immediately. “Not that I would press that for a moment—you know me better. But you would not wish to detain another person’s property?”

“It’s not his property—it’s mine. I came by it honestly, and if you think the General didn’t, you’d better say so! I won’t have my things given away without so much as ‘by your leave’!”

“Now pray don’t work yourself up about nothing at all. You shall have another brooch—or whatever you like to call it—that you can wear, as you couldn’t this, and with better stones. No doubt the General came by it honestly, but it’s certain it was stolen property to start with. Now the rightful owner has got it back, that’s all.”

“Well, he’s not got the luck that goes with it!” triumphantly. “I warned the old thief of a pawnbroker that if he parted with the stone I’d keep that. And so I will!”

“Be quiet!” said Richard sternly, for her voice had risen. “Do you want to be murdered? That’s what will happen if you talk like this.” She looked at him aghast, and he proceeded to improve the occasion, pleased with the effect he had produced. “Now listen to me, my dear. It’s about time you left off behaving in this childish way, and settled down like a reasonable being. Since I brought you here you have given more trouble than all the other women in the place put together. If the Resident wasn’t soft to the point of folly where a lady is concerned, you would have been sent down the river again—or even back to Bombay—in double quick time. But because he’s a fool on this point, there’s no need I should be. I tell you plainly, I have no fancy for being stabbed or poisoned purely for the sake of breaking your luck, but that’s what will happen——”

He stopped perforce, for Eveleen had flung herself upon him with a shriek. “Ambrose! you don’t mean it? They wouldn’t hurt you because of my silliness? I’ll write—I’ll go and tell them——”

“My dear! Pray”—he freed himself with some difficulty—“do try to exercise self-control. Nothing will happen to either of us if you will only behave with ordinary prudence. The matter is happily ended now, and needs no intervention on your part. But if I had not belittled the talisman—had I shown any desire to regain it—we should all probably have had to fight for our lives to-night. I have instilled into Kamal-ud-din’s mind a doubt of its value which it will take some time to repair. The stone is where it belongs; be content with that. And if I may venture to suggest it, think before you act in future.”

“Oh, I will, I will! I’ll think for hours. But why would you say we’d be fighting for our lives? Who with?”

“Ambrose! d’ye mean we might be besieged here—actually a siege—and have adventures, like the ladies who were carried off into Ethiopia? Why, you talked as if ’twas a punishment bringing me up here, and sure I’d rather be here than any other place in the world!”

He looked at her hopelessly. “Sometimes I really despair of you, my dear. But most of those ladies’ husbands had been killed, if I remember rightly, so perhaps that’s the reason—— No, pray! it is too hot for demonstrations of such fervour. I beg your pardon—— There!”

Thus rudely checked in throwing herself upon him again, Eveleen dropped back upon the couch. “It’s no use!” she said in a small miserable voice. “Whatever I do—nothing will please you. And you say these cruel things, breaking my heart entirely. What will I do? what can I do?” she faced him fiercely. “And I’d lie down and let you walk over me if ’twould give you a moment’s pleasure! Will you tell me what I’ll do? Don’t sit there like a graven image with the toothache and look at me as if I was off my head!”

“Sometimes I think you are!” the words were on Richard’s lips, but some feeling of compunction made him choke them back. He had the advantage over his wife that he did not always say what he thought. But he looked physically and mentally exhausted as he lifted his hand slowly. “Pray, my dear! But the fault is mine. I should not have kept you up here so long. You are overstrained; I fear an attack of fever.” She gazed at him in astonishment, almost suspicion. “If you really wish to please me——”

“Then you will go down the river by the next steamer. I asked Gibbons t’other day whether his wife would receive you in her bungalow at Bab-us-Sahel, and he assures me she’ll welcome you heartily. There in the sea-breezes you will recover your calmness of mind—I trust.”

“What does that matter? She is an excellent woman, most kind and motherly—everybody’s friend.”

“My dear, how can I say? What do other ladies do? Engage in useful and elegant feminine occupations, I presume. You will be able to show me the results——”

“How could I? My work keeps me here. But I shall—er—hope to pay you a visit—perhaps more than one——”

“Major Ambrose,” tragically, “will you never under stand that I didn’t marry you and come to India to be poked away in other people’s bungalows like a bit of old furniture? Why, if ’twas only to torment you——”

“It don’t occur to you, my dear, that I might desire a little respite? That’s a joke!” he added hurriedly.

“I admit I ought to be. Here I suggest going to considerable trouble, and some expense, to establish you in comfort away from this place, where no European female could exist when the hot weather is at its height, and you receive it as an insult. What more can I say?” He rose.

Eveleen was after him in a moment, twisting him round to face her. “Ah, now, don’t you know that when you speak to me like that you can turn my heart in your fingers? Sure I’m the most reasonable being in the world if you’ll only remember to consult me before making these grand arrangements of yours instead of after!”

“Indeed!” drily. “And is there any likelihood that you would fall in with ’em?”

CHAPTER VI.
ENTER THE ADVENTURER.

Bab-us-Sahel had the advantage over Qadirabad that its natural torridity was tempered by the sea breeze in the daytime and the land breeze at night, but that was all. After the shady gardens which had at least looked cool, though they were not so, the staring bareness of the coast town was the more horrible. No trees, no vegetation even—save the unsightly milk-bush and the grey-brown thorn which was supposed to provide the camel with adequate nourishment—neutral tints everywhere, from glaring white to every possible dull hue that sand or dust or rock could assume. It was like Egypt without the Nile—the Egypt of those days, with half-starved donkeys, ragged children, diseased beggars, and mud-heap houses complete. That was in and around the native town, which at least had patches of shade here and there, where the mud hovels nestled up close to the side of a mosque or sought the shelter of the city wall. But the European houses, strung out along their sun-baked road, received no shelter either from one another or from anything else. Each grilled alone in its own compound, like a mud-built oven subjected to furnace heat from above and on all sides. Merely to look out from the hot shade of the verandah made the eyes ache as though they had been exposed to burning flame. The very wind was hot, and it lifted the all-surrounding dust and whirled it about in maddeningly confusing shapes—“playing at waterspouts,” Eveleen once said bitterly—so that you didn’t know whether you were standing on your head or your heels till you found a thick coating of grit on your hair. Nor was the place even healthy. The stagnant marsh remained a marsh when it seemed as though any water in it must evaporate by boiling—since it was fed by sea-water percolating through the sand, and the wells apparently drew their supplies from it, to judge by the taste of the liquid. Experts had reported that there ought to be an abundant supply of good water in the hills to the west of the town, but Colonel Bayard felt a delicacy in undertaking large engineering works. It would look as though the British occupation of Bab-us-Sahel on the coast, as of Sahar high up the river, was intended to be permanent, and his aim in life was to prove that it was not. There were few of the Bab-us-Sahel Europeans who did not adore Colonel Bayard, but in the hot weather the adoration was tinged with resentment.

Eveleen lived through the dreadful weeks by dint of her consuming interest in her neighbours’ affairs. All unconsciously her husband had hit upon the very place for her. It would never have occurred to him that the impulse to have a finger in every pie, which he called meddling, could be turned to uses of friendly helpfulness such as suggested the old neighbourly life at home, where everyone knew and discussed every one else’s business, and furthered it as opportunity offered. Mrs Gibbons, as the Agency surgeon’s wife, might be supposed to have acquired by contiguity a certain amount of professional knowledge, but if so, it was the merest surface polish, for the good lady would in any circumstances have physicked and nursed any community in which she found herself. “Gumption” was the word most frequently on her lips, and the quality most evident in her actions. When Colonel Bayard declined again to give an appearance of permanence to the occupation by establishing an experimental garden—such as all new stations were equipped with—for determining what the soil would produce, it was Mrs Gibbons who stepped into the breach in default of the public authorities, and under inconceivable difficulties, grew successive crops of vegetables which did much to preserve the health of her fellow-exiles. She kept fowls which actually produced eggs, a flock of sheep—a small one, of course, but they were really sheep, not goats,—and several cows, and woe be to the cowherd who sought to increase the apparent output of milk by surreptitiously introducing into the pail some of the water in which a portion of his scanty attire had been previously soaked. The products of her farm were eagerly bought up—when there were any to sell, for regardless of such base details as heavy expense and rightful profit, Mrs Gibbons rejoiced with her whole heart in giving things away. Eveleen accused her of standing in rapt contemplation of an unconscious sheep, and cold bloodedly apportioning its joints in her mind to the various people in whose needs she was most interested at the moment, but her whole manner of life was after Eveleen’s own heart.

Theoretically, that is, for if there was one quality of the possession of which Mrs Ambrose’s worst enemy could not accuse her, it was the all-important “gumption.” She delighted in distributing gifts of milk or eggs, but of the minute care and watchfulness required for their production she was wholly incapable. Mrs Gibbons shook her wise head over her a dozen times a day, and wondered how a married woman could possibly be so heedless. The normal Early Victorian married woman, however young, was staid with a staidness that would be improbable in a grandmother at the present day. She laid down the law to other women with the assurance naturally conferred by her position on a dazzling eminence attained by sheer merit, and she made—or professed to make—her husband’s comfort and satisfaction her one object in life. Mrs Ambrose fell lamentably below this standard. Like Richard, Mrs Gibbons was compelled sorrowfully to believe that she had never really grown up. She coaxed when she should have commanded, received with ingenuous pleasure attentions she ought to have demanded as a right, and would forsake at any time the lofty society of her sister-matrons to advise a subaltern as to the proper treatment of a sick pony. But, as her hostess once said indignantly to a detractor, she would give the gown from her back to any one that needed it, and run herself off her legs to help a sick person; and if this did not necessarily show gumption, it showed something better. There were no professional nurses in India, not even Mrs Gamp and Mrs Prig, and a woman’s character was soon gauged by her readiness to nurse her friends in time of need—and not her friends only, but the veriest stranger, who had, as Europe would have said, no sort of claim upon her. Naturally Mrs Gibbons’s services were in constant, demand when the inevitable “low fever” made its appearance towards the end of the hot weather, but could she have multiplied herself by twenty, they would not have gone round, so that she was glad to be able to turn over some of the slighter cases to her guest. She did so not without misgiving, and with an impressive warning as to the size of doses, and the distinction to be observed between internal and external application; but no tragedies occurred. As a matter of fact, the medicine was generally forgotten, unless the patient or a servant remembered it, while the nurse brightened the sick-room with anecdote and comment, until the victims declared reproachfully that they would die of laughing, if of nothing else. She herself found the torments of prickly heat easier to bear when her mind was thus occupied, and was beginning to pride herself on having got through the hot weather remarkably well, when, just as all properly constituted people were counting the days to the breaking of the monsoon, she also went down with the fever. It was not a very severe attack, but it was characteristic of Eveleen to be convinced she would not recover, and with bitter tears to entreat Mrs Gibbons to let her see Ambrose just once more. Mrs Gibbons had been surprised, and a little scandalised, by the apparent brevity of the communications passing between the pair, and the obviously appalling difficulty Eveleen found in writing to her husband, and it is possible that she heightened the colours a little in her own letter. At any rate, when Eveleen awoke one day from a refreshing sleep, to the welcome sound of rain pouring down outside, she found Richard sitting looking at her. She smiled at him happily.

“That’s nice, now!” she said in her soft crooning voice. “It’s a pleasure to see you there, Ambrose. If you knew how good y’are to look at, you’d maybe be too proud.”

Richard Ambrose—buttoned up and strapped down as all official Britons were in those days, even in the tropics—smiled with some embarrassment. “I fear you are joking, my dear. Ought I to return the compliment?”

“Y’ought, then!” with energy. “I may be a washed-out doll, but my hair is smooth. You see that?”

She held out in a feeble hand a limp tress, which he scrutinised doubtfully. Eveleen’s hair was as ill regulated as her character. It would not curl, but neither would it lie flat, since it was possessed of a rebellious crispness which defied brushing and all known pomades. Hence the sportive ringlet and the sleek band—the two styles alone possible to the normal woman of the day—were both out of the question. But Richard did not look pleased.

“I—I think I liked it better as it used to be,” he said hesitatingly. Eveleen sighed loudly.

“Some people are never satisfied!” she lamented, then her tone changed. “And y’are come to take me back with y’at last? Oh, don’t tell me y’are not!”

“I—I really can’t say, my dear. We ain’t our own masters in Khemistan nowadays—I suppose you know?”

“That Sir Harry Lennox is coming up? I know that, of course. Brian’s safely on the Staff now—you have heard?”

“I saw it gazetted—yes.” The tone firmly declined to congratulate either superior or subordinate. “Well, then, you must see that things are altered. It don’t lie with me to give you leave to come up the river—nor even with Bayard now.”

“Sure it’s all the same thing, if it lies with Sir Harry. But why do you talk as if he would change things?”

“His appointment must supersede Bayard—may supersede all of us. Surely you perceive that? Bayard and Bayard’s men ain’t likely to be here long.”

“I don’t see why. I believe Colonel Bayard and Sir Harry will like one another greatly.”

“Fall on each other’s necks and swear eternal friendship, in fact? Well, my dear, I hope so, but I doubt it. Old Lennox is Maryport’s man, and if he comes here, it’s to further Maryport’s policy, and we all know what that is.”

“But Sir Harry don’t see eye to eye with Lord Maryport by any means. Brian says he can’t speak with patience of the way his plan for the Ethiopian Expedition was bungled at the end—leaving the ladies prisoners and all. If they hadn’t been rescued, ’twas all the talk in Poonah that he’d have called out the Governor-General.”

“Well, there you are, you see. He would have had us remain in Ethiopia, no doubt.”

“Not a bit of it! He wouldn’t allow native states inside our boundaries, but he would never advance a step beyond them unless he was forced. The times I’ve heard him say that! If he comes, ’twill be to make the Khans keep their treaties, that’s all.”

“Pray, my dear, don’t agitate yourself so excessively. Ain’t Bayard here to make the Khans keep their treaties, and will they do it? And if they won’t do it for him, whom they call their father and mother, will they do it for the first arrogant old party that comes behaudering [swaggering] along? And when they won’t—what then?”

“D’ye think any orders would induce Bayard to do it? He’d be broke first himself, and that’s what will happen, you mark my words. The G.-G. wants Khemistan, and means to get it.”

He spoke so warmly that Eveleen’s voice was quite timid—she could not bear to hint at disagreement when Richard was for once talking to her as a reasonable being—as she suggested meekly, “But if the Khans made the treaties, oughtn’t they keep them?”

“Well, ain’t Bayard trying to make ’em? As he says, if the fools would only consult their own interests, they would be on his side. The treaties leave ’em quite free to govern the country according to their own ideas—though that don’t commend itself to you, eh? But there they are, and if they would behave themselves in their external relations, Maryport himself couldn’t lay a finger on ’em. But they won’t—very far from it.”

“All very well theoretically, my dear, but you wait till it has to be done. That’s where the trouble will begin, and we shall all be in two camps. Bayard on one side—one of ourselves, a great shikari, a pukka sportsman—and on the other a foul-mouthed old blackguard who boasts that he knows nothing of India, and goes about abusing high and low the Directors, who are our masters and his, and the Services, who are supposed to be his comrades, and making the troops discontented. Whose part d’ye think most people will take—all old Indians especially?”

“I ain’t suggesting there’ll be bloodshed among ourselves. But Bayard will resign, or be kicked out, and old Harry will rush to destruction with no one to stop him. The G.-G. may think he has set him an easy task, but he don’t know Khemistan. It’ll mean war to a certainty. Without Bayard to smooth ’em down, the Khans won’t stand the old chap’s gali, [insults] and their Arabits will face any army we can bring against ’em. Kamal-ud-din especially is full of fight.” He stopped suddenly, then laughed a little. “I don’t know what you’ll say to Kamal-ud-din’s latest, by the bye. Whether the performances of the talisman haven’t quite come up to expectation, or whether he heard of your threat to keep the luck, and resents it, I can’t say, but he seems to think the Seal ain’t quite complete. At any rate, a friend of his called upon me to enquire in the most discreet manner whether I was disposed to part with you, as there was a good home waiting for you where the jewel and you would be reunited.”

“The shameful wretch!” Eveleen’s blue eyes had dilated till they looked all black. “To dare to suggest such a thing——! And what did you say?”

“That his flattering proposals could not be entertained till my wife was a widow—— Eh? what did you say?”

“Oh, I kicked him out. But they saw nothing shocking in the idea, of course—meant everything to be quite open and above-board, arranged in the most friendly way——”

“Well, if you call that friendly!” Tears and fury strove in Eveleen’s voice.

“They would regard it as quite friendly to invite a man to divorce his wife that she might marry some one else. The unfriendly way would be to take her without asking. Now really, my dear! I thought you would look upon it as a good joke, or I wouldn’t have told you.”

“And I suppose he said your wife was a crosspatch, and as ugly as sin, and altogether you’d do well to be rid of her and get another?”

“You must think me a very patient fellow, my dear! And ’pon my honour,” slowly, “I begin to believe I must be.”

“Ambrose, you have made a joke! D’ye hear, that was a joke! What’s come to you?” She was laughing hysterically. “And to do it when you must be cursing yourself for not taking the chance to get rid of me and start afresh! A new wife who would be English and proper and suitable and all the things I couldn’t be to save my life!”

“And wouldn’t be if you could? No, steady! no more of this, please. Quiet!”

His firm hand on her shoulder helped Eveleen to choke back the screams which threatened to burst forth, but she grasped the hand convulsively and held fast to it. “No, I’ll be good, I’ll be good! I didn’t mean—— But tell me now—Ambrose, tell me—what have I done? How have I disappointed you? How will I ever put things right if I don’t know what’s wrong?”

Panting painfully, she leaned half out of the bed, still gripping his hand with both hers, her eyes searching his face. Richard Ambrose, hating a scene at least as much as most Englishmen, wriggled uncomfortably. “Really, my dear, I don’t know—— Why”—with a sudden bright idea—“I thought it was you who were disappointed. Give you my word I did.”

“Then you had no business to. But what is it was wrong with me? It ain’t as though you didn’t know what I was like. We had known one another so long——”

“True.” He carried the war boldly into the enemy’s country. “But it was so long ago that I had forgot the changes time must bring. I had lived too much alone: I was an old man before I was a young one. But looking back, I thought—I hoped—I might succeed in making you happy. I was mistaken, and by involving you in my mistake I wrought you an irreparable injury.”

“Ambrose!” Eveleen was as easily diverted as a child. Her eyes filled with tears, her lip trembled. “What are you saying—a mistake, injury? That you have injured me, would you say?”

“Don’t I know from your own lips that you are the most miserable woman in the world?” he asked bitterly, but it must be confessed, with a feeling of shame.

“But if I did, I never meant it—y’ought to know that! You must know—you couldn’t have believed it! Swear to me you did not, or I’ll crawl out of bed and hold to your feet so you can’t get away!”

“Pray don’t. It ain’t necessary. I’ll swear anything you choose. What will old Mother Gibbons say to me for letting you agitate yourself like this?”

“Mrs Gibbons is a dear sweet soul, and the heart of Dr Gibbons doth safely trust in her, because she never runs up bills. Indeed, then, she scolds him when he spends too much on cheroots. Would you have me turn like her?”

“Then I’ll tell you this—I’d rather be myself, and be scolded by you, in your most shockingly cold style, than be like Mrs Gibbons—there! Now, will you let me come back with you to Qadirabad?”

“Good heavens!” he said helplessly. “Were the hysterics nothing but a sham, then?” But he saw the perplexity in her eyes changing again into poignant reproach, and hastened to make amends.

“No, I’m a fool, forgive me. But you will allow it’s a bit difficult for a man to follow you into a fresh mood every second minute—eh?”

“But why would I be in the same mood all the time?” in genuine perplexity. He laughed shortly.

“Don’t know, I’m sure, my dear. Blame me as much as you like, but judge me leniently when you find me slow. I was born like it, and have very likely got worse.”

He cut short her assurances that on no account would she have him the least bit different by departing, on the plea that he feared a scolding from Mrs Gibbons, and left to herself, Eveleen realised that she was baffled still. The enigma was not solved, the barrier was still between them. Compared with the good-comradely relations existing between Dr and Mrs Gibbons, she and Richard were like strangers feverishly struggling to behave as near friends. Perhaps, after all, Richard was right, and nothing else was possible to him. It was hardly likely he could change much at his age, and the more she dashed herself against his defences the more uncomfortable and embarrassed he would be. She must be calm, reasonable, English, if they were to be happy together. “And how will I manage that?” she asked herself dolefully. “I’ll try—if it’s only to please him, but it’s a poor chance!”

Whether from his own feelings alone, or assisted by Mrs Gibbons, Richard had learnt his lesson. No more hysterics for him! He had taken up his quarters at Government House—since Colonel Bayard had deputed him to act as his representative in receiving Sir Henry Lennox when he landed—and he paid his wife a visit punctiliously morning and evening, but departed instantly if she showed the least sign of becoming excited. Under this bracing treatment Eveleen improved rapidly in health, and was promoted first to a couch on the verandah and then to taking drives, and was even well enough to be allowed to accompany her hostess to the shore to welcome the new ruler when he arrived from Bombay. Everything seemed to conspire to spoil Sir Henry’s first impression of Bab-us-Sahel. It was bad enough that his steamer should have been compelled to anchor off the port the night before, in imminent danger of running upon a reef in the darkness, and it was undignified for the person invested with supreme military and political power in Khemistan to be dragged in his boat through the surf and up the beach by yelling coolies because the tide would not allow of his landing at the pier. But the ladies watching from their carriages opined that something more serious must be wrong as the small bent figure, with dark glasses and long straggling beard, hobbled up the shore. Sir Henry had brushed aside brusquely the greetings of the officers awaiting him, and was giving sharp orders, pointing now to the vessel pitching on the horizon, now to the headlands on either side of the town. Something had to be done instantly, that was clear, for not until two or three men had detached themselves from the group, and mounted and ridden off in hot haste, did he appear to remember his manners.

“Sickness on board!” said Mrs Gibbons the experienced, noting that the port surgeon was one of those who had ridden away. “Now I wonder what it is—not cholera, I trust! I must see what beds——”

“Ah, but just wait till Sir Harry has passed!” urged Eveleen, in deep disappointment. “We don’t know that it’s sickness. And you wouldn’t make me cut my own brother? There he is—that’s Brian!” indicating a youth whose tall form towered above that of the General, naturally short and now bowed with rheumatism. Brian had a large mouth—expanded further by a cheerful smile—and blue eyes like his sister’s, one of them closed at the moment in a palpable wink. Eveleen was so much taken up with responding to this greeting that she was surprised to find her husband—portentously stiff and correct, as who should say, “This is none of my doing!” bringing Sir Henry up to the carriage. The General’s faded blue tunic might have been a relic of the Peninsula, and he wore a curious helmet of his own invention instead of the ordinary cap or shako with a linen cover and curtain. But the keen eyes twinkling through the dark spectacles, and the enormous nose, would have made him noticeable anywhere, quaint little figure though he was. He saluted and bowed low as he approached the two ladies in their best white gowns and flower-trimmed lace caps—Mrs Gibbons solid, jolly, and dependable; Eveleen all on wires, quivering with interest and excitement.

“My chief pleasure in coming to Khemistan,” he said courteously, “was the prospect of meeting Mrs Ambrose again, but I did not expect to have the honour so soon.”

“Ah, but that’s because I have been here for the hot weather,” said Eveleen eagerly. “But I may go up the river again with Ambrose, may I not?”

“So far as the matter rests with me, I shall be only too delighted,” was the courtly reply, and it took all Eveleen’s self-control not to cast a glance of triumph at her husband.

“A bit seedy just now—we have had a terrible voyage——” his face was shadowed. “But he’ll soon shake that off.” Then the twinkle reappeared. “But would not a well-conducted lady have enquired first after my wife and the girls?”

“Ah, I never was that!” lamented Eveleen. “But I’ll do it, I’ll do it! Pray, Sir Harry, has Lady Lennox forgiven me yet for teaching Sally to jump?”

“I think I may say she has—particularly since she believes Sally has forgot the accomplishment.”

“While all the time Sally’s naughty papa has been keeping it alive in secret—eh, Sir Harry? Ah then, I know you, you see—and you and Sally and I will have many a fine gallop yet. I’ve set up a little Arab I’d like you to see——”

“With all my heart—but not at present, I fear. Now I must reluctantly bid——”

“Ah, but I must make known to you my kind friend Mrs Gibbons here, who would be Chief Medical Officer if ladies could be doctors. She read in your face that you had sickness on board while you were still far down the strand.”

“Ah, my dear lady!” there was no badinage now in the General’s voice—“we don’t alarm our gentle friends with these sad matters, but we have lost fifty-four men from cholera since leaving Bombay. That was what detained me just now—giving orders for pitching a camp of isolation immediately on the point yonder. I can do nothing till my poor fellows are transferred there.”

“Then Mrs Gibbons is the person you want!” triumphantly. “She has already reckoned up in her mind how many beds she can put her finger on in an hour.”

The General shot a keen look at Mrs Gibbons’s composed face. “By Jove, ma’am, you’re the woman for me! With your permission, I’ll send over my own surgeon to consult with you immediately. Ladies, your servant!”

“Oh, Sir Harry!” cried Eveleen desperately as he turned away, “you’ll be letting Brian—my brother—come to tiffin, or dinner, at any rate?”

“Lieutenant Delany shall certainly pay his respects to Mrs Ambrose and her hostess this evening”—again Brian’s eye sought his sister’s and closed in a wink—“if his duties will allow. During the day he will be continuously occupied.”

“If I might suggest, sir——” they heard Richard’s voice as Sir Henry stumbled off resolutely through the sand to the waiting horses. They heard also the General’s answer.

“No, sir, you may not suggest. There is far too much ‘suggesting’ here. I take no suggestions from my subordinates.”

CHAPTER VII.
THE OLD ORDER CHANGES.

It was late when Brian Delany found his way to Mrs Gibbons’s bungalow, so late that the good lady herself—pardonably weary after a long hot afternoon spent in looking up or improvising hospital equipment in the company of surgeons ignorant of the limited resources of the place—had begun to hint that invalids did well to go to bed early. But when he was heard dismounting at the verandah steps, she gave up her efforts in despair, contenting herself, as she took her departure, with the threat that if Brian stayed more than half an hour, she would get up again and come and turn him out. Eveleen hardly heard her, so much engrossed was she in greeting her brother.

“Well, old Evie!” he stooped and kissed her. “Been more than a little bit seedy—eh?”

“Ah, what do I signify? Let me look at you, Brian. D’ye know, I believe you’re—grown!”

“Will you listen to the woman! Grown, am I? Grown thin, my dear, till you could count the bones of me!”

“Nonsense, then! You look far too well for that. But I do see, indeed—yes, there’s a look of hardness——”

“Hardness about me, would you say? No, indeed, but plenty about the little old horror you went and handed me over to! Little I thought ’twas a slave I was to be, when you blarneyed me into trying to get into the General’s family.”

“Sure it’s all for your good. You look twice the boy you did—twice the man, I’d say.”

“Do you tell me that, now? And how many yards of aide-de-camp is the General to entertain if we all stretch out this way? It’s not an increase of length, I tell you, but a decrease of girth—a shocking decrease!”

“Starved, is it? That’s just what I am. How would you help it with a chief that drinks water as soon as whisky, and can live happy on country prog? No wine—no beer, even—on active service, and precious little other times. And hates the smell of a weed——”

“Not on service. At Poonah Stewart and I would get away by ourselves when we couldn’t stand it any longer, and one keep ‘Cave!’ while t’other indulged. But as often as not the old lad would be after us before we were done.”

“Ah, Brian, it’s a reformed character you’ll be, and no thanks to yourself! And the poverty-stricken look that seems to hang about you—what of that, now?”

“That comes of wearing uniform always and all day long, my dear creature. And when your coat gets shabby, why—‘Hang it, sir! have it mended. An honest patch won’t shame either you or me, let me tell you.’”

“Am I not, indeed? This is my best coat, ma’am, put on to impress the ladies on landing. And even in having two, I’m breaking my General’s rules. What d’ye think is his allowance for a fellow on active service? Why, just what he stands up in, and nothing else but a pair of shoes, a second shirt and inexpressibles, a flannel waistcoat for chilly weather, a towel, and a piece of soap!”

“They’re snakes, I tell you, and he St Patrick! Whether you may wear ’em on leave, I don’t know, for I’ve had no leave since I’ve been with him, but certainly not within a hundred miles of headquarters. A shooting-jacket is ‘a deformity of dress,’ and as for a blouse”—this was a kind of Norfolk coat made in thin materials—“if one met his eye, believe me, he’d tear it off you and kick it out of the house. Oh, he’s a holy terror, and no mistake!”

“The very person you needed to take you in hand, my dear fellow! And tell me, does he work you hard?”

“Don’t he, just!” with a hollow groan. “From morning to night—day in, day out—your nose is on the grindstone. ‘If I thought there was the remotest chance of your studying,’ says he, ‘I’d allow you time for it, the same as I do myself, but ’tis no use. So I’ll find you work instead, just to keep you out of mischief.’”

“Marlborough, Frederick, the Duke—all those old codgers full of plans of battles like starfishes, with a compass in the corner to show they’re upside-down! Much good they’d do me or anybody! I’d want to get them up-sided first, and then they’d be all wrong. And some great little old Latin book that he hammers bits out of at meals and all sorts of times, with Alexander’s campaigns in it—for an example and an incitement, says he.”

“You’ll be a wonder by the time he’s done with you! And the work—what’s that like?”

“Like galloping hell-for-leather through the heat to surprise some wretched barracks where they ain’t prepared for inspection. And turning everything topsy-turvy, and hauling everybody over the coals, and putting up the private soldiers to make complaints, and swearing till all is blue that there ain’t an officer in the place fit to hold his commission, and the C.O. and the surgeon ought to be drummed out of the Army with ignominy! Oh, I tell you they love him down there!” Brian waved a hand in a direction supposed to be that of Bombay.

“I believe you! To see a poor wretch of a private trying hard to think of some grievances, with one eye on the General, who’s so anxious for ’em, and t’other on his own officer, who’s safe to pass on to him the wigging he gets—it’s rich! But it ain’t what you may call fair play. Why, the very first thing I was taught when I got into the regiment was that an officer must never permit a private soldier an interview without he was full dressed and accompanied by a sergeant. But the General swears an officer must be accessible to his men day and night—in their shirt-sleeves if they choose—and no sergeant within a mile of ’em. D’ye wonder no one knows how he stands?”

“Oh, no doubt; but this is India, and peace time. Not that I’d quarrel with anything that made people more friendly, but when you have to unlearn all you were ever taught——! It’s mad about the men the old lad is. The officers may go hang, but every private is his good comrade. The letters they send him! you’d laugh, I tell you—where you didn’t cry! Well, there y’are now; what d’ye expect these old colonels and brigadiers, who have spent all their lives in India, to think of it?”

“Pleased? Sure they hate the General as heartily as he hates them. And he hates the Civilians worse. And if there is anything he hates worse than a Civilian, it’s a Political. So now you see why it’s Old Harry and the rank and file against the Services and all the old Indians everywhere.”

“Ah, if he hates the Politicals—I heard him catch up Ambrose in the horridest way—— But how can he——”

“Oh, he don’t mean it a bit. If you sit mum and let him rage over your head, he’ll be smiling sweetly on you in another five minutes. But if you give it him back—my word, won’t he kick up a dust! And if you bear malice, so can he—for ever and ever. He’s the drollest old chap—like a child in some ways. You tip Ambrose the wink not to answer him back, and not to use Persian words in speaking or writing to him—he boasts he don’t understand a syllable of anything but plain English—and they’ll get on like a house afire.”

“My dear creature, he’s got to get accustomed—or be broke. I do hope he and Bayard and all the fellows here ain’t going to get their noses in the air. If they do, the General will rub ’em tidily in the dust for ’em, and enjoy doing it. But if they’ll just take a little pains to keep on his soft side—and no man has a softer—we’ll all be the happiest family in the world.”

“With intervals, my dear creature—with intervals. Explosions, let us say, which take you by surprise all the more because you have been getting on so uncommon well the moment before. But I’m the lucky chap; only once have I been regularly blown sky-high—and that was your fault.”

“Not a bit of it. I was riding with him one day—up hill, so for once we couldn’t gallop, and the old fellow began to do the paternal—bad luck to him!—enquire into my private affairs, and so on. I was shaking in my shoes for fear what he might be asking next, when he suddenly comes out with the question how I got the money to pay my debts. ‘Oh, glory!’ says I, ‘safe this time, at any rate!’ and told him ’twas from my sister. And then there was a sort of earthquake and eruption of Vesuvius all in one, and me lying in little bits at the bottom. ‘Will you tell me,’ says he at the end, precious stern, ‘how y’ever dared face me after sponging on a female to get the means to enter my family?’ ‘And where would I get it,’ says I, plucking up courage for very desperation, ‘only from the woman from whom I’ve had everything since she first took care of me as an infant?’”

“That’s my dear boy!” Eveleen beamed on him. “I wouldn’t ask you to say better than that.”

“He saw it—I’ll grant him that—but he was uncommon stiff with me still. ‘And how much have you paid her back by now?’ he lets out at me all of a sudden. ‘Why, nothing, General!’ says I, astonished. ‘That, at least, we can put right,’ says he. ‘Fifty rupees a month, my fine fellow—and the first month you’re behindhand is your last away from your regiment.’ I swear to you I thought it cheap at the moment! Permit me, ma’am, to tender you payment of the first three months’ instalments.” With a low bow he presented a slip of paper.

“You must touch it, and take it and keep it, if you don’t want me kicked out. Sure I’d lose more than you think——”

“Ah, well, Ambrose will be pleased. ’Twas his money, after all,” languidly. “And will you tell me, Mr Brian Delany”—with sudden animation—“what it is you’d lose if you went back to your regiment? You have not been falling in love, now? Brian!” with tremendous certainty, “you have dared to make love to Lucy Lennox? Oh dear, oh dear! these boys! What will they be doing next?”

“Not guilty, ma’am! Listen to me now. Stewart it is that’s sweet on Miss Lucy, and I playing gooseberry for them time and time again. So there!”

“You’ll break my heart laughing at me.” But Eveleen read in the tone that Brian was at least as eager to confess as she was to hear.

“But she’s nothing but a little bit of a child yet. Is it thirteen she is—or fourteen?”

“How’d I know—or care? That child is as old—as ancient. ‘My wise little Sally,’ her papa calls her, and she turns the stubborn old ruffian round her finger as easy as winkin’. And to hear her lecture your brother, my dear creature you’d think she was her own grandmother! Give her a year or two, and I’ll marry her without so much as a ‘by your leave!’ even if General is G.-G. by that time!”

“Then it’s a bachelor I’ll be all my born days. Do you take me, ma’am? It’s a case! What in the world’s that?”

“That” was a nightcapped head—the body presumably attached thereto remaining discreetly out of sight—which appeared at a doorway. “Three-quarters of an hour!” said a sepulchral voice. “And Mrs Ambrose still an invalid. Mr Delany, will you be so good as to return to your quarters, and let your sister go to bed?”

“I will, ma’am, I will!” Brian winked largely at Eveleen. “I’m a sad fellow to have brought you here to turn me out, but ask my sister if all I’ve told her ain’t worth it.”

“Begone, graceless wretch!” Eveleen was quoting from the melodrama—miscalled historical—recently staged by the Bab-us-Sahel Dramatic Club, and Brian, recognising the style common to melodrama, answered in the same vein.

The few days which covered Sir Henry Lennox’s sojourn at Bab-us-Sahel were well filled. He saw the outbreak of cholera stamped out, he reviewed the troops, he set on foot plans for improving the landing conditions, providing a water-supply, and laying out large vegetable gardens, with a view to preventing the scurvy from which the garrison suffered. For the present a ration of lime-juice was to be served out, but it was clear, from the arrangements made for the future, that the town was to remain in British hands, and knowing people opined once more that Sir Harry’s visit was to end in the annexation of Khemistan. This did not appear to be his own opinion, however. He was come, he said quite frankly, to make the Khans keep their treaties—with such modification as might seem called for. He had not come to fight, and he did not for a moment believe that the Khans would provoke a rupture, but he was quite certain he was going to put an end to the anomalous condition of things that had obtained hitherto. It was in his mind, also, that the large British force at Sahar—far up the river—must be badly in need of inspection by a competent authority, and this need it was his purpose to supply. The requirements of Bab-us-Sahel having therefore been observed, noted and pigeon-holed at lightning speed, the General set out on his way up the river. To the relief of Richard Ambrose, who had been rather inclined to fear, from the tone of his references to the Khans, that his mode of dealing with them would be to knock their heads together and bid them listen to reason, Sir Harry consented to pay a visit of ceremony to Qadirabad in the course of his journey. Thus it was only natural that he should offer the Ambroses a passage in his steamer, since the Khans might well feel alarmed if he was not accompanied by any representative of their friend Colonel Bayard, and Eveleen and her husband returned up the river in state.

Unfortunately, the added grandeur did nothing to mitigate the inconveniences of the voyage, but the General himself was so absolutely unconscious of these that no one else durst refer to them. Eveleen had her tent on deck as before, and having once made certain that such comfort as was possible was secured to her, Sir Harry dismissed the subject from his mind. If they had only been privates, the officers on board confided ruefully to one another, the General would have thought no pains too much to make them comfortable, but the higher ranks were expected to be content with the meagre accommodation that sufficed for himself. To the honour of his staff be it said that they loved him too much to grumble at hardships shared with him, and it must be confessed that no one who did not love him could have remained in his family for a week.

Eveleen studied him appreciatively day by day, but from a point of view other than that of the quaint companionship of Mahabuleshwar. Half unconsciously, she had acquired something of the Anglo-Indian attitude of mind in her sojourn up the country, and it helped her to understand the alarm and dislike with which he was viewed by old Indians generally. It was perfectly true that he knew nothing of India, and prided himself on the fact, which in some curious way he had brought himself to regard as a merit. In fact, ignorance of India seemed to him an essential qualification for dealing successfully with Indian affairs—a conviction shared with him by many less simple-hearted egoists both before and since. Curiously enough, he was always on the watch to pick up information about things Indian—historical, geological, agricultural, linguistic,—but the information must be surprised and as it were snatched from the people who knew, at moments when they were off their guard. Not only did he keep his eyes open, but he was not too proud to confess he had been mistaken. The little book on the Campaigns of Alexander, to which Brian had alluded, was his constant companion, and he had succeeded to his own complete satisfaction in reconstructing the itinerary of the Greek forces, and identifying the various places mentioned with existing towns. But the whole scheme collapsed under the shock of the discovery that the river was wont to change its course from year to year—sometimes from month to month—and that it would be unreasonable to expect to find a town where it had stood a century ago, much more two thousand years. This was a severe blow, and for a day or two the little book was less in evidence. Brian and Eveleen asked one another wickedly whether the report on the condition of Khemistan—which Sir Harry was compiling at alarming length—would likewise prove to be founded on imagination rather than knowledge of the country, but by degrees they began to perceive a method in the little man’s madness, and to watch for the lightning questions by means of which he would inform himself.

The fame of the General had reached Qadirabad before him, and the anxiety of the Khans to produce a good impression was shown by their assiduity in offering him a welcome. A high official was deputed to meet the steamer before it came in sight of the city, and the river bank was studded with bearers of enormous trays of sweetmeats, so many from each Khan. At the Residency other officials were waiting, with more sweetmeats and a polite offering of ten fat sheep, and it was clear to Richard and his colleagues of the Agency that the rulers were both puzzled and nervous. Here was an abrupt little man of terrible aspect, reputed to be the most ferocious fighter Europe could produce, and a disciple—if not a relative—of the world-famous Wellington. He was armed with vague powers—all that was known was that they were greater than those of any General who had hitherto visited the country,—but how he meant to use them no one could say. It was not even known whether he and the Resident Sahib were friends or enemies—bitterly did the Khans regret that the two men had not met, that sharp eyes unseen might have observed and reported their demeanour—nor whether the Resident was still in authority or not. The one obvious thing seemed to be to make sure of the favour of the alarming Unknown, and the obvious way of doing it was to show him every possible honour. A scarlet palanquin of state, with green velvet cushions, was sent to convey him to the Fort, his staff and that of the Agency following on richly-caparisoned camels. Besides his own escort of fifty Khemistan Horse, he had a guard of honour of Arabit Sardars and their retainers, and at the city gate the younger Khans—each in his palanquin—met him and escorted him in. Curious crowds fought for a sight of him and acclaimed him enthusiastically, and as he mounted the rise to the gateway of the Fort every one salamed to the ground. Khemistan was doing its best to conciliate the intruder.

“And how did he get on with them at all?” asked Eveleen eagerly of her husband, when the procession had returned, and he was thankfully divesting himself of the trappings of full dress.

“So-so. He meant to be all that was charming, but he hasn’t a notion how to take ’em, and they don’t know what to make of him. He looks upon ’em as a set of children, because they would have his spectacles passed round for ’em all to try on, and that’s how he talks to ’em. Of course the Munshi put all he said into proper form, but they judge by the tone much more than the words. That dry hard way he has of barking things out was what impressed ’em, I could see, though he was trying his utmost to put them at their ease. They don’t like him, and they’re precious frightened of him—that’s about it, I should say.”

“If only the Colonel had been here, now!” sighed Eveleen. Richard looked at her queerly.

“What good would that have done? He couldn’t have shortened this man’s huge beak, or got him to go about without spectacles—which frighten them because they think his eyes are so savage that he wears ’em to deaden the expression,—or made him speak soft and slow. It ain’t in the old chap, and he don’t know enough about India to try and cultivate it if he hasn’t got it. And they know well enough that he’s been sent here over Bayard’s head—the only thing they can’t make out yet is whether they’re in it together or not.”

If Sir Harry were aware of the alarming impression he had produced, he showed no sign of it, but continued his journey up the river the next day, leaving with Richard the letter which was to call the Khans’ attention to the breaches of treaty of which they had been guilty, and the advisability of mending their ways forthwith. At Sahar he was to be met by Colonel Bayard, who had been enjoying himself vastly—free from the responsibility and respectability of the Agency—in his mission to the wild country on the Ethiopian border. He had made long journeys on camel-back in disguise, provided for the safety and sustenance of the British force retiring from Iskandarbagh, settled various outstanding matters in connection with the small state of Nalapur—and incidentally embroiled himself with the Governor-General, who was a bad person to quarrel with. The occasion was the affairs of Nalapur. Not only did Lord Maryport consider Colonel Bayard had exceeded his powers in reorganising the government—that was merely presumption,—but he accused him of deluding the durbar deliberately by laying claim to powers he knew he did not possess, and then indeed Colonel Bayard was touched in his tenderest point. An acrimonious correspondence was in progress, of which he assured himself happily that he had so far carried off all the honours; but the drawback in quarrelling with authority is that authority is always in a position to have the last word—and that word had not yet been spoken. Both Colonel Bayard and his friends—to whom he read or repeated what he considered the most telling portions of his letters—forgot this, and when the news came that Sir Harry Lennox and he had taken a fancy to one another at first sight, and were working together in the most amicable way, the Political Establishment in Khemistan forgot its fears, and settled down contentedly in the conviction that, after all, things were going on much in the old way.

The Khans also were hugging this amiable delusion to their souls. Richard was kept busy with visiting them and receiving their Vakils, now delivering the papers sent to him from Sahar for the purpose, and then transmitting the answers. Knowing Colonel Bayard to be their friend—though without feeling it necessary to requite his friendship otherwise than in word,—they were quite happy since he still remained in the country, and bent all their energies, which were small, and their ingenuity, which was infinite, to the task of enabling him on their behalf to hoodwink the intruder. With the aid of a judicious rattling together of shields and tulwars—to give the hint of unpleasant possibilities in the background if things were pressed to extremities—they looked forward to tiding over this crisis as they had done others. Richard was a good deal worried by their attitude. He could not bring them to realise that they had a second person—and a very different one—to deal with now, and whenever he tried it they replied with the warlike demonstrations intended especially for the General’s benefit. It was quite certain that there was an unusual amount of coming and going about the Fort. Fresh bands of Arabit horsemen seemed to be arriving continually, and while some of them departed again, others remained. Moreover, Richard doubted very much whether those who went away returned to Arabitistan. From the reports brought him by his spies, he believed that they were reinforcements for the garrisons of the desert fortresses of which the Khans boasted as unreachable and impregnable, and from which Sahar itself might be assailed in case of need. He could only pass on his observations to Sir Harry, and try to convince the Khans of the seriousness of the situation, while doing his utmost to bring them to reason by peaceful means.

Eveleen had returned from Bab-us-Sahel full of good resolutions, determined to take Mrs Gibbons as her model from henceforth. She would never want to ride at unorthodox hours—virtue was assisted in this respect by the heat,—and she would benefit society by starting a farmyard and kitchen-garden. Unfortunately for her good intentions, Qadirabad was a very different place from Bab-us-Sahel, since mutton, poultry, and vegetables were all easy to get. She relinquished with a sigh the idea of a sheep-farm and chicken-run, but a garden she would have, and achieved—with the aid of the Residency mali and his underlings—success of a sort. The mali had an unfair advantage in the perpetual contests waged between them, since he knew his own mind and did not change it from day to day, while Eveleen’s continual visions of newer and better arrangements led to weird apparitions of onions in the flower-beds and violets among the lettuces. Happily the mali was able, with conscious rectitude, to show that he had a proper supply of vegetables coming on in regions to which the Beebee had not penetrated, and instead of starving the Agency staff, Eveleen escaped with a good deal of teasing on her peculiar horticultural tastes. But those who had planted the garden were not destined to eat its fruits.

“Sure there’s a steamer coming down the river!” Running out on the verandah dressed for the evening ride, Eveleen stood still to listen. “Ambrose, d’ye hear?”

“A steamer to-day? Nonsense!” cried Richard, joining her hastily. “No, by Jove, it is!”

“What will it be, I wonder?” in much excitement. “Oh, send the horses back, and let us go down to the strand.”

Other people joined them as they neared the path down the low cliff on which the Residency stood, and waited on the landing-stage. The Asteroid came round the bend with the light of the setting sun full on her.

“Well, now; if it’s not the Resident!” cried Eveleen, as a figure on the paddle-box took off his hat and waved it to the group in the shadows. “He must be invalided. See how ill he looks!”

“As if you could tell at this distance!” said Richard, in his superior way; but as the steamer drew round to the landing-stage, he had to acknowledge that Colonel Bayard did look very ill.

“That attack of fever we heard of will likely have been worse than we knew. He must go to bed at once.” Eveleen spoke with all the determination of Mrs Gibbons herself, and Colonel Bayard, hurrying to shake hands with them as soon as he set foot on shore, heard her.

“What have I done, Mrs Ambrose, that I am to be sent to bed like a naughty child? I know there are plenty of people who have the worst possible opinion of me, but I didn’t expect to find them here.”

“Sure it’s for your own sake,” she said seriously. “You don’t look fit to be up.”

“Morally I may not be, but physically I assure you I am. But I have had a heavy time this hot weather, and no doubt it’s told upon me. And I have had a bit of a blow just lately.”

They stopped in climbing the path, and looked at him incredulously. Colonel Bayard, the prince of Politicals, deprived of his acting rank and sent back to do duty with native infantry! The man who had ruled kingdoms and dispensed lakhs was to return to a despised calling and its scanty pay. He read their horrified amazement in their eyes, and raised his hand brusquely.

“No, don’t pity me too much; keep a little for yourselves. I wish I were the only person affected, but the fact is—the Political Establishment is dissolved.”

“Destroyed, broken up, cast aside, kicked out. By the fiat of my Lord Maryport, without the ghost of a reason given.”

“Lennox!” the word sounded like a curse. Colonel Bayard saw Eveleen’s mute gesture of protest, and smiled at her.

“No, Mrs Ambrose, you are right. Old Harry had nothing to do with it—was as much taken aback as I was. He told me frankly he had been on the point of writing to recommend the reduction of the Agency, but certainly not its abolition. Like all those bustling energetic people just out from home, he thinks we do nothing for our money. Let him wait till he has had two or three hot weathers in Khemistan! At any rate, his view of it is that we spend our time drinking beer and smoking cheroots”—with a rather conscious laugh, for his friends would hardly have recognised him without a fat cigar in his mouth,—“and occasionally signing the papers our black clerks bring us, and he is going to work without any clerks at all. You will be the victim of his economy, Richard. Even he acknowledges that he must have some sort of political officer to consult when he’s quite out of his depth, so I put in a word for you.”

“My dear fellow, you must. You are married, you have your wife here——” he smiled again at Eveleen as she looked back at him from the verandah steps with brimming eyes. “You can’t take her back to your regiment. The life would kill her. It ain’t as if she were a young girl,” he added in a whisper before he followed.

“True; she ain’t a young girl.” The tone was savage, but Richard knew his friend was right. A girl who knew India, brought up by a managing mother accustomed to Indian ways, might have faced the life which had been his for so many painful years; but Eveleen, knowing as little of the country as she did of method and contrivance—what would there be before her but a miserable struggle ending in ruined health and spirits for both? He was not free to cut loose from Khemistan.

“So you must swallow the bitter pill, you see,” Colonel Bayard was saying as they mounted the steps, “and do what you can for my poor Khans from a distance. By the bye, I didn’t tell you that—this place is to be closed for the present; you are to go up to Sahar. I shall have to break it all to them to-morrow. I couldn’t go down the river without bidding ’em farewell, but it will be one of the hardest things I have ever done.”

CHAPTER VIII.
TOO CLEVER BY HALF.

“For the last time!” said Colonel Bayard, with a comical glance of self-pity at Richard, as they rode out the next morning preceded by the chobdars with their silver sticks and followed by the barbaric escort.

“Not a bit of it! You’ll never be left mud-crawling with a black regiment. The G.-G. will find out his mistake in no time, and send for you back.”

“It would take a good deal to make him do that. I was promised the Agency for the down-river states when he sent Lennox here, but there’s no word of it now. Don’t look so shockingly cut up, Richard. I tell you it’s a release from bondage for me, after the lacquey way I have been treated this summer by his lordship—bandied about like a racquet-ball! Old Lennox would have kept me on as his personal assistant—doing the deed first and getting permission afterwards—if I would have stayed; but I asked for furlough instead, and he put the Asteroid at my disposal to take me down the river in the handsomest way. A singular character, that old chap, but a thorough good fellow.”

“I hear he spoke very properly of you at the dinner they gave you before starting.”

“Properly? Nay, I assure you I didn’t know where to look. I might have been Scipio Africanus and Sir Philip Sidney rolled into one, instead of a failed Political going back to his regiment a poorer man than when he left it twenty years ago. By the bye, I don’t know whether I am in order in taking the sowari [retinue] with me to-day. Merely a private individual now, I suppose.”

“Not till you have left Khemistan, surely! If Sir Henry’s attitude is as generous as you say, he couldn’t grudge you the ordinary marks of respect.”

“Ay, but to him they ain’t ordinary, and he means to put an end to ’em. He has no chobdars himself, and he’s going to abolish these. An escort he can tolerate—but only on state occasions, of course—because it can follow him at a gallop, but fellows walking in front of him and making him ride slow—never!”

“How does he ever expect to impress these people?” said Richard bitterly. “They won’t have an atom of respect for him.”

“Oh, you should hear him on the subject. He thinks we can’t compete with the Indians in matters of show and state, so he won’t try. They will be more impressed by seeing we can do without every single thing they care about, so he says. And I’m bound to say he lives up to his theories. I thought so when I dined with him—privately, I mean; not the burra khana—and found everything camp-fashion. The plates and dishes and so on came out of his canteens—he takes a couple about with him so as to be able to give dinner-parties, he told me—and what d’ye think was the principal thing on the table? Why, pork chops and common bazar stuff at that—and the old chap tucking into them with real gusto and pressing ’em on me!”

“Well, if he can survive that sort of thing, he ought certainly to impress the Khans,” said Richard drily. “But it’s a pity he don’t stay here under their eye, for they ain’t impressed a bit at present.”

But in this he was wrong, as appeared speedily. Due notice had been sent to the Fort of Colonel Bayard’s desire to pay a farewell visit to their Highnesses, and the proper message of welcome received in return. But the message was couched in terms more flowery and formal than quite suited the intimate relations which had prevailed between the Resident and his charges, and there was no sign on the road of the messengers who should have met the procession at stated points and implored the visitor to hasten, since he alone could pour the snow-cooled sherbet of delight into the parched mouth of expectation. The reason for this lapse from good manners appeared on the visitors’ arrival at the Fort, for it seemed that a sudden illness had prostrated the ruling family at one blow. One Khan after another for whom Colonel Bayard enquired was declared to be sick, the attendants adding intimate and distressing details on a scale that did credit to their memories—or possibly their imaginations.

“Oh, let them alone!” said Richard, in a hasty whisper. “They funk meeting you.”

“But why should they funk meeting me? Nay”—to the embarrassed attendants,—“if their Highnesses are indeed so ill, I must postpone my journey, for I could not dream of leaving Khemistan while those who have been to me as sons are lying between life and death. I will send my own physician to visit them, and I myself will spend each day at the Palace, that I may be at hand the moment they call for me.”

Hurried consultations ensued, messengers came and went, and at last the chief spokesman advanced again. “Let the Resident Sahib be pleased to enter. Rather than force him to delay his departure, and incur the wrath of his lord the General Sahib”—Colonel Bayard stiffened perceptibly,—“their Highnesses will bedew the blossoms of affection with the tears of regret even at the risk of their health.”

He paused for a moment to see whether the visitor would take the hint, then sighed and led the way in. Apparently the Khans thought it safer to receive their fallen friend in a body, for the official disregarded Colonel Bayard’s request to be allowed to pay his respects to them separately, which would have seemed more natural. If they did not appear to be sick, at any rate they all looked very sorry for themselves when he and his assistant faced at last the row of seated figures on their cushions. Long wadded coats concealed their pleated muslin tunics and wide silk trousers, and the only touch of brightness was given by the gay kincob which covered their flowerpot-shaped caps. As politeness demanded, one and all declared that the mere sight of the fortunate face of the Resident Sahib had instantly banished all traces of illness, and then hurried on to enquire whether he also was well and prosperous. The formalities of salutation, perfunctory though they might be, took some time when each Khan had to be addressed and to reply separately, and it was beginning to look as though the whole interview would be occupied with such matters, when Sir Henry Lennox’s health and prosperity came under discussion as well. The example was set by Gul Ali Khan, the venerable white-bearded head of the family, whose memory went back to the days of conquest, when the wild band of Arabit chieftains had swooped down from their fastnesses upon Khemistan, and dispossessing the native rulers, reigned in their stead. He was the last survivor of the conquerors, and wore with dignity the turban which proclaimed him Chief of his house—the coveted emblem which would not descend to the son for whom he would fain have secured it, but to an interloper, the son of his father’s old age. This interloper, Shahbaz Khan, a handsome dapper man—absurdly young-looking to be the brother of the aged Gul Ali—sat beside him, and took up the strain of affectionate enquiry. For the Khans positively overflowed with anxiety for the General’s health, and their enquiries were couched in such terms of affection that even Colonel Bayard—loath as he was to believe it—could not mistake their drift. His day was over and done with; Sir Henry Lennox was the rising sun.

It was a bitter pill, but Colonel Bayard would not have been himself had he not done his best to take advantage of this new loyalty to influence his faithless charges for their good. When all the questions all the Khans could think of on Sir Henry’s affairs had been asked and answered, and before they could start on those of the Governor-General, he interposed a courteous hope that their admiration for the General’s character would make it easy for them to satisfy him on the subject of the breaches of treaty. Instantly a change that might be felt passed over them, as though each face had withdrawn itself behind a veil. Gul Ali answered with dignity—

“The Resident Sahib need not fear. The treaties we have made we shall keep, provided the English keep theirs.”

This did not sound very hopeful to the man who had been trying in vain for so long to get them to keep those very treaties, but Colonel Bayard answered politely—

“Of that your Highnesses need have no fear while matters are in the hands of the General. I rejoice to be able to leave Khemistan with all difficulties so happily arranged.”

Gul Ali’s expression was a little fatuous, as he said like an automaton, “The treaties we have made we shall keep, but we will sign no new treaty.”

Since it was known to Colonel Bayard that Lord Maryport intended to impose new and stricter obligations on the Khans, owing to their persistent breaches of former treaties, he did not feel able to say more than—“It is not for me to anticipate what the General may have to say to your Highnesses, but if the old treaties are kept there will certainly be no need for a new one.”

Khair Husain Khan, a clever-looking man with rather Jewish features, interposed. “The English pledged themselves not to interfere in any way with our rights over our own subjects. To that we hold!” triumphantly.

“Yet is it well for your Highnesses so to treat your subjects that they flee to the protection of the English?”

“If they do, we will have them back!” put in young Kamal-ud-din arrogantly. “Yes, even if they have to be torn from the hem of the General Sahib’s skirts!”

This, or something like it, was the Khans’ latest exploit, since their officials had invaded the boundaries of the Sahar Cantonment, and dragged away a number of unfortunates who had sought refuge there from their oppressors. But it seemed to be recognised that this was going rather far, for Khair Husain said hastily, with a soothing wave of the hand—

“The wretches had failed to pay their taxes, as the Resident Sahib knows. If they were allowed to escape, all Khemistan would seek an asylum with the British.”

“But why did they fail to pay?” asked Colonel Bayard boldly. “Was it not because it was known they had amassed riches, and their taxes were so much increased as to strip them of all?”

Gul Ali laughed complacently. “True—quite true. It is not well for subjects to grow rich, for they become troublesome. If they heap up wealth, it must be for their masters.”

“Since this is the last time I shall see the face of your Highnesses, let me beg once more that you will look at this matter differently. It is all of a piece with your imposing tolls designed to kill the traffic on the river. A wealthy people is an honour and a strong support to princes, and the making of money by honest means should be encouraged, not hindered.” The black looks bent on Colonel Bayard made him pause, and he added, with some emotion, “Your Highnesses will not hear me, I see. But let me entreat you to listen to the General, though his tongue be strange, and he neglect the forms of ceremony I have always been careful to use. Should he propose an interview, speak to him plainly of what is in your hearts. He will do this in any case, for it is not his custom to disguise his meaning.”

Gul Ali rode off hastily upon a side-issue. “It is not well to meet the envoys of the Farangis in consultation nowadays,” he said. “There was a certain Ethiopian Sardar who did so.”

The taunt was a bitter one—and worse, deserved,—for at the outset of the Ethiopian disasters the British Envoy, struggling desperately in the toils cast about him, had stooped to invite the foremost of his assailants to a conference, with the intention of making him a prisoner. In the remotest corners of Asia stray Englishmen were to rue the attempt for many a day, though the Envoy had paid with his life for trying to use the weapons of men better acquainted with them than he. But it had been cast in Colonel Bayard’s teeth before, and he met it with a bold counter-attack.

“True, Khan Sahib, and it was not the Sardar who suffered. Had the treachery been his, would it have surprised you?”

“And he paid the penalty. But has such treachery never been known in Khemistan?”

“I thank your Highnesses in the name of my country. Has it ever been known of any Farangi anywhere?”

“I think not. The Elchi’s deed has been condemned by every Farangi who heard of it. I know of none who would imitate it—least of all the General.”

“He had better not!” cried Kamal-ud-din rudely. “He comes to Khemistan with a few hundred white soldiers, who are even now dying fast of sicknesses great and small, while our armies are numbered by thousands, and they are growing every day. Should he seek to defy or betray us, death such as the Elchi met with will be the least thing he has to fear.”

Astonished and displeased, Colonel Bayard made as if to rise from his chair. “I must ask leave of your Highnesses to retire——” he was beginning, but Shahbaz Khan interposed hastily.

“Nay, this is shameful talk! O my brother, is it to go forth to the world that the Khans of Khemistan permitted such things to be said in their hearing concerning their father and protector, the Bahadar Jang?”

“Nay, nay!” said Gul Ali timorously. “Youth speaks with the tongue of youth, which is headstrong and foolish. The General Sahib will know how to regard the folly.”

The mildness of the rebuke gave Kamal-ud-din fresh courage. “The General Sahib has nothing to fear if he comes to us in peace and openness of mind,” he said sullenly, “But who is he that we must guard our tongues when speaking of his greatness? He may call himself Bahadar Jang” [valiant in fight]—this was one of the polite epithets employed by the Khans in his interview with them which Sir Harry, who was not a conspicuously modest man, save in the presence of the fair sex or the Duke of Wellington, had accepted with some complacency as merely appropriate,—“but in all his years of warfare he has not taken spoil enough to put a single diamond in his sword-hilt!”

“Farangi Generals don’t go to war for the sake of loot,” said Colonel Bayard. “Any spoil the General Sahib might take he would present to his and my august mistress, the Queen of England.” He turned slightly to bow towards the large engraving of the young Queen which hung crookedly on the wall—suggesting that it had been put there hurriedly when the interview was found inevitable—very sleek of hair, very lofty of brow, sweetly simpering as to expression, and obviously overburdened with a headgear recalling the mural crown of antiquity. Richard followed his example, and the Khans salamed perfunctorily. The words seemed to have given them a new idea.

“Then the rulers of Farangistan also do not like their subjects to be too rich,” chuckled Gul Ali.

“To strip a conqueror of his booty is poor policy,” said Kamal-ud-din with a fine air of detachment. “My Sardars will always be allowed to keep what they win.”

“Lest, being robbed of their due by their own master, they should seek it at the hands of his enemies,” said his cousin Karimdâd, going a step further. The prudent Khair Husain pulled them up hastily.

“Nay, nay; what foolish talk is this? Did not the General Sahib refuse at our hands the great gift we offered him, though the Lât Sahibs who visited us before accepted a lesser one?”

This was another of Colonel Bayard’s troubles—the simplicity with which two Generals fresh from home had accepted the large sums of money ceremonially offered them on their way up the river towards Ethiopia. Apparently no one who knew the interpretation that would be placed upon their action had liked to warn them of it, with the result that the two wholly innocent soldiers were regarded by the Khans as their pensioners for the future. He took refuge in sententious generalities.

“It was taught me in my youth that the richest man is he who has fewest wants. May we not then say that the enemy most to be dreaded is the man who needs nothing for himself?”

For once the Khans appeared impressed, and before the effect could wear off he asked permission to depart, leaving them to digest his words. Each and all overwhelmed him with demands that he would assure the General of their affectionate interest in his welfare, and thus reminded afresh of his own eclipse, he escaped at last. It was in one way a relief to be offered no more substantial parting gifts than the wreaths of strongly-scented yellow flowers with which he and Richard were invested with due ceremony, but there was a sting in the omission. A robe of honour and a jewelled sword would not have cost the Khans much—even if he had kept them, like the Generals, instead of refusing them.

“Queer set of chaps those,” growled Richard, as they rode away decorated with their floral boas. “Every time I see ’em I feel it more strongly.”

“I fear they are hopeless,” responded Colonel Bayard, with unusual depression. “If they won’t take Lennox seriously, they’re done for. He ain’t going to stand any nonsense.”

“I believe not. But he is very strong on getting rid of the family’s collective authority, and setting up a single Khan with full responsibility. And that will mean the end of all things to the rest.”

“True. You look at the matter in a common-sense light, but it’s a positive pain to me to think of the extinction of this benevolent patriarchal rule.”

Richard wondered a little at his leader’s idea of benevolence, but still sought to comfort him. “Perhaps they’ll all refuse to accept the change.”

“You say that, knowing how sadly ready they always are to intrigue against one another? D’ye know that Khair Husain sent to the General secretly the one night he was here, to try to curry favour with him?”

“No, indeed. Khair Husain? But he ain’t in the running for the succession, even.”

“He meant to be. He offered to declare for us if we would make him Chief Khan and back him up against the rest. The spies should have told you. Not that there’s anything to complain of in old Harry’s action in the matter. He told the Vakil that he couldn’t deal with Khair Husain unless he spoke in the name of the rest—which of course he couldn’t. Then the fellow was idiot enough to say that if he appeared to take part against us, we were kindly to understand his heart was in the right place nevertheless, to which the General simply replied that he wasn’t going to help him to deceive the other Khans. If he wanted to take our side, he must come out and do it openly. Exit the Vakil highly disgusted.”

“Serve the rascal right! But we shall have plenty of that sort of thing if Sir Harry presses ’em hard.”

“I believe you—particularly if it occurs to Gul Ali to try to square him in the matter of the succession. Has the old man been trying any fresh tricks to get the turban for Karimdâd, d’ye know?”

“Oh, he’s always at it—trying to make a party in his favour among the other Khans, and he has been uncommonly busy lately.”

“I thought so—from the extra special affection in Shahbaz Khan’s manner to him. That chap is a deep one.”

“Shahbaz Khan? I suppose so. But after all, he is the rightful heir, and he has to sit by and look on while his brother tries to steal his inheritance away. Gul Ali has a good deal to offer, and poor Shahbaz can only give promises at present. You haven’t turned against him, have you?”

“I? No, certainly not. But I have always a weak spot for Gul Ali, and to see Shahbaz fawning upon him——”

“But what can the fellow do? There’s no open war. He can only keep the peace—and keep his eyes open. They’re a nice set—all the lot of ’em. I dare be bound Kamal-ud-din’s the only one that wouldn’t sell the rest to the General for the promise of the turban, and that’s because he don’t care about it. So long as he has Umarganj to retire to, and a caravan to plunder now and then, he’s happy.”

“He seemed precious full of fight, I noticed. What’s that new decoration he sports so conspicuously? They can hardly have got back that Luck—what was it called?—which was stolen years ago.”

“I’m afraid they have—and I’m afraid it’s my fault.” Richard told the story of the Seal of Solomon, and Colonel Bayard laughed.

“Well, I don’t suppose it will make much difference, though they may think it will. Mrs Ambrose is the only sufferer so far, it seems to me.”

“I was going to ask you if you would get me something in the way of jewellery in Bombay—to give her. Fact is, I’m in a precious awkward position. I think I told you she had spent a lot of money in paying the debts of that brother of hers—the General’s A.D.C.? Well, if you’ll believe me, the fellow’s begun to pay it back!”

“You couldn’t well sound more disgusted if he had begun borrowing afresh! But I see your difficulty. You feel bound to lay it out on something for her personal use? By all means—I quite agree with you. Give me some idea what you want, and I shall be honoured with the commission.” He glanced across approvingly at the younger man. He had not looked for such delicacy of feeling from Richard Ambrose, who might have been expected to welcome the return of the money too eagerly to think of the circumstances, and he stretched out a hand and laid it kindly on his shoulder. “You feel you ought not to have brought your wife to Khemistan? But cheer up, my dear fellow! Her health and spirits have stood it amazingly so far. If only my own dear wife—— But I shall soon be with her at home now, so I must not repine. You ain’t afraid of Sahar for Mrs Ambrose? Don’t let them frighten her by calling it ‘the Graveyard.’ It’s not that it’s unhealthy, simply that the desert round is packed with graves—a burial-place for thousands of years, I dare say.”

“She ain’t frightened—not she! Haven’t you observed that ladies never are frightened or miserable about the things they ought to be—that you expect them to be? They go through ’em as cool as a cucumber. And then some ridiculous little thing, that no man in his senses would ever think of again, they go and break their hearts about!”

“Indeed I had not noticed. I fear I have always taken it for granted Mrs Bayard would be alarmed, and she has indulged me by letting me think so. Very kind of her, ’pon my word! But I trust the other half of your observation ain’t true. I should be sorry to think I had made my wife unhappy—however innocently.”

His tone was so anxious and grieved that Richard administered comfort hastily. “Oh, don’t be afraid. If you ever did such a thing, Mrs Bayard would know it was unintentional, trust her! I wish Mrs Ambrose enjoyed that consolation.”

“But I’m hanged if it would be true. Tell you what—a cross-grained fellow who has lived all his life alone has no business to marry. It’s no happiness for either of ’em.”

Mrs Ambrose’s husband smiled reluctantly. “You know as well as I do that whether the answer I received was that she was happy or miserable, it would be liable to be reversed the next moment, for no reason that anybody could perceive!”

“The very wife for you, Richard, my good fellow!” Colonel Bayard shook his head wisely. “You ain’t allowed to presume on your happiness, nor yet to persist in your misery, for if you ain’t in a new mood a quarter of an hour later, Mrs Ambrose will be! Be thankful for your good fortune, I tell you. Most men would give their ears for such a wife as yours—and a brother-in-law a friend at court to boot!”

“I never thought I should have to be grateful for being related to that young rip Brian!” growled Richard.

“Well, if you ain’t grateful, I am for you. The General may pride himself on never taking a suggestion, but he can’t be altogether uninfluenced by the members of his own family. And if you can make use of that influence in favour of my poor foolish Khans, they and I will bless you yet.”

Not even the chilliness of that last interview could lessen Colonel Bayard’s sense of responsibility for the wayward charges he had watched over so long. Despite all his admiration for him, Richard waxed a little impatient when he thought of it. It would be uncommonly good for the Khans to come in contact with some one who did not mind letting them know that he saw through their foolish stratagems, and would brush away their subterfuges—however roughly. Colonel Bayard, with the kindest intentions, had left them in a fool’s paradise too long; they thought the length of their tether was infinite. But unless he was much mistaken, the old warrior now at Sahar would bring them up resolutely with a round turn before very long. Even now, from certain enquiries which had been addressed to him, Richard judged he was preparing to do this.

There was nothing shilly-shally about Sir Henry Lennox’s methods. He had been ordered to disband the Political Establishment, and that unlucky body faded like the baseless fabric of a vision. The Asteroid, in bringing Colonel Bayard, brought also orders, addressed to Richard, dealing with the Qadirabad Agency and its staff. The place was to be closed and left in charge of a reduced guard with one European officer, to prevent plundering, and a few servants. Though there was to be no Resident in future, it would no doubt be necessary to send frequent envoys to the Khans, and a European-built house in healthy surroundings was a prize not lightly to be let go. The rest of the inmates went various ways. Some were summoned to Sahar—the Ambroses, that part of the Khemistan Horse which was not already with the General, Captain Crosse, Sir Dugald Haigh, and a few other officers whose units were in the country. But most followed Colonel Bayard by the next steamer down the river—first to Bab-us-Sahel and thence to Bombay, where the outraged Services, already on bad terms with Sir Harry, swore that even if Lord Maryport’s inspiration had not come from him, the brutal haste with which the order had been carried out was all his own, and vowed vengeance accordingly.

CHAPTER IX.
DINNER AT THE GENERAL’S.

As usual after the cool weather had begun, the river was beginning to go down, and it was no easy matter for the Nebula to pick her way up-stream. As her captain said pathetically, “If the sandbanks would only stay where they were, you’d know where you were. But when a great beast of a shoal was in one place when you went down the river, and on the return voyage you found it somewhere else quite different, where were you?” A further handicap was imposed by the necessity of towing two or three large flat-bottomed boats—carrying the fortunes of the Eurasian and native clerks, peons and other underlings, whom Sir Harry had selected for Sahar from the derelict staff of the Qadirabad Agency,—since these displayed a positive genius in fouling the bank, the shoals, the frequent islands, floating tree-trunks, one another, the ship herself, and everything else possible and impossible. But despite all obstacles, progress was made somehow, and Brian, who had come down by sailing-boat to meet the steamer a few miles below its destination, was able to assure his relatives that they would get in comfortably in time for dinner.

“Y’are to dine with us, by the way,” he said. “The General will take no denial. We tried to put it to him that you’d rather be getting comfortable in your own quarters the first night, but the old lad said that was just it—the servants would be settling your things for you while you were being properly fed. So we saw him safely established with dear Munshi—he always calls the chap that, as if ’twas his name—and Stewart started out to borrow crockery fit for a lady to eat off, while I came down to meet you.”

“How’d I know? The Mess, I suppose, or some of the civilians—they’re the boys for style. Don’t be afraid—Stewart will do things for you as they ought be done, or die.”

“Has he not, indeed!—in spite of all his sarcastic remarks! He came out t’other day with bundibus—meaning bandobast, I suppose as pat as you please, and Stewart and I winked the other eye behind his back till we nearly burst. But listen now, how he’ll be leaving his mark on the map. There’s some forsaken place up beyond Pagipur, where the Khemistan Horse are to have a post to keep the tribes in order. Just a heap of ruins—old fort and so on, but I suppose it had some sort of name once. Anyhow, the General says it shall have a new one now, and he’ll compliment Gul Ali Khan by naming it after him. Quite so—Gul Aliabad; everybody agreeable—most neat and appropriate. ‘Not a bit of it!’ says the old lad; ‘far too long; call it Alibad and be done with it.’ Munshi and your humble servant venture to point out that ain’t grammar—or whatever you call it. Quick as lightning the old fellow barks out, ‘The Lennoxes make their own grammar. Alibad’s the name, and be hanged to it and you!’ So there you are, hukm hai, [it is an order] unless future ages dare to correct old Harry’s grammar—which the present one won’t while he’s alive.”

“D’ye expect us to believe that yarn, Brian?” asked Richard, shifting his cheroot lazily for an instant.

“Just as you please. Sure it won’t hurt me if you don’t—only yourself. Now, Evie, be on the watch for the first sight of your new home. Between this island and the next you’ll get the full view of it in all its sandiness.”

Undoubtedly the prospect was a sandy one—particularly so after the rich black soil of the Qadirabad district, with its countless villages embowered in the vivid green of the nîm groves. Immediately ahead was a long low island—fortified within an inch of its life, as Brian pointed out; the great battlemented walls and bastions rising from the very edge of the water—to the right a shapeless collection of mud hovels straggling out into the desert, and to the left an assemblage of similar buildings, not quite so aimless-looking, since it centred round a more or less ruinous fort on a low hill. This was Sahar, the fortified island was Bahar, and the native town on the farther bank Bori—a name which naturally lent itself to innumerable puns on the lips of the young gentlemen quartered at Sahar. If military exigencies left any room on Bahar for vegetation, it did not venture to show itself over the battlements, but the plumes of scattered date-palms mitigated a little the prevailing sand-colour of the buildings on either bank.

“I wonder why would it all look so dead and ruined?” said Eveleen, in some dismay, as they drew in to the shore. “Like some place in Egypt that nobody has lived in for two thousand years.”

“Pray, my dear, say something original,” said her husband impatiently. “It’s impossible for anybody to mention Khemistan without comparing it with Egypt.”

“But if it’s not like anything but Egypt, how would I say it was?” she demanded triumphantly. “Tell me now, Brian—this place which I mustn’t say is like Egypt, whereabouts in it do we live?”

“Ah, not here, I tell you! Sure the new town is a mile out. The General was to send horses for you, that you mightn’t be delayed while they landed your own. He wanted to puckerow [commandeer] a side-saddle from one of the ladies in Cantonments, but I told him you’d be just as happy with a stirrup thrown over a man’s saddle, and he listened to me for once.”

Eveleen was quite satisfied, but her husband was not, unless his expression belied him. The horses were duly waiting, and she flew into the saddle with all the ease of past disgraceful experience—so Brian declared,—to the great interest of her fellow-passengers. It would have been too much to expect Richard to be pleased at this unconventional method of travelling, but she did think he need not have muttered something that sounded like “Circus tricks!” as he gathered up the reins and put them into her hand. When Brian had directed the servants where to go, they rode out of the town—which looked more than ever like one of those deserted cities one reads of in the Nearer East, uninhabited, but as habitable as it ever was. As the sun neared the horizon, however, the inhabitants began to show themselves lazily at their doorways, and children came scrambling over the rubbish-heaps, on which everything seemed to be built, to stare at the riders. Beyond stretched a sea of sand dotted with tombstones, which seemed to extend as far as eye could reach, and then they came suddenly upon a great cantonment, with solid houses covered with shining chunam, and gay with rows of bright-coloured chiks, and long ranges of “lines,” large enough to accommodate several regiments.

“Somebody’s folly!” remarked Brian sententiously, pointing with his whip. “They’ll have sunk a pretty penny in building this big place, and it’s said the neighbourhood ain’t healthy, though we haven’t found anything wrong with it as yet. This way, Evie!”

Passing two sentries, they rode into a compound which was a miniature of the desert without—so wide was it and so sand-swept,—with an enormous house at the far end, like a small town in itself. The chiks were being drawn up now that the heat of the day was over, and on the verandah stood a small spare figure with grey beard blowing about in the breeze.

“Why, there’s my old lad—loose!” said Brian, much perturbed. “I hope he’ll not have been getting into mischief. Stewart will be certain to say ’twas my fault. But I ask you, could I have locked him into the office, and told Munshi to sit on him? That’s the only thing would really keep him quiet. Happily there’ll be three of us to look after him next week, if his nephew who’s on sick leave turns up all right. Now what has he been after, I wonder?”

“Welcome, a thousand times welcome, Mrs Ambrose!” cried Sir Harry, hobbling with perilous haste down the steps. “These young fellows call this place a desert, but it blossoms like the rose to-night. Allow me!” he lifted her paternally from the saddle. “Oh, fie, fie! what an uneasy journey you must have had on that contrivance! Ambrose, I am very glad to see you. Plenty to do, believe me—start to-night. But first we’ll have dinner—at once.”

“I beg your pardon, General, but ’twas not to be for an hour yet,” put in Brian.

“Don’t trouble yourself about that, my lad. I have put it forward an hour—bustled the cook a bit.” The General’s voice was happy and triumphant. “Knew your sister would be starving. It’s coming in now.”

“Ah, Sir Harry, but you’ll let us have a second to make ourselves respectable and get the sand off?” urged Eveleen.

“Sand, ma’am? I’ve been out in it a good part of the day, and look at me! No, no; come to dinner.”

“Ah, but you were born tidy!” she sighed, giving her clothes furtive shakes and pulls, and hoping fervently it was not to be a dinner-party. In this she was reassured when Sir Harry led her into a vast dining-hall, with one absurdly small table spread in the midst. The servants hovering about looked unhappy, and Brian said something under his breath.

“Will I go and look for Stewart, General? Sure he mayn’t know of the change of hour.”

“No, no, lazy fellow! he must put up with a cold dinner. These youngsters are apt to grow negligent where there are no ladies—eh, ma’am?”

Gathering from Brian’s silence that she must not attempt to defend the maligned Stewart, Eveleen found herself gallantly placed at the head of the table, and heard her husband and brother warned they would be put under arrest forthwith if they let her so much as touch a carving-knife. While they wrestled with the dishes placed before her, in silence save for the enquiries necessary to the polite carver of the day, Eveleen looked down the table at the General, beaming through his glasses opposite her.

“It’s a big house you have here, Sir Harry! Sure it must feel like living in a church.” Her eyes wandered round the huge room.

“Glad it inspires you with such creditable sentiments, ma’am. There’s another about the same size waiting for you. These Khemistan Politicals knew how to make the money fly. No reflection on you, Ambrose—it was before your day. Besides, they needed a big place to house the establishment. A hundred and fifty souls in this house alone, besides the servants—until Lord Maryport’s order came. Now there won’t be forty, when we have you all at work.”

“But how will you get the work done by such a few, with so much fever about?” asked Eveleen in dismay.

“Why, all the talk at Qadirabad was that you had half the army in hospital!” she cried. Her husband came to her help, for the General was looking wrathful.

“That was undoubtedly the impression when we left, General. I believe the Khans shared it.”

“They did, did they? And that’s why they have been so impudent, I haven’t a doubt! Well, the next Vakils they send shall have a nice little bone-shaking ride over the hills, and see two or three thousand men trotted about—just to show ’em. My beautiful camel battery will open their eyes a bit, I promise them. D’ye ever see a camel battery, ma’am?—the dear solemn beasts looking so philosophical with their noses up in the air, and dragging the nine-pounders as if they were feathers!”

“Have you ever been with camels on the march, General?” asked Richard, bitter reminiscence in his voice.

“Never, but I shall try ’em on my little trip to Pagipur. Why, ain’t they satisfactory?”

“Sure you’ll find you can’t get fond of a camel, Sir Harry,” said Eveleen. “You couldn’t have one tied up outside your tent, as you would Black Prince and Dick Turpin, the way they’d put their noses in and ask for a bit of biscuit. A camel would take a bit of you instead—without asking.”

“One for me!” chuckled Sir Harry. “What nice beasts horses are, ain’t they? But this husband of yours is looking mighty superior over my follies, ma’am. It’s high treason—or ought to be—to hold up a commanding officer to the contempt of his subordinates. Don’t you do it again!”

“Never—till the next time!” Eveleen assured him. “And did you get the third horse you were thinking of?”

“I did—worse luck! The uneasiest beast in creation, I believe. Selima is her name officially, but that ribald brother of yours dubbed her Tippetywink—how he spells it I don’t know—and now she answers to nothing else.”

“Because you’d not dare even wink when you’re riding her, General. She takes it as an invitation to dance—you’ll see, Evie.”

“Not with me on the lady’s back she won’t,” grumbled Sir Harry. “Any little frivolity of that sort Miss Selima and I will have out by ourselves in private. She’s as undependable as—the Khans. D’ye ever hear of the dodge, Ambrose”—turning suddenly on Richard—“of having two seals, one for ordinary use, and t’other just a little different, so that if you want to deny it you can point out that it can’t be yours? That’s what it seems to me our friends have been up to just lately.”

“Yes, General; I have heard of the trick.” Richard spoke with notable lack of enthusiasm. How was he to fulfil his pledge to Colonel Bayard to do his best for the Khans if the fools were up to these dodges already? Sir Harry caught him up eagerly.

“Well, you shall see after dinner. I am practically convinced, but I won’t act unless I’m positively certain. The Governor-General is very strong on that, too, and I’m glad of it, for I was afraid he was unjust about poor Bayard, and whatever happens to these chaps ought to be absolutely clear and above-board.”

Talking, as he did, continuously and at railroad speed, it might have seemed difficult for the General to satisfy his hunger, but he ate as fast as he talked, with a kind of mechanical action. Presumably some one had instructed him in the deadly nature of bazar pork, for that delicacy did not appear on the menu. Though the table service came obviously from one or more canteens, the dinner had evidently been carefully chosen, and a lady’s probable tastes consulted in the selection of sweet dishes; but it was naturally not improved by being put forward—the only wonder was that it was not worse. Bad or good, however, there was little time to savour it, for Sir Harry set the pace, and allowed no pauses. It did not strike Eveleen at first that he was mischievously determined to get the meal over before the absent Stewart could return, but she realised it when, just as the dessert was put on the table, a worried face appeared for an instant in the doorway, with two laden coolies dimly visible behind. The one word “Jungly!” floated bitterly to the ears of the diners, and the General exploded in such a paroxysm of mirth as might have betrayed into unfair suspicions those who had not seen that he drank nothing but water.

“And now he’s cursing me in blackfellows’ talk!” were the first coherent words to obtain utterance. “Why don’t he use the Queen’s English like a gentleman? Captain Stewart, come and apologise to Mrs Ambrose for being absent all dinner-time. Make no mistake; I am very seriously displeased with you.”

But the unhappy Stewart had betaken himself out of hearing, probably to dismiss his useless coolies, and the General chuckled himself silent again. When Eveleen rose, he sent Brian to join her on the verandah, and carried off Richard to his office, there to set to work with compasses and spaced rulers to investigate various impressions and drawings of seals, each with its more or less legible inscription in beautiful but intricate Persian characters. Richard’s expression made Brian exclaim discontentedly as soon as he had his sister to himself—

“I hope to goodness Ambrose ain’t going about for ever with that glum phiz! What’s the matter with the fellow?”

“Sure he’ll be sorry to lose his friend Bayard, and afraid things are going to be different,” said Eveleen wisely.

“But why wouldn’t they be different? Can’t go on always in the same old rut. It ain’t as if his place was going begging. The General has a step-grandson or something that he would have liked greatly to put into it.”

“D’ye tell me that, now? But of course I knew he only appointed Ambrose because he felt he would be unfairly treated otherwise, and to please Bayard.”

“Well, then, if Ambrose knows ’twas not for his sweet face nor his charming manners he got it, will you tell me why he wouldn’t try to make himself agreeable at all? Sure it reflects on me—the way he looks and talks.”

“Well, and why wouldn’t it? Wasn’t it a compliment to me his getting the post? You don’t think the old lad would have picked out Ambrose out of all the unjustly treated men in Khemistan if you were not my sister? Then don’t my fine Major owe it to me to look a bit grateful—whether he is or not?”

Amazement had kept Eveleen silent for the moment, but now she descended on him crushingly. “I never heard anything like it!” she declared indignantly. “A little weeshy bit of a boy like you to dare to criticise Major Ambrose! A compliment to you, indeed! I’d have you know, my bold fellow, that Ambrose stands on his own feet, and needs no help from you or anybody. Why would he look grateful to you, pray, when he owes you nothing, nothing in the wide world? I’d advise you be ashamed of yourself to be talking such nonsense.”

“Oh, all serene,” growled Brian, considerably taken aback. “Don’t think I want to put you under an obligation, I beg of you. And if you prefer Ambrose to go about with the face he has, sure I’d be the last to wish it altered! Some people would say his manner to you would be the better of a little change too, but——”

“You dare! Brian, you dare!” Eveleen’s eyes flashed fire, and once more her brother withdrew discreetly.

“Ah, then, don’t destroy me entirely! As I say, if you like it, it’s your business it is, not mine.”

“And for once in your life y’are right! Take this from me, Brian Delany: if ever you dare speak against Major Ambrose again, I declare to you I’ll make you sorry y’ever were born! Is that clear to you?”

“It is, it is! ’Pon my word, old Evie, I never meant to rile you like this. ’Twas just that I felt——”

“I will, indeed. Sure I ought remember that only a fool would go interfering between a man and his wife. ’Twas none of my business, and I ask your pardon.”

“Well, be careful, then.” But Eveleen’s wrath, never very long-lived, was melting like snow at the sight of her boy’s penitence. “Listen, then, Brian”—in a burst of confidence,—“Ambrose is English. That’s what gives him the manner you think I’d dislike. But I don’t, because it’s his. I’ll tell you this now—it did take me by surprise at first, but now I’m accustomed to it I wouldn’t know him without it. Indeed—and this is more I wouldn’t have him different, because it wouldn’t be him, d’ye see?”

“So long as you can stand it—— I mean,” hastily, “as you like it—it’s no business of mine. I suppose I ought be thankful you take it this way, for what would I do if you didn’t? Call him out—eh? and you running in between to try and reconcile us at the last moment.”

“No, too late, and receiving the fire of both parties, and with my last breath joining your two hands, and vowing you to eternal friendship in memory of the hapless Eveleen! There’s tragedy for you! But talking of tragedy, what’s happened that poor Captain Stewart of yours? I declare he looked so crushed when he put his head in at the door I was afraid of something terrible.”

“Will I go and see? He takes these things to heart greatly. He had made up his mind to have a dinner worthy of you, and now he’s touched in his tenderest point.”

“Yes, do go. Bring him here to have a talk, and we’ll make him laugh till he forgets all about it.”

“No go, Evie! He’s holding his head and groaning, and vowing he’ll resign and go back to his regiment if Freddy Lennox don’t keep the General in better order than we can. His heart is broken entirely, I tell you.”

“I believe you’d do it! ’Twould shock him horribly—do him all the good in the world! We will. Come along—no, hist, we are observed! Here’s my old lad and your good man.”

“You are sure of the writing?” Sir Harry was demanding eagerly of Richard as they came towards the others.

“Good. That settles his hash, I think. Now, Mrs Ambrose, I’m not going to keep your husband longer to-night. Your brother will take you round to your quarters, and if you find anything wrong with ’em, let me know at once, d’ye see?”

“Indeed I will, Sir Harry, but it’s too good and kind y’are to us. Sure we’ll be spoilt!”

“There ain’t many people to call me good and kind—outside my own family and the private soldiers,” chuckled Sir Harry. “But listen a moment, ma’am.” Richard and Brian had gone down the steps to the horses, and he held her back. “I have asked Lord Maryport for Bayard as my Commissioner in settling the new treaty, so if all goes well he will be coming back here almost as soon as he sets foot in Bombay. What d’ye think of that?”

“Nay, I leave that for you to do, when you can speak to him quietly. I can see he finds it difficult to work under any one but his ill-used friend, and I honour him for it.”

“Sure y’are too good to us entirely, Sir Harry!” and the General was well pleased with voice and look. But it is probable he did not intend the news to be reserved, as Eveleen did reserve it, until she and her husband, having been duly inducted by Brian into the palatial quarters reserved for them, were in bed on opposite sides of a room which looked about half a mile across. Richard was just dropping asleep when he heard his wife’s voice.

“Neither—nothing of that sort. Why will y’always be thinking of such horrid things? No, the General bid me tell you he has asked to have Bayard sent back to help him with the treaty, and he expects him here in no time.”

The news was so unexpected that it woke Richard effectually. “I wonder whether he is wise,” he said, without any of the enthusiasm Eveleen had looked for.

“And is that all you have to say? I thought you’d be jumping out of bed and dancing on your head for joy!”

“No, never! never anything of the sort!” Eveleen was sitting up in bed, and her voice floated over to him in a bitter wail. “Always and always y’are the most disappointing creature ever I saw in my life!”

“And then where would be the surprise—the delightful surprise?—and y’are not a bit delighted, or surprised either. And I saving it up since the moment he told me——”

“Perhaps you had better have told me at once, my dear. You are rather like the General——”

“Like the General!” burst forth Eveleen. “If you think it polite to tell your poor unfortunate wife she’s like an ancient old man with a nose as big as the Hill of Howth and a beard like a billy-goat! You told me before I was as ugly as sin, but I thought you maybe didn’t mean it—but now you’ve said it again——” a sob.

“Mrs Ambrose, will you be good enough to tell me when I said anything so preposterous?”

“When I was ill at Bab-us-Sahel. At least, I said ’twas what you thought about me, and you didn’t say no, so I had to think you did! And now you say I’m like the General!”

“If you will be quiet a moment and listen to me—— Now; do you seriously expect me to contradict all the absurd things you say every day? If you do, I will make a point of it, but it will add a good deal to my work—and shorten my life by some years, I imagine. But perhaps that——”

“I don’t—you know I don’t! Y’oughtn’t be so cruel, Ambrose! You know if you were ill I’d be nursing you day and night, and neither eat nor sleep till you were well again.”

“I am sure you would,” with a slight shudder. “Let us hope it won’t be necessary. At any rate, there seems no present likelihood of my inflicting such a task on you. As to my saying you were like the General, I apologise if it was the wrong thing. You are so fond of him, I thought it would rather please you than otherwise. Not like him in face, of course—you know very well I meant nothing of that kind,—but in saying or doing what you have in your mind without thinking a moment how it will affect other people.”

Eveleen sat silent a moment, somewhat dismayed. “Will I really be like the General in that way?” she asked at last in a subdued voice.

“But I see what you mean. That trick on poor Stewart to-night—I’d have done just the same. And——”

“Pray don’t task your memory.” Richard smothered a colossal yawn. “I haven’t said I mean that, you know.”

“But I know you did. Oh dear, how will I ever make you think differently? I don’t mean to be ill-natured, but when a thing comes to me—— If only there was something I could do to show you—something you wanted very much——”

“Oh!” in dismay. “Oh, you shocking tease!” in indignation. “But I’ll do it; I won’t say another word.” A pause, during which Eveleen lay down vigorously, and remained silent a moment. “Ambrose!”

“Gul Ali’s without a doubt. One of the papers in the writing—of his Munshi—Chanda Ram—know his fist as well—as I do my own.” A snore.

CHAPTER X.
A CONTEST OF WITS.

Public opinion at Sahar was divided on the subject of Sir Henry Lennox. To the elegant he was a disreputable old figure of fun, certain to bring irreparable disgrace upon British arms if he was so foolish as to provoke a conflict with the Khans. Kinder-hearted people referred hopefully to his Peninsular record, while admitting mournfully that the Peninsula was a very long time back. Civilians declared him a bloodthirsty soldier, out for loot; soldiers lamented audibly that a fellow who had not the faintest notion of military discipline or etiquette should have been shoved into a position where the absence of these might, and almost certainly would, do untold harm. The sepoys regarded him with distant respect, not unmixed with dread, since the tempests of wrath they heard clattering on the heads of their superiors might at any moment fall on their own. The British private developed an unaccountable taste for turning out when the General went by—because he had never seen a General looking like a scarecrow before, said his officers bitterly—and greeting him with broad smiles which impaired distressingly the martial woodenness of the regulation salute. And the General pandered to this unmilitary behaviour, stopping to talk to individual privates in a human—not to say friendly—fashion, and actually invading the barrack-rooms when these were not prepared for inspection. He might say that in this way he found out that things were not as they should be: of course he did, the officers retorted indignantly; what did he expect? He would have found nothing wrong if he would only come at proper times.

But little by little an uneasy feeling was gripping the hearts of the placid oligarchy which had ruled the Sahar Cantonments hitherto. The old joker meant business; it was not all fuss and bluster when he called together the officers of a regiment and addressed them in language that lacked nothing in strength, if much in polish. Responsibility was his text; he was mad on responsibility: responsibility towards the men—that, at any rate, was universally admitted in theory; towards other branches of the Service—even, if it could be believed, towards the native regiments; and most incredible of all, responsibility towards the “black” population. And it was not possible to listen politely to his views and ignore them as an amiable eccentricity, for he went so far as to promulgate them in General Orders, and enforce them by penalty. Moreover, the orders were drawn up so clearly that any one could understand them, and in such improperly sarcastic language that it was plain the grinning privates who heard and read them regarded them as an entertainment freely provided for their delectation. The Army was certainly going to the dogs, and that part of it which was quartered at Sahar would arrive first, thanks to the Governor-General for sending this doddering old lunatic to vex it. It was not Sir Harry’s age that was the chief count against him—for in those days the nearer a man was to seventy, the greater seemed his chances of high command—but his eccentricity. He had somehow managed to pass through the Army mould without taking its impression, and as a result, he spoke a language strange to Army men.

It was some consolation to the few Politicals left at Sahar that the General was evidently as great a puzzle to the native rulers as to his own subordinates. All his movements were watched and reported by a horde of spies, and his utterances, which were numerous, often lengthy, and frequently quite inconsistent with one another, noted down with care and pains by hearers who only understood half of what they heard, and by them translated into Persian for transmission to the Khans. Of more value, perhaps, was the ocular demonstration of the condition of his troops, whom he was training hard. The “trotting about over the hills,” which he had promised himself to give the Khans’ messengers in company with two or three thousand men of his force, impressed them deeply, though the impression wore off a little when it came out that the General had remarked artlessly that this and the many similar field-days that followed it were intended to train himself as much as his men.

These field-days were a continual delight to Eveleen. The Great Duke had set the example of allowing ladies to ride with the staff on such occasions, and take station at the saluting-point—judiciously to the rear, of course—and Sir Harry would have regarded it as blasphemy to seek to improve upon his master’s methods. He was careful to detail an aide-de-camp to keep Mrs Ambrose from getting into danger or obstructing the manœuvres, but those two conditions satisfied, she might gallop where she liked. Sometimes, of course, she would arrive at an awkward moment, when Sir Harry was on the point of telling a unit candidly what he really thought of it, and then he would turn upon her an awful glare. “Madam, be good enough to retire!” was the formula barked at her from lips so clearly struggling to restrain a pent-up flood of vitriolic language that even Eveleen never dared to defy the mandate. From a safe distance she would hear the General’s voice rising and falling in alternate denunciation and irony—the words being happily undistinguishable—and discern through the sand-clouds the wilting of the officers beneath the storm; and then Sir Harry would ride after her refreshed and genial, the gayest-mannered martinet that ever killed a regiment with his mouth. He had a great fancy for her little horse Bajazet, but having learnt his history, insisted on renaming him the Street Arab—the expression was just coming into use,—since Bajazet was no name for an Arab, he said, but mere romantic female foolishness.

Richard did not take part in these field-days. They afforded him a much-needed opportunity for getting on with the work of the office, unhindered by the incursions of his chief. The Khemistan Political Establishment might have been excessive hitherto, but there was no denying that its sudden reduction imposed an enormous quantity of work on the few men who remained. Sir Harry himself was tireless, and seemed to find no difficulty in working all night after riding all day; but his inexperience added not a little to the labours of his subordinates. He had a rooted distaste for the elaborate forms of courtesy without which no Persian communication would be complete, and lest he should be set down as a barbarian absolutely destitute of breeding, Richard and the Munshi found it necessary to prepare two copies of every letter and order that was to be sent out in his name. One was in the plain blunt terms he himself favoured—he was very proud of these, and often copied the English rendering into his diary, presumably as a model of official correspondence for future generations,—the other embellished with the polite circumlocutions without which the recipient would have regarded it as a calculated insult. In like manner all the letters he received had to be most carefully scanned before being submitted to him, for in his impatience of the involved compliments set forth at extreme length, he would brush aside the whole document as of no importance, and thus fail to reach the weighty meaning concealed amid the flowery verbiage. And when, to accent these little peculiarities, Sir Harry was in the state of mind known to all his subordinates as “kicking up a dust”—as happened not infrequently,—the office heaved bitter sighs of longing for the days of Colonel Bayard, now gone by for ever.

Eveleen rode round one evening when office hours were over to pick up her husband, that they might take their ride by daylight. Here, with the desert and its wild tribes so close at hand, it was not safe to ride in the dark, so that during the sunset hour the roads in and about the Cantonments were a scene of tumultuous activity, which ceased, in Cinderella-fashion, the instant after gunfire. Eveleen expected Richard to meet her, but his horse was still waiting in charge of its syce, who said he had not seen his master, and she rode on up to the verandah steps. Then he came out, looking worried, his hands full of papers.

“Sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid you must excuse me this evening. It has been impossible to get anything done, and these letters must be put into shape before I leave. Your brother will escort you if he can get away, and if”—with some bitterness—“you can induce the General to go too, pray do. I shall be thankful not to hear his voice.”

“Ah, but can’t I help you?” she asked quickly. “It’s a headache you have; I see that.”

Eveleen rode away, feeling rather desolate. Round the next corner she just escaped running into Brian.

“Won’t you come and play with me? I have nobody to play with!” she was quoting from the spelling-book in common use, from which she had taught Brian to read, but he did not respond to the familiar tag.

“Have you not, indeed? The General sends his compliments, and may he have the honour of attending you this evening? Take him along with you, pray, and smooth him down a bit. We have had one earthquake after another the whole long day.”

“What about? Everything—every sole, single, individual thing that has happened or not happened since the early morning. And don’t you tell him things are ‘interesting,’ if you value your life. I believe that was what helped to set him off—my telling him some order or other had been ‘carried out’ instead of ‘executed.’ He’s been going on about cant words, and the correct thing, and the cheese, at intervals ever since. I tell y’ I don’t dare open my mouth!”

“New for you, Brian! But what if he’d snap at me? Are you going to leave me to be eaten up entirely?”

“Oh, I’ll be there—but in my proper subordinate place behind. It’s you will get the fireworks—riding with him.”

They were walking their horses into the main courtyard, and as he spoke they came in sight of a very explosive-looking Sir Harry, standing on the steps and criticising with freedom the appearance and equipment of the escort. It was for once fortunate that he could not speak Persian, for the precise nature of his remarks was lost on the troopers, though his tone and gestures, and the face of the officer who bore the brunt of his words, made the whole drift clear enough. As was natural when he was already ruffled, some evil genius had allotted him the fidgety Selima that evening, and when he saw Eveleen, and politely determined not to keep a lady waiting, hastened to mount, the mare kept him hopping on one leg for some minutes of greater energy than dignity. It took all the little self-control Eveleen possessed not to offer advice or assistance, but she knew that would be a crime beyond forgiveness, and succeeded in keeping silence and a straight face. At last he was in the saddle, and gathering up the reins in stillness more eloquent than speech. With what she felt was supreme tact, Eveleen ignored it all.

“We will go,” returned Sir Harry, with concentrated venom, “straight to the sandhills, and let this uneasy jade have her fill of dancing and prancing.”

“Ah, that will be splendid!” cried Eveleen, forgetting tact, and instantly reminded of it by the malevolent glance bent upon her.

“Yes, we shall have a splendid ride, and my lovely companion and my interesting aide will congratulate themselves on carrying out their purpose of seeing the old man look a fool. That is correct behaviour nowadays, I understand.”

So vehemently did he hiss out the fashionable catchwords which he hated, that Eveleen was more taken aback than she had ever been in her life. But she was not the woman to suffer meekly at Sir Harry’s hands any more than at Richard’s. Withdrawing her gaze primly to her horse’s ears, she remained stonily silent, taking no notice of her companion. In this wise they rode through the part of the Cantonments which lay between Government House and the desert, and the ladies they met—after observing with disapproval that there was that Mrs Ambrose riding with the General again—remarked with unction that it looked as though Sir Henry was finding out at last what sort of temper Mrs Ambrose possessed. As for Eveleen, she suspected irony in Richard’s parting injunction—in which she probably did him injustice.

Possibly the air and exercise mollified Sir Harry’s chafed spirit, or perhaps he realised that he had been rude, for instead of calling for a gallop as soon as they were on the sand, he drew rein and said, in a voice half surly, half apologetic—

Eveleen turned innocent eyes upon him. “Sure I’m afraid to talk, Sir Harry. I’m in a shocking bad temper this evening, and I’d maybe say something I oughtn’t.”

“Meaning that I’m in a shocking bad temper, I suppose? My apologies, ma’am—my most humble apologies. Not that I ever do lose my temper—you’re wrong there.” Eveleen wished she had eyes in the back of her head, to see Brian’s face when he heard this. “I’m apt to be betrayed into using strong language occasionally—very wrong, I know, and I try to break myself of the habit,—but I assure you I have the sweetest temper in the world. All we Lennoxes have; we got it from our parents before us.”

“But oughtn’t a person lose their temper sometimes?” enquired Eveleen meekly. “When there’s good cause for it, I mean?”

The General’s face cleared wonderfully. “Why, so they ought! There are times when no man who is a man ought to keep his temper. And I am proud to say that on occasions like that I have never failed—yes, I think I may say I have never failed—to lose mine.”

Eveleen fought with a wild desire to laugh. “True for you, I’m sure, Sir Harry—most thoroughly. W-will we gallop now?” she welcomed almost hysterically a broad stretch of smooth sand in front, for the General had glanced round suspiciously, and she was afraid of disgracing herself for ever. But when Bajazet broke into a canter, Selima was naturally not disposed to be left behind, and they swept forward grandly, with the escort clinking and clanking after. When they slowed down a little, to mount the steep rise of a sandhill, which stretched right and left, as far as eye could see, like the face of a breaking wave, Eveleen glanced at Sir Harry. He was certainly more cheerful, but not yet his benign self, and without allowing him a moment’s breathing-space she urged another canter the instant they reached the crest of the sand-wave, and never stopped till the ground began to rise for the next. Then Sir Harry checked Selima and laughed.

“There, that will do! The seven devils are gone,” he chuckled, and Eveleen, a little breathless, laughed back at him. Her eyes were shining blue, her hair, crisped by the desert wind, stood out like wires under the heavy gauze veil thrown back over her straw hat. She looked about seventeen, and Sir Harry felt older than ever in comparison with her. He spoke abruptly.

“And now, if you please, we’ll take things easy for a bit. What with you young people egging the old fellow on, we seem to have got the escort strung out over a mile or so of desert.”

“I wonder might I suggest we go back and pick ’em up, General?” suggested Brian, rather anxiously. “If there were any of the Khans’ Arabits about here—or the wild tribes either—you would be something like a prize for them—and with a lady in charge——”

“Quite so. Though I think you and I could put up a fairly good fight while Mrs Ambrose got away. My little friend the Street Arab has a pretty turn of speed. But it would be an ignominious ending to a fit of—no, ma’am, not temper—a fit of righteous indignation such as I hope will ever seize me, or any of our family, at the sight of cruelty or injustice.”

“And why wouldn’t it, Sir Harry?” asked Eveleen boldly. “I’m sure that same righteous indignation has got me into trouble often enough. Would it be the way the people here treat the women made you angry?”

“No, ma’am. It was the way our own people treat their wounded. I rode out this morning to meet the force coming—we mustn’t say retreating—from Ethiopia. A part of the rearguard came into camp while I was there, and I saw the poor fellows taken from their camels and pitched down on the sand like dogs. I promise you the officers concerned got a bit of my mind. Queen’s or Company’s, they are all the same—shamefully negligent of their men. A bad set they are, a bad set—and see if I don’t treat ’em badly in their turn!”

“Ah, but not all bad?” entreated Eveleen, as he laughed ferociously. “And sure they’ll improve, now you have the teaching of them, Sir Harry.”

“Will they, indeed? Then what d’ye say to what I found when I got back? In spite of all my orders against reckless riding in the bazar, a wretched half-caste clerk goes careering along, won’t pull up for anybody, knocks down one of our own sepoys, a fine young fellow as ever I saw—regularly rides over him. Poor chap goes to hospital, and his murderer gets my sentiments—and something more.”

“Not quite, but no thanks to the cranny. [Krani=writer.] And he shall pay for it—needn’t think he’s going to get off. But this ain’t ladies’ conversation, is it?” pulling himself up suddenly. “Fact is, ma’am, this cantonment has to be got into order, and it don’t like it. It ain’t altogether the officers’ fault—there are some magnificent youngsters among ’em—but they have had no one to command ’em, simply a lot of suggestors suggesting that they should do this or that, and it’s gone far to ruin ’em. There they go muddling themselves with beer all day long, but when the private soldiers get drunk on country spirits, it’s ‘Nasty drunken wretches! why can’t they keep sober?’ As if there was a chance of their keeping sober in barrack-rooms not fit for swine! How is a soldier to have confidence in his officer in war if he has shown no concern for his welfare in peace? It’s the same all round. There are the black artillery drivers with eight rupees a month of pay, no lodging-money, and no warm clothing. Of course in Ethiopia they deserted wholesale, and took their horses with ’em. But while I command here we ain’t going to risk having our batteries crippled at the critical moment just to save the Directors the price of a suit of clothes. That matter’s set right, at any rate.”

“Look forward to it? Well, a man who has never commanded a brigade in action may be excused for feeling some desire to know how he would acquit himself at the head of an army. Not that I confess to much doubt on the matter. One who has served under Wellington—you might almost say under Napoleon, so closely have I studied him, though we were on opposite sides, worse luck!—has little to do but put in practice his master’s lessons. Yet I admit there’s an attraction in the thought of handling in earnest a magnificent force such as I have here, massing it against the foe, flinging it hither and thither, leading it to victory—— Ah, but then! Heaven forgive me! do I desire to appear before my Maker—as must happen before long—with my hands imbrued in the blood of my kind, of those very troops whose proud bearing and lofty confidence fills me with elation? No, a thousand times no!”

He spoke aloud, but as though to himself, with eyes fixed on the distant horizon, and Eveleen was awed. “But there won’t likely be war at all?” she asked, almost timidly.

“How can I say? Is there any knowing what might suffice to stir to a murderous resolution these poor foolish princes, who are drunk with bhang every day after three o’clock, and peevish all the morning till they can get drunk again? They are at the mercy of a moment’s impulse, if the heads of their army had the strength of mind to take a decisive step when ordered, without waiting for the inevitable reversal.”

“The younger Khans might do so, Ambrose thinks,” she suggested—“especially Kamal-ud-din.”

“True, but would he find a sufficient following when old Gul Ali says in open audience that if the British will only take money to go away he’ll sell all his wives’ jewels to satisfy ’em? Then the next thing one hears he and the rest have sent their women away into the desert, and swear they will cut all their throats to prove to us they are in a desperate determination to resist. Well, do it, my good princes, do it! and I swear by all that’s holy I’ll cut yours, to the last man of you! When it comes to throat-cutting, you’ll find me a good deal apter than in chopping words with your Vakils.”

“I know he does, but the other Politicals assure me with one voice that all this assemblage of troops is under taken solely with the design to intimidate me—which design, by the way, is uncommonly mistaken! Poor Bayard himself could hardly depart for assuring me that his dear Khans hadn’t an ounce of vice in ’em—that it was their nature to bluster and talk big, but if I took ’em at their word I should be guilty of murder at the very least. So be it, says I to him, if murder starts it won’t be because I begin it. If the princes will keep the peace, peace they shall have; but if they fire a shot, Khemistan shall be annexed to the British Empire, and good for Khemistan it will be.”

“Bayard don’t think that,” said Eveleen slowly. “’Twould break his heart, I believe.”

“Then he must get his friends to keep their treaties—and mind you, the new one I am to make is a long way stiffer than the last. The Khans are to pay in territory for all their dirty tricks—give back to the Nawab of Habshiabad the districts they stole from him, and cede Sahar and Bab-us-Sahel to us permanently.”

“That they won’t, and very naturally. In their place I should object strongly myself. In fact, I object now, for what right have we here, taking possession of towns that don’t belong to us? But the Khans entered into the treaties, and they must keep ’em—or if they want to break ’em, they must fight fair. Those letters now, with the doubtful seals—you have heard of them?”

“I heard you speaking to Ambrose about them, but I don’t know what they would be. He don’t tell me things.”

“Wise man! Well, ma’am, they were merely written at the time of our Ethiopian disasters to incite Maharajah Ajit Singh of Ranjitgarh to form a league against us, and to the chiefs of the wild tribes to get ’em to fall upon our retreating troops. They were sealed with a seal closely resembling Gul Ali’s, but with some slight differences that made me think a forgery had possibly been attempted. But then Munshi puts me up to a nice little trick these fellows have of keeping two seals—one just sufficiently different from the other to justify doubts if there’s any wish to disavow a document,—and your good husband not only identifies the seal as genuine, but swears to the handwriting of the letters as being that of Gul Ali’s chief scribe. So he at least—and his brother Khans are all tarred with the same brush—stands convicted of a diabolical attempt to take advantage of our calamities. He’ll deny it, of course, as he will the latest evidence of his perfidy—a bond written in his own copy of the Koran, and sealed by all the Khans but Shahbaz, pledging ’em to unite in driving us from the country,—but I’ll bring him to book. What can you do with a man whose word can’t be trusted and who’ll forge his own seal? Nothing but bind him down so tight as to put it out of his power to do mischief, says I. My friend Gul Ali is taking a little trip in this direction, I hear, and when he and I meet to exchange compliments, there will be something more than compliments in store for him. I’ll wager he’ll be uncommonly taken aback when he finds I am acquainted with the engagement he carries in his Koran.”

“But if he denies it? Why, he might even produce another Koran to show you there was nothing in it at all.”

“To be sure he might—and most certainly will. And therefore my only course is to make it impossible for the suggested combination to take place. Believe me, ma’am, I have a rod in pickle for old Gul Ali. My sole fear is that he mayn’t care to face me.”

“True, but a tacit admission of guilt don’t do you much good when the guilty person remains so discreetly at a distance that you can’t lay hands on him.”

“The sun is getting precious low, General,” ventured the watchful Brian, riding up level with Sir Harry.

“That’s true, and we seem to have collected the escort without the loss of a man. Ma’am, I owe you an apology for trespassing on your patience with these public affairs, thinking less of your entertainment than of relieving my own mind. My comfort is that you’ll forget ’em speedily.”

“True, Sir Harry. I’ll not remember anything but that you complimented me by talking about them.”

“Delany,” said Sir Harry solemnly to Brian, “were there any fragments of the Blarney Stone left behind when your sister quitted Ireland, or was the whole of it concealed in her baggage?”

“Blarney Stone, indeed!” said Brian enthusiastically, when he looked in on the Ambroses late that evening. “’Tis a harp y’ought be having, Evie—like David with Saul,—and I’ll not say but the staff will be getting up a subscription to present you with one. Think of the convenience of being able to call you in to lay the dust as soon as the old lad begins to kick it up!”

“Is it a harp, indeed! Much good that would be!” said Eveleen scornfully. “Why, I’d never be able to resist trying it on Ambrose, whom nothing on earth will move, and the General would soon find out what a useless sort of thing it was.” She stopped suddenly, catching on her husband’s face the uneasy look which showed that he could not decide whether she was in earnest or not, and a disagreeable thought struck her. Richard had said she was like the General. She had felt embarrassed this evening when the General put into words his deepest thoughts. Could it be that Richard also was embarrassed when she spoke out her thoughts without considering whether they were likely to be acceptable or not? She brushed the question aside quickly. “But I assure you Sir Harry considers it right and proper to lose his temper when the occasion calls for it,” she said.

“I believe you!” agreed Brian dolefully. “Ain’t it a pity, though, that we can’t pull a string and make him lose it when we think the occasion calls for it? With the Khans, now! If they once saw him in one of his rages, sure they’d be tumbling over one another to try and appease him.”

“Ah, then, old Gul Ali will never dare to stand out against him when he has once heard him talk seriously,” said Eveleen. “You don’t really think they’ll fight, Ambrose?”

“They would not fight if they knew him as we know him,” said Richard slowly. “But with these fellows, his violence and severity defeats its own object. They are incapable of believing any one could take such a tone seriously with persons of their importance. He must be endeavouring to hide his weakness, they imagine.”

“Well, now!” said Brian. “And what can you do with people like that at all?”

“Pray don’t ask me. If they can’t see the difference between him and Bayard, how is it to be got into their heads? Bayard might employ threats, but I can’t believe the utmost exigency would have driven him actually to demand the annexation of the country. But this chap will do it if they don’t behave themselves.”

“Well, our own people are learning to know him,” laughed Brian. “Munshi was telling me to-day that they say he ain’t merely a commander, but the Governor-General himself in a military disguise. Some of ’em say he’s the Duke come back, but the old sepoys, who knew the Duke forty years ago, won’t have that. But they all agreed he might be an uncle or cousin of Her Majesty’s, sent out to cope with the posture of things here.”

“Aye, they are beginning to call him the Padishah,” said Richard. “Well, if the tales get to Gul Ali’s ears, so much the better, if they make him disposed to submit. But he can’t sign a treaty by himself, unfortunately, and by the time the rest are assembled, he will have been in as many different minds as there are Khans.”

“I’d dearly like to see Sir Harry talk to him for his good,” said Eveleen eagerly. “Where is it they’ll meet? Will we—ladies, I mean—be allowed to be there?”

“Certainly not,” said Richard crushingly. “It will be across the river—in that garden with the palm-trees just on the other side.”

“Sure you needn’t be so horrid about it! I dare say there won’t be much to see after all—maybe nothing.”

As it happened, that was exactly what there was. Sir Harry and his staff, all in full uniform, set out by boat, reached the meeting-place in good time, and waited there—in vain, returning after an hour or so in high dudgeon. Nor was their wrath mollified by a message from Gul Ali, conveying a perfunctory apology for his non-appearance, and appointing a meeting the next day in another garden, six miles down the river. This time it was Sir Harry who did not keep the appointment, returning the curt answer that he was not going to be insulted. Colonel Bayard’s partisans went about with long faces all day. Were the Khans to be defied on their own soil by this ignorant stranger? But by the evening, when reports began to filter in, they saw reason to change their tune. The messengers had found Gul Ali’s son Karimdâd waiting half-way, nominally to receive the General with honour, but actually—every one was sure of it—to note what troops he brought with him, and send word to his father, who had six thousand Arabits concealed in and about the garden, and reinforcements within call. Sir Harry was too much gratified by this proof of his foresight to exult unduly.

“I should have looked foolish—going into the middle of a body of Arabits with only a few officers at my back,” he said. “Whether there were six thousand or six hundred, they could have done for us pretty thoroughly. Nice old chap, Gul Ali!”

“The messengers say he had heard a rumour that you intended seizing him, General,” said Richard.

“That’s the Ethiopian affair rising up again to plague us! But I am not going to have it perpetually thrown in my teeth. Write to the fellow, Ambrose, that I am no traitor, as he evidently is, and that if I wanted to seize him, I could and would come and pull him out of Qadirabad itself. Send it at once.”

The effect of the message was instantaneous. Apparently Gul Ali felt the garden where he was encamped less secure even than Qadirabad. He, his son and his army, evacuated their camp during the night, and the next day were out of reach in the desert.

CHAPTER XI.
DEEDS, NOT WORDS.

It seemed that Gul Ali’s ignominious flight had served to stimulate in his brother Shahbaz Khan the amiable instinct to profit by his disgrace, for very shortly afterwards he also arrived on the bank of the river, and sent to request the honour of beholding the General’s face. Sir Harry appointed as meeting-place the garden where Gul Ali had failed to present himself, and crossed the river attended only by two aides-de-camp and Richard Ambrose as interpreter. To the remonstrances of those who urged that Shahbaz was as likely as his brother to attempt treachery, he replied calmly that he liked Shahbaz—he was a sportsman, by far the best of the Khans—and declined precautions. Yet he left Brian behind, lest Mrs Ambrose should be robbed of husband and brother in one day; and Brian, panting to show his mettle, spent the time in trying to make Eveleen nervous by devising plans for a rescue. Nervous Eveleen declined to be—it was not in her where any daylight danger was concerned; but she was quite as ready to be excited as Brian himself, and firmly determined to make part of any expedition that might set out. But the day passed quietly. No boat struggled across with a piteous demand for succour, and nothing in the nature of commotion on the opposite bank rewarded the watchers who had posted themselves with glasses on the highest towers of the old fort, resolved to be the first to report calamity, even if they could not avert it. Precisely at the appointed time, the General’s boat was seen returning, and a sigh of relief went up—possibly tinged slightly with regret on the part of the prophets of evil.

“Shahbaz Khan is a precious fine fellow!” declared Sir Harry in high good humour, to those who had ridden to the landing-stage to meet him—Eveleen and Brian among them; “and he shall have the Turban, or Hal Lennox will know the reason why.”

“Did he give you a good reception, Sir Harry?” asked Eveleen, rather unnecessarily, as it occurred to her the moment after.

“Tiptop. Troops drawn up to receive us—everything most correct. Double pavilion pitched—into the inner room of which Shahbaz and I retire after the formal compliments, with Ambrose to interpret. Shahbaz declared honour of receiving me as his guest is quite enough, but if I have no objection he would be glad to know where he stands. He has cut himself off from the other Khans by declaring himself our friend, and they are encouraging Gul Ali to oust him from the succession. Would he have to suffer for his loyalty to us? Of course there was only one answer to that. ‘I care nothing for this Turban nonsense, but you are the rightful heir, and so long as you remain loyal, the Governor-General will protect you in your rights.’ He was uncommonly pleased at that, and said to Ambrose that he could have vindicated his rights by himself, but our backing would make his task much easier. A fine chap, a fine chap! worth ten of that old sot Gul Ali. It’s a pleasure to find a fellow of his kind to support.”

“Not as long as he behaves himself. But there’s talk again of his resigning in favour of his son, who has no right to succeed until Shahbaz has had his turn.”

“How can I? It’s nothing but folly, of course, but as long as the present state of things lasts it must go on. If I had let Shahbaz broach the question, I don’t doubt he’d have tried to get me to promise his son should succeed him, but that don’t come into my province. If this nonsense of Brotherhood rule is done away with, and Shahbaz becomes sole Khan, it may be settled his way, but that’s for Lord Maryport to decide—not me.”

“I wonder how can they go on with such a silly way of governing—all reigning at once,” said Eveleen.

“Why not, ma’am? Precious convenient way for them—you can never pin ’em down to anything. Ask your good husband what all the letters are about which are turning his hair as grey as mine. Oh, I forgot! he don’t tell you things—eh? Well, then, when I write to demand why the Khans have stopped the boats going down the river and demanded toll, contrary to treaty, the first thing is to deny it absolutely. With shocking bad manners I contradict ’em flatly—it has been done, and why? In a great hurry half the Khans reply that they had no hand in it; it was the doing of some of the other Khans’ servants. Then why have not the servants been punished? I demand. ‘Oh, they were not their servants, but the other chaps’.’ ‘Very well, then, if you don’t punish ’em, I shall,’ says I. ‘Oh,’ say the Khans, ‘the poor fellows were ignorant; we have admonished ’em, and bid ’em not do it again.’ It happens again the next week. ‘Precious lot of good your admonitions are!’ says I. ‘Be so good as to send the poor ignorant chaps to me, and I’ll admonish ’em.’ ‘Alas!’ says they, ‘the servants, being unaware of the honour destined for ’em, have fled.’ ‘Oh, very well,’ says I; ‘princes who give their seals and their authority to their servants to use must expect to be held responsible for their misdeeds. The fines due will be deducted from the sum which was to have been paid to their Highnesses as rent for our cantonments.’ Silence for a bit, while they think hard to find some way of getting round me. Bright idea! they’ll put an utter stop to the steamer traffic by forbidding woodcutting on either bank of the river on pain of death—making out that every patch of brushwood is part of their private preserves. ‘Sorry!’ says I, ‘but the traffic must be maintained somehow. If the wood ain’t to be taken from the shikargahs, why, I must destroy Qadirabad bit by bit, and burn the wood from the houses.’ Then they lament together in durbar over the wicked stiff-neckedness of that old rapscallion the Bahadar Jang, and talk big about the steps they are on the point of taking to teach him a lesson. ‘We will handle the English so vilely,’ say they, ‘that they’ll call out in despair, “Great Heaven, what have we done that Thou shouldst let loose such devils upon us?”’ Which is a very proper sentiment for patriotic princes defending their country against the invader, but things of that sort should be done first, and talked about afterwards.”

“Mean it? They mean to slip out of all their engagements, and all punishment for breaking ’em, by dint of shifting the blame on one another and on their servants, and if they could frighten me off, it would suit them nicely. But that they ain’t going to do. When the new treaty is presented to ’em, they’ll sign it or they’ll refuse it, and we shall know where we are, and if they sign it and break it, then also I shall know what to do—and I’ll do it!”

“You’ll just be waiting now for Bayard to come back, and then the treaty will be presented?” suggested Eveleen. Sir Harry turned a ferocious glance upon her.

“Waiting for Colonel Bayard? Certainly not. I don’t need Colonel Bayard to help me make treaties, ma’am—much obliged to you for thinking of it!” with deadly irony. “All he’s wanted for is to help with the arrangements about lands and so on, which will have to be made under the treaty—and which he ought to know something about, after his years here. The treaty will go to Qadirabad by Stewart as soon as it’s finished translating into Persian, and the moment he’s well away I begin to move my troops across the river—where they’ll be equally ready to occupy the stolen Habshiabad districts and hand ’em back to the Nawab, or to move on Qadirabad if the Khans turn nasty. Wait for Bayard, indeed!”

He went on growling to himself for some time, until Eveleen turned the conversation tactfully to horses. It was inadvisable to mention Colonel Bayard’s name to him again, but to her husband she said when they were alone—

“D’ye think Bayard will understand, Ambrose, that he comes back merely as assistant to the General?”

“I’m afraid not.” Richard spoke gravely. “I doubt if he would return to find himself nothing but an underling.”

“I think the best chance of it would be for the treaty to be signed—if signed it is to be—before Bayard gets back. Then he’ll find plenty to do in alleviating the feelings of the Khans, knowing that the thing is done and can’t be undone, and their best hope is to submit gracefully. Something must have happened to detain him in Bombay, or we should have had him back before this. Whatever it be, I trust it may detain him a little longer.”

It was not often that Richard spoke so openly and so seriously, and Eveleen was duly impressed. For the moment, that is—for the life going on around her was so interesting and engrossing that it was hard to realise Colonel Bayard as a possible disturbing influence. Sir Harry might expect to carry through the treaty peacefully, but his troops were longing for the Khans to refuse to sign. A new spirit had been breathed into the disintegrated force when the Peninsular veteran took it in hand. The bonds of discipline were tightened, something like esprit de corps was growing up between Queen’s and Company’s men, which were traditionally at daggers drawn, and the native regiments—in looking down upon which they had been wont to find their sole point of agreement; life might be harder, but it was incomparably more thrilling. The two or three thousand men at Sahar would have charged cheering upon the great hosts of Granthistan next door, and gone through them with the bayonet, so said Sir Harry, who realised—no one better—the change he had brought about in the spirit of his command. He said it to Eveleen and her husband, when they came upon him by the river, watching the tents and heavy baggage of a native regiment, which was due to cross on the morrow, being ferried over in haste before darkness fell to the camp which was in process of formation outside Bori.

“Almost a pity to see ’em so full of fight, with no enemy handy!” he added, a little gloomily. “But what a bloodthirsty wretch I am—almost as bad as the Bombay chaps make me out—to be regretting the strife I have strained every nerve to avert! If the poor fellows themselves know no better than to desire war, their commander at least should be superior to such a passion.” He was talking as though to himself, and Richard broke in rather hastily—

“Do I understand you, General, that the Khans have decided to submit? Is there news from Stewart?”

“Yes, a cossid [messenger] came in after you left. The Khans are sending Vakils to sign the treaty—under protest, naturally enough, but still to sign.”

“Nothing whatever. If there had been even some attempt at resistance I should have felt—foolishly enough—less unjust, but these poor Khans are so meek, so submissive, that one has the impression of behaving in the most shockingly arbitrary fashion. Had there been any truth in last week’s story of Gul Ali’s actual resignation of the Turban to that violent youth, his son, I could almost have welcomed the chance of an honest tussle, but it’s like raining blows on a feather bed. You don’t feel this?” he turned sharply on Richard. “You still believe they mean to fight?”

“I can’t believe they have assembled sixty thousand men for nothing, General—nor yet that the younger Khans have invited those armed bands we hear about into the desert solely to enjoy a picnic in their company.”

“Very true. We shall soon see. Those bands must disperse—or be dispersed—before the treaty is signed. We have ample force to meet any resistance they can offer. But sixty thousand! No, my dear Ambrose, I can’t credit such a figure as that. I know you have gathered it precious carefully from the reports of our spies—but after all, what trust can you put in the word of a spy? Oh, I know I make use of ’em, but I discount their reports pretty shrewdly. So don’t be frightened, ma’am”—with a benevolent smile at Eveleen—“by your good man’s dark forebodings. I’ll tell you this, Lord Maryport offered me additional troops either from the Upper Provinces or Bombay, or both, and I refused ’em. So you see what I think about it—eh?”

“Frightened!” said Eveleen, in high scorn. “And pray why would I be frightened, Sir Harry?”

“Why, indeed? But don’t think I blame your prudence, Ambrose,” noting the younger man’s silence. “From my soul I believe I have men enough to cope with any force the Khans can bring against us. To have asked for more would have meant delay—two months, three months, four, perhaps,—and there we are landed in the middle of the hot weather. You yourself have told me what that means for military operations here—not a soldier, European or native, able to show his nose on the parade-ground by daylight, men struck down by the dozen in a march of a few miles. No, if we have to fight, we’ll fight at once—the sooner the better, so long as Stewart has got back. I’m sure they have given me pretexts enough, if there’s any humbug about signing the treaty, and they know what I think about ’em—eh?”

“But that’s what they are—sodden with drink and drugs. If my letters don’t wake ’em up a bit—— See here, ma’am, if this don’t strike you as rayther neat. Twice in this last day or so poor Ambrose has had to write to Gul Ali for me. The young bloods have been talking big about burning our camp over at Bori there, and I knew their besotted elders might well be induced to give such an order over-night, and in the morning forget all about the matter and deny giving it. So I told Gul Ali that if I heard any more of night attacks on my camp he and the rest would be made to look precious silly, for not only would every one that tried it get killed, but I should march on Qadirabad and destroy it, leaving only the Fort standing, to show my respect for their Highnesses, for all they couldn’t keep their people in order. So they know what to look forward to now.”

“But sure they’ll not see the joke,” said Eveleen sorrowfully. “They will be too stupid, the creatures!”

“Well, this will touch ’em, I imagine. Gul Ali has had his emissaries in Bori since the first detachment crossed there, bribing our men to try and get ’em to desert. They have not been able to do it so far, but it don’t answer to let that sort of thing go on. So I gave the old fellow a friendly tip. He was paying his men to corrupt mine, believing he was getting good value for his money, says I. Well, he was being choused right and left. When any money did pass from his chaps to mine, they brought it straight to me, but he might take my word for it that most of it went in high living and never came near the troops at all. That ought to make a little unpleasantness between the old villain and his precious tools—eh?”

“He ought be feeling terribly small,” agreed Eveleen. “But he will not be any fonder of you for that, Sir Harry.”

“That, ma’am, is a consideration which I can safely assert never held back any Lennox that ever lived from saying a neat thing when he had it to say,” returned the General, with perfect truth.

The next day the station enjoyed a mild excitement, for Stewart came in by land, attended only by his orderly and personal servants, whereas he had gone down to Qadirabad by steamer, with an escort of thirty of the Khemistan Horse. At first people thought there had been another Ethiopian disaster, resulting in another sole survivor, but it soon became known that the escort were returning safe and sound by water, while Stewart had taken the quicker land route that the General might be aware as soon as possible of the true state of affairs. Yet the situation was not made much clearer by his report. It was true that the Khans had not rejected the treaty, though the Vakils they were sending to Sahar were empowered rather to complain of their wrongs than to sign on their behalf. But Stewart had had great difficulty in getting away, after being insulted in the streets and coldly received in durbar, and on his return journey he had only avoided having to fight his way by exercising extreme self-restraint masked by ferocious bluff. He found an enemy in every Arabit he met, and his life was in danger more than once, but the Khemis crowded to him in secret to express their longing that the British would take over the country, though in the presence of their masters they appeared indifferent or hostile. To him it seemed impossible to doubt that the Khans meant to fight, and that the Vakils, if they ever arrived, were intended merely to stretch out matters and gain time for their employers; but Sir Harry was not to be hurried. He would go on massing his troops at Bori, but nothing should induce him to take the first hostile step. His moderation seemed to be justified when, two days after Stewart, the Vakils arrived, though there was little satisfaction to be obtained from them. Possibly the Khans had come to an end of their excuses, for their sole answer to Sir Harry’s charges was to deny them all—adding that guiltless and oppressed as they were, they had no resource but to sign the treaty forced upon them. Perhaps they knew that this was their best way of dealing with the General, who was thrown into a perfect frenzy by finding himself accused of injustice, and laboured for hours to convince the messengers—and through them their masters—that they were being dealt with leniently rather than oppressively. He might even have consented to refer the treaty back to Lord Maryport, with the modifications the Vakils proceeded humbly to suggest, had the Khans possessed sufficient common-sense to maintain their pose of injured innocents. But stimulated perhaps by his apparent gullibility, they struck out a new line of annoyance, holding up the dâks and robbing the mails, with the result that every trace of meekness and compassion vanished, and Sir Harry sent off a sledge-hammer letter to Gul Ali, ordering him instantly to disband his troops, with the alternative of immediate war. It might have been supposed that this time the Khans were confronted with a straight issue that could not be evaded, but that they were not yet destitute of wiles was clear one morning when Richard was summoned before daylight to attend his chief. Brian, coming to the edge of the office verandah to bid him hurry, added a whispered word of warning.

If Sir Harry was not exactly dancing, he was doing something very like it—rushing about the office in a series of short dashes, as he was brought up by the walls or the furniture. He could not speak coherently.

“Sit down—write!” he jerked out. “That old fool—that old villain——!” a string of expletives in various Southern European tongues followed. “Thinks he’s diddled me, does he? I’ll diddle him!”

So far there seemed nothing to write, and Richard made a show of elaborate preparation, selecting a large sheet of paper, choosing a quill with care, and trying it on his thumb-nail. Then he looked up with respectful attention.

“Well, why don’t you write? Begin. ‘Khan!’ None of your flummery of polite phrases—I won’t have it. Let the fellow get it hot and strong.”

“‘Khan!’” repeated Richard obediently, secure in the knowledge that an English letter, however violent in expression, could do no harm.

“Well, go on! You know what I want said—pitch it him hot, I tell you. Can’t be too strong.”

“Perhaps if I knew which of the Khans it was, General, and what he has done——?”

“Done? Which of ’em? Why, old Gul Ali, of course. Is there ever anything wholly preposterous that the old idiot hasn’t got a hand in? As to what he’s done—why, he’s trying to embarrass me, sir! made up his mind to tie my hands! Says he’s helpless in the power of his family, who are keeping him prisoner, but he’ll escape and come to me and be my suppliant—lay his turban at my feet! Escape? yes—escape the punishment due to him, so he thinks—get me on his side, come out top dog after all! But I won’t have it. He shan’t come here and slobber over my boots! If I have to fight, I’ll fight with my hands free. Tell him I won’t receive him here—won’t see his dirty old face. He’s to go to his brother Shahbaz, if he goes anywhere, and stay with him till I send him orders to the contrary.”

Sir Harry came to a threatening stop just behind him. “Well, sir, what’s wrong? What d’ye mean, sir?”

“In this country it ain’t considered particularly healthy for an aged relative to entrust his safety to his next heir, General.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” Sir Harry laughed loudly. “If he chooses to resign the Turban to Shahbaz, so much the better. If Shahbaz thinks fit to exercise a little persuasion, I’m sure I have no objection. I have done with the canting old dog. Now let his brother deal with him, as I have no doubt he knows how. Then I’ll make short work of the rebellious young cubs.”

The letter written by Richard, if less peremptory in its terms than Sir Harry would have wished, produced the desired effect. Gul Ali made no further attempt to take refuge with the British, but turned aside meekly to the camp of his brother, while the unfilial Karimdâd, from whose violence he asserted that he had fled, took possession of his fortresses, and announced loudly that he would hold them against the man who called himself the Bahadar Jang or any other Farangi in creation. Sir Harry chuckled, and completed his consolidation at Bori, but it was not his measures that alarmed Karimdâd. From Shahbaz Khan’s fortress of Bidi came the news Richard had expected. Gul Ali had resigned the Turban—of his own free will, it was carefully added—in favour of his brother. The result was electrical. Karimdâd and his cousins lost no time in quitting the strongholds they had seized, and fled to Sultankot, far in the desert—a fortress which was declared and believed by all Khemistan to be not only impregnable but unreachable for an enemy, owing to the difficulties of the route and the lack of water. Sir Harry chuckled again, and with a calmness that staggered his own troops as much as his opponents, announced that he was going to take Sultankot. It might be a hundred miles in the desert, but if the Arabit bands could make the journey, so could trained troops. The fortress might be impregnable to a native army, but not to Europeans provided with artillery. Parts of the way might be impassable for heavy guns, but he would rely on his field-pieces. The wells might be destroyed or poisoned, vegetation might be lacking, but he would carry water and forage with him. The route might be unknown, but he would get guides from Shahbaz Khan, and in case the opportunity might be too tempting, Shahbaz Khan himself should come too. No smoothing-out of complications at one blow by allowing the British force to be overwhelmed in the desert, leaving him undisputed master of Khemistan! Shahbaz Khan professed unbounded delight in the honour conferred upon him, but begged the General politely not to impose upon himself the labour of such a march. He himself would undertake to reduce Sultankot with his own troops, and bring the rebellious princelings to heel. But Sir Harry refused to be spared, and gave his reason openly, though happily not to his prospective ally. It was just as well that Shahbaz Khan should be convinced of the ability of British troops to reach and capture any objective whatever—no matter how distant and difficult,—as a gentle hint that when he was placed in power he also would find no place of refuge if he chose to misbehave. The British force, fretting at the leash which held it inactive after its hard training, was ready to go anywhere and fight anything, and moved out joyfully from Bori into the desert, to the number—after the manner of Anglo-Indian armies—of three thousand fighting men and twenty thousand camp-followers.

Eveleen being what she was, it was natural—though Richard did not think so—that the prospect of actual fighting should excite her nearly as much as it did the soldiers. Returning one evening from a visit to the camp at Bori under Brian’s escort, she burst into her husband’s dressing-room, where he was trying hard to decide which of his indispensable campaigning requisites were absolutely indispensable, and which only relatively so.

“It’s a great sight!” she cried, without troubling to specify what the sight was—“but terrible, too. I wonder does Sir Harry feel himself a murderer when he thinks how few of those splendid horses and men may come back?”

Richard’s lips twitched. Eveleen made it a grievance against him that he had no sense of humour, but it sometimes seemed to him—as to other married people with Irish partners—that the accusation might as fitly apply to the accuser. “You are uncommonly cheering in your view of our prospects, my dear,” he said.

“Under any other commander, not the faintest chance. Under Sir Henry—well, he has such a turn for performing the impossible when he’s said he will, that there may be a hope. But mind you, the enterprise will either be the most horrible disaster in history, or the maddest success.”

He spoke as though reluctantly. “Well, having had some opportunity of observing the General, I pin my faith to his madness, which has more method than the sound mind of most men. I believe he will succeed—not without loss, of course; precious heavy loss, perhaps.”

But Eveleen paid no heed to the qualification. Quite unexpectedly, for he was standing looking meditatively at the floor, with his arms full of clothes—his servant having discreetly faded away,—Richard found her head on his shoulder, and heard her coaxing voice in his ear—

“I tell you I won’t hear of it. Am I dreaming, or are you? or is the General’s madness infectious?”

“Why would you be so unkind? Just think how nice, when you come tired to your tent after a march, to find your wife waiting to welcome you, and your slippers warming—no, I suppose it ought be cooling—eh?”

“In my bath, I suppose—if there was one, or any slippers either. My dear, don’t be silly. Do you know that we take no baggage with us after the first day or two? You have no conception of the misery—the squalor—of an ordinary desert campaign, and this will be far worse.”

“What horrid words you use!” complained Eveleen softly, stroking his shoulder-strap. “Didn’t you hear Sir Harry himself telling how Lady Cinnamond was with Sir Arthur at Salamanca, and even rode in the charge?”

“That was Sir Arthur’s business, not mine. If I had been the Duke, I would have cashiered him for allowing it. But perhaps the unfortunate wretch was sufficiently punished by the anxiety he must have been in—to say nothing of looking such a fool. And in any case, war in Europe ain’t like war here. That’s a gentlemanly affair to this. You stay at home and mind your house.”

“But I’ll only waste your money and bring you to debt and disgrace. You’ve said so, often. Will you tell me now, am I the sort of wife to sit on the verandah darning your stockings and dropping salt tears on them because you’re away, thinking back over the future and looking forward to the past?—no, I mean it’s t’other way about. But anyhow, the sort of wife I am is the one that rides knee to knee with you in the ranks, and takes her turn in keeping watch at night——”

“And can never keep awake if she tries! Won’t do, my dear. You must remember you ain’t an Amazon, nor yet Joan of Arc, but the wife of a British officer in the nineteenth century—a much more prosaic person. The verandah is your lot, I fear, but we won’t insist on the darning. I trust I ain’t unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable? The man that insisted on wearing stockings of my darning would be stark staring mad!” cried Eveleen, with terrific emphasis. “And will you tell me, Major Ambrose, if you wanted that sort of wife, why you married me?”

“Oh, pray, my dear, don’t let us have that over again! I gave you my reason once, and if it don’t satisfy you, I’m sorry, for I have no other to offer. Now behave like a sensible woman, and make up your mind to be happy and employ yourself usefully in my absence. Come!” with a bright idea, “how would you like to buy another horse and begin to break him in?”

“I’ll remember that!” gloomily, yet with a distinct lightening of the gloom. “But I warn you, if this is the way you answer me, you won’t find me asking you another time. I’ll just come.”

“Oh, very well. If I know anything of the General, you’ll find yourself sent back under escort, after a lecture which will prove to you once for all that he has a rough side to his tongue, though ladies don’t often feel it.”

“If you knew anything of me, you’d know you were merely inviting me to prove you wrong. You’ll see!” He might have been excused for imagining she had some specific plan in view, but her mind was roaming vaguely over various possibilities of making herself disagreeable.

CHAPTER XII.
AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT.

Life at Sahar after the departure of the expedition was every whit as dull as Eveleen had known it would be. For a whole week she held out obstinately against that tempting suggestion of Richard’s that she should buy another horse—for the sole reason that the suggestion was his. But involuntarily her mind was noting and registering the points of possible colts as she passed them, and when the week was over, she felt—relief mingling with triumph in having resisted for so long—that the curb of self-restraint might be relaxed. Perhaps the fact that she had just received a letter from Richard helped to lighten her spirits, though his letters might best be described by the term arid, while Brian’s—save for one scrawl on the back of an old official envelope—were represented by a postscript added to her husband’s, “Your brother desires his fond love, and will be certain to write to-morrow.” But Eveleen was aware of her own deficiencies as a letter-writer, and with unusual fairness, expected no better from other people.

She was just going to dress for her evening ride, intending to requisition the escort of one of the subalterns left unwillingly at Sahar for a visit to a tribal camp not far off, where she had taken note of a likely-looking steed, when the sound of an arrival outside, and a masculine voice enquiring for the Beebee, brought her hastily to the verandah, anticipating a messenger from the front. But it was Colonel Bayard who ran up the steps to greet her—debonair and friendly as ever, and with an air of increased cheerfulness which was almost elation.

“Yes, it is I myself!” he cried, shaking hands so vigorously as almost to forget to bow. “It’s good to be here again, Mrs Ambrose—I don’t even regret my lost furlough, though my passage home was taken for this week. But the delays in getting back from Bombay! I have been fretting like a war-horse—but not for his reason. I don’t want to plunge into a battle—far from it. My one desire is to prevent fighting. It was a horrid blow to hear at the landing-stage that Sir Henry had actually marched against the Khans, but I trust—I hope—I may yet be in time to put an end to this lamentable adventure. And how are you? but I need not enquire—your looks speak for you. Richard in good health, I trust? but unhappy, I am sure, about this madness of the General’s. Well, we shall put that right, I hope. I must start to-night to catch up the force. Can’t be too thankful I am not a day or two later.”

“Come in, come in!” said Eveleen, when she was allowed to utter a word, and she led the way, not sorry to turn her face from him for a moment. A dreadful suspicion was growing upon her that Colonel Bayard was under a wholly false impression as to the footing on which he stood and the object for which he had been recalled, but she could not dash his hopes by saying so. An Englishwoman might have told him bluntly Sir Harry’s views regarding him, but no Irishwoman could possibly bring herself to do more than hint at things in a roundabout way, leaving him to arrive at the truth for himself, if he could. “After all,” she said, rather nervously, “it might not have made much difference, d’ye think?”

“Every difference, so long as there has been no bloodshed, ma’am. If we can only avoid that, I don’t despair of accommodating the whole matter.”

“Ah, but if you knew the way the Khans have been playing fast and loose! Nothing will hold them to their engagements. How can you reach an accommodation?”

“They are puzzled and irritated by treatment they don’t understand,” he responded eagerly. “But it’s true I don’t know the precise position of affairs at this moment. That’s why I come to you, since I hear you had a letter from Ambrose this afternoon.”

“His plan is to take his whole force to the edge of the desert, so they say, and then to mount five or six hundred men on camels and make a dash across. Two guns he means to carry with him, and they, he believes, will compel surrender. If not, he’ll storm the place.”

“Madness! midsummer madness!” cried Colonel Bayard sorrowfully. “Why, he can have no conception even of the number of camels needed for such a force.”

“There has been difficulty in getting camels, I know. The contractors have been fined for not bringing enough.”

“Of course! What could Lennox expect? They know the expedition is foredoomed to disaster, and they will keep their beasts out of it if they can. And with insufficient transport——”

“I wouldn’t say ’twas insufficient. Brian says”—Eveleen smiled at the remembrance of the note scrawled on the envelope—“that the General is reconsidering his high opinion of his dear nice camels now he sees them at work, and that he’d be sorely tempted to shorten them all by a neck if it could be done without diminishing their usefulness. There’s four miles and a half of them, so he says.”

“Four miles and a half? Fifteen feet each? Only fifteen hundred,” he calculated rapidly. “And the General’s own things must require a hundred at least—more probably two—and other officers in proportion. What is there left——?”

“Now there you’re wrong.” Eveleen smiled openly. “Four camels and no more—that’s the General’s share. A soldier’s tent—his fine grand one is left here—and everything else to match. And other people are cut down just the same.”

“This is more and more serious. I had hoped he might be held back by the inadequacy of his transport, but he may succeed in actually penetrating into the desert. And there—what with spies and false guides to lead him astray or into ambushes, and secret emissaries who will cut the water-skins at night and leave him destitute, and that dastardly practice of poisoning the wells—why, we have all the materials for the most shocking disaster that has ever befallen British arms!”

“But sure he has Shahbaz Khan with him, and he swears he’ll make him taste all the water first! It’s a pity it wouldn’t be that old wretch Gul Ali, but Ambrose says he has gone and made himself scarce again.”

“Made himself scarce? Do I understand Sir Henry was so ill-advised as to subject the poor old fellow to personal restraint?”

“Not a bit of it! He was staying with his brother Shahbaz—quite free, and as happy as possible. Sir Harry calls on Shahbaz, and sends word he’ll pay his respects to Gul Ali to-morrow. But when to-morrow comes the poor silly old creature is gone, leaving word that he never really meant to resign the Turban—’twas all a mistake.”

“A mistake! Of course; who could have thought otherwise? He hoped to placate Sir Henry by submission, and finding, as he must think, that his malice still pursues him, he withdraws his abdication and seeks safety in flight.”

“But ’twas all properly written out in his Koran, in the presence of all the holy men they could get together at Bidi,” persisted Eveleen. “Shahbaz Khan may have persuaded him to do it, but having done it, would you say he oughtn’t stick to it? Sometimes I wonder”—she stopped a moment—“will Shahbaz Khan be making mischief?”

“It’s possible. I have always thought him a fine fellow, and the injured rather than the injurer, but if he is hoping to secure the Turban by favour of the General—— Tell me what you mean, Mrs Ambrose.”

“Why,” said Eveleen, rather flattered, “I wondered mightn’t he have got Gul Ali to resign the Turban by telling him his life was in danger from the General? The old man is silly enough to believe it. Then when the General says he will be coming to call, Shahbaz humbugs the old creature with some tale that he’ll take him away prisoner. Do you see, it’s his interest that the two of them wouldn’t meet? So the old man gets away—his brother making things easy for him—and the General thinks worse of Gul Ali than ever, but only scolds Shahbaz for not keeping better guard over him.”

“You have it! That’s it, I’m convinced, Mrs Ambrose! Shahbaz is a villain, who is abusing the General’s confidence shockingly. Poor old Gul Ali has been shamefully treated. As for the General, he must be blind not to see the whole thing is a hum—but knowing no Persian, of course—— Well, I am tenfold thankful I came to you. A lady’s insight will often penetrate where our obtuser minds are at fault. But now to try and put this wrong right. A dash into the desert after the General—he must be stopped at any cost in his head long course——”

“I wonder wouldn’t you find that a little difficult?” suggested Eveleen. “When Sir Harry has made up his mind—and after thinking things over so long——”

“Ah, I see you are afraid I may speak too warmly! Nay, you need have no fear. I have not a word of blame for him. The fault lies with the delays which kept me from his side when he summoned me, and forced him, as he no doubt believes, to this rash attempt. But his is a noble mind. Few men, confronted with such a situation, would have realised themselves incompetent to deal with it, and called back to their councils the person they had superseded. Believe me, he shall know the honour I feel for him. Sir Henry’s march stopped, then—and Heaven grant it may be before there’s any loss of life!—I must return hither at once, and make all speed to Qadirabad. If I can arrive before the Khans, outraged by the General’s high-handed proceedings, have given orders for a universal muster and the extermination of the British, all will be well. I am their friend, and they recognise me as such. Continually, as I came up the river, messengers have intercepted me, bearing greetings from their Highnesses, and entreaties to come ashore. But I refused to land, even at the capital, merely sending a letter of apology to the durbar, pleading the necessity of consulting with the General before I could wait upon them. But now”—he was walking up and down, speaking in short hurried sentences—“I will go to them, and I humbly trust, take peace with me. They know me and trust me, and I go to them in complete confidence.”

“It’s quite safe, would you say?” demanded Eveleen, a stupendous idea seizing her.

“Absolutely. Why not? I assure you you need have no fear for me, though I know your kind heart.” He smiled at her.

“But I have not. Tell me now, you would take Mrs Bayard with you if she was here?”

“Then your presence could do nothing but good, as far as I can see. But he ain’t likely to be with me, I fear, so I must deny myself that pleasure as well. Many thanks for all you have told me. Now I am prepared. Good-bye, good-bye! If I succeed in curbing the General’s rashness, the credit will be largely yours.”

He was down the steps and off again before Eveleen had done more than realise he was still labouring under the delusion that he was the person who counted, and not the General. But her mind was so full of her new idea that she consoled herself with the assurance that ’twas not her fault; she had done what she could to put him right; and if he would only take the truth from Sir Harry’s own lips—why, he must. Apparently he snatched some sort of meal at the Club or the Mess-house while his baggage was being cut down to the General’s Spartan standard, for as she was returning from her ride—which she took alone after all, because she had plans to think out—she saw him going on board one of the flat-bottomed boats which plied across the river. Two men—evidently a servant and an orderly—were with him, and a camel and two horses were already on board. She waved him farewell, and rode on towards the landing-stage where the steamers moored, where she met the very man she wanted—the captain of the Asteroid. He had seen his vessel warped out again from the bank and all made snug on board, and was on his way to sup with his crony, the captain of the Nebula, on shore.

“Then you’ll be waiting here for orders—for days maybe?” she asked, when she had greeted him.

“That’s so, ma’am—with wood on board, and everything ready to get up steam at an hour’s notice. Colonel Bayard said he might be back any day, with orders to go to Qadirabad at once.”

“And did he tell you that if Major Ambrose or my brother was with him, you were to let me know, because I’ll be coming too?”

“Why, no, ma’am. To Qadirabad—just now?” He looked at her in astonishment, but Eveleen was not to be cowed by looks. She had realised that it was almost certain the General would send a member of his own staff with Colonel Bayard if he let him go to the Khans at all, and why not Richard or Brian? She looked sweetly at the sailor.

“And why wouldn’t I? Sure it’s just the proof of peace my presence will be—making it quite certain we have no warlike intentions. My going can do nothing but good—so the Colonel said to me himself just now.”

Captain Franks, like other men, was powerless against Eveleen when she really brought her batteries to bear, but he struggled gallantly. “You won’t like it much, I’m afraid, ma’am. There’s sure to be troops on board, and horses—a large escort.”

“As you please, ma’am. But you’ll find it rarely chilly these nights—not like when you came up from Bab-us-Sahel.”

Eveleen shivered mentally, for she hated cold. Her own first impulse had been to take a high hand, and remark casually that the cabin—the only one—would suit her quite well, but it had been succeeded by another. Richard was always saying, or hinting, that she was unreasonable. She would show him how wrong he was by refusing to deprive him and his friend of the comfort—such as it was—of the cabin, and making martyrs of herself and Ketty on deck. She smiled heroically at the captain.

“As if I’d mind that! I’ll keep everything packed ready, and be on board as soon as I get your message.”

Ketty and the old butler could hardly be expected to look at things from her point of view, and by the tone of the long conversations she heard going on between them after her orders were given, she gathered that they objected strenuously to the proposed journey; but they knew better than to remonstrate with her, and she ignored their discontent callously. One more letter she received from Richard, written when the forlorn hope was about to strike into the desert:—

“Taken the trouble, indeed! As if I hadn’t tried! And when he wouldn’t listen to a word!” said Eveleen indignantly, and passed on to another scrawl from Brian, written like the first on the back of a huge envelope:—

“Don’t quarrel with my stationery,” he said. “The General has an economy fit on, and has locked up all the writing-paper, and I must send you a few lines. Why would I always be writing to you about camels, I wonder? but believe me, I’d give a year of my life for you to have seen the things that have left me near dead with laughing at this moment. Three hundred and fifty men of the Queen’s —th mounted on camels, two to a camel, and camels and men all strangers to one another. But they were not mounted long. I give you my word, the whole country was speckled over with spots of scarlet and dun, wrestling in every variety of contention, and whether the language of the soldiers or of the camels was the worst, I would not like to say. And there was poor old Colonel Plummer looking at the scene with the liveliest disgust I ever saw depicted on a human phiz—he was in the Dragoons once, you may remember. But he plucked up heart and plunged into the fray, reconciling his men to their mounts, and the camels to one another, till he got ’em into some sort of order, and he is now putting his fantastic force through a few simple evolutions. He’s a great old sportsman—almost as great as my old lad, who is near bent double with rheumatism when he crawls out of his little tent to mount his horse, and unstiffens bit by bit as he rides, till you’d swear he was the model for a statue of the Duke. A fine set we are, I assure you—with our camel-men and our two howitzers drawn by camels, and our detachment of horse to frighten off the desert banditti from our slow-moving column. We have provisions for a fortnight, water for four days, our tents—common soldiers’ tents—and nothing in the world else. Won’t we be a sight to make the ladies stare when we come through this?”

That was the last news from the column for nearly three weeks, though messengers still arrived from the main body, which was encamped about Shahbaz Khan’s fortress of Bidi—thus holding his family hostage, though this was not stated, in case of any attempt at treachery on his part. But there was no call to dash into the desert and rescue Sir Harry and his force, and even the tongue of rumour was silent in face of his daring move. Then at last there came a summons from Captain Franks to Eveleen. He had been warned by an express messenger to start at once for a wooding-station about thirty miles down the river, there to pick up Colonel Bayard and Major Ambrose and take them on to Qadirabad. If Mrs Ambrose wished to go too, would she kindly lose no time? Mrs Ambrose was at the landing-stage little more than an hour after receiving the message, and found everything in a bustle, horses being embarked in flat-bottomed boats, which the Asteroid was to tow, and the troops to whom they belonged crowded on board the vessel herself. There did not seem to be an inch of room to spare anywhere.

“Are your horses to go, ma’am?” asked Captain Franks distractedly, as he welcomed her to her tent, and in the same breath bade the mate beware lest the lubbers on board that flat should knock all the ship’s paint off.

Once more Eveleen showed herself triumphantly reasonable. “No, I’ll borrow,” she said, and told the syces to go back. It was a very disturbed night that lay before her, for even when the Asteroid cast off at last, the human cargo squabbled grievously over its scanty accommodation. But in the morning the trials of the past hours were forgotten when she was invited up to the paddle-box to look out over the plain covered with stunted trees which extended southwards, and watch for the arrival of the envoys. The Asteroid reached the meeting-place first, and it was not till some hours later that a moving cloud of dust in the distance heralded the appearance of mounted men at the far end of the clearing which was due to the insatiable demands of the steamers for wood. There were three men perched on camels, looking perilously high up and absurdly unsafe, and a small body of horse.

“Sure it can’t be them!” cried Eveleen, as the camels knelt and the three riders dismounted and limped towards the primitive wharf. “These are blacks—not Europeans.”

“Never seen a European fresh from a desert trip before, ma’am?” asked Captain Franks jovially. “Look at their hair and eyes, and you’ll see.”

“It is, it is. And my brother too. Sure it’s a nice little family party you’ll be carrying this voyage, captain!” and she waved her hand gaily to the advancing three. They ought to have been pleased when they recognised the white figure welcoming them from the paddle-box, but it was quite obvious they were not. Richard Ambrose pulled up suddenly, and said something to Colonel Bayard, who shook his head, and Brian gave a subdued yell, and tried to hide behind the other two.

“I don’t want female society!” he wailed. “I want baths, and baths, and baths, and clean things, and to lie in the shade with a cheroot and a bottle of beer and all the saltpetre in Khemistan to cool it. Why would a man have to talk and behave pretty when he don’t want to? Major Ambrose, sir”—imitating the General at his gruffest—“pray why don’t you keep that wife of yours in better order?”

“My misfortune!” responded Richard briefly, as he came up the gangway. “No, my dear, pray don’t touch me”—warding Eveleen off as she ran down to the deck. “I will come to you again presently. At this moment I am not fit to speak to anybody. I did not expect to see you—or any lady—on board here.”

“I am to blame, I fear,” said Colonel Bayard, evidently calling to mind that last conversation. “But I own”—with a gentle reproof which would have stricken most women to the heart—“I had not looked to find my anxieties doubled by the honour of Mrs Ambrose’s company on our expedition.”

“Ah, now, won’t you say the pleasure?” Eveleen called after him, as the three were met and eagerly welcomed by the officers on board, and disappeared with them.

“Seems almost as if they weren’t expecting to see you, ma’am,” said Captain Franks, in a puzzled voice.

“That’s just it. They never thought I’d come. But that only shows they don’t know me—eh?” said Eveleen cheerfully.

But she did not return to the paddle-box, choosing rather to sit at her tent-door, on the little piece of deck that was sacred to her use, in case Richard should be in the same mind when he returned. Not that she would mind Captain Franks—or any one else hearing anything he had to say; but if the poor man was determined to make an exhibition of himself, ’twas kinder to let him do it in private. It was also kinder, no doubt, to take the initiative in the conversation when he appeared, that he might have another moment in which to recover his temper.

“That’s better—a thousand times better!” she was looking at him critically. “You were quite coffee-coloured—black coffee—just now. Now y’are tea-coloured, and I suppose the tea will get weaker and weaker till you have your natural complexion again? And it’s nice to see you looking respectable and like yourself. Did you—ah, now, did you really come back in those rags expecting I’d mend them?”

“Not quite such a fool!” snapped Richard. He was really very angry, that was clear, and any sense of guilt Eveleen might have felt evaporated promptly. “Is it quite beyond you to understand that I am exceedingly displeased to find you here?”

“Didn’t I tell you I’d come the next time without asking your leave? Sure y’ought have known.”

“Perhaps I ought. At any rate, pray believe that if it had been possible to go back and put you on shore again it should have been done.”

He restrained himself with an effort. “Can’t you realise that were you a child, these mad escapades would be viewed more leniently? But for a female of what should be a discreet age——”

“Discreet?” she snatched the word out of his mouth. “When I behave the way you’d consider suitable to a female of discreet age I’ll be dead and gone! Maybe you’ll be satisfied with me then, Major Ambrose!”

“Not I. I shall be dead long before that,” sardonically, and Eveleen screamed with laughter. Perhaps it was as well that Brian came round the tent into the reserved space at the moment.

“Sorry to interrupt your private conversation,” he said, “but positively there’s nowhere else to go.”

“It’s not private,” cried Eveleen, still overcome with mirth—“except on Major Ambrose’s part. He’s just made a joke, and he never will do that when any one else is there, though he knows how I delight in his jokes. But sit down, Brian boy, and tell me all about everything, while Ambrose thinks of some more jokes for the next time we are alone together. Did y’ever get to Sultankot, now?”

“Because we blew it up. I wonder wouldn’t you have heard the noise at Sahar. Sure we were all bothered in our hearing for days after.”

“But what a thing to go all that way to capture the place, and then blow it up! Was the garrison inside?”

“All the garrison there was—which was none. No, ’twas a mighty fine place for all the young Khans to escape to, and talk big about what they’d do when they met the General. But when they got his card, and his message that he proposed to do himself the honour of paying ’em a visit—why, they were not at home.”

“Not the least taste of a sight of one of ’em. ’Twas the most mysterious, queerest thing in the world—Ambrose will tell you so too”—Richard grunted. “’Twas like coming suddenly on the stage of a theatre without any actors. There we stood—Sir Harry and the staff—on the edge of the sandhills. Down below us—like as if ’twas in a cup, and near enough to touch with your finger—was the fortress, beautifully built, all the towers and ramparts so clean-cut you’d say it had only been finished the night before, and the morning sun shining on it in a sort of romantic way made you think of something in Scott. There! I meant to ask Keeling what it was—he knows Scott off by heart—and I forgot. The road down the cliff was full in sight, and there were the troops moving down into the valley, the camels’ feet making no sound, the soldiers struck with awe, or something of the sort. At any rate they were all dumb too, but ’twas ‘Eyes right!’ with every man as he came out of the shadow of the cliff, as if they were approaching the saluting-point at a review. I never saw anything like it. And still there was no sound from the fort, no sign of a human being even, while the troops formed up and advanced—no answer to our summons. So at last we found the gates open, the cannon all freshly loaded and primed, huge quantities of powder, grain enough to feed an army, wells of good water—and not a soul anywhere! ’Twas like an enchanted place. You longed for the sound of a bugle to break the spell, even if it meant a rush of the enemy upon us out of hiding. But there was no enemy to rush out; they had all made themselves scarce a few hours before, when they saw we were really coming, and it seemed we had nothing to do but leave our friend Shahbaz in possession, and come back. But the General didn’t see it that way. He likes Shahbaz all right, but he had a shrewd notion that his heart wouldn’t precisely have been broke if we had all been swallowed up in the desert, and that he’d be just as well without a strong place like that all to himself—so difficult to get at, too. So Sultankot was sentenced to be destroyed, and I will say this for Shahbaz, that he took it like a sportsman! We had uncommon fun doing the business, for we plugged shell into the place—just so that we mightn’t have dragged the guns all that way for nothing—till it reached the powder, and pop! Shahbaz was as busy as any of us, taking his turn to lay the gun, and we all shouted and laughed like mad, while the General stood by, grieving over the place like an old prophet in spectacles, because it had taken so much trouble to build, and the builder must have been so pleased with his job. It’s the wonderful old chap he is! Y’ought have seen him on the way there, Evie—coming straight from writing his endless letters with his hands all crippled to turning out Her Majesty’s Europeans to drag the guns up the sandhills that were too much for the camels. They run ’em up one steep place of a thousand feet or so in five minutes, all joking and cheering, and old Harry dashing the briny drops from his manly eyes, and swearing he loved the British soldier more than any man on earth. Where the ground was not so steep we used teams of sixty men and fourteen camels to each gun, and got ’em up like winkin’. The men turned the least bit rusty on the way back, and I don’t wonder at it, after all they had gone through,—but he can do anything with ’em. Y’ought have heard ’em cheer him when he went for a Madras Sapper who was pretending to make a road for the guns—knocked him down, took his spade from him and set to work himself, and talked to him—my word! the fellow was green with fright though he couldn’t understand a syllable!”

“But why would the men turn rusty?” enquired Eveleen anxiously, for Her Majesty’s —th was an Irish regiment.

“And why wouldn’t they, with a fortnight of such marches and such work, and sand to eat and drink and breathe—and very little else? Why, the dry air cracks your boots so that you carry about with you a private desert on each foot, and the sand gets between you and your clothes till you feel your shirt is made of sandpaper! And talking of your clothes, you may be thankful you and they are well scoured with sand, for there’s no such thing as a clean shirt. You turn the one you have on your back inside-out when it gets too shockingly dirty, and when t’other side has got considerably worse you turn it back again, and so on till you’re like a set of colliers.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were as black as a coal! And no wonder y’are thin, poor creatures, if sand is all you’ve had to eat!”

“Well, not all,” admitted Brian. “But we calculate that each man’s teeth have been ground down a quarter of an inch by the sand he’s chewed with his food—more or less according to his appetite. And never, never will we get the last of the sand out of our hair till we’re all bald! D’ye wonder then the General had no difficulty in getting complaints when he went round hunting for ’em as usual? But he turned the men round his little finger easily, and they went back to duty as meek as lambs when he had fired ’em off one of his heroic orations, full of Assaye and Corunna.”

“Well, but now, what will have been the good of it all?” cried Eveleen. “You have destroyed a place that was not doing anybody any harm, and the people that were doing the harm have all escaped.”

“Don’t say that to Bayard, I beg of you!” said Richard quickly. “To his mind the one good point of a bad business is that no lives have been sacrificed.”

“Did I hear my name mentioned?” said Colonel Bayard’s voice, and he came round the corner of the tent, throwing away the end of his cheroot as he did so. “May I intrude, Mrs Ambrose? Richard, you and I must have an explanation; there has been no opportunity hitherto. You shall do us the honour to judge between us, ma’am.”

Brian rose hastily. “I think, Colonel, you will speak more freely without me,” he said with some formality. “Any criticism of Sir Henry Lennox offered in my hearing ’twould be at once my duty and my pleasure to resent. So I’ll leave you,” and he departed.

CHAPTER XIII.
A LAST EFFORT.

Colonel Bayard looked after Brian with a sigh. “Your brother is highly conscientious, ma’am, but I hope I know better than to use improper language about his chief in his presence. Nor have I anything worse to say of the General than that I believe from my soul he had no evil intention in putting me in my present disagreeable position.”

“Ah, believe me, his one thought was to atone to you for any slight Lord Maryport might have seemed to offer,” said Eveleen earnestly. He sighed again, impatiently.

“Then why this strange behaviour on his part? I was upheld by the consciousness of rectitude, reconciled to the Governor-General’s unjust treatment by the prospect it gave me of a speedy reunion with my wife—actually on the point of departure for home. Then I am summoned back in the most peremptory manner, compelled to sacrifice my passage and relinquish my hopes. And for what? I believed, all my friends believed, the Bombay papers proclaimed their hearty concurrence—that Sir Henry had recognised his own incapacity for the task allotted to him, and desired the Governor-General to command my return. There was nothing peculiar in this save the singularity of such a frank acknowledgment on his part—which I conceived accorded strictly with the candour of his nature as I had experienced it,—and it explained the haughty tone of Lord Maryport’s letter. The assiduous attentions of the Khans on my way up the river showed that they took the same view, and I made haste to join Sir Henry and relieve him, as I imagined, from the burden of a duty unsuited to his talents. What was the reality? I make no complaint of finding myself second where I was formerly first, though I own it grated upon me; but in our first interview it was made clear to me that Sir Henry desired my services purely in a minor capacity. I was to be nothing but a putli [puppet] in his hands. Tell me, I beg of you, whether this was his attitude from the first, or whether he changed towards me when he perceived the delight with which my return was welcomed?”

He had so obviously decided in his own mind in favour of the second alternative, that Eveleen and her husband both found it difficult to answer him. Richard spoke hesitatingly at last. “I tried to hint at what I believed to be the General’s true state of mind in one of my letters, you may remember.”

“Did you? It’s possible. But if I noticed it, I set it down to your habitual caution. But Mrs Ambrose—why did she not warn me three weeks ago? I made no secret then of the feelings that inspired me.”

“Ah, forgive me!” cried Eveleen, conscience-stricken. “I tried—indeed I tried—but you would not understand. And how would I tell you such a thing as that straight out?”

“No, I suppose it would be impossible to an Irish person,” he spoke as though to himself. “But what I can’t make out is”—with renewed vehemence—“how Sir Henry can have asked for me, knowing my views and my friendship with the Khans, and knowing also that all his intentions were diametrically opposed to the policy I have consistently pursued?”

“No, there you do him an injustice,” said Richard quickly. “He had no such intentions—he was as favourably disposed towards their Highnesses as yourself. You and he were agreed upon the necessity of forcing them to observe their obligations—but doing so in the most considerate manner. I give you my word, I believe there has been too much consideration. Had you been with us instead of at Bombay, and witnessed the ingenious provocations, the childish artifices to which the Khans have resorted, as though determined to tire out our patience, you must have decided, with the General, that they had exceeded all limits of toleration.”

“‘Et tu, Brute!’” said Colonel Bayard mournfully. “‘Mine own familiar friend——’”

“Pray don’t think I am alone in this. You have met a good many of the Khemistan Europeans in these three weeks. Is there one of them that takes your view of the case in opposition to the General’s?”

“The General is the disposer of benefits nowadays,” irritably. “Nay, forgive me—I am unjust. But these youths are all agog for war—naturally enough; Sir Henry has trained ’em for it. Of course they rejoice in the prospect of hostilities.”

“Not I. I have seen war in Ethiopia, and know what it means. Am I likely to wish to bring it upon Khemistan if it can be avoided? But I tell you plainly, I believe a temporising policy here, pursued further at the present juncture, would lead to a retreat and a disaster which, following upon our Ethiopian misfortunes, would lose us India. The Khans—and especially Gul Ali—have played with us too long already.”

“I could forgive Sir Henry everything,” cried Colonel Bayard vigorously, roused by the name, “but his treatment of Gul Ali. To affect to hold the poor old man to a renunciation extorted from him by force by that villain Shahbaz Khan is an outrage of which I had fancied him incapable.”

“True—most solemnly,” agreed her husband. “But when he quitted Shahbaz’s hospitable roof, he saw fit to change his mind, and declare the renunciation a farce.”

“And no wonder!” cried Colonel Bayard warmly. “When it was only brought about by the pressure imposed on him by that most abandoned scoundrel——”

“We have often agreed that Shahbaz was the ablest of the Khans,” said Richard imperturbably. “You said to me once you saw no hope for the dynasty but in him.”

“True, but he had not then shown himself in his real—his most iniquitous colours. To force his innocent and venerable brother to cede him the Turban by threats——”

“His innocent and venerable brother having failed to rob him of his heirship by intrigues——” crisply.

“Ambrose, you are hopeless!” cried Colonel Bayard warmly. “The General has bewitched you. Mrs Ambrose, in your gentle breast I know I shall touch a chord of sympathy with the aged Prince’s misfortunes. Listen, I beg of you. I was riding with the advanced guard from Bidi—where I caught up the force—when we met a solitary cossid mounted on a camel. He recognised me, and dismounting, threw himself at my feet, and bewailed the miserable lot of his master. With the General’s permission I volunteered to seek out my old friend, and convey to him the assurances of safety and kind treatment from Sir Henry, which it occurred to me Shahbaz Khan must have kept back. You had said to me that you suspected something of the sort, ma’am; do you remember? Well, I found Gul Ali encamped in the jungle—a few wretched rowties [small common tents] sheltering the few retainers who remained faithful to him. Our appearance—your brother accompanied me, by the way—produced at first the utmost consternation, the fugitives fearing an attack. But my name restored confidence, and the Prince met and embraced me, and conducted me into his miserable dwelling. Old and sick, exposed to the heavy rains—this was the plight of the man I had last seen enthroned in his palace. Briefly he unfolded to me his brother’s perfidy. As I expected, Shahbaz had induced him to abdicate by the strongest assurances of Sir Henry’s hostile disposition towards him. I pledged him my honour that he was mistaken, and he would fain have accompanied me there and then to make his submission. But I knew he would find Shahbaz with the General, and fearing his timidity might betray him once more, I persuaded him to send his son—not Karimdâd, of course, but one of the younger ones—and a nephew instead.”

“That was the mistake!” said Richard sharply. “Had he but met the General face to face——”

“Easy enough to see where another man has gone wrong.” Colonel Bayard spoke with some displeasure. “Well, ma’am, sherbet was served, and we parted with the usual compliments. My one aim was to lead the young Khans to Sir Henry before they could be intimidated by Shahbaz. Alas! it did not occur to me that he might corrupt them instead, though when we met him he embraced them cordially, and begged a visit after their audience. I took them to Sir Henry’s tent, where we all sat on the carpet together, since there were no chairs. The General, who had met the youths very civilly, addressed them kindly, but with severity—through his Munshi, not through me—nor did he make the slightest show of consulting me. Seeing me thus set aside, and reading in his decided tone that he regarded them as rebels, is it any wonder the young Khans were seized with alarm? They left his presence—I suggested to him to show his goodwill by shaking hands with ’em, which he did very readily—to seek Shahbaz, and I grieve to say they were persuaded by that villainous plotter to betray their aged parent into his hands. They saw Shahbaz enjoying Sir Henry’s favour and possessing all the tokens of power, and in return for his bribes they fell in with his designs. I despatched a spy to Gul Ali’s camp to mark their return there, for I feared all was not well, and it was as I feared. They insisted upon the General’s angry tone and the curtness of the terms he had used, and declared it as his command that Gul Ali should surrender himself again to Shahbaz at Bidi. Asked what part I, their friend, had taken in the interview, they replied that even were I sincere in my professions—of which they hinted a doubt—it was clear I was devoid of any power to help. Do you wonder that the unfortunate old man feared to offer the personal submission for which Sir Henry had stipulated? Once again he made his escape—and so unremitting is Shahbaz in his villainy that he even succeeded in bribing his brother’s Munshi to substitute a defiant message under his seal for the letter he had despatched in excuse for his non-appearance. Sir Henry was highly irritated, and lent an ear all the more readily to the poisonous suggestions of Shahbaz. With a view of clinching matters, he replied to the letter with a direct refusal to communicate further with Gul Ali unless he gave effect to his forced renunciation by recognising his brother as Chief Khan.”

“But sure ’twas the wisest thing he could do!” Eveleen had been bubbling over for some moments with the desire to speak. “Wouldn’t you say the unfortunate old creature was silly? He can do no good for himself or anybody else.”

Colonel Bayard was painfully taken aback. “I didn’t expect this from you, Mrs Ambrose. Is the unhappy Gul Ali to be branded as a fool because unfortunate? His misfortunes all spring from the misdeeds of others.”

“Ah, but do they? Is he able to retain the fidelity of a single supporter, will you tell me? Has he taken one bit of the advice you have given him, or kept any single promise he has made? I grant you he’s unfortunate, but I’d say with all my heart he was incapable as well!”

“And if he ain’t incapable,” pursued Eveleen, rushing on before Colonel Bayard could speak, “he’s treacherous, believe me. As Ambrose says, you don’t know the things he has been doing—stopping the dâks and attacking our boats on the river, besides the army he’s been getting together. And when poor Sir Harry sends word that the army is to be disbanded, all the old horror will do is to say there’s no army to disband.”

“Precisely. How can he disband an army if he hasn’t got one? I grant you that in their childish way the Khans have sought to lead Sir Henry to think they were raising troops, but this was purely make-believe, designed to deter him from attempting decisive measures against them.”

“Then they were finely mistaken in Sir Harry! But believe me, they have been assembling their Arabit hordes for months. We have heard too much of them to doubt that. Ah, don’t let your kind heart set you against the General and all of us who see that unfortunate old deceiver as he really is, and not as you do—an angel with wings a weeshy bit muddy!”

“I have brought this upon myself, I suppose——” with a pique he could not disguise. “But don’t be afraid, ma’am. I value my friends too highly to part company with ’em over a difference of opinion, and I trust they’ll extend the like compliment to me. This last effort to preserve the authority of the Khans and prevent bloodshed I’ll carry through with my whole heart. If it fail, my work here is done. I am merely, as Sir Henry has more than once reminded me, a commissioner under a peace treaty, and if there’s no treaty, I am at liberty to go home.”

“Now why would such a nice man be so unreasonable as all that?” asked Eveleen mournfully as he left them.

“Why, my dear, ain’t all nice people the same, in your estimation?” Richard’s tone tried to be jaunty—not very successfully.

“Like yourself? Well, I wouldn’t say quite all—but a good many, certainly. But sure Bayard will never be able to call Sir Harry unreasonable after this. Did y’ever see anything like the way he has given in to him time and again?”

“I own I never thought he had it in him to be so patient. If Bayard succeeds in persuading the Khans to consult their own interests and submit, they will have the General to thank, not themselves.”

“And if they won’t consult their own interests, and will not submit, there’s not a soul on earth can accuse Sir Harry of dealing with them hastily.”

“I don’t say that. People can say strange things. But if the Khans have an anna’s worth of sense in their foolish heads, they will submit—having stood out to the very last moment.”

“Well, I’m sorry for it!” said Eveleen. “Why, now”—as he looked at her in amazement,—“have you forgotten I was against the silly creatures from the first? Ever since Bayard said he had no power to make them treat the women properly, don’t you know?”

“If you expect me to remember all the contradictory speeches you make on all sorts of topics, I fear, my dear——”

“When you talk like that, you make me feel I’d do anything—anything in the wide world—to make an impression, to let you feel you had to reckon with me.”

“My dear, pray don’t! I assure you it ain’t necessary any longer.” Whether his alarm was real or pretended she could not distinguish. “Henceforth your wildest utterances shall be most carefully weighed. You forget you have already carried out your threat—by presenting yourself here. If we get through, I promise you won’t find me disregarding your threats again.”

“You don’t put it very nicely,” she complained. “But tell me now—d’ye really think we’ll have to fight?”

But apparently Richard repented his freedom of speech. “Not a bit of it!” crushingly. “What I’m afraid of is that you will be actually and literally bored to death.”

And not a word more would he say, though Eveleen tried coaxing and reproaches in turn. Indignant though she was at the time, however, there were moments, after they had reached Qadirabad, when she began to feel his prophecy might come true. Whatever excitement there might be for the men, who rode daily to the Fort to discuss Lord Maryport’s treaty with the Khans in durbar, life at the Residency was the very acme of dulness for the woman left at home. If Eveleen had expected to be able to resume her former pursuits, she was mistaken. She blamed herself bitterly for not having brought a horse—difficult though it might have been for poor Captain Franks to find room for it—for the lack of one played into the hands of her natural enemies. Any man who prevented, or sought to prevent, Eveleen from riding when she wished to ride was a natural enemy, and all the members of the Mission—soldiers and Politicals alike—were immovably united in the determination that she should not go outside the walls. The only exception to this rule was the permission to go out by the water-gate, cross an uninviting tract of sand which was really part of the bed of the river, but now dry, and thus gain access to the Asteroid, which lay in a meagre trickle called a channel. But this excursion was as unsatisfying as the ride round the garden, which was the only one allowed her—if not quite so tantalising,—and she did not repeat it. If she was not to sink to the lowest depths and gossip with Ketty, she must find her interests in that dreary treaty, which seemed to be debated for hours day after day, but never signed. Poor Colonel Bayard might have been the Khans’ bitterest enemy, instead of their most tried and persevering friend, by the way they treated him. His championship of their cause—expressed indiscreetly, perhaps, to Gul Ali and his retainers—was made an excuse, and a perpetually recurring one, for tormenting him. Was he really in sympathy with the deposed Chief, whose honours had been so shamefully filched from him? Oh, well, if he said so, it must be presumed to be true, but Gul Ali had heard rumours—— And in any case, if he was on the side of the oppressed, why was he representing their chief adversary, the Bahadar Jang? Would he show his friendship by getting Gul Ali replaced in his position of supremacy, and punishing the presumptuous Shahbaz? Over and over again, by varying paths, the discussion was led dexterously to this point, at which the harassed emissary could only reply that he had no power whatever to interfere with the Governor-General’s decisions; the utmost he could do would be to urge the expediency of modifying them. This was not at all what was wanted, and the bald question invariably followed: If you are a friend, and yet can do nothing to help us, why are you here? The reply that he had hoped to make submission easier by entreating instead of imposing it was not at all in accordance with the Khans’ idea of a friend’s duties.

It almost seemed as though Colonel Bayard might have gone on indefinitely presenting the treaty, and the Khans talking about it, had not the spur been applied which the envoy had been dreading. He had written feverish letters almost daily, entreating the General to return to Sahar with his force—or at least to remain stationary, and not pursue the route he had taken on leaving Sultankot, which would bring him to the river about half-way to Qadirabad. It was the death blow to his hopes when the news came that not only had Sir Harry emerged safely on the river bank from the desert, but his flying column had been joined there by the troops he had left at Bidi. The effect on the Khans was no less marked. Their Vakils sealed that very day the pledge which bound them to accept the treaty.

“Did y’ever see a man look so miserable when he’d got what he’d been fighting for for a week?” demanded Eveleen of her husband when Colonel Bayard had brought the draft home—not at all in triumph—and laid it up in his desk. “You’d say he was sorry they have signed, instead of glad.”

“I believe you. He don’t know whether to blame Sir Henry most for his show of force, or their Highnesses for permitting themselves to be affected by it.”

“He had hopes, I’m certain, of inducing the General to promise that if they would sign the treaty, Gul Ali should get back his Turban. Of course Sir Henry has no power to promise anything of the kind—it rests with the Governor-General, and he will never grant it.”

“Well, if I was poor Bayard, I’d be glad the matter was settled and out of my hands.”

“Pardon me—not if you were he. You would be more unhappy than ever, because you had not succeeded in averting the misfortune. There’s a sort of twist in his mind where his dear Khans are concerned. To him, they and the General alike are pawns in the hand of Shahbaz, who is the greatest villain existing, and advises all to their destruction.”

“That’s merely another proof of the man’s cunning. Bayard has persuaded himself that Shahbaz is so steeped in plots he can’t eat his pillau without some ulterior object, while his poor simple brother and nephews, beguiled by his subtlety, are innocent lambs asking to be shorn. Lambs, indeed! much more like wolves, they look to other people.”

“I do think so, and I’ll tell you why. Perhaps it will make you more contented to stay indoors, as you are told. The city is swarming with Arabits, whose demeanour is as uncivil as they dare, though for the moment they are held in check. Through some extraordinary blindness, Bayard don’t see them—as a danger, at any rate. Not an armed man in the streets, he writes to the General. They all have their swords and shields—what does he expect of ’em? muskets and revolving pistols? Their matchlocks are close at hand, I haven’t a doubt. And all our spies bring in word of fresh bands—either concealed at a convenient distance from the city, or pressing towards it from all quarters. Kamal-ud-din alone, they say, has assembled ten thousand men, and is approaching by forced marches. And here are we allowing ourselves to be played with, while precious time—every day of which augments the Arabit hosts—is lost!”

“Now I wonder why wouldn’t you tell Bayard that?” asked Eveleen curiously.

“Do you think I haven’t?” he laughed shortly. “I try to bring the reports to his notice, but he has no eye for ’em—too much engrossed with the unmerited sufferings of that crew at the Fort. I wonder what will be their next expedient for gaining time? He will allow himself to be taken in by it, I’ll wager, through sheer remorse at having conquered ’em so far!”

But perhaps the Khans thought their hold on Colonel Bayard was wearing a little thin. At any rate, their next step was taken entirely without his assistance. When he opened his desk in the morning, that he might take the draft treaty with him to the Fort, the treaty was gone—without any sign of violence, or even the forcing of the lock. In this the thieves had overreached themselves. There were only two keys to the desk, one of which was in Colonel Bayard’s own possession, the other in that of his Munshi. The Munshi was a Qadirabad man, and had returned to his home there when his employer left Khemistan for Bombay, so that the Khans had had some three months in which to exert upon him the various methods of persuasion in which they excelled. Arrested promptly, he was so grievously surprised and terrified that he made a full confession. For a handsome consideration, he had unlocked the desk in the night and turned his back for a moment, then locked the desk again, having seen and heard nothing. That was all he knew, but the work had all to be done again.

For once, however, Colonel Bayard refused to take the part of his gentle protégés. To corrupt his servant and break into his house, that they might destroy the draft they had signed of their own free will, was too much even for him. The treaty was gone, but in durbar that day he took a high tone which brought the Khans to heel like whipped dogs. They apologised piteously for the misdeed of some unnamed retainer, who had been led away by the hope of helping his masters to bribe the Munshi and steal and destroy the paper. They had known nothing of the crime, they declared, and to prove it they would set their seals the very next day to the treaty itself—not a mere draft this time, but the whole of Lord Maryport’s requirements. Having made this tremendous concession, it would not have been the Khans if they had not promptly endeavoured to nullify it by demanding that Gul Ali should have the Turban restored to him; otherwise, they said, it was quite unnecessary to make a new treaty, since they had never broken the old one. But Colonel Bayard was still sufficiently disgusted and disillusioned to reply with a curt negative, and returned with his staff to the Residency through streets ominously filled with a sullen throng, who surged up to the very horses of the escort, and muttered curses on the Farangis.

When they went to the Fort the next day, there was not a man of the Mission who did not feel doubtful whether he would ever return. The crowds in the streets were larger and more menacing, and it was with the utmost difficulty that a passage was forced through them. The demeanour of the guards and attendants showed a scarcely veiled insolence, and round the walls of the audience-chamber were ranged a small army of wild-looking Arabits, armed to the teeth. After their long acquaintance, the Khans ought to have known Colonel Bayard better, for this suggestion of physical force was the one thing needed to stiffen his temper. He refused even to enter the durbar-hall till the additional guards were withdrawn, and declined to be placated by the suggestion that they were there to do honour to the treaty. The Khans were evidently flurried by his coldness, and affixed their seals in some haste, Gul Ali only pausing to remark in heartrending tones that he had laid his life and honour and everything he had at the feet of the British, and they had taken it all away. Colonel Bayard’s generous heart responded instantly to the plaint of ill-usage, and he spoke impulsively. He could do nothing in the matter of the Turban—he only wished he could—but he would beg Sir Henry Lennox to visit Qadirabad and hear what the Khans had to say, in the hope that he might accord as an act of grace what could not be given as a right.

The effect of his hasty speech was electrical. The Khans broke into radiant smiles, and Khair Husain modestly expressed their unworthiness to welcome the shining presence of the Bahadar Jang. His gestures were so emphatic as almost to seem extravagant, and Brian, by a meaning look, directed his brother-in-law’s attention to a slight confusion among the servants at the door. The trays of sherbet were just being brought in, which were the signal for the conclusion of the interview, and as far as the two men, watching without appearing to do so, could see, they were hastily carried out again and then brought in a second time—or possibly others substituted. What was the reason? Poison was the first thought in the minds of both, and it seemed as though it was also in that of Khair Husain, for in a rather marked way he drank from his cup first, and then passed it to Colonel Bayard. The Englishman had seen nothing of the by-play, and accepted the honour as a mere graceful compliment, but it seemed to Richard and Brian that Khair Husain directed an eye towards them as he drank. When they left the audience-chamber, they were surprised to find a band of Arabit horsemen drawn up facing their own troopers. Little Hafiz Ullah Khan, the youngest of the princely family, who was escorting them to the gate, explained volubly—

“It is those badmashes outside—we cannot control them. They are angry because the treaty is signed and my great-uncle’s wrongs have not been redressed, and they might show rudeness. Therefore we send an escort of our own to see you safely through the town. Would the Bahadar Jang be likely to shed the light of his radiant countenance upon us if he heard that his servants had eaten gali [abuse] in our streets?”

The reasoning was very clear, but it was abundantly obvious that the mob were prepared to use much more substantial weapons than abuse. All down the long Bazar from the gateway of the Fort to the city gate, the Mission had practically to fight its way. At Colonel Bayard’s earnest entreaty, his companions succeeded in getting through without drawing their swords, but in two or three ugly rushes they were forced to defend themselves by laying about them with the scabbards. The troopers of the Khemistan Horse were hard to restrain, but they found some alleviation of their discontent in backing their horses among the crowd, with a callous disregard of toes and shins. The Khans’ cavalry did more talking than anything else, but the only time Richard Ambrose had leisure to listen to them, what they said was significant—“Let them pass. These men are nothing. Wait till the Bahadar Jang comes!” Something suspiciously resembling a torrent of curses accompanied the name, but it might have been directed at the crowd, whose own language was blood-curdling. It was not until half the distance had been covered that stones began to fly—the partially demolished house of a man who had presumed to become unduly rich and had suffered for it affording a supply of missiles. Then indeed the riders had a hot time, for to the stones and iron-shod lathis in the street were added stones and curses from the roofs. Most of them received blows more or less severe, and Richard had his cap knocked off and got a nasty gash on the forehead. Happily Brian was in time to prevent his being knocked off his horse, for any man who went down in that yelling, swearing, spitting crowd would have small chance to rise again. But the gate was nearly reached, and the Arabit escort—with the first sign of common-sense that had distinguished them—made a semicircle and beat back the mob while their charges were filing through the narrow portal. Once safely outside, and dignity consulted by riding a short way as if nothing had happened, they pulled up beside a well to repair damages. One of the troopers of the escort had an arm broken, and while Colonel Bayard and the surgeon were looking to him, Richard submitted unwillingly to the ministrations of his brother-in-law, which were necessary because the blood running down his face prevented him from seeing.

“I cot your eye in the durbar just now,” said Brian hastily. “Would you say you thought what I did?”

“I should say the Khans will have to live a good bit longer before they catch that old weasel asleep.”

CHAPTER XIV.
OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN—

After that exciting ride home, profound peace reigned about the Residency for a whole day, as though the Khans wished to give time for the impression to sink in. Then their Vakils arrived again, in a high state of alarm, with which they were desperately anxious to infect the British. The Khans were absolutely powerless to restrain the Arabits, they said—as Colonel Bayard had had some slight proof already. Their feelings were outraged by the signing of the treaty, and they would only accept it on the condition that Gul Ali was at once acknowledged again as holder of the Turban, and that Sir Henry’s troops, which had advanced steadily down the river bank till they were now within a few marches of the capital, should be instantly withdrawn. Otherwise, the ambassador would do well to surrender the treaty and depart, for the Khans could not protect him. To the mingled wrath and despair of his officers, the threatened loss of the treaty—which had been so hard to win—induced Colonel Bayard to write urging Sir Harry not merely to come to Qadirabad and re-establish Gul Ali on the masnad, but to withdraw his army into the desert—as far as the remote fortress of Khangarh, near the British border,—that his peaceful intentions might be made thoroughly clear. He told the Vakils what he had written, pointing out that it would have no effect unless the Khans could keep the Arabits under control, and they accepted the warning and withdrew with all gravity, though their errand must have seemed to them successful to the point of absurdity.

The next day Eveleen was in the garden—in the uncomfortable state popularly described as finding herself at a loose end. She had tried to nurse Richard, but Richard as an invalid was neither grateful nor gracious. She wanted to fuss over him, and he ruthlessly declined to be fussed over. He did not wish to be read to—perhaps this was not surprising, since the only available reading consisted of back numbers of various Bombay papers, singing the praises of Colonel Bayard and patronising the General’s wisdom in perceiving in him the only man to deal with the situation,—he did not wish to be talked to or otherwise amused; all he asked was to be let alone and allowed to smoke in peace. Thereupon Eveleen naturally went off in a huff—thereby, as she realised presently with disgust, assuring him precisely the selfish tranquillity he craved—and established herself in a shady spot, where a masonry platform had been built under the shelter of two or three large trees, to recover her equanimity. It was unfortunate for this purpose that her position brought her in view of her old antagonist the gardener, who had cheerfully ascribed the lack of garden produce to the Beebee’s interference at the beginning of the cold weather. Nevertheless, after the manner of his kind, he was able to supply vegetables—at a price,—and Eveleen raged in vain when he exhibited blandly his empty garden-beds. She was quite sure that he had sold everything they contained, and was now suborning some other gardener to do the same, though it was not quite clear who in Qadirabad would be likely to have a taste for European vegetables. Perhaps it was Tom Carthew, she thought, and wondered idly how he was getting on in his uncomfortable, half-and-half, secretive life.

As so often happens, the thought was followed at no great distance by the appearance of its object, though Eveleen did not perceive this at first. What she saw from her point of vantage was an interested group of women and children near the stables, gathered round a man who seemed to be selling something. It was most probably sweets, she thought, and remembering that she had not yet given the people in the compound the treat which was their due after her long absence, she told Ketty to fetch the man. It was altogether beneath Ketty’s dignity to enter the domains of the syce-folk, but there was a servant close at hand, specially detailed by Colonel Bayard to watch over the safety of her Madam-sahib, and she despatched him on the errand. It was rather a disappointment to find that the pedlar was not selling sweets, but glass bangles—designed for what seemed impossibly slender wrists—strung on rods according to size. Still, these would please the women, at any rate, and she sent Ketty to the house for her purse while she made her selection. To her astonishment, the moment the ayah was out of hearing, the pedlar spoke in English—low and hastily.

“Don’t look at me, Miss Evie; I’m risking my life to be here, but it’s to save yours. What was the Major thinkin’ of to bring you with him at a time like this?”

“He didn’t bring me; I came,” returned Eveleen with dignity. “Now why would you be risking your life, Tom Carthew?”

“Because they had it all ready to murder the Colonel and the gentlemen two days ago, and though they were put off it then they mean to do it now. You tell the Colonel, ma’am, not to trust Khair Husain Khan. I’ll tell you how he’ll know what the rascal’s up to. He’ll come and offer to post a guard of his servants to protect this place—and if you accept, the guard will murder you all in your beds.”

“Now I wonder will the Colonel believe it?” mused Eveleen, her heart beating a little faster than usual.

“He’d better. Why, ma’am, it was touch and go t’other day. The Khans had made up their minds to cut up the Colonel into little pieces, because he pretended to be their friend and was deceivin’ ’em. Then when he made ’em send away the guards, they had the sherbet ready to poison him—and they’d have done it too, but for what he let drop about bringing the General here. They are fair set on gettin’ hold of the General, and it won’t be cuttin’ into little bits for him. They’ve sworn to put a cord through his nose and drag him round the city at the tail of young Hafiz Ullah’s horse, for the people to see, and after that—well, they call him Satan’s brother after his getting to Sultankot as he did, never runnin’ across any of the bands that was looking for him.”

“I wonder now, did they look very hard?” There must be no showing the white feather, though Eveleen’s hands felt clammy, and her thoughtful voice was a little shaky.

“They say they did, anyhow. Well, you can guess what they think is the proper way to treat the devil. But will the General be coming, ma’am?”

“I’d say he would not.” Relentless cross-examining of Richard and Brian had convinced Eveleen of this. “But sure the Khans will do nothing till he has written to say so?”

“You might have said that yesterday, but something has happened this morning to change their minds. There was a lot of Bharri chiefs on their way here, and they came slap up against the General’s army. Whether it was just brag, or they wanted to pick a quarrel, I don’t know, but they made to ride straight through the camp of the Khemistan Horse, and got taken prisoners. When the news came in, all the Khans cried out at once that it was war now, and the General wouldn’t come. That’s all I know.” His eyes were on the approaching form of Ketty, and he began to rearrange his wares.

“I’ve told you what they mean to do to the General. For his army, they swear they have men enough to drive it into the river, without drawin’ a sword—just pushing. Then cut the throats of every English man, woman, and child left in Khemistan. That’s what they mean to do.”

“No, ma’am, I’ve made my bed and I must lie on it. Make the Beebee understand that I am a poor man, and cannot possibly sell at the price she offers,” he went on whiningly as Ketty came up. “Why must I be ruined because I cannot afford a shop in the Bazar?”

The invitation to bargain roused Ketty’s keenest instincts. Metaphorically she shouldered her mistress out of the fray, and fell upon the unhappy bangle-seller tooth and nail. She brought him down from annas to pice, and then pice by pice until he declared truly—though she naturally thought it was falsely—that his wares had cost him more to buy. Then she suddenly reflected that the Madam-sahib’s wealth and importance would suffer in the estimation of the servant people if she was known to drive too keen a bargain, and with a royal air accepted on her behalf his last offer, informing him unkindly that it was in consideration of his obvious wretchedness. Eveleen, standing by and fuming, had to curb her impatience still further and bid the pedlar follow her to a spot commanding a nearer view of the stables, whence she watched him fitting the bangles to the arms of the recipients, and received their grateful salams, and then only was she free to return to the house, and burst in upon Richard with her news. It was just as well he was not the serious invalid she had wished to make him, for she could not possibly have kept her story in any longer, and he had to remind her—as soon as he was able to understand what she was driving at—that the source of the warning must remain a secret. This had not occurred to her, and she was so much shocked at her own carelessness that she consented—though sorely against the grain—to postpone warning Colonel Bayard until he came of his own accord to smoke a cigar with Richard. To send for him would have aroused suspicion as readily as to go to speak to him in his office and ask that the native clerks might be sent out of hearing, and the delay had also the advantage of allowing Tom Carthew time to get back to the city before suspicion could be aroused.

But it was very hard to wait, and when Colonel Bayard came at last, his reception of the great news was disappointing in the extreme. At first it seemed as if he would not believe it at all.

“There’s no likelihood whatever of Khair Husain’s offering to send troops to protect the Agency,” he said. “It would be a gross insult, and he wouldn’t dream of it.”

“But why should the Daroga suggest such a thing unless it had been discussed?” asked Richard, for his wife was too much taken aback to remonstrate.

“The man wants to safeguard his own neck, of course. He thinks, very naturally, that Sir Henry is determined to destroy the Khans, and is afraid he will suffer for being mixed up with them. So he tries to establish a claim on our gratitude in advance by making up this tale.”

“But sure he was risking his life by coming to warn us!” cried Eveleen, with flashing eyes. “Would you take no notice of what he said?”

“Happily,” said Richard, in his coolest tones, “we shall be able to test his truthfulness very shortly. If Khair Husain does offer to send troops, the warning is confirmed.”

“But if Bayard has made up his mind not to take it?” Eveleen spoke before Colonel Bayard could. He raised his hand in protest.

“Not made up my mind, ma’am—you’re mistaken there. I should hardly feel justified in ignoring such a warning—yet to refuse the offer would be a precious strong step to take. Khair Husain would naturally feel himself ill-used.”

“But if you accepted it, we would be ill-used,” said Eveleen triumphantly. “Would you really like that better? And didn’t you yourself just this minute say the offer would be an insult?”

“My dear Richard, there was a great casuist lost in Mrs Ambrose.” Colonel Bayard managed to keep his indulgent air, though Eveleen felt, and looked, as though she would like to box his ears. “And what, ma’am”—kindly—“would be your idea of the proper procedure when the offer had been refused?”

“Of course, I’d like greatly to be in a real fight,” said Eveleen regretfully. “But”—summoning all the forces of duty and self-denial to her aid—“I know you gentlemen will all cry out with one voice that’s my bloodthirsty nonsense.” Deeply shocked, Colonel Bayard negatived the suggestion with a deprecating hand. “Ah, don’t I know it? So I’ll be moderate and sensible, and only say I suppose we ought all get up the river again in the Asteroid.”

“And betray my trust here?” It was his turn to triumph. “No, ma’am, I came to Qadirabad by the General’s orders”—he disregarded a sound as of dissent from Richard,—“and here I stay until either I am turned out or Sir Henry sends me orders to leave. But my first duty—Ambrose, I know you will be with me in this—is to assure the safety of the lady who has laboured so pluckily to save our lives, as she believes. I will send word to Franks that Mrs Ambrose will sleep on board to-night.”

“You think there’ll be a fight, and you won’t let me be in it?” Her undisguised anguish and dismay brought back Colonel Bayard’s sunny smile.

“Precisely!” he said, the last vestige of his ill-humour vanishing. “Why, what curs you must think us, ma’am, to be willing to expose you to a peril against which you have yourself warned us!”

Richard laughed—he could not help it—and Eveleen glared from one to the other. “I’ll never speak a word to either of y’again—unless I have to!” she declared wrathfully, and swept majestically from the room. For the rest of the day she refused to be comforted or placated, and made Richard very angry—because he felt she was making him ridiculous—by declining to address him directly, and sending him messages through Ketty, though they were on the same verandah. Therefore he triumphed in his turn when, after being summoned to be present when Colonel Bayard received a Vakil from Khair Husain Khan, he was able to meet her again with a fine air of mystery.

“Something very queer about this——” shaking his head solemnly as he sat down. “Giving warning is one thing, but playing the enemy’s game——! Now why should she——?”

“Who are you talking about?” demanded Eveleen quickly. He ignored the question.

“To offer precisely similar advice! Can she be in league with their Highnesses? Yet how communicate with ’em? Something strange here——”

“Major Ambrose, are you talking about me?” Eveleen had flown to the side of his chair, and was shaking him.

“My dear, I thought I was an invalid?” meekly. “May I not speak of you, if it’s forbidden to speak to you?”

“Does it flatter you to know that Khair Husain thinks precisely as you do? The Vakil advised Bayard most earnestly to be off by water at once if he would not accept the guard of troops, for the Khans can’t restrain the Arabits any longer.”

“It’s flattered I am, indeed! But I won’t be if Bayard took his advice when he wouldn’t take mine.”

“Don’t be afraid. He swore he wouldn’t budge an inch nor post an extra sentry—told ’em to do their worst, in fact. So you are likely to enjoy your wish and see a fight.”

“I never said I’d like to see one,” indignantly. “I said I wanted to be in it!”

“Well, seeing it is the next best thing, surely?” But Eveleen did not think so.

“If I’d known I would be punished for saving all our lives, I wouldn’t have done it,” she said tragically to Brian as they walked down to the river after dinner. It was thought better for her to make her unwilling exit in the dark, lest hostile watchers, seeing it, should interpret it as a sign of fear.

“You had to give the warning, I tell you. You couldn’t have held your tongue, if it was to save all our lives, and ’twas just the opposite in this case.”

“D’ye tell me I couldn’t hold my tongue if ’twas necessary? A fine brother y’are—to insult your own sister!”

“We’ll consult Ambrose, if you like. Will you say he wouldn’t agree with me?”

“Well, you wouldn’t have him agree with you, when all his experience went the other way, would you?”

“Wr-r-r-retch!” said Eveleen, with such a terrific rolling of her r’s that Richard turned round and asked if she couldn’t get a few more in. She disdained to reply, and happily at this moment they reached the sandbank to which the Asteroid was moored, and were met at the foot of the gangway by Captain Franks in a high state of pleasurable excitement.

“Welcome on board, ma’am! I have good news for you, sir——” to Colonel Bayard. “There! d’ye hear that?”

“Precisely, sir—the whistle of the Nebula, no less, with the Light Company of Her Majesty’s —th on board, sent off post-haste by Sir Henry, as soon as he saw things were getting risky here.”

“A welcome reinforcement, indeed!” said Colonel Bayard heartily. “We must see that the news gets to the Khans at once. They will find it easy enough to restrain the Arabits now. But how did you hear of this, captain?”

“Why, sir, finding the river so low, Captain Warner was afraid of running aground in the dark, so he sent his mate and two men in the dinghy to find us and see where the channels were, and I sent my mate back to pilot ’em in.”

“Well done. We must get ’em ashore at once—make a regular tamasha of it, so that the spies in the bazar may take exaggerated reports to the Fort. This is an enormous relief to my mind.”

“And incidentally to mine,” remarked Richard to Brian, as Colonel Bayard handed Eveleen up the gangway to the deck, whither Captain Franks preceded them to receive her properly. “Has it struck you that we three become civilians from the moment Montgomery and his fellows arrive?”

“D’ye tell me that? Ah, I see it! The Colonel is a mere Political, you and I nothing but Staff—ornamental but powerless. Senior officer in command of European troops takes charge. What a do!”

“Better restrain your joy a bit. We don’t want the notion to occur to Bayard, or he’ll order the Nebula to stand off till daylight, by which time——”

“We’ll be smashed entirely,” supplied Brian. “I believe you, my boy! Whereas if the Khans hear large reinforcements have arrived in the night, they’ll wait till morning to attack, so as to get a good look at ’em first.”

With much shrieking of whistles and a lavish display of lights, the Nebula was welcomed to her anchorage, and that the effect was not wasted was clear from the array of villagers, roused from their beds by the noise, who lined the bank above the Agency and watched the landing with awed and not altogether pleasurable interest. Brian pointed them out to Richard with a grin.

“Choused—eh?” responded Richard. “Every man of ’em went to bed expecting to have the looting of the place in the morning, no doubt. To see seventy-five Europeans, when you expected only to have thirty dismounted sowars to deal with, must give you a bit of a shock.”

Brian nudged his elbow. “D’ye hear what Montgomery’s saying? We ain’t out of the wood yet.”

“You are well supplied with ammunition, I trust, Colonel?” the —th Captain was asking. “We came off in such a hurry that half-way here I found to my annoyance we have nothing but the ten rounds apiece in the men’s pouches.”

“Well, we could not stand a prolonged siege, certainly,” laughed Colonel Bayard, “but that will matter less, as I am convinced we shall not now have to fight at all.”

But Colonel Bayard was wrong. Whether the Arabits were really beyond their masters’ control, or whether the spies in the village just outside the Agency wall had gauged the extent of the reinforcement and adjudged it negligible, morning light showed that the place was surrounded, though the various bodies of horse and foot whose presence could be distinguished betrayed no indecent alacrity to come out into the open or approach too near. There was nothing in the nature of a surprise, for Captain Montgomery lacked Colonel Bayard’s pathetic faith in the Khans, and even a night attack would have found the garrison prepared. Unfortunately there was no time now to take the precautionary measures which should have been put in hand before. Save on the side of the river, assailants might find cover in every direction almost up to the walls, and at two points the compound was actually commanded from without—by the native village which had grown up as a sort of adjunct to the stables, and on the opposite side by a house forming a kind of outpost, where the doctor had formerly lived, and which was too much detached to be occupied effectively by so small a garrison. Reluctantly Montgomery dismissed the idea of blowing it up, since the powder could not be spared, and left it outside the line of the defences. The two strong points were the Residency itself and a range of office buildings, high and flat-roofed, which had fortunately been placed so as to command both the village and the all-important landing-stage. Montgomery observed caustically that it was quite impossible Colonel Bayard could have put it there deliberately, so that its defensive value was a happy accident. From it communication could be maintained with the steamers by means of flag signalling, and thus it was that Eveleen was able to keep in touch with the events of that long morning from the shelter contrived for her close under one of the paddle-boxes. The Asteroid was a most peaceful craft, since her builders had evidently considered bulwarks unnecessary for river work, and her flush deck afforded no protection whatever to any one upon it. She mounted a twelve-pounder gun, for which a breastwork had been built up forward of boxes and cases of all sorts, and a similar wall was erected about Eveleen and Ketty, outside which they were forbidden to stir. Since the paddle-box cut off all view of the shore, Eveleen insisted on having one look before she was built up in her cell; but there was not much to see, even from the top, since the lowness of the river left the Residency on a kind of mud cliff considerably above the vessel. But she could see little puffy clouds of smoke, rising and dissipating themselves slowly in the morning sky, and followed by reports—more or less loud as they came from the heavy matchlocks of the enemy, or the muskets which the —th were firing through the loopholes they had cut in the mud wall with their bayonets. On the right the reports sounded more distant, but almost continuous—a sort of perpetual popping; but on the left shot answered shot, as the enemy fired from cover among the village houses, and the European marksmen replied from the office roof. Captain Franks hurried her down, refusing to let her stay another moment, but she extracted from him that the attack on the right was what he feared most, owing to the expenditure of ammunition necessary to keep down the fire from the Doctor’s House. He did not tell her, but there was another danger at this point, in the shape of a nullah which formed a kind of covered way right up to the wall, and which could be enfiladed only from the Doctor’s House, so that a body of resolute men might assault with but little fear of loss. It was noticeable, however, that the enemy, in spite of their enormous superiority in numbers, betrayed no desire whatever to come to close quarters, seeming satisfied with obliging the besieged to expend their ammunition—largely wasted, of course, owing to the ample cover around. The firing had gone on for close upon three hours, and Eveleen, stifling in her nook among the boxes, had assured Captain Franks piteously several times that she would rather be shot than cooked, when a new sound, making itself heard in a momentary lull, caused the Captain to prick up his ears—a sound of rumbling and clanking.

“Guns, or I’m a Dutchman!” he said to himself, and noticed how the signalman—who but the moment before had been assuring him cheerfully that there were masses of the enemy in the village, but they durst not leave cover; that the orchard was full of them, but not one could even lift up his head to look over the wall; that the three men guarding the gate into the bazar from the stables had not even had to fire a shot—stiffened up suddenly and listened. Captain Franks listened too. Where would the guns get to work—from the bazar square, whence they could not merely knock the defences to pieces, but cut off the retreat of the besieged? But no, the enemy were taking no risks, and the old sailor was conscious of a kind of vicarious shame on their behalf as he realised that they would not face the fire from the office roof. The rumbling and clanking continued along the road that flanked the landward wall of the compound, and then seemed to drop. “The nullah!” said Captain Franks, and turned to decipher the signals which were appealing urgently for his attention.

“‘To fall back from the front of the compound on the Residency, and withdraw in an hour, when baggage has been evacuated.’ So we cut our stick!” said Captain Franks. “What now? ‘Captain Delany will proceed on board Nebula, and endeavour to rake nullah.’ Easier said than done, if you ask me!” But he passed on the signal to his subordinate, and presently Brian and his orderly ran down the path and across the sandbanks. Once they were on board, the Nebula dropped down a little way till she was level with the nullah, and her people passed a strenuous hour in trying to give their pop-gun sufficient elevation for its shots to clear the cliff and drop in upon the enemy guns. No very marked effect seemed to be produced—certainly there was no direct hit,—but that a certain moral suasion was exercised seemed clear from the fact that they did not open fire. Meanwhile, the baggage-parties were busy as ants upon the cliff path and the hard sands. Horses came down—to be put on board the flat-bottomed boat by which they had come,—wounded men, to be made as comfortable as possible on the shadeless deck, with the sun blazing down upon them, for the only alternative was the oven-like depths below. Then came the servants, to huddle together wherever they could find room, whitey-brown with fear, some chattering spasmodically, some awestruck into silence. As the baggage began to arrive—all sorts of things, of all shapes and sizes,—there was work to be done, and Captain Franks and his mate fell upon the servants with voice and threatening fist—feebly cheered by the delighted wounded—until they roused themselves sufficiently to help in piling packages to serve as a bulwark. Then came a slow-moving party bearing still burdens shoulder-high, and several rigid forms were laid reverently on the deck forward, and covered with a tarpaulin.

As if this was a signal, the sound of a bugle came from the Agency—a bugle which, though she had been warned to expect it, made Eveleen shrink and shiver in her shelter, for it sounded the Retreat. Like a reply to it came a burst of heavy firing, which was so alarming that she was thankful when Captain Franks shouted down to her, “Only covering the retreat on the office, ma’am!” Presently he added, “They’re marching down from the water-gate now. Soon have ’em all safe on board!” Almost as he spoke the noise of rumbling and clanking began again, and he was black in the face before he could make her hear. “They’ve found out how we’ve diddled ’em. S’pose they’ll bring the guns round this way now.”

Before he had finished, Eveleen had pushed down part of her barricade and climbed over the rest, and was running up the ladder to his side. In ordinary circumstances he would have felt bound to rebuke her, but he was too busy watching the last stages of the retreat—the troops arriving section by section at the water-gate and marching down the path, and last of all, the defenders of the office dropping from the back windows and covering the rear as skirmishers. Even now the enemy hesitated to press them closely, and one or two round shot from the Asteroid quite dispelled any thought of interfering with the march across the sandbanks; but the rumbling and clanking was coming closer again, and Captain Franks hailed Colonel Bayard with some anxiety.

“Get on board as quick as you can, sir, if you please! There ain’t no time for being solemn. We’ve got the flat to pick up yet, and those guns will have the range in a minute or two. Nebula, ahoy! Where do you think you’re coming to?” for the smaller steamer had left her now useless station opposite the nullah, and was forging up towards the Asteroid. Captain Warner indicated by a thumb Brian on the bridge beside him.

“Why, to help in the fight, of course!” shouted that young man brightly. “We’ve got a gun too, have we not?”

“Yes, but you ain’t going to use it,” returned Captain Franks, losing all sight of the fact that military authority was now paramount. “Cap’en Warner”—they were now so close that he had not even to use his speaking-trumpet—“you know that wood-pile you passed three miles up? If the enemy think of that, we’re gone geese! Full steam ahead and stand by to protect it. If there’s nobody there, you get on board every stick you can carry—enough for us as well as yourselves.”

“Don’t go, captain,” said Brian encouragingly. “He’s trying to do you out of the fight. Sure I’ll stand by you.”

“You’ll be coming on board here in irons as a mutineer in another two minutes, young gentleman,” returned Captain Franks savagely. “Cap’en Warner, who’s senior skipper of this flotilla? You have your orders.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’en Franks!” responded Captain Warner peaceably. “You coming with us, sir?”

“Not a bit of it!” said Brian, and jumped from one ship to the other as the Nebula drew away. He landed neatly on the paddle-box, but his orderly, following as in duty bound, fell into the water, and had to be rescued with ropes by the Irish soldiers, who were enjoying themselves hugely. Hauling him up on deck meant displacing the bulwark of boxes, which brought Captain Franks down from the bridge in wrath to insist upon its being put back instantly, in which he was backed by Captain Montgomery as soon as he understood what had to be done next. The flat-bottomed boat containing the horses drew considerably less water than the steamer, and lay farther up the little creek in the sand, so that the Asteroid had to back towards her for the tow-rope to be attached, and go ahead again to tow her out. While this manœuvre was going on, the twelve-pounder was necessarily out of action, and the enemy, waxing bold, made their appearance in the dry bed of the river, as though resolved to emulate the unique feat of the French in the Texel, and capture a vessel by means of cavalry. But the European soldiers, lying down behind the boxes, fired through the openings between them, and though the small remainder of precious ammunition was woefully diminished, the enemy’s courage soon evaporated.

The danger was not over yet, however. The steamer was laden almost to the water’s edge, and the flat overcrowded and difficult to move. Twice she ran aground, and once the tow-rope broke, while the resourceful enemy added to the confusion by opening fire from the three guns he had by this time mounted under the trees by the water-gate. Musketry was of no avail at such a distance, and the Asteroid drew off again and brought her gun to bear, while the mate led a party of volunteers to the rescue of the flat. Three times was she brought a little way in triumph, and three times was the triumph checked, but at last she was got out into the stream, while the Asteroid kept down the fire of the prudent gunners at the gate. The course of the river took the steamer and her unwieldy consort nearer the shore again as they moved off, and they were assailed not only by the guns, but by musketry fire from matchlockmen posted in every patch of cover. Every one had to lie flat on the deck save Captain Franks, who seemed to bear a charmed life as he conned his ship through the winding channel. So obvious were the dangers of the navigation that the enemy on the bank kept up with the steamer for two miles, in the earnest hope of seeing her run aground, when they could have poured down on the sands and stormed her. But she failed to fulfil their expectation, and drew up at length level with the Nebula, placidly taking in logs from a colossal stack on the opposite bank till she looked like a floating wood-pile. They anchored for the night side by side.

“A pretty fair imitation of one,” said Richard. “You might let your sister please herself with the belief that she has seen a fight at last.”

“Seen it?” demanded Eveleen tragically. “Not the least taste of it did I see—except puffs of smoke. Would you call it seeing to be at the bottom of a well, and hear all sorts of things going on without knowing what they were?”

“Never mind, Mrs Ambrose,” said Montgomery. “You can always say you were present at a fight, anyhow. Not that the famous Arabits put up much of a fight, though.”

“No, indeed,” said Colonel Bayard sadly. “Why should they? They had no desire to fight. They were driven to it.”

“You wouldn’t say they’d not have been uncommon glad to kill us, if it could have been done without fighting, Colonel?” put in Brian slily. Colonel Bayard took him up sharply.

“Nothing of the kind. Why should they wish to kill us? It was a horrible mistake, and I could have prevented it all if the General had given me a free hand!”

CHAPTER XV.
—INTO THE FIRE.

Awakened at sunrise by the festive sound of a steam-whistle, the fugitives from the Agency turned out to view the approach of a vessel identified by Captain Franks as the Galaxy. European soldiers clustered on her deck, and an officer waved greetings from the paddle-box. As the steamers neared one another, Eveleen recognised him as her old enemy Captain Crosse.

“Too late, I see!” he shouted lugubriously. “We start off ek dum to rescue you, and you’ve done the rescuing yourselves!”

“Fifty men and ten thousand rounds of ammunition, colonel—and despatches. You were to hold on until the General came to relieve you.”

“Three hours’ steaming—certainly no more. We should have met you sooner if we could have got on in the dark. Here’s the General’s letter.” He held it out, and Brian, making a long arm from the Asteroid’s paddle-box, took it from him.

“Thanks. Come to breakfast, won’t you?” said Colonel Bayard shortly, and withdrew a pace or two—there was no possible privacy in the crowded ship—to read the despatch. Presently he beckoned to Richard.

“He is bent on fighting,” he said with a sigh. “Look here—this was written after receiving mine sent after our return from the durbar, when I said I feared we might be besieged, and asked for supplies. You see he bids me point-blank break off negotiations, and make no further efforts for peace.”

“Possibly he thought you had done all that could be done in that line——” with great seriousness. “That was the letter in which you urged him to send away the army and come to Qadirabad himself—eh?”

“Yes, I urged it most strongly. And what does he do? Destroys the last hope of accommodation—orders me to leave the Agency at once and rejoin him, or if that’s impossible, put up a good defence and wait for him there.”

“Waited—shown some patience, some forbearance, instead of hurrying things like this. The old man knows nothing of Oriental ways—that’s the sole excuse for him.”

“I shall begin to think the General ain’t so far wrong in his estimate of old Indians, when he says they have got more Oriental than the Orientals themselves!” grumbled Richard to himself as Colonel Bayard turned away from him abruptly to greet Captain Crosse as he came on board.

“And I have a special message for Mrs Ambrose,” the visitor was saying. “Sir Henry was highly displeased when he heard where she was, and is sharpening his tongue to give her the scolding she deserves.”

“Sharpening his tongue, is it?” cried Eveleen in high scorn. “Sure it’s hardening his heart he means—or trying to.”

“Have it your own way, ma’am,” said Captain Crosse pacifically. “No doubt the General will argue it out with you, but I know better.”

That the General was quite ready to deal with every one as he or she deserved was made plain when the steamers arrived level with his camp. It lay some little distance from the river, but he had sent horses to be ready for them, and as Colonel Bayard and his party rode on ahead of the troops, an approaching cloud of dust showed that he was welcoming them in person. In his usual breakneck style he dashed up with his staff, and shook hands all round with his left hand, for his right arm was in a sling.

“Ah, Mrs Ambrose! anywhere else I should have been proud to see you. Glad you’re safe, Bayard. You have made a fine defence, sir—I shall have much pleasure in reporting it in the proper quarter. A little bit out of conceit with the Khans now—eh? Three times in one day you wrote to me they hadn’t an armed man in Qadirabad save their own servants, and two days later they were besieging you with seven or eight thousand troops!”

“You are better informed than I, General.” Colonel Bayard spoke somewhat stiffly. “How you have arrived at that exact figure——”

“Spies, man, spies! Not being glued to steamers, they came on while you were all snoozing sweetly in the night, though they had to skirt round to flank the shikargahs, which you must have passed in happy innocence that a whole army was concealed there. I was taking their lowest estimate. What do you make the numbers, then—eh?”

“Anything up to eighteen thousand men, General, from what we saw when they tried to harass us from the bank.”

“H’m. My information suggests more than that. By the seven thousand I meant those only who beset the Residency. And in a nasty resolute temper—eh? You believe that now?”

“For the moment, nothing more. Believe me, their heart ain’t in it. If you could have met their Highnesses face to face——”

“Heavens, man! if I had taken your advice, the army would still be three days’ march away at least, and my reinforcement could never have reached you in time.”

“My orders were that they should have sixty rounds apiece, but they were in such a hurry to be off they never took ’em.”

“Ah, with that sixty rounds we could have held out till you came. You, General—not the army. Your presence would have removed all difficulties.”

“Yes, and my head from my shoulders—as I said when I got your letter. What! you won’t believe a word against your dear gentle Khans, even now? D’ye know anything of an unfortunate white man—an American, so they tell me—called Thomas, who commanded their artillery?”

“Well, you’ll never have the chance of repaying him in this world. Faced with the order to fire on persons of his own colour, he refused, and they cut off his nose and ears, and killed him.”

“And ’twas his warning saved all our lives!” cried Eveleen wildly. “Oh, poor Tom Carthew, poor poor Tom! And that was the man”—she faced round suddenly on her husband—“you wanted to forbid me to speak to!”

“None whatever, I fear. The spy hesitated to tell me—because, so Munshi said, he didn’t like to bring such news about a sahib. I told him to say the only thing it would make me angry to hear would be that the Sahib had stooped to dishonour, and I gave the spy ten rupees when he had revealed the sad yet glorious truth. Not much doubt there. A word with you, Ambrose, if you please.”

For once Colonel Bayard had no defence to offer of the Khans’ action, and he dropped behind with Eveleen, pretending, with his usual kindness, not to notice the tears she was unable to conceal, while Richard took his place beside Sir Harry. The old soldier was perturbed.

“Is Bayard wilfully blind, or is he mad?” he demanded wrathfully as they drew ahead. “I have been mistaken in the man. Nothing but massacre will open his eyes.”

“I think he has been trying to force himself to retain confidence in the Khans, sir; but surely his eyes must be opened now! Did you hear that the attack on the Agency was directed by Khair Husain Khan, who had offered the day before to bring his troops to protect us? I saw him plainly with my telescope, leading his army industriously from the rear.”

The General laughed—a short hard laugh. “Well, they have come to the end of their tricks and evasions now! At nine to-morrow morning I lead my gallant troops against ’em.”

“Have you stipulated with the Khans that they shall await your onslaught, General?”

Sir Harry laughed again. “I think they will—I trust they will. Were their numbers double the eighteen thousand Bayard gives ’em, I would still advance, but they may well consider eighteen thousand fairly matched against two. They are awaiting us at Mahighar. We march at dawn, and they won’t find us backward in keeping the appointment.”

“I do. Look at this: I had the choice of two roads. By marching inland I might have come on ’em from the rear and turned their right flank, penning ’em up with their backs to the river. But if my plans miscarried, I in my turn should run the risk of being dispersed and cut off in detail, since I should have nothing behind me but the desert. True, if successful, I might annihilate ’em, but I ain’t a lover of bloodshed, though Bayard believes me one. Whereas, coming at ’em straight in front, if I am beat back I retreat on the river, where are my steamers, and where I entrench myself while waiting for the reinforcements I have ordered down from Sahar. Why don’t I wait for ’em? you’ll say. Because I have enough men to beat the Khans with, and I won’t rob my troops of their glory by bringing in others to share it.”

“’Pon my honour, General”—Richard spoke with unwonted enthusiasm—“I believe you’ll find ’em answer your expectations.”

“I know I shall. There ain’t a regiment in Her Majesty’s Army I would rather have with me than my dear uproarious Irish boys—as tumultuous in peace as they are terrible in fight. But what I wished to ask you was about Mrs Ambrose. Do you prefer her to return on board the Asteroid when we march, or to take the chances of the battle with us?”

“Nay, I beg of you to make the choice. In Spain no one would have felt the least surprise at her remaining with you, but we do things differently nowadays.”

“Honestly, sir, I should infinitely prefer to leave her in the charge of Mr Franks, but I can’t flatter myself she would remain there unless she chose.”

“Precisely. And to embark on adventures of her own selection in a country swarming with enemies might entail consequences that would load us with remorse for the rest of our days—and none more than myself. She shall accompany you and the force, but I will give her a little good advice first.”

“May I say, General, how deeply I deplore that Mrs Ambrose’s conduct should require to engage your attention at such a moment?”

“Nonsense, my good fellow! I have often thought you don’t half appreciate your good fortune in finding yourself linked to a lady happily endowed with perennial youth. Now don’t look for a nasty meaning when I intend a compliment of a sort, but do me the favour to find out whether Bayard has any more maggots in his brain.”

This meant that Eveleen became Sir Henry’s companion. She did so with a certain diffidence, for it had begun to dawn upon her that her presence was not precisely welcome. Possibly Captain Crosse had aided her to make the discovery by a muttered remark about charming ladies who would poke their noses in where they weren’t wanted. He had said from the first that European women had no business in Khemistan, she might remember? She did remember, but would not flatter him by acknowledging it, nor take any notice now when he murmured what sounded like “something like a wigging!” The news of Tom Carthew’s death had subdued her a good deal, so that the severe glance Sir Harry turned upon her did not, as it would generally have done, pique her to fresh flightiness.

“And pray, ma’am, why did you force yourself into Colonel Bayard’s mission to Qadirabad?” he asked her.

She scorned the quibble that the Colonel had said he would welcome her presence. “Ah, now, Sir Harry, wouldn’t you have found Sahar dull if you’d been me?”

“Not a bit of it. Ambrose wouldn’t take me with him to Sultankot, so I told him the next time I’d come without asking. And I did.”

“I see. That you might boast a cheap triumph over your husband, you chose to double—or at least to add very largely to my anxieties at this time?”

The confession was so naïve and unexpected that Sir Harry nearly spoiled the effect of his lecture by laughing. But he managed to preserve a proper severity of demeanour as he said, “Let me assure you I have been a prey to the most serious apprehensions as to your safety.”

“Indeed, then, I ought to be flattered that Sir Harry Lennox would think of me at all at such a time.”

She must have scented the unreality of his last remark! “I fear,” he said smoothly, “Mrs Ambrose would hardly be flattered did she realise the nature of my thoughts. But if you have no consideration for me, is there none due to my good friend your excellent husband?”

“And don’t I show my consideration by wanting to be with him wherever he goes? Who could take better care of him, if he got hurt, than his own wife?”

“Whom he would infinitely prefer to know in safety at Sahar! Have some compassion on the poor fellow’s mind, ma’am—don’t keep it all for his body. Believe me, you have no right to inflict these additional anxieties on persons who have enough to think of already. You have had a tolerable example, surely, in the fate of the unfortunate man Thomas?”

“But sure it was for my sake he brought the warning, and saved all our lives!” cried Eveleen indignantly.

“Possibly, though some inkling of what was in hand would probably have reached Bayard in any case. But don’t it occur to you that the reason the test was proposed to the unhappy man was that his errand had been divined, and he was given the choice of proving his fidelity to his employers or expiating what they would consider his treachery?”

“In consequence of saving them, as far as I see. The honour of your friendship, ma’am, ain’t without its penalties. Shocking rude old fellow, ain’t I?” as she gazed at him incredulously. “Believe me, I would withdraw that remark if I could, but what does your own conscience say about it?”

“It’s cruel y’are!” wept Eveleen. “When you know I would die for my friends!”

“Ah, cruel, cruel! As if I’d ever, ever go where I wasn’t wanted again!”

“Come! now I have hopes of you. Does that mean that if I can find a safe place for you among the baggage to-morrow, you pledge your word to stay where you are put and do what you are bid?”

“Impossible to say, but I should think it unlikely. Will you do absolutely what you are told—whether you find yourself in a good place for seeing or not?”

“May they be many!” Sir Harry’s tone was still dry. “If you don’t keep your word they won’t be—that’s all.”

“Quite unnecessary. The enemy will see to that if you go running about the country—or our own camp-followers, who are the choicest mob of rascals I ever saw. I know they’re capable of any enormity, because they treat their dumb beasts so abominably. I owe this to one of ’em”—he indicated his bandaged right hand.

“Why, did y’interpose to prevent a blow and receive it yourself, Sir Harry?” with interest.

“Not precisely. A scoundrel was knocking his poor camel about, and my fist found its way to his forehead. The fellow had a head like a rock! It was my hand that was smashed; he remained unhurt. Munshi tells me that the rascals have a game of running at one another with their heads down, butting like rams, and I believe it—save that the sport must be too harmless to be profitable.”

“I’m glad ’twas for a camel you did it,” said Eveleen. “Anybody would defend a horse, but y’are the only one that’s really fond of camels, don’t you know?”

Sir Henry looked at her suspiciously, and took advantage of circumstances to change the subject with finality. “Here we are, you see. We have managed to find a tent for you, but furniture was beyond us. I call it the one advantage of Indian travelling, that each visitor brings his own four-poster along with him.”

He dismounted with amazing agility, and came to help Eveleen from her saddle, but was interrupted by Colonel Bayard.

“Ambrose has been telling me your plans, General, and I can’t say how glad I am to find you share my view that it ain’t bloodshed, but a moral effect, that’s called for. May I be permitted to do my part? Lend me a couple of hundred Europeans and the steamers, and give me one more day, and we will fire the shikargahs and drive the game towards you. No Orientals can stand being taken in flank, and where they would fight desperately if assailed in front, it would not surprise me did they surrender without fighting at all.”

“H’m!” grunted Sir Harry. “Presently, presently! We don’t hold councils of war in public, my good fellow. But Europeans? Certainly not. I have but four hundred in my whole army, and each man is worth his weight in diamonds to me. And no more delay—not an hour! You must be back in time. Can’t put off the battle to suit you. Sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am.”

The day wore itself away slowly enough. Eveleen was tired after the excitements of the last forty-eight hours, but she found it difficult to rest. It was the cold weather, but at midday the heat made a tent a very inadequate shelter, and the many sounds of a camp suggested such interesting things which might be happening that she was for ever jumping up to look out. Richard and Brian were busy outside the General’s little tent close by. It was pitched under a rather inadequate tree, in the shade of which the office work was necessarily done, since it could not possibly have been accomplished inside. Messengers came and went, officers arrived with reports of various kinds, deputations of men with representations to make, offenders to receive admonition—and the General dealt with them in patriarchal style. Late in the afternoon Colonel Bayard and his two hundred Native Infantry left for the steamers, the officers not disguising their dissatisfaction at the possibility of missing the battle. At sunset there was a far more picturesque spectacle, when the Khemistan Horse rode out to reconnoitre from the land side the hunting-forest in which the enemy was supposed to be concealed, and thus distract their attention from Colonel Bayard’s operations by water. The camp woke up as the sun went down. Fires were lighted, and the men who had grumbled at the heat in their tents all day came out gladly to enjoy the warmth. Sitting round the fires, they watched their meal cooking, and exulted in the thought of the morrow. The British Army groused in those days as in these, but the nil admirari pose had not yet become fashionable—or if it had, it had passed by these Irish lads and left them unscathed. The General had a wood fire in front of his tent like the rest, and its smoke served as a much-needed deterrent from the attentions of the mosquitoes. He and Eveleen and his staff sat on small boxes round a large box for a table, and when the resources of his two canteens were exhausted, shared tumblers and even plates. Sir Henry was in a reminiscent mood. He talked about his parents—his father a giant both in mind and body, who would have been the greatest General of the age had a bat-like Government but taken advantage of his powers; his mother at once the best and the most beautiful woman of her time. Then he turned to his brothers, of whom there were several, each remarkable in his particular sphere, but none to compare with the two who were soldiers like himself, and like him, had fought and bled in the Peninsula. They had attained a certain measure of recognition, but nothing to what they should have received had they been treated fairly: there was a cross-grained fate pursuing every Lennox which robbed him of the due reward of his deeds. In all this he called upon his nephew—son to one of the ill-used soldiers—for confirmation, which was dutifully given. But when the General’s attention was distracted for a moment by the arrival of a message, Frederick Lennox spoke in a hollow whisper to Eveleen.

“It’s all quite true, and yet there ain’t a word of it true! What’s wrong with us Lennoxes is that we are all of us such queer cross-grained fellows that we make our own enemies.”

Eveleen was greatly interested, for the Lennox temperament seemed to have an affinity with her own—as Richard had once hinted,—and she would fain have pursued the subject, but the General’s eye was upon them again. The message had apparently recalled him from the past to the present.

“They tell me now that if the Khans bring up all their forces, they will put sixty thousand Arabits into the field against us to-morrow,” he said. “Well, be they sixty or a hundred thousand, I’ll fight ’em! It shall be do or die. No Ethiopian muddle for me! I would never show my face again. Well, Heaven grant me to be worthy of my wife and girls, and not disgrace ’em!”

“Sure y’are the first ever mentioned disgrace in the same breath with yourself, Sir Harry,” said Eveleen earnestly. He glowered at her.

“Young troops—never saw a fight before, and a leader with no experience of high command! The Duke’s battles were ended when he was ten years younger than I—Napoleon’s the same. Yet there’s a kind of elation in the delightful anxiety of leading an army—and such an army—against a force twenty times its number. How many proud Arabits will have bit the dust by this hour to-morrow! But who am I, to dare to rejoice in the prospect of taking life, instead of lamenting the grievous necessity? At least I have done my utmost to avoid bloodshed—even Bayard admits it.” He had been talking as if to himself, but his tone changed suddenly. “Well, well; a bit more writing and a visit to the outposts, then three hours’ sleep, for I had none last night—some foolish report or other coming in all night long. Get what rest you can, Mrs Ambrose, and you, gentlemen. We march at four.”

The night felt very short to Eveleen, though she must have had at least two hours’ more sleep than the General. It was in that most uncomfortable hour before dawn that she was waked, and it seemed impossible ever to get ready in the cold and the confined space and by the light of a dimly burning lantern. But she was outside at last, in a chill grey light in which figures moved like shadows at first, but gradually became more distinct. Richard brought her a cup of coffee, which was hot and sweet and strong—the very stimulant she needed,—and Brian presented her with a chunk of meat balanced on a biscuit, which required all her attention to get it conveyed safely to her mouth. When it was disposed of, she had leisure to look about. The camp was disappearing amid cracks and creaks; soldiers, servants, camp-followers were running about like ants in a threatened ant-hill. The General, in a sheepskin coat which combined with his spectacles to give him the look of a philosopher turned bandit, was receiving a report from a dark-faced officer with a bushy black beard—Captain Keeling of the Khemistan Horse,—which seemed to make him very angry.

“No sign of the enemy in the shikargahs? Then where on earth have they got to? If their hearts have failed ’em again, I’ll chase ’em to the gate of Qadirabad and out at t’other end! Then Bayard’s expedition will be no use, and I can’t get at him! I wish I had never let him go—robbing me of two hundred of my best sepoys and three invaluable officers. Well, many thanks for the information, Keeling. You are advanced guard now, you know. I needn’t tell you to keep a sharp look-out for the rascals, with all these woods and nullahs about.”

Captain Keeling saluted and rode away, and somehow or other, from a mob falling aimlessly over each other’s feet, the army sorted itself out and into column of route, and the march began. The cavalry ahead and on the flanks may have been able to see where they were going, but the dust they stirred up made a gritty fog in which the infantry toiled along blindly. It was full daylight now, and the sun was growing hot. The General had discarded his woolly coat and carried it before him on the saddle, and Eveleen threw back the veil she had worn to protect her face from the dust, that she might at least be able to breathe. In a brief halt about seven o’clock, Sir Henry conferred with Captain Keeling again, and the Khemistan Horse trotted off briskly on another reconnaissance, their place in the van being taken by a Bengal Cavalry regiment. The army had not long got into motion again before a gun was heard in front, then a regular fusillade, which was repeated at brief intervals.

“He’s found ’em this time!” chuckled Sir Henry, and presently a sowar, his horse in a lather, galloped back and presented a note. The General read it with visible pleasure.

“The Arabits have kept the appointment right enough, gentlemen,” he said to his staff. “They are drawn up behind Mahighar—the very place I fixed on,—a strong position, so Keeling says, with both flanks protected by shikargahs and the front by a deep dry watercourse. He estimates them at twenty thousand at least, with fifteen guns. The Khans are in camp behind a fortified village on their right. He remains under fire to reconnoitre more closely, which will give us time for our part of the business.”

A brief order sent Brian back with the sowar, to bring the latest news, and orderlies were despatched down the column to hurry the loiterers and prevent straggling. Stewart rode ahead with the Engineer officers, who knew exactly what they had to do, and presently the General and his companions arrived at a clump of scraggy trees, round which the ground was being neatly marked out with flags.

“Headquarters,” said Sir Henry laconically. “Ambrose, I shan’t want you at present. You had better find out a nice sheltered place for Mrs Ambrose here on the right somewhere. You won’t be disturbed. That’s where the hospital tents will be, and there are no invalids to-day—as yet. Dare say he don’t want to do anything of the kind,” he added, more audibly than he intended, to Brian; “but hang it! a man does owe some duty to his wife.”

Absurdly embarrassed, and not a little angry, Richard obeyed, and Eveleen, lifted from her saddle, led the way into the grateful shade of the little wood. The air was full of the thunder of the guns, and her husband had to shout when he warned her of a projecting root that might have made her trip. They paused in sight of the tents in course of erection, where the surgeons—with what looked like, but doubtless was not, unholy joy—were setting out in order objects of gruesome aspect, and Eveleen turned with a smile.

“How cross y’are, Ambrose! Y’ought be giving me all sorts of farewell messages, don’t you know?”

“I don’t know that there’s much to tell you,” he said gruffly. “Stay near your tent, and do what you are told. If—if things go wrong, old Abdul Qaiyam will take care of you, and get you away if it can be done. You promise to do exactly as he says?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d consider it dignified to take orders from the bearer, but if it’ll ease your mind, I’ll do it by all means.”

“And—if the worst comes to the worst, you know what to do? You have a pistol?”

“I have that. Sure it’s a pleasure to find you think me capable of doing the proper thing sometimes—if it’s only once in the world.”

“Yes, and it is appearance, and nothing else——” furiously. “D’ y’ask me why? Because if I didn’t I’d howl—there! and how would you like that?”

Horribly ashamed, and even more embarrassed than before, Richard felt the absolute necessity of making some acknowledgment, and forced a “Thank you!” from his reluctant lips. Reading rather than hearing it, Eveleen laughed with the tears in her eyes.

“Y’are so English, Ambrose! But don’t let us tease one another any more at all. I’ll be quite happy making a garland to crown you with when you come back victorious. And you’ll be happy knowing I’m quite safe.”

“I don’t know,” he said dubiously. “This spot is shockingly exposed—no defence of any kind—— Oh, look there! I might have known Sir Henry would have some plan of his own. This is what they do at the Cape in repelling Kaffir attacks—but there they have waggons for their breastwork. D’ye see—between those two tents—the camels kneeling with their heads outwards, and the baggage piled up between ’em, to make a barricade to fire over? A regular fortification! The Arabits will think twice before they try to spread panic among our camp-followers now—all herded inside, and a strong guard—though it reduces our numbers——”

“Never mind! The fewer the greater honour,” said Eveleen, and after a time they walked back towards the spot designated as headquarters, where Sir Henry and the staff were just preparing to mount. A cloud of dust to the right showed where the artillery was taking up its position, while on the left the Bengal Cavalry were moving off to support the Khemistan Horse. In front, drawn up in serried ranks, as if on parade, was the infantry—the Queen’s —th in the post of honour next to the guns.

“Hanged if I’d let my enemy take up his position as calmly as at a review, if I was an Arabit commander,” said the General. “I wonder if they have anything in the watercourse that Keeling did not see—any sort of trap. We shall soon find out for ourselves.”

“Necessarily. Keeling sends word that he tried to ride round their left, but the jungle is full of nullahs, all scarped, and matchlockmen in the trees. I myself reconnoitred to the right just now with the Bengalis, and it’s equally bad there—thick woods on either bank of the watercourse, which is deep in wet mud. No matchlockmen showed their noses, but that’s their cunning. They must be there, they would be fools if they didn’t hold that shikargah, and worse fools if they told me they were doing it. We caught sight of a smoke in the distance, so Bayard has done his work, though miles away from the enemy’s position. I wish I had that detachment back, but that’s crying over spilt milk. Good-bye, Mrs Ambrose; give us your prayers.”

He bowed from his saddle to shake hands, and Eveleen looked up at him with brimming eyes. “God bring you safe through, Sir Harry—and you, my boy Brian and you——” she could not utter her husband’s name, but gave her hand to each man as he bent towards her in passing. By the cloud of dust that followed their movements she could see that Sir Harry was taking up his position at the head of his array, and the line moved off, rather to the right, while the firing continued on the left. Had the baggage-guard occupied a hill of any sort, it might have been possible to follow the fortunes of the fight; but the plain was perfectly flat, and there was not even a house-roof to mount. Eveleen wandered about with a white face, listening to the cannonade, and wondering, whenever a momentary pause came, what terrible meaning it might bear. The surgeons and their native assistants were fidgeting in and out of the hospital tents, having few preparations to make compared with their successors of to-day, and they also were listening. At last the sound of the enemy’s fire was drowned by a nearer roar—more sustained and regular.

“D’ye hear that, ma’am?” cried the nearest doctor, waving an unrolled bandage about his head like a conjuror. “That’s blessed old Brown Bess. We’ve got into touch with ’em! Now we shall soon have plenty to do. There are our guns now!”

It was thrilling, but not enlightening. The rival roars continued, now one predominating, now the other, then both uniting in a crash that made the earth shake; but there was nothing to be seen but dust below and distant smoke mounting into the blue sky above. Then curious little forms appeared on the edge of the dust-cloud, looking like some new kind of quadruped, and resolved themselves into doolies, each carried by two brown men, running and panting as if in terror, but bringing in their burdens faithfully through the gap left in the barricade, and depositing them at the hospital tents.

“Better go round the other side of the tope, ma’am,” said the surgeon, advancing with dreadful determination.

“No, no. We don’t want ladies mixing themselves up in this sort of work,” blissfully unconscious of the change a mere dozen of years was to bring forth, and Eveleen retired to the shelter of her tent, and stopped her ears from the sounds she thought she heard. Then the surgeon hurried across to her.

“Fellow here, Mrs Ambrose—Kenton of the N.I.—pretty bad—if you would sit by him and talk, or let him talk. We shall have to amputate presently, but our hands are full just now, and he’s a nervous sort of chap. If you can get him to talk to you, it’ll take his mind off it.”

Horribly scared, but ashamed to refuse, Eveleen went back with him, to find the wounded man—boy rather, for he must have been younger than Brian—laid in the shade of the trees. His face was white and drawn, but over his body, at which Eveleen glanced fearfully, a covering had been thrown. The doctor broke a branch from the nearest tree and put it into her hand.

“That will keep the flies off, at any rate. And if he’s thirsty, you can give him some water. Now please talk!”—in an urgent whisper, as he went off.

It seemed horrible to disturb any one who was in such pain, but as Eveleen sat down beside the boy she managed to say, “Don’t answer if it hurts you too much, but just tell me—we are winning?”

“Of course!” The closed eyes opened with an effort, and met hers indignantly. “With such a commander, and such men, how could we possibly lose?”

“Sure y’are a boy after the General’s own heart!” said Eveleen approvingly. Then, catching the doctor’s nod of encouragement as he disappeared round a tent, she went on. “But tell me now, why did Sir Harry turn to the right, when the poor Khemistan Horse had been under fire so long on the left?”

“Because the matchlock-fire from the village was too heavy. Keeling’s men were in skirmishing order, lying down behind their horses, and couldn’t take much harm, but to lead a column of infantry into it would have been destruction. But tell you what”—he spoke vivaciously, though in a thin weak voice, and she had grown sufficiently accustomed to the noise of the battle to be able to hear—“we very nearly caught it just as hot on the right, and if the enemy commander knew his business we should have done. That shikargah there, which Sir Henry reconnoitred with the Bengalis without seeing a soul, has a wall in front of it, and in the wall was a gap—just broken by accident, as you might say. But as we came near, there was a chap sitting astride upon the wall, near the gap, who fired at the General, and missed. Then another matchlock was handed up to him, and another, but he missed every time, and one of our men toppled him off the wall with a bullet. The General stood up in his stirrups and looked at the place with his telescope, and then dismounted and went quite close. Then he told Captain Crosse, of my regiment, to take his company just inside the gap and hold it at all costs. And he is holding it, I tell you! We heard the firing break out in the wood as we marched on. They had prepared an ambush there to fall upon our flank, do you see? and if they’d had the sense to cut loopholes, or throw up a banquette for firing over the wall, they might have swept us all away—if they hadn’t betrayed themselves by setting their sharpshooter to pick off the General.”

“Tired? It helps me to forget, you see. They were firing at us from the opposite bank of the dry river as we got closer, but we held our fire till we were not more than a hundred yards off. We marched on up to the very bank, and then—give you my word, we did get a start! Looking down into the bed of the stream was like looking into a sea of turbaned heads, with rolling eyes and grinning teeth, and swords and shields; and they all came at us with a frightful yell. They had been crouching behind the bank to surprise us—and they did. We went at it ding-dong, musket and matchlock and pistol, and bayonet and shield and tulwar, they rushing up the bank in waves and rolling us back, and then our men rallying and pouring in a volley that checked ’em a bit. And the General riding up and down between, holloing us on! Didn’t you hear ’em cheer him when he rallied the Queen’s —th? I should have thought it could have been heard at Qadirabad! And then I went down, and he sent an orderly to get a doolie, and Paddy the aide—oh, I beg your pardon; that’s your brother, ain’t it?—helped to get me into it, and that’s all I know. But tell me, what time is it?”

“Noon? and we went into it at nine! Has the cavalry charged yet, do you know?”

“The whole army might have charged, but we wouldn’t know. There is not a thing to be seen for dust.”

“Believe me, you’d know if the Bengalis charged. The ground would shake—quite a different feeling from the rumble the guns make. Oh, why, why ain’t they charging the village? That was what the General sent ’em to support the Khemistan Horse for—we all knew it—to make a diversion if he was hard pressed. He can’t keep it up if they don’t—there’s a hundred Arabits to every man of ours. We shall be cut to pieces—— No, no—listen; what’s that?”

He tried to start up, but Eveleen held him down gently. “I hear, I hear!” she cried, almost as excited as himself. “A different sound entirely—like rolling thunder! I feel it more than I hear. Oh, will it, will it be the charge?”

“It must be a charge, but is it their cavalry or ours? No, help me to turn my head, please——” and with a great effort he got his ear near the ground. “It is ours—the noise is going away from us. This is victory, then.”

For a few minutes the din of firing broke out with such force as to drown all other sounds. Then it became broken and irregular, then seemed to pass away altogether to the right. Neither Eveleen nor the wounded boy could say a word. With parted lips and wildly beating hearts they stared at one another, afraid to move lest they should lose some pregnant sound as the minutes rolled on. Then they both became aware that the sound of the firing had ceased. From far, far in the distance came a thin flat cheer, then another, then a third.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE MORROW OF VICTORY.

“We are honoured, Mrs Ambrose,” said Sir Harry, with his most courtly bow, as Eveleen hurried out of her tent—as quickly as its extreme smallness would allow—to receive the dusty and grimy company that rode up. The baggage and hospitals had moved on in the wake of the tide of battle, and the night’s bivouac was on the other side of the watercourse which had served the enemy as a trench—close to the stretch of ground on which the Khans and their army had been encamped the night before. “Valour would lose half its reward without the approbation of the fair.”

“Ah then, Sir Harry, you have spoilt my compliment that I was going to offer! What’s the use of my telling you y’are brave, when y’have said it about yourselves already?”

“But how could we be other than brave when we had Mrs Ambrose to fight for?” asked the General gallantly.

“Cot, Evie!” cried Brian. “Acknowledge us all as heroes now, or confess your smiles have lost their power.”

“Where’s that wreath of mine?” demanded Richard—a little above himself, like the rest, after this wonderful day.

“Here!” said Eveleen unexpectedly, bringing it out from behind her, but he was equal to the occasion.

“Present it to the General, then, pray. We may all be heroes, as your brother says, but there would have been no victory without him.”

“May it be conferred upon Black Prince instead? At one moment I confess I was on the point of saving my valuable life by sacrificing his, poor beast! so it’s fitting he should have some reward, especially since poor Kenton—— But how is my young hero?”

“Quite happy once we heard the soldiers cheering for the victory——” Eveleen was arranging the wreath over the charger’s ears. “They took his arm off soon after that, and I have not seen him since, but the surgeon says he will do well. Then was it he or Black Prince saved your life, Sir Harry?”

“Young Kenton, as it happened. A big strapping fellow of an Arabit came over the bank, saw me riding alone in front of the line, and made straight for me. With these broken fingers, I was powerless to defend myself, but I got half the reins into that hand, with frightful agony, intending as he cut at me to give Black Prince’s head a chuck that would make the poor animal the recipient of the blow instead of me. But Kenton ran forward and took the cut on his arm, thrusting at the Arabit, who warded it off with his shield, and would have cut at us again, had not a soldier come up in time with his bayonet. So you see I have the three of ’em to thank.”

“I’m jealous,” said Eveleen discontentedly. “What were these two men of mine doing, Sir Harry?”

“Staying where they were told, ma’am, and carrying messages when they were required. D’ye think I wanted the whole staff trotting up and down with me to draw the enemy’s fire, and riding down our own men when they turned? I tell you there was no room for parade manœuvres of that sort. Our line was never more than three yards from the enemy’s—sometimes only one. So don’t scold these good fellows when they deserve to be praised rather. We shall meet at dinner, gentlemen.”

He bowed again to her as he hobbled into his little shabby tent, and the staff separated hastily, to make such improvements in their appearance as the scanty materials at hand permitted, for the General’s strict regulations as to baggage were still rigorously enforced. Once more the party sat on boxes, with two larger boxes put together for a table, and as always when Sir Harry was on active service, the only drink was water. Bottled beer—which every European on the Bombay side regarded as a necessary of life,—wine, and spirits were sternly excluded from his campaigning requisites, as also smoking materials of all kinds. But the meal was cheerful, even hilarious, and every one had something to tell of the events of the day.

“What a battle!” said Sir Harry at last. “Three mortal hours of helter-skelter fighting—musket against tulwar and shield,—and the two lines within arm’s reach of one another the whole time. I saw our soldiers loading in their haste without using the ramrod at all, merely knocking the butt of the piece on the ground, and coolly changing blunted flints while presenting the bayonet at the enemy. Were there ever such troops?”

“Was there ever such a commander, General?” said Brian, in the easy way in which an Irishman can pay a compliment without appearing fulsome. “The troops would have broke and run time and again without you to rally ’em. They would have done nothing without you.” The rest murmured hearty assent.

“So the generous honest fellows testified when they gave me that cheer in the midst of the battle,” said Sir Harry, with deep emotion. “Believe me, gentlemen, I accepted it as the most moving tribute ever paid to a British commander. But I had no choice. From the moment I knew of the numbers of the enemy, and perceived his dispositions, I saw I must lead my soldiers against him before they were aware of his masses, and remain myself in the forefront of the fight throughout. A merciful Providence has justified my prevision.”

“But did you guess they had the river-bed filled with troops, Sir Harry?” asked Eveleen eagerly. “Sure you said——”

Sir Harry looked at her with humorous apology. “I did, ma’am—but I knew what I must find unless the Arabit commander were a consummate fool. He ain’t that, as his posting the ambush in the wood on our right showed, but inexperience—or contempt of his foe”—a laugh went round—“lost him the results he ought to have gained. That opening in the wall should have been masked, and some sort of platform devised from which to fire. As it was, the breach served me as a warning that troops were in the wood ready to attack us in flank, and when I looked inside and saw that by no possibility could they line the wall with matchlockmen and mow us down, I had but to send the heroic Crosse and his company to stop that hole as a cork stops a bottle, and the ambush was rendered nugatory—though my brave Leonidas perished in holding the gap. Yes”—as Eveleen started,—“poor Crosse has fallen, with half his men. We could send them no assistance once we ourselves were engaged, even had we had any to send. Only by breaching the wall with cannon when we reached the bank were we able to relieve the hard-pressed remnant.”

“Indeed you are right. The troops we had in Spain would have gone over the bank and through the enemy up t’other side. But these young soldiers—seeing a riverful of such ugly customers, jumping up at ’em with nasty shining swords like so many Jack-in-the-boxes—they were astonished, they hesitated. Had a flank attack come at the same moment, they must have broke. But as it was, they only needed rallying.”

“True, but what other troops would have responded as they did? But it should not have been necessary. Upon my soul, gentlemen”—forgetting prudence in his warmth—“if Crosse saved the army, Welborne came within an ace of destroying it. That charge was due an hour before.”

“Ah, we were listening for it—Mr Kenton and I!” cried Eveleen. “‘Why won’t they charge?’ says he, over and over again, and at last it came. But why not before, Sir Harry?”

“Because Welborne ‘thought it right to wait for definite orders——’” the General mimicked the intonation ferociously. “I posted him there with orders to charge the village at all costs if he saw me hard pressed—and he couldn’t see; he must wait to be told. That gallant fellow Keeling was straining at the leash, sending insulting messages to Welborne to try and move him—at last preparing to charge the place with the Khemistan Horse alone, which must have meant their annihilation, when happily the orders arrived which I had snatched a moment in the thickest press of the battle to send, wondering what in the world had taken the cavalry. And then they did go! Straight at the village, contemptuous of the bullets that rained upon ’em, over the nullahs, heedless of emptied saddles, through the guns, sabring the gunners, then through the camp of the Khans, driving its occupants before ’em in headlong flight! Then at last our stubborn antagonists in the watercourse, seeing their rear menaced, gave ground slowly and sullenly, yielding to us reluctantly the blood-stained trench for which we had so long contended. Mrs Ambrose—gentlemen—I give you my word that when I stood in my stirrups and shouted, ‘The enemy are beaten! God save the Queen!’ and my glorious soldiers answered me with three feeble but indomitable cheers, I would not have changed places—Heaven forgive me!—with the Duke after Waterloo!”

No comparison on earth could have meant more to Sir Harry, and his voice trembled as though he feared sacrilege in venturing upon it, but the little company round the table rose up with one accord and cheered him again. The men were too much moved to speak, but Eveleen was never at a loss for words, even while she dashed her tears away with a wet handkerchief.

“And why would you, Sir Harry? Sure the odds were smaller against us at Waterloo than to-day.”

“My dear lady, never say such a thing again. At Waterloo the Duke confronted the greatest commander the world has ever known—and the world itself was the prize. Here I was faced only by an unlettered barbarian, knowing nothing of the lessons of military history, nor skilful enough even to take advantage of an inexperienced adversary commanding young troops. But after to-day I am no longer inexperienced. Last night I wondered whether I could conduct a battle; now I know I can. And my troops are not young soldiers any longer. Now that they have seen the proud Arabit—not in flight, but stalking unwillingly away, with frequent backward looks of hatred and contempt—they may respect him, but they will fear him no longer. Never again will they be checked by such a surprise as that of to-day.”

“But sure there’ll be no more fighting?” she asked in dismay. “Not after a battle like this?”

“My notion precisely. D’ye see, ma’am, a lot of these fellows must have run away just because they saw others running—not because we beat ’em, for there weren’t enough of us to do it. Moreover, I have reason to believe they had not succeeded in bringing up all their forces. Kamal-ud-din, in particular, I am assured was not present.”

“But the prisoners would maybe be telling you that just to make the victory less, Sir Harry.”

“There ain’t any prisoners. No quarter was given—it was impossible. The wounded Arabit, writhing on the ground, would cut at the legs of the soldier trying to avoid trampling on him. I myself sought in vain to save a brave fellow from the bayonet of one of our men. He disdained my offer, and fought grimly to the end. ‘It’s butcher’s work to-day, and nothing else, General,’ says the victor to me as he withdrew his weapon. No, I have learnt nothing from the foe. My informants are my own spies, who tell me that Kamal-ud-din, with his ten thousand followers, had not come up. More and more do I rejoice that I took the risk presented to me. I own I was tempted to hold off for a while this morning, and let my artillery play upon the enemy’s position before attempting the attack. What would have been the result? Time, on which, unknown to me, all depended, would have been lost. If the Khans had not taken courage to endeavour to outflank me, Kamal-ud-din must have caught me in the rear. At least he will think twice before doing so now. They know this cock can fight.”

“Ah, but tell me,” cried Eveleen, rather maladroitly—it was the suggestion of loss of time that had been the connecting link in her mind, “what has happened Colonel Bayard? Did you meet him at all?”

“He has not come in yet, but he had some distance to march. I wished over and over again I had his two hundred sepoys, and especially the European officers, with me, but he can quite well claim that the smoke he raised alarmed the enemy, and prevented their making off in that direction.” Sir Henry spoke in measured tones, but in the minds of all present was the thought of Colonel Bayard’s unceasing efforts to bring about further delay, and the disaster they might have caused. The General spoke again in his ordinary voice.

“But without information from Bayard, or even my spies, I can see with my own eyes that the enemy are by no means vanished away. There are large bodies of ’em hanging about still in a highly suspicious manner—ready, no doubt, to fall on our flanks should we attempt a night march, or to harass us in any other respect. But they will find no opportunity. I can’t order the cavalry to disperse ’em, for I have not enough, and those I have are worn out with to-day’s exertions, and I have work for ’em to-morrow; but if they venture to attack us, I think they’ll have a hard nut to crack. Tell me, ma’am, do you remark any peculiar feature about this camp?”

“Only that it seems smaller—more compact; and there are fewer natives about—more soldiers,” said Eveleen hesitatingly. Sir Harry laughed triumphantly.

“Aha, Ambrose! your good lady has a sharp eye. Yes, ma’am; from this night’s bivouac the camp-followers are excluded. Their numbers and their lack of discipline would embarrass any force—have ruined many, in Ethiopia and elsewhere. The moment an attack is delivered the terror-stricken multitude, with cries of panic, seek the opportunity to escape, urging before them their animals, often their sole possession. The disorderly mass, rushing upon the troops, bursts through the ranks, and leaves an opening of which the enemy is waiting to take advantage. But to-night we are formed in square, and the camp-followers are outside at a convenient distance, while the baggage, as you see, is in the centre. Should an alarm be raised, and the followers run in upon the square, the soldiers are warned to fire upon them and the enemy alike. More bloodshed—eh? Believe me, it ain’t by any desire of mine, but I must safeguard the lives of my troops. As I rode over the field just now, and beheld the heaps of dead, I said to myself, ‘Am I guilty of these horrid scenes?’ but my conscience refused to reproach me.”

“And well it might, General!” said Brian heartily. “Is there one of us here hasn’t heard it said over and over again, ‘The General’s the only officer in the force that don’t wish for a fight’?”

“Because I have seen battles before now—such as you young fellows hardly dream of—and know their full horrors. Well, you will all justify me, when I am dead and gone. Gentlemen, I am indebted to you for your services to-day, and you won’t find me forgetful. To-morrow I shall ask you, it may be, for others even more arduous. I send off a squadron at dawn to demand the surrender of Qadirabad on pain of being stormed, while we face about to deal with Kamal-ud-din when he comes up—if he comes up, perhaps I should say.”

He stood up stiffly to shake hands with each of his guests. “Good night, ma’am; good night, good night! I wish you would take order with this brother of yours. He goes about looking for personal combats, which I tell him ain’t becoming in a staff officer. After having his horse killed under him in the bed of the watercourse, what does he do but seek out and slay one of the principal chiefs of the enemy, in the midst of his followers? There’s a fire-eater for you—eh?”

“Brian!” Eveleen’s tone was poignant, “d’ye tell me Cromaboo is killed? I saw you were riding Bawn, but I thought——”

“Will you listen to her? She’d rather her own and only brother was killed, than his horse!” cried Brian reproachfully.

“Come along, my dear. We are taking up the General’s time,” said Richard, and she obeyed reluctantly. It was the kind of evening on which it seems impossible to go to bed as if nothing had happened.

Colonel Bayard was in camp in the morning—very well pleased with himself in the honest conviction that his expedition had contributed materially to the General’s success. His force, on the other hand, were so disgusted that their comrades found it advisable not to mention the battle to them. To spend a whole day in trying to set fire to a forest which would not burn, and from which the enemy had silently vanished in the night, while eight miles away a life-and-death struggle was going forward—as the booming of the guns showed,—this was enough to make any troops angry. A little ray of hope had brightened their path as they approached the camp towards midnight, for an alarm of some sort had led to heavy firing; but if it was really due to an attack by the enemy—and not to a panic among the excluded camp-followers, who suffered heavily when they tried to find refuge in the square—it was quickly beaten off. The General, wrapped in his cloak, slept through it all, and even through Colonel Bayard’s efforts to wake him and report, but in the morning he was as fresh and cheerful as a youngster of twenty. He had already put things in motion for the day when he met his staff at breakfast in the shivering dawn, and at that uncomfortable hour they found his good humour little short of irritating. But knowing him, they understood it when they realised the stake for which he was playing.

“In an hour from now we should receive the reply of the Khans.” He dropped the remark into the group round the table like a bomb.

“Have you summoned the city already, General?” asked Colonel Bayard, laughing.

“I have. Keeling is gone off with a flag of truce, and the ten best-mounted men he could pick from his regiment, so as to produce a good impression.”

“Nothing more.” In Sir Harry’s voice there was no response to the dismay in Colonel Bayard’s. “And there will be no haggling, neither. They will find me as hard as iron. Why”—he smote his hand on the table,—“I can afford nothing else. For the sake of having Qadirabad behind me as a strong place to protect my wounded and baggage, I have entered on this game of brag, but had the enemy the slightest suspicion that it was brag, our goose would be cooked. What are those bodies of armed men doing hanging about on all sides of us—within cannon-shot, even? The city must be mine by noon, and then I will turn upon these Arabit stragglers, and make up Kamal-ud-din’s mind for him. With another couple of regiments of horse, I could disperse ’em in style; but the cavalry is knocked up by the battle and the long march before it, and the camels couldn’t drag the guns another mile. In half an hour the hospitals and the baggage-train will set forward gently towards Qadirabad, guarded by the cavalry at a walk, and I trust the enemy, not knowing our plight, will take the movement as evidence of my relentless determination. You’ll go with ’em, ma’am”—suddenly to Eveleen, who was listening eagerly,—“but you won’t be rid of us long. We have—er—a bit of tidying up to do here, and then the rest of the force will follow.”

“I presume you will listen to nothing from me, General,” broke in Colonel Bayard anxiously; “but I can’t reconcile it with my conscience not to tell you that this is madness. The city is packed with Arabits armed to the teeth, devoted adherents of the Khans, on whose ruin you are determined. You propose to drive them to desperation——”

“Not listen to you!” exploded Sir Harry. “Pray, sir, how long is it since I listened to your repeated assurances that there were no armed men in the city save the personal servants of the Khans? You are singing to a different tune now. I have listened to you till you have nearly succeeded in making an end of us all. If my intention be madness, it is the calculated madness that stakes all upon a single throw, and wins. The Khans shall have no further consideration—I owe them none. My sole aim is the safety of my troops.”

“I see—I know,” sadly. “You must pardon my warmth, Sir Henry. The Khans have been the principal object of my consideration for so long—it is painful to me, you may guess, to see them overthrown. Be sure, sir, I shall venture no further criticism.”

“Nonsense, man! I shall invite your remarks, and you will give them, dozens of times in the next day or so, I make no doubt. But in this matter my mind is made up.”

“And glad I am to hear it!” murmured Eveleen under her breath, meeting a return glance of sympathy even from the well-trained eye of Richard. Lovable as was Colonel Bayard’s chivalrous forbearance towards the Khans, there were very few Europeans in Khemistan to whom it had not by this time become decidedly exasperating, and she left the breakfast-table in quite a happy frame of mind to pack up her few possessions. Her place in the line of march was duly appointed her—ahead of the hospital doolies, which again were followed by the baggage-animals, so as to escape the dust these kicked up,—and she exchanged a cheerful salutation with young Kenton as she passed him. Guarded by the cavalry ahead and on either flank, the column moved off—towards the long fortress on the hill, whose massive tower loomed above the intervening jungle-clad flats, and dominated the town on the slopes beneath it. Keen-eyed watchers on its ramparts might even have been able to trace the course of yesterday’s battle—be able now to discern what they read as the victor’s advance. The slow pace at which the cavalry moved, owing to the fatigue of their horses, must have seemed to the Khans and their followers the relentless deliberation of fate, for the Vakils who were on their way from the city with Captain Keeling and his flag of truce besought Sir Harry with anguish as soon as they beheld him to stop the march until he himself was present to control his troops. He sent a messenger after the convoy at once, and a halt was called, to the joy of both man and beast. The General’s colloquy with the Vakils was brief and businesslike, carrying conviction to their hearts, which could not conceive it possible that such demands could come from the commander of a weak tired force, already frightfully reduced from its original strength. To them the bent little man who emerged growling from the dirty tent hardly large enough to shelter him was the irresistible disposer of many legions, and when he had once cut short their elaborate compliments and lamentable pleading, they offered no protest against his hard terms. They would carry them back to their Highnesses, they said, and return.

“By noon, then!” snapped Sir Harry, with appalling ferocity. “Otherwise—— Well, I shall have buried my dead by that time, and my soldiers will have had their breakfast. Qadirabad would make a fine supper for them!”

The deputation shuddered and withdrew—noting, to their horror, that the tents which had sheltered the European part of the army during the night were already being struck, and that the advanced-guard which had been halted at their request resumed its march as soon as they had passed it. It was abundantly clear that Sir Henry would be as good as his word, for by noon his approaching troops were easily visible from the gate of the Fort. Panic-stricken, the Vakils issued forth again, bearing the entreaty of their panic-stricken masters that the Bahadar Jang would deign to stay his victorious course. The Khans would surrender, they were on the point of doing so; their palanquins were actually being prepared.

“Before the gate, then,” said Sir Harry grimly. “They will find me waiting for them,” and he halted his troops and bade them stand to arms beneath the wall of the Fort. The soldiers grumbled horribly at being cheated of their noonday rest, but not a man would willingly have been absent when the procession of scarlet palanquins was seen approaching, escorted by the usual gorgeous retinue mounted on gaily caparisoned horses and camels. The little army which had yesterday overthrown more than twenty times its own number formed square to receive them, Sir Harry on his black Arab in the midst, with Colonel Bayard beside him, and the staff behind. All were in field dress, worn and soiled, for their scanty baggage allowed no finery, and the General, spectacles on nose as usual, wore his shabby blue uniform and the curious helmet tilted well over his eyes. To Eveleen, watching from the background, the sense of drama was almost painfully present as the six Khans, emerging one by one from their palanquins, made their way humbly on foot to the conqueror, and proffered him their jewelled swords, which he bade them retain. Gul Ali was almost maudlin in his self-abasement, but Khair Husain evidently intended to carry things with a high hand. He demanded jovially of Colonel Bayard where he had been the day before, since he had hunted for him all over the battlefield that he might be able to surrender to a friend, and he offered the General something else besides his sword. What it was Eveleen could not see, but she fancied the man’s eyes looked past Sir Harry and rested on her. An angry refusal snapped out, and Khair Husain passed on with a deprecatory gesture. Young Hafiz Ullah was set at liberty, as a compliment to Colonel Bayard, to whose care he had been committed by his father on his deathbed, but the rest of the Khans were handed over to Brian for safe keeping—the scene of which was to be their own beautiful garden-palace near the Agency, easily guarded, and remote from the chance of a rescue. With slow dragging steps the fallen Princes returned to their palanquins, and with their servants, were carried away under a strong guard, Captain Stewart riding up to the city with an escort to take over the principal gateway as the General’s representative. Sir Harry drew a long breath as he and Colonel Bayard turned their horses away again.

“Well, this is the sort of thing makes a man feel he hasn’t lived in vain! Fine showy things those swords—eh? I hadn’t the heart to deprive the poor beggars of ’em, though they would have made a nice heirloom to hand down in a private gentleman’s family. And now to make things lively for our backward friend Kamal-ud-din!”

“General!”—Colonel Bayard’s voice was hoarse with emotion—“I have said nothing, raised no protest—I vowed I would make no further effort—but after all this—— Ain’t you yet content?”

“Content?” Sir Harry stared at him. “What is there to be content about? After this next battle, perhaps——”

“Another battle! more bloodshed! Don’t those awful heaps satisfy you which I passed in the moonlight last night? Are you determined to destroy this unhappy nation if it fails to destroy you?”

“It has destroyed nineteen of my officers and two hundred and fifty-six men of my small force already. Merciful Heaven! do you think me a stone? Shall I ever forget that long row this morning of the corpses of my noblest friends, grim with dust and blood, laid side by side until the sand should shroud them from my sight? Are you accusing me of taking pleasure in bloodshed, Colonel Bayard?”

“Nay, not that—— Yet what can I think when I see you passing from one horror to another? Your bravery, your capacity, none can now dispute—if any one was ever fool enough to doubt it. Would that your sword had been drawn in a nobler cause! but you have chosen the shortest way, and it ain’t for me to remonstrate further. But shed no more blood, I entreat you; make your name as famous for mercy as it will always be for conquest.”

“What is it you are trying to get me to do?” Sir Harry turned and looked at him suspiciously.

“Kamal-ud-din—I know him well; he is young and easily moved. At present he is undecided whether to provoke a battle or not, because he believes you incensed against him. Let me go to him——”

“Let me write, then. I will choose a messenger from the retainers of his uncles, who will inform him of their submission, and urge him to come in and surrender. With him in your hands, there is no leader left about whom the remnants of the Khans’ armies may rally, and you attain at once all the results of a battle without fighting one.”

“Be it so, then. Heaven knows the army is in no state to fight again to-day, and I should be crippled in any movement by this train of wounded.”

CHAPTER XVII.
SUPPORTED ON BAYONETS.

“A grand joke for y’, Evie!” Brian ran up the steps gleefully, forgetful for the moment of the anxious charge which—so his friends alleged—was sapping the bloom from his youthful cheek, and turning his hair prematurely grey. It was three days after the battle at Mahighar, the camp had been pitched in and about the Agency compound, and in the ruined Residency itself the Engineers had patched up two or three rooms and a verandah for Eveleen, that she might not have to face the vicissitudes of the weather in a tent.

“And I have one for you!” responded Eveleen joyously. “Yours first—you’ll appreciate mine all the better for waiting for it. Don’t mind Ambrose; he’s far too busy to notice our nonsense.” She turned slightly towards Brian, and with a wicked glance, laid one forefinger over the other close to her eye. Richard was reading ostentatiously at some little distance—but it was no more novel or interesting work than an old Addiscombe text-book, somehow washed up on this distant beach.

“Listen, then. D’ye know y’are the General’s guardian angel, his talisman of success—that he won’t fight until y’are there, and if he lost you he’d be a gone coon? What d’ye think of that now? It’s proud y’ought to be, indeed.”

“I’d be prouder if I thought he took a proper view of my importance to him,” dolefully. “I’ll impart to y’a horrid secret, Brian. Sometimes I could almost believe the ungrateful old gentleman regarded me as an encumbrance!”

“That’s his artfulness. He don’t want you to realise your value. Why, when Khair Husain Khan, wishing to show suitable respect, desired to send y’a fine present of jewels t’other day, d’ye think the old lad would let you have it? Not he! Gave him a nasty snub, I promise you!”

“Ah, then, that was it!” Eveleen’s eyes danced. “I saw the creature look at me, but how would I know what he was saying? Sure Sir Harry might have had the politeness to offer me the choice whether I’d accept or not.”

She glanced very slightly towards Richard, and Richard flung away his book, remarked “Psh!” very loudly, and rose and stalked towards his wife and her brother.

“Always glad to see you, Delany,” he remarked, with forced geniality, “but I should be uncommonly obliged if you would help me in putting a stop to this nonsense. You can’t think it’s particularly gratifying for a man to know that such tales are going about the bazar with respect to his wife.”

“But sure no one that matters regards ’em as anything but a joke!” said Brian in surprise.

“Ah, but Ambrose can never see a joke, don’t you know?” said Eveleen plaintively.

“Perhaps not, but I can see defiance when I am treated to it——” Richard was not apt at epigram, and his return was deplorably lame. He went on to seek sympathy from Brian, who did not look encouraging: he disliked matrimonial differences which went deeper than mere surface squabbling. “I desired your sister particularly not to show herself at to-day’s ceremony, yet where should I find her but on horseback within the square, close to the General—thus giving confirmation to all these foolish reports?”

“As if I’d have let anything or anybody in the whole wide world keep me away!” Eveleen broke in indignantly. “To see the colours go up on the round tower, and the guns firing, and the soldiers cheering and cheering as if they would never stop—would anything make me miss such a sight, I ask you?”

“And why would I, when you gave me no slightest, tiniest hint of a reason? Was there any, will you tell me?”

“I had a reason, certainly, but I didn’t want to alarm you. Perhaps I was foolish to be so careful.”

“Will you never learn that when anything is really, truly interesting, there ain’t the smallest possibility of its being alarming? Don’t y’agree with me, Brian?”

“Well, now, I don’t entirely.” Brian was perhaps not sorry to give a helping hand to a brother-man. “It might be you’d do well to be alarmed in this case, Evie—I don’t know. It’s a bit of a mystery to me. By what I make out from my Khans yonder—who can be precious affable when they like—it has something to do with some piece of jewellery of yours that you gave away or sold. The thing has got into Kamal-ud-din’s hands—whatever it is—and he has it to thank that he ain’t a prisoner like his uncles and cousins.” For with callous disregard of Colonel Bayard’s assurances on his behalf, Kamal-ud-din had first promised effusively to come in and surrender on the following morning, and then employed the interval in removing himself and his forces into the desert, en route for his remote ancestral fortress of Umarganj. Possibly the messenger who conveyed the letter had conveyed also information as to the state of the British troops; at any rate, Kamal-ud-din was fully justified in his belief that pursuit was out of the question.

Eveleen pointed a dramatic finger at her husband. “Put the blame where it ought to be, Brian. There’s the culprit for you. ’Twas that blue pendant Uncle Tom gave me, that I showed y’at Bombay—the seal that wouldn’t seal, don’t you know? Well, Ambrose found the Khans set a value on it, believing ’twas the seal of King Solomon, and had been stolen from them years and years ago, so he very kindly made them a present of it, without so much as asking my leave.”

“I remember it—a sort of blue cheese-plate. But it’s you are joking now, Evie. D’ye ask me to believe he took your pendant and gave it away without your knowing?”

Richard growled inarticulately, and Eveleen felt obliged to furnish the explanation he disdained to supply.

“Well, not that exactly. I had pledged it, or pawned it—whatever you like to call it—to get you that money you wanted, when you were afraid you’d miss the chance of getting into the General’s family, don’t you know? and Ambrose was shockingly cross with me about it. So I suppose he thought he’d punish me, but ’twas he gave it to Kamal-ud-din, you see.”

“Holy Moses! I come into this too, do I?” groaned Brian. “Don’t betray me to my old lad, either of you, or I will get a wigging. For you see, Evie, we have spoilt his luck between us. The stone and you go together somehow—it’s blue, and your eyes are blue; green, rather, I’d say if I was asked—so Khair Husain told me, and when y’are separated, the luck’s split. At present we have the lady, and Kamal-ud-din has the pendant—the Belle and the Bauble, to make a pantomime title out of it. If the General had had the Bauble as well as the Belle, he’d have swept up Kamal-ud-din with the rest of the Khans, and conquered the country at one go. If Kamal-ud-din had had the Belle as well as the Bauble, the Khans would have won t’other day, and cut all our throats on the field of battle, and led the General in triumph by a gold chain through his nose. Well, there y’are, you see. Don’t it strike you as a bit of a temptation to the Arabits to bring the Belle and the Bauble together again by carrying off the lady?”

“I’d like to see them try it!” declared Eveleen defiantly. “I sent a message to Kamal-ud-din by poor Tom Carthew when he had the stone first that I was ill-wishing it with all my might, but that’s nothing to what I’d do if they tried to get hold of me. Besides”—with one of the sudden changes of mood her husband found so bewildering—“it’s just a notion I have that Ambrose wouldn’t be so ready to part with me, though he thinks he can make free as he likes with my things.”

It was absolutely impossible for Richard to rearrange his thoughts quickly enough to respond adequately to this overture of peace and the glance that accompanied it, but he managed to call up some sort of smile, and to mutter, “Oh no—rayther not, I’m sure!” Brian, scenting a reconciliation, made haste to clinch the matter.

“And don’t you be so nasty about that old pendant, Evie. I’m quite certain Ambrose would have given you something instead, if y’had asked him nicely.”

“Ah, but Ambrose don’t agree with giving his wife presents when she can’t keep accounts and wastes his money for him,” said Eveleen wickedly. “There! would you believe it, I was forgetting my joke that I had for you! What d’ye think of that, now?” she brought out of her pocket a handkerchief tied up in knots, and unfastening them, let a small torrent of gems tumble out upon the cane lounge where she was sitting. Richard’s face darkened again angrily.

“Looks as though somebody had been making you a present, if Ambrose won’t,” said Brian lightly, with the amiable intention of averting another dispute. “Or have you been making a little private expedition of your own after loot? In the Fort to-day—oh, fie, Mrs Ambrose, fie! Won’t I set the Provost Marshal and the Prize Agents on you!”

Eveleen was bathing her hands in the jewels, without troubling to answer either man’s question. “Such a pity they spoil their stones so cruelly,” she said. “I wonder why will they always pierce them and they never seem to cut them so as to bring out the full beauty. And flaws, now—you’d think they didn’t even notice them, as if they only cared for a stone to be as large as possible.”

Richard’s hand gripped her shoulder—not gently. “You acknowledge these are native stones, then—from the treasury, I suppose? How did you get them?”

“If you hurt me so, I’ll cry. I know I’ll have a horrid bruise for weeks. Y’are so rough, Ambrose!”

“Get on with y’, Evie,” said Brian curtly. “How did you get hold of these things?”

“Well, then, I found them!” Eveleen looked defiantly from one to the other, resenting their tone.

“On my dressing-table—wrapped up in an old dirty bit of silk embroidery. I nearly called Ketty to pick it up with a stick and throw it away, it looked so horrid. Then I saw something sticking out, and ’twas this emerald.”

“She swore she did not, and I wouldn’t think she’d tell me a direct lie.”

“More likely her attention was attracted by something going on outside,” said Eveleen promptly. “Her bump of curiosity’s enormous, don’t you know.”

“What do you make of this, Delany?” asked Richard hoarsely. “Is it some such plot on Kamal-ud-din’s part as you hinted at just now?”

“To reunite the Belle and the Bauble, d’ye mean? I wouldn’t think that—unless they’d imagine my sister was to be cot like a bird by spreading a trail of crumbs in front of her. No, if y’ask me, I’d say ’twas some bright scheme on the part of those Khans of mine, that have the heart worried out of me with their crooked ways. Every man of ’em is laden with stones like these. I know because they’re so anxious to make me presents of ’em. But now they know if I accept anything ’twill only go to the Prize Agents, they’re knocking off a bit. Possibly, now they have proved my Roman virtue, they are trying elsewhere.”

“I ask y’, indeed! Just for a sort of propitiation, maybe, to the man in charge of ’em. But then again, they may have some plan in hand, and ’twould help ’em if I went about with my eyes shut. Or it may be they want a good word said for ’em to the General. You know these fellows. Can any of us say what’s in their minds?”

“I don’t know, I tell you. The way they keep my mind on the stretch, wondering what are they after now, you’d pity me if you knew! They can’t want more indulgences or luxuries, for they’ve got ’em all. It makes me angry to go from the General in his wretched little rowty, that barely keeps the sun off his old head, to those chaps with their great cool rooms and fountains and green stuff. It can’t be more servants they want, for they couldn’t get ’em in. The place is packed with big strapping fellows, that go backwards and forwards to the Fort, and can carry news, or treasure, or anything they like but arms—and I wouldn’t put it past ’em to smuggle them too now and then. At least, there’ll be no more treasure to be had now, for the Prize Agents have taken it over—three million pounds they talk about.”

“And you’d grudge your poor sister one little handful of spoilt stones!” said Eveleen tragically.

“Precisely. Hand ’em over, Evie, and I’ll leave the lot with the Prize Agents as I go back. Whatever they were put in your room for, ’twas for no good, and you know that as well as I do.”

“He won’t leave me so much as one little weeshy diamond! Ah, it’s a cruel brother I have, and a cruel husband too! I wonder have they any hearts at all, at all?”

“It’s a brother and a husband miles too good for you y’have,” said Brian, tying up the stones inexorably in his handkerchief. “See here, Ambrose, I’ll be getting you a receipt for these, in case there’d be any question of a trap.”

“You have a head on your shoulders,” said Richard heartily. “The Sahib’s horse!” he called to a servant.

Presently he came back from the steps to find Eveleen pouting in her corner of the lounge. “Sure you might have let me send them to the Prize Agent,” was her complaint. “What bit of a chance have I of doing the right things, when two great men seize them out of my hands and do them instead?”

“You see,” with a grave face, “you are so sadly destitute of jewellery that they might have been a temptation.”

“Ah now, aren’t y’ashamed to turn my own words against me like that? D’ye not know a good horse is more to me than a diamond necklace any day?”

“But not more than this sort of thing, I hope, or I shall feel I have gone wrong again.” He dropped a little parcel into her lap, and stood watching while she snatched it up in surprise.

“And what’s this, now? Have you been wasting your money on me, Ambrose? I’m surprised at you!”

Happily the possible double meaning of her last sentence did not occur to her as she eagerly opened the case, and displayed a gold locket set with pearls—large and massive, eminently what was then called “a handsome piece of jewellery.” “And did you really choose this for me?”

“Bayard chose it in Bombay—I asked him. He brought it up with him, and forgot all about it till he was packing again yesterday. Ain’t you going to look inside?”

She opened it joyfully, never doubting what she was about to see, and uttered a little sound of dismay. It was Brian’s cheerful eyes that smiled quizzically at her, their expression curiously natural, though the rest of the miniature showed the mannered stiffness of the native artist.

“Do you like it?” asked Richard anxiously. “I got it done here to send down after Bayard to take with him and have it put in the locket. I was afraid you would miss that calotype of your brother when I took it to the painter, but it was only two or three days in the bustle of packing up, and you happened not to think of it.”

Eveleen was hardly listening to him. She lifted her eyes tragically from the locket in her lap. “And why not yours?” she demanded.

“Mine? Why, I was sure you would rather have your brother’s,” he replied, in all innocence.

“Major Ambrose, there are times when I’d like—I’d like—— I won’t tell you what I’d like to do to you, but ’twould not be pleasant.”

“Well, it was bought with that first money he paid back, you remember, and it seemed suitable——”

Eveleen laughed drearily. “D’ye tell me that, now? Well then, with the last money he pays back will you let him get me a locket and put you into it? Then I’ll wear you both at once.”

“You would not. I’d have y’understand, Ambrose, that you never will see to your dying day! Ah, then, it’s a cross wife you have, isn’t it? Why don’t you give me a box on the ear?”

To any one but Sir Harry Lennox, his position at this time would have inevitably recalled that of the original Austrian who caught the Tartar. With his little force hanging on gallantly to the river front of Qadirabad, he was powerless to exercise any control on the land side, and it did not need much shrewdness to guess that the Arabits defeated at Mahighar were slipping out of the city in a continuous stream to join Kamal-ud-din and strike a return blow under his leadership. But it might have been more dangerous to keep them than to let them go, and the General remained untroubled by their defection. His concern at the moment was with bricks and mortar—or rather, in this locality, earth and mud. In the course of ten strenuous days, the ramshackle old Fort was put into such a state of repair as it had not known since it was first built; an entrenched camp was constructed about the battered Residency, and a small fortification erected on the other side of the river, where the steamers lay, to protect them and the precious stores they carried. But no one knew better than Sir Harry how very inadequate was his force even to guard what he held—much more to take the field again; and he had not only ordered reinforcements up from Bab-us-Sahel and down from Sahar, but had put his pride in his pocket so far as to ask the Governor-General for the regiments from British India which he had refused earlier. Pending the arrival of relief, he sat tight, presenting a spectacle of prudent inactivity which was as surprising as it was trying to his officers, who knew that Kamal-ud-din’s hopes must be rising with every messenger that reached him from Qadirabad. What could be more obvious than that the Bahadar Jang was distracted by the necessity of holding so much ground with such small numbers, that he durst not show his nose outside his fortifications, and that an attack in force on any portion of them must oblige him either to concentrate his entire strength in its defence and abandon the rest, or to hold the whole so weakly that it would fall an easy prey? Gloomy reports went round, leading to gloomier prognostications. The right bank of the river was wholly hostile. In the north the wild tribes were coming down from their hills, like vultures lured by the hope of being in at the death of the old lion. Down in the delta the wild tribes of the plains were waxing bold—interfering with the dâks, raiding the outlying houses of Bab-us-Sahel. The river itself might be considered safe wherever there was water for the steamers, but beyond the range of their guns Kamal-ud-din could do whatever he liked even on the left bank. He would know of the reinforcements marching from Sahar—of course he would swoop upon them from his desert eyrie and annihilate them by sheer weight of numbers.

“’Deed and y’are kindly welcome, as old Biddy used to say!” Eveleen greeted her brother one afternoon. “Mr Ferrers and Sir Dugald Haigh have been calling, and made me miserable entirely. Sir Dugald never says anything, but he sits and looks so solemn you’d be certain things were at their very worst. And Ferrers said any amount—that the General had lost his opportunity once for all when he let Kamal-ud-din escape and planted himself down here. But if only he was given the chance, says he, he’d engage to beat up Kamal-ud-din’s headquarters and bring him back prisoner, and so end the war at one blow.”

“Lieutenant Ferrers is a very great officer,” said Brian sardonically, “and if ’twas only his own life, and not the lives of other men and horses, would pay the price, I’d like well to see him sent out on just that easy bit of business. But we must hope to get rid of him cheaper than that.”

“Sure you may be as sarcastic as you please, but that don’t give me an answer to hurl at the man. Here I am, knowing nothing but what he and the rest say, and Ambrose looking virtuous and shocked when I ask him will he tell me anything, and talking about matters of duty and official secrets. Why, I believe the common soldiers know more of the General’s plans than I do! Often I see a knot of them, and in the middle his old helmet and Black Prince tossing his lovely little head, and it don’t need to be a prophet to know they’re asking him all sorts of questions, and he answering them as if he liked it.”

“And you never asked a question in your life, and the old lad wouldn’t like it if you did!”

“That he would not—or at any rate, I’m on my best behaviour, and trying not to tease him. Besides, wouldn’t I seem to be reflecting on the state of his mind if I asked him did ever any General before lay out a beautiful camp, and then move all his soldiers out of it into the desert, and only leave the hospitals and the baggage and headquarters and the prisoners and Ambrose and me inside?”

“You can’t say you have no neighbours!” laughed Brian. “But see here, Evie, there’s no reason why you wouldn’t know what he’s after. Now then, let me think how can I wrap up the truth in an Oriental apologue, so that any unauthorised listeners may be puzzled to find it? Listen, now; will you think y’are an old lady, poor and proud, like our cousin Gracia, living out Donnybrook way on her little bit of an annuity?” Eveleen looked mystified, but nodded. “Well, then, she has prosperous relatives living in Merrion Square—Counsellor Sullivan and his lady,—and she likes greatly to keep up the family feeling. But she has no money for coach-hire, and how would she walk all that way, even if she wasn’t terrified her little house would be robbed while she was gone? Will you tell me what she’d do?”

“I’d say she’d ask them would they come and see her,” entering into the spirit of the fable.

“Just so. And you wouldn’t be surprised if she’d put forward what attractions she could offer—to make it clear the favour was on her side, and the Counsellor and his lady would be well repaid for their long drive? The roses in her little bit of a garden would be at their best, and she could give ’em such eggs as they’d never buy in Dublin, and fresh cream from the farm over the way. Can’t you see the old lady in her old worn satin gown and her cap with the smuggled lace, and how she be worrying the girl she has, the way she wouldn’t know what she’d be doing? ‘I’d have you recollect, Rose Ann, there’s nothing so wonderful about Merrion Square. In my young days, ’twas company from the Cass’le, no less, we’d be entertaining—the Lord and Lady Lieutenant, and the grand ones they’d bring with ’em. Not that I have anything to say against my cousin the Counsellor—I have the highest respect for him and Mrs Sullivan,—but go out of my way to make any difference for them is a thing I’d never do. They must take us as we are, and just put up with what we are accustomed to,’ and she looks so majestically at the girl she’d never dare remember all the polishing up of the old silver, and the eggs and cream ordered, and the saffron cakes bought at the shop. D’ye see then how old Gracia, because she can’t get to Merrion Square herself, will make the Sullivans come out to Donnybrook, and bear the fatigue and expense—such as it is? and how she’ll make her preparations to entertain ’em in good time, while pretending she’s doing nothing of the kind? and how she’ll cry ’em down as very good sort of people and praise ’em up because they are relatives of hers, all in the same breath?”

“I do, I do!” cried Eveleen delightedly. “And Rose Ann understands perfectly that though the Sullivans are no very great things, yet she’ll bring eternal disgrace upon herself if she don’t treat them as though they were. But your beloved charges, Brian—how will you bring them in?”

“My ‘interesting’ charges, as the General calls ’em?” said Brian thoughtfully. “Well now, wouldn’t they be the jealous neighbours that would be always on the look-out to drop hints to the Sullivans that the creature fed every day on stirabout and potatoes, the same as Rose Ann? and if they could make a mistake in the day, or manage to arrive an hour too early, they’d catch her going about the house in her old patched petticoat and print bed-gown? Then if the Sullivans were the malicious sort of people that like to spring disagreeable surprises on their friends—why, they’d do it.”

“They would,” with conviction. “Ah, don’t you hope somebody of the sort has been listening to us talking? There’s not much they could make out of our tales of home. But I suppose I may ask you whether your interesting charges have been more agreeable this two or three days? It’s no secret to any one the way they behave.”

“I believe you—except to us,” said Brian, with unusual bitterness. “The fellows are worse than ever, I tell you—so cock-a-hoop their bearing would show they were in correspondence with Kamal-ud-din and counting on his success if there was nothing else. Tell you what, Evie, that fellow Bayard—I know he’s your friend and Ambrose’s, but I can’t help saying it—the fellow’s a fool. It’s a blessing he’s left us to ourselves in despair, but I had a letter from him to-day from Bab-us-Sahel, begging me for his sake to leave nothing undone that could conduce to the comfort and honour of the Khans. And already they have so much liberty they’re a danger as well as a nuisance.”

“He’s such a faithful friend, don’t you know? He’ll never give them up, however bad they are.”

“Despite their ‘fatal step of taking up arms against the British power,’ as he says. Well, we’ll all bear witness he did his best that the step would be fatal to us instead! You know he persuaded the General to allow ’em have their crowds of servants going freely in and out—spies, of course, every man of ’em. ’Twas so impossible to keep ’em in any sort of control, that after remonstrating with their masters in vain, at last I complained to the General, and he came to point out they had no shadow of reason for entertaining such a crew. Give you my word there were two hundred Arabits at least in the very tent where we sat talking to the Khans—all pressing close upon us and looking by no means pleasant. I confess it struck me that if they chose to fall on us we’d have a mighty poor chance. And what d’ye think Khair Husain had the impudence to say with a straight face? ‘Our people? But we have only a few Hindus—not enough to cook our victuals. Not an Arabit ever enters this garden.’ Now what could be the object of telling a silly lie like that? If y’ask me, I’d say ’twas simply impudence, and it riled the General. He said pretty sharply, ‘I won’t kill you as you’d have killed the English, but any further complaints, and I’ll clap y’all in irons and send y’on board a steamer!’ I wish he’d do it, too; I ain’t cut out for a jailer. They know now they can’t bribe me, but that’s about all, and one of our spies tells the General they please themselves with promising to cut me into little bits, beginning with my fingers and toes, when Kamal-ud-din comes. They’re a sweet lot, I tell you—able for anything. Why, when the General got up in a rage, as I said just now, and went out, who would come catching at his coat and whining to him for protection but old Gul Ali? The poor old beggar’s baggage was all lost at Mahighar, and he came to prison destitute, and destitute he remains. There he stood out in the sun, while the rest sat in their silken tent. They won’t give him food or clothes or money to buy ’em, and he swears they mean him to starve to death. Of course he got protection promised him—against his own brothers and nephews,—and the General sent him in a tent and some things. That’s what the fellows are—with jewels dropping from ’em whenever they move!”

“Ah, those jewels! Did y’ever find out whether they put that bundle on my dressing-table?”

“I did. Ambrose thought I’d better nip any further attempts in the bud by showing ’em this one had not come to anything, so one day when Khair Husain seemed inclined to be confidential I broke the truth to him. He was a good deal chagrined, but not a bit ashamed.”

“’Twas to secure your intercession with the General on behalf of their zenanas, so he said. But can you believe a word they’d say?”

“Their wives and mothers and aunts and daughters and sisters—every conceivable sort of female relative—but not the slave-girls. The place wouldn’t hold ’em.”

“And they are allowed go back to their friends? That was one of the things made Ferrers angry. He said the General let the women stay in the Fort for days after the surrender, and there were hundreds of armed men there as well, and they plundered nearly all the treasure.”

“Well, what would y’have the poor old boy do? The armed men were there to guard the zenana, and Bayard and all the old Indians were dinning it into his ears that at the first sign of an attempt to expel ’em, they’d cut all the women’s throats and fight their way out of the city. They had to be got out of the Fort somehow, or there would have been no room for a garrison; and besides, it was not safe to leave ’em there uncontrolled. So he gave ’em three days, while he was collecting camels and palanquins to carry the women to the other palaces outside the city. He knew the ladies would get their fingers into the treasury, but he thought ’twas only fair they would have something to support themselves, as the Khans ain’t likely to be able to keep up such an establishment in future, and what d’ye think we find now they have walked off with? Two millions out of the three the Prize Agents saw in the treasury the first day!”

“Ah, it’s not all got to them, by any manner of means. Case of finding and keeping, I’d say. But it did sicken me to hear Bayard, when he was starting off down the river after the hoisting of the flag on the Fort, saying to the General, ‘Remember the Khans’ honour is bound up in their womenfolk. Indulge their prejudices, I entreat you. Their wives and daughters are as dear to them as yours to you.’ Half the army believes that Bayard was bribed by the Khans, I may tell you, because of all the delays he brought about. Of course we know that’s great nonsense, but if I’d been the General I’d have knocked him in the river for daring to mention those females in the same breath with little Sally and her sister!”

CHAPTER XVIII.
PLUCK AND LUCK.

Nearly a month after the battle of Mahighar part of the load was lifted from Sir Henry’s burdened mind by the Governor-General’s ordering the annexation of Khemistan and the deportation of the Khans to Bombay. Lord Maryport had not yet heard of the battle, but the shuffling of the Khans over the treaty, and the attack on the Agency, had convinced him that further delay was useless, and his action came in time to diminish the General’s anxieties by allowing him to get rid of his prisoners without fulfilling his threat to put them in irons. There was a slight difference of opinion over their departure. The Khans declared loudly that the Governor-General’s permission to take with them into exile their families and servants included the thousands of women for whom it had not been possible to find room in the garden-palace. The ladies, on the other hand, having enquired whether it was true that slavery was abolished under British rule, flatly refused to go, and the General declined to compel them. Eveleen triumphed ungenerously over Richard on the occasion.

“Didn’t I tell you the creatures were carried away to the Fort against their wills? and you declaring they liked it, and were provided for for life!”

“You forget, my dear, the conditions are altered. In the old days they would have settled down happily, and never have dreamt of leaving the palace.”

“As if that made it any better! If they were Arabit women ’twould be different—they’d have a right to go where their lords went. But these poor Hindu and Khemi girls, stolen away against their wills and shut up in the Fort, forbidden to see even their parents again on pain of death—would you so much as wish them to be happy?”

“I fear my wishes would have precious little weight with ’em, my dear—as sometimes happens with another lady. But ain’t you satisfied now they are all at liberty to return to the parental roof? and I trust they’ll enjoy the change!”

“And why wouldn’t they? when each has got her little property to keep her till she can make her arrangements? I’m glad Sir Harry saw to it they wouldn’t be left destitute.”

“That they certainly were not, but I admire your unselfishness, since their gains have all come out of the prize-money we ought to have had.”

“Ah, y’old money-grubber!” said Eveleen affectionately. “It’s as bad as the General y’are, when he says he don’t mind how long Kamal-ud-din hangs off and on without attacking, because he’s spending all his money feeding his followers, and when it’s gone they’ll forsake him.”

The hint of superiority was intolerable. “And pray what does he say to you, Major Ambrose, that y’are so high and mighty about it?”

“Accept my apologies, my dear. I assure you I was not alluding to any confidential information imparted to me.”

“Mrs Ambrose, cross-examiner! Simply to the fact which the General is kind enough to leave out of sight when he seeks to raise your spirits, that though a certain amount of delay on Kamal-ud-din’s part may be of service to us in allowing our reinforcements to come up, yet too much of it will bring into the field against us an enemy far more deadly than any of the Khans—the hot weather.”

“But sure Sir Harry was counting up all the reasons he has for being thankful for the delay!”

“To reassure you, as I say. But believe me, the thought of the hot weather harasses him day and night. What could we do here, unable to march, with the river in flood, and the prevalence of sickness usual at that season? He has succeeded to a marvel in alluring the enemy from his fastnesses, whither we could not pursue him, and in keeping him amused in the prospect of overcoming our weakness with ease as soon as he tires of playing with us as a cat plays with a mouse. But that ain’t success as the people of this country understand it. They may hate Kamal-ud-din, with his horde of plundering Arabits sweeping off their cattle, and his design of re-establishing the late tyranny with himself as sole tyrant, but their main concern is to preserve their own lives and as much of their property as they can. They have hailed us as liberators, but when they see Kamal-ud-din’s rascals, encamped only five miles from our entrenchments, driving off our camels as they graze, while we don’t raise a finger to prevent ’em, it’s enough to set ’em thinking whether it ain’t time to turn against us.”

“My dear Ambrose, d’ye think the General don’t know that as well as you do?”

Richard spoke rather stiffly. “I am sure of it. Possibly I may have wished to know whether you realised the situation.”

“I’m greatly obliged to you! Why not say at once you wanted to make my flesh creep? You forget, sir, y’are speaking to a female that had the honour of being present at the battle of Mahighar, when the Arabit chivalry, springing from its lair armed to the teeth, was hurled back in reluctant defeat by the might of British courage and endurance.” Her husband’s lips relaxed in an unwilling smile, for she was imitating the General in those moments when he indulged in what people of his day called admiringly “elevated language.” The present degenerate age would stigmatise it as “hot air” or “gas,” and ask kindly whether the poor old man was feeling quite well.

“Present in spirit, certainly. Yes, I had forgotten I was speaking to such a heroine. Renewed apologies!”

“The worst that might happen?” Eveleen’s eyes danced as she noticed that he altered the wording of her question. “All the spies tell us Kamal-ud-din’s design is to attack the Fort in such strength that the General must leave his camp undefended in order to succour the garrison, and thus lose the hospitals and baggage, even if he beats off the assault.”

“Well, then, you won’t make me believe Sir Harry is going to walk into that trap! Tell me something worse.”

“If Kamal-ud-din is anything of a commander, and seriously desires to embarrass us, he has only to fall on Rickmer marching from Sahar. The General must endeavour to relieve him, and the farther off the action takes place the more unprotected he must leave things here—absolutely open to an attack from a second Arabit force. Why the Khan hasn’t attacked Rickmer already is a thing that puzzles me. One might almost believe he had little stomach for the fight. How is it he don’t see he’s playing the General’s game?”

“So there’s more method in Sir Harry’s madness than you’d allow just now? Sure you’ve forgot which side y’are arguing on! But I hear the horses coming round. Have you time to ride with me this evening?”

“Ah, then, don’t be making fun of your old wife!” and Eveleen pulled his hair as she passed him. He looked after her with resigned amusement. She was like an indiarubber ball; nothing would crush her. Well, at any rate no one could say she was not happy. He had done his duty by her, in spite of those two or three embarrassing outbursts when her loudly asserted misery had made him doubt the wisdom of his action. For all her years, she was a child still, with a child’s sudden and unreasoning joy and sorrow, and a child she would remain. Now that he realised this, he knew what his own part must be—always a satisfaction to a man of his orderly, steady-going type of mind. Yes, that must be why he had found the path of duty easier to tread of late than when he had first brought his wife to Khemistan—he was getting used to it.

As they rode down to the flats by the river, they were joined by Brian—now released from his hated attendance on the Khans, who had been put in charge of a senior officer for their voyage to Bab-us-Sahel and thence to Bombay. He was bubbling over with delight.

“This is grand!” he cried. “Come with me and we’ll follow in the General’s footsteps. If we haunt the old boy faithfully, I’ll show you something worth seeing.”

“Rayther! Vakils with a letter from Kamal-ud-din—what d’ye think of that? They were fools enough to let it be known they were come to offer us terms of surrender, and when they arrived the General was ‘not at home.’ He had started on his evening ride, but if you’ll believe me—’twas a curious thing—he left word he’d be passing the Headquarters Mess about sunset. So they are to meet him there, and if we happen to find ourselves in the neighbourhood about the same time—well, the old lad has a tasty way of staging his scenes sometimes.”

Such an intimation was not to be disregarded, and by a pure coincidence the General had an audience of some size when he came suddenly upon the waiting ambassadors, and learned their errand. Receiving the letter at their hands, he gave it to Richard to read, remarking that it was convenient he should happen to be there. “Aloud, if you please,” he added.

The messengers clustered together a little more closely, as though for mutual support, as Richard ran his eye over the elaborate and inevitable compliments occupying the first part of the epistle. There was a look about them as of naughty boys—bold yet frightened—as he reached the business part. “I am to read his Highness’s letter aloud, sir?” he asked. “Then this is what he suggests—you are to be free to quit Khemistan with you troops and baggage, on condition of liberating the Khans now in captivity, and restoring the occupied territory and towns, and all spoil of every kind.”

A murmur of indignation rose and swelled among the European part of the group, but the General held up his hand for silence. Into the silence there came the heavy boom of the evening gun from the Fort. Sir Harry laughed. “There! d’ye hear that?” he said. “That’s my answer. Be off with it to your master!” and off the messengers went, hardly waiting for the words to be translated into Persian.

“Now Rickmer will have to look out for himself; or rather, we must look out for him,” said the General. “Kamal-ud-din has had a nasty snub, and in his naughty pride he will do his best to pay me back. Methinks it will cool his hot blood a little if we explore towards him to-morrow, and display an impolite curiosity as to the disposition of his forces.”

The “exploration”—which would now be called a reconnaissance in force—was carried out on three successive days, the General moving out with cavalry and guns in such warlike array that any young commander might have been excused for expecting an immediate assault. It was clear that Kamal-ud-din thought so, for he acted according to his lights in calling in his stragglers and raiding parties and waiting to be attacked. He was not attacked, but the General was able to get a very fair idea of the strong positions he had prepared. The secondary object of tempting him out into the open in order to ascertain his strength was not attained, but a far more important one was. It was three days before Kamal-ud-din realised that he had been kept so busy and so much interested in front that Colonel Rickmer and the Sahar column had got up behind him within two or three marches of the General. Thereupon he decided to treat frontal demonstrations with contempt in future, and take strong measures on his own account in his rear.

On the evening of the day of the third reconnaissance, the General was giving a dinner-party. It was clear by this time that Kamal-ud-din had perceived the real nature of the entertainment devised for his benefit, for the spies brought word that a large body of his men had marched into the desert in a north-easterly direction, evidently with the intention of making a circuit and falling upon Colonel Rickmer’s column from an unexpected quarter. It was an anxious moment for Sir Harry—not merely on the column’s account, but on his own. Until Colonel Rickmer arrived, he had merely the less than three thousand men of Mahighar—their numbers now sadly diminished by casualties and sickness, as well as by the necessity of furnishing a garrison for the Fort and guards for the camp and for the Khans on their voyage. True, victory was possible even with this remnant—he would have knocked any man down for denying it,—but the prudence which was so curiously blended with his rashness made him loath to contemplate fighting without the help of the northern column. The other reinforcements coming by water might almost safely be discounted, for they could not be expected for five days or even a week. Therefore the situation was critical in the extreme, and because the General knew it, and knew that his army knew it, and knew that the enemy must at least guess it, he invited his officers to dinner to celebrate one of the Duke of Wellington’s victories in the Peninsular War. He remembered and observed them all religiously, as he did everything connected with his old chief, but otherwise it is to be feared that few in camp could have told when or where the battle of Tarbes was fought. The increasing heat of the weather had obliged Sir Harry to give up his favourite habit of eating and doing business in the open air, and the burra khana took place in a large double tent, its magnificent lining of brocaded silk showing that it was part of the spoil taken from the Khans. The table furniture was unchanged, however, consisting of contributions from the Headquarters Mess and the canteens of the staff. Above the General’s place simpered the portrait of the girl Queen which had once hung in the reception-room in the Fort. By day it was covered with a curtain—because, said Sir Harry, servants and common people must not look upon the royal features—and exhibited only as a high honour to loyal chiefs.

Eveleen, as the only lady present, was handed gallantly to the seat on the General’s right, and the meal had not been long in progress before she saw Richard, who was nearly opposite, receive a whispered message from his servant and leave the table quietly. It was his duty to translate or decode any messages that might arrive, and she was not surprised when presently he reappeared at Sir Harry’s elbow, and handed him a small piece of tissue paper, creased as though it had been rolled up lengthways very small. As the General took it up, she saw that there were two of these pieces of paper, both covered with writing.

“From Colonel Rickmer, General, brought in a quill by a cossid of Colonel Welborne’s,” murmured Richard. Colonel Welborne was in modern phrase Director of Intelligence, organising the elaborate system of espionage and counter-espionage on which so much depended.

“And enclosing a message from Welborne, I see. Why, what’s this?” Sir Harry’s growl of rage startled the table, and the diners who had been politely pretending not to notice what was passing looked at him quickly. He pulled himself together in an instant, and laughed harshly.

“See here, gentlemen; this is good, ain’t it? Poor Rickmer desires me to tell him what on earth he is to do, for Welborne sends him word, ‘For God’s sake, halt! You will be attacked to-morrow by forty thousand men at least. Entrench yourself until the General can arrive to your relief.’ Is he to halt or not, he asks me, since I have sent him no orders to that effect. Here’s my answer—a pencil, Ambrose.” He turned the note over and wrote in his sprawling characters on the back, “‘Welborne’s men are all in buckram. Come on.’ Be good enough to have that sent off at once. How does it strike you, gentlemen?”

A roar of laughter went round the table, and if the General had wished to punish Colonel Welborne for his hesitancy in charging at Mahighar, he must have felt that he was avenged when he heard the jokes and quips levelled at the unfortunate man throughout the rest of the meal. Moreover, every man present would impart the jest to others, and the camp as well as the tent would quickly be ringing with the news of Welborne’s nervousness and the General’s drastic treatment of it. But though he laughed with the rest, he found a moment to growl to Eveleen under cover of the talk—

“By no means sure Welborne ain’t correct. But he had no business to tell Rickmer. I’m looking after him—watching Kamal-ud-din as a cat watches a mouse. What reason has he for funk? Long before the Arabits could walk over him I should be upon their rear.”

That he meant what he said was clear the next morning, when Captain Stewart rode out with a squadron of native cavalry, under orders to skirt round the enemy’s position and join Colonel Rickmer. If the enemy came out in force to prevent him, he was to send back a message at once, when the General would march to his assistance with horse, foot, and guns. In any case Colonel Rickmer was to be informed that Sir Henry would meet him on the morrow on the field of Mahighar—where nothing would induce the Arabits to tempt fortune a second time—and escort him into camp.

To every one’s astonishment this promise was kept to the letter, though—as Brian told his sister—the column commander had lost his head to such an extent that he might have been asking to be annihilated. Probably Colonel Welborne’s message persisted in recurring to his mind, despite the General’s cavalier comment, for his one idea seemed to be to get into safety with a run. He had brought with him from Sahar the women and children of his brigade, and a mass of baggage that would have made Sir Harry tear his hair, and how they had managed to get so far was a mystery.

“Stewart says the fellow might have intended all the time making a present of ’em to Kamal-ud-din,” said Brian—“like the Russian chap that dropped his children out of the sledge to divert the attention of the wolves from himself. There was the whole caravan strung out over the desert, straggling at its own sweet will, and Rickmer miles away in front, swearing at his drivers to hurry, for all the world as though he had been badly beat and was trying to get his guns off the field. Happily the enemy was a good match to him for foolishness, for one detachment only—just one—of Arabits turned up and began to be nasty when Stewart was trying to get the stragglers into line and protect their rear. When they opened a matchlock fire on the women and baggage, he thought it was getting beyond a joke, and sent an express to beg Rickmer to detach a troop for the rear. He had only six sowars with him—the rest were guarding the flanks,—but he charged with ’em and drove off the Arabits. Of course they came back when they saw they had him unsupported, and ’twas near an hour before the cavalry he had asked for turned up, bringing the cheerful news that Rickmer was still pushing hard for Qadirabad—he’d cot sight of the tower of the Fort, and it drew him like a magnet, you might say,—leaving the baggage and the non-combatants to look after themselves. Stewart’s blood was up—d’ye wonder?—and he told his horsemen to do their best while he went hell-for-leather after Rickmer, and found him uncommonly busy and excited getting his guns over a nullah. There was some plain speaking, I gather—I wonder now was there just a scrap or two of language unbecoming in a junior officer to his superior in rank?—and Stewart got two field-pieces, and galloped back with ’em helter-skelter. A few shots drove off the Arabits, and what was better, the sound reached the General and brought us all out to the rescue; we met Rickmer’s galloper on the way with the news he was attacked—but if Kamal-ud-din and his chiefs were not the most incapable set of muffs that ever had the cheek to stand up to a British army, Rickmer would be eternally disgraced—and rightly.”

Kamal-ud-din’s extraordinary failure to seize his opportunity was the talk of the camp that evening. The general opinion was that the young Khan shared the weakness of his elders for intoxicating drugs, and was incapable of giving orders at the moment, whilst his subordinates durst not act without them; but Sir Harry had found an explanation far more to his taste.

“It was chivalry—pure chivalry!” he told Eveleen, in all seriousness. “The spies tell me that as soon as he heard there were European women and children with the column he called off his troops and countermanded the attack which had been ordered. He said the Bahadar Jang had treated the Khans’ women with consideration, and he would treat the Feringhee women the same.”

“That was a body of horse that had already started—not his fault. A fine fellow that—a young man after my own heart. It does one good to be able to respect one’s enemy—as we did in the Peninsula, where the British soldier thought far more of his French opponents than of his bloodthirsty and treacherous allies.”

“And did the Spaniards know what you thought of them?” It seemed to Eveleen that this attitude must have led to difficulties.

“They couldn’t very well help it. We had trouble with ’em now and then. But how did it matter what they thought? We turned Napoleon out for ’em, worse luck!”

“I wonder are all allies so trying to the people that are helping them?” Eveleen spoke feelingly, for she had been doing her best to help the ladies from Sahar to settle down after their long march and final exciting experience, and they did not seem to her to be properly grateful. She did not realise that it was highly disconcerting to ladies of higher military rank to find “that Mrs Ambrose” established in the best set of rooms in the Residency—their wrath was not mollified by the explanation that it had been her home when her husband was Assistant to Colonel Bayard,—while they were relegated to less imposing apartments, or quartered in the garden-palace lately vacated by the Khans. Everything was in such a bad state of repair, too—with shot-holes in the walls very imperfectly patched up, and roofs far from water-tight,—and there were no European comforts to be had. It seemed to Eveleen that these good ladies thought considerably more about their furniture and food than about the impending crisis, and they declared that no one but a wild Irishwoman could have expected them to settle down contentedly amid such surroundings. To crown their misdeeds, they observed sympathetically, one after the other, that Richard was not looking at all well, and that men of his complexion were always the first to be affected by the sun. They followed this up by a recital of the precautions with which they pursued their own husbands—with the obvious implication that Mrs Ambrose was sadly lacking in this respect,—and when Eveleen replied with a furious denunciation of coddling, they shook their heads with a pleased solemnity that could only mean, “Just as I thought!” She relinquished her self-imposed duty at last in a huff, and during the evening—with natural inconsistency—tormented Richard, who had work to do, with sudden enquiries whether he was certain he really felt quite well.

In the morning she had forgotten her anxieties, and when Richard returned from office, was far more concerned to know whether the General was intending to review the newly arrived troops—which he could not tell her. They were breakfasting on the verandah, and as Eveleen expressed somewhat vigorously her opinion of people who could hear and remember everything but what was interesting, there came from the big shamiana opposite such a shout as made them both jump up and run to the steps. The General and his aides were rushing out—one man had still his fork in his hand,—snatching up any hats or caps available, and making for the cliff overlooking the river. Brian had the grace to tarry long enough to call out “Boats!” and Eveleen, always ready for any excitement, whether she understood its nature or not, promptly ran down after them. Richard came after her, and presented her reprovingly with her sun-hat, which she accepted without gratitude, since his forethought obliged her to stop and put it on. Arriving panting at the head of the path, she looked down the river, like all the rest. There was still a broad expanse of dry sandy ground below, but the channel was a little wider than on the day when the Asteroid and the Nebula had carried the besieged garrison into safety, for the snows were just beginning to melt on the Roof of the World. Up the channel from the direction of Bab-us-Sahel boats were coming, one after the other, their gunwales lined with scarlet-coated men who waved their caps and cheered as they saw the figures on the cliff. The General and his staff responded as joyfully as boys.

“The boats! the boats! the reinforcements from Bombay!” everybody called out to everybody else, and people began to run together from all parts of the camp. But while nearly all eyes were fixed on the boats coming up from the left hand, Frederick Lennox was looking fixedly in exactly the opposite direction, over the scrubby jungle which covered the low-lying land on the right.

“Hillo!” he said presently, then touched his uncle on the arm. “D’ye see those masts, sir? What can they be?”

The General looked and looked again, unable to believe his eyes. “As I’m a sinful man, the reinforcements by water from Sahar!” he cried. “Was ever anything so neat? ’Pon my honour, I’d march against Napoleon and the Grand Army now!”

“Really the old boy’s luck is positively amazing!” said Brian, as Sir Harry went a little way down the path to feast his eyes on the approaching craft. “Give you my word, he was in the very act of saying, ‘Now if only my reinforcements from Bombay and Sahar would come in! But that can’t be for a week at least, and I won’t let this chap bully me within five miles of my camp all that time, so Rickmer’s brigade must do my business.’ The words would hardly be out of his mouth when Stewart, who was sitting where he could see out of the tent door, called out, ‘There are boats—look!’ and we all tore out of the place as you saw us. Sure the General will be as happy now as the day is long—only the day won’t be half long enough for all he’ll want to be doing.”

Never, surely, had even Sir Harry, that champion hustler, put in such a day’s work. The new troops were out of their boats before they knew they had arrived, and the General was inspecting them and gloating over the howitzers and other war material they brought with them. A host of coolies was at work pitching their tents while they enjoyed an afternoon’s rest under the trees of the Khans’ garden, and then came combined manœuvres, in which the new arrivals and Colonel Rickmer’s force were brigaded with the General’s original troops, and ordered about and handled by the redoubtable veteran until they began to know their places and his methods. When they were at last dismissed to their well-earned repose, the General’s day was not done. Vakils had again arrived from Kamal-ud-din, and at his command been given a place whence they could see all the movements of the troops, then taken up and down the lines and bidden look well at everything, and finally dismissed with the order to go and tell their master all they had seen. But they were reluctant to depart, and reinforced by the young Khan’s Diwan or Chief Minister, who arrived late at night, they sat on the ground in Sir Harry’s tent, and talked and talked. This time it was his turn to offer Kamal-ud-din his life, and his chiefs their possessions, if they surrendered unconditionally on the morrow, but they were no more prepared to accept such terms than he had been. It was obvious they were trying to find out all they could, for they stayed on though there was nothing more to say, and started fresh quibbles whenever they were given leave to depart, until the General, his Munshi, and Richard Ambrose were all worn out with parrying their various questions. It was two in the morning before Sir Harry succeeded in inducing them to accept his dismissal as genuine, and they were ceremoniously escorted out. The General was wrapping his old cloak about him as Richard returned.

“I suppose they thought they would finish me with fatigue,” he grumbled. “This sort of thing tells on a man of sixty-one. Two hours’ sleep, Ambrose. Lie down anywhere and don’t waste any of it. We march at four.”

CHAPTER XIX.
THE SECOND ROUND.

It seemed only natural to Eveleen, who had learnt the hour of the start from Brian, to bind Ketty by promises and threats to wake her at half-past three, so that she was able not merely to ply Richard with coffee and sandwiches—an attention he received with tolerance rather than enthusiasm,—but to ride a short way with the army on its march. Unfortunately Richard did not take the same view. He was not going to be made a fool of before the new reinforcements by his wife’s sticking to him as if he was not to be trusted out by himself! Eveleen looked at him critically.

“Sure y’have got up too early, Ambrose, and your temper is spoilt for the day! It’s Brian I’ll ride with, don’t be afraid, and you can be cross all to yourself.”

“D’ye think I don’t know you have set your heart on emulating Lady Cinnamond by riding in the ranks, Mrs Ambrose? But this ain’t Salamanca, and I ain’t old Cinnamond. I tell you plainly I won’t have it.”

Richard snorted furiously. “Well, just understand this, if you please. If you attempt it, I’ll go sick and come straight back, rather than look like a figure of fun before the whole army.”

“Indeed and you have got your way now. Will I let my husband shame himself and me, and fail the General? Make your mind easy; I’ll not come. But listen now; my mind is easy too. I might have been afraid for y’if y’had started out this morning like a decent reasonable man, but now y’are so cross I need have no fear at all that anything will happen you.”

This assurance failed to mollify Richard to any particular extent, and he took his leave of her with distinct coldness. Nor was he specially pleased, when the force was at length in motion, marching eastwards through a blind maze of wooded nullahs and shikargahs cut up by canals, in which the whole enemy army might have been concealed close at hand, to hear Brian laugh suddenly, and on looking up to see Eveleen sitting on her horse on a hillock which commanded some approach to a view. She leaned forward eagerly and waved her handkerchief as they passed beneath her, and the General saluted and shook his fist at her in the same breath. It was to please Richard that she turned and rode back to camp as soon as the staff had gone by, but the ungrateful Richard, having saluted with extreme stiffness, was unaware of her consideration, since he refused to look at her again. Sir Harry and the rest thought he was anxious lest she might fall into the hands of the enemy—for the spies had brought word that Kamal-ud-din had moved from the position reconnoitred three days ago, and might be lying in wait in this tangle of woods and ravines, instead of waiting at his old headquarters to be attacked,—and tried to console him with assurances that, much as she deserved it, nothing worse was likely to happen to her, even if the Arabit scouts did appear, than a good fright. Sir Harry’s force, numbering five thousand men, was double that which he had led to victory at Mahighar, and he had been able to leave eight hundred to guard the camp and five hundred in garrison in the Fort, so that Kamal-ud-din would certainly keep his men well together, and not allow desultory raiding. But had Eveleen known what the General learned from a herdsman after a weary march of some miles, she might have had the fright Brian kindly desired for her. Kamal-ud-din had moved, not towards his original position, but towards Qadirabad, so that he was now on the left rear of the column, and threatening not only its communications, but also the city and the camp. But since she did not know, she was not alarmed, and unaware that the column had turned aside at right angles from its first line of march, only wondered, when the boom of the guns began, that the sound should seem so near.

She wandered about the house restlessly all morning, trying to guess at the changing course of the battle by the varying cannonade, and sorely tempted to ride out again and find her way to the hospital tents, that she might be as close to the fighting as she had been at Mahighar. Now and then an officer passed, from whom she learned that the battle was certainly taking place well to the north of the General’s line of march, but that there was no sign of the attack on the city which had been anticipated for the same moment. Tired out with anxiety, she sat down wearily at last on the verandah, looking out over the wooded country, and distinguishing in impossible places clouds of smoke that could only come from the guns. Then at last her waiting was rewarded, for two men rode into the compound—Brian, a gruesome figure in aggressive bandages and a deeply stained coat, and a native orderly who was keeping so close at hand as to suggest he had been supporting him on his horse. Eveleen dashed out—hatless, of course, but happily by this time there was shade on this side of the house.

“Not a bit of it.” Brian grinned languidly from the saddle. “Pricked my finger, that’s all.”

“Ah then, don’t try to tease now! Will I bring a chair to help you get down?”

“You will not. Go in and get a nice comfortable chair ready for me, and Nizam Ali will help me get to it. And—I say—salts or something!”

That this last request was a heartless ruse on Brian’s part to get her out of the way while he was helped down and into the house was clear to her when she heard him whistling “Jim Crow” as she rummaged for the salts, and on returning breathless found him established in a long chair and again grinning. He rewarded her efforts so far as to take a tremendous sniff at the salts and declare that he was “kilt,” even before he thanked and dismissed the trooper, and then lay back in the chair and laughed quietly.

“Not dis nigger. Why, d’ye think I’d be here but that my old lad said I was making too much mess of his nice clean battlefield, and ordered me off? The sawbones who tied me up wanted to put me in a doolie, regardless of the other poor chaps waiting, but I says in my best English History manner, ‘Brother,’ says I, ‘their need is greater than mine,’ beckoned to Nizam Ali, and came away on my own four feet—leastways on little Bawn’s. And here I am.”

“I’m sure y’are over-excited. Y’oughtn’t be talking so much. Brian!” a horrible suspicion darting into her mind—“what about Ambrose?”

“Riding hard, when I saw him last, with a message from the General to the cavalry not to chase the enemy too far, lest they’d be cut off before the infantry could come up.”

“Will you listen to the woman! Another victory? Of course it is—as big as Mahighar, if not bigger. But it’s got to have a name found for it, for did y’ever hear of such a name for a victory as Mussuck?”

“Mussuck? There’s some little bit of a village called that, I remember. So ’twas there you fought? But sure you were all going quite wrong when I saw you, then.”

“And would have done, but for a decent man minding cattle, who saved us a big disappointment, and Kamal-ud-din a big triumph. We had to turn almost straight back and march full two miles before we found him in the position he’d prepared for himself.”

“No, much nearer the city. Didn’t I tell ye ’twas at Mussuck? Place very like Mahighar. ‘Not much originality about them?’ says the General. Same little river, even—except that it had a bit of water in it by now, not just mud,—but farther down, of course, and ’twas on our left instead of across our front. It was two nullahs they had chosen for stopping us this time—one behind the other, tremendous places; shikargahs to right and left, village behind the left one, as per usual. Nullahs scarped everywhere, and every scrap of jungle and cover cleared away in front, of course, to give ’em a clear field of fire. They do know their business, those chaps, if they can find the place to suit ’em. Some fellow said he saw a European among ’em, but that ain’t like——”

“Now oughtn’t you be quiet and rest a little? I love to hear about it, but I’m afraid——”

“You needn’t be that. Why wouldn’t I get it clear in my own mind? We had a bit of a check just at first, for after all the jungle and the nullahs we’d been traversing, the army came out on the plain a good deal mixed up, and the General had to go from regiment to regiment straightening ’em out, instead of reconnoitring as he did at Mahighar. That might have done for us, for Keeling, who was exploring under fire, couldn’t get near enough to make certain how things lay. Somehow we all had the notion that the village behind the enemy’s right wasn’t held—the spies swore it. And what seemed to show they were concentrated on their left was that men would keep on running out from the edge of the wood there, take a good look at us, and run back again—we could see ’em through our glasses. What would be more natural than that they’d have an ambush there, as they did before, but without any wall to keep ’em from coming out and falling on us? So the General avoided that side, meaning to give ’em a good run under fire across the cleared space before they could reach us. Through an opening in the trees beyond the two nullahs, we could see the Arabits in great numbers hurrying to their right, and it looked for all the world as though the same idea had come to them and the General at the same moment—each determined to rush the village before t’other side could get there. But it was a trap again, though a different kind of one. They had the place packed with men already, and the men that were running were only in support. Eleven guns they brought to bear on us, and before ours could get into position to reply, our line wavered a bit, but there was never anything like falling back. The queer thing was that the moment we stuck, off went our cavalry on the right in a tremendous charge straight at the wood. Whether Keeling and Rickmer had taken to heart the General’s remarks on the slackness of the Bengallers at Mahighar, and thought he was in straits again and now was their time I don’t know, but ’twas the finest sight I ever saw. They plunged right down the nullahs and up again, all shouting their war-cries, and we stood staring after ’em till the red turbans and the gleaming swords were lost in the trees. If the wood had been held as we thought, ’twould have been madness and destruction, that charge, but ’twas not, and seeing the enemy as confounded as ourselves, the General rallied the infantry and led ’em on. I give you my word not a man faltered. The Queen’s —th led, as was their right after Mahighar, and they marched straight up to the entrenchments as steady as on parade. The Arabits tried to jump out on us with a howl, as they did that first time, but ’twas a mighty poor imitation. ’Twas our men jumped down among them instead, and we had a hand-to-hand fight all along that nullah and the next. We had ’em much more at our mercy this time—if you can call it that when they must have been six times our numbers,—for Keeling and Rickmer were pressing ’em from the right, and as fast as they got out of the nullah and ran for their lives, they only ran into the arms of the rest of our cavalry, which had skirted round the shikargah on the left, and was waiting to receive ’em and turn ’em back. We had a frightful time in the village, clearing ’em out of every house in turn, for they fought like tigers, and of course our guns could do nothing for fear of hurting us.”

“Just outside it. Chap made a cut at me wrong way about—up instead of down—nasty sort of blow. If it hadn’t been that I got in my cut at the same minute, and spoiled the force of his—well, the old man’s despatches would have regretted the loss of another promising young officer. So you were very near rid of me, don’t you know?”

“Ah now, don’t, then! I can’t bear to think of it. How do any of y’ever come out alive? Y’are sure”—with a break in her voice—“that Ambrose was safe after that?”

“Didn’t I say so? Keeling sent back a message to the General that he had cot sight of Kamal-ud-din’s elephant, and was going to pursue him to Umarganj if necessary, and the old man sent Ambrose to catch him up and see what direction he was taking. Couldn’t have the Khemistan Horse lost in the desert and perhaps cut off, you see.”

“There, now! your voice is quite weak and shaky, and it’s my fault for letting you talk so much. I wish Sir Harry would come—sure he’d soon send you to bed.”

“He may not come back at all to-night—that’s why I’d so greatly have liked to stay on the field. If he finds there’s reason to hope Kamal-ud-din ain’t got very far, he’ll risk everything to catch him and end the war at one blow, if I know him. But if he’s taken to the desert, then it’s a case of rest for the troops before they can push on farther.”

But Sir Harry did return that evening, though only for an hour. The joyful shouts of the soldiers in the camp heralded his appearance, and he rode into the compound looking very old and bent. After a word or two to the Munshi salaaming respectfully at the door of the great tent, he came across at once to the Residency.

“And what d’ye think of this fellow, ma’am?” he demanded of Eveleen as Brian staggered to his feet and supported himself by one of the verandah pillars. “No thanks to him that you have got him back safe, I can tell you! I found him riding furiously all over the battlefield, bleeding like a pig, looking for some other village to give its name to the day, because he wouldn’t have it put on his tombstone that he was mortally wounded at the battle of Mussuck!”

“And did he find one?” asked Eveleen, rather absently. It might have been that the coarseness of the General’s language—so unheard-of when speaking to a lady—betrayed unusual turmoil in his mind, or—had she really caught him trying to signal to Brian unperceived?

“Not the ghost of one! To get him to go home quietly, I had to decree that it should be for ever called the battle of Qadirabad, and he promised me to die happy on that condition.”

“Sir Harry!” her voice was sharp. “Y’are not here to cut jokes about Brian. There’s something wrong with Ambrose. What’s happened him?”

“No, he ain’t,” said Sir Harry gruffly—“if you mean dead—nor even wounded. He had a slight sunstroke, but happily a surgeon was at hand to bleed him, and he is recovering his senses in due course.”

Eveleen put her hand to her head. “But the sun is not hot yet—to speak of,” she said in a puzzled voice.

“He had fever on him this morning, it seems. It was a foolish business his setting out to ride all day in that state, but nobly foolish. You must be proud of him.”

“’Twas my fault—I ought have seen it—begged him to remain behind. I noticed he was cr—unlike himself.”

“Sure if that was the way of it, he’d have gone all the more, the more you begged him,” said Brian, trying rather unsuccessfully to improve matters. She looked at him as though she had not heard him.

“It’s my fault, I tell you. And now he’s sick, and away from me. Sir Harry, you’ll let me——”

“I won’t let you go to seek him, ma’am, for he’s coming to you, as fast as a Medical Department palanquin can bring him. We are encamped on the battlefield, but the wounded must return hither, that the hospital establishment may follow the army. So your mind may be at rest as far as that’s concerned.”

“Y’are very good, Sir Harry. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see everything is ready for him.”

“Why, Evie, he’ll not be here for hours yet!” remonstrated Brian, but the General signed to him to be silent.

“Do, ma’am, do! Can’t make too much of our brave fellows, can we? I must be off too.”

“But not without some refreshment.” Her hospitable instincts prevailed even at this moment of desolation. “Brian, bid the servants bring some food for the General, will you not?”

“Only too thankful to avoid transporting my rheumatic old carcase across the compound again before it’s necessary,” said Sir Harry, when Brian had summoned the butler and given him orders. “I have bid Munshi get the office establishment on the march, for I must have ’em with me since I’m deprived of poor Ambrose.”

“He ain’t worse than y’have allowed my sister believe, General?” with sudden anxiety.

“No, but it’ll be a long business, I fear. To ride at all was bad enough, but to accept that chase across country after Keeling was pure madness. Had I had the slightest notion——! But there you are. I came across two of the Queen’s —th as I left the battlefield—one crouched almost double by the roadside, his comrade trying to cheer him on to reach the hospital tents. I bade my orderly give the sick soldier a lift, and learned from t’other that his friend ought to have reported sick this morning, but refused on account of the approaching battle, and so marched and fought all day before yielding to nature’s imperious weakness. Others I hear of who received wounds in the attack on Rickmer’s baggage, and concealed ’em, lest they should be forbid to fight to-day. Could any enemy in the world defeat such men as these?”

“Did poor Ambrose get the message to Keeling, General?” asked Brian, as Sir Harry wolfed down bread and meat and drank coffee in a way that said much for his digestion, if little for his palate.

“No. Rickmer called off the pursuit when Keeling swears another half-hour would have seen Kamal-ud-din a prisoner in his hands. Never a word of this to Ambrose or your sister, remember. It was the poor fellow’s excess of zeal led him to over-estimate his powers.”

“Then he fell from his horse at the moment you said you feared Kamal-ud-din must have left sharpshooters in ambush to delay the pursuit, sir? when he failed to cross the space of empty ground you were watching with your telescope?”

“That was the place. The patrol I sent out found him lying unconscious, his horse feeding beside him. And you came straight here, as I bid you?”

“As straight as a swimming head would permit, General! Of course I was beset for news as I passed through the camp, but I told all I could to the first officer I met, and stationed a sentry to keep the curious from approaching this house, according to your orders, so everything has been quite quiet.”

“‘Quite quite!’” Sir Harry mimicked Brian’s pronunciation. “Good, I am glad to leave you here to be a support to your sister—possibly also a consolation to poor Ambrose. You and he must keep up one another’s spirits.”

“But sure you’ll let me rejoin you, sir? This scratch—not a cat’s scratch, I’ll allow, but equally not a tiger’s; will we say it’s a tiger-kitten’s?—can’t keep me laid up more than a day or two. One day, I’d say if I was asked, but I know what these medicos are when once they get their hands on you.”

“We march again to-morrow, as soon as the doolies that have brought the wounded hither rejoin. Why, my good fellow, are you blind not to see that all hangs on our catching Kamal-ud-din ek dum? With him in my hands, the last shot is fired, as I believe. But should he escape and raise another army, with the hot weather and the inundations coming on, he may bother us for another year. So hie after him! Let us hope the gentleman will have the politeness to wait for us at Khanpur, and not lead us away into the desert on an unmannerly wild-goose hunt for Umarganj.”

“Hard luck for you to lose him, General, when you so nearly had your fingers on him again!”

“Precious hard luck! But no, I won’t have a word said against my luck—my most astounding good luck! That Rickmer’s column should get in safe, despite its commander’s utmost efforts, that both my reinforcements, from up and down the river, should arrive in the very nick of time, that we should run across that herdsman this morning, and learn that while we were flourishing forth to fight empty air the enemy was in full march for our communications—what d’ye call that? Nay, I will go further, and instead of what in our pagan style we call luck, say that the hand of Providence has been manifest throughout. There is a great future before Khemistan—I’m convinced of it. I see all the hoarded wealth of Central Asia pouring down the river, and making Bab-us-Sahel a port richer and more extensive by far than Bombay. (As soon as I have time to think of anything but fighting, my first care shall be the provision of a proper harbour.) I see the great city of Victoria rising on the upper river, occupying the whole of the site now covered by the wretched hovels of Sahar and Bahar and the mouldering ramparts of Bori—the scene of an annual fair beside which the glories of Novgorod grow pale, where the silks of Gamara and the embroideries of China are spread forth to entrance the eyes of the simple Arabit bringing for sale the precious gums of his mountain deserts and the wiry beasts of his own breeding. I see that Arabit—son and brother of the grim fighters whose piled corpses I passed with unavailing horror and regret on my way hither,—his immemorial weapons laid aside at the behest of British power, not merely cultivating a desire for the manufactures of the West, and thereby benefiting my beloved native land, but perceiving for the first time the blessings of peace and the advantages of commerce, and carrying the tale to the dwellers in his rugged glens. Positively there’s no end to the wonders that will follow naturally upon this day’s conquest. The price is heavy—those gory heaps, not merely of the enemy, but of our own best and bravest,—but Heaven is my witness that had the choice lain with me, not one drop of blood had been shed. My hands are clean, for all that I have been ‘a man of war from my youth.’”

“Who could deny it, General? Certainly no one that knows you, or has taken part in the campaign. The enemy themselves will be the first to admit it, when they are learning under your guidance the lessons of peace as they have done—not by their own good will, I’ll confess—those of war.”

Undoubtedly Brian possessed to perfection the art of smoothing down the lion. Sir Harry’s rugged countenance radiated pleasure and contentment, though he felt bound to protest.

“Well, well, we mustn’t make too sure! Yet it seems as though Heaven had designs for me as well as for Khemistan. To be riding gently up and down for three mortal hours at Mahighar between opposing forces never more than fifteen yards apart, the target of both—for when the —th got excited and fired high their bullets came rattling about my head—and yet to go unscathed! To lead my soldiers unwittingly into the line of fire to-day, then down into that nullah, with matchlocks directed at my heart in dozens from the farther bank, and those fiery swordsmen dashing upon me whirling their deadly blades! Delany, I found my sword-hilt smashed by a bullet; after I had sent you away one of the enemy’s magazines blew up close to me; yet I was unhurt. Not even Black Prince was touched, poor beast!—which at Mahighar was neither more nor less than a miracle—though my orderly behind me was unhorsed both then and to-day. Nor have I been compelled to defend my own life at the cost of another’s. To-day an Arabit ran at me with his sword uplifted. I had a pistol ready, and could have shot him, but a soldier stopped him with his bayonet before he could reach me. Even my staff seem to share my immunity. Though riding hither and thither on errands in the thickest of the fray, not one of you has even been hit until you took this hurt of yours, and you came by that through your thirst for hand-to-hand fighting, against which I have warned you. There is indeed something remarkable in all this. D’ye know the people have found a new name for me? Several times as I rode here I saw groups of ’em bowing profoundly at the roadside, and on my orderly calling out that the Bahadar Jang was in a hurry and could hear no petitions now, their sole reply was to prostrate themselves reverently, ejaculating ‘Padishah!’”

“And why not, sir?” asked Brian heartily—he had been fearing the General had heard himself mentioned by the less complimentary title of “Brother of Satan.” “Who would be so fit as yourself to administer the territory you have added to Her Majesty’s dominions?”

“Well, that ain’t for me to say——” Sir Harry was obviously not ill-pleased. “The Governor-General will select whom he chooses—though I don’t pretend to be ignorant of his appreciation of the efforts of the army. That dâk which came in before we marched this morning was Lord Maryport’s, containing his congratulations to us on Mahighar. I have had no time to read it through, but it contained some awards—Keeling is promoted aide-de-camp to the G.-G., I remember—and he promises further promotions when he has been able to study my despatches more fully. To be elated by the praises of a civilian—pshaw! am I as weak as that? I trust not, I believe not. Praise from the Duke, now—the assurance that the humblest of his Grace’s pupils, endeavouring to put in practice lessons learnt from that great man, had made no heinous mistake,—that would gratify my most greedy desires, and lacking that, I shall remain unsatisfied. Put it that Lord Maryport appoints me Governor of Khemistan, as you suggest. I am touched by such a proof of his lordship’s confidence, and naturally strive to acquit myself to his satisfaction, but if he desired to do me a personal favour, he could please me no better than by sending me back to my wife and girls. What are Khemistan and the winning of battles to me compared with them?”

“But sure you’ll have both, General. Lady Lennox and the young ladies won’t consent to be kept at Poonah much longer with you up here, if I know ’em.”

“Possibly it may be feasible to get them here after the hot weather. Then indeed I should have nothing left to wish for. But I must be moving. I am glad to leave you here to look after your sister. See to it that she never rides alone, by the bye. Munshi was telling me some foolish tale of Kamal-ud-din’s believing that our luck resides in her presence with us, and no doubt he is capable of seeking to transfer my good fortune to himself. The lower he sees his cause sunk, the more likely he is to attempt to re-establish it by some desperate expedient. And see that she don’t drive the unfortunate Ambrose mad by her affectionate assiduities, if you can.”

Sir Harry chuckled. “Give the poor fellow the support of your presence when possible. But don’t attempt to dissuade your sister from a close attendance on him, for you’ll get the worst of it. Never interfere with a woman in her own province. She knows what will bring her consolation, though you mayn’t realise it. That’s the advice of one who has had a good deal to do with women.”

“I’m sorry the association has been so unfortunate as to teach you such wisdom, General.”

“You young dog!” Sir Harry turned back on the verandah step and chuckled again. “But you’re wrong there. I thank Heaven no woman has ever known sorrow through me. Many are the tears I have kissed away, but never caused one to flow. And you are thinking, you irreverent young rascal”—with a renewed chuckle—“that to be kissed by a battered old phiz like mine would be more likely to draw tears than to allay ’em. I know you young fellows!”

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thought, sir!” with virtuous indignation. “But all the same, I’d give a good deal to be sure you don’t draw floods of ’em from my little Sally when I ask you for her, before you say yes!” he added sotto voce, as he supported himself by the pillar while Sir Harry mounted his horse and called out a farewell message to Eveleen.

CHAPTER XX.
IF SHE WILL, SHE WILL.

It would be pleasant to state that the shock Eveleen had received turned her in one hour into a normal wife, and that feminine intuition taught her to care for her husband in his weakness without jarring him by too great eagerness, but it would not be in accordance with the facts. Perhaps the ladies who disliked her were justified in saying that she was unwomanly. At any rate, the truth remains that she was absolutely incapable of realising that there are times—and a good many of them—when the soul of a sick person yearns for nothing on earth but to be let alone. She could not let Richard alone. If she was not doing some totally unnecessary and undesired thing for him, she was thinking of something to do, and if she could not think of any thing, she was asking him to suggest something. His bearer knew exactly how to make him comfortable in bed, but it would have been asking too much of Eveleen to expect her to believe this. She was quite certain she could arrange things more to his taste than any one else, and she arranged them complacently to her taste, only to see a possible improvement in less than five minutes, and to proceed to make it. Richard’s hours were passed in undergoing a continual series of experiments—each of which had to be talked about beforehand, discussed while it was in progress, and made the subject of mutual congratulation when it was over, until the next inspiration dawned on Eveleen’s mind. He could not quite decide whether the talking made it worse or better. It added the tortures of anticipation to those of realisation, certainly, but it might have been worse if he had been seized upon without warning. He was too weak to protest, too weary to be sarcastic, though he derived not merely bodily satisfaction, but a glimmering of amusement, from the air of portentous patience with which his bearer would take any and every opportunity of the Beebee’s absence to reverse each and all of her arrangements, and make his master comfortable in his own way. Perhaps it was as well that Eveleen’s inventive brain provided her with so many new and infallible ideas for the better treatment of the sick, since she could never be quite sure that the arrangement she found in force on her return might not have been her own latest experiment but one, and not the bearer’s at all. Her satisfaction in having her husband all to herself, and being able to do everything for him—she told him so perpetually—was so complete that Richard had not the heart to disturb it, and sufferance being the badge of the bearer’s tribe, he refrained likewise. The surgeon was the only person whose authority she acknowledged—to a certain extent,—and he knew better than to wound her, and probably provoke a scene, by throwing doubts on her capacity as a nurse. What he did, and earned thereby the patient’s sincerest gratitude, was to insist on her taking regular exercise—or in the enthusiasm of her self-sacrifice she would have forsworn even her beloved rides. The doctor used to detect, or so he imagined, a faint smile in the eyes of the man on the bed when he took upon himself, with friendly violence, to propel Mrs Ambrose from the sick-room. “Just a short ride, my dear madam, beside your good brother’s palkee”—for the surgeons had fulfilled Brian’s darkest anticipations by condemning him to a recumbent position and no riding for a week at least—“to cheer him up and give you a little change of scene. Otherwise”—darkly—“we shall have you unable to resume your kind care of Ambrose to-morrow, and what would become of him then?” with, it is to be feared, a perceptible wink directed towards the patient.

Richard’s constitution—mental as well as physical—must have been a good one, for he succeeded in surviving not merely his own imprudence on the day of the battle, but his wife’s nursing after it, and in arriving at the point when the surgeon said cheerfully, “Now we ought to see some improvement every day!” But the forecast was not justified. There was no relapse, but also no further improvement. The patient remained in the same state day after day—unwilling or unable to attempt exertion of any kind, still asking merely to be let alone. It was only natural that Eveleen should become impatient. Her active mind had run ahead of reality so far as to picture him convalescent and established out of doors in the shade, with herself fetching and carrying for him and anticipating his slightest wish. The trifling drawback that there was no shade out of doors did not at first suggest itself to her. The hot weather was coming on fast, and the emerald greenery which had made the country round Qadirabad such a refreshing sight to Indian eyes was growing brown and parched. Happily the Residency had been built to suit the climate, with thick walls and heavy chunamed verandahs, and an abundant supply of the mud-brick ventilators evolved by local talent—erected on the roof to catch every breath of air, and convey it in the form of wind down a kind of chimney into each room, accompanied by a disproportionate quantity of dust. But even in the Residency Eveleen gasped for breath behind the close-drawn blinds, and felt that life was only worth living when night and darkness made it possible to move about again outside, though only to find that all her favourite leafy spots were sere and dry. Then—probably by force of contrast—the thought of Bab-us-Sahel and the sea suggested itself to her, and instantly her mind was made up that a trip to Bab-us-Sahel was what Richard needed to restore him to health. Of course he would never shake off his lassitude here, with the hot breath of the desert blasting the vegetation and burning everything up. A voyage down the river—peacefully floating onwards night and day, drawing nearer each hour to real sea-breezes—that was what would cure him, and he must and should have it. She said so—without a thought of encountering opposition—to Brian, just promoted to a gentle ride morning and evening instead of the humiliating palkee, and was astonished and wounded to find that he did not agree with her.

“Can’t you leave the poor fellow alone?” he demanded. “Sure he only wants not to be teased and worried.”

“But who teases and worries him, I’d like to know? It’s rousing he wants—any one could see that.”

“I will not. Don’t I know what my own husband wants better than any doctor?”

“Does he not, indeed?” triumphantly. “I asked him would he like it, and he said he would greatly.”

“I wonder did he even know what you were talking about? Plenty of times I don’t believe he’s so much as listening.”

“But see here, Evie, the floods will be coming down any day now, and you wouldn’t be safe in any country boat—only a steamer, and you know there ain’t one to spare.”

“Sure that’s the very reason we ought start at once—to make the voyage before the floods begin. They don’t come till a full fortnight after this—I was asking about it this morning—and that’ll give us oceans of time.”

“You can never tell. They would as likely have begun a fortnight ago—only they have not. Anybody will tell you there’s no reckoning on ’em.”

“Well, I can’t help that——” with a sudden shifting of her ground. “I tell you we are going.”

“You can’t go without getting leave. Even if the doctor would let you, Ambrose is on the staff, and you can’t go carrying him off to t’other end of nowhere without a word to the General.”

“Will you wait for the answer? Nonsense, Evie! y’are behaving like a bit of a child. Look now what I’ll do for you. I’ll go see the General and tell him all about it. He’ll be at Khanpur—or maybe even on his way back here, and I suppose you will take what he says from his own mouth. If he thinks it safe you will go, and if not, you stay here like a rational being. You can trust him. Is that settled now?”

“I’ll be quite satisfied if I once see the General and settle it with him,” agreed Eveleen—which was not quite the explicit pledge Brian would have exacted had he been giving his full mind to the matter. But Brian was uncomfortably conscious of ulterior motives in his opposition to the plan. He was arguing quite as much for his own benefit as Richard’s. The General would give him leave to escort his sister and the invalid to Bab-us-Sahel, he was sure—only too readily, indeed, for he did not want to go. He wanted to be back at his proper work—not leaving Stewart and Frederick Lennox to win all sorts of laurels without him. Khanpur had fallen without a blow—Khemistan is full of Khanpurs, but this was Kamal-ud-din’s pleasure-capital on the edge of the desert, quite distinct from his grim fortress of Umarganj in its deepest depths. The inhabitants met the Bahadar Jang with acclamations, and testified the utmost gratitude to him for delivering them from the Arabit tyranny, but they could only hand over the shell without the kernel. Kamal-ud-din, with his baggage and the remains of his army, had escaped into the desert, presumably to Umarganj, and Sir Harry settled down, with what patience he could command—which was very little—to wait at Khanpur while his subordinates continued the pursuit. It was not etiquette for him to move against Umarganj in person, lest so great a potentate should incur the disgrace of a check before a small desert fort, and he was beginning to pay some attention to Indian opinion, which he had despised so heartily when he landed. But he learned to wish that he had disregarded it on this occasion, for Kamal-ud-din contrived marvellously to baffle his pursuers. He was heard of in many places—now far ahead of his enemies, then at the spot they had just left, and at this time there was a rumour that he had managed to elude the troops altogether, and break back towards the river. With the hot weather and the inundations close at hand, this was a serious matter, and Brian anticipated a regular drive—a combined effort to put an end once and for all to the young Khan’s power for mischief. Little wonder, then, that Eveleen’s insistence on the trip to Bab-us-Sahel failed to meet with sympathy.

Being anxious to get back to active service at the earliest possible moment, Brian had obeyed orders so virtuously with regard to his wound, that the surgeons were quite glad to have an opportunity for rewarding him. His request was so modest—merely to ride out to Khanpur with a supply convoy, which must necessarily travel slowly and by night, pay his respects there to the General, and return, thus at once testing his strength and increasing it, and the doctors sped him joyfully. So did Eveleen. He felt bitterly afterwards that he ought to have extorted a promise from her that she would make no move until his return, but it is probable that at the time she had no thought of anticipating it. According to her wont, she was entirely convinced that things were going to happen as she wished, and referred to Brian’s mission as though the General was merely to be informed politely of the proposed journey instead of being asked to permit it. Brian found this trying, and ventured to point out the misconception, whereupon she faced round upon him with flashing eyes.

“D’ye tell me Sir Harry would have the heart to keep Ambrose here sick when a month or so at Bab-us-Sahel would set him up entirely? It’s yourself is making the difficulty, Brian, and if you say any more I’ll know you don’t want us to go.”

This was precisely the case, but it seemed rather heartless to admit it to an affectionate wife torn with anxiety for her husband, and Brian said no more. His disobliging attitude rankled in Eveleen’s mind for a while after he started, but as so often happens, it was opportunity that provided the impulse to action. She was sitting with Richard as usual, and after a night largely sleepless by reason of the heat, was dozing in her chair—not restfully, but spasmodically. She was too tired even to resent actively the fact that the bearer had seized upon the chance of doing something for his master, and was remaking the bed—if it could be called making when there was so little to make. He was talking, too, and Richard was answering drowsily, or rather acquiescing, at due intervals. It was something about a Parsee trader whose business required his immediate presence at Bombay. He had secured boats and a guard of armed men for the voyage down the river to Bab-us-Sahel, but though he was intensely anxious to get there before the floods began, he was horribly afraid of the wild tribes plundering on the banks, and would give anything for the countenance and protection of European fellow-travellers. By Richard’s murmured assents, the information evidently conveyed nothing to him, but Eveleen was wide awake by this time, and sat up suddenly.

“How did you hear this Firozji would like to take European passengers in his boat, bearer?” she asked—in Persian which was very much of the “station” order, but which long practice enabled Abdul Qaiyam readily to understand. But he did not seem very clear about his answer. The matter had been talked about among the servants. They might have heard of it from Mr Firozji’s servants—he did not know. Eveleen suspected at once that her desire to go down the river had been discussed—as everything was discussed—by the servants, who were always at hand to see and hear, and that one of them knew sufficient of Mr Firozji’s affairs to conceive the idea of bringing the two parties together in return for a tip from the Parsee, and possibly another from herself. But to quarrel with the means by which her wish might be attained would indeed be to look a gift-horse in the mouth, and she questioned the bearer further, finding him better informed than his previous vagueness might have suggested. To secure the escort of Europeans, Mr Firozji would be willing to give up to them his own large and comfortable boat, occupying a smaller one himself, and his servants would undertake catering and cooking, so that only personal attendants need be taken. This clinched the matter. Eveleen bade Abdul Qaiyam summon Mr Firozji to wait upon her as soon as possible, and then turned her attention to the not unimportant detail of getting the doctor’s leave for the move. She met the poor man with shock tactics.

“Such a wonderful chance!” she cried triumphantly when he came in on his evening visit—“splendid, I’d say, only the General hates the word so. You know the way I have been longing and wishing to get Ambrose down the river, but there wouldn’t be any boats going?”

It was the first the surgeon had been told of it officially, but he also had servants, and they also talked. Therefore he was able to answer with truth, “I have heard of it, certainly.”

“Well, and now here’s the very thing—old Firozji in the Bazar going down with more boats than he wants, all in a hurry to avoid the floods, don’t you know. He’ll be glad of European passengers, we’ll be glad to travel with him, so did y’ever hear anything nicer?”

“I am not surprised at his welcoming European fellow-travellers, but I doubt your finding him the safest of company. He’s afraid of the Codgers, of course.”

These were the Kajias, the wildest of the wild tribes of Lower Khemistan, who in the mouth of the British troops naturally became the Codgers, and their Khan the King of the Codgers. The Kajias it was who had been so bold as to raid the outlying houses of Bab-us-Sahel, and Sir Henry had sent the Khan a stern reproof and orders to come in and surrender. Eveleen laughed as she thought of it.

“And the Codgers will be afraid of us. Sure the General has put terror upon them—so that’s all right. After these two victories no one would dare touch a European.”

“Ah, then, don’t but at me! Be good and kind like yourself, and help me to make my bandobast in time.”

“I haven’t seen Firozji yet, but the way the bearer spoke I’d say he would start to-night if he could—and what could be better? I mean”—she explained kindly—“that Ambrose won’t have the worry of looking forward. He’ll wake up out of this drowsy state and find himself on the beautiful cool water, and he will be pleased!”

“There’s something in that,” said the surgeon meditatively, and went and looked at Richard, in whose eyes he caught a fleeting gleam of recognition, which passed as quickly as it came. “But I fear you won’t find it particularly cool on the river. The glare from the sand and the water will be precious trying, after the shade here. You don’t know what it means to be cooped up in a small boat in the hot weather, with nothing but a mat roof between you and the sun, and no possibility of finding even a rock or a tree to shelter you.”

“But it won’t be for very long,” cheerfully. “And nothing could be hotter than ’tis here.”

The surgeon was well aware of the contrary, but Eveleen looked so tired and washed-out that he could not bring himself to dash her hopes. He remembered another objection, however. “But what about getting leave? You can’t spirit away the General’s political assistant without asking him.”

“Why, now, what could be better?” she cried joyfully. “My brother has gone to see Sir Harry and get leave for this very trip, only I never thought we’d find a passage so easily. Sir Harry can’t refuse, and Brian must come on after and overtake us.”

“He will not, I’ll answer for him. ’Twould be as much as to say he didn’t wish Ambrose would get better.”

“I have no doubt you would tell him so, ma’am. And you ain’t afraid of the responsibility of looking after your husband with no doctor at hand?”

“Why, what can doctors do for him?” ungratefully. “Ah, now”—realising what she had said,—“you know what I mean. You have done all you can—you said so,—and here he lies in this state, and you can get him no further. You’ll tell me what I’ll do if he seems worse, and I’ll do it. Why would I be frightened at all?”

“I don’t see that the voyage can do him any harm so long as you ain’t shipwrecked or attacked by the Codgers,” said the surgeon dubiously; “and at Bab-us-Sahel you will be able to turn him over to Gibbons. But for pity’s sake don’t go and get marooned on a sandbank, or besieged in some barren spot on the shore without a bit of shade, till your brother comes and rescues you. I can’t answer for Ambrose if he’s exposed to the sun again, remember. The heat is bad enough; you will have to keep the bearer pouring water over him most of the day in any case, I expect.”

“I will, I will; and if we have to be besieged I’ll be sure to pick out a shikargah or some other nice place. And you will see about a pass for us, if one’s wanted, like the angel that y’are, and see that no one would try to stop us, will you not?”

“But I would gladly keep you back myself until your brother was here to take charge of you, if I didn’t know it would mean that you would probably be prevented from going at all. Hang it, ma’am! I wish you had sent me a chit to tell me what you wanted. How is a man to consider things coolly with a flood of blarney pouring on his head?”

“But sure I don’t want you to consider things—only to do them,” said Eveleen innocently, and he went off laughing. That morning it would have seemed absurd that she should actually find her wishes fulfilled by the evening, but so it happened. Mr Firozji, a short elderly man, who contrived somehow to be both stout and wizened at the same time, was evidently waiting outside for the doctor to go. He was very rich, very timid, and so grateful for the prospect of having Major and Mrs Ambrose as fellow-passengers that he would have promised almost anything to secure them, and Eveleen had to insist that they should pay their share of the boat hire and other expenses.

“’Twould be a fine joke against Ambrose to save his pocket by putting him under an obligation to a black man, but I won’t be teasing him when he’s so ill,” she said virtuously to herself. “Though Firozji would maybe think it only fair to pay for the protection of our presence,” she added a little ruefully. “It’s well I’m not timid, for it looks as if my courage would have to do the whole party.”

It was not the first time in her life that she had felt nervous over the fulfilment of one of her impulsive wishes, but she had never had the feeling quite so strongly as to-night. Abdul Qaiyam and Ketty had it too, for they both enquired anxiously if she was not going to wait for the young Sahib. She was obliged to be very firm and cheerful with them over the process of packing, realising that they would not be sorry if they could manage to delay things till the opportunity was lost. Despite the heat, she flew about from the sick-room to her own room and then to the verandah, deciding what must be taken, and seeing with her own eyes that it was packed. Abdul Qaiyam would never let his master go short, she knew—if Richard suffered it would be through forgetfulness, not malice,—but she had an idea that she herself might find various things lacking that were indispensable to comfort unless she looked after them herself. Richard remained in the same lethargic state until the servants lifted him to carry him down to the boat. Then there came another of those brief flashes of full consciousness, and he looked disturbed—even protesting. Eveleen had a moment of terror lest her plan should fall through even now. She bent over him and smiled into his face.

“Off to Bab-us-Sahel!” she said brightly. “Do y’all the good in the world!”

He seemed to try to say something, but in the effort the drowsiness came over him again, and she was guiltily conscious that she was glad. Once get him safely on board, and he might regain command of his senses as soon as he liked. He was certain to make a fuss—especially about her not waiting for Brian’s return—but she would point out triumphantly that his return to consciousness was the best possible proof of the wisdom of her action. The surgeon came to see them on board, and gave anxious directions as to what was to be done if various things happened, and she listened and did her best to label them and stow them away in the proper compartments of her mind. A number of friends were waiting to see them off, for the sudden journey had given every one the idea that Richard had had a serious relapse, and the only chance of saving his life was to take him at once to Bab-us-Sahel, regardless alike of the unpropitious season and the dangers of the way. They were very quiet and sympathetic as he was carried down the path, but a certain revulsion of feeling was perceptible when Eveleen followed. Ambrose looked no worse than he had done for days, and Mrs Ambrose certainly had not the look of strain that the situation demanded. Just a little anxious, no doubt, as any woman is when she is trying to remember whether she has got everything before starting on a journey, but with a look of something like triumph as well. The condolences and good wishes fell rather flat, and as they returned up the cliff by torchlight the ladies told their husbands that either Mrs Ambrose was trying to get rid of the Major by carrying him off away from medical aid, or she was going down the river for some purpose of her own, regardless of the effect on him.

The chill of disapproval made itself felt, and Eveleen was conscious of depression of spirits. The boat was as comfortable as had been promised, their possessions were easily arranged so as to leave ample room for moving about, and one or two suggestions which the doctor made for the invalid’s comfort were instantly carried out. Yet she did not feel happy. The surgeon’s last remark had been that they ought to have a guard of soldiers—he was certain the General would have sent one had he been there,—and anyhow, where were these armed servants of Firozji’s? Mr Firozji explained anxiously that a boat had gone to fetch them, and they would catch up the party below the camp, and the doctor said he hoped it was all right, but his tone was doubtful. Eveleen remembered it when the boatful of guards joined the other two. They were armed, certainly—to the teeth, but they were a wild-looking set, more like outlaws from the hills than the servants of a law-abiding elderly merchant. But had Mr Firozji said they were his servants? She could not remember that he had, and it looked very much as though he had selected his guardians from among the masterless men who had been left without occupation by the defeat of the Khans. If she had guessed that he had carried one of the root principles of Indian housekeeping so far as to guard against trouble from the Kajias by going to some trouble to obtain members of the tribe as his escort, she would have been still more uneasy, but she told herself that it was too late to turn back now, and she must hope for the best. She took out Richard’s pistols, and made sure that they were loaded, and determined to sleep with them under her pillow and a supply of ammunition within reach of her hand. After all, Brian ought to catch them up in two days at most—less if he took a fast boat and kept the crew up to their work. It did not occur to her that Brian might be in no hurry to get back from Khanpur. He was a man of many friends, and there was plenty to hear from all of them, and he had no particular objection to leaving Eveleen to cool her heels at Qadirabad, as he believed, for a day or two. The longer his return was delayed, the more likely was she to have some new plan in her head—completely ousting the Bab-us-Sahel one,—or the floods might even have begun, and the journey be out of the question.

The surgeon’s warning came back to Eveleen many times in the course of the next day, and when evening came she would readily have confessed that at the Residency she had not known what heat was. In her anticipations, the voyage had offered all the advantages of a steamer except its speed, coupled with the absence of smoke and smell, and the delight of being near the water. But she found that with the greater speed of the steamer went the pleasant sensation of moving air, and that the long hot hours when there was no breeze to fill the sails, and the river-current seemed incredibly slow, provided a new form of torture—such as might be experienced by a speck of dross on the mirror-like surface of a huge cauldron of molten metal. Even Richard was conscious of it, as she could not but see. He did not recognise her—not even her voice when she spoke to him,—but he gasped feebly, with now and then a pitiful little moan. The fear gripped her that he might die before her eyes, and with threats and bribes she induced one of the boatmen and a servant of Mr Firozji’s to keep the roof of the cabin continually wet with buckets of water, while Abdul Qaiyam performed the same service for his master beneath it. It was no light task, for the heat seemed to dry things at once, and leave them even drier than before; but she threw all her energy into the business of keeping the men at their work, and when evening came her husband was a little easier. She had a moment to rest, and to notice what she had not done before—the threatening look of the sky. Mr Firozji, in a quavering voice which sounded absurdly small for his substantial bulk, opined that they were going to have a thunderstorm, and Eveleen did not need him to tell her that if this extended far up the river, it would mean that the dreaded inundation would begin at once. Other people realised this as well, for the lazy boatmen began to work with some appearance of energy, and the headman of the guards came into Mr Firozji’s boat to urge some course of action upon him, which he refused, though with a fluttering politeness which betrayed alarm. Since there was still no breeze, it was necessary to pole the boats along, as this wide unsheltered channel was not a safe place in which to be caught by the storm; and the boatmen poled to such good purpose that before the rapid darkness fell, the flotilla was moored under the lee of an island—or rather sandbank—which promised some protection from wind and current.

CHAPTER XXI.
WELL AND TRULY LAID.

Still the storm tarried. Supper was served, and Eveleen made a pretence of eating, lest the servants should attribute her lack of appetite to fear. Then they went away to have their food—Ketty eating in self-righteous solitude, while Abdul Qaiyam fraternised with the boatmen, who had kindled a fire on the island to cook their rice. Eveleen envied them as they sat in the smoke, for it served to keep away mosquitoes and other flying pests, while she durst not light a candle for fear of filling the cabin with the winged intruders. Alone with her unconscious husband, she kept a dreary vigil, fearful of she knew not what. She remembered that Richard had seemed about to say something when the boat with the guards came up, but the momentary impulse had passed, and he had shown no inclination to speak since. What was it that had troubled him? Could it be that he had recognised any of the men? But even so, what could the guards do, even if ill-disposed? They might intend robbery, but the modest belongings of the pair would be poor booty compared with the danger of provoking the certain vengeance of the Bahadar Jang. Or if they were indeed adherents of the Khans, their object might be simply to avenge the wrongs of their former masters; and Eveleen shuddered as she remembered what had befallen an invalid officer, on his way down the river, at the hands of some of Khair Husain Khan’s servants. Dragged from his boat shivering with fever, the sick man had pleaded with the robbers, as he thought them, to leave him his clothes, because he was so cold, and they had responded by cutting off his head. Sir Harry had acted as might have been expected of him, informing the Khan he would hang him from the round tower of the Fort unless the guilty servants were given up. They were produced in an hour, and suffered the penalty their master escaped, though it went sorely against the grain with Sir Harry to spare Khair Husain and punish his tools. That example ought to serve as a salutary warning, surely?

But Eveleen could not take comfort. The servants had returned and made things ready for the night, and she had lain down on her bed, though knowing she could not sleep. Every sense seemed to be more than commonly alive, as though the coming storm, which had lulled Richard into lethargy, merely stimulated her. Theoretically no one was awake within miles of her—for what was the use of posting sentries on an uninhabited island in the middle of a wide river?—but the air was full of little unaccountable noises. A feeble soughing wind that went and came, distant irritable growlings of the storm, the rattling, rather than rustling, of the withered grass and rushes—these sounds she could identify, but there were others whose meaning eluded her. Of course it was only the lapping of the water that sounded like whispers, and when one might think some one had dropped a weapon it was merely the snapping off of a dead branch by its own weight; but she wished they would not happen. The blinds at the ends of the cabin were rolled up to allow the free passage of air, and she lay looking out at the leaden sky, with no companionable stars to brighten it, and listening to the sounds, and there fell upon her at last an agony of terror. It had always been her boast that she did not know what nerves were, but she would never make it again. The beating of her own heart sounded to her like the rise and fall of a tremendous piston, such as she had once heard in a Dublin factory, filling the whole earth and sky; and as she cowered before its relentless thud, she trembled with cold, though the slightest movement made her aware that her whole frame was streaming with perspiration. She who had been afraid of nothing was afraid of everything—the place, the time, the weather, the solitude, the company, the silence, the sounds,—what she saw and what she did not see.

She shook herself angrily free from the overmastering terror at last—or at any rate, which perhaps showed equal courage, she acted as if she did. Struggling from the bed and to her feet—for she found she must put forth all her strength, as though she were really being held down by a powerful hostile hand,—she threw on a dressing-gown and groped her way forward. The old bearer, curled up like a dog beside his master, heard her and looked up curiously: she saw his bright eyes like a dog’s in the dark, lighted by some gleam behind her, perhaps the ashes of the dying fire on the shore. She stood looking out, but there was nothing to see. Dark sky, dark water—a perfect pall of darkness brooding over everything,—and on her left a slightly deeper darkness which showed the position of the island and its ragged grass and shrubs. The voices of the night were whispering as before, and again she felt that terrible sensation of helplessness. Once she opened her lips to pray, but her pride was not broken yet. “And how would I pray,” she asked herself sharply, “when I know every bit of it’s my own doing?”

She staggered as she spoke, and caught at the framework of the cabin to steady herself. What had made the boat lurch suddenly—some wave which was the result of the storm higher up, its precursor here? She looked more narrowly at the water. Was it fancy, or did she see round things moving in it? And surely there were strange amorphous shapes where there had been none before? Her heart stood still. The change, if change there was, was so soundless, so ghostly. But the thought of the supernatural passed from her mind with a shock. The boat was moving. Not merely swaying at its moorings as the current tried to suck it away from the protecting island, but moving out into the stream and leaving the island behind. Wild thoughts of crocodiles rushed into her mind. Could they possibly bite through stout ropes and tow a boat along, or even leave it to float at its own sweet will? Impossible; there must be human agency at work. With Eveleen to think was to act, and kneeling precariously at the side of the boat, she leaned over the gunwale and clutched at one of the round objects she had thought she saw. The yell of horror which came from it told her what the sense of touch told also, that it was a human head. The boat was surrounded by swimming men, who were moving it away from the island—presumably it was also being towed by a rope. But what the great shapeless objects were, which she seemed to see beyond the heads, she could not tell, nor did she trouble to conjecture. Whether she or the man she had grasped was the more astonished might be doubtful, but she had the advantage of position. Catching up an earthen water-pot which stood outside the cabin for the sake of coolness, she hurled it in the direction of the yell, and was on her feet in a moment and under the mat roof. When she came out, Richard’s pistols were in her hand, and she fired one in the direction of the island as a signal. She could not believe that Mr Firozji was concerned in any plot that might be toward, and if he was a man at all he would come to the rescue with those guards of his.

The immediate response to her signal was a startling one. She had barely time to recharge the pistol, working clumsily in the dark, before there was a hasty movement of men aft—whether the boatmen or the swimmers she could not tell, nor was she much concerned to know. At the moment she was more conscious of Abdul Qaiyam’s heavy breathing close beside her as he asked in a bewildered voice whether the Beebee had shot anybody than of her possible assailants. Hurriedly she thrust the ammunition pouch at him.

“Load when I pass y’a pistol!” she said sharply, and then called out in her imperfect Persian to the men in front that if any one came nearer she would shoot him. One man sprang forward, and she fired at him point-blank. The blind shot in the dark must have taken effect, for the man cried out and fell forward. Confused cries of rage and protest came from the rest, and Eveleen held her hand. For the moment she had thought of discharging all the three shots she had left into the group, in the hope of driving them overboard at once, but the imprudence of leaving herself defenceless, even for a moment, was reinforced by mystification. The whole thing was like a bad dream—the shapes in the water, the moving crowd dark against the dark sky, the eager talking in an unknown tongue. If it was Persian, her knowledge of the language was quite inadequate to cope with it. She stooped a moment towards Abdul Qaiyam as he handed her the recharged pistol.

“Speak to them!” she said imperiously. “Ask them who they are—what they want. Tell them we are well armed, and can see them though they can’t see us.”

The old man was too much terrified to obey immediately, and she thrust at him impatiently with her foot. Then his quavering voice made itself heard—“Brothers!” and the men in front appeared to listen. One of them stepped forward a little.

“Stand back, or I fire!” said Eveleen quickly, and the bearer repeated the words in Persian. As he spoke, she remembered suddenly that she must be visible to any one able to see through the cabin from end to end, and she sank on her knees, resting the barrel of the heavy pistol on the back of a camp-chair which she pulled noiselessly towards her. Crouching thus, she was invisible to those in front, and a barrier—if a frail one—between Richard and the enemy. But were they enemies, or was there some absurd mistake? She could not decide, but she felt fairly certain that what they had been speaking was not Persian, though the spokesman—who had withdrawn a pace or two hastily before her threat—was using that language with Abdul Qaiyam.

“These are very bad people,” the old man murmured to her at last, and she listened without turning her head. “Kajia tribe—they come to steal the boat—everything.”

“Nonsense! they’ll not do anything of the sort. Where will the Parsee be, now? letting this kind of thing happen instead of coming to help us.”

To her amazement the meek voice of Mr Firozji answered her—apparently from somewhere close at hand. In her bewilderment she suffered her gaze to stray for a moment, and discerned dimly that he was just outside the boat, but seemingly not in the water. At least, his voice was on a level with the gunwale, though there was no grating sound to show that another boat was rasping alongside. The mad incomprehensibility of the situation was more incomprehensible than ever.

“The Beebee beholds in me a son of misfortune,” he said pathetically. “The Kajias have deceived me. They have stolen the boat, so as to carry away the Sahib, the Beebee, myself, the servant people—all.”

“And what may those guards of yours be about, to let them do it? Call them, can’t you? Shout!”

“Much good they are! But what do the Kajias want to do with us? We’d be no good to them to steal.”

“Well, they won’t, then. Tell them to go back and leave us on the island, and take the boat if they want it.”

“They say the water will soon be rising, and we should all be drowned. They refuse to leave us.”

“Sure they’re very considerate! Well, tell them we won’t go to their camp—or if we do, there’ll be precious few of them will take us there. I have plenty of shots here, and I’ll use them all first.”

“What does the Beebee please to desire?” was the question asked after some interchange of conversation between Mr Firozji and the captors. Eveleen had employed the interval in thinking hard. She did not believe the Kajias meant to take their victims to their camp—or if they did, it was merely for the sake of killing them more at their leisure. It was in the highest degree unlikely that they would leave witnesses alive to testify against them, or provoke Sir Harry further by attempting to hold them to ransom. No, what they had no doubt intended was to tow the boat out of earshot of the sleepy guards on the island, and then cut the throats of all on board, and gut the vessel and send her adrift, in the comfortable conviction that nothing but unrecognisable fragments would survive the storm. This seemed the more certain from their bringing with them the means of getting to shore again, for the mysterious shapes—on one of which Mr Firozji was uncomfortably poised, like a river-god in difficult circumstances—were obviously the mashaks, or inflated skins, with the help of which the tribes on the banks were in the habit of making such short voyages as they found necessary. How they had managed to abstract the poor little man from his own boat, under the eyes of his servants, was a mystery, but everything was mysterious to-night.

“Why, let them take us over to the other side,” she answered—the desire to be as far as possible from the Kajias conquering all other considerations. “I’d rather choose the desert than their camp.”

“There is no time. They are afraid of the storm.” Mr Firozji’s voice sounded as if he was frightened himself.

“Well, they may say whether they’ll be shot, or drowned in the storm. I’d much rather be drowned——” She stopped suddenly, for the second pistol, which had lain beside her knee, was hastily withdrawn, and a shot rang out behind her. Then she laughed rather wildly, for the deferential voice of the old bearer murmured—

“This humble one made bold to fire at one of the sons of wickedness who was climbing into the boat behind the Beebee’s back.”

“Quite right!” she said, still laughing, then turned sharply upon Mr Firozji. “Tell them they are wasting time. If the storm overtakes us ’twill be their fault. I’m tired of this. Let them make up their minds.”

Again there was a prolonged conversation, and apparently the Kajias gave a grudging assent to the condition. “If the Beebee is determined to drown all of us and the Kajias too, she must,” remarked Mr Firozji sourly as he scrambled on board the boat, having taken the opportunity of putting in a word for himself in the course of the negotiations. Yet Eveleen had the idea that he was not really displeased, and she wondered whether he could possibly be in league with the Kajias after all. But the notion seemed so absurd that she banished it again, though disregarding coldly his hints that the night air was unhealthy, and refusing to invite him into the cabin. The Kajias—or the boatmen—or perhaps they were the same: it was impossible to see—were very busy, working with an alacrity rather surprising in the circumstances. There was a slight chill breeze to be felt now, and they were hoisting the sail, and also getting out their poles. Were they really indifferent which bank they landed on, or were they plotting further treachery? As noiselessly as she could, Eveleen supplemented the chair which served her as a parapet by such other pieces of furniture and packages as she could reach, and whispered to Abdul Qaiyam to do the same at the other end of the cabin, entrusting him with one of the pistols. In feeling about, she came across Ketty, who had preserved such an unwonted silence during the stirring events of the last half-hour that her mistress had forgotten all about her. But she had been employing her time to advantage, as Eveleen discovered when she found her dressing-case open and largely denuded. Her handmaid had been removing such fittings as were of convenient size, and concealing them about her person.

“What in the world are you doing, Ketty?” The tone would have been louder but for prudential reasons.

“What madam doing without her things?” was the self-righteous reply, calculated to make Eveleen repent her unjust suspicions. Were they really unjust? she wondered.

“Well, I hope y’are taking care of the Sahib as well,” she said. “He needs much more than I do.”

The sniff with which Ketty replied suggested that she considered this would be trespassing on Abdul Qaiyam’s province, but her mistress had no time to see whether she was obeying or not, for there were other things to think of. The tardy storm was coming up at last, heralded by the breeze which was taking the boat across the stream. Great drops of rain were falling like bullets on the cabin roof, and the air was full of a hissing noise. The boat was in the main stream now, and the boatmen drew in their poles, and evidently settled down to hold tight and hope for the best. The river seemed bewitched, cross-currents driving the boat now this way, now that, and the men who were managing the clumsy sail had no easy task. The vessel was not built for rough weather, her draught being too shallow and her deck-load too heavy. She bounced and bobbed about, shipping a good deal of water, and hurling all the loose things in the cabin from side to side with every lurch. Fearful of a surprise, Eveleen durst not leave her post even to see that Richard was safe, and had to take what comfort she could from the knowledge that his charpoy was fixed to the deck. By the sounds she heard, she gathered that the two servants were in the throes of sea-sickness, and she wondered dismally what would happen if she herself were prostrated by it as on the voyage from Bombay. But her mental preoccupation probably saved her, and she was able to maintain her watch. Sheets of rain were falling now, and she was soaked to the skin, but did her best to shelter the pistol under the wadded quilt she dragged from her bed. The lightning was almost continuous, and whenever the howling and shrieking of the wind would allow, the rolling thunder filled up any pauses. The boat appeared to have embarked with enthusiasm on a series of experiments—now trying to stand on her head, now on her tail, and then seeing how far she could heel over without actually dipping gunwale under. It was wonderful that the mast did not go, though the great sail had been partly torn and partly cut away, and replaced by a tiny one which just kept the vessel before the wind. By the flashes of the lightning Eveleen noted grimly the miserable huddled figures forward, and guessed that the Kajias were not particularly happy in their conquest.

“If only there was a man on board worth a halfpenny—barring my poor Ambrose,” she said to herself, “we’d retake the ship in no time. But who is there at all? Firozji is no mortal use; if Bearer can fire a pistol, that’s the most he can do; and as for the boatmen, if they ain’t Codgers themselves, they’re every bit as bad. Indeed and they’re worse, for they ain’t sea-sick.”

Her self-communing was interrupted by a tremendous clap of wind, which came down on the boat as though determined to end her gambols at one blow. But once more she righted herself, though the cabin roof was torn bodily from its supports and carried gaily down the river. Eveleen’s heart failed her until she had assured herself, by groping and feeling, that Richard and the two servants were still there. The roar and crack had been so overwhelming that for the moment she fully believed the boat had broken in two, and they were all so wet already that the exposure to the rain hardly signified. Moreover, the loss of the mast and the cabin made the boat decidedly steadier, though Eveleen was less grateful for this than might have been expected, since she saw distinct signs of returning animation among the captors when the lightning made them visible. Could they be nearing the shore? she wondered. How long they had been tossing about, yet on the whole forging eastwards, she could not tell, but now that the lightning was less continuous, it seemed to her that between the flashes the darkness was not quite so in tense. It was a poor prospect—to be turned out on an unknown shore with a sick man and two frightened servants; but the expectation of treachery was so strong in her mind that she would have been thankful if they had been already there. Certainly it was not goodwill on the part of the Kajias that had induced them to undertake a voyage of so much danger and difficulty to get rid of their prisoners, with the prospect of another even more difficult and dangerous in getting back to their own side of the river; what then was it? It was not fear. During her tempestuous vigil she had seen that clearly. Her bluff before the storm had been spirited, but at any moment she might have been rushed from behind and thrown overboard, or a man on a mashak, shooting at the sound of her voice in the dark, might have crippled or killed her without the slightest risk to himself. It could hardly be vengeance, since—though it might involve more suffering to your captives to maroon them on the barren shore where they had mistakenly asked to be placed than to kill them and dispose of their bodies in the river—their sufferings, which you would not see, would hardly be sufficient compensation for the risk to yourself involved in getting them there. Mr Firozji, too. A certain complacence about the little man’s manner led Eveleen to the conclusion that the greater part of his merchandise must consist in precious stones hidden about his person, so that he could regard lightly the loss of all the rest. But if she could guess this, so could the Kajias, and were they really going to allow him to escape with it? The whole thing—like all the events of the night—was beset with riddles, and all that could be done was to keep a sharp watch against surprise. But in what direction? Eveleen did not know where to look, and moreover, the unceasing strain of the last few hours was telling upon her. She had been soaked so repeatedly that she could hardly remember what it was to feel dry and warm; she was aching in every limb, and—what was worse—her eyes would hardly keep open. In spite of the misery of body and anxiety of mind which had already endured so long, she began to find her eyelids closing involuntarily and imperceptibly, when she knew she ought to redouble her vigilance of the night now that dawn would soon give her enemies the advantage. She had no longer even the shelter of the cabin from which to fire, and her poor attempt at a barricade had been disintegrated long ago, and its component parts strewn upon the waters. She turned her head with difficulty, and saw—yes, the light must be increasing, since now she could see dimly Richard’s white face as he lay stark and stiff, like a dead man, on the charpoy, which was fortunately fixed against the framework of the cabin at the corner where it had suffered least, the old bearer crouched beside him, one hand clenched on the pistol, and Ketty hunched up, like a little old monkey, nearer to herself. They were defenceless but for the two pistols—even if the charges were not too damp to fire. The Kajias could shoot them down without the slightest risk, or—supposing their matchlocks also were useless, or their powder too precious to waste on such game—kill them with their knives with little danger to themselves. Why had they not done it long ago?

With equal difficulty Eveleen turned again towards them, where they sat huddled in the bow, with the boatmen as a sort of neutrals between, and Mr Firozji, with chattering teeth, crouching alone as though disowned by all parties. The men in the bows were beginning to lose something of their despairing attitude—taking an interest in things again, and exchanging a word or two with one another. She could see them, though in the driving rain she could not hear them; and she tried to pierce the veil of moisture ahead, and see if land were visible. But as yet she could see nothing but a grey expanse of angry water, yellow in streaks with sand, and bearing on its bosom uprooted trees and brushwood, with the grey sky overhead and the grey curtain of rain between. She tried to collect her thoughts and devise some way of getting Richard ashore—when they reached the shore. But what kind of shore would it be—high and rocky, or the endless flat land over which the flooded river must now be crawling relentlessly? How could she decide till she knew?

The end came suddenly—so suddenly that for the moment she thought she must have been asleep, and missed what led up to it. The boatmen had their poles out again, the keel was grating on ground of some sort, and yet there was still nothing to be seen but the river and the rain. But to the accustomed eyes of the Kajias more must have been visible, for they were standing up and talking eagerly. She noticed indifferently what big strapping fellows they were—picturesque despite their drenched clothes and shapeless turbans, and the ringlets, of which they were ordinarily so proud, lying limp and straight on their shoulders and mingling with their beards. The absurd reflection occurred to her that the rain must have washed them a little clean, which would be a strange experience to them. One of them turned round and kicked Mr Firozji, saying something to him, and the old Parsee stumbled up from the deck and addressed Eveleen in his beautiful Persian, which she found so difficult to understand.

“The boat can go no farther—the water is shallow——” his words tumbled over one another. “The boatmen will carry the Beebee ashore, if she will promise not to shoot.”

“Let them take the Sahib first,” said Eveleen promptly, then hesitated. How could she let them carry Richard away out of her sight, not knowing where they were taking him? Better go first herself. And yet how could she know how roughly they might handle him if she and her pistol were not there? “Won’t you go first yourself?” she asked eagerly. “Then you can see that they put Major Ambrose down carefully, and I will come last.”

Mr Firozji’s face was ashy. “I fear—I greatly fear,” he stammered. “I have the conviction that they will kill me if I leave the Sahib and the Beebee.”

Clearly there was no help here. She must take the risk. She turned to Abdul Qaiyam. “Watch over the Sahib, bearer; see that they carry him properly on the charpoy. Fire the pistol if they are rough, and I will come back. I can’t be any wetter than I am,” she added to herself, and rather wondered that the captors should offer to put her ashore instead of letting her wade. But when she was mounted on the shoulders of a sturdy boatman, with another close at hand in case of accidents, she saw how bad the footing was, and how confusing the currents even in this shallow water. Just as they started she heard a resounding splash, and looking round, was touched to see that Ketty had deliberately thrown herself—or rather let herself—into the water from the boat’s side, and was struggling after her, clutching the scanty drapery of the second boatman. The water was up to the old woman’s chest, but she pushed on bravely, and though the men on board laughed, they did not attempt to stop her.

How far the two men waded Eveleen did not know. The boat was only dimly visible as a misty shape through the falling rain when they reached land as suddenly as they had discerned it earlier. It was land in the sense of not being covered with water, but it resembled nothing so much as a sandbank left bare, though not dry, by the retreating tide. Yet apparently it was not an island, for it seemed to rise slightly on the side away from the boat, and to continue rising; and when Eveleen felt her feet on firm ground once more, her spirits went up with a bound. Anything was better than that dreadful boat and the company it carried, and when the rain stopped—which it must do soon now—they would quickly be dry and comfortable, and could look for some village where there was food and shelter to be found. She said as much to Ketty as they stood looking after the two men, whose forms were soon swallowed up in the driving rain. Most incomprehensibly, Ketty laughed; but before Eveleen could demand the reason, her cheerful anticipations were rudely contradicted by the sound of a shot from the boat, with cries and the muffled noise of a struggle. Unheeding Ketty’s agonised entreaties and attempt to hold her fast, she dashed into the water and began to wade back. The boat seemed farther away than she had been—and surely the boatmen were poling her off? Eveleen gave a great cry as the truth burst upon her, then struggled on again, though with failing strength, hindered by her clothes and the treacherous sand. Somehow or other she reached the boat when the water was up to her shoulders, and clung convulsively to the gunwale, shrieking to her husband to wake, to escape, to save himself, to save her. Mr Firozji lay on the deck in a pool of blood, and the murderers were already stripping off his clothes in search of booty. In front of his master stood Abdul Qaiyam—a most unheroic hero, with the pistol wavering in a shaking hand, and a face grey with fear. A man with a tulwar sprang at Eveleen as she clung to the side, and brought down his weapon with a horrible sweep. In terror she relaxed her grasp just in time, and fell back into the water with a loud cry of despair.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE BELLE AND THE BAUBLE.

When Eveleen came to the surface again—for she had found no footing when she slipped from the boat’s side—she thought she must be dreaming. On the gunwale above her stood Richard—a gaunt figure in drenched pyjamas—laying about him furiously with a folded camp-chair. She could hear his blows as they fell, and the dismayed cries of the enemy, though she could not see the fight, and over the side of the boat lay—dead or unconscious—the man who had struck at her with his tulwar, his arms stretched limply as though trying to reach the water. Apparently Richard’s onslaught had cleared a space about him on the deck, for he turned suddenly, with heaving chest, and looked wildly at the water—only to see his wife trying to regain her hold of the gunwale. With a hasty exclamation he flung his weapon away, and stooped to reach her. But she had the presence of mind to draw back.

“No, Ambrose—jump! Jump, bearer!” and deliberately she loosed her grasp and dropped off into the water again. As she had expected, Richard was after her in a moment, quite uncomprehending, and decidedly angry.

“What did you go and do that for? I could have pulled you on board in a minute. Now those fellows will make off with the boat.”

“Let them. We’re better without it. There’s no safety for y’on board,” gasped Eveleen, as she struggled to turn him in the other direction.

“Will you keep quiet? Any one would think you were determined to be drowned. If only you won’t struggle, I can——” he had got his hand on the edge of the boat again, and as Eveleen had done, removed it hurriedly as some unseen person aimed a blow at it with the butt of a matchlock.

“Didn’t I tell you? The land, Ambrose, the land! or we’ll all be killed if we ain’t drowned.”

“This way, Sahib, this way!” came the despairing voice of Abdul Qaiyam, standing on tiptoe some way farther in to get his mouth above the water. “Destruction awaits your honour if you remain.”

Convinced at last, Richard struck out in the direction of the voice, but speedily found his feet on the ground. Then, partly dragging, partly carrying his wife, he waded towards the shore. Eveleen turned her head once, with the horrible feeling that the boat was pursuing them to run them down. But the enemy were merely standing in a row watching them, and not attempting to follow, though their ready matchlocks and tulwars showed that they had no amiable feelings towards the fugitives. Their powder must certainly be wet, or why did they not fire?

As the water grew shallower, the bearer came to his master’s help, and between them they pulled Eveleen along, for she felt as if the last horror had robbed her of every scrap of strength that remained. But a warning cry from Ketty floated out to meet them as they waded in. There was a sudden rush, and before their feet were even on dry land they were struggling in the midst of a fresh crowd of assailants. Eveleen had a vague impression of Richard snatching a tulwar from some one and dealing tremendous blows in a scrimmage which seemed to have arisen by magic, until a man with a heavy club struck at him from behind, and he went down like a log. The fighting was so confused that for a moment the assailants could not get at him with their swords, and in that moment Eveleen had pushed into the mêlée and thrown herself upon him, shielding his body with her own, so that no blow could reach him but through her. She tasted the bitterness of death a dozen times as the raging combatants tried to drag her away, abused her, threatened her, but the more frantic their efforts, the tighter she clung. She could hardly believe that they were really abstaining from injuring her, but when they drew back, baffled and breathing hard, she realised that she had not a wound, and made use of the moment’s respite to interlace her fingers under Richard’s shoulders to give her a better purchase. She gathered from the tones of the assailants that when they were not cursing her to one another, they were adjuring her to cease her useless resistance lest she should share her husband’s fate, but as they spoke in an unknown tongue she made no attempt to answer. Some of them seemed to give the matter up at last, and went off, while the rest still stood round, talking angrily, and she ventured to relax her strained hold for a moment, wondering now—when the tension was slackened—what she could do when the enemy laid aside their strange scruple, and really attacked her. So little would do it—a cut from one of those keen-edged tulwars would sever a wrist as easily as a finger, and she would be helpless, and Richard at their mercy.

There were fresh voices on the outskirts of the group. These men might be less scrupulous, and once more she put forth all her strength in a blind effort to hold—only to hold—Richard so that he might not be touched. Even his head was covered by her wet hair, and she had gathered his arms close to his sides when she clasped him first. He was as safe as the frail rampart of her body could make him. But to her immeasurable surprise, the sound that fell on her ears was not that terrible whistle of the swung tulwar, but a voice—a voice speaking English—a voice that she knew.

“Miss Evie—it’s never you!” said the voice. “Great heavens, however did you manage to get here?”

“If it’s you, Tom Carthew,” she returned, in a voice muffled by her hair, “call your murderous wretches off first, and then we’ll talk, if you like.”

“But they won’t do you no harm, ma’am, nor the gent neither—though how you came——”

“Do him no harm—when they have been doing their best to cut him to pieces? No, go away. I’ll not move while there’s one of them about.”

Some vigorous speaking on Carthew’s part, and the armed men melted unwillingly away, only to form a fresh hostile circle at a rather greater distance.

“Now, ma’am, they’re well away from you, if you’ll let me help you up. Captain Lennox won’t thank you——”

“Captain Lennox! What in the world would I be doing with Captain Lennox?” with asperity. “Don’t you know Major Ambrose when you see him?” Eveleen sat up and put back her hair, but refused to rise.

Tom Carthew might have objected with justice that he had been quite unable to see Richard before, and could only see the back of his head now, but he was looking helplessly from him to Eveleen. “Is it a mistake, or have they played a trick on me?” he demanded slowly. “Were you in the boat that was to be captured by the Codgers, ma’am—off an island, nearer t’other side of the river than this one?”

“We were captured, indeed—by some horrid treachery that I’ve not been able to make out yet. Was it your doing, will you tell me? And how is it”—with sudden recollection—“that you wouldn’t be dead, as we heard you were?”

“We needn’t go into that, ma’am—though I’ve often wished since that I was. But that boat——”

But Eveleen would not suffer any evasion. “We heard you were killed because you refused to fire on us in the Agency—your own people. Was it true or was it not?”

“Nor that you refused to fire, then. Tom Carthew, I never expected to find you a traitor!”

“You wait till you’re promised to have your nose and ears and eyelids cut off, and be tied down and stuck out in the sun for the ants and the hornets and the vultures and the pi dogs to finish, Miss Evie! See if you wouldn’t fire then. And I didn’t go for to fire straight, neither. You tell me if any soul in the Residency had a finger hurt through my shooting.”

“No, I believe they did not,” reluctantly. “So you played both sides false. And since then you have gone from bad to worse—laying plots against your own old friends.”

“It’s a cheat, I tell you—a nasty trick they’ve played me. I was bid make a plan for catching Captain Lennox, the General’s nephew, so that the Khan might hold him for a hostage and bargain with his uncle.”

“And why would you be plotting against poor Captain Lennox—who never did you any harm?”

“Why but because they can make me do what they like now, just by threatening to hand me over to the General?”

“I see. Then there’s nothing you’d baulk at now? Indeed and I’m sorry for you, Tom Carthew!”

“That you may well be, ma’am—but there is something I wouldn’t do, and these chaps know it. They didn’t dare ask me betray an English lady into their hands—least of all you. So they choused me with the tale that it was Captain Lennox they wanted. You believe that?”

“I do, I do; it explains things. But d’ye see now, as you have got us into this hole, it’s for you to get us out of it. And how will you do that?”

“Now you’ve beat me, ma’am. Not that there’s anything for you to be afraid of—in the way of bad treatment, that is——”

Carthew hesitated. “I’m afraid—as you’ve had all your trouble for nothing, Miss Evie.”

“What d’ye mean?” her voice rose to a shriek, and she flung herself on her husband again. “Bad luck to you, Tom, to be giving me such a fright! He ain’t dead a bit. I can feel his heart beat.”

“But it might be all the same as if he was, ma’am—better, perhaps——”

“Will you tell me what you mean? Why would they kill him, if that’s what y’are driving at? If it’s a hostage they want, sure he’ll do them every bit as well as Captain Lennox. The General would make no more consequence of his nephew than he would of any other officer—sure you know that yourself?”

“It ain’t a hostage he wants at all, I see it now. Think it over for yourself, ma’am—remembering that blue stone of yours that’s in the Khan’s hands. He thinks if he hadn’t had it, the General would have beat him and sent him out of the country with the rest of his family. It’s done that much good to him, but not near all the good it might do, because you’ve been contrary wishing it all the time.”

“Sure if that’s all, I’ll wish it—and him—all the good in the world except to beat the General. Fetch it here, Tom, and you will be surprised at the good wishes I’ll pour over it and instil into it and soak it with! Any mortal thing the gentleman can think of to ask for he shall get, so far as it depends on me, if he’ll only lend us a boat or some camels to get back to the army and a doctor with. But now be quick, or I’ll go fast asleep and forget all the benefits I’m longing to bestow on him!”

Carthew hesitated again. “I take it you wouldn’t be willing to come to the camp alone?” he asked slowly.

She caught his meaning in an instant. “And leave Major Ambrose here? Shame on you that you’d even ask me such a question! If he stays here, I stay; and if I go to the camp or anywhere else, he goes too. And if anything happens him—well, that blue stone will crack in pieces with the ill wishes I’ll put on it before they’re done with me. And that’s all I have to say to you.”

“All right, ma’am; I had to have it from your own lips, you see. Now I know what to say to these fellows, and to the Khan too. I mean to take a high tone with him, after his dirty trick, and I think I see a way—— But don’t hope for too much,” earnestly, “for if anybody ever was in a hole, you and your good gentleman are—not to speak of me, that don’t count.”

Eveleen’s usual quickness of mind and speech was deserting her under the pressure of fatigue, and she could not even find kind words in which to reassure Carthew. She watched him dully as he went off to the circle of Arabits, who had been looking on and listening suspiciously as the colloquy proceeded, and spoke eagerly and confidentially to one and another. Guessing that the alternative instantly present to their minds was to rush upon Richard and rid themselves of him as they had intended, she was ready to protect him again as she had done before, but she could not bring her mind to bear upon less pressing issues. The Arabits were not easy to convince, that was evident, and she wondered whether they were trying to induce Carthew to keep her in talk or distract her attention in some way while they made an end of Richard—such a quick and easy thing to do, with so many against one! But she had confidence, now as heretofore, in the streak of faithfulness which formed part of the renegade’s weak nature. He might betray his compatriots as a body, but the friend of his early days, never! Her confidence was justified. When mind and body were alike worn out, and she was almost dropping asleep as she sat, he returned to say that the Arabits consented to carry Richard with them to the camp, that Kamal-ud-din might have the responsibility of deciding what was to be done with him. A camel-litter was brought forward—intended for Eveleen’s own use—and Richard was lifted and laid upon the cushions. It was the kind of long palanquin called in Persia a takhtrawan, and Eveleen was able to climb in as well, and settle herself in the place which otherwise would have been Ketty’s. Looking out anxiously before the blinds were drawn down, she saw the two servants accommodated—uncomfortably, but safely—behind two camel-riders, and then the camels which bore the litter rose grumblingly to their feet in response to the shaking of their neck-chains of blue beads and tin bells by the drivers, and she had time to remember that she was wet and cold, horribly hungry and most incongruously thirsty, and in spite of all, consumed with sleep. But how easy it would be for the enemy to keep watch upon her through the semi-transparent grass blinds, and so find an opportunity of striking at Richard! With infinite difficulty she crawled along the creaking, swaying box until she could pillow her head upon her husband’s breast, and then twisted a tress of her hair tightly round one of his buttons, so that if any attempt was made to reach him, she must be disturbed. Then at last she was able to resign herself to sleep, and in spite of her cramped position, the shaking of the takhtrawan, the loud voices outside, and the sun which presently blazed down upon the march, slept peacefully for hours. She did not wake until the sudden kneeling of the camels roused her to the knowledge that they had reached the camp, where she naturally expected to face the man whose fate was perversely linked with hers by the blue stone. But she found she was fortunate, for Kamal-ud-din was not there at all. He had hastened back to his army some distance to the north, and Tamas Sahib, who had so successfully carried through the capture, was to proceed with his captives to Umarganj at once. This meant that only the extreme heat of the day was to be spent in the few small tents which had been left for their accommodation, and which were like so many ovens on the shadeless sand. Happily the storm had left the nullahs and hollows of the neighbourhood well filled, and by means of Abdul Qaiyam, and with the aid of Tom Carthew, Eveleen requisitioned a salitah, the strong piece of canvas which, roped over all, serves to protect and hold together the various packages making up a camel’s burden, and this, dipped in water and hung over the takhtrawan, made it much cooler. Richard remained in the same unconscious state, and a little rice-water was all they could manage to force down his throat. Abdul Qaiyam promised that when they halted for the night he would try to make some broth, and with that Eveleen had to be content. While the bearer attended to his master, she was thankful to submit her own dishevelled person to Ketty’s ministrations, for it was torment to have her hair hanging about her face in the heat. The brushes and other things the old woman had pocketed—with whatever intention—came in usefully now, and Eveleen felt that if only Ketty were dumb, she could be quite fond of her for once. As things were, she was obliged to pay for her services by listening to her grumbles.

The halt was short enough, and the march that followed a long one, and so it went on for several days. Afterwards Eveleen thought she must have been light-headed with fatigue—so confused were her recollections of those unending rides in the takhtrawan, punctuated by brief periods of blessed repose on firm ground, from which she was invariably roused the moment she had fallen asleep. Makeshift meals, cooked in some mysterious way by Abdul Qaiyam and all tasting of sand; distant glimpses of Carthew, looking anxious and careworn, but conjuring up a reassuring nod when he found her looking at him; perpetual grumbling from Ketty, for which there was only too much excuse and over all the ever-present sense of threatening peril, which kept her always in a fever of devising expedients to safeguard Richard and not let him out of her sight—this was the waking history of those days for Eveleen. She did not know whether to be thankful or alarmed that Richard should remain in a state of coma, nor whether she ought to try to rouse him or not. The blow on the head had not fractured the skull—of so much she and the bearer were able to assure one another—but whether there was concussion they were not surgeons enough to know. On the whole, it seemed better to leave the patient undisturbed—save by the incessant noise and movement going on around him—and trust that nature might be healing him in her own way.

How long they took to reach Umarganj Eveleen would have found it very difficult to say. It might have been a week, it might have been more—or less—before the joyful shouts of the escort announced that they were within sight of their journey’s end, and she peeped through a private spy-hole she had discovered and enlarged in the grass blind to see what the place was like. There was nothing magical and mysterious about it as there had been about the vanished Sultankot; it was simply a straggling mud town, dominated by a mud fort. It was surprising where its builders had managed to get so much mud in such a dry region, but she supposed they made their bricks in the rainy season, and piled them up hurriedly on the first fine day, lest they should all melt into mud again. She noticed that Carthew led the way round the town, so that they could reach the fort without passing through more than a small part of it, and that he was evidently anxious to get in as quickly as possible. The people were largely defrauded of their spectacle, for only a few were aware of the arrival in time to rush to their house-tops, where Eveleen heard them chattering excitedly overhead as the camel-litter went swinging by. There was some discussion when the gate of the fort was reached, between Carthew and a stout negro who was waiting there—clearly an official of some importance—on the subject of the disposal of the prisoners, as it seemed, and it appeared that Carthew won, for he took matters into his own hands and bade the camel-drivers follow him, while his vanquished opponent strolled away with a contemptuous cock of his nose, as Eveleen called it, which nature had rendered wholly unnecessary.

The place in which Eveleen found herself, when she had crawled out of the litter, which was taken from off its camels and carried bodily inside, was apparently a kind of guard-room, cool enough with its thick walls and high roof of beaten mud supported on wooden beams, but open along the whole of one side, where a series of squat blunted arches led out upon a verandah, which in its turn gave upon what looked like the court of the guard—to judge by the number of stalwart Arabits in all stages of dress and equipment who were strolling about or preparing their food or sitting peacefully on similar verandahs.

“I’ll send some of the slaves in to clean the place up a bit for you, ma’am,” said Carthew, his look of trouble more pronounced than ever, “and some stuff to serve for a curtain to the arches. There’s chiks you can let down till it comes, but for any sake don’t you go for to set a foot beyond ’em. And don’t you have nothing to say to anybody that comes out of the zenana gate opposite”—he indicated a massive iron-bound portal, guarded by sentries sitting or lounging about it, on the other side of the courtyard,—“nor put your lips to any food, or sherbet, or what not, that may be brought you out of there, on no account whatever. And I’ll go straight to the Khan—who’s got here before us, after all—and do what I can to put a little decency into him, if he kills me for it!”

He spoke so strongly, almost savagely, that Eveleen felt her fears rising again. “Won’t you tell me now, what is it y’are afraid of?” she asked timidly, for her.

“If I must, I will, when I come back. I’m leaving two men that I can trust on your verandah here, and you keep behind the chiks, and never leave your good gentleman for a minute—but that I know you won’t do. And if I don’t come back, you’ll know that traitor though I may be—I did my best for you, Miss Evie.”

“Indeed and I know it now, Tom, and I thank you for it with all my heart, and so would Major Ambrose if he could speak.”

She held out her hand, and he wrung it and went off. Abdul Qaiyam and one of the guards let down the chiks, and in the semi-darkness Eveleen retired to the litter again, while two half-starved, furtive-looking youths came in with inadequate brooms and swept the more obvious dirt from the middle of the floor into the corners. Then they departed, and there remained the problem of arranging the room, with the aid of one charpoy, so doubtful in appearance that Eveleen declined to make use of it, and the cushions from the litter. These were spread on the salitah on the floor, and Richard laid on them—across a corner, in which Eveleen determined to fix her abode, with the litter and the charpoy as flanking defences on either hand. What Carthew’s vague warnings portended she could not divine, but she had a horror of being snatched away unawares and leaving Richard unprotected.

It was some time before Carthew appeared, and then he was accompanied by men bearing trays of food—each viand occupying the exact middle of an unnecessarily large tray,—which were received from them with joy by the bearer, and surveyed with approval even by Ketty. But while the servants were busy squabbling over the best way of arranging the food, Carthew was stooping across Richard to speak to Eveleen.

“It was just as you thought, ma’am. My party had orders to kill Major Ambrose, but on no account to lay a finger on yourself. If it hadn’t been they were afraid of doin’ harm to you, they’d have killed him a dozen times over. You saved his life when you threw yourself upon him.”

“Of course. Why else would I have done it? Well, and what harm will poor Major Ambrose ever have done to the Khan that he should hate him so? Why is it at all?”

“Don’t you remember what I told you about that blue stone of yours, ma’am? They call you the Woman of the Seal, and the Khan thinks he won’t have his full luck till you two are together again—till you have the seal and he has you. So—if you’ll excuse me mentioning it—his notion was to give you back the stone and take you into his zenana.”

The reproving tone sobered Eveleen. “But you can’t mean—it’s too ridiculous entirely—that a man can propose to himself deliberately to murder a woman’s husband, and then marry her himself?”

“It’s their way here,” apologetically. “It’s a—a sort of compensation to the lady, if you understand me?”

“It ain’t my fault, ma’am, believe me. I’m doing my best for you—honest. I told the Khan you belonged to a particular tribe of English whose women were uncommonly sought after for wives, on account of their being so faithful.”

“But I told him they were so wrapped up in their husbands that if the husband was killed the wife went and died, ma’am.”

“I would—I know I would!” agreed Eveleen. “That was very true, Tom. And was he convinced?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, ma’am; but I’m sure it made an impression on him.” The luckless man refrained, naturally enough, from adding that he had assured Kamal-ud-din the lady’s husband was at the point of death, and if he were allowed to die in peace, and his wife to tend him to the last and mourn for him a certain number of days, the conventions of her tribe would be satisfied, and its daughter free to marry again. He had a suspicion that Eveleen could hardly be expected to accept this point of view. “If you’ll remember to keep that up if he should insist on coming in here——”

“Keep that up? He’ll hear a good deal more than that if he forces himself upon me! Tell me now—will I starve myself a little, just to look more like dying?”

“I wouldn’t, ma’am. You may want all your strength any time—there’s no knowing. Not but what I’ve done all I could to frighten the Khan—swearing to him that if he lays a finger on you the General will cut him up into little pieces, and all that. But you can’t tell.”

“Then good-bye for the present, ma’am. I’ll do my best to get word to you first if he does think of comin’ this way, but I mayn’t have the chance.” He went out dolefully, and Eveleen made a face after him.

“Y’are a faithful creature, I believe, but I greatly wish y’were a bit more cheerful!” she said. “Just when I’d like a little help in keeping up my spirits——”

Before she could finish the sentence, his face was poked in again. “Ma’am, he’s comin’ now! For Heaven’s sake, keep cool, and remember I’m nothing but the interpreter!”

The accents were so full of terror that Eveleen felt her heart sink. But only for a moment. She stooped over her unconscious husband, and touched his forehead with infinite tenderness. “Ah, my dear, wouldn’t I fight for myself if need be? and have I not you to fight for as well, when you’d be fighting for me if you could? Don’t be afraid now; your wife is by your side.”

She put her hand for a moment to her waist, to make sure that the little dagger there was ready in case of need. She and Abdul Qaiyam had both lost their pistols either in leaving the boat or in the struggle on the sand, but she had discovered that the old man possessed a dagger, and demanded it summarily. She had carried it ever since, safely concealed in the folds of her dressing-gown, and had trained herself sternly not to betray its presence by letting her fingers wander in that direction. Now she assured herself it could be drawn in a flash, and stood waiting. It would look more unconcerned if she remained seated in the Khan’s presence, but it would be easier to take her at a disadvantage before she could rise from the ground.

There was a warning cry outside, and then the blind was lifted, and three men came in—Tom Carthew, the negro who had been waiting at the gate, and a youth richly dressed and jewelled, with a handsome effeminate face—not unprepossessing in appearance, but like all his family bearing the marks of dissipation. Eveleen told herself triumphantly that he shrank under her gaze of righteous indignation. She did not realise that in the semi-darkness of the room, her white figure and wrathful eyes might be alarming. She bowed curtly as he approached, then her hand flashed out.

“No further, please. Stop there,” and though the hand was empty, Kamal-ud-din stopped short a yard from the bed, to look down curiously at Richard’s gaunt form and sharpened features.

“He is certainly very near death,” he muttered to Tom Carthew—much to the latter’s relief. “Tell the Beebee she has nothing to fear. Her husband shall die in peace, and be honourably buried.”

Exercising a wide discretion, Carthew gave the first part of the message only, adding various polite assurances for the sake of verisimilitude. Eveleen’s stern aspect did not relax.

“Tell him I expected nothing less,” she said, which—giving the Khan’s well-known magnanimity and benevolence as a reason—Carthew did.

“Tell the Beebee I am about to restore her what should never have been taken from her,” said Kamal-ud-din—adding, with an unpleasant laugh, “What one husband steals, another gives back,” and Carthew rejoiced that his master had chosen to speak in Arabit rather than Persian. With obvious reluctance to let it out of his grip, the negro produced the Seal of Solomon, still suspended from its steel chain, and held it out for Eveleen to take. She made the slightest gesture of rebuke, and motioned to Abdul Qaiyam, who brought forward one of the trays on which the food had been sent in, and receiving the pendant, presented it respectfully to his mistress. For the first time her eyes ceased to rest coldly on the Khan, evidently to his relief, as she stooped and laid the Seal on Richard’s breast, passing the chain round his neck.

“I receive the trust as an honour, tell his Highness,” she said to Carthew, “and I place his treasure in the safest spot known to me. As long as I live, and Major Ambrose lives, no harm can come to it. If it is removed or injured, the fault will not be ours.”

“Tell the Beebee she can be at ease,” said Kamal-ud-din, rather hastily. “No harm can befall her.”

“Tell his Highness I thank him for his promise of protection, and won’t detain him longer,” said Eveleen, and to her relief as much as his own, Kamal-ud-din went. She heard no more of him till the next day, when Carthew came to ask whether she needed anything.

“You did fine yesterday, ma’am!” he said admiringly—“almost frightened the Khan, one might say.”

“Sure I’m glad ’twas the right thing,” she answered wearily. “’Twas all I could do not to break down in the middle, and throw myself at his feet, and cry and entreat him to let us go.”

“I’m glad you didn’t, ma’am. His Highness was all taken aback. He has gone away to his army quite meek, as you might say. In fact, I have hopes of his letting you and the Major and your servants go away quietly when he comes again, but don’t you build too much upon it.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
BRIAN TO THE RESCUE.

Visiting his various friends, and hearing all that had happened since the battle and his wound, Brian passed a pleasant three days at Khanpur. Nor was his enjoyment sensibly mitigated by the thunderstorm on his third night there—when he should have been returning to Qadirabad,—which kept him a prisoner for twenty-four hours more. In fact, he assured himself comfortably that ’twas a good thing entirely it had come, since it would show Evie the absurdity of her plan of getting down to Bab-us-Sahel before the floods began. Another pleasant idle day, rejoicing in the temporary coolness of the air after the rain, and he started back with a column returning for supplies and bringing a few sick to the base hospital. Great was his astonishment, when he rode up to the Residency in the morning, to find the servants smoking on the verandah in an undress which made it plain that no master was at hand. Their astonishment equalled his own, but they were past-masters in the art of keeping up appearances, and in an incredibly short space of time hookahs had been huddled out of sight, pagris donned or properly twisted, and the garments of office hurried on. The butler, as became his importance, was the first who was in a position to greet the young Sahib. “Sahib and Beebee done gone,” was the burden of his reply to every question asked him, and at last Brian gave up the attempt to obtain further information; and bidding his own servant get his things in, and see after breakfast and a bath, rode round to the hospital to question the surgeon. The surgeon received him with ill-timed jocularity.

“Ha, ha! so your sister has stole a march on you, young man—eh? No nice lazy time for you this morning—find a boat and set off after her; that’s about the ticket, ain’t it?”

“If the river is low enough. How in the world would she contrive to start yesterday?”

“Man alive, not yesterday! They went three evenings ago—two days after you left.”

“Three evenings ago? But that was before the storm! Will you tell me, was she mad enough to start down the river with that coming on?”

“They would take shelter somewhere. They would have got a good way, and it may not have been as bad lower down as it was here.” But the doctor’s startled face belied his comforting words. “Upon my soul, Delany, I hope they didn’t come in for it on the open river. The rain was enough to swamp any boat.”

“And how would it be better if they were cot in a narrow channel—with the water sweeping over banks and islands and everything? ’Twas a great storm, I tell you. We have had to go miles and miles round coming back here—with lakes and rivers where there was dry land on our way out.”

“Well, don’t I know it was a great storm—with three of the hospital tents blown away bodily, and the whole staff working all night in the wet to get the sick under cover? You can see for yourself how the river has risen—look at the trees there, standing in the water.” Suddenly realising that he was not very consoling, he changed his tone. “But it don’t follow it was as bad where they were. They had good boats and strong crews, and an armed guard, so there were plenty of hands if help was needed. Old Firozji from the Bazar was going down, and offered them to share his boat, but they had one to themselves after all.”

“That’s how my sister managed it, then. I wondered who had I to thank for helping her play the fool in this style. I wouldn’t envy the feelings of any man that helped her get away—now.”

“’Suppose you are alluding to me,” said the surgeon gruffly. “Well, you know your sister as well as I do, and you can tell whether she’s much inclined to listen to advice that don’t fall in with her wishes. She was determined to get off, thinking you’d be following immediately. And I confess, the weather had been so sultry for two or three days, I never thought of a storm except as a relief—quickly come and quickly gone, you know. But this one took a whole day to come up, and lasted proportionately. But then, as I say, it may not have been as bad where they were. At any rate, we have heard nothing of any disaster, and you know how quickly the natives get wind of that sort of thing.”

“But sure they must have been miles and miles away by that time! Suppose they were wrecked on an uninhabited part of the shore, or one of those desolate islands in the middle of the river—how would the news possibly get about? Well, you were right when you said ’twas a fast boat and an early start for me, for I must be off after ’em at once. Think of it! Ambrose helpless, and my sister alone with those blackguards of boatmen—for the old Parsee would be no good,—not to mention the Codgers on one bank, and Kamal-ud-din’s people anywhere on t’other.”

“Penned in he may have been, but he’s got out of the pen—broke back somehow to the river again. The General was very anxious about it—and he would be worse if he knew this. I was greatly displeased when he bid me escort my sister to Bab-us-Sahel—unless she gave up the thought of the journey of her own free will—before going back to duty, but I’m thankful now! Not that the old lad would have been hard on me for going off after her, but I wouldn’t like to have exceeded my leave. Can you coax the right boat out of any one for me? If only there’d be a steamer in just now!”

“Wait a minute. You can’t go rushing off like this. I’ll send a chit to the Marine Superintendent to tell him what you want, and say we’ll both be round there after breakfast. But before you start off, we’ll call upon old Firozji’s brothers in the Bazar. They may have had news from him, and then we shall know it’s all right. Your quad. is tired—eh? I can lend you a tat—or there’s that little Arab of your sister’s, just come down by boat from Sahar. Do him good to stretch his legs gently a bit. She must have forgot the General said he might come down with the cavalry horses when she went off in such a hurry.”

“We might find out something, I suppose,” said Brian wretchedly, “but I don’t like losing a moment.”

“Of course we may. And what’s the good of going off without getting hold of all the information you can? If I thought it was any good, I should say stay and eat your breakfast quietly, and let me go to the Bazar, but I know it wouldn’t be.”

“Not a scrap!” agreed Brian, and would barely consent to snatch a mouthful of breakfast while Bajazet was being saddled and brought round. As they rode to the Bazar, the surgeon was full of cheerful anticipations. Of course Mr Firozji would have sent word to his partners of his safety—he was a fool not to have thought of it before—the Parsees were well known for their family affection. But when Mr Firozji’s brother appeared, with many bows and smiles, to enquire the pleasure of the honourable gentlemen, he had nothing to tell. Certainly he had not expected any messenger—the boats would have been far beyond the limits within which the storm was likely to be dangerous. He was quite sure his brother was safe and well. Had it been otherwise he would have felt it here, in the heart—slapping an organ which was well protected by many layers of adipose tissue. He did not look to hear anything until his brother had reached Bab-us-Sahel—why should he? And the young Sahib was alarmed about his sister—feared she might have been wrecked? That was natural, but—if he might be pardoned the word—foolish. How could she possibly have journeyed in greater safety than under the care of his brother and the protection of his guard?

The Parsee was voluble in his disclaimer. No, no; the merchandise on board the boats was immensely valuable to the poor merchants whose means of livelihood it was, but of no importance to the Government, so that a guard could not be asked for. Mr Firozji had hired a dozen—er—respectable men, well known to him for their courage and fidelity, and armed them with swords and shields for the journey.

“Not much good against the Codgers’ matchlocks,” remarked Brian, when they had taken their leave. The surgeon was meditating, and did not respond for a moment.

“Did it strike you there was anything queer about the business?” he burst out suddenly. “Think!”

“It struck me the ‘er—respectable men’ would probably be some of our late opponents. That was all.”

“Then you missed something far more fishy. Why was there no military guard? It might not have been granted simply to protect Parsee merchandise, but for an officer and his wife it would have been forthcoming in a moment. The General would break any man that refused it. Then why wasn’t it asked for?”

“How would I know? Because my sister refused to wait while the application was made possibly.”

“Possibly, but why should old Fatty there not have said so? Of course old Firozji may have thought his kind of guard would come cheaper, and that Ambrose and his wife would be such valuable prizes for the Codgers that he himself could slip away unnoticed if there was a scrimmage. But this is all nonsense. It’s most unlikely there has been any scrimmage at all.”

“Of course; why would there be?” asked Brian dreamily. “No doubt the old sinner is sailing happily down the river, congratulating himself on the money he’s saved. But all the same,” inconsequently, “I’m certain something has happened. I have a feeling——”

“So have all of us when we are anxious, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred it all ends in smoke, and we are precious proud afterwards to think we never had a second’s doubt all along. But tell you what. You take one of the General’s spies with you—to look out for things generally and cross-question anybody you may meet. If old Puggy ain’t out on duty, he’s the man you want. A bullet chipped a bit off his heel at Mahighar—he was not on the field in the way of business, but just looking on at the show—and he’s been laid up since. But I know he is out again, and he’s an uncommonly downy old bird. I’ll hunt him up while you get your traps together.”

The search was successful, and when Brian and his bearer arrived at the boat the doctor was there in triumph with an undersized elderly native of indeterminate features and an expression of guileless simplicity. It was almost impossible to believe that this was one of the General’s famous secret agents, of whom he boasted that several were in each camp of his enemies, and not a few in their very households, but there was his name to prove it. He possessed a complicated and sonorous name of his own, but Sir Harry had a short way with such luxuries. He dubbed the man Puggy [Pagi, tracker] as his tracker par excellence, and from such august lips the undignified appellation was accepted as an honour and flaunted with pride. Colonel Welborne, whose permission had to be obtained for him to accompany Brian, was interested in the young man’s journey, and came down to see them off.

“Hope you’ll find everything all right,” he said, “but in case of accidents I have given you a sergeant’s guard of sepoys in Hindustani dress, [mufti] so that you won’t attract undue attention. If the Codgers take you by surprise, they may come in useful. But look you here: no fighting—unless you have to extricate yourself from an ambuscade, that is. If you find your sister is in the hands of the Codgers—even if she is in the camp which you are outside of, don’t try to rescue her on your own account. You can’t do it, and it will only lead to her being killed or carried off into the hills. And if you get yourself killed, how are we ever to know what has happened to her? Just let Puggy do the talking and manage things his own way. If she is in the camp he will find out without their knowing it, and he’ll bring you off peacefully to go back and rescue her another day. D’ye understand me?”

“I do,” said Brian reluctantly; “and I’m greatly obliged to you for sparing him, sir. But listen, now: if I find her marooned on an island, it’s myself will take the business in hand, and Puggy may go hang!”

No degree of anxiety could depress Brian’s tongue, though his heart might be heavy, and the little group of friends on the landing-stage—at the very foot of the cliff now—praised his cheerfulness to one another as they sped him on his way with good wishes. After all, nothing untoward might have happened; he would catch up his sister and go down with her to Bab-us-Sahel, then return by land with his guard—since by that time the river was fairly certain to be impossible for small boats.

The first day and a half of the voyage was unimportant, as was only natural, since whatever had happened must presumably have happened lower down. After that, when they had arrived at the stretch of river which the boats might be supposed to have reached on the night of the storm, a close watch was kept on the right-hand bank—the scene of the activities of the Kajias. Boats going down the river would be inclined to keep more or less to this side, and there was no apparent reason for crossing to the other, though it also must be searched in the course of the return voyage if no traces had been found earlier. A forlorn cluster of shrubs and low trees, rising again out of the water which had almost submerged them, could tell no tale, for the floods had washed away all signs of the boatmen’s evening meal on the island in the shelter of which the boats had been moored. A day after it had been passed, when Brian was beginning to fear that the whole flotilla had been swamped without leaving a trace, a trace appeared at last, though not a cheering one. On a sandy beach, below the flood-mark, half in and half out of the water, lay a battered boat, its mast and its cabin gone. Brian saw it first, and his inarticulate shout summoned the tracker and the soldiers to his side. It seemed to him ages before his boatmen, poling carefully, brought their craft as near as it was safe to go, and he could let himself overboard and swim to the derelict. He did not notice that Puggy lingered to say something to the havildar in charge of the sepoys before joining him. There was nothing to show whether the boat was that they sought, save that it had evidently been fitted up for European use; but though supports and hooks remained, all the fittings were gone. It might be that the water had swept it nearly bare, or it might have been systematically gutted—there was nothing to show which, save a large dark stain on the deck. Brian bent down to look at this, touched it, and turned mutely to the tracker for his opinion. As he lifted his head a slight movement among the bushes fringing the beach attracted his attention, and he realised that he and his companion were the target for a dozen or more matchlocks with fierce faces behind them. He was thunder-struck, but Puggy smiled triumphantly, and Brian saw why. The seeming peaceful passengers in their own boat had suddenly produced muskets, and were lining the gunwale in warlike guise. It struck Brian that if shooting began, they two were infallibly doomed, but the tracker was so proud of his precaution that he had not the heart to spoil his pleasure. The moral effect was certainly all that could be desired, for a wild-looking elderly man, with a red-dyed beard, stood up in the bushes, and demanded with righteous indignation—

“Suffer me to answer, Sahib,” said the tracker hurriedly; then to the chief, “The Sahib seeks news of his sister, who embarked with her husband before the storm in such a boat as this. Is there word of her?”

“Nay,” was the reply. “The boat drifted ashore as ye see it—broken and empty. Of any Sahib or Beebee we know nothing.”

“Nothing. How should we? Water has washed it, sun has dried it, maybe many times over. There was no dead body on board—that at least we know.”

“Here is a bullet sticking in the woodwork and another stain of blood. Are any of your men wounded?”

“Have I not said there was no one on board, dead or alive?” The chief’s tone betrayed his contempt for the very palpable trap set for him. “How then could they fire on my men?”

“Yet this bullet belongs to a Farangi pistol, and the Sahib’s guns are all gone. Here is the rack in which they were placed, ready to his hand if he desired to shoot at a pelican or a crocodile, after the manner of sahibs; but it is empty. The guns could not be washed away and the rack left.”

“Nay, but”—triumphantly—“this Sahib was sick, and his guns were not set out in the rack. They were——” sudden confusion as he realised how hopelessly he had given himself away, then a show of violent indignation to cover it. “They were washed away, I say. Who are you, O base-born one, to cast doubt upon my words?”

With extraordinary self-command for a native, Puggy ignored the attempt to lead him aside into personalities—ignored also the chief’s self-betrayal, and spoke sadly and meekly. “Truly I am nothing—the meanest of the attendants on the great and rich Sahib here, who seeks news of his sister. So much wealth would he pour out on any camp that had received her and shown her kindness that the poorest man in it would wear silk and kincob thereafter.”

The chief was interested—dangerously interested. His eyes wandered to the line of sepoys, then to his own men, very visible now in the bushes in the excitement of listening to what was going on. Clearly he was calculating whether the greater numbers on his side would counterbalance the weight of the soldiers’ superior weapons if he made a sudden dash. The matter was difficult to decide. “I perceive that this Sahib is one of the Bahadar Jang’s young men—so handsome and noble of aspect is he,” he temporised. “Is it true that he is also rich?”

“He could take up the riches of Delhi in one hand,” was the boastful answer. “And to his wealth he adds a yet more admirable prudence. All his possessions he confided, before starting on this journey, to a virtuous friend of his father’s, who has sworn upon the Gospel not to part with so much as an anna unless the Sahib presents himself to ask for it in person.”

“The friend is pledged to pay no attention to them. After the lapse of a certain time, he will employ the riches in building tombs—greater and more magnificent than the wonder of Agra—to the memory of the Sahib and his sister, where women desiring sons may come and entreat the lady’s favour.”

“To my mind it is better to enrich the living than build tombs for the dead,” said the baffled chief sourly.

“It is the Sahib’s pleasure, and who shall gainsay it? But far more gladly would he bestow of his wealth on any who could restore to him his sister living, or even tell him where she may be found.”

“The rain of riches passes over the field of the poverty-stricken, and leaves on it not a single drop. Since we have nothing to sell that you and your Sahib desire to buy, leave us our poor wreck that the waters have brought us, and go your way—unless,” with a fresh gleam of hope and covetousness, “the wealthy and high-born Sahib will deign to visit our tents?”

“Nay, he is bent on an errand of life and death. He has no time to pass the coolness of sherbet over his tongue, nor to exchange sweet phrases with a host,” was the answer, much to Brian’s disappointment. He remonstrated vigorously with the tracker when they had left the derelict—which was far too much damaged for them to think of salving it—and returned to their own boat. It was quite certain that this little knot of Kajias knew more than they would tell; what was more likely than that the passengers from the stranded boat were at hand in their very camp? Puggy answered patiently and reprovingly.

“Surely the eyes of the presence are blinded by his grief, or he would see that the Beebee cannot be in this camp. For see the chief, that son of Iblis with whom we have just spoken—whose meat is covetousness and his drink extortion—did he not desire to bring the presence thither, in the hope of falling treacherously upon him and holding him to ransom? And if the Beebee were there already, would the chief not show, for a lure to the presence, some writing from her hand, were it but a scrawl with a blackened stick upon a broken board from the boat?—or if she were dead, then some jewel from her body, or even a tress of her hair, that the presence might recognise his truth? But he brings forward nothing; therefore it is certain she is not there. Yet he knows more than he pretends, as the presence says.”

“That he does! ’Twas a bad slip when he admitted he knew the Major Sahib was sick.”

“Was that all the presence noticed? Nay,” as Brian turned and looked at him, “did he not note the kurti [long coat] worn by the chief, that it was of rich silk such as the Parsees wear, and that it had been washed? Or that one of the men who stood up in the bushes had in his girdle such a knife as the Farangis use at table, with a haft of ivory nearly as long as the blade? There was more in the boat when it came ashore than there is now.”

“Nay, Sahib, how can I speak with certainty? All I can say is that if the Beebee was on board, and was saved when the boat ran aground, she must have been carried away quickly to the hills. But it is not clear to my mind that she was there at all. It is possible, but I have seen nothing to prove it.”

“But if not,” cried Brian quickly, “she must have been washed overboard before the boat came ashore—and that I won’t believe. No; they have carried her off into the hills, and Heaven only knows what has happened the poor Major. Sick and helpless—I fear the unfortunate fellow must have been drowned, and she would be left without a defender. Good heavens!”

“Let not the presence grieve so sadly. If he will, let him put this humble one ashore a day’s journey up the river, and he will make his way in disguise into the hills, to the dwellings of the Kajias, and sojourn among them until he has made certain either that the Beebee is there or that she has never been there. Then he will bring word to the presence.”

“And what will I be doing all that time?” cried Brian. “And what will be happening her if she has been carried some other way? No, we’ll make all speed back to Qadirabad, and I’ll get the General to give me a column strong enough to overawe the Kajias and force the truth out of ’em. Then we’ll know what we’re doing.”

“As the presence pleases,” said Puggy politely, but offering no opinion as to the wisdom of Brian’s plan. While they were talking the boatmen had been poling their vessel out into the stream again, and now Brian called for the headman, and promised lavish rewards for every hour gained on the time usually taken up-stream. The men did their best, but the current was strong and the wind generally in the wrong direction, and Brian chafed grievously at the slow progress made. But at last the round tower of Qadirabad came in sight again, and to his great joy he learned from the first officer he met that the General had returned from Khanpur and taken up his quarters in the Fort, Lord Maryport having now definitely appointed him Governor of Khemistan. But the General, when Brian presented himself, was worried, even testy.

“You should have let Puggy do as he proposed,” he said sharply. “Send a column to stir up that wasps’ nest in the hills? Not a bit of it! No man esteems and admires your sister more than I do, but I can’t sacrifice the army to her. Here is Kamal-ud-din playing about in every direction, just beyond my reach. Now he has started a brother—only just out of the nursery, they say,—and the two young rascals are kicking up a fine dust between them. All the bad elements in the country are rallying to ’em, of course—whether they have submitted to us or not. The thing is beginning to spread to this side of the river, too—there’s a very pretty plot brewing in Qadirabad itself. I have my spies, happily, and can stamp it out when I want to, so as long as we are on the watch, the disaffected may as well be plotting as anything else—keep ’em out of mischief. But I give you the credit of being able to see for yourself that this ain’t a time for detaching columns on private adventures.”

“If you could extend my leave, sir—let me go with Puggy and do what I could, I mean?”

“And be recognised in no time, and give me another set of murderers to hunt up and hang? No, my good fellow; when you joined the army it was to serve her Majesty—not to go off on wild-goose chases after your own female relatives,—and while I am above ground you’ll do it. It may not be long. Over and over again of late I have thought I was on the march. I can walk again now—but still groggy on my pins, as you see. Incessant labour in this heat is killing to sixty and over, and no doubt Welborne will give you all the leave you want.”

He turned abruptly to his papers again in a spasm of self-pity, and Brian could not but capitulate unconditionally. “Don’t, General—don’t, for Heaven’s sake, be talking like that! What in the world would we all do without you? Sure Khemistan would be lost, and the army with it.”

“It’s that already, according to the Bombay papers,” gruffly. “Now that Bayard’s experienced wisdom is withdrawn, the army is as good as sacrificed to the incapable old ruffian at its head. Believe me if you can, Delany, those fellows are making pets of the Khans—calling ’em ‘fallen Princes’ and setting ’em up as saints—and blackguarding me and my glorious soldiers high and low. Bayard is in it, of course—not behind it, for he’s a decent chap, though weak, weak as water—but when the journalistic gentlemen get round him and play upon his vanity he’ll say anything, and end by believing it himself. The fellows are positively gloating over Kamal-ud-din and his proceedings, I tell you. They butter him up as a heaven-taught commander, adored by his people, the inspirer of a sacred war to expel the invaders, who have the misfortune to be led by a disreputable old lunatic who threw away his last chance of success when jealousy induced him to rid himself of his good genius, Colonel Bayard! They recount my dispositions and suggest how he ought to meet ’em, and all their articles are translated and sent up here for the edification of Kamal-ud-din and his fellow-plotters. But I’ll knock the chap out yet, no matter who his treacherous backers may be, if only this old carcase of mine will hold out for one more month!”

“Of course it will, General, and for many years to come! You have shown me where my duty lies—though it breaks my heart to leave my sister to all the trouble she may be in. I cannot forget”—half apologetically—“what she’d be to me as a little child. No mother could have been more tender—and she only a bit of a girl herself.”

“That only shows you never knew what it means to have a mother. No tenderness can replace hers, though I am sure your sister did her best.”

“She did, indeed. And do you tell me now I must leave her out of my mind entirely? Ah, General, y’have a better heart than that!”

“Who talked about putting her out of your mind, pray? Because I decline to hand over my troops to you to fritter away on this bank when every man is wanted on t’other, is there any need to talk like a fool? Puggy shall go after her, with a free hand and as much cash as he wants at call. If he finds her he may be able to negotiate for her ransom, or even help her to escape. That—what-d’ye-call-it?—sheet with a grating in it—which these women wear”—“burqa,” murmured Brian apologetically—“would disguise anybody first-rate—hide those tell-tale eyes, and we may find her waiting for us when we get back. Master Kamal-ud-din thinks he’s going to surround me, but it’s t’other way about. I am going to surround him, and we march out to-morrow to do it.”

“March out? Ah, General, not you! To take the field in this heat! We can’t afford to lose you.”

“Precious little loss, according to the Bombay fellows. Yes, I am going myself; it is necessary. Why, if they give us the slip now, it means a ruinous delay, for the river will rise and cut us off from Qadirabad till the cold weather. Provisions for five months! how could we carry ’em? and yet without ’em we must perish. This inundation is the most plaguy unaccountable thing! the old officers here tell me they have known it complete six weeks before this; when the river rose after that storm, everybody assured me it was here, yet the water has gone down again, and I mean to take advantage of it. We have to march against the enemy from all sides, and then strike hard, and you know as well as I do that if I ain’t there my concentration will fail, and some soft-hearted or white-livered chap will let the game out of the net.”

Brian was to remember the prophecy a week later, when he rode one morning into the desert camp where the General’s force was sweltering in such heat as even the natives had rarely known, and the Europeans had never even dreamt of. He had ridden all night on a self-imposed mission, and after his strenuous forty miles dropped limply from his horse more dead than alive. He had accompanied, as the General’s representative, one of the other columns—that which was detailed to prevent Kamal-ud-din from breaking away southwards between Umarganj and the river, and getting down into the Delta, where he might evade pursuit indefinitely. Colonel Bleackley was one of those officers whose moral support and aim in life is exact obedience to orders, and when news came that the river was rising again, his first impulse was to remember that he had been told on no account to let himself be cut off by the floods, but to retire upon the main body, and this he prepared to do. Brian opposed his decision with might and main. The column marching down from Sahar had turned back Kamal-ud-din’s brother, Jamal-ud-din, and driven him towards the General, who had dispersed his force and taken him prisoner. Kamal-ud-din himself, who had been hurrying to the boy’s support, quailed under the unexpected blow, and turned back into the desert. By advancing upon Umarganj, Colonel Bleackley would catch the Khan in a trap, since the only wells adequate to the needs of a mounted force were on the route he was following. To retire now would be to destroy the General’s hopes, and leave Kamal-ud-din free to be a thorn in his side for the future. After much expostulation, a compromise was agreed upon. Brian might go and ascertain Sir Harry’s wishes, and until he returned Colonel Bleackley would hold his ground. Sir Harry’s wishes were expressed in no uncertain voice.

“Tell the fellow to go on, go on, go on—no matter what’s in his way. If he is caught by the water, let him get into Umarganj and maintain himself there, and when Kamal-ud-din is tired of dancing about outside, he’ll come in and surrender. Heaven only grant he don’t slip through during this insane halt. What’s the good of our capturing Jamal-ud-din if t’other one escapes? Nice young villain Jamal-ud-din is too. Offered to make away with his brother and bring all his chiefs to submit, if I would let him go, and recognise him as successor. But that sort of thing don’t go down with me, as he knows now, and I am sending off one of the Arabits captured with him to find Kamal and warn him what a dear affectionate brother he’s got. Go and take a rest now—if you can—while I concoct a despatch, with a dash of pepper in it, for Bleackley. You’ll find your own tent cooler than this—only have to simmer there, while we’re boiling alive here.”

There was a reason for this, since Sir Harry, unable to bear the sight of his beloved Black Prince’s sufferings in the heat outside, had taken him into his tent, where the charger lay on the ground exhausted and gasping, and making the place, if possible, hotter than it would otherwise have been. Brian retired thankfully, with a glance of commiseration at Stewart, who durst not affront the General’s eyes with shirt-sleeves, and was suffocating in his scarlet coat. In his own tent he did as most of the Europeans in the force were doing—lay down with wet cloths about his head, and bade a servant pour water over him. The heat lay above him like a heavy pall, impeding his breath, sucking away his strength, and from the tents near he heard the repressed groans of men in torment like himself, while every now and then a horrible stertorous sound—a kind of choking screech—showed that some sufferer had succumbed to the appalling oppression. Brian was listlessly counting the seizures within his hearing, and speculating from which side the next gulp of agony would come, when he was startled by a suffocating gasp from Sir Harry’s tent.

“The General or Black Prince?” he asked himself, and staggering to his feet, caught up his hat and reeled blindly across the few yards of glaring sand between one semi-darkness and another. Sir Harry lay prone across the table—a dreadful inarticulate noise coming from his lips. Brian ran to lift him up, shouting for help as he did so, and in a moment the camp was in a turmoil. Stewart, who had been sent to find out something from the Brigade-Major, ran back, surgeons rushed up, and volunteer helpers crowded to the tent in such numbers that they had to be summarily dispersed. The General was bled, of course—people were bled for every thing in those days,—and while he demanded angrily but drowsily to be let alone and allowed to sleep, cold water was applied to his head and hot to his feet, and he was vigorously rubbed and slapped back to consciousness. He was the forty-fourth victim of the heat that forenoon, and of the forty-three others not one was alive three hours later.

The next morning he sent for Brian, who found him in bed—if his narrow charpoy could be called a bed,—looking very ill and haggard and by no means comfortable—under a dirty sheet which was more like a tent-cloth. He spoke fast and eagerly.

“You must start—this afternoon. Must get to Bleackley by to-morrow morning—rest in the worst of the heat. Despatch is ready. Have you a horse?”

“I rode my sister’s little Bajazet, sir. He carried me well, but ’twas bad going for him. He’d carry me back, I believe, but I’d be sorry to kill him—such a game little beast.”

“I won’t have any horse ridden to death. Take Dick Turpin—he’ll carry you. No more biting and kicking from him for a week or two!” with a cackling laugh. “You won’t spare yourself, I know. Don’t spare him.”

“I won’t, General. Then I’ll be starting as soon as he can stand the sun,” said Brian.

CHAPTER XXIV.
A SORE STRAIT.

Tom Carthew must have known that Kamal-ud-din had hurried back into the field in the hope of uniting with his brother’s force before Sir Harry could intercept it, but he did not tell Eveleen so—possibly because he was afraid of raising false hopes. He was in a pitiable state of mind, equally afraid of the Arabits and of the British, anxious—it would be too much to say determined to save Eveleen and her husband, but fearing to take any practical step in that direction. She argued the matter out with him after the Khan’s departure. It was all very well for him to say that he hoped Kamal-ud-din would be kind enough to let his captives go free, but it would be much more to the purpose to help them to escape without putting the youth’s magnanimity to the test. She was desperate enough to try any expedient Carthew might suggest, and perhaps it was as well that he declined to think of any. Even if they accomplished the all but impossible feat of getting out of the fort and the town unnoticed, the desert ringed them round as effectually as any wall. What could they do, burdened with a helpless man? They would need camels and drivers, and even if they had the means to secure the fidelity of the sarwans, they must follow one of the well-known defined routes on which water was to be found, and on any of these they were sure sooner or later to meet the Arabits. When Eveleen persisted, he reduced her to silence by inferring that she wished to leave her husband behind, as by no other possibility could she be enabled to escape. It was characteristic of him that he was not ashamed to use arguments from which a stronger man would have shrunk. Eveleen felt a certain amount of unwilling gratitude towards him, for he had undoubtedly served her well, but it was mingled with no little impatience. He would not do a single earthly thing because he was afraid of compromising his already shaky position!

That one, at any rate, of his fears had been justified she learned very early in her captivity. The brief—almost momentary—coolness of morning was over, and the long hot hours had begun. In what Eveleen called their dungeon, she and Ketty were sitting, doing nothing, because there was nothing to do. With its thick walls and solid roof, the place was cooler than the tents in the desert, but there could be no movement of air. Deprived of the contrivances for mitigating the heat to which she had grown accustomed, and of the exercise she would have declared essential to her, Eveleen looked as thin and hollow-eyed as her husband, but restless instead of quiet. The inaction was horrible to her, and she spent her time in making wild plans of escape, which she knew were useless. Everything was so dreadfully complicated by Richard’s helplessness. There he lay, inert as a log, tended like a baby—the very thing he would most have detested had he known it—unable either to see, hear, speak, or, as far as they could tell, feel. Eveleen’s heart yearned over him with a passion of pity as she thought of his state, for to her active mind nothing could be more dreadful than continued idleness. It was a relief to hear the bearer’s voice in the verandah asking admittance, for in another moment she must have broken into sobs. The old man’s errand was a pleasant surprise. The ladies of the zenana had heard there was a Farangi lady in the Fort, and as she had not asked permission to visit them, they feared she must be in need of suitable raiment, and with a present of fruit to testify their goodwill, they sent her such things as they thought she might be wanting.

Such a kindly message would have been welcome at any time, but in Eveleen’s depressed mood it was a heaven-sent distraction. It was as though the ladies had divined Carthew’s anxiety, and sent nothing that could be suspected of conveying poison, and she felt ashamed that he should have doubted them. The fruit was magnificent, coming not from sun-baked Khemistan, but from cooler regions across the mountains, and Eveleen squeezed the juice from some grapes to make a drink for Richard, and pleased herself with believing that he liked it. Ketty was examining the other things sent, garments of embroidered silk and finest muslin, perfumes and unguents in curious little baked earth pots, and soap—or rather the washing-balls used throughout Khemistan, the basis of which was a peculiar kind of earth dug near Qadirabad. When the earth was mixed, as usually happened, with mustard-oil, the balls did not commend themselves to the fastidious European taste, but these were prepared in the proper way with oil of roses, and shed abroad a delightful fragrance. Among the toilet articles her forethought had provided, Ketty had included only one piece of soap, so that the sight of this substitute was most welcome. Eveleen sat turning the different things over and looking at them, and the thought came into her mind that she was wasting time by not trying to enlist the support of the ladies during the Khan’s absence. She would certainly accept the invitation to visit them—though it might be couched in the language of command.

“I wonder what will the best time be to go and see them?” she mused aloud. “The Khan’s mother is the head of the establishment, of course. What are you doing to the Master’s arm, Ketty? Was it a mosquito?” Ketty grunted that it was done gone, and Eveleen rose and began to try the effect of the clothes sent her. She could hardly pay the visit in her much tattered dressing-gown, but neither was she prepared to don trousers—beautifully as these were fashioned according to native ideas, very wide above the knee and extremely tight below. There were two or three tunics of curious shape, but wearable, she thought, and perhaps she could arrange one of the chadars as some kind of skirt underneath them. She was pleating and draping and twisting, when Ketty, with eyes of awful meaning, lifted Richard’s arm again and showed her a long patch of fiery red from wrist almost to elbow. Dropping the length of stuff she was holding, Eveleen sprang towards him, and saw that the skin was burnt as though with some acid.

“You did do it, you horrible wretch? How dare you? You burned your master’s arm?”

“’Twas not! ’Twas worse—far worse! But why would you want to burn either? Is it mad y’are?”

“Khanum done send wash-ball, done spoil Madam face—no marry Khan,” explained the handmaid brazenly.

“The wash-balls?” Eveleen picked up one of them and regarded it with dilated eyes. “You mean if I had used this on my face——? But why burn your master?”

“Wouldn’t I have tried it on my own arm if you’d told me? But to go and torture him when he can’t feel——! Listen what I’ll do with you, Ketty. I’m going to see the Khanum now, and you’ll go with me and interpret. But what will we put on the poor arm first? This stuff looks cooling—— Ah no, I won’t let one of them come within a mile of him now. Bearer will likely know what to do.”

She summoned Abdul Qaiyam from the verandah, received his advice to apply a little ghi to the burn, and bade him send word that the Farangi lady craved leave to wait on their Highnesses; but as he went out again with disturbed face, she found herself clasped round the knees by the agonised Ketty, pallid with terror.

“Madam no done scold! No good. No help here. Khanum done kill Madam, kill Master, kill all.”

“Scold her? and why would I scold her? What good would that do? What would I scold her about?”

“Wash-balls,” moaned Ketty, drawing back and looking as though she doubted her mistress’s sanity.

“Oh, those! I won’t be saying a word about them, of course. Throw them away—— No, put them by; I may be glad of them myself yet. Why, Ketty, you silly old woman, don’t you see I want to put myself right with the ladies? They are making a horrid mistake about me, and well they may; and how can they be shown it unless I speak to them myself?”

“If they do, they’ll certainly kill us as well, and then all our troubles will be over. But they won’t, for I’ll leave the blue stone round his neck, and Bearer to see that no one touches it. Here, put a pin in this.”

As an additional security, she fastened her improvised skirt with the girdle of her dressing-gown, then caught up another chadar and wrapped it round her head and shoulders, and waited impatiently for the bearer’s return, while Ketty, abandoning her tragic attitude, took up once more her familiar strain of grumbling. It seemed an immensely long time before Abdul Qaiyam returned, for the ladies must have been astonished by the suddenness of the visit, but at last he came back, bringing with him one of the negro attendants of the zenana. Under this man’s protection, after charging the long-suffering bearer with many injunctions as to his master’s safety, Eveleen crossed the courtyard—or rather, slipped from one patch of shade to another, and thus skirted round it, encountering various Arabits who hastily averted their eyes or took cover within the buildings. Ketty followed, looking exactly as if she was going to be hanged, so her mistress told her, and at the zenana door they were admitted by another negro, who handed them over to a number of old women. These offered perfunctory salutations in an unknown tongue, scrutinising the visitors greedily the while, and led them to a large vaulted room partially underground, where the ladies were passing away the hot hours as best they might. Eveleen had learnt enough from Ketty’s gossip—though it was difficult to tell whom she found to gossip with—to know who were the principal personages before her. There were three young girls—rather meek and abashed-looking—who sat together as though they found each other’s company a support. Two of them were wives of Kamal-ud-din, and one was his brother’s. Then there was Jamal-ud-din’s mother, a lady with a dissatisfied expression, who sat as near as possible to the chief place occupied by her superior, the mother of Kamal-ud-din. The Khanum was the pleasantest-looking person there, with an assured manner which showed to advantage beside the fidgetiness of her companion. To her, even as her lips uttered the words of salutation, and without being invited to approach, Eveleen moved swiftly forward, and dropping on her knees, laid hold of the Khanum’s silken draperies.

“I seize the Lady’s skirt and claim her protection,” she said in her best Persian. “Let her spread her mantle over my husband and me.”

Every one looked virtuously shocked that a woman should be so abandoned as to refer to her husband as such, but apparently the impropriety furnished a not disagreeable excitement, for the ladies gathered a little closer and listened eagerly. The Khanum alone remained unmoved.

“How is this, then?” she asked. “Is not the sick Farangi thy brother, lady?”

“Not a bit of it!” Eveleen sat back on her heels, still holding the Khanum’s dress, and felt—without realising the reason—the thrill that went round as she lifted her eyes to her audience. “My brother is only a boy. This is my husband, that I’ve followed over land and sea, after he came back for me when I’d waited twenty years for him.” Ketty followed as interpreter, but Eveleen began to suspect that her Persian was about on a par with her English when she saw the blank look on the ladies’ faces. She did her best, therefore, to repeat what she had said, and between the two some measure of understanding followed. The Khanum looked more sympathetic.

“It is told me the Farangi ladies are like the Turki women north of the mountains, who ride unveiled with their lords—even to war,” she said, and Eveleen followed the words anxiously and painfully. “But how is it this Farangi Sahib was not slain?”

“He was sick—not wounded in battle,” explained Eveleen. “I was taking him to the sea to heal him, for the sea heals all the ills of the English.”

This was quite comprehensible. “Naturally, since they come up out of it,” said the Khanum graciously.

“And we were betrayed into the hands of the Khan’s servants and brought here,” Eveleen ended rather lamely, and the benevolence became less marked.

“My son does not make war with sick men and with women. Why should ye have been brought hither?”

“They said——” Eveleen tried hard to put the story of the Seal of Solomon into manageable Persian, but found the task beyond her powers. “It was all a piece of foolishness,” she said unhappily.

“What was foolish? the tale of the precious thing—dear to my son and his whole house—the colour of which has passed into thine eyes? Why say this now, when by thy malediction upon what should have caused good fortune, thou hast brought so much evil upon my son and all the brotherhood?”

“Ah, but it couldn’t really——” Eveleen was beginning, and then realised that no amount of argument, even if she were equal to it, would disabuse the ladies’ minds of their belief either in her power or in that of the stone. “I was angry,” she confessed. “My husband gave the talisman to the Khan without consulting me.”

“My very own—given to me when I was married by the uncle who brought me up.” There was quite a chorus of sympathy now, but Jamal-ud-din’s mother struck a jarring note.

“And if it was,” she said querulously, “what better can his Highness, the son of my sister, do than what he proposes—namely, to restore the stone and take thee into his zenana, thus uniting thy influence with the fortunes of his house?”

Eveleen flushed angrily—the ladies watching as if fascinated the red spreading through the white skin. “We need not speak of that; it is not the custom of my people,” she said, controlling herself with difficulty. “Khanum, look——” she raised the heavy masses of hair from her temples, and showed the streaks of white that were making their appearance there. “I am old—old enough to be the mother of his Highness. Let me go with my own lord, whom I love, and who came to seek me after so many years.”

A little discussion arose. Jamal-ud-din’s mother held to her view of the case, Kamal-ud-din’s wives—not unnaturally—taking the other, though timidly and with due deference to their seniors. One of them thought that as the Farangi woman had a husband already, it was unnecessary to provide her with another; the other was cynically inclined, and said that in a world where such a thing as constancy was hardly to be found, it was a pity to make away with the one man who had proved himself faithful. The Khanum, listening and pondering, made it clear at last that she took a wider view of the matter.

“Is it true that by my son’s command, the Farangi Sahib is in no danger of death for the present?” she asked.

“And the gratitude that is his due—hast thou shown that? In return for the boon of life for thy lord, is good fortune once more to smile upon my son’s house?”

Eveleen was taken aback. “I wish him—and have wished him—all possible happiness,” she faltered.

“Nay,” wretchedly; “that I cannot do. Yet have pity, Khanum. Set not the life of my husband in the scale against”—a happy thought—“that of my brother.”

Even the Khanum seemed moved. “Thou art indeed in a sore strait!” she said. “Rise, lady, and return to thy lord. For the present my skirt is over thee and him. It may be that good fortune will attend my son. If so, I will entreat him for thee. If not, I will send for thee again, and we will speak of this.”

It was a sore strait indeed, and Eveleen could hardly see for tears the attar and pan that were presented to her as she retired, nor utter the words of farewell. At any other time she would have been amused by the bearer’s incredulous delight on seeing her return alive and unharmed, and Ketty’s obvious disgust at the unimportant part she had been allowed to take in the proceedings, though she returned from the zenana the richer by a fine new cloth—the gift of the Khanum. She could not even be amused at herself for totally forgetting alike the Khanum’s present of clothes and the poisoned soap that accompanied it, nor at the ladies for ignoring them so completely. She could only tell herself that she had degraded the English name in vain by her humiliation, and that the General’s victory, which she was patriotically sure would come, would certainly be set down as the result of her malignity.

That she was right in this, at any rate, was proved only too soon, when she was summoned again to the Khanum after a night of turmoil in the town, when the shrill wailings of the women penetrated into the fort and were answered by like cries from the zenana. Sir Harry had defeated Jamal-ud-din’s force and held the boy prisoner, and Kamal-ud-din had been too late to rescue his brother. The Arabits in the courtyard cursed and spat at her as they turned their heads aside, and in the zenana Jamal-ud-din’s mother, noisy and dishevelled amid a group of sympathisers—yet not without a certain satisfaction in finding herself for once the prominent person—met her with bitter words and angry threats. Was this her gratitude? the ladies demanded hysterically. Was she so blind as to imagine that now she was in Kamal-ud-din’s power she could go on working her spells against him, and yet expect to escape unpunished? With monotonous reiteration the mourners repeated the question in different words, the only calm person present being the Khanum, who had consulted propriety by appearing ceremonially dishevelled, but sat apart from the noisy group, wearing the peculiar air of detachment which distinguished her. But she made no attempt to protect Eveleen.

“Go, go!” shrieked Jamal-ud-din’s mother at last, having exhausted her store of insults—and it was not a small one—“but think not to escape. Had I my will, thy head and that of the Farangi without would already be speeding to the camp of the Brother of Satan, whom ye call Bahadar Jang, to confront him at his table. But ye are protected”—with terrific scorn—“by the son of my sister. Yet take warning. If one hair falls from the head of my son, no protection of his Highness will serve thee—or thy lord—from the vengeance of the women, and these hands”—most realistic claws extended—“will be the first to tear.”

Eveleen knew well enough what she meant. There were women everywhere around—not merely the Princesses, in their transparent muslins, and silks that a single violent movement would tear, but hard-faced old women, of the race of those whose mission it was to finish up the wounded in frontier warfare. She had often heard shudderingly of their horrible methods of torture and mutilation—picking out the wounded man’s eyes with the long needles used for applying kohl to the eyelids was one of the mildest,—and the thought of the little dagger occurred to her again. Not for herself, there would not be time for both, but for Richard. She looked involuntarily towards the impassive Khanum, who spoke coldly.

“Go, and we will send for thee again. But bethink thee well ere thou bring further evil upon this house.”

Returning wretchedly to the dungeon, Eveleen found, with a certain warming of the heart, Carthew waiting to see her—or rather, shuffling uneasily about the room, a look of rooted misery on his face. It must have cost him so much effort to show himself on the side of such desperately unpopular people, that she hated herself for thinking that he had come because he feared she would make his allegiance even more conspicuous by sending for him. The natural contrariety of Eveleen’s disposition caused her spirits to rise immediately on beholding his depression, and she greeted him with a very fair imitation of cheerfulness.

“I’m glad to find you in such good spirits, ma’am,” he said—in a tone very far from glad.

“And why wouldn’t I be, when the General is well on his way to come and rescue us?”

Carthew shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish to damp you, ma’am, but I doubt the General’s ever getting this far.”

Eveleen stared at him. “But why not? Where else in the world would we be than here?”

“But why should he think to find you here? For anything he knows, if you escaped the storm at all you’re on t’other side of the river.”

“The other side of the river!” she repeated, her eyes dilating. “But how would we be there?”

“Didn’t I tell you, ma’am”—miserably—“of the plot I made to catch Captain Lennox for the Khan—when it was you they meant all the time? I had to lay a false trail to keep the General from sending the Camel Corps to cut us off between the river and this, and so I did it by bringing in the Codgers into the business, through that old Parsee that was with you.”

“The poor little good old man? D’ye tell me he was in it? Sure I’ll never believe in anybody again!”

“Not in the plot against you, but he was bringing supplies to the Khan from his aunt—one of Gul Ali Khan’s wives—in Qadirabad. Paying his army has swallowed up the Khan’s own treasure, pretty near, so he got word to this old lady, and she promised him jewels to a fairish amount. Old Firozji was to carry ’em about him, and I gave him all the directions—how he was to get protection by sailing in a British officer’s company, and make sure there was no trouble with the Codgers by engaging some of ’em to guard him. At one of the halts on the river—he was not to know beforehand which it would be—a messenger from the Khan would meet him with a certain password, and he would give up the jewels to him. The rest of the plan we arranged with the Codgers. They were to capture the boats by surprise, and do what they liked with ’em, but the old Parsee and the British officer were to be brought across the river on mussucks and handed over to us. That was my idea, but you know it was yourself, and no officer, that the Khan was after. The Codgers had the password, so that old Firozji would come quiet, and when he had given us the jewels he was to be let go, so that he could tell the General his boats and everything had been stolen, and he had escaped with nothing but his life to bring word of Captain Lennox being prisoner. It was the Codgers made things go wrong, though why they should have brought you across the river in the boat I can’t say.”

“Then it was well you did, ma’am, or you would have come across tied on to a mussuck, and your good gentleman there would never have been heard of again. But I suppose it was that stirred up the Codgers, making ’em think they’d been choused somehow. They killed the old Parsee, anyhow, and collared the jewels themselves, instead of handing ’em over, and then made off, leaving me to find everything had gone wrong.”

“Well, if y’ask me,” said Eveleen vigorously, “I think it served you right entirely. Are you not ashamed of yourself, Tom Carthew, to be plotting this way?”

“Don’t, Miss Evie, don’t! Ain’t we all in the same boat? If I failed to get the jewels, wasn’t it because somehow or other I got hold of the Major as well as yourself—and then listened to you and let him be brought here? And if you ain’t bringing ’em the good luck they looked for—why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff your thoughts are on the Major, not the Khan.”

“Well, there you are, you see. If there was ever any chance of the General getting within twenty miles of this place, do you think the Major would be there to see it? Why, it’s he keeps you from doing your duty by them—that’s the way they look at it.”

“It’s my fault again. I told ’em he was dying, you see—couldn’t live above a day or two—and I believed it. But he’s alive still.”

“Of course he is! And sometimes—I almost think there seems a little weeshy bit of difference—a sort of change in his eyes—as if his soul was trying to find its way back, don’t you know?”

“Miss Evie, don’t—for pity’s sake! The one chance for you is that he stays as he is. I don’t think the Khan would finish off a man in that state—I hope he wouldn’t. But if once he saw him beginning to get better——”

“Y’are a nice old croaker, Tom! Then the General must come quick, before he gets better—eh? But what did you mean by saying there was not a great chance of his coming?”

“Why should he? The river is rising again, he dursn’t let himself be cut off away from his camp, he don’t know of any particular reason for coming here. He won’t come. He’ll turn back and make for Qadirabad—you’ll see.”

“I won’t, then! I believe the General will come in time and save us. Y’ought be ashamed of yourself for trying to make me unhappy about it. I tell y’ I won’t be miserable—there!” But whether, when she was again comparatively alone, Eveleen was quite as valiantly positive as she professed to be, Ketty could have told.

Three days later the blow fell—just the reverse of the last one. The town rang with rejoicings and blazed with lights. From the zenana came presents of fruit and sweetmeats, jewels and rich garments, with a special message from the Khanum herself: “The mother of his Highness send thanks and greetings to the Farangi lady, who had brought blessing when to blind eyes she seemed to be bringing a curse.”

It was some time before a diligent quest for information on Ketty’s part made this cryptic message clear. The reason for the general rejoicing was soon discovered. The Bahadar Jang was sick unto death. All his people stricken about the same time were dead already, and he must soon follow. Depression and disintegration had already set in among his forces, as was shown by the conduct of the body of troops detached to cut off the Khan from Umarganj. It had halted for no reason, and remained passive, and Kamal-ud-din had passed it safely, and would arrive in an hour or two. This was the news as it was communicated to the public, but to one or two cronies of his own the messenger had imparted the further tale of young Jamal-ud-din’s dishonour—his offer to assassinate his brother to win favour with his captor,—and this it was that had moved the gratitude of the Khanum. Now they knew where they were, she said, and her son could guard himself in future. The capture of the boy, which had seemed such a disaster, was a blessing in disguise, since it had revealed him in his true colours. And to this she adhered, though Jamal-ud-din’s mother stormed and raved and tore her hair as she vowed that the treachery must have been suggested by the enemy, and that her son had feigned to assent to it only through fear of death.

Eveleen cared nothing for Jamal-ud-din and his mother and step-mother. The news of the General’s illness—perhaps death—and Kamal-ud-din’s return came upon her like a thunderbolt, in nowise lightened by the knowledge that both events were in all good faith ascribed to her favourable influence. At last she had tried hard enough—and behold the result! They would never let her go now that she had so signally proved her value to them. She had signed Richard’s death-warrant as surely as though she had set her hand to paper, for though they might contemptuously decline to take his life, how could he live on in this state without her tendance? She might escape dishonour herself, thanks to the little dagger, but how could she save him?

She sprang up wildly at last, and meeting the surprised glance of Ketty, who had been hugging herself in the complacency natural to the bearer of appalling tidings, bade her harshly to go out—make enquiries—bring more news. Ketty was nothing loath. The present popularity of her mistress shed its lustre over her, and she knew she would be a welcome guest among the wives of the soldiers in the courtyard. Out she went, and Eveleen, who had stood rigid with her hand to her heart, crossed the room again and sank on her knees beside her husband. Pride was gone now.

“O God,” she sobbed, “it was my fault—all my fault. But that’s the very reason I need Thy help. I can do nothing, I deserve nothing. I have ruined myself, but not him——O God, not him! Let him be saved—whatever happens to me—whatever—whatever.”

Exhausted by the vehemence of her entreaty, she knelt in silence, panting painfully. Then her outstretched hands touched one of Richard’s, clasped it and let it go, and then in the semi-darkness she passed them gently over his face—as though for the last time.

“So often I have said I’d die for him, and now I have killed him!” The words were forced from her, and she broke into a low hopeless sobbing, with her head on his breast. Was it fancy—madness—or did she really hear his voice close to her ear, speaking dreamily and as though he was but half awake?

“Don’t cry—so sadly. I can’t—bear it.” He was certainly speaking, in a drowsy voice like one newly awakened from a long sleep. Eveleen gave a cry.

“Gently—hush, pray. I was afraid—of something. It must have been—this.”

“Is it afraid you were? Will you tell me have you been in your right senses all this while, when I thought you could hear nothing?”

“I don’t think so,” doubtfully, but the voice was stronger. “There have been times—— Sometimes I think I must have heard—— Perhaps I might have waked—— But I heard Carthew say—the one chance for you—— Something on my mouth—sort of padlock——”

“Then why in the world wouldn’t you break it? D’ye think I’d mind what happened me if I’d had the chance of hearing you speak? Ambrose, I’d like to shake you!”

“Pray do—but for Heaven’s sake don’t speak so loud. Not unless we are out of the wood by this time. Are we? Surely not; or why were you crying in that—that lamentable way?”

The familiar dry tone brought Eveleen to her senses. She sat back and looked at him in dismay.

“Indeed, and if you did keep silence because you were afraid of my foolishness I wouldn’t wonder. I deserve it. To think of my calling out that way! But Bearer’s outside to warn us if anybody comes near, and every one’s too busy to care about us just now.”

Richard’s hand came on hers with a sudden heavy pressure. “Listen!” he murmured.

“Let the exalted magnificence listen to the words of this humble one,” pleaded the voice of Abdul Qaiyam. “In very deed there is no one within. The Beebee talks with herself.”

“In such a voice as that? Stand aside, old man. If this is true, I will ask pardon. Out of the way!”

A hand lifted the grass blind, and Kamal-ud-din stood in the opening, in his hand the drawn sword with which he had just threatened the old servant.

CHAPTER XXV.
USE AND WONT.

The sun had risen some time, and the waves of heat were rolling up to the assault of Colonel Bleackley’s camp in the shadeless desert, but the bored and discontented officers who were lounging about the mess tent made no move to retire to their own quarters. They had no spirit even for what jealous civilians called “Arabit-hunting,” the perpetual diversion of Sir Harry and his circle—which meant recalling the exploits of this or that comrade in the battles, and how many of the enemy he had killed. The few words exchanged among them were not of a character flattering to the commander of their column.

“Shoving his responsibility off upon Delany!” growled Captain Keeling savagely. “We ought to be in Umarganj now, and should be if he had done his duty.”

“More just to say Delany shouldered the responsibility of his own accord,” said the measured tones of Sir Dugald Haigh. “But it ought not to have been left to him.”

“Well, he’s paid for it, poor chap!” muttered some one else. “Must have broke down somewhere, or he’d be back by now.”

“Wouldn’t choose to be in Bleackley’s shoes when old Harry talks to him about this business!” said another cheerfully.

“If the General don’t take it up, I’ll expose him myself!” snarled Captain Keeling, with the public spirit which so endeared him to his superiors.

“I believe you, my boy!” cried the rest in chorus, which broke off into shouts of welcome as an exhausted young man rode a very meek horse painfully into the space before the tent. With unwonted discretion, Brian declined to state the result of his mission otherwise than by nods and winks, but by the way he brandished the despatch which he insisted he must deliver to Colonel Bleackley forthwith, the others guessed he had been successful. But while he waited for his audience he could not resist telling the rest how uncommonly cool they were here—which was naturally soothing to men who felt that they were rapidly frizzling away,—and to prove his words, describing the terrible mortality in the General’s camp. That Colonel Bleackley heard what was said was clear when he had read the despatch, though his bearer professed to have awakened him from sleep.

“I am, Colonel. The General would likely think it better in case the despatch got destroyed.”

“Sir Henry was of course unaware when he wrote that my spies report Umarganj to have been evacuated by the enemy. I doubt whether I am justified in pushing forward, on the strength of an order dictated in the state of health you describe. In case of the General’s death I might incur very grave censure.”

Brian felt Captain Keeling bristling behind him, and anticipated him hastily. “Believe me, Colonel, if Sir Henry were unhappily to succumb, he’d rise from his grave to haunt y’ if you did not push forward.”

“You are acquainted with his probable course of action in any circumstances whatever, apparently.” Colonel Bleackley looked at Brian without any particular affection. “Better go and rest and get something to eat. So valuable a person must not come to harm, if I am to escape the attentions of the General’s ghost.”

Brian went off vowing angrily that he was not going to rest—not he! A snack of something to eat, and he was good for the day’s work yet. Besides, it was no use trying to sleep in this heat; he had tried it at the other camp, and it meant dying before you could wake up—in the case of other people, he explained hastily in answer to interested enquiries. But whether it was that the double journey had taken more out of him than he knew, or that it really was cooler here—owing to the drier air—than near the river, it is certain that he was fast asleep when Captain Keeling lifted the flap of his tent and looked in, and on being addressed merely grunted and went to sleep again.

“Poor beggar! let him sleep. He deserves it,” said Sir Dugald Haigh, looking over Captain Keeling’s shoulder.

“I know he deserves the best we can give him. That’s why I thought he ought to come on this reconnaissance.”

“And you’re disappointed because the poor chap ain’t made of cast steel and whipcord like yourself? After all, he’ll be in at the death, thanks to Bleackley.”

“Hang Bleackley! I’ll swear I could take the place by a coup de main with my men and your guns—and to be forbidden to approach too near, or pursue the enemy——”

“Got to engage ’em first—find ’em, too. Well, when you do, the guns will be up in support, if I have to drag ’em through the sand at my quad.’s tail.”

Brian’s slumbers that day were disturbed by rolling thunder, which worried rather than troubled him—it was so persistent. He was never really awakened, however, and arose at sunset, refreshed but rather injured, to find to his astonishment that there had been no storm at all. The thunder of which he had been intermittently conscious was that of Sir Dugald Haigh’s guns, with the support of which the Khemistan Horse had attacked a strong Arabit force covering Umarganj and driven it from its position. Forbidden beforehand to follow up his victory, Captain Keeling, with murder in his heart, could only send to inform his superior that the way to the town was now open, and entreat to be allowed to pursue the retreating foe and cut off Kamal-ud-din’s retreat. He had not been in the fight—so Captain Keeling had learnt from the prisoners he had taken,—but he was certainly in the town, and his capture would end the war at one blow. But Colonel Bleackley scented stratagems and ambushes, and flatly forbade his subordinate to do more than bivouac for the night on the ground he had won. The next day the whole force moved forward majestically—also slowly,—the Khemistan Horse acting as advanced-guard instead of reconnoitring ahead of the column. Brian, riding with Captain Keeling, had little conversation with him, for the Commandant was too much disgusted to talk. He was quite certain Kamal-ud-din would have seized the opportunity to make good his escape, and all the work would have to be done over again. They rode on grumpily in the broiling heat, their eyes mocked by the most enticing mirage imaginable in the circumstances. A stately castle rose from the margin of a pellucid lake, in which its battlemented turrets were faithfully mirrored. Behind it towered mountains which it could have been sworn were snow-capped, and on either side were waving palms and green undergrowth. Both men were well accustomed to deceptions of such a kind by this time, and were not unduly disappointed when the delightful prospect faded suddenly, revealing a straggling mass of mud hovels surrounded by a mud wall and clustering about a mud fort. This was Umarganj, the goal of their efforts—but a goal without reward, as Captain Keeling perceived when he handed his telescope to his companion and pointed out a group of men waiting in the shade of the gateway facing them.

“Townspeople—on the watch to surrender the place,” he growled. “Kamal-ud-din and his Arabits have cut their stick, of course.”

“I wonder now was he gone when the spies brought that tale to Bleackley yesterday?” said Brian.

“Not he. Spread the report in the hope Bleackley would think he was a day late for the fair and go home. You put a stop to that, happily. Then my young gentleman leaves the fellows we defeated yesterday to fight a rearguard action and allow him time to get away, and clears out comfortably while we have our proper meals and go to bed in nice time!”

Brian laughed at the savagery of the tone, and they rode on, to be met by the men they had seen—a number of the notables of the town, whose protestations of their devotion to the General and the British, and their delight in surrendering, scarcely carried conviction. They were a ragged, wild-looking crew, and the place was so miserable and poverty-stricken that both men were conscious of a mean joy in the thought that Colonel Bleackley would consider its possession a very poor return for the long march it had cost. But one of the ambassadors—possibly reading some depreciation in the faces of the conquerors—approached them ingratiatingly.

“The Sahib and the Beebee are quite safe, and their servants,” he said. “And”—with a smirk—“we have a prisoner to hand over who will rejoice the heart of the Padishah—on whom be the blessing of God!”

“The Sahib and Beebee!” repeated Brian in astonishment. “What Sahib and Beebee? It can’t possibly be——”

“Not your sister and her husband—how could it be?” demanded Captain Keeling crushingly. “They are miles away on t’other side of the river.”

“I don’t know. I did hear at H.Q. that Puggy had come in swearing he would stake his reputation they had never been on that bank at all, but he had gone out on another errand, and I had no time to hunt him up. If it could be——!”

“This slave cannot tell his name, Sahib, but he is sick, and his Beebee enjoys the gift of good fortune.”

“I wouldn’t exactly have thought that!” muttered Brian. “But I must see—I’ll ride on. Good heavens, if it might be! How in the world would they get here?”

“You had better wait, unless you want to be chased and put under arrest. Here comes the great Bleackley to take over the negotiations. Now for a triumphal entry!”

Quivering with impatience, Brian had to wait while Colonel Bleackley—through an interpreter—questioned the deputation, and learned that Kamal-ud-din, with his family and such of his forces as remained faithful to him, had left the town the night before. Of the Arabits who declined to follow his fortunes farther, most had gone their several ways, after plundering where they could, and besides the townspeople there were left only a few who were tired of fighting, and the wounded from yesterday’s action. Renewed assurances of the town’s delight in welcoming the British convinced Colonel Bleackley that no treachery was to be feared, and he announced his intention of taking possession of the fort. Led by the Khemistan Horse, the expedition entered the town and marched through the streets, to be greeted by a weird apparition as it approached the fort gate. An elderly native—a down-country Mohammedan from his dress—was dancing wildly on the battlements and waving his pagri like a streamer. Catching sight of Brian, he turned the stream of blessings he was pouring on the column generally into a more personal channel, and Brian recognised his brother-in-law’s bearer.

“If you’ll believe me, it is them after all!” he cried joyfully. “Come down, y’old sinner, and show us where your Sahib is.”

Descending with miraculous speed by some unseen staircase, Abdul Qaiyam appeared in the gateway, his turban neatly rolled as though by magic, his aspect composed and stately. “The Sahib and the Beebee await the young Sahib,” he announced in his most important voice.

“Go and find your sister by all means, Delany,” said Colonel Bleackley, and Brian followed his guide to the courtyard guarding the zenana door, where Richard lay on his charpoy on the verandah, with Eveleen beaming proudly at his side, Ketty beside her, and a nervous figure lurking in the shadows behind.

“So here y’are at last, Brian!” cried Eveleen, most unjustly. “No thanks to you we’re here to meet you!”

“I believe you, ma’am! No thanks to me y’are here at all, but to your own wicked wayward will. Well, this is a sight for sore eyes! How are y’, Ambrose? Now tell me all about it, Evie.”

Shaking hands with Richard and kissing Eveleen simultaneously, Brian settled himself between them. “Now that’s first chop! Give you my word I never thought I’d have this pleasure. Sit down here, Evie, and tell me all the story of your perverse doings, and how you managed to crown ’em all by letting yourself be found at Umarganj instead of among the Codgers.”

Eveleen needed no second invitation to embark on so congenial a theme, and with Richard putting in a dry word or two here and there in a weak voice—to serve, as he remarked once, as rocks in the path of the cataract—her narrative poured forth, with characteristic disdain of order and chronology, and frequent promises to return later to such and such a point and explain—the moment for which never came. Still, having extorted permission to tell her tale in her own way, she did arrive at last at the evening of Richard’s return to consciousness, and Kamal-ud-din’s most inopportune appearance on the scene.

“If you’ll believe me, Brian, I was frightened”—with the solemnity needed to carry conviction of so improbable a fact,—“really terribly frightened. The instant before I was scolding Ambrose for not letting me know the very moment he had his senses again, and I had plenty more to say, when there stood that—that incongruous youth, glooming at us with great angry eyes, and a drawn sword in his hand!”

“And I leave you to guess what your sister did,” said Richard, taking advantage of her pause for effect.

“Why, I’d say she’d spring up and take her stand nobly in the front of you, and treat that incongruous youth to the rough side of her tongue,” said Brian.

“Well, then, I did not!” said Eveleen triumphantly. “You’ll never guess it. I’m ashamed of myself entirely when I think how I’d ever do such a thing. I just ducked down behind Ambrose, and cried, and cried, and cried!”

“I was not. ’Twas all I could do—to think how everything had gone wrong just as it was getting right. And poor Ambrose lying there getting soaked with tears, and not a chance of saying a word because of the noise!”

“As you may imagine, your sister is colouring her narrative a bit,” supplied Richard. “’Matter of fact, the Khan was as much taken aback as we were, and began to look most uncommon foolish. It was unnecessary for me to say anything—even had I had the chance.”

“Do I understand, then, that Evie wept and wept until her tears would float him out of the place, still looking foolish?” demanded Brian.

“You do not. The Seal of Solomon was still hung round Ambrose’s neck, and the chain cot my hair as I cried. That reminded me of the thing.”

“And I jumped up, and took it off Ambrose, and held it out to the youth and said, ‘Ah, take it, take it, and my blessing with it! All the luck you can have I’ll wish you with all my heart, and if it’s my poor eyes y’are set on I’ll give them to y’on a plate like St Lucy, and go groping blind all the rest of my life, but don’t take me away from Ambrose here!’”

“Precious moving!” remarked Brian. “And I hope Kamal-ud-din was duly moved?”

“Unfortunately my wife spoke in English, you see—which is not one of the Khan’s accomplishments. Otherwise her rash offer might have been accepted, and you would have found a shocking spectacle to greet you.”

“Ah, you may talk and make a joke of it!” said Eveleen, with tremendous energy; “but I meant it, and I’d have done it too.”

“I ventured to put in my oar,” said Richard. “Seeing the youth look puzzled and angry, I summoned up my best Persian and laid the compliments on with a trowel. I told him the terror of his name had frightened my wife into thinking him capable of things he would never dream of doing. I blamed myself for giving him the seal when it was not mine to give, and begged him humbly to hold me responsible. I pointed out that Mrs Ambrose was now quite willing to surrender it—as a spontaneous tribute of esteem and admiration. I congratulated myself on recovering my senses in time to unite my sentiments with hers in making the gift.”

“Sure you never heard such an oration!” said Eveleen to Brian. “It flowed on, and gained strength as it flowed—like a river—and I only understanding a word here and there. And the poor Khan looking more and more sheepish under the weight of compliments! And the whole thing no good at all in the end!”

“No, I deny that!” said Richard vigorously. “If it didn’t convince the young gentleman, I shall always swear it brought him into an amiable frame of mind.”

“And how would he show that? Up to the present, he don’t seem to have had much chance, between the two of you.”

“He asked,” said Eveleen with dignity, “was the Beebee willing to give him the seal of her own free will? I could understand that, and I nodded my head as fast as I could go.”

“Quite forgetting that y’ought have nodded up instead of down?” chuckled Brian. “’Tis a scatter-brain y’are, Evie!”

“Well, he knew what I meant, because I held the thing out to him with my sweetest smile, and he took it, and said to Ambrose his mother had warned him he’d better accept a gift offered with goodwill than seize an unwilling wife, and I was so thankful I didn’t interrupt the proceedings to tell him he’d never have had a wife in me.”

“Sure it’s well he’s a good boy and minds his mamma,” said Brian, his tone a little puzzled.

“Ah, but that was not all, then. I wondered would you see it. He said to Ambrose: ‘The Bahadar Jang gave life to me, his enemy, when he sent to warn me that my brother was seeking to compass my death. In return I leave him his people, safe and sound.’ Then some more compliments, and away he went. And that was the last we saw of him—except a cloud of dust vanishing to the southward yesterday evening. But who’s this coming in—Europeans?”

“The great Bleackley coming to pay his respects to the rescued lady, no doubt. And Keeling—you know him. Why, my dear girl, what’s the matter?” for Eveleen had sprung up in terror.

“It’s Tom. I ought have told you before. I was coming to it. But they’ll likely not notice.” She shook an agitated finger at the figure in the background. “Just pretend he ain’t there, Brian.”

But evidently Colonel Bleackley was better informed than she hoped, for when he had greeted her and Richard and congratulated them on their escape and demanded a full account of their adventures later on, he said blandly—

“You have that renegade Thomas here, I understand. Like the fellow’s impudence to take refuge with you. Wonder he ain’t ashamed to show his face. The man who trained the Khans’ artillery and fired on the Residency, I mean.”

“But sure he has saved our lives again and again. He’s only here now because he came back to save us when he might have escaped,” urged Eveleen hotly. “Ah, now, Colonel Bleackley, let the poor fellow go!”

But Colonel Bleackley shook his head. “Impossible, my dear madam, impossible! How could I answer to the General for such a piece of folly? He will wish to deal with the fellow himself, I am certain, and make an example of him.”

“Don’t you trouble yourself, Miss Evie,” said Carthew, coming forward in his shuffling way. “It was bound to come. I’ve never done anybody much credit yet, but I’m glad it’s through helpin’ you and the Major that I’ve got caught. Leave it at that.”

But nothing was farther from Eveleen’s intentions, and the moment Colonel Bleackley was gone—Carthew having been removed in custody earlier—she attacked her brother again on the subject.

“He must be let go, Brian—you must give the General no peace till he pardons him. He had actually escaped—he went away with the Khan, leaving us, as he thought, perfectly safe. Then one of the servants let out that the younger Khanum—Jamal-ud-din’s mother—had left word with the town authorities, and bribed them, to kill us and make out we’d never been here at all, and poor Tom came riding back post-haste to warn us. We were quite quiet and happy, not keeping any watch or anything, but he got us into the tower beside the gateway, where there was a little bit of a room with a tiny door, and there we stayed all night—fearfully hot. The townspeople came prowling round the empty courts and places, but Tom cocked his pistols very loud when they came near us, and they were frightened. They must have thought you were not coming to the city when you didn’t advance yesterday, for this morning they sent word that ’twas all right, we were quite safe, for you were coming, and when we sent Bearer up to the top of the gate to look, he called out that ’twas so, and he danced for joy! But when poor Tom tried to go away again the way the Khan had gone, the people stopped him and wouldn’t let him go, and he came back here. We must save him, or we’ll be disgraced for ever. Ambrose feels just precisely as I do about it.”

“Well, my dear, I think if Carthew could make up his mind to face a trial——”

“But he can’t—you know he can’t. It ain’t his fault if he was born a coward, and if it is, we have reason to be tender to his faults if any one has. If you won’t help him escape, I will.”

“I will,” said Brian; “but I won’t be melodramatic about it. I’ll just get hold of the General.”

And get hold of the General he did—when the expedition retraced its steps to the riverside camp,—riding ahead to bear the news of all that had happened. Officers and men streamed out joyously to welcome Eveleen and her husband—Colonel Bleackley thought it was to welcome him, and smiled on them graciously,—and Sir Harry himself rode out on Black Prince, looking old and shaky, with his worn blue coat hanging loose upon him, but his face wreathed with smiles.

“I was never so delighted in my life!” he cried, as he shook hands vigorously with the rescued ones. “It has been touch and go with me, but I began to mend when I heard Haigh’s guns in the distance—showing, as I hoped, that Kamal-ud-din had been brought to action, and now the sight of Mrs Ambrose has wrought a complete cure! No time to waste if we are to leave that plague-spot in time to get across the river, but at least we can frizzle through the rest of the hot weather in the shade at Qadirabad, instead of out in the desert.”

“Y’ought take a little rest at Bab-us-Sahel yourself, Sir Harry,” said Eveleen. “’Twould do you great good.”

“Well, well, all in good time. Lord Maryport has been kind enough to bid me build a house there and do my work in a better climate than Qadirabad. You and Ambrose may go down by road now in safety if you choose, for the King of the Codgers has thrown up his hand. Vowed to Doveton at Bab-us-Sahel that he would never come in to make his submission with less than seven hundred retainers at his back, the old rascal! but I sent him word he was to present himself in Qadirabad without a follower of any sort, and he’s coming! So you may go when you like—but with an escort this time, if you please, ma’am——” Eveleen had the grace to look ashamed. “Keeping us all on the rack with anxiety on your behalf—as if the hot weather wasn’t trying enough by itself,—and taking up the services of my whole espionage to find you, without even letting ’em have the satisfaction of doing it! It’s to that brother of yours you owe it that you’re here, do you know that?”

“I do, Sir Harry, I do. Knowing him yourself, would you say he was one to hide his trumpet under a bushel?”

Sir Harry considered the metaphor gravely. “Perhaps not, ma’am—perhaps not. But I owe him not a little gratitude for schooling that fighting brute Dick Turpin for me. The beast is a reformed character nowadays, by the look of him. I shall hear of it from the Bombay papers, no doubt—a regular shout of execration of the wicked officer who all but killed his horse. Or they’ll go a step farther, and say he did kill him. Why not? paper and ink are cheap, and truth is precious dear. Some day I shall see it set forth solemnly in print that I eat an Arabit baby for my breakfast every morning, and insist upon having ’em fat—ever since the mild and restraining influence of the accomplished Colonel Bayard was so unfortunately withdrawn!”

He spoke in jest, but as though with prevision of the paper warfare that was to embitter the remainder of his life. The Flag might fly from the round tower of Qadirabad, and in the cool chambers where the Khans had passed their time drowsily in drugged slumber their supplanter might work ten, twelve, eighteen hours a day upon plans for the sanitary, economic, moral betterment of Khemistan. But the flow of poisoned comment from Bombay was to know no rest, and the famous Bayard-Lennox controversy, which raged unabated throughout both men’s lives, and still divides historians, was to leave the home authorities doubtful whether the annexation of Khemistan had not after all been a piece of high-handed rascality perpetrated by the General on his own authority, and to rob him and his force of their well-deserved honours. Sir Harry could not see as far as this, however.

“But I’ll do something for your brother myself,” he added mysteriously. “He shall go down to Bombay in September with my nephew Fred, and help him bring back my wife and girls. That’s a task to his mind—eh? Don’t you tell him, ma’am—let it come as a surprise. Where’s the fellow gone?”

“Here he is,” said Eveleen, rather nervously, for Brian had rejoined them in company with a sallow man in native dress, who seemed to shun the curious glances thrown at him. “And this is the person who saved our lives, Sir Harry.”

The General looked searchingly at the renegade, then spoke briskly. “An American, I understand, Mr Thomas?”

It was the chance of escape, and Eveleen breathed again. But for once Carthew held up his head and squared his shoulders. “No, General; I can’t deny my country even to save my life. I am an Englishman.”

“Nothing to boast of in your case, I fear. I am sorry to see you here. At Qadirabad I shall be compelled to place you under strict arrest, pending an enquiry into your case—at Qadirabad, do you understand?”

If Carthew did not understand, Brian and Eveleen did, and the next morning the two, going out for an early ride, halted near a tent on the outskirts of the camp, mysteriously left unguarded. Brian led a spare horse with well-filled saddle-bags, and when they rode on again this horse had a rider. Out of sight of the camp, on the southward route leading eventually to Kamal-ud-din’s refuge in the Delta, the three halted.

“Tom, you wouldn’t come back even now and face it?” asked Eveleen anxiously. “The General would see you had a fair trial, and we would all bear witness——”

“I can’t, Miss Evie.” Carthew’s habitual stoop and shifty manner had returned. “I can’t face it. I’m shamed enough. The private soldiers point their thumbs at me. They all know who I am—the chap that fired on his own people. No, thankin’ you kindly, I’ll go where everybody else is as bad as me.”

“God bless you, Tom—even there—wherever you go!” and Eveleen and Brian shook hands with him, and watched him ride away in the cool light of the dawn.

“I’m greatly pleased you have seen my sister—really made her acquaintance, I mean.” Brian spoke with an anxiety which was a little comic in view of the extreme youth of the lady he was addressing. Miss Sally Lennox resembled her father too strongly to be called good-looking, and Brian was the only person ever likely to claim that the famous eagle-beak was an ornament to a feminine face. She was very quiet in manner, even demure—an epithet which was not one of reproach in those days. Brian and she were sitting on the steps leading to the ramparts above the General’s house in the Fort, with the charitable purpose of shielding the retreat of her elder sister and Captain Stewart to the battlements overhead, where they were enjoying sweet communion, all unconscious that Sir Harry was demanding his senior aide-de-camp, and Lady Lennox looking for her step-daughter.

“Yes, Mamma gave me permission to spend the day with her. Papa was so kind as to ask her for me.” Miss Sally was invariably proper to the point of primness in her intercourse with her stepmother, which may have accounted for some of the wisdom with which her father credited her.

The amusement in Sally’s smile was not unmixed with gentle contempt. She not to “get on” with any woman living—or to confess it if she did not! “Oh, I assure you we got on delightfully. Mrs Ambrose was good enough to describe all her adventures to me. How charmingly she talks—so original and vivacious, ain’t she?”

“He came in while I was there. I thought him a very agreeable, gentlemanly person. I adore that dry cool manner.” The merest glint of an upward glance through long eyelashes to observe how Brian received this, which was naturally not with enthusiasm.

“He’s a good fellow, of course. I wonder now—d’ye remember my telling y’at Poonah I was troubled about my sister and Ambrose?—that they didn’t seem quite to hit it off together.”

“I remember it perfectly.” Again the smile. As though any information was ever forgotten that had once been stored away beneath the smooth bands of hair on that knowing little head!

“Well, now, did you notice anything of the kind—that he did not appreciate her as he ought?”

“Well, there y’are now! That was the very last thing I’d have said of ’em. Was it just my fancy after all? Wait now and I’ll tell you. When I was on my way here with the General first of all, I heard a man in the Club at Bombay telling a story of another man who went home at the same time he did, to marry a lady he’d got engaged to years and years before. This man was at a ball one night, and the second man came into the supper-room looking like a ghost, and poured himself out a glass of brandy neat. ‘What’s the matter?’ says the first fellow. ‘She’s old—she’s old!’ he says—‘and she was the loveliest girl in the three kingdoms.’ ‘But sure y’have seen her before to-night?’ says t’other. ‘Times and times, but always in the open, and on her horse. ’Tis a picture she is then, as she always was. But to-night, dressed up among all the girls——! And I have come eight thousand miles to marry her!’ ‘And did he marry her?’ asks one of the men that were listening. ‘Of course,’ says the fellow—‘’tis the sort he is,’ and that was all. I was not saying anything, naturally, but I made some enquiries afterwards in a careless sort of way, and found the man that had spoken was in Ireland about the time my sister was married. Tell me now, what d’ye think?”

This time Sally’s smile was very pleasant—almost compassionate. “Let me tell you what I noticed,” she said. “Your sister and I were together in her room when Major Ambrose came in from office. Your sister rose to go and meet him, but remembered me and sat down again, though I begged her not to make a stranger of me. Then he came and looked round the curtain. ‘Er—I wanted just to know where you were, my dear,’ he said. Now where should she be but there? It was not necessary for him to come. He came because he wished to see her.”

“It sounds all right, don’t it? Well, that’s consoling, indeed. But will you tell me, was it all right the whole time or not? Was I just imagining things?”

“How can I tell? And”—demurely—“do you think we ought to discuss other people’s affairs in this way?”

“But sure it’s my own sister, and for my own consolation. She was a pretty good age, of course—bound to be after all those years. It’s t’other way about with me, don’t you know? The girl I’ll marry will be nothing but a babe in arms compared with me.” From some idea of the reverence due to youth, Brian was wont to conduct his wooing in this impersonal style, which was seen through by the lady with the greatest ease.

“Never mind!” she said kindly. “I am sure she will cherish the utmost regard for you.”

“It sounds rather like an ass,” murmured Sally. “Donkey” was a slang word then—as “moke” is now, and impossible on the lips of Lady Lennox’s step-daughter.

“Then it sounds like what I am! But will it be that all poor Evie did for her husband—when she saved his life, don’t you know,—will that have turned his heart to her again?”

“How sentimental we are becoming!” lightly. “No, I think not. Efforts of that kind might prove her own affection for her husband, but could hardly awaken his if it were dead.”

“How can I say for certain? I can only suggest that Major Ambrose is convinced by this time that his wife is one of the happy people who never grow old——”

“He is that, indeed. Have I not heard him myself times without number cast it at her that she would never grow up?”

“I had not quite finished.—And perhaps he finds himself prizing, because they are hers, even those features in her character which he used to resent.”

“Cannot do without her—eh? But sure that’s a consequence, and I’m asking you for a cause, a reason, an explanation!”

“Quite so. But”—audaciously—“it’s a quotation which I trust one day to make my own!”

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

This book is part of the author’s “Modern East” series. The full series, in order, being:

Add illustrator’s credit and brief note indicating this novel’s position in the series. See above.

Change “Shahbaz Khan, and his son, Karimdad” to Karimdâd. (Keeping this character’s name consistent.)

“Have it your own way, my dear, You have your…” change the second comma to a period.

“stopping the daks and attacking our boats” to dâks. (Keeping this foreign word consistent.)

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Flag of the Adventurer

The
Flag of the Adventurer

CONTENTS.