MOGHUL SINGH IS OUTWITTED.
The house to which Moghul Singh took Flora Meredith was about four miles from the Palace, and on the opposite side of Delhi. It was simply an ordinary bungalow, built for the most part of bamboo. It was in a dilapidated condition, and situated in the native quarter. At this place Moghul had three or four of his native mistresses. It was quite a common thing in India for men in Singh’s position to keep up such establishments. In fact it was looked upon rather as a social distinction.
The place wore a most melancholy aspect when Flora arrived. The indispensable cocoa-nut lamp gave forth a faint glimmer that enabled a person, when the eyes became accustomed to it, to distinguish the squalor and filth; for the native dwellings, as a rule, were but one remove from pig-sties. In this room were ranged wooden benches, and on the benches were stretched the forms of several Hindoo women.
The air was fœtid with the smell of chunam and the opium and common tobacco smoked by the natives of both sexes, in the hubble-bubble, or hookah, of the country.
Flora experienced an indescribable feeling of alarm, while despair seized her again. In the Palace she certainly had comfort. There was none here. Moreover, she saw that she was thoroughly in Singh’s power. In her anxiety to escape she had not thought of that; but now that the danger stared her in the face, she shrank with horror. She yearned for Zeemit. Where was she now? If she failed, everything was lost. Not that Flora doubted her. The old woman had proved her devotion in a hundred ways. But then the difficulties and dangers were so numerous. Besides, many days had elapsed since Zeemit had parted from her in the Palace garden, and during that time she might have thought that the scheme had failed, and had given up watching at the bungalow. As Moghul Singh handed his captive down from the buggy, she cast anxious glances about. But there were only darkness and silence around; nothing could be heard, nothing seen, only the dark mass of building, and the melancholy light of the lamp.
As she mounted the two or three steps that led to the verandah, and stood upon the threshold of the doorway, she tottered with the sense of horror with which she contemplated the consequences of remaining. She felt that she dare not enter, that she would sooner rush to certain death in the open city, than pass one hour beneath the roof of that tomb-like place.
“What is the matter?” the man asked sharply as he saw that she faltered.
“I am faint,” she answered. “The heat has overcome me.”
“Oh, nonsense,” was his surly reply. “Come, follow me.”
He tried to take her hand, but she held it back. She felt such an unutterable loathing for the villain that it was almost impossible to avoid showing it. The cold-blooded deed that he had been guilty of in decapitating the boy made her shudder.
It was true she had seen horrors enough during the mutiny to have hardened her senses to some extent. But this tragedy had been committed in such a diabolical manner, and before her eyes, that it sickened her; and yet she had ridden side by side with the guilty miscreant for some miles. She had had an impression, although it had not been so understood, that on the moment of her arrival she would find Zeemit Mehal waiting, and that the woman would have matured some plan that would have enabled them to effect an immediate escape. But Zeemit was not to be seen. It was an awful moment for Flora. Words would fail to depict the agony of mind and body she endured. She reproached herself for leaving the Palace. She felt that if she had been in possession of a weapon, she could without the slightest compunction have slain the villain who stood beside her. She was suffering the extreme of despair—passing through that stage when all faith even in Heaven is for the time lost. Misfortune had come upon her so suddenly, and pursued her so relentlessly since, that she mentally asked herself why she and her people should have been made the subjects of so much persecution.
Moghul Singh grew impatient when he saw that Flora did not comply with his demand and follow him.
“Why don’t you come?” he exclaimed angrily. “The time is passing quickly, and I must return to the Palace before daylight.”
“I cannot,” she answered. “The atmosphere is stifling, and I am ill.”
The man scowled. He felt that he was thwarted, and it irritated him. He seized her hand roughly and would have dragged her in, but she remonstrated.
“Why are you so cruel?” she asked. “Did I not come with you of my own free will? Surely you are not so dead to every feeling of pity, but what you can have some consideration for me now that I am ill?”
Her argument was effective. He released her hand, and drew back apace.
“What do you wish me to do?” he demanded.
“Procure me a chair, and let me remain outside on the verandah a little while. The cool air will no doubt revive me.”
With a gruff assent to her request, he turned into the bungalow, to procure the seat, and Flora stood alone. In those few moments a dozen things suggested themselves to her. She would rush wildly away. By that course she would probably be shot down, or, escaping that risk, she might be able to reach the river, or canal, and there she would end her misery, for she seemed to be abandoned by all. But great as had been her experience of Zeemit’s fidelity, she did not know what a depth of devotion there was in the old woman’s nature. For days she had loitered about the bungalow, waiting patiently and anxiously for the Feringhee lady, to whose cause she had devoted herself, in spite of the many temptations that were offered to a native to fling off all restraint for a time, and live a brief, riotous, and idle life. She had watched the bungalow with ceaseless watching, creeping at night into the shadow of the verandah, where she would lie coiled up, snatching a few hours of rest, but always ready to start up on the alert at the sound of wheels. She herself had almost given up all hope of Flora’s escape. She had begun to think that the plan had miscarried, and was resolving upon a scheme to pay another visit to the imprisoned lady in the Palace. But her vigilance and patience were rewarded at last. She heard the approach of the buggy, she saw Flora arrive, she heard the conversation that passed, so that, when Miss Meredith had sunk to the lowest depth of despair, when all seemed dark and hopeless, and she felt inclined to doubt the goodness of Heaven, succour was at hand.
As she stood alone in the brief space that elapsed during Moghul’s absence, Zeemit was by her side. Flora was used to surprises now; but as she heard the familiar voice, although it was but the faintest whisper, of her faithful ayah, she could scarcely refrain from uttering a cry. But the feeling of thankfulness that filled her heart found expression in a silent “Thank God!” uttered under her breath.
There was no time for words. Action was needed. Zeemit was equal to the occasion. The buggy and horse still stood before the door. She seized Flora’s hand, and rushed to the vehicle. Terror lent them both strength and quickness. In an instant they had sprung to the seat. Zeemit caught up the reins, and bringing the whip down upon the horse’s neck, started the animal into a furious gallop, just as Moghul came from the house with a chair in his hand. The whole affair took place in absolutely less time than it has taken to pen these lines.
Moghul realised at once that his bird had flown, and as he dropped the chair with an imprecation, he hastily drew a revolver, and fired it after the retreating vehicle. But the bullet sped harmlessly away, though the report broke upon the stillness with startling distinctness, and in a few minutes, dozens of natives had rushed from their huts to discover the cause of alarm.
“A horse—a horse,” cried Moghul. “A hundred rupees for a horse. There is a Feringhee woman escaping from the city in yonder buggy.”
A horse was speedily produced. Moghul sprang on to its back, and, followed by a yelling pack of demons, set off in pursuit of the escaped prisoner. But a good start had been given to the fugitives. The sounds of the rattling wheels and the horse’s hoofs did not reach the ears of the pursuers, who tore madly along, while Zeemit, who was well acquainted with the city and its suburbs, guided the animal down a by-road that led through a jungle. After travelling for some miles, she pulled up.
“We must alight here,” she said, “and abandon the horse and buggy, or we shall be traced.”
Flora sprang from the ground, and the two women hurried along on foot. Zeemit led the way. She knew every inch of the ground. She kept her companion up by holding out hopes of ultimate safety.
As daylight was struggling in, a muddy creek was reached. It was a lonely spot—overgrown with tall reeds and rank grass, and the haunt of numberless reptiles. Half-hidden amongst the rushes was a large, broken, and decaying budgerow, lying high and dry on a mud-bank.
“This place offers us safety and shelter for a time,” Zeemit observed. “I discovered it after leaving the Palace grounds.”
She assisted Flora to get into the old boat. She collected a quantity of rushes and dried grass to form a bed. These she spread upon the floor of the budgerow, and then the two women, thoroughly exhausted, threw themselves down, and fell into a sound sleep. At the same moment Moghul Singh was returning to the Palace after his fruitless search, vowing vengeance against Flora, and determining to send out men to recapture her, on the pain of death if they failed.