Transcriber’s Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

THE GREAT WHITE HAND

OR

THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE

THE
GREAT WHITE HAND

OR

THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE

A Story of the Indian Mutiny

By

J. E. MUDDOCK

Author of
“Maid Marian and Robin Hood;” “The Dead Man’s Secret;” “Stories Weird
and Wonderful;” “Stormlight;” “For God and the Czar;” “Only a
Woman’s Heart;” “From the Bosom of the Deep;” “Basile the
Jester;” “Stripped of the Tinsel;” “The Star of Fortune;” &c.

LONDON
Hutchinson & Co.
34 Paternoster Row, E.C.
1896

To the Memory of

MY FATHER

A true gentleman, brave, upright, faithful; who after many long
years of devotion to duty in India—and when on the eve of
returning to his native land—sank very suddenly to his
eternal rest in March, 1861, and sleeps “Till the
day break,” in The Circular Road Cemetery,
Calcutta, I dedicate this book.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

In the year 1894, I published in two volumes a romance of the Indian Mutiny, under the title of “The Star of Fortune.” A short prefatory note intimated that it was my lot to be in India during the terrible time of the Sepoy Rebellion. From this it may be inferred that I not only wrote with feeling, but with some personal knowledge of my subject. “The Star of Fortune” was exceedingly well received by the public, and last year a cheaper edition was called for. That edition has been extensively circulated throughout India and the Colonies. The book on the whole was well reviewed, while my critics were good enough to accord me praise, by no means stinted, for the portions which dealt with the Mutiny proper. One London paper said it was “a very fine picture narrative,” another spoke of it as “a spirited piece of writing,” a third declared it was “written with spirit and vivacity,” a fourth as being “really breathless in interest.” I could go on multiplying quotations similar to the foregoing, but those I have given will serve the purpose I have in view.

On the other hand I was taken somewhat severely to task because the opening portions of the tale dealt with Edinburgh, and about one-third of the book was exhausted before India was reached. Whether or not that was really a fault is not for me to say; it was certainly part of my original plan, but I cannot be indifferent to the fact that a consensus of opinion condemned it, and declared that the Mutiny was far too interesting a subject to be mixed up with any love-making scenes in Edinburgh or elsewhere other than in India. I was very bluntly told that I ought to have plunged at once into medias res, and that a story purporting to be a story of the Mutiny should deal with the Mutiny only. The advice has not been lost upon me. I have steadily kept it in view while writing the “Great White Hand,” and I venture to express a hope that whatever shortcomings may be found in the work, whatever sins of omission and commission I am guilty of, I shall at least be credited with keeping strictly to the locale and incidents of the Great Rebellion, which, in my opinion, affords, and will continue to afford for generations to come, a fund of the most romantic material all ready to the novelist’s hand. If it should be urged against me that the dramatic situations in which my characters become involved are overstrained or improbable, I shall claim on the authority of history that the thrilling times of the Revolt were rich in situations so sensational, so dramatic, so tragic and pathetic, that they put fiction into the shade. The bare ungarnished story of the Rising is in itself one of the most sensational records the world has ever known. Not even the Crusades, not even the wonderful defence of Malta by the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, against the infidel Turk, present us with a more thrilling, romantic, and stirring panorama of battle scenes and incidents than the Indian Mutiny. It was not a struggle of the Cross against the Crescent, but of the Cross against Vishnu, against Shiva, against Brahma. The “Phantom” King of Delhi, and the “Tiger of Cawnpore,” both believed that the doom of Christianity in India had knelled. But they were undeceived, and all that was best, bravest, and noble in British men and women was brought to the surface. Of course, in a work of this kind, history must necessarily be used simply as a means to an end; therefore, while it is not claimed for the story that it is a piece of reliable history in the guise of fiction, it may truthfully be said it records certain stirring events and incidents which are known to have taken place. These incidents and events have been coloured and set with a due regard for the brilliant and picturesque Orient, which forms the stage on which the dramatic action is worked out. Those who knew India as I knew it in those lurid and exciting days, will probably admit that there is scarcely an incident introduced into my book but what might have happened during the enactment of the great tragedy. An air of vraisemblance represents true art in fiction, and when it becomes difficult for the reader to tell where fiction begins and truth ends, it may be said that the story-teller can go no further. If I should be fortunate in establishing a claim to this praise, I shall be proud indeed; but though I fail in that respect, I humbly venture to believe that “The Great White Hand” will be found neither dull nor uninteresting.

THE AUTHOR.

London, 1896.

THE GREAT WHITE HAND,[1]

OR,

THE TIGER OF CAWNPORE.

A STORY OF THE INDIAN MUTINY.

CHAPTER I. THE RISING OF THE STORM.

It is the ninth of May, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-seven. The morning breaks lowering and stormy, a fitting prelude to the great and tragic drama that is about to startle the world. It is not yet four o’clock, and the sun is hardly above the horizon, but in the fair Indian city of Meerut there is an unusual stir. The slanting rays of the rising sun, as they fall through the rifts of hurrying storm-clouds, gild the minarets and domes of the numerous mosques for which the city is famed. The tall and graceful palms stand out in bold relief against the sky, and from the cool greenery of their fan-like leaves there issue the soft, peaceful notes of the ring-doves. Meerut, at this time, is one of the most extensive military stations in our Indian empire, and covers an area nearly five miles in circumference. In the centre of the city is a great wall and esplanade, and along this runs a deep nullah, which cuts the station into two separate parallelograms; the one contains the European, and the other the Native force. The European lines are in the northern quarter, the Artillery barracks to the right, the Dragoons to the left, and the Rifles are in the centre. Between the barracks of the two last rises, tall and straight, the spire of the station church. It contrasts strangely with the Oriental architecture which surrounds it. Farther northward again stretches an extensive plain, which is used as a parade-ground. Towards this plain, on the fateful ninth of May, eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, streams of human beings are flowing. Crowds of natives, from the low-caste Coolie to the pompous Baboo, hurry along, either on foot or horseback.

Presently, far and near, the reveille is heard, and, in a little while, long lines of troops, mounted and on foot, march towards the plain. Then the clattering of horses’ hoofs, and the rumbling of guns, add to the general commotion, and soon the plain is swarming with armed men. Heavily-shotted field-guns are placed in position, and the drawn sabres of the Dragoons flash in the sun’s rays, while on three sides of the plain are bodies of troops armed with the new Enfield rifles, that are ready, on the word being given, to belch forth fire, and send their rotary messengers of death into the crowds of natives if the necessity should arise.

The cause of this great gathering is to see eighty-five native soldiers converted into felons. On the 24th of April the 3rd Native Cavalry had been drawn up for parade, and, when the order to load had been given, these eighty-five had resolutely refused to bite their cartridges. For this mutinous act they had been tried by a court-martial, composed of English and native officers, and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment with hard labour; and on this Saturday morning, the 9th of May, the first part of the sentence—that of stripping them of their uniform in the presence of all the regiments—is to take place.

At a given signal the doomed eighty-five are brought forward under a strong guard of Rifles and Carabineers. They still wear their uniform and have their accoutrements. Colonel Carmichael Smyth, the Colonel of their Brigade, steps forth, and, in a loud, clear voice, reads the sentence. That over, their accoutrements are taken from them, and their uniforms are stripped from their backs. Then the armourers and smiths step forth with their shackles and their tools, and, in the presence of a great concourse of their old comrades, the “eighty-five” stand with the outward symbols of their black disgrace fastened upon them.

With loud cries they lift up their arms, and implore the General to have mercy upon them, and save them from ignominious doom. But the fiat has gone forth, and they stand there manacled felons. Then, in the agony of despair, they turn to their comrades and hurl reproaches at them for quietly permitting such dire disgrace to fall upon them. There is not a Sepoy or native civilian present but who gasps for breath as he feels the rising indignation in his throat. But, in the presence of the stern white soldiers, of the loaded guns, of the grooved rifles, and the glittering sabres, they dare not strike. As the prisoners make their appeal, there moves, swiftly, silently amongst the crowds of natives, a tall, slim man—a Hindoo. His movements are snake-like; his eyes glisten with a deadly fire. As he goes, he whispers—

“Courage, and wait!”

The crowds commence to disperse. The felon “eighty-five” are marched to the gaol, two miles from the cantonment, with only a native guard over them.

As the day wears on the storm passes away, and when the shades of evening fall upon Meerut, all is quiet and peaceful. It is one of those nights that may be described, but which few persons, who have never been in hot countries, can realise. The air is stagnant. The stars seem to quiver in a haze. Not a branch stirs, not a leaf rustles. Myriads of fire-flies—Nature’s living jewels—dance about in bewildering confusion. Occasionally the melancholy sounds of a tom-tom, varied by the screech of a jackal, is heard. But with this exception, a death-like silence seems to reign in the city.

Seated on the verandah of a pretty bungalow in the European quarter, is a young man—a civilian. His physique is that of a trained athlete. He is handsome, too, with a mass of black hair falling over a prominent forehead. His name is Walter Gordon; he is the son of a wealthy merchant of Meerut, who had died very suddenly, and Walter had but recently come out from England to take charge of his father’s business. He is not alone now. His companion is a lady slightly his junior. She is very pretty. A pure English face, with tender brown eyes, and soft, moist lips. A wealth of rich brown hair is negligently held together by two large gold pins of native workmanship. This young lady is the betrothed of Walter Gordon. Her father (Mr. Meredith) had held a Civil Service appointment in Meerut, but had died some two years before the opening events of this story, leaving a widow and two daughters, Flora and Emily. Emily had been recently married to an officer of one of the regiments stationed in the city. Lieutenant Harper and Walter Gordon were very old friends. They had been school-mates together, and they both laid siege at one time to the hearts of the Misses Meredith. Harper had been successful, and carried his prize off to his quarters, but Walter had delayed his marriage, pending the settlement of some legal difficulty in connection with property to which he was entitled. That difficulty was now removed, and Walter had gone on this evening to Mrs. Meredith’s bungalow to arrange for his marriage with Flora.

“Flo, are you not glad that we are soon to be united?” he asks, as he observes that she is silent, and makes no remark on the news he has brought her.

“Yes, love. You say that you wish our marriage to take place in a month’s time. Would that it were to-morrow; ay, even to-night!”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“Flo, what do you mean?”

“I mean that in a month’s time you and I may be separated.”

“Separated?” he repeated.

“Yes. Perhaps dead.”

“Dead!” he echoed—his astonishment increasing at the strangeness of her manner.

“Ah, love,” she murmured, as she placed her arms around his neck, and her head drooped upon his breast,—“strange as you are yet to the ways of the country, you surely cannot be blind to signs which rise on every side, that a storm is approaching.”

“A storm. To what do you allude?”

“To the discontented state of the natives, who are ripe for revolt. We tremble upon the brink of a mine that may at any moment be sprung; and what the consequences will be I shudder to think.”

“These are but morbid fears, Flo,” he answered, as he caressed her. “Believe me that our power is too strong, and too much dreaded by the natives to allow any serious outbreak. The example we made of the ‘ighty-five’ on the parade this morning will strike terror to the hearts of those who might have contemplated any rashness.”

“There you are in error, Walter; what our troops did this morning has only increased our danger manifold. There is not a Sepoy in all Meerut to-night, but who is nursing in his breast feelings of the most deadly hatred towards the English. The fire smoulders, and a breath will fan it into flame. If the natives should rise, may God in His mercy pity us.”

“Tut, tut, my girl; you are alarming yourself with foolish fears, and there is nothing at all to justify your apprehensions. The soldiers dare not revolt, and if they did, we have such an overwhelming force of British in the cantonment, that all the native regiments would be speedily cut to pieces.”

“The belief in our security is our danger,” she answered. “Remember I know the country and the natives well. I have been in India from the time I was a little child. Those who are in authority seem to me to be wilfully blind to the signs which indicate coming mischief. For some days past, a man, ostensibly a Fakeer, has been riding about the city on an elephant, and visiting all the native quarters. I do not believe that man to be what he professes to be. He is an agent moving about from place to place, and stirring up the rankling hatred for the British which is in the hearts of all his countrymen.”

“This is a strange statement; and you speak as though you had authority for what you say.”

“I have authority.”

“Ah! what do you mean?” he cried in an excited tone.

“Oh, Walter, what I have to tell you I know will give you pain, but it must be told. I have held it back until I feel that to keep it from you longer would be unfair. You have in your service a sicar, a young man who was brought up in an English school.”

“You refer to Jewan Bukht. Well, what of him?”

“He has confessed love for me!”

“Confessed love for you!” Walter cried angrily, as he ground his teeth, and tightened his arm around the waist of his beloved. “By Heaven, I will horsewhip the scoundrel. But come, Flo, you are joking, and do not wish me to seriously believe anything so absurd.”

“Would that it were a joke! Jewan has been your trusted and confidential clerk, and whenever you have had a message to send to me, he has always brought it. Latterly he has grown unpleasantly familiar, and on one occasion asked me to kiss him. On my showing anger at the insult, he apologised, and promised not to offend again. A few days ago he called, and appeared to me to be under the influence of bang. He seized my hand, and fell upon his knees at my feet. He said that in a little while the natives intended to rise in the name of the Prophet; that every white person in Meerut would be massacred; but, if I would consent to become his wife, he would save me and those belonging to me. In disgust with the fellow for his impertinence, I called him a dog, and threatened to inform you of his conduct. He became greatly enraged, and said that I should be his by fair or foul means, and that you should die by his hand.”

“Why did you not tell me this before, Flo?”

“Because I looked upon it at the time as the freak of a drunken man, and I had no wish to give you unnecessary pain. But it was foolish of me. I ought to have told you.”

“When did this scene take place?” Walter asked, thoughtfully.

“Three days ago. That is, last Wednesday.”

“This is very strange, Flora. On that day the rascal asked me for leave of absence till Monday, as he wished to visit a sick relation.”

“Depend upon it, Walter, he will never return to you.”

“Never return! You are really talking in riddles. What do you mean?”

“I feel sure that there was truth in what the man told me, and his leaving you on that day was part of the scheme. You may say I am nervous, foolish, stupid, what you will, but I understand the natives well. I know how treacherous they can be; and it is useless our trying to cheat ourselves into a belief that they love us, because they don’t do anything of the sort.”

Walter laughed, as he pressed a kiss on the lips of his companion.

“Look here, Flora, you are certainly low-spirited to-night, and have got some strange fancies in your head. If you have any more of these morbid imaginings, I shall have to place you under the care of Dr. Macdonald. I have been very stupid to lend a serious hearing to your fears for a single moment. I am sure you are wrong. Our power is too great to be broken. The natives fear that power too much to do anything rash. Ah! good-evening, Harper, old boy,” he exclaimed, springing from his seat, as Lieutenant Harper and his wife entered the verandah. “I am very glad you have come. Flo is suffering from a fit of nervousness, and wants cheering up. Look here, Emily,” with a laugh, and turning to Mrs. Harper, “just give your sister a shaking, and shake her into a better frame of mind.”

“Surely you young people have not been quarrelling,” Harper remarked, as he threw himself into a seat, and offered his friend a cigar.

“Oh dear no; but Flo has got an idea into her little head that the natives are going to rise en masse, and massacre us all.”

“By Jove, they will have tough work, then,” laughs the lieutenant. “They had an example this morning of what we can do. If there had been the slightest sign of insubordination on the parade, we should have mowed them down with grape and canister.”

“Don’t talk quite so loud, Master Charlie,” his wife remarked. “There are two of the bearers at the end of the verandah, and they seem to be listening.”

“All the better, my dear. Nothing like impressing these black wretches with a sense of our superiority. What say you, Walter?”

“Well it depends a great deal upon what we consider ourselves superior in.”

“Superior in!” exclaimed his friend. “Surely you are not going to estimate your countrymen so low as to suppose for a moment that we could be inferior to the natives in any one respect.”

“I am not quite clear on that point,” answered Gordon, thoughtfully. “I think that the great error of the English has been in treating the natives as if they were not possessed of common intelligence. Depend upon it, it is a mistaken policy, which we shall some day rue.”

“Nonsense, old fellow. You are a greenhorn yet in the country, and in a very short time these sentimental ideas will be knocked out of you. There is no doubt that the canaille of India is bitter against us, but the upper classes are loyal to the backbone—take Dhoondu Pdnt as an example.”

“You mean the man who is known as Nana Sahib of Bhitoor?”

“Yes; he is the adopted son of the Peishwah Bajee Rao. Now, if any man has cause to be dissatisfied with our rule it is the Nana, inasmuch as we have resolutely refused to recognise his right to succession. Moreover, he is a Mahratta by race, and a Brahmin by caste. Now, it is well-known that in the heart of every Mahratta there is an innate and hereditary hatred for the English, while the Brahmin religion teaches its votaries to look upon the Feringhees as dogs and infidels that, in the name of the Prophet, should be exterminated. And yet his highness—by courtesy—is as loyal to us as a man can possibly be. His balls and dinners given to his friends, the English, in and about Cawnpore, are things to be remembered.”

“But what proof have you that the Nana is not playing a well-studied game; only biding his time to execute a well-planned coup-d’état, and strike for his home and liberty?”

Harper laughed loudly as he looked at his friend’s serious face; and as he offered him a cheroot, exclaimed—

“Bosh! Look here, old fellow, don’t get such ideas as those into your head, or you will never succeed in India. Here, Khitmudgar, brandy pawnee lao.” Turning to the ladies, he said, “Flo, I think you have been putting some strange ideas into Walter’s head, and I shall have to take you to task. Why, my dear fellow, there is no more chance of the natives rising here, than there is of Her Majesty’s Life Guards revolting in London at the present moment. Come, what do you say to a hand at whist? Em and I have two hours on our hands before we return to quarters.”

“Whist, by all means,” Walter answered. “Flo, will you order one of the bearers to get the card-table ready in the drawing-room?”

In a few minutes the four Europeans were apparently so absorbed in the game, that all thought of danger was banished. A sleepy Coolie sat on one side of the room, and with monotonous regularity pulled the cord of the punkah, that, moving gracefully backwards and forwards, made a cool and refreshing draught. Without all was silent. Only the drowsy whir of the insects, and the sweetly mellow notes of the bul-bul rose on the stagnant air.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] The Great White Hand (Baṛā Safed Hāth), a saying current in India to describe the power of the English.

CHAPTER II. THE MYSTERY OF THE CHUPATTIES.

As sleep fell upon the northern quarter of Meerut on that Saturday night, there was an unusual stir in the native part. In the lines of the native soldiery, in the populous bazaars, and in the surrounding villages, a fatal signal was passing. Five fleet-footed Indians were speeding from place to place; and as they went, they put into the hands of the principal men a small cake. It was a chupatty; and, like the fiery cross, it was the signal of a general rising.

On the banks of the Goomtee there rose the lichen-covered wall of a half-ruined temple. Hitherto, silence had reigned in its deserted halls, and the lizard and the serpent had hunted undisturbed for prey amongst the fallen shafts and broken capitals. But the grey ruin was witness of a strange scene to-night. Hundreds of natives were pouring in from all parts. At every entrance to the temple a guard was posted, and admission could only be gained by giving a password. That was “Chupatty.” But all comers knew the pass; none were turned away. Rapidly the crowd swelled with soldiers and civilians, until every available space was occupied. They perched on the broken walls, on the fallen columns, on the moss-covered arches. Wherever a foot-hold could be gained, there was a native. Here and there was suspended a native lamp—a cotton-wick placed in cocoa-nut oil, contained in a cocoa-nut shell. Seen in this dim light, the scene was striking and picturesque. The dusky forms of the natives seemed to be everywhere—above, below, around. The dark wall of the ruin appeared to be actually jewelled with gleaming eyes, which, as they caught the fitful flare of the lamp, flashed with hatred and revenge. A dull, confused sound only was heard as the swarming natives conversed one with another in subdued tones. Presently six distinct beats were given on a tom-tom. Then there was a death-like silence, as there entered, by the main entrance, a tall man, whose face was muffled with a puggeree. He was followed by several other natives; and as they entered and took up their position at one end of the ruins, salaams rose from a hundred throats. Then the tall man threw back his puggeree, and exposed his features. They were massive, firm, and of the true Mahratta cast. His skin was light brown; his lips full and sensual, and his eyes small, restless, and cunning. He was a powerfully-built man, with a full, flowing beard, his age about thirty years. His bearing was proud and haughty; his dress handsome, being that of a Mahratta prince. Round his neck was a massive gold chain, and on his fingers sparkled numerous and costly jewels. His head was encircled with a rich turban, ornamented in front with a single large diamond. From a jewelled belt round his waist protruded the inlaid handles of native pistols; and at his side was suspended a tulwar. This was Dhoondu Pdnt, the Nana Sahib of Bhitoor. He was attended by his war minister, Teeka Singh, and his confidential friend and adviser, Azimoolah. The latter a short, slim man; but supple and panther-like in his movements; his face had but one expression—that of pitiless ferocity. In a few moments the Nana addressed the assembly.

“Countrymen, I have ventured here to-night that I may, by my presence, inspire you with courage and hope. We stand on the eve of great events, and no man has the cause more at heart than I. We wait but for one signal now to decide us in the course of action we are to take. That signal is to come from Delhi. Our agents have been hard at work for some days, and if the regiments there will join us, and give us shelter if needed, all will be well. Though I must hurry back to Bhitoor to-night, that it may not be known, until the proper hour arrives, that I have shaken off allegiance to the hated Feringhees, I shall be with you in spirit; and, in the name of the Prophet, I invoke success on your arms. When you strike, remember that you strike for your freedom, for your religion. Let the House of Timour be restored, and the Imperial Dynasty of Delhi be revived in all its ancient glory and splendour. Let our race of mighty kings be perpetuated, and the great white hand of the hateful British be crushed and trampled into the dust. We are a great people. We have been enchained, enslaved, and robbed of our birthrights. Let us rise now as one man, and strike for those sacred rights of which we have been deprived. Steel your hearts against every feeling of pity. Let not the pale faces of either their women or children raise one sympathetic feeling in your breasts. When the opportunity arrives I will perform deeds that shall not only be an example to you, but that shall make my name known throughout the world, and the name of Nana Sahib shall be in every man’s mouth. Let Hindoos and Mahomedans alike be stirred but by one impulse to slaughter the Feringhees, man, woman, and child. The English are luchar (helpless). They sleep in fancied security, and dream not that their doom is sealed. We have past injuries to avenge; we have future dangers to guard against. Let our feelings declare themselves in characters of fire. Let the firebrand tell these invaders of our soil that, from end to end of India, we have common cause, and that we strike for liberty!”

The Nana ceased speaking, and a murmur of applause ran through the assembled multitude.

“Jewan Bukht comes not, sahib,” said Azimoolah, after a pause. “I hope his mission has not failed.”

“The Prophet forbid,” answered the Nana. “His mission was fraught with danger, and he may have been unexpectedly detained. When he departed on Wednesday he said he should be back to-night, to bring to this meeting the answer of Delhi.”

“I hope he has not proved false?” Azimoolah remarked, his cold eyes glittering like a snake’s.

“False! No,” exclaimed the Nana. “I’ll answer for him with my life. He is a useful man; he knows the ways of the English well, having been brought up in one of their schools. No, no; Jewan is not false. He has personal motives for being true to us, and he has much to gain. Ah! I hear the sounds of horse’s hoofs in the distance. Let the word be passed to the guard to be on the alert.”

The ring of horse’s shoes could now be distinctly heard, as it galloped furiously along the hard road. Nearer and nearer the sounds came, and in a few minutes the tom-tom was beaten again as a signal that someone of importance had arrived. Then in a little time a man, hot and breathless, rushed into the presence of the Nana, and, prostrating himself at his feet with a profound salaam, took from his turban a small chupatty, and handed it to the Prince. On it was inscribed, in Hindostanee characters, painted red, the following:—

“We fight for the King.

“We fight for the restoration of the Mogul throne.

“We fight for the Prophet.”

“Allah be praised!” exclaimed Dhoondu, as he took the cake, and a smile of triumph lighted up his cruel face. “Success attends us,” he continued, addressing the multitude; “and the Imperial City is true to herself. We will plant the rebel standard on the Palace of the Mogul, and the House of Timour shall flourish once more. Jewan Bukht, thou art faithful, and hast performed a brave deed; the Prophet will look favourably upon thee.”

Jewan was a young man with a singularly intelligent, and, for a native, handsome face. He was a native of Meerut, and at an early age had been left an orphan. An European lady had taken him under her care, and sent him to an English school near Calcutta to be educated. When he had reached the age of twenty his protectress died, and he returned to Meerut a professing Christian, and speaking the English language fluently. Since his return he had occupied the position of a head sicar or clerk in Walter Gordon’s establishment. He had gained the esteem and confidence of his master, and had, up to a quite recent period, been in the habit of attending regularly the station church. But of late his movements had become mysterious, and he had passed much of his time in the native lines.

“I thank you, great Prince,” said Jewan, in answer to Dhoondu. “I have had a perilous journey, but I left no quarter in Delhi unvisited. Young and old there are panting for the hour to arrive when they can arise from their bondage. There is but a very small European force in the city. Delhi once secured, we can hold it against all comers.”

“And we will secure it,” added the Nana, significantly. “But come, the night wears, and we must disperse; Teeka, and you, my faithful Azimoolah, let us return with all speed to Bhitoor, and there await for the signal. Cawnpore shall be ours, and we will there wipe out our wrongs in English blood!”

He wrapped his scarf around him so as to hide his pistols and tulwar, and drawing his puggeree over his face, he passed out, attended by his followers. At a little distance a native carriage was waiting, and into this they sprang, and Meerut was speedily far behind. Then the crowd of natives quietly left the ruined temple, and soon the roofless halls were silent and deserted, and the slimy things that had sought shelter from the trampling feet, in the nooks and crannies, timidly came forth now, in search of prey, upon which they might feed so that they might live in accordance with the instinct planted by a Divine hand. But the hundreds of human beings who a little while before had held possession of the temple had also gone forth in search of prey, thirsting for blood—blood of the innocent and guilty alike—not that they might live thereby, but to gratify a burning feeling of hatred and revenge.

On the verandah of Mrs. Meredith’s bungalow stood Flora Meredith alone. It was late, or rather early, for two o’clock had just sounded from the neighbouring barracks. Flora had been vainly endeavouring to sleep, but an undefined sense of dread had kept her awake, so that at last she had risen from her couch and gone out on the verandah, glad to breathe the cool morning air. Pensively she was gazing up to the stars, which still shone clear and bright, although the first streaks of dawn were struggling to the eastern sky.

She was dreaming of the man she loved, of the man who had her heart in his keeping, whose wife she was to be. She had an intuitive perception that there was danger coming—that, to use an expressive Hindostanee phrase, “there was something in the air.” But what did that something portend, and where did the danger menace? were questions she asked herself as she stood there—a picture of loveliness—in her loose robe, and her beautiful hair flowing freely about her white shoulders.

Unperceived by her, the figure of a dusky native was stealthily stealing across the compound, keeping in the shadows of the trees and shrubs, until he stood beneath the verandah. Then, with a noiseless spring, he vaulted lightly over the railings, and stood beside the dreaming girl.

With a cry of alarm, Flora started from her reverie, and, turning quickly round, beheld Jewan Bukht.

“What do you do here?” she asked quickly, when she had recovered from her surprise.

“Hush!” he said, putting his finger to his lips. “Your life depends upon silence. I have something to say to you.”

She was a brave girl; but her heart sank now, for she knew that his boldness arose from some terrible cause. Her presence of mind, however, did not forsake her. To set this man at defiance would be to gain nothing. She would endeavour to learn his motive for coming.

“What is the meaning of this unceremonious intrusion at such an hour?” she asked, when her first feeling of alarm had passed.

“I came in the hope of seeing you as the day dawned,” he answered; “but Fortune has favoured me, and, as if it were so decreed, you are unexpectedly here alone, even while the night is young.”

“Well, and what of that?” she asked hastily, as the man paused.

“It is good,” he replied, “for I have much to say.”

“But this is neither the time nor the place to say it,” she answered, making a movement as if she were about to turn into the bungalow.

Jewan caught her hand, and, with his glittering eyes fixed upon her fair face, said—

“Miss Meredith, listen to me. But one thing could have induced me to visit you, for if my countrymen knew it they might suspect me of treachery, and slay me. But what will a man not do for love? Ah! do not start; do not try to draw your hand away, as if I were something loathsome. If my skin is dark, do not the same emotions and passions stir my breast as those of the white man’s? Can my heart not throb with feelings as tender as his who is your accepted husband? Miss Meredith, I love you! In the name of all that is good, I ask you to become my wife, according to the rights of your own Church. I will give you devotion, I will be faithful to you, I will love you unto death. Could a white man do more?”

“Jewan Bukht, are you mad? Do you know what it is you ask? Am I to give you all that is dear to me—to sever every tie that binds me to my kith and kin, in order to become your wife? Never!”

“Think well before you give a decisive answer,” he replied, still retaining his hold of her hand.

“I have already thought. You have my answer. Nothing can alter my decision. Go away for a little while, and, believe me, this silly infatuation of yours will speedily wear off.”

“How little you know of the heart, to talk like that. Mine is no infatuation, but a genuine love. Why should you despise it?”

“I do not despise it. But I tell you I cannot, nor will not be your wife.”

“Again I ask you not to be rash in your answer. A great danger is hovering over the station. In a little while a fire will be lighted here that will extend throughout India. Your countrymen and women will cry for pity to ears that will be deaf, and they will appeal to hearts that will be as stone. I tell you, Miss Meredith, that ere the sun has risen and set again, there shall be bloody deeds done in Meerut. Every white person in this and in every city of India stands in deadly peril. And when once the revolt has broken out, even the ‘Great White Hand,’ all-powerful as it is, will not be able to stop it. Ere it be too late, say that you will be mine, and I will save you—more, I will save those belonging to you!”

She looked at the kneeling man at her feet; her heart beat wildly, and her breath came thick and fast. She knew that there was truth in what he said, but how should she act?

She could not give this man her love—she shuddered, indeed, with a feeling of loathing, as she contemplated him. She released her hand from his, and drew herself up proudly, scornfully. And as the first flush of dawn, which was spreading over the heavens, caught her face, she looked inexpressibly beautiful.

“What you ask is impossible,” she said. “Love I could never give you, and better to die than sacrifice myself. Your master, Mr. Walter Gordon, is to be my husband. I will either be wedded to him or death. This is my answer. It is unalterable. For the rest, I trust in that God which you yourself have professed to worship.”

The man rose to his feet now—proud, defiant. His lips wreathed with scorn—his eyes glistened with a strange light.

“I own no master,” he answered, “but the great Nana Sahib. I came here as your friend; I leave as your enemy; you have treated me as you would have done a dog; but let that pass. I offered you life, liberty, security. You have scorned my offer. Let it be so. We shall meet again, and, when next we meet, you will answer me differently. You shall entreat where now you scorn. Farewell.”

She would have stopped him, for she regretted that she had spoken as she had, and wounded the man’s feelings. But it was too late; he had leaped over the railings into the compound, and was quickly out of sight.

With a sigh, poor Flora turned from the verandah to seek her couch, for she was weary and faint and sick with an instinctive feeling of some coming calamity.

CHAPTER III. THE STORM BREAKS.

The 10th of May was Sunday. It came in with fiery heat and glare, and arid, dust-charged winds. The bells of the church pealed forth, as they called the Christians to worship.

“You do not seem well this morning, Flo,” said Walter Gordon, as he assisted Miss Meredith into his buggy, with the intention of driving her to the station church.

“I am not at all well, Walter,” was her answer. “I have been restless all night, and have slept but little.”

“That is bad news, Flo. Suppose we have a drive out of Meerut, instead of going to church?”

“No, no. I prefer to attend the service this morning. I shall be better by-and-bye.”

As they drove along he noticed that she was nervous and agitated, and he questioned her as to the cause; but, though she longed to tell him all, her courage failed her, as she did not wish to give him unnecessary alarm. Besides, after all, what Jewan had said might have been but the boastful threat of a disappointed man—perhaps all would be well. She consoled herself with this thought, and determined to tell her lover at a later period.

In the European barracks and in the various bungalows there was on this particular morning a general desertion of native servants; but this circumstance, strange to say, excited no suspicions, and so the day was got through as usual.

The afternoon drew to a close. The sun declined on the opposite bank of the Goomtee, burnishing the stream with gold, and throwing into dark relief the heavy masses of native boats. The great Mall was a scene of gaiety, for the white glare of the day had departed, and the dust-laden atmosphere was tempered with a refreshing breeze. The whole European population seemed to be taking an airing. Strings of vehicles, crowds of horsemen, gaily-dressed ladies, numberless natives, together with the glowing river, the waving palms, the tall cocoa trees, and the gilded domes of the numerous mosques, which rose grandly in the background, made up a scene which for picturesqueness and beauty could scarcely have been surpassed. It was a fair and smiling scene; “white-robed peace seemed to have settled there, and spread her downy wings.”

Backwards and forwards went the natives. Hindoos and Brahmins, high-caste and low-caste, mingling now indiscriminately. Could each of the hearts that beat beneath those dusky skins have been read, could it have been known how they were burning with hatred and loathing for the Feringhees, many a white man would have shuddered, and, as he tightened his grip on revolver or sword, he would have drawn the loved ones to his breast, there to shield them with his life.

Walter Gordon and Miss Meredith sat alone in the verandah, for Flora had complained of feeling very unwell, and Walter decided that, instead of going for the usual afternoon drive, it would be better to remain quietly at home.

They were suddenly surprised by observing a horseman come galloping down the road. He drew rein opposite the compound, and, springing from his saddle, hurried to the verandah. It was Lieutenant Harper.

“Walter, a word with you,” he cried. “Do not be alarmed, Flo,” he added, quickly, as he observed her cheeks blanch.

She sprang to her feet quickly, and grasped his arm.

“Tell me,” she cried, “what is the matter. I see by your manner that there is danger. Where does it threaten?”

“Do not be alarmed,” he repeated; “there is danger, but we may avert it. I must not stay, though. I am bound on secret service to Delhi, and I must reach that city before the day breaks. I am guilty of a great dereliction of duty in calling here; but I could not leave without seeing you. Walter, order your horse to be saddled, and accompany me as far as the Delhi road. I want to talk to you.”

“But Flora—how can I leave her?” Walter asked, in agitation.

“Never mind me,” she answered. “Go; it may be to our benefit.”

“Yes; it will be. I have some plans to arrange,” said Harper.

In a few minutes Walter’s horse stood in the compound.

“You have a case of revolvers?” Walter said to Flora.

“Yes.”

“Let me have one—quick.” He hurried in, and speedily loaded the chambers of a Colt’s. Then thrusting the weapon into his belt, and buttoning over his coat, he kissed Flora, and pressing her to his heart, said—“Good-bye, darling, I shall not be long away. I know that Harper has something of the utmost importance to say, or he would not ask me to go.”

“God protect you!” she murmured. “Until you return, my heart will be full of fear.”

In another moment the two men were galloping down the Mall, towards the great road which led to Delhi, that city being forty miles from Meerut.

“Walter,” said Harper, when they had got some distance away, “I did not wish to alarm Flo, but there is an awful time coming for us. It is not clear, yet, from what quarter the danger will arise. The Commandant has, this afternoon, received some information, whether trustworthy or not is not very clear. At anyrate, he attaches more than ordinary importance to it, and I am the bearer of dispatches to Delhi. My mission is one fraught with the greatest amount of personal danger, and I may never return alive. But I am a soldier, and must do my duty. To your care I consign my wife. When you get back, take Flo and her mother up to my bungalow. You will be company for Emily, and be under the protection of the troops in the barracks. If nothing serious occurs to-night, the danger may be averted. I regret now that we treated Flora’s fears with so much disregard. With a woman’s keener sense of penetration, she saw farther ahead than we did.”

“What, then, is the nature of the danger anticipated?” Walter asked.

“A general revolt of the native soldiery, and a wholesale massacre,” was the answer.

“Great Heavens! Is that so?” exclaimed the other, as his heart almost stood still at the bare thought of the horrors the words suggested.

Then for some little time the horsemen galloped along without exchanging a word. Each was busy with his own thoughts, which possibly flew far away to peaceful England, whose Queen little dreamed that her great Indian possessions were about to be all but wrested from her. The great Delhi road was reached at last, and along this Walter accompanied his friend for some miles. The slant shadows thrown by the evening sun were slowly fading, and darkness was creeping up. The men drew rein at last.

“I will return now,” said Walter.

“Do,” was the other’s answer. “Walter, give me your hand, old fellow. Perhaps in this world we may never meet again. If I fall, be a brother to my poor wife. If I should return, and you fall, Flo shall find a brother in me. We all carry our lives in our hands. Let us sell them as dearly as possible; and for every white man that falls let twenty black ones bite the dust.”

A sharp report rang out on the still air, and a bullet whizzed between the men.

“Great God!” cried Harper; “the storm has burst at last. Farewell.”

He grasped his friend’s hand, and in another moment was speeding away in the darkness.

Walter glanced about to see from which point the danger threatened him. Then he drew his revolver, and grasping it with the determination of an Englishman who would only sell his life at a great cost, he set his horse’s head back to Meerut.

To return to Miss Meredith. Scarcely had Walter and her brother-in-law gone than she threw herself into a chair and burst into tears.

“What for missy weeping?” said a voice behind her.

On looking up, she beheld an old and faithful ayah, named Zeemit Mehal, who had been in her mother’s service for some time.

“Ah, Zeemit,” she murmured, “I am so glad you are here. Mr. Gordon has gone out with Lieutenant Harper, and I am very lonely and nervous. I think I shall go up and see my sister; she will be dull now her husband is away.”

“No, missy, you must not go,” answered Zeemit firmly.

“And why must I not, Zeemit?”

“Because there is great danger coming to your countrymen and women; and my love for you prompts me to save you.”

She caught the old ayah by her skinny arm, and, in a voice choked with emotion, said—

“What do you mean, Mehal? If there is danger, does it not threaten my mamma and sister as well as me?”

“Yes, but there is greater safety indoors; for every white man who shows himself, there are a hundred bullets waiting to pierce his heart.”

Flora uttered a scream, and she clutched the skinny arm tighter, as if in that weak old woman she saw her only refuge.

“Oh, Zeemit,” she cried, “if this is true, what will become of Walter?”

“He is a brave man, miss, and may be able to get back here in safety. At any rate, do not alarm yourself unnecessarily. I will not desert you, and while I have life I will defend you. But in all things, miss, be guided by me.”

The alarm that an outbreak was expected had spread now throughout the station, and it was determined not to hold service in the church, although the congregation had gathered. And so the clergyman, commending them to the care of Heaven, dismissed them with a blessing.

As the people returned to their homes, there was a look of unwonted anxiety on the pale, scared faces. Sounds and sights greeted them on their way back that could not be misinterpreted. The unwonted rattling of musketry on the Sabbath evening; the sound of the bugles from all quarters, as they called to assembly; the hurrying to and fro of men armed to the teeth, and the panic-struck looks of the unarmed, all told of coming disaster. Presently columns of smoke rose up against the fast darkening sky, then blood-red flames leapt into the air, and the lurid glare soon spread the awful news, far and wide, that the native troops in Meerut had revolted.

The Third Bengal Artillery, whose comrades were languishing in gaol, rushed from their lines towards the hospital, which had been turned into a temporary prison for the “eighty-five,” whose only guard was a small body of natives. This was one of the most inconceivable acts of stupidity that occurred during the whole of the frightful mutiny. And when it was too late, it became painfully evident that someone had blundered. Who was responsible for the error? men asked of one another as they hurried about in the first panic of alarm. But no one answered the question, and through the weakness of the administration at that critical period, hundreds of innocent lives paid the penalty.

On went the half-maddened men of the Third, their cry now being “To the rescue!” Some were in uniform, man and horse fully accoutred, some in their stable dress, with only watering rein and horse cloth on their chargers, but all armed to the teeth, and on the faces of all a grim, resolute expression of ferocity. They reached the walls of the gaol; not the slightest opposition was offered; the rescue began. Down they tore the masonry around the cells; iron bars were wrenched away, and used to batter in the gates. Then forth came the “eighty-five”; their manacles were struck off, and the erst-while felons stood free men, with the light of the incendiary fires beating upon their dusky faces. Up behind their deliverers they mounted, and rode back to the lines, their hearts thirsting for revenge.

When they got to their quarters they were joined by the Eleventh Native Regiment. Colonel Finnis, who commanded the Eleventh, strong in his belief of the loyalty of his regiment, rode in amongst them.

“Men of the Eleventh!” he cried, “be true to your Queen, and do not disgrace your profession of arms by acts of violence and mutiny. Whatever wrongs you have I pledge you, in the name of the Queen, that they shall be redressed. Remember that we have helpless women and children amongst us who look to you for protection. You are human, and in your human hearts let the voice of pity obliterate your feelings of bitterness. I, your colonel, command you to return peaceably to your barracks, and I will protect you from all consequences of this act.”

The answer was a report, and the colonel’s horse staggered and fell beneath its rider. Another shot was fired; it went clean through the colonel’s body. A volley followed—and Colonel Finnis fell dead, completely riddled with bullets.

Then, from every quarter of Meerut, rose heavy columns of smoke, that were illuminated with many coloured flames. The sight was awful; the rolling of the musketry, the crackling of the fires, the crashing of falling timbers, the shrieks of the dying and the wounded, the cry of defenceless women, the piteous neighing of the horses as they were scorched to death in their stables, the yells, and shouts of the rabble, made up a night of horrors, such as, in the history of the world, has rarely been recorded.

From every street, and corner, and hole, and alley—from the bazaars and villages—poured forth streams of maddened natives, bent upon murder and plunder. And “death to the Feringhees!” was the one cry heard above all others. Like wild beasts from their lairs, seeking whom they might devour, came the hordes; and as the European officers rushed from their bungalows, they were shot down, and fell riddled with bullets.

Flora Meredith stood in the verandah of her bungalow like one turned to stone. She was horror-stricken, and could not move. At the first alarm her mother, maddened with despair, had rushed out into the compound, and was shot through the heart; and there she lay now, her dead eyes staring blankly up to the red sky.

A man hurriedly crossed the compound. He sprang into the verandah, he stood beside Flora, he passed his arm around her waist. It aroused her to a sense of her awful position. She turned and confronted the intruder. Her eyes fell upon Jewan Bukht.

“You brute!” she cried, “how dare you take such a liberty?”

He laughed, and tightened his hold, as she struggled to free herself.

“I told you we should meet again,” he said, with withering irony. “It is not yet too late; I can yet save you. Say you will marry me.”

By a desperate effort she freed herself from his grasp, and, recoiling away, exclaimed:

“Never! I would rather die a hundred deaths.”

He laughed again—a bitter, cunning laugh—and made a movement as if to seize her.

“Then you shall die,” he exclaimed, unsheathing a long, glittering native dagger.

He was intercepted by a woman—a native. It was Zeemit Mehal.

“Stay, Jewan!” said Zeemit. “If you are rough with this pretty prize, she may injure herself. She is a bonny bird, and should not ruffle her plumage. She shall be yours. I give her to you.”

“May God in heaven protect me!” murmured Flora, as, sinking on her knees, she buried her face in her hands.

“Hush!” whispered Zeemit, as she bent down, unperceived by Jewan, “obey me in all things, and I will save you.”

“Come, my pretty dove,” said Zeemit, aloud, as she took the hands of Flora, and raised her to her feet, “life is sweet, and Jewan will be good to you. Besides, our time has come. The Feringhees have ruled us long enough. We triumph now, and resistance on your part will be useless. You must go with Jewan.”

“That is well said, Zeemit,” cried the man; “and I will give you jewels enough to make you as rich as a Ranee for your service. I shall take this white-faced woman to the Palace of the Mogul in Delhi.”

“But you must not leave me behind!” exclaimed Zeemit in well-feigned alarm.

“Leave you behind—certainly not!” answered Jewan, with a laugh. “You shall go and be keeper to my bird, and clip her wings if she wants to fly. I have a buggy close at hand; we will go together. Stay here until I bring it up.”

He went out into the compound, and when he had gone Flora flung herself at the feet of Zeemit.

“Oh, Zeemit!” she cried, “by all that you hold dear—if you have sister, mother, father, brother, nay, more, if you have a child—I appeal to you, in their names, to save me!”

“I will,” was the answer. “But you must go with this man; for to remain here is certain death. If your lover has escaped, and he may have done so, he will assuredly return. I will remain behind and wait, so that if he comes I can warn him and apprise him of your whereabouts. Hush! Jewan returns.”

Flora was utterly bewildered. She could neither think nor act, only yield herself blindly to the counselling of this old woman.

The man had driven into the compound in a buggy. He sprang to the ground.

“Quick,” he cried, “there is no time to be lost.”

“I have an old father, who lives on the other side of the nullah,” said Zeemit; “I must visit him before I go.”

“But I cannot wait for you; even our own lives are in danger by remaining here,” observed Jewan angrily.

“There is no occasion to wait,” was the answer. “When I have seen my father I will hurry after you. I am an old woman, and no one will molest me; I shall find means to reach Delhi almost as soon as you. Come, my baby, put on your things,” she added, addressing Flora, who followed the old woman into the bungalow.

When Flora had secured a few relics and articles of value, and had arrayed herself in a shawl and hat, she returned to the verandah.

“You will come,” she whispered to the old woman; “and save him if possible. Should I not see you in three days, and if this man insults me, I will die by my own hand.”

“I will save him and you if he lives,” was the answer. “Go.”

Then the poor girl, bewildered by the rapid course of events, and half-dazed by the danger that surrounded her, and scarcely able to realise the fact that a few yards off her mother was lying stark and white, mounted to the buggy, and sank down overpowered upon the cushions.

Jewan sprang up beside her, and, covering her up with a dark horse-cloth, he lashed his horse into a gallop, and was soon speeding out of Meerut. As the buggy reached the great Mall, it was passed by a horse that was tearing along at a great pace. It carried a rider, an Englishman. His head was bare, his hair was streaming in the wind, his teeth were set, and in his hand he firmly held a revolver. He bent low, until his face almost touched the neck of his horse, for now and again shots were sent after him; but he seemed to bear a charmed life, and never slackened pace for an instant, and soon he and the buggy were far apart.

The flying horseman was Walter Gordon. Breathless and begrimed, he rushed into the compound of the Meredith bungalow, just in time to see flames issuing from the windows. It had been fired by the incendiaries. He would have entered the burning building, but a hand firmly grasped his arm, and a voice whispered in his ear—

“Be silent as you value your life.”

It was Zeemit Mehal.

“Where is Miss Meredith?” he cried, in spite of the old woman’s warning.

“She lives,” was the answer. “On your prudence depends her safety and your own. Be guided by me, and wait. Tether your horse to yonder tree, and follow me.”

He did as she desired, for there was something in the woman’s tone that gave him hope and confidence. Then at her bidding he crouched down beneath a clump of bushes, and waited.

CHAPTER IV. THE PALACE OF THE MOGUL.

As that awful night of the 11th of May wore on, a drama was enacted in the fair city of Meerut, that the most graphic pen would fail to do justice to. For a time the mutineers held their own. They burned and pillaged, they massacred and drank. In their mad fury nothing was held sacred. Even their own temples and mosques fell a prey to the incendiary firebrands. Innocent children were ruthlessly slaughtered; helpless women were dismembered, and many a gallant officer rolled in the dust without being able to fire a shot at his unseen and cowardly foe.

But soon the tide turned. The panic, which for a short time seemed to have paralysed those in command, gave place to reaction. The Rifles and the Dragoons were let loose. Desperate and terrible was the conflict, but the “Great White Hand” was too powerful to be crushed by a howling rabble. The gallant English soldiers warmed to their work. Their blood fired as they thought of their cruelly-murdered wives and daughters, and country-women. And so, with carbines and sabres they cut lines for themselves through the crowded streets, until from thousands of throats went up the warning cry—

“Gora-logue, aya” (the Europeans have come). Then out of the city of Meerut, and on to the great high road that led to Delhi, went the cowardly mutineers—a disorderly, beggarly, undisciplined rabble now. The Dragoons followed some little distance, and made terrible havoc among the flying crowds. But suddenly, and for some inexplicable reason, the English soldiers were ordered to return. They did reluctantly—sorrowfully. Nay, they were half-inclined to disobey that order, for their blood was up, and they knew that they could have cut that flying horde to pieces. Somebody had blundered again! But who? And to the present day echo answers, Who?

The men returned to their lines, and the rebels straggled on. Before them was the Imperial City, with its gorgeous Palace, its stupendous magazine and arsenal, its countless treasures, its almost impregnable defences. It was a goal worth pressing forward to. Behind them was a town of smouldering and blackened ruins, of slaughtered women and children, and dauntless British soldiers burning to revenge the foul murders, but who were held in check by the marvellous stupidity of those in office.

The Palace of the Mogul, in Delhi, was one that might have vied with any similar building in the whole of India; it was a majestic pile, worthy of the traditions that surrounded it, and the noble line of kings who had dwelt beneath its roof, but who were now but a name, for their ancient splendour had set never to rise again.

In one of the stateliest rooms in the stately Palace sat the aged King—a man upon whose brow the years had gathered thickly and set their stamp. A long beard, white as the driven snow, reached to his waist; his face was wrinkled and puckered, and his eyes dull and bleared, but they were restless, and plainly told that within the spirit was chafing. Around him was a brilliant retinue, and on each side of the marble hall stood an armed guard.

The King was seated on a raised dais, and was holding counsel with some of his ministers.

“Things work well,” he replied, in a low voice, to some remark that had just been made by one of his courtiers. “Our sun is rising, and power is coming back to us; we shall yet live to enjoy some of the glory which made the reign of our predecessors so conspicuous before these cursed Feringhees came and trampled on our power. Death to them!”

He ground his teeth and clenched his emaciated hand, and his eyes sparkled for a moment with a burning feeling of hatred.

“Do not distress yourself, great lord,” said a tall and handsome woman, whose massive bangles, flashing diamonds, and gold chain, bespoke her one of the King’s favourites. “The power of these foreigners is great, and better to submit to it than to rise only to fall again and be crushed.”

The King turned upon her, his whole frame quivering with wrath.

“Peace, fool—beast!” he cried; “thy sympathies have ever been with the hated race. Beneath thy breast there beats a traitorous heart. Have a care. Bridle thy tongue, or thy head may pay the forfeit.”

“I own no traitor’s heart, my lord and king,” the woman answered, as she drew herself up proudly.

“Peace, Haidee, I tell thee!” cried the monarch, in a voice husky with passion; “we brook no insolence, and no answer. Thou art a slave. Know thy place.”

The eyes of Haidee burned and her lips quivered, while her bosom heaved with suppressed emotion.

“Take my life if it so pleases you, my lord, but to your face I say I am no slave,” she answered.

Haidee was as yet but in the first flush of womanhood; she had not numbered more than two-and-twenty years. She was a native of Cashmere, and of the true Cashmere type of beauty. Her form was perfect in symmetry; her face a study. Her eyes were large and liquid, and fringed with long silken lashes; her skin a delicate brown, almost cream colour, and the cheeks tinged with pink, while down her back, reaching below the knees, fell a wealth of the dark auburn hair peculiar to her countrywomen; it was kept from her face by a small tiara studded with diamonds, the points being many butterflies, composed of rubies and pearls; her arms, beautifully proportioned and rounded, were bare to the shoulders; and on the right arm up to the elbow were massive gold jewelled bands. She was arrayed in all the gorgeousness of Eastern costume—flowing silk studded with pearls, and looped up with massive gold knots, was suspended from her shoulders; trousers of light blue silk, and slippers of the same material, ornamented with small gold fire-flies, completed a costume that was at once picturesque and beautiful. Nature and art had combined to make Haidee a picture of perfect beauty.

Angered almost beyond control by her last remark, the King raised his hand as a sign to one of the guards, to whom he was going to issue orders to have her taken away; but, before he could speak, a messenger entered hurriedly, and prostrating himself before the dais, waited for the King’s pleasure.

“What hast thou to communicate?” asked the monarch, as he resumed his seat with difficulty.

“An English officer, the bearer of despatches from Meerut, seeks audience with your Majesty,” was the answer.

“Ah!” exclaimed the King, as he nervously clutched the arms of the chair with his withered hands. “An English officer, eh?—an English dog, thou shouldst have said. Let him wait our pleasure then,” he added angrily.

“He is importunate, your Majesty, and says his business permits of no delay.”

“A palsy seize him, and the whole of his race!” answered the King. “But we must not be premature. It were better, perhaps, to admit him.”

With a low bow the man withdrew, returning in a short time in company with Lieutenant Harper, whose ride from Meerut had been performed in an incredibly short space of time, and on whose face the perspiration was still wet, while his uniform was white with dust.

“Your Majesty will pardon me for dispensing with all ceremony,” he said, as he made a respectful salute to the King. “I have the honour to be the bearer of most important despatches from the Commandant of Meerut. Their contents are private, and intended for no other eyes but yours.”

As Harper spoke he handed a package of official documents to the King, who in turn was about to hand them to his secretary, as he remarked—

“We will have them read to us at our leisure.”

“Pardon me, but they must not leave your Majesty’s hands,” Harper said, hurriedly.

“Must not!” the King echoed, sternly. Then checking himself, he said—“Well, well, you English are an impetuous race! We will comply with your request. My spectacles, Zula. Let us see what these important documents contain.”

A native boy stepped forward, and presented to the King his spectacles on a gold plate.

Then, with nervous, trembling hands, he broke the seals of the packet, and unfolding the long blue sheets of paper, he slowly perused them. As he did so, there flitted across his face an almost perceptible smile of triumph, and over the gold rims of his spectacles he darted a look full of meaning to a powerful Sepoy who stood near.

This man was an orderly of the guard, and his name Moghul Singh. He was evidently in the King’s secret, for he seemed to understand the look, and made a sign, with his right hand, to his comrades.

Quickly as this was done, it did not escape the notice of Haidee, who shifted her position, ostensibly to converse with a group of ladies, but in reality to place herself nearer Harper.

During the time that the King had spent in reading the documents, Harper’s gaze had frequently wandered to the lovely form of Haidee, and their eyes met, until every nerve in his body thrilled with the electrical fire of her wondrous eyes.