MOGHUL SINGH IS OUTWITTED.
The house to which Moghul Singh took Flora Meredith was about four
miles from the Palace, and on the opposite side of Delhi. It was
simply an ordinary bungalow, built for the most part of bamboo. It
was in a dilapidated condition, and situated in the native quarter.
At this place Moghul had three or four of his native mistresses. It
was quite a common thing in India for men in Singh’s position to keep
up such establishments. In fact it was looked upon rather as a social
distinction.
The place wore a most melancholy aspect when Flora arrived. The
indispensable cocoa-nut lamp gave forth a faint glimmer that enabled
a person, when the eyes became accustomed to it, to distinguish the
squalor and filth; for the native dwellings, as a rule, were but one
remove from pig-sties. In this room were ranged wooden benches, and on
the benches were stretched the forms of several Hindoo women.
The air was fœtid with the smell of chunam and the opium and common
tobacco smoked by the natives of both sexes, in the hubble-bubble, or
hookah, of the country.
Flora experienced an indescribable feeling of alarm, while despair
seized her again. In the Palace she certainly had comfort. There was
none here. Moreover, she saw that she was thoroughly in Singh’s power.
In her anxiety to escape she had not thought of that; but now that the
danger stared her in the face, she shrank with horror. She yearned for
Zeemit. Where was she now? If she failed, everything was lost. Not that
Flora doubted her. The old woman had proved her devotion in a hundred
ways. But then the difficulties and dangers were so numerous. Besides,
many days had elapsed since Zeemit had parted from her in the Palace
garden, and during that time she might have thought that the scheme
had failed, and had given up watching at the bungalow. As Moghul Singh
handed his captive down from the buggy, she cast anxious glances about.
But there were only darkness and silence around; nothing could be
heard, nothing seen, only the dark mass of building, and the melancholy
light of the lamp.
As she mounted the two or three steps that led to the verandah, and
stood upon the threshold of the doorway, she tottered with the sense
of horror with which she contemplated the consequences of remaining.
She felt that she dare not enter, that she would sooner rush to certain
death in the open city, than pass one hour beneath the roof of that
tomb-like place.
“What is the matter?” the man asked sharply as he saw that she faltered.
“I am faint,” she answered. “The heat has overcome me.”
“Oh, nonsense,” was his surly reply. “Come, follow me.”
He tried to take her hand, but she held it back. She felt such an
unutterable loathing for the villain that it was almost impossible to
avoid showing it. The cold-blooded deed that he had been guilty of in
decapitating the boy made her shudder.
It was true she had seen horrors enough during the mutiny to have
hardened her senses to some extent. But this tragedy had been
committed in such a diabolical manner, and before her eyes, that it
sickened her; and yet she had ridden side by side with the guilty
miscreant for some miles. She had had an impression, although it had
not been so understood, that on the moment of her arrival she would
find Zeemit Mehal waiting, and that the woman would have matured some
plan that would have enabled them to effect an immediate escape.
But Zeemit was not to be seen. It was an awful moment for Flora.
Words would fail to depict the agony of mind and body she endured.
She reproached herself for leaving the Palace. She felt that if she
had been in possession of a weapon, she could without the slightest
compunction have slain the villain who stood beside her. She was
suffering the extreme of despair--passing through that stage when all
faith even in Heaven is for the time lost. Misfortune had come upon her
so suddenly, and pursued her so relentlessly since, that she mentally
asked herself why she and her people should have been made the subjects
of so much persecution.
Moghul Singh grew impatient when he saw that Flora did not comply with
his demand and follow him.
“Why don’t you come?” he exclaimed angrily. “The time is passing
quickly, and I must return to the Palace before daylight.”
“I cannot,” she answered. “The atmosphere is stifling, and I am ill.”
The man scowled. He felt that he was thwarted, and it irritated him.
He seized her hand roughly and would have dragged her in, but she
remonstrated.
“Why are you so cruel?” she asked. “Did I not come with you of my own
free will? Surely you are not so dead to every feeling of pity, but
what you can have some consideration for me now that I am ill?”
Her argument was effective. He released her hand, and drew back apace.
“What do you wish me to do?” he demanded.
“Procure me a chair, and let me remain outside on the verandah a little
while. The cool air will no doubt revive me.”
With a gruff assent to her request, he turned into the bungalow, to
procure the seat, and Flora stood alone. In those few moments a dozen
things suggested themselves to her. She would rush wildly away. By
that course she would probably be shot down, or, escaping that risk,
she might be able to reach the river, or canal, and there she would
end her misery, for she seemed to be abandoned by all. But great as
had been her experience of Zeemit’s fidelity, she did not know what a
depth of devotion there was in the old woman’s nature. For days she
had loitered about the bungalow, waiting patiently and anxiously for
the Feringhee lady, to whose cause she had devoted herself, in spite
of the many temptations that were offered to a native to fling off all
restraint for a time, and live a brief, riotous, and idle life. She had
watched the bungalow with ceaseless watching, creeping at night into
the shadow of the verandah, where she would lie coiled up, snatching
a few hours of rest, but always ready to start up on the alert at the
sound of wheels. She herself had almost given up all hope of Flora’s
escape. She had begun to think that the plan had miscarried, and was
resolving upon a scheme to pay another visit to the imprisoned lady in
the Palace. But her vigilance and patience were rewarded at last. She
heard the approach of the buggy, she saw Flora arrive, she heard the
conversation that passed, so that, when Miss Meredith had sunk to the
lowest depth of despair, when all seemed dark and hopeless, and she
felt inclined to doubt the goodness of Heaven, succour was at hand.
As she stood alone in the brief space that elapsed during Moghul’s
absence, Zeemit was by her side. Flora was used to surprises now; but
as she heard the familiar voice, although it was but the faintest
whisper, of her faithful ayah, she could scarcely refrain from uttering
a cry. But the feeling of thankfulness that filled her heart found
expression in a silent “Thank God!” uttered under her breath.
There was no time for words. Action was needed. Zeemit was equal to the
occasion. The buggy and horse still stood before the door. She seized
Flora’s hand, and rushed to the vehicle. Terror lent them both strength
and quickness. In an instant they had sprung to the seat. Zeemit caught
up the reins, and bringing the whip down upon the horse’s neck, started
the animal into a furious gallop, just as Moghul came from the house
with a chair in his hand. The whole affair took place in absolutely
less time than it has taken to pen these lines.
Moghul realised at once that his bird had flown, and as he dropped
the chair with an imprecation, he hastily drew a revolver, and fired
it after the retreating vehicle. But the bullet sped harmlessly away,
though the report broke upon the stillness with startling distinctness,
and in a few minutes, dozens of natives had rushed from their huts to
discover the cause of alarm.
“A horse--a horse,” cried Moghul. “A hundred rupees for a horse. There
is a Feringhee woman escaping from the city in yonder buggy.”
A horse was speedily produced. Moghul sprang on to its back, and,
followed by a yelling pack of demons, set off in pursuit of the escaped
prisoner. But a good start had been given to the fugitives. The sounds
of the rattling wheels and the horse’s hoofs did not reach the ears
of the pursuers, who tore madly along, while Zeemit, who was well
acquainted with the city and its suburbs, guided the animal down a
by-road that led through a jungle. After travelling for some miles, she
pulled up.
“We must alight here,” she said, “and abandon the horse and buggy, or
we shall be traced.”
Flora sprang from the ground, and the two women hurried along on foot.
Zeemit led the way. She knew every inch of the ground. She kept her
companion up by holding out hopes of ultimate safety.
As daylight was struggling in, a muddy creek was reached. It was a
lonely spot--overgrown with tall reeds and rank grass, and the haunt
of numberless reptiles. Half-hidden amongst the rushes was a large,
broken, and decaying budgerow, lying high and dry on a mud-bank.
“This place offers us safety and shelter for a time,” Zeemit observed.
“I discovered it after leaving the Palace grounds.”
She assisted Flora to get into the old boat. She collected a quantity
of rushes and dried grass to form a bed. These she spread upon the
floor of the budgerow, and then the two women, thoroughly exhausted,
threw themselves down, and fell into a sound sleep. At the same moment
Moghul Singh was returning to the Palace after his fruitless search,
vowing vengeance against Flora, and determining to send out men to
recapture her, on the pain of death if they failed.