"I DID NOT SAY THAT, SAHIB!"
George Harkins was dead.
Blue eyed Jennie, in far away England, standing in the door of the
vine clad cottage and shading her vision with her hand, would look
longingly toward the stormy Atlantic, in the hope of seeing that form
which when it went away carried her own true heart with it; but never
should she see it again. Like the countless multitudes in this sad
and sorrowing world, he had gone merrily forth to return nevermore.
Dr. Avery, with the laugh on his lips, shook the massive shoulder,
when the body pitched forward upon the face, limp and nerveless.
Then his heart stood still with horror and he shuddered to his very
soul.
Tenderly raising the head again he found that the pulse had done
beating, though the body was still warm.
So brief was the time between the noise which was heard by the party
within and the hurrying out of Dr. Avery that Harkins could have been
dead only a few minutes. The friend, shocked beyond expression, was
bending over the dead body, when the crack of a pistol broke the
stillness, followed by a tumbling and tearing of the shrubbery
overhead, and then another body slumped down through the vegetation
end over end, and struck the floor of the passage way, sprawling in
front of the horrified surgeon, who recoiled with a gasp.
"Heaven save me! That is Luchman!"
"No, sahib; here is Luchman!"
The words were spoken by the guide, who dropped as lightly as a
feather from the same support whence fell the dead man.
"O Luchman! Poor Harkins is killed!"
"I thought so, sahib," was the quiet response of the native, who,
deeply as he felt the loss, repressed all emotion.
"Who killed him?"
"He," was the reply of Luchman, who kicked the form of his countryman
with spiteful venom; "but he will do no more murders. Wana Affghar
sent him after me, and the fool knew no better than to kill the
Feringhee."
"How was it done?"
"He slipped behind him, when he was walking this way, and thrust his
long, thin knife, that is as sharp as a needle, into his heart. He
sank down on the floor, killed before he knew what wounded him. Then
he set him up with his head leaning against the wall, as though he
was asleep. The Ghoojur hurried out to tell Wana Affghar what he had
done and that the way was open to the temple, where the rest of the
Feringhees were sleeping, but he forgot, sahib, or he never knew that
I was on the outside, watching for him and others, though I did not
see him when he stole into the archway. I must have been at the rear
at the time, but I met him when he was climbing up the stones. I
gave him just enough time to know who it was that sent a bullet
through his brain, and that was all."
It was a sad consolation to know that the fierce assassin had met his
fate before he could get out of sight of the body of his victim, who
was worth a legion of such wretches, but he was gone beyond recall.
When Dr. Avery had rallied from the shock, he made a professional
examination of his friend's body to find what it was that caused his
death.
It proved to be as Luchman had said: the native had evidently slipped
up behind Harkins, without noise, at the moment when he was walking
away from him, and had slain him so quickly that he had to leap aside
to escape the falling body.
"What shall be done?" asked Avery; "can we give him burial?"
"No, sahib, except only what the temple will give: Wana Affghar must
know nothing of this, lest it encourage him to rush upon us."
"He would do so, if he knew that half our defensive force is gone."
"But he must know, sahib, about his murderer."
Luchman deliberately picked up the body of his fallen foe, slung it
over his shoulder, strode several rods out upon the plain, until the
report of a gun warned him that he was venturing too far, when he
stopped, and threw the load to the ground. Disdaining to hurry, he
strode back with the exclamation:
"There! that will teach Wana Affghar a lesson."
The thought seemed to give the native satisfaction, but the sorrow of
Avery drove everything else from his mind. His profession tends to
make one indifferent, perhaps, to suffering and death, but when
affliction strikes home, the physician suffers as poignantly as the
rest of us.
Circumstances would not allow him to mourn the noble fellow as he
wished. As a duty to him, he searched the person and took charge of
the effects. There were data and memoranda that would give him what
knowledge he needed, provided the party ever escaped from the perils
that environed them. Within the shooting jacket, close to the heart
that had been so cruelly pierced, was a small picture. Avery struck
a match so as to see it more plainly. It was that of a fair, sweet
face, with an abundance of nut brown tresses and eyes as blue as the
heavens.
"Poor Jennie," murmured the surgeon, with dimmed vision, "there is
One who has promised to wipe away the tears from all eyes, and He is
the only friend who can comfort you now."
The weapons of the dead man were added for the present to the
armament of Avery. It was then decided to leave the body where it
lay until morning, when it would be impossible to keep the sad truth
from the others. Then it would be carried into the smaller room, and
left to await the summons at the resurrection morn. Perhaps no more
fitting sepulture could be given it.
"Now," said the doctor, when nothing more remained to be done, "we
must face the future; you have been outside; what did you learn?"
"Nothing, sahib," was the reply.
"Is it possible for us to get away?"
"I know of no way, sahib."
"Did you learn anything about the Ghoojurs?"
"Yes, sahib; I found that there is but one path by which they can
come into the temple."
"What is that?"
"The one by which we entered; so long as we can guard that, sahib, we
are safe."
"But we cannot do that forever, nor for a long time: how many days
can we keep them at bay?"
"I hoped, sahib, that we should find a chance to do so tonight, but
there is none; there may be tomorrow night."
"Why?"
"The moon rises later--an hour before midnight."
"That then is your only hope?"
"Yes, sahib."
"God pity us then, for that is no hope at all; this kind of weather
will last for weeks."
"I will now sleep, sahib, if you will watch."
"I am glad to hear you say so; go back in the room and slumber all
you want."
"No, sahib; I will lie here," replied Luchman, who stretched himself
upon the hard couch, close to the inanimate form that was growing
cold and stiff. Five minutes later, he was unconscious.
"And now I must take the place of poor Harkins," thought Avery,
beginning to pace back and forth on his beat. "As likely as not some
assassin will try the same game on me. I won't carry the rifle, but
will hold my pistol ready."
A more trying situation cannot be conceived, and Avery would not have
paced the floor in this manner, but for a morbid horror that if he
sat down he would fall asleep and imperil the safety of the rest.
The action of Luchman in throwing himself on the floor, thus placing
his life, as may be said, in the keeping of his friend, intensified
the anxiety of the latter to guard against surprise.
Back and forth, therefore, he paced with the slow, steady step which
can be kept up for hours without fatigue, but with Avery it lasted
only a short time.
The strain upon his nerves became intolerable. When he turned at the
mouth of the entrance and moved toward the interior, he was sure he
heard stealthy footsteps behind him. He wheeled and leveled his
pistol.
"Ah, ha, assassin, I've got you!"
But no one was there. Luchman was breathing heavily where he lay
upon the floor, and the form that was once the magnificent George
Harkins was straight and cold and still.
Then Avery stood a minute and listened. The vegetation was as
motionless as the dark ruins, for there was not a breath of air
stirring. The night was warmer and more sultry than any they had
experienced since their flight from Delhi, but the temple probably
offered the nearest approach to coolness that could be found anywhere.
Surely nothing was stirring near him, but peering through the arched
way, he saw something move. He stepped lightly forward to learn the
cause.
Two Ghoojurs were bearing off the body of their comrade that had been
laid low by the pistol of Luchman.
"Take the carcass and be gone," muttered the sentinel; "and would to
God you had carried him away before he entered this place to slay one
of the best men of earth."
The reasonable conclusion was that Wana Affghar, having failed in his
attempt, would not soon essay any thing of the kind again. Thus
thought Avery, who continued his walk in comparative peace; but he
was in that highly nervous condition in which it is impossible to
feel sure of a correct judgment on any question. So it came about
that he decided that the grounds for not looking for a repetition of
the attempt constituted the best grounds for expecting it, and thus
his spasmodic vigilance was resumed.
Though he was repeatedly sure that he saw and heard his enemies
prowling around him, there really was nothing of the kind.
It was past midnight, when Luchman leaped to his feet as though stung
by a serpent.
"What's the matter?" asked Avery, who was startled by the slightest
cause.
"Nothing, sahib; why do you ask?"
"Is that the way you always wake up?"
"Not always: have you seen anything new?"
"I am not sure. I saw a couple of Ghoojurs bear away that body, and
I thought I detected others moving around the outside, but maybe I
was mistaken."
"You were, sahib, for if any of them had come nigh, you could not
have been mistaken."
"Are you through with your nap?"
"Yes, sahib; I will take no more till this is ended."
Avery looked sharply at him.
"You speak as though you thought we might escape."
"I did not say that, sahib."
Luchman explained that he meant that before he would require any more
slumber, the question would be settled one way or the other. When
the time should come for the guide to sleep again the fugitives would
either be dead or safe.
Luchman urged Avery to go inside and try to rest, but he was too much
distressed to accept the suggestion. He preferred to remain on
guard, and he did so.