As Hilton cried for help his voice sounded stifled and dull, while he
vainly tried to cast off a great woollen cloth that had been deftly
thrown over his head. It took hardly an instant before it was wound
tightly round him. Then a rope was twisted so rapidly round arms and
legs, that he was turned, as it were, into a complete mummy; and when
his assailants threw him upon the grass he was so helpless that they
literally rolled him over and over down the slope of closely shaven
herbage into a large row-boat, into whose bottom he fell without pain,
and almost without a sound.
"I thought it was the crocodiles," he said to himself, as his heart beat
painfully; and then he began to writhe in spirit at his want of caution,
for he felt sure that this, the capture of an officer, was one of the
first steps towards an attack upon the Residency island.
Just then he heard a voice, and what seemed to be a whispered order in
Malay; and the boat might have been seen to glide away like a shadow
over the starry water, breaking it up into spangles as it went on and on
towards the middle of the stream without so much as a sound.
Then a pang shot through the young officer's heart, to tell him that he
was not, in spite of his word, quite cured, for his first thought now
was: "What will become of Helen!" A few minutes later Chumbley strolled
up to the pagoda, where old Stuart was comfortably enjoying his glass.
"Well, old fellow," he drawled: "not melted away yet."
"No; nor you neither," retorted the old merchant. "Want some whuskie?"
"No; I want a cigar," said Chumbley; and he helped himself from the box.
"Seen anything of Hilton?" he asked, as he lit the roll of tobacco.
"Yes! here a bit ago, and then went off to smoke in the cool air. Leave
my little girl all right?"
"Yes; she was sitting talking to the Princess and the Rajah in front of
the house. What a lovely night!"
"Humph, yes. Pretty well; but you should see the night, laddie, over
one o' the Scottish lochs, wi' the ootline o' a mountain stannin oot i'
front o' the northern sky. Ay, but that's a sight."
"Yes, s'pose so," said Chumbley; "but as we can't have the night over
the Scottish loch, isn't it as well to make the best of this?"
"Humph! yes," said the old man; "but I'm getting tired of sitting here.
I want to go back home. How much longer is this tomfoolery going to
last?"
"Can't say, sir. Why don't you go on to the lawn and have a chat?"
"Pah! Do I look like a man who could do that sort of thing?"
"Can't say you do," replied Chumbley, cheerfully. "Well, I'm going to
look for Hilton!" and, stepping out of the pagoda, he went across the
lawn, with his hands deep down in his pockets.
"_Now_, let's see," he said to himself, as he strolled lazily on, "where
would that chap be likely to have stuck himself up for a quiet smoke?
"Seems to have had a tiff with beauty to-night. P'r'aps she has pitched
him as she has other people before, present company not excepted. All
the more likely for him to have gone off for a quiet smoke--Now where
would he go?"
There was a pause here, as if for someone else to answer, but as no one
did--
"Down by the river," he said--"safe." Chumbley thrust his hands lower
down into his pockets, and as if led by fate, he followed slowly almost
the very track taken by Hilton so short a time before.
Finding that portion of the extensive grounds quite solitary, Chumbley
began to hum what was meant for an air, in a peculiar voice more
remarkable for noise than tune--due, no doubt, to his having his cigar
in his lips, at which he gravely sucked away as if keeping time to the
melody he emitted with the smoke.
"Grass too damp to lie down," he said to himself, "else it would be
rather jolly, and I'm precious tired. Not safe though. Old Bolter
would vow there was rheumatism and fever in every blade. Why the
dickens don't they put garden seats down here?"
He strolled on, casting his eyes about in every direction in search of
his friend.
"Precious dark!" he said. "Now where has old Hilton hidden himself?
Hallo! Why there he is! What a jolly old lunatic he must be. I wonder
what old Bolter would say?"
For not very far from the bank of the stream, he could dimly make out a
figure lying apparently asleep.
Chumbley immediately began to think of the risks to be incurred from
crocodiles, and walking quickly up he bent down over the sleeping
figure.
"Here--hi! Hallo! Hilton, is that you? Hang it, man, don't lie
there!"
There was no reply, and Chumbley hesitated as to whether he should touch
the figure.
"'Tisn't Hilton!" he said to himself. "One of the servants, perhaps,
keeping up his Mohammedan rules on the question of wine upon the wrong
side."
"Hallo! you sir!" he cried aloud. "'Tisn't safe to lie there; do you
hear?" and going down on one knee, he turned the figure completely over.
"Here wake up or the crocs will have you! Is anything the matter?"
"Help me up," came in reply, spoken in good English.
Chumbley was too earnest a man to resist that appeal; and bending lower,
he tried to pass one hand beneath the prostrate figure, the man feebly
laying his hands upon the lieutenant the while.
Then, in an instant, the feeble clasp became one of iron; and before
Chumbley could more than realise that he was being held, a second figure
bounded from behind a bush on to his back, dexterously throwing a sort
of bag over his head and drawing it tight about his neck.
The young officer was taken by surprise; but he was not so easy a prey
as Hilton. As a rule, Chumbley resembled the elephant in his slow,
ponderous movement. Now, there was something almost leonine in his
activity, the latent almost herculean strength he possessed being
brought into play.
Uttering a smothered roar, he tried to shake off his assailants as they
clung to his back and neck, pinioning his arms, and holding on so
closely, that in the dark the figures of the three men seemed like one
huge monstrous creature writhing savagely upon the grass.
Four more dark figures had suddenly appeared upon the scene, looking
weird and strange in the starlight; and while the distant sound of
voices, with an occasional burst of laughter, came to where the struggle
was going on, all here was so quiet--save for the oppressed breathing--
that no attention was drawn towards them from the visitor-dotted lawn.
The fresh-comers leaped at Chumbley like dogs at their hunted quarry;
but so fierce was the resistance that one of them was dashed to the
earth, the others shaken off, and the young man followed up the display
of his tremendous strength by making a blindfold effort to ran.
The probabilities are that, as he had instinctively taken the direction
leading to the house, he would have got so far that his assailants would
not have cared to follow, had not one of them thrust out a foot as
Chumbley was passing, and tripped him up, when he fell with a heavy thud
to the ground.
Before he could make a fresh effort to rise, half a dozen Malays were
upon him; and while some sat and knelt upon, others bound him hand and
foot.
Then they paused to listen whether the struggle had been overheard; but
finding it had excited no attention either at the house or the Residency
island, they leisurely rolled their prisoner over and over down the
grassy slope into a waiting boat close up to the bank. A few vessels of
water were dipped, and quickly poured over the grass where the struggle
had taken place, and then once more the star-spangled surface of the
river was broken up as a shadowy boat softly glided out to the middle of
the river, and then seemed to die away.
But the incidents of the night were not yet at an end, Fate seemed to
lend her aid to bring them to one peculiar bent.
For, hot and weary of the insipid attentions of her new conquest, and
fagged out with her task of entertaining so many guests, Helen Perowne
began to think of how she should escape, wishing the while that everyone
would go, and far from satisfied with her last encounter with Hilton.
She looked round the lit-up space for someone on whom to inflict
herself, but Hilton was not there; she could see neither Chumbley nor
the Resident, only several of the younger men, merchants and civil
officers--no one at all worth talking to save the chaplain, who had been
watching her wistfully all the evening, and who now stood with one hand
resting upon a chair, looking as if he would have given his life for one
kind word from her lips.
"Poor Arthur!" she said, in a half amused, half troubled way, "I wish he
would not be so weak?"
She gave another impatient look round, but there was no victim worthy of
her arrows; and with an imperious glance at Arthur Rosebury, she let her
eyes once more pass over the various groups of guests, for the most part
carrying on an animated conversation, and turned to enter the house.
Just as she reached one of the open French windows, a Malay servant
approached, and saluted her respectfully.
"The master says will the mistress come down the garden a minute to
speak to him?"
"How tiresome!" she exclaimed petulantly. "Where is my father?"
"By the river, mistress, where it is cool to smoke," replied the man,
softly. "He says he will not keep you, but you must come at once."
This was all in broken English, but sufficiently plain to be understood.
"He might have come to me," said Helen, impatiently. "I am so hot and
tired. There, go on. No, not that way. Let us go by the side path."
The man bowed and went on, with Helen following, when the chaplain
seized the opportunity to join her.
"It is getting cold and damp, Miss Perowne," he said, softly. "Will you
let me put this over your shoulders?"
"What!" she said; "have you been carrying that ever since I gave it to
you hours ago?"
The chaplain bowed, and held the light, filmy shawl, that he had felt it
a joy to bear, ready to throw over her shoulders.
"No," she cried, petulantly, "I am too hot as it is. There," she cried,
relenting, as she saw his fallen countenance, and for want of another
victim, "you may come with me and carry the shawl till I want to put it
on."
The chaplain's heart gave a bound, and, too pleased to speak, he
followed Helen closely, as the man led her towards the bottom of the
lawn, where, as they drew nearer, a dark figure could be dimly seen
slowly pacing up and down.
"How angry dear Mary would be if she knew," thought the Reverend Arthur;
"but I cannot help it. I suppose I am very weak, and it is my fate?"
"What is wrong now?" thought Helen, whose conscience was quick to take
alarm. "Is he going to speak to me about Hilton? No; he would not
have--he could not have been so cowardly as to speak to my father about
our quarrel."
They were very near now, and Helen could see that her father had one
hand up to his face, resting the elbow in his other hand.
"It cannot be about Murad. That must be over," mused Helen. Then
aloud, "Is anything the matter, papa? Are you unwell?"
At that moment she realised the fact that the figure in evening dress
was not her father, the chaplain noticing her start, and trying to go
forward to her aid; but, as he took a step, a hand was clapped over his
lips, an arm tightly embraced him, and as he dimly saw a white
handkerchief tied across Helen's face, he was lifted from the ground and
borne away, too much surprised to do more than struggle weakly at such a
disadvantage that even a strong man would have been as helpless as a
child.
Helen made an effort to shriek for aid, but a black cloud seemed
suddenly to envelop her in the shape of a great cloth, wrapping her
round and round. Then she felt herself lifted from her feet, and
half-stifled, half-fainting with the horror of her situation, she was
just conscious of being carried for a few minutes, and then of being
placed in a boat; while in the midst of her horror and excitement there
seemed to come up before her the faces of her three old mistresses at
the calm, quiet school, then that of Grey Stuart looking reproachfully,
and then all faded away into one complete void.