Chapter THE TENTH: The Delhi Road (5)

The hall was thronged. There was Bakht Khan, the commander-in-chief, the square blunt soldier, who was yet said by some to hide under his bluffness a character of cunning and duplicity. To him the querulous old king turned a cold shoulder; for he had been for several weeks in the city, and yet no success had attended his arms save the burning of Alipur--a trumpery feat. There was Mirza Mogul, daily growing more jealous of his supplanter. Bakht Khan's men had received six months' pay in advance ('tis true it was the product of their own plundering), while Mirza Mogul had the greatest difficulty in squeezing a few thousand rupees out of the treasury to satisfy his clamorous troops. There was Ahsanullah, the king's physician, a thin fox-faced man in black; and Mirza Nosha, the poet, with verses in his pocket composed to celebrate the victory when it was won; and near him Hassan Askari, who had in his pocket Bakht Khan's order for the construction of five hundred ladders, so that the sepoys might escape over the walls if the English took the city. All the notabilities of Delhi were there, and for hours the old king sat, receiving petitions, hearing demands for redress from merchants who had been plundered, listening to the Kotwal's reports of the misdeeds of the young prince Abu Bakr, who was constantly intoxicated and engaged in riotous disorder. Saligram, the banker, complained that all his papers and chests had been rifled, and he was a ruined man. A messenger came in and reported that the English were constructing a new battery within half-a-mile of the walls. A poor old man, who said he was the king's cousin, made an offering of two rupees in aid of the holy cause. Another messenger entered with news that a detachment of the Nimuch brigade had gone out to fight the English, who had all run away. The king called him a liar; he had heard such news before. And then, just as the darbar was closing, there entered one of the king's attendants, and asked if the Lord of the World would graciously condescend to receive a chief from the hill country, who had entered the city at the head of three hundred well-mounted men.

"Who is he?" asked the king.

"Hazur, his true name no one knows; but his horsemen call him Asadullah, and in truth he is a very lion in wrath and courage. He has done great things among the Feringhis at Agra and Gwalior, and being at one time a prisoner of the English he hates them with a bitter hatred. And now he comes with three hundred brave men whom he has gathered, and craves leave to present a nassar to the Pillar of State, and to offer his services in the cause."

"We desire not to receive him," said the king. "Have we not soldiers enough in Delhi to pay, without adding more? If the English cannot be beaten with the forty thousand we now have, how shall three hundred help us?"

This was mere querulousness, as every one in the hall knew. The king dared not offend anybody at this critical moment in his affairs, certainly not a chief who could command a body of troops. After bidding the man wait, and keeping him waiting for a long time while he went through the form of consulting his advisers, the king announced that he would see this warrior whom men named the Lion of God. The official retired. In a few minutes there entered the hall a stately figure with flowing white beard and red turban. He made obeisance to the king, handed him a nassar of a hundred rupees, and declared in a strong, resonant voice that he was ready to fight the English, he and his three hundred men.

There was a group of officers at the end of the hall from which entrance was had to the Akab baths. They were so much preoccupied with a matter they were discussing, that the proceedings in the centre of the hall had for some time escaped their notice. Now, however, at the sound of that ringing voice, one of them, Minghal Khan, started, and immediately afterwards changed his position in such a way that he was partially hidden by one of the columns supporting the arcade. And there he remained until the rising of the king signified that the audience was at an end. Then he made towards the door among the throng, keeping close to the wall, and moving in the manner of one who avoids observation.

But the crowd was thick, and its departure slow, so that when the chief, whom his men had named Asadullah, left the side of the king--who had kept him in talk, having apparently taken a fancy to him--it chanced that as his eyes ranged round the hall, they fell upon the face of Minghal Khan, who at that very moment had turned a little aside to look at the new-comer. Their glances crossed; a light flashed in the eyes of each; and Asadullah, whom Minghal had known as Rahmut Khan, took a step forward as though to hasten after his enemy. But he checked himself. The king's palace was no place for the settlement of a personal quarrel: no doubt there would be opportunities. Each of the chiefs knew, as he caught the look in the other's eyes, that the fact that they were engaged in a common cause would not weigh for a moment if they came within reach of one another. The many discordant elements in Delhi were held together for the time by their common hatred of the English; if that bond were relaxed, they would fly apart with shattering force.

Minghal Khan got out of the palace before Rahmut Khan, and hastened immediately to his house. He then dispatched his khitmutgar to bid the attendance of one of the jamadars of his regiment.

"Salaam, Azim Ali," he said in response to the officer's greeting. "I have but now returned from the palace. The old king grows more feeble, and his authority less and less. There was much talk among us of the arrears of pay; but it is indeed true that the treasury is all but empty, and it will never be full while Wallidad Khan is collector of the revenue, and such pitiful nassars are brought to the king as were brought to-day. Imagine, Azim Ali, a bent old dodderer who claimed kinship with the Lord of the World, and offered him two rupees!"

"It is indeed pitiful," said the jamadar. "What is to be said to the sowars? They will assuredly plunder the shops if they get no pay, and the general has said that all plunderers shall be hanged."

"What, indeed? Is it not hard that our men, who have been enduring the heat and burden, throwing away their lives in fighting the English, should be worse off than such brigands as the men whom this Asadullah has brought into the city? The general forbids plunder: well, he is a friend of mine, and must be obeyed. But these new-comers, have they not plundered? What have they done but load themselves with the loot of villages, and snapped up ill-defended convoys--enterprises of little difficulty and less danger? There is great talk of this old freebooter as a man of high courage: hai! it is false. Do I not know of him? They call him lion; a more fitting name would be pariah dog. He is not a man to risk his skin. And yet, forsooth, he comes into Delhi at the head of these three hundred, and the king slobbers over him, and without doubt he will squeeze from the treasury what rupees he can, and then, when the word comes to fight, he will shelter himself behind us who know what fighting is, and expect his full share of plunder when the English are beaten. Hai! it is a shame and a scandal."

"True, most noble subahdar; it is enough to make our men rise up and claim that all who enter thus with full hands should share what they have among us."

"And what they could not keep but for us; for are there not princes in the city who, were these men left undefended, would swoop down like hawks upon them and strip them of all they have? Without us, trained soldiers, would not the English assuredly catch them and hang them up? Is this thing to be endured? Here are we, lodged within a shout's distance of them, and we starve while they live on the fat of the land."

Minghal knew the man he was talking to. He was a simple ruffian, who grew more and more indignant as his superior artfully stimulated his discontent.

"It would not be a matter of surprise to me," Minghal continued, "were the men to rise in their wrath and secure for themselves what is their just due. As a servant of our lord the king, and a loyal lieutenant of Bakht Khan, our commander-in-chief, I could not countenance such a transgression of his strict command; but I am a man like them: I know what hunger is: am I not myself often at my wit's end for the wherewithal to buy a meal, with many months' pay due to me? And as a man I could assuredly not blame any action that our sowars might take."

The simple jamadar gulped at the bait. Minghal had no need to say more. That same night, a Pathan trader who had entered the city by the Ajmir gate at sundown, just before all the gates were closed, witnessed a scene not unfamiliar in Delhi at this time of unrest and relaxed authority. In the space before a serai near the Jama Masjid, a great crowd of men was engaged in desperate rioting. He thought at first that it was one of those little affairs in which the princes of the blood, notably Abu Bakr, sometimes disported themselves: a raid upon a banker, or a silversmith, or some merchant who was suspected of having feathered his nest. But inquiring of an onlooker who stood out of harm's way watching the conflict, he learnt that the regiment of Minghal Khan--that bold warrior, and friend of the commander-in-chief--was attacking the quarters of a troop of three hundred Irregulars, men of all castes and no country, who had arrived in the city that day and been granted quarters in this serai by the king.

"And thou art a Pathan, too, by thy speech, O banijara," said the man. "Pathans are ever unruly--I mean no offence to thee, who art a man of peace. The noble subahdar, Minghal Khan, is a Pathan, and the leader of the new-comers is a Pathan also."

"What is his name, O bariya?" asked the trader, judging by his informant's attire that he was a swordsmith.

"Men call him Asadullah, and say he is a very great warrior. Bah! There is too much talk of very great warriors, and too little fighting. I am a good Musalman, and no man can say I am not a faithful subject of the king--may Allah be his peace!--but it is nevertheless the truth, O banijara, that I was more prosperous under the English raj than I am this day."

"There will be work for thee to-morrow, O grinder of swords, for many edges will be blunted. Hai! What a din they make! I can hardly hear myself speak. Why are they using no firearms?"

"That is easy to understand. I speak to a friend--thou and I are men of peace. Well, without doubt, this is not a quarrel that suddenly arises from a chance hot word. Not so--it was purposed from the beginning. Some of these new men are out in the streets, beholding the many fine sights of this city, and that seemed a good occasion to the men of Minghal Khan; for in truth these new men are said to have good store of plunder they have taken from the English as they came hither; and, as all men know, the soldiers of Minghal Khan, and of many another officer, are yearning for their pay. And so they came and fell upon the men of Asadullah at their quarters yonder, and brought no firearms, since they make a great noise; and the new men being taken wholly by surprise, had not time so much as to fetch their muskets. As thou seest, there is great fighting at the gate, and some are even now scaling the wall. Wah! Unless the Kotwal or Bakht Khan come with a great force, methinks in a little those men of Asadullah will be in a sad case, for the others are much greater in number. It is a good fight; as thou sayest, it will give me work to-morrow, my shop is hard by; and therefore I say, let them fight on."

The two stood side by side watching the fray. There was a great noise of clashing arms, and fierce yells, but such uproar was too common to have brought as yet any of the authorities to the spot. The defenders of the serai were hard pressed. Some had already been driven within the gate; more and more of the attackers had mounted the wall and leapt into the enclosure; and it seemed that the swordsmith's forecast of the end would be justified. But suddenly a group of eight or ten men rounded the corner of the street, remote from where the two watchers stood. They halted for a moment, as though they did not at once comprehend the meaning of the scene before them. The night was dark, but the light of the stars revealed those new arrivals as stalwart, turbaned men. Their pause was very brief. Then, drawing their talwars, they swept upon the rear of the hundred or more sepoys thronging in front of them. "Wah, wah!" they shouted, and their fierce war-cry fell upon the ears of the sepoys at the same time as their terrible weapons smote their limbs. The Pandies were taken utterly by surprise, and began to scatter in a panic. The diversion came in the nick of time. The defenders took heart from the arrival of their comrades; the attackers were divided in mind whether to stay or to flee; and in a very few moments the whole throng had melted away; those who were on the wall saw themselves unsupported and dropped to the street, and the new-comers followed in hot chase, being joined by others from within the gates.

"Wah! That was Asadullah himself," said the swordsmith. "Of a truth, he is a great warrior. Didst thou see him?"

"I saw a big man, and he seemed older than I had supposed, but it was too dark to see him clearly. I am a Pathan, as thou didst say, and were I a man of war, I would fain have had a part with them. But being a man of peace, far be it from me to endanger my skin in broils of this kind."

"Well, it is over now, and 'twere best for us to get ourselves home. Verily I shall have work in the morning, and it befits to be up early. The night is damp and chill, and now I look at thee, art thou not a-cold in that thin raiment of thine? Hill-men like thee are not wont to go so thinly clad."

"True, good bariya, and 'tis by evil chance I am as thou seest. I left my chogah in a certain place, and lo! within a little it was no longer there. I doubt not it is now among the belongings of some vile Hindu."

"Hai! Vile, indeed! When is this truce to be ended? The king has commanded that no cows be killed until the English are beaten, and we good Musalmans must forsooth abstain from that good meat for the sake of these Hindus. Wah! The time will come. Let but the English be destroyed, and then we will see what the Hindus have to say. Get thee a warmer covering, friend, and Allah be with thee."

He turned the corner of the street and was gone. The other went on his way, and coming to a shop in the nearest bazar, and finding it closed for the night, he battered on the door until it was opened with much grumbling by the owner--a man of hooked nose and venerable appearance. After nearly an hour's bargaining, the customer departed, wearing his purchase, a well-lined Afghan chogah. Then he proceeded quickly to a small serai on the other side of the Chandni Chauk.

"Salaam, bhatiyara, thou beholdest me again," he said on entering.

The innkeeper looked up with a start from among the pots in which he was preparing supper for two guests.

"Salaam," he said, with no great cordiality. "Thou hast been on a long visit to that friend of thine."

"Truly. Who can strive against fate! I was smitten with a fever. We hill-men suffer grievously in the plains in this time of rain. But I am now recovered, Allah be praised! and ready to go once more about my business. Give me to eat, I am very hungry; and then I will sleep. To-morrow I will go forth again with my goods, and maybe I shall find more ready buyers."

"Hai! who can strive against fate! But a few days after thou hadst departed, there came in the middle of the night vile robbers, and lo! when I awoke in the morning, thy goods were not. It is kismet."

"Thou sayest! and my camel--did he die?"

There was a tone of mockery in the question which apparently escaped the notice of the innkeeper, though it provoked a chuckle from the two traders who were tearing apart with their fingers a well-stewed fowl.

"Hai!" said the innkeeper, with a mournful face; "when thou didst not return, thy camel would not eat, and his hump sank away to flatness, and on the tenth day he died."

"Thou sayest? Of a truth, bhatiyara, he must needs come to life again no later than the morrow's sunrise, and those vile robbers must be pricked in their hearts and restore the goods they have stolen, or assuredly the Kotwal will come and visit this serai, and he will say, since it is so ill a place for man and beast, it must be made desolate. What must be will be."

"Hai! hai!" cried the man, lifting his hands, "how should a dead camel breathe again the breath of life, and evil-doers become good?"

"Even these things are possible, good bhatiyara. And now let me eat, and make ready a good charpoy. These things that I say shall come to pass even while I sleep."

And his two fellow-guests laughed aloud, while the innkeeper muttered in his beard.

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH

Wolf and Jackal

Next morning Ahmed found his camel contentedly munching at his stall, with no visible diminution of his hump; and his bales of goods were ranged in decent order along the walls, though when he came to examine them he found that their contents were strangely mixed. But he said nothing of that; he only expressed to the innkeeper his gratification that the night had seen such wonders wrought, and after a simple breakfast he went out and, hiring no coolie this time, took a few of his more costly wares to visit his old friend the darwan of Minghal Khan. Cordial greetings passed between them; the darwan had pleasant recollections of the dainties with which he had been regaled by this excellent Pathan at his former visit. Then he asked why his friend had been so long in hiding the light of his countenance from him. Ahmed told him that he had been ill, and made him laugh heartily at his story of how the rascally innkeeper had brought a dead camel to life and restored stolen goods in the space of one night.

"And now, good darwan," he said, "thinkest thou I might show some of my wares to your noble master? My business has halted while I was sick, and I must needs sell somewhat lest I starve."

"Truly, my friend, it is an ill time. The great man has no money; we, his poor creatures who are not worthy to unloose his shoes, get no wages, and our khansaman sells more and more of our chattels day by day to get the wherewithal to buy our poor food. And I fear me, even if the illustrious one were as rich as Nadir Shah of old renown, it would be vain to approach him now. But a little while ago there came a chaprasi with news that his regiment had been rioting. Indeed (and this khabar was whispered in my ear) the men tried last night to gain some little sustenance from the plunder of some new men who have come--woe upon them!--to this sorely crowded city. And by ill-hap they had the worse of the encounter; verily these new-comers sting like scorpions; and their leader, one Asadullah, has gone to the palace to complain to the Protector of the Poor, our illustrious king. The great one is even now clothing himself in haste to go also to the palace and acquaint the Illustrious with the truth of the matter. And so it is an ill time, as I said; neither his pocket nor his temper suits with business of thy sort."

"Hai! how wretched is my lot!" said Ahmed.

"Here is the great one's horse," said the darwan, as a sais led the animal from the courtyard and began to walk him up and down. "And behold the great one himself."

He rose from his squatting posture at the door as Minghal came out. The subahdar was clearly in a state of great annoyance. He kicked aside the small bundle which Ahmed had laid on the ground, and bade him betake himself to Jehannum.

"Merciful one, be not wroth with the meanest of thy slaves," said Ahmed, salaaming humbly. "If I might but be allowed to see thy face at some more convenient season! I have wares of great beauty and worth, even such as might delight the eyes of the hazur himself and----"

"Bas, bas!" cried Minghal. "Get thee hence and trouble me not."

He called to the sais to bring up his horse.

"There is a shawl woven most marvellously with gold threads," Ahmed said, with an air of the greatest deference. "If the magnificent one would but deign the wink of an eye----"

"Enough, I say!" cried Minghal, with his foot in the stirrup. Then a thought seemed to strike him. "Come to me to-morrow; I may then cast an eye on thy worthless trumpery."

"Hazur, thy servant's heart leaps for joy," said Ahmed, salaaming, and Minghal sprang to the saddle.

"Tell the khansaman to make ready a repast fit for princes against my return this night," he called to the darwan. "I shall not return until the sun goes down."

Then he rode off on his clattering way to the palace.

"Thou art favoured above all," said the darwan to Ahmed, "and, being a just man, thou wilt not forget to let a little flow over from thy full cup?"

"My prosperity shall be thine, worthy darwan; and the thought of the great one's favour to come will be as a delicious perfume to me this day."

On leaving the darwan, Ahmed found his way to the quarters of the men who had beaten off the attack of Minghal's regiment the night before. He felt some curiosity to see this warlike Pathan, named Asadullah, whose arrival had so soon been followed by a broil. When he reached the serai, he learnt that the chief had not yet returned from the palace; and knowing that Minghal had also gone thither to put his side of the story before the king, Ahmed guessed that the poor old monarch would have an uncomfortable morning.

He spent the rest of the forenoon in wandering about the city, picking up what news he could. Then he returned to his own serai for his midday meal and a sleep; he foresaw that he might have little opportunity for rest during the night. On awaking, he went out to the bazar and bought a stout hook, like those by which carcases are hung in butchers' shops. As he left the bazar, he overtook Minghal Khan's khansaman, who was returning with a load of provisions he had bought for his master's supper. Ahmed had wished more than once for an opportunity of conversing with the khansaman, and the present moment seemed favourable.

"Salaam, worthy khansaman," he said, stepping alongside the old man.

"Salaam, but I know thee not, stranger, and I am in haste," was the reply.

"Far be it from me to hinder one so venerable in years and so exalted in position, yet since thy worthy master has deigned to say that he will let his eye rest on my poor wares to-morrow, I would fain say a respectful word to the ruler of his household. It is a proud thing to serve one so high in the king's favour, and I warrant thou findest his service more to thy taste than that of him thou wast wont to serve--the accursed Feringhi."

The khansaman looked at him sharply.

"What knowest thou--a banijara from the hills, if my eyes see aright--of whom I served?" he said.

"Thy excellent darwan is a friend of mine," replied Ahmed, "and he has told me one or two things. How thy heart must have rejoiced when thy old master and all his family met their fate! Didst thou have a hand in it?"

"Would that I had!" said the khansaman, with fervour. "Would that all the dogs of Feringhis were even as that dog of a sahib under whose yoke I groaned!"

"'Tis beyond doubt that all his family were slain? Had he many sons?"

"None, save the child that now learns the vile learning of the Feringhis far over sea."

"That is pity. Maybe he had daughters?"

"One pale-faced thing, of no account."

"Without doubt she is dead also. Though indeed it is said that some of the Feringhis' women escaped, being preserved by some unworthy children of the Prophet. Even as I came hither I beheld such a pale-faced thing in the palki of a zamindar; not that I saw her, the palki being closed; but it was told me by the palki-wallahs. She had been seized out of the hands of her ayah and khitmutgar as she sought safety."

Ahmed watched the khansaman narrowly as he said this; but there was no change in the man's expression. It was that of complete indifference.

"I perceive we are drawing near to the great one's house," he continued. "Salaam aleikam!"

In a small lean-to off the stable of the serai, Ahmed fastened the hook he had bought to a short length of rope, and wound this about his body beneath his outer garment. Just after sunset he issued forth, carrying a lathi, and made his way across the Chandni Chauk to the narrow lane which ran past the back of Minghal's house. When he reached the spot at which he had descended from the colonnade, he unwound the rope, and raised it by means of the lathi until it rested on the top of the wall. Then he climbed up the rope, and having disengaged the hook, let himself down on the other side by means of the lathi; he laid his simple apparatus in a corner under the colonnade. While doing this he kept a wary eye on the servants' quarters that looked on to the garden, taking care to dodge the beam of light that issued from the kitchen, where, no doubt, preparations were being made for Minghal Khan's evening meal. Then he stole across the garden, and lurked for a little by the door.

Two hours later, Minghal Khan, having finished the more substantial portion of his meal, was reclining on cushions in his dining-room, eating sweetmeats and sipping sherbets with his guest, the Mirza Akbar Sultan. Both were in good spirits. The sweetmeats were a portion of some score hundredweight which the Kotwal had recently bought for the delectation of the soldiers, and which the king himself had inspected and deigned to taste. And a day or two before Akbar Sultan himself had summoned all the wealthy bankers of the city, at the instigation of the queen, and by means in which he was an adept, had extorted from them 8,000 rupees, a thousand of which he had immediately appropriated--was he not a prince?--handing five hundred, with princely generosity, to his good friend Minghal Khan.

"Truly thou art much in my debt," said the prince; "not more for rupees than for my support in that matter of the old rogue."

"I am thy unworthy servant, illustrious one," returned the other, "and all I have is thine. And how can I repay thee better than by helping thee to somewhat of the old rogue's booty?"

"Art thou sure he has this booty?"

"My head upon it, illustrious one. For what purpose has he sought refuge in this city? Only that his booty may not fall into the hand of the Feringhis, for assuredly he has no mind to fight them. Wah! thou camest to the palace at a fortunate hour,--fortunate for thee and me. That old rogue Asadullah forestalled me there, and the king had waxed hot against me, listening to his tale. He had that moment sent for me when I arrived. And though when I put the matter before him his anger was somewhat appeased, the issue would not have been so pleasing hadst thou not come to lend me the aid of thy persuasive voice. Wah! Did not the old rogue fume when the king turned to him and bade him cause no more trouble! Didst thou mark his flaming eye? Didst thou hear him mutter words of rage as he turned his back on the Pillar of State and strode from the presence? Wah! the king will favour him no more; never was his dignity so scantly regarded."

"But this booty of which thou speakest--how is one to obtain it? I have bled the shroffs; there will be a great wailing among them, and even I dare not do more for a while, lest the king, who is unstable as water, should again visit me with his displeasure."

"Listen, illustrious one; I know of a way. Asadullah has not yet proved himself. He has yet to go out and fight the Feringhis. Now, as thou knowest, I am a partaker in all Bakht Khan's counsels. We do little against the Feringhis at present, but to-morrow is Bakr-Id, and what more fitting than that we should mark the great day with a terrible onslaught against the infidels? Asadullah must then go forth to fight; Bakht Khan shall order it; and while he is absent with his band, what easier than to visit the serai where he lodges, and take the treasure that he conceals there?"

"But he will leave men to guard it."

"A handful only, and what will they avail against thy faithful ones? And, moreover, may it not come to pass that Asadullah will be slain in the fight? Then he will return not, and there will be none to say us nay. And if, perchance, he returns, can he gainsay what we have done for the holy cause? Here are thousands of faithful ones perishing for lack of their just pay; is it not justice that ill-got treasures should be taken from the few and divided among the many?"

"That is justice," said the prince. "It would be a good thing for the great number of the faithful that Asadullah should go forth to fight and not return. But how can we be sure that Bakht Khan will send him forth and set him in the forefront of the battle?"

"He will do so at thy persuasion, prince. As for me, it were best I held my peace, for the noise of this quarrel between the old rogue and me has gone abroad, and if I were to propose this thing Bakht Khan might suspect me of a desire to serve my own ends more than the interests of the state. But with thee it is otherwise, and Bakht Khan will assuredly pay heed to thee."

At this moment Bakht Khan was announced. After greetings, the prince cunningly led the conversation to the desired point. He suggested that this new-comer was not a fighting-man at all.

"He is a braggart," he said. "Lo, the father killed a tomtit, and the son, forsooth, is called a mighty archer! They talk much of this Asadullah's might in war, but what has he done?"

"I know a fighting-man when I see one, prince," said the sturdy general, "and if ever there was a fighting-man that so proved himself to me at the first look, this Pathan is the man."

"Bah!" sneered the prince. "A dog is a lion in his own lane. Dost thou judge of sweetmeat by the loftiness of the shop where it is bought?"

"Does the cat by the fire know the worth of a hunting-dog?" retorted Bakht Khan, bridling. "I am a fighter, and I know the marks of a fighter."

"Shoes are proved on the feet, not on the last," said the prince. "Is it not easy to prove the truth? Asadullah has not yet done battle with the English. Let him go forth and show himself a man of war. As for me, verily I believe that when the time comes he will be found wanting. Did not the fox say he would rather suffer a hundred hungers than behold one dog's face?"

The commander-in-chief fell into the trap. He vowed that Asadullah should indeed go forth and fight, and he was ready to wager that the Pathan would acquit himself well. A great sortie was planned for the following night--the night of Bakr-Id, the first of August--the day on which Abraham's sacrifice of Ishmael was commemorated by the slaying of a bull, a great day among good Mohammedans. Asadullah should be commanded to lead an attack on one part of the British lines, and by his conduct then should the dispute be decided. The three men sat long discussing the details of the proposed operations. It was late before the party broke up, and when the visitors had gone, and Minghal had retired to bed, the khansaman came in sleepily to clear away the remnants of their refreshments and put out the lamp. He carried the tray into the other room, listened, as if to make sure that all the household was in repose, then slid the panel of the almirah and disappeared in the hole in the wall, carrying his tray with him.

A moment later, a figure crept out from beneath a divan against the wall of the dining-room. He crossed the landing to the opposite room, went to the almirah, and slid back the panel. But then he was baulked--the wall appeared solid. There was no lock, no handle by which the door in it could be opened. Ahmed felt up and down, from right to left, and was almost in despair, when the wall opened slowly, as of itself. He started back, thinking the khansaman was returning; but finding that all was silent he approached again. Unknowing, he had pressed a little wooden button cunningly let into the stone, and released the spring that held the slab in place. He crept through, and took the precaution of pushing the stone back, then began to descend the steps of the narrow spiral staircase on which he found himself. He counted the steps--they were thirty; and then he came to a low passage, as narrow as the staircase, through which only one person could pass at a time. It was so low that he knocked his head against its roof in the darkness. But some few paces in front of him he saw a thin line of light across the floor. He stealthily approached; there was a door. He heard voices, but could not distinguish words. Was the door fastened? He pushed it gently--it yielded.

"If I could but be sure she was safe!" he heard a low voice say.

"Without doubt she is safe, sahib," was the reply. The voice was the khansaman's. Ahmed thrilled. The khansaman was faithful after all. He had his old master here in hiding. Who would have suspected so unlikely a place? And he was trying to cheer the doctor's despondency as to the fate of his daughter. Clearly he had not told him what Ahmed had said of the capture of the English girl by a zamindar.

"You have no news of her?" said the first voice.

"None, sahib; but that is not strange. The missy sahib would fear to send a messenger, lest he should betray your presence. And it is harder now than it was for folk to go in and out of the city. This very day the order has gone forth that none shall enter or depart without a written word. A man--his name is Gordohan Dass, and he lives at Lattu--was going out at the Delhi gate this morning in a shigram, and the guard stopped him and searched his cart, and there they found cartridges and bullets. They were but for his own protection, he declared. Nevertheless they beat him, and took his cart and all that was in it, and sent him to the Kotwali. There is little hope of news until the sahibs come and take the city."

"Will that ever be? What are they doing? Will they never begin the assault?"

"In Allah's good time, sahib. They are waiting on the Ridge; none can move them. Why they wait so long who can tell? The people say in the city that they are but five hundred now; that the colonels eat grain like their horses; that three generals have killed themselves before their troops for shame. But it cannot be true, sahib, for else why do the sepoys always come back discomfited? No; Allah is great, and the sahibs will yet come and punish the evil-doers, and then all will be well."

"But it is so long! How long is it since you found me in the street, and brought me here?"

"Two moons and more, sahib."

"Two months! And we have heard nothing all that time of Mary. I must go, Kaluja. In this dress none would recognize me; I can pass as one of their own hakims. You must help me to escape from the city."

"Nay, sahib; it is not safe. And besides, you are too weak--you would fall in the street."

"No, I am strong enough now. See, I can walk quite well."

There was a brief silence; then Ahmed heard a groan.

"Did I not say so, sahib? It would be folly; it would kill you. You must be patient."

"I could be patient if I were certain of Mary's safety. Did not your messenger return? Are you sure he has not returned?"

"I have neither seen nor heard of him, sahib."

"It is this anxiety that is sapping my strength. My wounds were healed long ago. Is there no one in this great city you can trust to go and come again?"

And then Ahmed pushed the door wide open, and entered the room.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST

Master and Servant

Ahmed found himself in a small square chamber, dimly lit by an oil-lamp. The air was close, and pervaded by an odour new to him: the pungent odour that salutes one at the entrance of a chemist's shop. The room was naturally lofty, but its height was artificially diminished now by a large blanket spread from corner to corner.

Against the further wall stood a charpoy, and on it lay a tall grey-bearded man clad in the customary garments of a respectable Mohammedan. A table was at his side, with a tray holding a dish and a phial or two. The khansaman was standing at the foot of the bed. At the entrance of Ahmed he uttered a cry, and seized a knife from the table. There was a silence, in the tenseness of which time seemed to be abolished. The khansaman stared with eyes that spoke his fear. Then Ahmed held up his hand and spoke: "Be at peace, good khansaman," he said; "I have news of the sahib's daughter."

The man's overcharged feelings found relief in a sob, and the recumbent figure started up.

"Is it true? You do not mock me?" he cried. "Who are you?"

"I am Ahmed Khan, of Lumsden Sahib's Guides, and I am sent into this city by Hodson Sahib, to say that the hazur's daughter is safe at Karnal."

The shock of this good news rendered the doctor speechless. He was seized with a violent trembling, and the khansaman hastily poured a little liquid into a glass and gave it to his master. When he had recovered he asked Ahmed many questions: whether he had seen the missy sahib, how she looked, whether she had received his note, why the messenger had not returned. To these Ahmed replied as well as he could, but he said nothing of the part he had himself played in the saving of the girl.

Then he himself asked questions, and learnt from the khansaman the simple story of the doctor's rescue. He had been left for dead by the mutinous sepoys a few yards from his door, and had there been found by Kaluja Dass, who had conveyed him by night to the secret underground chamber. It was situated immediately below the fountain in the garden, and was ventilated and dimly lit in the daytime through an ingenious series of openings in the ornamental stonework at the base of the fountain. What appeared to an observer in the garden as a delicate pattern of tracery was really the ventilating system of the room below. There he had remained ever since. The healing of his wounds had been slow, and his anxieties and the deprivation of fresh air had retarded the full recovery of his strength. No one but the khansaman knew of the secret entrance through the surgery wall, and it had been a happy thought of his to place the almirah against it, and to make the sliding panel. The blanket was stretched across the ceiling so as to prevent a stray beam of light from the oil-lamp from filtering through the apertures to the garden.

The doctor was much gratified that Ahmed had been allowed to enter the city to search for him. He inquired for his old friend General Barnard, to learn with sorrow of his death. He asked eagerly what steps had been taken to capture the city, and sighed heavily when he heard how the little army on the Ridge was waiting until the reinforcements and the siege-train which Sir John Lawrence was collecting in the Panjab should arrive. Again he pleaded with the khansaman to take him from the city, but Ahmed supported the good servant's contention that to attempt to escape now would be to court innumerable perils, and that it was better to remain in hiding until the city should be retaken. Ahmed promised to acquaint General Wilson--who had succeeded General Reed in the command--of the doctor's safety, and to send word to his daughter in Karnal. The khansaman asked very anxiously how the information was to be conveyed to the British lines. He was greatly disinclined to trust any messenger whom he did not know.

"I will take it myself," replied Ahmed.

During the conversation Dr. Craddock kept his eyes fixed on Ahmed's face, in the manner of a man seeking to recall something.

"Surely I have seen you before!" he said at length. "Have you been in Delhi before?"

"Never, sahib."

"Perhaps it was in Lahore?"

"No, sahib; I have never been there."

"I must be mistaken, then, but it seemed to me that I knew your face."

And now he was eager to get away. He did not forget the double duty he had to fulfil: news must be conveyed to the Ridge of the great assault intended for the morrow. He would have been content to inform Fazl Hak of this, and trust him to send it by one of his messengers; but the discovery of the doctor was a matter so personal to him that he was disinclined to entrust it to any one. Accordingly, he took leave of the doctor, receiving from him an affectionate message for his daughter, and then, accompanied by the khansaman, he returned by the narrow winding stair to the upper room. The two crept silently through the passage to the back staircase, and passed the servants' quarters, and came to the door leading to the garden. The khansaman noiselessly drew the bolt, and Ahmed stepped out. There was a sudden rush in the darkness. In a moment he was overwhelmed and thrown to the ground. Struggle as he might, he could not prevent the two men who had seized him from binding his arms, and then he was dragged back into the house and up the stairs, being finally deposited at the door of Minghal Khan's room.

The great man was very ill-tempered at being roused from sleep by the loud calls of his darwan. He cried out to know why his sleep was thus disturbed.

"Hazur, I have done a great deed!" cried the darwan; "even caught a dog of a robber. Open, O Great One, and see what thy servant has accomplished in his great zeal."

Minghal Khan came to the door and called for the khansaman to bring a light. Several minutes passed, and the khansaman did not appear. Growing impatient, Minghal dispatched the khitmutgar--the second of Ahmed's captors--to fetch a lamp from the kitchen. Meanwhile the darwan explained.

"Hazur, my eyes were heavy with sleep, but before seeking my charpoy I went, as is my wont, to see that all was safe for the night. In that I am not as other darwans, that eat and drink and take no thought for their masters. And lo, beneath the portico, I found a lathi and a rope with a hook at the end, and I wondered with a great wonderment. And I called the khansaman, but he came not; peradventure he has gone out on some evil work this night. And then I called Said the khitmutgar, and together we talked of what this thing might be. And even as we talked we heard the gentle drawing of the bolt, and we stood at the door, and when this son of perdition came out we seized on him, and have even now brought him before thee; surely no punishment can be too great for him."

The khitmutgar returned with a light. Minghal and the darwan recognized at the same moment that the prisoner was no other than the deferential trader whom they had seen in the morning. Of the two the darwan was the more amazed.

"Dog, what is this?" cried Minghal. "Comest thou in the night to rob me? What hast thou to say, rogue?"

Being a robber by profession himself, Minghal felt no moral indignation, and no great personal rancour against this trader who had broken into his house. It was his chief thought to turn the incident in some way to account.

"Hazur," began Ahmed, "I am the most unworthy of thy servants. I did but come to visit my good friend the darwan."

"Hazur, he has a lying tongue," interrupted the scandalized darwan. "A friend! Allah slay me if I would ever speak two comfortable words to such a dog."

"Chup!" cried Minghal. "Say on, banijara."

"The darwan has even eaten of my sweetmeats----"

"Perdition light on him!" cried the darwan. "Verily I should choke if----"

"Chup, I say! Make thy story short, dog."

"And when I found him not at the door I made bold to enter. But bethinking me then that the hazur, not knowing of my great friendship with the darwan, might see me and conceive ill thoughts, I feared, and was seeking to slip out when this pig, who has eaten my sweetmeats, set upon me most vilely, as the hazur sees."

"Verily thou art a monstrous liar, banijara," said Minghal. "What of the rope and the hook, and the lathi? What hast thou to say of them, dog?"

"Hazur, what should I know of them; is thy servant a camel-driver?"

Minghal laughed. The trader's explanation was too glib. He wondered what the truth was. Had the man heard of his recent present of rupees and come to rob him? or was there more in it? He looked keenly at Ahmed, and suddenly noticed something strange about his beard. He stepped up to him and, taking it in his hand, began to pull, not too gently. Ahmed protested; it is an insult to a Mohammedan to pluck his beard; but Minghal laughed again, and continued pulling. In the struggle at the door a small portion of the false beard had become detached, and Minghal scented a disguise. He pulled, the beard came away gradually, with no little pain to Ahmed, for the adhesive was a strong one.

"Hold thy light nearer, khitmutgar," said Minghal.

The beard came off, and there was the banijara revealed as a smooth-faced youth. The darwan uttered cries of amazement and reproach. Minghal gave a chuckle of satisfaction.

"Wah! I know thee who thou art," he said. "Did not my heart kindle when I beheld thee? As Asadullah that old dog Rahmut Khan comes to Delhi to trouble me; as a mean banijara the puppy comes to spy upon me that he may carry away the scent to the old dog. Verily it is a good day for thee, darwan, and thou shalt have five rupees--no, that is too much--two rupees, for bakshish. Go find that khansaman."

"I have sought for him, hazur, but found him not," said the khitmutgar.

"Go seek again."

The khitmutgar departed, and returned in a minute with Kaluja Dass, grave and imperturbable as ever.

"Where hast thou been?" demanded Minghal.

"Hazur, where could I be but in my own little place, sleeping the sleep of a just servant when his work is done?"

"Bring me the keys of the strong rooms below."

In these strong rooms the princes of Delhi, who had once owned the house, had kept their valuables, and on occasion their prisoners. They were now empty. The khansaman brought the keys. Ahmed was taken down by a narrow staircase like that which led to Dr. Craddock's hiding-place. A door was opened. He was pushed in, Minghal and the servants entered after him. The room was stone-walled, stone-flagged, and bare. There was no window, but a small grating high up in one of the walls; below it was an iron staple.

"I know thy wiles," said Minghal. "Thou hast escaped me twice; thrice thou shall not. Bring a chain," he added to the khansaman. "Verily Allah is good," he continued, when the man was gone. "Thou art a Feringhi, and when all the Feringhis are ground between the upper and the nether mill-stone, there will be one among them whom they know not. But that will be when I have had my profit of thee."

The chain was brought, and Ahmed was firmly fettered to the staple.

"Give me the key, khansaman; I will keep it," said Minghal. "And know, all of you, that if this dog slips his leash, I will not only dismiss you all that moment from my service, but I will even have you flogged very thoroughly, so that you will groan for many days. That is my word; take heed to it."

And then they all went out, Minghal turned the key in the door, and Ahmed was left alone.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND

The Fight of Bakr-Id

It was Bakr-Id, the great day of Mohammedan sacrifice. Before dawn the maulavis and mullahs were busy with their preparations for the ceremonies of their religion. From early morning the streets were thronged with the faithful; green turbans and green flags were everywhere seen; long-bearded preachers, in the mosques and the bazars, and at the corners of the streets, harangued the people, promising the supreme joys of Paradise for all who should celebrate this great day by wielding the sword against the infidel; and hundreds of fanatics ranged the town, shrieking their battle-cry, "Din! Din!" Even the king's edict that, in deference to the prejudices of the Brahmins and Rajputs who formed a large proportion of the sepoy army, no bulls should be slain on this day, but only goats--even this was but a trifling check upon the enthusiasm; for the Feringhis would be utterly annihilated, and then good Mohammedans could work their will on the Hindus, whom they hated little less.

The king held his usual darbar, and then went in solemn procession with his courtiers to the Idgah, where with his own hands he sacrificed a goat. And having distributed new suits of clothing and strings of jewels to the maulavis of the mosque, he returned to the palace, where he employed himself in composing verses for the encouragement of Bakht Khan: