



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Sirdar's Oath
A Tale of the North-West Frontier
By Bertram Mitford
Published by F.V. White and Co Ltd, London.
This edition dated 1904.
The Sirdar's Oath, by Bertram Mitford.

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THE SIRDAR'S OATH, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.



CHAPTER ONE.

"THE STRANGER WITHIN THY GATES."

"Yer--Kroojer!  Kroojer.  Go'n get yer whiskers shyved."

"Ere, chaps.  'Ere's old Kroojer!"

And the section of the crowd among whom originated these remarks closed
up around the object thereof.

The latter, though clad in the frock-coat of European civilisation, was
obviously an Oriental.  He was a man of fine presence, tall and
dignified, handsome in the aquiline-featured type, and wearing a full
beard just turning grey.  Hence it will be seen that his resemblance to
the world-famed President was so striking as to commend itself at once
to the understanding of his molesters.

It was night, and the flare of the street lamps, together with a few
impromptu illuminations, lit up the surging, tossing, roaring multitude,
which filled to packing point the whole space in front of the Mansion
House, each unit of the same bent on shouting himself or herself hoarse;
for the tidings of the relief of Mafeking had just been received, and
the inauguration of the public delirium was already in full swing.  Hats
and caps flew in the air by showers, the wearers of silk hats not
hesitating to hurl on high their normally cherished and protected
headgear, those who did so hesitate being speedily relieved of all
responsibility on that point by their obliging neighbours, to the
accompaniment of such shouts as "Ooroar for B.P.  Good old B.P.," while
the strains of "Soldiers of the Queen" rose in leathern-lunged rivalry
with those of "The Absent-minded Beggar"--save when, in staccato
volleyings of varied timelessness and tunelessness, those of "Rule
Britannia" availed to swamp both.  Thus the multitude rejoiced,
characteristically, therefore, for the most part, roughly.

"Wot cher, myte?" drawled an evil rough, shouldering against the
Oriental.  "You ortn't to be 'ere.  You ort to be in the Trawnsvawl, you
ort.  Why you're Kroojer, you are."

"I sy, Bill!" shrilled a girl to her swain.  "Let's shyve 'is whiskers,
shall we?"

The pair had exchanged hats, and while the speaker's oily fringe was
set-off by a bowler, wide and curly of brim, the ugly face of the other
leered red and beery from beneath a vast structure of nodding ostrich
plumes.

"Rawther.  Come on, cheps.  Let's shyve old Kroojer's whiskers!"  And
reaching over, as a preliminary to that process, he snatched the
Oriental's high, semi-conical black cap--the only article of un-European
wear about him--from his head, and flung it high in the air, emitting a
raucous yell.

At this assault, delivered from behind, the stranger turned, his eyes
flashing with resentment and hate.  As he did so a violent push, again
from behind, sent him staggering, would have brought him to the ground
indeed but that the crowd was too dense, and its only effect was to
bring him right against the rough who had snatched off his cap.  In a
moment the long, brown sinewy fingers had shot out and closed round the
bull throat of the cad, while with the snarl of a wild beast, the
Oriental flashed forth something from his breast pocket.  A roar of
warning broke from the bystanders, likewise of rage, for these lovers of
fair play were virtuously indignant that one well-nigh defenceless man,
and a stranger, should protect himself as best he might when set upon by
numbers.  In a second the weapon was knocked from his hand, and he was
violently wrenched back from the man whose throat he had gripped; and
well indeed for the latter that such was the case.  Then he was hustled
and punched and kicked, his beard pulled out in wisps--the virago who
had first instigated the assault, and who fortunately was separated from
him by the crowd, struggling and screaming in the language of the slums
to be allowed to get at him--only just once.

"Let him alone, cawn't yer?" cried a voice, that of another woman.  "He
ain't Kroojer!  'E's a bloomin' Ingin.  Any fool could see that."

"'E's a blanked furriner--it's all the syme.  And didn't 'e try to knife
my Bill," retorted the other, making renewed efforts to reach him--and
the vocabulary of this young person earned the delighted appreciation of
even the toughest of her audience.  Then a diversion occurred.

"Myke wy?  Oo are you tellin' of to myke wy?" rose a voice, in angry and
jeering expostulation, followed immediately by the sound of a scuffle.
The attention of the crowd was diverted to this new quarter, which
circumstance enabled the luckless Oriental to gain his feet, and he
stood staggering, glaring about him in a frenzy of wrath and
bewilderment.  Then he was knocked flat again, this time by the pressure
of those around.

What followed was worth seeing.  Straight through the mass of roughs
came upwards of a dozen and a half of another species, in strong and
compact order, hitting out on either side of them, scrupulously
observing the Donnybrook principle, "When you see a head hit it"--only
in the present instance it was a face.  Most of these were members of an
athletic club, who had been dining generously and had caught the
prevailing excitement.  They had seen the predicament of the Oriental
from afar, and promptly recognised that to effect his rescue would
furnish them with just the fun and fight for which they were spoiling.

"Make way, you blackguards.  Call yourselves Englishmen, all packing on
to one man?  What?  You won't?  That'll settle you."

"That" being a "knock-out" neatly delivered, the recipient, he who had
begun the assault.  Still crowned with his female companion's headgear
the abominable rough sank to the ground, permanently disabled.

"Here--you, sir--get up.  Hope you're not much the worse," cried the
foremost, dragging the stranger to his feet.

"I thank you, gentlemen," said the latter, in excellent English.  "No,
not much, I think."

"That's right," cried the foremost of his rescuers, admiring his pluck.
For undoubtedly the stranger was considerably the worse for what he had
gone through.  His cheek bones were swollen, and one eye was bunged up,
and his now tattered beard was matted with blood flowing from a cut on
the lip; and as he stood, with somewhat unsteady gait, the forced smile
wherewith he had greeted his deliverers changed to a hideous snarl of
hate, as his glance wandered to the repulsive and threatening
countenances of his late assailants.  Here, obviously, was no shrinking,
effeminate representative of the East, rather a scion of one of its fine
and warrior races, for there was a mingled look of wistfulness and
aroused savagery in his eyes as instinctively he clenched and unclenched
his defenceless fingers as though they ought to be grasping a weapon.

But the moral effect of the first decisive rush having worn off, the
rough element of the crowd, roughest of all just here, began to rally.
After all, though they had science, the number of these new arrivals
constituted a mere mouthful, so puny was it.  Yells, and hoots, and
catcalls arose as the surging rabble pressed upon the gallant few, now
standing literally at bay.  Those in the forefront were pushed forward
by the weight of numbers behind, and the pressure was so great that
there was hardly room to make free play with those fine, swinging
out-from-the-shoulder hits--yet they managed partially to clear a way--
and for a few moments, fists, feet, sticks, everything, Teere going in
the liveliest sort of free fight imaginable.  The while, over the
remainder of the packed space, shrill cheers and patriotic songs, and
the firing off of squibs and crackers were bearing their own part in
making night hideous, independently of the savage rout, here at the top
of King William Street.

"Kroojer!  Kroojer!  'Ere's Kroojer!" yelled the mob, and, attracted by
its vociferations, others turned their attention that way.  And while
his deliverers had their hands very full indeed, a villainous-looking
rough reached forward and swung up what looked like a slender, harmless
roll of brown paper above the Oriental's head.  Well was it for the
latter that this move was seen by one man, and that just in time to
interpose a thick malacca cane between his skull and the descending gas
pipe filled with lead, which staff, travelling down to the wrist of him
who wielded the deadly weapon, caused the murderous cad to drop the
same, with a howl, and weird language.

"A good `Penang lawyer' is tough enough for most things," muttered the
dealer of this deft stroke.  "Here, brother, take this," he went on, in
an Eastern tongue, thrusting the stick into the stranger's hand.

The effect was wondrous.  The consciousness of grasping even this much
of a weapon seemed to transform the Oriental completely.  His tall form
seemed to tower, his frame to dilate, as, whirling the tough stick
aloft, he shrilled forth a wild, fierce Mohammedan war-cry, bounding,
leaping, in a very demoniacal possession, charging those nearest to him
as though the stick were a long-bladed, keen-edged tulwar.  Whirling it
in the air he brought it down with incredible swiftness, striking here
and there on head and face, while looking around for more to smite.  And
then the rabble of assailants began to give way, or try to.  "Cops" was
the cry that now went up, and immediately thereupon a strong posse of
the splendid men of the City Police had forced their way to the scene of
disturbance--or very nearly.

Crushed, borne along by the swaying crowd, the man who had so
effectually aided the distressed Oriental had become separated from his
friends.  For his foes he cared nothing, and, indeed, these had all they
could think of to effect their own retreat, the motive being not so much
fear of immediate consequences as the consciousness with many of them
that they were desperately wanted by the police in connection with other
matters, which would infallibly assert their claims once identity was
established.  At last, to his relief, he found himself in a side street
and outside the crowd.

"You're better 'ere, sir," said a gruff voice, whose owner was
contemplating him curiously.

"Yes, rather.  I've been in a bit of a breeze yonder."

"So I should say, sir," answered the policeman, significantly.
"Thank'ee, sir.  Much obliged."

"They were mobbing a stranger, and I and some others went to help him."

"Was it a Hindian gent, sir, with a high black sort of 'at?  I seen him
go by here not long since."

"Yes.  That was the man.  Well, I suppose he's all right by now.
Good-night, policeman."

"Good-night, sir, and thank'ee, sir."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour and a half later one corner of the supper-room in the Peculiar
Club was in a state of unwonted liveliness, even for that by no means
dull institution, where upwards of a dozen more or less damaged members
were consuming devilled bones and champagne.

Damaged, in that bunged up eyes and swelled noses--and here and there a
cut lip--were in evidence; but all were in the last stage of
cheerfulness.

"Why isn't Raynier here, I wonder?" was asked.

"He?  Oh, I expect he went on taking care of that Indian Johnny.  He
likes those chaps, you know, has to do with them out there.  He'll turn
up all right--never fear."

"Don't know.  Don't like losing sight of him," said another.

"Oh, he'll turn up all right.  He knows jolly well how to take care of
himself."

But as the night became morning, and the frantic howling of patriotism
gone mad rent the otherwise still hours, Raynier did not turn up.  Then
the revellers and quondam combatants became uneasy--such of them, that
is, as were still capable of reflection in any form.



CHAPTER TWO.

THE DAY AFTER.

Raynier awoke in his club chambers the next morning, feeling, as he put
it to himself, exceedingly cheap.

When we say awoke, rather are we expressing a recurring process which
had continued throughout the few remaining night hours since, by force
of circumstances and the swaying of the crowd, he had become separated
from his companions, and had wisely found his way straight to bed
instead of to the Peculiar Club.  On this at any rate he congratulated
himself; and yet hardly any sleep had come his way.  The howling of
patriotic roysterers had continued until morning light, and, moreover,
his head was buzzing--not by reason of last night's revelry, for in such
he never got out of hand, but an ugly lump on one side of his forehead,
and a swelled eye, reminded him that it is hard to rescue a maltreated
stranger from the brutality of a London mob, and emerge unscathed
oneself.

"Well, I do look a beauty," he soliloquised as he stood before his
glass, surveying the damage.  "I shall have a bump the size and colour
of a croquet ball for the next fortnight, and an eye to match.  How a
man of my age and temperament could have cut in with those young asses
last night, I can't think.  Might have known what the upshot would be.
And now I've got to go down to Worthingham to-day.  Wonder what nice
remark Cynthia will have to make.  Perhaps she'll give me the chuck.
The fact of my being mixed up in a street row may prove too much for her
exceeding sense of propriety."  And a faintly satirical droop curled
down the corners of the thinker's mouth.

Having fomented his bruises, and tubbed, and otherwise completed his
toilet Raynier went down to breakfast, soon feeling immeasurably the
better for the process.  But in the middle a thought struck him; struck
him indeed with some consternation.  The malacca cane--the instrument
with which he had almost certainly saved the life of the assailed
Oriental, and which he had put into the hands of the latter as a weapon.
It was gone, and--it was a gift from his _fiancee_.

Apart from such association he was fond of the stick, which was a
handsome one and beautifully mounted.  How on earth was he to recover
it?  His initials were engraved on the head; that, however, would
furnish but faint clue.  How should he find the man whom he had
befriended--and even if he did, it was quite possible that the other had
lost possession of the stick during the scrimmage.  It might or might
not find its way to Scotland Yard, but to ascertain this would take
time.  He could make inquiries at the police stations adjacent to the
scene of last night's _emeute_, or advertise, but that too would take
time and he was urgently due at the abode of his _fiancee_ that very
day, for his furlough was rapidly drawing to a close, and his return to
India a matter of days rather than of weeks.

Herbert Raynier served his country in the capacity of an Indian
civilian, but most of his time of service had been passed in hot Plains
stations, engendering an amount of constitutional wear and tear which
caused him to look rather more than his actual age, such being in fact
nearly through the thirties, but the sallowness of his naturally dark
complexion had given way to a healthier bronze since he had come home on
furlough five months back.  By temperament he was a quiet man, and
somewhat reserved, and this together with the fact that his countenance
was not characterised by that square-jawed aggressiveness which is often
associated in the popular estimation with parts, led people to suppose,
on first acquaintance, that there was not much in him.  Wherein they
were wrong, although at the present moment there were chances of such
latent abilities as he possessed being allowed to stagnate under sheer,
easy-going routine: a potentiality which he himself recognised, and that
with some concern.  Physically he stood about five foot ten in his
boots, and was well set up in proportion.  He was fond of sport, though
not aspiring to anything beyond the average in its achievement, and was
not lacking in ideas nor in some originality in the expression of the
same.

As he sat finishing his after-breakfast cheroot in the club smoking-room
there entered two of his brethren-in-arms of the night before.

"There you are, Raynier, old chap.  That's all right.  Why didn't you
roll up at the Peculiar after the fun?  We were all there--Steele and
Waring were doosid uneasy about you--thought you'd come to grief, that's
why we thought we'd look in early and make sure you hadn't."

"Early?"

"Why, yes.  It's only eleven.  But I say, you jolly old cuckoo.  You
_have_ got a damaged figurehead."

"Yes, it's a bore," pronounced Raynier, pushing the bell, to order
"pegs."  "And the worst of it is I've got to go down to the country this
afternoon--to an eminently respectable vicarage, too."

"Remedy's easy.  Don't go."

"That's no remedy at all.  I must."

"Stick a patch over the eye, then."

"But he can't stick a patch over his head as well," said the other.

"You two chaps have come off with hardly a scratch," said Raynier--"and
yet you were just as much in the thick of it as I was."

"So we were.  But I say, Raynier, I believe it's a judgment on a staid
old buffer like you for `mafeking' around with a lot of lively sparks
like us.  Ha--ha--that wasn't bad, I say, don't-cher-know.  `Mafeking!'
See it?  Ah--ha--ha!"

"Oh, go away.  It's an outrage.  At how many people's hands have you
courted destruction by firing that on them this morning?"

"Not many.  But it's awfully good, eh, old sportsman?  Why I invented
it."

"Then you deserve death," returned Raynier.  "Oh, Grice, take him away,
and drown him, will you; but stay--let him have his `peg' first--since
here it comes."

"Anyone know what became of that interesting stranger?" went on Raynier,
after the necessary pause.

"The Indian Johnny?  Not much.  We all got mixed up in the mob, and what
with all the `bokos' that were hit, and the claret flying, and then the
bobbies rushing the lot, none of us knew what had happened to anyone
else until we all found ourselves snug and jolly at the Peculiar."  And
then followed an animated account of wounds and casualties received and
doughty deeds effected.

"We thought you were taking care of the Indian Johnny, Raynier,"
concluded Grice, "and that was why you didn't turn up."

"I wish I knew where to lay finger on the said Indian Johnny," was the
rejoinder.

"Why?  Was he some big bug?"

"I don't know.  But he's got my stick--or had it."

"Rather.  And didn't he just lay about with it too.  Looked as if he was
quite accustomed to that sort of thing."

"The worst of it is I rather value it," went on Raynier.  "In fact I'd
give a trifle to recover it.  Given me, you understand."

"Oh--ah--yes, I understand," said the other, with a would-be knowing
wink.

"Why not try the police stations?" suggested the self-styled creator of
the above vile pun.  "The darkey may have been run in with a lot more
for creating a disturbance."

"Or the pawnbrokers," said Grice--"for if it was captured by the enemy,
why that honest fellow-countryman would lose no time in taking a
bee-line for the nearest pawnshop with it.  All that yelling must have
been dry work."

"But, I say, old chappie.  What a juggins you were to give it him,"
supplemented the other, sapiently.

"Oh, he didn't know how to use his fists, and the poor devil was
absolutely defenceless.  And a good `Penang lawyer' in a row of that
kind is a precious deal better than nothing at all."

"The darkey seemed to find it so," said he named Grice.  "Why it might
have been a sword the way he laid about with it.  I bet that chap's good
at single-stick.  Wonder who he is.  Some big Rajah perhaps.  I say
Raynier, old chap.  You'll have some of his following finding you out
directly, with no end of lakhs of rupees, as a slight mark of gratitude,
and all that sort of thing.  Eh?"

"If so the plunder ought to be divided," cut in the other gilded youth.
"We all helped to pull him through, you know."

"All right, so it shall," said Raynier, "when it comes.  As to which
doesn't it occur to you fellows that `some big Rajah' is hardly likely
to be found frisking around in the thick of an especially tough London
crowd all by his little alones?  But if he'd find me out only to return
my stick it would be a `mark of gratitude' quite sufficient for present
purposes."

"Why don't you buy another exactly like it, old chap?" said Grice, who
knew enough about his friend to guess at the real reason of the latter's
solicitude on account of the lost article.  "Nobody would know the
difference."

Here was something of an idea, thought Raynier.  But then the mounting
and the engraving--that would take time, even if he could get it done
exactly like the other, which he doubted.  It was not alone on the score
of an unpleasant moment with the donor that his mind misgave him.  She
would be excusably hurt, he reflected, remembering that the thing must
have been somewhat costly, and under the circumstances represented a
certain amount of self-denial.  Decidedly he was in a quandary.

"Well, ta-ta, old chap," said Grice, as the two got up to go.  "We'll
try and find out something about the Rajah--in fact it's our interest to
do so, having an eye to those lakhs of rupees."

"Yes--and let me know when you've made an end of Barker, here, as you're
bound to do if he fires off that `Mafeking' outrage much more."

"Raynier's jealous," said that wag.  "I say, don't go firing it off as
your own down in the country, Raynier."

"No show for me, because about one hundred thousand people scattered
over the British Isles have awoke this morning to invent the same
insanity."

Speeding along in the afternoon sunshine, looking out upon the country
whirling by, pleasant and green in its rich dress of early summer,
Raynier was conscious of a feeling of relief in that he was leaving
behind him the heat and dust of London, likewise the racket and uproar
of a city gone temporarily mad; albeit a more or less profuse display of
bunting in every station the express slid through, notified that the
delirium was already spreading throughout the length and breadth of the
land.  He had the compartment to himself, which was more favourable to
the vein of thought upon which he had embarked.  When he had arrived
home five months previously he had no more notion of returning an
engaged man than he had of building a balloon and starting upon a voyage
of discovery to Saturn.  Yet here he was, and how had it come about?  He
supposed he ought to feel enraptured--most men of his acquaintance
were--or pretended to be--under the circumstances.  Yet he was not.  How
on earth had he and Cynthia Daintree ever imagined that they were suited
to go through life together, the fact being that there was no one point
upon which they agreed?  But now they were under such compact, hard and
fast; yet--how had it come about?  Her father, the Vicar of Worthingham,
had been a sort of trustee of his, long ago, and on his arrival in
England had invited him to spend as much of his furlough at that
exceedingly pretty country village as he felt inclined.  And he had felt
inclined, for he knew but few people in England, and the quiet beauty of
English rural scenery appealed to his temperament, wherefore,
Worthingham Vicarage knew how to account for a good deal of his time,
and so did the Vicar's eldest daughter.  Here, then, was the answer to
his own retrospective question--not put for the first time by any means.
Propinquity, opportunity, circumstances and surroundings favourable to
the growth and development of such--idiocy--he was nearly saying.  All
of which points to a fairly inauspicious frame of mind on the part of a
man who in half an hour or so more would meet his _fiancee_.



CHAPTER THREE.

"ABOVE RUBIES."

"What's the matter, Cynthia?" said the Vicar, looking up from his
after-breakfast newspaper, spread out in crumpled irregularity of
surface, upon the table in front of him.

"Nothing, father, unless--well, I do wish people would learn to be a
little more regular.  The world would be so much more comfortable a
place to live in."

The Vicar had his doubts upon that subject.  However, he only said,--

"Well, it's only once in a way, and won't hurt anybody.  And you can't
ask a man to stay with you, and then tie him down to rigid hours like a
schoolboy."

The time was nine o'clock on the second morning after Herbert Raynier's
arrival.  It need hardly be said that he was the offender against
punctuality.

Cynthia frowned, rattling the crockery upon the tea-tray somewhat
viciously.

"Why not?  I hate irregularity," she answered.  "I should have thought
regular habits would have been the first essential in Herbert's
department--towards getting on in it, that is."

"Well, he has got on in it, regular habits or not.  You can't deny that,
my dear, at any rate."

"It delays everything so," went on the grievance-monger.  "The servants
can't clear away, or get to their work.  Herbert knows we have breakfast
at half-past eight and now it's after nine, and there's no sign of him.
I can't keep the house going on those lines, so it's of no use trying."

"Well, you'll soon be in a position to reform him to your heart's
content," said the Vicar with a twinkle in his eye--and there came a
grim, set look about the other's rather thin-lipped mouth which augured
ill for Raynier's domestic peace in the future.

Cynthia Daintree had just missed being pretty.  Her straight features
were too coldly severe, and her grey eyes a trifle too steely, but her
brown hair was soft and abundant, and there were occasions when her face
could light up, and become attractive.  She was tall, and had a
remarkably fine figure, and as she managed to dress well on somewhat
limited resources, the verdict was that she was a striking-looking girl.
But she had a temper, a very decided temper--which, it was whispered,
was accountable for the fact that now, at very much nearer thirty than
twenty, her recent engagement to Herbert Raynier was by no means her
first.

Now the offender entered, characteristically careless.

"Morning, Cynthia.  Hallo, you look disobliged.  What's the row?
Morning, Vicar."

This was not the best way of throwing oil upon the troubled sea, but
then the whole thing was so incomprehensible to Raynier.  He could not
understand how people could make a fuss over such a trifle as whether
one man ate a bit of toast, and played the fool with a boiled egg, half
an hour sooner or half an hour later.  There was no train to catch, no
business of vital importance to be transacted, here in this sleepy
little country place.  His _fiancee_ could have had precious little
experience of the graver issues of life if that sort of thing disturbed
her.

"You've only yourself to thank if everything's cold," answered Cynthia,
snappishly.

"I don't mind--even if there isn't anything to get cold.  Feeding at
this end of the day isn't in my line at all.  I hardly ever touch
anything between _chota hazri_ and tiffin over there."

"Well, but over here you might try to be a little more punctual."

"Too old.  Besides, I'm on furlough," returned Raynier, maliciously
teasing.  It was the only way of veiling his resentment.  He did not
take kindly to being perpetually found fault with, and still less so the
first thing in the morning.  "Don't you agree with me, Vicar?  A man on
furlough should be allowed a few venial sins?"

"Oh, I think so," said Mr Daintree, with a laugh.  And then he began to
discuss the war news in that morning's paper, which soon led round to
the events wherewith our story opens.

"That must have been after the fashion of our old Town and Gown rows at
Oxford," said the Vicar.  "They are a thing of the past now, I'm told."

"And a good thing too," struck in his daughter.  "What horrid savage
creatures men are.  Never happy unless they are fighting."

"Don't know.  I much prefer running away," said Raynier.

"Pity you didn't carry out your preference.  Then you wouldn't have come
down here looking such a sight," with a glance at his somewhat
disfigured visage.

"And there'd have been one Oriental the less in the world.  Phew! that
was a vicious mob if ever there was one.  By the way there's a saying
that if you rescue anybody he's bound to do you a bad turn.  Wonder if
it'll hold good here, and if in the order of fate that chap and I will
meet again out there.  Stranger things have come off."

"Only in books," said Cynthia, contemptuously.

"No--in real life.  I could tell you of at least three remarkable if not
startling circumstances of the kind that have come to my knowledge, but
I won't, for two reasons--one that they wouldn't interest you--two, that
you wouldn't believe a word of them."

"What are you going to do to-day, Herbert?" said the Vicar.

"Fish.  You coming with me, Cynthia?"

"No."

"Meaning I'm not fit to be seen with," answered Raynier, interpreting
her glance.

"If you will go getting yourself disfigured in common street brawls you
must expect to suffer for it.  So low, I call it."

She was in a horrible humour that morning--so much was evident.  Raynier
wondered how she would receive the news of the loss of the malacca cane,
and felt steeled to tell her about it then and there.  In another moment
he would have done so when an interruption occurred.  A girl's voice
came singing down the passage, and its owner burst into the room.

"Hallo, Herbert.  You're jolly late again.  I expect you have been
catching it," with a glance at the thunder-cloud on her elder sister's
face.  This was the Vicar's youngest daughter, aged nineteen; there were
two between her and the other, both married, likewise sons, helping to
buttress up the Empire in divers colonies.

"Right you are.  I have.  I'm going to try for a trout or two, Silly.
Feel like coming along?"

"I sha'n't if you call me that," answered the girl, with a shade of her
sister's expression coming over her face; "that," however, not being an
epithet but a teasing abbreviation of her own name--Sylvia.

"All right.  I withdraw the Silly."

"Then I'll go.  But isn't Cynthia going?"

"She says I'm too ugly just at present," returned Raynier, tranquilly.
"And I believe I am."

"Yes.  You're rather a sight," with a deliberate glance at his damaged
figurehead.  "Never mind.  There's no one to see us here.  Where are we
going?"

"How about the hole below Blackadder Bridge?"

"That's it," returned Sylvia.  "There was a regular `boil' on there the
day before you came, but that was in the evening.  I took out seven
trout in twenty-five minutes.  Then the `boil' stopped and you couldn't
move a fish.  But we'd better start soon."

"All right.  I'll go and get my rod."

The Vicar went out on to the lawn to see them off, and smoke his
after-breakfast pipe.

"Cynthia, my dear," he called.  "Come outside and walk up and down a
bit."

She made some excuse about seeing to the things being cleared away.
However she soon joined him.

"That nest of young thrushes is gone," he said, peering into the ivy
which hid the garden wall.  "Some cat has found them, I expect.  By the
way, Cynthia, do you really intend to marry Herbert Raynier?"

"Why, what on earth do you mean, father?" she answered, resentment and
astonishment being about evenly divided in her tone.

"Precisely what I say, dear--no more and no less.  Because if you don't
you're going the right way to work to let him see it."

"If I don't.  But I do--of course I do.  I can't think what you're
driving at."

"Oh, it's simple enough.  Couldn't you manage now and then, if only for
a change, to give him a civil word?  Men don't like to be perpetually
found fault with and hauled over the coals," pronounced the Vicar,
speaking with some feeling, moved thereto by sundry vivid recollections
of his own, for he was a widower.  Cynthia .

"But they require it--and--it's only for their good," she answered.

"No deadlier motive could be adduced," returned her father, drily.
"Because, you see, if you use the whip too much they're apt to kick.
And I descry symptoms of such a tendency on the part of Herbert I
thought I'd give you a hint, that's all.  It would be a pity to lose
him.  His position is excellent and his prospects ditto; besides, he's a
thoroughly good fellow into the bargain."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pool beneath Blackadder Bridge was wide enough for a rod on each
side, so that neither interfered with the other, but Raynier and his
future sister-in-law had met with scant sport.  The surroundings,
however, were lovely: the soft roll of the wooded hills resounding with
the joyous shout of the cuckoo, the blue haze of spring beneath the
cloudless sky, and meadows spangled with myriad butter cups; while, hard
by, skipping perkily in and out of their knob-like nest against the
hoary mossiness of the buttressed bridge, a pair of water-ouzels took no
count whatever of their human disturbers.  The bleating of young lambs
was in the air, mingling with the tuneful murmur of the brown water
purling out from the breadth of the deep pool into a miniature rapid.

"Well, you two?  What have you got to show for yourselves?"

Raynier looked up, almost startled, so amazed was he.  For the voice was
Cynthia's--and it was quite pleasant, even affectionate.  And there was
Cynthia herself, looking exceedingly attractive in her plain, and
therefore tasteful, country attire.  In her hand was a basket.

"I thought I'd bring you something better for lunch than those dry old
sandwiches," she said, smilingly, as she proceeded to unpack its
contents.  And Raynier, wondering, thought, could this be the same
Cynthia whom he had last seen, acid and disagreeable, who, indeed, had
scarcely had a civil word to throw to him since his arrival.

"Beastly bad luck," screamed Sylvia, from the other side, reeling in her
line, preparatory to coming over to join in the lunch.

This proved quite enjoyable.  What on earth had happened to Cynthia
between then and breakfast time, thought Raynier.  No trace of acidity
was there about her now.  Her manner was soft, indeed affectionate, and
she looked up into his disfigured countenance quite delightfully,
instead of turning from it in aversion as heretofore.  Why on earth
couldn't she be like this always, he thought regretfully, feeling
softened and relenting, under the combined influence of the soothing
surroundings and an excellent lunch.

In the afternoon sport mended, and more than once a "boil" came on the
water, for a few minutes only, but so lively while it lasted that they
took out trout almost with every cast, and then he noticed how carefully
in the background Cynthia kept, and when he hung up his cast in that
confounded elder tree just as the rise began, she it was who came to the
rescue of his impatience, and so deftly and quickly disentangled the
flies.  Why on earth could not she always be like that?  And then,
during the two-mile walk home together in the glowing beauty of the
cloudless evening there was simply no comparison between the delightful
attractiveness of this woman, and the frowning, shrewish scold of the
opening of the day, and again and again he thought,--"If only she were
always like this!"



CHAPTER FOUR.

A TIMELY RECONSIDERATION.

For a few days matters ran smoothly enough.  The weather was lovely,
ideal May weather, in fact, and Raynier keenly appreciated the soft
beauty of this typical English landscape, seen at its best at the
loveliest time of the year--the fresh green of the foliage and the
yellow-spangled meadows; the cool lanes, shaded with hawthorn blossoms;
the snug farmhouses with their blaze of glowing flower-beds and the
background of picturesque ricks; the faint hum of the mill at the end of
the village, and the screech of swifts, skirring and wheeling round the
church tower, seen beyond the wall of the Vicarage garden.  Such homely
sights and sounds appealed to him the more by contrast to the brassy
skies and baked aridity for which he would so soon be bound to exchange
them.  For his furlough was drawing very near its end.

Strange that, under the circumstances, it should be almost entirely this
that constituted his regret.  Cynthia seemed to forget her chronic
ill-temper, and became quite affectionate; yet the recollection of her
outbursts remained.  Even when at her best Raynier could not for the
life of him rid his mind of such recollections.  That sort of nature
does not change, he told himself, and the prospect of spending his days
with the life-long accompaniment of such was as a very weight.  And his
was not one of those easy-going, quickly-forgiving dispositions; far
from it.

For one circumstance, as time went on, he felt devoutly thankful,
although at first he had reproached her with it, and that was that
Cynthia was not of a demonstrative temperament, and to this extent the
necessity of make-believe was spared him.  He observed, too, in the
course of their conversations she seldom spoke of the future, or dwelt
upon their life together, and, observing it, he more than met her
half-way; and as they went about together, both in speech and demeanour
they were more like two people of very recent and ordinary acquaintance
than a betrothed couple whom a few days more were to separate by nearly
half the width of the globe.

At the actual state of things the Vicar, for his part, shrewdly guessed,
but being a sensible man forebode to interfere.  Cynthia was quite old
enough to manage her own affairs, and so too was Raynier.  Possibly,
when the thing was irrevocable they would hit it off together as well as
most people did under the circumstances, which, to be sure, was not
saying much.  Cynthia, with her faults, had her good points, and of
Raynier he entertained a very high opinion.  It would turn out right
enough, he decided, but if he had any misgiving, the Vicar was forced to
own to himself that it was not on behalf of his daughter.

"Curious thing that will of old Jervis Raynier's," he said one day, when
he and his son-in-law elect were walking up and down smoking their
pipes.  "He left a good deal, and all to a girl who was hardly any
relation at all.  You only come in after her."

"Which is tantamount to not at all.  But the same holds good of myself
in the matter of relationship.  I'm only a distant cousin--so distant as
hardly to count."

"You're a Raynier, at any rate.  But she--By the way, do you ever think
about it, Herbert?  My advice to you is not to.  The chances are too
slight.  The girl is young, they tell me, and attractive.  She's bound
to marry, and then where do you come in?"

"Nowhere, unless I were to marry her myself," laughed Raynier.  "But
that's scratched now.  By the bye--who is she, Vicar--?"

"Herbert!  Oh, there you are," shrilled the voice of Sylvia at this
juncture, followed by its owner, somewhat hot, and armed with two
trout-rods.  "They told me you had gone on, and I got half-way down the
village before I found out you hadn't.  Here's your rod.  Come along.
We're losing the best part of the morning."

There was no gainsaying the crisp decisiveness of these orders, and with
an apology to the Vicar, he started off.  He was forced to own to
himself that these expeditions with the younger girl constituted his
best times.  It never occurred to Cynthia to be jealous of her sister,
not in the ordinary sense, although once or twice she was rather acid on
the subject of his preferring so much of the latter's society.  The fact
was, Sylvia was lacking in feminine attractions, being plain and
somewhat angular.  But she was always lively and good-natured, and to
that extent a positive relief from the other, albeit an effective foil
to her in looks.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunday had come round, and Cynthia had got up in a bad temper--we have
observed that upon some people the first day of the week has that
effect--consequently, when Raynier hinted at the possibility of his not
going to church it exploded.  The idea of such a thing!  Why, of course
he must go, staying at the Vicarage as he was.  What would be said in
the parish?

"But it didn't matter what was said in the parish last Sunday.  You
wouldn't let me come then because I was too ugly," he urged, with a
mischievous wink at Sylvia.

"Well, so you were, but your face is nearly all right again now,"
answered Cynthia, briskly, and with acerbity, for she had no sense of
fun.

"Not it.  You'll see it'll keep all the choir boys staring, and they
can't warble with their heads cocked round at right angles to the rest
of them."

Sylvia spluttered.

"All the more reason why you should come, Herbert," she said.  "I want
to see that.  It'll be good sport."

"If you were a boy you'd be a typical parson's son, Silly," he laughed.

"Shut up.  I'll throw something at you if you call me that."

"Do, and you'll keep up the part," he returned.

Worthingham Church was in close resemblance to a thousand or so other
village churches of its size and circumstance, in that it was old and
picturesque, and gave forth the same flavour of mould and damp stones.
There was the same rustic choir with newly-oiled heads and clattering
boots and skimpy surplices, singing the same hackneyed hymns, and the
Vicar's sermon was on the same level of prosiness, not that he could not
have done better, but he had long since ceased to think it worth while
taking the trouble.  But Cynthia Daintree, seated in the front pew, well
gowned and tastefully hatted, and withal complacently conscious of the
same, was the presiding goddess, at whom the rustics aforesaid never
seemed tired of furtively staring--in awe, which somewhat outweighed
their admiration--therein well-nigh overlooking the discoloured
countenance of her _fiance_.

"Cynthia always looks as if she'd bought up the whole show," pronounced
Sylvia, subsequently and irreverently.

Raynier had answered one or two inquiries after his "bicycle accident"--
Cynthia having deftly contrived to let it be understood, though not in
so many words, that such was the nature of his mishap--and they were
re-entering the garden gate.  Suddenly she said,--

"Where's your stick, Herbert?  The malacca one.  Why, you haven't used
it at all this time."

It was all up now, he thought.  As a matter of fact his main reason for
endeavouring to avoid going to church that morning was that it would be
one opportunity the less for her to miss that unlucky article.

"No, I haven't.  The fact is I've lost it."

"Lost it?  Oh, Herbert!"

She looked so genuinely hurt that he felt almost guilty.

"Yes.  I'm awfully sorry, Cynthia.  I wouldn't have lost it for
anything, but even as it is I'm sure to get it back again.  I'm having
inquiries made, and offering rewards, in short doing all I can do.
It'll turn up again.  I'm certain of that."

"But--how did you lose it, and where?"

He told her how; that being a detail he had purposely omitted in
previous narration of the incident.  It was but frowningly received.

"I didn't think you would attach so little value to anything _I_ had
given you, and yet I might have known you better."

What is there about the English Sunday atmosphere that is apt to render
contentious people more quarrelsome still, and those not naturally
contentious--well, a little prickly?  Raynier felt his patience ebbing.
She was very unreasonable over the matter, and, really--she was quite
old enough to have more sense.

"I don't think you're altogether fair to me, Cynthia," he answered, his
own tone getting rather short.  "The thing was unavoidable, you see.
Unless you mean you would rather the man's brains had been knocked out
by that bestial mob than that I should have given him some means of
defending himself.  I value the stick immensely, and am doing all I can
to recover it, but I should have thought even you would hardly have
valued it at something beyond the price of a man's life."

"Only a blackamoor's," she retorted, now white and tremulous with anger.

"Sorry I can't agree with you," he answered shortly, for he was
thoroughly disgusted.  "I have seen rather too much of that sort of
`blackamoor,' as you so elegantly term it, not to recognise that he,
like ourselves, has his place and use in his own part of the world.  I
repeat, I am as sorry as you are the stick should have been lost, but I
should have thought that, under the circumstances, no woman--with the
feelings of a woman--would have held me to blame."

"That's right.  Sneer at me; it's so manly," she retorted, having
reached the tremulous point of rage.  "But why didn't you tell me of it
at first?  Rather underhand, wasn't it?"

"Oh, no.  I don't deal in that sort of ware, thanks.  I did not tell
you, solely out of consideration for your feelings.  I had hoped the
thing might have been recovered by this time--then I would have told
you.  And look here, Cynthia.  Would it surprise you to learn that I am
getting more than a little sick of this sort of thing.  I am not
accustomed to being found fault with and hectored every minute of the
day.  In fact, I'm too old for it, and much too old ever to grow used to
it.  And since I've been down here this time there's hardly a moment you
haven't been setting me to rights and generally finding fault with me.
Well, if that's the order of the day now, what will it be if we are to
spend our lives together?  Really, I think we'd better seriously
reconsider that programme."

She looked at him.  Just her father's warning.  But she was too angry
for prudent counsel to prevail.

"Do you mean that?" she said, breathing quickly.

"Certainly I do.  It is not too late to warn you that mine is not the
temperament to submit to perpetual dictation."

"Very well, then.  It is your doing, your choice, remember."  And
turning from him she passed into the house.



CHAPTER FIVE.

MURAD AFZUL, TERROR.

Peaks--jagged and lofty, peaks--stark and pointed, cleaning up into the
unclouded but somewhat brassy blue.  Rock-sides, cleft into wondrous,
criss-cross seams; loose rocks again, scattering smoother <DW72>s of
shale, where the white gypsum streaks forced their way through.
Beneath--far beneath--winding among these, a mere thread--the white dust
of a road.  Of vegetation none, save for coarse, sparse grass bents, and
here and there a sorry attempt at a pistachio shrub.  A great black
vulture, circling on spreading wing, over this chaos of cliff and chasm,
of desolation and lifelessness, turns his head from side to side and
croaks; for experience tells him that its seeming lifelessness is but
apparent.

"Ya, Allah! and are we to wait here until the end of the world?  In
truth, brother, we had better seek to serve some other chief."

Thus one dirty-white-clad figure to another dirty-white-clad figure--
both resembling each other marvellously.  The same bronze visage, the
same hooked nose and rapacious eyes, the same jetty tresses on each side
of the face, and the same long and shaggy beard, characterised these two
no less than the score and a half other precisely similar figures lying
up among the interstices of this serrated ridge, watching the way
beneath.  The dirty-white turbans had been laid aside in favour of a
conical dust- _kulla_, the neutral hue of which headgear blended
with the sad tints of the surrounding rocks and stones.

"I know not, brother," rejoined the second hook-nosed son of the
wilderness.  "Yet it seems that since the _Sirkar_ [Note 1] has been
changed at Mazaran, a great change too has come over our father the
Nawab."

"Nawab!" repeated the first speaker, with disgust.  "Nawab!  How can our
chief take such a dirty title, only fit for swine of Hindu idolators.
It is an insult on the part of the accursed Feringhi to offer such a
title to a freeborn son of the mountains; and such a one as the chief of
the Gularzai.  Nawab!" and the speaker spat from between his closed
teeth, with a sort of hiss of contempt.

"Yet, if it serves to place him higher in the estimation of the Feringhi
and of the tribes our neighbours, what matter?" returned the other.
"The Nawab Mahomed Mushim Khan sounds great in the ears of such."

The sneering laugh which rattled from the other's throat was checked,
for now the attention of all became concentrated on a cloud of dust
coming into view, and advancing along the thread of road winding
beneath.  Eagerly now, thirty pairs of fierce eyes were bent on that
which moved beneath their gaze--a passing of men, mounted and armed, to
the number of about three score; and fierce brows bent in hatred, as
they scowled upon the representative of that irresistible Power, which,
with all its failings and errors of judgment, yet in the long run held
in salutary restraint the excesses of their wild and predatory race.
For this was the escort of the British Political Agent, returning from
an official visit to their tribal chieftain.

A squad of Levy Sowars rode in front, and a larger one of Native
Cavalry, the official himself, with two or three attendants being
between; the servants with camp necessaries and furniture bringing up
the rear, yet taking apparent care to keep somewhat close upon the heels
of the armed escort.  Upon this array the wild hillmen gazed with many a
muttered curse.  The time for that might come, in the orderings of Allah
and His Prophet; but it was not to-day--was the thought that possessed
several of their minds.

The cavalcade held on its way, winding round a high precipitous spur, to
reappear again further on, small and distant, then to vanish entirely
where a great _tangi_ cleft the heart of the mountain.  And look!
Below, once more, in the direction whence it had first appeared, whirled
another cloud of dust, insignificant this time compared with before.

The eyes of the marauders gleamed from beneath shaggy brows, and a stir
ran through their numbers.  Brown, claw-like hands gripped the barrels
of firearms--no antiquated, if picturesque jezails these, but
Lee-Metford magazine rifles up to date, save for a few Martinis--while
tulwars were half drawn from their scabbards, and gazed at with lovingly
murderous graze ere being replaced again.  Yet the group of figures
which emerged into view on the road beneath was not formidable,
consisting in fact of but four human beings.

Two were mounted, and two on foot, and between them they were driving
several pack animals, laden to their fullest capacity.  At sight of
these, the band, all its tactics prearranged, moved down from its
eyrie-like lurking place, dividing, as it did so, into three.

Chand Lall, general trader, who was mounted, and his two assistants who
were afoot, were uneasy, and the former was secretly cursing his own
avarice which had prevented him from purchasing an extra pack animal or
two, which would have enabled him and his possessions to have kept
beneath the wing of the Political Agent's escort, whereas now he was
very considerably behind the tail of the same.  But the fourth of the
group, the other mounted man, was quite cool; indeed, it looked as
though he actually preferred the solitude of their wild surroundings--
and perhaps he did.

"Be at peace, brother," this one was saying.  "Are we not safe, for we
are in the hand of Allah?  Wherefore then this hurry?  Nothing can be
but what is written.  But there, I forget, my memory groweth old with
its owner.  Thou art not of the number of true believers."  And he
deliberately and leisurely dismounted, as though discovering a sudden
lameness in the near foreleg of his horse.

"That is all very well, Ibrahim, who art a Moslem," said the fat Hindu,
whose distressed impatience was painfully manifest.  "None will harm
thee.  But I--"

The words died in his throat, choked there by the sight of a number of
stealing figures, flitting down from rock to rock.  The countenance of
the unfortunate trader grew a dirty leaden white.  Already the road
before him was barred.  Wildly he gazed around.  That behind him was
barred too.  His companion, quite unmoved, was still examining the hoof
of his horse.  High overhead, a speck in the ether, above the gnomelike
crags, the black vulture still turned his head from side to side and
croaked.

Already the marauders had seized the pack animals.  The two young men
who drove them had fallen flat and were grovelling and wailing for
mercy.  Rough hands had flung the Hindu from his saddle, and he lay on
the ground, moaning with fear, and quaking in every limb, as he stared
frantically at the dull flash of razor-edged tulwars, brandished over
him, the savage, hairy faces glowering down upon him, fell and
threatening with religious hate and racial contempt.

"Rise up, fat dog," said one of the marauders, kicking him.  "Rise up,
and come with us."

"Mercy, Sirdar Sahib, and suffer me to go my way," whined the terrified
man, as he tremblingly obeyed the first clause of the injunction.  "I am
but a poor trader, but have ever been generous to such as ye.  Take
therefore of my poor store, yet leave me a little that I may begin life
again."

The leader of the band laughed evilly and spat.

"Thy poor store!  Ha!  We will take all and afterwards skin thee of yet
more, thou usurer, who comest into our country but to leave it poorer."

"Not so, Sirdar Sahib," expostulated the trader, plucking up a little
courage by virtue of the name he was about to invoke.  "What I have, I
have from the Nawab--the Nawab Mushim Khan--given in honest trade.
Shall I then suffer ill-treatment at the Nawab's very gates?"

"The Nawab.  Ha--ha!" jeered the leader, spitting again.  "Walk, fat
infidel dog.  Dost hear?"

And a buffet on the side of the head, which nearly felled him, convinced
the unfortunate trader that this was no time for further expostulation;
and, accordingly, panting, wheezing, stumbling, he strove his painful
utmost to keep pace up the steep hill with his perilous and unwelcome
escort.  His attendants were undergoing but little ill-treatment.  They
were young and lithe, and gave no trouble; moreover, they had little or
nothing to lose, so feared nothing.  Ibrahim, who happened to be a
_mullah_, and whom the other had subsidised for the supposed protection
of his own company, to whom no violence whatever had been offered, was
leading his steed tranquilly over the rough, stony <DW72>, chatting and
laughing familiarly with the band; and at the sight the unhappy Chand
Lall's soul grew more bitter within him.  Why had he been so ready to
accept this plausible rogue's benevolent sanctity, he thought, as now
fifty instances occurred to him of delays, slight at the time, but on
colourable pretext, to <DW44> him more and more--to increase subtly and
imperceptibly more and more the distance between him and the armed force
with which he had obtained permission to travel.  Bitterly he reproached
himself.  He saw through it now--in fact, he did not believe that
Ibrahim was a _mullah_ at all; but _mullah_ or not, certain it was that
he was the confederate and decoy of the ferocious and predatory gang who
had so daringly swooped down upon himself and his goods, almost within
call of the Political Agent's armed escort.

On they fared, higher and higher, until at length, utterly exhausted,
Chand Lall realised that he lay powerless and beyond all reach or hope
of aid in one of the fastnesses of his captors, away in the most savage
and frowning recesses of the mountain world.  And then something in the
very hopelessness of it all as he saw the fruits of a long and toilsome
expedition utterly thrown away, moved the wretched man to a sort of
desperation.  He threatened.

"See you," he said, "I am not a man who can be smuggled away and no
inquiries made.  I am not a man who can be ill-treated with impunity.  I
am a man of consequence, and of importance to the _Sirkar_.  I am a
friend of the Nawab--"

He stopped short.  There was that in the look of the leader--to whom he
had addressed these words--which seemed to freeze the half delirious
desperation within him.

"A friend of the Nawab!  Ha--ha!  Hearken, O man of consequence and of
importance to the _Sirkar_," bending down a savage face to note and
revel in the terror he was about to strike into his victim.  "Is it
possible that thou hast never yet heard the name of Murad Afzul?  Is it
possible, I say?  Ya, Allah! is it possible?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  Government ordinarily.  In this instance the representative of
Government.



CHAPTER SIX.

THE VICTIM.

The effect of his mere name upon his prisoner answered the robber
chief's own question, nor had the latter any reason to feel disappointed
over the method of its reception.  The wretched trader's countenance
became ghastly, and his mouth fell open, while the perspiration oozed
from him at every pore.  He would about as soon have fallen into the
power of the Enemy of mankind.

"Mercy, Sirdar Sahib.  Take what I have and suffer me to depart," was
all he could articulate, slobberingly.

Murad Afzul laughed, and a harsh evil laugh it was.  He was a
fine-looking man, tall and with good features, which would have been
pleasing, but for the quick, predatory look, and the savage scowl which
would cloud them upon very slight provocation.

"Tell me, fat dog," he said.  "Canst thou name one of thy sort who fell
into my hands and came forth again?"

The trader fairly howled with terror, for this was just where his
position came home to him.  If there was one thing for which this Murad
Afzul and his band were known and dreaded, it was for their absolute
mercilessness.  Mere death was the greatest mercy their victims could
expect.  True, there were some who had come forth alive, but so
hideously maimed and shattered that they had better have been dead, and
with awful tales to tell of torture and horror either witnessed or
undergone.  Indeed, such a scourge had these freebooters become, that
strong pressure was brought to bear upon the chief of the Gularzai, and
in the result these outrages had ceased, in recognition of which prompt
compliance Mahomed Mushim Khan had been invested by the Indian
Government with the title of Nawab--somewhat to the contempt of these
fierce mountaineers, as we heard them express it.

With all of this was the unfortunate Hindu so well acquainted that he
would never have dreamed of trusting his person or possessions in these
mountain solitudes, but that he, like others, was under the impression
that Murad Afzul had taken himself and his depredations clean away to
the territory of some other potentate, and the possibility of that
redoubted outlaw taking advantage of the advent of a new Political Agent
to break out afresh had escaped him altogether.

Now, under the direction of their chief, the freebooters were rifling
the packs--and at first found not much in them, for they were for the
most part stuffed out with dummy matter, to convey the idea that their
owner had done so bad a trade as not to be worth plundering.  But
everything that could possibly conceal a coin was promptly laid open by
the expeditious process of a blow with a stone hammer or the slash of a
tulwar, and soon a goodly pile of rupees lay heaped up ready for
division.  Murad Afzul grinned with delight.

"God is good," he said, rubbing his hands.  "The spoils of the infidel
hath he delivered to the true believer.  Yet, O fat pig, it is not
enough.  Ha! not enough."

"Not enough?  But it is my all, Sirdar Sahib; yea, my all," groaned the
trader.

"Wah-wah! but I am poor, and have not the wherewith to start life
afresh."

"It is not enough," repeated the other, the glitter of his eyes and the
fell meaning of his tone becoming terrible in its significance.  "Ten
thousand rupees must be added to it."

"Ten thousand!  How can I find such a sum, Sirdar Sahib, I who am but a
poor man?  I have not a tenth of it."

"Now art thou blowing up the fire which shall consume thine own limbs,
yet slowly, thou foul dog.  Wait.  Thou shalt taste how it feels."

At a signal the prisoner was seized and bound.  The while, others were
heating an old gun-barrel in a fire which had been kindled when they
first halted.  Then they brought it towards him.  At the sight the
miserable wretch uttered a loud scream of terror and despair.

"Squeal louder, pig," jeered Murad Afzul.  "There is none to hear thee
save these rocks, and they are accustomed to such sounds.  Ha! ha!"

The miserable man struggled frantically, promising to pay anything if
they would refrain from torturing him.  But the lust of cruelty, now
awakened in those ferocious natures, would not be allayed, and the hot
iron was laid hissing to the thigh of their victim, whose frenzied and
agonising yells rang in deafening and fiend-like echoes from the
surrounding rocks, grim and pitiless as though rejoicing in the act of
savagery upon which they glared down.  Then Murad Afzul, too experienced
in such matters to prolong the agony unduly, made a sign that it should
cease.

"How likest thou that, pig?" he said.  "Did not thy fat frizzle?  I have
a mind to send a slice of it to the swine-eating Feringhi at Mazaran.
Did it hurt, the kiss of the hot iron?  Yet that was but the beginning.
How would it feel lasting the whole day.  Think, for thou wilt now have
a little time."

It was the hour of prayer, and now the whole band, with their shoes off,
and their chuddas spread on the ground, facing in the direction of
Mecca, were going through the prescribed prostrations and formulae of
the Moslem ritual.  Ibrahim the _mullah_, a little in front of the rest:
led the devotions, intoning each strophe in a nasal, droning key, the
others ranged behind him in rows, now kneeling, now rising, responded
somewhat after the manner of the recital of a litany, but perhaps, to an
outside observer, the absolute and wholehearted devoutness of their
demeanour would have constituted the strangest part of it.  Not a shadow
of compunction had they for the hideous act of barbarity in which they
had a moment ago indulged, and which they would almost certainly repeat.
Why should they, indeed?  What was the agony of an infidel dog more or
less to them or to Heaven?  Why, the very cries of such must be as music
in the ears of the latter.  So they continued laying this brick in the
edifice of their salvation; and, having concluded, resumed their shoes
and turned their attention once more to their victim.

The latter, the while, had been thinking if haply some hope of rescue
might not occur to him.  The Sahib had known of his presence, for he
himself had given him permission to travel under his protection.  Would
he not miss him, and, as a consequence, order a body of men to ride back
to his rescue?  These would assuredly come upon the scene of his capture
and follow upon his tracks.  But--would they?  The Levy Sowars were
drawn from the same region and were of the same faith as his captors, of
whom they would know the strength and resource, and with whom they would
certainly avoid engaging in a fight on behalf of such as he.  Besides--
and again Chand Lall had reason to curse his own stinginess, in that he
had been more than "near" in bestowing the expected _dasturi_ upon the
Sahib's chuprassis, wherefore these would infallibly take care that no
suspicion of his disaster should reach their master's ears.  Further,
was it not a matter of absolute certainty that, rather than allow his
rescue, Murad Afzul would give orders for his throat to be cut from ear
to ear?  No, there was no hope--not a ray.

"Talk we again of the rupees," began Murad Afzul.  "I am moved to
require double the amount now, but Allah is merciful, and shall I be
less so?  I will be content with ten thousand.  Wherefore, O dog, thou
shalt write and deliver to Ibrahim, our brother--who is holy and
learned--a letter which shall cause those who guard the fruits of thine
avarice and usury, to pay over to him that sum.  Yet think not to write
aught that shall render this void, for Ibrahim is learned as well as
holy, and can read in many tongues.  Further, should he not return to
us, thine own fate shall be even as though thou wert already writhing in
the lowest depths of Jehanum."

"It were better, Sirdar Sahib, that I myself travelled to Mazaran to
procure it, for our people are distrustful of strangers."  Murad Afzul
laughed evilly.  "But we are doubly so, O worshipper of debauched
idols," he said.  "So thou wouldst fain fare forth thyself?  Ha, ha,
then how long would it be before we beheld thee again, or one single one
of the ten thousand rupees?"

"Why, as soon as I could collect them, and to do that I would spare no
pains, no trouble, Sirdar Sahib, although it would leave me a poor man,
and in debt for life," replied Chand Lall, eagerly thinking, poor fool,
that his jailor was going to set him free on so slender a security as
his bare word.  But the shout of laughter that went up from all who
heard quickly undeceived him.

"Who having a caged bird of value turns that bird loose to stretch his
wings in the hope that it will return to its cage?" said the chief.
"Thou art to us a caged bird of value, thou eater of money--wherefore we
keep thee until thou hast no further value.  Show him," he added,
turning to his followers.

In obedience to this somewhat mysterious mandate one of them turned and
dived into a cleft, producing therefrom an object which he gleefully
unrolled, and held up before the gaze of the horrified captive--and
well, indeed, might the latter quake, for it was the skin of a man.

It had been most deftly taken off.  Face, head, ears--everything in
fact.  Staring at the horrid thing, Chand Lall felt his very marrow melt
within him.

"See," said Murad Afzul.  "He did not die, even then.  He lived to taste
of fire and boiling ghee."  And the rest of the band laughed like
fiends, but the wretched Hindu covered his face and shook.

"Well mayst thou tremble," went on his pitiless tormentor.  "For should
Ibrahim return without ten thousand rupees, or not return at all, by the
setting of the third sun, thine own skin shall dry beside that one."

The victim uttered a loud cry.

"The third sun!  Why, Sirdar Sahib, that will be impossible.  I can
never have so much money collected in so short a time.  Make it the
sixth sun."

Murad Afzul consulted a moment with his followers.  Then he said,--

"Allah is merciful, and so, too, will I be.  I will say then by the
setting of the fifth sun after this one.  Yet try not to play us any
false trick, thou dog, for it will be useless, and for what it will mean
to thyself, look on yonder and be assured," and, as though to emphasise
the chief's words, he who held the horrible human skin shook it
warningly and suggestively in the face of the thoroughly terrified
hostage.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Political Agent, having dined well in his evening camp, was going
over some official papers by the light of the tent lamp.

"Oh, Sunt Singh," he said, looking up as a chuprassi entered, "what
became of that trader who was with us?  I didn't see him when we first
camped."

"_Huzoor_, he is camped just below the sowars' tents, I believe."

"Yes?  You may go," and the official resumed what he was doing, without
further thought for the luckless Chand Lall, who certainly was not where
the lying chuprassi had said.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A SURPRISE.

Herbert Raynier ran lightly up the steps of his verandah, feeling
intensely satisfied with himself and things in general.

Though summer, the air was delightfully balmy, and the glow of the
sunset reddening the heads of the mountains surrounding the basin in
which lay Mazaran, was soothing and grateful to the eye.  The bungalow
was roomy and commodious, and stood in the midst of a pleasant garden,
where closing flowers distilled fragrant scents upon the evening air--
all this sent his mind back in thankful contrast to hot, steaming,
languid Baghnagar, its brassy skies and feverish exhalations, where even
at this late hour the very crows lining the roof would be open-billed
and gasping.  And thus contrasting the new with the old order of things
he decided for the fiftieth time that the luckiest moment of his life
was when he opened the official letter--which met him on landing at
Bombay--appointing him Political Agent at Mazaran.

Hardly less in contrast between the climate of his new station and the
last, were the people with whom he now had to deal.  There was nothing
whatever in common between the meek subservient native he had hitherto
ruled and the stalwart independence of these wild mountain tribes, whose
turbulent and predatory instincts needed nice handling to keep in
efficient control.  But all this appealed to him vividly, and he threw
himself into his new duties with an eager zest which caused those who
had known his predecessor to smile.  He recognised that here at least
was a chance; here he might find scope for such latent ability which the
stagnant routine of his old Department had been in danger of stifling
altogether.  In fact, he was inclined to regret the abnormally tranquil
state of things, when Jelson, his predecessor, had congratulated him
upon the fact that Mushim Khan, the chief of the powerful, and often
turbulent, Gularzai tribe, had become so amenable since the Government
had created him a Nawab that the meanest _bunniah_ might almost walk
through the Gularzai country alone and with his pockets bulging with
rupees, in perfect safety.

Herbert Raynier flung himself into a comfortable chair on the verandah
and lighted a cheroot.  He had half an hour to spare before it should be
time to dress and go out to dinner, and how should such be better spent
than in a restful smoke: yet, while enjoying this, his thoughts were
active enough.  His prospects, rosy as the afterglow which dwelt upon
the surrounding peaks, kept him busy for a time, and over all was a
sense of great relief.  If he had saved the life of an unknown Oriental
at the hands of a particularly brutal mob, assuredly he had been repaid
to the full, for, but for that circumstance, matters would never have
come to a head with Cynthia.  He would still be bound hard and fast by a
chain of which he only realised the full weight since he had broken it.
For he had broken it--finally, irrevocably, unmistakably, he told
himself.  Since that last scene in the Vicarage garden he and Cynthia
had exchanged no word.  The remainder of that day had not been of a
pleasant nature, and he had left by an early train on the following
morning, to return three days later to India.  No letter, either of
farewell, or reproach or recrimination--as he had half feared--reached
him at the last, and it was with feelings of genuine relief that he
watched the shores of the mother country fade into the invisible.

Tarleton, the Civil Surgeon, at whose bungalow Raynier was dining, was
somewhat of a trying social unit, in that he was never even by chance
known to agree with any remark or proposition, weighty or trivial, put
forward by anybody, or if there was no conceivable room for gainsaying
such, why then he would append some brisk aggressive comment in rider
fashion.  As thus,--

"How do, Raynier?  How did you come over?  Didn't walk, did you?"

"No.  Biked."

"Ho!  Bicycle's not much use up here, I can tell you."

Raynier remarked that he found the machine useful for getting about the
station with, and that the roads in and immediately around the same were
rather good.

"Well, you didn't expect to find them all rocks and stones, did you?"
came the prompt rejoinder.

Tarleton was white-haired and red-faced, which caused him to look older
than his actual years.  Another of his peculiarities was that he was
continually altering his facial appearance.  Now he would grow a beard;
then suddenly, without a word to anybody, would trim it down to what
they call in Transatlantic a "chin-whisker," or shave it altogether.
Or, one day he would appear with a long, carefully-waxed moustache, and
the next with that appendage clipped to the consistency of a toothbrush.
And so on.

Just at this stage, however, Raynier, recognising that he was on the
high road to cordially detesting the man, had laid himself out to be
extra long-suffering.

"Wonder if those women ever mean to come in?" went on Tarleton, with a
fidgety glance at the clock, for the two were alone in the drawing-room
just before dinner.

"Oh, one has to give the ornamental sex a little `law,'" said the other,
good-humouredly.

"Well, you can't expect them to put on their clothes and all that as
quickly as we can," was the rejoinder to this accommodating speech.  And
just then "those women," in the shape of Mrs Tarleton and a guest,
entered.  The first was a good-humoured, pleasant-looking little
Irishwoman, the second--

"How d'you do, Miss Clive?  Why, this is a surprise," began Raynier,
without waiting for an introduction.

"I like surprises," laughed the hostess.  "They're great fun.  We
thought we'd give you one, Mr Raynier."

"They are, if, as now, they are pleasant ones," he answered.

"Why, Mr Raynier, I didn't think that kind of speech-making was at all
in your line," said the "Surprise," demurely.

She was a tallish girl, rather slight, with refined and regular
features, which nineteen out of twenty pronounced "cold."  She had a
great deal of dark brown hair, and very uncommon eyes; in fact, they
were unequivocally and unmistakably green.  Yet framed in their dark,
abundant lashes, they might be capable of throwing as complete an
attraction, a fascination, as the more regulation blue or hazel ones.
She was not popular with men.  Not enough "go" in her, they declared.
Seemed more cut out for a blue-stocking.

She and Raynier had been fellow-passengers out; but had had little to
say to each other on board.  He had danced with her three or four times,
which was rather remarkable in view of that being a form of exercise
which he favoured but little.  Both had this in common, that they held
aloof from the usual 'board-ship amusements, yet they had not come
together at all.  It was only when they landed at Bombay, and the
friends she had expected to meet her had not arrived, that Raynier,
noticing the look of intense consternation, of bewilderment even, upon
the girl's face, as she realised how she was stranded, a total stranger
in a very strange land, had come to the rescue--had even foregone his
train and remained over until the next day to be of service to her.
This he had done out of sheer kindness--the other passengers having gone
their respective ways without giving her a thought--and having handed
her over to her friends who had been unavoidably delayed, had bidden her
good-bye and had gone his own--he, too, scarcely giving her another
thought.

"Hilda says you were so kind to her at Bombay, Mr Raynier," went on his
hostess.

"Oh, no--that's nothing, Mrs Tarleton.  Glad to have been of any
service, of course," he replied, in that hurried, half-confused way to
be expected of a man of his disposition under the circumstances.

"But it isn't nothing," struck in the girl, decidedly.  "Do you know,
Mrs Tarleton, Mr Raynier even waited till the next day to look after me.
And it's odd, because we hardly knew each other on the ship."

"Oh, well," mumbled Raynier, jerkily, "you can't see anybody stranded
like that--a lady especially--in a totally strange place without doing
something to straighten things out for them."

Hilda Clive smiled.

"None of the others seemed to be of that opinion, at any rate," she
said.

Snapped Tarleton, "Well, you can't expect a lot of people just landed
from a voyage to think about anything but themselves and their own
belongings."

For once Raynier felt frankly grateful to the contentious one--if only
that it was sufficient for Tarleton to lay down a statement on any given
subject to cause his ordinary hearers to drop that subject like a
red-hot bar.  Wherefore these promptly turned to another.

Sunt Singh and Kaur Singh, chuprassis, were aroused from the drowsy
enjoyment of their hubble-bubbles by a very unwonted intruder in the
Political Agent's compound late at night, and were well-nigh speechless
with supercilious amazement.  The fat trader they had left on the road!
See the _Huzoor_!  At that time of night!  It was the Police Station the
fool wanted.  Something of the highest importance?  Let him come in the
morning.  It would keep until then.  Besides, the _Huzoor_ was out
dining.

In a direful state of fear and perplexity Chand Lall, thus rebuffed, got
out into the road again, and with a scared look over each shoulder, took
his way as quickly as he could from the gate.  But this was not quick,
for even in the darkness it might have been seen that he walked with a
painful limp.  In the darkness too, something else might have been
seen--two figures stealing along in the deeper shade of the tamarisk
hedge.  He whom they shadowed saw them not--at first--then having chosen
their spot, they quickened their pace, and darting forward flung
themselves upon him.

The yell which the assailed man opened his mouth to utter died in his
throat as the white light of a long knife blade streaked before his
eyes.

"Silence or thou art dead," snarled a harsh voice.  "So, dog, thou
wouldst betray us?"

In the dirty-white turbans and hairy, hook-nosed faces, Chand Lall knew
only too well who were these.  Already they had begun to drag him
swiftly along.  Then in his frenzy of terror at the recollection of the
fate he had escaped from and which certainly waited him now, even the
fear of instant death did not avail.  A loud, quavering shriek for aid
rang from his lips.

But it died in a choking gasp.  The white knife blade disappeared, to
emerge again red--and this not once only.  A corpse lay wallowing in the
road, and two loosely-clad figures vanished into the darkness, even as
they had come out of it.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE MARK OF MURAD AFZUL.

Raynier was wondering over several things.  He was wondering how anyone
living could stand Tarleton for life--as his wife did; how anyone could
stand him for a week, or two or three--as his guest was doing; or for
two or three hours--as he himself was trying to do.  Then, constantly
observing Hilda Clive--opposite him, for they were a party of four--he
was wondering how it was that she had held out so little attraction to
him hitherto.  For nearly three weeks they had been pent up together in
the close proximity of shipboard--yet he had hardly been aware of her
existence.  While he was looking after her at Bombay, she had seemed
more attractive, but not much.  Yet now, meeting her again and
unexpectedly, he was conscious of this or that subtle trait which
interested him.

Still, why had he not discovered it before?  Time, opportunity--all had
been favourable.  He supposed it was that the recollection of Cynthia
Daintree had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and that he had been
passing through a misogynistic stage accordingly.

"I don't believe these `budmashes' are as quiet as they seem," Tarleton
was saying.  "Or if they are, it's because they are hatching devilment.
I've been longer among them than you have, Raynier, and Mushim Khan
isn't the sort to turn into a lamb all of a sudden, as he seems to have
done lately."

They were talking over Raynier's visit to the Nawab, and Tarleton, as
usual, was contradictious.

"What is the Nawab like, Mr Raynier?" said Hilda Clive.

"Rather a fine-looking man--in fact, very."

"And is his palace very splendid?"

Raynier stared.

"Very splendid?" he repeated--"Oh, I see!  The idea is quite a natural
one.  But, as a matter of fact, he hasn't got any `palace' at all.  He
lives in a mud-walled village."

"No.  Not really?"

"Miss Clive thinks he ought to wear a crown and go about blazing with
jewels," said Tarleton.

"Well, that isn't an inexcusable mistake," rejoined Raynier,
"considering the ideas people generally associate with his title.  You
see, Miss Clive, the Gularzai are almost savages--fine savages, but
still savages--something akin to our ideas of the desert Arab."

"Well, they can't help that, can they?" struck in Tarleton, apparently
for no earthly reason, unless that nobody had dreamed of saying they
could.

"I should like to see something of these people in their own homes,"
said the girl.  "They must be rather interesting.  I admire these I see
walking about the station.  It is a fine type of face.  Are they
Gularzai, Mr Raynier?"

"Fine type of face!" cut in Tarleton.  "Why, they're the most
villainous-looking scoundrels unhung.  Any one of them would cut your
throat for eight annas."

"A good many are Gularzai, Miss Clive," answered Raynier.  "But all
these mountain tribes are very much alike in appearance."

Now Tarleton broached a subject which an hour or two earlier would have
been unwelcome to the other in the last degree.  Raynier was going on a
camping expedition very shortly--together with Haslam, the Forest
Officer--and Tarleton was anxious to join it.

"There's precious little to shoot," was the answer, "though one might do
a clamber after markhor.  But it would give Miss Clive the very
opportunity she was wanting."

"Eh?  How?" said Tarleton.

"Why she'd see something of the country, and incidentally of the
people."

This was putting matters in a new light to Tarleton.  He had not
proposed to include his womenkind in the scheme.  But now both his wife
and their guest declared the prospect a delightful one, and as there was
no valid reason against it, Tarleton, for a wonder, consented.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was midnight when Raynier bade his entertainers good-bye, and as he
bowled along the smooth high road he found himself wondering again--and
this time over two things.  One was that he had spent an uncommonly
pleasant evening at Tarleton's; the other that he should actually have
welcomed the prospect of Tarleton's society for a matter of a couple of
weeks or so, on the projected camping expedition.  Well, as to the
latter he need not see much of Tarleton.

His bicycle ran smoothly, and, absorbed in his thoughts, he was nearly
passing his own compound, when--what was that?  A cry--a little distance
further on--and it expressed terror.  Passing his own gate he whirled
straight on, and in a moment, there in the middle of the road lay a
human form.  But before he could dismount, another sound caught his ear.
Without giving the man who lay there another thought he started in
pursuit.

The stripe of the road lay before him in the darkness, dim yet clearly
defined.  At the side of it, under the high tamarisk hedge, he made out
two figures.  Peremptorily, and in Hindustani, he called upon them to
halt.  They obeyed.  But so far from such compliance affording Raynier
any satisfaction, he felt at that moment that he would give a great deal
to see them get through the hedge somehow, and disappear from his sight
for ever.  In a flash he realised that he had embarked on a very
dangerous and foolhardy undertaking, as he recognised that a brace of
tall, savage, mountain desperadoes were waiting to receive him, he being
totally unarmed, and the road as lonely at that hour of the night as any
wild peak he could see looming dimly against the stars around.

A bicycle, moreover, is a desperately bad steed to fight on, but knowing
this he realised at the same time that it is an excellent one to run
away on, given a clear road ahead.  But would they allow him such?  No,
they would not.

It was all done in a flash.  Raynier saw the two figures, in half-bent,
crouching attitude, glide suddenly into the middle of the road--and he
knew that each held a long knife.  There was no time to stop.  He saw
his bicycle strike one of them full in the chest, as he put it at him at
full speed--then became conscious that he himself was whirling through
the air to land with a crash beneath the tamarisk hedge.  He saw the
other of them coming towards him knife in hand; saw in a moment the
shaggy tresses, and the savage eyes glaring beneath the great turban,
and then--there crashed forth a couple of shots, seemingly over his
head.

His assailant had disappeared.  At the moment he realised the position.
The occurrence had taken place just in front of the Forest Officer's
compound, and the Forest Officer being a very great sportsman, his
bungalow was a miniature arsenal of weapons of all sorts.  Moreover, he
was a man of experience and quick wit.  He too had heard the expiring
yell of the murdered man, and had come forth to investigate, armed with
a large and business-like revolver which he well knew how to use.  In
this instance, however, the darkness, and some fear of hitting the wrong
man, had spoiled his shots.  But of either at whom they were directed
there remained no sign.  Both had made themselves scarce.

"What's all the bobbery about?" sang out this friend in need, descrying
the doubled-up figure under the hedge.  "Who is it?"

"Me--Raynier."

"The devil!  Not hurt, are you?"

"Someone up the road is--that's why I was chevying those `budmashes.'
Come along up there and we'll investigate."

The Forest Officer shouted lustily to his servants to bring a lantern,
and they, aroused by the shots, were not long in doing so.  Raynier
picked himself up, somewhat gingerly.

"I say--you did get a toss," said the other.  "Not hurt, eh?"

"N-no.  I think not.  Shaken up a bit--like a tonic bottle."

Strange to say the bicycle had received little or no damage either.

"These Pathans are tough," said the Forest Officer.  "Fancy being able
to clear out after a collision like that."

They reached the spot where the dead man was lying.  A shout or two from
Raynier brought out his own people, with more lanterns.  It was not a
nice sight to gaze upon at midnight--the ghastly fear and agony stamped
upon the dead face, and the great pool of blood still welling forth
afresh as they turned the body over.  Raynier could not help contrasting
it in his mind with the scene he had just left hardly more than a
quarter of an hour ago.

"I seem to know the face too," he said, in a puzzled way.  "Who is he,
Kaur Singh?  Do you know?"

"_Ha, Huzoor_.  It is the trading man whom your Highness allowed to
travel on the skirt of your protection when we had been visiting Mushim
Khan."

But the rascal took very good care to say nothing about having turned
him away from the gate that very night.  The man was dead, and therefore
he himself was safe.  But the offender was happily ignorant of the
fateful consequences that rebuff was destined to entail upon his master,
upon others--and, perchance, upon himself.

For what they gazed upon here was but a beginning.  It was the mark of
Murad Afzul.



CHAPTER NINE.

A LEGACY OF VENGEANCE.

The Nawab Mahomed Mushim Khan, commonly known as Mushim Khan, Chief of
the Gularzai, was seated beneath the shade of an apricot tope,
discussing affairs of state with his brother and vizier, Kuhandil Khan.

The hour of prayer was just over, yet here and there a group of belated
worshippers was still engaged in the prescribed ceremonial, bowing down,
low and oft, in the direction of the Holy City, while others were
wending their way towards the gate in the long low mud wall behind which
stood the village.  Here and there, too, knelt camels, in process of
being loaded for a journey, eternally snarling and roaring, as is the
way of those cross-grained, hideous, but essentially useful animals, and
flocks of black goats and of fat-tailed Persian sheep moved lazily off
to their browsing grounds attended by tall, shaggy herdsmen armed with
their long-barrelled, sickle-stocked guns--and accompanied by great
savage dogs, a match for wolf or panther, and far more dangerous than
either to any human being not well armed, who should incur their
hostility.  Even as Raynier had set forth, there was not anything here
of the jewelled gorgeousness and architectural splendour popularly
associated with the conventional Nawab, yet it was Mushim Khan's
principal and favourite place of abode.

It lay in a basin-like hollow.  Overhead and around, a grim array of
chaotic peaks towered to a considerable height--the <DW72>s lined with
cliffs, and strewn with tumbled rocks, representing a vastness of area
which the unaccustomed eye took some time to appreciate.  Through this
valley a small river flowed, having for its outlet a narrow, cliff-hung
pass, which was, in fact, the principal access to the great natural
amphitheatre.

In describing the chief's personal appearance Raynier had not
exaggerated.  Mushim Khan was unquestionably a fine-looking man.  Tall
and straight, his powerful frame was well set off by the flowing
whiteness of his garments, and the symmetrical folds of his snowy turban
made an effective framework to the strong and dignified face.  It was a
finer face than those possessed by most of his countrymen, being
somewhat fuller, and, though regular of feature, yet had not that
hawk-like and predatory expression engendered by the lean and
exaggeratedly aquiline cast of profile of the rest.  His full beard and
the two long tresses hanging low down on either side of his broad chest
were jet black, but in view of the custom of dyeing such his age would
be hard to determine approximately.  His brother, the Sirdar Kuhandil
Khan, was scarcely his inferior in appearance--in fact, there was so
strong a family likeness between them that they might easily have been
mistaken for each other.

"I know not why we should join in this _jihad_," the chief was saying,
"nor do I know who is this Hadji Haroun who is stirring it up.  He comes
from the Orakzai, and he had better return to them in peace."

"That had he," agreed the other.  "And yet, wherever he goes unrest
remains behind him on his path.  It seems that he of Kabul has too many
_mullahs_, and when such become troublesome he sends them forth to stir
up unrest among such as need them not."

"And our people are being inflamed by unrest, brother?"

"Are they not?" answered Kuhandil Khan.  "Murad Afzul is here among them
again, and it seems that he is drawing all men with him."

"Murad Afzul?" and the chief's brows darkened.  "Murad Afzul!  I have a
mind to make an end of that robber.  To what purpose should we allow
such as he to draw us into war with the Feringhi?  And what should come
of such war?  Will our land grow fat beneath it or our people increase?"

"It would not be good to make an end of him at this moment," said the
vizier.  "His following is large and powerful, and our people are ever
turbulent.  For long has he been teaching them to cast eyes upon
Mazaran, whose garrison is weak, and where there is much plunder."

"Then Murad Afzul is chief of the Gularzai," said Mushim Khan, bitterly.
"Well, we shall see, for I will order him to take his possessions and
depart."

"The omen is favourable," said the vizier, lifting his eyes.  "Lo--here
he comes?"

Two men were approaching--one tall and of middle age, the other of
medium height and old.  These drew near and salaamed, yet without the
obsequious servility customary on approaching the presence of the more
despotic Eastern ruler; for these mountain chiefs ruled more by
patriarchal prestige than despotic power.  Mushim Khan gave them peace,
and they seated themselves.

With the taller and younger of the two we are already acquainted.  The
other was lean and wrinkled, with fierce eyes staring restlessly out
from beneath shaggy brows.  He had also a trick of clenching and
unclenching his claw-like fingers as though gripping something, and
this, together with his bony, hawk-like countenance and rolling eyes,
gave him an indescribably cruel, not to say demoniacal, aspect.

"Peace to the chief of the Gularzai," began this man, in a nasal grating
snuffle.  "Peace to him whom the Feringhi hath created a Nawab, for men
say he loves peace."

"And on you peace, who have beheld the tomb of the Prophet," returned
Mushim Khan, in deep tones, for he was not pleased to behold this
stranger, this interfering _mullah_, who stirred up strife whichever way
he went, and was, in fact, engaged in preaching _jihad_ throughout the
mountain tribes.

The _mullah_, Hadji Haroun, was possessed of a very evil gift of
eloquence, evil because invariably turned towards the stirring up of
strife, and the sowing of plot and intrigue.  For long he spoke,
unfolding his plan, the design of which was to involve the Gularzai in
common with other of the mountain tribes in an aggressive war with the
Indian Government.  An insignificant military expedition was then on
foot against an insignificant unit of these, and here was a grand
opportunity to assert themselves, and enjoy some sport in the shape of
the slaughter of infidels, which would be pleasing to Allah at the same
time--and the seizing of considerable loot, which would be pleasing to
themselves.  The opportunity was here.  The Feringhi were unsuspicious
that any hostility could be in existence against them, for had not the
_Sirkar_ just created Mushim Khan a Nawab.  The town of Mazaran simply
lay in the hand of the Gularzai, and could be taken without a blow,
captured by a clever surprise.

What tribe or combination of tribes had ever prevailed in the end when
pitted against the _Sirkar_?  No--not in the end, but which of them was
any the worse?  Soldiers were sent.  There was a fight or two, and peace
was made.  Then things were just as they had been before.  The Gularzai
would soon become as women, and forget what battle was, if they sat
still much longer.

To all of this the chief listened gravely.  He distrusted the speaker,
and wholly disapproved of the plan, for he had already been sounded on
the matter, and that not once.  Murad Afzul spat from time to time,
nodding his evil head in approval as he gloated in anticipation over the
delights in store--of the bazaar in Mazaran running with blood, and the
camel loads of choice loot which should find their way to his mountain
retreat.  Oh, there were merry times ahead.

Yet assuredly disappointment awaited, for Mushim Khan, having heard all
that had been said, absolutely declined to join in the plot.  He had
given the _Sirkar_ assurances of his friendship.  The new Sahib who had
come as representative of the _Sirkar_, had treated him
straightforwardly and as a brother, and he refused to behave towards him
treacherously and as a liar.  Infidel or not, to act thus towards him
would not be pleasing to Allah, nor could it be justified out of the
teaching of His Prophet.

"As a brother?" repeated the crafty _mullah_, now about to throw his
trump card.  "And was not the Sirdar Allahyar Khan a brother of the
Nawab?"

"Surely," answered Mushim Khan, looking slightly puzzled, for he saw no
coherence in the question.

"And his end--peace to his soul?" went on the _mullah_.  "And his end,
what was it?"

"His end was that of a brave man if a mistaken one," replied the chief,
in a deep voice, and frowning, for he disliked and resented the raking
up of this matter.  But Hadji Haroun nodded, looking as though awaiting
further particulars.

"He died fighting the Feringhi, by whom he was shot--and is now in
Paradise," supplemented Kuhandil Khan.

"But if he was not so shot?" pursued the _mullah_, a gleam of triumphant
malice darting from his cruel eyes.

"Then he is alive?"

The words broke simultaneously from the chief and his brother.  But the
_mullah_ dropped his eyes to the ground, and for a moment kept silence.
Then he said,--

"Would that he were.  Would that his end had been that of a soldier.
But it was not.  Ya, Mahomed!  What an end was his!  Wah-wah! what an
end!"

And the crooked, claw-like fingers clenched and unclenched upon empty
air.  Murad Afzul, who had been prepared for this psychological moment,
now rose, and having salaamed, moved away, for it was not fitting that
he should hear the terrible disclosure about to be made to the two
brothers.

"The Sirdar Allahyar Khan was a havildar in one of the regiments serving
under the Feringhi at the time of the great rising?" went on the
_mullah_, in a kind of slow monotone.

"And by them he was shot, by reason of the part he took against them in
the rising," said the chief.  "And, after all, it was what he might
expect, for many of the Feringhi were then slain."

"By them he was not shot, O Chief of the Gularzai whom the Feringhi have
named Nawab," returned the _mullah_.  "By them he was hanged."

"Hanged?" broke from both, in incredulous horror.  "Now that cannot be.
The Feringhi would never put to so shameful a death a man of his
descent."

"Yet he was hanged, O chiefs--hanged in such fashion as is not to be
named--hanged with a portion of swine flesh tied to his body."

Both the listeners had half sprung to their feet, and all unconsciously
had struck a crouching, wild-beast attitude--and in truth their faces
were in keeping.  Their lips had gone back from their teeth and their
eyes were glaring.

"Is this a lie, old man?" gasped Mushim Khan.  "For if it is thou shalt
die.  Yes, thou shalt die the death of the boiling fat unless thou canst
prove its truth, and this wert thou a hundred times a _mullah_ or even
the grandson of the Prophet himself."

But the other did not quail.

"It is no lie.  Ya, Mahomed!  To such a death did they put a Sirdar of
the Gularzai.  Many were so put to death by the Feringhi, they declaring
that such had slain their women and children, having first been lashed,
and so also did Allahyar Khan die.  But before he died there was one who
stood by to whom he whispered his bequest of vengeance, and from that
one at his own death came the knowledge to me.  Read; here is proof."

He drew a soiled, faded parchment from beneath his clothing, and
tendered it to the chief.  It was traced in Pushtu characters, and set
forth how the Sirdar Allahyar Khan, havildar in a regiment recruited
from all the border tribes, having been accused--and falsely--of being
concerned in the murders of women and children, was adjudged to be
hanged as the speaker had described; but the name of the officer in
command who had ordered this savage retribution was somewhat difficult
to decipher.  Watching the two brothers, their heads meeting over the
scroll, their features perfectly convulsed with horror and fury, Hadji
Haroun smiled evilly to himself, though his countenance wore rather a
snarl than a smile.

"The name?" they growled, looking up.  "The name, the name?"

"General Raynier Sahib," answered the _mullah_, fairly quivering with
delight.  "Say now, Chief of the Gularzai.  Is the Sahib yonder at
Mazaran still as thy brother?"

"What has _he_ to do with this?" thundered the chief.

"Ya, Allah!  Observe, O Nawab.  He who is now as the _Sirkar_ at Mazaran
is named Raynier Sahib.  He is the son of the man who thus slew the
brother of the chief of the Gularzai.  Say; is he still as thy brother?"



CHAPTER TEN.

THE SYYED'S TANGI.

"Are you superstitious, Miss Clive?"

"Well, I don't know.  Not more than other people, I suppose."

"That is tantamount to an answer in the affirmative," rejoined Raynier.
"Believer in `luck.'  Observances connected with the new moon--the
finding of a horse-shoe.  Things of that kind."

"Oh no, I'm not," she answered decidedly.

"What?  You would really upset the salt, and omit to throw some over
your shoulder--or walk under a ladder?"

"As to that, I'd make sure there was no one on it with a paint-pot
first."

"That's better.  And you're not afraid of ghosts, eh?"

"Well, I've never seen one," she answered, demurely mischievous.  And
then they both laughed.

It was near sundown--also near the camp.  They were returning from an
afternoon ride, and the rest of the party, Haslam and the Tarletons to
wit, were some way on ahead.  These two were alone together.

This they had frequently been, since accident had thus thrown them
together, and in that brief period of time Raynier had fallen to
wondering more and more what there was about Hilda Clive that already he
had begun to think how he would miss her later on, and how on earth they
could have been shut up together on board a ship all the time they had,
and yet that he should hardly have taken any notice of her.  Now in
their daily intercourse she was so companionable and tactful--and withal
feminine.  She was really attractive too, he thought, not for the first
time, as he looked at her and noticed how well she sat her horse.  As an
actual fact she really had improved in the point of appearance, and that
vastly; for the healthy outdoor life in that high climate had added a
colour to her face which gave it just that amount of softness in which
it had seemed lacking before.

"If you are absolutely sure you are free from superstition," went on
Raynier, "I'd like to show you something that's worth seeing."

"What is it?"

"There's a real thrill of curiosity in that question," he laughed.
"It's a _tangi_--and a haunted one."

"Oh, I must see it.  Where is it, Mr Raynier?"

"Close here.  But before you venture you had better think over the
penalty.  The belief is that whoever enters it meets his death in some
shape or form before the end of the next moon."

"That's creepy, at any rate.  But is the idea borne out by fact?"

"They say it is, without exception.  You would not get any of the people
here to set foot in it on any consideration whatever."

"Then none of them ever set foot in it?"

"I should rather think not."

"Then how do they know what would happen if they did?"

"They know what _has_ happened--at least, they say so.  This is the
place."

They had been riding over a nearly level plain, sparsely grown with
stunted vegetation, and shut in by hills, stony and desolate, breaking
up here and there into a network of chasms.  Under one of these and at
the further edge of the plain was pitched their camp, and from where
they now halted they could distinguish the smoke of the fires rising
straight upward on the still air, could make out the glimmer of a white
tent or two.  Right in front of them reared a mountain side, steep and
lofty, rising in terraced <DW72>s--and, cleaving this there yawned the
entrance of a gigantic rift.

"I'm not surprised they should weave all sorts of superstitions about
such a place as this," said Hilda Clive, as she gazed up, with
admiration not unmixed with awe, at the sheer of the stupendous rock
portals, so regular in their smooth immensity as almost to preclude the
possibility of being the work of Nature unaided.

"Well, now, I've warned you what the penalty is," went on the other.
"Do you still want to go in?"

"Why, you are so solemn over it, Mr Raynier, that anyone would think you
believed in it yourself."

"They could hardly think that, could they, seeing that I've been through
it already."

"Been through it?  Have you really?  How long ago?"

"From end to end.  A couple of days after we came up here."

"But did you know the tradition?"

"Yes.  Haslam told me.  I questioned Mehrab Khan about it, and he is a
firm believer in it.  In fact, all the people are.  That's the reason I
sent him on to the camp now.  I didn't want him to know what we were
going to do, if only that there's nothing to be gained by jumping with
both feet upon other people's prejudices, especially natives'.  And
these might look upon it as a desecration."

"Has Mr Haslam been through it himself?"

Raynier whistled, then laughed.

"Haslam!  Why, he'd about as soon go into it as Mehrab Khan."

"Really, Mr Raynier, I couldn't have believed you people out here were
so superstitious.  You are as bad as the natives themselves.  I suppose
you get it from them."

"`You'?  Count me out, please.  Didn't I just say I'd been through the
place?  I'm doomed anyhow, you see," he added banteringly, "but there's
no reason why you should be.  So now we'll get back to camp."

"No.  I want to go through it too."

"Quite sure you won't feel uncomfortable about it afterwards?" he said.
"You might, you know."

But a strange expression had come over her face, the set, far-away look
of one whose thoughts were not with her words.  In after times that look
came back to him.

"I want to go through it too," she repeated.

"Very well, then--you've been warned."

As they entered the grim portal the sun was just touching the horizon,
but it occurred to neither of them that it might be pitch dark before
they emerged.  At first the slant of the rock walls caused one of these
to overhang, shutting out the sky, but the rift gradually widening, they
could see the brow of these stupendous cliffs, far above against the sky
at a dizzy height.  Unconsciously the tones of both were lowered as they
conversed.

"It isn't healthy taking too long to get through a _tangi_ like this
when there are rain storms going about," Raynier was saying.  "It makes
a most effective waterway for ten, twenty, forty feet of flood.  Ah, I
thought so.  Look."

High over their heads, caught here and there in a crevice of the rock,
was a wisp of withered grass or a few sticks.  There was no mistaking
how these objects had got there, and the awful magnitude of the flood
which at times bellowed through this grisly rift.

"Why is the place supposed to be haunted?" said Hilda Clive.  "You
didn't tell me."

"The usual thing--a curse.  There was a man killed here by the people of
the neighbourhood--not an incident of very great moment in this country,
you would think.  But this one was a great character in the sanctity
line of business--a Syyed or a Hadji, or something of the sort--and so
his ghost appeared and took it out of the neighbourhood, and indeed the
human race in general, by planting a rigid embargo on the place.  And it
was a pretty practical way of taking it out of them too, for they used
this _tangi_ as a thoroughfare--it's scarcely a mile long, you know--
whereas now they've got to go round the mountain instead of through it,
which makes a difference of at least eight."

"It's an eerie place, anyhow," said the girl, looking up a little
awe-stricken at the immensity of the cliff walls.  The sun had gone off
the world now, and a tomb-like twilight prevailed here in the heart of
the mountain.  It was chilling enough to have begotten a whole volume of
grim legends.

"Wonder if the old Syyed's ghost is on hand now," said Raynier, who was
cynically and frankly sceptical in such matters.  "We'll give him the
salaam anyhow."  Then, raising his voice but very slightly, he
exclaimed,--

"Salaam, Syyed!"

What was this?  The whole of the immense vault was roaring and bellowing
with sound.  In waves it rolled, now running along the ground at their
feet, now tossed on high as though escaping into outer air.  "Salaam,
salaam, salaam!" it replied in every conceivable tone and key, then
roared along the cliffs again as in a peal of thunder, the whole
accompanied by a mighty rattling.  The noise was simply appalling.

Raynier, the sceptical, was more than startled.  Not to put too line a
point on it, he was just a little bit scared, though no manifestation of
it escaped him.  The horses of both, too, were backing and snorting,
evincing a degree of terror not at all calculated to soothe the nerves
of their riders.  The suddenness of it all, the booming of the spectral
voices here in the grisly depths, was rather startling.

He looked at his companion somewhat apprehensively, expecting to see her
pale and shaking, perhaps hysterical.  To his surprise she was laughing.
His first thought even then was that this was a form of hysteria.

"Don't you see?" she said.

"Don't you see?  Don't you see?" boomed the vault around.  "Don't you
see?  Don't you see?" shrieked and wailed the heights above.  And then
Raynier felt secretly more than a little ashamed of himself--for he did
see.

As they were talking they had rounded a sudden bend in the defile, and
the salute he had jocosely directed to the dead Syyed--if such a person
had ever existed in fact--had been caught up by a most astounding echo,
which, for no apparent reason, was given forth precisely at that spot.
Still, it was not a little curious that they should have entered within
its scope simultaneously with the utterance of the half-mocking words,
which, mingling with the rattle of the horses' hoofs upon the loose
stones of the _tangi_, had produced the horrible din.

Now it was she who said in a whisper,--

"We had better not talk out loud or these horses will go quite mad.  It
is all I can do to stay on mine as it is."

In fact the animals were in the wildest stage of snorting, trembling
fear, and could hardly be persuaded to proceed at all.  Their shying and
plunging created a rattle which the echo reproduced and magnified as
before.  At length they quieted down.

"We may be through the sphere of the echo," said Raynier, tentatively
raising his voice a little.  And the result showed that they were.

"How is it the same thing did not happen when you came through here
before?" said Hilda Clive, as soon as it became safe to converse again.

"Easily explained.  I left my horse at the entrance and walked.  I
always wear very silent boots, and I had nobody to talk to.  Look, we
are through now, but we sha'n't have much time to admire the view on the
other side because it's rather late, and we ought to get back to camp."

A tower of light now rose in front of them, light only in comparison to
the gloom of the _tangi_.  It was the exit at the other end, similar in
every particular to the entrance.

They stood looking out over a wild wide valley shut in by the same
eternal hills.  From far beneath among the gloomy rifts and sparse
vegetation arose the long-drawn howl of a wolf.

"What a wilderness!" exclaimed the girl.  "Do you know, it's splendid.
I'm so glad I came."

She had turned her eyes full upon his face.  What wonderful eyes they
were, he thought--and they were fascinating too.  How on earth had he
been so long in making the discovery?  He thought, too, how she had been
the one whose nerves had remained entirely unshaken during that very
startling surprise--how she it was--not he--who had at once seen through
its perfectly natural solution, and he felt small accordingly.  But his
admiration for her had strangely increased.

They turned to retrace their way, hardly able to make it out in the
gloom.  They had been descending all the time, and now it took a little
longer, for the floor of the _tangi_ was stony and rough.

"I'm not surprised they have set up a ghost here," said Raynier, when
they had passed the echo point.  "That is one of the most extraordinary
effects I have ever experienced."

"Is it not?" she answered quietly.  "Don't look up just yet--it has
disappeared--but there was the head of someone watching us just over the
ledge a little above you on the right.  There.  Now look."

Raynier could hardly repress a start, as his hand went instinctively to
his pistol pocket nor did he feel any the easier because, by some
inadvertence, it was empty.  Then he looked up.

Right over the way they were to pass was a small ledge, apparently
inaccessible to mortal foot, or incapable of sustaining a single human
being could such attain to it.  Yet, there was the head again--huge,
shaggy, menacing--staring down upon them in the gloom.  Then it again
disappeared.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CONCERNING THE OCCULT.

"How would it be to move camp to-morrow?"  Tarleton was saying.  "We've
been here long enough, and there's nothing to shoot, or next to nothing.
What do you think, Raynier?"

"No great hurry, is there?  It's breezy and picturesque here, and has
its advantages.  What do _you_ think, Haslam?"

"I'm with Tarleton," said the Forest Officer.  "All our fellows are
grumbling.  They say it's an unlucky place."

It was the evening after the somewhat eventful ride just recorded, and
they were all assembled within the large tent which was used as a common
dining-room.  Dinner was over and cheroots were being discussed.

"Yes.  My Babu was telling me something of the kind only to-day,"
rejoined Raynier, tranquilly.  "By the way, Haslam, how is it all this
while we've never been through that _tangi_?  You know, the one you were
telling me the yarn about?"

Haslam stared.

"Well, you know, old chap--I--I told you the yarn, didn't I?  Well, that
explains it."

"But you don't really mean to say you believe in such arrant
tomfoolery?"

"I don't know about believing in it.  But--well, it's best to be on the
safe side."

"Goodness gracious, I should think so," struck in Mrs Tarleton.  "Why, I
wouldn't go into that place if anyone were to offer me a million
pounds."

"Well, I wish they'd offer it to me, that's all," said Raynier.  "For I
mean to go through it to-morrow, gratis.  Who'll volunteer?  What do you
say, Miss Clive?"

"I'll go, with pleasure," was the answer.

It will be seen that these two had kept their former experience to
themselves, and this they had done by mutual agreement, mainly to get
some fun out of the rest of the party, and it was to this object Raynier
was now leading up.  The head which both had seen watching them they had
since accounted for by optical delusion, even as the startling sounds
had been accounted for by perfectly natural causes.

Mrs Tarleton gave a cry of genuine consternation.

"Hilda, you must not go," she implored.  "Oh, Mr Raynier, don't take
her--if only as a favour to me."

"But I'm not in the least superstitious, Mrs Tarleton," said the girl,
looking up from the work she was engaged upon.  "In fact, I like to
demonstrate the absurdity of these childish beliefs.  Why, I can hardly
count the number of times I've got up first of thirteen from table."

"Well, there must be something in these ideas, I suppose, or else they
wouldn't be so universally accepted," cut in Tarleton.

"No?  Then of course the world has only lately become round, seeing that
for ages it was `universally accepted' as flat," said Raynier.

"Ah, but that's quite a different thing."

Then Haslam told a weird and wonderful story or two illustrating the
strange power of native prophecy, which interested Hilda, and Tarleton
would cap such with the coincidence type of anecdote, such as the first
of thirteen at table--and at these she laughed.

"None of those instances come anywhere near carrying conviction," she
said.  "Now, remember.  In good time I will supply you with just such an
instance to the contrary.  No; I won't tell you anything about it now.
But you'll see at the right time."

"I believe Miss Clive means to go into the _tangi_," said Haslam.

"No, I don't," Hilda answered.  "I won't go into it now.  I don't want
to frighten all you poor creatures."

They laughed, rather weakly it must be owned--all but Raynier, that is,
for he was in the know, and was enjoying the situation immensely.  How
well she looked when she was animated and her face lighted up like
that--was what he was thinking as he sat watching her.  Somebody touched
on the subject of clairvoyance.  In a moment Hilda's manner changed.
She became grave, almost earnest.

"Hullo!" cried Tarleton.  "We've got hold of something at last that Miss
Clive does believe in."

"To a certain extent, yes."

"I remember going to a _seance_ once," said Mrs Tarleton.  "There was a
dreadful woman going into trances, and pointing out people's dead
relations standing behind their chairs.  She described them, and all
sorts of things.  It made me feel quite creepy."

"Yes, but how many times was she wide of the mark for every time she
made a good shot?" said Raynier.

"Hardly once.  It is quite wonderful."

"There's nothing in that sort of clairvoyance; it's sheer quackery,"
said Hilda, speaking in a decisive, authoritative tone that astonished
her hearers.

"I should think so," said Raynier.  "Whatever may be the state or
locality of the dead, it is not to be supposed that they would be
empowered, or would even wish, to appear in London, to enable a cad in a
second-hand dress-suit to take up so much a head in gate money, nor a
female fraud either, for the matter of that."

"Well, but I don't see why they shouldn't," cut in Tarleton,
characteristically.

"No!  It doesn't strike you as improbable?" said Hilda, with a pitying
look.

"Why should they be quacks?" persisted Tarleton.  "Why shouldn't there
be anything in what they do?"

"I don't know why there shouldn't be, I only know there isn't," she
replied.  "Why, the gift--for clairvoyance is a gift--is so rare that it
is hardly surprising its very existence is disbelieved in.  I know it--
at least, I mean--er--anybody can reason out the matter for themselves."

The concluding words were lame and stammering, and the change from the
firmness and decision of tone which had marked her utterances hitherto,
as though she had suddenly found herself out in saying too much, could
not but strike her hearers as strange, to say the least of it.  To
Raynier it suggested a new idea, which indeed came to him with a sort of
mental start.  But he came to the rescue.

"Its existence is undoubted, though as rare as Miss Clive says.  Why,
that feeling that comes to us sometimes of having done or said some
given thing before, or found ourselves in some given place, is a sort of
an approach to the art, or gift, or whatever you like to call it."

"Oh, I don't know what that is," said Mrs Tarleton.  "Thank goodness
that sort of thing doesn't come my way.  But we've been talking about
creepy things all the evening.  I'm sure I shall dream.  Ugh!" with a
shiver.  "What is it like outside?"

It was time to separate for the night, but they lingered a while
chatting in front of the tent.  There was a very wildness of desolation
in this sudden transition from light to darkness.  All within the camp
was silent, and away beyond, the loom of the hills was just discernible,
black against the stars.  The ghostly cry of a night bird echoed from
the craggy height which overhung the camp, and far away over the plain a
most weird and melancholy howling was borne upon the night wind.

"That's a wolf--or wolves," said Haslam, his _shikari_ instincts
metaphorically pricking up his ears.  "Aren't you afraid, Miss Clive?
There's nothing between you and them but a strip of canvas, all night
through."

Hilda laughed.

"Afraid?" she repeated.  "Why, this is positively delightful.  It is
such a contrast.  Inside the tents--why, we might be in Mazaran, or even
in London.  Outside--the very ideal of savage wildness.  Afraid?  Why,
I'm positively revelling in it.  I like to hear that.  Hark!  There it
is again.  I'd like to see those wolves close--to watch them prowling
for prey and doubling back and signalling to each other--if only I could
get near enough to observe them without scaring them."

"My goodness, child!  Why, they'd eat you," said Mrs Tarleton.

"Not they."  And Hilda laughed again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I say, old chap," said Haslam, later, as Raynier lounged into his tent
for another "peg" and a final smoke, "that's a strange sort of girl the
Tarletons have picked up.  Who is she?  Do you know?"

"No more than you do."

"Well, there's something dashed uncanny about her.  The way she talks--
there's something sort of creepy about it.  Eh?  And did you ever see
such eyes as she's got?  Eh?"

"N-no, I don't think I ever did," answered Raynier, slowly and between
puffs, but in no wise with the same meaning as Haslam had in his mind.

"I say, she'd make a rum sort of a wife for most fellows, with those rum
uncanny ideas of hers.  Eh?"  And then the speaker stopped rather short,
remembering, all of a sudden, that Raynier and the object of his remarks
had been getting a bit thick of late.  But, then, Raynier was rather a
queer chap himself, he reflected.  Anyway, he felt a trifle embarrassed,
as though he had been putting his foot in it.

"I daresay," answered Raynier, equably.  "`Most fellows' are like shot--
assorted into sizes, and might safely be numbered in the same way."  At
bottom, however, the remark jarred upon him, and set him wondering for
the fiftieth time what insidious fascination the strange personality of
Hilda Clive was beginning to set up within his innermost being, and that
such was the case he was only beginning to admit, hugging to himself the
very secrecy of the thought, and the subtle stimulus it afforded.  Yet,
what did it all mean?  He was not in love with Hilda Clive, but some
strange fascination radiated from her.  It might be uncanny--as Haslam
had said--yet he liked it--nor would he have bartered it for the artless
advances of conventional attractions, and of such he was not without
experience, for natural and unassuming as he constitutionally was, the
Political Agent of Mazaran, on the right side of forty, was something of
a _parti_, by reason of his position and its emoluments; and when, added
to this, he who filled the one and enjoyed the other was in the prime of
physical health and strength, why, then, so much the more eligible did
that _parti_ become.

Haslam the while had turned in, and was yawning profusely--in fact,
could hardly give a coherent answer to any question or remark, wherefore
Raynier adjourned to his own tent.  But not the slightest inclination
was on him to follow Haslam's example.  He felt extraordinarily wide
awake, wherefore he got out a camp-chair, and, having extinguished the
lamp within his tent, lit another cheroot and sat there to enjoy the
beauty of the night and think.

It was very still.  What little wind there had been had dropped
completely.  A glow had begun to suffuse the velvety darkness of the
star-gemmed sky, and, widening, the black loom of a rocky ridge away
beyond the plain became clearly defined, then a rim of fire, and lo!--a
broad moon soared majestically upward.

It was beautiful.  The white tents lay like blocks of marble in its
light, which silvered over the plain and the scant foliage of a few
scattered junipers.  The crunch, crunch of ruminating camels, and the
stamp and snort of a horse, alone broke the stillness, save for the
long-drawn howl still heard from time to time over the wilderness afar,
where wolves prowled.  Dark peaks, in softened outline, stood clear
against the sky.

His thoughts ran back to the time of his furlough, to England and what
had transpired there.  Again and again he congratulated himself that he
was free from that bond; how on earth he could ever have entered into it
seemed more incomprehensible than ever.  And what a long while ago it
seemed, and--

What was this?  A figure moving in the moonlight, a figure clothed in
white draperies.  In a brief flash the solution of a midnight marauder--
the first of others--occurred to him, and his hand went to his pistol
pocket--this time not empty.  But he quickly withdrew it.  For as the
figure glided swiftly among the tents he knew it--knew it for that of
Hilda Clive.

Heavens!  What was she doing, what was she bent upon, just as she had
risen from bed like this?  She was walking, erect and rather swiftly,
and now in a straight line; stepping forward, looking neither to the
right nor to the left, yet there was something about the gait that was
not usual, a something as though she was walking unconsciously.  And--
she had left the tents behind her now, and was walking swiftly and
straight for the open country.  He gazed for a moment, dumbfounded,
after the receding form, then, rising, started to follow.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A STRANGE MIDNIGHT RAMBLE.

She was walking in her sleep.

This was the conclusion Raynier instinctively arrived at as he followed
stealthily and noiselessly behind; and to his mind the problem occurred
as to what he had better do.  He had always been under the impression
that to awaken a person under such circumstances was likely to produce
an alarming, if not rather a disastrous, shock.  But what on earth was
to be done?  She could not be suffered to walk on like this, Heaven knew
where.  Should he go back and rouse up Tarleton?  But at the pace she
was going she would be away and out of sight by the time he had hammered
into the understanding of that contentious idiot the urgency of the
situation, and this was no sort of country for any woman to go wandering
about in at night.  There were wolves around, too, for had they not been
making themselves heard? and however chary such were of letting
themselves be seen if anyone were anxious to get the sights of a rifle
upon them, a solitary woman was a different story--and he was cognisant,
moreover, of the fact that even the most skulking of wild animals are,
strangely enough, far less afraid of the female of the human species.
No, he must follow on after her, and that at once.

But where on earth was she going to lead him?  On, on, she pressed,
walking swiftly, and although the ground itself was, in places, none of
the smoothest, yet, while not seeming to notice the way, she sped over
it almost quicker than he did, looking carefully where he was going.  It
was a weird sort of undertaking.  He could see in the moonlight her
splendid hair streaming like a mantle about her shoulders, and noted the
grace and ease with which she walked.  On--ever.  They were nearing the
edge of the plain--and lo!--there in front of them rose the mountain
which was cleft by the great _tangi_--the haunted _tangi_, equally
feared seemingly by the enlightened and highly-educated Europeans who
were his fellow-travellers as by the superstitious natives of the land.

Straight for this the unconscious pedestrian was heading.  What strange
influence was drawing her thither, thought he who followed: and for the
first time something of the superstitious shrinking which caused them to
shun the place began to creep over him.  He glanced over his shoulder
with some faint hope that others might have discovered the girl's
absence and be following, but no.  All was dead and silent.  Nothing
moved in the silvery moonlight.

And now in front rose the great rock portal--and on, ever on, kept the
white and gliding figure before him.  He saw it stand forth whiter than
ever against the gloom of the entrance, then disappear, swallowed within
the cavernous blackness of the great chasm.

Would the sudden change both of light and atmosphere awaken her?  Would
she come rushing forth wild with terror, instinctively making for the
light?  For a moment he waited in case this should be so--then plunged
within the darkness of the place.

Raynier felt that here her wandering would end.  Some strange
psychological wave, acting with their experience of the day before,
stimulated by the subject of their conversation that evening, had moved
her to rise in her sleep and come hither.  But to what end?  There was
something uncanny about her, Haslam had remarked, but Raynier was
conscious of a very lively sense of thankfulness that he had been awake,
and thus ready to follow and watch over her on this eerie and far from
safe adventure upon which she had all unconsciously embarked.

The light from without hardly penetrating here, Raynier found himself
slipping and stumbling in the gloom, yet, with it all, his quick ears
could hear the footsteps in front moving easily and firmly without trip
or stumble.  It was marvellous--nor did the noise he made on the
rattling stones seem in any way to disturb her whom he followed.

Now it grew light again in front.  The white figure had reached the
point where the rock walls widened out, and--had halted.  The moon,
immediately overhead now, darted down its light right into the chasm.
Should he go forward and gently awaken her, if indeed she were not
already awake?  Surely she must be, for now she turned slowly round and
faced him.  He could see her great eyes, wide open and stamped with a
wondering look; then, as he was about to advance and address her, she
turned again and moved slowly onward.

And then a sound struck upon Raynier's ears which caused every drop of
blood within him to freeze, and well it might, for well he knew that
sawing, grating cough drawing nearer.  A panther was coming up the
_tangi_.  Heavens, and the girl was between it and him.

Then the brute appeared--and with it a cub.  Raynier knew with what
deadly peril the situation was now fraught, for a revolver, save in the
hand of a thorough expert, is an uncertain weapon, especially in an
indifferent light.  At sight of them the brute stopped, then crouched,
uttering a hideous, purring snarl.  In that second of time the scene was
photographed upon his mind; the ghostly moonlight glinting down between
the great rock walls, the spotted, sinuous shape of the savage beast,
every muscle quivering as it crouched there ready for its spring, its
tail softly waving to and fro, and the white gliding figure advancing
straight upon it; straight upon destruction in the most horrible of
forms.  Yes, in a flash the whole scene was before him as, pointing the
pistol past her, he steadied his nerves to take the best possible aim.

But--what was this?  Instead of edging forward preparatory to making its
fatal rush, as he had often seen a cat do when stealing upon a bird or
mouse, the brute was stealthily backing.  Was it fear of the strange
sight that was actuating the beast?  Was there indeed some latent
magnetic force about those wide open eyes?  For the gliding white figure
advanced unwaveringly, and as it did so the crouching brute shrank back
more and more--now in unmistakable alarm.  Then suddenly snatching up
its cub in its mouth, it turned and bounded away beyond the elbow of
rock wall round which it had first appeared.

Every nerve in the spectator's being thrilled to the revulsion produced
by this sudden removal of the awful tension of those few moments.  At
all risks he must awaken her and take her back to the camp.  But as he
advanced to do this, she halted again, turned round, passed a hand over
her brow and face, looked upward at the great cliffs, then down again at
him.  Then she spoke,--

"So we are here together again."

That was all.  Her tone was even, placid, and evinced no astonishment
whatever, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to get
up in the middle of the night, and take a moonlight stroll away over a
particularly wild, and, as the recent incident showed, somewhat
dangerous country, or to wake to consciousness in the heart of a vast
rock chasm of awe-inspiring and savage grandeur and enjoying an eerie
reputation.  To her listener this was well-nigh the most astounding part
of the whole adventure.  Was she conscious? was his first thought.

Again she passed a hand over her brow, and her great eyes rested calmly
upon his face.

"Now I remember," she said, in the same even tones.  "Something
threatened me--there, just now," looking toward the spot where the
panther had crouched.  "It was an animal--a panther.  But--it went," she
added, with a slight smile.

"That it certainly did," rejoined Raynier, "and thank Heaven it did.  Do
you know that that was about the tightest situation I have ever heard or
read of--a panther with a cub--with a cub, mind, for in that lay nearly
the whole of the peril--coming along this narrow tube where there's no
possible means of getting out of its way--and you walking straight into
its jaws.  And this, under the circumstances, is a precious unreliable
weapon," showing the revolver he still held in his hand.  "You or both
of us might have been horribly mauled before it even began to take
effect."

"So we might.  But I had a better plan with it, don't you think so?
Anyhow, the thing got in my way, and--it had to get out of it."

The same cool tone, the same confident, but rather captivating smile.
Two subjects of wonderment were at that moment crowding Herbert
Raynier's mind to the exclusion of all others.  What was there about
this girl--what magnetic compelling power had enabled her, by the sheer,
unflinching fearlessness of her presence, to put to flight what, under
the circumstances--the narrowness of the place to wit, the suddenness of
the encounter, and, above all, the cub--was one of the most dangerous
and formidable of wild beasts?  This was one.  The other was, how on
earth he could ever have passed her by as being without attractiveness,
and that not once, but day after day.  Here, standing before him in the
moonlight, looking tall in her loose white wrapper--for her strange
excursion had not been so impromptu as he at first supposed--her
splendid hair flowing in masses over her shoulders, her great eyes
smiling upon him with something of the compelling force which had given
her power over the brute, he decided that she was scarcely, if anything,
short of beautiful.  And then the somewhat uncommon circumstances of
this interview came back upon him.

"What made you come here?" he said, the lameness of the remark striking
him even while he uttered the words.

"The very question I was going to ask you."

"Well, the answer to that should be obvious," he said.  "I saw you start
out, and thought you were walking in your sleep--and I need hardly
remind you that this is not an over-safe part of the world for that kind
of exercise."

"And you came to take care of me?  That was very sweet of you."

"If I had gone back to wake up Tarleton, you might have got to Heaven
knows where by the time he was under way," went on Raynier, conscious
that her tone and manner had become insidiously alluring.  Was he going
to drift into the common idiocy? he thought, with something of dismay.
"You might have altered your course and got right away from us.  Then,
when I did come up with you I didn't like to wake you, because I thought
it might give you a shock of sorts."

"But I was not asleep--at least, I don't think I was."

Raynier stared.

"Not asleep?  But you won't mind my saying that that is--er--rather an
unusual kind of walking attire."

She laughed, glancing at her wrapper.

"Isn't it?  The fact is I hadn't gone to bed yet I was sitting reading
in the tent, and some impulse moved me to come to this place again--I
can't explain it, but it was there.  Yet, I must have been asleep at
times, when I walked.  But I was half conscious, too, that you were near
to me."

"Well, you did not seem surprised when you woke up, so to say, and found
I was."

"No.  And in a way it was a waking-up.  I can't explain it--unless it
was a kind of sleeping consciousness."

"What a strange girl you are, Miss Clive.  Somehow I can't make you out
at all."

"No?  And yet you wish you could.  Am I right?"

The smile she flashed at him was inexpressibly winning and sweet.
Raynier recalled Haslam's dictum.  Something uncanny about her, he had
said--something sort of creepy.  Well, there might be from the point of
view of some, even of most.  But what would have repelled most men
appealed to him, and the proof of it was that he was conscious of no
inclination to terminate this interview--rather the reverse.  Still, it
had to be done.

"We ought to return to the camp, I think," he said, in the same
unconcerned tone as though suggesting a return from an ordinary walk or
ride.  And she acquiesced.

"I want you to promise me something," Raynier said, rather earnestly,
and perhaps a little tenderly, as they wended their way back over the
moon-lit wildness of the plain, and the tents of the sleeping camp were
quite near, "and that is not to repeat to-night's adventure.  It's
anything but safe.  And if the same impulse comes over you, you must
combat it."

"I'll almost promise that.  Do you know, you are awfully unlike other
men.  For instance, all this time you have scarcely given a single
thought to the awkwardness of this situation.  Most men would have been
fidgety and thinking what everyone would say, and so on."

He laughed.

"Magician as you are, that is not difficult to divine," he said.  "What
I want to get at is, how do you know I have not?"

"There's no magic in knowing that.  It is almost like setting yourself
out to prove a negative.  I can see--by the absence of all signs of it.
Shall I tell you why that strange place has a fascination for me?
Something warns me there will come a day when our knowledge of it will
make all the difference between life and death.  There--the thought has
gone, nor can I pick up the thread of it.  It has left me."

That same movement of the hand as though clearing away an invisible mist
from before her eyes.  Upon her face, earnest and serious in the
moonlight, there rested that same look which he had seen there when they
were discussing clairvoyance and things occult, during the evening, and
he felt just a little awed.  Did she really possess the gift of seeing
into the future?

"Good-night now, and get a good rest," he said in a low tone and
somewhat concernedly, as they regained the tents.  And with a bright nod
she disappeared within hers.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

OF THE DAK--AND MEHRAB KHAN.

"Halloa, Raynier.  I see the _dak_ coming," cried Haslam, putting his
head into the tent where the other was sitting, going over some official
papers with his Babu; for, even though this was a sort of holiday trip,
there were things to be attended to, and every day a Levy Sowar rode
into and out from Mazaran, a distance of about forty miles.  To the rest
of the party this daily post was a daily event.  They got English mail
letters--or news from the outside world.  Haslam, for instance, whose
family was away in England, was wont to wax excited over the event.  But
to Raynier it was more of a nuisance than otherwise.  It brought him
official correspondence, but as for English letters he never got any,
and did not want any.  So Haslam's announcement failed to awaken any
interest within him.

A little later there entered a chuprassi bearing a leather bag.  This
Raynier unlocked, and proceeded to extract the contents by the simple
process of turning it upside down.  The usual official matter--but--what
was this?  An English mail letter?

There it lay amid the heap of long envelopes, and even before he took it
up a frown came over Raynier's face, for it was directed in the
handwriting of Cynthia Daintree.

What on earth could she have to write to him about?  The envelope had
been re-directed on from Baghnagar, so she was evidently ignorant of his
transfer and promotion.  He sat staring at the envelope, and the frown
deepened.  He felt in no hurry to explore its contents, for his
instincts warned him that they would certainly prove unpleasant,
possibly mischievous.  Well, it had to be done.

The letter was long and closely written, and a feeling of weariness and
repulsion came over him at the anticipation of having to wade through
all this.  And--it began affectionately.

But before he had read far the mystified expression upon his face became
one of blank astonishment and dismay.

"Great Scott!  The woman must be mad," he ejaculated, bringing his hand
down upon the table; all of which afforded huge if secret delight to the
Babu, whose keen native scent for an intrigue had led him to put two and
two together--the receipt of the letter in a feminine hand, and the
bewilderment and disgust evoked thereby in his master.

Good cause indeed had the latter for both.  For the writer, after
referring to their quarrel, lightly, daintily and in a prettily
repentant way, proceeded to set forth that an excellent opportunity to
join him having now occurred in the shape of some friends who were
returning to India, she was coming out immediately--would, in fact,
already have sailed by the time he received this letter, and that they
could be married at Bombay when she landed, or from her friends' house
at Poonah.  Then there was a good deal that was very high sounding and
gracious about turning over a new leaf and learning to understand each
other better and so forth, with a deft rounding off of affection to
close the missive effectively and clinchingly.  No wonder he was dazed.

"You can go now, Babu," he said.

The Bengali rose and salaamed.  There was going to be some fun now about
some mem-sahib, he was thinking to himself with an inward chuckle, for
he had seen that kind of thing before.

Raynier sat there thinking, and thinking hard.  What on earth was the
meaning of it all?  He went over in his own mind that parting scene.
There was no sort of ambiguity about it, he decided; no loophole or
possibility of doubt that it was absolute and final.  He recalled her
own words, "Very well, then.  It is your doing, your choice, remember."
There was no sort of reserve, no double meaning there, even if her
silence ever since had not shown that she had considered her
acquiescence final.  And now she wrote coolly announcing her intention
of coming out, and marrying him straight off hand.  Marrying him!

It is possible that never until that moment had he so completely
realised the intense feeling of emancipation which had been with him day
and night since the breaking off of that most mistaken understanding.
Of late, too, it had been stronger still upon him, yet now it was the
strongest of all.

The thing was preposterous--in fact, preposterous was hardly the word
for it.  But what was to be done?  To suffer himself to be led as a
sheep to the slaughter was simply and entirely out of the question.  But
the unpleasantness of it all, the scandal it would create, the
ridiculous and even scurvy position in which it would place himself--
why, it was intolerable!

He scanned the letter.  Even as she had said, she was well on her way
now.  It was absolutely too late to cable and stop her--even if he knew
where, for he did not fail to notice that so important a little detail
as the name of the ship, or even of the Line, was deftly omitted.  How
then could he meet her?  Easily enough.  She would cable him from Aden
as to the time of her arrival, she had said.  And Aden was the last port
of call.

For all that he would cable on the off-chance of being in time to stop
her.  Such messages were expensive, and he had an idea that it would in
this case prove a sheer waste of money.  Ha!  That was it.  He would
send the message to the Vicar direct.  He of course would know the ship
Cynthia was on board of, and would send after her to the first port of
call, and thus avoid humiliation for herself and all concerned.  He got
out telegraph forms, and rapidly, though carefully, indited a couple of
messages.  Then he lifted up his voice,--

"_Koi hai_!"

There entered a chuprassi.

"Take those at once, and tell Mehrab Khan he is to send them in to
Mazaran, now, immediately.  Let him pick out the man with the best
horse, and tell that man to _ride_ it.  You hear?"

"_Ha, Huzoor_."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

To another in the camp the post had seemingly brought tidings of moment.
Hilda Clive, in the seclusion of her tent, was scrutinising her
correspondence with anything but indifference.  Several envelopes were
opened, their contents just glanced at, and thrown down.  Then a quick,
eager look came into her face as she drew one sheet from its cover, and
settled herself to read.  As she read on the look of interest deepened,
and a very soft, velvety glow rendered her eyes dangerously fascinating
and winning had any been there to see them.

"Just as I have thought," she said to herself, as she came to the end of
the communication.

"Now it will all come right.  And yet--and yet--do things ever come
right?  Well, this shall--yes, it shall."  And the smile that parted her
lips and the light in her eyes rendered her face positively radiant, as
she rose, and with extra care locked away the correspondence she had
just been perusing with such happy effect.  And ten minutes later
Raynier's bearer was notifying him, with profuse apologies for presuming
to intrude upon the notice of the great, that the Miss Sahib was
waiting, and ready to start upon the ride they were to take together.

Hilda Clives spirits were simply bubbling over, for she had just
discovered something she had set herself to find out, and the result was
in every way satisfactory.  But they had not been long on the road
before she discovered something else--viz, that her escort, usually so
equable, and full of ideas and conversation, was to-day not himself.  He
would give random answers, and his thoughts seemed to be running on
something entirely outside; in short, it took no more than a couple of
searchingly furtive glances to convince her that he had something on his
mind.

Their objective was the village of a sirdar of the Gularzai, and their
way lay through ten miles mostly of craggy mountain, all tumbled and
chaotic--shooting upward in a sea of jagged peaks.  The path by which
they threaded the labyrinthine passes was in places none too safe,
frequently overhanging, as it did, the boulder-strewn bed of a mountain
torrent, now nearly dry.  All of this Hilda Clive thoroughly enjoyed,
although she had to dismount while Mehrab Khan led her horse.  This
Mehrab Khan was jemadar of the Levy Sowars, and wore a sort of khaki
uniform and a blue turban and _kulla_.  For the rest, he was a very
smart and intelligent man, and by nationality was a Baluchi of the Dumki
tribe.  By some intuition Raynier had at once singled him out as one to
be trusted.  He liked to have him in attendance on such expeditions as
the present one, and would talk with him for hours at a time, and of
this preference the man was intensely proud.

As they emerged from the mountain passes upon the more open country,
they approached a camp of four or five shaggy herdsmen, who would hardly
give the salaam, but scowled evilly at them, leaning on their queer long
guns with sickle-shaped stocks.  Hardly had they gone by than there was
a rush of two great dogs--guardians of the flocks pasturing along the
mountain side.  Open-mouthed, with one ferocious bay, they came straight
for Hilda, who was riding on that side.  In a moment she would have been
dragged from her horse, for Raynier's steed had taken fright, and it was
all he could do to keep the idiotic beast from incontinently bolting,
let alone come to her assistance.  But Mehrab Khan, who was behind,
spurred alongside of her, and with a lightning-like sweep of his tulwar
cut down the foremost beast, nearly severing it in half.

The other sheered off, growling.  But a savage, vengeful shout behind
told of a new danger.  The herdsmen they had just passed came running
up, and it could be seen that two or three of them had drawn their
swords.

"Stay, brothers," called out Mehrab Khan.  "Stay.  It is the _Sirkar_."

Would they stop?  It was little enough these wild mountaineers cared for
the _Sirkar_.  The situation was critical.  There were five of these
fierce, fanatical savages, fired with hate for the infidel intruder,
burning with a desire for revenge upon the destroyers of their property.
Raynier had got in front of Hilda Clive, whispering hurriedly to her on
no account to move, while Mehrab Khan and the other Levy Sowar, with
their rifles ready, faced the oncomers.

The latter, not liking the look of things, slackened their speed and
came to a halt, spitting curses.

"Why do they keep savage animals to rush out at people?"  Raynier asked,
for, though he could talk Pushtu fairly well, he chose to put it through
Mehrab Khan.  "Dogs of that kind are more dangerous than a pack of
wolves."

The men answered scowlingly that they were kept to protect the flocks,
and that dogs were of no use at all for such a purpose unless they were
fierce.  Besides, they were not accustomed to strangers in a strange
dress.

"There's something in that," said Raynier.

"Would not the Huzoor pay for the property he had destroyed?" the
spokesman asked.  "Such a dog as that was valuable."

Raynier replied that he would, but they must send or come to the camp to
receive it, as he did not carry money about with him.  Then a bargain
was struck, allowing a trifle over for their trouble in travelling that
distance, and with a surly salaam, the herdsmen withdrew.

"Of course I might have refused to pay a single pice," Raynier said, as
he explained to the girl what had transpired.  "But it is not sound
policy invariably to stand stiffly on one's rights, and it's better to
pay a few rupees than make enemies of these people.  Besides, poor
devils, it is a loss to them."

Hilda agreed, only insisting that, as the liability was incurred in her
defence, she ought to be allowed to discharge it--a proposal which was
laughed to scorn.

"You see, now, what might have happened during that little moonlight
stroll of yours," Raynier went on.  "And I don't think you'd find these
brutes so ready to turn tail as that panther was.  By the way, I daresay
you'd rather turn back now?"

"Of course not.  Why?"

"Only that you must have seen enough of the interesting Gularzai at
close quarters for one day."

"Then I haven't," she answered gaily.  "I wouldn't give up this visit to
a real native magnate for the world."

"It was well done, Mehrab Khan," said Raynier, in Pushtu.  "Thy stroke
was a worthy one, strong and swift."

And the Baluchi, proud and pleased, murmured his thanks.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A VISIT--AND ITS SEQUEL.

Sarbaland Khan's village was similar in every particular to that of the
greater potentate which we have already seen.  Many eyes were watching
the approach of the party of four from the loop-holed mud walls, and the
glances directed at them as they entered the central courtyard, if not
uniformly expressive of good will, were visibly so of curiosity.  For
these wild beings, to whom raids and forays and blood feuds were as the
very salt of existence, now beheld a strange sight--that of a man and a
woman--Feringhi infidels--with no other protection than a couple of Levy
Sowars, entering their village, quietly, fearlessly, unconcernedly, as
though in their own town at Mazaran, and the man was of importance, for
he represented the _Sirkar_ at Mazaran; yet here he walked alone into
their midst, and to all appearances unarmed.  Ya, Allah! but these
Feringhi were a mad race--mad and incomprehensible.  So pondered these
wild mountaineers, salaaming gravely, as they peered at the strangers
from beneath their shaggy brows.

The chief received them courteously, inviting them at once into his
house.  Sarbaland Khan was a tall man with a fine presence and dignified
manner, and was clad in snowy white from head to foot.  But the
appointments of his dwelling were plain in the extreme--the only
ornaments being a curious lamp or two, and a beautifully decorated
sword, which last, together with a couple of good magazine rifles, hung
on the wall.  Three or four of his relatives helped to entertain them,
and Hilda Clive was vastly impressed with their natural dignity--indeed,
she could hardly believe they were of the same race as the shaggy,
scowling savages who had so lately threatened them.  Tea was brought in,
served after the Russian method, and preserved fruits, and then she
asked if she could visit the chief's wives.

"I can do more than even you can, you see, Mr Raynier," she said gaily,
as permission having been given, she rose to follow the veiled figure
who was summoned to guide her.  "So now for the mysteries of the harem."

Raynier's talk with the chief was purely non-official, this being a
merely friendly visit.  He was asked about his predecessor, whom these
people seemed to have held in some estimation--and then they talked
about _shikar_.  There were plenty of markhor in the mountains around
his village, declared Sarbaland Khan, and if Raynier Sahib would like to
come and stalk some, he would certainly find some sport.  Then he sent
for some fine heads that had been recently shot to show his guest, and
presently these two, the up-to-date Englishman and the mountain
chieftain, having got upon this one grand topic in common, set to
discussing this branch of sport as animatedly as though fellow-members
of an English house party.  In the midst of which discussion Hilda Clive
returned.

So strange are the writings in the book of Fate.  At that very moment a
horseman was spurring--his objective the village of Sarbaland Khan.  No
great time would it take him to reach it either, and did he do so with
the message he bore while this friendly conversation was in progress,
why, then, Herbert Raynier would never leave Sarbaland Khan's village
alive.

Yet now they took leave of each other with great cordiality--Raynier
expressing the hope of welcoming the Sirdar at the _jirga_, or assembly
of all the chief's and maliks, to be held shortly at Mazaran; and so
they fared forth.

"You have given me a most delightfully interesting experience, Mr
Raynier," said Hilda Clive, as they rode campward.  "And I admire the
chief's taste.  Two of his wives were very pretty, indeed, one quite
beautiful."

"How many has he got?"

"Only three.  I expected he would have had about thirty."

Raynier laughed.

"They're only allowed four apiece by the Koran," he said.  "But I
believe they find ways of driving a coach-and-six through that
enactment.  Fine fellow Sarbaland Khan, isn't he?"

"Very.  Why, he's a perfect gentleman.  Really he's quite a
splendid-looking man."

"Many of these people answer to that description, that's why they are so
interesting.  Tarleton describes them as `<DW65>s.'  But then the
British are first-rate at misnomers."

"I should think so.  But how well you talk to them, Mr Raynier.  Is it a
difficult language to learn.  Anything like Hindustani, for instance?"

"No.  There's a lot of Persian in it.  I went in for learning Pushtu
some years ago, thinking it might come in useful--and it has.  By the
way, a strange thing happened in London not long before I came back.  I
can't help thinking that the man belonged to one of these tribes--but I
never saw him again, nor yet the stick I armed him with."

Then he proceeded to tell her about the incident of the Oriental in the
crowd on Mafeking night, and the part he and others had borne in his
rescue.  Hilda listened, keenly interested.

"And you never got back the stick?" she said.

"No, never.  I was going to say--worse luck--but it wasn't.  On the
contrary, it was the only `lucky' part of the whole business."

The dry, satirical tone did not escape his listener's abnormally acute
perceptions.  But the recollection seemed to revive the abstraction of
thought which had characterised him when they had first set out, and
which the incidents of their expedition had gone far to dispel.  Now it
all seemed to return.  This, too, did not escape her, and she was
striving to piece the two circumstances together.  But as yet all
connectedness failed.

They were returning by a somewhat different route, and were already
about half-way to the camp.  The sun was sinking, and the barren and
rugged surface of rock and stunted vegetation was taking on a softer
tinge as the westering glow toned down its asperities.  But there was a
feel in the air as of impending change, and the wind, which had died
down altogether, now began to rise in fitful puffs, raising thin spiral
columns like dust waterspouts, which whirled along at intervals on the
plain around.

"Is there going to be a storm?" said Hilda.

"Yes.  But not before we are in camp again."

He subsided into silence.  It was possible that the strange
oppressiveness in the atmosphere affected him, to the exaggeration of
that which was on his mind, to wit the very disagreeable burden of the
news he had just received.  Or it may have been that the certainty was
brought home to him that a month ago it would not have affected him to
any appreciable extent.  The unpleasantness, the scandal, would have
been just the same, but, somehow, it would have mattered little then.
Now it did.  But why?

What was to be done? was his ever-present thought.  It was simply
abominable that he should be pursued in this way.  Had the woman no
sense of shame?  Evidently not.  He had heard of ships going down at sea
with all on board; was he tempted to feel that this was clearly too good
a piece of luck--seen from his point of view--to happen to the one which
comprised among its passengers Cynthia Daintree?

What was to be done?  He looked at his companion.  Should he frankly put
the case to her?  She was like no other woman he had ever known for
clear insight into and ready grasp of the main facts or probabilities of
any given question--at least, so he had found reason to decide during
their somewhat short acquaintance--which, somehow or other, did not seem
short.  She could not be more than five or six and twenty at the
outside, and yet the knowledge of human nature and capacity for the
analysis of human motives she displayed was simply wonderful.  He could
put it to her as the case of a third party, or simply a case in the
abstract, such as they had often debated and threshed out together, and
then he laughed at himself in bitter contempt.  Where were the qualities
with which he had just been endowing her, that she could fail for one
single instant to see through so miserable a device?  He must put it to
her frankly or not at all; and somehow Hilda Clive was the last person
in the world to whom he desired to put it at all.

She, for her part, riding beside him, perforce in silence, was thinking
of him and his unwonted taciturnity.  Some trouble had come upon him--
that was certain, and she connected it with the arrival of the mail.
Could she but induce him to confide in her?  Yet, why should he?  She
did not know.  Still, she wanted him to; for a strange indefinable
instinct moved her to the conviction that she could help him.  During
their acquaintance she had learnt to hold him in high esteem.  She
admired him, too, for his unassuming nature, the more so that she was
able to gauge the real depth of quiet power that lay beneath it.  She
had noted the ease of his intercourse with these wild and turbulent, but
interesting people--for this visit to Sarbaland Khan's village was not
the first time she had been among them in Raynier's company--and noting
it, knew that it bore testimony to the estimation in which he was held
by them; for these sons of the desert and mountain, in common with all
barbarians, are quick readers of character, and have no respect for that
which is weak.  And yet, could she have divined what was troubling him
then it would have assumed such trivial proportions to her mind, so
simple a solution, as to make her laugh outright.  And she knew a great
deal more about him than he did about her; indeed, the news she had
received that morning, and which had somewhat elated her, mainly
concerned him.

"What abstruse problem is weighing on your mind, Mr Raynier?  Do you
know that since we left the chief's village you have hardly spoken a
word.  And we are almost home again."

He started.

"I beg your pardon.  How very remiss of me.  Well, I was thinking of
something.  As a matter of fact, it's something that's worrying me more
than a little."

"You had bad news?"

"Yes.  And yet hardly in the sense of what people understand by bad
news.  But it was something of an extremely vexatious and worrying
nature, and likely to cause me no end of unpleasantness."

"I'm so sorry," she said, in a tone which invited further confidence.
It decided him.  He would tell her.

A high ridge rose between them and the camp.  This they were the while
ascending by a rough road leading to the kotal by which it was crossed.
Now, from the other side of this, there boomed forth a long, low,
rattling thunder roll.

"Hallo!  The storm is a great deal nearer than I thought," he exclaimed,
looking up.  "We must hurry on, Miss Clive.  I don't want you to get
caught in the thick of it."

No time for confidences was this, he decided.  All women were afraid of
thunder and lightning, though all would not admit it.  What, then, would
be the use of consulting this one on a delicate and highly unpleasant
matter what time her thoughts would be running on how quickly at the
earliest they could reach the camp?

Another peal rolled forth, dull and distant, tailing off into a sort of
staccato rapping rattle.

"Well, these mountains do give out the most extraordinary thing in
echoes I ever struck," he said.  "Or else that's about the strangest
peal of thunder I ever heard."

A clinking sound behind caused both to turn.  Mehrab Khan, who, with the
other sowar, had been some way behind, was galloping to overtake them,
and that at a pace which is hardly put on in ascending such an acclivity
unless under weighty necessity.  But even before he could come up with
them, the dark figure of a horseman appeared on the kotal above, and
came flying down the rough and stony road.  They made him out to be
another of the Levy Sowars.

The pace was too great, or the rider too weak.  He was flung off, almost
at their very feet--a terrible sight, covered with blood and dust.  With
a word to Hilda Clive to wait where she was, Raynier and Mehrab Khan
went forward to examine the man.

They were only just in time.  He could gasp forth a few words, and then
fell back dead.  Raynier's voice was very serious as he returned to the
girl.

"We cannot go back to camp now, Miss Clive," he said.  "We must travel
the other way.  But keep up your courage--you have plenty of it--and we
will bring you through all safe."



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

"A LAND OF SURPRISES."

"Raynier may be a smart chap, and a smart official, and all that, but he
doesn't know this country a little hang.  He oughtn't to get wandering
about all alone as he does.  It isn't safe--and--it isn't _pukka_!"

And Haslam, having delivered himself of the above opinion, drained his
"peg" and yelled for his bearer to bring him another.

"But he isn't all by himself," objected Tarleton.  "He's got Miss Clive
with him, and two Levy Sowars."

"Oh, as to the first, that of course," returned the Forest Officer,
looking knowing, "he generally has.  Think that'll be a _bundobust_,
Tarleton?"

"I don't know--and don't care.  It's no concern of mine."

"Don't care what?" said Mrs Tarleton, joining the two, who, seated in
long chairs and clad in easy attire, were indulging in "pegs" and
cheroots.

"We were talking about Raynier, Mrs Tarleton," said Haslam.  "We agreed
he oughtn't to go and look up a man like Sarbaland Khan attended by only
two Levy Sowars."

"And Miss Clive, Haslam said," appended Tarleton.

"It isn't _pukka_, you know," repeated Haslam, "nor is it altogether
safe."

"Mercy on us, Mr Haslam!  Why, he'd never go taking Hilda anywhere
that's dangerous, surely?  Besides, the country's quite quiet now, and
the people friendly."

"Yes.  Still, you never know exactly what may happen next.  This is a
land of surprises.  I don't trust these _soors_ any further than I can
see them, and however friendly it may suit them to be for the moment
they hate us like poison underneath it all."

"Why, you quite frighten me," said Mrs Tarleton, anxiously.  "I wish
they'd come back.  It's getting late too.  Oh, what if anything should
happen!"

"Something is going to happen, and that before long," growled Tarleton,
looking up, "and that'll be a thunderstorm.  Phew! how close it is.  I
must have another `peg.'"  And he, too, shouted for his bearer.

It was even as he had said, close--close and brooding.  The sun was
getting low, but the blue of the sky on the northern side had merged
indefinably into a leaden, vaporous opacity which was gradually and
insidiously creeping upward to the zenith.  Against this, the peaks
stood up, black and bizarre, and here and there, caught by a fitful wind
puff, a trail of red dust would stream outward from the summit of a
ridge, to lose itself in midair, or perchance to mingle with one of the
column-like "dust-devils" which rose gyrating from the plain.  Something
was bound to come of it--an earthquake, a tornado, or a thunderstorm--
probably the latter, for a muffled boom in the direction of the
advancing blackness now became audible.

"We're going to get it," said Haslam, looking upward.  "I only hope it
isn't a blow--we don't want the tents suddenly whirled away over our
heads.  Rather not."

"I wish those two were back," repeated Mrs Tarleton, looking out over
the forbidding waste, now more forbidding than ever.  "I have a
presentiment something is going to happen.  Do you think these Levy
Sowars are reliable, Mr Haslam?"

"I say, Mrs Tarleton, I believe Miss Clive has been infecting you with
her forecasts and clairvoyance and all that sort of thing.  I don't know
about the Catch-'em-alive-ohs being reliable--but I don't believe they
could hit a town-hall unless they were put inside it and all the doors
locked.  Even then they'd miss it by the windows."

"Well, but--surely they must be some good or they wouldn't be enlisted,"
objected Tarleton.

"I remember trying a chap once.  There was an old door stuck on end
about sixty yards off.  I got him to take three shots at it with his
Martini, and he missed it clean twice, the third time just knocking a
chip off one of the top corners."

"Well, but you can't judge them all by one," objected Tarleton.

"Hallo.  Here comes somebody," cried Haslam.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Mrs Tarleton.  Then, disappointedly, "It isn't
them at all.  It's some horrid natives.  It's not in the right
direction, either."

Down amid the sparse vegetation, below the camp on the more open side,
the troop horses and baggage camels were grazing, and here it was that a
group of figures appeared, surrounding a central one who was mounted on
a fine camel.  It could be seen that all were armed to the teeth, having
Lee-Metfords and Martinis, over and above the inevitable curved sword,
but there was nothing unusual in this.  It was a national custom among
these wild northern tribes.

The group had come to a halt just outside the camp.  Haslam sent down
one of his forest guards to inquire who was there, and what could be
done for them.  But it might have been seen that the section of the camp
occupied by the Levy Sowars was the scene of some little excitement.
The occupants had turned out to a man, and were gazing attentively at
the new arrivals.

Soon Haslam's envoy returned to say that a Sirdar of the Gularzai was
anxious to salaam to Raynier Sahib, but, as the latter was absent,
perhaps the jungle wallah Sahib would confer with him instead.  No, the
Sirdar could not rest at their camp.  He was journeying on a matter of
family and religious importance, and must push on immediately.  But he
had a communication of official import to make.  Perhaps the jungle
wallah Sahib would hear it in the absence of the Government's
representative, and transmit it.

"Here's a `dik,'" [bother--perplexity--nuisance] grumbled Haslam.  "I
don't want to be `dikked' with Raynier's official affairs.  As if I
hadn't enough of my own.  Wonder what he wants--and who he is.  Well,
here goes."  And gulping down the remainder of his "peg" he strolled
down towards the group, doing so, moreover, with a leisureliness of gait
that was rather put on, being designed to impress the Sirdar with a
sense of his condescension in thus going to him at all.

The man on the camel did not dismount, nor did he cause the beast to
kneel.  This, again, aroused Haslam's resentment.  What business had a
native to remain seated, and talk down to him, so to say?  Not only
that, but the man on the camel returned his salaam somewhat coldly and
haughtily--and the salute of his followers was equally curt.  Haslam
began to feel downright angry.

"Where is the _Sirkar_ Sahib?" began the chief--his voice taking
additional haughtiness, coming down, as it did, from his rather lofty
eminence.

"You have been told.  He is away," returned the Forest Officer no less
curtly, and speaking in Hindustani.

"Where?"

Haslam did not answer immediately.  He stared.  He was boiling with
rage.  To be addressed in this way, and in such a tone.  Moreover, he
thought to detect an evil grin on the faces of the hook-nosed, turbaned
savages standing around, who seemed to be fingering their rifles in a
manner that was unpleasantly suggestive.

"Are you the jungle wallah?" went on the man on the camel.

"The jungle wallah _Sahib_" blared forth Haslam, white with fury.  But
what was the use? and then he remembered that he had not even his
revolver upon him.  He had thrown it down upon his camp bed, and there
it was.  And an unarmed man is a demoralised man.

The chief laughed evilly and spat.

"Well, jungle wallah _Sahib_," he said.  "I asked--Where is the _Sirkar_
wallah _Sahib_?  I am not accustomed to repeat a question twice."

"Oh, you are not, your Mightiness, and lord of all the world," answered
Haslam, adopting the other's sneering tone.  "Salaam to you then, for
you are far too great a king for me to talk with," and he turned to go.

"Move not."

The order came, sharp and stern.  Haslam's first impulse was to ignore
it, but a second, and perhaps a safer one, caused him to halt, and half
turn.  It was high time.  Four rifles were levelled straight at him at
the distance of a few yards.

Haslam was as brave a man as ever lived, yet at that moment, gazing at
the deadly muzzles and the scowling, shaggy visages behind them, well
might he have quailed, for his peril was great indeed.  But he returned
the threatening stare of the chief firmly and unflinchingly.

For a few moments both thus looked at each other in silence.  Then
Haslam, who had none of the imperturbability of the Oriental, thought he
might as well say something, if only to show them he was not cowed.

"Who is the Sirdar with whom I am talking?" he asked.

"Murad Afzul, Gularzai."

Then Haslam felt more than uncomfortable.  The name of this noted border
ruffian was known to him, likewise some of his deeds.  But it was
supposed that he had disappeared from that side of the country for some
time past.

"Look now at thy camp," went on the latter.  "But move not, or thou art
dead."

The words were nearly drowned in what followed.  A long, rattling roll
as of thunder, from the ridge overhanging the camp--then another, and
lo! the <DW72> was alive with rushing white figures, and the flash of
waving tulwars, as the crowd of fierce assailants charged down with
lightning speed upon the practically defenceless camp.  Many of the Levy
Sowars--upon whose especial side of the camp the volleys had been
poured--were dead, or writhing in death agonies and wounds.  The remnant
huddled for a moment like sheep, then made a rush for their horses, but
between these and them was Murad Afzul's bodyguard--practised marksmen.
Coolly, and with deliberate aim, they picked off the units of the
demoralised force, bringing the whole to a standstill--and a sorry whole
it was by now.

Not all, however--not quite all--were demoralised.  One, a brave man, a
clansman of Mehrab Khan, who had been detailed for _dak_ duty, leaped on
his horse, which was standing ready saddled and bridled, and dashed off
at full gallop, to warn the _Sirkar_ Sahib and, incidentally, his
fellow-tribesman.  Bullets were rained after him, but now, in the
excitement of immediate massacre and loot, aim had become wild.  Yet,
had they looked more closely, a tell-tale squirm or quiver might have
told those marksmen that of the multitude of the bullets, one or two--or
perchance more--had found a billet.

It was all over very quickly.  There was no question of defence.  In a
moment the whole crowd of copper-, frenzied savages was
overrunning the camp.  Those that were left of the Levy Sowars, being
Moslems, appealed to their assailants in the name of Allah and the
Prophet for quarter, and were spared.  But the other camp servants--
bearers, kitmutghars, syces, and the rest, being Hindus, were cut down
without mercy, those who had striven to hide being dragged forth and
butchered--and the barbarians, yelling aloud in the madness of their
blood lust, surged to and fro, brandishing aloft their red and reeking
swords, looking around for more to slay.  But there were none.

Throughout the attack and massacre Tarleton had been too staggered to do
anything at all.  As for his wife, the sight of the butchery of the
wretched servants, cut to pieces before her eyes, in spite of their
heartrending yells for mercy, had been too much for her, and she saved
all trouble on her account by incontinently fainting.  He reckoned his
only chance was to sit quiet, wherein perhaps he was wise, for, although
many pressed, cursing and threatening, around them both, none offered
them violence, and indeed it looked as if such abstention were part of
their orders.  But what was the whole bobbery about, he kept putting to
himself, for there was no open war with any of the tribes?  He was soon
to know.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

HOW TARLETON YIELDED.

"This is a land of surprises," Haslam had said, and indeed if ever words
had been vividly, literally and luridly borne out, here was an instance.
Within one short half hour of their utterance this camp, then the very
embodiment of peaceful repose and fancied security, had been overrun by
savage massacre and turned into a reeking human shambles.  Corpses, many
of them horribly hacked, lay in every attitude of agonised contortion,
and great smears of blood spattered the canvas of the tents, as also the
dirty-white garments of the assailants.  As for the hapless Europeans,
though for the moment alive and uninjured, they were helpless captives
in the power of the most notoriously cruel and unsparing brigand of the
whole northern border.  Of a truth this was a land of surprises.

The first idea that occupied Haslam and Tarleton was to attend to the
unfortunate lady, and this they did, as carefully as though it was an
ordinary fainting fit, and there were no barbarous enemies within a
thousand miles of them.

"She'd better not come to again just yet," Tarleton said.  "We'd better
get her into a tent, if they'll let us."

Permission to do this was granted gruffly, but two of their captors were
ordered to enter with them lest they should possess themselves of
weapons, nor was this precaution superfluous, for they had fixed upon
Haslam's tent as being the nearest, and Haslam's revolver lay upon his
charpoy.  At the sight he stifled a deep and muttered curse, as the
Gularzai pounced greedily upon it.  He had reason to curse deeper still
as they ordered him to at once deliver up any arms and ammunition he
might have in his possession.  Inwardly he groaned again as he saw his
beautiful shot gun and Mannlicher rifle in the eager grip of the hooked
claws of these copper-hued brigands.  Then he was ordered outside again.

Murad Afzul had not dismounted from his fine camel, and from the
altitude of his seat--for he had ridden into the centre of the camp--was
directing operations.  Several of his followers were ransacking the
tents, trundling out their contents; and soon trunks and despatch boxes,
bags and tins of provisions, articles of clothing and kitchen utensils
were piled together in promiscuous heaps.  But what delighted the
warrior soul of the freebooter was the sight of four or five good,
up-to-date rifles and a brace of revolvers.  The shotguns, too, he
contemplated with satisfaction, but the rifles appealed to him most, and
these he caused to be handed up to him one after the other as he sat on
his camel, and each he would bring to his shoulder, sighting it at some
object far or near, away over the plain.  The weapons of his followers
were good, but they were only Martinis.  But these--magazine and
repeating guns, spick and span, and of first-rate workmanship!  Ya,
Mahomed, what a find!

Now he beckoned Haslam to him.  The Forest Officer, standing there under
this arch-brigand looking down upon him from the height of his towering
camel, felt that humiliation was indeed his lot to-day.

"So, jungle wallah," began Murad Afzul, speaking in Hindustani, and
sneeringly withal, "so, jungle wallah, I told you I was not accustomed
to ask the same question twice; yet this time I will give you yet
another chance, and ask it the third time.  Where is Raynier?"

"That I can't tell, for I don't know," answered Haslam, with perfect
truth.

The chief bent over, and whispered instructions to some of his followers
on the off-side of his camel.  These came round, and laying a hand on
Haslam's shoulder ordered him to go with them.  Resistance was
absolutely useless, and Haslam was marched away.  They were taking him
in the direction of the Levy Sowars' camp, he noticed, of course to
execute him there.  His time had come, he concluded.  Rapidly, as he
walked to his doom, his past life flashed through his recollection.  He
had been a careless sort of chap, he supposed, like others, no better--
he would have shrunk from the imputation of making any other claim--but,
he hoped, no worse.  He had not troubled his head much about what lay
beyond the grave, nor had he ever shrunk from death when duty or
dangerous sport had brought him within gazing distance of it.  Perhaps,
if all that was taught of what came after it were true, or even a
portion, why, he was surrendering his life rather than give information
which should place the lives of others in danger, and it might be taken
into consideration.  But of mercy at the hands of yon ruthless
freebooter he had no hope.  At any rate, he would meet a swift death--
they would shoot or behead him, and they might have done him to death by
slow torture.  He thought of his wife and young family away in England.
Would they miss him much, and, more important still, would the
Government do anything for them over and above the rather moderate
pension which they would draw from the fund to which he had subscribed
throughout his term of service?  It was not probable.  Government was
seldom liberal.  Then his thoughts were broken in upon.  They had
reached the tents of the Levy Sowars, and into one of these he was
ordered.

Wonderingly he obeyed.  What did it mean?  Were they not going to put
him to death after all, for it occurred to him they would hardly have
brought him into a tent for such a purpose?  But he was ordered to seat
himself, and remain perfectly still--and informed that any movement he
might make, or sound that he should utter, would be his last.  And then,
immediately outside the canvas which screened him from the outer world,
he heard the loud sharp, double report of a rifle.

One other heard it too, and that one was Tarleton.  To his mind it
suggested but one solution--possible rescue to wit--acting upon which
idea he did what a man of his bull-headed temperament would be expected
to do, but which, had his idea been correct, was the very worst possible
thing he could have done.  He came to the tent door, and looked eagerly
and anxiously out.

Murad Afzul still sat there on his great camel, his countenance as cold
and impassive as the graceful folds of his snowy turban, while upon his
followers a strange hush had fallen.  At sight of the Feringhi it was
broken--broken by muttered curses and threats.  But--where was Haslam?

The chief beckoned him forward, and he had to obey.  Yes, obey.  There
was no mincing the word.  He was in the power--absolutely in the power
of this man, this "<DW65>," as he would have described him about half an
hour ago.

"You heard those shots," said the Gularzai, haughtily, from the
loftiness of his tall steed.  "Yes?  Look around.  Where is the jungle
wallah?"

Tarleton did look around--with some alacrity, moreover.  But no sign of
Haslam rewarded his glance.  He began to see the grim drift of the
injunction.

"You will see your friend no more," went on the chief.  "I asked him a
question--for the third time.  He would not answer--so he was shot--over
there."

He paused, with intent to let the full weight of his words sink deep in
the other's mind.  Like most wild or semi-civilised people, the Gularzai
freebooter was a character reader, and knew his man.  But, before the
other had time to answer, an interruption occurred, as startling as it
was unforeseen.

All were watching the result of the dialogue between the chief and the
prisoner.  Fierce eyes glared beneath shaggy brows, claw-like fingers
felt the edge of tulwars, foul and sticky with blood that had already
been shed.  Eagerly heads were bent forward, awaiting the word that
should hand this Feringhi over to their scarcely-glutted blood lust and
hate.

"Hear me, O great Sirdar," cried a voice, pitched in loud, harsh tones.
"Hear me, I can give the information thou requirest, O Sword of the
Prophet."

The Levy Sowars who had surrendered, to the number of about a dozen,
were grouped on the outskirts of the freebooters.  From one of these the
voice proceeded.

"Let him come forward," said Murad Afzul.

Way being made the speaker advanced.  He was a youngish man, tall and
well built, with aquiline features and a short curling beard.

"Who art thou?" said the chief, shortly.

"Mahomed Afa, Waziri," answered the man.

"Well, what dost thou know?"

"This, O great Sirdar, Murad Afzul.  This, this.  That as thou didst
slay my father Mahomed Jan, so now enter Jehanum by the hand of his
son."

Quick as thought, while uttering these words he had snatched a rifle
from the loose, unguarded grasp of the man next to him, and without
waiting to raise it to his shoulder discharged the piece well-nigh point
blank at the chief.  But the ball hummed viciously past, just ruffling
the edge of Murad Afzul's voluminous turban.  For the camel, whether
acting under the influence of the ineradicable cussedness which is
inherent in its species, or irritated by the harsh vociferation right at
its ear, had suddenly reached round its head with a resentful grunt,
making a vicious snap at the would-be slayer, with the double effect of
somewhat marring his aim and moving its rider by just the few inches
requisite to the saving of his life.  In a twinkling the man was seized.

"Ya, Allah!" he mouthed, struggling furiously in the grasp of those who
held him.  "Avenge me of this robber-dog, this vulture-bred coward who
only strikes those who are too weak to oppose his numbers.  Mahomed
Prophet! strike him down into the burning pit of Hawiyat, where his
gnawing vitals shall consume for ever and ever."

The declamatory voice had risen to a wild scream.  Murad Afzul, seated
on his camel, had not moved throughout the whole scene.  Now he spoke.

"So thou art the son of Mahomed Jan, that Waziri thief and enemy of
Allah?" he said, gazing down upon his would-be slayer.  "Allah is great
and His Prophet has rendered thee as unskilful in the use of weapons as
others of thy kind.  Well, ye twain, father and son, have been parted
long enough, so now thou shalt join thine in Jehanum, yet not at once,
for I think I will show thee some foretaste of its fires here."

He signed to those who held the frantic man--then something in the
aspect of the latter caused him to change his intention.  For he
recognised that the Waziri's mind had given way, in short, that he had
become a frenzied maniac, and to harm him as such would be clean
contrary to all tribal tradition and sanction.  Yet he had no intention
of letting him off scot free.

"I will spare him the fire," he said, "for of that he will have plenty.
So--shorten him by the head."

Willing feet sprang to do his bidding.  Willing hands seized the
mouthing, cursing maniac, who by dint of a camel halter was forced to
stretch forth his neck.  Then the flash of a keen tulwar in the air, and
the deluging, headless corpse was writhing and squirming right at
Tarleton's feet.

Tarleton, surgeon though he was, turned sick at the horrid sight, the
more so that in all probability it presaged his own fate.  The voice of
Murad Afzul recalled him to this.

"You have seen, Feringhi.  Now, that is thy fate, if my question is
unanswered.  Where is Raynier?"

Tarleton looked at the gushing, headless corpse, then at the stern,
uncompromising countenance of the chief.  He noted, too, the eager,
cruel visages of those around, who seemed to hang upon his answer.  Life
was as good to him as to anybody else, nor did he feel the least
inclination to part with it at that moment.  Besides, what would become
of his wife, now lying unconscious in the tent behind him, if left alone
and at the mercy of these ruthless barbarians?  Haslam was dead, and
thus no one need ever know, for no one was left to witness against him,
and if ever there was a case of "every man for himself" this was surely
it.  So he replied,--

"He has gone to visit Sarbaland Khan."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

"BETTER THAN NOTHING."

"What has happened?" said Hilda, quickly, gazing from one to the other,
and then at the dead man who lay a little way off.

"Our camp has been rushed by Ghazis, and they are in possession."

"But--has there been a fight?  Have they killed anybody?"

"They had killed some of the servants when that poor fellow broke away
to warn us.  He was one of Mehrab Khan's tribesmen.  But our people were
alive, he says."

"But we can't leave them, Mr Raynier."

"That is not spoken with your usual sense.  Are we going to walk
straight into the jaws of the enemy and say, `Here we are'?  No.  I am
responsible for your safety, Miss Clive, and you may be sure I shall do
the uttermost in my power to secure it."

Even while he had been speaking his mind had rapidly reviewed the
situation, and it was one that filled him with the gravest misgiving and
concern.  He knew that a _jihad_, or fanatical rising, was being
fomented among the tribes further along the border, but that the
Gularzai could by any possibility take part in it he had reckoned as
clean out of the question.  He had trusted Mushim Khan thoroughly, had
reckoned the Nawab as no more likely to take up arms against the
Government than he himself.  But that a bold outrage on a large scale
could thus take place here right under the nose of the Nawab without the
knowledge and therefore sanction of that potentate, he could not
believe.  What a fool he had been, and how utterly blind not to have
seen some sign or warning of the dangerous unrest having spread.  Well,
this was no time for regrets, but for action--and to this end he would
consult Mehrab Khan.

But what then?  Would the Baluchi be true to his salt?  All these border
tribes were akin.  Ties of friendship, of gratitude, of honour, of
self-interest even, all were swept aside when they made common cause
together against the Feringhi and the infidel--and the acquaintance
between himself and Mehrab Khan was of the shortest.

But the latter, even at that moment, was giving some indication of what
line he was going to take in the crisis.  For the other Levy Sowar had
been gradually edging away.  These two Feringhis would soon be found and
cut to pieces, _Sirkar_ or not, argued this man, and he had no intention
of identifying himself with them any further, and thus sharing their
fate; wherefore he resolved, while there was yet time, to effect his own
escape.  But Mehrab Khan, who knew the workings of his mind, was equally
resolved that he should not.

To this end Mehrab Khan dismounted, and levelling his rifle called upon
him to stop.  The result of this order was to cause the defaulter to ram
his spurs into his horse's flanks, and start off along the hillside at a
gallop.  Now Mehrab Khan was an old and practised stalker of markhor and
wild sheep, consequently now, when, without further warning, he pressed
the trigger, the runaway toppled heavily from his saddle, and lay
without a kick.

"He would have betrayed us, _Huzoor_," said the Baluchi, laconically, as
he slipped a fresh cartridge into his piece.  "Now he will not."

To Raynier's plan of returning straight to Sarbaland Khan's village, and
not only placing themselves under the protection of that chief, but even
ordering him, by virtue of his own office as representative of the
Government, to collect a strong force and safeguard those in the camp,
if any were left there, or pursue the aggressors if they were not,
Mehrab Khan was strongly opposed.  He was somewhat mysterious on the
point; mysterious but emphatic.  On no account must they go there,
indeed, he had been glad to get out of the place when they were there
before.

Was Sarbaland Khan disaffected then?  That he could not say exactly.
But the _Huzoor_ must trust him.  He had seen signs which might have
meant much or little.  By the light of what had happened he now knew
they meant much.  The _Huzoor_ knew his people, and he, Mehrab Khan,
knew his.  The gist of all of which was that they must go at once into
hiding, and the sooner the better.

All this, however, took far quicker to decide than it has taken to
narrate, and now, Mehrab Khan taking the lead, they moved, under his
guidance, down into the valley, turning their backs on the site of the
camp altogether.

"I shall never forgive myself for getting you into this fix, Miss
Clive," said Raynier, with great concern, as he thought on the hardships
the coming night would entail upon her, even if it were not the first of
many such nights.

"There is no necessity for you to do anything of the sort," she
answered.  "You could not help it.  You could not have foreseen things."

"But that is just what I ought to have done," he answered bitterly.  "I
have simply acted like a fool, and have made an utter mess of the whole
situation."

"No--no.  I am sure you have not.  Things may not be so bad as you
think--and if they are, you are not to blame."

What was this?  He looked at her strangely.  There was not so much in
the words--but the tone, the soothing sympathy of it, as if she
realised, even as he did, that, apart from their imminent and common
danger, the result for him would be something like official ruin.  The
colour had returned to her face--for she had gone rather white as she
witnessed Mehrab Khan's grimly successful shot--and there was a look in
her eyes which, combined with the tone of her voice, went far to
compensate for all.  It struck him, too, that she showed no alarm, no
anxiety whatever on her own account.  Afterwards it was to occur to him
how easily she was reassured as to the safety of those they had left in
the camp.

Darker and darker it grew, as they threaded their way behind their guide
through those lonely defiles, for now the sky was black and overcast,
and a lurid flash or two lit their way--and the accompanying boom
rolled, deep voiced, among the cliffs and chasms.

"Here we should halt, Mehrab Khan," said Raynier, at last, as two or
three great drops splashed down upon them.  "The Miss Sahib will get wet
through if we go further, and here under this rock is shelter."

But the Baluchi shook his head.

"See there, _Huzoor_," pointing upward.

"We are in a sort of _tangi_, only it is closed at one end.  If it
should rain here, and rain hard, the water would roll off the smooth
rock <DW72>s above, and sweep us out of this like wisps of dried grass.
We cannot rest here.  We must go on and upward."

The horses were needing rest badly, yet on they struggled.  It was quite
dark now, but their way was lit by the red flashes.  Rain had begun to
fall, hard, heavy rain, as, stumbling over the slippery stones, they
held on their wet and weary way.  And through it all Raynier did not
fail to notice that from the girl at his side there came no word of
complaint, no sigh of weariness--whereat he marvelled.

He himself was feeling the strain: but with him the strain was as much a
mental as a physical one.  He felt weighed down with responsibility.  If
this rising took large and destructive proportions he it was who should
have foreseen and coped with it, yet he had gone off, easily and
carelessly, upon a pleasure trip, and that right into the heart of the
very peril itself.  And now the safety of this girl beside him was in
his hands; and by way of a beginning to the adventure she would have to
spend the livelong night, wet and cold and hungry, lying out among the
rocks, for, of course, they had not taken a food supply when starting
upon an afternoon ride.  And what a contrast it was.  The highest
official of the district, with, but a few hours ago, servants and armed
sowars at his beck and call, surrounded by every comfort and not a few
luxuries, was now a fugitive in the heart of a hostile land, soaked by a
drenching rain, with no prospect of either food or shelter at the end of
it all.  It was a contrast, but he was hard and could worry through it--
but what of his companion in adversity?  She was not inured to rude
hardships of this kind.  She was not even representative of the stalwart
type of her sex, who could scull a boat or play golf all day.  She was
high couraged and cool of nerve; he had seen enough to convince him of
that, yet, physically, she did not look altogether strong.  But still no
word of complaint escaped her as, stumbling onward and upward through
the darkness and the rain, they held on their way.

"Here we will rest, _Huzoor_," said Mehrab Khan at last.

They must be among the mountain tops now, Raynier reckoned.  The air
blew raw and piercing, and tall slimy rocks glistened around in the red
glare of the now more distant lightning.  Dismounting, with stiffened
limbs, he aided Hilda Clive from her saddle.  To his surprise she slid
off as lightly as though returning from an ordinary ride.

"I believe you are more tired than I am," she said, with something like
a laugh, as she let her hand rest just a moment in his after he had
assisted her down.  "Tell me.  Did you ever have fever?"

"Yes.  Why?"

"Oh, nothing.  Only you are very wet.  Shall we be able to make a fire?"

"I'm afraid not.  There's nothing to make it with."

"That's a pity.  You ought to get dry.  Let me think it out."

Raynier marvelled, and well he might.  What sort of a woman was this?
Any other woman who had ever come within his experience would not have
behaved like this.  She would probably have begun by abusing him roundly
for ever bringing her into such a hobble at all.  Once in it, she would
have grumbled and whined, or hysterically howled.  She would have been
full of herself and her own miserable plight, and what _she_ should do,
and what would become of _her_, and so forth.  But this one--her chief
thought seemed to be for him.  She didn't seem to think of herself at
all.

"Great Heavens, Miss Clive!" he burst forth, "what does it matter
whether _I_ am dry or wet.  It is of you I am thinking--of you, who have
to get through this abominable night somehow.  Why, it is nothing to
me--but what about you?"

"But I have never had fever."

The answer came so equably, so matter-of-fact in tone, yet Raynier's
quick ear thought to detect something further.  He turned straightway
and began vehemently haranguing Mehrab Khan.

The place to which the latter had brought them afforded shelter from the
rain, though little or none from the piercing wind.  A great slab of
rock overhung, yawning outward like an open mouth.  Now Mehrab Khan
astonished them still further, for, from a cleft at the back of the
hole, he produced some billets of dry juniper wood.  It would burn
wretchedly, he explained apologetically, but was better than nothing.
The place had been an old resort of mountain herdsmen, and the wood had
been kept ready stored for emergencies.  And then, still further
amazement followed, for Mehrab Khan produced--this time from his own
store--a little rice and corn meal tied up in a rag.  Would the _Huzoor_
deign to accept it for himself and the Miss Sahib? he said.  It was poor
fare, but it might be better than nothing.

This, then, was the man for whose good faith he had feared, thought
Raynier, inwardly ashamed, and then again came the whimsical thought of
contrast, and the highest official in the district becoming dependent on
the Levy Sowar's humble store, yet not for himself.  But Hilda Clive
looked at it, then beamed on the giver.

"What will he do?" she asked.  "It is all he has."

"What then?  Let the Miss Sahib take what Allah provides through His
slave and praise Him.  More can be provided, and will be," was the
answer of the follower of the Prophet to the follower of the Redeemer.
Said the latter,--

"The blessings of Allah be upon you, Mehrab Khan, and that of His
Prophet."

And Raynier again translating, the fine face of the Baluchi beamed in
turn.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

IN THE MIST.

A more wretched night than that passed by the fugitives--two of them, at
any rate--it would be hard to imagine.  The wind blew piercingly cold at
that altitude; the juniper wood, which at its best is about the worst
fuel in the world, would not burn, but made up for the deficiency in the
fabrication of abundant smoke.  There was no way of baking or doing
anything with the frugal aliment which Mehrab Khan had so unexpectedly
produced, and so generously withal, for he might easily have kept it for
himself.  Wherefore it had to be consumed in the form of a raw paste
mixed with rain water, and even this, both men, the European and the
Oriental--whose creed ignorant people imagine to teach that women have
no souls--refused to touch until Hilda insisted, and then they made a
pretence.

Towards dawn, but while it was yet dark, Mehrab Khan sallied forth to
obtain provisions somehow or other, and, haply, intelligence, leaving
the most stringent injunctions that on no account short of actual
discovery were they to move from their hiding-place.  Shortly after
sunrise he returned with both.  A kid was slung behind his saddle, and a
bag of grain in front, but he did not think it necessary to state that
the owner, having been injudicious enough to refuse to give or sell
either, and further, to manifest suspicion on the subject of himself, he
had incontinently slain the said owner, and borne away the spoil--a feat
which, to his wild Baluchi nature, represented an adequate commingling
of business with pleasure, but which he knew that these Feringhis would
regard in another light.  The latter noticed, however, that he no longer
wore his khaki, but was attired in the loose garments and turban of the
Gularzai, and this he explained was for reasons of safety.

The intelligence which he had gleaned was partly satisfactory to them,
and partly the reverse.  Murad Afzul had surprised the camp, but the
sahibs had not been injured, although carried away as prisoners.  The
Gularzai had raised the standard of the Prophet and joined in the
_jihad_--the Nawab Mahomed Mushim Khan being one of its most earnest and
enthusiastic supporters.  Sarbaland Khan, too, had joined, and the Nawab
had appointed Murad Afzul one of his principal leaders.  In brief, the
whole country was up in arms, and a large force had been sent to
surprise and overpower Mazaran.

"Well, that's cheering sort of _kubbur_ at any rate," said Raynier, as
he translated the burden of this communication to his companion.  "One
thing, it's possible we are better off here than we would be in Mazaran,
for the garrison there is no great shakes, and Polwarth the biggest ass
that was ever given command even of a box of tin soldiers."

Polwarth, it may be observed incidentally, was the commanding officer at
Mazaran, and he and the new Political Agent did not love each other.

There was one item of news which Mehrab Khan had not thought necessary
to disclose to his superior, and this was that the Nawab had issued
orders to secure Raynier Sahib alive and at all costs, but alive.  Great
reward was promised to whoever should accomplish this, and bring him
unharmed to Mushim Khan, but should any slay him the reward should be
death.  But he who should deliver him up alive, the reward would make
him a man of consequence for the rest of his days.  And this was within
the Baluchi's power to earn.

"How is it you still cleave to us, Mehrab Khan?"  Raynier said half
bitterly, half affectionately.  "All your fellow tribesmen and fellow
believers are up against us.  Why are you not with them?"

The man smiled.  No well-simulated horror did he affect, for he felt
none.  The question struck him as practically and nakedly natural.  Nor
did he break into vehement protestations of fidelity, and so forth.  He
merely replied,--

"It is written, _Huzoor_."

And the high Government official answered the Levy Sowar,--

"Be it so, my brother."

Shut off from the world for days they remained thus in their lofty eyrie
among the crags.  A better shelter was found, and this not before it was
needed, for the rainy weather continued and the cold at night was more
than uncomfortable.  Then Mehrab Khan went forth upon the maraud one
night and stole a blanket or two and a _poshtin_--a sort of ulster made
of soft leather and fur-lined--as well as some more food.  But from
their hiding-place he steadfastly refused to allow them to budge.

On Hilda Clive these conditions of hardship, which would have driven the
average civilised and cultured woman nearly out of her senses, seemed to
have no effect at all--neither on her spirits nor on her health.  As to
the latter they positively seemed to suit her.  She had acquired a
colour and a brightness of eye such as had never lit up her face under
conditions of civilisation, and Raynier, looking at her, would wonder
twenty times a day how he could ever have passed her every day of his
life for about three weeks, and taken no notice of her whatever.  So
much for looks.  But as a companion, as a fellow castaway, she was
perfect, he decided.  She was full of ideas.  She could converse on
every subject under the sun, no matter what; the only topic she seemed
to avoid, he was prompt to observe, being herself.  More, he thought to
notice even that she purposely avoided it, yet in such wise as to convey
no idea of purposely concealing anything, but rather as not choosing to
be drawn.  She would beguile the time, too, in trying to learn
Hindustani and Pushtu, under the joint tuition of himself and Mehrab
Khan, frequently to the amusement of both.

Thus, as the days wore on, something uncommonly like a very real
contentment settled down upon these two, here in the solitude of their
vast mountain world--nay, more.  Their converse began to take on a sort
of insidiously familiar, not to say caressing, form of confidence, alike
on the part of the one as on that of the other.  Raynier began to forget
that they were fugitives from a whole countryside, eager for their
blood.  To forget the perils to be encountered ere they should once more
mingle among their kind.  To forget the havoc and massacre and misery
that had come about since last they had so mingled.  And, more difficult
still to forget, perhaps, the official ruin which would most probably
await himself.  Strangely enough, the only thing he could not forget,
the only thing that would force itself upon his memory, and that with a
horrid and most discordant jar, was the fact that Cynthia Daintree was
on her way out to claim him--to claim him, upon whom she had absolutely
no claim at all; would, in fact, by this time soon be landing.

Without, the elements stormed and raged.  For two whole days at a time
they would be unable to see outside their mountain abode, so thick and
unyielding were the mists that encompassed it, and the rain poured down
unceasingly, while now and again the roll of intermittent thunder would
shake the mountain peaks in stunning reverberation the night through,
and the red gleam seek out every corner of their cave abode.  And when
the mists parted, they gazed down upon shiny rock surfaces labyrinthed
with ragged black chasms, or the dark wildness of a juniper forest swept
by the wreaths of the flying scud.

But this state of comparative peace was not to last--was, in fact,
destined to be brought to a most startling termination.  One morning
Mehrab Khan, who had been away on a foraging expedition, failed to
return.  The day passed, and still no Mehrab Khan.  Night likewise
failed to bring him, and now things began to look serious for these two,
for their food supply was all but exhausted.  As for the Baluchi, there
was only one conclusion to be arrived at--he had been found by the
enemy, and either killed or detained as a prisoner.  As for themselves,
something must be done, for it was clear they could not remain there to
starve.  With his own knowledge of the country, supplemented by further
detail which Mehrab Khan had given him, Raynier thought he could find
the way to Mazaran.

It was scarcely daylight when they started from their place of refuge.
The weather had cleared overhead, but the ground was miry and slippery
to the last degree, so much so indeed that, until they should reach
smoother and more level ground, the horses were of more hindrance than
help.  But at the start Raynier discovered that his steed had gone dead
lame to such an extent that to ride it would be downright dangerous
here, where cliffs and slippery <DW72>s abounded.  It was decided to
abandon the animal.

"Seems as if our troubles were beginning over again," he said ruefully.
"By Jove, it looks as if the story about the Syyed's _tangi_ was going
to prove true again in our case."

He spoke half jestingly, glancing at her the while.  To his surprise she
was looking very serious.

"No," she answered.  "I don't think so.  At least, unless--No--it's of
no use.  I can't see."

She had passed her hand over her eyes, as he had seen her do on that
strangely memorable night, and her face wore the same dreamy look.
That, he knew, accounted for the seeming incoherence of her words.  For
Hilda Clive possessed in some degree the gift of clairvoyance, and what
she saw now in front of them she preferred not to tell him just then.
Whatever it was it took no definite shape in her own mind, hovering
there vague but ominous.  He looked at her curiously.

"Well, we'll cheat that superstition yet," he said, with a gaiety that
was just a trifle forced.

They made but sorry headway, the horse slipping and stumbling to such an
extent that Hilda preferred to walk, so that by the time day had fairly
dawned they were scarcely more than three miles from their
starting-point.  It was deemed advisable to go into hiding once more,
and here they were forced to finish what little food remained.

Towards dusk they started again.  An unaccountable and wholly unwonted
depression had come upon Hilda, while her escort, walking beside her
horse, began to feel strangely weak and faint.  He supposed it was the
result of recent bad living and want of exercise, and then, with a chill
of dismay, he recognised the infallible symptoms of his old fever.  No--
this would never do.  He must pull himself together; and by way of doing
this, he stumbled and fell dizzily forward.

With a little cry of alarm Hilda was off her horse in a moment and was
beside him.  She raised his head, laying a hand upon the damp and clammy
brow.

"There, there!  Do you feel better now?" she exclaimed, with a rush of
tenderness in her tone.

"What an idiot I am," he answered, but the smile was a sickly one as he
tried to raise himself.  "I shall be all right in a minute.  Heavens!
the horse!  Hilda--quick--go after the silly brute.  It would never do
to lose it."

In her anxiety to reach his side, Hilda had let the reins go, and now
the animal was walking steadily off.  She tried to coax it, but the
result only seemed to be to accelerate its pace.  She was quite a little
way off now.  Raynier had staggered to his feet, and had managed to take
a few steps after her.  Then he sank down in a dead faint.

The horse stopped.  Now she would have it.  Speaking soothingly, Hilda
drew near.  She had all but got her hand on the bridle rein, when the
perverse brute slewed round.  This manoeuvre he repeated three or four
times and then resumed his stroll.  After him again she went.

No--it was too bad.  She would try no further.  She must have come quite
far already, but how far?  She stopped and looked back.  Great Heaven!
what was this?  The cloud which had encompassed the hilltop had
extended, stealing silently and insidiously downward, blotting out the
whole mountain side, blotting out the way she had come, blotting out
everything save three or four yards of slimy wet ground immediately
around her.  How would she find her way back to where she had left her
companion, and--what if she could not?



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

IN STRANGE QUARTERS.

Murad Afzul was in high glee, for which he had good reason.  The
Tarletons and Haslam he had released, conditionally on the promise of
payment of a good round sum of rupees.  True, the promise was so far on
paper only, but curiously enough Murad Afzul, robber and general
freebooter as he was himself, entertained a high opinion of the promises
of the Sahibs--Feringhi infidels as they were; besides, there was just
this amount of additional security, that did they repudiate their
promise in this instance, why then, they had better go away and dwell
right at the further end of India, and that at a day's notice, even if
they did not put the sea between them and him, for any closer proximity
would certainly prove fatal to their health.  As it was, the terms were
satisfactory all round, for all observation had gone to convince that
shrewd marauder that though it might be safe sport flaying and burning
such of his Asiatic fellow-subjects who should fall into his hands, it
did not pay to extend such operations to the Sahibs.  They would stand
robbery, but at the murder of themselves they drew the line.  So a
_bundobust_ was entered into, and for what was, under the circumstances,
a moderate ransom, the British captives were allowed to return to
Mazaran, and they, reckoning that the Government would pay, deemed
themselves mighty lucky in getting off so cheap.  But Murad Afzul could
afford to be moderate just then, for he was standing in for a stroke of
business beside which the gains already secured were as a fleabite, and
this was the capture of Herbert Raynier, and the reward offered by the
Nawab for that feat.

Incidentally Murad Afzul had other kine to milk--which in their way
would give a good, rich, profitable yield.  The wily freebooter had
issued orders that two men should be exempted from the slaughter which
had taken place of the camp servants, and these two were Raynier's
chuprassis.  He knew his way about, did Murad Afzul, whereupon he argued
that if any man was likely to be the possessor of a considerable hoard
of ill-gotten gains, that man would be a Government chuprassi.
Accordingly he named a good round sum apiece, which Sunt Singh and Kaur
Singh were invited to disgorge, and on their protesting their utter
inability to do so, were immediately treated to an instalment of the
consequences of such refusal duly persisted in.

It is curious how, even outside the covers of a book, or off the stage,
poetic justice will sometimes overtake delinquents, and that as a sheer
matter of cause and effect, and now for instance, as they yelled and
writhed, each with a red-hot coal bound up within his left armpit--not
the right, lest they should be unable to indite the requisite document
authorising payment of their ransom--it did not, of course, occur to
Sunt Singh and Kaur Singh that this was indirect result of their
supercilious repulse of Chand Lall from their master's audience, because
they were unaware of the nature of his errand.  But it is none the less
certain that had that luckless trader been able to communicate that
Murad Afzul and his gang of "budmashes" were out in the district, and
dacoity in full blast, Raynier would never have ventured forth thus on a
practically defenceless camping expedition, nor suffered others to do so
either, in which contingency the events just recorded would, so far,
never have taken place.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Raynier, awaking to consciousness, stared at the opposite wall, then at
the furniture, then at the window, then closed his eyes again.  A
confused medley was flitting through his clouded brain.  He seemed to
see, but as if in a far-off time, the hiding-place among the mountain
tops, the rain and mist and wild storms, to feel in a dull and uneasy
form of sense the oppression of some peril hanging over him, but
sequence of thought refused to come.  Events chased each other in wild
phantasmagoria through his mind, a sense of being hurled through space,
a shock of some sort, a ring of shaggy fierce countenances and the flash
of uplifted tulwars.  Then, of a sudden, his mind cleared.  He
remembered the runaway horse and how his last sense had been that of
being whirled into space, wrapped in a chill mist.  But Hilda?  What of
her?  Where was she?  Had she been found too.  Was she here, and--where
on earth was he?

He opened his eyes wide now, and stared around the room.  Yes, it was a
room, but a strange one.  The walls were of a dull brown colour, and
unpapered.  The window was a tall, narrow embrasure, glazed and partly
open.  In the doorway was a _chik_ of fine split bamboo, draped by faded
curtains, and a lamp of strange, but very artistic, design hung from the
ceiling.  Where was he?  And he made a movement to spring out of bed.

A figure glided to his side, a figure clad in white and wearing a
turban, and a hand was laid upon his wrist.

"Do not move, Sahib.  The Sahib must lie quiet.  The Sahib has been
ill."

The words were spoken in Hindustani, and now Raynier answered in the
same tongue,--

"I suppose I have been.  But where am I, and--who are you?"

"I am a Hakim [native physician.].  The Sahib must not talk," was the
answer, ignoring the first part of the question.  This the patient did
not fail to notice.

"That is all right, Hakim Sahib"--Raynier was always polite in his
address with natives, and if they had any title or rank never failed to
give them the benefit of it.  "But what I want to know is, where am I?"

The question was asked with some impatience.  The doctor, seeing that he
was likely to become excited, which would be highly prejudicial to the
patient, and therefore equally so to his own interest, replied,--

"You are in the house of his Greatness the Nawab."

"What?" almost shouted Raynier.

"In the house of the Nawab Mahomed Mushim Khan," repeated the Hakim.

"Oh, then, I am in good hands.  The Nawab and I are friends.  Is the
Miss Sahib here too?"

Even if the doctor had not turned away to conceal it, Raynier would not
have noticed the strange look which had come over his face, as indeed
how should he?

"Yes, yes," was the hurried answer.  "Now the Sahib must not talk any
more."

"But I must see her if only for a minute.  She will come, I know.  Bring
her to me, Hakim Sahib, then I will be as quiet as you wish."

"That cannot be," was the answer.  "She is getting on well, but not well
enough to talk to the Sahib.  In a few days, perhaps.  Now the Sahib
must rest quiet or he will not get well enough to see her at all."

Raynier sighed.  There was sense in what the other said, he supposed,
yet it was hard.  Hilda would naturally have suffered from reaction, and
could conceivably be anything but well.  Why, he himself was as weak as
a cat, as the sapient simile for some inscrutable reason puts it, the
harmless, necessary domestic feline being, proportionately, of the
strongest and most wiry of the animal creation.

"Can I see the Nawab, then?" he said.

"The Nawab is absent."

"Then his brother, the Sirdar Kuhandil Khan?  Will he not come and see
me?"

"He too is absent, Sahib.  In a few days, perhaps, when the Sahib is
well."

With this answer Raynier must fain be content.  A drowsiness stole over
him, begotten of the exertion of talking, and a great sense of security
and comfort Mushim Khan was his friend, and although he might have been
drawn into the present bobbery--all these mountain tribes dearly loved
the fun of fighting--why, he and Hilda would be perfectly safe under his
roof.  Hilda, of course, had been found at the same time as himself, and
brought here.  They would meet in a day or two, as the doctor had said,
and when the fighting was over, why, then, they would return to Mazaran,
and--good Heavens! why would the thought of Cynthia Daintree obtrude
itself?  And as, in consequence, he began to turn restlessly, the Hakim
glided to his side.

"Drink this," he said, pouring something from a phial.  Raynier did so,
and in another moment was slumbering hard and peacefully.

For two or three days longer was Raynier thus tended, but day and night
the Hakim was with him, or in the room which lay behind the _chik_, or,
if absent for a while, his place was supplied by an attendant.  But not
by any chance, not for one single instant was he ever left alone.  Had
he been a criminal awaiting the gallows he could not have been more
closely and continuously watched.  He tried to obtain information as to
what was going on outside, but without avail.  On general subjects the
doctor or the attendant would converse, but let him once touch that of
the present disturbance and they were closeness itself.  Then he thought
it was time to insist on seeing Hilda.

With deprecatory words, and far from easy in his mind, the Hakim told
him that the Miss Sahib was not there.  He had told him the contrary, it
was true, but he was very weak and ill, and good news is better for a
sick man than bad news, wherefore he had told him what he had.

What, then, had become of Miss Sahib?  Raynier asked.  Had she not been
found at the same time as himself?  He was repressing a murderous desire
to leap upon and throttle this liar of a Hakim, and only the knowledge
that violence would serve no good purpose whatever availed to restrain
him.  He controlled his voice, too, striving to speak calmly.

No, she had not been found, the doctor answered.  It was not even known
that there was a Miss Sahib with him at all.  He had been found by a
party of Gularzai in the early morning lying unconscious on the mountain
side, and brought here.  But there was nobody with him.  And then the
Hakim, looking at him with something like pity, it might have been
thought, suggested that the time had come when the Sahib might take a
little fresh air.

A few moments ago, and how welcome the idea would have been.  He was
longing to see something beyond the four walls of his room--of his
prison; and from his window nothing was visible but another wall.  But
now the shock was too great, too stunning.  He had pictured Hilda here
with him, here in security, and, after their hardships, in some degree
of comfort.  And all the time this infernal Hakim had been feeding him
on lies.  What had become of her?  He remembered how she had gone after
the horse, but of the descent of the mist he remembered nothing.  Had
she wandered too far and been unable to find him again?  Great Heaven!
how awful.  A defenceless woman, alone, lost, in that savage mountain
solitude, with night coming on, and that woman Hilda Clive.  And then by
a strange inspiration came a modicum of comfort in the thought that it
was Hilda Clive; for it brought back to him certain recollections.  He
remembered her bizarre midnight walk in a semi-trance, the perilous
episode in the _tangi_ and the consummate nerve and utter unconcern she
had displayed.  She had qualities, properties, gifts, what you will,
which placed her utterly outside any other woman he had ever known--and
these might now carry her through where another would succumb.

Following the Hakim and the attendant mechanically, Raynier found
himself in a kind of courtyard, rather was it a roof, flat and walled
in.  He could see two or three other similar roof courtyards, with
people on them.  But where was he?  He had been in Mushim Khan's
dwelling, an ordinary mud-walled village similar in every way to a
hundred others inhabited by the Gularzai and kindred border tribes, but
this place was akin to a castle or rock fortress.  He could not see much
of it, but it seemed to him that the place he was in crowned the summit
of a rock eminence, into which it was partly built.  Had Mushim Khan
another dwelling, then--a mountain stronghold which he used in times of
disturbance?  It looked so.

How blue the sky was, how bracing the air.  Raynier drew in deep
draughts of the latter.  He felt recovered already, and earnestly he
longed for the return of the Nawab, that he might be set at liberty, and
at once start in search of Hilda.  Little he cared now about his
official prospects or anything of the kind.  This girl who had been his
companion in danger and hardship filled all his thoughts.

And then immediately beneath him arose an outburst of the most awful
cries and shrieks, such as could have been wrung only from a human being
undergoing the extremity of anguish and bodily torture.  With blanched
face and chilled blood he rushed to the parapet and looked over.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE MULLAH AGAIN.

Beneath, at a distance of some thirty feet, ran a narrow alley way, and
on the opposite side of this were doors.  Round one of these several men
were clustered, as though gazing upon and rather enjoying something that
was going on within.  And it was from this door that those horrible
shrieks and screams proceeded.

Raynier's blood ran chill within him.  What act of devilish cruelty was
going on within that sinister chamber?  He noticed that a kind of thin
steam was issuing from the upper part of the door, wafting up a nauseous
and greasy odour to where he stood.  He could hear a mutter of voices
within the place, and a plashing sound, then the shrieks of agony broke
forth afresh louder than ever till he was forced to stop his ears.

Still, a horrible fascination kept him riveted--his gaze fixed on that
grisly door.  What did it all mean?  Then he was conscious that the
yelling had ceased, and now those clustering around parted to give way
to several persons who issued from the place.  Among them was a tall,
fine-looking man, who had the air and importance of a chief.  At him
Raynier looked somewhat curiously, for he thought he was acquainted with
all the Sirdars of the Gularzai.  Then this man stopped, and
half-turned, and Raynier saw dragged forth between two others a limp,
quaking figure, its quivering features expressing an extremity of terror
that was akin to mania.  And in this object he recognised his quondam
smart, well-groomed--and, to all but himself, somewhat arrogant--
chuprassi, Kaur Singh.  This was the man they had been torturing, then.
But the words of the chief told him the next moment that it was not.

"Dog of an idolater," the latter said, "thou hast seen the torments in
which thy brother has died, which are but the beginning of what he is
now undergoing.  Wherefore, if thou wouldst preserve thy miserable
carcase a little longer I advise thee to write that which shall hurry
those who are collecting thine ill-gotten gains."

The answer was an abject whine, and the follower of Brahma wallowed and
cringed before the follower of Mahomed.

Raynier remained rooted to the spot, gazing after the receding forms of
those beneath.  That the unfortunate Sunt Singh had just been put to
some ghastly and lingering form of death within that gruesome chamber,
his brother being forced to look on, he now gathered.  The motive, too,
was apparent, and now he deduced that the man who had spoken must be the
far-famed Murad Afzul; and the discovery inspired him with a very
genuine misgiving on his own account.  What if the Nawab and his brother
never returned?  What if they were killed or captured in some
engagement, and he were thus left at the mercy of this ruffian, whose
barbarities were a byword upon that border?  What would be his own fate,
helpless in such hands?  He rejoiced now that Hilda did not share his
captivity, the more so that a conviction had been growing upon him that
she must have found her way into safety.  Then he remembered that Mehrab
Khan had learned that Murad Afzul had released Haslam and the Tarletons
for money, which looked as though that arch-dacoit deemed it bad luck to
murder Europeans.  If the worst came to the worst, he, too, might find
safety and deliverance that way.

He turned quickly.  An interruption, sudden and somewhat startling, had
broken in upon his meditations, a most venomous curse to wit, hurled at
himself.  Framed in the doorway by which he himself had entered this
roof courtyard, stood a figure.  The face was aged and lined, and the
beard grey and undyed.  A ragged green turban crowned the head, while
the immense hooked nose and the opening and shutting of the extended
claw-like hands suggested some weird and exaggerated bird of prey.
Raynier recognised that he had to do with some professional fanatic, a
_mullah_ most likely.

"Why dost thou curse me, father?" he said in Pushtu.  "What harm have I
done thee or thine?"

"Hear him!" cried the _mullah_.  "Ya Allah! he calls me father, this son
of countless generations of infidels.  Hear him, Mahomed, Prophet of
Allah ever blessed!  Me, thy servant Hadji Haroun, who has three times
visited the sacred and inviolable Temple, who has kissed the sacred
Stone, this unbeliever calls `father.'"

And he spat forth a renewed and envenomed string of curses, pausing now
and again to raise his eyes heavenward, clasping and unclasping his
hooked claws--and then, as though having gained new inspiration,
breaking forth afresh.

Raynier felt annoyed.  He was not altogether unfamiliar with this rabid
and aggressive type of fanaticism, though he had found it more among
Hindu fakirs than Mahomedans.  He answered shortly,--

"I thought but to please thee, old man, but since I offended thee,
though I am sorry, it might be good to depart and leave me in peace."

At this the _mullah_ broke forth into fresh curses--but something of a
tumult beneath seemed to interrupt him, for with his head on one side he
paused and listened.  There was a confused murmur of voices--almost a
roar--mingled with the trampling of horses.  Of what was going on
beneath Raynier could see nothing, nor did he care to turn his back--for
longer than the briefest of glances--upon the fanatical _mullah_.

"In peace!" repeated the latter, echoing his last words.  "In peace!
Here is he who will give thee peace, O infidel dog.  Now will the blood
of Allahyar Khan--whom the Prophet console in Paradise--be avenged."

"I know not of what thou art talking, old man," returned Raynier,
shortly.  "Thy curses matter not greatly, but if thou namest me `dog'
again I will throw thee over yon parapet even though thou hadst visited
the sacred and inviolable Temple thirty times instead of three."

At these words the other uttered a wild, shrill yell, and turning fled
down the stairs crying that the Feringhi dog was insulting the tomb of
the Prophet and threatening one who had kissed the sacred Stone--and
Raynier began to realise that he had made a grave mistake in losing his
temper with this old fool, whom he should have allowed to abuse him till
to-morrow morning rather than give him any pretext for raising the
fanatical hatred of these fierce and easily-roused tribesmen in whose
power he was.  It was too late now, for already there was an approaching
hubbub on the stairs and several of them rushed in, their fierce
countenances blazing with wrath.  But that their weapons were undrawn
Raynier would have expected to be cut to pieces.  As it was they flung
themselves upon him, and he was dragged and hustled to the door, and
down the stairs--along passages and through doorways, with incredible
force and rapidity.  Totally unarmed, and weakened by his recent
illness, resistance was out of the question.  He supposed his time had
come and that he was being dragged to his death.

They had halted.  He was in a large open courtyard, surrounded by the
doors of dwellings built apparently into high walls, except on the
further side, which was constituted by a solid cliff face, towering up
high overhead.  This he took in at a glance, but what was more to the
point, the place was full of armed men, and there in the midst was
Mushim Khan.

The Nawab and his brother had just dismounted from horseback, and a
follower was leading away their steeds, fine animals showing blood and
muscle in every movement.  In spite of the rough and undignified
treatment of which he had just been a victim Raynier was mindful of the
dignity of his high office, and his attitude and tone were not lacking
in this when, having waited for the buzz which greeted his appearance to
subside, he gave the chief's the salaam.

To his surprise and inward dismay, neither replied.  They stood
contemplating him in stern and hostile silence.  He felt utterly
nonplussed, especially having regard to the good treatment and
hospitality which had been extended to him hitherto.  Ah! the _mullah_
of course.  That was it.  He had been stirring up their fanatical
animosity, and once touch that you never know where you are with an
Oriental.  There was the old villain over there, glaring at him with his
beady eyes.

"There has been a mistake, Nawab Sahib," began Raynier, perfectly cool
and collected.

"Yon holy man declares I spoke against the Prophet and his tomb, but it
is not so.  You who know me are aware I am not one to do any such thing.
The _mullah_ is quite mistaken."

But the stern hostility on the countenances of the chiefs relaxed not
one atom--that upon those of their followers deepened, and mutterings of
hate rumbled forth from the rows of grim and shaggy faces which
encompassed him.  Sinewy fingers instinctively tightened round sword
hilts and rifle locks.  Raynier went on,--

"Believers, although of another creed, we are all the children of one
Father, for such is the teaching of the Prophet as revealed to him and
set forth in the Holy Koran.  And I have seen enough of the followers of
the Prophet to respect their faith, and never have I uttered word
against that faith--no, not even now.  But yon _mullah_ cursed me and
named me dog--me, the representative of the _Sirkar_.  Should I accept
that meekly, think you?"

But all the reply that this drew was a deeper and renewed execration.

"What of Allahyar Khan?" hissed the _mullah_ at the chief's side.  "What
of the Sirdar Allahyar Khan?"

The effect upon the Nawab was as that of a sting.  Yet he spoke coldly,
as though striving to suppress the rage that consumed him.

"Answer me, Raynier Sahib.  Was General Raynier Sahib, who commanded
troops at the time of the great rising thy father?"

"Surely, Nawab Sahib.  But that is a long past and forgotten misfortune.
Why revive it?"

"And he commanded the troops that came to Grampur after it had been
reconquered?"

It was impossible but that Raynier's natural perceptions, let alone his
experience of Orientals, should have failed to convince him that here,
and not in any tale told by the _mullah_, lay the secret of Mushim
Khan's changed attitude towards him.  Some of their people had been
killed at that time, was the solution, and this rascally _mullah_ had
stirred up the recollection.  He knew how the blood feud can be tossed
on from generation to generation among these mountain tribes.  Still,
there was only one answer possible.

"I believe he did, Nawab Sahib," he answered.  "But why rake up these
dead and buried tales of strife?"

"Dead and buried!" yelled Hadji Haroun, clasping and unclasping his
claws.  "Ya Mahomed! hear him.  Dead and buried!  What of Allahyar
Khan--what of the dog who sent him defiled to his death, the father of
this dog standing here?"

Then for the first time Raynier realised the imminence of his peril, for
he saw that no common incident in the fortune of war lay behind this.
The noble expression of the Nawab's countenance had disappeared, giving
way to one of hate and cruelty, and the same held good of that of his
brother, Kuhandil Khan.  A roar of execration arose from the close ranks
of the Gularzai, and tulwars were drawn, and flashed in the sun.  Mushim
Khan turned, and in an undertone gave directions to some of those
nearest to him.  These advanced upon Raynier.

"There is no need to lay hands upon me, Chief of the Gularzai," he cried
in a firm tone.  "I am in your power, you who have professed friendship
for me.  Say what your will is."

But Mushim Khan answered no word.  Raynier was seized and violently
dragged away, a roar of execration and hate going up from the gathering,
and, rising above it, he could distinguish the high, venomous tones of
the _mullah_, shrilling forth,--

"The blood of Allahyar Khan!  The blood of Allahyar Khan!  Now will it
be avenged.  Ya Mahomed!  Now!  Now!"



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

LEFT ALONE.

We must now go back a little.

Standing there on the mountain side, enveloped in the thick mist,
nothing visible but a few yards of wet ground, Hilda Clive felt as
though she were turned into stone.

How far had she come? how retrace her steps?  It occurred to her that
she had better not move until she had thoroughly made up her mind which
direction to take.  To this end she lifted up her voice in a loud, clear
call.  No answer.

Again she lifted up her voice, and on the principle that a person will
more readily catch his own name than any other word she called to her
companion by his.  Still no answer.

She tried another plan.  She thought of every kind of call that she
could sound on the highest of notes, so as to produce the most carrying
effects.  All useless.  Still, no answer.

Should she move, or would not her best plan be to remain exactly where
she was?  The mist might lift, and then she could find her way back,
whereas if she began wandering about she might lose her bearings
entirely.  She knew she was in a mountain cloud, and such lift as
suddenly as they come down.  On the other hand, they are apt to hang
about the <DW72>s for days.  And as though to emphasise this side of the
question the dark folds seemed to close in around her darker and darker.

She tried her voice again, this time turning to every point of the
compass as she sent forth her clear, high-pitched calls.  Then her heart
seemed to hammer within her as though it would burst.  She heard an
answer.

Faint and far away it sounded, coming from a little above her.
Impulsively she took a few steps in that direction then called again.
The answer came this time louder and more distinct.

Poor Hilda!  She could have sunk to the ground with sheer heart sickness
and despair as she stood there listening.  The answer was the mere echo
of her own voice.  She tried it again and again to make sure of this,
and then two or three tears forced themselves from her eyes, and a sob
escaped her.  It was too terrible, too heart-breaking altogether.

No.  It was clearly of no use standing still; besides, she felt the cold
and damp.  She must move if only to keep off the deadly shivers which
were creeping upon her.  But in what direction?  And as though the
bewildering effect of the mist was not enough she remembered that in
trying to catch the horse she had been drawn to describe a complete
circle, and that three times: in fact the perverse brute had done for
her exactly what is done for the blindfolded one in blind man's buff,
when he or she is started upon his or her quest, and with exactly the
same effect.

Darker it grew.  Night was coming on, and far down in the valley beneath
a wolf howled--then another and another.  Hilda remembered how they had
listened to the cry of the ravening beasts there in the lighted security
of the camp, could almost have smiled to herself as she pictured Mrs
Tarleton, or any other woman of her acquaintance, here, in her own
plight, with the certainty before her of a night in the awful loneliness
of these savage mountain solitudes, surrounded, for all she could tell,
by prowling beasts of prey.  That such would hardly do less than simply
expire she firmly believed, and in truth the situation was fraught with
every terrifying and exhausting element even for her.

Yet Hilda Clive thought but little of herself in the matter.  What would
become of her companion, left alone on the wet hill side--ill, fainting,
fever-stricken? and this was the idea that caused her to raise her hand
to her head and press her brows hard as though to control the working of
the busy brain within the limits of coherency.

What should she do, and how do it?  Again and again all sorts of
expedients would suggest themselves.  She would walk a given distance in
each direction--not down, for she had been descending slightly in her
pursuit of the horse--then retrace her steps, and try another.  She
would walk all night if necessary--but she would find him.  And then,
with a terrible heart sinking, two considerations occurred to her--one
that she might pass him within a few yards in the darkness and mist, the
other that she herself was beginning to feel faint with fatigue and
hunger.  No matter.  If will power could carry anyone through, it should
her.

Then an idea came to her--swept in upon her mind like a lighthouse flash
in the gloom; for it seemed just the idea she had been groping after.
The quarter of the wind!

It had blown upon her right ear she remembered during her pursuit of the
horse--yet rather from behind.  She remembered it because of an escaped
tress of hair which had played about her cheek.  Now by getting it upon
her left ear from in front, and keeping it there, she would be able to
retrace her steps.  Thrilling with renewed thankfulness and hope she
started to put this plan into immediate execution.

But alas! for poor Hilda.  There was now no wind at all, or but faint
breaths of it, and these she thought to perceive were coming from any
and every direction.  Then she remembered that in following the horse
the rise of the <DW72> was on her right.  By keeping it on her left she
might find her way.  Anything rather than remain inactive.

It was quite dark now, but the cloud showed no disposition to lift.
Stumbling onward, every now and then lifting her voice in a call, Hilda
pressed on, with a determination and endurance well-nigh superhuman.
Twice she fell, bruising herself among the stones, then up and on again.
He would die if he were not found, would die, fever-stricken, helpless,
alone.  Die!  The word seemed ringing in her brain, and then--and then--
what was this?  She was beginning to go _downhill_.

Downhill!  That could not be.  She had kept steadily upward, and yet,
without swerving in the least from the course she had been following,
she was plainly and unmistakably walking downhill, and this fact once
established, the significance of the situation became clear.  She was
hopelessly and entirely out of her reckoning, and had no more idea as to
where she had left Herbert Raynier than she had as to where she herself
now stood.  And then nature asserted itself over mind.  Overwhelmed with
despair and hunger and exhaustion poor Hilda sank to the ground in a
faint that was more than half slumber.

When she awoke the mist had entirely disappeared, and the sun was well
up in the blue sky.  A shadow was between it and her, and she started
somewhat as her eyes rested on a dark face, crowned by a voluminous
turban.  A man was bending over her, a man clothed in the loose garments
of the Gularzai, and armed with a sword and rifle, and the startled look
gave place to one of intense relief as she recognised Mehrab Khan.

"Where is the _Huzoor_?" was her first question in the best Hindustani
she could command.  Then Mehrab Khan proceeded to explain the situation,
partly by signs, partly in Hindustani, of which latter Hilda understood
a good deal more than she could talk.  The _Huzoor_ had been found by a
party of Gularzai, lying ill upon the mountain side.  They had not
harmed him, but had carried him away--probably to the Nawab's village;
which intimation filled poor Hilda with unspeakable relief and
thankfulness.  For Herbert Raynier had the highest opinion of Mushim
Khan and his brother.  He had often talked to her about them, and
promised she should see them on the occasion of the next _jirga_ at
Mazaran.  If he was the Nawab's prisoner, he was safe, she decided.  But
if Mehrab Khan knew otherwise, his Oriental inscrutability did not
betray the fact.

The Baluchi was reproachful, however, that they had left their
hiding-place before his return, and he managed to convey to his hearer
that he had got in with some people whom it had been impossible to leave
at his own convenience without exciting suspicion.  When he had found
the place deserted he had followed on their track, but the cloud had
baffled him, even as it had them.  He had found the runaway steed, and
now his plan was to take the Miss Sahib into Mazaran at once.  The way
was clear just now and they ought to take advantage of it.

Refreshed with some food, which Mehrab Khan produced, Hilda felt almost
light-hearted.  And then, going back over her wanderings now in the
clear sunny daylight, she saw that, though the direction taken was not
so greatly at fault, she had ascended much too high, and had gained a
kotal over which she was passing into another valley, when she had
detected the declivity of the ground.

Mazaran made a great deal of Hilda Clive when she returned safe and
sound.  What an experience she had had, and that poor Mr Raynier, gushed
the feminine side of Mazaran.  Well, he would soon be back among them
again.  Mushim Khan had too much to lose to incur deposition, if not
destruction, by allowing harm to happen to so important a representative
of the Government as the Political Agent, pronounced Mazaran, and
especially Colonel Polwarth C.O., who was not in a position to weaken
the garrison by a single man, it being none too strong as it was.
Indeed the station was in a state of siege, its European inhabitants
spending each night within the fort, and the bearded, long-haired
tribesmen, formerly conspicuous in the streets and bazaar, were now
conspicuous by their absence.  Meanwhile, reinforcements were anxiously
awaited, and it looked as if they might be so for long, for a very large
force was in the field further along the border, where, according to the
reports that came in, fighting was abundant and brisk.

Tarleton was somewhat subdued since his return, and whereas Haslam was
rather fond of expatiating upon their adventures, the Civil Surgeon was
more inclined to shelve the subject when it was broached.  It wasn't a
thing to _bukh_ about, he declared, nor could he understand how that
fellow Haslam could _bukh_ about nothing else.  They had neither of them
cut so great a figure in it for the matter of that, and he for his part
didn't seem to care if he never heard it mentioned again.  Inwardly he
was relieved that so far no harm had come to Raynier through the
disclosure wrung from him by Murad Afzul.

"Just fancy, dear," Mrs Tarleton exclaimed, when she had fussed over
Hilda enough by way of welcome back.  "Who do you think has arrived,
just as poor Mr Raynier is away too?  Isn't it sad?--and he not here to
welcome her?"

"To welcome whom?" said Hilda, tranquilly.

"Why, his _fiancee_, of course."

"I didn't know he'd got one."

"No more did we, no more did any of us," rejoined Mrs Tarleton, glancing
curiously at the girl, yet feeling intensely relieved at the nonchalance
of her reply, for she too had noticed, in common with Haslam, how
Raynier and her guest had been getting, as the Forest Officer put it,
uncommonly thick together.  "He was remarkably close on the subject, I
must say."

"Well, he naturally would be.  That trick of gushing on the subject and
running about showing the latest photograph and all that, is idiotic,
and I can't imagine Mr Raynier being idiotic.  Who is she?"

"A Miss Daintree.  Rather a stylish-looking girl, handsome too.  She's
staying with the Croftons."

"Yes?  Well, they'll have a happy reunion and live happy ever after."

Mrs Tarleton felt more relieved than ever.  The light laughing badinage
of the girl's tone could never have been assumed, she decided.  There
was nothing between them, then.

But Hilda Clive was putting two and two together.  She remembered
Raynier's absence of mind and unwonted depression the day they had set
forth on their ride which had ended so tragically.  This, then, was the
news which had disconcerted him.  The impending arrival of the girl to
whom he was engaged gave him no pleasure--rather the reverse--and if so,
why?  The puzzle was no difficult one to piece together; indeed, to her
perceptions, it constituted no puzzle at all.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

AT MAZARAN.

Cynthia Daintree had heard of Raynier's transfer immediately on landing,
and had lost no time in proceeding to Mazaran, which move was
facilitated by the fact that the friends with whom she had come out had
relatives in the frontier station, to whom they duly passed her on, and
with whom she was now staying.

She had received Raynier's telegram at Aden.  Her father had forwarded
it, without comment, and although its burden caused her a little
temporary annoyance it neither surprised nor disconcerted her, for of it
she there and then resolved to take no notice at all.  More than ever
now she congratulated herself that the angry letter she had been on the
point of sending him after he had left her so brutally--as she put it--
had remained unsent; more than ever did she rejoice that no further
communication had passed between them, and that therefore he could claim
no formal release.  What had passed between them she would choose to
regard as a mere tiff, which the magnanimity of her disposition moved
her unconditionally to condone, and this she would give out if
necessary.  For the rest, she reckoned on his easy-going nature, which,
by reason of his extraordinary forbearance as regarded herself, she had
come to regard as weak, and despised accordingly.  There was no other
woman in the case, she was sure of that, otherwise he might have turned
restive.  As it was, she would have things all her own way, and he would
yield unconditionally.

Another point in her favour was that she would take him more or less by
surprise, for she had carefully arranged that the letter which we have
seen him receive, should only reach him a few days before her own
arrival.  But when she arrived, only to learn that the border war had
blazed forth in the very neighbourhood of Mazaran itself, and that the
man she had come to find was missing, her wrath and chagrin knew no
bounds.  The first she was forced to conceal, the second she passed off
in concern and anxiety on behalf of her _fiance's_ peril.  Attempts on
all sides were made to reassure her.  The missing official would have
thrown himself on the protection of someone or other of the chiefs who
had not joined in the _jihad_--Sarbaland Khan, for instance, who would
certainly remain loyal--and to whose interest it would be to ensure the
safety of so high a representative of the _Sirkar_.  But if she allowed
herself to be reassured on that point, there was a new and wholly
unlooked-for aspect of the situation, which in her heart of hearts was
fraught with possibilities.  With the missing man was the Tarletons'
girl guest.  Only to think how they would be thrown together, and that
day after day, in their wanderings and possible dangers!  What was the
girl like?  She set herself to find out.

It happened that the Tarletons had no portrait of Hilda Clive, but on
the subject of the latter's attractions Cynthia was in a great measure
reassured.  When, apparently in pursuance of a natural interest in the
missing girl, she inquired on the point, the answer was never more
enthusiastic than "Oh, so-so," with a sort of covert implication that
she was not in it with the inquirer herself.  For Hilda had made no
impression upon the male side of the station, to whom she conveyed an
idea of coldness and reserve even when not, as Haslam put it, one of
uncanniness.  So Cynthia was reassured, and managed to get through time
fairly contentedly; and while ever manifesting a becoming degree of
anxiety on behalf of her _fiance_--as she gave him out to be--on the
whole the station regarded her as a decided acquisition.  And then Hilda
Clive had reappeared, alone.

Among the first to visit her was naturally Cynthia, and the consequent
reassurance as to Raynier's temporary safety hardly rejoiced her so much
as the first glance at his fellow refugee.  Why, the girl was downright
plain--if not hideous, she decided.  She had green eyes, to begin with;
large and well-lashed certainly, but--green; green and uncanny, like a
cat's.  Then, she was white and haggard looking.  As for her dress,
Cynthia could not judge, for Hilda had only agreed to see her under
protest and had appeared in a tea-gown; for she was suffering from
lassitude and nervous reaction, following upon physical hardship and the
immense mental strain she had undergone.  Small wonder indeed if she
were not looking her best.  Wherefore, Cynthia decided that here was no
possibility of rivalry, and having so decided she set to work to make
the best of the situation.

Mazaran was practically in a state of siege, yet a matter of twenty-four
hours sufficed to accustom its social side to that state of things; and,
if it was unsafe to venture beyond the lines, the social side aforesaid
took care to amuse itself to the best of its ability within them.  And
here Cynthia Daintree was in great request.  She was a novelty, she was
stylish and well dressed, and well looking.  She kept up a certain
modicum of carefully regulated concern for her missing fiance, but she
allowed herself to be drawn, albeit under protest into all that went on.
The general consensus of opinion was--especially among the garrison--
that the missing Raynier was a deuced lucky fellow, but why the mischief
had he kept his engagement so dark?

Not quite all, however, were so minded.  Haslam, the Forest Officer, for
instance, was not so sure on the point; possibly, because Cynthia had
not thought it worth while laying herself out to captivate him, possibly
not.  Anyway, he remarked at the Tarletons' one day,--

"I wonder if Raynier will weep for joy when he gets back or not?"

"Why, what do you mean, Mr Haslam?" said his hostess.

"Nothing.  Only that I shouldn't like to be in his shoes."

"Sour grapes, Mr Haslam," laughed Mrs Tarleton, not meaning it, for she
happened to be one of those who did not take the new arrival at her own
valuation.

Haslam chuckled.

"That's just it.  You've hit it, Mrs Tarleton.  There will be found a
good deal of acidity about that particular bunch, and that's why I don't
envy Raynier."

"Well, you can't expect anyone to be perfect, can you?" struck in
Tarleton, inconsequently oppositious as usual.

"Never said I could," answered Haslam, lighting another cheroot.  "What
do you think about her, Miss Clive?"

"How can I give an opinion on a `brother woman,' Mr Haslam, especially
to a man?" laughed Hilda.  "If I don't say she's perfect, you'll go away
and tell everybody I'm jealous.  If I do you won't believe me."

"Hallo.  That's rather good," said the Forest Officer, who liked Hilda
Clive, and resented the fact of the other coming there to cut her out,
as he persisted on looking at it.  "But, I say.  Talking of--er--who we
were talking about--it's my belief she's hedging."

"What the doose do you mean by that Haslam?" said Tarleton.  The other
cackled.

"Why, she's making running up there in the garrison.  Supposing Raynier
never came back, poor chap--eh?  Or supposing he was hauled over the
coals for not foreseeing this _tumasha_, as it's not impossible he may
be, and sent back to some beastly Plains station--what then?  Young
Beecher for instance--they say he has no end of expectations.  Eh?  They
do a good deal together."

"Now, really, Mr Haslam, you are a regular scandalmonger," laughed Mrs
Tarleton, who was thoroughly enjoying the Forest Officer's strictures.
"I'm sure Miss Daintree is a very nice, sweet, affectionate girl, and Mr
Raynier is to be congratulated."

"Affectionate dev--h'm, h'm.  She's got a cold eye."

"A what?"

"A cold eye.  Look at it next time.  It's the eye of a fish--a shark for
choice."

"Well, you couldn't expect her to have a warm one, could you?" drowsed
Tarleton, who was half asleep.  Whereat they all roared.

Now in all of this there was more than a little, for, apart from her
natural inclination to have as good a time as possible, here amid
entirely new conditions of life, and forming as they did a marked
contrast to those of a country vicarage, Cynthia had kept her ears open
as well as her eyes.  Even station _gup_ had not as yet linked Raynier's
name with that of Hilda Clive.  But it had speculated as to the view
that would be taken at headquarters of the Political Agent allowing
himself to be lulled into a state of absolute blindness on the subject
of the ill-affectedness of the Gularzai; the most important and powerful
tribe within his jurisdiction.  All of which Cynthia had not been slow
to take in; and Captain Beecher, who was always on hand with his
dogcart, or a very sleek and serviceable Waler--of which she was
secretly afraid--if she preferred riding, was very devoted, and
substantially sound, and Cynthia was verging on thirty.  And a live and
frisky dog was very much better than a dead and reduced lion, and Haslam
was an abominable cynic who knew his India, and the dominant population
thereof, thoroughly.

Hilda Clive, watching this state of things, said nothing, only thought.
So completely did she say nothing in fact, that the station decided that
in view of the circumstances of the case, she was singularly lacking in
appreciation, not to say gratitude.  She and Raynier had been together
through the winnowing of a common danger.  She had come out of it safe
and sound, he had not.  Yet she seemed to give him no further thought.

Did she not?

"All are forgetting him," she said to herself, in the bitterness of her
intense self-concentration.  "All are forgetting him--even decrying him,
and there are those hungrily ready to step into his shoes.  All the more
reason to show him that here is one who is not."

She thanked Heaven she was well off; indeed, for a single woman, almost
rich.  Nothing can be done in this world without filthy lucre.  She had
been endowed with this if not with the art of drawing men round her like
flies around a jar of stale marmalade.  Money can buy anything within
certain limits, even life.  Yet how many there would have expended say
one thousand rupees to purchase that of Herbert Raynier's?

But she?  She shut herself up in her own room a good deal just then,
shut herself up with business papers--which, by the way, she thoroughly
understood.  And running through all her calculations and correspondence
were certainly recollections of a time spent in a free _al fresco_ life;
and subsequently, in an _al fresco_ life which was anything but free,
and hedged round with hardship at every turn, and somehow it seemed that
that time was not the least enjoyable period of her existence.  Then she
would push away all the business matter in front of her, and pass her
hands over her brows, and if anyone had broken in upon her at that time
it would have been to see upon Hilda Clive's face a look that rendered
it wondrously soft and lovable and attractive.

But through it all there mingled a puzzled and half-distressed state of
mind.  Her strange powers of foresight seemed to hover around, and yet
refuse to be called into definite action.  There was something to be
done, they told her, and she was the one to do it; yet what, and how?
Ah, now it was clear.  Money would purchase anything--even life.

The first thing she had done on her return to Mazaran was to present
Mehrab Khan with such a substantial sum in rupees as to cause that
faithful Mussulman to stare.  Then she had set to work to obtain for him
a sort of indefinite furlough, so that he could attach himself wholly
and entirely to her service, which he was by no means loth to do.  It
had not been difficult, because, as it happened, his term of enlistment
had all but expired, and Mehrab Khan was far too valuable a jemadar of
Levy Sowars to part with at that juncture; wherefore, through Haslam,
who, as we have seen, stood her friend, and others, she contrived that
the authorities should allow her the use of him _pro tem_.  To what she
would turn that use we shall see anon.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

OF THE SIRDAR'S OATH.

The unhappy prisoner, forced along by strong and ruthless hands,
recognised that he was in the alley way upon which he had looked down
from the parapet, what time the shrieks of the tortured man had forced
him to stop his ears.  Heaven help him!  To what death of lingering
torment were these barbarians going to put him?  There was the very
door, and through it he was now dragged.

The horrible greasy fumes which had sickened him before hung about the
place, which, entering as he did from the light, seemed to lie in a
semi-gloom, suggestive of all sorts of hideous imaginings.  At the
further end was something that looked like a long iron coffin, raised
about eighteen inches from the floor.  To this he was forced forward.

Raynier's blood curdled within him as the full horror of this awful
object broke upon him.  No coffin was it, but a bath--and the iron rings
and chains let into its sides, two at each end, told their own tale.  So
too, did the ashes of a dead fire underneath.  The upper end was padded.
The sufferer might not dash out his own brains; might not seek relief
from his frightful torment that way.

Faint and sick, his senses in a whirl, he gazed stupidly at the horrid
thing.  Was his brain giving way?  It seemed so.  Hardly knowing how he
got there he was outside in the air again.

"Our bathroom does not please thee, Feringhi," said a voice.  Looking
up, his eyes met the baleful sneering ones of Murad Afzul.

"I have been ill with fever of late.  You forget," he answered,
instinctively striving to disguise the despair and terror which the
sight of the horrid place had stamped upon his countenance.  Then he
fainted.

When he came to himself again he was in semi-darkness.  A man was
bending over him, and seemed to be trying to revive him.  He recognised
the Hakim.

"Where am I?  Oh!"

He had tried to rise, only to discover that he was chained by the ankles
to an iron ring in the stone floor.  His hands, however, were free.  He
saw further that he was in a damp and gloomy apartment akin to a
dungeon, a grating above the door serving to let in air and light.

"Take away your remedies, Hakim Sahib," he said, bitterly.  "I have no
wish to be revived for the purpose of being tortured, and I suppose it
was for that reason I was taken care of before?"

"It is the Nawab's orders," answered the other.  "Ill would it fare with
me did I not carry them out."

"Well, I will not help you, then."

"You will not be helping yourself in that case, Sahib," said the Hakim,
"for then they would work their will on you at once.  See--there is
food.  Bethink.  Is there no object in gaining time?"

"If so, I know not what it can be," answered Raynier.  And then an idea
seized him.  This man might help him to escape, of course, for a large
reward.  But when it was put to him the Hakim shook his head.  It was
impossible.  Besides, what would be his own fate were it suspected he
had even thought of such a thing!  And as though terrified at the idea
he went out, leaving the prisoner alone.

Raynier pondered over the Hakim's words.  Was there significance in
them?  It might be so.  But why should he renew his strength in order
the longer to endure the tortures which Mushim Khan, whom he had thought
his friend but now proved to be a most bitter and vindictive enemy, had
in store for him?  There was the food beside him, within his reach.
There, too, was wine, which struck him as a strange circumstance,
remembering that he was in the midst of rigid Mahomedans.  Clearly he
was to be fatted up for the sacrifice, and yet--and yet--Nature was
strong.  He needed the stimulant badly, and--took it.

Immediately thereafter he fell asleep.  Sleep, too, he needed badly.  In
spite of his constrained attitude he slumbered hard and soundly.  Once
more he was with Hilda, and now it seemed that his whole being was bound
up with hers.  The horrors he had gone through, the privations and
perils they had both gone through, were far behind.  They knew each
other now, and heart and mind were laid bare to each other as they
stood, the world outside, they two, alone.  The strong, sweet dream-wave
rolled over his soul, and all was forgotten save that they two were
together--together for all time.

The harsh creaking of the door, flung open, aroused him.  The delusion
sped in demoniacal mockery.  The prison, the chains, the impending
torture were realities.

Three persons had entered--Mushim Khan, his brother, and a third.
Raynier sat up to confront them with what dignity he was able.  The
Nawab spoke.

"I will not waste words on thee, Feringhi.  Know, then, that as our
brother, the Sirdar Allahyar Khan, was put to death by thy father at the
time of the great rising, so must thy father's son suffer death at the
hands of the brothers of Allahyar Khan, even ourselves, a life for a
life, for thus is it written in the Holy Koran.  Moreover, I have sworn
it."

The words were uttered deliberately, almost with a judicial solemnity,
but the savage hatred upon the face of the speaker seemed to be
struggling with the solemnity of their utterance.

"What proof have ye of this, O Chief of the Gularzai, whom I had
reckoned my friend?" answered Raynier, "for the Prophet likewise orders
that none be condemned without proof."

"Here is proof."  And the speaker handed him the parchment he had
received from Hadji Haroun.

Raynier took it, studying it long and earnestly.  He was conversant with
Pushtu, and could write it almost as well as he could speak it: and the
perusal of the document only served to convince him that its substance
was, in all probability, correct; and that his father had, in his
capacity of commanding officer, sanctioned the execution of the Gularzai
sirdar as described.  As to the circumstances of ignominy attendant upon
the execution, well, he knew that such things had been done in the
Mutiny.  Moreover, his recollections of his father were such as to
convince him that at such a time the latter was not likely to have erred
on the side of leniency.  Then an idea struck him.

"It may be as you say, Chief of the Gularzai.  It is long ago, and who
can say for certain what happened then?  If it be so, I deplore it.  But
you have cited the Koran.  Hear now the words of the sacred revelation:
`O true believers, the law of retaliation is ordained for the slain: the
free shall die for the free, and the servant for the servant, and a
woman for a woman: but he whom his brother shall forgive may be obliged
to make satisfaction for what is just, and a fine shall be set on him,
with humanity.  This is indulgence from your Lord, and mercy.'  Will ye
not, therefore, forgive me, my brothers?"

There was nothing abject in his tone, no suspicion of cringing.  For a
few moments his listeners stood as though thunderstruck.  This
unbeliever quoted glibly from the holy volume.  Then the third of the
trio, who had kept somewhat in the background and of whom Raynier had
not taken much notice, spoke.

"Feringhi, thou hast evidently studied the revelations of Mahomed--the
blessed of Allah.  Wilt thou not now make profession of the faith?"

Here was a loophole.  Raynier thought of what he had undergone, of how
completely he was in the power of this unsparing and vengeful people; of
the horrors he had witnessed, and of what might be in store for himself.
He thought of Hilda Clive, and how life might hold out for him a long
vista of its fairest and brightest, and the temptation was great.  But
he thought, too, on the opinions he had more than once expressed when
discussing such "conversions," and how they were dishonouring to the
British name.  He was not an ostentatiously religious man, but when it
came to forswearing Christianity, the line had to be drawn.  So he
answered,--

"I could not do that, for it would be to forswear myself.  I honour your
religion, but were I to profess it I should be speaking a lie."

Now, while he said this, Raynier's eye had rested on something--
something that was in the hand of the man who had spoken last.  _It was
a malacca cane_.

The blood rushed wildly through his being.  He stared at the thing.
There it was, a stout, silver-topped malacca cane--a very unwonted
article in the hand of a white-clad, turbaned Gularzai.  Heavens! what
did it mean?  He stared at the man who carried it--a tall, handsome,
commanding-looking representative of his race--and then his mind rushed
back from the stronghold of the Chief of the Gularzai, to the shouting,
roaring, riotous mob in the heart of the city of London.  And this was
the man he had rescued from its uproarious violence.

"Do you not remember me, brother?" he said, in English, his heart
seeming to burst in the revulsion of returning hope.  "That is the stick
I armed you with when you were beset by numbers.  Look!  In the middle
of it is the dent made by the falling iron which would otherwise have
crushed your head in."

He stopped short.  No flash of recognition lit up the features of the
Gularzai, not the faintest sign even of having understood.  He paused.
Then he said, in Pushtu,--"Who is yon sirdar, Nawab Sahib?"

"Shere Dil Khan.  He is my son."  The answer was curt and cold.  Raynier
went on,--

"If my father put thy brother to death, Nawab Sahib, I saved the life of
thy son, Shere Dil Khan.  The dent in that stick was made by the iron
which would have crushed his head.  Upon the knob are the letters of my
name.  May I handle it for a moment?  It is not a weapon--and, am I not
chained?"

The man who held it stepped forward and placed it in his hand.  As he
did so, with his face close to the prisoner, Raynier recognised him
completely.  It was the man he had rescued in the midst of the rough and
exasperated crowd.  But for all the recognition on the face of the other
it might have been a mask.

Raynier took the stick.  One glance at it was sufficient.  There, on the
massive silver head, were intertwined the letters H.R.--his initials.

Somehow, hope died again within him.  It might be that Shere Dil Khan
had forgotten his English, or he might be under some vow not to use it--
and, acting on this idea, Raynier told the whole story in their own
tongue.  Still no sign of recognition, of corroboration lit up that
impassive countenance.  He could see that the story was aiding him not
in the smallest degree, even if it were believed at all.

"Well," he concluded, realising this, "there is no gratitude in the
world.  If you save a man's life, he is the one to seek out your own."

"Thou hast appealed to our mercy, Feringhi," said Mushim Khan, "and not
in vain.  Thou hast been shown some small glimpse of the torments we had
designed for thee, but Allah is merciful and shall we be less so?
Wherefore, these we remit and thou shalt only suffer death--death by the
sword, at the rising of to-morrow's sun, in the presence of the warriors
of the Gularzai assembled here.  For it has been sworn, and who may
break an oath?"

And the three chiefs went forth, leaving the prisoner alone.  This,
then, was how he next saw the silver-mounted stick which had saved the
life of a man--and that man the son of his executioner.  Was there such
a thing as gratitude in the world?



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ON THE GRAVE'S DARK BRINK.

When, immediately on leaving his prisoner, Mushim Khan was informed that
a believer had been brought in, escorting a woman, veiled, who had come
far to communicate with him upon a matter of importance, the Nawab
betrayed no surprise, nor did the statement that the woman, although
dressed as one of their own women, was a Feringhi, elicit any, either.
He coldly directed that they should be conducted to his durbar hall,
and, accompanied by his son and Kuhandil Khan, he proceeded thither.

Hilda Clive dropped her veil as she came into the presence of the
chiefs.  They returned her salaam gravely, eyeing her with the same
furtive curiosity as that which she felt with regard to them.  What
stately men they were, she thought.  The very simplicity of their snowy
garments and beautifully-folded turbans added a dignity from which any
barbaric splendour of jewels and colours would have detracted.  So this
was Mushim Khan, she thought, instinctively recognising the Nawab.  He
was indeed a noble-looking man--and, although cold and stern at that
moment, his face was not a cruel one--and the same held good of the
others.  Surely she would obtain that for which she was here.

And how came it that she was here?  Simply one of those strange
impressions of prevoyance to which she was at times given.  It had been
borne in upon her with a vivid and startling suddenness that the missing
man was in great peril; so incisive and convincing indeed was this
impression as to dispel forthwith the idea that he was a
courteously-treated prisoner of war in the hands of a generous and
honourable enemy.  She, and she alone, had power to save him.  All
Orientals were fond of money, she had heard--fortunately, she had
plenty.  She would literally redeem him, would buy his release, even
though it cost her every farthing she had in the world.

The plan once conceived, she lost no time in carrying it out.  She said
no word about it to anybody, for fear of being interfered with, but,
leaving a note for the Tarletons, she started off with Mehrab Khan for
the Nawab's stronghold.

The Baluchi had raised no objection.  He took it as quite a matter of
course that she should require him to accompany her alone into the midst
of a hostile tribe.  So, having adopted the Gularzai attire and being
well armed, he had brought her in safety hither.

But now poor Hilda found herself in a quandary at the off-set.  Her
knowledge of Hindustani was of the slightest, and Mehrab Khan's
knowledge of English _nil_.  She could make him understand her in
ordinary matters, but as an interpreter she feared he might prove of
little use.  But here aid came from an unlooked-for quarter.

"If you will allow me to be your interpreter, madam, I will strive to
convey to my father what you wish to say."

Hilda stared.  It was Shere Dil Khan who had spoken, and his English was
well-nigh faultless.  She thanked him, and then without waste of words
set forward the object of her visit.  But it was hardly necessary for
him to interpret the Nawab's reply.  She knew that it was a stern and
emphatic refusal.

"Who is this woman, and what is she to the prisoner?" asked Mushim Khan.
"Is she his wife?"

This, though more courteously rendered, brought the colour to Hilda's
face, and she replied that she was not--but only a distant relation.
She thought it was time delicately to hint at the question of ransom.

Delicately--yes--because there was that about these stately chiefs that
seemed to render the subject as difficult of approach as though they
were Europeans of social equality.

"I know that it is not unusual, Sirdar Sahib, to ransom prisoners of
war," she said.  "This I am prepared with.  Will a lakh of rupees
satisfy the Nawab?"

"I cannot put that to my father," said Shere Dil Khan.

"Is it not enough?  Well, name your own price."  Her colour came and
went, and she spoke eagerly and quickly.

"It is not that, but--"

"Well, put it, put it!" returned Hilda, unable to restrain an impatient
stamp of the foot.  "Put it, I entreat you."

He looked at her hesitatingly for a moment, then complied.  A change
came over the features of Mushim Khan as he listened, and his eyes
fairly blazed with wrath.

"Am I a vile Hindu trader to be approached with such an offer?" he said.
"Is the blood of my brother--the ignominy of his death--a mere question
of rupees, of a lakh more or less?  Tell this woman that all the rupees
in the treasury of the _Sirkar_ for a hundred years would not redeem the
man whose father put to death with ignominy one of our house.  He dies
at sunrise to-morrow.  As for her, she came alone and trusting to my
protection.  Praised be Allah, it shall be extended to her, and to her
attendant.  Let refreshment be given her, and with my safe conduct let
her depart."

This Shere Dil Khan duly rendered.  But Hilda did not move.  Great tears
rose to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

"He must not die, ah--he must not die," she said.  "Listen, Sirdar
Sahib.  Tell the Nawab I offer him all I have in the world, five lakhs
of rupees, in redemption of this life.  See, I have braved all and every
danger, and travelled alone here to save it.  He is brave, he must be
generous.  Oh, make him relent."

Animation made all the difference in the world to Hilda Clive's
appearance.  When she was animated to this extent she was beautiful--
moreover, the Gularzai dress became her well.  Shere Dil Khan looked at
her with pity and concern.  But the faces of the other two remained hard
as granite.

"I have said and I have no more to say," answered the Nawab, when this
had been translated to him.  "He dies at sunrise.  I have sworn it.  And
now, let her depart."

Hilda stood for a few moments in silence, her great eyes fixed upon the
Nawab's face.  Then she said,--

"May I not see him?  May I not bid him farewell?  That will not break
the chief's oath."

Mushim Khan pondered for a moment and frowned.  The terrible vendetta
spirit had entirely warped his nature, which was not naturally a harsh
or cruel one, rendering him utterly merciless.  But he answered,--

"She can see him until the hour of prayer.  Then she must depart as she
came."

Hilda thanked the Nawab, then, having directed her Baluchi escort to
wait for her there, without the loss of a moment, turned to follow Shere
Dil Khan, who had been chosen to accompany her.  As they drew near the
place of Raynier's confinement he said,--

"I have been ordered to be present throughout your interview, but I will
not carry out that literally.  You shall see your relation alone.  This
is the place."

She entered the door he held open, then closed it behind her.  She and
Herbert Raynier were alone together.

"Great Heavens!" cried the latter, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with
amazement.  "Great Heavens!  Hilda!"

"Yes, Hilda," she answered, her eyes brimming again.

He had never seen her like this, and down went every barrier of
conventionality.  He had risen to his shackled feet, and now without
further words she was locked in his close embrace.

"How and when did they capture you?" he asked at length.

"They did not capture me: I am free."

"Free?"  And his glance rested on her Gularzai attire, and seemed to
freeze.

"I am a thought reader, remember," she said, with a wan smile, as she
followed his glance.  "No, it is not as you think.  I put on this
disguise for safety's sake."  And then, in as few words as possible, for
time was valuable, she told him of her plan, and how it had failed.

"But it has not failed," he answered emphatically.  "It has given me the
sight of your dear self once more.  Oh, darling, to think that you
should have undertaken such a thing--and for me.  There is no other
woman under the sun who would have done it."

"Not if she--"

"Say it, say it," he urged, holding her more closely.

"Loved you.  There.  I will say it.  I would say anything now.  Listen,
Herbert, can nothing be done?  Can we not bribe some of them?  I have
money--plenty of it.  Think quickly--time is so short.  This one who
speaks English so well, the Nawab's son.  Is he to be bought?"

"Oh, then he does speak English?"

"Yes.  Shall I offer him what his father refused?  Shall I?  Shall I?"

"What did his father refuse?"

"All I am worth--five lakhs of rupees.  He said a million would be
equally useless."

"Hilda!  You did not do this?"

"I did.  I would not have told you at any other time.  But now--nothing
seems to matter.  Nothing--nothing."

Words failed him, failed them both--but their understanding was
complete; even as it had been during their wanderings together.  Then
nothing had been said, but every tone, every glance, had been an
understanding in itself.  And time was so precious.

"Listen, Herbert.  I have a plan.  You shall put on my clothes, and pass
out instead of me.  By stooping a little you can diminish your height.
And the veil will do the rest."

"And these?" he said, clinking his fetters.

"Ah, I forgot.  Heaven help me, I forgot," she cried.

"Do you think, in any case, I would have agreed to save my precious skin
at the price of leaving you in their power?  Why, Hilda, I wonder you
thought me worth stirring a finger for, at all."

She looked at him, long and earnestly and hopelessly, as though to
photograph his image in her brain.  How ill he looked, pale and haggard,
and hollow cheeked.  It was not much of a time for thinking of
appearances, but he felt thankful that the advantages of the Mahomedan
injunctions of cleanliness had been extended to him--a prisoner.

"Sweetheart, God bless you for coming to me at the last," he went on.
"It was grand--intrepid.  Tell me, Hilda.  You have known all the time
that I loved you?"

"Yes, I knew," she answered chokingly.  Then, with forced gaiety, "You
did not on the voyage, though."

"Was I not a born fool?  Oh, my darling, what happiness might have been
ours.  What might not our lives have been but for this?"

A thought of Cynthia Daintree crossed her mind, of Cynthia Daintree
amusing herself at Mazaran, while claiming this man's bond.  An impulse
came upon her to ask about that affair, but she forebore.  Nothing of a
disturbing nature must come between them now.  And time was so short, so
precious.

Then for a short sacred half hour they talked--and their words, uttered
on the brink of the grave of one of them, were so deep, so sacred as not
to bear intrusion.  And then Shere Dil Khan's voice was heard outside,
proclaiming that the time had come for the interview to end.

"We have found our happiness only to lose it," whispered Raynier.  "But
that is better than never having known it.  Is it not?"

"Yes, yes--a thousand times.  God bless you, O my love, my love!"

To the end of her life Hilda will never know how she tore herself from
the last close embrace.  And Heaven was deaf to the cry of her widowed
soul, deaf as the polite but impassive Oriental who conducted her forth
from that chamber of heartbreak and despair.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

DE TALIONE.

"There _is_ gratitude left in the world."

Herbert Raynier was lying in the damp and pitchy gloom of his dungeon,
sleeping as soundly and as peacefully as though he were not to be led
forth and beheaded with the rising of the morrow's sun.  That last
interview had calmed and soothed him, and now his slumbers were bright--
for he was amid beautiful scenes, far away, and Hilda was beside him.
Then he started up--and with the first flash of awaking consciousness
came the thought that the time had come, and the hand that had dropped
on his shoulder in the darkness was that which should lead him forth to
his doom.

"There _is_ gratitude left in the world."

The words were uttered softly, and--in good English.  Was he dreaming?
But immediately a shaded light rendered things visible.  Hands were busy
about his shackles, and lo! they fettered his ankles no more.

"I have come to save you, brother," went on the whispered voice.  "If
you obey me implicitly you will be free immediately.  Put on these, and
until I give leave, do not speak so much as one little word."

Raynier obeyed him in both particulars.  In a moment or two he was
arrayed in the white loose garments and turban of the border tribes.
For the other injunction, he whispered but one name,--

"Shere Dil Khan?"

"Yes.  Now--silence."  Following his guide, to Raynier it seemed they
were traversing endless and labyrinthine passages.  With something of a
shudder he recognised that horrible door through which he had passed
during those acute moments of living death, then the Sirdar opened
another door, and the cool free air of the desert, blowing upon them,
told that they were outside the walls.

Still preserving the most rigid silence, they held on, downward, by a
steep path.  Turning his head, Raynier could make out the loom of the
great mountain mass against the stars, and was conjecturing on the ease
and absence of obstacle which had characterised his deliverance at the
hands of the Nawab's son, for not a soul did they encounter, no guard
challenged them; and it occurred to him that, in the strength of his
fetters, his safe keeping had lain, wherefore no watch was placed over
him; and this was the real meaning of it.

For about half an hour they had been walking swiftly and in silence,
when Shere Dil Khan stopped.  Before them was a rude herdsman's shelter,
and from within came a sound.

They entered this, and, was it imagination? but Raynier thought to
perceive a human figure dart out at the other end.  But here stood two
horses, saddled and bridled.

"Mount," said Shere Dil Khan, breaking the silence.  And he thrust a
rifle into the other's hand.  "It is a Lee-Metford, and the magazine is
fully loaded, but here are other cartridges."

"You might well have thought that gratitude was dead in the world, my
brother," resumed the Sirdar, as they rode on through the night.  "But
had I shown any recognition of you then, you would not be here now, for,
the Nawab's suspicions once aroused, you would have been strongly
guarded.  Even to the lady I dared not give the slightest encouragement
to hope."

"I misjudged you, brother, forgive me.  But would not the Nawab have
reckoned what I was able to do for you as a set-off against what my
father is supposed to have done."

"He would not, for he had sworn, and an oath is binding.  Now that you
have escaped he will not be sorry, when he learns how you saved me from
the murderous rabble in your country.  But, brother, get your Government
to remove you from this border, because now it is the duty of every
Gularzai to take your life."

Raynier thought that his Government would not require much "getting"
under all the circumstances, and perhaps it was as well.

"But you, brother?  Will not you have to suffer for this?"

"No.  My father will be displeased, but although he would not have
spared you, at heart he will be glad you have escaped, having saved the
life of his son."

It had been midnight when they started.  Towards daybreak they paused to
rest their horses, then on again.

"Yonder is she who would have redeemed you, brother," said Shere Dil
Khan.

In front were discernible two mounted figures.  Raynier's heart leaped,
and he well-nigh blessed his peril, by reason of that which it had drawn
forth.  But the meeting between the two was subdued, for there were
others present Shere Dil Khan and the Baluchi were deep in earnest
conference.

"Farewell now, brother," said the former.  "I can go no further.  Allah
be with ye!  I think the way is open, yet do not delay, and avoid others
if possible."  And with a farewell handclasp the Sirdar turned his horse
and cantered swiftly away.

Twice they sighted parties of Gularzai, but these were distant and
unmounted, moreover, they themselves being in native attire attracted no
attention.  The sun rose over the chaos of jagged peaks, and to those
wanderers it seemed that he never rose upon a fairer and brighter
world--yet they were in a desert of arid plain, and cliff, and hump-like
hills streaked white with gypsum.  Mehrab Khan thought that by swift
travelling they might reach Mazaran by the middle of the next night.
All seemed fair and promising.

On the right front rose a great mountain range, broken and rugged, and
now they were crossing a long narrow plain.  Then, at the end of this
they became aware of something moving.

"Horsemen--and Gularzai," pronounced Mehrab Khan.

Were they pursued? was the first thought of his hearers.  For they made
out that this was a party four or five dozen strong perhaps.  Yet, why
should they attract the attention of these any more than of other groups
they had passed?  They forgot one thing.  Hilda, though in native
costume, was riding European fashion, side saddle.

Further scrutiny did not tend to reassure.  The horsemen were heading in
their direction, and riding rapidly.  It began to wear an ugly look of
pursuit.  This might prove to be a stray wandering band, but even that
did not seem to mend matters.

Raynier and Mehrab Khan held rapid consultation.  It would look less
suspicious to ride on if they had been seen, they decided, and there was
nowhere to hide, if they had not.  But soon a glimpse behind placed the
question beyond all doubt.  The distance between themselves and the
horsemen had diminished perceptibly.  The latter, strung out over the
plain, were coming for them at a gallop.

As they put their steeds to a corresponding pace, it seemed to Raynier
that all he had gone through was as nothing to that moment.  They would
be captured, for, bearing in mind the pace at which they had hitherto
travelled, their steeds were urgently in need of a blow.  Just as they
had reckoned on having gained safety at last, and now--all was lost.

On, on, swept this wild chase, and now the pursuers were near enough to
shout to them to halt Hilda's steed was beginning to show signs of
giving in.  Then its rider uttered breathlessly,--

"Herbert, I see a chance.  That bend of rock just ahead.  Beyond it--the
_tangi_--the Syyed's _tangi_."

"A chance, indeed," he answered, all athrill at the discovery.  "The
only thing is will they fight shy of it now, as they did in cold blood?"

"They will--they will," she panted.

Now they had gained the rock portal--towering up grim and frowning
overhead, and the pursuers had nearly gained it too.  But these last,
the foremost of them, drew up a little way from the entrance.  So did
others who came up.  It was evident they recognised the place, and the
force of superstition was strong.

Crouched among the boulders the three fugitives could just see what was
going on.  One who seemed a leader was evidently urging them forward--
riding up and down their line haranguing and gesticulating vehemently.
At last six or seven men broke from the others, and, followed by these,
the chief advanced towards the mouth of the chasm.

"Murad Afzul, _Huzoor_," whispered Mehrab Khan.

"It is his last quarter of an hour," grimly answered Raynier, sighting
his rifle.  And then an inspiration came to him, and he whispered some
hurried instructions to Mehrab Khan.  The Baluchi immediately left his
side, and retired further into the chasm.

"Hilda, dearest, do you think you could hold the horses, in case they
get a bit of a scare?" he said.  "I have a plan which will save us, if
anything will.  Stand behind that elbow of rock with them."

Without a word she obeyed, and now the Gularzai were already within the
mouth of the _tangi_, Murad Afzul leading.  What followed was weirdly
startling.  The whole of the grim and gloomy chasm roared with the most
appalling sounds, mingled with shriekings and wailings.  To and fro--
tossed along those gigantic cliff walls the echoes bellowed, giving
forth strange mouthings, and then, over all, from the dim inner recesses
of the cavernous rift spake an awful voice.

"O unbelievers, violators of my sanctuary, retire, or ye die--die even
as those three now lying here, whom none may find until the ending of
the world.  He who makes one step forward, that moment he dies.  In the
name of the Great, the Terrible One."

The suddenness of it, the awful appalling din, the sombre repute of the
place, and the consciousness that they were knowingly venturing on
sacrilege, had an effect upon the intruders which was akin to panic.
They stopped short, reining in their horses cruelly, lest they should
accidentally make that one step forward, and their fierce shaggy visages
seemed petrified with the terror that was in them.  But Murad Afzul's
horse at that moment, wildly plunging, half stumbled on a round stone,
and the jerk of the bit, and the savage sting of the hide whip,
instinctively administered, caused it to take a bound forward.  Then it
stopped dead still, and its rider half stood up in his stirrups with a
quick jerk, then, throwing up his arms, toppled heavily, and with a
crash, on to the stones.

One terrified glance at the set face and glazing eyes, and the whole
half-dozen venturesome ones turned and stampeded wildly from the
terrible spot, muttering citations from the Koran to avert further evil.
What could be clearer?  Their leader had made a forbidden step forward
and--and he had died, even as the ghost of the holy one whose sanctuary
it was, had threatened.  He had died, stricken by the powers of the air
at the bidding of the Syyed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Raynier, his nerves all athrill with this passing of the crisis,
withdrew his rifle, feeling something of savage satisfaction and pride
in his successful shot.  But it did not at once occur to him that the
wild and deafening din of the reverberations had so completely drowned
the report of his piece that no shadow of a suspicion lay upon the minds
of the now discomfited pursuers that their leader had met his death by
mortal agency, or by any other than that of the powers of the unseen.
It was left to Hilda to suggest, and the idea was a reassuring one,
because it meant that no further pursuit would be undertaken.  Her he
found struggling with the bridles of the scared and refractory horses,
and at the same time convulsively laughing.

"It was so comical," she explained.  "Fancy our being able to turn that
echo to such account.  It was clever of you to hit upon that idea."
Then gravely, "Do you remember what I said that night, Herbert, the
second time we were in here together?  `Something warns me there will
come a day when our knowledge of this place will make all the difference
between life and death.'  Well, has it made that difference?"

"I should rather think so.  But what puzzles me is how on earth you knew
we were anywhere near the place.  We entered it now, mind you, by the
end furthest from the camp, and we never went outside that on either of
those occasions."

"I knew it by that split rock and the little one beside it, rising up
out of the nullah down there.  I noticed them opposite this entrance the
first time we were here."

"Wonderful!  Do you know, Hilda, Haslam says there's something uncanny
about you, and I begin to believe there is."

"Only _begin_ to believe?"  And she laughed gaily, happily.

The comedy side of what had come near being tragedy did not appeal to
Mehrab Khan in the least.  They found that estimable Baluchi in a
serious and gloomy vein.  In the first place he had penetrated here and
had thus incurred the consequent penalty; in the next by taking the
voice of the dead Syyed he had committed an act of sacrilege.  Raynier
strove to reassure him.

"If Allah used this place as a means of saving our lives," he said, "he
does not intend that it shall be the means of our losing them, and it
was written that they should be saved here.  Besides, O believer, it was
upon the people of this country that the dead Syyed laid the curse, not
upon us, who are not of this country."

And this, perhaps, was what went furthest towards reassuring Mehrab
Khan.  He repeated sententiously,--

"It was written."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A DEED OF GIFT.

At Mazaran Hilda Clive was the heroine of the hour, and the station did
not know which to do most--admire her pluck and resolution, or marvel
how it could have regarded her all this while as of no account.  She had
done a wonderful thing, this quiet, retiring girl, on whom the popular
verdict had been "Oh, so-so."  She had ventured alone into the
stronghold of one of the fierce, fanatical tribes then engaged in the
border war, and had brought back their prisoner, the man whom they had
doomed to death.  She had saved his life.

But Hilda declared emphatically that she had done nothing of the kind--
on the contrary, her errand had failed signally.  He had been released
by a different and unexpected agency altogether, and it was only by
accident that they had travelled back together.  To this side of the
story not much attention was given.  The fact remained that she had set
out to effect his release, and had returned with him, and not without
him.  And now the station metaphorically winked, and pronounced Raynier
a lucky fellow indeed.

Yes, but what about that other time when it had so pronounced him, and
the reason thereof?  Well, on that head it had seen cause to change its
mind.  For Cynthia Daintree had not been careful to keep up her part.
She had flirted outrageously with Captain Beecher what time the man to
whom she declared herself engaged was in daily peril of his life, and
had incidentally offended more than one whose good word was worth
having.  Yet how would Raynier dispose of her, she having come all the
way out from home; moreover, she would be rather a difficult subject to
negotiate?  Clearly there were complications ahead, and the station
looked forward to no end of fun.

It was disappointed, however.  Raynier, with a promptitude and decision
for which she had not given him credit gave Cynthia to understand that
he did not consider himself in the very least bound to her, nor had he
since that last interview in the Vicarage garden.  As for her action in
coming out there to claim him, under the circumstances, he preferred not
to express an opinion, for fear he might say too much.

He had anticipated a wild and stormy scene.  To his surprise she seemed
to acquiesce.  The only thing was that if he repudiated her after what
she had given out, what sort of a figure would she cut?  She had better
let it be known that she had discovered they were not suited to each
other, and so had better part, she suggested.

There was something in this.  He could hardly show her up--for every
reason.  He was intensely annoyed, but finally agreed; resolving,
however, that there was one person at any rate who should know the
truth.

But now official business claimed Raynier's time and attention to the
exclusion of all else.  Reinforcements arrived at Mazaran, and field
operations were to be opened immediately against the Gularzai, and on
the eve of these, Raynier had the good fortune to capture, with the aid
of Mehrab Khan and a few Levy Sowars, the _mullah_ Hadji Haroun, he
having obtained secret information that that pestilent agitator was
travelling in disguise and almost unguarded.  This was a stroke of luck
indeed.  There was no question at headquarters of superseding him now,
the more so that immediately afterwards he succeeded, through his
friendship with Shere Dil Khan, in opening up communications with the
Nawab.  The Gularzai chief had been drawn into the war unwillingly, as
we have seen.  The tribes further along the border had suffered
severely, and more reinforcements were moving up to reduce him.  He had
entered upon it mainly as an opportunity of wreaking his vengeance upon
Raynier, only to find that the latter had saved the life of his son and
successor.  Shere Dil Khan, too, had cast doubts on the genuineness of
the document used by the _mullah_ to secure the adherence of the
Gularzai--in fact, believed it to be a downright forgery.

Raynier was an important personage at that juncture, and, in truth, he
deserved any prestige he may have earned.  For, again trusting to Mushim
Khan's safe conduct, he had placed himself alone in the power of the
Gularzai chief, with the result that he returned having obtained the
Nawab's submission.  The Gularzai had taken no very active part as yet
in the rising, and the Government were only too glad to receive the
submission of so important and powerful a chief as Mushim Khan,
wherefore there was peace, and Raynier was marked out for recognition;
albeit the military element cursed him roundly among themselves as one
of those infernal meddling Politicals who had done them out of a nice
little campaign.

Hilda Clive seemed to have become quieter and more retiring than ever,
and the station--whose attempt to lionise her she had resolutely
evaded--decided that anxiety about Raynier was her motive, for it was
universally opined that "that would be a _bundobust_" once the border
trouble was over.

One day she said to the Tarletons,--"Do you remember how scared you all
were for fear I should go through the Syyed's _tangi_ with Mr Raynier?"

"Rather," said Haslam, who was there, helping Tarleton to reduce Mushim
Khan--in theory.

"How long ago was that?"

They fell to discussion; deciding that it was quite two months.

"Well, then, I ought to be dead by now.  The tradition says before the
end of the second moon.  And even when we were talking about the place,
I had already been through it once.  I have been through it twice since.
The third time it saved our lives, as you know."

The story of this latter event in its completeness they had agreed to
keep to themselves, only giving out that the Gularzai had shrunk from
following them into the _tangi_ from superstitious motives.

"I told you I'd prove that superstition nonsensical," she went on, her
eyes dancing with fun.  "Well, what have you got to say for yourselves?"

"You'd already been through it before that night, Miss Clive?" said
Haslam.  "Well, I'm jiggered!"

"Yes.  But what about the rule?" she persisted.  "I'm not dead yet."

Snapped Tarleton, "Well, you can't expect there to be no exception to
every rule, can you?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hilda had been giving herself over to business of late, for each mail
brought her enclosures, bulky and blue, and of unequivocally legal
aspect.  With such documents she would shut herself up in Tarleton's
den, which he had made over to her for the purpose, and she was so
engaged one morning, when Raynier was announced.  He had returned to
Mazaran the day before, and they had met--in public; but this visit was
one of arrangement--of her arrangement.

Hilda looked up from the papers she had been busy with as he entered--in
fact made a guilty and trepidatious attempt at sweeping them out of
sight, which suggested a weakness entirely foreign to her.

"Well, how are things going?" she asked gaily.

"Things are going quite right.  We have that pestiferous _mullah_, Hadji
Haroun, safe by the heels, and Mushim Khan has cut out of all further
part in the _jihad_.  That's good enough to begin with."

"Yes--and you?  You know, you must get removed from here.  The blood
feud will overtake you sooner or later."

"No, I think not.  I believe Mushim Khan was wound up by that sweep of a
_mullah_.  Now he only remembers what I did for his son.  And he has
done nothing beyond what he did to me individually, and Murad Afzul is
dead, so the Government will not be hard on him, and things will be as
they were."

"Yes.  And who has he--who have we all got to thank for that?  Herbert,
had you no thought for me, when you put yourself into their power again?
If I could not get you out of it before, could I again, do you think?"

"Darling, it was because I had every thought for you that I worried
along at the official business for all I knew how.  I wanted to
straighten out the muddle they'd be sure to put down to me.  And now I
believe I have."

"Yes, indeed, you have."

"And the stir and work knocked me together again, and all that fever has
cleared out of my system.  I can never forget what an abject invalid I
was, just when I ought to have been taking care of you."

"Can't you?  But I can, and have."

She was standing beside him now, one hand toying absently with a button
on his coat, a half-absent, half-serious expression in her large eyes
that was very sweet.  Her mind went back to the period to which he
referred, when he was ill and fevered and fainting on the cloud-swept
hill side.  What a contrast!  She saw him now, dominant, restored in
every way, having ended the disturbance here in his own jurisdiction by
sheer personal intrepidity and weight of influence--the calm, strong,
cool-headed official, to whom all looked up.

"Tell me about Cynthia Daintree," she said.

"Just the very thing I've wanted to do.  By the way, incidentally, she
has hooked that young ass, Beecher.  Whether she'll land him is another
matter."

"I know.  I know, too, what you wanted to tell me that day we went to
visit Sarbaland Khan.  Well, we met with a very uncommon interruption
then."

"Hilda, Hilda.  What a witch you are.  Is there anything you don't
know?"

"Yes, plenty.  But I won't bother you to go over all that again, because
I know it already.  In fact, I knew it on that very day, though not
through you.  Remember the _dak_ may bring me momentous communications
as well as you.  Oh, by the way, I have a little present here for you.
Will you take it?"

"Will I?  Will I value anything from you!  Darling, how can you ask?"

She did not return his kiss.  Her manner was constrained--almost
awkward.  Turning to the table she placed in his hands a document--
large, parchmenty, legal-looking.  Then she turned away.

"Why, what on earth is this?" he said as he read through it, and at
length mastered how it set forth, amid infinite legal terminology, how
shares and property and cash to the amount of thirty-seven thousand
pounds was conveyed to "the said Herbert Raynier by his said cousin, the
said Hilda Clive."

"Great Scott!  What does it all mean?"

"What it says, dear," she answered, still somewhat constrained.  "I
always thought you had been hardly treated in Cousin Jervis's will.  You
were much nearer to him than I was, and a Raynier to boot.  So I made up
my mind to go halves with you--until--until--well, lately.  Then I
thought you ought to have the whole.  I was always reckoned rather
eccentric, you know.  But I kept a little, just a little for myself.
You won't mind that, will you?"

He was staring blankly at her, then at the document.

"I don't quite understand.  What is this thing?"

"Well, it's a restoration of what ought to have gone to you.  The
lawyers call it a deed of gift.  It has to be put that way, you know,"
she added shyly, apologetically.

Still Raynier was staring at her as though he had taken leave of his
senses.  For there suddenly rushed in upon his mind a scrap of a certain
conversation with Mr Daintree in the Vicarage garden.  This, then, was
the distant cousin, Hilda Clive!  He had not even known her name--and
then he remembered how he would have learned it then and there but for
the younger girl's boisterous interruption.  He remembered, too, the
Vicar's remark.  "She's bound to marry, and then where do you come in?"
and his own answer, lightly, banteringly given, "Nowhere, unless I were
to marry her myself," and then--

There was a harsh, staccato sound of tearing.  The parchment lay upon
the floor, crumpled, and torn in several pieces.  But she who had handed
it to him seemed to share its violent treatment, for she was crushed to
him in a close embrace.

"Hilda, darling, I wonder if you have anything approaching a parallel in
the world.  I never heard of such an act of magnificent generosity.
But, unfortunately, it is all thrown away.  I don't want that," pointing
to the tattered deed.  "I want you.  I would rather be back in Mushim
Khan's prison, with all it involved, and you as you were then, than take
what you wanted me to there--without you.  The only deed of gift I will
accept is yourself.  Yourself, do you hear?  Am I to have it?"

She was thinking.  Almost the spirit of her clairvoyance was in the
vivid picture of the dread prison in the Gularzai stronghold that rose
before her mind.  Then she had stood with him on the brink of his grave,
and soul had met soul undisguised.  Then it was death--now life--life
and such happiness!  Her cheek was against his, her lips at his ear.
She whispered,--

"Yes.  You know you are."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sirdar's Oath, by Bertram Mitford

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