Chapter XV: Part 15

He had ceased to question Barclay's action or Ayeshi's curious acquiescence. Possibly they had not meant him to escape--possibly they had relied on his coming too late or on the futility of his warning. It was useless to speculate. He could only act--do the best he could.

He breasted the last hillock which separated him from the plain. The roar of the river sounded ominous even then--like the roll of continuous, unmodulated thunder. Then on her own initiative, Arabella slithered to a standstill, her ears pricked, her lean body quivering with apprehension. Tristram brushed the rain from his eyes. For an instant he was only incredulous--distrustful of his own senses. Twenty-four hours ago--a wide flat stretch of saturated fertile soil--the bold, sweeping line of the Ganges--and now this--this level, rising, onward-flowing surface, broken near the centre by a broad ribbon of sinister, rippling movement--no landmark left, no grass, no trace of land--one stupendous, terrible monotony of water.

Then he knew what Barclay had known. The floods had come. The catastrophe of which old villagers had spoken with bated breath had broken over them. He could hear the water lapping against the base of the rising ground. With every minute it grew louder, nearer. In a few hours it might well be that the whole plain might be covered--Heerut--the temple itself.

He spoke to Arabella. He felt that figuratively she shrugged her shoulders. They had done many mad things together in their day, and this was the maddest and the last; but, if he wished it, she had no objection. She went slithering and stumbling down into the water. It rose to her knees, to his feet and there for the time stopped. They waded steadily towards the bridge-head. If it grew no deeper than this the passage might still be possible. He leant forward eagerly in the saddle, waiting for his goal to outline itself against the eternal greyness. There was no sound but the sish of the water as it broke from Arabella's shoulders and her own heavy breathing. He had ceased to hear the boom which had first warned him. He was in the midst of it and it became a kind of silence. It was a part of his consciousness--it had been there always.

Striking diagonally across the plain, he left the black mass of the temple on his right. He could not feel any current, and yet he was aware that they were being drawn insidiously towards the centre. The knowledge did not trouble him. So long as he could keep Arabella's head up the river, he could afford to give ground. He did not contemplate the possibility of being sucked into the torrent itself. As yet Arabella's foothold was sure and her progress steady.

No suspicion of the truth had reached him.

But still he could not see the bridge. Once past the temple it was the first important landmark, and he began to wonder, in spite of Arabella's sturdy efforts, whether they were really moving forward. The horror of the passing time coiled itself round him, stifling him. He knew fear--already the drab daylight was failing rapidly. Yet there was no bridge.

He was drifting nearer to the river's banks. He could mark them definitely by the break in the placid surface--the sudden rush, the eddies and deep pits of the whirlpools. He could judge the pace of the torrent by the passing of odd, as yet unrecognizable fragments. They sped on their way, now disappearing for many minutes, now carried from side to side in cross currents, but always in headlong movement. Some of the fragments were like small islands--they stood upright out of the water like pillars of a ruined church, black and straight.

Still there was no bridge.

"Mother Ganges demands toll of those who curb her."

Suddenly he understood. He understood Barclay's smile and Ayeshi's acquiescence. He recognized those pillars. They were motionless. They held their place in the torrent like the defiant remnant of an annihilated army, like tragic monuments to man's futility.

The bridge had gone.

For a moment he drew Arabella to a standstill. He had lost all sense of anxiety, all thought of failure. Methodically but rapidly, he threw overboard every unnecessary weight: his water-logged riding boots, various small items in his pockets, a heavy belt with a metal clasp, his coat. With an effort he managed to cut the girths and finally to remove the saddle itself, flinging it to the rest. Then he turned Arabella's head towards the river.

They were moving quickly now--perilously quickly. In what seemed no more than a minute they had reached the limit. The water rose above his knees, he could feel it circling round him--a living monster, awaiting its moment. He bent forward and patted Arabella's neck and whispered to her, and kissed her warm sleekness. She whinnied challengingly, tossing her head. Then plunged.

The torrent passed over them. He went down under a crushing opaque mass of delirious water. It seemed many minutes--perhaps it was only a second or two--then they rose again. Arabella's head was turned downstream. She made no effort. She was panic-stricken--helpless. He called to her. He himself was stunned and could barely keep his seat. Invisible forces had hold of him, dragging at him. At last he had her head round, and she struck out with the energy of terror. They were moving now. He could judge their progress by the two pillars mere specks on the rushing greyness. A fierce exultation possessed him--the glory of struggle--they were moving. Arabella had found her stride. Though they drifted, too, they were not wholly at the mercy of the current. Foot by foot, they were winning their way across. It did not matter that they were being swept farther down the river. Once on dry land they could make up for lost time. Then Arabella would not fail.

But now he was afraid for her. He could feel in his own nerves and sinews the cost of her heroic effort--the rising agony of her exhaustion. He believed that already she was finished. He felt her go down under him. Then, in answer to a supreme demand of her spirit, she rose again--the blood streaming from her nostrils. He called to her, and she turned her head a little. He could see her eyes, their whites veined with red, and he remembered Wickie. It was the same look, the same unfaltering confidence, the same patient acceptance of suffering. For herself alone she would not have struggled farther; but for him, for his life she accepted the crushing, heart-breaking burden of living.

Strange things raced past them--fragments horrible in their significance--an unhinged door, a table, a wooden image swept from some village shrine, its battered face staring from out of the foaming water in grotesque serenity; dead things--the carcase of a bullock, a woman's rigid hand tossed up in horrible semblance of appeal, a baby's body; living things--the hideous snout of a mugger battling against the stream, its jaws snapping greedily at the passing provender, a cheetah, caught perhaps in the midst of some marauding expedition, which struggled to Tristram's side and kept close to him. He called to it and it turned its eyes to him in frantic supplication and terror. In that dread moment they were comrades, fighting shoulder to shoulder against the common enemy.

They reached midstream. In a minute they would be out of the worst--out of danger. He turned his head; he wanted to measure by the pillars how far they had still to go. He saw the end coming. It was grotesque--absurd--a native hovel that had been caught up bodily. It bore down upon him, staggering drunkenly on the full breast of the current. It seemed to blot out the sky--a monstrous, towering Juggernaut.

A figure clung to the thatched roof. It was gesticulating wildly--in fear or warning, he could not tell. But there was no escape. The rocking structure was travelling with the speed of an express,--Arabella had almost ceased to move. Tristram slipped quietly from her back, only holding to her bridle, and she rose buoyantly. In that final moment, a deep-rooted instinct in him had prevailed. She was to have her chance. He struck out--turning his head for a last time towards the onrushing catastrophe. It was not more than twenty yards away. He could see the man's dark face--staring down into the water--aghast, silly-looking. His grotesque vessel seemed suddenly to stop, to draw back, quivering like a frightened, death-stricken animal--then plunged headlong--flashed like a pebble over the edge of a precipice.

Tristram closed his eyes. He tasted death. He knew the horror of suffocation--the pitiless night which swirled over him, choking him, stupefying him.

Twenty yards lower down the hut reappeared. Its roof was battered in. The clinging, piteous figure had vanished.

Tristram twisted Arabella's bridle about his arm. It was his last deliberate act. He was dimly conscious of movement, of being sucked against warm, heaving flanks, of a hand that closed down blackly on his will to live. He knew that he was letting go his hold--he was beaten. He felt himself go down--then one last thrill of consciousness. His feet jarred against something--he was being dragged--dragged over a soft spongy substance.

He tried to right himself--but instead stumbled--pitched headlong into oblivion.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*RESURRECTION*

"That reminds me of a story some one told me once," Mrs. Brabazone declared. "I think it was George----"

George, seated three places lower down on the opposite side of the table, looked up anxiously and, meeting his wife's eyes, signalled a denial. "Yes, I'm sure it was you, George. Anyhow, it's a very good story. It was about a Lancashire coal-heaver--or was it a cotton-spinner? What do they do in Lancashire? I never can remember. But I know they make a frightful lot of money, and are horribly extravagant." She considered a moment. "Yes--it is extravagant, not mean. I get so confused. And one day when he was dying----"

Some one laughed, and Mrs. Brabazone glanced up perplexedly. "My dear, that isn't the point--at least, I don't think so. George, do tell it. It's such a good story."

The Judge, usually the soul of courtesy, turned a deaf ear and fixed his attention with an expression of almost passionate interest on Colonel Armstrong, who was seated on Mrs. Boucicault's left. The Colonel was discussing the prospects of the rains, his manner beautifully Anglo-Saxon in its optimistic serenity.

"I'm sure we can congratulate ourselves that the worst is over," he said. "As long as the banks at Bjura hold there is nothing to fear, and Rutherford promised to let us know the moment there was any danger--on account of the bridge, of course. Poor Matherson was rather rattled about the bridge. It's his first single-handed job, and a swollen river like that is a severe test. However, he's kept quiet, so we can presume that it's holding out."

Mrs. Boucicault smiled. She smiled very often--always when a reply was expected of her. It covered over her silence. It was a curious smile. It came suddenly and faded slowly, leaving behind it a kind of grimace. Her eyes, abnormally large and intensely blue, were fixed blankly on the length of the table. Its display of silver, the many flowers, the subdued lights, the noiseless servants whose dark hands reached out spectrally from the shadows, seemed to absorb her. Certainly it was a feast unequalled in the annals of Gaya's sociabilities. Some of the guests were even vaguely oppressed by it. A pace was being set which none of them could hope to keep up.

Dr. Martin, seated a few places lower down on his hostess's right, scarcely turned his eyes from her face. She seemed to fascinate him. His neighbour--the wife of a newly arrived Captain--decided that he was a very stupid little man. He rarely spoke, and seemed to have no appetite. Her inherited antipathy for civilians increased to dislike, and she pitied herself intensely. In despite, she amused herself with Captain Compton, who was her _vis-a-vis_, dilating rather maliciously on the glories of Simla, from whence she hailed.

The conversation never flagged. Its feverish persistency covered the splash of the rain outside the open windows and the sound of smothered, angry whisperings somewhere behind the curtained doorways. Mrs. Compton, who was an old hand at Indian life, sensed "nerves" in that perpetual chatter, in that resolute determination to shut out alike thought and silence. The last weeks had been almost unbearable. She herself had never experienced anything to equal the incessant downpour. But it was more than the climate. There was unrest in the air. From her husband she had heard mutterings to the effect that Armstrong, good soldier though he was, did not know how to tackle the ugly temper of his men--that a demand had been sent to headquarters for a battalion of white troops. Then other things had gone wrong--Rasaldu, Sigrid, Barclay--it was one long sequence of trouble.

And now tonight, Mrs. Boucicault sat at the head of the table with her staring, unseeing eyes and grey, powdered face, looking like a smiling death's-head.

Mary Compton thought of the man who lay paralysed and silent behind the walls, and wondered if beneath their gaiety the others thought of him and of the unknown hand which had struck him down. Things happened in India. They came out of the darkness like lightning--struck, and vanished. It was no wonder people had nerves. They were in the minority--in reality quite powerless. It was just bluff--splendid bluff.

Mrs. Compton bit her lip. She had nearly screamed. In the midst of her unpleasant reflections, the voices in the corridor had risen to an angry clamour. Suddenly the curtains were pushed violently aside. The butler entered backwards, expostulating, gesticulating, followed overwhelmingly by Mrs. Smithers. Her entry, her rain-soaked clothes and dishevelled grey hair might have been comic--might have caused amused surprise--discomfort; but there was something else about her--a resolution, a reality of tense anxiety which, reflected on the faces of those who saw her first, brought the rest to an instantaneous silence.

She looked round the table, and, seeing Mrs. Compton, who had half risen, burst into breathless speech.

"It's Sigrid--she's gone--she's been gone since this morning--I've waited--I couldn't bear it any longer. She'll die. It's her heart. And that man--that scoundrel--his real wife's down there now--crying her eyes out. It made me sick. I had to come. Mrs. Compton, you cared for her--you'll help me. Don't you know anything--don't you know where she's gone?"

The broken, incoherent flow came to a more resolute end. The servants made a movement as though to approach her, but Mrs. Boucicault waved them back. She had become suddenly alert and watchful, as though for something which she had long foreseen.

Mrs. Compton looked helplessly round the table.

"Does any one know--I haven't seen Mrs. Barclay for days----"

"You can call her Miss Fersen," Mrs. Smithers broke in doggedly.

"Well, you know who I mean. Perhaps she's taken shelter----"

"It was raining when she started out. That was this morning early--after that woman came----"

"What woman----?"

"Mrs. Barclay--a nigger, like him."

Mrs. Smithers was uncompromising--violent. She did not care that she interrupted, that forty of Gaya's most important inhabitants stared at her with varying feelings of consternation and annoyance. She was frightened. Her fear had tightened its hold with every hour of futile waiting, till what self-consciousness she had was stifled out of her. Her fear was everything. These people were nothing. Her disparagement of them expressed itself in every line of her grim, ashen features.

"You mean"--Colonel Armstrong leant back judicially in his chair, fingering the stem of his wine-glass "you mean actually that Mrs.--your mistress discovered this morning--that--that, in fact, her marriage had been illegal----?"

"That's it. She wasn't _his_ wife--never had been, thank God."

"Isn't it conceivable--I don't want to frighten you--that in her despair she may have done something rash?"

Mrs. Smithers jerked her head with a movement of utter contempt.

"You men seem to think we're always in despair if we lose one of you precious creatures--most times it's t'other way round. She was glad. It's the first time I've seen her happy for months and months. He's done away with her--and you sit there like a herd of stuck pigs----"

"Really, my good woman----"

"I'm not your good woman. A lot you care. She's one of your blood--worth the whole crowd of you--and you treated her like dirt just because she got into the clutches of one of your--your--wickednesses----"

"Smithy!" Mrs. Compton implored.

"I don't care--it's true."

Armstrong looked helplessly at Mrs. Boucicault; but Mrs. Boucicault was staring in front of her with that same look of tense expectancy. The new arrival from Simla shivered. She did not understand the scene, but she thought it vulgar and horrid. These out-of-the-way stations were very uncivilized. It was amazing how quickly the smartest people lost their polish.

Captain Compton came suddenly to the rescue.

"It's a queer thing," he said, in his deliberate way. "Meredith and Rasaldu and now Miss Fersen----"

"Rubbish!" Armstrong knitted his brows at his junior. "Meredith has probably taken the Rajah with him on his rounds. It's happened before. As to Mrs.--Miss Fersen, there are any amount of possible explanations. Her horse may have fallen lame. I've always set my face against this silly craze for riding alone, and now----"

He stopped. The stem of his wine-glass snapped under the sudden pressure of his fingers. The Simla woman gave a little scream and rose to her feet. He frowned at her. The men exchanged glances. The women were curiously still--looking towards the window. Armstrong laughed, mopping up his wine with his napkin. "'Pon my word, we're all suffering from nerves. Absurd. Some sentry----"

But no one listened to him. Compton got up and ran out of the window--down into the garden. They heard scuffling--a muttered exclamation--the sound of something soft and heavy being dragged up the steps. They sat still--waiting. They saw Compton hesitating on the threshold of the light. He was bending down----

"Give me a hand some one, for God's sake!"

George Brabazone pushed back his chair and turned to his assistance. Between them the huddled, shapeless something was pulled into the room. It lay inert. The shadow covered it. One of the men snatched up a light, holding it above his head.

"What is it----?"

"Tristram----"

"What--not----?"

"I don't know--tumbled off his horse. Pull the curtains--get the servants out of the room." Armstrong took over Compton's command. The natives fled noiselessly before his imperative gestures. The curtains were dragged across, shutting out the black, menacing gulf. They were all on their feet now--two brilliant lines of colour--with that blot lying in a pool of mud and rain----

"Give me wine--anything."

Tristram stirred. With Compton and Brabazone on either side of him, he dragged himself to his knees. The water dripped from his face--from his clothes. He was almost unrecognizable.

"It's nothing--they--missed me. Only winded----" He pushed the proffered glass aside. "Rasaldu--Meredith--both murdered yesterday--regiment mutinies--organized for tonight--not a soul to escape--any minute now. That was the first shot----"

"Where have you come from?"

"Heerut. Bridge gone. Had to swim for it----"

"Matherson----?"

"Gone--I don't know. Don't talk----"

"Of course not--we must act. Who's on duty to-night?"

"Farquhar--Haverton----"

"They must be warned."

"It's too late. It'd show them we were prepared. Our only chance is to take them by surprise-- What's that----?"

"Firing. Poor devils! We shall be the next. Who's at the bottom of this, Tristram?"

"Ayeshi--Barclay--what's it matter? Do something!"

They looked at each other. Something like a smile passed over their faces. They were very calm--very quiet. The men and women were equally aware that there was not much they could do. They were cut off by hundreds of miles from any real assistance. It would have taken an hour at least to have gathered the rest of Gaya together and prepared a defence that might suggest even a fighting chance. As it was, they had perhaps a few minutes--if one or two of them had a weapon in his possession it would be a great piece of luck. The thought of a five-chambered revolver--three chambers empty--which he happened to have slipped into the pocket of his military overcoat some days back--gave Compton such an absurd thrill of satisfaction that he laughed.

"We shall have to shy the spoons at 'em!" he said.

Mrs. Boucicault brushed the fluffy grey hair from her forehead.

"My husband has a few guns in his rack," she said quietly. "He used them for hunting, but they might do. I think there are some cartridges, too--I don't know--we might look."

"Better than nothing." Armstrong began to direct, heavily but systematically. "Compton, get the servants together. Shut them up and see that they don't get a chance to communicate with any one outside. Five of you had better keep a lookout. The rest stay here. It would be better to go on as though nothing had happened. We shall defend this side of the house--this room, in fact. We're too few for anything more. Mrs. Boucicault, please lead the way----"

He was obeyed. The women reseated themselves. Mary Compton began to talk. Mrs. Brabazone took up the tangled thread of her story and unravelled it laboriously. The dead white tablecloth and the brilliant colours of the flowers made their faces look vivid.

"It's like old times," Mrs. Compton declared. "I expect it's really a blessing in disguise. If we didn't have these periodical shake-ups our livers would never work at all. We do eat such dreadfully unhealthy things. Somebody pass me the almonds. Let's have our desserts now as well as in the hereafter!"

It was an old and rather feeble jest, but it served its purpose. The Simla woman laughed heartily. Mrs. Brabazone grumbled.

"People always seem to find something in Mary's remarks. It's base favouritism. I'm every bit as funny----"

"A lot more, my dear." Mrs. Compton's manner was that of a rather over-excited school-girl. She ate salted almonds vivaciously and threw one at Tristram, who had stumbled to a chair and sat there with his face between his hands. "You look like a drowned rat, Hermit--not a bit lovable. Where's Anne?"

He glanced up with bloodshot eyes.

"I--think she's dead," he said, hoarsely. "She died alone in Heerut. Sigrid has gone with Barclay. It was his offer--you understand? I shouldn't be here now if it wasn't for her. She and Anne--they thought of you--they neither of them funked."

They were silent for a moment. A spasm passed over Mary Compton's face. She reached desperately for the sweetmeats.

"Mrs. Brabazone--for mercy's sake, tell that Lancashire story of yours----"

"It's about a miner," Mrs. Brabazone began jerkily. "You know how horribly dirty they are. And one day he came home--he was very ill, you know, and his wife said----"

She laboured on with quivering lips. They listened attentively. A sound of shouting came from the barracks not a quarter of a mile distant. Tristram and Mrs. Compton exchanged glances.

"They're working up to concert-pitch----"

* * * * *

In the quiet, whitewashed soldier's room, Armstrong and Brabazone were collecting what weapons they could find. Mrs. Boucicault had underestimated, but even so there was not much hope to be found in the six double-barrelled guns and the few cases of ammunition.

Mrs. Boucicault stood at the foot of her husband's bed looking at him. They were both so still--the grey-haired, painted woman and the big man lying stretched out beneath the thin sheet--that Armstrong almost forgot them. But at the door he remembered and looked back.

"You'd better explain to your husband--I'll send some one to carry him--he must be where we are----" He hesitated, and then added gruffly: "You don't need to worry, Boucicault. You shan't fall into their hands, I give you my word of honour."

They went out. Still Eleanor Boucicault remained at her place at the foot of the bed. The man's eyes were fixed on her. They were distended. The dim light could not reveal their expression, yet all the life which had made its last stand in their depths seemed to gather together--with a supreme effort--to spread over his face--to swell the withered muscles.

The distant shouting reached them. The sound released her from her still absorption. She threw herself down on her knees beside him.

"They're going to kill us, Richard--they're going to kill us. It's the regiment--your regiment.--Colonel Armstrong says we can't do much. They'll just--just do what they like! Do you hear that shouting? That means they're coming. They know we're here--they know you're here. You made them hate us--just as you made me hate you." She gripped him by the shoulders, her words rushing down on him in a fevered, awful torrent. "It doesn't matter to me--I'm dying, anyhow. You've killed me. That's what I want to tell you. I didn't tell you before, because I thought you'd be glad. But now we're going to die together I want you to understand. Look at this----" She tore open the bosom of her dress.

"You did that--that time you struck me. It never healed--it never will. It's cancer. Oh, but I've had a good time all the same. I've spent your money, Richard. I've made you suffer. I've had you to hurt when I couldn't bear the pain any longer. And now--now you're just going to die like a rabbit in a trap." She burst out laughing. There was a long flat chest against the wall, and she went to it with quick, tottering steps and opened it. The neatly folded uniforms, the sword in its leather case--she flung the whole contents down before him with a shrill cry of bitter triumph. "You'll never wear them again, Richard. You won't go down fighting--_I_ shall, but not you--you'll just lie there and trust to us to have mercy on you. You're just a wreck--a crumbling, hideous ruin. That's why I hate you--why they hate you--those men who are coming to kill us. We loved you so. You were our god--our Bagh Sahib--and then you became--a devil."

She knelt down by the heap of red and gold splendour. She was crying, and the tears carved deep channels through the paint and powder.

"Bagh Sahib!"

She put her hand over her mouth. It was as though she had tried to smother a scream, but no sound had come from her lips. She shrank back from him, farther and farther back till she cowered on the floor, watching him.

Slowly--so slowly yet steadily that the movement seemed supernatural--he was lifting himself up. He did not look at her. His gaunt face was tense and absorbed as though the whole being of the man were turned inwards on the contemplation of a miracle. His arms hung straight at his sides. He lifted them--holding them out before him.

"Bagh Sahib!"

He pushed the sheet back and slipped his legs over the edge of the bed. They were mere sticks--fleshless, piteous--yet he stood up swaying like a tall reed in the wind. The woman, huddled on the floor, dragged herself to her feet and stumbled towards him. He put his arm round her shoulders, leaning on her.

"Nelly--poor Nelly--something in my head--it's better--help me----"

It was a child talking--a mumbling, broken appeal. Yet there was a purpose in him stronger than his weakness. He lurched across the room. "Nell--sweetheart--my uniform--my parade--things--my sword----"

"They're here--dear--you can't----"

A shot was fired--this time close at hand. He made an odd little sound like a laugh.

"They've not done with me yet--by the Lord--they shall meet Bagh Sahib again--we'll see who's strongest--even now----" He held out his palsied hands; he was gasping, but it was in the flood-tide of returning life. His eyes shone like a young man's. "Nell--you used to know the way--there wasn't a buckle you couldn't manage--quicker to spot things than a sergeant on parade. No mistakes now--Bagh Sahib never made mistakes--the smartest man in the Indian Army. By Gad--there's the sword--not rusty? No--that's like you--so--now--kiss me----"

Between each sentence there had been a gap of time. She had obeyed him like a woman possessed. Now he stood before her--a ghostly figure in the loose-fitting uniform--the shadow of the man whom she had once loved--but at least the shadow.

She clung to him--half supporting him, herself shaking from head to foot.

"My Richard----"

"Nell--sweetheart--help me--to go to them--just to the door--and then alone----?"

"Yes--yes----"

"Kiss me!"

Her poor, wizened little face glowed like a girl's as she lifted it to his. The years, with their bitterness, dropped from her memory. She did not need to understand more than one thing, that he had been given back to her as he had once been. Nothing mattered now--not even death itself.

"Lean on me, Richard--I am quite strong----"

They went together down the gloomy passage, his arm still about her shoulders. She had need of her boasted strength. At first his weight almost bore her to the ground. But with every step he held himself straighter, freeing himself from her support. At the door of the dining-room he stood upright, only his hands touching her.

He kissed her. Then he went in alone.

A handful of women still sat at the table and talked loudly and incessantly. The rest were helping the men barricade the verandah window. Mrs. Smithers worked with the grim energy of despair, keeping to Tristram's side as though his nearness brought her some comfort. It was she who saw Boucicault first, and in her consternation clutched at her companion's arm.

"Lawks a-mercy!" she whispered. "Look----!"

Tristram turned. It seemed to him that he had known even before she had touched him. Incredible though this thing was, it was also inevitable. The gaze of the two men crossed. Tristram waited for the hating, satiric smile, bracing himself to meet its triumph. But there was no change in Boucicault's face--scarcely recognition.

A bugle-call rang above the approaching storm.

Boucicault came forward.

"Gentlemen--gentlemen--this is child's-play! Do you suppose my fire-eaters care for a few arm-chairs and a crazy gun? Why, we've swallowed whole fortresses armed with cannon in my time. Who's in command here?"

He frowned round on them. Not even Armstrong himself moved. This man had risen from the dead. If their own nearness to death blurred the miracle of it, they were no less under the ban of a miraculous authority. Boucicault shrugged his shoulders. He crossed over to the window and pulled the curtains aside. To the right, towards the barracks, torchlights ran backwards and forwards like distracted fireflies, gradually converging together in a solid block of flame. A black rage settled on the old man's sunken features.

"Who the devil has been meddling with my men?" he cursed. "The 65th never revolted in its history. Whose fault is this? Can't somebody speak?" But they could only look at each other in pitying helplessness. He had forgotten. He was back in the old days when he had led his men triumphantly into a fire under which every other regiment had withered. He was Bagh Sahib, the hero, the demi-god. He had forgotten--and even if they could, they would not have penetrated that merciful oblivion.

He settled his helmet. His thin hand rested tremblingly on the hilt of his sword.

"The civilians stay here with the women," he said. "The rest follow me."

He went waveringly down the steps. And then only they recovered their power of action. Tristram was at his side as he reached the garden.

"Colonel Boucicault--you're not in a fit state----"

The light from behind him flashed into the cold eyes.

"Not fit? I'm more fit than those arm-chair soldiers." A wintry smile quivered under the grey moustache. "You were always confoundedly interfering, Major Tristram."

"What do you mean to do?"

"Take command of my regiment." He turned his back on them. Arabella, still panting and covered from head to foot in mud, had drawn his attention. "Your horse, Major, I am sure? Your mounts were always a disgrace to your service. Saddleless, too? However--better than nothing. Help me up----"

He was obeyed. They might have thrown themselves on him--held him back by sheer force, but they could not. He had taken command. Dr. Martin wrung his hands as though his own death were not howling at him within a couple of hundred yards.

"It's impossible--the man was paralysed half an hour ago--he ought not to be able to stand. If you allow him to go, I won't take the responsibility----"

Mrs. Compton shook him by the arm. Her eyes were shining like two points of fire.

"Shut up--don't you see--he's the Bagh Sahib--he can do things we can't--it's our only chance."

Bagh Sahib rode down the avenue at a walk. He did not hurry, though the sinister light swept down on him amidst a pandemonium of rattling drums and trumpet calls. His face was resolute--no longer brutal--and the smile lingered at his lips. It was as though the coming encounter amused him. He did not look to see whether he was followed.

The men he had commanded looked at one another. Compton fingered the revolver which he had retrieved. He glanced at his wife, and she nodded.

"Well, I'm going, anyhow," he said.

The twelve remaining officers of the 65th assented. Armstrong himself had already hurried on in front of Compton. He was a staid, humdrum type of man, but in that moment the fire was in his blood. None of them remembered that this same Boucicault was the source of the very evil which he had set out to master.

He was the Bagh Sahib.

That was all they knew of him.

They reached the compound gates as Boucicault, with Tristram at his heels, came in sight of the mutiny leaders. It was still pitch dark, but the rain had stopped and the torches burnt up luridly in the still air. Separate from the rest, a gaunt, spectral figure on the ungainly horse, Boucicault waited tranquilly. He was so motionless, so unexpected that the seething mass of soldiers came to a sudden halt. A shot rang out from somewhere in the rear, but those in the first ranks wavered. The superstition which was a very part of their blood chilled them to silence. The roll of drums died away to a faint beat, like the throb of a dying pulse. The trumpet no longer sounded. Boucicault's eyes passed from one dark, uncertainly lit face to another. Then he laughed.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourselves?"

He spoke clearly now. His voice had a metallic ring in it which awoke old memories. But it broke the spell. There were, perhaps, ten yards between him and the leaders, and they rushed, five of them, with a howl of triumph--then again halted--as though they had flung themselves against an invisible barrier. A shot whizzed past Boucicault's head. He grinned mockingly. He touched Arabella's sides and rode forward, till the last five yards were covered, and he stared down straight into their faces. "You don't shoot as well as you did, men. That sort of thing won't do. You want drilling, and, by God, you shall get it! That fellow who missed me shall have my special attention. The 65th wants polishing." He removed his helmet, so that the light flickered on his features. "And I shall polish it," he said.

They recognized him. It was the thought of him which had goaded them to their revolt. Yet now he sat there on his horse--the man whom they believed helpless and stricken--and gibed at them. For them, too, he was as one risen from the dead. A sergeant in the foremost line drew back, cowering from him.

"Bagh Sahib!" he muttered.

Boucicault leant forward and seized the man roughly by his ear.

"Yes--Bagh Sahib. You shall see that I can spring still. Ah, you, Heera, so you remember me? In the old days you fought at my heel like the tiger's cub you were. That was at Affra and Burda. Yes--you could fight then--now you can only mutiny like angry children. Then the 65th had a glorious name in India, and I was proud of you--but now--" He thrust the man from him so that he went reeling in the mud. "You cowardly pack--lay down your arms!" he thundered. His command fell like the lash of a whip. The man he had struck leapt at him. He had a revolver in his hand and he pointed it straight at Boucicault's breast.

"Bagh Sahib--you killed my brother----"

"And I shall live to court-martial you, my friend."

"Not now----"

"Shoot then, you cur!"

A splash of fire was flung up in Boucicault's face. Tristram, hiding in the shadow, sprang forward with a smothered cry of horror--then stood still--incredulous. Boucicault had not moved. He looked down into his assassin's stricken, gaping face and laughed.

"You can't touch me, Heera. Your very weapon refuses. We have fought together too often----"

There was a new note in his voice--stern yet curiously caressing. The man reeled, broke down, sobbing thickly.

"Bagh Sahib----!" he moaned. "Bagh Sahib----"

"It is well, Heera. I forgive." He looked over the sea of faces. "You see that you cannot touch me. For the sake of the old days-when you fought gallantly, this night's work is forgotten. Lay down your arms."

For an instant longer they stared at him. The red of his tunic hid the dark, widening stain. They only saw that the bullet had passed through him and left him unharmed. The older men among them remembered how in the bygone days he had passed scatheless through a hail of bullets. Then as now he had been a stupendous figure--half god.

To the younger men he was a legend. The evil that he had done them was forgotten. He was their own past--their own greatness--the greatness of their fathers. They could not touch him.

"Gentlemen--form your men into their companies. Lead them back to the barracks. Remember--what I tell you--this night is to be forgotten."

The little group of Englishmen behind him obeyed tranquilly. There was the sound of rifles being stacked. The disorderly crowd formed automatically into sections. The scene had lasted five minutes. Now it was finished.

But Boucicault turned Arabella's head and rode slowly back, and Tristram, who had seen that black stain upon the tunic, followed him.

Mrs. Boucicault stood separate from the rest upon the balcony and waited. She was smiling. There was no fear--only a girlish pride, a tragic happiness written on the grey face. As he came within the lights of the verandah she waved to him, and he saluted her with a chivalrous dignity.

Then he toppled from his seat into Tristram's arms.

They carried him into the bungalow and set him gently on one of the sofas. His wife knelt down beside him and he put his arm about her and held her close to him.

"There is nothing to be done--the whole breast. I am too old a soldier not to know. Please leave us these few minutes. We have so much to say to one another." But to Tristram he gave his hand, drawing him down so that his face almost touched the dying lips. "Major I'm--sorry--about--your dog----"

Tristram knew then that at the last it was not oblivion, but resurrection.

He lingered a moment. Even as he stood there hesitating, Boucicault's body straightened out a little. His wife's head rested on his shoulder, and there was blood mingled in the grey, untidy hair. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed asleep.

They had so much to say to one another.

Tristram crept out on tiptoe. He went down again into the compound. It was very still. The tumult of the last hour had died away. It had all been like an adventure in a mad, terrible dream. Arabella nozzled against his shoulder, and he stroked her gently. And, as he did so, the faint light from the room behind him showed him the slender, colourless band about his wrist.

It was as though a charm had laid itself on his aching senses. A gate of memory was opened. He passed through. In the tranquil solemnity of an Indian night, he heard voices--Ayeshi's voice, hushed yet passionate.

"Behold, according to the custom, Humayun accepts the bond, and from henceforth the Rani Kurnavati is his dear and virtuous sister, and his sword shall not rest in his scabbard till she is free from the threat of her oppressor."

The bo-tree whispered mysteriously:

"Ah--those were the great days--the great days----"

And Tristram Sahib swung himself on to Arabella's back and once more rode out towards Heerut.

*CHAPTER XV*

*THE SNAKE-GOD*

Vahana ran on ahead. Bent and twisted with age, his half-naked figure far outstripped the riders whose horses ploughed heavily through the morass of jungle-grass. Behind them, again, came the straggle, panic-driven horde of Ayeshi's army, and after them the flood, rising over Heerut.

Vahana halted from time to time and looked back, nodding and beckoning. He was too far in advance for them to see his face. But in that feverish agility, in that patient waiting on them there was a malignant joy, the expression of a soundless, senile laughter.

They had strange companions--cheetahs, antelopes, wild pigs--all the creatures of the plain--trotting at their sides, unheeded and unheeding, conscious only of their common peril. They moved slowly, dragging themselves painfully free from the clinging mud. It was the flight of an evil dream--the enemy at their heels, their limbs weighted, each step an anguished effort. They made no outcry, but the tortured breathing of these flying thousands became an unbroken moan of terror.

Vahana led them by a circuitous path back over a ridge of ground rising to the rear of the temple. They followed unquestioningly. There was no choice. Their retreat was already cut off: to the right the flooded plain, to the left the trackless jungle hemmed them in. The ridge was all that remained to them.

Sigrid rode between Ayeshi and Barclay. They had not spoken. Ayeshi held himself like a sleep-walker, his face blank, his eyes wide open and expressionless. The hand that held the reins was slack and indifferent. His horse, instinctively aware of the danger pursuing them, kept up of its own account, but he did not seek to control it. Compared with him, Barclay was the very spirit of sombre exultation. He turned persistently to the woman beside him, his eyes ugly with significance. But her small, white face betrayed no consciousness of him. Its serenity was deathlike. Her body rode beside him, but her mind, the living part of her, eluded him. He had not hoped that it would be otherwise--his pitiless intuition had showed him the limit of his power, the limit of all power; but there was Tristram, who by now knew the value of the freedom which she had bought for him--Tristram, who represented all that he, Barclay, had desired and hoped for and loved, all that he now hated with the intensity of a mutilated passion, Tristram who would suffer at the last.

He laughed at his own thought and pointed a shaking hand at the mournful immensity beneath them.

"Your friend will have a wet ride. Look out there--the bridge has gone. It was swept away an hour ago."

He laughed again, and urged his horse past her. He had triumphed, but he did not wish to see her face.

She turned her head in the direction which he had indicated. The night, mingling its sable with the dirty greys of sky and water, shrouded the familiar landmarks, but that very narrowing of her vision widened the boundaries of her hearing. The thunder of the torrent sounded nearer--she heard again the mysterious mutterings which had arrested her at the bridge-head only an hour or two before. She knew that Barclay had not boasted.

"Did you know that too, Ayeshi?"

"Yes, Mem-Sahib."

His voice was callous, toneless. She could not look at him.

"And you let him go? You had forgotten so easily?"

"Have you found it hard to forget, Mem-Sahib--you whom he loved----?" He awoke suddenly from his apathy. He bent towards her, his fevered hand on her arm. "Was not a little of _that_ man's gold, stained with the sweat and blood of men, enough to buy your forgetfulness?"

And now she looked at him. She saw the quivering features--the eyes bloodshot and wretched with scorn of her.

"I went out of his life as you did, Ayeshi," she said gently. "Was that forgetfulness?"

"Mem-Sahib----!" he muttered.

"You tried to save him," she persisted--"as I tried. If we have both failed need we reproach each other now?"

"Mem-Sahib!" In that reiteration there was agony. His hand dropped from her arm. "It was for his sake--? Barclay Sahib threatened you?"

"Yes."

"And now----"

"Now it is for Gaya--for those lives your ambition has jeopardized. And even that may be useless."

The ridge they were traversing began to slope downwards. The water was at their feet. They could hear it sucking at the long grasses. The men immediately behind them were swept forward and lost their footing. A man who stumbled at Sigrid's side clutched at her and then went rolling ludicrously down the mud bank into the rising flood. She saw his head for an instant--his face gazing stupidly up at them. Something square and black and evil that had lain like a lump of wood on the surface of the water moved swiftly forward.

There was a scream. Ayeshi held up his hand before Sigrid's face, but she had seen enough. The man had vanished, and where he had been the greyness of the water had turned to red.

"Oh, God!" she whispered. "Tristram!"

"No, no, Mem-Sahib--not that--not that--they meant that he should die, but I--I who served him and loved him, I know that death cannot touch him when he fights for others. He fights for others now, Mem-Sahib--for those I have betrayed--for my salvation." He laid his hand on his breast with a gesture of unutterable despair. "No--not even he can do that. It is too late. I am accursed--accursed----!"

And, as though in answer, the crowd he led surged up closer to him. Arms were held up to him--thin, supplicating arms.

"Lord--the water--the water--save us!"

"I am accursed!" he whispered. "Accursed!"

She saw his face. The youth in it was dead--stamped out. Yet in that instant she recognized in him the boy, the dreamer who, crouched upon the step of her verandah, had told the story of the Rani Kurnavati. And the pity that surged over her had in it the passion of that memory.

"Ayeshi--why have you done this----?"

His wild eyes met hers for an instant's desperate intentness.

"Mem-Sahib--I loved my country--my gods--the history of them was in my blood. And then in Calcutta--the misery--the thwarted ambition--my people starving--the Englishman in the high place. They told me they were ripe for revolt--only they needed a leader--a leader who would carry the country-people with him. I came back. Vahana lied to me. I believed that my father had been robbed and murdered--that my heritage had been stolen from me--that Tristram Sahib himself had known who I was and made me his servant----" His voice broke. "But it was a lie--I had no heritage--no wrongs to avenge--I was their tool--and now--Mem-Sahib, if ever you should meet him, tell him it was a false dream--but that Ayeshi loved him----"

She nodded. She could not answer him, and they rode on in silence till suddenly, Vahana, whom they could still see dimly ahead of them, turned to the left and pointed up towards the jungle.

"There--there is escape, O Lord Ayeshi! The Sacred Path that leads to the Shrine of the Snake-god. Who follows?"

The shrill cry died into silence. There was no answer. Barclay came splashing back through the water. His face glowed with a sombre excitement.

"It seems there's some secret passage up through the jungle. We may be able to get right away. At any rate, it's our only chance."

But Ayeshi sat rigid in his saddle, and that which Barclay saw in his eyes silenced him.

"There is a curse on all those who profane the Snake-god's sanctity----"

Barclay burst out laughing.

"Good God, man, that silly native yarn----"

"I am a native."

"Still, you can't be such a fool----"

Ayeshi turned in his saddle and looked back at the black, silent mass behind him.

"Who follows Barclay Sahib through the jungle?" he called.

But there was still no answer. They stood there silent and inert, the water rising about their feet. There was no cry of terror from among them now. It was finished.

Those nearest Ayeshi lifted their faces to him in stubborn fatalism.

"Ayeshi, pull yourself together--they'll follow you right enough."

"I dare not," was the desperate answer.

"Afraid--? A coward--? You don't really believe----"

Ayeshi threw back his head. His features were terrible in their frozen composure.

"I believe."

"You accept the responsibility for all these lives----?"

"I cannot help myself--I am one of them."

Barclay made a gesture of angry impatience.

"Do you expect me to stay here and drown like a rat in a trap----?" he demanded.

"No--why should you? What are we to you--or you to us?"

Barclay shrank back. With a sound like a smothered groan, he turned his horse about and rode towards Vahana who still stood motionless and waiting beneath the black shadows of the trees. He dismounted and looked back. Sigrid had not moved. The water had risen swiftly to her horse's knees. Ayeshi bent towards her and laid his hand on her bridle.

"Go, Mem-Sahib-fear nothing--_they_ will not harm you. You are not of our blood or faith. Go--do not let me have your death on my hands. Mem-Sahib--trust him--he will not fail you----"

She lifted her eyes to his face. Behind his passive despair there shone the old confidence--the re-birth of a faith. She gave him her hand, and he lifted it to his forehead.

"Mem-Sahib--remember that I loved him."

She saw Ayeshi for the last time as on the very verge of the jungle she turned and looked back. His silhouette, cut sharply against the fast-fading light, rose up from the midst of his unhappy followers like a tragic, heroic statue out of a black, uneasy sea. Vahana laughed shrilly, and the sound, breaking the spell of inarticulate terror, let loose a wailing cry which swept in a gust over the rising water.

"Lord--save us--save us----"

She saw Ayeshi lift his hands above his head. She could not have heard his voice, and yet the echo of his impotent agony reached her.

"I am accursed--accursed----"

She saw him no more. Vahana had hurried on into the darkness ahead of them, and Barclay half lifted, half dragged her from the saddle. She made no resistance. But her strength had begun to fail. She tried to free herself from his hold--to stand alone.

"Go on without me--I'm not strong enough--save yourself."

He shook his head stubbornly.

"No--I've nothing left but you. Keep your promise. The path is steep--I can carry you. We're safe now. The ground's rising all the way. We've nothing to fear--nothing. It's dark, of course--hideously dark. Give me your hand." His was dry and cold. It filled her with a nameless disgust--a strange pity. It was as though, helpless as she was, he clung to her.

"Why--you're shivering!" he muttered. "What is it? You're not afraid? What is there to be afraid of? We're safe here----"

"It's those others--Ayeshi----"

He laughed brokenly.

"What are they to me? What am I to them? Didn't you hear him? That settled it, didn't it? I'm not one of them--I've got English blood in my veins. I've nothing to fear--nothing."

She could not see his face. They were stumbling blindly up the steep and broken path, and the dense growth of jungle walled them in from whatever daylight remained. Yet his voice, the touch of his hand, painted him for her against the black canvas. She could see his face, eyes wide-open and distended, the mouth agape, the sweat on his forehead. She knew him to be possessed by an insidious terror.

"What is there to fear?" she asked in her turn.

He muttered incoherently.

Vahana had vanished. They could hear his body brushing against the tangled growths that hung across the narrow path like warning, invisible hands. Barclay called him by name, but there was no answer--only a sudden stillness. He faltered--the hand which still held Sigrid's relaxed. She stood apart from him. But for the sound of his breathing she could not have known that he was near her. The infinite relief of that moment's freedom kept her motionless, and then she realized that he was moving forward--that he had forgotten her, every ambition, every desire in the one formless, all-mastering dread.

"Vahana!"

Stillness. He groped wildly about him. The sudden consciousness of his isolation drove a scream from his dry lips.

"Vahana!"

The answer was almost in his ear--a soft, caressing whisper.

"I am here, Sahib."

"Don't leave me--I can't see--this darkness."

"The path is a straight one, Sahib. Give me your hand."

Barclay cowered back. A chill, foetid breath fanned his face. Something familiar coiled itself about his fingers. He tried to free himself.

"The Mem-Sahib!" he gasped thickly. "Where is she?"

"The Mem-Sahib is safe. The path leads to one end. Come, Sahib!"