Chapter THE TENTH: The Delhi Road (8)

Pandy never waited for the touch of cold steel. There was a wild stampede from the gateway. The sepoys tumbled over one another in their panic. While the men behind were pushing on, those in front were pushing back. The crowd fell apart as the cheering band drove through them, and made a path through which Ahmed and the two corporals headed the rest towards the gun. The gunners stood as if paralyzed; before they could flee the bayonets had done their fell work.

Ahmed was on the point of spiking the gun when a sudden inspiration seized him. The gun had been partly prepared for the next charge. Round shot and grape lay ready. The mutineers up the street, charged by the Sikhs, were huddled together like a flock of sheep chased by a dog, and the space around the gun was clear. Ahmed dropped his hammer, and began to ram in a charge of grape.

"Right you are!" said one of the corporals, divining his intention. "We'll slew her round. Come on, Bill."

The two corporals with Ahmed's assistance rammed in the charge, and slewed the gun round so that it pointed down the street, where the crowd was already beginning to surge back. Then Ahmed snatched up the burning portfire that lay on the ground and applied it to the touch-hole.

There was a babel of yells from the throng as the shot sped among them. In so dense a crowd the havoc was terrific. The instant the gun was fired, before the smoke had cleared away, Ahmed drove his spike into the touch-hole, and raising his voice to its highest pitch shouted to the Sikhs to return. In a few moments the whole party was dashing back through the gateway into the compound. Bullets sang about their ears, fired from the neighbouring houses; but the smoke still lay thick over the street, giving them partial protection. One man was struck; him Ahmed and another caught up and carried between them. They were the last to reach the door, and had not entered when the crowd, frantic with rage at their losses and the spoiling of their weapon, came surging in at the gate. The door was shut just as the first of them, not stopping to fire, was making a fierce cut at Ahmed.

Breathless but exultant at the success of their desperate enterprise, Ahmed and the little party went to the loopholes and fired a volley at the assailants which again daunted them. But now a strident voice was heard among the shouts outside. Fierce yells answered it, growing in volume every moment.

"A fakir!" cried a Sikh.

"I've heard the like of that screeching in Seven Dials of a Saturday night," said one of the corporals.

"And, by gum, it means mischief," said the other. "He'll work those Pandies up into a perfect fury, Jack, and they'll be that mad they'd charge into hell."

"Well, screeches won't break down the door."

"No, but a battering-ram will, and dash me if the beggars haven't got one."

A score of mutineers were hauling a heavy log through the gateway. At the same moment there was a great uproar from the rear of the house. The attack in that quarter had not been resumed since the previous night, the rebels having apparently determined to concentrate on the front, trusting to win an easy victory with the aid of their gun. Owing to the casualties among the defenders, only ten men were now available, and the division of forces necessary to cope with simultaneous attacks in both front and rear laid a heavy handicap upon them. Half ran to the back to repel the assault. The furniture had already been massed against the door, and Ahmed saw with relief that by firing through the loopholes in the shutters the attackers could for the present be held off. It was otherwise in front. Several of the men carrying the log were shot down, but others took their places before the defenders could reload, and the ram was launched against the timber. The whole building trembled under the impact, and though the door for the moment held fast, it was plain that it could not long withstand such a battery.

The doctor was alive to the situation. He called to the men to prepare for a rush up the staircase, bidding one of them get ready the nail-studded plank for laying lengthwise on the stairs. While the men were still holding their position at the loopholes, they heard the sound of wrenching woodwork above, and in a few minutes there was a large gap in the ceiling of the hall. Immediately afterwards there came from above the sharp sound of hammers on metal. Ahmed could not guess what the doctor and the khansaman were doing, but felt sure that whatever it was the defence would gain by it.

Meanwhile the battering on the front door had at last loosened the hinges; it was time to retire. Ahmed and the five men with him went a few steps up the staircase. Then he laid the plank on the treads, so that none of the enemy could mount without crossing five feet of sharp iron points. The massive timber withstood several more assaults before there was a final crash, and it hung half open, disclosing a part of the yelling crowd outside. Ahmed and his comrades were only dimly visible to the besiegers, while the latter in the open courtyard were in full view of the besieged. A second after the door burst open the six men on the stairs fired together. There was no chance of missing the densely packed throng--every shot claimed its victim. For a second or two the crowd recoiled. The little firing party ran up to the landing. Then the doctor, limping to the top of the stairs, gave directions to the khansaman to pour down the plank the contents of a huge blue bottle. Shots were whistling round them from the muskets of the rebels who had swarmed into the hall, but neither showed the slightest concern. Kaluja had just finished his work when, led by the shrieking fakir, the mob made a rush for the stairway. Several men, heedless of the nails, scrambled up for a foot or two. Then with shrill cries of rage and pain they jumped backwards, overturning their comrades who were pressing on behind them. The plank was smoking with the strong acid which the khansaman had poured upon it. Most of the mob were barefooted, and even their tough soles could not withstand the effects of the burning liquid, the fumes from which set those above choking.

The hall was now packed tight with yelling rebels, so closely pressed together that to use their muskets was impossible. They had no escape from the shots fired by the men above as fast as they could reload. Then a new terror was added to the scene. Ahmed now saw the meaning of the knocking he had heard. Over the gap in the floor the khansaman had laid the doctor's sitz-bath, in the bottom of which he had pierced a number of holes. He was now engaged in emptying the contents of his master's bottles into the bath, the doctor adding water from time to time. It would have puzzled the most expert chemist to define the chemical composition which fell in a steady shower on the heads of the panic-stricken mutineers. The liquid fizzed and smoked, and changed colour like a chameleon--now green, now yellow, now brown, now an indescribable mixture of tints. There was only one desire among the discomfited enemy: to escape from this cockpit in which they suffered pangs due to the hakim's mysterious art as well as to the more familiar weapons of war. Pushing, shouting, scrambling over each other, they forced their way out into the compound, and there was such a wringing of hands and such a chorus of groans as surely Delhi had never heard or seen before.

The attack at the front had been effectually beaten off. The doctor hoped that the enemy would now retire altogether. But Ahmed ran up to the roof to see whether they were indeed withdrawing. The street was still full of rebels, and an excited altercation was going on among them. The central figures were Minghal Khan, who had hitherto been content to hound the men on without showing much eagerness to lead them, and the fakir, who bore many marks of the chemical baptism he had received. The uproar was too great to allow Ahmed to hear what was being said; he could only guess at it by the gesticulations of the men and by what happened afterwards. The fakir had, in fact, called on the fanatics who surrounded him, to bring combustibles for the burning of the house. Against this Minghal vehemently protested: the king's orders were that no houses should be fired: this would be only to assist the Feringhis. But the fakir scoffed at orders: it was the duty of all the faithful to destroy the infidels by any means in their power. Then Minghal used another argument: there was valuable property in the house--his property, his all. The fakir's answer to this was a horrible laugh, and the taunt that Minghal had shown no disposition to go into the house and fetch his valuable property. Minghal was overborne. Devoted adherents of the fakir brought up shavings, pieces of wood, jars of oil. Then, waving his arms, his long beard dripping in many-coloured drops, the fakir led the shouting mob round to the lane at the back. Not even he cared to face the front again.

Ahmed was descending to inform the doctor of this new move, when he stopped suddenly. A fresh sound had caught his ear: the sound of firing, both artillery and musketry, far away. Were the British columns renewing their assault? Was Colonel Jones forcing his way through the city again towards the mosque? His heart leapt with a great hope. The mutineers were coming to fire the house: nothing could prevent them; but rather than die like rats in a trap, he and his comrades must make a dash through the compound, and try to cut their way towards their friends. Suddenly he remembered the doctor. He could not take part in such a sortie. He must not be abandoned. The idea must be given up: there was nothing for it but to hold out to the last moment.

The roofs and windows of the surrounding houses were deserted. No doubt their former occupants had learnt that the house was to be fired and had joined the mob below, hoping for a share in the expected butchery and plunder. Here was a chance of dealing the enemy a last blow. Through the trap-door Ahmed called to the men to bring up his musket and join him. The mob was already pouring down the lane behind the fakir--hundreds of men in the frenzied zeal of fanaticism. They came to the garden wall and began to swarm over it; some burst in the gate; they flocked through in numbers too great to be checked by the fire of the ten men above. A volley flashed; Ahmed took aim at the fakir: he and the men nearest him fell. Those behind leapt over their prostrate bodies, and with fierce cries threw themselves against the door. Once more the ten fired among them; then Ahmed saw that men were again appearing on the roof of the nearest house, and before the little party all descended through the trap-door a Sikh and one of the corporals were hit.

When the others reached the doctor, they found him quietly preparing a bomb. He had filled a canister with powder, attached a roughly-made fuse, and was about to light it and fling the bomb among the enemy. At the sight of it an alternative scheme flashed into Ahmed's mind. He quickly explained it to the doctor, then hurried away through the almirah into the secret chamber below. Placing the table on the doctor's charpoy, he mounted on it, and laid the canister in a little ventilating recess just below the fountain. Then he lit the fuse and rushed away, slamming the door behind him.

He was only half-way up the stairs when he heard the back door burst in with a crash. Immediately afterwards there was a terrific report, that shook the house. He ran back, waited a minute or two to allow the fumes of the explosion to clear away, and re-entered the room. It was a wreck. The fountain had fallen into it, and it was choked with rubbish. Creeping over obstacles he saw a gap above his head, through which, by and by, it might be possible to reach the garden. He hurried back to the surgery. Whatever might have happened to the crowd in the garden, those who had entered the house had kindled a fire; the room was already full of smoke. In another minute all the little company had descended the spiral stairs to the secret room, leaving the wall of the surgery closed behind them. Below they would be safe for a time, the underground room being connected with the house only by the stone staircase.

Meanwhile the mutineers, daunted by the sudden explosion, had withdrawn to the further side of the garden. Some in terror had recrossed the wall; but the fire was alight; there had been no sign of any attempt at escape on the part of the garrison; and the fanatical throng exulted in the belief that ere long their victims would be consumed with the house.

Half-an-hour passed. The waiting men noticed that the uproar above, which had diminished, now broke out again with redoubled clamour. And it was not yells of execration and of triumph, but the cries of men in fight, mingled with the sound of musketry. Ahmed ventured to mount on the heap of rubbish towards the small gap where the fountain had been. He came to the surface, and as he put his head cautiously out, the first sight that met his eyes was a red-coated British officer, with flashing sword, chasing the darwan across the garden. The chase was brief; the man fell; and the officer, turning to rejoin his men, caught sight of Ahmed, who had crawled out of the hole and was running towards him. He came with outstretched sword to deal with another mutineer, as he supposed, and observing the khaki uniform, hastened his step with a muttered imprecation: it was a new thing for the wearers of the khaki to turn traitors. But Ahmed drew himself up and stood at the salute.

"Hazur," he said, "there is a sahib below, and I am of Lumsden Sahib's Guides."

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH

Duty

Three months had passed. The Guides were on their homeward march to Hoti-Mardan. They had spent a busy three months in breaking up the numerous bands formed by rebels who escaped from Delhi. For Delhi had fallen; the old king was a prisoner; and, though Lucknow still held out against Sir Colin Campbell, the back of the Mutiny was broken.

Ahmed rejoined his corps the same day on which he and the little party in Dr. Craddock's house were relieved. He was with them on those six succeeding days when the rebels, disputing every foot of ground against the British columns, were finally routed, and the British flag flew on the palace of the Moguls. Amongst the greater doings of that week, the exploit of the handful of men who defended the doctor's house against Minghal Khan's horde passed almost unnoticed, save by the persons more immediately concerned. Dr. Craddock did not make light of it: he took care to bring it to the notice of the officers of the regiments to which the men belonged, and they were all mentioned in regimental orders. Ahmed himself was promoted dafadar, to the mingled delight and envy of Sherdil; and Dr. Craddock, before he left to rejoin his daughter in Karnal, presented him with his gold watch as a memento. And when the Guides passed through Karnal on their return march, Mary Craddock did not fail to thank Ahmed herself for what he had done for her father. The doctor, for his part, who had heard from Mary the full story of her rescue, was at his wit's end to know how to show his gratitude. Ahmed would not accept money from him. Ultimately he accepted a pair of gold bracelets of great value which had belonged to Mrs. Craddock, and which the doctor suggested he might present to his wife when he married. He was sorely tempted then to reveal his English parentage; but resolved to keep silence until he knew the fate of Rahmut Khan, of whom he had heard nothing since he left Delhi.

And now the Guides had come within a week's march of Peshawar. They had covered the distance from Delhi in very different conditions from those of their historic march to the beleaguered city. They left Delhi on December 18--that was more than six weeks ago. There had been little fighting on the way, but news had just come to Captain Daly at his bivouac just outside Rawal Pindi, that a small convoy was hard pressed by a strong body of mutineers about ten miles distant. The cavalry at once saddled up and galloped off to the rescue. Dusk was falling when they approached the scene of the fight. They walked their horses for some distance so that they might recover their wind; then, being almost within sight of the hamlet into which the convoy had thrown itself, they dashed forward at a hand gallop. Just outside the hamlet they came upon a large number of horses, which had been left in charge of a few mutineers. Hearing the thud of the approaching hoofs, these men fled in hot haste, leaving the led horses to their fate. It was clear that the attack on the hamlet was being made on foot. As the Guides dashed past the abandoned horses they stampeded in terror.

The mutineers were endeavouring to force a barricade of carts which the escort of the convoy had thrown across the street, and which was flanked on each side by a house. So sudden was the approach of the Guides that the assailants were taken utterly by surprise. Their first instinct was to rush for their horses, but the Guides barred the way. They scattered to right and left, seeking refuge in the wild undergrowth that covered the surrounding country. Captain Daly ordered Ahmed to take a dozen sowars in pursuit, strictly enjoining him to keep the men well in hand, and not to ride far, since night was almost upon them. It was nearly dark when he returned, having accounted for many of the fugitives, though many more had escaped in the gloom.

He had just come within sight of the village when he heard loud shouts of "Catch him! Catch him!" and saw a horseman galloping across the field at his left. He wheeled his horse and set off in pursuit. The fugitive had a few hundred yards' start, and, riding for his life, sped on at a breakneck pace that took no account of the rough country. Ahmed was riding his own horse, Ruksh, and was surprised and somewhat nettled to find that he did not immediately gain on the quarry. Horseman and steed were well matched: none but a consummately skilful rider would risk such a pace in the growing darkness. Ahmed warmed to the chase: the fugitive might be of importance, and he was determined to capture him. There were sounds of others joining in the pursuit when he first set off, but as Ahmed rode on with a recklessness equal to the fugitive's, these sounds gradually became fainter and fainter; Ruksh was still the best horse in the regiment.

On went the two horsemen. Ahmed could just see the fugitive ahead, bending low on the saddle, skirting obstacles in bush and tree. He felt that for his own credit and that of Ruksh the man must be caught. Patting his horse's head and speaking in his ear, he persuaded the noble animal to still greater efforts, and in a few moments saw with joy that the gap between himself and the enemy was lessening. Even Ruksh seemed to share his exhilaration; he lifted his head and bounded forward at still greater speed. Only fifty yards separated pursuer and pursued, when suddenly Ahmed heard a heavy thud; then there was silence; the hoofs of the horse in front no longer rang on the rough ground. Ahmed checked Ruksh's pace and drew his pistol. A few seconds later he saw a dark form on the ground two or three yards ahead. He reined up sharply, and walked his horse forward, keenly on the alert for an ambuscade. But on drawing nearer he recognized that the form was that of a horse; it lay at the edge of a narrow nullah. And just beyond there was another motionless form, without doubt its rider. What had happened was clear. The horseman had come unawares on the nullah; the horse had stumbled and shot its rider over its head.

Ahmed was too good a scout to relax his vigilance; it was needful to be wary in approaching even a thrown man. Pistol in hand, he made a circuit of the prostrate figure. The man lay motionless, his face to the ground. Choosing such a position that the fugitive, if shamming, would have to turn round before he could fire, Ahmed slipped from his horse, which stood still at the word of command, and moved forward to see who the captive might be.

He laid his hand on the man, who made no movement. Then he turned him over, and saw by his long white beard that he was an older man than he had supposed. Striking a light with flint and steel, for in the dark it was impossible to see whether the man was dead or merely insensible, he was amazed to see that his helpless captive was Rahmut Khan. Hastily he unslung his water-bottle, poured some drops between the old chief's lips, and dashed the rest in his face. There was a groan.

"Dog, let me die!" murmured the old man.

"Father, dost thou not know me? It is Ahmed, thy son."

The chief seemed at first too much dazed to understand what was said, but as he regained his senses he gave utterance to a cry of wonderment and delight.

"Is it indeed thee, Ahmed-ji?" he said. "Praise to the Most Merciful! I supposed it was one of the Feringhi dogs. Praise to Allah! Now thou and I can go together in peace, and do what must be done to that thrice-accursed reptile, Dilasah Khan."

Ahmed felt a great pity for the old man, ignorant of all that had happened to his adopted son during the past year.

"Nay, father," he said tenderly, "it may not be. I am of Lumsden Sahib's Guides; I was sent to catch thee: needs must I give thee up."

"Of the Guides, sayest thou? Hast thou, then, eaten of the accursed Feringhis' salt?"

"I have indeed eaten of it, my father."

"Hast thou told them that thou art thyself of Feringhi blood?" asked the old man anxiously.

"Nay, father, none knows it save Sherdil, son of Assad, and he has held his peace."

"Verily I love thee, my son. But having eaten of the Feringhis' salt, thou must be true to it. I will go back with thee."

Ahmed examined him, to make sure that no bones were broken, then went back to the nullah to find his horse. Seeing that the beast's knees were fractured, he shot him through the head, then returned and set Rahmut on Ruksh. And thus he led him back to camp.

On the way explanations were exchanged. Rahmut had been imprisoned at Agra, and when, at the outbreak of the Mutiny, the town was isolated, all communications being cut off by the rebels, the authorities, fearing an attack on the prison as at Meerut, conveyed all the prisoners across the Jumna and released them. The chief was on his way back to Shagpur when he learnt that Dilasah had made himself master of the place, and that Ahmed had gone, none knew whither. Incensed at the British, to his imprisonment by whom he ascribed these misfortunes, he cast in his lot with the rebels, gathered by sheer force of character a band of desperadoes, and led them to Delhi. And then Ahmed told all that had happened to him, and the part that Minghal Khan had played. The old chief was amazed to hear that his son was incarcerated in Minghal's house at the very time when he made his attack on it.

"And where is that dog of dogs?" he cried. "Oh, that Allah had given me to slay him with my own hands!"

"I know not," said Ahmed. "When the sahibs saved us at the house, he was gone. I searched for him among the slain, but saw him not."

"Peradventure I may yet find him, and then shall he receive the due reward of his deeds."

Before they reached the village, they were joined by men of Ahmed's party, who had been searching for him in the dark. They took Rahmut with them to camp, and Ahmed handed him over to Captain Daly when he made his report. If the chief had been a mutineer he would no doubt have been shot at once; but as he had never been in the British service, Captain Daly decided to take him on to Peshawar for judgment by Sir John Lawrence. He praised Ahmed for his successful work, and ordered him to place the prisoner under guard.

A little while afterwards Ahmed returned to his commander's tent and asked to be allowed to speak to him. He was admitted.

"Well, dafadar, what is it?" asked Daly.

"With your good pleasure, sahib, I will now leave the Guides."

"What?"

"I wish to be no longer a Guide, sahib."

"Why, what's the meaning of this nonsense? You can't leave the Guides."

"With your pardon, sahib, I must. The sahib will remember that we of the Guides are always free to leave the sahibs' service if we please. It is one of the conditions."

"That's true; but nobody does it. What's your reason? Are you dissatisfied? You are the youngest dafadar in the corps, and if you go on as you have begun, you'll be a risaldar before I shall."

"I am not dissatisfied, sahib. But Rahmut Khan is my father."

Captain Daly stared.

"That is it, is it?" he said. "I see." He was silent for a few moments, then he said, "Well, dafadar, you can't resign at a minute's notice, and in war-time. We may be attacked any day, and until we reach head-quarters I consider it your duty to stand by the corps. When we get to head-quarters you can speak of it again."

He watched Ahmed narrowly. The boy's face showed his disappointment, but, as Daly had guessed, the point of honour appealed to him, and thanking the officer, he saluted and went his way.

A week later the corps marched into Peshawar. The whole garrison was paraded to receive them. Major-General Sir Sidney Cotton, in command of the station, ordered a royal salute to be fired in their honour, and the troops on parade came to the salute as they marched in amid the strains of the massed bands. The General delivered an eloquent address, speaking of the pride every man felt in the heroic achievements of the corps, which had lost more than half its strength in the work around Delhi, and whose whole complement of officers had been renewed four times, not one of them being unwounded. Then he called for three cheers for the war-worn and ragged warriors, and amid a salvo of artillery and resounding hurrahs the Guides rode at the head of the line and marched past the flag.

That night, at the banquet given by Colonel Herbert Edwardes in celebration of the Guides' return, Captain Daly told those about him of the strange incident that had lately happened. It made a deep impression on his audience; every Englishman felt a touch of pride in the spirit of loyalty which set duty to the corps before ties of kinship. Every one felt that while England could command the services of men like these, they need have no fear of the permanence of the British raj.

Next day Ahmed and his father were both summoned to attend at the residence of Sir John Lawrence. General Cotton and the officers of the Guides and others were with him.

Sir John looked very stern as he addressed the old chief, who stood with natural dignity before him.

"You were taken in arms, Rahmut Khan," he said. "You had no grievance against us; your imprisonment was just. You know what penalty is suffered by those who have acted like you?"

"I know it, Jan Larrens," said the chief.

"Have you anything to say for yourself--any reason why you should not suffer likewise?"

"None, Jan Larrens. If I were Jan Larrens, and you were Rahmut Khan, I should without doubt speak even as you speak."

"Fine old fellow!" said one of the officers quietly to his neighbour.

"And you," said Lawrence, turning to Ahmed--"you are the son of this man. Have I not seen you before?"

"It is true, sahib; I came here a year ago to beg for my father's release, and you refused."

"And then you joined the Guides; why did you do that?"

"You said, sahib, that my petition must be refused. I had no claim on the British raj. In my mind I said I will do something to win such a claim. And Sherdil, son of Assad, being my friend, I thought nothing better could befall me than to become like him one of Lumsden Sahib's Guides."

"Ah! You wanted to do something to establish a claim on us. Captain Daly, what is this man's regimental record?"

Ahmed drew a long breath. He felt the eyes of Jan Larrens and the officers fixed on him. What would be the end of this?

Captain Daly began to read from a book--his name, the date when he entered the corps, trifling details of his early service which he had forgotten. Then came a more important matter.

"'First gave information of a fakir tampering with the Mohammedan members of the corps.'"

"That was your duty, was it not?" said Lawrence.

"Yes, sahib."

Captain Daly went on--

"'Rescued Dr. Craddock's daughter from a native near Karnal, dashed through a half-troop of rebels to bring assistance!'"

"Very meritorious. Still, you thought it your duty?" said Lawrence.

"It is true, sahib."

"'Went into Delhi in disguise,'" pursued the captain, "'at the orders of Lieutenant Hodson. Was the first to bring word of the mutineers' attack on Alipur. Sent other information. Discovered the whereabouts of Dr. Craddock!'"

"Excellent," said Lawrence. "You obeyed orders; other Guides would have done the same?"

"It is true, sahib."

"'Acted as guide to the second column at the assault of September 14. Took part in the defence of Dr. Craddock's house against the mutineers. Doctor gives high commendation; marked for promotion!'"

"Exceedingly good; but, as far as I can see, all in your duty. You are promoted, I observe; you have established no special claim upon the Government?"

There was a deep silence. The officers watched Ahmed keenly; would he now break through his reticence?

"No, sahib," he said simply.

"'Rawal Pindi,'" read Captain Daly. "'Captured the notorious freebooter Rahmut Khan.'"

"Ah! Now we have something," said Lawrence. "But that was your duty, too?"

"Yes, sahib," said Ahmed. "And now if it pleases the hazurs, I will leave the Guides."

"I understand that that is your wish. What is your reason?"

"Rahmut Khan is my father, sahib."

"But your claim; do you give that up?"

"It is my duty, sahib."

A smile went round the group. This was turning the tables on the Chief Commissioner. But Lawrence's expression did not change. He turned to the old chief, who had stood restlessly at Ahmed's side during this conversation.

"Rahmut Khan," he said, "what will you do if, for your son's sake, we pardon you?"

The chief's eyes flashed.

"I will go back to Shagpur, my village, Jan Larrens," he said, "and first slay that vile son of a dog, Dilasah, and after that I will seek Minghal Khan till I find him, and when I have slain him I shall be ready to die."

The officers smiled again--a smile not of derision, or even amusement, but rather of appreciation of the directness and honesty of the fearless old chief.

"Well, then," said Lawrence, "we pardon you, on this condition: that you go back to your village and trouble us no more. And if you keep good order, and help to maintain the peace of the frontier, we shall hold you as a friend to the British raj, and that will be for your good. And now," he added, turning to Ahmed, "do you still wish to leave the Guides?"

"No, sahib; there is no need." His face was bright with pleasure.

"What would you have done if Daly Sahib had allowed you to resign?"

"Sahib, I should have released my father."

The whole company of officers burst into a chuckling laugh; even Sir John's stern features relaxed.

"I am glad there is no need for that. Captain Daly, I think this young man's loyalty to the corps in such circumstances merits recognition. Perhaps you will make a note of his name for the first vacancy in the commissioned ranks."

He stepped from his seat and held out his hand to the Pathan chief. Rahmut grasped it, hesitated a moment, then said in a voice he with difficulty controlled--

"Jan Larrens, I have a thing to say. It is meet I say it. These nine years it has been locked in my heart, but the deeds of Ahmed Khan and thy kindness have proven both as a key. Ahmed Khan is the son of my heart, but not of my body. He is one of yourselves. He is a Feringhi."

And then he told the story of Ahmed from the time he had been snatched from his father's murderers. It was characteristic of the old chief that, even though Minghal Khan was his enemy, he did not disclose the fact that it was he who had murdered Mr. Barclay.

"God bless my soul!" ejaculated the astonished Englishman. "What is the boy's name!"

"Barkelay, if that is the Feringhis' way of saying it."

"By George!" ejaculated Colonel Herbert Edwardes. "I knew George Barclay; so did you, Sir John; in fact, I'm not sure I haven't played ride-a-cock horse with this youngster on my knee. The whirligig of time!--my word, it's a queer world."

Rahmut Khan was submitted to a searching cross-examination. There was no doubt about the matter: Sir John Lawrence was convinced that Ahmed was indeed George Barclay's son. Having made his confession, the old chief found it difficult to control his emotion as he contemplated the loss of the heir upon whom his pride and affection were centred. The officers meanwhile had grouped themselves about Ahmed, and plied him with questions, seeking to revive recollections of his childhood.

"What's his real name, I wonder?" said Captain Daly. "Chief, what did Barclay Sahib call the boy?"

"Jorkins," replied Rahmut.

The officers roared.

"Of course!" cried Colonel Edwardes. "Poor Barclay had a mania for nicknames. And by George! what was that nonsense I used to rattle off: it used to amuse the boy's mother--

"There was a little Jorkins,
And he had a little pork ins-
Ide his little tummy,
And bellowed for his mummy,
And howled for his daddy,
Who caught him drinking madi,
And said the nasty toddy
Was bad for his little body----"

"How long did that go on, Edwardes?" interrupted some one.

"It never ended; I had to reel off a fresh instalment at every visit. Poor old Barclay!"

Ahmed was dazed at all this and the dim memories which the long-forgotten doggrel revived. Looking at Edwardes, he fancied he remembered the tall jolly officer, brimming over with jokes, whose visits were so welcome. But he perceived the distress of Rahmut Khan, and asked permission to take him away.

When the Guides marched to Hoti-Mardan Ahmed was not among them. It had been decided that he should leave almost immediately for England, where he would find relatives of his father and mother, and where a small property awaited its owner. He took leave very cordially, yet with regret, of his comrades of the corps. Sherdil hugged the belief that Ahmed's good fortune was due mainly to the coaching he had had when a candidate for the Guides, and begged that his pupil would never forget it. Rahmut Khan remained for a week in Peshawar, made much of by the British officers, who vied with each other in entertaining him. The old man then set off on his lonely way back to Shagpur. He maintained his composure throughout his farewell interview with Ahmed; but Ahmed knew what strength of feeling was masked by his self-control.

A few weeks later Ahmed embarked for England. It had been discovered that Dr. Craddock and his daughter were leaving for home, and the doctor willingly undertook the office of guardian. He had known Ahmed's father; it was the likeness between them which had awakened a vague remembrance of having seen Ahmed before. With these good friends Ahmed Khan left the shores of India, but among the passengers who disembarked at St. Katharine's Docks there was no one of that name; he had become accustomed to hearing himself called Mr. James Barclay.